by Lisa Cach
“It reminds me that my troubles are not so large as I might think. When I look out to the stars, it is as if I leave this planet and the petty details of life. I forget for a time who I am.”
She tilted her head, studying him. “Do you not like your life?”
He gave a quick smile, a flash of white gone as fast as it had come, like the tail of a deer bounding through the woods. “I have everything I need,” he said.
“You have no wife. Surely a man needs one of those. Why have you not married again?”
“That’s a rather personal question.”
She raised her eyebrows and gave him the same waiting look he had given her.
He sighed. “It never felt like the right time, or like I had met the right woman. I got caught up in building the family’s business, and forgot about building a family, telling myself that there would be plenty of time later for that.”
“Is it later now?”
“Not yet.”
“Then when will later be?”
His smile this time was tinged with emptiness. “I expect I shall know the time when it comes.”
“I do not think so, Woding. I think you are hiding from your heart up here in your tower, staring at your heavens. Your heart cannot see the time to have a wife and children if it is out beyond the moon, chasing stars.”
“Did you follow your own heart when you married le Gayne?” he asked.
She walked over to the window, looking out over the night-cast valley. Although she could not see it, she knew exactly where the ruins of Clerenbold Keep stood, and imagined the last of the foundation stones standing strong against the grasses and vines.
“No. I followed my head, treating my heart as if it knew nothing of what was best for me. You can see what a success that was.” She turned her back to the window and gazed across the room at him. His hair was tousled, bits of it standing up. He had run his hands through it several times while explaining the workings of the heavens to her. “You waste the treasure you have, Woding.”
“Which treasure is that?”
“Your life. You live, yet you do not. There are only traces left in you of what I saw when you were a boy. Sometimes, when I watch you, I think I am the one more alive. I do not understand why you shut yourself up in this castle and try to surround yourself with men. I do not understand why you choose to live with cold stars instead of a warm wife and your family.”
“Tell me about le Gayne. Tell me why you married him,” he countered. “Do not expect me to bare myself to you and your criticism while you remain silent, holding your secrets close.”
“I was not criticizing. I married le Gayne because he was rich and I was afraid Thomas and I would starve. I wanted children, and le Gayne could give me those, no matter if I loved him or no. Thomas and he struck a deal, Thomas signing over several acres of land to le Gayne as my dowry. In return, le Gayne outfitted Thomas for fighting under the Black Prince.”
“That sounds a story too common to end in murder.”
“Christ’s curse, you did not know le Gayne!” she said, the old hatred coming up in a flood. “He wanted only the land. Neither Thomas nor I could read, and did not know that the deed le Gayne wrote up for the land gave him not only the acres Thomas had promised, but all of the Clerenbold lands. ’Twas why he was so happy to send Thomas to war: chances were that he would die by another’s hand before discovering the trickery.”
“But why kill you? There was nothing you could have done against him, once the deed was signed and you were married. You might never have even known, if Thomas had died in battle. The land would have gone to you anyway.”
“He did not want me for his wife.”
“There must be more to it than that. Certainly more to explain why the man could not wait past his wedding night to kill you, if that was his plan.”
“He could not bear me,” she said slowly, the words a mix of pain and anger. Even now it was humiliating to recall the insults he had cast at her. “He told me he could not stand the sight of me. He said I was a great lummox of a woman, an ox, fit only for pulling a plow. He said my face could frighten children, and give them nightmares.”
“The man had no taste. You have a beautiful face.”
“What?” she said, startled out of her remembrance. “What do you know of my face? You said you could not see it clearly.”
A twitch of guilt played across his face, telling her the truth before he himself could. “You have become more and more clear as we have talked. In the dark, especially, you look almost like a living person to me, and are equally as clear.”
“What do you mean, in the dark?”
He shrugged, a child trying to minimize his crime. “In daylight you are transparent, but in the dark you are opaque, and illuminated as if from within. I can see you even when I can see nothing else.”
“Ohhhh,” she moaned. How could this be? God’s heart, what manner of fool had she been making of herself while he could see her expressions so well? All this time she had thought she’d been somewhat protected, yet she had been completely exposed to his scrutiny.
“I’ve guessed that it is the scar you did not want me to see.”
“Devil take you, Woding!”
“Serena,” he said, coming toward her, his hands out and open, as if asking her to put hers in his. “You are beautiful. Le Gayne was wrong in what he said.”
She backed away from him, her eyes wide, her head shaking from side to side in denial. He cornered her against the wall, and although she could have sunk back through it, she did not, watching him come closer and closer. He stopped when he was only a foot from her.
A strange, unknown sensation ran through her, a quivering tingle that could have been fear or dread, but was neither. It made her heart thump, and her breath come heavy in her chest.
He reached out his hand toward her face, and she closed her eyes, allowing herself to become solid enough to touch. His fingertips lightly grazed her skin, at the start of her scar, and then traced it across her face, gliding tenderly over her cheek.
“It is as unique and beautiful as you are,” he said. “It sets you apart.”
