My Wicked Fantasy Page 9

  “Tell me you’re well,” she demanded. Her hands patted his arms, palms flattened against his chest, eyes searched him from toes to tip of nose.

  He nodded, then spoke, a link of language between them. “I am well. I promise.”

  “You’re not hurt, then? Nor injured?”

  “No. And I am no schoolboy, gone too long from home.” Gently he reached out and grasped her roaming hands, a sudden necessary restraint. “And you are not my mother, to inquire as to my health, madam.”

  Her fingertips seemed to hold sensation trapped in them, her frantic touch changing to become filled with tenderness, his skin a lure.

  Her palms were bloodied, splinters were imbedded in her skin. He was marked by her blood, branded with the intimacy of it. He left her for a moment, went to the ewer, where he moistened a cloth, then returned to her side. He grasped both wrists, and with his fingertips, extracted the splinters. Then, in the absolute silence of the moment, he bathed her hands, wiping them over and over until all traces of the blood were gone.

  Her hands trembled. It could be fear. Or something else. Some dark emotion that linked two people of divergent lives and pasts and doubtful futures. A feeling that betrayed its presence in the quivering of limbs and the softening of lips and the breathlessness of lungs. A dangerous emotion surely, but one she’d not felt in a long, long time. If ever, to such a degree.

  His fingers traveled from her wrists to her elbows, as if to coax her into serenity, as if his touch had magical properties to heal. And with each stroke upon her skin, his breath grew tighter and hers more relaxed, a juxtaposition she could not help but notice.

  He stood so close, a hovering cloud, darkly arresting, attired in nothing more than a deep blue silken dressing gown. She wanted to open it up and walk into its folds, stand against his naked body, rest her cheek upon his chest, place her arms around his waist. Supplicant and victim and penitent.

  Instead, she watched him, half-cloaked in shadow, the dawn sky through her open window beginning to fully illuminate the room, sending streaks of watery light into the hallway where they stood, silenced by unbidden emotions and needs neither could voice.

  How odd that he’d never frightened her. He was arrogant and quickly angered and capable of whittling wood with the sharpness of his words, yet, she’d never felt in fear of him.

  To be this close to him was to sense all those qualities he held within himself, as if the essence of him expanded to allow her inside, to grant her a view of him few were privileged to see. She’d felt his anger, tasted his rebuke, sensed his pain and that one emotion that seemed to link them as they stood suspended between a world bathed in dawn and a house cloaked in night. Loneliness.

  She’d been alone forever.

  Her hands parted his dressing gown, pressed hard upon his chest as if to imprint the texture of his skin upon her palms. Her fingers combed through the hair of his chest, an intimate gesture more expected of a lover than a woman filled with fear.

  Mary Kate blinked and it was as if the world became focused, her look one of confused awareness. Her face was flushed, she could feel the warmth upon her own cheeks.

  She stood within the circle of his arms, holding on to his forearms as if for balance. The bed lay only feet from them, the sky was alight with dawn. The lure was there, passion had not disappeared, merely been forced down beneath caution.

  She should move, compel her feet to step away. Certainly her hands should drop from their grip upon his arms. She should not ache to lean her head down upon his chest, should not wish to touch her lips to that expanse of hair upon it, riffle her fingers through it again.

  She was not wanton, despite what others might say. Only one man had ever touched her, and that loving had left her with no thought to repeat it. Edwin had been a man of cold disposition but warm inclination, the reason he’d married her, Mary Kate was certain. Except that none of his lovemaking had ever tempted her soul, or made her hungry for it, as she was ravenous now, standing in the embrace of a man she’d been commanded to guard.

  By the ghost of his wife.

  His breath was warm, strangely loud, a counterpart to her heart’s beating. She would have stepped back, but he curled his fist in the fabric of her borrowed wrapper, pulled her closer until not even a breath separated them. A dark sensation flowed through her, a taste lingering on the tip of her tongue, something forbidden and decadently expensive like chocolate. Strange sensations to have when he stared at her with eyes that glittered with rage. And yet, below the anger was another emotion, as disturbing and as powerful. Desire. Potent, heady, as enticing as if he had been overtly seductive, as if he coaxed her into his arms with whispers of false promises she pretended to believe. But he did not entreat, did not cajole, only remained like a statue of purposeful intent, supremely, confidently male and frighteningly alluring.

