by Anne Gracie
A shadow appeared at the window. Something scrabbled against the glass, as though with claws. The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
The moaning rose in pitch, louder and louder, until it ended on a deathly shriek. The horrid sound shivered through her.
The frenzied scrabbling continued. The glass couldn’t take much more, she thought. Any instant it would shatter.
The man in her bed sat up. “What the devil is that infernal noise?”
“Nothing,” she muttered. “Go back to sleep.” He was an invalid. He couldn’t help. She was shaking. With rage, she told herself. And sick, desperate fear.
She reached for the frying pan she kept under the mattress and began to slide out from beneath the covers. Iron fingers gripped her arm. “Nothing, my foot. Where are you going with that? What’s the trouble?”
“It’s nothing,” she insisted. “Just someone trying to frighten me and the children.” He might be an invalid, but oh, just having someone there with her was comforting.
“How do you know?”
“It’s not the first time this has happened,” she said tersely, watching where the sounds were coming from.
Another unearthly howl shattered the night, and the scratching at the window started again, a slow, teeth-shivering shriek. The glass panes creaked under the onslaught.
“Is it back, Maddy?” a small, quaking voice whispered from the stairs.
Oh, God, the children . . .
John and Jane were halfway down the stairs, pale as ghosts, their little faces pinched and terrified. Yet heartbreakingly resolute. Facing dragons—real ones this time. With shaking hands, John gripped the hunting knife his father had given him. Jane also shook like a leaf, but she grasped a rolling pin in businesslike fashion.
Behind them on the stairs, Susan squatted, her arms around Lucy, who was sobbing quietly. Henry stood with his arms protectively around his sisters. An eight-year-old, trying to be a man.
Rage drove out the worst of Maddy’s fear. Children should not be driven to this. “Don’t worry,” she said in as firm a voice as she could manage. “He can’t get in. He’s just a nasty man trying to frighten us.”
“What if he breaks the glass?” Jane whispered.
“Then I’ll hit him over the head with this frying pan,” Maddy said fiercely.
The first few times their tormentor had come in the night, she’d been too terrified to move. She’d huddled with the children, waiting for the creature to break in, braced for a fight.
This was the fourth nocturnal visit but he’d never broken in. She wasn’t quite as frightened.
The window darkened and a face peered in. The children screamed. It was horrifying. He—or it—was faceless. The shambling figure wore a robe and hood, like a monk, but where his face should be was . . . nothing. Blank, white emptiness. It moaned, like something out of the grave, shrouded white fingers clawing at the glass on either side of the facelessness.
“It’s a trick,” Maddy said furiously. “He’s trying to frighten us, wearing something like gauze or cheesecloth over his face and using a hidden lantern. John, you did the same thing once at Halloween, remember? He’s not a ghost, just a beastly creature who thinks he can frighten us. Well, HE DOESN’T FRIGHTEN ME!” she shouted at the window. It was a lie. She was shaking like a leaf.
“There’s a gun in my bag,” Mr. Rider snapped. “Fetch it!”
She gave him a startled look. “A gun?”
“While he thinks you’re alone and unprotected, with only rolling pins and frying pans to defend yourself, he won’t be stopped. But if he thinks you have a gun . . .”
She ran to fetch the pistol.
“Take the children and wait upstairs,” he told her.
“No, this is my problem.” She wasn’t going to run and hide and let a sick man—a stranger—defend her. This was her home.
“It might ricochet.”
“Oh, I see.” She hesitated as suddenly the possibility of killing a man loomed. “I don’t mind if you wound him, but I don’t want him killed.”
“Why not?”
“Because I want to find out why he’s doing this. And if you shatter the window, we will freeze.”
He shrugged. “Very well. Now get those children out of the way.”
She grabbed a blanket and gathered the children together. They crouched on the landing, huddled together under the blanket, watching breathlessly.
Again, the figure pressed his distorted gauzy face against the panes. Vile creature! Maddy’s arms tightened around the small, shaking bodies.
Mr. Rider fired into the wood stacked beside the fireplace. The bang! was so loud Maddy nearly jumped out of her skin. There was a sudden silence, then the sound of running feet.
“Is he gone, Maddy?” Lucy sobbed. Maddy flew down the stairs and flung open the door, peering out into the darkness to see if she could recognize the fleeing man. But he was just a dark, robed shape, racing up the hill in the moonlight.
She closed the door and bolted it again.
The children crept downstairs, needing to make sure the terror was over. John and Henry searched the woodpile for the spent ball. Jane, Susan, and Lucy huddled in front of the fire in the blanket while Maddy warmed some milk. The man on the bed quietly cleaned his gun. Observing.
The children drank their milk, pelting Maddy with questions, but answers—real answers—eluded her. The children were satisfied enough with “a bad man”—the bogeyman of every childhood.
Maddy didn’t believe in bogeymen. There had to be a reason.
“I can’t imagine why,” she told Mr. Rider as she climbed back into the bed. “He doesn’t seem to want to break in. The first time he came there wasn’t even a proper lock on the door, just a latch. One good shove and it would have flown right open. But he didn’t even try.”
He pulled the covers up around her shoulders. “He must want something.”
