“Why do you not ask Mari’s help with that?” She saw him nod toward the brush. “She has never been a lady’s maid, but I am sure she—”
“I will manage. Besides, Mari has gone out walking this evening. As she often does.”
A rumble of acknowledgment escaped his throat; he looked vaguely surprised, or perhaps displeased, by the information, despite the fact that she had spared him the details of where she walked. Or with whom.
Then she heard—no, felt him step closer, close enough that when she dared to look in the mirror again, she could see nothing behind her but the checked pattern of his waistcoat, his loosened cravat, and dark stubble on his chin.
Leaning forward, he curved his fingers around the handle of the brush and drew it from her grasp. His touch was warm and soft, as she had known it would be. “Then allow me,” he said.
“I really don’t think—”
“Surely a husband can do as much for his wife, Mrs. Cary,” he insisted, his voice gently teasing now. “A repayment, of sorts.” Before she could reply, the boar’s bristles tingled against her scalp, sending off little fireworks of ecstasy, followed by ripples of relaxation that seemed to flow from the top of her head through every limb, every vein, every cell. “Relax.”
She had been without the gentle touch of another person for so long . . . forever, really. Though she craved it, she had schooled herself not to need it. Yet here she was, tormented daily by the touch of a man who was all but a stranger to her. She could still feel where his hand had circled her arm and jerked her to safety; where his arm had clutched her waist, brushing the underside of her breast with each bounce of the horse; where his fingertips had skated with care over her injured palms. And now, his deft hands, his long fingers, made her forget the pain of her own hands and the tightness in her shoulders, in favor of an entirely different ache, in a place no one had ever touched her. A place no one ever would.
Realizing it would be a terrible mistake to surrender to his command to relax, she kept her spine straight as ever. Still, her eyes drooped closed and a sigh escaped her lips as he dragged the brush downward, again and again, stroking its bristles through her hair until it crackled and shone.
Too soon, he laid the brush aside. Unwilling to let the moment of pure indulgence come to an end, she refused to open her eyes. When he gathered her hair in one hand and swept it to the side, over one of her shoulders, a few strands caught on his work-roughened fingers. Then she heard the tell-tale creak of leather as he shifted his weight. Caught the scent of him, wool and shaving soap and man. Felt the warmth of his body as he leaned closer still.
Please.
How did her body know to want the press of his lips against that curve of skin he had exposed, at the base of her neck where it joined her shoulder? Were those forbidden cravings a part of her blood, as everyone had always insisted? An instinct, prowling silently along the shadowy edges of her mind, like Noir in search of a mouse? Would she have a moment to react, to save herself, when the tension coiling tighter and tighter within her finally sprung?
“Where did you find this?”
Her eyes popped open, and the bubble of contentment burst. He had picked up the little toy soldier and was turning it this way and that in the candlelight, as if it were a priceless curiosity. Darting her gaze to the mirror, she watched his face, starkly lined with some emotion she could not identify.
“Where did you find this?” Louder this time, each word crisply enunciated, as though he suddenly doubted her understanding of English. As he spoke, his hand tightened into a fist around the little leaden man, driving its sharp metal points into his palm, and she winced for the pain it must be giving him.
“Upstairs. I—”
All at once, he straightened, depriving her of his heat and his scent, leaving her shockingly aware of what a fool she had almost been. Before she could finish her explanation, he lifted the candlestick in his other hand and turned toward the door. “Show me.”
His footfalls were already ringing along the corridor, headed deeper into the house, before she caught up, her bare feet silent on the stone. The moonless night sky left all in utter darkness, and she was glad of the candle, though it drove back the looming shadows only a bit.
For all he had asked her to guide him, he walked like a man sure of his destination, or at least, one unaccustomed to being led. On the landing at the top of the stairs, however, he hesitated. She took the candle from his grasp and moved toward the small receiving room, feeling him follow in her wake. When she stopped before the door, his hand stretched for the knob, hovering over it for a moment before curling his fingers around the patterned brass oval and opening the door.
Candlelight struck the shattered mirror and bounced off it like a prism, casting bright beams in every direction, making the spatters on the wall look almost black, though they were still unmistakably blood. She had not thought it possible that the space could look worse than it had by daylight, and yet . . .
Before she could leave him to his explorations, his ruminations, she felt his hand searching for hers, first tangling with her fingertips, then gripping her like a drowning man. It hurt—her hands were sore from days of hard work. But she did not pull away.
Because when she looked up at his face, she saw unshed tears sparkling in his eyes.
“Here?” he asked, although his tone told her he already knew the answer.
“Oui.” Turning her gaze on the room, she said, “I found the remains of a bird. He must have crashed through one of the windows, then injured himself further by struggling for some time to get out.” Her explanation for the room’s ramshackle state seemed to offer little in the way of comfort. At least, the pressure of his hand did not relent. “I will put it to rights first thing tomorrow, if you wish,” she offered uncertainly.
“No.”
