Mischief (2 page)

“Nonsense. Uncle Selwyn’s collection is a bit morbid, I admit, but rather fascinating in its way.”

“This house is a mausoleum and well you know it,” Horatia retorted. “Perhaps we ought to send Bess back downstairs. This was Selwyn’s bedchamber. She was no doubt startled by the sight of the sarcophagus. Why my brother insisted on sleeping in that old Roman coffin is beyond me.”

“It is a rather unusual sort of bed.”

“Unusual? It would inspire nightmares in anyone possessed of normal sensibilities.” Horatia turned to peer into the shadows of the darkened bedchamber.

Matthias decided that it was time to rise from the coffin. He stepped over the edge of the sarcophagus and pushed aside the thin black draperies. His greatcoat swirled around him, concealing the breeches and badly wrinkled shirt in which he had slept. He watched with amused resignation as Horatia’s eyes widened in horror.

“Sweet God in heaven, Bess was right.” Horatia’s voice rose to a shriek. “There is something in Selwyn’s coffin.” She staggered back a step. “Run, Imogen,
run
.”

Imogen leaped to her feet. “Not you, too, Aunt Horatia.”
She whirled to glower into the darkened bedchamber. When she caught sight of Matthias standing in front of the coffin, her lips parted in amazement.

“Good heavens. There is someone in there.”

“Told ye so, ma’am,” Bess whispered hoarsely.

Matthias waited with keen curiosity to see if Imogen would scream or succumb to the vapors.

She did neither. Instead, she narrowed her eyes in unmistakable disapproval. “Who are you, sir, and what do you mean by frightening my aunt and my maid in this nasty fashion?”

“Vampire,” Bess muttered weakly. “I heard tell of ’em, ma’am. Suck yer blood, he will. Run. Run while ye still can. Save yerself.”

“There is no such thing as a vampire,” Imogen announced without bothering to glance down at the stricken maid.

“A ghost, then. Flee for yer life, ma’am.”

“She’s right.” Horatia plucked at Imogen’s sleeve. “We must get away from here.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Imogen drew herself up and regarded Matthias down the length of her very fine nose. “Well, sir? What have you to say for yourself? Speak up, or I shall summon the local magistrate and have you clapped in irons.”

Matthias walked slowly toward her, his eyes fixed on her face. She did not retreat. Instead, she fitted her hands to her waist and began to tap the toe of one half-boot.

An odd but unmistakable sense of awareness, almost a thrill of recognition, went through him.
Impossible
. But when he was close enough to see the intense clarity of Imogen’s wide blue-green eyes, eyes the color of the seas that surrounded the lost island kingdom of Zamar, he suddenly understood. For some whimsical reason he could not explain, she made him think of Anizamara, the legendary Zamarian Goddess of the Day. The mythical lady dominated much of the lore of ancient Zamar and a great deal of its art. She was a creature of warmth, life,
truth, energy. Her power had been equaled only by Zamaris, the Lord of the Night. Only Zamaris could embrace her brilliant spirit.

“Good day to you, madam.” Matthias pulled his fanciful thoughts back under control and inclined his head. “I am Colchester.”

“
Colchester
.” Horatia took another startled step back and came up against the wall. Her eyes went to his hair. She swallowed heavily. “Cold-blooded Colchester?”

Matthias knew that she was staring at the icy white streak that lanced through his black hair. Most people recognized it immediately. It had identified the men of his family for four generations. “As I said, I am Colchester, madam.”

He had been Viscount Colchester when he had earned the appellation of
Cold-blooded
. The fact that both of the family titles went by the same name, Colchester, had made things convenient for the gossips in the ton, he thought bitterly. There had been no need to lose the alliteration.

Horatia’s mouth worked. “What are you doing here in Upper Stickleford, sir?”

“He is here because I sent for him.” Imogen favored him with a blindingly bright smile. “I must say, it’s high time you arrived, my lord. I dispatched my message more than a month ago. What kept you?”

