A Man Of Many Talents (17 page)

12

T
he staircase to
which Lord Moreland led her was an old one that Abigail could barely remember, for it opened onto rather drafty apartments that
had been forsaken for more modern
rooms in a newer wing. Again, she was struck by the fact that her guest h
ad not been wandering about aim
lessly as she had suspected, but had done his research. The thought made something quiver within her breast, and Abigail hoped, quite fervently, that it was not her heart.

She stood by, trying not to gaze too adoringly at his person while Lord Moreland studied the stair carefully, making rudimentary measurements with his long strides. And yet she found it impossible to ignore the way his blond hair glinted in a patch of sunlight, the way his lashes fell against his cheek, and even the way his breeches fit his rather muscular legs.

To Abigail’s chagrin, everything about the man seemed twice as bright, twice as handsome, and twice as compelling as before. Her own good sense told her that was quite impossible. The man had not transformed himself; it was only her perception of him that had changed. It had all started with those dratted spectacles, she thought, wishing that she had never seen them.

Abigail had no idea how long she stood there watching Lord Moreland tap on the walls around the steps, but it was surely the most time she had ever wasted. At various moments she considered knocking at the paneling herself, but since she wasn’t precisely certain what he was looking for, she deemed it best to stay out of his way. She knew logically that she should be off doing something else, yet she couldn’t seem to make herself move. After all, he might very well rouse Sir Boundefort with his efforts, and Abigail did not want to miss such an appearance.

She was trying to avert her eyes from the somehow intimate sight of Lord Moreland putting his ear to the wall when he finally made a low noise of triumph. With a flourish he turned to her, and to her astonishment a heavy oak panel swung upward to reveal a dark cavity. Abigail stepped forward, but he held her back with an outstretched arm.

“Let’s have a look first, shall we?” he said. When he picked up the lantern he had brought with him from the great hall and thrust it into the space, Abigail gasped aloud. Anyone trying to enter this hide would have taken a fatal step into nothingness, for behind the panel the floor dropped away into a black hole.

Alarmed, Abigail clutched Lord Moreland’s arm, thankful that he had not rushed forward headlong. Stricken at the thought that something might have happened to him, she looked up at his face—a face suddenly and fiercely beloved. Luckily for her, he was too occupied with staring into the hole to notice her concern, and she removed her hand from his sleeve. But her fingers shook, and she had to draw a deep breath to regain her composure, so shaken was she by the thought of his possible injury—or worse.

It reminded her of the moment earlier today when he had started to climb the fretwork in the great hall, a piece of folly
that would surely have resulted in his broken neck. But he had not thanked her for her intercession, Abigail recalled with a frown. Despite his
heretofore unappreciated knowl
edge and expertise, Lord Moreland possessed a dangerously reckless streak. And for some unaccountable reason, instead of inciting her disapproval that observation made her pulse race.

“Ah, there’s a ladder,” he said, his voice filled with an enthusiasm that Abigail did not share. She dutifully peered where he pointed and saw old pieces of wood leaning against one wall in the narrow opening.

Although Abigail dismissed the discovery, to her horror Lord Moreland swung one leg across the abyss and placed a booted foot on one of the ancient rungs. Again she grabbed his arm, but it held the lantern, which swung wildly, inciting her further. “You cannot mean to go in there!” she protested.

“Of course I do,” he answered, flashing a fearless grin that both thrilled and irritated her.

“But you have no idea how old that thing is or if it is even stable. Nor do you know what might await you below!” Abigail exclaimed.

“Why, Miss Parkinson, I’ve never known you to be fainthearted,” he said, his smile now both brash and challenging.

Abigail lifted her chin. “I am not fainthearted. I am simply being sensible.”

“Ah, so that’s what you call it,” he said. He held up the lantern as if to take it down with him, but he was hindered by Abigail’s grip on his arm. When he lifted his eyebrows in that maddening fashion of his, she released him, albeit reluctantly.

“As the owner of this house, I demand that you get out of there at once,” she said.

Far from obeying, her guest simply laughed. “But you are always demanding that I do my job, and this, Miss Parkinson, is it.” And with that, he began climbing downward.

Stricken, Abigail leaned into the opening and watched the bobbing lantern descend with alarming speed. But before it disappeared entirely into the blackness, she took a deep breath, lifted her skirts, and swung herself into the space. Her foot found a hold even as she grasped at the worn wood, the old ladder banging against the wall with the force of her efforts.

To his discredit, her companion did not voice any surprise at her arrival. In fact, he seemed to find her appearance amusing. “I should probably warn you that this might be an old garderobe shaft,” he shouted up at her.

“Garderobe? You mean a
privy?"
Abigail cried. Her voice was loud in the slender passage and sounded a bit panicked, which no doubt contributed to Lord Moreland’s laughter, echoing from below.

Thankfully, the space didn’t smell. If it had once been used to transport waste, it must have been thoroughly cleaned. Still, Abigail was careful not to touch anything beyond the ladder and tried to prevent her skirts from brushing against the wall.

Now that she was inside the opening, she felt no fear, certainly not for herself. She realized, with no little startlement, that she had complete confidence in the man whom she once had characterized as lackadaisical and unwise. He would protect her—she knew that with utter assurance—while she would do her best to keep him safe as well.

Somehow that idea did not seem absurd, even though she could hardly expect her presence to prevent anything untoward happening to Lord Moreland. Still, she was struck by the odd notion that together they were invincible. Perhaps such errant thoughts were based upon the homily that should something disastrous occur, it was better to have another person on hand to go for help. Or at least that is what she had heard.