  She should have pulled away, not placed both hands upon his curled fist. Only a fool would smile at his look, as if in gleeful acknowledgment of her daring.

  “Are you my prize, then, for credulity?” His voice was laced with sardonic amusement, a perfect counterpart to the small smile that lifted the corners of his lips.

  Her hands froze their uncertain movement, the gentle stroking they’d begun. Archer St. John was not a fractious kitten.

  “Do I get to keep you if only I believe? Come now,” he said as she pulled away, “don’t look at me as if I’d just murdered your best friend. But even that isn’t too much off the mark, is it, Mary Kate? Murder is exactly what I’m suspected of, and Alice is no doubt reveling in the knowledge that my reputation grows blacker each month she remains hidden.”

  He pulled her back into his arms with so much force that Mary Kate nearly stumbled. The statue had come alive, been replaced by a fierce warrior. This man’s anger was not coated with civility but was free flowing, unrestrained.

  He thrust both hands into the hair at her temples, pressed against her skull as if he would crush her if she did not provide the answers he sought. She should have felt afraid, but she did not even flinch when he bent her back, forcing her into an arc. She reached out and grabbed his forearms for balance.

  “It’s almost worth the bargain, Mary Kate,” he whispered. His lips nuzzled the curve of her ear then dipped to taste the flesh of her throat. She felt the edge of enameled teeth against her pulse, a delicate threat, unspoken warning.

  “What is it you want from me?” he asked against her skin; the words seemed tactile, capable of granting sensation. Or was that only the brushing of his lips?

  His hand moved to cover her throat, his face obscured her vision, his question buffeted her thoughts.

  All she could offer him was the truth, pure, unadorned, perhaps too simplistic in the telling of it.

  “Nothing.”

  The hand still twisted in her hair tightened while the other flattened against her throat. Did he seek to win her compliance by killing her then? For a second, she thought he might; the murderous fury in his eyes was threat enough. Then, slowly, his grip loosened, and he abruptly backed away, leaving her weaving as she stood.

  She massaged her throat and glared at him, a remonstrance that seemed to have no effect upon Archer St. John at all. Instead, he reverted to being a statue again, one without remorse or compunction, evidently, to apologize.

  “I was incorrect,” she said, hating the fact that her voice sounded too timorous, almost feeble. “I do wish something from you.” She backed away as a light seemed to glitter in his eyes, a beacon of some odd emotion whose origins she didn’t care to explore.

  “I very much want my freedom. I fervently wish to never again hear your wife’s entreaties. And right this moment, I wish I had never spoken to your coachman.”

  Then she turned and walked into the Dawn Room, slamming the door in his face.

  Chapter 15

  “Are you all right, boy?”

  Samuel Moresham watched as James picked himself off the ground. The bolt of lightning had come too close
for comfort. Pinatar was restive this morning; he’d scented the mares, knew what this day would bring. Still, it wasn’t like James to make that stupid mistake. The stallion’s hooves had to be wrapped in batting, so that he wouldn’t injure the mares in his excitement, but anyone who’d been around horses knew the job took three good men. Plus, the oncoming storm should have given him pause, if nothing else. But the lad hadn’t his mind on his business. As usual, lately.

  The stallion had retaliated by nearly spearing him to the ground with one of his iron-shod hooves. James had rolled just in time to avoid the blow.

  “I’m all right.” He stood, dusting himself off, out of range of the stallion who eyed him with wildly rolling eyes.

  It was as plain as Pinatar’s restive movements that the lad wasn’t all right. He was as pale as death, with a tenseness about him that spoke of a sleepless night. Again.

  It used to be that he’d slip down into the parlor of an evening, play a bit of a ditty on the spinet. It was a pleasant sound, that, a calming one for a full day. Samuel had grown to expect it. But music had stopped a long time ago, along with James’s attention to the details that could get him killed. It was as if the boy really didn’t care whether he lived or died. And it was all Samuel’s fault, wasn’t it?

