Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 19

'Twas likely a hoax.

Emma returned the pamphlet to the table and turned to leave. Her heart stuttered and stopped, for there, standing in the hallway, was Anthony, in his most disheveled glory. His dark hair was still damp from his morning ablutions, and the sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled back in defiance of decorum, revealing strong forearms etched with veins. He watched her warily, eyes narrowed, and she could not help but recall how only days past he had gazed at her with heat and need, how he had wrapped those strong arms about her body in a pa.s.sionate embrace.

He had come upon her with silent tread, unannounced. With a frown, she glanced at his booted feet, wondering if he could have been the one in the portrait gallery last night, the one who had defaced Delia's portrait. But to what end? If he had wanted it gone, he had only to take it from the wall and store the thing in the attic. Or burn it, as he had instructed her to do with Delia's gown.

She opened her mouth to speak, but he looked away and with a start she realized that Meg stood on the other side of the open door. The maid's eyes were wide and anxious, and she wrung her hands nervously over her distended belly before bobbing an awkward curtsy.

"You have the look of a woman with something important on her mind, Meg," Anthony said, his tone kind.

"Yes, my lord." Again she bobbed a curtsy, her expression revealing a mixture of adoration and trepidation.

He sighed and said gently, "I could well become dizzy if you persist in bobbing up and down like a cork. What is it you wish to say, Meg?"

There she went again, down and up in another curtsy. She wobbled unsteadily as she straightened and Emma sucked in a breath in a nervous rush. Anthony moved as if to steady the girl, but at the last moment Meg righted herself, and Emma exhaled softly in relief. She had imagined Meg keeling over forward, the great weight of her belly dragging her to the ground.

"Would you like to sit for a moment?" Anthony asked.

Meg grimaced, pressing one hand to the small of her back, and Emma felt a surge of sympathy. She looked positively worn out.

"I can't sit and I can't stand. In the morning I fair need to be winched out of my bed," Meg said, and then fell silent, turning her gaze to Emma, then away. She studied the carpet with inordinate interest.

"Out with it, Meg." At Anthony's firmly voiced command, she jumped, and began to speak in a rush, as if his words had opened a spigot.

"I know you're a doctor. I know you don't physic anyone, but I know you know how. I heard other things, too, about how you're a mur-" Meg stopped abruptly and swallowed convulsively before continuing. She raised her head to look at him as he stood above her, and her huge blue eyes shimmered with a desperate plea. "I don't care what I heard. You've only ever been kind to me. I want you to be there when my time comes. My lying in. I want to know that you'll help me. I'm afraid and I don't want him-"

Meg shook her head, obviously unable to continue, and dropped her gaze back to the floor.

"I know you know how," she said softly. "Please."

"Meg," Anthony's voice was gentle, but Emma heard something else in his tone, a dark undercurrent that she could not name. "Meg," he said again, "you know not what you ask."

"I know I ask for help. A chance for life and the life of my babe. I've been having dreams, terrible dreams, of pain, and blood and darkness. Sally Firth died of childbed fever just last week. Despite that he was there. The doctor, I mean. Now her husband has three little ones and no wife. And the way she died..." She paused. "I don't want to die, and especially not like that, fevered and ranting and taking so long to go. And though I didn't ask for this babe, didn't ask for what was done to me, I want the child to live. It's an innocent, with no crime on its head. You can help me."

Anthony laughed, a harsh sound laden with pain that made Emma's heart twist. He was suffering, and despite all her qualms and fears and distress, she could not stop herself from suffering with him. She wondered what it was about Meg's simple request that caused him such anguish.

"You think that I will save you?" he asked bitterly. "You could not be more wrong, Meg. The last woman I attended died, and her babe with her. You know that."

Emma gasped, certain he spoke of Delia, so bleak was his tone, so laden with self-contempt. "But I thought she died in a fall-" she blurted.

Anthony shot her a sharp glance, then scrubbed one hand over his face, and when he spoke his voice sounded infinitely tired. "Go home, Meg. You are too far along to see to the heavy ch.o.r.es."

"Oh, my lord, never say it," Meg cried, her face twisting in distress. "No. Please. I am desperate for the coin. I can-"

"I shall pay you your regular wage regardless," he said gruffly, cutting her off. "Send your sister in your stead and I will pay her, as well." He paused for a long moment. "And when the time comes, have your sister come to fetch Mrs. Bolifer. Not the doctor. Do you understand, Meg? Mrs. Bolifer. She will ensure your safety and that of the child."