To Abigail’s relief, the old ladder held, and she made her way to the bottom without incident. There she turned to face Lord Moreland, who grinned unrepentantly, despite his flagrant disregard for her wishes. And instead of giving him a lecture on personal safety and adherence to civil behavior,
Abigail felt an answering jolt of awareness run through her, his high spirits somehow infectious.

Neither could she ignore his light touch upon her back and his presence beside her, so close in the narrow passage. Down here they were completely alone, so cut off from everything else that the darkness seemed to enclose them in a secret world all their own. The isolation fostered a sense of connection between them that was only heightened by Lord Moreland’s mood.

Apparently he thought that exploring some old and possibly dangerous passageway was the height of exhilaration. And perhaps it was. Abigail realized that she had become so entrenched in a life of drudgery and duty, so deadened to emotion, that she had forgotten how to react with anything other than numbness.

Lifting her chin, she took a deep breath and tried to feel, opening herself up to experience, and when she did so a sharp sense of anticipation pierced her, so bright and fierce that she nearly stumbled. Lord Moreland’s hand was there, at her elbow, to keep her from mishap, and she felt a distinct surge of something run through her, as though passed from him through his touch. Breathless and giddy, Abigail was struck by the notion that in that moment he had reanimated her as surely as one of Mary Shelley’s corpses.

Indeed, all reasonable concerns about their journey into the depths fled as she reveled in this sudden sensation of
life.
Everything around her seemed more poignant, as though all her senses had sharpened. The darkness held an exotic mystery to it, and the glow of th
e lantern a brilliance that dis
pelled the shadows. The air was stuffy and close, but she caught the pleasing scent of her companion, a heady mixture all his own that made her heart pound frantically.

“It looks like this is the end of the road,” Lord Moreland said, his voice so low and compelling that Abigail shivered.

“Don’t worry,” he said, misconstruing her response. “There must be an exit. I just have to find the catch.”

Abigail watched as he moved toward what appeared to be
a solid wall and ran his beautiful hands over the surface. Drawing in a sharp breath, she realized that any sensible woman would be worrying about their egress. Instead, she stifled a strong desire to have those beautiful hands run over her.

Shocked at such thoughts, Abigail wondered if perhaps being numb and dead had been so bad after all. But it was too late to go back now. She had emerged from her tomb and would not be induced to return, no matter what manner of dangerous ideas her rejuvenation produced. In fact, she found those dangerous ideas so appealing that she stood watching Lord Moreland with a kind of breathless wonder.

He moved within the pool of light, tapping here, pressing there, making low sounds of disappointment or discovery, just as her father had when working on some scientific study. His features were alive with excitement and such bright intelligence that she wondered now how she could ever have thought him less than brilliant. Enthralled, she took the opportunity to admire his dedication, his grace, and well, yes, his body. After all, it was hard to ignore in these close confines, especially when he leaned this way and that and stretched upward and bent down, presumably looking for trapdoors or openings of some sort.

He was tall and solidly built, though Abigail could not find an inch too much flesh anywhere within view. And she looked. Well, who could blame her? There wasn’t anything else to do at the end of the narrow corridor except to study her companion. And when he moved out of the lantern light, Abigail had to stifle a cry of dismay.

It was not simply because she could no longer peruse him at her leisure. Seeing him disappear into the blackness dredged up old fears from her youth when the loss of her parents had taken her from a safe, comfortable, loving world into another, far less appealing one. There had been other desertions, as well, one especially that made her nearly call him back. But at last a shred of reason prevailed, reminding
her that no man, not even Lord Moreland, would leave her here alone.

Abigail relaxed slightly, forcing her breathing to ease as she concentrated on the sound of his taps and bangs while he searched. But without the distraction of his delightful form, her worries returned. What if he couldn’t find a way out? What if the panel by the stairs had fallen shut, and they were trapped in here? Abigail tried to dismiss such fancies. She hadn’t escaped from her godmother, her heart’s desire finally within reach, only to expire in some musky old tunnel.

Still, the possibility nagged at her, especially now that she would least welcome it. She had spent all those years as a companion half dead, eking out an existence that might have sustained her body but not her spirit. Now, when she was free and truly alive, she would not succumb to an old passage. Nor would she stand idly by and watch life pass her. Drawing a deep breath, Abigail vowed to seize each moment. No more hours spent closeted with old papers. She would go out, even in the most inclement weather! She would visit the village! Sh
e would go riding! She would…

Abigail’s silent declarations were interrupted by the movement of Lord Moreland, and she stepped out of the way, as best she could, as he brushed past her. Her response was automatic, but while she pressed her back against the wall, Abigail wondered why she bothered with petty courtesies at this point. After all, she was cooped up here alone with the man. Why even bother with his title? Abigail knew his name, and the knowledge suddenly made her giddy.

“Christian,” she whispered. The sound, loud in the silence of the gloom, sent shivers up her spine.

It caught Lord Moreland’s attention as well, for he stilled immediately. He was so often moving that his sudden quietus was arresting in itself. He wasn’t facing her, but while Abigail stood watching, he turned his head slowly to gaze at her with an intensity that ma
de her want to hide. But she re
membered her recent vow and chose instead to meet his gaze directly, losing herself there. Who could forget his
eyes, such a deep green as was possessed by no other? It was sinful for a man to have such eyes, Abigail decided.

“Yes?” he asked softly.

Whether spurred by the darkness or the danger or the nearness of him, Abigail felt emboldened, reckless, desirous of some experience beyond the mundane march of her days, some memory to take with her either to the tomb or back into the world. Outside this passage, she had been trained to a life of duty and dullness, but here in the shadows she felt a wild freedom, along with an urgency that could not be denied.

“Kiss me,” she whispered.