Eve Silver (7 page)

Her gaze dropped to his mouth, the sensual fullness, the hard masculine line. And then one side curved in the hint of a smile, and a strange longing whispered insidiously through her every vein, strumming her senses to heightened alert, thrumming hot and strong in her blood.

She had the terrible, enticing, wonderful thought that she would like to kiss him, to lean forward and press her mouth to his and taste his forbidden warmth.

Raising her eyes, she found him watching her. Heat. Intensity. Studied concentration. His hand strayed from her wayward curl to the column of her throat, and her breath froze at the sensation of his blunt fingers running lightly along her skin, hovering over her fluttering pulse and then gliding lower to the curve of her collarbone.

With a gasp, she stepped back, her movement breaking the extraordinary connection. Surely she was on a wild descent into madness, for what other explanation could there be for her uncharacteristic and dangerous longings?

Lord Anthony studied her for an instant, his pupils dark and wide. Dear heaven, did he
know
? Could he read her every wanton thought etched in her face? Mortified, she held her breath, lost in a tempest of confusion and chagrin.

“Have a care on the ladder, Miss Parrish,” he said by way of farewell, and then he turned away and strode along the path.

She stood, frozen, relieved to have a goodly amount of space between them, yet perversely disappointed as she watched him go. Then he stopped and turned to face her once more.

“Griggs mentioned that you brought a portmanteau stuffed with books. Do you, by chance, enjoy the works of Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Parrish?” he asked.

“Yes, I do, my lord.”

“Ah, so you appreciate a gothic novel. Pray tell me your favorite. The
Mysteries of Udolpho
perhaps? Or the
Romance of the Forest
? I cannot recall, but I am certain there was a corpse in one of them.” He rubbed the sculpted line of his jaw. “And a haunted castle…and, yes, I recall a villainous lord.”

“Ooooh!” The breath left her in a rush. He was implying that she was
imagining
the whole of Miss Rust’s terrible fate, though he had affirmed the truth of her every suspicion. She could hear the light censure in his tone, see it in his eyes. “Miss Rust is dead. By your own admission she is dead. And Mrs. Winter, as well. Do you deny the veracity of those statements?” Her voice was sharp. She could not help it.

“I deny nothing.”

“You speak in riddles. I do love a horrid novel, but I have no wish to
live
a horrid novel.” She sank her teeth into her lower lip.

“Do you sense evil here, Miss Parrish?” Lord Anthony regarded her calmly, posing the question with the casual interest of a man inquiring after the weather. He might have asked if she sensed rain. “Do you suspect a monster lurking within these stone walls?”

“I do not know,” she said miserably, haunted by the untimely passing of those who had lived within these walls. Delia and her infant daughter. Mrs. Winter. Miss Rust. Far too many deaths to be mere chance.

“Then why do you not leave? Flee this place for the safety of another?”

Emma sighed, forcing her roiling thoughts under control. “I believe I am a person of intelligence and sense, my lord. I have no proof of any wrongdoing. It seems ridiculous to flee in a frenzy of supposition.” Then she spoke aloud the most convincing reason of all, the one that was irrefutable in its simplicity. “Besides, I have come to care for Nicky. I cannot imagine leaving him, nor can I betray my word. I made a commitment to serve as his governess, and I do not take my commitments lightly.”

Lord Anthony stared at her, a piercing look that she thought must surely strip her bare, revealing her innermost thoughts and convictions. “So you value your word,” he said softly.

“I value honor.”

The silence lengthened like a winter shadow, dark and all consuming. Somehow, she thought her reply both pleased and disconcerted him.

When she could bear it no longer, she said, “Do you think I ought to leave, my lord? Flee because of an indistinct feeling of unease? Leave Nicky, whom I hold dear?” She shook her head, and then continued in a fierce tone. “I am made of sterner stuff. I will not leave him.”

He regarded her steadily. “And I am extremely glad to hear it.”

Emma swallowed. Dear heaven, the way he looked at her, his eyes hot and hungry. He left her feeling dizzy. Flushed. Wishing for something that could never be. Something dangerous.

She raised her chin a notch and met his gaze with what she prayed was calm equanimity. “I believe that your son awaits you at the stable, my lord.”

