Harlequin Historical November 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2

by Carol Arens

  “I’d like to get to know you.” He already did, of course, and he was a cad for not explaining how. If duty did not stand in his way he’d confess right now. “How did you come to be in Riverwalk?”

  He shouldn’t have asked, not with weariness shadowing her eyes and dragging at her mouth.

  “Oh...well.” One of the things he loved about Lilleth was that her face was so open. He’d always been able to read her expression. Just now a flash of relief shaded her eyes. “I wanted a fresh start, for the children. I thought this might be a nice place.”

  “It is.” Finished eating, Trace snapped his napkin from his collar and dropped it on his plate. “I’ve seen that much in the couple of months that I’ve been here.”

  “You’re a newcomer, too?”

  Giving up that little bit of information about himself couldn’t hurt, but he’d better switch the conversation back to her.

  He nodded. “Do you have family nearby?”

  “My sister.” Lilleth turned her face to gaze at the fire. Her cheeks, blushed by the heat of the flames, looked soft...kissable...and not his to kiss. “She’s not far away.”

  Bethany. He remembered her well, of course, even though his attention years ago had been absorbed by her little sister.

  “Where did you live before you came to Riverwalk?”

  “Here and there. We traveled a lot.” She snatched her gaze away from the fire and looked him full in the face. “What about you?”

  “Chicago.” It was a big town; he could be honest about that, too.

  “I spend two weeks in Chicago every year for—” Lilleth’s eyes widened for an instant before she looked down, to pick at a spot on her skirt. “My husband had meetings there, so we all went.”

  It might be angry business partners that she was hiding from.

  And she was hiding. Trace was all but certain of it. He wished she would confide in him, even if it would be tough to know her secrets without revealing his own.

  Lilleth stood up. She turned her back to the fire, then sat down on the raised hearth. More curls sprang out of her bun than were contained by it. They clung to her neck in whorls.

  He had to look away. It wasn’t right to want to put his lips right there, to taste her smooth, fair skin.

  “I understand there is a mental hospital here, just outside of town,” she said, picking at that spot on her skirt again.

  “Hanispree.”

  He turned his chair so that it faced her.

  “Have you been there?” she asked.

  He nodded. “I take books to the inmates on occasion.”

  “Is it a safe facility?” Judging by the look on her face, his answer appeared to be important to her. “To raise the children nearby, I mean. They don’t ever escape, do they?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” He needed to be off this subject. “I don’t think the inmates are dangerous so much as unfortunate.”

  “Well, then...” She let go of her skirt and folded her hands in her lap. She smiled. “That is a relief.”

  “Let me see your hands.”

  “Whatever for?”

  He didn’t answer, just reached over and took them in his. He turned them palm-up.

  “You aren’t used to this kind of work.”

  She curled her fingers inward, hiding blisters. “What needs to be done, needs to be done.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “This ought to help.”

  He reached in his back pocket and withdrew the balm he’d brought from home. Some patients at Hanispree got sores, so he kept it on hand.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but in the end did not. She uncurled her hands.

  He unscrewed the jar lid. A flowery scent wafted out. He scooped up a dollop of salve with his thumb and rubbed it over her left palm.

  Work had taken its toll on her delicate skin. Flipping her hand over, he stroked the lotion from wrist to fingertips.

  Her sigh, sounding weary to the bone, made him look up. Her eyes had drifted closed, but half a smile lingered on her lips.

  Kissing her would be easy. All he had to do was lean forward two feet and ignore his conscience.

  Maybe he should ignore it. A runaway husband didn’t deserve the respect of a marriage vow, in Trace’s opinion.

  He bent closer, just a foot, and stared at her mouth.

  That’s as close as he got. Until he knew how she viewed her broken wedding vows he couldn’t lean forward that further twelve inches and claim what he wanted.

  Damn! He couldn’t kiss her regardless, not with his own secrets standing in the way.

  A sudden gust of wind shook the cabin. Lilleth opened her eyes.

  “Clark?” Naturally, she looked astonished to see him so close.

  “You’ve got a smudge of dirt, just there.” He wiped her cheek downward to the corner of her lip with his thumb. Its path left a glistening, rose-scented trail on her skin. “That’s better, all clean.”

  She arched a brow, and then closed her eyes once more.

  By the time he finished treating her right hand, her breathing had slowed. She’d fallen asleep sitting up in the chair.

  “Time to go home, Lils.” He whispered. “Stars shine bright....”

  He choked back the rest. What if she wasn’t deeply asleep? She might recall their nightly farewell even if she didn’t remember him.

  * * *

  Lilleth felt as if she was being rocked in a hammock. The hammock smelled like Clark.

  The hammock was Clark. He carried her, wrapped in his coat, through the woods toward his house. Cold air bit her face where the wind touched it, but she was warm under the wool. Hot, even, where one side of her was tucked tight against his body.

  Branches scraped and cracked in the trees overhead. Ice crunched under Clark’s boots. His breath turned to fog close to her nose, where she rested her head on his shoulder.

  She had been correct about muscle upon muscle. She was not a featherweight, yet he did not appear to be winded.

