Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 8

Emma stared at him, aghast. "He carried a dead man into the tower." She swallowed. "The wrapping came loose. I saw the man's hand."

Polite puzzlement gave way to outright confusion. "You fled because of a hand?"

"I fled because of the corpse." She could not fathom his perplexity.

"Why?" He was looking at her intently, as if her reaction was outside the realm of comprehension.

A soft sound of frustration escaped her, and her irritation grew as her fear diminished. Somehow, she felt less afraid sitting here in the green field far from the tower though, in truth, the cause of her trepidation had changed in nothing but proximity.

"Would not any being of rational mind flee from a dead body that dripped pestilence on the ground?" She wondered again if perhaps Lord Anthony was mad. And Cookie. And Mrs. Bolifer. And Griggs. And even herself. An entire castle full of Bedlamites, for surely that was the only explanation for this bizarre conversation.

"The body was dripping pestilence?" His tone was sharp, indicating his concern. Here, at last, was something he did seem to understand. "Did you see a drop fall?"

Emma shook her head. "No. But I saw an arm. With a terrible carbuncle. But like no carbuncle I had ever seen. It was black and shiny, with a raised red rim. The sight was one I shall not likely forget."

"Ah."

She waited for him to say more, but he seemed lost in thought. The anger inside of her began to bubble anew, heating to a slow simmer. He still crouched beside her, but his mind was obviously somewhere else entirely.

"Ah?" She repeated, stunned at his lack of response. Completely at a loss as to how she could be sitting in a slightly damp field of wildflowers discussing a dead man with a madman, her voice rose with more than a touch of anxiety. "That is the only word of explanation you offer? Ah?"

Her terror and confusion and, yes, her anger boiled from her heart down her arm to her clenched fist, whereupon she delivered a blow that would have stirred envy in a professional pugilist.

Her fist connected with Lord Anthony's shoulder and the force rolled him from the soles of his feet onto his lordly backside. He landed in an ignominious heap with an expression of stunned amazement on his perfectly hewn features.

Then he raised his gorgeous green-gold eyes and stared at her in confusion. She could not say which of the two of them was more shocked by her actions.

Shoving her skirt down around her ankles, Emma drew herself to her most ladylike pose, searching deep within herself for hidden reserves of genteel calm.

"Lord Anthony," she began, her elocution clear and distinct, "I have just seen your coachman carrying a dead man into the Round Tower. In and of itself, that tableau is most distressing, but there is greater depth to my unease. From the coal black sore I saw on the dead man's arm, I believe he died of a most heinous plague."

She had finally won his undivided attention, and given the spark that ignited in his eyes, she thought that perhaps he understood at last.

She voiced her suspicion. "I believe he died of anthrax."

"Miss Parrish, we shall return to your monumental skill as a pugilist in due time. I would sincerely like to know where you learned that right hook." Rubbing his shoulder, he looked pointedly at her reddened knuckles. "But for the moment I should like to explore your knowledge of disease. Anthrax, Miss Parrish? Why would you say that?"

"I was teaching the children of our neighbor, Mr. Hicks. One day I overheard him telling a story about the cattle of a farm near Cheltenham. He said that they died of anthrax and that the soil harbored the evil humor for decades."

"To my knowledge, the disease may lodge in the soil for thirty years or more," Lord Anthony mused, continuing to rub his shoulder absently. "What other bits of lore did the good farmer impart?"

As Emma struggled to remember that long-ago story told by Mr. Hicks, she could not help but note that Lord Anthony was looking at her with a degree of admiration. "He said the disease could be seen in more than one manifestation. An attack of the lungs. Or a b.l.o.o.d.y flux. Or a malignant pustule. Black as coal, he said, shiny and the edges red and raw. He described the pustule quite literally, having no idea that I was intrigued by the conversation."

"I do not suppose that oozing pustules are a subject of great interest to many young girls," Lord Anthony observed wryly.

"No, I do not suppose they are," Emma agreed. "But I have ever been unlike other girls of my acquaintance."

"Yes. I can easily believe that." He stared at her for a long moment and then continued, "So you caught sight of Griggs carrying a body with a black lesion evident on the..." His voice rose questioningly.

"On the forearm and palm," she supplied.

