Eve Silver (6 page)

“Then we shall do everything ourselves.” She smiled as she recalled the times she and her mother had prepared ice cream. It would be a pleasure to share the experience with Nicky, the anticipation, the first sigh of pleasure as the frozen cream melted on their tongues. “Turning the icing pot will be fun. We shall even fetch the ice from the icehouse.”

Nicky stopped bouncing and stared at her for a long moment. “Papa says I am not to go near the icehouse.”

“Why ever not?”

“Miss Rust fell off the ladder to the bottom. No one found her for hours and hours.”

“How very unfortunate for Miss Rust!” Emma exclaimed, frowning.

“Yes. It was unfortunate for her.” Nicky tapped his fingers on the desk, and then spoke without looking up. “But not for me. I was happy when she went away.”

Snatches of overheard conversations skittered through Emma’s thoughts, and a chill of foreboding chased along her spine. She wondered just how one asked a child if there was evil afoot in his home, if some nefarious scheme had led to Miss Rust's departure. She ventured a gentle question as she laid her hand across his.

“Nicky, is there something you wish to tell me about Miss Rust?”

“She said someone made her fall.”

“Oh-h-h.” Shocked, Emma stumbled over a reply, and then recovered. “Who made her fall?”

Nicky’s expression turned mulish, and he shook his head quickly from side to side. “I told Papa I wasn't near the ice house that day. I wasn't. I promise. And she wasn’t hurt much. Not that day.”

The child's distress tore at her, gouging her emotions. Clearly, the subject of Miss Rust was most upsetting, and one that Nicky preferred to avoid. And, dear heaven, why was his denial so vehement, so desperate? A chilly whisper of distress raised the hairs at the back of her neck.

“Nicky,” Emma began only to stop when he pulled his hand from hers. As she looked at him, with his tousled black hair and enormous blue eyes, he looked inordinately small and frightened. Barely out of swaddling. Far too young to be faced with the visions he had hinted at. He was a child who should be free of the ghosts and fears that haunted his expression. She cleared her throat. “Nicky, if Miss Rust wasn't hurt when she fell in the icehouse, then when was she hurt?”

“She wasn't ever hurt. Not really,” he said.

Emma had less than a second to enjoy the feeling of relief that swept over her, before his next words dashed her complacency.

“She wasn’t hurt. She was just dead.”

The sound of distant drums beat a heavy rhythm, pounding at Emma’s temples. Then she realized the sound was not distant at all, but the forceful pumping of her own heart, the rushing of her own blood.

“Dead, Nicky? Are you certain?” she whispered.

“Oh, yes. Just like Mrs. Winter. Papa sent Mrs. Winter away in a pine box.” Nicky frowned. “But I don't know what he did with Miss Rust.” His expression brightened. “Perhaps she is still in the tower.”

“Nicky!” Emma exclaimed. “You cannot mean...that is...you must be mistaken, darling. Miss Rust left.” She spoke the last sentence firmly, as if saying it with certainty would make it so, though her thoughts were a jumble of confusion and concern. “I am convinced she went home after her dismissal.”

“I saw Griggs haul her to the tower. But if you are convinced she went home….” Shrugging, Nicky smiled, appearing well pleased by her solution. “May we go now?”

 Emma glanced out the nursery window, her shoulders tense. Miss Rust could not possibly be ensconced in the tower, moldering for months on end. Surely the smell would attest to her presence….
Oh, dear heaven
. There was no smell. There was no cadaverous Miss Rust. It was all the fancy of a six-year-old boy and his overly imaginative governess. What in heaven’s name was she thinking? That Anthony Craven had murdered not only his wife and the babe she carried, but a stream of governesses as well? Or perhaps that Griggs, the great bulky footman, had done the deeds? Mrs. Bolifer? Cookie?

“Let us proceed,” Emma said brightly, deliberately pulling tight rein on her own outlandish imaginings. “I shall fetch the ice from the icehouse and you shall turn the icing pot. We each have our duty to perform, and then we will have our chilly sweet.”

Emma held out her hand and the boy took it without hesitation. Together, they made it as far as the kitchen, where they retrieved the largest pot they could find.

“And what are you two up to?” Cookie regarded them with mock severity, hands firmly planted on her hips.

