Seduced by a Stranger (4 page)

Madeline was breathing hard, her shoulders and chest moving with each inhalation. She stared straight ahead and then her head jerked to the side and she looked to her cousin with wide, horrified eyes.

“Gabriel, why?” she cried, her skin paler than the bleached sheets, her eyes shimmering. “It has been so long. Do not deny—”

“Do you make a formal accusation, cousin?” St. Aubyn cut her off with soft-voiced menace and she fell into abrupt silence, dropping her gaze, panting now in shallow little gasps.

Baffled and dismayed, Catherine watched the interplay, wanting to intervene, uncertain what she could possibly say. She had no understanding of the history and undercurrents between these two, could not be certain precisely what Madeline’s implication was.

Did she think St. Aubyn had killed the bird? And what if he had? Though it was not an activity she herself preferred, people hunted all the time. But why leave the thing on the drive?

The air hummed with tension.

“More tea?” Catherine asked as she resumed her seat, her skirt brushing St. Aubyn’s knee as she passed.

He studied her for a moment, then set his cup on the tray and rose. His expression did not change, yet Catherine recognized something dark swimming just beneath the surface. It gave her pause.

“No, thank you. I have overstayed my welcome,” he murmured, his voice taut. “Please excuse me.”

There was something frightening there, something at odds with his controlled manner and golden good looks. He appeared for the moment to be a creature of mystery and shadow, and Catherine watched him with the caution she would afford a predator, half expecting him to burst into a tumult of energy and power.

But her expectations were not met. Instead, he strode from the room without a backward glance, leaving her alone with Madeline. She had wanted exactly this, yet she felt oddly out of sorts as she watched him depart. His presence had been a stimulant, though in all truth, not a pleasant one. She was left wondering why in heaven’s name she would regret its loss.

As the faint shush of his footfalls on the carpet faded away, she had the incongruous realization that his hair had dried and lightened during their strange, tense time together. It was not so dark as honey, after all.

Madeline stared at St. Aubyn’s now empty chair and shuddered. “I am glad he is gone. We…” She shook her head and sighed. “We do not get on well.”

An understatement. It was apparent that they loathed each other, could not bear to be in the same room. The question was, why? A mystery Catherine meant to investigate. But now was not the time to force inquiry on Madeline. She would wait for a moment of calm and amiability.

Striving for normalcy, she arranged a choice of small cakes on a plate and attempted to entice Madeline to sample the fare. Her friend looked at her in somber silence, and then shook her head, a tear trickling from the corner of her eye.

“I dare not,” she whispered.

“Dare not have a tart?” Catherine asked, instilling the question with cajoling good humor. “Not even one? I thought I recalled a fondness for sweets…”

Madeline cast a glance at the open door, and lowered her voice further still. “Poison. They lace my food with poison. Some days it is there, the bitter almond taste so strong on my tongue that it makes me retch. Other days, there is nothing. They only try to keep me guessing, to confuse me and make me question my own perceptions.”

A chill crawled across her skin, but not by word or manner did Catherine betray her shock. Surely such accusation was fueled by fiction rather than fact. What had happened to make Madeline so afraid, so distant from the world, so lost in her own terrible imaginings?

“But I would like more tea,” Madeline murmured.

Catherine set the plate on the bed and turned to pour Madeline another cup of tea. Madeline accepted it with thanks, and Catherine lifted the plate once more. Determined to show Madeline that there was nothing to fear, she lifted a tart from the plate, sniffed it and, sensing naught amiss, took a dainty bite.

“No!” Madeline reached out, her hand fluttering weakly, the cup rattling, tea sloshing over the rim onto the saucer.

Catherine took the cup from her and set it aside, then took another bite of the tart. She was not particularly hungry, but she thought perhaps seeing her eat the offered cake might entice Madeline to do the same. She looked so small and frail and weak lying on the wide bed. So afraid.

“It is quite tasty,” Catherine said. “There is nothing to fear.”

With a sharp cry, Madeline crushed the coverlet in her curled fingers. “Oh, but there is. I tell you, there is.”

