Chapter Four
Beatrice had been true to her word and had remained in her room for the remainder of the day. Graham was certain of that as he’d spent the better part of the day vying for glimpses of her. Whether it was the kindness and compassion he sensed in her, the soft and gentle prettiness of her countenance that, on further acquaintance, blossomed into true beauty, he could not say. It could also have been something much more primal, those moments alone in the corridor with her, tormented him. There was a connection between them, something that existed even beyond his stymied memories. Even without the layers of intimacy of years of acquaintance, he knew her through to the bone. He found himself longing for her presence. It was an unexpected though not entirely unwelcome complication.
It had been his distraction at mooning over her that had led to the disaster that had occurred as he was dressing for dinner. He was cautious always to keep his scars hidden, to conceal the crisscrossing welts of raised flesh that marked his back. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the door open until the maid who’d entered had gasped in horror.
He’d barked at the girl and she’d vanished immediately, no doubt to carry the tale below stairs for everyone else. Would Beatrice learn of it? Would it repulse her? Those were his real concerns and that, in and of itself, highlighted for him just what a distraction she was.
As he entered the drawing room, Edmund was already badgering Lady Agatha terribly. Christopher, his younger brother whom he had yet to even speak with, was seated in the corner. Sprawled inelegantly in a chair with his hand draped over his eyes, the boy looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Given Edmund’s sharp tone and repetitive arguments, it was an easy sentiment to understand.
“That is enough,” Graham said softly.
Lady Agatha smiled up at him. She was clearly tired, with dark hollows beneath her dark eyes and a pallor to her skin that was deeply concerning.
“You are not yet Lord of Castle Black,” Edmund snapped. “Lady Agatha may have swallowed your far-fetched tale as easily as a child with a sweet, but not me. Not Christopher!”
“Leave me out of it,” the boy said sharply. “I want no part of any of it!”
“She is clearly tired. Your badgering will not sway her mind but it could very well endanger her health,” Graham insisted. “You’ve sent word to your investigator, have you not? Let him investigate and leave her be!”
Edmund sneered at him. “How heroic… playing the concerned son with such ease. Fine. Have it your way. We will wait until we hear back from Eaves about your tale of being rescued by sailors.”
“I’d happily supply you with the name of the captain and the ship,” Graham offered. He had nothing to hide. Yes, it was possible that he was not Lord Blakemore, but he had not been dishonest in his presentation of that. He believed himself to be, the evidence pointed toward it. But given his disjointed memory, there was little he could offer to support his claim.
Edmund turned away from Lady Agatha and crossed toward the windows. Pulling back the curtains with his uninjured hand, he stared out into the growing darkness. From the castle’s perch atop the cliff, the sea was visible just beyond the edge of it, stretching out endlessly until it met the graying horizon.
As Graham watched him, the other man pulled his injured hand to his chest. Edmund glared at him. Graham’s only response was a raised eyebrow. Had Edmund’s hands not been where they did not belong, there would have been no need to do him injury.
Eloise, Edmund’s wife who had thus far been a benign presence, rose from the settee and strolled toward her husband with a casual grace that put him on edge. She smiled like a cat that had made off with the cream, Graham thought. The sly glance she cast in his direction as she rose to her toes and leaned in to whisper in her husband’s ear had Graham tensing in anticipation of what was to come.
When the exchange was finished, Edmund smiled victoriously and offered gleefully, “Perhaps there is a way you can prove your identity without the utilization of Mr. Eaves’ services.”
Whatever it was would no doubt require humiliating himself, Graham thought. “And what is that, Cousin?” The last had been tacked on simply to add affront. He wanted to needle the smug bastard. It goaded Edmund to have that kinship tossed in his face. Petty though it might be, Graham couldn’t resist that small triumph.
“The mark, of course,” Edmund stated, the very picture of smug superiority. “All Blakemore’s have it, do they not, Lady Agatha? Graham bore the mark upon his shoulder at birth!”
Graham tensed. The maid had clearly been quite quick with her gossip for it to have already reached Eloise and, subsequently, her husband. Had the information been coerced or been offered freely as a means of currying favor? Had the maid’s entrance into his chamber been accidental at all or had she been sent there for the purpose of gaining information? He felt paranoid just thinking such thoughts and, yet, he did not put such spying or underhanded tactics past either one of them. But he would not be put on display for them.
