A Man Of Many Talents (21 page)

“A turnabout that would be enough to unnerve anyone,” Christian said in a sober fashion.

“Aye, that it is, milord. That it is,” Alf muttered. “I’m telling you, there’s something unnatural about that old woman.”

“Yes.” Anyone could see that Mercia was short a sheet, but hers was a harmless eccentricity, certainly nothing to make a grown man quail. Keeping that observation to himself, however, Christian cleared his throat. “Have you noticed anything suspicious, anything else, that is?”

Alf shook his head. “If you’ll pardon my saying so, milord, nobody here seems to do anything, except the young miss, of course.”

Of course. “Well, try to stay out of Mercia’s way and keep an eye on Miss Parkinson, especially today while I’m off to see this old man Abbott of yours,” Christian said. As much as he enjoyed his few escapes from Sibel Hall, he didn’t really like being away from Abigail. Just for her protection, of course.

“Aye, milord.”

Although nothing untoward had occurred as yet, Christian didn’t like the situation one bit. He paused to stare at Alf directly. “I don’t want anything to happen to her.”

The villager balled his hands into fists, as if to prove his resolve. “Anyone what wants to get to her will have to go through me first,” he said, striking a threatening pose.

“Good,” Christian said, trusting to the young man’s mettle.

“I can even keep guard later, if you want me to, milord,” Alf added.

Christian shook his head. “I’ll take the night watch.”

“Same time tonight, then, milord?”

Christian nodded and slipped away, a new alertness about him as he took his leave. Just in case Mercia was lurking about, he didn’t care to have her reporting his actions to his hostess.

O
ld man Abbott
was a grizzled elderly fellow with an observation about everything. He was both a gabster and a gossip, but he wasn’t stupid, and Christian enjoyed listening to him talk. That proved to be a good thing because it was extremely difficult to steer Mr. Abbott to the subject in question and keep him there.

After a good half hour of hearing about assorted shopkeepers and their various failings, Christian gamely tried again. “I’m puzzled by the fact that I can’t find any histories of Sibel Hall or even the area. Do you know where I might find any?”

Old man Abbott shook his head. “Never did learn to read. Highly overrated, if you ask me. My sons and grandsons, even my daughters, can, but where does it get them? Worked up over the latest broadside or paper.”

“Well, then, perhaps you can tell me what you know of the building’s history?”

Old man Abbott sighed. “If I were you, I’d hightail it away from that place, my lord, and its people. Never been liked, those Averills, nor the ones that came before ’em.”

“And why is that?”

“A bad bunch, full of tempers and passions and misdealings, which is to be expected, considering that the place was built upon the blood of others,” he said, nodding sagely.

“And whose blood would that be?” Christian asked, wondering if some other family had owned the land upon which the Hall was constructed.

“Those heathens, them that the Crusaders went all that way to kill!”

Nodding slowly, Christian refrained from mentioning that most of the country was stained with someone’s blood, whether Celt or Viking or Saxon. “But surely that counted as war.”

Eyeing his guest meaningfully, Abbott declared, “That old knight killed, and not just in foreign lands. He murdered his neighbors! Lover’s quarrel, I gather. Did her in whilst in a jealous rage and then her brother as well!”

Now the old fellow had Christian’s attention. “Really? What neighbors? What happened?”

But apparently Abbott had shared the extent of his knowledge. To all further queries he simply shook his head, professing no knowledge of the details. “I’m just telling you what I heard, and I’m not surprised to learn of more ill doings at the Hall.”

“And why is that?”

Old man Abbott leaned forward dramatically. “The Hall is tainted, and all the blood of its owners is tainted as well,” he whispered.

Christian shook his head too, even as he decided that the old fellow would make a great addition to the house party. Between the two of them, old man Abbott and Mercia could surely conjure up enough doom and gloom for several hauntings.

* *
* * *

A
bigail turned her
head to glance back along the dim corridor, but she saw nothing moving in the shadows. Why, then, did she feel as though someone was behind her? She frowned. Lately, she had felt the presence of someone or something. At first she had thought Sir Boundefort was finally making contact, but with a growing sense of unease, she wondered if a very real person was following her about the house, watching her secretly, perhaps with evil intent.

