by Clee, Adele
Releasing a loud sigh, he strode closer to the brazier, pulled out his pocket watch and glanced at the time. He could go in search of Newberry. A fight would ease the tension in his shoulders. He could go to Bideford Park, barge into his father’s chamber and torment him with news of Julia Fontaine.
Instead, he strode out of the mews and headed towards his carriage parked on George Street. Furnis woke from his nap as soon as Lucius opened the carriage door.
“Back to Brook Street, sir?”
“No. I wish to return to Bronygarth. Can you take me to the Wild Hare to collect my horse and be back in time to fetch Miss Atwood?”
He would not leave Sybil waiting with the Wycliffs, worrying about what might have happened. He would not have the Wycliffs think him negligent or tardy.
“Aye, if I drive like the devil’s chasing our tail.”
“Is there any other way to drive?” Lucius said, recalling Miss Atwood’s comment that he should be more reckless.
The coachman snorted. “I don’t suppose there is, sir.”
Chapter Thirteen
Typical! On a night when Sybil was more desperate than ever to reach Bronygarth, the journey was plagued by problems.
The storm had broken. A forceful wind whistled through the carriage. The vehicle rocked violently on its springs, swaying as if carried on turbulent waves. Rain lashed down from the heavens, a torrent that swamped the narrow track winding up through the woods to Mr Daventry’s haunted castle.
The coachman’s cries of encouragement to the horses fought with the roar of powerful gusts and the rumble of thunder.
“Lord above!” Sybil gripped the overhead strap yet struggled to remain seated. She had abandoned all attempts to warm her feet on the bricks.
Rain as hard as pebbles struck the windows like the devil’s stoning. Beyond she could see nothing but towering trees, swaying shadows and a never-ending gloom.
Surely Lucius wasn’t out scouting the road. She doubted anyone would be foolish enough to follow them in this damnable weather.
Sybil had no time to contemplate the matter further. A loud cry sliced through the wind’s mournful moan. The carriage lost momentum, slowing and then stopping as the wheels became bound in the mire.
Minutes passed.
Minutes of shouts and barked commands.
Then the carriage door flew open.
Lucius Daventry stood there, an imposing figure in the darkness, his greatcoat whipping wildly, water dripping from the wide brim of his hat.
“Take my hand!” he shouted through the deafening din. “We’ll ride Phaedrus for the last half mile.”
The gale seemed to grip the carriage in its mighty arms, tossing it about like a child’s toy. Sybil had no option but to jump down to the muddy track. Sodden earth squelched over her dainty slippers, sucking them off her feet as she moved to walk.
Her knees buckled.
Lucius was there, preventing her fall. “Leave them! Hurry!” He wrapped his arm around her, propelling her forward to where Samuel stood struggling to hold the reins of a black stallion. “Climb atop the box with your father, lad. I’ll send Jonah back to help.”
The boy nodded.
Rain pelted Sybil’s face. Hair clung to her cheeks. Soggy and caked in mud, her stockings sagged at the toes, making it hard to slip her foot into the stirrup. Lucius was busy helping Samuel steady the spooked horse, and so she quickly reached under her skirts, removed her right stocking and mounted Phaedrus.
“Lord, this is the devil of all storms,” she cried as Lucius climbed up behind.
“Hold me tightly.” He took control of the reins. “Some of these trees are two hundred years old and are dangerous in hazardous weather.”
Sybil did not object. She pushed her hands inside his greatcoat and threaded her arms around his waist. While she should have been terrified—gripping his soaked shirt for fear of falling—another sensation took precedence.
Hunger.
Raw.
Carnal.
She wanted to devour every inch of Lucius Daventry. She wanted to press her mouth to his neck and taste his earthy essence. She wanted to feel his firm fingers gripping her thigh, wanted to hear him moaning into her mouth in the way that stole her sanity.
With one arm holding her tight to his chest, Lucius rode as fast as the howling wind. While he had taken command of the situation—taken care of her—there was something different about him now. Dare she say he seemed distant. Aloof. It was as if he’d locked his feelings away in the vault under the lake, and this was merely the shell of the man going through the motions.
