Chapter Seven
WHEN OLIVIA AWOKE the next morning, she refused the dress that Joan offered and instead put on the only one of her dresses she had brought that Kyria and her maid had not altered, a plain brown frock with no ornamentation. She also turned down Joan’s services as a hairdresser, pulling her hair back into the tight, simple knot in which she had worn it for years.
She was through trying to dress herself up, she decided. She was here purely for business, and the only thing she needed to appear was businesslike.
She marched downstairs to breakfast, determined to put her relationship with Lord St. Leger back on the correct footing. They were colleagues. Working partners. Whatever emotion he might have seen on her face the other night, it was impossible for him to have known what she had been dreaming about. And she would behave in such a way that he would realize that whatever he thought he had seen, he had been wrong.
Her determination lasted until she had finished eating breakfast, when one of the footmen handed her a note from Stephen requesting her presence in his study as soon as possible. She felt suddenly as if her stomach had dropped to her feet, and it took all her willpower to force her feet to turn to the study.
She knocked on the door, and when he called to her to enter, she wavered for a moment, then drew a deep breath and went inside.
“You asked to see me?” she said on a note of inquiry, proud that she was able to keep her voice light and cool. She could not, however, quite look him in the face, so she chose a point just over his shoulder at which to gaze.
“Uh, yes. Please, sit down.” Stephen’s voice sounded not quite as usual, either.
Olivia stole a quick peek at him. He looked—could it be nervous?
“We, um, never had a chance to speak yesterday. I thought you might want to know about the—” he paused and cleared his throat “—research I did.”
“Oh?” Perhaps he had not realized what she had been dreaming about, Olivia thought, for the first time looking him full in the face. There was certainly no leering knowledge there. He looked, if anything, rather ill at ease. “What sort of research?”
“Well, I—” He stopped and looked at her searchingly for a moment. “Olivia... I... I dreamed the other night when I fell asleep at my desk.”
It was such an abrupt change of subject that for a moment Olivia could only stare. “Excuse me?”
“The other night. When we were looking through the books, you fell asleep, and I sat here at my desk, reading, and I drifted off, also. I dreamed. When I woke up, I—it seemed to me that you had been dreaming, too.”
Olivia felt heat flooding up her throat and into her cheeks. “Yes.”
“I dreamed about the woman whom we had seen earlier. The vision.”
“You did?” Olivia was startled from her embarrassment.
“Yes. I dreamed about her and a man, someone dressed as a knight. She called him Sir John, and he called her Alys. They were in some place with barrels all over—”
Olivia went cold to the bone. “What?” She took a step closer to him. “You saw them in a storage house?”
He nodded. “Yes. In a castle. In the courtyard, I mean. Then they went down through a trapdoor into a cellar.”
Olivia’s stomach went hot, and her feet and hands were like blocks of ice. She swayed a little, and Stephen leaped forward to take her by the arms and guide her into a chair.
“Here. Sit down. You look as if you’re about to faint.” He pushed her head down, squatting beside her.
“I think I was.” Olivia looked at her hands; they were trembling. She would not have been surprised if she had been trembling all over. “I dreamed the same dream.”
“Sweet Christ!” There was a long silence. Stephen stood back up. “I thought—my first thought was that you had known what I had been dreaming.”
“That is what I thought, too.” Olivia stared at him. “But it was impossible.”
“That is what I kept telling myself all day yesterday. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I could not find you. Did they talk about her husband? Did he ask her about a bruise on her cheek?”
“Yes! He asked her if Sir Raymond had done it to her!”
“Sir Raymond. That is what I heard him say, too.” Stephen pushed his hands back into his hair, his expression a little wild. “And then they—”
“Yes,” Olivia replied in a strangled voice, blushing to the roots of her hairline as she remembered the couple’s embrace and the way the participants had changed into herself and Stephen.
She saw embarrassment in his face, too, but she saw more—a flame that lit his gray eyes and set up an answering heat inside her. Olivia’s mouth went suddenly dry, and she didn’t know where to look. Just sitting here, she could feel again the passion that had flooded through her; she could taste his kiss...his skin.
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself and stepped away. “It’s impossible. How could we dream the same dream?”
