Ruth Langan (8 page)
Authors: Blackthorne
Liat was sprawled on his stomach in the grass, sketching the butterfly, which flitted from flower to flower. Bennett’s chair was positioned beside him, so that he could watch as the picture took shape and was slowly filled in with color. Minerva hovered behind Bennett’s chair, lifting the blanket when it slipped from his shoulders, attentive to his every need.
“Will you be staying for tea, m’lord?” Mistress Thornton directed the servants as they arranged the food, then sent them scurrying back to the house.
Quenton thought about the ledgers in his grandfather’s study. So much to be done. Yet he was reluctant to leave this place. Not for himself, of course. It certainly wasn’t the presence of the pretty nursemaid that held him here. Or the jabbering of the boy. Or the pleasing scents of the flowers. He would stay for Bennett’s sake, he thought idly. To make sure that these fool women didn’t tax his frail brother’s energy.
“Yes, of course, Mistress Thornton.” With an air befitting the lord of the manor, he settled himself on one of the benches. The hound lay down at his feet.
“Very good, m’lord.” The housekeeper poured tea, and passed around the cups. “If there’s nothing else, I’m needed in the house.”
“Thank you.” Quenton waved her away and sipped his tea, thinking how pleasant the sun felt.
“There are biscuits, Liat,” Olivia called.
“Yes, ma’am. May I finish my picture first?”
“By all means. Biscuits, Bennett?”
“Master Bennett doesn’t take a midday meal,” Minerva said softly. “But he may be willing to sip some tea.”
“Nonsense.” While Minerva handed him a cup of tea Olivia proceeded to fill a plate with meat, cheese, biscuits and pastries. “All this fresh air is bound to give you an appetite,” she said as she handed him the plate.
To Quenton’s astonishment, his brother accepted the plate and began to eat, all the while watching the butterfly take shape on Liat’s paper. Without seeming to be aware of it, Bennett cleaned his plate.
“Would you like a bit more?” Minerva asked.
He nodded absently.
The servant approached the table, Where Quenton and Olivia sat enjoying their tea. “I can’t believe how much Master Bennett has eaten,” she whispered.
“It’s as I told you,” Olivia said matter-of-factly. “Since our daily walks on the moors and our visits to the garden, Liat’s appetite has increased, and his sleep is uninterrupted.”
Minerva glanced at Quenton, then said in a low voice, “’Twould be truly a miracle if Master Bennett should ever sleep through the night without those awful dreams.”
Quenton set down his cup with a clatter. At the mention of Bennett’s night terrors, his own appetite had fled.
Olivia glanced at the young serving girl. “Do you stay the night with Bennett?”
“Aye. I sleep on the floor beside his bed, so I can be there whenever Master Bennett needs me.”
“Such devotion.” Olivia could see that she wasn’t the only one surprised by Minerva’s admission. Quenton was staring at her with a look of astonishment.
“I’ve always admired Master Bennett. When he was just a lad visiting our village with his grandfather, he was very kind to me. So when old Lord Stamford asked Mistress Thornton to assign a servant to his care, I asked if I could be the one.”
“But you must get weary, caring for him day and night without relief.” Olivia touched her hand. “I’m sure if you asked, Mistress Thornton would find someone to take your place from time to time.”
“Oh no, miss. I want to do it. Truly I do. And no one else would ever be able to take care of him the way I do.” She filled the plate and hurried to his side.
Watching her, Quenton muttered, “My brother is indeed fortunate to have such a loyal servant.”
Olivia nodded. But she was beginning to think there was more than loyalty involved.
“Tell me about your home in Oxford, Miss St. John.” Quenton sipped his tea and watched her expression go all soft.
“It was a lovely little cottage, no bigger than the cowshed here at Blackthorne. But it was cozy. And my parents were so happy with each other.” She flushed under his scrutiny. “They took great delight in each other’s work. And they encouraged me to take pride in my work as well.”
“With such fond memories, what could ever have persuaded you to leave?”
“When my parents died, I discovered that their estate is administered by my cousin. It was his mother who took me to live with her in London.” Olivia lowered her gaze. “But I couldn’t stay there.”