The hard reply made her flinch, and the slight jerk of her arm seemed to bring him to his senses, enough to make him release his grip on her hand and step away from her side, at least. Grasping the high-backed sofa, he pushed it aside, almost overturning it, wrinkling the carpet that lay before it, and driving it into the little round table on which the broken pieces of the crystal lamp had lain. They slid onto the floor with a tinkle, but the sound of their fall was further muffled by the louder noise of Edward dropping to his knees in the place where the sofa had been, sweeping his hands blindly across the floor at the carpet’s edge. When they found nothing more, he clutched his fists to his chest with a groan and rocked back onto his heels.
She wanted to ask how he knew his way around Ravenswood Manor so well. How he had known exactly where she had found the toy soldier.
But a woman who kept secrets was in no position to expect others to reveal theirs.
She placed the candlestick on the writing desk and made her way to his side with careful steps, mindful of the broken glass now scattered across the carpet. When she looked down, it was not at him but at the starlit garden, the trees, the very peak of the Rookery’s roof. Despite the neglect, it was a fairy landscape, the stuff of one of Charles Perrault’s tales.
Most of which came to a rather grim end for at least some of the parties involved.
Without touching him, without speaking, she simply stood and waited. If her presence was a comfort, she would stay. After all he had done for her, she could safely offer him that much.
Beside her, she felt him shift. Expecting every moment that he would rise to his feet, she could not contain the gasp of surprise that parted her lips when he instead turned toward her, wrapped his arms around her legs, and buried his face against her hip.
Even the thickest, most practical fabric would have no barrier to the heat of his touch, his breath, his tears. But the thin cotton of a night rail seemed to amplify every sensation. He shuddered against her with the effort of trying to fight off . . . something. The chill of the night air. Frustration at the impossible task he had been set. Grief.
A combination of all three, perhaps.
> Or . . . none of them.
Strong, lean fingers kneaded the backs of her thighs, traveling slowly upward, cupping her bottom, drawing her more tightly to him, to his lips, which skated along her hipbone and nuzzled the swell of her belly. His every exhalation was another touch, warm fingers of air that traced across her skin and ruffled the thatch of curls at the joining of her thighs.
Feeling suddenly as if she might collapse—to her knees, into his arms, over some precipice from which there could be no return—she forced herself to stand tall, arms stiff, hands curled into fists at her sides. He rose still higher, following the curve of her ribcage upward until he reached her breast. Pillowing his cheek against its softness, he murmured formless words. A name, perhaps? Beneath the hot rush of his breath her nipple peaked, and in another moment it was between his lips.
As he sucked and nipped, a battle built inside her, and she tightened her grip until her fingernails carved ridges into her tender palms. She knew the proper thing would be to push him away, but oh, how she longed for the courage to draw him closer. Seeming to understand that she was on the verge of splintering into a thousand pieces, like the broken mirror behind her, he stood at last and settled his lips over her mouth instead.
A kiss. Just a kiss. He did not even try, as Mr. Sutherland had, to push his tongue past her teeth—though she now understood, with sudden, shocking clarity, why a woman might welcome the sensation. While his mouth moved over hers, his hands slid up her bare arms, over her shoulders, to cup the back of her head, his fingers slipping through her long, loose hair as they caressed her scalp.
She longed to reciprocate, to give back his touch, but whatever instinct she had possessed in such matters seemed to have flown. Her hands remained locked at her sides.
“Ah, Charlotte,” he whispered when he at long last drew back. “I owe you an apology.”
Her heart jerked in her chest. Of course he regretted what he had done. He had forgotten himself.
While he was kissing her, he had no doubt been thinking of someone else.
Her breath caught as she tried to respond, and in that dreadful moment of silence, he released her. “You must be freezing,” he said, as if he had noticed for the first time her dishabille. He shrugged out of his coat and laid it around her shoulders. Its weight, its warmth was a second embrace.
From within its depths, she clutched the garment closer; the movement did not escape his shadowed eyes. “Have I frightened you?”
Still, no words would come. She shook her head, but the sharpness of the gesture seemed to persuade him of its opposite. “If it helps”—here, his voice broke on a sort of laugh—“I frightened myself a bit, too. But you needn’t worry about a repetition of my bad behavior. I’m bound for London soon—tomorrow, if I can manage it.”
London? Back to Mrs. Corrvan, she supposed, though she made herself ask, “Pourquoi?”
Ever since she had come to England, French had been a sort of refuge from thought, from reality. She had spoken it often in her mind, because her aunt had forbidden it to pass her lips. It had been a shield she could raise and lower at will.
Now, however, even spoken aloud, it no longer felt like adequate protection.
“A matter of business,” he said. “Something I have waited too long to address.” His hand rose, and though his explanation had brought little comfort, she closed her eyes, inviting the stroke of his fingertips across her cheek, brushing the hair from her face.
But the touch never came. In its place, another self-deprecating laugh. “You will be glad to see the back of me, I do not doubt.”
Don’t go. Don’t leave me tomorrow. What would happen to her if he left her here? What would happen to her if he didn’t?
Don’t leave me tonight.