“Yet we did.”
“Madame Valenskaya could not have done this,” she said positively. “No one could. How could anyone make us see exactly the same people do the same things in a dream?”
“If an expert mesmerist gave one the suggestion in a trance, said that one would dream about this scene...”
“But to arrange us dreaming it at the same time! I cannot believe anyone is that skillful, let alone Madame Valenskaya. She has no subtlety about her, no dexterity. Why, I have heard her accent slip more than once.”
“Perhaps it isn’t Madame Valenskaya. Maybe Babington is the mesmerist and Madame Valenskaya is just his tool.”
Olivia frowned, unconvinced. “Whoever it is, how could he implant a suggestion that you and I would see the same thing?”
“Well, perhaps we didn’t see exactly the same people.”
“A man with light brown hair, tall and well muscled? His eyes green, with a scar along this cheek, low.” She grazed her left cheek with a fingernail.
“I’m not sure how he looked. I felt as if—as if I were he. I saw the bailey, the castle, the woman, everything, through his eyes.”
Olivia remembered how toward the end of the dream she had somehow become the woman. Her voice trembled as she said, “This is absurd.”
“It surpasses all logic that I know,” Stephen admitted.
“I have never seen, never heard of, any mesmerist this skilled. I don’t know of any trick that comes remotely close to this.”
“But how else could it have happened?”
Olivia simply looked at him. There was nothing that could have accounted for their shared dream or for the earlier vision of the woman in the great hall.
“There is another thing,” Stephen said after a moment. “I—I think I have dreamed about these people before.”
“What!”
“While I was still in London, I had a dream. In it, I felt as if I were the same man, as if I were seeing through his eyes. But it was in an old castle. The steps were stone and curved around and up to a tower room. It was no place I’d ever seen before, but in the dream I knew it. It was home. I was fighting—for my life, the way it felt. I held a sword, not a light sword or a fencing foil, but a broadsword. I was dressed in chain mail. And behind me was a woman. I didn’t see her—I could not look back, because I was fighting—but I could sense her there, and I knew her. She was—I think she was—the lady of the castle and I was sworn to protect her. But there was something more—a deeper emotion, something beyond duty and loyalty. It was the same couple. I am sure of it. I felt as if I were the same man, if that makes any sense.” He paused and glanced at Olivia. She looked stunned. “You probably think I am mad.”
“No. No, I don’t.” Olivia stood up. “I dreamed of them before, too. I recognized that woman when we saw her in the hall. I had dreamed about her the day before—her and the man. She was drying her hair in front of the fire in my room—only it wasn’t my room, but another room, with rushes on the floor and a bigger fireplace. Then he came in and knelt beside her. It was Sir John. At first I thought she was there, that I was actually lying there looking at her, but then I awoke and realized it had been a dream. When we saw her walk across the room, I knew it was the same woman.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I was afraid you would think I was insane!” Olivia retorted. “It was so bizarre, and everyone half believes we Morelands are all mad, anyway. I didn’t want you to look at me as if I should be locked away.”
“I don’t think you’re mad. I don’t think I’m mad. I just cannot explain, in a rational manner anything that has happened.”
“What should we do?”
“I don’t know. I did some research today. I went to Belinda and asked her about that paper her tutor had her write. She went up to the nursery and dug out the books she had used for it. And I found a chap named Sir Raymond.”
Olivia gaped at him. “Here? At Blackhope?”
“He owned Blackhope long before the St. Legers took over. He was an ancestor of the Lord Scorhill who lost the place to Henry VIII. Sir Raymond lived here during the reign of Henry II.”
Olivia felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach.
Stephen, watching her, nodded. “I know. I had the same reaction.”
“Then these people we saw really existed? They lived here in the twelfth century?”
“I don’t know. I saw no mention of Sir Raymond’s wife or of anyone named Sir John. But it would be unlikely that either of them would be in a history. He was merely the captain of Sir Raymond’s men.”
“And wives are rarely mentioned,” Olivia finished somewhat caustically. “I know.”
“However, it was this Sir Raymond that Belinda was talking about at supper the other night. The one during whose ownership the estate got its name of Blackhope.”