  Samuel wrapped the length of leather around his gloved palm, then slipped it onto the hook mounted on the inside of the fence post. He sighed, heavily, thinking that this day had been coming for too long.

  Why now, Samuel? Why, when too much time had passed and too many opportunities had been lost did he feel so compelled to finance the boy’s love of music? Had it been those odd dreams he’d had for the past week, the ones that caused him to wake too early in his bed, staring at the ceiling and wondering at the very great grief he felt?

  He’d heard Alice sobbing. He could almost see her, sitting beneath her favorite tree, her knees drawn up to her chin, hands clasped around her legs, her gaze fixed on something in the distance, her eyes welling up with tears. It was as if she were telling him that this was the right thing to do.

  He’d awakened more than once with tears in his own eyes, certain that he would never see his beloved child again. She may be lost, but Samuel knew with a horrible certainty that she would never be found.

  Maybe it was that. Maybe, still, the need for it stared him in the face and he could no longer ignore it. It was a time for reparations.

  “Pinatar will wait, James,” he said, clamping a hand over the younger man’s shoulder. He was of slight build, was James, another trait from his mother. That and the music. How many times had he listened to Caroline sing and wondered why God had given an angel’s voice to a woman with a sinner’s heart. But then, the workings of God were beyond him. He had enough trouble trying to understand his fellow man.

  “I’ll not trick you into thinking this is an easy thing to say, boy, but I’ve been mulling it about long enough.”

  Samuel began walking to the edge of the paddock to where the pond glistened in the dawn light. The rain had stopped finally.

  The two of them leaned against the fence, different men with a shared past. They were dissimilar in spirit, longings, and talents. Yet they were linked by circumstance and by the love of one woman, a secret love by one, a father’s love by another.

  “I’m willing to have you go and study music, if you will, lad.”

  Samuel knew that his blessing would have had the power to catapult James into single-minded joy a few years ago. It had been the boy’s dream for as long as he could remember, to study as the great composers did. How many times had he heard James say that one of his greatest wishes was to sit in Vienna’s Burgtheater, listening to the echoes of symphonies by Mozart or Haydn.

  Now, however, his gift seemed oddly empty. Samuel felt like a general standing on a battleground soaked red with blood. A place of smoke and gore and laden with bodies and thick with the stench of death. What did it mean to declare victory when the cost was so great? What did it mean to send James to Vienna now?

  Here, at Moresham Farms, the memories of Alice seemed so strong. Down that path, she had toddled as a child. There was the tree whose branches had hid her and James when Cecily had called them for dinner. On that barn door, the two of them had swung and laughed until the hinges bent. They’d both been punished for that.

  Would James feel as though he was being banished? Or that to leave here was to lose her, to banish all those memories he held tight in his heart?

  At what price had he given the boy his freedom?

  He turned and glanced at the man he’d always acknowledged as his son. Until that day two years ago, when he had been in his cups, flushed with success, pockets filled with winnings from the Derby at Epsom Downs. Then, whiskey had loosened his tongue, and he’d spilled his secrets like the coins he flipped at the barmaid.

  In one night James had gone from son to bastard, a nudge from position and birth that Samuel suspected did not disturb him one whit.

  “You’ll need help in the winter.” James smiled. It was a puny gesture at best.

  “I can buy the services of men to help me.”

  “I’ll stay for a while.”

  “You’ve got a gift lad. Don’t let it go to spoil.”

  “I’ll go in a month or two,” James said then. Samuel hoped something would make him care by that time.

  He wasn’t altogether surprised by the reception his gift had inspired. After all, it was a paltry thing he offered James. Reparation for something that could never quite be made right.

  Consanguinity. Wasn’t that the fancy word that meant what they were? Brother and sister. He’d never worried about it, knowing what he did, but still, maybe he should have told James long before he did. Things might have changed.

