Dark Splendor (7 page)

Morgan chuckled.

Roman, his temper worsening, stopped by the
French doors at the end of the dining room and cursed under his
breath. The garden sunlight lent an iridescent glow to lingering
dewdrops on the green leaves of a low hedge. Birds hopped amid the
spidery pink blossoms in a mimosa tree, chirping sweetly to welcome
the morning sun.

Taking full advantage of the warm rays, a
sleek black cat lazily licked its paws and rubbed them slowly
across its ears. The birds paid no heed to their adversary as he
groomed his fur until it glistened. Roman watched. The creature’s
coat was black as coal, black as the silky curls he’d tangled his
fingers in last night.

His mind burned with the memory and he
turned away abruptly to stare into Morgan’s grinning face. An
irritable frown curved Roman’s lips.

“A woman like that needs a man who can
appreciate her finer qualities,” Morgan commented, shaking his head
decisively. “Not a heartless bloke like you.”

Roman gritted his teeth and turned his back
to Morgan again. “Do what you like. The girl means nothing to me,”
he said flatly.

The cat outside responded to his motion at
the window and lazily opened yellow-gold eyes. Roman watched the
creature, the way it stretched with easy grace, the way the sun
burnished its black coat. A dull ache of desire tightened the
muscles in his chest and he felt a throbbing in his temples. He
remembered tawny eyes and tousled black curls catching the
moonlight.

Angrily his nostrils flared as he stared
past the cat. Roman wiped his brow, wondering why he felt the heat
so early in the morning.

“Roman...” A melodious voice floated across
the room and the fragrance of lilacs filled the air. He heard the
rustle of silk skirts and the soft pattering of leather
slippers.

Smiling, he turned as a young woman with a
beautifully wrought delicate face and pale gold hair she wore in a
braid wrapped around her head like a crown entered the room. Her
light blue eyes were filled with eagerness, and an excited blush
colored her cheeks. She carried herself regally, holding her skirts
up a little as she hastened across the polished wood floor toward
Roman.

“Martha, darling.” His voice was
velvet-edged and warm as he caught her around the waist, lifting
her feet from the floor, spinning a circle with her in his arms.
“Let me look.” Setting her to her feet, he stepped back but quickly
caught her again and tightened his arms in a hug. “You’re like a
confection, a sweet, sugary confection.”

“Roman, Roman.” Joy bubbled in her laughter
and delight shone in her eyes. “It’s good to have you home.” Her
face sparkled with laughter but soon stilled and turned suddenly
serious. “Promise you’ll not stay away so long again,” she pleaded
sweetly, her arms wrapped about his waist.

The flush in her cheeks darkened to the
dusty rose of her gown, a shade that contrasted wonderfully with
her ivory skin and blond hair. Martha’s eyes held a secret sheen of
purpose as they met his.

“I promise,” Roman said, bending to kiss her
on the cheek.

“Don’t I get a welcome?” Morgan chided,
rising from his chair.

Martha turned, surprise registering in her
face. “Morgan, I didn’t see you there,” she said softly, her eyes
narrowing as the smile wavered on her lips.

“I am wounded,” he said gloomily, pretending
to be greatly offended. “Cast aside for my scurrilous brother.”

Martha hastened to his side and reached up
to kiss the tip of his nose. She smiled and laughed lightly, a
gentle sound like the tinkling of silver bells.

Morgan relented and gave her a bear hug,
kissing both her cheeks and not failing to note that her eyes were
on Roman all the while.

“Hmmm,” he growled. “One night here and I
feel like an outcast. I suppose soon I’ll be standing in as best
man at a wedding,” he stated half-seriously, flashing a derisive
grin at Roman and not failing to catch the warning in his brother’s
eye.

“Don’t be cross, darling,” Martha cooed, and
smiled knowingly at Morgan. She gave a demure wink so that her
golden lashes swept over her cheek. “Maybe,” she whispered so that
Roman couldn’t hear. “With a bit of help.” She squeezed Morgan’s
hand and raised her voice again. “We’ve been waiting weeks for you
to arrive, and I only learned this morning you were here.”

“This morning?” Morgan asked, puzzled.
Hadn’t he seen her watching from her doorway last night when he had
spoken to Roman and Silvia in the hall?