“The man who shut himself up in the house because his wife died?”
“The very same. That, of course, was put down as legend. But it is fact that this same Sir Raymond rebuilt Blackhope. Apparently at some point, the original Norman keep was destroyed—or mostly so—during a siege. Sir Raymond built the present house almost directly on the ruins of the original.”
“A siege?” Olivia looked at him questioningly. “Such as the battle in your dream?”
Stephen shrugged. “Certainly the enemy was inside the house. And there were fires. I remember the smoke.”
“The great hall, where we saw the woman, is the oldest part of this house, isn’t it?” Stephen nodded, and she went on. “If it was built on the site of the original, then where that woman walked would have been where the first castle stood. Perhaps she was walking through a doorway in the old house, and that is why she walked right through the—oh, what am I saying!” Olivia flung her hands up to her head in dismay. “There are no ghosts. I don’t believe in ghosts. There is no medieval woman stalking through the house! It had to be something that Madame Valenskaya and her group are doing.”
“Yet you yourself said you had never heard of anyone being able to do such things.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean that someone can’t,” Olivia pointed out. “I just don’t know how they do it. But it seems too much of a coincidence that these things are happening at the same time that Madame Valenskaya is here conducting séances and nattering on about the lost souls in this house.”
“But how would she know about Sir Raymond and his wife? I didn’t even know about them, and this is my house.”
“First of all, we don’t know that anything about the wife or this Sir John fellow is true. There is no mention of anyone save a Sir Raymond. Second, Belinda knew about him. She was telling us the other day. She could easily have told the same story to Madame Valenskaya or her daughter. Madame Valenskaya could even have found this history book where Belinda got her information. After all, she, or someone, dug up the story about the Martyrs.”
“The Martyrs are quite a bit better known. However,” Stephen conceded, “she could have gotten the name from something Belinda said. But there is one problem—I dreamed that first dream about Sir John and his lady quite some time ago. I dreamed it the night I met you, before Madame Valenskaya and her group came here. Before I had ever even seen the woman.”
A shiver ran through Olivia. She clasped her hands tightly in her lap and tried to think clearly. “I wish we knew more about Sir Raymond and the house. If only—” She brightened. “I could write to Great-uncle Bellard. He is a tremendous history student. His rooms are full of history books, and he has cronies to whom he writes about all the minutiae of history. If there is anything to be found out about Blackhope or Sir Raymond or the Martyrs, he could find it.”
“All right. If you want to write him, I will send a servant with the letter to London to give it to your uncle. I would appreciate any help we can get. I feel as if I have wandered into a madhouse. That charade in the garden the other night seems like the merest trick now.”
“Very well. I will write Great-uncle Bellard immediately.” She stood up.
“Olivia...” Stephen reached out a hand, then dropped it uncertainly. “That dream—what happened—I—” He hesitated, his eyes searching her face.
There was something—a heat, an intensity—in his gaze that made Olivia weak in the knees. She knew she ought to leave the room. He had a devastating effect on her senses, and she could not help but remember what Pamela had told her about his fickle ways. He was dangerous in a way she had never experienced before. It would be safer, much safer, simply to remove herself from his presence.
Yet, as he reached up and curved his hand over her cheek, leaving was the last thing she wanted to do.
“I should not...” Stephen said, his thumb softly sliding over her cheek. “But when I look at you, I seem to forget the rules of gentlemanly behavior.”
“My family has rarely conformed to rules of behavior,” Olivia replied a little breathlessly.
A smile lit his eyes. “Then that is very good for me, isn’t it?”
He leaned closer, and as his lips touched hers, all thought left Olivia’s head. Instinctively, her lips returned the pressure of his, and he let out a groan deep in his throat. His arms wrapped around her, pulling her up into him, and Olivia went with them eagerly. His body was hard and muscled against her soft curves, and her own body responded to the feel of it.
Their kiss deepened. Her arms went around his neck, and she clung to him, savoring the taste of his mouth, the scent of his skin, the enveloping warmth of his body. When at last his mouth left hers, he kissed his way down the side of her neck, nibbling gently at her skin. His hand slid up her side and gently cupped her breast. Olivia drew in a sharp breath of surprise and pleasure. She wanted to know more, to feel more. She slid her hands slowly up the back of his neck until her fingers intertwined with his hair. It slipped through her fingers like caressing silk, igniting the sensitive nerves of her hands.