“We are going to make ice cream!” Nicky's excitement was extreme. He struggled to control himself, but he fairly quivered, like a hound after a scent. All sign of his earlier distress seemed to have evaporated.

“Are you now?” Cookie's brows shot up. “Don't forget to pound the ice very fine, and add a peck of coarse salt before you pack it round the ice cream freezer. There's a tub you can stand it in stored in the pantry there.” She nodded her head in the general direction.

Her words were all the encouragement that Nicky needed. He was off like a shot, and Emma exchanged a smile with Cookie as the child struggled out of the pantry, tub in tow.

“What a fine job,” she said, clasping her fingers around the edge of the tub and helping him to drag it to a corner of the room, as far from the fire as possible.

“Here, Nicky. You take this side”—Emma gestured to the handle of the pot she had retrieved earlier—”and I shall take this one. Off to the ice house with us.”

He froze, his small fingers curled over the edge of the pot as he stared up at her with wide, uncertain eyes. “You know I cannot go in, Miss Emma. Papa said.”

“Of course.” She smiled at him reassuringly, though some of her earlier dismay flooded back. “You may wait by the door and then help me carry the ice back here and put it in the tub.”

He seemed content with her suggestion, and together they left the kitchen.

Set far to the back of the manor, the icehouse was at the end of a meandering path, surrounded by several shade trees. In the winter, ice was hacked from the nearby frozen pond and stored in the deep hole in the floor of the icehouse for use during the warmer months.

They had strolled a good way along the path when Nicky pulled up short and dropped his side of the pot.

“Papa,” he cried, tearing across the lawn toward his father's tall figure.

Emma's heart fluttered. She watched Lord Anthony approach with his long-limbed easy stride, his muscles moving beneath the cloth of his trousers, the sun glinting on his dark hair. He seemed to exude power, energy, confidence. Her pulse began to pound a fast, unsteady rhythm, and she struggled to slow the tempo of her breathing.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” She spoke with a calm equanimity that she was far from feeling.

“Miss Parrish.”

His voice—that beautiful, luscious voice—was low and rough, the cadence sending a jolt to the pit of her belly. And, oh, she recognized that jagged heat for what it was. The sweet pull of desire, the delicious heat of carnal attraction.

The promise of ruin. The certain end to the life she had hoped to build here.

Emma looked into his eyes and stumbled back as she read the intensity of his thoughts, the need that matched her own.

She tore her gaze away and focused on the child, who ran now along the hedge, chasing a butterfly. “Nicky and I were heading to the icehouse. We are going to make ice cream.”

Lord Anthony's gaze flicked in the direction of the small building, and when he looked back toward her, Emma noted that the hint of a frown marred his brow.

“The icehouse,” he repeated softly.

Recalling Nicky’s earlier statement that he had been forbidden to venture there, Emma hastened to reassure. “Nicky will wait for me while I go inside to fetch the ice. He did tell me that he is not allowed to venture inside.”

Lord Anthony nodded slowly. “I thought I would take him to the stables.”

Hearing the last of his father’s comments, Nicky scooted over and looked uncertainly between the adults. He adored spending time with his father, but the promise of ice cream held strong sway over his child's mind.

Emma smiled. “Might Nicky not do both, my lord? He could visit the stables while I fetch the ice and gather all we need. When he returns, he can assist me with the preparation of his sweet.”

“May I, Papa?”

Bending, Lord Anthony scooped his son into his arms and spun him about until the child squealed with glee. Emma watched, her heart catching in her breast. The scene was too sweet, too warm, and the smile that curved Lord Anthony’s hard mouth too enticing. She had waited so long to see that smile, and it did not disappoint. White teeth against dark skin.

 She wanted him to turn the bright gift of that smile on her.

She wanted him to press those beautiful, sculpted lips to hers. The thought was both frightening and alluring.

Was this the temptation that had led her mother astray? She could not help but wonder if she had inherited this terrible wanton streak, if she was doomed by the circumstance of her birth to suffer the same enticement.

No. There was more to it than that, for never before had she felt this fascination, this wild excitement that heated her blood and pounded in her heart. ‘Twas Lord Anthony Craven who lured her. The physical strength of him, banked in gentle kindness to his son. The mystery of him. The sadness and pain that lurked behind his infrequent smile.

