I Adored a Lord (13 page)

“I considered others. None of them were nearly as interesting. More importantly, none led to a crime of passion of the sort Mr. Walsh suffered. His wound does rather speak for itself.”

“Perhaps.”

“I have searched this room. Now we should search everybody's chambers.”

“It must wait until morning. The evening's entertainments were drawing to a close when I left.”

He had stayed for all the dancing. Perhaps he had danced with the other ladies. Certainly he had.

“On the other end of the great hall,” she said, “there is a display of weapons and armor that we can study now . . . if you haven't danced yourself into such exhaustion that you are unable to help me, of course.”

“I believe I can remain awake another few minutes if I try very hard.”

She took up her lamp. “As a despicably wealthy second son you must often spend entire nights drinking and playing cards and generally carousing, then sleep all the following day. Mustn't you?”

“Something like that.” He extinguished his candle and took her lamp. His fingers brushed hers. She grabbed her hand back and moved swiftly into the great hall.

A magnificent, impressively bellicose array spread before them on the near wall, illumined only by the light of a torch across the hall. Breastplates and other pieces of body armor had been arranged like paper dolls across an iron grille, stretching from one end of the hall to the other. Sprays of lances, broadswords, sabers, and bows had been arranged decoratively. Shields emblazoned with noble crests dotted the whole.

“The lords of this castle knew how to outfit themselves,” she murmured.

“That place where the cook met her visitor,” he said as the glow of lamplight glimmered off steel. “Where you lived. It was a foundling home, was it not?”

“Yes.”

He did not reply, but studied the armor. He was a nobleman and she was an orphan, and she had more in common with a mutton chop than with him. But he trusted in her intelligence and made her laugh. And looking at his profile now made something inside her tighten with both panic and strange pleasure.

“Did you name your dog?” she said.

“He is not my dog.”

“But you did name him?”

“Gonçalo.”

“Gonçalo? How odd.”

“Beatus Gonçalo of Amarante was a priest of the thirteenth century, and worldly despite his vows. He finally turned his life to true holiness. But his nephew, who stood to gain a great deal if Gonçalo remained corrupt, set a dog upon him.”

“The nephew did not appreciate his uncle's change of heart, I guess?”

He tilted his attention down to her. “That dog chewed through one of the finest boots I have ever owned.”

She smiled. “You still have the other.”

“Thank you. That will do me well should I happen to lose the opposite identical boot.”

“Do you have an identical pair?”

His brow creased. “What would I do with an identical pair of boots?”

“I don't know. You are the despicably wealthy second son. You tell me.”

“I—­”

Laughter bubbled from the archway and candlelight danced toward them along the walls. Lord Vitor doused the lamp and drew her behind the iron screen.

“What are you—­”

He shook his head and released her.

Light footsteps tripped along stone, and into the great medieval keep flew a delicate lady wearing white froth, followed by a gentleman with shirt points to his ears. Seeming to flee, Juliana Abraccia moved at a pace far too slow to outdistance Martin Anders's determined strides.

“Oh, Signore Anders! You must not!”

“But my darling Miss Abraccia, I
must
.”

Ravenna folded her arms. He had called her his darling only the night before.

Prickling with gooseflesh, she rubbed at her arms. With only aperture slit windows, the great hall was much colder than the tiny south-­facing storage room. The muslin gown Ann had lent her was practical for the party in the adjacent chamber, which was well heated by two modern fireplaces and many dancing ­people, but ridiculously unsuited to hiding elsewhere in the fortress.

The man beside her, however, seemed perfectly comfortable. This must be due to . . . she had no idea. She knew little about Lord Vitor Courtenay, except that he was less equable than he pretended to be among the others, and that the subtle knocking together of her knees beneath her tissue-­thin skirts now had more to do with his proximity than with the cold. Absurdly, the recollection of his body atop hers in the stable came to her again, of his weight pressing her into the straw.

He had not come this close to her since he had saved her from the river. Now their arms nearly brushed—­his defined by the fabric of his fine coat and hers bared practically to the shoulder. His breathing sounded even and slow. Clearly this closeness did not affect him, despite his teasing on the hillside that he still wished to kiss her. An impromptu swim in frigid water could cool the most insistent ardor, she supposed.

“Why are we hiding?” she said beneath the trill of Juliana's thoroughly insincere protests and Mr. Anders's wine-­soaked assurances.

Lord Vitor cut her a Dark Look.

“They cannot hear me,” she whispered. “Her giggles drown out all else.”

A V appeared between his brows and he seemed to study her face as sometimes he did, as though searching her features for an answer to a question he had not spoken. When he looked at her like this she did not feel the cold. She felt hot and unsteady.

She should have let him teach her how to dance
.