“I am not undressing in the drawing room for your viewing,” Graham replied smoothly without acknowledging either the presence or absence of the mark. If it had ever been there, he could not recall it. But knowing the current state of his flesh, marked by layer upon layer of scars from all the floggings he’d endured, there was little doubt it would be impossible to discern now.
“Then for Lady Agatha. Surely you have no shame in providing the woman you claim to be your mother absolute proof of your identity,” Eloise suggested with a coy smile as she placed her hand atop her husband’s arm with regal ease. There was something in the way she moved, in the surety of her manner that put him on edge. What else did she know?
Seeing no way around it, Graham simply offered the truth. “My back is scarred. If such a mark existed, it is no longer visible on my skin.”
“Scarred?” Lady Agatha asked.
“Flogged were you? Like a common criminal?” Edmund asked. Beside him, Eloise’s smug smile stretched even wider.
Taking in the interplay that existed between Edmund and his wife, Graham saw immediately which of the two was the more dangerous. Edmund was a blowhard and perhaps even a fool, but there was something about Eloise that made him wonder just how far she would go to get what she wanted.
“Yes,” Graham stated, without offering explanation. The details of it were not for the consumption of others.
“How convenient that the only identifying mark upon your person has been lost to the wages of your sins,” Eloise surmised. “Without such proof, I cannot imagine that anyone would ever be able to fully accept your claim to the title. I imagine that, given your lack of memory, the absence of the mark, and your general lack of genteel manners, anyone would be hard pressed to ever believe you to be the son of a gentleman!”
Graham didn’t reply as he did not feel a response was required. They were enjoying their moment of glory and as he lacked any evidence to refute what they’d said, arguing for arguments sake seemed a waste of both time and energy.
“And what offense were you flogged for?” Edmund continued. “I could probably hazard a guess, but I find that it would be more meaningful coming from your own admission. That is the common punishment for thievery is not?”
“I will not be interrogated by you, Edmund. You and your wife may both go the devil,” Graham stated firmly.
“But surely Lady Agatha has the right to know?” Eloise said. “Surely the kindly sea captain who took you in would have offered guidance that would keep you from such a dire fate? Don’t you wish to know, Lady Agatha?”
Lady Agatha’s face had paled considerably and she placed her hand to her heart as if it pained her. “Graham, I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable. But I fear if these questions are not answered then things will only grow worse! Can you not tell them just to appease them and see an end to it?”
Graham stared at her for a moment. There was no doubt in her gaze. Lady Agatha believed him to be her son without question. But she was not in any condition to tolerate the constant barrage of accusations and innuendos from Eloise and Edmund. Steeling himself against it and swallowing more of his pride than he cared to acknowledge, Graham uttered a simple answer.
“Theft.” He offered no defense of himself but dropped the word like a stone into a pond. Ripples of tension arced outward, encompassing the entire room.
“How intriguing. Should we count the silver now or wait until after dinner?” Eloise asked with a laugh.
“Being flogged for something does not make you guilty of it,” Graham replied. “Just as not being punished for crimes does not negate their existence. I very much doubt you are without sin, Mrs. Blakemore. And as for you, Edmund, we both know your sins, do we not?”
Edmund smirked. “I have been entrusted with the running of this estate since Lord Blakemore passed. I have every right to question your motives, sir. To that end, you will provide an explanation as to why you were punished so viciously, and more than once, for a crime you claim not to have committed.”
Giving in to their demands for answers infuriated him. He had no shame in the marks he bore. But what others inferred by their presence was something else altogether.
“As a cabin boy, I was the least necessary member of the crew. When we’d go to shore, and other members of the crew had scuffles with the law, I’d be offered up to take their punishment for them.”
Lady Agatha gasped and covered her mouth with her hands as her eyes filled with tears.
“And yet you kept going to shore with them?” Edmund asked. “One has to wonder about your degree of intelligence given that you knew what would happen.”