“Yes,” she responded, her face a mask of
serenity as she directed them to be seated. “Vivien told me.”

“Then where the devil is Eric, and why
weren’t you two here when the ship docked?” Morgan smiled and
pinched her cheek playfully.

“We didn’t expect you for days, and Uncle
sent us to Fredericksburg for supplies.” Martha looped her arm
through Roman’s and started to the table. “Last night we got in
quite late and everyone had retired.” Gracefully Martha lowered
herself into the chair Roman held for her, taking a long moment to
adjust her skirts before he could slip the chair forward. “Eric had
to go to the fields this morning before breakfast,” she chatted on,
pausing to pour tea from a delicate teapot painted with green and
blue Chinese dragons. With her smooth, fluid movements she made the
simple ceremony of pouring tea look as graceful as a dance. “He’ll
be along soon if he can pry himself away. You know how he is about
his precious crops. Even Uncle says he’s done wonders with
production.”

“How is the old rogue?” Roman asked,
accepting a cup of tea from Martha and smiling lightly as he
withdrew his hand when her fingers deliberately brushed it. Roman
drank deeply from his cup. Somehow he could not picture Wilhelm
Schlange succumbing to illness or being bedridden. He turned to
Martha. “Vivien said he was ill and confined to his room.”

She nodded. “Since the
Anne Marie
docked more than a fortnight ago, he’s hardly come downstairs.”
Martha paused to add cream and a lump of sugar to her cup. “He’s
had Crandall, the solicitor, come down from the northern colonies
to attend to some mysterious business.” Sipping delicately from the
porcelain cup, she lifted her eyes admiringly to Roman. “Eric and I
have hardly seen him since he arrived. He sends us messages by
Vivien.”

“And tight-lipped as Vivien is, there’s no
way to know his true condition,” Morgan added. “They’re a strange
pair, those two. And of course—”

“Oh, here’s Eric,” Martha said, turning
quickly to greet a fair-haired man striding in dressed in tan
riding breeches and carrying a leather crop. Instead of a coat he
wore a simple cotton shirt, full-sleeved and open at the
throat.

A wide smile ruffled Eric’s lightly tanned
face. He paused a moment to comb his fingers through windblown
blond hair. Eric stood half a head shorter than Roman and Morgan
and had a considerably more slender build. Heavy blond brows
accented a pair of mild blue eyes. His face, though angular, was
thoroughly handsome and had a pleasant, good-humored expression. As
he entered, he tossed a leather-bound book and the riding crop on a
sideboard near the door and hurried toward the table.

“Roman, Morgan!” his voice rang out
enthusiastically.

Both men stood and rushed to meet Eric. Soon
all three were engaged in excited handshaking and backslapping and
a vigorous exchange of greetings. In a few minutes the conversation
grew calmer and the Tollers resumed their seats. Eric went to
Martha and affectionately kissed her on the temple, before taking a
seat next to Morgan.

“We thought you would never arrive,” Eric
said, his frank gaze shifting from Morgan to Roman. “Uncle is
behaving strangely, and neither Martha nor I know what to make of
it.” He broke off speaking for a moment to serve his plate. He
called us to his bedside a week ago and told us to expect you two
within a few weeks, and since then not a word to either of us.” His
face had become brooding.

Morgan and Roman listened intently. The
urgency of Wilhelm’s summons for them to come to the island had
already caused a measure of trepidation. Now they wondered if he
were ill or involved in some subterfuge. Using illness as a cover
for some scheme would not be beneath their uncle. On the other
hand, he was an old man. The brothers exchanged questioning glances
as Eric continued.

“He’s always been secretive, as you well
know, especially when he’s onto something.” A deep light shone in
Eric’s pale eyes. “No one ever knows what’s happening until he’s
ready to execute a coup de grace.”

Eric sat back and Martha inclined her head
in concordance.

“He arrived with a shipload of trunks and
crates and had them all moved to the castle. He’s opened up rooms
that have been closed for years, and had Vivien doing heaven knows
what,” Martha added ruefully.

“And you think there’s something besides
illness to account for his odd behavior?” Morgan smiled. Perhaps
Eric and Martha had been isolated on Schlange Island too long and
had forgotten the entire universe did not revolve around Wilhelm
Schlange. To his memory the old man had never done anything that
wasn’t peculiar.

