Crystal Gardens (31 page)

He went out the door and paused briefly in the hallway. The back stairs were closer. He took them two at a time to the floor above and stopped in front of Evangeline’s bedroom. Aware that Florence and Judith had also retired to their rooms down the hall, he knocked very softly.

There was a soft rustling from inside the room. A moment later the door opened. Evangeline stood there. She had changed into one of the simple housedresses that she seemed to favor when she was occupied with her writing. She looked at him with an expectant air.

“Lucas,” she said. “Did you find something of interest in those old books?”

“Not yet.” He looked past her to the small desk near the window. Several sheets of paper and her pen lay on the surface of the desk. “I feel in need of a stroll in the gardens. Would you care to join me?”

She hesitated. He got the feeling that she did not quite believe him. She was a perceptive woman, he thought. It was not the fresh air he craved. He needed her.

Then she smiled and the slow-burning fever of desire heating his blood flashed into a roaring blaze.

“I’ll just turn down the lamp,” she said.

They went down the back stairs and out onto the terrace. The gardens glowed.

“It is really quite an eerie scene, isn’t it?” Evangeline said. “I am having some difficulty describing it in my story.”

He groaned. “Please do not tell me that you are using Crystal Gardens as a setting for your novel. We’ve had trouble enough with treasure hunters. I do not want to find myself dealing with a horde of your readers descending on the abbey to tour the inspiration for the setting of your story.”

“Don’t worry. I gave this place a different name and set it in a different location.”

“I suppose I must be grateful for that much.”

“A writer must take her inspiration where she can.”

“I need to remember that. It keeps slipping my mind.”

He took her arm and guided her down the terrace steps.

“Are we going into the Night Garden?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “We are going to a place where we won’t have to be on guard against every thorn and flower.”

“Where would that be?”

“The drying shed. It was Mrs. Buckley’s domain. She took great pleasure in growing and drying herbs. She made them into potpourris, pomanders, and sachets and the like. Some of the shops in town sold them to the visitors. There is also a stillroom where she concocted perfumes and soaps.”

The drying shed was actually a room that opened off one of the old cloister walks. When Lucas opened the door, the heady scents of dried herbs drifted out.

“It smells wonderful in there,” Evangeline said.

Unlike the gardens, the shed was steeped in shadows. The only light was the shaft of silver moon that slanted through the window.

“I assume these herbs came from the gardens,” Evangeline said. “Why aren’t they luminous?”

“Mrs. Buckley’s herbs were all grown in the Day Garden,” Lucas said, “not the Night Garden. Whatever paranormal light they might have given off at one time disappeared soon after the herbs were picked.”

“Ah, yes, because the source of the energy, the water, was cut off. These plants are dead.”

Evangeline turned to face him. She was standing in the moonlight. The silver gleamed on her hair. He could see the faint heat in her eyes. She wanted him. The knowledge was enough to send his fever higher.

“Evangeline,” he said.

It was all he could say. Desire left him if not entirely speechless, certainly incoherent, he thought.

He walked to where she stood and took her into his arms. She came to him on the sweet, intoxicating scent of the herbs that surrounded them and her own vital feminine essence. He kissed her in the moonlight, drugging himself on the taste of her.

When she whispered his name and leaned more heavily into him he began to unhook the bodice of her gown.

“I cannot tell you how grateful I am that you are not wearing a corset,” he said against her throat.

Her laughter was soft and lilting in the darkness. “I did not bring any corsets with me to Little Dixby because I knew I would not have anyone to assist me with the laces.”

He laughed, too, a hoarse, husky laugh that turned into a groan when she undid the buttons of his shirt.

“I rarely wear one at all, except with my most fashionable gowns,” she confided. She kissed his bare chest. “My friends and I are convinced they are not good for the health.”

“I do not know if they are healthy or not, but I can assure you that they are a damn nuisance when it comes to this sort of thing.”

“I’ll remember that in the future,” she said.

She was teasing him—he knew that—but the implication that she might one day be with another man froze him to the bone. He let the skirts that he had just unfastened fall to the floor and closed his hands around her shoulders.

“There will be no need to remember,” he said, “because I will be around to remind you.”

“Will you?” She touched the side of his jaw. Her eyes were fathomless.

“Yes,” he vowed. He kissed her again, a sealing kiss to reinforce the promise.

He finally got her out of the gown. When she was left in nothing but a chemise, drawers and stockings, he drew her down onto a heap of fragrant herbs and looked at her as she lay there, limned in moonlight. Energy sparkled and flared in the atmosphere.

He knelt beside her and undid the front of his trousers. She reached for him.

“Lucas,” she whispered.

He lowered himself alongside her and put one hand on her leg just above the garter that secured her white stocking. She made a soft little sound and reached inside his trousers. She circled him cautiously with her warm hand, exploring. He thought he would go mad. He opened the chemise and kissed her breast. Her hand tightened on him in what he knew was an instinctive response.

“You have no idea of what you are doing to me,” he warned.

She smiled. “Are you trying to frighten me? Because it is not working.”

“No, I can see that. Just as well because it is too late.”

“For you or for me?”

“For me,” he said. “I am lost.”

“That makes two of us.”

“Then I am not lost, after all. You have found me.”

He kissed her and slipped his fingers inside the opening of her drawers. She was wet and full. He stroked gently, doing everything in his power to heighten the tension that he could sense building inside her. It became a contest of wills because she was doing the same to him.

