Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 17

Miss Parrish, I must speak with you. Please. Great danger lurks. Walk in our field at teatime tomorrow. Leave the boy behind. I shall find you.

Smythe Our field? He must mean the place she had met him before, when Anthony and Nicky had been away. Odd, that he should send such a missive. To what danger did he refer? The tower? She had already faced that demon and emerged unscathed.

With a sigh, Emma glanced at the window. A memory of the icehouse washed over her, sending glacial talons to flay her composure. She recalled the sensations of fright and dismay, the danger, and the ugly laughter that had spun through her mind, ricocheting off the frigid walls. Though there was a possibility that Mrs. Bolifer was the culprit, Emma had never actually identified the perpetrator of that cruel jest, nor had she determined if someone truly wished her ill. Rubbing her hands against her arms, she tried to warm herself, but the chill persisted.

Could Dr. Smythe be the one who had carried out that spiteful joke, attempting to frighten her from Manorbrier? Why then would he send this curt warning? He may have tried to frighten her in order to chase her away, thus protecting her from the evil he claimed inhabited the castle. Or he may have...

Emma narrowed her eyes at the scribbled letters. Conjecture was pointless. Better to meet with Dr. Smythe and simply query as to his intent. Heavens, she barely knew the man, and here she was spinning shadowy scenarios, when there was likely a simple answer to be had.

Nicky usually had his tea a bit early, taking his riding lesson with his father while Emma shared tea with Cookie and Mrs. Bolifer. Anthony had said that Henry would oversee the lesson in his stead while he was gone, and while today's lesson had been moved to the morning, there was no reason that tomorrow's could not be had in the afternoon. Hence, finding a way to occupy her young charge while she walked would prove no great hardship.

Letting out a small huff of air, Emma made her decision. Dr. Smythe would have a companion for his afternoon promenade and, with any luck, she would have some answers.

The next day flew quickly by, and Emma found that teatime arrived before she realized it. She walked with Nicky toward the stable, listening to him chatter about the visit he had had with his grandparents. What manner of people were they? she wondered. She did know that Anthony's mother was dead, and that the woman that Nicky referred to as Grandmama was Anthony's father's second wife.

"The day we got there, Grandmama started asking me questions," Nicky said.

"Did she?" Emma murmured. "Questions about your pony?"

"No." Nicky skipped three steps forward, then turned to look at her. "She asked me if I'd like a new mother, if I wanted Papa to find a wife."

Emma gasped at the unexpected pain wrought by those simple words, the sensation twisting her heart in a viselike grip. A wife. Dear heaven.

"And while we were there, Grandmama had so many women to tea." Nicky huffed and flopped his arms, indicating just how deplorable the situation had been. "She wanted Papa to go calling, but he would not leave me and she was very cross. Grandmama said I was too little to go along, and Papa said that if I was not to go, then he would not go, for he had no interest in finding a wife."

As Nicky tossed out that comment, Emma's mood brightened a small bit.

Nicky s.n.a.t.c.hed up a large stick and lunged as though engaged in a duel, then continued his story as he charged his imaginary enemy. "Papa seemed pleased not to have to go out, and on the last day he was definitely pleased when the Misses Felicity and Prudence took their leave. They kept rubbing his sleeves and picking bits of lint from his coat, but I never saw any lint, only they kept picking it, and finally Papa asked if they would like him to simply remove the garment, and they giggled and giggled until it hurt my ears."

Closing her eyes, Emma struggled to calm her racing pulse. This she had not considered, this terrible possibility that Anthony might marry, might bring his bride here, to Manorbrier.

Nicky gave a violent war cry, and Emma's eyes snapped open once more. He looked up at her and smiled.

"Then I told Grandmama that the only new mother I would have is you."

"Oh, dear," Emma breathed.

"Yes," Nicky said, his brow furrowing. "That is exactly what Grandmama said. 'Oh, dear.' And then she said that you are most unsuitable, Miss Emma. That you are illy...illy...illy...." He let out a great huff of air. "Does that word mean you're ill?"

Uncertain whether to laugh or cry, Emma shook her head. "No, Nicky darling. The word 'illegitimate' means something else entirely."

"Oh, good. Because I would not like it if you were ill, Miss Emma." And then he threw his arms about her, burying his face in her skirt and hugging her as tightly as he could. "And I think Grandmama is wrong. You are very suitable, perfectly suitable for me."

