by Karen Ranney
“He is my brother,” she said softly.
“I thought you were bereft of family, madam, or is that simply another lie?”
She was silent. What explanation could she give him that would appease his anger? Why, though, should she give him any?
“Come, have you nothing to say?”
Another moment passed, another lesson in silence. A leaf fell to the ground, a squirrel chittered angrily, but no speech passed between them.
“You may keep all your secrets, madam,” he said finally, a sentence of conciliation at odds with his look of dislike. “I wish only one thing from you. The whereabouts of my wife.”
“What?”
“Do not stumble upon your answer, madam, and your wide-eyed appearance of innocence has no effect on my irritation. Where is Alice?”
Chapter 8
“You maintain a muteness which might be endearing, save for the fact that it’s to your benefit.” His voice was too loud in the closeness of the carriage.
Archer St. John folded his hands over the gold top of his walking stick. Such a pose might have led another person to believe he was relaxed, barely roused to speech. Mary Kate knew better; he’d studied her avidly since he had bundled her into his conveyance.
“What would you have me say?” They had already gone through endless rounds of questioning, Mary Kate unable to supply the answers the earl seemed certain she possessed.
“The truth? An entertaining little tidbit of it would be refreshing. Where is Alice?”
“Must you ask that question again? I’ve already told you I don’t know.”
“Then we are at another impasse, are we not? Shall we converse in amiable discourse, or would you prefer another simmering silence?” A small, mirthless smile accompanied that question.
“Have you much experience at abduction? You seem to have spirited me away with little difficulty.”
“Perhaps I shall grow adept at all sorts of things. You are the first connection I’ve had with Alice for over a year, madam, the first hint that she has not simply disappeared into the ether. I am not about to allow you to do the same.”
“What would you do if I screamed for a magistrate?”
“If you could find one, tell him that you are under my protection, of course. What interpretation he chooses to make of that is, of course, up to him. But you could wait until we reach Sanderhurst. I am of intimate acquaintance with the magistrate there.”
“Then I shall summon him at the instant of our arrival.”
“Oh, you needn’t do that, madam. You are sitting with him.”
At her glare, he smiled.
It was barely past afternoon, yet the winter sky was already growing dim. Mary Kate wished he’d left the carriage lamp unlit, but the faint glow from the lantern was enough to see her abductor quite clearly. The greatcoat had been thrown back, exposing an emerald frock coat, a perfectly folded white linen cravat, and buckskin trousers. His Hessian boots were polished to a sheen, completing the picture of easily acquired elegance, a gentleman of the city out for the country air.
She was hardly the companion for him, with her black dress, stained cloak, and scuffed kid slippers. She felt soiled from being on the road for a week, desirous of the creature comforts as never before—a hot bath and to wash her hair. And then to warm herself. She’d spent the last night huddled beneath a tree, dozing from time to time when the chilly wind subsided.
One finger reached out and touched her with delicacy. This was true invasion of touch, a finger laid upon her wrist, testing the strength of the pulse beneath. Her wrist quivered ever so slightly beneath his fingertip just before she jerked it free of his touch.
He moved then, sliding down one colored pane over the lantern so that the light emitted from it was barely enough to illuminate the interior of the carriage. Archer leaned back in the corner of the carriage, one elbow propped up on the window ledge, hand curled into a fist near his chin. It was not an indolent pose for all his easy grace.
She’d said nothing when he had led her to his carriage, only turned and looked one last time at the gravestone, then in the direction her brother had disappeared. She’d said nothing to him, and he’d expected no protestations from her.
Mary Kate edged closer to the corner of the seat. A headache was blossoming on the back of her skull, a solemn, implacable warning. She laid her head back against the squabs. Not now, not after all this. It would be the perfect culmination to a hideous day.
“You’ve grown pale.”
“Are you acting as my mirror now?”
“Shall I?”
“Please, do not. I cannot compare with the women of your acquaintance.”
“Is this surliness attributable to the fact we’ve missed dinner? Or are you a naturally poor traveling companion?”
“Please don’t.”
“Don’t be polite? Pleasant? Inquisitive?”
“Don’t mention dinner.”
“You are ill.”
“Yes.” This affirmative answer lacked the brittleness of her former response. It was, in one faint gasp, an admission of weakness, a plea for help. How could one word speak so loudly? She hated it, despised her own frailty.
“Tell me what I can do.”
“The light. Extinguish the lantern. Please.”
With her conscious will, Mary Kate forced the pain away. But it continued in bursts of sharpness, volleys that radiated from the back of her skull around her face to the corners of her eyes, where they were transformed to long silver strands of lightning.
Mary Kate heard the sounds of metal against metal, the clink of glass, then blessed darkness descended.
“What else?” Archer asked.
“Quiet. Sounds seem to make the headaches worse.”
He moved swiftly, almost silently, the brushing aside of her skirts the first indication she had that he sat beside her. The second, more shocking, was that he grasped her shoulders, forced her to move from her wedged position, gently lowered her so that her head rested against one strong, muscled thigh. Thoroughly reprehensible, of course. Daring. Almost certainly forbidden.
Such welcome relief.
