Chapter Twenty-Three
12:30 p.m.
Olivia slept until half past twelve. By the time she’d been to visit her mother her stomach reminded her she’d missed both breakfast and luncheon. Wearing what was now her only gown, she left her sleeping mother in search of the others and something to eat. Twenty feet from the hallway that lead to the more modern wing of Pennhyll, Olivia’s garter fell to the floor. Her stocking drooped around her ankle. “Oh, bother.” She snatched up her garter and checked the hall behind her. Empty and silent as the grave. She ducked into the nearest room, a darkened saloon with windows closed up so tight she had to leave the door ajar for light. Throwing the garter on a nearby table, she leaned against the wall and hiked up her skirt. From toe to two inches above her ankle, the stocking was silk sprigged with dainty pink flowers, the rest thick cotton.
Cool air whooshed over her, and she heard one of those strange noises to which Pennhyll was so often subject. Feet softly stepping, or someone sighing or metal parts moving. Her shoulder blades itched as if someone behind her stood poised to touch her shoulder. No one was ever there. Except, of course, in her imagination.
She smoothed her stocking and fastened her garter before going into the corridor. Dead center in her back, her skin pimpled. A finger reaching, touching her…right…there. A draft swept the hall, carrying a breath that sounded for all the world like a low reverberation of her name. Olivia. She checked the hallway. Nothing. No one lurking in a corner, no shapes half-glimpsed in the shadows and still the footsteps echoed in her ears, the rhythm of conversation, murmuring. Cloth sliding against cloth.
My heart.
She clapped her hands to her ears, but the voice echoed as if it were inside her head.
My love.
“No.”
Olivia.
Brilliant blue flashed at the periphery of her vision. Not behind her but in the saloon where she’d been standing so that anyone passing by would see her with her skirts up to her thighs. The Tiern-Cope livery was green, not blue, so she hadn’t seen a servant. No servant would wear a color that bright. No servant could afford the sort of fabric that held a dye of such a rich hue.
With a steadying breath, she peered left down the hall, then right. “Miss Royce?” The jingle of metal parts moving made a bell-like sound, receding with the source. “Lord Fitzalan?” The air stirred, carrying the scent of old leather and musty cloth and beneath that a tinge of something acrid. The itch between her shoulder blades flared into dread. She wasn’t mad. She wasn’t. “Hullo?”
Farther down the hall something shimmered, a trick of the light perhaps, because the hallway remained empty. The sparkle of silver didn’t fade. She squinted and for a heart-stopping instant she saw a man watching her from the shadows. The hilt of a sword rose above his shoulders. His hand rested on the belt around his waist. The bell-like jingle came from the scabbard moving against his chainmail shirt. She blinked, and the man wasn’t there. “I am not mad,” she whispered.
Someone touched her shoulder, and she let out a yelp.
“Olivia?”
She whirled. Her cousin watched her with those dark, dark eyes that always made her think of nightmares. When her heart started beating again, she said, “Leave me alone.”
He took a step back, hands raised. “You called out. Besides, I’d like a word with you. More than a word, actually.” Olivia shook her head, but he took no notice. “I know Tiern-Cope’s spoken to you.” He moved closer. “Dear cousin. Let’s not beat about the bush. I’ve been to Far Caister, seen where you live. Used to live. You were never comfortably settled, but your situation is more dire than ever.”
“I’ll manage somehow.”
“But, you needn’t manage at all. Olivia, marry me and put to rest the cares I see in your face. If you’re worried about your mother, don’t be. She’ll have the best care I can provide.”
“How kind you are, Hew.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. What sort of daughter turned her back on an end to the disaster her life had become? Light flashed behind her eyes, momentarily blinding her.
“You belong at the Grange.” He took her hands. “Cousin. Olivia. Do not worry. Let me take care of you. Even if you tell me no, I’ll take care of you.” His fingers curled around her wrists. With her vision only partially cleared, she struggled to keep her balance. “Dearest Olivia. Tell me your answer is yes.”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. God in heaven, this was a momentous decision, life changing. Permanent. “I want Lord Tiern-Cope to negotiate the terms.”
“Terms?”
“Yes.”
She willed herself not to react to the tightening of his fingers around her wrists. His eyes flashed. “What terms could you possibly have?”
“A jointure.” Her throat felt thick. Her scar ached, pinpricks of pain. “Set aside for me now.” She swallowed hard. “And clear provisions for any children.”
Hew’s eyes narrowed. She rotated her hands, trying to loosen his grip. He was going to leave bruises. His mouth curled. “Do you imagine,” he said, biting off his words, “that I will not take care of my wife and children?”
One last time, she twisted her wrists. “Hew.”
He let go of her. “You insult me.”
“What if something should happen to you, Hew?”
“I said I would take care of you.”
“My father did not take care of my mother. Or me.”
