Eve Silver (11 page)

With a small cry, she sagged against the wall, her thoughts churning like the darkest clouds of a winter storm.

“I do not fear you.” She was horrified to realize that she spoke the truth. Fear him? No. Instead, she wanted him with an intensity that burned like a hot coal in the pit of her belly. This was madness. Fear was the wiser course.

Lord Anthony chuckled, a hard sound that might have been aimed at her, or himself.

“Fear what I may do to you, Emma. For if given the chance, do it I shall.” He turned from her and walked away, his withdrawal marking his words for the lie they were, for he had done nothing to her. Nothing at all.

And to her true and utter horror, she wished that he
had
. She melted to the floor in a heap of rumpled silk and damaged dreams.

His self-accusatory words rippled through her thoughts, and she realized that despite all he had said, there were truths yet unspoken. Perhaps those truths lay in what he had
not
said.

“You said you dreamed of killing her,” she called out.

The dwindling sound of his footsteps stopped abruptly, and the silence was heavy with secrets and implications.

“You said you
dreamed
of killing her,” Emma whispered, her voice choked with her tears. “You never said you killed her.”

He did not answer, and for a long while Emma huddled on the floor, the harsh rasp of her breathing gradually calming as she gathered her shattered nerves into some semblance of order. The steady sound of his footsteps resumed, ricocheting hollowly in the cold, empty gallery, imitating the echo of his silence in Emma's heart.

CHAPTER SIX

“It would seem we are of like mind, Miss Parrish. Bothered by unpleasant dreams?”

With a wary sense of resignation, Emma looked up from her plate of cold beef, cheese and bread, her heart pounding at the sound of Lord Anthony’s mellow voice. She was unnerved at having to face him again so soon after the debacle in the portrait gallery. He had haunted her thoughts in the hours since, chasing the possibility of sleep from her mind. And now he was here in the kitchen, standing before her in glorious disarray, breeches slung low on his hips, white shirt tossed casually across his shoulders, apparently driven by the same wakefulness and hunger that had brought her to the kitchen in the wee hours of the night. Strange, strange man that he did not simply ring for a servant to bring him food.

“Bothered by the practical need of an empty belly, my lord,” she replied. “And you? Haunted by nightmares?”

“By the past,” he said and then looked as though he wished he had not.

 He studied her for a moment before striding forward, heedless of his half-naked state. Emma stared in fascination at the hard planes of his chest, the supple ridges of his abdomen. Her mouth felt dry. She had the appalling, alluring thought that she'd like to touch him, to run her hands over his smooth skin, to press her palm to his chest and feel the steady thud of his heart, the rhythm of his blood pounding in his veins.

A fine dusting of dark hair shadowed his chest, narrowing to a thin line that ran down his belly to his breeches. If she reached out, laid her finger on that line of hair, traced it, a mysterious path, to the final outcome—

With a sharp intake of breath, she lowered her eyes, but the image of his linen shirt hanging open, revealing the ridges of his belly and the hard planes of his chest, was branded in her mind. Had the man no modesty, no decency?

“What—” she exclaimed, startled, as he pinched his thumb and forefinger on the flame of her candle, then set his own in the center of the table.

“I detest the stench of tallow,” he said.

“Tallow is frugal,” she pointed out.

He stared at her for a moment, his eyes—the endless verdant green of them—dark and glittering, hard and bright. She thought he must surely discern her thoughts, her wanton, wicked thoughts.

“I have no need for frugality, only a desire to breathe untainted air.”

“Why do you dislike the smell of tallow?” she ventured boldly.

“It smells like death.”

She swallowed, having no response to that statement.

“I see you had thoughts similar to my own.” He gestured at the half-f plate before her, smiling ruefully as his stomach growled, the sound loud in the silence of the darkened kitchen. “I shall join you.”

Emma opened her mouth to suggest that he join the devil but thought better of her reply. Her years of guarding her tongue—and her thoughts—against her intrusive aunts had taught her to measure words with great care. She was angry at his earlier treatment of her, dismayed that despite his horrid behavior she could not help but feel a sizzle of awareness whenever he was about.