The thought came unbidden and unwelcome. She didn't want to learn how to dance and she did not want him to touch her again. Even the caress of his midnight gaze now made her unbearably uncomfortable.

Then, with a hooding of his eyes she had seen only once before, his gaze dipped to her mouth.

“Why am I allowing my toes to grow numb one by one?” she made herself say. Anything to halt the painful pleasure inside her. Anything. For it
was
painful, she understood now. When he looked at her like this, an unendurable sort of misery gathered in her chest and belly that she needed to escape. That was the reason she had fled the drawing room earlier, to avoid his dark regard and to avoid touching him again. “So that I can watch Mr. Anders cajole Miss Abraccia into his arms, since he failed to cajole me?” she forced through her lips. “He believes he is a poet, but in truth he is a boy.”

Shifting his attention from her, her companion glanced into the great hall. “Killers may wear masks.”

She peeked through the grille, her breaths fogging on the steel breastplate in front of her. Juliana took another dainty step away from Mr. Anders. Then she reversed direction and fell against his chest with all evidence of submission.

Ravenna simply could not watch. It was too foolish. “And you know this because . . . ?”

“Because I have worn such masks. But no longer.” His eyes, upon her again, flickered with torchlight. “He failed?”

He was a killer?
This man who had risked his life to save her from the river? The only man in the castle who—­she was quite certain—­was not the murderer they sought? “He who—­what? Failed?” Her wits had fled along with her breaths.

Across the hall, Mr. Anders murmured to Miss Abraccia. A muscle in Lord Vitor's jaw flexed.

“You mean he,
him
?” Ravenna whispered. “Martin Anders?”

Lord Vitor said nothing, only watched her.

“Of course he failed,” she said. “He is a sorry tease and I don't—­”

“He failed.” The words seemed to come from deep in his chest. He looked up to the ceiling and then down at his feet and then finally, as though reluctantly, again at her mouth. “Would I fail?” His voice was unmistakably husky.

Ravenna's stomach turned over. Now he did not tease—­not as he had at other times. He meant this question and he wanted an answer. She should go. Immediately. Without delay she should slip out of this concealed place and save herself from certain trouble.

“Would you fail?” she heard herself repeat.

He looked very serious. “No.”

Heat and confusion tangled beneath her skin now.
Desire
. It suddenly seemed so clear. Too clear. She
wanted
him to touch her yet it terrified her. “No?” she asked, the chill barely stirring between them.

“No,” he said. “Unless you bite me again.” Laughter sparked in his eyes. Abruptly, Ravenna could breathe again.

Then his hand touched hers.

And breathing became a distant memory.

 

Chapter 10

The Touch

S
he had been longing for touch, real touch, not merely the pat of Petti's fingers or the quick clasp of a friend's hand. She had spent nights aching for Beast's warm mass to curl herself around and take comfort in. Then for a few moments when this man had held her in his arms, in her icy stupor she had felt safe.

Now as his hand brushed hers she felt no consolation or comfort, only fear. Everything in her readied to run, but the soles of her feet remained flat upon the stone floor as, gently, his knuckles strafed hers. It was the slightest of touches, but everything inside her seemed to shimmer to life. His fingertips followed the same paths, barely a caress, barely contact at all, yet it filled her. Her breaths would not come. No one had ever touched her like this. No one had touched her as though he wished to feel her—­as though he wished to know this small part of her—­any part of her.

Without releasing her gaze, he passed his fingertips across the pads of her fingers. She did not expect the tingling shock or the gasp that slipped through her lips.

He stroked softly. Inside her, where she was empty, bloomed longing and heady agitation. His hand was warm. His palm cupped around her knuckles so that she felt his strength. In the torchlight she watched his face, the hard plane of his jaw and the shadows in his eyes. What he did now was intimate and as wrong as the kiss he had forced upon her in the stable. But there was no force now, only need growing inside her and his intoxicating exploration.

Then he stroked his thumb across her palm.
She mustn't allow this
. From her lips issued the barest breath of resistance. He repeated the caress. It was strange, deep pleasure that she knew nothing of, and she was as sensible of her ignorance as she suspected he was of his confidence to make her feel. She could see it in the line of his lips that remained closed while hers had fallen open. With each stroke across her palm her breaths came faster. But she saw that his did too, his chest moving quick and hard.

He turned her hand, laced her fingers through his, and brought their palms together.

Ravenna choked back a sigh. Her eyelids dipped. Skin to skin, she felt him between her fingers and brushing against her palm with tingles that made her a little dizzy. To be connected like this, the heat of a man's life intertwined with hers, seemed miraculous.
Inescapable
. Despite his strength he held her by her will. She had no desire to pull away, only the need to remain with him in this silent meeting of skin and heat. She found her chin tilting up, her gaze dipping to his lips. Their shoulders brushed. She felt it everywhere inside her. He bent his head.