She opened her eyes, feeling his fingertips still on the edge of her cheek. “I have always been apart,” she said. “Even before this marked me.”
His eyes were dark, looking at his own hand upon her face, and he seemed not to hear her. “Your skin is soft,” he said, and moved the back of his fingers along the edge of her jaw. “And warm.”
The strange sensation tightened in her gut, sending a flutter to her loins, and making her half close her eyes in this unknown pleasure. “What are you doing to me?” she asked softly. His hand moved down her neck, lightly tracing the curve to her shoulder. “Woding? What is happening?”
“I have seen nothing like you in all my life,” he said, and bent his head down and laid his lips against the curve of her neck.
Her knees went weak, and she lost her ability to think. Time stopped, and all awareness left her except of those lips against her skin, pressing softly, damply, moving up toward her ear.
A knock at the door startled them both apart, and Serena went insubstantial, falling into the wall. She emerged confused and befuddled in the night air outside the tower, and drifted around to the window, watching from outside as Underhill brought in a tray with coffee and a late supper for Woding.
Woding himself looked as disoriented as she herself, distractedly ordering Underhill where to set the tray. Otto came in the room, sniffing around as if aware of her recent presence, and after going to Woding for an absentminded scratch on the head, went to go settle his large frame in the corner as Underhill left.
Half of her wanted to rejoin Woding, and feel him again touch her, kiss her, stroke her. It was like the lure to drink too much wine and become intoxicated. The other half of her sought separation, to make sense of what had just gone between them. She could not believe it had happened, and could not believe that he had meant anything he said.
He loo
ked toward the window and saw her. Even through the glass, she heard him say her name, calling softly to her, “Serena.”
It could have been the devil calling, the temptation to go back was so strong. A fear of the unknown possessed her, and although she knew it was the cowardly choice, she left him there.
Alex went to the window, searching for one last sight of Serena. She had pulled him to her with a magnetic force, his body acting of its own will to approach her, to touch her, to kiss her. It was as if some silent part of him had grown frustrated with the erotic dreams and sought to make them real. He desired her.
Whether that was for good or ill, he could not say. He went and sat behind his desk, staring blankly at the tray of food and coffee, the objects making no sense to his mind. All he could think of was the feel of her skin beneath his lips, and the sweet scent of hay that came from her.
Lust was something he had not felt for a long time. Too long. That a dead woman with violent tendencies should arouse it in him was almost beyond comprehension. Perhaps Serena had hit on a truth when she said that she was more alive than he was, except when looking at the stars. It was as if his body sought her out to return it to life.
He poured himself a cup of coffee, and let it steam in the cup in front of him, untouched.
Untouched.
That was what Serena claimed to be. Did the rules of honor apply here as with a living woman? Common decency demanded that he not toy with her emotions by indulging his desires. For all her strength, he sensed she was fragile when it came to relating to men. She said she had been murdered by a man—one who had claimed she was undesirable. She would be slow to trust one again.
It would be unfair to continue any form of dalliance with her, for surely, at some point, it would have to end. What future was there to be had with a ghost? He couldn’t very well introduce her to friends, or have her acting as hostess at dinner parties. She couldn’t go anywhere with him. He couldn’t ever marry her. He seriously doubted they could have children.
He had a sudden image of ghost babies winking in and out of sight, and shuddered.
Beyond the practicalities, wasn’t there something simply wicked and perverted about sleeping with a ghost? For all that he usually spared few thoughts for his immortal soul, a small part of him wondered if it wouldn’t somehow be damaging to it to have sex with a dead woman.
Obviously it could never work out with Serena. He would eventually move on to someone living, and she would be left here, alone again with the stones of the castle.
He drank the coffee, his thoughts miles from his charts and stars.
Chapter Sixteen
“Dickie, stop it,” Marcy complained, raising her shoulder to shrug him off her neck. Serena watched with interest, unseen a few feet away.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dickie complained. “You never let me touch you anymore.”
“It’s not fitting,” Marcy said, a touch petulantly.
“It never bothered you before.”
“I just don’t want anyone to see you doing that. I could lose my place.”
“Then meet me tonight, out in the garden,” Dickie said. “No one will see you there.”
“Mrs. Hutchins might find me gone. No, I shan’t risk it,” Marcy said primly. “Now go back to work and stop following me around.”
Dickie sulked off, casting backward looks to Marcy, but the maid went about her business with unnatural absorption, cleaning out the fireplace as if it were a challenging task.
Serena stayed near, watching the girl. She had no personal experience to compare to Woding’s unexpected advance a week ago, and thought that watching Marcy and Dickie might teach her something of what was normal. All she had seen all week, though, was Dickie panting after the maid, and Marcy coming up with excuse after excuse for why Dickie should leave her alone.
At first Serena had thought the girl was being coy, but now she suspected that she truly did not want Dickie hanging around her like a dog after a bitch in heat. Whenever Dickie touched her, there was annoyance and a hint of repugnance on the girl’s face.
Serena thought the girl would be kinder to tell the boy flat-out that his attentions were not wanted.
