Eve Silver (12 page)

True fear roiled in her belly. Griggs’s eyes widened, and Emma realized that he knew she had recognized exactly what it was he transported.

“You be wise, missy.”

He bid
her
be wise? Where was the wisdom in carrying a corpse up a tower?

Emma watched in frozen dismay as Griggs made his way laboriously toward the Round Tower. Pausing at the doorway and shifting the bundle across his shoulder, he reached for a leather thong that hung about his neck. With an impatient tug, he pulled the thong from inside his shirtfront and bent forward to push the key into the lock.

The weight of the load combined with his bent posture sent Griggs’s long bundle sliding down his shoulder, and as he stumbled in an attempt to regain his equilibrium, the stained gray sheeting that wrapped the thing became disarrayed.

From the bottom of the bundle dangled a human hand, the fingers curled like talons, the skin wrinkled and pale save for a terrible blackened lesion that marred the flesh, the center glistening wetly in the sun. Emma gasped and lurched away. ‘Twas not just any body, but a terrible, frightening thing riddled with disease.

Taking another involuntary step backward, she held up one hand, palm forward. Such a futile gesture aimed at warding off the horror that confronted her. She swallowed against the bile that crawled up her throat as frozen talons of true horror gouged her heart.

Griggs looked down.

“His Lordship likes ‘em fresh,” he said. “Says it’s best for the harvest.” With a grunt, he hefted his morbid parcel, turned his back on her, and disappeared into the tower.

Swallowing convulsively, Emma closed her eyes, but her imagination conjured the exact vision she tried so desperately to block. A long-forgotten whisper popped into her head, one she was familiar with from a local outbreak when she was a child.
Malignant pustule
. She knew what that lesion was, knew the name they called the terrible disease that brewed wounds dark and shining like lumps of coal.

A shudder shook her frame. In her mind she saw the oozing, blackened pustule that marred the corpse's arm, the curled fingers, the shriveled skin.

Dear heaven. What manner of place had she come to? A flood of horrified thoughts cascaded through her brain, and none of them made a stitch of sense. Anthrax
killed
, turning the blood black as coal, congealing it like mutton drippings gone cold. And here Griggs claimed that Lord Anthony wanted the body
fresh
, wanted to carry out some macabre
harvest
.

Heart pounding so hard she felt ill from the force of it, Emma began to back away, one step and the next, until her back bumped against the wooden slats of Griggs’s wagon. With a cry, she whirled and fisted her hands in her skirt. Then she ran full tilt down the cobbled drive, her chest tight and desperate for air, her blood thick and sluggish. Away. She needed to be away from Manorbrier and that horrible tower, and the image that was branded in her mind's eye.

The image of death.

She ran until her lungs protested and each breath was forced past her lips with a painful gasp. Her feet ached and her thighs burned, and still she pressed on, unseeing, reckless in her flight. Manorbrier lay behind her. But she could not say what lay ahead.

The sound of a horse at full gallop chased after her, and her name, a cry on the wind. Emma spun about to find Lord Anthony mounted upon a great sleek beast, bearing down on her. His unbound hair was caught and cast about by the wind, and his countenance was dark and forbidding. The pounding in her breast mingled with the drumming of the animal's hooves.

She could not hope to outrun him, but she could not seem to slow the rhythm of her flight. Her feet tripping over each other, she tried to run while glancing back at her pursuer. She stumbled on the uneven terrain. A sharp pain knifed through her ankle. She lost her balance and cried out as the ground came rushing toward her.

Arms outstretched, she landed in a graceless heap among the wildflowers. The tender buds were crushed by her fall, releasing a scent that swirled around her, strong and sweet. And the smell of grass and damp earth, rich and primal, filled her nostrils. The wind, the trill of a bird, the buzz of a bee, all seemed exaggerated, slowed to an abnormal pace, while her entire focus was riveted on Lord Anthony's approach.

His Lordship likes ‘em fresh. Says its best for the harvest
. Oh, dear heaven…Emma tried to summon a prayer, but her mind was numb with fear. Fear of him. And fear of herself, for despite the corpse and Griggs’s horrible assertion, despite the implication that Lord Anthony Craven played dark games with a deadly plague—mounting evidence all of the evil that lurked in his soul—she desperately wanted to absolve him of wrongdoing.