“Yes, but what? We have no money and very few possessions. We don’t even own the cottage. What can possibly be gained by frightening a lone woman and five small children?”
“Satisfaction?” he suggested. “There are bullies in this world who enjoy such things.”
She considered it. “I haven’t offended anyone that I can think of.” Except Mr. Harris, the estate manager, she thought suddenly, though all she’d done was argue about the rental agreement with Sir Jasper.
“How many times has this happened?”
“This is the fourth occasion in the last two weeks.” And in the last two weeks, Mr. Harris had come around demanding an increased rent.
“There’s nothing to be done about it now, so close your eyes and get some sleep,” he said, pulling her back against him. “We’ll work out what to do about it in the morning.”
That “we” was very comforting, she thought as she slowly relaxed. As was the warmth of him spooned against her.
It was only as she was drifting off that she realized Hadrian’s Wall was gone, but she was too tired and too sleepy to worry about it.
Eight
The steady rhythm of her breathing altered. She was waking.
He’d woken a few minutes earlier, breathing in the fragrance of her, the scent of her skin where his mouth just touched the nape of her neck, the fragrance of her newly washed hair, soft against his cheek, smelling faintly of . . . something enticing.
Slowly he realized that the warm weight in his hand was her breast, that he was spooned around her, along the length of her spine, his knee cradled between her soft thighs, bare inches from her cleft.
His body was fully aroused. Aching with desire.
He ought to release her, turn away. He’d given her his word as a gentleman.
But their bodies had arranged themselves thus in sleep; it wasn’t a deliberate attempt at seduction.
And he couldn’t make himself move.
Besides, he wanted to see how she would react. Was she, like him, torn between temptation and good sense?
As far
as he was concerned, propriety wasn’t even a question. They’d shared a bed for three nights now. Or was it four? He couldn’t tell; whole days and nights were lost to him.
But propriety was mostly about what other people thought. What they didn’t know couldn’t offend them.
Common sense was another matter.
Common sense dictated that neither of them took action that might have unwanted consequences. Common sense reminded him that he didn’t know who he was. He could be married. He’d be a fool to act without knowing the risk.
And she—she would be foolish indeed to let herself be seduced by a nameless man. Reputation was one thing. To be pregnant and unwed, quite another.
There was no question of marriage. Cottage didn’t marry castle. His memory might be in shreds but the few glimpses of “home” he’d recalled were of a large and impressive edifice—if not a castle, a very grand house indeed.
He was playing with fire but he couldn’t stop.
He feigned sleep, anticipating the moment she became aware of where his hand was placed, where his knee rested, and what it was that was nudging insistently against her peach of a backside.
Would she shoot out of bed like scalded cat?
Or would she stay and snuggle?
With sleepy sensuousness she began to stretch, then froze with a jagged gasp. A period of cautious stillness followed.
He smiled. He could almost hear her mind ticking, working out just which body part was where.
And then he felt her response. His pulse kicked up a notch as her nipple hardened against the center of his palm. It took every bit of his willpower not to respond.
But she had to feel his erection pressing against her. He was rock hard and aching.
Her nightgown had ridden up to her hips. He could feel the exact point where smooth, soft feminine skin gave way to soft, well-washed flannel. He smiled to himself as she tried surreptitiously to tug it down, then suppressed a groan as the back of her hand brushed against his erection.
She froze. Her hand stayed where it was, unmoving.
Was it possible to get any harder? He doubted it.
It was hell, poised on the brink of paradise, unable to move, and concentrating on the rhythm of one’s breathing. Should he “wake up” and put an end to this exquisite torture?
Every fiber of his body screamed to take her, seduce her while she was warm and sleepy and receptive.
But if he did, he’d never learn what she might do of her own volition. And he needed, quite desperately, to know.
She moved and he wanted to groan, but he kept his silence as she lifted away the arm that held her and turned in the bed to face him, raising the covers and settling his arm along his body.
He expected her to slide out of bed straight away, but she stayed, her face inches from his. He could sense her closeness. What was she doing? What was she looking at? He wanted to open his eyes and drink her in, but he wanted more to see what she would do.
There was a rustle of bedclothes and he nearly jumped from his skin as she smoothed away the hair below his bandage. Every inch of skin dying for her touch and she had to caress his forehead!
He kept his breathing regular, his lips slightly parted. She ran her finger over his mouth in the lightest of featherlight caresses, lingering on the scar at the corner of his mouth. She brushed her fingers along his jaw. Did he need another shave?
She eased the bedclothes down a little. More, he urged silently. He wore the vicar’s nightshirt unbuttoned—he wished now he’d removed it in the night, dealing with it as he’d dealt with the thing she called Hadrian’s Wall.
She raised the bedclothes a little higher and he felt a draft of cold air. He welcomed it. His body, or at least one part of it, was burning.
She was curious. Higher, he urged her silently, higher. Take all the bedclothes off.
It was foolish to be staring now, Maddy told herself. He could wake at any moment, and she’d be exposed, behaving like a . . . wanton.
She glanced at his face. The long thick lashes didn’t even flutter. His chest rose and fell steadily, his breathing unchanged. He was sound asleep.