His brows shot up in surprise. “Do you dismiss me, Miss Parrish?”

Awkwardly clutching the large pot against her, Emma met his astonished gaze. Such eyes. Green and gold and thickly lashed. Stunning.

“I believe that I do.” The words came out in a breathless rush. She was acutely aware of her own audacity, but the insidious longing that thrummed through her body was too perilous to ignore. She wanted to be away from him before he surmised her wicked thoughts. Dangerous thoughts of touching him, feeling the play of sculpted muscle and solid bone beneath her hands. Her gaze held his, and in that moment she had little doubt that he knew exactly where her treacherous mind had wandered.

“As you wish,” he replied, and she thought she heard laughter in his tone. With a brief tilt of his head, he turned and continued on the path until the trees veiled him from sight.

Moments later, breathless, more from her own dreadful, wonderful thoughts than from any exertion caused by her walk, Emma pushed open the outer door of the icehouse. The first door led to a small dirt-floored vestibule and then a second, inner door. The better to keep the cold air inside and the large chunks of ice frozen. Her hands filled by the empty pot, she took three steps forward before coaxing the inner door open with her shoulder. The interior of the icehouse was not overly large, the air dank and cold, and in the gloom she could just barely discern a thick snake of rope hanging above a dark open pit.

The cold was welcome. Perhaps it would chill her heated thoughts of Lord Anthony and cool her fervent imaginings.

With a tilt of her head, Emma squinted into the dim chamber and examined the pulley system that was attached to an overhead beam. It resembled the simple mechanics of a bucket and rope used to dip water from a well. She set the pot on the ground and contemplated the problem of her skirt, for it would hamper her descent into the abyss that loomed before her. Pulling the folds of material between her legs, she tucked the tail of her skirt into the waistband and began her climb down the long ladder that led to the ice stored at the bottom of the pit.

Retrieving the ice was a simple task, one she had performed as a child. The crater was quite dark, with only a paltry light filtering from above, and she was left with a nervous feeling that gnawed at her. She quickly filled the bucket with hunks she chiseled from one of the large blocks then used the pulley system to send the bucket upward. After hiking her skirt once more, she climbed the ladder and dumped the fruits of her labor into the pot before repeating the entire process twice more until ice chunks overflowed the rim and she was certain that she would stagger beneath the weight of her unwieldy burden.

She hefted the pot and made her way awkwardly toward the inner door. The chill of the icehouse had cooled her body considerably. In fact, gooseflesh was raised along her arms. She would welcome the heat of the afternoon sun.

As Emma neared the inner door, she heard an unexpected scraping sound that set her teeth on edge, as if she had bitten into the ice she carried in her pot. Squatting clumsily, she placed her load of ice on the ground, then rose and pulled on the door handle.

The heavy wooden door would not budge.

Heaving an exasperated sigh, Emma wrapped both hands around the handle and tugged with greater force. Nothing.

 And then the laughter began.

Cold and harsh, it was an eerie sound that seemed to float from all around her, bouncing off the walls and into the deep, damp crater, the echo swirling about her like a mist. Emma pulled harder on the handle of the door. Then harder still.

The laughter ebbed and flowed, vibrating in the confines of the small building. The door held firm even as she pulled and shook it with increasing frustration and dismay.

“
Ehhhmmmaaaaa
….” A voice drifted over her, touching her with icy talons that held a tangible threat, wrapping frozen tendrils about her heart. “
Ehhhhmmmaaaaa
….”

She spun about, peering into the shadows, her blood racing through her veins and her breath coming in harsh gasps. A smell, vaguely familiar, swirled around her. Lemon, she thought. Only laced with something dark, something wretched. Peering into the gloom, Emma tried to see who shared the small space with her, for there was someone here, someone with foul intent. The laughter reached a horrible crescendo and then broke, leaving an abrupt silence that was perhaps even more terrifying in its absolute lack of sound.

“
Run, Ehhhmmmaaaaa…. Let me see you run
.”