Yet, she had witnessed with her own eyes the human remains that Griggs had carried to Lord Anthony's tower lair. What possible explanation could he offer for that? What explanation would her foolish heart accept?

Pushing herself to her knees and then higher still, Emma tried to take her weight on her injured limb. To no avail. The ankle was already swelling and the pain was sharp and intense. Again, she stumbled and collapsed to the ground.

No escape now. Lord Anthony was upon her.

With a snarl he flung himself from the saddle, landing with inhuman grace on the balls of his feet. “Are you hurt?”

Mutely, she shook her head. He stalked toward her, stopping when he reached her side, booted feet planted shoulder width apart, fisted hands resting on his narrow hips. His expression was thunderous as he glared down at her.

“Miss Parrish.” The words were bitten off with military precision. “I had believed you to be a sensible girl. It seems my impression could not have been more incorrect.”

Hunkering down beside her, he shoved her skirt up above her knees. Emma felt a hot flush stain her cheeks as his hands slid impersonally along her legs.

“Please, my lord.” She tried to return her hemline to a more modest level.

He moved her hands aside, and again pushed at her skirt. With a firm but careful touch he probed her ankle.

“I suspect you are done with running for today.” His tone had gentled somewhat. “Does this pain you over much?”

“No, my lord.”
Not as much as my heart
, she thought as she stared at his square jaw, his firm lips, the chiseled curve of his cheekbone. She was caught between the urge to reach out and lay her hand against his skin, and the urge to shrink from him in horror.

Something in her tone caught his attention. He tilted his head and looked into her eyes, probing more than her ankle.

“It appears that our discussion the other night was for naught. You have again allowed yourself to succumb to irrational fright.”

She blinked.
Irrational
?

“Mrs. Bolifer came rushing to the stables, frantic with worry.” Emma had difficulty trusting the veracity of that statement. Frantic with worry? Mrs. Bolifer? “She caught the tail end of your rather chaotic escape,” he continued. His tone and the chastising look on his face implied that he expected more of her.

Cold anger started in the pit of Emma’s belly, pushing aside her fear and taking its place. He was
chastising
her. A man who hoarded dead bodies in some secret room in a moldering tower was taking her to task for worrying his housekeeper. Dead bodies! And he called her fear
irrational
.

“Griggs was carrying a corpse.” Her tone could have frozen hot coals in the pits of damnation.

He raised his brow inquiringly, and his expression revealed polite puzzlement. “And?”

Emma stared at him, aghast. “He carried a dead man into the tower.” She swallowed. “The wrapping came loose. I saw the man's hand.”

Polite puzzlement gave way to outright confusion. “You fled because of a hand?”

“I fled because of the
corpse
.” She could not fathom his perplexity.

“Why?” He was looking at her intently, as if her reaction was outside the realm of comprehension.

A soft sound of frustration escaped her, and her irritation grew as her fear diminished. Somehow, she felt less afraid sitting here in the green field far from the tower though, in truth, the cause of her trepidation had changed in nothing but proximity.

“Would not any being of rational mind flee from a dead body that dripped pestilence on the ground?” She wondered again if perhaps Lord Anthony was mad. And Cookie. And Mrs. Bolifer. And Griggs. And even herself. An entire castle full of Bedlamites, for surely that was the only explanation for this bizarre conversation.

“The body was dripping pestilence?” His tone was sharp, indicating his concern. Here, at last, was something he did seem to understand. “Did you see a drop fall?”

Emma shook her head. “No. But I saw an arm. With a terrible carbuncle. But like no carbuncle I had ever seen. It was black and shiny, with a raised red rim. The sight was one I shall not likely forget.”

“Ah.”

She waited for him to say more, but he seemed lost in thought. The anger inside of her began to bubble anew, heating to a slow simmer. He still crouched beside her, but his mind was obviously somewhere else entirely.

“Ah?” She repeated, stunned at his lack of response. Completely at a loss as to how she could be sitting in a slightly damp field of wildflowers discussing a dead man with a madman, her voice rose with more than a touch of anxiety. “That is the only word of explanation you offer?
Ah?
”

Her terror and confusion and, yes, her anger boiled from her heart down her arm to her clenched fist, whereupon she delivered a blow that would have stirred envy in a professional pugilist.