But who? One of her cousins? One of the servants? Some nameless person who had snuck into the rambling building and was roaming its rooms in comparative freedom? Abigail realized that this was not her godmother’s home, where a huge staff kept the place not only running smoothly but well protected. They were isolated here, with their few maids and rumors of a specter driving away all visitors and tradesmen.

When Christian had asked her if she could handle a weapon, she hadn’t believed in any threat, but now she wasn’t so sure. The memory of that day gave her pause, and Abigail drew in a deep breath. She had not lied about her skills—or her fortitude. She had faced her intemperate godmother, importune gentlemen, and a specter. She wasn’t going to quail in the face of some unknown lurker who didn’t have the courage even to show his face.

Squaring her shoulders, Abigail turned and headed toward the great hall—and its wall of weapons. She knew exactly what item she wanted, and she hurried into the hall, keeping her back toward the way she had come as she surreptitiously removed the piece from its place. Sliding it into the sleeve of her gown, she then crept back toward the entrance and waited.

It wasn’t long before she heard the faint rustle of movement, then saw a face peeking out from around the co
rn
er. Without hesitating, Abigail stepped forward to confront her pursuer, a nine-inch blade in her hand.

* *
* * *

C
hristian wandered down
too late for breakfast yet again, his stomach already protesting the small portions and ill servings to be had at Sibel Hall. He knew he ought to seek out Alf, having missed him the night before. Indeed, he had been surprised to arrive at his post in time to see Abigail retire for the night, and he had wondered what had kept her up so late. But his stomach was growling, so he turned his steps toward the kitchen, hoping to catch the same giggling maid he had yesterday.

Unfortunately, she wasn’t there, Christian realized as soon as he entered the room. In fact, the only person occupying the large space was his hostess. Drat! Caught out again! No doubt she was here to prevent him pilfering from the larder. Since her back was to him, Christian was about to duck out, but she spoke before he could make his exit.

“What would you like?” she asked in a gentle tone.

Christian gaped. He glanced around, certain that she was speaking to someone else in that voice, not cold or tart but soft and low. “Who, me?” he asked, baffled.

“Yes, you,” she answered, proving to Christian that he was still asleep and dreaming. “What would you like?”

Christian grinned at the leading question. “Oh, I can think of lots of things,” he murmured as he walked slowly toward her.

Her dark brows inched upward slightly. “I meant, what would you like for breakfast?” Christian’s disappointment was tempered by the realization that she was slicing bread. She stood at the long oaken table that occupied much of the kitchen, a long fork at her elbow. She was going to make him toast? With her own hand?

As if unaware of his confusion, she continued speaking. “I have a bit of cold ham, and I can make you some eggs or a plum cake. No, I don’t think we have any plums. An apple tart, then.”

“You can cook?”

She gave him a look that questioned his wits, but Christian was questioning them anyway. “Of course I can cook.”

Christian remained skeptical. If she could, why the hell didn’t she teach the kitchen staff here how to do it? He had never had more wretched swill in his life. And he loved his food. He wasn’t a connoisseur by any means, nor did he employ a French chef. He just wanted good, solid English food, and plenty of it. With some flavor.
With some variety. With some…
dessert.

Christian watched as she poured some flour into a large bowl and tossed in other things until it was a big, gooey mix. Then she plopped it down on the table and began rolling it out. Her hands were covered with flour, and although most of his friends would have wrinkled their noses in disgust, Christian was drawn to the sight. As always, she was competent and efficient, and Christian stared, rapt, even as he imagined those hands upon him, the two of them rolling around in the flour
…

He was just about to seize her when she picked up a knife and began to peel apples with the ease of an expert. Was there no end to her talents? Here was a woman who could balance books, run a household, serve as a companion, fearlessly explore secret passages, fence better than some men, and bake an apple tart. Christian felt dizzy with discovery. Who would want a spoiled, grasping, gossiping creature with no skills beyond a few social graces and the ability to dabble at watercolors or the pianoforte when he could have a real, genuine woman?

Seized by a sudden certainty, Christian opened his mouth to say as much, when she turned toward him. A lock of hair had fallen loose to brush against her lashes, and she blew it away. He grew hard in an instant. Spying a smudge of flour on her cheek, Christian decided to lick it off. And continue on from there. He leaned close.