“Why is that?”
She looked off across the garden, not wanting to meet those dark, knowing eyes. “It was an...unhappy experience.”
More than unhappy, he guessed. What would it take to drive a young woman so far from home? How desperate had she become, that she would accept a job as nursemaid to a stranger’s child?
“I’m sorry it was an unhappy experience, Miss St. John. But it was most fortunate for us.”
When she looked up at him he cleared his throat. “I mean, most fortunate for Liat.”
Her smile returned. It was the first time he’d called the lad by name. “Then you’re pleased with my work?”
When she aimed that smile on him, he found his thoughts clouding, and his blood running hot through his veins. Unwilling to trust his voice he merely nodded.
“I feel I’m making progress with the lad. He’s opened up a bit. You see how he is with Bennett.”
Quenton glanced over as the boy got to his feet and eagerly showed his drawing to Bennett and Minerva, smiling broadly at their approval.
“He’s not so fearful now as when I first arrived,” she said. “Though I still sense a sadness in him. A yearning for his life before he came here.”
“Does he speak of it?”
“Not often.”
“I’d prefer that you not ask him about his past, Miss St. John.”
She sensed the sudden tension in the man seated across from her. But when, a moment later, Liat hurried up to show them his paper, Quenton studied the crude drawing and gave the boy a nod of approval.
“Well done, Liat. Anyone seeing this would know it’s a
Lycaena helle.”
Lycaena helle.”
Olivia blinked. How had he switched moods so abruptly? Surely she’d only imagined his earlier tension. She turned to the boy. “Now that you’ve finished your butterfly, Liat, perhaps you’d like a biscuit?”
“Yes, please.” The boy climbed up on a chair and helped himself to biscuits and jam. As always, in the background could be heard the pounding of the surf. He glanced at Quenton. “Why is the ocean so angry here in Cornwall?”
“It isn’t angry. But the rocks at the bottom of the cliffs cause it to churn. And the churning causes it to make that roar.”
“I hear it at night sometimes, when I wake up.” The boy put aside his biscuit. “And the keening of the wind. At least that’s what Miss St. John said it is. The first time I heard it I cried. I don’t like the sound of it.”
Quenton glanced at her and saw the slight flush on her cheeks. It would seem that even a lie told in innocence to keep the lad from worrying caused her to suffer guilt.
“I hear it, too, at night,” Quenton said gravely. “And sometimes I don’t like it either.”
With a grave look Liat took another bite of biscuit. “Miss St. John told me there were pretty butterflies here in England, but I didn’t believe her. I thought all the butterflies in the world lived only on my island.”
Again Olivia saw the slight frown between Quenton’s brows. Was this his reaction whenever he thought about Jamaica? Or was it the thought of Liat’s mother that brought the unhappiness?
To avoid staring at him she ducked her head and bent to the hound at his feet. “Does he have a name?”
“Thor. But I would not advise you to pet him, Miss St. John. He’s apt to bite.”
“Hello, Thor. I bet you like having your ears scratched, don’t you, boy?” She rubbed the spot behind his ears and was rewarded by the lick of a tongue.
“He likes you, ma’am,” Liat said with delight.
“So it would seem.” She broke off a section of biscuit and offered it to the dog, who swallowed it in a single bite. “Are you afraid of dogs, Liat?”
The little boy considered. “I don’t think so. I think I remember having a dog on my island. But I’m not certain anymore.”
Quenton abruptly pushed away from the table and stood. At once the hound got to his feet also.
“Bennett,” Quenton called. “How about a quick stroll around the gardens before we go inside?”
Minerva glanced at the young man in the chair, then voiced his unspoken question. “A...stroll, my lord? The stable lads have returned to their chores.”
“We don’t need them. I’ll carry him.” Quenton crossed to his brother and lifted him easily from the chair.
When the blanket fell away, Minerva quickly tucked it around Bennett’s shoulders.
Without waiting for the others, Quenton began a leisurely pace along the carefully manicured paths, pausing occasionally to allow his brother to inhale the fragrance of roses, or to admire a fountain in the middle of the garden.
“I want to go with them,” Liat called.
“Don’t you want to stay here and eat your biscuit?”
