Her breath caught, just as a flash of lightning lit the sky and the lame man below. He wore no coat or hat but walked determinedly through the storm in his shirt sleeves.
Something was wrong. It had to be. No one in their right mind would go out in this weather, even for a secret tryst, dressed like that. There had to be an emergency, and it was her instinct to help.
Thunder rumbled and cracked. Without hesitation, she snatched up a candle and ran out of the room, along the corridor and downstairs, veering along the passage that led to the side door. It stood open, the wind holding it right back against the wall. Shocked by the cold and the force of it, Caroline only just managed to spin around to protect her candle flame. Hastily, she used it to light the lantern by the coat stand. She paused only long enough to haul her cloak about her and seize up the lantern and Mr. Benedict’s old great coat that hung on the stand. Then, dragging her hood up, she ran outside and pulled the door closed behind her.
Helped by the wind, which blew her along rather faster than she would normally have run, she hurtled toward the wood, in the direction she’d last seen Mr. Benedict. Several things bothered her. Why hadn’t he taken the lantern? Why had he not even donned the greatcoat or closed the door? How could he even see where he was going?
Another flash of lightning showed the white of his shirt vanishing into the wood. Holding the lantern in front of her, she hurried after him as the thunder crashed overhead. The force of the rain was almost painful now, blasting against the side of her face when she swerved into the wood.
“Sir!” she called. “Mr. Benedict, wait!” Holding the lantern high, she paused, searching between the trees. There. Only a few yards ahead. The wind must have whipped her voice away, for he didn’t appear to have heard her. At least he was following the track. She ran after him, calling again.
Still he didn’t turn. Exhausted, she caught up with him and in desperation, grasped his drenched arm. “Sir, please, what is—” She got no further, for he whirled around, throwing off her detaining hand, and shoved her roughly away.
Shocked, she stumbled back against a tree, too winded to speak. But surely, he had heard her voice? Surely, he could see who she was by the light of the lantern which she’d somehow managed to hold on to?
He flew after her so ferociously that she threw up her arms in defense. He merely knocked them aside with one hand and the lantern finally fell to the ground, casting the light upward over his scarred, agonized face. He thrust one arm over her throat and drew back his other fist to strike.
Lightning burst across the sky at almost the same moment as the thunder crashed.
“Don’t you dare,” she said furiously, even while something inside her seemed to die at the very idea that he would hurt her.
Abruptly, his face changed. The weird light and shadow cast by the fallen lantern remained the same, but the strange, blank agony vanished, leaving him bewildered. His fist opened and fell to his side. He released her neck and instead, dragged her into his arms.
“Dear God,” he whispered. “What am I doing here? What are you…?” He swallowed convulsively. Water streamed off him. His clothing was utterly soaked, leaving little barrier between them. His breath heaved. “Jesus, not this… I dream, I sleepwalk…” His lips dragged across her ear, her cheek, interspersing his words with short, desperate kisses of remorse. “Know I would never hurt you, not knowingly…”
She threw back her head, trying to tell him she wasn’t hurt. “Sir, you did not—” The rest of her words were lost as his kiss landed on her upturned lips. Stunned, she didn’t move.
“I wouldn’t,” he said unsteadily against her mouth and then his lips sank deeper as though trying to convince her, or himself. In spite of the cold and the rain and the thunder bellowing across the night, heat flamed through her body. She was aware of every hard inch of him, not just his urgent, pleading mouth.
“I’m not,” she whispered against his lips. “Sir, you did not hurt me.” Certainly not in the way he meant.
His lips left her trembling mouth. For an instant his forehead touched hers. “Thank God,” he muttered. And then, without stepping back, he gazed around, as if really seeing where they were for the first time.
“Oh, Christ,” he uttered, and choked on something very like a laugh. He bent and swept up the lantern, still miraculously alight, and as he straightened, she thrust his overcoat between them like a shield.