And despite his attempts to brand himself the villain in her eyes, she had her doubts. The question was, why did he wish her to view him through a haze of suspicion and fear, and if such was his intent, why was he behaving now as though naught had occurred? Perhaps he was unsettled. Addled. Completely mad.

With silent grace he strode past her, moving out of her line of sight.

Emma sat rigidly on her wooden seat, determined to resist the urge to turn her head and follow his progress. She heard the clatter of a plate being set on the high wooden table behind her, the sound of liquid pouring, then nothing. The inclination to check on Lord Anthony's exact location within the kitchen was tempting in the extreme.

Concentrating on her meal, she broke off a chunk of bread and laid a slice of cheese across it. She could only wish that if she ignored him, he would go away, for she was as yet unprepared to cross rapier-sharp words with him once more.

“Here,” he said, leaning close beside her, the open edge of his linen shirt brushing her shoulder.

The contact was negligible, but Emma's senses hummed to life.

With a thud Lord Anthony placed a full mug of ale in front of her. Her eyes snapped open.

“Thank you,” she murmured, a little flustered to realize that the master of the house was serving her. From the corner of her eye she watched the play of muscle across his taut belly as he straightened. Drat the man! His very presence rankled. Why could he not simply leave her alone?

Summoning her courage, Emma met his gaze as he sat down opposite her, his plate filled with the same makeshift meal she had foraged for herself. Perhaps she should unnerve him as he did her.

 “What shall I do with the gown?” she questioned bluntly.

Lord Anthony paused, his mug poised halfway between his lips and the table. Regarding her through narrowed eyes, he took a slow pull on the ale, then set the drink down and casually drew the back of his hand across his mouth. Emma found the coarse action entrancing, and her eyes followed the movement of his knuckle across his full lower lip.

“Burn it.”

His answer was not at all reassuring.

Emma stared at him. Only hours ago she had huddled on the floor, convinced that she was in the realm of a madman. Now she sat with that same man, sharing a companionable meal.

As if reading her thoughts, Lord Anthony waved his hand negligently and asked, “Do you think me mad, Miss Parrish? A snarling beast fit for Bedlam?”

“Does it matter what I think?”

He blinked, clearly surprised, and then he smiled, a slow curving of his lips. She loved that smile, the open warmth of it, a rare gift. “Yes. For some unfathomable reason, what you think
does
matter.”

“I think you are...” She paused, searching for the right word. He watched her intently, waiting for her answer. “Unusual,” she finished at length.

His brows rose.

“Yes, unusual,” Emma temporized. She could hardly tell him that despite his unpredictable behavior, she found him intriguing. Enticing. Compelling. But there was one truth she could share. “You frightened me, you know. Was that your intent?”

His smile faded. “The shock of seeing you gowned in that—” He shook his head. “Originally, I had no intent. My actions were governed by a sad lack of control over my temper. And then I thought that perhaps a little fear might not be a terrible thing.”

Emma chewed thoughtfully, digesting his words, thinking it strange that he claimed a lack of control when she had borne witness to his icy restraint, and wondering why he wanted her to be afraid of him. She met his gaze, read the sensual knowledge there, and found her answer. He had surmised her infatuation and had set about removing it, her inappropriate and obviously unwelcome fascination.

He was far wiser than she. Mortification sloshed over her in a hot wave.

“Will you flee with the morning light, Miss Parrish? Run from this place?” He cocked a brow. “From me?”

Her breath caught. Something in his tone made her think that it mattered greatly to him what her answer might be, that he had no wish for her to leave, despite his earlier instruction when they had stood in the gallery and he had urged her to flee. Strange, contradictory man.

“I do not wish to be frightened again.” Her heart pounded as she said the words. Forcing herself to meet his gaze, she regarded him frankly.

“Then you must make every endeavor to ensure that you are not,” he observed, his tone dry.

“As must you,” she replied briskly.

“Yes. As must I.”

“Was that an apology, my lord?”