Her right hand came up and cupped his knee for balance. Another gesture deserving of rebuke. Archer’s hand brushed against her forehead, smoothed the damp tendrils of hair away from her temple. Surely she should protest such impropriety? And she certainly should not be resting against the length of his leg, her cheek becoming familiar with the warmth of him, the movement of muscle, the outline of his body beneath the fabric.
The swaying of the carriage, the body she rested against, the sounds of hushed breathing, the pounding of her head, all these coalesced and became for Mary Kate the essence of these long moments when they traveled through the darkness.
“We’ve not long to travel. It won’t be long now….”
…now, he would be there now. Surely such joy was too much to be borne.
Her smile was almost painful, it stretched so wide across her face.
The forest around her sang of spring. Yellow crocus blossoms peered up from shoots of green, noisy hatchlings were being fed by querulous mother birds, the soil beneath her feet was rich and loamy and smelled of wet winters and the sharp fecundity of nature itself.
Alice picked up her skirts and twirled in the grass, feeling as young and as carefree as a child enchanted by the promise of spring. She laughed, thinking herself silly and blessed and utterly in love.
Now he would be waiting for her. She must run to him. Tell him again of her most blessed secret…
“Have you no laudanum you can take for the pain?”
“No.”
“Did you bring any of that idiotic doctor’s tonic?”
“I won’t take it,” she said, starting to stir. He stopped her by the simple expedient of placing his hand upon her head. Her hair was soft, thick curls that seemed to invite a touch. He extended his fingers through it, palm still pressed against her skull, not realizing that the gesture h
ad become one less of restraint than of caress.
She did, and for a long while allowed herself to experience it, to savor his unconscious touch and not feel the guilt of it. For some time they remained so, trapped in silence, yet neither sought to escape it.
“I’m better now. Truly,” she said finally.
He released her and she sat up, moving with deliberate intent to the corner of the carriage.
“Does this happen often?”
“Often enough.”
“Which means?” There was a hint of something in his voice, a warning note Mary Kate recognized and obeyed. She wasn’t in the mood to taunt him, being weighted down with something that felt like sadness but stung like envy.
“Once a day, sometimes twice.”
“And Dr. Endicott had no remedy?”
“I didn’t tell the doctor. He would have prescribed another tonic, or some other hideous treatment.”
“I don’t suppose you had headaches before the accident?” Each word seemed coated with the irritation spiking his voice.
“I’m sure I did.”
“But nothing like these?”
“Are you attempting to gauge the degree of your guilt?” She smiled, a watery smile that hurt too much for the effort of it.
“I assume my share of it, madam.”
“Not because I require it.”
Mary Kate wasn’t certain why he was so angry with her. Because he’d been compassionate? Because she’d been in pain and he’d fondled her hair, showed her gentleness?
A flare of flint and the lantern was bright again, harsh enough that she looked away.
“Where is Alice? We’ve not yet disposed of that question to my satisfaction.”
“Are we back to that again? Why do you think I know where your wife is?”
“Because of the warning you spoke to Jeremy, of course. What danger do you suppose me to be in, madam? Is Alice planning my demise now? Has a member of my illustrious family plotted with her to arrange my death, therefore benefiting the entire St. John family with the wealth I steward?”
She wanted to close her eyes, wait out the residual pain of her headache, but his statement was so idiotic that she had no choice but to reply. “Then why would she wish me to warn you? Because she changed her mind at the last moment? Hardly credible, don’t you think? You cannot make Alice both a villainess and a savior.”
His skin bronzed, the ebony eyes became flat stones. “What does she want? A bill of divorcement or money? Or both?”
A tense moment more and it seemed the carriage was beginning to slow. A few called commands from the driver indicated that it was so. Mary Kate thought the respite would be welcome, that being somewhere other than in this enclosed space with Archer St. John would be heavenly.
As the carriage stopped, she would have moved to push open the door, not waiting for the footmen to unroll the steps. Archer leaned forward and grasped her forearm with one large hand, forestalling her escape.
“If you tell me now, I’ll pay you handsomely. If you divulge the terms of this little plot, I’ll reward you far beyond what Alice could have promised you.”
Mary Kate could feel in his grip a violence tightly contained. She rubbed the fingertips of her loose hand against her temple. No, not again. The pain hummed in her head.
Help him….
“You don’t understand, do you? I’ve never met your wife.”
She reached out and with the tips of her fingers touched his coated chest. It was a forbidden thing to do, of course, a gesture frowned upon by etiquette and decorum. It felt to Mary Kate as though she’d stroked a hot stove, the sensation of burning lasting only a second. Still she kept her fingers there, possession and protection at the same time. She wanted to offer him comfort against the words she was going to say, for all she was certain they mirrored the truth.
“I’m sorry, but I’m very much afraid your wife is dead. You see, I believe she’s haunting me.”
Chapter 9
She didn’t look insane, but then Archer wasn’t sure he could recognize the face of madness. Unless, of course, it had been in his own reflection this past year. But she wore none of the signs he’d recognized so easily in himself—eyes red-rimmed from days of wakefulness, a trembling in his fingers, a weakness in his limbs. And most especially the wildness of thought, of wondering for a second, a moment, if he could have killed Alice and somehow not known, even this didn’t seem mirrored in the woman who stood in front of him, halted by his touch.