He opened his mouth to say something but stopped. “I’ll speak to Tiern-Cope.” He reached for her again. “In the meantime, Olivia, let me assure you I am well pleased. We’ll do well together.” He took a step toward her. “May I kiss you?”
The man with the sword flickered into her vision. His hand went up, grasping the pommel of the weapon strapped across his back. The sound of steel coming free of the scabbard vibrated in her ears. Hew touched her shoulder, bending toward her and then turning to look. “What are you staring at?”
“Nothing.” The face from her nightmares filled her head. Fear and pain built in her so that she thought her body would shatter from the effort of trying to hold it in. His head dipped again, and she stumbled back.
“We’re to be married.” His eyes glinted. “I have acceded to your demands. Why shouldn’t I kiss you?”
Her head swam.
“Olivia?”
She did not know which way was up. Her head threatened to burst open.
“Have you a vinaigrette? My God, Olivia.”
She heard an echo of sound, a deafening clap that brought a scream boiling up. She tried to take a breath and could not. She could not feel the floor beneath her feet.
“Olivia? My God, what’s the matter?” He clutched her shoulders. Some atom of memory transformed him into the face from her nightmare. Fear welled up as if it were happening all over again. She thrust out her hands and connected with his chest, rocking him onto his heels.
“Don’t touch me.” Her stomach threatened to turn inside out. Her head hammered so she could barely speak from the pain. “Don’t touch me.” The man in the shadows moved toward Hew, his sword out if its scabbard. He roared. She clapped her hands over her ears to block out the sound. The swordsman advanced, weapon raised.
“There’s nothing there,” Hew said.
The man brought down the sword in a deadly arc. She screamed, scrambling back.
“Olivia.”
She ran and didn’t slow until she came to a hallway that terminated in a multi-paned window of thick, old-fashioned glass. Her breath rasped in her throat, but the dizziness and nausea eased enough that she stood steadier on her feet. She heard again the gentle ringing of metal sliding against metal. Musty air rose up with the same smell of leather and dust, acrid undertone beneath. She whipped her head toward the end of the hall. At first she didn’t see anything. The light shifted and swirled, and the swordsman materialized from the shadows. Gold and red emblazoned his tunic in a chevron against a cobalt background. The sword was back in its scabbard, strapped across his back. He was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. Timed to the wind stirring the ivy outside, he vanished through the wall.
She blinked and walked toward the end of the hall. The stonework came to a point above the window, indicating she’d ended up in the medieval portion of Pennhyll. Ivy on the outside walls partially covered the window and filtered the waning light. Nearly all the window panes had some flaw or bubble that made the passage of sunlight a matter of unpredictability. What’s more, clouds scudded past the sun and that same wind moved the leaves and threw irregular, flickering shadows on the carpet. To her right was a doorway, with a stone arch over the top.
“Olivia?” A distant voice. “Where the devil did you go?” Hew. Coming nearer. She bit her tongue, heart thudding like a hammer on an anvil at the thought of cousin coming after her. Her stomach cramped, her skull threatened to split. “Where are you, Olivia?”
A flight of circular stairs led downward, but no one had been here in ages. Even the air smelled musty and old. Cobwebs hung in one corner of the doorway, dust coated the stairwell. The light shifted behind her and cast a shimmering shadow on the stairs. Outlined in the dust on the stone floor was the perfect imprint of a pointed-toed boot.
“Olivia?”
She plunged down the stairs, descending a spiral no wider than her shoulders. The blackness went unrelieved even by the usual arrow slits. Despite the lack of ventilation, the air felt less musty than it had farther up. Her shoes echoed on the ancient stone. In the back of her mind she thought if Hew were to follow her, she would hear him. The twisting descent into blackness dizzied her until she was certain her foot would miss the next stair. Another turn and light appeared on the walls and stairs, a spreading grey against black. She reached a landing where light outlined a door. The stairs continued down. The door opened easily, and she exited into a large and empty room.
The door closed, disappearing into the pattern of the wallpaper. If she hadn’t come through it, she’d never have known it was there. She felt a shiver of unease. The room felt familiar, the surroundings comfortable, though she knew she’d never been here before. Green silk covered the walls and curtains the color of new bronze hung at the windows. The furniture was beautiful, if one liked exquisite veneers, gold fittings, and round-bellied chests-of-drawers. Smuggled from the Continent, she thought, or, more likely, prizes won by a ship’s captain. Portraits lined one wall as high as the ceiling. The largest hung in the center. An armored knight sat a wild-eyed destrier. He clutched a plumed helm under one arm in a pose reminiscent of Tiern-Cope’s portrait in the salon. The knight smiled with Andrew’s mouth but the cold blue eyes could have been the earl’s in fact for all the dissimilarity she could see. Behind him another man held a pike in one hand, atop which a banner rippled with the wind, bars of crimson and gold against a cobalt background. The bannerman rode a bay horse and though the shadows made it difficult to be sure, his hair looked red.