“Ravenna,” he whispered so close to her lips.

The crack of a slap echoed through the hall. “
No
, signore!”

Ravenna jerked her hand free. She forced her eyes to focus beyond the grille.

Hands over her mouth, Juliana fled across the hall. Mr. Anders stood still, wobbling slightly, the torchlight revealing his scowl. Juliana disappeared up the stairs. Mr. Anders released a great huffing groan and followed.

Sinking her hands into her skirts, Ravenna forced herself to look at the man beside her. Shoulders stiff, he stood with his hand around the back of his neck. He glanced aside at her. With a deep inhalation his gaze shifted to her mouth, where for a long, silent moment it rested.

“You should go,” he said quietly, his voice quite low. “Now.”

She took up the lamp and slipped out from behind the screen and went swiftly across the hall. As he followed at a distance he did not mask his footsteps, but she did not look back. She did not know why she had allowed him to touch her. She should not have. Yet she knew that he would silently see her safely to her door.

R
AVENNA RUBBED S
LEEPLESS
hours from her eyes, dressed, and sought out General Dijon's daughter. Arielle sat in the empty drawing room, her fingertips listless upon the keys of the pianoforte. Her pretty eyes lit with hope as she stood and crossed the room.

“Have they found
ma petite
?” she said eagerly. “Have they found Marie?” Her English was soft, her Gallic accent adding music to her voice.

Ravenna shook her head. “Not yet. But I'm certain they shall.”

Last night she and Lord Vitor had not spoken of the dog, though she had intended to. They had not searched for the dagger or reviewed any other details of their investigation either. Instead, they had held hands in the dark. And he had nearly kissed her.

Ravenna's cheeks felt warm as she sat with Arielle on the sofa.

“Why are you alone here? The prince ordered that everyone must always be with at least two companions.”

“Mademoiselle Anders came here with me, but some minutes ago she became impatient and departed.”

“Impatient concerning what? Do you know?”

Arielle shook her head.

“Mademoiselle Dijon, I have not yet had the opportunity to speak with you about the night Mr. Walsh was killed.”

The French girl's pretty brow dipped. “Then it is true,” she said. “You and Lord Vitor hope to discover the madman who did these crimes?”

“Is that known?”

“Lady Iona said to me she believed this to be. Monsieur Sepic, he is . . .” She made a thoroughly Gallic gesture with her slender shoulders.

Lady Iona was too observant for Ravenna's tastes, and Monsieur Sepic clearly inspired faith in no one at Chevriot.

“Is it true?” the French girl asked.

“May I be frank with you?”

Arielle nodded, black lashes wide against her pale skin. She was loveliness itself, with china smooth skin and black ringlets and perfect lips, like a doll.

“Yesterday Monsieur Sepic suggested to me and Lord Vitor that your dog went missing at precisely the moment that, if you had murdered Mr. Walsh, you would wish to provide a sympathetic distraction to draw attention away from yourself as a suspect.”

Arielle's eyes flew wide. “
Mais
, I would not murder a man!”

Ravenna released a tight breath. “I hoped you would say that.”

“What else might I have said?”

“That you would never put Marie in danger or part with her, even to disguise your crime.”

Distress tweaked her rosebud mouth. “But I would not.”

“Of course you would not. I understand your devotion to her. Because of it your immediate insistence that you did not murder a man speaks to your innocence.”

“If I did not think murder impossible, I would have spoken first of my Marie?”

Ravenna nodded.

Arielle's slender hand rose to her quivering lips. “But I am devastated that she is gone.”

Ravenna grasped her hands. “We will find her. I promise it.”

“Ah,” came a silken purr from the doorway. “What an affecting scene.” Lady Penelope bent her golden head to her sister's silvery locks. “It seems that our friend from the West Country does not know that a lady refrains from mauling her acquaintances.” She made a delicate little shrug and moved into the drawing room. “I don't suppose you mind it, do you, mademoiselle? In America you must encounter infinite gaucheries,
n'est-­ce pas
?” She dimpled sweetly and lowered her behind, clad in a stunning morning gown, upon a settee. Her sister perched beside her. Despite the absence of servants, both of them appeared each day pristinely elegant. They had each other's assistance, Ravenna supposed.

Arielle wrapped her other delicate hand around Ravenna's. “
Merci
, mademoiselle,” she said softly.

Lady Penelope chuckled. “Dear Mademoiselle Dijon, she does not understand French. Miss Caulfield, she said she is grateful.”