  She ought to walk; her legs were perfectly capable. Somehow, though, she didn’t want to.

  No one had ever made her feel cherished and protected. Right this moment, Clark did.

  He made her feel safe. At last, here was a man who stepped in to help when he didn’t have to.

  His manner wasn’t bold or brave. He didn’t have a dozen traits that gallant men had. What he did have was a deep sense of honor.

  A woman could trust him.

  He’d proved that only moments ago when she had closed her eyes, oblivious to anything but the blissful treatment he was giving her hands. He could have kissed her. In fact, he had wanted to.

  She knew enough of men to know when one wanted a kiss...or more.

  The strange and startling fact was that she had been disappointed by Clark’s gentlemanly behavior. She admired him for it, to be sure, but in truth, she’d wanted his kiss.

  She ought to have claimed to be a widow. Now she was stuck as a married woman. If she encouraged a kiss, she would appear a regular trollop. Which she most certainly was not.

  A sudden gust spun up from the ground, ripping the coat from her shoulder. Clark turned and walked backward against the wind, tucking the fabric up around her ears as he went.

  “Breathing’s easier when you back into the wind,” he told her.

  She touched his face. His cheek was cold, her fingers warm from being sheltered in the coat. The scent of roses lingered on her hand.

  He stopped suddenly. Sincere blue eyes blinked at her, both brows arched. His icy breath clouded, mingled with hers, then wisped away.

  “Would you think I was wicked if I wished that I was no longer married, so that you could kiss me?”

  He looked startled.

  �
��That was bold. I shouldn’t have asked.” What was wrong with her? What she wanted was not what could be. Even if it could, she had not come to Riverwalk to dally with a man. She was not, and never had been, the dallying type. “Please forgive me.”

  His arms, firm with rippled muscle, tensed and drew her closer.

  “Do you think I’m wicked?” he asked.

  “No, far from it.”

  He touched his nose to hers. She tasted his breath on her lips, felt his warmth.

  “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the day I bowled you over on the train platform. And that is the truth. If you think you are wicked, I’m more so.”

  Something inside her melted. Her bones, certainly, and her flesh.

  Even though his lips drew away without ever touching hers, she was quite certain that she had never been so thoroughly kissed in her life.

  Chapter Five

  Alden Hanispree felt eyes staring at his back. He whipped around, searching the hallway behind him. As always, there was nobody there. At least nobody who could be seen. He hated being alone. Even in his own home, dead people’s stares followed him everywhere.

  “Go away!” he yelled.

  He’d heard that if you asked, they might leave you in peace. Since asking had done no good in the past, he was reduced to screeching.

  The lifeless souls following him probably belonged to his parents, and most certainly his brother. He’d never been able to please his parents in life and saw no reason why it should be any different now.

  His older brother, Hamilton, born only moments before him, had always been the favorite. He was the son who did everything right. Even on the rare occasion that Alden felt a need to please, his own efforts turned sour.

  Poor Alden had taken up with the wrong kind of friends, his parents used to say, trying to excuse his behavior. But Hamilton, with the right kind of friends, got commendations.

  His brother’s friends were a stuffy lot, though. Alden enjoyed his own companions, wrong kind though they may have been.

  Damn them all, where were they now? They knew he hated being alone.

  Alden slapped something from his shoulder. An unearthly touch, he supposed.

  He pressed his back against the wall, where the tender spot between his shoulder blades didn’t feel so vulnerable...so watched.

  With a clear view of the hallway he saw that no ghostly presence lurked in the shadows. His tension eased.

  Someone would be along shortly and the fear would go away. He wasn’t a coward, even though he’d heard it whispered in phantom tones from behind curtains, or coming from closets.

  Not a coward, but a sociable person, most comfortable in the presence of others, as many others as he could be with.

  Just as soon as he had his hands on what should have been his inheritance, he would have the funds to attract a devoted social circle. Friends who would fawn over him day and night.

  All he needed was control of his niece and nephew, and the fortune was his. Their mother would give him any amount of money to see to their well-being.

  Footsteps tromped on the long stairway that curved from the grand foyer past the second-floor garden room, then up to the third story, where the bedrooms were.

  “Where the hell have you been, Perryman?” Alden snarled, even though he was relieved not to be alone any longer.

  “Where do you think, Hanispree?”

  Perryman looked like a hawk, with a long, beaked nose and small eyes that were dark, nearly completely black. He was tall, thin, and walked hunched over because he was constantly scanning the ground for bugs. Perryman liked to eat bugs. Any kind would do.

  He was the most “wrong kind” of his friends, and the one Alden liked the best.

  “Whoring?” He peered up into Perryman’s gaunt face.

  Alden resented being short and having to always look up to other men. He had spent his life doing it. Naturally, Hamilton had been tall.

  “As if I have the time.” Perryman glanced about, scanning the floor, which was insulting, since Alden took pains to make sure the servants kept Hanispree Mansion immaculate. “That reward you promised better be a big one. Abstinence is wearing on me.”