The sensation of familiarity persisted. She turned from the portraits. An empty room, but not uninhabited. A newspaper lay on a table. The folded pages no longer retained sharp creases. Beside the paper a crystal goblet held a few drops of blood-red liquid. In the very center of the table was the painting of her father and brother. She picked it up. The canvas smelled of smoke. The fire had damaged one corner, but it hadn’t been burned with everything else. Her mouth trembled. Tiern-Cope must have saved it, and if there were so, then this must be his room.
No sooner had that horrifying thought occurred than a low, pained moan lifted the hair on the back of her neck. She looked around her, but there was no way to tell where the sound came from. A second moan, briefer, a little softer, but just as agonized had her turning toward another door, open more than wide enough for her to have been spotted by anyone inside.
She heard the sound again. Definitely coming from the other side of the open door. Not imagined. Someone was hurt. A now familiar prickle of gooseflesh moved along her arms and spine. The spot between her shoulder blades itched with the expectation of a dagger’s icy chill. Had she not been distracted by the painting on the table, she’d have seen into the other room just by turning, which she did now.
Tiern-Cope stood near a window so the sun fell on his head and shoulders. In the strong light, his hair, a rich brown just shy of black, looked disturbingly short, cropped as it was close to his neck. He was coatless. And shirtless. Oh, Lord, he was naked. Or very nearly so. His broad and very naked back was not smooth or soft as she had imagined of men. Muscle flowed over bone and sinew and gave his torso shape the way a sculptor gave shape to marble. Nor was his skin pale. His back had a golden tone. He’d sailed the Indian Ocean. Andrew had read her his descriptions of Macao and Barbados, of long weeks on blockade in the brilliant sun on the other side of the world.
One white-knuckled hand clenched the top of the window casement. On his smallest finger, a cabochon of pale, silky blue caught the light. His chin pointed toward the ceiling. Dr. Fansher examined his rib cage, probing until he elicited another exclamation from his patient. Tiern-Cope shifted toward her. His closed eyes were the only reason he did not see her. His skin was faintly brown everywhere she could see, a lovely, warm color that reminded her of summer. How much had the tropical sun seen of Tiern-Cope, she wondered, that he could be so brown?
“The devil.” The earl sucked in a hissing breath. “Damn you to hell, Ned. Do you mean to break my ribs again?”
Unperturbed, the man continued his examination. A red gash surrounded by very pink and puckered scar tissue ran from about four inches below the earl’s armpit forward and upward to nearly his nipple. “You should have had this looked at sooner.”
“I did.”
“By whom?” He sounded offended.
“I don’t know. Some quack from Far Caister. Fitzalan sent for him.”
“It’s not healing as quickly as it should.”
“That’s why you’re here, Ned.”
“Move so. A bit more, Captain.” He stopped short and bobbed his head. “I beg your humble pardon. My lord.”
“Hell, Ned. Not you, too. Don’t you my lord me. I cannot abide that from you.”
“I need a better look. I must be certain they’ve not left behind a bit of the bullet.”
“You’ll not cut me open, you cursed sawbones.”
With a start, she understood this wasn’t like seeing the swordsman. This was no dream or hallucination. She really was here. The moment could not be more improper. She’d blundered into Tiern-Cope’s private quarters, and he wasn’t dressed. She shouldn’t be here, let alone be spying on him. She had to leave, but she just couldn’t. The sight of Tiern-Cope in his naked skin paralyzed her. The muscles of his chest were every bit as defined from the front as from the back and they disappeared right down into the band of his breeches along with a narrow trail of dark hair. He was, simply, magnificent.
“Enough, Ned.” He sighed and gingerly moved his arm. “I’ve had enough for now.” He reached for the shirt dangling from the back of a chair. Turning from the door, he drew it on but left it gaping open. “Besides, I’m better than I was. I’ve been walking to Far Caister and back every morning for the last week.”
“Probably what set you off.”
“Bollocks. I’ve had a belly full of laying about like an overcooked potato.”
“Saving lovely ladies and their crippled mothers from fires. Aye, lad, you’ve been a worthless nit, you have.” Fansher turned, a grin on a weathered face browner than Tiern-Cope’s. “Later, then, Captain.” He moved out of sight. “My lord.
“Don’t go. Not yet. I want to talk to someone with some sense. If I must converse about the weather or the color of Diana’s bloody eyes even one more time, I’ll puke.”
Olivia didn’t dare move now, not when as much as a twitch from her might attract their attention. “When you’re a married man, I’ll pour us both a nice warm ale, and we’ll talk about the old days when we were young and foolish.”
“Sod off, Ned. I’m still young.”