"Oh..." She hesitated, seemingly intent on saying something more, her hands twisting nervously in her ap.r.o.n.

Anthony gave her no encouragement, merely watched her through narrowed eyes, never looking at Emma, though she wished he would. His generosity to Meg, his offer to pay her wages though she could not work, was astonishing.

At last, the maid spoke. "Yes. I understand." And after yet another laborious and unsteady curtsy, she turned and lumbered away.

"You turned her down." Emma stood in the doorway, every sense focused on Anthony.

"'Tis for the best," he said, and then stepped forward, his gaze roaming her face. "She asked for my help, asked me to deliver her babe, because she thought my presence would keep her safe." He threw back his head and laughed, a hard, ugly sound that bore no relationship to mirth. "Like as not my ministrations would kill her."

"Stop it," Emma whispered. "Stop this now. You wallow in your memories and you deny that girl your help."

"Do I disappoint you, Emma mine? I warned you that I would."

Her breath caught at his use of such tender endearment, and, too, at his implication that she had expected something unrealistic from him. Had she built a fantasy? Had she?

Steeling herself against the urge to step closer, to rest her cheek against the strong expanse of his chest, she forced herself to meet his gaze.

It was Anthony who looked away. "She should sooner ask the devil to guard heaven's gates than ask me to guard her life."

And then he strode from the study, leaving her feeling confused, bereft, alone. He had not trusted her with an explanation, and she had not trusted herself to ask.

The following morning, Emma felt as though her entire body was bruised. She'd pa.s.sed the night on Nicky's floor, unwilling to leave him. Now, she dragged her feet as she descended to the breakfast room, knowing that she could not postpone facing Anthony and questioning him about what she had seen the night he had come to Nicky's room. Each pa.s.sing hour had lent her a calmer perspective, and she realized that she should have confronted him long before this, either that night, or the following day when she had spoken to him in his library. Meg's presence had precluded such a conversation and, later, Emma had found that she had lost her nerve. She was a coward, fearing whatever terrible explanation he might give when, in truth, her imagination was likely painting a grimmer picture than the reality would yield.

But there was more to her reticence. She was so confused, her heart yearning for him, her body aching for his touch, her mind distressed by the terrible tableau branded in her thoughts-Anthony standing over Nicky, knife in hand.

Do I disappoint you, Emma mine? I warned you that I would. Had she expected him to disappoint her, as her father had disappointed her mother?

Emma shook her head. She wanted him to come to her, to trust her, to share with her the truth of whatever he had been about.

"Here we are, Nicky," Emma said, looking up to find that Griggs barred the breakfast room, his ma.s.sive bulk filling the doorway, preventing her from entering.

"Master wants to dine alone with the boy," he said gruffly. His scarred face was creased in a concerned frown. "You are to dine with the others in the kitchen, miss."

Emma glanced at Nicky, who sent her a jaunty grin and ducked around Griggs's ma.s.sive legs, unconcerned about this change in plan. And why should he be? He treasured the time he spent with his father.

"I found a mouse in the stable, Papa." Nicky's voice drifted into the hallway. "Mrs. Bolifer told me not to go near it, but I took a bit of cheese with me when I went riding last week, and I left it in the corner of the far stall. I'll have to check to see if the little fellow got my gift."

Despite herself, Emma felt a smile tug at the corner of her mouth. She wondered what the stable master thought of Nicky's munificence.

With a slow nod at Griggs, Emma turned away. Still, with the issue unresolved and the memory of Anthony standing in the darkness, knife in hand, she was loath to leave the child alone. Foolish, really. He had been alone with his father for more than six years before her arrival. And the naked truth was that despite what she had witnessed, she believed some rational reasoning lay at the root of all she had seen. She was not certain if that was willful blindness or calm rationality, or perhaps a contagion of lunacy that pervaded these walls, but she believed that Anthony could calm her fears should he so choose, could provide an explanation that would eradicate all her doubts and suspicions.

As she made her way along the hall, she heard the low murmur of Anthony's reply to Nicky. To her consternation just the sound of his voice made her heart kick against her ribs and her breath quicken. Dear heaven, she knew not what he was capable of, and her treacherous heart did not seem to care.

Oh, but you do know what he is not capable of, a voice whispered from the depths of her soul. He is not capable of murder. And he is not capable of doing harm to his son.

Emma shook her head and hurried along the hallway, suddenly glad for this reprieve. Her initial surprise at Griggs's edict quickly gave way to the realization that this plan was likely for the best. Anthony was protecting his son. Better for them to speak alone later in the day than to confront each other now, with Nicky's big ears taking in every word of their exchange.