Resting her fingers on his silky hair, Emma allowed herself one single moment to dream, to wish that this amazing child were hers to love for a lifetime. She pressed her lips together. Foolish dream for a foolish girl.

"Here is Henry," she said, gently loosing the child's embrace. "Enjoy your ride, Nicky."

"I will, Miss Emma." And with a jaunty wave he was gone, leaving Emma to ponder his words as she hurried toward the appointed meeting place with Dr. Smythe.

A cloud drifted across the sun. So Anthony's stepmother wished to see him wed. Why was she surprised? Despite the rumors that swirled about him like a fetid mist, he was a man whom many would consider an excellent match. A man of wealth and standing, with fine family connections.

Handsome. Strong. Brilliant. With hands that turned her blood to fire, and lips that- She quickened her pace. He was man who would marry a lady of his station.

And she was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d daughter of a long-dead lord.

Was that where he had gone? To some country retreat to meet a woman of his stepmother's choosing? Was it possible he had lain with her, made such wild and sweet love to her, and then followed his stepmother's behest that he find a suitable wife? Dear heaven, the thought was too terrible to be borne.

Emma shook her head, thrusting those unpleasant possibilities from her mind. He had made no promises, save one-that she could remain by Nicky's side. She had known from the outset that there was no future for them, only a present that she was determined to relish to the greatest possible degree.

"Miss Parrish, I had feared you would not come." Dr. Smythe's greeting interrupted her musings, and she jerked back in surprise, pressing one hand to her breast as she scanned the vicinity, searching for him.

He stood in the shade of the hedgerow, his face shadowed by a dark cap.

"I startled you," he observed. "I apologize."

Dropping her hand, Emma turned to face him. "You seemed most inclined to speak with me, Dr. Smythe."

Stepping from the shadows, he removed his hat and peered at her closely, concern etched in the fine lines that bracketed his mouth. "You are in good health?"

"I am, thank you." Mindful of the time, she said, "Please be brief, sir. Nicky's riding lesson will last only one hour. I must return posthaste."

"Has he followed you?" Glancing in the direction of Manorbrier, Dr. Smythe made no further move to approach her.

Emma shook her head, confused. "Nicky?" she asked, and then she understood. "If you refer to Lord Anthony, he is away from home."

"There are others in that household who could follow. His minions."

Emma blinked at his choice of words. His softly voiced observation brought to mind both the suspicion Delia had written of in her diary-that Mrs. Bolifer dogged her every step-and the troubling conversation she had overheard outside Anthony's study. You let her roam about? Why was no one with her? Emma wondered what Dr. Smythe knew that she did not, and she could not help the quick turn of her head, the questioning glance over her shoulder just in case she had, in truth, been followed.

"Ah! So my words cause you no surprise," he observed sadly, as though distressed to find that he was correct. "I had hoped you would be spared."

"Dr. Smythe," Emma said in a firm tone, determined to remain unmoved by yet another whispered warning, "please state the reason you wished to meet in this clandestine manner. I am uncomfortable with the whole of it."

"You would be even less comfortable if I did not warn you that you are in grave danger, with none about to save you. Do you know that there have been deaths at Manorbrier?" His eyes were fixed unblinkingly upon her, his expression open and earnest.

"Yes, I do know. My cousin, Delia, and her newborn daughter died there some years ago." Emma noticed that his features tightened at the mention of Delia, and she recalled from what Delia had written that the two had been acquainted. "And the governesses, as you have mentioned before."

"Your cousin knew what he was." He nodded as he spoke, a slow rocking of his head that hinted of some great insight, some secret knowledge. Smythe took a step closer, speaking in a low voice that implied confidentiality. "Not at first. But slowly, over time, she began to see what she had married. She paid for that knowledge with her life."

"You believe the rumors that my cousin was murdered?"

He studied her for a long, uncomfortable moment. "No rumor, but undiluted truth. She was most definitely murdered."

Emma gasped. "How can you be certain?"

"I am a physician. There were definite signs on the body. Bruising about her throat... And there are others who have died a painful and terrible death. An untimely death brought about by all too human malice."

Taking a step back, Emma swallowed, pressing her hand to her own throat. Though she knew of the other deaths already, something in his tone made her shiver, and a horrible feeling of dread crawled over her at his a.s.sertion that there was proof of Delia's murder.

"I am aware that two governesses died. Mrs. Winter and Miss Rust. Both dead by sad accident." A flicker of surprise tinged his expression at her statements.

"Do you dismiss them so easily?" he asked softly. "They died because of him."

