Chapter Three
Beatrice was most decidedly not well rested. Even with the sleeping draught, she’d tossed and turned throughout the night, plagued with strange dreams and nightmares. Betsy had taken one look at the hollows under her mistress’ eyes, clucked her tongue and sighed, as if Beatrice had somehow intentionally made her job more difficult.
Entering the breakfast room, she paused mid-stride. He was there. They were alone in the room. Of course, one was never truly alone at Castle Black. There were servants hovering around every corner and behind every hidden panel or in every passageway. But still, there was no buffer between them, no Edmund to bluster or Lady Agatha to stare at him adoringly.
He rose after a heartbeat, as if just recalling that he was supposed to. “Good morning.” The greeting was stiff, his voice still gruff from sleep. Based on the dark circles beneath his eyes, he’d slept no better than she had.
“Good morning,” she answered softly as she crossed to the sideboard and began filling a plate for herself. She had no appetite, but it gave her a moment to collect her thoughts and figure how best to proceed.
When she seated herself at the table, the silence stretched taut and awkward between them. Unable to tolerate it any longer, she began, “Lord Graham—”
“Miss Beatrice—”
They’d spoken in unison, their words tripping over one another. She stopped, looked down at her plate in embarrassment, and then finally uttered, “You should go first. I’m certain you have many questions.”
“As do you,” he said. “As you should. I am a stranger here after all.”
“We shall take turns then, if you are amenable,” Beatrice offered.
He nodded his agreement. “Ladies first, then.”
“You said that you could not remember much. But how is it that your memory of Castle Black returned?”
He didn’t answer immediately, but paused to take a sip of coffee. She recognized the scent of it and recalled that Lord Nicholas had favored it above tea.
“It has not. Not fully at any rate… nearly a year back, I was on a ship, caught in a storm not unlike that which apparently sank the ship we sailed on when I was lost. I was struck by a falling beam. After lying senseless in a bed for days, I finally awoke. The missing piece, my surname and my title, had simply returned to me. There are other things I recall and more things yet that are familiar, but not everything.”
It was a more forthcoming answer than she had anticipated. “I see. I suppose it is your turn then to ask a question.”
He leveled an assessing glance at her. “What is Edmund’s place in this household and why do you fear him?”
Beatrice sipped her tea. It was a stalling tactic and no more. Finally, having fabricated a reasonable answer, she replied, “I am not afraid him. But Edmund, who is your first cousin, by the way—his father is Lord Nicholas’ younger brother—has a very forceful personality. He is quite determined to have his way in things, and I have learned that sometimes it is best to avoid being in his way.” As if realizing that she needed to offer more information, she added, “Sir Godfrey, your uncle, has been ill for some time. Gout. He has relocated to Bath where he takes the waters to ease his suffering.” And to entertain his mistresses and gamble like the profligate wastrel that he was. But that she would keep to herself.
He raised one eyebrow at her, the dark peak of it arcing up in an expression so familiar that it sent her stomach spiraling to her toes. He didn’t simply look like Graham. He used his expressions, some of his mannerisms even from childhood, had carried over into this stranger before her.
“That is a very carefully worded answer, Miss Beatrice.”
“Please, call me Beatrice. We are a very informal household,” she urged.
“Why is that?” he asked with a frown. It was an odd thing to him to have those living in a castle behaving with such laxity. “I cannot imagine that living in such grandeur would promote such a loose and free interpretation of etiquette.”
“It is not your turn to ask a question, my lord,” she said.
He conceded the point with a nod. “Very well. We will hold that one in account. Ask what you will, Beatrice.”
“I would ask for your promise that you do not mean any harm toward Lady Agatha,” she uttered, her voice trembling with emotion. “She is my family… not by blood or even by my marriage, but by virtue of the care she has shown me since I came here to live as an orphaned ward. I would not see her harmed, not for anything in this world.”
He grew so quiet that Beatrice was certain she had offended him. But when he did finally speak, his tone revealed no anger or affront. It was as kind as it had been yesterday when he spoke to Lady Agatha. “I mean her no harm, as I mean you no harm… I am here because I believe, as much as I can believe anything when my own mind has failed me, that I am Lord Blakemore. I am not here for monetary gain, but because I need to know who I am and where I belong.”
“And if your beliefs are wrong?” she asked. “What then?”
“That is two questions, Beatrice. And you owe me an answer to mine first… why are the occupants of this house so informal?”
“Because this is not simply our house. It is our world, if you will. Since Lord Nicholas’ death, we have not left the estate other than short jaunts to the village. There is no entertainment, no guests or parties. We live in a constant state of limbo, waiting for your return. Now answer me, my lord. What if you are wrong?”
“Then I will leave, as unobtrusively and with as little disruption as possible.”
