Eve Silver (17 page)

“Shh…shh….” Anthony stroked her hair, leaning forward to press his lips to her temple. She wriggled against him, wanting the press of his hips flush with hers. She had been so close, so close to…to some unknown thing that would happen if he would only push his hips back where they had been, if he would only kiss her as he had a moment past.

“Greedy girl,” he murmured, as though reading her thoughts. Or perhaps she had whispered her need.

Lost. The moment was lost. She could sense it in him, and she wished she grab hold and pull back whatever it was she had said that changed his mood so.

“Am I the first to kiss you?” he asked, one brow lifting. There was something in his tone. Though he was not smiling, she thought he might be laughing at her, enjoying some dark, private humor.

Knowing she could not possibly speak, Emma nodded her head. The kiss they had shared in the field the day before he left, and now this…this kiss that made a lovely pulsing need throb hot and wet in her loins.

“
This
from an innocent.” Now he did laugh, the sound grating, rife with self-mockery. “You would kill me in my bed, Emma Parrish. I should die from exhaustion, I suspect. And likely I would love every moment of it.”

She frowned at his words, not grasping his meaning. At length, her heart slowed its breakneck pace, and her breathing could almost be described as normal. She licked her lips slowly, enjoying the feel of her tongue against the soft skin, the taste of him that lingered still.

“I don’t understand.”

“I know.” He ran the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. “I am thinking that I am a lucky man to have discovered you. And that I am a fool not to take advantage of my good fortune.”

What is it? What have I done wrong?
Emma fought the urge to reach out and drag him back against her. One minute he was kissing her, touching her, rubbing his body against her until she thought she might go mad, and the next he was gone. Walled off from her behind that icy reserve. “Why?” she whispered.

His expression altered as he stared at her, a subtle shift that changed him from lover to remote lord. “I can offer you nothing but a mindless dalliance. You deserve far more, and I am incapable of giving it. When you asked if I would honor my word…you reminded me that you deserve to be treated honorably.” He frowned, glanced away then back. “You are a woman of rare integrity, Emma mine. You merit far better treatment and consideration.”

So she had stopped him with her words. Unwittingly. A part of her was so very proud that she had saved herself from disgrace, from ruination, from the path of the same terrible mistake that had been her mother’s. But, oh, her body ached with the disappointment of the broken spell.

Stepping away, he bent and retrieved her discarded broom, then crossed the room to lift the bucket of dirty water. Emma watched his strange actions, feeling bereft and confused. He was correct. She did deserve more, and she was horrified that for even the briefest moment she had considered accepting less.

Anthony turned to face her with a clear look of regret. “Do you remember, Emma, when I told you that I am not a kind man?”

“Yes.” Her every feeling—relief, disappointment, dismay—poured into that single word.

“I am about to do something kind, though I am sure that a certain part of my anatomy will ill appreciate my generosity.” He made a crude gesture toward the rigid prominence that strained the buttons of his breeches.

Emma glanced away, at once offended and equally fascinated. She suspected he had known exactly what he was about, had spoken so crudely on purpose to distance himself from her.

“And what is this kindness you speak of?” she asked, though she already knew.

“I want you Emma Parrish.” Words spoken low and rough, sending a fresh wave of longing pulsing through her. She stared at the floor, unable to look in his eyes. “I want to take the clothes from your body, touch you, your legs, your waist, your breasts while I pin you beneath me, warm and willing. I want to thrust myself inside you, my tongue in your mouth, my body pushed deep inside yours.”

“I…” What? What could she say to that? She had thought to kiss him, to press herself against him and run her hands over his corded muscle. Through the safety of shirt and breeches. She had thought no further though she had claimed she had. When he asked her if she knew the way of a man and a woman, she had said she did. There was no lie to the words, but she had not thought what they meant. To her. To him. Dear heaven.
My body pushed deep inside yours
. The words made her feel flushed, confused, strangely enticed and repelled all at once.