Anthony. He marked Anthony as a murderer. Emma shook her head. "What is your implication, sir? That there has been foul murder perpetrated at Manorbrier castle? Go, then, to the authorities. And if there is proof of my cousin's murder, take that to them as well."

"The proof was buried with her. And what will the magistrate do without proof? He will be swayed by Craven's t.i.tle and wealth, and he will not be the first." He stepped closer still and in his eyes she read his concern. "But I fear for your safety, Miss Parrish. I offer you aid. The time may come when you find yourself in desperate straits, convinced of the danger to both body and spirit. Evil abounds, permeating the walls of Manorbrier. The Round Tower..." His voice trailed away.

"The rumors of murder are just that-rumors."

"I do admire your bravery," Dr. Smythe said solemnly. "But I yet fear for your safety. Craven is not what he seems. Beware, Miss Parrish. Beware. When your desperation eats at your heels, biting at you faster than you can flee, come to the village. I will help you escape. The child as well, if need be."

"Escape? From what?" Though the day was warm and the sun kissed her skin, Emma wrapped her arms about herself to ward off a chill that ate at her from the inside. "Do you think me a prisoner?"

"Remember, Miss Parrish. Come to me. I will help you. And Nicholas." His gaze strayed from hers, and he scanned the field behind her, his brow furrowing.

"Nicholas!" she exclaimed. "He is in no danger. Lord Anthony loves his son, would protect him at all costs-"

"Love takes many forms, and does not always offer protection." He made a soft sound of dismay. "Even now he plans-"

He stopped abruptly, his expression turning wary.

"Dr. Smythe," Emma began, intent on questioning him about the dangers he perceived, and the reason for his allusion to Nicky. What did he think Anthony planned? She found this conversation most distressing, especially so in light of Dr. Smythe's obvious sincerity. Evidently, he truly perceived great danger, believed she was at risk and, worse yet, that some harm might befall Nicky.

She sucked in a breath, and a familiar scent teased her senses. Lemon... Frowning, she leaned toward Dr. Smythe, struggling to isolate that smell.

A twig snapped behind her and Emma whirled around to find Mrs. Bolifer bearing down on her with the haste of an industrious ant. Her face bore an expression of extreme displeasure, with narrowed eyes and downturned lips, and cheeks flushed red with exertion.

Had the lemony medicinal aroma-the one that she recognized from the icehouse, and again from the housekeeper's apartment-come from Mrs. Bolifer now, carried on the breeze? Or from Dr. Smythe?

"Your jailer, Miss Parrish," Dr. Smythe said, shaking his head.

The housekeeper's unexpected arrival seemed to substantiate his claims, and Emma felt a tingle of apprehension.

Mrs. Bolifer was at her side now, huffing and heaving as though the hounds of h.e.l.l had chased her clear across the county. Her eyes narrowed as they rested on Dr. Smythe, who inclined his head and uttered a cordial greeting. Mrs. Bolifer grunted her reply.

"Time to return, Miss Parrish," the housekeeper instructed, then turned to Dr. Smythe and said in a low, hard voice, "Mind where you step, doctor. This girl is under Lord Anthony's protection." Suddenly Mrs. Bolifer seemed less like jailer and more like protective mother hen.

"Perhaps it is Lord Anthony's protection she should fear." He gestured toward the housekeeper's empty sleeve. "You are living proof of the man's handiwork."

"I am, and lucky for it. I'd not be alive today if he had not done what he must."

"One opinion, to be sure. Though some may not agree." Dr. Smythe closed his eyes for a moment, and then opened them, his expression revealing both sympathy and dismay.

A dull red flush suffused Mrs. Bolifer's cheeks, and Emma felt caught between these two, as though some knowledge was shared by both yet secreted from her.

"We should return," Emma urged, uncomfortable with the interplay between them. "Nicky will be looking for me."

After a protracted pause, Mrs. Bolifer gave a short nod. Emma could feel Dr. Smythe watching her, sense the intensity of his regard upon her retreating back. Her thoughts were a tangled skein. Mrs. Bolifer's sudden appearance seemed to lend some credence to his claims that Emma did not possess the freedom she had a.s.sumed was her due.

She shook her head. Dr. Smythe's intimation that she was a prisoner was ridiculous. As was his insinuation that Lord Anthony might do harm to his son.