"And upon seeing the carbuncle-to use your earlier description-you diagnosed anthrax and immediately fled the vicinity. A most reasonable response, I suppose."

Except his tone suggested that he found her actions most unreasonable. Emma heaved an enormous sigh. Flight in the face of a horrifying tableau was a reasonable response. Yet, somehow, when he described the episode in such dispa.s.sionate simplicity, her reaction seemed rather overblown.

"But how did you come to be so certain, Miss Parrish? Have you ever seen such a pustule before?"

"No. Well, yes... I have seen a depiction of such." She huffed out a breath. "My mother took me to an exhibit of paintings once. The artist was quite fascinated with disease, and all his works depicted-" She shivered in recollection. "Suffice it to say that I recall that exhibit in vivid detail."

"Enough detail to recognize what you saw today as the same disease." He studied her for a moment, true admiration in his gaze. "Amazing, really."

That single word of praise shimmered through her, warming her. He thought her amazing.

"Why did you come here, Miss Parrish?"

His question took her by surprise. "Oh, well, I did not plan to arrive at this particular field. I simply ran."

His smile was small. "I meant to question your arrival at Manorbrier. We have already ascertained how you came to arrive in this field."

"You sent for me, my lord," she said very slowly. "Do you not remember? You wrote to my aunts, Cecilia and Hortense."

Lord Anthony made a slicing motion with his hand, and a hiss of exasperation escaped his lips. "Of course I remember that I sent for you. I know well enough what was in my mind. I am asking what was in yours. Why did you choose to come to Manorbrier?"

"Oh." Emma was not certain that she wished to divulge the details of her thought processes to Lord Anthony. Somehow, her unhappiness and desperation to escape her aunts' home, her hope of finding a place of her own, seemed too personal to share. But he clearly expected some response, and her emotional stores were too depleted to muster the energy to lie. The truth would have to do. But dare she tell him the whole of it? Dare she trust him even a little, this enigmatic, secretive man?

"My aunts are somewhat...unpleasant," she began, hedging.

Lord Anthony gave a hoot of laughter, leaving Emma to wonder how a man of such brooding disposition could be so free with his good humor. And why the sound of it should please her so.

"Miss Parrish, you are the mistress of understatement. Cecilia is a harpy, and Hortense is as dull as tarnished silver."

"Yes, well, as I said, my aunts are unpleasant. Their home was not mine. I was merely a sojourner in their townhouse, an unwelcome burden on their frugality." She raised her eyes to his and spoke bluntly, for he seemed to wish it. "And my aunts decided it was time for me to take up what they considered my true position in life. They arranged for me to meet several...men."

"You declined an offer of marriage?" he asked, his tone gentle. "Why?"

Her humiliation was complete. "'Twas not marriage they had in mind," Emma whispered, looking away, unable to meet his gaze a moment longer. All the fear and desperation of that night rushed back upon her, bitter as horseradish. "My aunts had decided to sell me to the highest bidder."

There was the root of it laid bare. So ugly in the bright light of day, but not half as ugly as the truths she left unsaid. The words brought all the terror and horror swirling back to her, a clammy fog of recollection and despair. Mr. Moulton, with his grasping hands and fetid breath. The drugged wine that he had bid her drink. The terrible sound of rending cloth as the dreadful man tore at her bodice. And worse, the awful sense of betrayal. She had known her aunts viewed her as a burden, but she had never discerned the depth of their contempt for her.

Dragging in a breath, she raised her chin a notch. A lethal tension coiled through Lord Anthony's frame, as though he read her very thoughts.

"I trust their intent did not see fruition," he said darkly.

She blinked at his tone, for it seemed as though he was angry on her behalf.

"No. My ingenuity and your kind offer of employment saved me from that." She had punched Mr. Moulton, hard, right in the center of his face. Her desperation and his drink-laden state had won her escape, leaving her virtue intact if not her naivete. Lord Anthony's letter had arrived the very next day, had included a most generous bank draft for her aunts, and had offered Emma a last desperate hope. One she had grasped like a drowning woman at a jagged shard of barely floating wood.

For a moment Lord Anthony said nothing, then, "The failure of their plan ensures Cecilia and Hortense's continued comfort."