He blew out a slow breath. “I shall refrain from accepting the precious treasure that you offer.” Her gaze slammed back to his, and she found him watching her through eyes hard and bright, edged with barely banked lust. Then his expression softened, and his next words were spoken in a tone of wonder. “Because I find that I
like
you, Emma Parrish. Truly, and in the finest sense of the word. And more than that, I admire you. Strange, to say those words.” He shook his head. “I admire your courage, your honest and true heart.”

His assertion made her heart swell in a terrible mixture of elation and despondency. Such idle commentary to him, but to her, the finest compliment she had ever heard. He admired her, and she could hear in the cadence of his speech, the soft incredulity of it, that his thoughts surprised him. And how did she feel about that?

“I have no wish to see you ruined. You are saved by my fond regard.” A rueful smile curved his lips. “And I am damned by it.” He exhaled slowly, a harsh huff of air. “I shall return these things to the scullery for you.”

Turning from her, Anthony lifted the cleaning implements that he had gathered and quit the room, leaving Emma alone and baffled. Lord Anthony Craven had cleared the room, no better than any scullery maid, sloshing dirty water on his fine boots, and all to escape her simple wiles.

You are saved by my fond regard.

“Saved?” She drew a shaky breath, struggling to let go of the tight yearning that wound her in knots, the longing for him. “Saved from you for the moment, perhaps,” she whispered. “But what will save me from myself?”

o0o

Emma paused to gather her composure outside Lord Anthony’s library the following afternoon. She was wary of him, of being alone with him, tied in knots by the heated recollections of his touch, his kiss, the press of his muscled body on hers. When Mrs. Bolifer had requested that she carry a message to the library, it had been all Emma could do not to turn and bid the housekeeper deliver it herself, but Nicky was well occupied helping Cookie bake a cake, leaving Emma without a viable reason to decline the housekeeper’s request.

She did not want to face him yet.

Through the partially open door she watched as Lord Anthony paced his library like a caged beast. Twelve paces across. Twelve back.

The thought of facing him now, with this new and intimate knowledge between them, was unsettling in the extreme. Yet reason decreed that ‘twould be better to face him sooner rather than later.

He stood beside his desk, contemplating a half full glass of brandy that sat on one corner near the edge. After a moment, he picked up the drink and tossed it back in a single swallow before moving to stand by the window. She thought he looked pensive, a touch forlorn. For her? Did he carry such melancholic burden because of what had passed between them? Her heart lurched at the thought.

 Drawing upon her reserves of composure, Emma bolstered her courage and knocked on the partially open door.

“Come in.” Turning away from the window, Lord Anthony circled the desk.

“I am sorry to intrude, my lord. Mrs. Bolifer sent me with a message.” Emma stood hesitantly in the doorway and forced herself to meet his gaze. Her nerves remained in shambles, her emotions yet to recover from the wild passion that had overtaken her the previous afternoon.

His expression betrayed nothing, a cool expanse of absent emotion. How adept he was at masking his thoughts.

“Nicky is baking a cake,” she said, then hesitated, wishing she could simply turn and run, knowing that she must face him, face her own yearning and wrest it into submission if she wished to remain at Manorbrier. “Mrs. Bolifer sent me.”

“So you said.” He glanced at the empty brandy glass in his hand, as if only now recollecting it, or perhaps hoping it would provide a means of escape. With deliberate care he set it on the desk, then returned his gaze to Emma.

Why, he is as ill at ease as I am
, she thought in surprise.

“Did Mrs. Bolifer mention anything about Bosherton?” he asked.

“None dead. None sick. That is the message she sent.” Pursing her lips, Emma frowned, confused as to the meaning of such cryptic communication as much as by the inaccuracy of it.

Lord Anthony nodded.

“But the message makes no sense. Meg told me that her mother has consumption. Surely she must count among the sick.” Emma glanced away, unable to meet his eyes, her thoughts centered on the memory of Meg’s pregnant belly, and the unanswered question of the father’s identity. She thought of Anthony’s kisses, those lovely, heady kisses, and her heart twisted at the possibility that he had kissed Meg the very same way.

“Meg’s mother is coughing her life away,” he muttered.