The kitchen was redolent with the scent of fresh-baked scones. As Emma took her seat at the wooden table where Cookie had put out the breakfast, she noticed that a place had already been set for her. So the others knew that she had been banished from the breakfast room. She wondered what else they had been told.

Though she had little appet.i.te, Emma poured herself a cup of tea from the pot and helped herself to a scone.

"We were so glad when you came here, love," Cookie said softly.

The unexpected statement made Emma glance up in surprise as Mrs. Bolifer grunted noncommittally.

"All the ones before, the other governesses, I mean, they didn't love Nicky. Oh, some of them, the early ones, liked him well enough, but he wasn't special to them. Each child deserves to be special, don't you think?" Cookie asked, watching her earnestly.

Emma stared at Cookie, her heart constricting in her breast, for the cook put into words the deepest emotions of Emma's heart. Every child, no matter what his or her beginnings, had a right to be loved.

Even illegitimate children. Like her.

"Nicky is special," Emma replied.

"And every child should be loved, should be with their rightful and true and loving parent," Cookie pressed.

Emma frowned, wondering at the vehemence in the normally placid cook's tone.

"Yes. Of course," she said, then hesitated. Cookie seemed odd this morning. Perhaps it was because she had opened the forbidden subject of Nicky's previous governesses. After a brief moment, Emma asked the question that had occupied her thoughts on more than one occasion. Now, more than ever, she needed an answer, needed to understand how Anthony could have allowed such terrible women to tend his son, so many women who had been anything but loving. "Why were there so many governesses, Cookie?"

Mrs. Bolifer rose abruptly and began to clear the remains of the meal. She gave Cookie a thunderous look, but held her tongue.

The cook shrugged. "In the beginning, Lord Anthony hired one from the best agency. She was pleasant and professional. Mrs. Granger, her name was. She was more of a nurse. Nicky was just a wee thing. But she hated it here in Wales and left before the year was out. The next one, and the next, felt the same. They wanted a London placement, if you please, and the master's odd comings and goings made them uneasy. They had heard rumors, you see, and with each new governess, the stories seemed to grow larger and larger. The ones who came stayed for a shorter and shorter time, until we expected a fresh departure and a fresh arrival every few weeks."

"But what was so terrible about Wales?" Emma asked in confusion.

"I told you, love. They wanted a London placement. And if they couldn't be in London, then they wanted to work for a family who could give them excellent reference at the end of their employment." Cookie looked down at the table, rubbing her fingertips absently across the scarred wooden surface. "They didn't wish to remain in the employ of a man with a ... disreputable reputation."

Emma did not hesitate as she fired the next question at Cookie, intent on understanding at last. "You refer to the gossip about Lord Anthony? That he is a murderer?"

Mrs. Bolifer made an odd sound, but Emma did not look at her, keeping her attention focused on the cook's expressive face.

Cookie nodded miserably, her fingers now working the tabletop in agitated haste. "And Lord Anthony's odd hours and even stranger ways helped not at all."

Reaching over, Emma placed her hand on the other woman's, stilling her nervous action. "Go on," she said.

"Not much else to say, love. The time came that the best agencies wouldn't take his requests any more. So he opted for the second best, then the third."

"But why hire a governess at all, then? Why did he not leave Nicky's care to the two of you?"

"I can't read a word. Or write," Cookie said. Emma blinked. A cook who could not read a recipe. "Fine thing that," Cookie continued, "if Lord Anthony's heir was to be raised by the likes of me." She closed her eyes and dragged in a breath. When she opened them once more, pain and loss and tragedy were mirrored there. "Besides, I couldn't keep my own little one safe, couldn't stop death from claiming him. How was I to care for another's?"

This was the first time Cookie had ever spoken of her dead child. "I am truly sorry for your loss," Emma said.

"Yes. Well. Little Nicky needed a proper governess."

Clearly the woman had no wish to discuss her child, and Emma was loath to press. "I had not thought of the academic issue," she conceded, steering the conversation back to less painful ground. "But at least in your care he would be loved."

"True enough. And I do love him, but he needs to cipher and write and learn his Latin. He has a place in this world, a station. Besides, Lord Anthony's stepmother was most insistent. Nicky was to have a proper governess, or she'd come and see to the matter herself."

A place in this world, a station. Emma swallowed the resentment that the words drew forth. How many times had she been reminded to know her station, her place? How many times had she been taunted and called b.a.s.t.a.r.d?