Startled, she glanced at him, unsure of his implication, though his words seemed quite clear. His gaze had chilled like a frozen pond, cold fury, tightly leashed. Did he mean to say that he would have harmed them if her story had had a different conclusion? Was he capable of such?

"They believed that the fact that I am the product of an illicit affair between my mother and a young lordling who went and got himself killed in a carriage accident gave them leave to do with me what they would."

Oh, reckless tongue. Her illegitimacy was cause for dismissal from her post. And then she recalled the fact that he had likely known of her circ.u.mstance before he had ever sent for her. He had been married to her cousin Delia, after all.

Though he said nothing, the muscles of his jaw tightened.

"My prospects are few," she finished softly. Did he judge her? She could not say, but somehow she thought not.

"So you came to the home of a man rumored to be a killer? That was the choice left to you?"

She looked at him sharply. He definitely sounded angry on her behalf, which made no sense at all, for she could not imagine why he should have a care for her. "I came to the home of a man in need of a governess for his son."

"Only moments ago you fled with the hounds of h.e.l.l nipping at your heels. Or perhaps the hounds of the tower. Yet now you sound so certain of my innocence."

"Certain of your innocence? Nay." I am certain you left innocence behind you long ago, she thought, aware of how close he was, the heat of him, the strength. "But neither am I certain of your guilt."

"So you prove yourself to be a sensible girl, after all," he mused, reaching out to run his finger softly along her jawline.

The contact sang through her body. If she turned her head ever so slightly his fingers would caress her cheek, her lips. What was wrong with her that she was so very tempted to do just that? She jerked back and slapped at his hand.

"I readily admit that I am a woman of no fortune, no beauty, and too sharp a tongue. I suppose that sensible is a no more offensive label than those." She could not contain the hint of waspishness that seeped into her words, though it seemed that Lord Anthony did not find her words off-putting.

"I find I have a liking for sensible." Like a wildfire, his expression changed. No longer musing, but hot and sensuous. Dear heaven, his presence was irresistible. Enticing. He had only to murmur such words of approval, and a glow of pleasure suffused her.

Emma struggled against a rush of confusion. Was she such a desperate miss that she ached for admiration, and from a man who was so dangerous to her on every level? There could be no good end to this fascination. She was governess to his son. He was her employer, a man far beyond her rank. A man who h.o.a.rded bodies in a tower...a man rumored to be a killer....

He drew the pad of his thumb across his lower lip as he studied her. And then he spoke in that beautiful, compelling voice: "You name yourself no beauty, Miss Parrish. Have you not heard that beauty is in the eye of the beholder? Some men value a quick mind." He reached out and stroked her hair, a light touch, there then gone. "Intelligence. Loyalty." The words were softly seductive, his tone both smooth and rough, and so enticing that she almost leaned into his caress. "Dark flashing eyes. And skin soft as finest silk."

She held herself still, though her pulse ran wild at his touch.

Run away, so her common sense whispered. Lord Anthony Craven was more dangerous to her than any evil humor. Men of his position would offer nothing to a governess. That knowledge had been drummed into her until it was as much a part of her as her skin or her heart.

Worse still, he had secrets, terrifying secrets. A wife dead under circ.u.mstances most strange, governesses killed while in his employ. And corpses carried to the top of his tower lair. What manner of man was he in truth?

And what manner of woman was she to want him so?

Run away, Emma thought once more. 'Twould be the prudent course. But she could not run. Her ankle still throbbed, and she could feel the swelling that made her stocking seem to fit one size too small. And if truth be told, she would not run even if she could.

Lord Anthony rose, towering above her, framed by a backdrop of blue sky. Tilting her head back, Emma took in the picture he presented. No portrait could have done him justice. Then he bent and drew her up until her weight rested on her one good foot, her body supported by his.

Heat sluiced through her. She pressed against him, aware of her guile for she pretended 'twas her injury that made her do it, when in truth it was the hard kick of wanting. He had never kissed her, and wanton, foolish girl, she wanted him to. So very much. Let her have this, her secret pleasure. What harm one kiss?

He read her thoughts. She saw it in the tensing of his jaw and the darkening of his eyes. Whatever battle he waged, he was lost. As lost as she.