  “It’s not even been two days since we visited Willow’s.” He and Perryman did share a taste for the fallen woman. No messy affections involved with the sordid sort. When passion bordered on barbarity, a whore was happy with an extra coin. “What did you find out?”

  “The brats are missing. No one knows anything.”

  “Especially you!” Alden shouted at his stupid friend, before forcing his voice to a more congenial tone. “I know the brats are missing. There will be no fortune for either of us unless you find out where they went.”

  “Like I said, nobody knows anything. Maybe we should call on a mystic?” Perryman fluttered his bony fingers in front of Alden’s face. “Oo-o-o!”

  “Maybe we should use logic.” He stepped away from the wall, out from under the taunting fingers. “Use your brain. My nephew and niece are gone. Who would have taken them? Not their mother.”

  “Nice work hiding her away in Bedlam.” Perryman chuckled. “Everyone swallowed that crap you spread about her going to France to grieve.”

  Nice work indeed, that. Hamilton had planned to spend a big chunk of what ought to have been Alden’s inheritance on that Paris trip, before he took ill.

  It was pure providence that Mother and Father had given Alden the lunatic house to run. Mistakenly, they had hoped that the responsibility might make him a man like Hamilton.

  “So, who else, then?” he asked, thinking out loud.

  “Don’t know.” Perryman irritated him by once again glancing at the floor.

  “Her sister, you idiot.” His friend was an imbecile.

  “Ah, the pretty one who sings?” Perryman’s gaze shot up. He licked his lips. “I like that one.”

  “And where might she have gone?”

  “Don’t know, Alden. Ask the mystic.”

  All at once, Alden’s hand shot out and upward. He slapped Perryman in the face. He hadn’t intended to react that way, but Perryman had disrespected him.

  “Sorry, Perryman.” But he wasn’t sorry. The fool would believe he was, though; he always did. “Think about where she would take them.”

  Perryman shrugged and rubbed his cheek. “Maybe she didn’t believe that Bethany went to France.”

  “That’s smart. I bet you think she took the brats to their mother.”

  “I was just about to say so.”

  “Then you need to look for them in Riverwalk. You can be on the next train out of here.”

  “Or you can. I’m for Willow’s.”

  “I’ve hired you for the job.” He would never admit that he couldn’t go near the mental hospital. He’d heard the stories of the ghosts that hover in the halls. “And think about this. Once we get those kids back, you and I will be able to buy Willow’s. What do you think about that?”

  “I think I’m on the next train to Riverwalk.”

  * * *

  Lilleth blessed the person who had built the cabin with a raised hearth. He must have had babies that needed protecting.

  Just now, Mary stood on wobbly legs, watching the flames eat up kindling and logs. Had the hearth been floor level, Lilleth would not get a single thing done, with having to move her away from danger all the time.

  As it was, Lilleth found it to be a continual task keeping the child out of harm’s way. Small items found on the floor were a fascination to her. The pocket in Lilleth’s apron was quickly filling up with items she hadn’t noticed before Mary began to creep about on the floor. So far the collection included a cork, a button, a wheel from a broken toy and a triangle of broken glass.

  Her respect for Bethany grew by the hour. Rais
ing a toddler took more skill and patience than she could have imagined.

  This afternoon, though, her patience was being strained. There was so much she needed to get done to make the cabin livable. But only a moment into a task, Mary would fuss or need to be pulled away from some danger that she found to be fascinating.

  Naturally, this made the baby unhappy, so another moment passed while Lilleth tried to make her smile and forget her frustration at not being allowed to injure herself.

  This was not easy, since Mary was teething. Her rare bouts of contentment lasted for only a moment...unless she was being held.

  How did mothers get a blessed thing done?

  Jess helped, but he was a child himself and shouldn’t be burdened with the care of his sister. He did spend a great deal of time playing in the woods, but fear of Alden kept him within sight of the cabin.

  When he tired of exploring, he helped out at the lending library under the watchful eye of—she sighed and felt silly for it—of Mr. Clark Clarkly.

  “No, no, Mary.” Lilleth uncurled the chubby fingers from the fireplace poker, then cleaned the ash off an instant before the baby plunged them into her mouth. “That’s not for you, sweetie.”

  Evidently, fireplace pokers were one more thing that had to be stored where Mary couldn’t get to them. The cabin would soon be dotted from one wall to the other with hooks holding dangerous objects out of Mary’s reach.

  “Please, Lord, keep this child safe until I learn mothering,” Lilleth whispered, looking up.

  Mary’s eyes watered, her lip quivered. She plopped down on the floor, crying.

  “Poor dolly, come here, then.” Lilleth set aside the washrag she had been using to scrub the table, and picked Mary up. “How about if Auntie sings to you?”

  She shouldn’t sing, but really, it was all she knew to do to comfort the unhappy child. She hadn’t the motherly skills that Bethany had, but she had been known to quiet fretful beasts and belligerent theatergoers with her voice.

  She sat in the chair beside the fire, the very one Clark had sat in a few days before, when he had rubbed lotion on her hands. She imagined that the scent of him still lingered on it.