"The women who came got worse and worse," Cookie continued, warming to her topic. "Then the last two died, and no agency would fill the position. And after Lord Anthony found out that the wee one had been hit, well, he was in a fine rage. He was away at the time, didn't know about it until it was over and done." Cookie smiled at Emma then. "So he sent for you."

"And aren't we lucky that you came." Mrs. Bolifer cut in.

Emma was unsure if the housekeeper's statement was meant to be heartfelt or sarcastic. Her customary sour expression lent no clue. Whatever the case, the moment was gone. Cookie rose from the table and began to tidy the kitchen.

"You think you know things," Mrs. Bolifer said. "But you understand nothing."

Putting down her teacup with great care, Emma raised her eyes to meet the housekeeper's.

"Then help me understand," she said.

"What manner of man do you think he is?" Mrs. Bolifer queried.

Emma looked at her, startled by the open challenge. What manner of man? A loving one... Or so she had thought. He was a man who stood in the dark with a knife poised and his expression set. She sucked in a breath. Who was Anthony Craven, really?

"I have no idea what manner of man he is. He is full of contradictions, with more twists and turns than the most intricate maze," she said at last.

"He has his reasons."

What reasons? she longed to cry out. What reasons for holding a knife to his son? What reasons for letting his wife's fear of him grow to such extreme that she left a written legacy implying he would do murder?

"He may have reasons aplenty, but my care is for Nicky. He is an innocent child and must be protected." Emma held her tone firm.

"Protected, yes. But not from the one you think." The housekeeper's lips turned down at the edges, etching deep lines that bracketed her mouth. "He would never harm the boy."

Emma wondered how much the housekeeper knew, how much it was safe to reveal. Should she press the point, describing the tableau she had witnessed two nights past, Lord Anthony standing by his son's bed with knife in hand? She felt it would be a betrayal. She must confront Anthony directly, not slink about behind his back, prying morsels of information from the other servants. At length, she merely shrugged delicately, and pretended an interest in her tea that she did not feel.

"Here now." Cookie brought her own tea back to the table and sat halfway along, using herself as a barrier between the other two women. "Here now," she said again, but seemed to be unable to think of any other words that could fill the leaden silence.

At that moment Anthony entered the kitchen with Nicky in tow. Emma's belly dropped as nerves twisted her insides into knots. Oh, she would never be used to the way the master of this house wandered about, right into the kitchen or the scullery. Right into every crack and crevice of her heart.

Though he had already breakfasted, Nicky s.n.a.t.c.hed a scone from the plate and began to munch on it happily. The child seemed oblivious to the undercurrents and tensions that pervaded the room, but the adults were not. Both Mrs. Bolifer and Cookie busied themselves with pressing tasks.

Emma lowered her head, unwilling to meet Anthony's gaze. She could sense his eyes upon her, but he made no attempt to approach her. Hazarding a quick peek through her lashes, Emma watched him as he leaned negligently against the table by the far wall. His lean fingers plucked an apple from the bowl, and he began to quarter the fruit with a small knife.

Abruptly, he turned to face her and caught her in her clandestine observation of him. One brow lifted mockingly as he moved the knife up and down, the way one would move a wine gla.s.s when giving a toast. Yet, she sensed that mockery was a facade, for in his eyes she saw the same confusion and hurt that she had read when she confronted him in Nicky's bedchamber. And then his gaze became cool and detached, the protective wall he maintained cutting off her momentary glimpse of his soul.

He lifted a slice of the fruit to his lips and bit into it with his straight white teeth. Emma looked away, hardening her heart. He was at fault here, at grave fault, and she could not allow herself to think otherwise. She could not allow herself to be beguiled by the dark lure of him.

"The cheese, Papa!" Nicky tugged on his father's arm.

"Ah, yes. The cheese." Anthony turned to Cookie. "It would seem that Nicky feels the need to feed the stable mice. We would like a slice of cheese to carry with us."

Cookie stared at him a moment, her face uncharacteristically solemn, and then went to fetch the requested item.

Emma felt like crying. The morning seemed so pleasant, so normal. A father and son sharing a moment in time. She felt like a thief, her suspicions stealing into those moments, carving the lines of tension that she saw on Anthony's face. He was waiting for her to come to him, to confront him. She could sense it. He would offer no explanation unless she asked, and some instinct whispered that he had his reasons. But she wanted him to come to her, to trust her, to share his secrets freely.

With a heavy heart she watched as Anthony and Nicky left the kitchen, laughing and carrying their cheese.