Her heart knocked wildly against her ribs as he reached out slowly to weave his fingers through her hair, leaving the long curling strands tumbling over her shoulders, her habitual knot in disarray.

A wicked tingle chased across her flesh, sensitizing her skin to his touch. She wanted to arch her neck, to feel his lips against her throat, where her pulse beat with ever increasing fervor.

Her gaze slipped to his mouth, his wonderful, generous mouth. His lips curved in a dangerous smile. Knowing. Hungry. She tipped her head, up, toward him, luscious antic.i.p.ation and the slow burn of desire cycling through her.

Tightening his arm about her waist, he set his lips to hers in a brief caress, paused, came back to taste her, harder, stronger, his mouth opening on hers and his tongue tracing the seam of her lips, demanding she open to him. No tentative touch, but a masculine claiming. Openmouthed, wet and deep, the kiss spilled through her, hot, so hot, rushing to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her belly, the juncture of her thighs.

On some level she thought it was indelicate, unrefined, crude, the way he licked her tongue, thrust then withdrew, increasing the pressure of his lips on hers. But she did not care. The feel of him, the taste of him were beyond wonderful. And so she licked him back, dragging a groan from deep inside him, the sound stroking her spiraling desire.

There was ecstasy in his kiss, his touch, so much better than ever she had dreamed, and the feel of his long, hard body pressed against her and the drum of his heart.

"No." She could not stop the soft cry of denial that escaped her as he pulled away.

He stared at her for a long moment, his expression a study in confusion. "You are beautiful," he rasped, sounding both bewildered and dismayed.

Chest heaving as she struggled for breath, she stared at him, pa.s.sion thrumming in her veins. Delicious. Enthralling.

Running her tongue over her lower lip, she tasted him, his pa.s.sion, his need. Here then was her answer. Here was the harm of one kiss.

She would spend an eternity yearning for more.

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Some hours later, the pain of her ankle throbbing beneath the coverlet woke Emma from a restless slumber. She hugged herself and moved her palms up and down against her upper arms in a reflex action of comfort as she struggled free of the hazy images that haunted her. She had been dreaming of pestilence. And endless fields of wildflowers.

Burrowing deep beneath the blankets, she shivered, though a fire burned in the grate. The flame of a candle stub flickered on the bedside table, sending shadows writhing and dancing against the wall. She wondered if it was yet day.

"I see you are awake." Lord Anthony's deep voice drew her from her musings.

Startled, she glanced up to find him standing framed in the doorway, holding a candle in his left hand. The hall behind him was dark. His face was shadowed, cast in sharp relief by the glimmering light. Her heart clutched at the sight of him, so handsome, so fine. So mysterious.

Emma opened her mouth to ask all the questions that jumbled her thoughts, but wariness held her silent. Questions would garner answers, and for the moment she was uncertain if she wanted to hear them. Dropping her gaze, she stared at his hands. Strong hands with long fingers. She remembered the feel of them as he ran them over her legs, evaluating her injury, and the solid strength of him as he had carried her to her bed, for she had been unable to bear weight on her injured limb.

Heat rushed through her veins. His strong arms, his solid chest, and the smell of him, fresh, clean, and far too delicious-so much so that she had barely suppressed the urge to bury her face in his neck and inhale the scent of his skin, to dart her tongue from between her lips and taste him, to press her mouth to his.... A sharp hiss of air escaped her.

He stepped into the chamber, placed the candle he carried on the table by her bed and snuffed the remains of the tallow stub already there with his fingers. "You will be alone for much of the next few days. I doubt your ankle will support your weight on those stairs," he said. "Why have you not moved to the room next to the nursery? This ridiculous trek to the third floor must be bothersome." The corner of his mouth kicked up. "Especially when you have a desire to launch a midnight a.s.sault on the kitchen."

Traitorous heart, that it swelled so at the reminder of a shared moment.

"I suppose this ankle will preclude any such a.s.sault for some time, my lord," she replied, forbearing to mention that she inhabited the room she had been a.s.signed by his housekeeper.

He held out his hand. "You will likely need this in the coming days."

Emma realized that he grasped her novel, the one she had been carrying when she began her wild flight into the field.