He kissed the hollow of her neck, his tongue delicately tasting her skin. Olivia shuddered, heat exploding in her abdomen. He felt her body quiver against him, and he made a low, animal noise of pleasure against her throat. Gently he squeezed her breast through her bodice, his thumb rubbing over the center, making her nipple tighten in response.
His mouth returned to hers, and he kissed her hungrily, their lips melding. Olivia felt as if she would melt against him, her body all fire and hunger. Finally, with a groan, Stephen tore his mouth away from hers, stepping back and half turning away. He plunged his fingers back into his hair, holding on to his head tightly, as if he could thus control his wayward passions.
“Sweet, bloody hell!” he cursed softly. He drew a deep breath. “I think I understand how he felt—that knight—risking it all for her.” He glanced back at her. “I apologized before. I suppose it becomes meaningless when I cannot seem to keep from taking liberties...”
Olivia clasped her hands together, trying to bring her own scattered emotions under control. “There is no need to apologize. I—” She looked down, unable to meet his eyes, as she said candidly, “I found it quite enjoyable.”
She whirled and hurried from the room, leaving St. Leger standing there, staring after her.
* * *
THE DAY WAS GRAY, the weather cooler than it had been the first few days she had been there, but Olivia sought the refuge of the garden anyway. A stroll in cool, moist air would be just the thing, she thought, to chase away the fevers in her head and flesh. She had been impossibly bold, she knew—well, not bold, for she was afraid she was more shy than bold; her words had simply been the truth. However, in society, she knew, the truth was often the last thing one should say. Lord St. Leger had doubtlessly been shocked at her words, which were not the sort of thing a lady would say. She had frequently been told that what a gentleman did and what a gentleman expected of a lady were not at all the same thing.
Of course, Lord St. Leger did not seem like other men. He was easy to talk to, straightforward and plain speaking. He did not indulge in the sort of aimless social chitchat at which Olivia found herself remarkably inept. Nor did he talk to her as if she were deficient in understanding, or waste her time with flowery compliments and meaningless flirtation. Indeed, now that she thought about it, he had on more than one occasion been actually rude. He was not at all the kind of man Olivia would have labeled a flirt, and she would have found it hard to believe what Pamela had told her if it had not been for the fact that she could not imagine a woman like Pamela saying that any man had rejected her if it had not been the truth.
She frowned as she walked, wishing she was more adept at this man-woman thing. Someone like Kyria would no doubt know whether St. Leger was a flirt, and what a woman should do and say if a man had kissed her as Stephen had kissed Olivia. A small smile played across Olivia’s lips as she tried to imagine any man having the nerve to do such a thing to her sister. She wished quite fiercely that Kyria were there now, so that she could ask her advice.
“Lady Olivia!” A cry came from off to her right, and Olivia turned her head to see Belinda waving at her from the other end of the pathway.
Belinda started toward her, and Olivia turned with a smile to meet the girl halfway. “I am surprised to see anyone else out for a stroll on this gloomy day.”
Belinda laughed. “I love the weather. It means autumn’s coming, and that is when I love Blackhope the best.” She gave a little chuckle and admitted, “Except, of course, for the spring, when I am sure that I love it even better.”
“You are very fond of your home?”
“Oh, yes. I love it. Every man I met this season, I would think to myself—would I leave Blackhope to marry him? And, frankly, I did not find any for whom the answer was ‘yes.’”
Olivia smiled. “Well, I feel sure someday you will.”
“Perhaps.” Belinda shrugged.
“So you have never felt that the place was, well, the abode of ‘lost souls’?” Olivia asked teasingly.
Belinda made a face. “No. The séances are all very well, you know. I find them exciting. But I’m not sure that I actually believe Madame Valenskaya.”
“I see.”
“You don’t either, do you?” Belinda went on. “I can see it on your face, though you try to be polite about it.”
“I find it unlikely,” Olivia agreed.