“My father died several months ago, but I was delayed returning to England. When I arrived, there were a number of matters pertaining to his estate that required my attention.”

“Yes, of course.” Imogen was acutely embarrassed. “Forgive me, my lord. My condolences on the death of your parent.”

“Thank you,” Matthias said. “But we were not close. Is there anything to eat in the kitchens? I am feeling quite famished.”

T
he first thing one noticed about the Earl of Colchester, Imogen decided, was the swath of silver in his midnight-dark hair. It burned in a cold white flame through the unfashionably long black mane.

The second thing one noticed was his gaze. His eyes were colder than the icy silver in his hair.

The fourth Earl of Colchester was magnificent, she thought as she waved him to a chair in the library. He would have been altogether perfect had it not been for those eyes. They glittered in his hard, ascetic face with the chillingly emotionless light of an intelligent and very dangerous ghost.

With the exception of those spectral gray eyes, Colchester was exactly as she had envisioned. His brilliant articles in the
Zamarian Review
had accurately reflected his intellect as well as a character forged by years of harsh travel in strange lands.

Any man who could calmly lie down to sleep in a sarcophagus was a man who possessed nerves of iron. Just what she needed, Imogen thought ebulliently.

“Allow me to introduce myself and my aunt properly, my lord.” Imogen seized the teapot and prepared to pour. She was so excited to have Colchester at hand that she could scarcely contain herself. Wistfully she toyed with the notion of blurting out the whole truth concerning her identity. But caution prevailed. She could not, after all, be entirely certain how he would react, and at the moment she needed his willing cooperation. “As you have no doubt concluded, I am Imogen Waterstone. This is Mrs. Horatia Elibank, my late uncle’s sister. She was recently widowed and has kindly consented to become my companion.”

“Mrs. Elibank.” Matthias nodded once to acknowledge the introduction.

“Your lordship.” Horatia, perched stiffly on the edge of her chair, darted an uneasy, decidedly disapproving glance at Imogen.

Imogen frowned. Now that the initial fright had
passed and proper introductions had been made, there was no reason for Horatia to look so anxious. Colchester was an earl, after all. More significantly, at least so far as Imogen was concerned, he was Colchester of Zamar; the distinguished discoverer of that ancient, long-lost island kingdom, founder of the Zamarian Institution and the prestigious
Zamarian Review
, and trustee of the Zamarian Society. Even by Horatia’s high standards, he should have been eminently acceptable.

For her part, it was all Imogen could do not to stare at him. She still could not quite bring herself to believe that Colchester of Zamar was sitting there in the library, taking tea as though he were an ordinary man.

But not much else was ordinary about him, she thought.

Tall, lean, and powerfully built, Colchester was imbued with a sinewy masculine grace. The years of arduous travel in search of Zamar had no doubt honed his physique to its present admirable state, Imogen reasoned.

She reminded herself that Colchester’s impressive physical attributes were hardly unique. She had seen any number of well-muscled men. She lived in the country, after all. Most of her neighbors were farmers who worked in their own fields. Many of them had developed broad shoulders and strong legs. In addition, she was not entirely without experience when it came to the male of the species. First, there had been Philippe D’Artois, her dancing instructor. Philippe had been as graceful as a bird in flight. And then there had been Alastair Drake. Athletic and handsome, he had certainly not required any help from his tailor in order to do justice to his attire.

But Colchester was as different from those men as night was from day. The strength that emanated from him had nothing to do with his sleekly muscled shoulders and thighs. It radiated from some inner core of inflexible steel. The force of his will was palpable.

There was also a great stillness about him that belonged more properly to the shadows than to the daylight.
It was the patient stillness of the predator. Imogen tried to imagine him as he must have looked on that fateful day when he finally mastered the labyrinth beneath the ruined city of Zamar and discovered the hidden library. She would have sold her soul to have been with him on that memorable occasion.