“Thank you for the translation. I am glad to see you, in fact. Monsieur Sepic asked me to ask you, your mother, and Lady Grace about the night of Mr. Walsh's murder,” she lied without a single prick of conscience. “We can begin now.”

“You will speak of my mother as Lady Whitebarrow,” Penelope said, “when I allow you to speak of her at all. And I will tell you when I and my sister are prepared to answer impertinent questions from an upstart country pauper.”

“Her sister is a duchess, Penny,” Lady Grace whispered as though they all couldn't hear her perfectly well.

“Did you enjoy the dancing last night, Miss Caulfield?” Lady Penelope asked sweetly. “Oh, I forgot. You don't know how to dance, do you?”

Heat darted through Ravenna.

“Look, Grace,” Lady Penelope said with a curl of her perfect lips. “The blush does show through her skin after all. Remarkable.”

“Well, isn't this a pretty gathering of little birds?” Lady Margaret exclaimed upon a labored breath where she stood in the doorway with her hand tucked in Petti's elbow. His eyes twinkled. He preferred the company of loquacious women and handsome men to any other. With Lady Margaret and Duchess McCall in residence, as well as several attractive gentlemen, he'd been in perpetual good humor despite the murder and theft hanging over them all. Ravenna had to smile.

They came forward, and only then mousy Ann appeared in her mother's bustling wake.

“Come, Ann dear.” Lady Margaret waved a plump hand. “You must show off the pearls your fond papa gave you this morning.”

The mouse peeked from behind the matron.

“Oh, Miss Feathers.” Arielle went to draw Ann to a chair away from her mother. “How beloved you must be to your father. It is a fine necklace.”

It was large and vulgar and must weigh half a stone. Sir Henry had superb taste in Thoroughbreds but apparently little discernment in ladies' jewelry. Poor Ann's shoulders practically bent over, and two spots of crimson perched upon her cheeks, at odds with her gray and yellow pin-­striped gown.

“Dear me,” Lady Penelope purred. “What an impressive display.” Rather than Ann's necklace, she looked at Lady Margaret's ample bosom that bubbled like slow-­boiling soup at the edge of her scooping bodice. Sir Henry's wife had taken to wearing daring gowns and bending over in front of Lord Prunesly. The scholar renowned throughout Europe for his discoveries in natural philosophy seemed to take no notice of the eager biological specimen.

“Agreed, m'dear,” Petti said affably, and settled Lady Margaret in a chair beside the twins. “Ladies charm especially well when they are specially adorned.”

Penelope nudged her sister.

“But don't you think, sir,” Grace blurted, “that given present circumstances it is inappropriate to behave as though we are attending a party every day?”

“But, my dear, we
are
attending a party. And our host wishes us to enjoy ourselves. Therefore, we must. When there is a murderer afoot, it behooves a lady to make herself as pretty as ever. To give us all cheer, don't you know. We must take our cue from that medieval fellow who wrote that clever book. When all the peasants were dropping dead of the plague, the ladies and gentlemen removed themselves to the country and diverted themselves with delightful stories. Ten stories each night for ten days, until the pestilence passed.”

“Really?” Ann peeped.

“Certainly, m'dear. Those Italians were vastly clever.”

“But, monsieur,” Arielle said, “the plague would remain among us here even as we would seek to escape it. One of
us
is the murderer.”

“I plead innocence.” Lord Case strolled into the room. “Will you believe it of me, mademoiselle?”

Arielle lowered her eyes modestly. “If you wish it, my lord.”

“Speaking of Italians,” Petti said, “we lack the company now of only Miss Abraccia, Miss Anders, and Lady Iona to complete the complement of virgin sacrifices in the house. What do you think, my lord? Shall we call the others in and have a portrait painted?”

The room went dead silent. Ravenna stifled a chuckle. Lord Case smiled but his eyes went to the general's daughter. Then his attention shifted to her and lost all hint of pleasure. The laughter died in Ravenna's throat.

“Oh, sir,” Lady Margaret chortled with an operatic trill. “You flatter me! It has been nineteen years since I was a bride, though perhaps you would not know it unless my own dear Ann were not seated nearby. How amusing you are.” She tapped his hand playfully.

“Mr. Pettigrew.” Ann's fingers twisted together in her lap. “I beg your forgiveness, but you do his highness an injustice. He is a fine man. It would not be a sacrifice to marry him. Rather, the opposite.”

Lady Margaret beamed proudly from bejeweled ear to bejeweled ear.

“With those words you reveal yourself to be a true lady, Miss Feathers.” Petti looked about. “Now, who would like to review her Shakespeare? I've never tread the boards myself, but I knew plenty of actresses in my younger days, so I suppose I am an expert at the theater of sorts.”

“Oh, sir.” Lady Margaret chuckled. “You are incorrigible!”