Her gaze holding Madeline’s as she chewed and swallowed, Catherine finished the tart. It tasted of raspberry.

Only after a moment did she wet her lips and frown, wondering if a faint bitter taste of almond did, in fact, linger on her tongue. Resisting the urge to cross to the washstand and rinse her mouth, she silently remonstrated herself for allowing her thoughts to follow this path.

She schooled her features to display none of her concern. No good could come from feeding Madeline’s desperate anxieties.

After a brief consideration, she rose and rang for the maid and once the girl arrived, gave her instructions in clear detail. The maid gazed at her in confusion, but lifted the tea tray and took it off with her as she set out to fill Catherine’s request.

Some time later, she returned with a bowl of apples and a knife. These she set on the table, then bobbed a quick curtsy and left the room with only a single quizzical look sent back over her shoulder.

“Come, Madeline,” Catherine said, taking up an apple and a knife. Madeline watched her warily. “There can be no threat in this apple. You see me peel and slice it before your eyes, and here”—she popped a bit in her mouth, chewed it and swallowed—“you see there is nothing but apple to be tasted. No almonds.”
No poison
. But this last she did not say aloud, for she could not see the benefit of giving voice and power to Madeline’s fears.

“You ate the tart,” Madeline accused, her voice soft and childlike.

“I did. And you see me hale and hearty before you.” She took another bite of apple, then offered a slice to Madeline, who studied her for a long moment, and at last reached out and took the bit of fruit from her hand. She ate that slice, then another and another until the first apple and a second were consumed.

“I am sorry,” Madeline whispered, turning her face away. “Sorry that I drew you here to this miserable place, sorry that I am such a poor excuse for a hostess. Tomorrow. Tomorrow will be better. The clouds will ease and my mood will shift.” She pressed her lips together. “Tomorrow.”

Catherine took such assurance as hopeful, though she could not help but wonder how many bright tomorrows Madeline had waited for, only to have her hopes dashed. Through the years, Catherine had faced her own despair again and again, a rock-strewn path that ended in a dark and tangled wood. Trapped there, she had known the deepest desolation, but somehow, she had spied the dancing flame and followed it back into the light.

Always, the flame gave her comfort.

Her gaze slid to the last embers that glowed in the hearth, then away. “Tell me—”

“I want to sleep,” Madeline interjected, forestalling Catherine’s questions. “I want so badly to sleep and dream. Sweet dreams, not the nightmares that haunt my rest.”

Curiosity swelled.

“Read to me, Catherine.” Madeline turned her face away. “A happy tale.”

Looking about, Catherine spied the nearest stack of books and selected the one at the very top. She lifted the tome and blew on the cover to dispel the dust from the leather binding, then opened to the first page and began to read. She knew not what she recited, her thoughts swirling with the many questions she had about Cairncroft Abbey and Madeline and St. Aubyn…about the nightmares that spilled into Madeline’s waking hours. But this was not the moment to ask. No good could come of questioning Madeline at a time when she was disinclined to answer.

Long years of practice at veiling her thoughts kept Catherine’s tone even and controlled as she read, the words flowing in a smooth stream. After a time, Madeline’s lids drooped again and again, though she fought her exhaustion and roused herself more than once. In the end, her eyes closed and she slept.

Careful to make no noise, Catherine exited the chamber, snuffing candles as she went. Taking up the last one burning to light her way, she walked through inky blackness, the small flame a timid soldier in the face of the fallen night. She glanced about trying to recall exactly which chamber Mrs. Bell had said was to be hers. There were many doors along this corridor.

Sounds filtered through the quiet. A windowpane shaking in the wind. The creak of wood, perhaps a stair or a beam. Unease was a many-legged bug creeping up her spine. She paused and looked about.

“Hello,” she called, not really expecting a reply, and none was forthcoming. Still, wariness crept across her skin, raising gooseflesh and setting her pulse racing.