The little boy shook his head. “I’d rather go with Lord Quenton and Master Bennett.”
“Very well.” At Olivia’s approval he raced after the others.
As Olivia set off on a brisk walk to join him, she found herself deep in thought.
Just a short time ago this little boy, whose haunting, mysterious past had left him afraid of monsters he saw in the clouds, would have preferred to remain alone in his room. Now he was running as fast as his little legs could carry him in order to catch up with two men whose lives were bound by some dark mysterious thread of shared tragedy.
She wondered again at the strange twist of fate that had brought her to this place. Had she found a safe haven? Or, like the surf she could hear at the base of the cliffs, was there a chance that she would be tossed into the maelstrom?
Chapter Seven
T
he nightmare was back. In it, Olivia was once again trapped. Pinned beneath the weight of Wyatt’s body. His hands were rough and bruising as they moved over her. She couldn’t free herself. Then his face, a face filled with evil, loomed in front of her. She looked into eyes as hard, as cold as ice and his lips twisted into a grotesque smile. She thrashed about, desperate to escape his clutches. She tried to scream but found it impossible to make a sound.
he nightmare was back. In it, Olivia was once again trapped. Pinned beneath the weight of Wyatt’s body. His hands were rough and bruising as they moved over her. She couldn’t free herself. Then his face, a face filled with evil, loomed in front of her. She looked into eyes as hard, as cold as ice and his lips twisted into a grotesque smile. She thrashed about, desperate to escape his clutches. She tried to scream but found it impossible to make a sound.
She sat bolt upright in her bed. The room was dark except for the coals in the fireplace gleaming red-hot.
Her night shift was damp with sweat. Her heart was beating wildly, and her breathing was ragged.
She took several deep shuddering breaths, then tossed aside the covers and climbed from her bed. Crossing the room she began to pace. She hated that Wyatt still had the ability to hurt her. Even though he was far away in London, thoughts of him crept into her dreams, rendering her as terrified, as helpless as she had been at their first encounter.
Was this what had happened to Bennett? she wondered. Had he been hurt so deeply that it haunted him still? Could the same thing happen to her? Would her fears begin to paralyze her to the point of helplessness?
Nay, she thought angrily. She might be still frightened of Wyatt, but she wasn’t helpless. This had been merely a dream. If it had been real, she would have dug deep within herself and this time, have found the strength and courage to fight him. It still pained her that it had been an elderly servant who had rescued her. If not for Letty... She shuddered to think how many innocent girls had been despoiled by her hateful cousin.
Calmer now, she stopped her pacing. Despite the fact that morning was still hours away, she knew it would be pointless to try to sleep.
She draped a shawl around her shoulders and walked from the room. Perhaps a cup of tea would soothe her jangled nerves.
In the hallway, the flickering light of candles sent distorted shadows dancing across the walls and ceiling. At once her heart skipped a beat. Was she being watched? Was someone following her?
She had to pause and gather her courage. Hadn’t her papa often called her a fanciful child? She could see fairy dust in moonbeams. Or, like Liat, monsters in the shape of darkened tree branches. But there was a practical side to her as well. She was the product of two very sensible parents. She squared her shoulders and held her fears at bay as she descended the stairs. Her bare feet made no sound as she made her way to the huge refectory.
In the morning this room would be warmed by the heat of flames over which would be roasting whole pigs, lambs and platters of fowl. The ovens would give off the wonderful aroma of baking breads and biscuits. Servants would be scurrying about, devouring a hasty meal before beginning their daily chores. But now, in the small hours of the night, this room, like the rest of the manor house, lay slumbering and silent.
Olivia was pleased to see a fire still burning on the hearth. Padding across the room she emptied a pitcher of water into a kettle and set it over the fire to boil. But just as she turned from the fire she caught a glimpse of a towering figure half-hidden in the shadows.
She brought a hand to her mouth to stifle the cry that sprang to her lips. “Oh, Lord Stamford.” She let out a long slow breath. “It’s only you.”
When Quenton took a step closer, with the hound at his heels, she backed up.