“One has to wonder at your degree of intelligence that you think I was given any choice in the matter,” Graham snapped back at him. “I had my reasons for keeping those things to myself. Primarily that I knew how upsetting Lady Agatha would find them. But as you’ve insisted we drag out all the ugliness into the drawing room, shall we address your unwanted advances toward Beatrice?”
Edmund blanched but Eloise was at the ready. “Beatrice has been flirting with Edmund for years, being nothing more than a little tease. And while I cannot condone his infidelity, given her very forward behavior, it is little wonder that he strayed.”
“You have nothing more than a passing acquaintance with the truth, do you, Madam?” Graham demanded. The pair of them was infuriating.
*
“Oh, Miss! You must come at once,” Betsy exclaimed as she dashed into Beatrice’s room.
“I cannot possibly go downstairs like this,” Beatrice insisted as she gestured toward the dark bruise that had formed on her cheek. Despite her best efforts, there would be no concealing it. Edmund had well and truly left his mark.
“You don’t have a choice, Miss! Mr. Blakemore is demanding that his lordship reveal his back to them to see if he bears the Blakemore birthmark!”
Beatrice would not even consider going downstairs for that. If Graham were removing any articles of clothing, she needed to remain as far from that room as possible. “So let him. It would be a quick end to all of Edmund’s games.”
“His back is marked, Miss Beatrice, but not from birth… one of the maids saw it when she took in fresh towels to his lordship just before dinner. His back is covered in thick scars—most likely from flogging. All the servants are carrying on about it below stairs… wondering the hows and whys!”
Reluctantly, Beatrice rose from her bed. She was not dressed for dinner but still wore the same gown she’d had on that morning. Her hair was mussed from lying in bed, but there was no time to fix it. “They’re in the drawing room then?”
“Yes, Miss,” Betsy answered.
Leaving her room, Beatrice’s heart was racing. She couldn’t imagine what was going on below stairs, but she knew beyond a doubt that Edmund had been informed of the scars marring Graham’s back. He never would have risked asking to see the mark if he was not utterly certain it was no longer present.
As she neared the drawing room, she could hear raised voices. Saying a quick prayer, she opened the door and stepped into chaos. Edmund was screeching, demanding that Graham be thrown from the house. Graham was shouting that Edmund should do it himself if he were man enough. Christopher had left. Eloise was perched on a chair, bright-eyed and smiling, watching the scene unfold as if it were a play at Drury Lane. The servants were all gathered in the hall staring at the door with trepidation. And Lady Agatha was on the settee, her face pale and wan, clearly beside herself at the commotion.
“Enough!” Beatrice shouted. “Stop it this instant! Both of you!”
Whether it was the shock at being called down like misbehaving boys or embarrassment at their actions, they both fell silent. Graham’s gaze turned to her and then to Lady Agatha. His jaw tightened and his lips firmed into a thin, hard line.
“Forgive me, my lady,” he said. “It was not my intent to upset you further.”
“All this fighting!” Agatha cried. “I simply cannot tolerate it. It’s too distressing by far. Surely, Graham, there is some way for you to prove it and end all of this fuss?”
“I know of none other than to let the investigator dig up whatever information he may. The birthmark is indistinguishable now,” he answered softly. “If you like, I will leave. I can stay at the inn in the village until the necessary information has been gathered!”
“Yes! That is precisely what you should do!” Edmund shouted with triumph. “Get him out of this house.”
“No,” Lady Agatha said, weeping softly. “I will not see you lost to me again when you have only just returned.”
“There is another mark,” Beatrice said. She couldn’t stand to see Lady Agatha so overset. But there were other reasons. Graham’s presence offered her a measure of safety from Edmund’s advances and, yet, if she were completely honest with herself, she could admit that was not her only reason. She was inexplicably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame. His presence, regardless of Edmund’s advances, made her feel safe and secure.
“What?” Edmund and Eloise asked the question in unison. Their stunned expressions might have been comical had there not been so much at stake.
“We were learning to use bows,” Beatrice reminded Lady Agatha, doing her best to ignore the avaricious couple. “Graham insisted that he knew what he was doing and did not require assistance. He wound up slicing his forearm with the bow string. The cut was very deep.”
Agatha clapped her hand to her mouth. “Oh, how could I have forgotten? You were such a little thing then. Nicholas and I even argued about it because I said you were too young to play with such dangerous things. He laughed at me and said that you had to start young to learn the skill well.”