Did his reticence have to do with their kiss?
Was he annoyed at Mr Wycliff’s interference?
“This is dreadful,” she said, hoping for some reassurance that the horrible weather had affected his mood.
“We’ll be home soon.” Despite his abrupt tone, his choice of words eased her fears.
They galloped along the lane in silence. Lucius dodged the flying debris as the wind hurled broken branches and twigs in their path. Mud flicked off the horse’s hooves. The wind’s icy breath nipped at her cheeks, forcing her to press her face against Lucius’ chest.
Holding him—hugging him—brought immediate relief.
When they reached the castle, Lucius rode directly to the stables. Jonah appeared, his wet greatcoat plastered to his broad shoulders, his brown hair fastened at the nape with black ribbon. Were he a footman in a grand house, the mistress might summon him just for the pleasure of gazing upon his impressive physique.
“Robert needs help with the carriage.” Lucius removed his hat, shook off the excess water and gave it to Jonah. “He’s but half a mile along the track. Take Phaedrus and a length of rope. I’ll settle Miss Atwood, then saddle another horse and meet you there.”
Jonah nodded. “And if the carriage won’t budge?”
“Return with the horses.”
“Aye, sir.” Jonah mounted the black stallion and darted off into the dismal night.
Lucius turned to her. “We need to get you inside. Get you something warm to drink. Wash the mud off your feet.”
Without warning, he scooped her up into his strong arms and carried her across the cobbled courtyard. Not once did he lose his grip while pushing through the violent storm.
They entered the house near the servants’ hall, moved along the dark, narrow passages and past the small chapel with barely room for a pew. Lucius carried her into the drawing room, an inherently masculine space with burgundy furnishings and walnut tables. While the sight of lit candles and the roaring fire warmed her instantly, the low timber ceiling added to the stifling tension.
“Are you still angry with Mr Wycliff?” she said, as Lucius lowered her down onto the blanket spread across the sofa.
“Wycliff was acting in your interests.” He stared at her muddy feet though his mind was elsewhere. “For that, I am grateful. Wait here. I shall be back in a moment.”
He left the room and returned minutes later carrying a porcelain washbowl and a towel. He knelt before her, placed the bowl of water on the floor and captured her right ankle.
Her breath hitched.
Conflicting emotions clashed in his eyes—sadness, the faint flicker of desire. He exhaled deeply as he pushed the dirty hem of Sybil’s gown up to her bare calf and used the linen square to wash away the mud squelching between her toes.
“Are you worried about Robert and Samuel?” she said, watching him as he cleaned her foot as if she were as delicate as a doll.
He glanced briefly at the closed curtains moving back and forth as the wind found its way in through the shutters. “I should go to them,” he said, his anxiety evident. Yet he cupped her arch and dripped warm water over the bridge of her foot.
“Then go,” she urged. “I can attend to this task.”
“You should remove your wet cloak before you catch a chill.”
“I will.” She offered a reassuring smile. “By the time you return,
I shall have clean feet and dry clothes.” And she would attempt to discover what had brought about this melancholic mood.
A strange maudlin silence captured him again.
“Lucius, you should help Robert.” She snatched her foot from his grasp, bent down and took the linen square. “Samuel is so slight and hasn’t your strength, especially in this heavy downpour.”
Offering a huff and a mumbled curse, he stood. “Tomas is here and will watch over you until I return.” He took the towel and wiped the rivulets of water trickling down from his hair to the open neck of his shirt. “I cannot envisage being longer than an hour.”
“Go,” she said, laughing lightly. “Before the road becomes impassable.”
“You have the freedom of the house. Tomas will prepare supper if you’re hungry.”
“Go.”
Lucius inclined his head, then turned on his heel and strode from the room.
In truth, she hadn’t wanted him to go, not in these dreadful conditions. And what lady wouldn’t want a handsome gentleman tending to her ablutions? His hands had been as cold as her feet, though she liked the tender, almost sensual way he’d washed her toes.