Beatrice wondered if he had any inkling of just how disturbing his presence was. Not because of who he claimed to be, but simply because of all that he was. His very presence filled the room, sucking all the air out of it and making it nearly impossible to breathe. Whether it was the breadth of his shoulders or the primal way he moved and held himself, as if ready to fend off attack at any second, he was overwhelming to her.
Shoving her plate away, she rose abruptly. He did as well. “I should go and check on Lady Agatha. The events of yesterday have been shocking for her and she is somewhat frail these last months.”
“Has a doctor been fetched to care for her?” he asked.
“Yes. Her physician has seen her. He says it is her age, or simply the inherent weakness of the female form,” she sneered. She despised the man and wished fervently that Lady Agatha would seek a second opinion. Any such suggestions had been immediately vetoed by Edmund who called her the typical hysterical female. Lady Agatha had declined them as well, putting her trust in the physician who had cared for her for decades. “But alas, he has been competent enough in his care of her over the years. Perhaps your return will be good for her. It will lift her spirits and that cannot but help her physical well-being.”
Exiting the breakfast room, Beatrice reasoned that she was not running from him. It was not a retreat. It was a detente, a careful reduction in the strange tension between them that she could not—would not—name.
Perhaps, it was the distraction of the situation or, perhaps, it was the distraction of the man whose very presence seemed to disturb her on a primal level, but Beatrice failed to practice her usual caution. Normally aware of Edmund’s presence and his location in the house at all times, she’d failed to check with the maid to see if he was still abed or had gone out for the morning. As she reached the landing on the second floor, a hand snaked around her wrist and pulled her to the side. She knew she’d made a dreadful error.
“What did he say?” Edmund demanded.
“He said nothing that is of any more import than what he said last night,” she replied. “Let go of me, Edmund. You’re hurting me!”
“I’ll let go of you when I’m ready,” he snarled. “What are you plotting in that devious female mind of yours? Set him as the lost heir and take your place as the new Lady Blakemore? I never took you for a social climbing whore, Beatrice. I’m appalled.”
“As you’ve done nothing but offer to make me your whore from the very day of Lord Nicholas’ burial, it can hardly be shocking,” she snapped back. “Let me go!”
He smiled, but it was a humorless expression. It was dark and twisted. His grip on her arm tightened, twisting the tender flesh just above her elbow with a viciousness that could only be intentional. “You like his ruffian ways, don’t you? Better to be a light-skirted doxy for a dockworker than the mistress of a gentleman? Do his rough hands excite you, Beatrice?”
She shoved against his chest, managing to push him back just an inch or two and give herself space to breathe. “You’re a foul little man with a foul mind. I won’t ask again, Edmund. If you do not let me go, I will scream… and I don’t care who hears.”
Beatrice had no time to react as Edmund pressed her against the wall. She tried to scream but his mouth was on hers, his dry lips pressed against hers and his tongue probing for entrance. Fear coiled inside her and she pushed with all her might, but he would not be moved.
With limited options, Beatrice did the only thing she could in that moment. She bit him, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip with all the force she could muster.
*
Graham had left the breakfast room, his weighted conversation with Beatrice having robbed him of his appetite. Every bite after that charged exchange had been like sawdust on his tongue. As he climbed the stairs, he heard heated, angry whispers. At the top, he peered to his left and saw a couple embracing in the alcove.
He could not see her face, but he recognized the gown instantly. It was the same light, sprigged muslin that he’d seen her wearing at breakfast. Had he been wrong? Was the animosity he’d discerned between Beatrice and Edmund nothing more than a lover’s quarrel?
The bitterness he felt at that thought was surprising. But it was also fleeting. Edmund cried out, stepping back from her. His hand flew back and before Graham could reach them, the blow fell. Edmund had slapped her with enough force to rattle a grown man and he watched as she sank to her knees.
“You vicious bitch!” Edmund hissed out between clenched teeth as he grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his bleeding lip.
His hand came back again, but Graham had reached them. Catching the man’s wrist, Graham whirled him around, twisting his arm until Edmund cried out in pain.
“If you touch her again,” he warned, “I’ll break your bloody arm.”
“Take your filthy hands off me!”
Graham ignored the man as he turned his head to take stock of Beatrice’s injuries. “How badly are you hurt?”
“I’m not. Not at all. Only a bit shaken,” she said as she used the wall to support herself as she climbed to her feet once more.
It was clearly a lie. Her cheek had blazed bright red from his handprint. He could see the marks forming on her upper arm, marks that had clearly been left by a man’s hand. Perhaps it was pettiness or, perhaps, it was the desire to teach Edmund a lesson, but he adjusted his grip on the man’s wrist slightly. Graham grasped two of Edmund’s fingers, twisting them viciously. There was a slight popping sound. They weren’t broken, merely pulled out of joint, but he wouldn’t be striking anyone else for some time to come.