“Which arm?” Edmund demanded and his tone was much less supercilious than it had been. Eloise, too, had lost her smugness. Still seated in the chair, her spine had grown stiff and she appeared tensed and ready.
“The left,” Beatrice answered, even as she uttered a silent prayer. It was an old injury—perhaps no scar remained or perhaps he wasn’t Graham at all.
She couldn’t take her eyes from Graham as he shrugged out of his coat. It was not the kind of garment fashioned for a gentleman, so tight that it required a servant to don and doff. It was the jacket of a sailor or a laborer, loose enough in the arms and the shoulders to allow free range of movement.
When it was gone, and he wore only his shirtsleeves and a plain, serviceable waistcoat that molded to his broad shoulders and the flat, hard surface of his chest, she felt her breath catch. It was not an intimate thing. He was, by no means, the first man she’d ever seen in his shirtsleeves, but he did not have the physique of a gentleman. He reminded her very much of the bare-knuckled fighters she’d seen at a fair once near the village. Heavy muscles and lean hips, it was disconcerting to say the least.
She stood back as he grasped the sleeve of his shirt and tugged it upward to reveal his arm. His skin was bronzed even beneath his shirt. The crisp, dark hair on his forearm fascinated her far more than was good for her. Then he turned his hand palm up and revealed the paler skin on the inside of his forearm.
A thin white line bisected the flesh, just a few inches above his wrist. Beatrice released a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding. Her doubts had been far greater than she’d realized—doubt that he was who he claimed to be, doubt that, after so many years, such a minor injury would still mar his flesh, doubt that shoring up his claim and allowing him to remain inside the walls of Castle Black was a wise decision for her. So many doubts.
Agatha reached for him, clasping his hand and pressing a soft kiss to it. “I never doubted you. Not once. If you’ve further doubts, Edmund,” she said, directing the full force of her ire to her nephew, “you will keep them to yourself or you and your vicious harpy of a wife will leave Castle Black and never return. Is that understood?”
Chastened but hardly defeated, Edmund gave a curt nod before sweeping from the room. Eloise followed at his heels, pausing only long enough to toss a glacial glare over her should at Beatrice. It was not the first time they had disagreed, Beatrice thought bitterly. It would hardly be the last. Edmund had his own agenda, but it would not be the same for Eloise. While they were civil for the most part, the two were not a couple wildly in love, certainly not enough to be partners in crime. Whatever was occurring, they might have a common goal, but their reasons for wishing to attain it would be vastly different.
“You should rest,” Beatrice said. “I know it is time for dinner to be served, but I think a tray in your room would be for the best, Lady Agatha. All this is simply too much for you. It’s too much for anyone.”
The older woman nodded and rose stiffly. “You’re so very right, my dear… my goodness what happened to your cheek?”
Beatrice lowered her lashes. “I fell, Lady Agatha. Tripped over air as I am wont to do.”
“You are a clumsy thing at times, my child. Do be cautious!”
“Yes, ma’am. I will. Would you like me to escort you to your room?” she asked. She wanted Agatha to say yes. She wanted to not be left alone with Graham. She still felt too shaken by the tension she’d sensed between them earlier. He elicited feelings inside her that she could not name and that she was far too wise to indulge.
“No, my dear. You stay and have dinner with Graham… I don’t want him alone. His welcome here has been shoddy enough already. But I am so very tired.”
Beatrice nodded. “Of course. I will come check on you before I retire.”
Lady Agatha patted her unmarked cheek and then tenderly pressed a kiss to Graham’s. “My son is returned to me. If my body were not so cursedly frail these days I would shout my joy from the battlements.”
“There will be time enough for that when you are rested,” Graham teased her gently.
Lady Agatha lifted her cheek and he dutifully kissed it, though such a tender gesture seemed out of character for him. When Lady Agatha had gone, he turned to Beatrice and said, “Thank you for that. For helping me with them.”
“You are welcome, of course, though I did nothing but offer the truth,” she answered, uncomfortable with his praise.