“Au contraire,” she managed to say, after swallowing twice. “And I’m sure everyone at Ravenswood will be happy to see you return. Bon voyage, Mr. Cary.” With a tremendous effort, she forced herself to dip in a halfhearted curtsy, then walked out the door.
With every step, she felt something heavy in the pocket of his coat bump against her thigh. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw no sign of Edward following her down, so on the landing, she paused to investigate.
The small volume on husbandry nearly filled the pocket. But alongside it was tucked the toy soldier. Possessively, she curled her fingers around the worn metal figure.
A child’s plaything unearthed in a ruined room. That kiss. And now a hasty departure.
What did any of it mean?
Even with her capacity for invention, Charlotte could not put together the pieces of this puzzle in a way that made the picture clear.
* * *
When he could no longer hear Charlotte’s footsteps on the stairs, when he felt certain she was safely back in her bed, Edward allowed himself to leave the room, taking one final look around before he blew out the candle and closed the door.
Had his mother died here?
It would have been unlike his father to strike Mama in her receiving room, whose door had always stood open to visitors, at his insistence—a sign that there was nothing to hide. But deep within the labyrinth of the family chambers, there had been other rooms, of course, more private spaces where he had often made his displeasure known. And if the rest of the house was any indication, something had snapped the thin cord by which the man’s temper had been tethered.
Clearly, the outbreak of smallpox had been a fabrication, a story to cover up the terrible truth. Coming face-to-face with the evidence—her gravestone, her sitting room—forced Edward to confront the dire consequences of his decision to leave Ravenswood. His mother’s blood was on his conscience, if not his hands. He should have been here to save her. Far from saving her, his actions had led directly to her death.
Perhaps, after all, he had turned out to be little better than his father.
Finding himself in the back of the house, he exited through the gallery and strode through the woods to the pond. By the time he had reached the water’s edge, he had stripped off his waistcoat, his cravat, his shirt. Pausing only to toe off his boots and shuck his breeches, he dove headfirst into its depths.
There was a certain irony in coming here now, to the spot where his father taught him to swim. Why had Father insisted on taking that particular task to himself? The curate had tutored him in Latin and mathematics, though his father had excelled at both. His father had been a first-rate horseman, but a groom had taught Edward to ride. The prospect of any sort of lessons with his father, who was almost invariably stern and critical, had filled Edward with quiet dread. But here in this pond they had splashed and laughed together—unless Edward’s memory was as untrustworthy as Charlotte’s.
He did not want or need the reminder that his father was not always a bad man. Despite his sometimes sharp temper, his peers had generally thought well of him, his tenants had respected him, his son had . . . loved him.
Feared him, too. Every time some well-meaning person had insisted he was like his father—in looks, in abilities, in temperament—Edward had felt as if he were being torn in two. Though there had been much in his father to admire, Edward had been too well aware that he also possessed qualities no man ought to want to emulate. Lust, chief among them, although he would not have known to use that word then. Lust for power. And women—Edward’s mother, the occasional housemaid, some girl from outside the village—had been his victims of choice.
It had never been quite as simple as vowing to do opposite of what his father had done, however, because his father’s choices had not always been the wrong ones.
Edward prided himself on never having struck another person, though few would have thought less of him for it—and some had certainly deserved punishment for their actions. In the West Indies, his abhorrence of violence had been regarded as a peculiarity, a weakness, by almost everyone he knew.
With respect to women, Edward’s path had been perfectly clear. He had contented himself with being treated as a brother. A
friend. He held himself at a safe distance, because he feared that deep down, he might not be safe. He had grown adept at keeping his desires, his needs, his feelings ruthlessly in check.
But did that mean he had truly triumphed over his father’s nature?
Protecting Charlotte had been the last thing on his mind tonight. The slightest encouragement and he would have rucked up her skirts, pressed her back to the wall, and sheathed himself inside her.
Fortunately, she had offered no encouragement. In his arms, she had been a marble statue, whose coolness had at last brought him to his senses.
She deserved better. Better than a man like him.
What woman did not?
Determined to distract himself from her, he had been working himself to the dropping point every day, until his muscles screamed. But every night, when sleep should have offered him respite, he tossed and turned through feverish dreams, and woke every morning achingly hard. Even now, the icy chill of the water had done little toward wilting his cockstand.
In the West Indies, most men had paid dockside whores to slake their lust, or more often, forced slaves to service their needs.
He was not most men.
Just as he was about to close his hand around his own flesh—though he generally disdained such weakness—he heard a rustle along the pond’s edge. Silently, he slipped back into deeper water, treading slowly, stirring up ripples that made the starry sky reflected on the pond’s surface shimmer and wink.
Mari was returning from her midnight stroll, dragging her lame leg behind her. She had been limping along that way the first time he had seen her, the smallest and weakest in a coffle of slaves bound for sale. By then, he had known enough about the Middle Passage to guess that, while a lame leg might have been the only visible injury slavery had inflicted on Mari, it was likely far from the worst.
To Seduce a Stranger Page 13