“I brought you this,” she said, as though offering a gift on a social occasion.
Again, his breath caught, but he made no move to take it from her. She shook it out and flung it up over his shoulders, standing on tiptoe to do it. Impatiently, he thrust his arms through the sleeves. “Thank you,” he muttered. “Come, let’s get back to the house.”
She jumped when he threw his arm around her waist, but there seemed to be nothing either loverlike or threatening about the gesture, merely a desire to hurry her. In fact, she understood there was nothing loverlike about any of his actions, even his kisses. He was merely acting from shock at waking from his dream here, in such weather, and from fear and remorse at what he’d done or might have done.
“Does this happen to you often?” she managed over the noise of the wind.
“Not now. Only occasionally. But what are you doing out here?”
“I saw you from my window. I thought you were running to some emergency and I wanted to help.”
“Well, you did. God knows where I’d have ended up if you hadn’t wakened me. I’m grateful, though I shouldn’t be.”
The storm seemed to be grumbling its way past, but the rain still lashed into them and the wind fought them most of the way back to the house.
“Which way did you come out?” he asked.
“By the side door. You’d left it open.”
He swore beneath his breath, releasing her at last as they reached the door. Stupidly, she missed the strength of his arm, even soaked and dripping as it was. Ushering her inside, he locked the door behind them, then blew out the lantern and picked up the candle she’d left burning in its holder on the table. There wasn’t much of it left.
“Come,” he commanded, and she followed along the passage to the closed door that Rosa had once pointed out to her as her father’s study. He threw the door wide. “Go in and wait for me there. It will be warmest.”
She obeyed, drawn in spite of herself to the fire still burning merrily in the grate. Kneeling on the rug before it, she shook out her cloak and bonnet and gazed around her.
Well-lit by several lamps, the room was dominated by a large mahogany desk, covered with papers and books. Glass cabinets scattered about the room displayed live plants and dried specimens of leaves and flowers. There was also a large couch, on which she suspected he’d been sleeping before he’d walked out of the house, for a blanket seemed to have half-fallen off it.
Caroline sat right down on the rug and drew off her wet boots, then thrust her soaked stockinged feet out toward the fire. The warmth was delicious, almost sensual.
She wondered why she was waiting here, what he wanted to say. To explain, perhaps, about his sleepwalking. Perhaps it would solve a few of the mysteries surrounding him.
Chapter Six
Much quicker than she expected, soft footsteps sounded in the passage outside. Caroline dropped her stretched out foot to the floor and whisked her skirts down to cover it.
Mr. Benedict strode into the room, still shrugging himself into a coat for the sake, presumably, of respectability in her company. Beneath it, he wore a dry white shirt, without a necktie, and a pair of smart buckskins—probably the first garments he had found.
He limped over to the cabinet by the wall, and from the decanter there poured a measure of amber liquid into two glasses. He crossed to the fire and casually held out a glass to her.
“What is it?” she asked, accepting it.
“Brandy.” His lips twisted. “Blackhaven’s best, I was assured by the rogue who brought it. I assume it has never p
aid a penny in duty.”
“I don’t believe it’s quite proper for me to drink brandy,” she said, eyeing it doubtfully.
He threw himself into the armchair by the fire. “My dear girl, you have just been out alone in a storm at night with a man to whom you are in no way related, the same man you are now closeted with behind a door quite firmly closed. It’s a little late to preach propriety to yourself. Drink up—it will warm you.”
He raised his glass to her and knocked most of the content down his throat in one swift tilt.
“I could make you hot tea, if you prefer,” she offered.
“I don’t,” he said bluntly.
She sipped the liquid, enjoying the unexpected burn on her tongue and throat.
He watched her for a moment, searching her face. “Tell me truthfully,” he commanded. “Did I strike you? Did I hurt you at all?”
She shook her head. “You pushed me away when I tugged your arm to make you halt. But you did not strike me. I am not hurt.”