In the end they surrendered to each other at the same moment. He lowered himself on top of her and thrust deep. She pulled him close and wrapped her stocking-clad legs around him.

He was braced for the shock of intimacy this time, but it dazzled his senses all the same. She gave a breathless cry. When she came the compelling energy of her release was more powerful than any force he had ever known. He could not resist, even if he had wanted to do so. He did not care.

Lost, he thought. And found.

S
ometime later, she stirred beside him. The shifting of her weight released more fragrant scents from the herbs. He opened his eyes and looked at her.

“How did you end up alone in the world?” he asked.

She sat up slowly, saying nothing at first. Her hair had come free of the pins. She ran her fingers through the tresses to shake out the bits and pieces of dried herbs.

“My father was an inventor,” she said at last. “That sort tends to be very poor at managing finances.”

“You have my sympathies. I know the breed. They are always in need of money for new equipment and materials.”

“Sadly true.” She looked down at him. “How is it you are aware of that?”

“One of my cousins, Arthur, fancies himself an inventor. I control the finances in my family so I hear frequently from him.”

Evangeline’s lips curved into a dry smile. “Well, in that case, perhaps you do understand. My mother died when I turned seventeen. She taught me how to handle the family finances and how to run a household. I took charge of both after her death. At least, I attempted to do so. That was when I realized just how difficult her task had been.”

“Things did not go well, I take it.”

“Overseeing the household was not a problem, but my father had no notion of economy. His only concern was having enough money to finance his inventions.”

“Did he obtain any patents?”

“I’m afraid not. His inventions were not what most people would call practical.”

“Inventing impractical devices is not an uncommon failing in inventors.”

“The problem with Papa’s inventions was that they could only be operated by those who possessed psychical powers.”

Lucas winced. “He invented
paranormal
machines?”

“He
attempted
to do so. I fear he was not very successful. The market for such devices is quite small, you see.”

Lucas folded his hands behind his head. “Because so few people possess the degree of talent required to operate machines that work on paranormal energy.”

“Most people laughed at him or considered him to be a fraud. It was all quite complicated, but you may believe me when I tell you that my father’s devices were extremely difficult to construct and almost impossible to demonstrate, let alone bring to market. There were other problems, as well. Each device my father designed had to be tuned to the wavelengths of the individual who planned to use it. Papa was not
able to do the tuning. I seemed to have a talent for it but there wasn’t much point because there were so few customers.”

“But your father pressed on with his inventing,” Lucas said, “and he kept requiring more money.”

“As you say, it is the way of inventors. I simply could not control Papa’s spending habits. Mama had intimidated him for years. That was how she kept us solvent. But after she died Papa acted as if he had been freed from prison. He went mad with our money. He purchased new equipment for his laboratory. He bought outrageously expensive artifacts and crystals to use in his experiments. I became increasingly desperate. I concealed the true state of our finances from him. I hid the records of our investments. But it was like trying to hide money from a gambler. He simply bought what he wanted on credit and then I was forced to pay the bills.”

“I understand.”

“I managed to hold things together for a few years,” Evangeline said. “I kept things afloat until I was twenty-two. That was the year Robert—Douglas Mason—courted me. He was under the impression that I would have a handsome dowry. But that same year Papa succeeded in exhausting the bulk of our resources. In the end, all we had left was the house and a necklace that Mama had left to me. Before she died she made me swear that I would never tell Papa about the jewelry. It proved to be excellent advice.”

“What happened?”

“I confronted Papa and told him that we were facing bankruptcy. I hoped to shock him into a full comprehension of the dreadful state of our affairs. I thought he would be forced to come to his senses.”

“Your therapy didn’t work, did it? Reason never does with that sort.”

“You are right, of course. To my horror, Papa concluded that the only solution was to obtain a loan using our house as the collateral. He
put the proceeds into an investment scheme that proved to be a fraud. I did not discover what he had done until I found him dead in his basement workshop. He had put a pistol to his head.”

Lucas levered himself up on his elbows. “He left you to find the body.”

“I doubt he was thinking about that aspect of the matter.”

Probably not, Lucas thought, but it had added another layer of cruelty and pain to the whole business. He suppressed the anger that unfurled deep inside. Reginald Ames was not the first man to take his own life after a financial disaster and he would not be the last. But it never ceased to astonish and appall him that men who under other circumstances prided themselves on their honor could abandon their responsibilities in a way that devastated those they left behind. How did one pull the trigger in such a situation, knowing that one’s wife or daughter would be left to cope with the financial and social ruin?

“What became of the necklace?” he asked quietly.

“Fortunately, I had never told Papa about it. I never told the creditors, either.”

“A wise decision.”

“After the funeral, I pawned it. I was able to obtain enough money to see me through until I obtained my position with Flint and Marsh.”

“It must have been extraordinarily difficult for you.”

“There have been a few rough patches,” Evangeline admitted. “But in some ways, I have done much better on my own, thanks to the Flint and Marsh Agency, and now I have my writing. I am in control of my own destiny these days.”

“There is a great deal to be said for that.”

“Yes, there is.”

Reluctantly he got to his feet and reached down to pull her up off the makeshift bed.

“We are both going to smell of herbs when we return to the house,” Evangeline said. She shook out her skirts. “I must look as if I have been rolling around in the stuff. Which is only the truth, I suppose.”

“We will use the back stairs again.” He fastened his trousers. “No one will see us.”