She seemed, did Mary Kate Bennett, of estimable poise, her eyes clear and without redness, her limbs steady and without frailty, her face serene while a small smile wreathing full lips. Insanity? Either that, or courage.
“Are you brave enough?” he murmured, the words tossed away in the gentle breeze that seemed to grace their arrival at Sanderhurst. That touch of nature was the only movement in their strange tableau. The carriage, dusty now from its hours upon dirt roads, his coachman crooning words of praise to the tired horses, and he and Mary Kate, somehow trapped in time, his hand gripping her arm, her foot outstretched to take another step, a tendril of hair upon her cheek lifted by the welcoming breeze.
He dropped his hand as she stepped down onto the gravel path that led to the broad granite steps of his home.
If it was rude that he preceded her up the walk, he didn’t care. Polite behavior had disappeared the moment she’d announced his wife a ghost. His mind slithered from that thought. Insane, she had to be.
When he heard no movement behind him, he turned back. She had stopped in the middle of the walk, her face turned up, transfixed by the sight of his home. He allowed her that moment. Even kings had been mindful of the beauty of Sanderhurst. Facing east, the great brick house was illuminated by the rising sun, lighting the hundred dark windows like God himself must illuminate a dark soul. The three-story structure had two wings that flanked its main building, always appearing to Archer as solid arms outstretched and welcoming him home.
All in all, Archer St. John thought, houses don’t hurt you. They neither disappoint nor promise, and they lack the ability of certain selected mortals to render you confused and without cogent thought.
Sanderhurst, in addition to being incapable of causing him mental anguish and emotional distress, brought to Archer a certain calming influence. From here, the main entrance, he could see the rolling expanse of lawn flanked by woods deliberately left untouched. At the end of the vista, the Fallon River flowed. Sometimes, in the spring, the runoff was so great he could hear the sound of the water gushing over its banks.
When he was a child, Archer had thought Sanderhurst crafted of gold, but Sanderhurst’s master mason had only described the fading of the bricks as tingeing rust, or ocher. The man lacked imagination. Or perhaps an only child had had too much of it.
His hands flexed against themselves, fisted. Somehow it seemed the greatest of invasions to have brought Mary Kate Bennett here. This was his haven, his sanctuary. He felt as if he belonged here, as no other place on earth. He did not own Sanderhurst, he was simply privileged to belong to it. Together, he and this immense house were the earldom, the jointure, the legacy of seventeen generations to hopefully as many more. He was its steward, and it was quite possible that Sanderhurst was his salvation.
He had known, even as a child, that he would be Sanderhurst for the rest of his life, that what he did now to either protect his estate or lessen its magnificence would be the legacy he left for generations to follow. Even as a young man, concerned more with whoring than conservancy, he’d never put his heritage in jeopardy.
There were times when he stood looking about him, awed as if he’d just recently recognized the surrounding beauty. He relished the pure beauty of its Grecian lines, the serenity of Sanderhurst. Every facet of life here was his responsibility, as paradoxically onerous and joy-filled as being head of the empire his ancestors had created.
And yet, at this moment, he did not see the formal garden with its whimsical fount
ains, or the rose arbor in full dormancy. He could not have told anyone what color he’d had the eastern paddock fence painted or how many fields were laying fallow. He felt as wobbly as one of the spring lambs, newly born, teetering on legs not yet stable. Because Mary Kate Bennett had uttered words to shatter his mind.
With a restraint for which he congratulated himself, he placed a gentle hand beneath her elbow, cupping it and leading her to the double entrance doors. It was soundlessly opened, to an inviting well-lit hall. He nodded at Jonathan, not at all surprised to find his butler impeccably dressed. As a child, Archer had decided that Jonathan must never sleep, but watched over Sanderhurst fully attired no matter the hour.
Delicately, tenderly, not because that is how one should treat the mentally deranged, but because she raised his ire to a degree he’d never experienced in his entire life, Archer led Mary Kate Bennett passed his butler, the waiting footman, and up the curving stairs.
He opened the door to the Dawn Room, closed it firmly but quietly behind them. He let his hand drop to his side, surreptitiously wiped his palm against his trousers, wondering why he could still feel the warmth of her skin even through many layers of cloth.
He felt something shift inside himself as a door was jarred open, just that. Not a full exposure, but a crack only. What was it that he felt standing there, staring at her as if his own wits had gone wondering? Self-questioning had become such a habit to him that he was not overly concerned with the thrusting imperative. Not anger then. No, that would have been easier to understand. Something else, perhaps, that lured him at the same time it cautioned. A presentment, then? A foretelling of what was to come? Is that what he felt? Had the fates begun to turn, then, to take pity on him somehow and warn him that this woman was a danger if there ever was one.
In the silence, he felt increasingly drawn to her, curious in a way he’d been few times in his life, to discover why her eyes were now shielded from him, why her smile, that small movement of lips and baring of teeth had the ability to stir him in a way that was less provident than lustful.