“Would you like a bite?” she said.

Convinced he was imagining things, Christian blinked, only to see she was proffering a piece of apple. Now he was sure he was dreaming. Instead of lifting the fruit from her fingers, he bent his head toward it, looked directly into her
eyes and took it, taking her fingers into his mouth as well and sucking the juice from them.

Her eyes widened, and Christian leaned forward to seize his chance, but she turned away, back to her work. “You may tell your man to stop spying upon me.”

Christian blinked, the change in subject—and mood— taking him aback. Had he heard her correctly? “What?”

“You may tell your man, the villager you felt the need to hire, to quit following me about. I find it wholly unnerving, and as I told you before, I am capable of defending myself.”

Christian felt like one of Montgolfier’s deflated balloons, the ardor sucked out of him all too quickly by the casual unmasking of his plan to safeguard her. He should have known. She was too clever by half not to notice Alf’s presence. Christian shifted uncomfortably as she set her creation in to bake.

“Although I do appreciate the thought behind your actions,” she added. “You also need no longer keep watch outside my room at night. I assure you that it is locked and secured against all intruders.”

As Christian gaped, she smiled. “Now, perhaps, you can get some sleep at night and avoid missing your breakfast.”

He was right. She was too clever by half. Christian struggled to keep up. “I’m concerned that whoever is behind this specter of yours might try something else, something more dangerous.”

“I do not see what he—or it—can gain from harming me.
”

“We still don’t know who would inherit, should something happen to you,” Christian protested. “A convenient accident might eliminate the need for hauntings to halt the sale of the house.”

She looked startled, but still she argued. “And just how is anyone here going to maintain Sibel Hall on a small stipend?”

“Perhaps they are counting on the so-called treasure to fund their stay,” Christian suggested.

Abigail frowned. “A foolish hope indeed.” She dismissed the idea with a shake of her lovely head.

“Crimes have been committed based on worse follies,” Christian warned. Why did she have to be so stubborn? How was he going to protect her? And, more important, how was he going to get into her bedroom if she objected to him being outside of it?

Ignoring his comment, she put the toast on the fork and bent to the fire, and his disgruntlement slipped away. There was something about the picture of her there, beautiful despite her dowdy clothes and cooking for him with her own hands, that made his heart catch. He had hardly ever entered a kitchen, any kitchen, and yet now this room, the purview of the servants, seemed the coziest of spots.

Christian took a deep breath, only to sigh in pure pleasure at the incredible smells. Baking cinnamon, nutmeg, and apple wafted through the air. And he’d thought the lilacs were wonderful! He was drooling, and he couldn’t tell where the hunger was coming from. It no longer was his belly crying out to be filled, but all of him, desiring to fill and be filled. He wanted to lay Abigail across the floured surface of the table and have his way with her. He would have, too, if he hadn’t wondered whether one of the maids might wander in or if his hostess might take a meat cleaver to his more tender parts.

Still, need pounded out a drumbeat in his blood, making him yearn not just for the sex but for
her,
every inch, every breath, every thought, every dream. The awareness of her as a singular being and his desire for her struck him uncommonly dumb. He stood staring, like a fool, for the longest time, even as he searched for words to tell her, to let her know that she was tastier than anything that could be concocted in this kitchen or any other, with her lilac smell and her smooth skin and her heavy hair.

How was it that she was here, within his reach, this living, delectable, treat of womanhood? How had he stumbled across such a treasure, his for the taking? Or at least the attempt? As she gingerly laid his toast onto a plate, Christian shook his head in puzzlement. “Why aren’t you married?” he blurted out.

He was startled by her response, a low laugh. “Who on earth would marry me? I have spent my adulthood as companion to a demanding elderly woman who continually pointed out the magnanimous charity of taking me in. She made very clear her expectations for me, and they did not include socializing with those in her company, or anyone else, for that matter.” She dipped a thick-handled knife into a crock of butter and slathered it upon his toast.

“I can do that myself,” Christian murmured.

She glanced up, as though in surprise, then smiled. “Sorry, old habits,” she said, sliding the plate and the butter toward him. “Where was I?”

“Why you did not marry,” Christian prompted.