Run? Where? Straight into the pit? She thought of Miss Rust…dead, dead Miss Rust. With renewed vigor she tried the door, rattling it frantically on its hinges. The sound of a sharp crack rent the silence, and so suddenly did the portal open that Emma reeled back and stumbled to the ground, the great yawning crater opening like a dark maw at her back. Scrambling to her feet, heart pounding so wildly that she was left feeling faintly ill, she bent, curled her fingers round the rim of the pot and dragged it to the outer door. There, she leaned her back against the solid bulk, panting from exertion and distress, every sense attuned lest the laughter begin anew.

“Stuff and nonsense,” she whispered, and then louder, “stuff and nonsense.”

 Someone had been here, someone who meant to frighten her. Or worse.

Well, she was not such easy prey.

“Show yourself!” she cried, squinting at shadows. “Who’s there? Show yourself!”

The frantic thud of her own pulse was her only reply.

Fear merged with anger, a heady mix, but Emma tamped both down with rigid control. Knowledge was her most favored ally, and with that certainty in place she waited as her pulse slowed and her breathing became less labored, then she turned and carefully examined the doorframe of the inner entry. There was no lock. No latch. What, then, had held the door shut firm against her? And why?

The latter question was beyond her ken, but perhaps she could answer the former.

Running her fingers around the edges, she gasped as a sharp splinter pierced her flesh. A large, red drop of blood welled from the wound as she managed to get hold of the shard of wood with the edge of her nail and pull it free. Undaunted by the injury, Emma continued her exploration. There was no hidden lock that she could find.

She crouched and searched the ground until finally her fingers closed around a thick length of wood. A long, slow breath escaped her. Yes, someone had been here, had fitted this stick in the handle to make her a prisoner. But who? And, for heaven’s sake, why?

Shivering, as much from agitation as from the damp chill, Emma rose, determined to unravel the mystery. She closed the inner portal slowly from the outside and fitted the rough staff through the handle. Pushing on the door with all her might, she found it held firm, just as it had when she had been trapped on the opposite side.

“To what purpose?” she mused aloud as she pulled the makeshift lock free.

The episode had unsettled her, but she felt certain that the perpetrator had intended it to do more. The realization was horrifying and brought to mind the fate of the previous governess. Had Miss Rust been subject to the same sinister sounds of mirth? Had fear precipitated her fall?

Emma pulled open the outer door and shoved the wooden stick into the ground at its base to hold it ajar. Her quaking limbs refused to lift the ice-filled pot, but she was determined not to leave it behind, and so she bent and dragged it out, kicking the stick aside and allowing the door to swing shut behind her. Some prescience made her look to the hedgerow, or perhaps it was simply chance that her glance slid in that direction. Through the thick foliage she glimpsed a pair of buff breeches and polished boots. The copse was too dense to see more.

Emma froze, slapped by both anger and dread. Leaving go her hold on the pot, she straightened, took a step forward, and another, great gasps of air filling her chest. Dark terror surged through her veins. Someone lurked in the shadows, watching.

The leaves rustled wildly and the sound of twigs snapping carried to her on the breeze. The breeches and boots disappeared just as Emma sprinted to the edge of the thicket. She pushed through, branches catching at her, scraping tender flesh, but there was no one there. Catching her lower lip between her teeth, Emma stared into the shrubbery, feeling numb and suddenly drained. Whoever had been here was gone now, her chance lost. But she had a terrible certainty that the perpetrator would return. For her. There was a thought that brought no comfort.

Shivering, she began the arduous trek toward the warmth of Manorbrier's kitchen, dragging behind her the cold pot that overflowed with chunks of ice, determined to finish the task she had set for herself.

She set her jaw and kept moving as a hazy memory sprang forth, shimmering until it coalesced and she saw it in her mind’s eye with distinct clarity.

When she had encountered him earlier, Lord Anthony had sported buff breeches and shiny Hessian boots.

CHAPTER FOUR

Cookie was not in the kitchen, or the garden, and so Emma was alone without companion or confidante, a large porcelain bowl balanced against the front of her hip, her right hand moving in a rapid circular pattern, beating the whites of eight eggs. She had already boiled the milk and thickened it with arrowroot before setting the mixture on the table to cool. The sweet smell of warm milk scented the air.