“That’s good, then, because Stephen doesn’t believe it at all, and I don’t think he would court a woman who did. He would find her silly, don’t you think? Madame Valenskaya makes Stephen furious. He only lets her stay here because it means so much to Mama. I guess you know that.”
“Yes. But, Belinda, you must not think that Stephen, I mean, Lord St. Leger, is courting me.”
Belinda chuckled. “I don’t know why you try to hide it. It’s clear that Stephen is head over heels for you. I’ve seen him watching you when he thinks no one is looking.”
Olivia felt her cheeks growing warm despite the cool air. “I’m sure you must be mistaken. Lord St. Leger and I are...are...”
What were they, really? One could scarcely call what had just happened in Stephen’s study as being “merely friends.” Yet she could not believe, either, that Stephen was interested in any deep or permanent way, such as Belinda believed. Olivia was there to help him catch a fraud, that was all... Except, of course, for those kisses.
“Belinda...” Olivia said, knowing that she should not be prying like this into St. Leger’s life, especially using his young sister to do so, but she could not keep herself from asking. “Do you know anything about Lady Pamela and your brother—Stephen, I mean?”
“Oh, yes, I heard it all long ago. Not at the time it happened, of course, for I was still a child. But later, from things the servants said. Stephen’s valet knew it all, you see, better than Mama or anyone.”
“Lady Pamela told me that Stephen was a terrible flirt.”
“Stephen? Are you serious?”
“She said she fell in love with him long ago, before she met Roderick, and that he broke her heart.”
“Oh!” Belinda exclaimed, her eyes flashing. “Pamela is such a shocking liar. She wasn’t in love with Stephen. I doubt she’s ever been in love with anyone but herself. That was not what happened at all.”
“Really?” Olivia felt as if tight bands were loosening around her chest.
“Yes. It was exactly the opposite. Stephen was madly in love with her. It was when he was a young man, just out of university and living in London for the first time. He met Pamela there and fell in love with her. He wanted to marry her. Then the family came to town for the season, and of course he was proud to introduce her to them. But when she met Roderick, she decided she could land a bigger fish than Stephen, so she threw him over and went after Roderick instead. She wanted to be Lady St. Leger, you see, and she knew that Roderick was the heir. It broke Stephen’s heart. He left the country because he could not bear to see them together. It caused an enormous rift between him and Roderick.”
“Oh! My goodness, how awful.”
Belinda’s story clarified several things for Olivia. Obviously Pamela’s tale that Stephen was a cad who had toyed with her affections, then abandoned her, was untrue, something that Olivia had vaguely sensed but had been unable to understand the reasons for. Now she saw that for Pamela, portraying herself as a victim, even if it meant revealing herself to be rejected, was clearly better than admitting the truth, which revealed her to be greedy, proud and cold.
Unfortunately, the true story did not make Olivia feel much better. It was a relief to know that Stephen was not a heartless flirt. But he had loved Pamela passionately; his heart had been broken by her. It seemed all too likely that deep down, underneath the bitterness and pain, he loved her still. It would not be easy, Olivia thought, for a great passion to cool to nothing. Olivia had seen Stephen treat Pamela with a stiff formality, even coolness, but she was afraid that even that was indicative of the fact that feeling still lurked inside him for her, a feeling he knew to be foolish, even dangerous.
Whatever attraction Stephen might feel for Olivia, she knew, was bound to pale in comparison to the love he had felt for Pamela. Pamela was a great beauty, the kind of woman over whom men had once fought duels and started wars. He had loved her with all the passion and fervor of youth, and that sort of love was never forgotten. The kisses he had shared with Olivia, she knew, while they had been soul shattering for her, doubtless were mild compared to the kisses he had given Pamela. Rather than expressions of the sort of overwhelming love he had felt for Pamela, they were expressions of a cooler, more mature desire—one, moreover, that she feared was at least partially fueled by the desire he had experienced in his dream.