“I fear they are more concerned with how my presence affects them than with my actual identity.” He paused then, idly picking up a figurine from the table and examining it. “The maid was very quick to provide that information to Mrs. Blakemore and she, in turn, was eager to offer it to her husband. Am I so distrusted by everyone then?”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, that is certainly not the way of it, my lord. The servants cannot abide Eloise. She is impossibly demanding and they would never do anything to assist her… as for assisting Edmund, his skinflint ways have resulted in many trusted servants departing Castle Black for greener pastures.”
His frown deepened, harsh lines bracketing a mouth that, were it not for his fierce expression, might have been called too pretty. “Then how did she learn of my scars? She whispered to Edmund and, immediately after, he demanded that I reveal the birthmark which they both clearly believed was not present. How did she know?”
It was Beatrice’s turn to frown. “I cannot say. But it is incredibly odd and certainly bears further looking into.”
He replaced the figurine. “Shall we go into dinner then? Just the two of us?”
Beatrice could only classify her reaction as panic. It would be a horrible mistake to spend more time in his company, to feed her growing fascination with him. “I can’t stay here with you.”
“It’s only for dinner. We will be well chaperoned by the four hundred servants lurking about,” he protested.
“Servants are never an adequate chaperone… and it isn’t wise for us to be so much in one another’s company,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Because I’m a rough-mannered sailor and you are a lady?” he asked. There was a curtness to his tone. She had wounded his pride.
“No,” Beatrice replied. “Because I should treat you as a sister would. That is what we were as children, growing up here like siblings. But that is not how I feel now, and when you look at me—” She stopped, too embarrassed to continue.
“When I look at you?” he prompted.
Beatrice shook her head and walked away from him, moving toward the window to put distance between them. He followed and she realized that she had known he would. It was not in his nature to give up the pursuit.
“When I look at you,” he said softly as he lifted a lock of her hair that had escaped from its pins. He rubbed it between his fingers in a way that made her want to lean into him, to let him touch any part of her he wished if only he would do so with that gentle intensity.
“It is not brotherly,” he continued, his voice pitched low and deep. There was a gruffness to it she had not heard before but it didn’t frighten her. It awakened something inside her, something wanton and wicked. “We are not siblings. We are little more than strangers and, yet, every part of me screams that should be rectified.”
“And that is why we should stay far from one another, my lord. You are Lord Blakemore. It is your duty to marry well—to secure an heiress and ensure the family coffers are plump for generations to come. I am not an heiress. Were it not for the charity of your family, heaven knows where I’d be today.”
“And that is where you think my mind has gone? To marriage?” he demanded.
Beatrice blushed. “No. I do not think it has. And therein lies the crux of the matter. I may be a penniless ward of your family, I may not have anything that belongs solely to me in this world, but I have my honor and I mean to keep it. So you keep your distance, Lord Blakemore, and I will keep mine.”
*
It would shock her to know that marriage had crossed his mind, that it had been tumbling about in the recesses of his brain from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her. But he couldn’t say that to her. He would not offer her something that he was not yet free to give. When his identity was thoroughly proven, when the House of Lords dismissed Edmund’s claims for surely he would bring formal suit there to have him declared an imposter and the real Lord Graham Blakemore dead, only then could he offer her more.
Even as he conceded in his mind that she was completely right, that distance between them was the wisest course of action, he found himself reaching for her. One of his hands snaked around her wrist and pulled her closer to him. There was a second of resistance, a slight hesitation, and then she let him have his way.
They were close, their breaths mingling and their lips scant inches apart.
“I don’t care who I am supposed to marry or why. When I marry, it will be because I have chosen to do so and because the woman I make my bride is one I cannot live without,” he vowed softly. “But right now, I think I cannot live another moment without kissing you. I want to kiss you, Beatrice, very badly.”
“And I want to be kissed,” she whispered in reply. “But it isn’t wise.”
“Then wisdom be damned,” he muttered, before claiming her lips.
The taste of her was sweeter than he’d anticipated. Her skin was like velvet against his and her lips were so soft that it could only make him think how soft she would be elsewhere. The delights concealed by her modest gown called to him, but she was not some dockside tavern wench to be tumbled for a coin.
But lady or no, Beatrice was not immune to desire. As his lips moved over hers, testing every curve, mapping the lush contours and memorizing the satiny texture, she began to kiss him back. Shy and untutored, it incited his lust more than any woman ever had.