“Yes,” Eric said, looking troubled. “There’s
no accounting for his not seeing Martha and me but once since he’s
been here.”

Roman laid a hand on Martha’s arm and patted
it consolingly. “I think you’re making too much of a simple
matter.” She smiled fleetingly and acknowledged his comment with a
disagreeing shake of her head. “Most likely he simply can’t stand
for anyone to see him when he’s not all fire and fury,” he added
emphatically. “Once he’s on his feet, things will be the same
again.”

“Oh no!” Martha said, looking up sharply.
“There’s more.”

***

At her open window the atmosphere was
fragrant with the smell of roses. Wearing the blue silk dress
Vivien had returned to her only a few minutes earlier, Silvia stood
looking out over the garden admiring the display of colorful blooms
below. Somehow Vivien had managed to take the dress into a perfect
fit. Sighing, she brushed her hands over the luxurious fabric of
her skirt, enjoying the smooth feel of it and finding it hard to
believe the gown was hers to wear. She had fashioned her hair into
a large smooth bun at her nape, but in the humid air a dozen curls
had sprung loose and curled vine like around her face.

Vivien had told her she was expected
downstairs for breakfast at eight, and though that hour was
approaching, she had not yet found the courage to leave her room.
Instead she remained at the window looking out across the garden.
The castle was truly enormous and was built in a square shape. She
could see above her room another full floor as well as the tower
rising almost to the clouds.

On the ground level high-arched gates
bordered the courtyard at one end. She supposed there had been no
reason to make the place a fortress, and Schlange had opted for
lovely formal gardens in the enclosed area. The flowers were
bordered by low hedges which ran in wavy patterns instead of the
usual geometric designs. She liked the soft effect. Throughout, the
grounds were lined with stone paths that wound from section to
section.

Directly below was a portion of the garden
devoted to roses, which was what furnished the abundance of perfume
that drifted in her window. She could see the vivid reds, that
stark whites, and the pale pinks and yellows of the blossoms. Most
of the garden was visible from above, but at the far end near the
gates, low-growing trees sheltered much of the area from view.

Benches were interspersed throughout and she
saw that several rooms on the ground floor had French doors for
access to the courtyard. In the center an enormous stone serpent
with water gushing from its mouth rose out of a circular pool
filled with green lily pads and cup-shaped white lilies.

Silvia gasped, and looked again at the
overall pattern of the garden. The hedges were not random designs
as she had thought, but were instead long green snakes when seen
from above. At one end the hedges tapered to form tails and at the
other rounded into heads. Each leafy creature appeared ready to
devour a bird-shaped topiary bush near its mouth. Silvia shuddered
and left the window. Anna was right, the whole place seemed to be
crawling with snakes. Wilhelm Schlange harbored a strange obsession
for his namesake.

Her eyes went to the small enameled clock on
the dresser. It was a quarter past eight. Mr. Schlange would not be
pleased with her lack of punctuality. Shuffling her feet into the
kidskin slippers she had selected, she hurried along, delighting in
the light, soft feel of the shoes on her feet after the heavy,
stiff boots she was accustomed to wearing. Nevertheless she felt as
if she were chained to the floor by her misgivings about going
downstairs.

With each step, her heart fluttered like the
wings of a frightened bird, fluttered as if she were one of those
poor garden creatures awaiting impending doom. She cast a glance
over her shoulder at the image of her anxious face and then her
sense of duty prevailed. She could put it off no longer. She must
go downstairs.

Her hands shook and she clasped and
unclasped them until she reached the stairs. There was no one in
the hall below, and she was grateful. Taking hold of the rail, she
descended slowly, hearing a roar of excited voices from the
direction Vivien had instructed her to take. Breathlessly she
paused at the foot of the stairs, fighting the urge to run back to
her room. But she hesitated only briefly before she stiffened her
spine and hurried on her way.

A moment later she silently entered the
dining room.

“Good morning.” Her voice called out clear
and strong.

The lively conversation at the table died as
four pairs of eyes riveted her in place, eyes that were curious,
questioning, and threatened. Was that what she saw? She couldn’t be
sure, for like the well-bred people they were, they quickly
recovered their surprise and masked their emotions.