“Oh, yes. Believe me, no one likes a companion who draws attention to herself, by word or deed or appearance. Younger women see you as a threat, older women as a temptation to the gentlemen. So you try your best to make sure no one takes notice of you, to become invisible.” As if she had revealed too much of herself, Abigail paused. “I assure you that the men who came into my orbit did not have legally sanctioned liaisons in mind.”

Christian set his teeth, angry once more at the nameless, faceless denizens of the
ton
who dared to make unwanted advances toward her, but before he could speak out, she shook her head.

“But all that matters little, for in truth I have no wish to be married. As I said before, all I want is my own lit
tl
e cottage, with no one, especially not some loutish fellow, commanding me about,” she added with a crooked smile.

Before Christian could protest that he, for one, was not a lout, she paused to lean upon the table and stare off into the distance. Her face, limned by the light from the tall windows, looked positively angelic, and Christian was struck dumb once again.

"It will be a cozy place, small, but neat and tidy and comfortable, with lots of windows and fresh paint and a garden in the rear.” She spoke as if reciting some long-cherished hope. Indeed, she looked so dreamy that Christian could almost feel her yearning, and it struck him to the core. Obviously, that dream owned her heart, and a man had no place in it.

“And what of your paragon mate?” he asked sarcastically.

She looked at him and blinked, as though awakening from a daze. “My what?”

“The only sort of man you would consider marrying, a man of science, of study, a buttoned-up, deadly dull boor, whose pompous droning puts the whole room to sleep,” Christian said, aware of his resentment but unable to stop the flow of it. After all, he was only speaking the truth. The scholarly sorts he knew were awfully similar to Emery, if not as rude. They always had their head stuck in a book and never made for good company, which was why so few of them were married. At least that’s what he had always thought.

“You know, someone like
…
” Christian paused, pleased to see a blush climb her cheeks before he finished his sentence with a vengeance. “Emery!”

She stared at him in stunned silence, and Christian lifted his brows. “Well, isn’t that the sort of fellow you want?”

She blanched, and Christian flashed a grin, enjoying his bit of retribution. “After all, Emery’s a scholar, though I’ve yet to see exactly what he studies or where all of it is getting him. I’m not sure a man without any other resources can support a family on eclectic reading,” he continued, his brows furrowing.

“But he does meet your other criteria. He’s certainly not handsome or too robust.” Indeed, Emery looked like the kind of young man who’d been perpetually sickly as a boy and would want his wife to tend him during his frequent relapses. His frequent,
whiny
relapses.

“Of course, he doesn’t possess even the most rudimentary of social skills, but that wasn’t on your list, was it?” Christian grinned evilly. “And you know exactly what you want. You recited it all quite well.”

Abigail chose that moment to take an inordinate interest in checking the progress of her baking. Finally she inhaled deeply and spoke, without glancing up at him. “Emery is
not
…
without his merits.”

Christian burst out laughing at that bit of hedg
ing, and when he saw Abigail’s li
ps curve suspiciously, he wanted to kiss her mouth. Hell, kiss her all over. So much for Emery. Now if he could only forward his own cause.

“And why aren’t you married?” she asked, still seemingly too occupied with watching the tart to look up. It was probably a good thing, as the question caught Christian unawares.
“
Too much of a rake, no doubt,” she quipped.

Christian opened his mouth to give his standard prevarication, but it seemed too flippant, not in keeping with the mood of precarious truce between them. But what other answer to give her? The one he gave his grandfather. That he was waiting for someone special. He didn’t know who, but he would recognize her when he saw her, and he would know, deep down inside, that she was his bride. She might not be one of the select ladies presented at Almack’s. She might be different. Unexpected. She might smell like lilacs and have
eyes of that same vivid hue…

Christian jerked upright, startled by his own thoughts, only to find Abigail eyeing him quizzically. His gaze slid away. “I was nearly married once,” he admitted.

Hearing her swift intake of breath, Christian glanced toward her, surprised to see her staring at him with a stunned expression that hardly seemed a fitting response to his disclosure. Did she think that no one wanted him? Christian frowned. Just because she had odd tastes did not mean he wasn’t on the list of every other woman, especially those who valued wealth and a title more than arcane attributes like scholarship and honesty.