As supper approached she followed the maid toward the kitchen. Beezely appeared, and she picked him up, scratching him around the ears. Nancy the stablelass joined Marcy, and Serena eavesdropped with interest on their conversation. The two were of an age, and although disparate in temperament and interests, they still managed to find companionship with each other, becoming fast friends in the short time that Nancy had been at the castle.
“Dickie’s becoming quite the pest,” Marcy told her friend.
“I had thought you liked him well enough.”
“I thought I did, but that was when I hadn’t seen anything of the world.”
Nancy snorted, rather like a horse. “There is not so much here that could have impressed you, unless you speak of the master.”
“No…he’s fine-enough looking,” Marcy said vaguely, “but I think he is too high above me to be what she meant.”
“What who meant?”
Marcy’s eyes lost their vagueness, becoming sharply mischievous with untold secrets. “Promise not to tell?”
“On my word,” Nancy said solemnly.
“’Twas Madame Zousa, that night I spent with her,” Marcy whispered eagerly. “She said that I could do better than Dickie, that I should aim higher.”
“Did she mean someone here?” Nancy asked, and Serena thought she detected a trace of apprehension in the girl’s voice.
“I don’t know,” Marcy admitted. “But I saw the truth of her words the moment she said them. Look at Dickie. He’s nothing but a scullery maid. Madame Zousa was right: I can do much better than him, I am sure of it. I only wish she could have told me who.”
“You’ve only a few choices here,” Nancy said. “The master, Mr. Sommer, and Mr. Underhill. I’m sure you don’t want to count the gardener and his grandson.”
“Sommer is too old, Mr. Woding too rich. No, it must be Mr. Underhill. Do you think he’s handsome?”
Nancy’s cheeks turned pink. “I don’t know. He’s fair enough of face, I suppose. A bit thin, though.”
“Yes, rather gangly about the arms and legs, I agree. But still, he has a good position, and is not so terribly old.”
“You are not going to pursue him, are you?”
Marcy tossed her brown curls. “I may take a look at him and see if he is worth it.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t know that I’ll want to keep working,” Marcy said as the two went into the kitchen where supper was waiting. She lowered her voice so as not to be heard by the others. “And I would want him to be head of a much larger household than this one.”
“Ah,” Nancy said, to no apparent end. To Serena’s eyes, the stablelass did not look particularly happy with her friend’s declarations of intent.
The supper table was a full one, with everyone except the Flurys present. They went home at dusk every evening. Sommer was there, and Underhill. Dickie, Mrs. Hutchins, Nancy, and Marcy made up the remainder.
Serena sat on a cupboard to the side, a fine seat from which to watch the interactions. Beezely jumped down from her arms and up onto the table, walking among the dishes and stopping to investigate those that looked tempting, although Serena was certain the cat could no more smell the food than she could.
The servants were putting on a fine dramatic performance this evening. Sommer, it appeared, had eyes only for Nancy, a most unexpected development. He seemed both drawn to and angered by her presence. Marcy made a show of flirting with Underhill, causing resentment to smolder in Dickie’s eyes. Mrs. Hutchins watched the display with disapproval. Nancy watched her plate for the most part, but every now and then her eyes, too, would flick to Underhill, and Serena felt certain it was longing she saw there.
Underhill seemed interested only in discussing the larder with Mrs. Hutchins.
Se
rena left them as they were finishing their puddings, and went out to her garden. Dark was coming sooner each night, the flowers in the garden becoming scarcer and scarcer. In another month the leaves would be turning and falling to the ground. She always worried about the cherry tree in the winter, feeling the sap hiding in the trunk and branches of the tree, waiting out the cold. It was always a relief when the weather warmed again, and the tree began to form its first budding flowers.
The sky was slightly lighter than it would be a few hours hence, and a smudge of orange and green remained above the black line of the horizon. She went to the cherry tree and climbed up it, sitting among its branches near the medallion that twisted in the gentle breeze, its metal dully reflecting what little light remained.
She had spent most of her evenings this past week here, it being the only place she felt safe at night from the shadow form of le Gayne, with the exception of Woding’s presence. Woding’s company held other dangers, though, that she was too cautious to venture into without full thought.
So she had spent hours upon hours gazing at the sky, knowing Woding was likely doing the same from his tower, and replayed in her mind again and again the touch of his hand on her face. She repeated and tore apart his words, looking for the flaw, looking for the clue that would tell her he had lied when saying he thought that she was beautiful.
When she was certain he was asleep, she would go look in on him, staying just long enough to renew his features in her mind. His eyelids would flutter when she was near, as they always did, making her wonder if he dreamed of her. And what he dreamed, if so.
Any thought of chasing him from the castle was long gone. All she could consider now was whether she should go to him again. It seemed that to do so would be a blatant invitation to his touch. It was unthinkably forward, and a priest would have said immoral. And yet, it was the most magical thing she had ever experienced, better even than her first ever taste of the rare and precious sugar her brother had once brought home.
If she were honest with herself, she would admit that she wanted him to touch her again. Not only that, but she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to do to her what a gentle man would do with his wife on their first night of marriage.