Even worse, Olivia suspected that Pamela wanted Stephen back. He was, after all, now the possessor of the title and fortune for which she had jilted him years earlier, but now he must seem even more appealing to her, because he had acquired an even greater fortune during the intervening years. Pamela would not have any doubts that she could rekindle the fire he had once felt for her. The only reason Olivia could see for Pamela to tell her the story she had told her was to frighten Olivia away from Stephen. Pamela, knowing that Stephen had invited Olivia to stay there, but not knowing the real reason for it, must have assumed, as Lady St. Leger and Belinda had, that Stephen had an amatory interest in Olivia. Olivia did not imagine that Pamela could think her much of a threat, but she had probably decided not to take any chances. By telling Olivia that Stephen was a hopeless flirt, a callous cad who would entice her into loving him, then break her heart, Pamela was making sure that Olivia would back away from him, leaving her a clear field.
If Pamela wanted him back, Olivia thought, how could she ever hope to compete with her? If fighting the memory of his love for Pamela would be difficult, it would be ten times worse to overcome the present reality of the woman.
“It is almost time for tea,” Belinda commented, breaking into Olivia’s painful thoughts.
Olivia nodded and smiled perfunctorily, and they began to make their way back through the garden to the house, talking of other things.
Inside they found Lady St. Leger and Madame Valenskaya in the informal sitting room on the second floor. Lady St. Leger looked up as they entered and smiled.
“Ah, there you are, dear. Madame and I saw the two of you walking down in the garden.” She gave a little shiver. “Too cool and gray for me today.”
“Ah,” Madame Valenskaya said with a chuckle and a ponderous wink at Belinda and Olivia. “To be young. Yes?”
“Oh, Mama, it hasn’t even gotten cold yet.”
“I know. But I so hate to see the summer go.” Her voice faltered a little, and she looked down hastily at her lap.
Olivia glanced with some concern at Belinda, who was watching her mother, her young face suddenly etched with sorrow. She remembered then that everyone said Roderick had died about a year ago. She had the feeling it must have been about this time of year and Lady St. Leger was thinking of sad memories.
She tried to think of something to redirect the conversation, silently cursing the fact that social chatter was not one of her skills. Fortunately, a footman carried in the tea tray at that moment and strode over to set it down on the low table in front of Lady St. Leger.
Stephen’s mother managed to muster up a smile and say, “Ah, Chilton, thank you. Doesn’t this look wonderful? Send Cook my compliments.”
Lady St. Leger took up the task of pouring the cups of tea, saying, “I don’t think we’ll wait for the others. They should be here soon. Lady Olivia? Sugar, I believe?”
“Yes, thank you.” Olivia accepted the cup gratefully and took a sip, looking over the array of cakes and breads.
Amid the clatter of forks and plates and the bits of conversation, she did not at first notice the odd sound. It was Belinda who paused, cocking her head to one side and said, “What is that noise?”
“What, dear?” Lady St. Leger looked up.
Madame Valenskaya blinked, glancing around the room, and Olivia replaced her cup in her saucer, listening.
“That funny little sound. Almost like a kitten mewling.”
“Or a person crying,” Olivia countered. She leaned forward, and the noise became a little louder.
“Oh, dear.” Lady St. Leger looked concerned. “Someone crying? But who? Where?” She turned to look around the room, frowning. “Perhaps it is one of the maids in the hall.”
Olivia put down her saucer on the table and got up to go to the doors into the hall. She looked up and down the hallway, seeing no one, and came back inside, shaking her head. “There is no one there. And I cannot hear it in the hall.”
The crying was definitely louder now. The four women were hushed, listening.
“It sounds like a child! But where is she?” Lady St. Leger said, frowning. “It sounds as if—as if she is here.”
The sobbing continued, hanging eerily on the air, disembodied and forlorn. Madame Valenskaya’s voice sounded in the hush, a low, sad whisper. “A lonely soul. She is lost...lost.”
Lady St. Leger gave a visible shiver, her face turning even paler. “It is a spirit?”
The Russian woman nodded solemnly. “The dead mourn.”
Olivia ignored the goose bumps that arose on her arms at the woman’s words. “Nonsense,” she said stoutly. “It is a person crying right here and now.”
She walked around the room and quickly realized that as she moved away from the group the noise became quieter and as she returned, it grew stronger. She stepped past the tea table and Belinda. The sound was loudest here, by the fireplace.
“The fireplace!” she cried suddenly. “It must be coming through the fireplace.”
She whirled and ran from the room.