Her fist connected with Lord Anthony's shoulder and the force rolled him from the soles of his feet onto his lordly backside. He landed in an ignominious heap with an expression of stunned amazement on his perfectly hewn features.

Then he raised his gorgeous green-gold eyes and stared at her in confusion. She could not say which of the two of them was more shocked by her actions.

Shoving her skirt down around her ankles, Emma drew herself to her most ladylike pose, searching deep within herself for hidden reserves of genteel calm.

“Lord Anthony,” she began, her elocution clear and distinct, “I have just seen your coachman carrying a dead man into the Round Tower. In and of itself, that tableau is most distressing, but there is greater depth to my unease. From the coal black sore I saw on the dead man’s arm, I believe he died of a most heinous plague.”

She had finally won his undivided attention, and given the spark that ignited in his eyes, she thought that perhaps he understood at last.

She voiced her suspicion. “I believe he died of anthrax.”

“Miss Parrish, we shall return to your monumental skill as a pugilist in due time. I would sincerely like to know where you learned that right hook.” Rubbing his shoulder, he looked pointedly at her reddened knuckles. “But for the moment I should like to explore your knowledge of disease. Anthrax, Miss Parrish? Why would you say that?”

“I was teaching the children of our neighbor, Mr. Hicks. One day I overheard him telling a story about the cattle of a farm near Cheltenham. He said that they died of anthrax and that the soil harbored the evil humor for decades.”

“To my knowledge, the disease may lodge in the soil for thirty years or more,” Lord Anthony mused, continuing to rub his shoulder absently. “What other bits of lore did the good farmer impart?”

As Emma struggled to remember that long-ago story told by Mr. Hicks, she could not help but note that Lord Anthony was looking at her with a degree of admiration. “He said the disease could be seen in more than one manifestation. An attack of the lungs. Or a bloody flux. Or a malignant pustule. Black as coal, he said, shiny and the edges red and raw. He described the pustule quite literally, having no idea that I was intrigued by the conversation.”

“I do not suppose that oozing pustules are a subject of great interest to many young girls,” Lord Anthony observed wryly.

“No, I do not suppose they are,” Emma agreed. “But I have ever been unlike other girls of my acquaintance.”

 “Yes. I can easily believe that.” He stared at her for a long moment and then continued, “So you caught sight of Griggs carrying a body with a black lesion evident on the…” His voice rose questioningly.

“On the forearm and palm,” she supplied.

“And upon seeing the carbuncle—to use your earlier description—you diagnosed anthrax and immediately fled the vicinity. A most reasonable response, I suppose.”

Except his tone suggested that he found her actions most
unreasonable
. Emma heaved an enormous sigh. Flight in the face of a horrifying tableau
was
a reasonable response. Yet, somehow, when he described the episode in such dispassionate simplicity, her reaction seemed rather overblown.

“But how did you come to be so certain, Miss Parrish? Have you ever seen such a pustule before?”

“No. Well, yes… I have seen a depiction of such.” She huffed out a breath. “My mother took me to an exhibit of paintings once. The artist was quite fascinated with disease, and all his works depicted—” She shivered in recollection. “Suffice it to say that I recall that exhibit in vivid detail.”

“Enough detail to recognize what you saw today as the same disease.” He studied her for a moment, true admiration in his gaze. “Amazing, really.”

That single word of praise shimmered through her, warming her. He thought her amazing.

“Why did you come here, Miss Parrish?”

His question took her by surprise. “Oh, well, I did not plan to arrive at this particular field. I simply ran.”

His smile was small. “I meant to question your arrival at Manorbrier. We have already ascertained how you came to arrive in this field.”

“You sent for me, my lord,” she said very slowly. “Do you not remember? You wrote to my aunts, Cecilia and Hortense.”

Lord Anthony made a slicing motion with his hand, and a hiss of exasperation escaped his lips. “Of course I remember that I sent for you. I know well enough what was in
my
mind. I am asking what was in
yours
. Why did you choose to come to Manorbrier?”