Indeed, she thought of every soft stroke as she removed her dirty stocking and finished the task. His image filled her head as she slipped out of the wet cloak. Beneath, her dress was damp. She might have gone upstairs to change had Tomas not appeared carrying a tray laden with hot fruit punch, a bowl of lamb stew and a crust of bread.
“A storm always gets the hunger pangs growling, ma’am,” Tomas said. Large eye bags and a gaunt face gave the impression he’d not slept in weeks. “And Mr Daventry said you’d need something to chase away the cold.”
“Thank you, Tomas.” She might have said that a passionate kiss from the master would heat her blood sufficiently.
“Mr Daventry won’t mind if you eat here, ma’am.” Tomas placed the crude wooden tray on the walnut table. “No one’s lit the fire in the dining room, and it’s warmer here than in the bedchamber.”
The mere mention of the bedchamber brought to mind Mr Daventry’s nightmares. Perhaps his anxiety stemmed from a fear of falling asleep tonight.
“Then I shall settle by the fire and eat supper while I wait for Mr Daventry.” She wondered if Tomas knew why Lucius had brought her to Bronygarth. But how did one broach the subject? “Did you know my father?”
The man’s droopy lids twitched. “I did, ma’am, and a more charitable man I never did meet. If it wasn’t for him and Mr Daventry, I’d have met with the hangman’s noose.”
Pride filled Sybil’s chest, not just for her father’s considerate actions. “I trust they found evidence to absolve you of a crime.”
“They proved Moses Maroney is a devil of a liar if that’s your meaning, ma’am. Said I stole three silver spoons when it was him who sold them to pay for his visits to that harlot at—” He stopped abruptly. “Begging your pardon, ma’am. I’m not used to minding my tongue.”
Sybil smiled. “Fear not. Mr Daventry can be equally blunt in his delivery. And you needn’t worry. I can’t imagine I shall remain here long. Mr Daventry is trying to save me from a frightening fate, too.”
“Then you’re in good hands, ma’am.”
“The best,” she agreed, having experienced the power and skill in Lucius Daventry’s deft fingers. “Thank you, Tomas.”
The man bowed and promised to let her know when Lucius returned. And so she sat on the rug near the hearth, ate her meal and dried her clothes. The heat relaxed her cold, tired limbs. The hot punch contained more than a nip of brandy, and it wasn’t long before she curled up with a cushion and fell asleep.
The tapping on her shoulder dragged her out of a peaceful slumber. She blinked and rubbed her eyes only to find Tomas looming, wringing his hands and giving a mumbled apology.
“Oh, I thought you were abed, ma’am.” Brandy fumes wafted over her as Tomas leaned closer. “What with tending to the horses and making sure Samuel downed his hot toddy, I forgot to come and stoke the fire.”
The temperature in the room had plummeted. Sybil glanced at the dying embers, at the candle stubs spluttering in the lamps. She shot up. “Has Mr Daventry returned?”
Tomas grimaced and scratched his head. “About an hour ago, ma’am. He went to wash and change his clothes. I looked in to tell you, but didn’t see you lying down there. Mr Daventry thinks you’ve gone to bed.”
“Gone to bed? Oh.” Her shoulders sagged in disappointment. “Not to worry. I can speak to him in the morning. The safety of the men and the horses is what’s important.”
The man chuckled. “Samuel downed his toddy faster than you can say Jack Robinson, though it will do him a power of good, even if he is spouting nonsense.”
Sybil gathered her cloak and left Tomas to check the lamps and poke the embers. A mild pang of fear made her pause at the bottom of the dark staircase. Frightful thoughts of hauntings and ghosts raised the hairs on her nape. It didn’t help that the leaded windows creaked and rattled like a spectre shaking its chains. But despite the oppressive atmosphere, she felt strangely at home at Bronygarth.
After mounting the stairs, curiosity made her stop outside Mr Daventry’s door. She considered knocking, but it was late, and he must be exhausted after spending hours battling in the wind and rain.