  Alice might not have married the Earl of Sanderhurst after all. And then, perhaps she wouldn’t have disappeared. And James wouldn’t be looking the way he did, as if the life had flowed out of him.

  He wished it could be different, but it was a wish he never voiced to another human being. Even now he could not say the words.

  How long had James loved Alice? Forever?

  And was that why Alice had disappeared?

  Chapter 16

  She was to be given the freedom of Sanderhurst.

  This surprising admission was announced by a sweetly smiling young maid who did not look the least discomposed by stating it, nor did she appear to be rendered awkward by conversing with Archer St. John’s prisoner, which led to two immediate conclusions on Mary Kate’s part. Either the poor maid was extraordinarily simple, which might explain the curious vacuity of her smile, or this was not the first occasion in which Archer St. John had felt the necessity to imprison innocent females.

  Yet if this was imprisonment, it had been kinder than freedom had been to Mary Kate. She’d been fed delicious meals, offered a selection of books from St. John’s library, treated like a weary guest expected not to excel at any chore but that of resting. A curious respite for a woman who had always needed to work in order to feed herself, except when she had traded servitude for the chore of being Edwin’s wife.

  The door stood open, and she just on this side of it, wishing to take the first step to liberation and yet being curiously reluctant to do so. Mary Kate could not account for it, nor the feeling of trepidation as she stepped outside the room. She was the ugliest thing in this house.

  Where had her attention been when St. John had dragged her up the stairs, that she couldn’t recall the magnificent curved staircase trailing down to the first floor, rising two more floors above her? The walls were clad in silk the palest shade of yellow, like egg yolks frothed and creamy. A hall chest caught her eye; the dark wood was festooned with carvings, and brass handles in the shape of unicorns and dragons. At the end of the hall was mounted a floor-to-ceiling painting of a port, showing rows upon rows of ships and, behind them, the shadows of tall mountain peaks. In the foreground was the most beautiful sailing ship she’d ever seen, its hull pai
nted deep blue, the brass of its rigging seeming to glint in the sun, the white sails puffed proud with wind. On its bow, the name Fortunatus.

  Mary Kate held on to the banister as she descended the curve of staircase. Upon the landing she stopped, bathed in the wondrous colors of light filtering through a glorious stained-glass rendering of Saint George slaying the dragon. How long did she savor its beauty, stand bathed in the cascade of colors? It was like being showered in a rainbow, one crafted by an artisan’s hand. She could have stood there longer, entranced by the craftsmanship that had created this magnificent secular picture, but she was too startled by the feeling that slipped over her, urging her down the remainder of the stairs.

  It was a gentle tug, as though a child had grabbed her dress and pulled her onward toward a favorite place, one of games and laughter. So strong was this sensation that Mary Kate looked down at her skirt to ensure herself nothing was there, that it had not caught in the railing, that she had not torn a thread or raveled a hem.

  At the foot of the stairs was a rather stiff-necked servant, attired in a severe black frock coat, black trousers, small boots. She would have taken him for an aristocrat had she not seen him when she arrived. She had served under majordomos before, and knew they emulated those they served, some with more autocracy than their employers. Did this rather austere-looking gentleman know her antecedents, suspect that she’d rarely been abovestairs in her position of servant? It seemed so, by his way of looking through her. She only nodded, a gesture that would have been as regal as his had she not been amused by the idiocy of it all. Still, she managed to stifle her laughter, settling instead for a smile.

  She turned to the left, not questioning why she felt she must do so, entering a long, wide hallway. There were three doors down this hall. She chose the last one, turned the handle, pushed in the door.

  Was this how heaven would look? Indigo blue silk was draped upon the walls, while floor-to-ceiling windows along one side of the room were framed in heavily embroidered blue and gold curtains, tied back by gold figurines of chubby cherubs, each holding flowing gilt ribbons. There was a carpet beneath her feet, an intricate design of fruits and flowers, each thread mellowed to a rich hue, the overall a muted palette of color. Above her head a fresco of blue sky dotted with white clouds made the room appear limitless, a sunlit valley of blue and gold created by man, into which he’d placed his greatest treasures.