Walking on, she found the chamber that had been assigned to her, recognizable because the door was the only one ajar along the entire corridor. She pushed it fully open and stepped inside. To her surprise, the velvet draperies were pulled back, the window flung wide. A gust of wind swirled through the space, making the flame of her candle plunge this way and that, sending the shadows shifting in a menacing dance. Then the flame guttered, snuffed, leaving her in near-complete darkness, for the moon was obscured by a thick cloud that allowed only a thin gray glow to bleed through the night.

Another gust came, ruffling her skirt and the curling tendrils that had escaped her pins.

A faint shush came from behind her.

The fine hairs at her nape prickled and rose, and her heart slammed hard against her ribs. She spun fast enough that she nearly lost her balance, expecting to see St. Aubyn there, in all his golden and menacing glory.

But she was alone.

Her breath hissed through her teeth as she pressed her open palm to the base of her throat, annoyed with herself. She knew better than to let such things unsettle her. There were true monsters in the night. The wind and shadows did not qualify.

Keeping her pace slow and careful lest she bump against furniture in this unfamiliar place, she moved to the window and pulled it closed, shutting out the cold wind. Then she eased back against the wall, feeling for the bell-pull that would summon a maid to bring a candle and a fagot to light a fire in the grate. Her fingers closed on nothing more than air. She made a slow circuit of the chamber, and her hand brushed against a long, narrow ribbon dangling in the corner. With a sigh of relief, she took hold of it, her thumb pressing on the embroidered surface as she gave a tug. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

Turning, she drifted back toward the window and stood looking out at the empty drive. The cloud cover of the stormy day had carried over into the night, obscuring stars and moon alike. Purple tinged and cool, what little light eked through was just enough that she could discern the grim outline of the encroaching forest, a dark mass that threatened to swallow the abbey whole.

Blackness before her and behind.

Strange, that she was not afraid of the dark. She
had
been before that terrifying day when the embankment came down on her and buried her alive. But not after. After that day, she had come to think that the darkness was the least of all possible threats.

Pity that time and experience had proved her right.

Almost did she turn from the window then and go to sit on the corner of the bed to await the maid, but something stilled her steps, and she stood, rooted in place, aware of some subtle change. The clouds shifted and the moon broke free as a faint sound, rhythmic and even, carried to her through the glass, growing ever louder.

A moment later, a groom led a horse onto the drive and a second man came out the front door to meet him, moving with lithe, easy grace. He was garbed all in black, and the horse was dark as well. Man and beast blended with the shadows, both blowing white puffs of warm breath into the cold night.

She knew it was he. Gabriel St. Aubyn. He was hatless, and his lovely pale hair caught the moonlight that drizzled now through the shifting clouds.

Conflicted, she stood by the window as he spoke with the groom. She wanted to turn away. But more than that, she wanted to watch him. Because he was beautiful. Because he was dangerous. Both elements caught her interest, for vastly different reasons.

Warm candlelight spilled through the room then, making her glance back over her shoulder.

“Miss, I am so sorry,” came a mumbled apology from a newly arrived maid. A quick inspection revealed that she was the same girl who had brought both the tea and—later—the bowl of apples to Madeline’s chamber. “I should have had the fire started and a lamp lit. Mrs. Bell never said…” She shook her head and hurried forward to set her candle on a low table.

So the lack of a fire was no oversight. The housekeeper had orchestrated the paltry discomfort of a chilly, dark room. A gauntlet thrown down. Catherine’s lips turned in an ironic smile.

“You are here now. A little moonlight never harmed anyone,” she replied as the maid moved to the fireplace with the glowing fagot she carried. Catherine frowned as she watched the girl kneel to her task. “How did you know I needed a fire? I rang, but I could have wanted anything…”

“Oh”—the maid glanced back over her shoulder—“did you ring, miss? I never knew. Probably, I was already on my way. It was the master who bid me see to things. I passed him near the library moments ago. He said he had just come down and that your hearth wanted a fire.”

Unease stirred.
Moments ago
. Yet St. Aubyn had left Madeline’s chamber some time past. Had he lurked in the hallway, listening to their conversation? Or had he gone off and then returned to stand and watch her? Had her instincts been true when she had turned expecting to see him behind her only to find darkness and shadow?