“Sorry to frighten you.” He saw the fear flit across her features. Saw a look of terror in her eyes before she was able to compose herself. “I didn’t expect to see anyone else up at this hour.”
“I...couldn’t sleep.”
He knew the feeling. Too well. “And you thought a cup of tea would help.”
She nodded. “Would you care for some?”
He lifted his hand and she saw the tumbler filled with amber liquid. In his other hand was a decanter. “I’ve found my own cure for sleepless nights, Miss St. John.”
Not only sleepless but restless, she realized. His thick black hair was tousled, as though he’d dragged a hand through it more than once. The collar of his shirt was open, revealing a mat of dark hair. A silk scarf that had once been carefully knotted at his throat now hung carelessly around his neck. And the familiar scowl on his face told her, more than words, that he preferred to be alone.
At a loss for words she said the first thing that came to mind. “My father often enjoyed a brandy before retiring.”
“Did he?”
She nodded. “Sometimes he even managed to persuade my mother to join him.”
“How bold of your mother. Did she like it?”
Olivia couldn’t help smiling at the memory. “She said it didn’t do much to help her sleep. In fact, it made her feel extremely alert.” Oh, why had she blurted such a thing? She hoped the blush on her cheeks would be blamed on the fire.
“How fortunate for your father.” Though his features remained stern, his voice was warmed by unspoken laughter. He lifted the decanter. “Perhaps you would care to join me, Miss St. John. We could see if your reaction would be the same as your mother’s.”
“I prefer tea.” She turned away, grateful that the boiling water gave her something to do. She was unaware that the light of the fire clearly outlined her body through the sheer fabric of the night shift. But Quenton was quick to notice.
He went very still, enjoying the view. Her shawl had parted, revealing the curve of high, firm breasts beneath the prim, buttoned-to-the neck bodice. Her waist was so small he was certain his hands would easily span it. Below the flare of her hips, her legs were long and slender. The sight of her bare toes peeking out from under the hem made him smile.
Her hair, usually bound up in a prim knot, now spilled down her shoulders in a tumble of dark waves. The firelight turned the ends to flame. Just looking at it made his throat dry.
Perhaps there was something to be said for company on a sleepless night. Especially when the company was young and fresh and easy to look at.
When the tea was steeped, Olivia lifted the cup, hoping to find a gracious way to escape to the privacy of her room.
Quenton watched her stiff, awkward movements and knew that his presence was the cause of her discomfort. Like him, she had come here to be alone with her thoughts. Still, it seemed to give him a sort of perverse pleasure to watch her squirm.
“Sit here, Miss St. John.” He indicated the small chaise positioned in front of the fire. “You may as well be warm and comfortable as you drink your tea.”
Though she longed to flee, there was no way she could graciously refuse. She sat, knees together, spine stiff, holding the cup to her chest like a shield.
“Are you enjoying your work here, Miss St. John?” Quenton set the decanter on the mantel, then leaned against it as he turned to face her.
“Very much. Liat is a sweet boy. Eager to please. He has a bright, inquiring mind.”
Quenton nodded. “You’ve been good for the lad. His walks have put some color in his cheeks.” He stared down into his glass. “And you were right about the benefits of fresh air. Minerva reported that my brother slept through the night after his visit to the gardens. She said it was the first time in years that he hadn’t been awakened by his demons.”
Her bright smile returned. “I’m so glad to hear that. I’d been afraid that I might have overstepped my bounds.” She glanced away, avoiding his eyes. “I know that Mistress Thornton wasn’t pleased when I invited Bennett to join us.”
“Mistress Thornton has a sharp tongue.” He saw Olivia purse her lips and added quickly, “But she has a good heart. She loves my brother in her own way. She saw him nearly destroyed, and because of it, has become very protective.”
Olivia gave a slow nod of agreement. “I understand. I would react the same way if anything should harm Liat.”
“I promise you no harm will come to the boy.” The words were spoken through gritted teeth.
Olivia felt a little quiver of response at the passion in his tone. Was this feeling in the pit of her stomach fear of him? Or something much deeper and much more primitive? It occurred to her in that instant that Quenton Stamford would be a dangerous foe, with that quick temper and hot blood. Or a fiercely protective ally. And, she thought suddenly, a riveting, exciting lover.