Without warning, he reached down, placed a finger under her chin and tilted it upward, gazing at her neck. “I had my arm across your throat. Is it sore?”
She shook her head, and he released her.
Distractedly, he picked up her discarded boot from the floor and frowned over it. “I’m sorry I frightened you.”
“I wouldn’t have crept up on you if I’d known you were asleep.” She regarded him curiously. “Were you dreaming?”
“Yes. But not about here.”
“A nightmare?”
“That, certainly.”
“Do you always have the same dream?”
“Variations on a theme. Why do you ask?”
“My nephew walks and cries in his sleep and does not seem to know you when you take him up and carry him back to bed. Afterward, he can’t remember his dreams.”
“Lucky nephew.” His gaze fell away to the boot, which he began to examine, more as an excuse to avoid her gaze, she suspected.
“What do you dream of?” she asked curiously.
He turned the boot up and discovered the hole. “Escape.”
That made sense. He had been getting away from the house. “Escape from where?”
“You really don’t want to know.” He thrust his hand inside the boot, which he cast aside with sudden displeasure. “Your boot is soaked through. The sole is so fine I could pierce it with a finger, and there is a hole in it already. You have a day off on Saturday, do you not?”
They had never discussed such things. “Do I?”
“Yes. Oblige me by going into Blackhaven and ordering a new pair. They may send me the bill.”
Caroline bridled, and his lips curved in mockery.
He reached behind him for the decanter. “I won’t have you catching cold and failing to teach my daughter. I require you to have new boots.” He raised the decanter to her invitingly, and when she shook her head, merely sloshed brandy into his own empty glass.
“Thank you,” she said at last. “If we may count it an advance on my salary.”
He sat back, regarding her. “You’re very proud, Miss Grey.”
“I suppose it is a sin in a mere governess.”
His lips curved. “But there is nothing mere about you, is there, Miss Grey?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” she replied with dignity, suspecting him of further mockery.
He only smiled around his glass as he took another mouthful of brandy. “No, I don’t suppose you do, and therein lies my salvation.”
Disconcerted, she rose to her feet, forgetting that he would stand with her. But although she meant to say goodnight, her slightly desperate gaze landed beyond him to his glass cabinets, which immediately distracted her.
“What are these plants? Are they rare?”
“Yes. Various samples and cuttings I have collected on my travels.”
She walked over to the nearest case. “Where have you travelled?”
He shrugged. “Southern Europe, the Ottoman Empire and beyond. India, China. Over many years.”
“I would love to see such places,” she said wistfully.
“Then you will.”
“Perhaps,” she replied, unconvinced. “Do you miss travelling? Do you find England boring now?”
There was a pause before he replied. “No. Not just yet.”
“What is this flower?” she asked him.
A couple of questions seemed to be enough to unlock his enthusiasm. He told her about the plants and sometimes amusing stories about how he’d come across them. And he talked of his plans to replant some of them in England, breeding them to hardier climates. After some time, she became more intrigued by his interest, in the suddenly mobile expressions of his usually harsh face. Whatever lay behind his injuries or his nightmares, this was an uncomplicated enthusiasm.
“I’m boring you,” he said at last. “I’m sorry. You want to go to bed.”
“I should,” she acknowledged. “Since I have work to do tomorrow. But I am fascinated rather than bored.”
He looked skeptical as he limped back to the rug by the fire and picked up her damp cloak and hat and boots, which were gently steaming in the heat. “Saturday,” he said, dropping them into her waiting arms.
She took them with an uncertain smile and inclined her head. His scar stood out lividly against the swarthy skin of his face. His nearness did strange things to her breathing, to her whole body.
“Goodnight, sir,” she said breathlessly, and all but fled to the door.
“Goodnight, Miss Grey. Sleep well.” His mocking voice sounded too aware as it followed her. But she suspected that on some level at least, it was himself he mocked.