She glanced back to find him staring at the floor, his hands shoved deep in his pockets, as though he could not bring himself to look at her.

Or as though he would succumb to wild and desperate passion at the mere sight of her. Her cheeks heated, every thought drawn back to the very subject she so wished to avoid. Lord Anthony’s kisses, the scent of him swirling around her, and the lovely stroke of his tongue, inside her, inside her mouth, the glide of his lips across hers.

Look at me
, she thought.
Turn your gaze upon me and warm me to the depths of my soul.

“Cookie says spirit of saffron will help,” she blurted into the growing silence, her gaze fixed on his full lower lip, the dark shadow of his jaw, the strong column of his throat. She shook her head, desperate now to clear it of these tempting and wholly inappropriate thoughts.

“The woman needs something more than spirit of saffron if she's to last out the year, Emma.” His tone was laced with genuine regret.

“Can you not help her?”

At her softly voiced question, he lifted his gaze to meet hers, and there she saw a bleak and sad despair. “No, I cannot. I attempted to ascertain the causal agent of her condition. But Meg’s mother would have no part in it.” He shook his head. “Like as not, she thought me a lunatic.”

“No!” Emma exclaimed. “Surely she knew you would help….”

He shot her a sardonic glance. “The villagers think me cracked. The Mad Lord of Manorbrier, who locks himself in the tower with corpses, who rides to the village in the dark of night to take blood that flows no more from a body that will never move again. I pay them well, the mourners who circle like anxious hens, clucking and moaning while I do my strange work. Blood money ensures that none remain in the room while I practice my macabre arts.”

She had surmised some small bit of this from the words Meg had spoken during their conversation in the scullery. Still, he painted a ghoulish scene, one that left her feeling horribly uncomfortable, as she was certain he had intended. He presented himself in a manner that could only be described as off-putting, as a fiend, a terrible beast with dark and mad intent.

“But why do you let them think that? Why do you encourage it?” She was appalled that he nurtured and fed such ludicrous suspicions. She could not understand why he did not defend himself. Suddenly, she recalled her own suspicions and fears, and his lack of explanation even to her. The realization hurt, even though she understood the source. He wanted to hold her far away, to cultivate and maintain a distance between them, his border of safety where she might not pass.

Was that her answer, then? Did he dare let no one near, using his odd behavior as a shield, the frightening stories as a buffer to hold any and all at bay.

To hold
her
at bay.

Lord Anthony took a step toward her. “They think me unbalanced, yet my coin buys their cooperation. More often than not, that coin is all that stands between an entire family and starvation. Desperation always proves to be an excellent motivator, and I am left to do as I will. Better that they are wary of me. I want no one to see me as a savior, no one to think that I might play the hero and snatch them from death’s cold embrace.”

“But…” Emma stumbled over her question, confusion tangling her tongue. Dropping her gaze, she studied the pattern in the carpet that covered the polished wood floor. She did not understand this man or his motivations.

He was unutterably attractive, titled, wealthy.

Damaged. Wounded.

She longed to take away his pain, but how to heal a wound she could not name?

A current stirred the air and she felt his presence beside her. Raising her head, she met his gaze, and suddenly, she understood him very well, for in his eyes she read desire. Blatant. Hot. Barely suppressed. Mirroring her own sharp and vivid longings.

“Emma,” he rasped, running the pad of his thumb along her cheek, “so tempting, so innocently sensual in your response. You rubbed yourself against me like a kitten looking to be petted.”

Mortified, she could not answer. There was no denial, no defense against the naked truth of his statement. His words embarrassed her, even as they made her burn with agonized heat. She stood, frozen, reveling in the feel of his hand cupping her cheek, knowing she should pull away. No good could come of this mad infatuation.

“You are my son's governess, a woman in my employ, under my protection. What manner of man would take advantage of such a situation?”

The question made her think again of Meg, of her overlarge belly and practical disposition. She stared at him, trying to see into his soul. “Have you ever?”

He blinked, his brow furrowing in puzzlement. Then her meaning dawned, and he dropped his hand to his side.