No one had lit the fire in her chamber. No one had turned down the bed or placed a warming pan beneath the ice-cold sheets. As the frigid temperature penetrated her bones, she scoured the drawers and the armoire, looking for more blankets.
Of course, she had another purpose for stamping around and making a racket. But after hurrying to listen at the adjoining door, she heard nothing to convince her Lucius was awake.
Knowing she had no hope of sleeping, Sybil lingered at the door before pushing doubts aside and turning the key in the lock.
The hinges groaned as she eased the door from the jamb.
A frisson of excitement sent her heart skipping as she stepped into his bedchamber. She peered through the gloom, hindered by the lack of firelight, the lack of any lit candles.
“Lucius,” she whispered, but he was not sitting in the chair near the stone fireplace. The glass on the side table was empty, the decanter full. “Lucius.” She stepped closer to the bed, and with trembling fingers pulled back the green hangings.
The bed was empty.
That didn’t stop her touching the pillow and stroking the coverlet. She could have spent an hour in his room, inhaling the seductive scent that hung in the cool air. She might have shrugged into his shirt, sipped his brandy, read his book. Such was the depth of her growing obsession.
The sudden thud from the floor above tore a gasp from her lips. She strained to listen, was convinced she heard the rich rumble of Lucius’ voice, cursing.
A desire to see him drew her into the gloomy corridor. While her stomach lurched at the prospect of meeting a phantom dressed in Jacobean finery, she took command of her nerves and climbed the narrow staircase leading to the attic.
It wasn’t difficult to find the man who intrigued her more by the day. Light spilled from the narrow opening of a door. Sybil crept closer and peered through the gap.
Lucius Daventry was sprawled on an elegant chaise, wearing nothing but a white shirt open at the neck and buckskin breeches. His eyes were closed, and she might have thought him asleep had he not uttered another vile curse.
Without warning, he pushed to his feet and strode over to the bookcase. He scanned the row of cloth-covered books, picked one and studied the recto beneath the light of the standing candelabra.
“Beloved son,” the words left his lips on a wind of contempt. And then he hurled the volume at the wall before striding back to the chaise and resuming his relaxed position.
Sensing his distress and having witnessed his pensive mood earlier in the evening, she couldn’t leave him alone with his demons. Not when she feared the beasts might turn on their master.
“Lucius,” she called s
oftly and pushed open the door.
He didn’t reply but lay there consumed by his morbid mood.
“Lucius.” Sybil stepped into the room.
Her voice seemed to pull him back from the darkness. He turned his head a fraction and stared at her through tormented eyes. Tortured eyes. Eyes pleading to be dragged free from their miserable prison.
Her pulse pounded in her throat. “I heard a noise, thought I heard your voice.”
The intense stare that once roused her anger roused a host of different emotions now—pity, desire, a tenderness so consuming she could barely breathe.
“Tomas said you’d retired to your bedchamber.” His sharp gaze softened as he scanned the neckline of her gown. “Clearly he was wrong.”
“I was waiting for you,” she said, closing the gap between them. She noticed a pile of books discarded on the floor near the bookcase. “I took supper in the drawing room and fell asleep by the fire.”
“I ate up here.” He gestured to the plate and cutlery under the chaise. “You needed rest, and I didn’t want to cause a disturbance.” He brushed his hand through his coal-black hair, the action drawing her eyes to his bare chest visible beneath his open shirt.
Heat pooled between her thighs.
So hot.
So heavy.
So damned distracting.
“What do you need, Lucius?” she found herself saying. “Do you need to talk? Do you want to be alone? Can I do anything to ease your discomfort?”
“You shouldn’t be here, Sybil.” A weary sigh escaped him. “I don’t have the strength to fight it anymore. I don’t have the strength to keep pretending. Not tonight at least.”
“Tonight?” She thought to touch his sleeve, but hesitated. “Did something happen after I left the mews? Is it Newberry? Tell me the devil hasn’t called you out.”