She was absurdly nervous.
Her gaze returned to the deep V in the neck of his nightshirt. He’d left every button undone and his solid, masculine chest, with its dusting of curly dark hair, fascinated her. Which was ridiculous.
She’d seen him stark naked numerous times, had dried every inch of him. His body should have no mystery left for her.
Yet she couldn’t drag her eyes away.
As for what she’d felt when she tried to drag the hem of her nightgown to a more decent level . . . The hard, heated flesh that thrust against her . . .
It hadn’t felt like any naked part of him she’d seen. And she was burning with curiosity.
She lifted the bedclothes higher . . . higher . . . The fabric of his nightshirt was tented, covering the place where she most wanted to look. She pinched a fold of the material between thumb and finger and tugged lightly. The nightshirt slid upward. She tugged again—
“Go ahead, lift it all the way,” invited a deep voice laced with sleepy amusement.
She dropped the bedclothes. “I didn’t. I wasn’t.” But she did. She was. Caught red-handed. Red-faced, more like. Her cheeks were burning.
He chuckled and it was like rich, warm chocolate. Knowing chocolate. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.”
She tried to think of something to say. “I was just checking . . .” She trailed off, unable to think of a single excuse.
He slanted a wicked grin at her. “And am I all right? Nothing broken? In need of attention?”
His head and his ankle were injured: she’d been looking right smack bang in between. Where she had no business to be looking. She squirmed with mortification.
“It doesn’t matter,” she mumbled.
“Actually I’m feeling a bit hot. And I’m sure there’s a swelling. And it’s aching. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to check me?” His expression was pure, laughing devil.
“No, I—”
“Little liar.” He reached out a lazy hand, cupped the back of her head, and kissed her.
It was a slow, soft kiss, warm as the morning sun, laced with the dark mystery of the night. Rich with promise.
A kiss that unraveled her defenses before she had time to put them in place. Not at all what she’d expected.
It was over almost before she knew it. He released her and drew back, leaving her slightly dazed. And wanting more.
She stared at his mouth, still moist from hers. Kissing him was not like she’d expected. Two nights ago she’d fed him willow-bark tea from her mouth and thought nothing could be so intimate.
She was wrong. Totally, utterly wrong.
She didn’t know what to say. His blue eyes seared her, brighter than the morning sky, seeming to read her innermost thoughts. Her eyes dropped to the rumpled bedclothes and she blurted out the first thing that came into her head.
“You promised to be a gentleman.” As if she’d been at all ladylike. A lady would never peek at a gentleman’s . . . member. Particularly when he was asleep.
But how could he be asleep and also . . . aroused?
From the corner of her eyes she caught the glint of a smile.
“I am a gentleman.” The way he said it, it might as well have been, “I am a wolf.” More accurate, too.
“Nevertheless, you kissed me.”
His eyes danced. “It was a very gentlemanly kiss.” He leaned forward and murmured, “Would you like me to show you what an ungentlemanly kiss is like? Just so you know.” The gleam deepened.
For a moment she forgot to respond, her imagination caught up with thoughts of what an ungentlemanly kiss might be like. Enticing thoughts. Probably quite reprehensible ones.
“Purely for educational purposes, you understand,” he purred. Exactly like the cat who was about to get the cream.
“No,” she said, firmly. “I’m not the least bit intereste
d.”
“Little liar.” Again, he made it sound like an endearment.
“A gentleman wouldn’t have kissed me at all,” she said primly, rallying her stuffiest ancestors to the cause.
“Only if you took the ‘man’ out of gentleman.”
She frowned, unsure of his meaning.
“No man could resist,” he murmured, and before she realized his intention, he was kissing her again.
She’d liked the first kiss very much.
But the ungentlemanly kiss . . . sucked every . . . coherent . . . thought from her brain . . .
He kissed her open-mouthed, seeking, demanding, mastering. She tasted heat . . . dark masculinity . . . potent desire . . . as with mouth, tongue, and hands he claimed a response her body gave willingly, urgently.
She melted under the onslaught, pressing against him, writhing against him, all thoughts of modesty and propriety dissolved in the flood of sensation as she kissed him back, needing more, craving more.
Abruptly he released her. Maddy, her senses spinning, her limbs heavy and uncoordinated, nevertheless knew what she ought to do. She tried to climb out of the bed.
His hand shot out and held her by the wrist. “Don’t go.”
“What?” She was still a little dazed, her body still clinging to the effects of his kiss, her blood singing.
“We haven’t finished.”
Her body agreed with him, but, “We have.” She tried to pull away from his grasp.
“There are things we need to discuss.”
“What things?”
He held on to her, gently but firmly. “The things that went bump in the dark last night.”
“Oh, that.” She tried not to feel disappointed.
“Have you reported it?”
She sighed. “Of course, but it’s done no good. The landlord’s agent says I’m a foolish female frightened by shadows, the magistrate can do little without evidence of damage or a person to charge, and the vicar’s solution was for us to move in with him and Mrs. Matheson. A few villagers I told suggested an exorcism.” She saw his expression and explained, “They’re convinced it’s the Bloody Abbot walking again.”