Edmund let out a scream, clutched his mangled fingers and fell to the floor as Graham released him.
Graham held out his hand to Beatrice. “I’ll escort you to your room and see to it that you arrive there without being further accosted.”
He could see the indecision written plainly on her face. But as she glanced at Edmund’s sniveling form, her indecision vanished. She accepted his hand and stepped over the wailing figure.
“Thank you, my lord,” she uttered.
“Graham,” he corrected. “If this is an informal household, I should follow suit. In truth, I am more used to being called only by my given name. It sufficed on its own for many years.”
She didn’t smile, but as they moved further along the corridor, she appeared less and less shaken, her confidence returning as they put distance between themselves and Edmund. “He won’t forgive this, you know,” she said softly. “He’s a small-minded, petty man. And he’ll glory in avenging what he sees as an affront to his dignity.”
They stopped, having reached her chamber door. “And what of your dignity?” he asked.
She smiled, a slight tilting of her lips that transformed her face and transfixed him. “According to Edmund, I have none… I am an adventuress living off the generosity of Lady Agatha. I should be earning my keep.”
“In his bed?” Graham asked. It was an indelicate thing to say to a young woman, but then they were in a very indelicate circumstance.
Her blush was answer enough, but she nodded anyway. “He has threatened on numerous occasions to have me tossed out… he claims that Lady Agatha is hovering near death’s door and once she is gone, I will have no other recourse but to warm his bed or someone else’s.”
Graham clenched his jaw tight. He wanted to do more than dislocate the bastard’s fingers. Forcing himself to remember the manners that he’d neglected for so many years, he refrained from cursing in front of her. “That will not happen. Whatever comes, I promise you that he will never touch you again.”
“Thank you… for that and for helping me. I don’t know—well, I do not wish to know what might have happened had you not intervened,” she said, laying one hand gently on his forearm.
Graham covered her hand with his, holding it there, marveling at the softness of her skin. “You needn’t thank me for that. I cannot abide a bully and Edmund is nothing but that.”
She cocked her head to one side. “What a strange thing for you to say.”
“Why?”
“Because, as a child, you were the very worst of bullies, to all of us,” she confessed.
“I can’t recall it,” he admitted, not gainsaying her on it. How could he? His memory was naught but fragmented images that lacked context or chronology.
“What has changed you? What has taken that bullying little boy and turned him into a champion?” she asked. Her voice was awed but, beneath that, there was a hint of suspicion. She was not entirely convinced that he was their Lost Lord. But how could she be after eighteen years? How could she be when he was not solely convinced of it himself?
“Making the acquaintance of larger and far worse bullies,” he said. While his voice remained soft spoken, there must have been something in his tone that alerted her to the truth of the matter. Her hand, still resting on his forearm, tightened, squeezing gently. That touch, simple as it was and intended only to comfort, created a new awareness. It made him yearn for something that he should not, that he could not.
He looked at her then, saw the compassion in her gaze. It was not pity he wanted from her, but something infinitely more dangerous to them both. Desire flared in him as he took in every detail of her face, the small freckles on her cheek, the perfect dip in the Cupid’s bow of her mouth. There’d been women in his life, but they’d been convenient—whores and tavern wenches who had been interchangeable. But desire for a specific woman, to want her and her alone, was something he’d never experienced before.
She must have sensed the shift in his attentions, some undercurrent that passed between them. She pulled her hand free and stepped back, breaking the thread of tension that had stretched between them.
She did not address the frisson that had just passed. But unspoken or unacknowledged, it was still very much present. Instead, she focused on his past, the parts of it he could remember. “Was it so very bad for you, Graham?”
“Not all of it,” he answered. That was as much as he intended to tell her about the viciousness of his past. The ugliness of it was too much to burden anyone else with.
She must have sensed his resolve to end the topic altogether “I think I shall remain in my room for the rest of the day. If I apply a poultice to my cheek it shouldn’t bruise or raise any questions.”
“Then I will see you tomorrow,” he stated firmly. Tomorrow and every day after, he vowed, until he was either proven to be Lord Blakemore or tossed from the castle.
*
He watched them from the shadows, hiding in one of the many priest holes that dotted the castle. He had not yet managed to map them all or even discover all of them, but he was making happy use of those he had.
There was something in the way they moved, the way their bodies appeared attuned to one another that alerted him. They would be a problem. It was evident. The would-be Lord Blakemore was too protective, too eager to play the hero for a woman he had yet to see play the part of damsel in distress.
He’d been cautious of Beatrice Marlowe and with good reason. She saw too much and was too close to Lady Agatha. The older woman doted on her and if questions were raised, he had little doubt that Lady Agatha would follow the guidance of the younger woman.
She would have to be dealt with. One way or another, he decided, as he retreated deeper into one of the many passages. There were plans to be hatched and he’d need the assistance of someone who could move freely within the castle.