Now where had such a thought come from? Annoyed with herself, she sloshed tea over the rim of her cup and let out a hiss of pain.
“You’ve burned yourself.” He dropped to his knees in front of her and took the cup from her hand, setting it on a side table with his tumbler of brandy.
“It’s nothing.” She was more embarrassed than hurt. Mortified that it was her own silly thoughts that had caused such a fuss.
“Hold still.” He slid the scarf from around his neck and pressed it to her hand.
At his touch heat danced up her arm and she instinctively pulled back. But instead of moving away and giving her a moment to compose herself, he leaned closer and caught her hand between both of his. “You’re very fortunate.” He bent his head to examine her flesh. “There doesn’t appear to be any burn.”
She had the strangest urge to touch his hair. She actually lifted her other hand and felt the tingling in her fingers as they brushed lightly over his head.
Suddenly he stood up and drew her with him, still holding her by the hand.
“Does it hurt?” His face was so close, she could feel the warmth of his breath whispering across her cheek.
Afraid to trust her voice, she merely shook her head. But when she looked up, those dark, compelling eyes held her, daring her to look away.
He continued watching her as he lifted her hand to his lips. “I couldn’t bear to see you hurt.” The press of his mouth against her flesh sent a flare of heat through her limbs that left her trembling.
“Please, I...”
“Shhh.” He turned her hand and pressed a kiss to her palm that started her pulse racing. With his fingers at her wrist, she was certain he could feel it.
She was too stunned to pull away. Stunned, not only by his unexpected tenderness, but by her body’s reaction to it as well.
“I see I’ve shocked you, Miss St. John.” Instead of releasing her, he cupped her face with his hands and studied her features as though memorizing them. His lips curved into a hint of a smile. “Since I’ve already crossed the bounds of propriety, I may as well do something that will shock you even more.”
He lowered his face to hers. When she tried to pull away he held her firmly and covered her mouth with his.
Heat poured between them. Even the air seemed to sizzle and snap as his mouth moved over hers in a kiss so hot, so hungry, it nearly devoured them both.
Her first reaction was to bring her hands between them in the hope of pushing him away. The thought uppermost in her mind was that she must fight him. And fight her own attraction to this dark, dangerous man. But as soon as their lips mated, all thought fled. It was impossible to think while he was weaving such magic with his kisses.
There was nothing gentle about his touch or his lips. The hands that held her were strong enough to break her. She could feel the control he exerted to keep from using all his strength. His lips were warm and firm and persuasive, moving over hers with practiced ease.
She whimpered slightly as her fingers curled into the front of his shirt. Instead of releasing her, his arms closed around her, dragging her closer. With a growl of pleasure he took the kiss deeper.
The taste of him was potently male, as dark and mysterious as the night. His hands moved along her back, his strong fingers kneading, massaging, as he changed the angle of the kiss and poured out all the feelings he’d kept buried for so long. Loneliness. Emptiness. A hunger so deep, so demanding, there was nothing that would satisfy it.
She could taste his hunger, his loneliness. It matched her own. She responded to it instinctively, answering it the only way she knew how. Though her response was hesitant and unsure, she stopped fighting him. In his arms she became soft, pliant. The lips she offered him were warm and sweet. She opened to him like a flower.
It occurred to him that the game he was playing was a dangerous one. The woman in his. arms was an innocent. He had no right to the thoughts he was entertaining. And yet, though he’d always considered himself a sensible man, he couldn’t seem to get his bearings around her. He had told himself he would steal but one kiss. And then he would step back. But here he was, taking the temptation to the limit, and still unwilling to end it
As he lingered over her lips, the thought struck. That half-remembered fragrance. Lavender. She smelled like a summer garden. He filled his lungs with the scent of her and thought he would happily drown in it.
Calling on all his willpower, he managed to lift his head. He could see her eyes, looking too big for her face. Her lips were swollen, and thoroughly kissed.
“I’m sure you’ll want to return to your room now, Miss St. John.” He was surprised at how difficult it was to speak. His throat was dry as dust. But he had to end this now, before he made a terrible mistake.
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