His eyes were the color of burnished brass, reflecting the flickering light as he stared at her. One moment green, the next gold. Changeable. Unpredictable. Beautiful. As was the man himself.

He gave a short bark of laughter. “An apology, Miss Parrish? No, I think not. Merely a statement.”

And what was she to say to that? They ate the remainder of their meal with studied concentration, the only sound the hiss and sputter of the candle as the melted wax puddled around the wick. At length, Emma rose.

“Good night, my lord. And, no, I will not flee with the coming of the light. As I have already told you, I would not leave Nicky. I have come to care for him.”
I have come to care for you
.

Something flickered in his gaze, and for one terrible moment she wondered if she had somehow blurted that last thought aloud. Then he inclined his head and said, “Constancy is an amazing gift. I thank you for offering yours to my son.”

Emma could think of no reply to the warm admiration that shimmered in his words, and the pain that hovered just beneath it. Who had betrayed him in the past that he valued fidelity and constancy so? ‘Twas not the first mention of such he had made.

“Good night, Miss Parrish,” he said.

She picked up her tallow candle, the one he had snuffed with his fingers. Carefully, she relit it from the wax candle on the table as he watched her from beneath hooded lids, his expression unreadable. Crossing the kitchen, she then paused, her back to him, her hand resting against the doorjamb.

“I accept.”

“Accept?” he echoed, his tone hinting at curiosity.

“I accept your thanks. And your apology,” she said softly. And then she fled the kitchen as if followed closely by a horde of demons, when in truth she was followed only by the rich sound of Lord Anthony's laughter.

o0o

Several days later, Emma took advantage of the free hour when Nicky was at the paddock to stroll outside in the sunshine, novel in hand. She carried one of her favorites,
The Romance of the Forest
, intent on enjoying a few stolen moments of quiet freedom. The sound of a horse and cart coming up the cobbled drive caught her attention. She paused and watched as Griggs stopped the wagon near the Round Tower, set the brake with meticulous care and nodded to her as he climbed down from the seat and made his way around to the back.

There he hefted what appeared to be a large sac out of the bed of the cart. The load was nearly as long as the coachman, and he clearly strained under the weight as he adjusted his burden over his burly shoulder. He made a sight, his scarred face twisted with the effort of carrying the heavy thing, his back hunched. He staggered toward the tower.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Emma shivered, a strange sense of foreboding crawling up her spine. Unbidden, the memory of his warning the night of her arrival at Manorbrier sprang to mind.
There's death in that tower, miss. Death in the very air.
There had been no mistaking his fear that night. It had oozed from his pores and hovered about him like a swarm of flies. Yet, here he was, moving toward the tower, carrying a burlap-wrapped object that made Emma inexplicably uneasy.

She strode forward, studying the odd bundle.

Griggs paused, squinting at her as she approached. “Stay where y'are, miss. Don't want you coming near.”

“And good afternoon to you, Griggs.”

“I means what I says, miss. No place for you near here. You go on back to the kitchen, or the garden, or wherever you was before.” He shifted the sack as it slid down his shoulder.

“What do you have there, Griggs?” Emma pressed her lips together as she wondered at her own perverse curiosity, but there was something so odd about the shape of the thing, rounded at one end, tapered at the other.

“Naught that concerns you, missy,” he said with a scowl.

She was tempted to agree and move on, but something held her in place.

“Do you need my help?” she asked, eyeing his load apprehensively. Were those
toes
? There at the end, poking through a loose fold of sheeting? She shivered.

Griggs turned the full force of his disapproving glare on her. She stopped cold. The intensity of his gaze warned her that he was not simply talking to hear himself speak. There was an unspoken horror that lurked in his eyes. Whatever he carried, he wanted her as far away from it as possible.

His expression accomplished what his words had not. It sent a harsh tremor of fear slithering down Emma's spine, and a wild swirl of worry tripping through her belly. Suddenly wary, she took a stumbling step back.

They
were
toes. And
legs
, and
arms
, barely concealed by swaths of cloth. Dear heaven, it was a body, a dead body he carried.