“That you are, my lord.” Fansher reappeared with a bag in one hand. He retrieved his coat from a table. “I’ll set aside the lager.”
“Stay. Ned.” His eagerness made him sound like the young man he was.
“Are you really to be married? To Miss Royce?”
“I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Ah, now, what about Miss Willow?”
“Now there’s a woman worth a man’s time. She’s the only one here worth talking to.”
“Just your sort, I thought. Intelligent. Attractive, too.”
“Jesus, yes.”
“Why all this talk about you and Miss Royce if it’s bonnie Miss Willow who interests you? Do her headaches worry you?”
“Can you help her?”
“The lass was lucky to survive her injury. As for her memory—”
“Never mind that.” He made a sharp gesture. “I don’t want her reliving what happened.”
“You care for her that much, then?”
“She suffered an unspeakable ordeal, Ned.”
Fansher put his bag on the table and rested his hands on it. “Do you want my advice?”
“Yes.”
“Waste no more of your time with Miss Royce when it’s Miss Willow you want.”
“Get out, Ned. You know the way.”
With a laugh, Fansher bowed and left by another door.
Once the doctor was gone, Tiern-Cope reached for the gaping fabric of his shirt, pulling it together the merest bit. Olivia followed the disappearing expanse of muscle. She saw herself caressing his chest, running her hands over skin and muscle. Her palms tingled as if she’d touched him. He sighed and threw himself on the chair, legs sprawled. The upper halves of his shirt fell open and Olivia saw nothing but golden leanness and the livid scar. Dream and reality bled one into the other. She didn’t know if she’d seen his bare chest before now or dreamed it. Did she recall the shape and feel of a man’s muscles moving under sun-touched skin, or was that something else she’d dreamed? Tiern-Cope stood, careless of his open shirt, as any man would in the privacy of his own quarters. Horrified, Olivia realized he was heading for the room in which she hid, and only his preoccupation with the fastenings of his shirt kept him from seeing her.
The stairwell down which she’d come was too far. She’d never make it in time and besides, she wasn’t sure if she knew how to open the door from this side. She dashed to the only other exit. Thankfully, it wasn’t locked. She closed it as gently as she could.
“McNaught.”
She leaned against the wall and prayed for a miracle to transport her safely to her room. No such luck. She was in another hallway. Across from her, a niche contained a marble bust of Socrates. To her right, the hall terminated in darkness. To her left, another hall extended perpendicularly. Which way led out, she had no idea. Left then. Away from the darkness. She came to six stairs terminating in an alcove where pink roses decorated a walnut table. Cut from the greenhouse just this morning, by the look of them. Behind the flowers hung a gilt mirror. Her cheeks glowed as pink as the flowers, and her eyes were far too bright. Sinking onto a wooden settle nestled along the wall, she bowed her head to her knees and groaned. It hit her, then, what a wicked thing she’d just done, spying on the earl. Seeing him practically naked. Listening to his private conversation.
“Sebastian,” came a masculine voice from the opposite end of the alcove. “We’re off.” Lord Fitzalan came up a flight of stairs, heading toward the earl’s quarters, which, apparently, one reached by the stairs where she now sat. Trapped.
A shadow darkened the alcove. She snapped to attention. Tiern-Cope stood over her, one eyebrow arched. “What are you doing here?”
Buff breeches hugged lean, muscled thighs. A clean white shirt, cravat, embroidered navy waistcoat and navy coat completed the picture of male beauty. The way he gazed at her so intently, she felt as if he were trying to read her mind. God help her if he could. Her pulse raced triple-time.
“Well?” he said, tapping his fingers on his thigh.
“I took a wrong turn.”
His mouth quirked, but he did not smile. “Quite a wrong turn. Are you well enough to be out of your bed?”
“You saved my painting.” Oh, Lord, where had that come from?
He studied her, eyes moving over her from head to toe and back. “How did you get into my rooms without anyone seeing you?”
“I was lost.”
“What did you see?”
“The portrait. I didn’t mean to.”
“Where are you, Sebastian? Diana is waiting.” Fitzalan came up the last stair and stopped dead when he saw them. He smiled, and it was cool water to a parched throat after the burning look the earl gave her. His eyes shifted from Tiern-Cope to her. “Good afternoon, Miss Willow.”
“My lord.”
“I hope you are well, Miss Willow.”
“I am now that I don’t smell like smoke.”
“Your cousin is here,” Fitzalan said. “He’s been asking after you.”
“Thank you.”
“Come along, Miss Willow,” said Tiern-Cope as if it were the natural to find her sitting here. “No doubt the others are waiting for us.”
Fitzalan inserted himself between her and Tiern-Cope. He extended his elbow to her. “Yes, Miss Willow. Do come. We’re done with tea and Price is about to give us a tour of the castle.”