Colchester turned his head at that moment and gave her an inquiring, slightly amused glance. It was as though he had read her thoughts. Imogen felt a wave of embarrassed warmth go through her. The teacup she was holding rattled on its saucer.

The dark library was chilly, but Colchester had obligingly built a fire on the hearth. The room, which was crowded with a variety of bizarre sepulchral artifacts, would soon warm.

Once she had been assured that Colchester was not a ghost or a vampire, Bess had recovered sufficiently to retreat to the deserted kitchens. There she had prepared a pot of tea and a cold collation. The simple meal consisted only of leftover salmon pie, some bread pudding, and a bit of ham, but Colchester seemed content with it.

Imogen certainly hoped he was satisfied. The food had not come from the mansion’s empty cupboards. It had been packed in a hamper early that morning and brought along to sustain the women as they went about the business of cataloguing Selwyn Waterstone’s collection. Judging by the efficient manner in which Colchester was demolishing the repast, Imogen doubted that there would be much left over for Horatia, Bess, or herself.

“I am, of course, delighted to make your acquaintance,” Matthias said.

Imogen suddenly realized that his voice had an extremely odd effect on her senses. There was a dark, subtle power in it that threatened to envelop her. It made her think of mysterious seas and strange lands.

“More tea, my lord?” Imogen asked quickly.

“Thank you.” His long, elegant fingers brushed hers as he accepted the cup.

A curious sensation began at the point where he had touched her. It traveled along Imogen’s hand, rendering her skin unaccountably warm. It was as though she sat too close to the fire. Imogen hastily set the pot down before she dropped it.

“I am very sorry that there was no one here to greet you when you arrived last night, sir,” she said. “I sent the servants to their own homes for a few days while my aunt and I conduct the inventory.” She frowned as a thought struck her. “I was quite certain that I directed you to come to Waterstone Cottage, not Waterstone Manor.”

“No doubt you did,” Matthias said softly. “But then, there were a great many instructions in your letter. I may have forgotten one or two along the way.”

Horatia glared at Imogen. “Letter? What letter? Really, Imogen, I must have an explanation.”

“I shall explain everything,” Imogen assured her aunt. She eyed Matthias warily. The cool mockery in his eyes was unmistakable. It cut her to the quick. “My lord, I fail to see anything amusing about the contents of my letter.”

“I was not particularly amused by it last night,” Matthias admitted. “The hour was late. It was raining. My horse was exhausted. I saw no point wasting time in an attempt to locate a small cottage, when I had this vast house at my disposal.”

“I see.” Imogen gave him a determined smile. “I must say, you appear remarkably unruffled by a night spent in a sarcophagus. My aunt and I have often remarked that Uncle Selwyn’s notion of a proper bed was certainly not to everyone’s taste.”

“I have slept in worse places.” Matthias helped himself to the last of the ham and surveyed his surroundings with a considering expression. “I had heard tales of Selwyn Waterstone’s collection. The reality is even more unexpected than the rumors implied.”

Briefly distracted, Horatia peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “I expect you are aware that my
brother had an abiding interest in sepulchral art and tomb antiquities, sir.”

Matthias’s arresting eyes lingered thoughtfully on an Egyptian mummy case propped in the corner. “Yes.”

“It is all mine now,” Imogen told him proudly. “Uncle Selwyn left his entire collection to me along with the house.”

Matthias gave her a speculative glance. “You are interested in sepulchral art?”

“Only that which is Zamarian,” she said. “Uncle Selwyn claimed that he owned a few Zamarian artifacts and I have every hope that he did. But it will take time to find them.” She gestured to indicate the heap of antiquities and funereal oddities that littered the library. “As you can see, my uncle had no sense of organization. He never bothered to catalogue the items in his collection. There may be any number of rare treasures waiting to be unearthed in this house.”

“It will certainly take a great deal of work to find them,” Matthias said.