Lifting one hand to her slightly mussed hair, he let the silken strands slide through his fingers. Without warning, he tightened his fist. Not pulling her hair, but holding her there with firm, commanding pressure. She gasped, and it was the opportunity he had been waiting for.
Sweeping his tongue into the warm recesses of her mouth, tangling it against hers, he felt the precise moment when all resistance fled. She sank against him, her body lax and warm. The crush of her breasts against his chest was sensual torment and, yet, he would not sacrifice that torture for anything. It was a victory and he would claim it as such.
He kissed her thoroughly. It was not the way a man should kiss a woman who was still innocent. He kissed her as he would have a skilled and experienced lover, until they were both breathless and shuddering, clinging to one another.
It was the dinner gong that brought him to his senses. Abruptly, Graham pulled his lips from hers. Her face was flushed, lips parted and swollen, and her eyes were glazed by passion.
“Do not stay for dinner… ask for a tray in your room and, for God’s sake, stay far away from me until I can trust what little decency I have in me not just to take you here,” he implored, his voice roughened by need and his words harsher than necessary.
She straightened abruptly, pulling away from him in shock and horror at what had nearly passed between them. There were no words, but none were needed. Her fleeing form was all the confirmation he needed to be certain that she had been as lost to the moment as he had been.
*
It was after midnight when she came to him, when the rest of the house had finally succumbed to sleep. She slipped into the room he had claimed for his own. Her expression was contrite.
“It didn’t work,” she said. “Because of Beatrice. She ruined everything.”
Fury washed through him, but he tamped it down. It was not her fault and he would not punish her for the failing, not out of any sense of fairness but because he recognized the need to never let her be certain of his reactions. It was the most effective way to control her. “Do not worry, my darling. I will take care of Beatrice. Our plans will go forward.”
She ran to him then, pressing herself against him. The heaviness of her breasts against his side stirred his lust. “I was so afraid you would be angry with me,” she admitted, her voice nearly childlike.
“My dear, Eloise, I have never had a more worthy and willing ally. Why would I be angry? You could not have known that Beatrice would rush to his rescue or that she would provide such information.”
She drew back from him. “You knew! You heard the entire thing!”
“I did hear it… and I saw it. I also saw them together afterward. Your Beatrice is not nearly as innocent as she claims. Innocents do not allow filthy pirates to kiss them as eagerly as she did!”
Her eyes widened. “Oh! Did they do more than kiss?”
“No, more’s the pity,” he answered. “It would have been quite entertaining to watch them… the lady and her rough-hewn lover. Is she a virgin, do you think? Or has your husband succeeded in ravishing the poor, little, orphaned ward?”
Eloise pushed against him. “Why does it matter? Why on earth would you be so interested in her?”
A jealous, spitting cat, he thought. One hand snaked out, gripping her slender throat. “Because I am. You forget yourself, Eloise.”
“I am sorry,” she gasped, struggling to break his hold and failing. “You’re hurting me!”
He squeezed tighter for just one moment longer, until he could see true fear in her eyes. Only then did he let go. She stumbled backward and stared up at him with a mixture of fear and desire. That was true power, that he could abuse her so and yet still she craved him, he thought. “Remember that. I have the power and the ability to break you if I choose. That I have offered to let you be part of what I mean to achieve here should be all the reassurance you need of my affections!”
She nodded her agreement, rubbing her tender throat and the handprint he had left behind. “What shall we do next?”
“I think it’s time for Beatrice to have an accident. We cannot afford for her to continue muddying the waters… you will alert me if she leaves the castle.”
“Why not here? She could fall down the stairs easily enough,” Eloise suggested.
“And if she does not perish immediately and there are people to rush to her aid? No. It’s better away from here… isolated, where assistance will not be available. Stay close to her and keep me informed.”
Again, she nodded her assent. “Certainly.”
“Now, get on the bed,” he urged softly, “and I will give you what you came here for.”
He saw her hesitate, but it was brief. As always, she complied. Eloise craved attention more than she craved anything else. It didn’t much matter whether it came in the form of pain or pleasure, which only made her easier to manipulate to his own ends.