*
Javan Benedict was not in good health. On top of which, he was lame. So why was it only now, after finding him sleepwalking in a storm, that she felt she’d found a vulnerability in him?
Not that it solved any of the mysteries surrounding him. Instead, last night’s revelations, such as they were, only inspired more questions. Why did he dream of escape, and where he did imagine he was escaping from? Had he travelled so widely, simply for botanical purposes? Or was the botany a substitute, an interest to distract him from his troubles—which were what exactly?
A daughter who chose to be mute for reasons he either could not or would not reveal to her.
Nevertheless, there was a shared awareness between them now, a shared bond of closeness.
Teaching Rosa the following morning, she found herself longing for a glimpse of him, awaiting luncheon with much more than normal anticipation.
And yet, when luncheon came, he barely looked at her. He seemed more distracted than usual, hardly spoke and reserved his one smile for Rosa, ruffling her hair when she caught his hand to see if he was well. He finally excused himself from the room.
“Busy,” Miss Benedict observed vaguely. “Always busy… And what will you two be doing this afternoon?”
“A little arithmetic and then some watercolor painting, I think. And if we finish early enough, I wondered about walking into Blackhaven. Perhaps a vehicle could be sent to bring us home again?”
“Oh dear, I don’t know! Blackhaven,” Miss Benedict said with the same kind of distasteful dread as she might have mentioned London stews, or even hell. “You had best speak to my brother first. I don’t think…” She trailed off, choosing to finish her luncheon rather than her sentence.
It was while Caroline was correcting Rosa’s arithmetic that the unfamiliar sound of carriage wheels on the stony drive attracted them both to the schoolroom window. A smart, familiar carriage was driven up to the overgrown front terrace and a coachman got down to open the door and let down the steps.
Lady Serena, now Lady Tamar, emerged, closely followed by her sisters, Maria, Alice, and Helen. Caroline’s heart lifted at once.
“How wonderful!” she exclaimed.
But of course, she could not run down there to greet them, no matter how much she might wish to. She was the governess
. Lady Tamar might or might not have come to see her, but if she had, no one would admit it. Caroline would have to wait and simply hope that the Benedicts would receive Lady Tamar and then, perhaps, summon Rosa and Caroline…
Rosa gazed at her, brows raised in interrogation.
“My old pupils,” Caroline said warmly. “With their sister, Lady Tamar.”
Rosa walked back to her desk, but not before Caroline had seen the familiar, anxious look on her face. Rosa didn’t like change or the prospect of it.
It seemed to be difficult for both of them to concentrate after that, so it was a relief in several ways when the maid stuck her head around the schoolroom door. “Miss Benedict says will you and Miss Rosa join her in the drawing room.”
Rosa dragged her heels a little. “You will like the young ladies,” Caroline assured her. “Lady Helen is only about a year older than you.”
And doubts Caroline might have harbored as to how the Braithwaite ladies would regard her after the countess’s unfair dismissal, fell apart at once.
She had no sooner entered the drawing room and glimpsed the lovely Lady Tamar seated beside the vague and fluttery Miss Benedict, when a Helen-shaped cannonball hurtled into her. There were no ladylike curtsies and handshakes as she’d taught them. Even Lady Maria, almost sixteen, hugged her with enthusiasm.
Caroline emerged from the multiple embrace with self-conscious laughter. “So much for discipline and self-restraint,” she said severely.
“We are sadly in need of you,” Lady Tamar said warmly, although she offered her hand in a more civilized manner than her siblings. “How are you, Miss Grey?”
“I am very well, as I can see, are you!” She turned to find Rosa shrinking back against the wall, and held out her hand, beckoning. Rosa came with reluctance. “Will you allow me to present my new charge, Miss Rosa Benedict? Rosa, this is Lady Tamar and her sisters, Lady Maria, Lady Alice, and Lady Helen Conway.”
Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8) Page 27