Sending one last wary glance over her shoulder, Emma saw Dr. Smythe standing exactly as she had left him, shoulders tense, and at his back were the dark clouds of a gathering storm.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

The sweet embrace of Morpheus eluded Emma that night. She tossed restlessly, her legs tangling in the bedclothes, her thoughts a snarl of supposition and turbulent emotion. Anthony's face haunted her. His touch, his smell, the green-gold beauty of his eyes-all were elusive wisps held just beyond the realm of consciousness. Each time sleep began to take hold, to carry her to the world of pleasant dreams where she danced beneath the moon held in Anthony's warm embrace, images of Dr. Smythe and a recollection of his disturbing intimations intruded. There, on the threshold of slumber, she found sightless eyes staring at her from heads that floated in oversized jars filled with clear fluid. Smythe's head. Anthony's head.

Delia's head.

With those terrible images filling her thoughts, Emma finally fell into a troubled sleep.

Hours later, she woke slowly, disoriented. Some noise, some sound had pulled her from a deep slumber. She listened, her ears straining to detect the source of her unease. There was no specific cause of her disquiet, just a sensation that something was not as it had been. Pushing the coverlet aside, she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. She ran her hand along her cheek, smoothing the strands of hair that had come loose from the braid that hung down her back. The motion of her hand, the stroke of her fingers against the skin of her face brought to mind the glorious warmth of Anthony's caress.

Dropping her hand, Emma swallowed back the lump that clogged her throat, refusing to moon over him in his absence. She sniffed lightly, frowning at the elusive aroma that tantalized her. Anthony. The very air smelled like him, carried the delicious scents of sunshine and sandalwood that she had come to a.s.sociate with his presence.

Disconcerted by the wayward turn of her thoughts, Emma lit the candle on the bedside table and gasped. Nestled on the far edge of her pillow was a single white rose, the perfect petals partially unfurled. Without thought, she closed her hand around the stem and then cried out in surprise as a thorn pierced her skin. She stared at her finger where a bead of dark blood welled from the cut. Even a child recognized that the beauty of the rose hid the sharp edge of its thorns. She should have known better.

She took her handkerchief from her bedside table and pressed it to the scratch. The rose was a token from her lover. He had stood here watching her sleep. He had placed the rose on her pillow, perhaps rested his hand on her cheek. Touched her hair. She smiled at the realization that Anthony had returned a full day early. To her.

Rising, Emma hesitated, wondering where he was now, and if she should seek him out in his chamber. What exactly was the etiquette of a clandestine affair?

She crossed the room to the washstand and poured fresh water in the basin. Setting aside her bloodied handkerchief, she splashed the tepid water on her face and then raised her head and looked in the gla.s.s. Her glance strayed to the reflection of the writing desk that stood behind her. Slowly, she turned, feeling as if she inhabited a dream.

The looking gla.s.s had not lied. Piled on the small desk were books. Fully a dozen leather-bound treasures.

Forgetting entirely about her damp face, Emma scrubbed her wet hands against her nightclothes as she crossed the room. She reached out and lifted a volume from the top of the pile, tilting it to catch the light of the candle. Frankenstein by Mary Wollstonecraft Sh.e.l.ley. Emma ran her hand across the leather cover, and then opened the book with reverent care. Published 1818, she read. She stepped closer and peered at the spines of the other books, reading the t.i.tles. Melmoth the Wanderer by Charles Maturin. The Romance of the Forest by Mrs. Ann Radcliffe. Tracing the words with her index finger, Emma recalled her conversation with Anthony as they stood outside the icehouse on an afternoon that seemed an eon ago.

"Do you, by chance, enjoy the works of Mrs. Radcliffe, Miss Parrish?"

"Yes, I do, my lord."

"Pray tell me your favorite. The Mysteries of Udolpho perhaps? Or The Romance of the Forest?

He had listened to her words, and he had bought her books. Gothic novels. Her favorites. They were worth more than gems, or furs, or even...well, Emma could think of no gift that she would have preferred to these gold-stamped volumes. They were an offering from the depths of the heart, the secret chamber where Anthony guarded his emotions, holding them under lock and key. A gift from a lover who knew her heart's desire. Emma laid the book back atop the pile.

Snuffing the candle, she then crossed to the door that separated her chamber from Nicky's. Allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she peered into the room. The moon cast its light across Nicky's sleeping form. He lay on his back, one leg thrown over the covers, both arms flung wide.

He was the reason she had come here. Even before she had known him, before she had come to love him, she had been determined to make a difference in his life, to show this child the love and support that she herself had known from her mother before her tragic demise.