She had a sharp and bittersweet longing to hear him laugh, full and loud, unfettered by the shadows of his past.

Foolish wishes. Foolish girl.

Resolutely she turned her attention back to Nicky. “If I am to work so hard at the fetching and carrying, then you must do the most difficult job of all.”

“What is it?” Nicky asked, his eyes wide and serious as his father set him back on his feet.

“You must turn the freezer by increments, halfway round and back. Then scrape the cream from the sides every ten minutes,” she said.

“I can do that!”

“I know you
can
do it, Nicky, but
will
you do it?”

“I will! I will! I will!” he pronounced, punctuating each exclamation with a nod of his head.

“Very well. I shall see you anon.”

With a smile that lit his face, Nicky spun and ran toward the stables. Suddenly, he skidded to a stop. Turning, he rolled his eyes at his father who remained standing by Emma's side.

“Come along, Papa!”

The corner of Lord Anthony's mouth twitched in the hint of a smile. “A moment to speak with Miss Parrish, if you please.”

Nicky glanced at Emma, his expression puzzled, and then he shrugged and ran off toward the stables.

“It would seem that my son prefers the company of horses to people.”

“And you, my lord? Do you prefer the company of people?”

He tilted his head to one side, the action making him seem almost boyish. “In comparison to horses?”

In comparison to dead governesses whose bodies you hoard in your shadowy tower
. With a shiver, she thrust the thought aside. Dear heaven, she was well and truly losing her mind.

“I don’t know.” She drew a shaky breath. “I am for the ice house, my lord. I promised Nicky ice cream, and I intend to honor my word.”

“As you wish,” he said, and then added in a hard voice, “Be careful on the ladder. A fall could be disastrous, Miss Parrish.”

She had just begun to move away, but at his words her head jerked up and she paused. “Was the fall disastrous for Miss Rust?”

An almost imperceptible tension crept into Lord Anthony's hard-muscled frame.

“She was bruised,” he replied obliquely.

“And after she healed from her bruises?” Emma pressed. She knew the folly of her questions, recognized the danger that she might be horrified by the answers. And the danger that her prodding might unearth far more than she wished to know. Still, she could not seem to stop herself.

“After she healed from her bruises?” Lord Anthony's brows rose and his tone held a sardonic edge. “Well, after she healed, Miss Parrish, she was no longer bruised.”

“You make sport of me,” she whispered, hugging the empty pot she carried, sensing the dark undercurrent to the words he left unspoken.

“No,” he replied, moving closer. Slowly, he reached out and lifted a stray curl from her shoulder. The breath left her in a rush and her heart thudded at a turbulent rate. “I merely try to deflect your curiosity,” he continued. “But it is apparent that you will not rest until you dig up the sordid remains, so here they are. Before Miss Rust could heal from her fall, she died.”

His blunt statement struck her like a blow, for she had held out hope that Nicky was mistaken.

“Died?” Emma repeated numbly, struggling with the shock evoked by his words and the tumultuous emotion stirred by his nearness, his touch. She had known the truth of it, and still she had hoped for a different reply. Dead wife. Dead governess. Perhaps more than one. How to call such mere coincidence? Driven now to have her answers, she blurted, “And Mrs. Winter?”

“Dead as well.” His tone was flat. “And I must admit, I liked her much better after her demise.”

Emma stared at him in dismay, horrified by his callous words. “You cannot mean that,” she whispered.

“Oh, but I do.” His green-gold eyes were flat and cold, leaving her no hope that he might mean other than what he said. Where was his kindness now?

Suddenly, she recalled Nicky’s assertion that Mrs. Winter had taken a switch to him. Did Lord Anthony know of the incident? Could that be the reason behind his pitiless declaration?

 He stepped closer still, and his voice was low and rough as he spoke, stroking her as surely as any caress, horrifying her with its seductive appeal. She should not feel this way. “Please do heed my suggestion that you exhibit caution on the ice house ladder, Miss Parrish. It would not please me should tragedy befall you.”

“I cannot pretend that it would please me any better, my lord.” He was so close, separated from her only by the width of the pot, which she yet held clutched against her chest. The luscious scent of him surrounded her, the heat of his body shimmering around her and through her as a delicious awareness flooded her, leaving her feeling light-headed.