Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 9

"Thank you." She reached out and closed her fingers around the worn leather, her skin contacting his. A crackle of energy pa.s.sed between them, hot and raw. Carnal.

Her gaze shot upward. Despite all that had pa.s.sed, she wished he would lean close, press those firm lips to hers, let her taste him, touch him once more. He did nothing to entice her, nothing overt, but there was a dark undercurrent of sensuality that was as much part of him as his skin or bone.

"Miss Emma!" Nicky scrambled round his father's long legs and threw himself onto Emma's bed.

The moment dissolved and Emma jerked her hand away, the book falling to the bed with a m.u.f.fled thud. Wrapping his arms around her, Nicky buried his face in Emma's shoulder. "How is your ankle?"

"My ankle is feeling much better now that you are here to hug me."

"Truly?" Tipping his head back, Nicky scrutinized her face, looking for the truth of her words.

"Truly," Emma confirmed, giving him a gentle squeeze. Her eyes met Lord Anthony's over the child's head. She quickly looked away from the heat of his gaze.

"Papa says you must rest for at least three days. But I am to leave tomorrow, and who will take care of you?" Nicky's brow wrinkled in concern, and his blue eyes watched her with serious intensity.

"Leave?" she echoed, sending a glance at Lord Anthony.

"Nicky and I journey on the morrow to visit my father and stepmother. We shall be gone for a fortnight."

She was torn between relief and regret.

"I shall just have to take care of myself, Nicky," Emma said, giving him another gentle squeeze.

"And I suppose you will have Cookie and Mrs. Bolifer, too. Especially Mrs. Bolifer. She always takes care of me when I get hurt. I'm sure she will take the very best care of you."

Emma pressed her lips together to keep from laughing. The vision of a stern-faced Mrs. Bolifer, gray hair standing out in springy coils, chest heaving with the exertion of climbing the stairs as she carried a tray to Emma's chamber, was as unlikely as a bull giving birth to a calf.

Lord Anthony made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort of disbelief. Obviously, he shared her thoughts on the matter. "Time for bed, Nicky. We have an early morning, my lad."

With a last hug, Nicky hopped off the bed and raced into the hall. Then he popped his head back into the room. "Will you move to the room next to mine, Miss Emma?"

Emma glanced at Lord Anthony. Prior to this evening, he had made no mention of a desire to rea.s.sign her chamber, but she supposed his earlier comment, however cryptic, was mention enough.

"I shall, Nicky. By the time you return from your adventure, I will have moved to the room next to the nursery."

"Good." He gave a swift nod of satisfaction. "May I carry the candle, Papa?"

"Be very careful. Hold it straight." Lord Anthony used the flame to relight Emma's tallow candle, then handed the light to his son. With a grin lighting his face, Nicky left the room, and Emma could hear him singing to himself as he made his way down the hall.

"Lord Anthony," Emma stopped him as he turned to follow the boy. "I was unaware of a planned trip. Do you wish me to accompany Nicholas?"

"I suspect your injured ankle would hamper your ability to chase after a six-year-old, Miss Parrish. Something you may wish to consider the next time a sudden urge to run pell-mell to the winds strikes your fancy." His tone was mildly sardonic. Emma felt a flush heat her cheeks.

"The urge will likely lie dormant until the next time I am confronted with a dead body bearing a terrifying malady."

"Touche." He shot her a glance, his expression unreadable, his eyes glittering in the dim light.

He offered no explanation, no excuse. A dead body lay in the Round Tower, and Lord Anthony offered nothing to calm her mind. She had wondered earlier what possible explanation she could accept. And now she had her answer. He offered nothing, and foolish girl that she was, she accepted even that. But did he intend to leave the dead man to rot in the tower while he vacationed elsewhere? The possibility was...unthinkable.

"In any event, the trip is a yearly adventure in which my son and I indulge. Other than the dubious pleasure of my stepmother's company, it is a trip both Nicky and I enjoy."

She nodded, sensing that this interview was near its end, yet loath to see him leave.

"Perhaps you would be so good as to mention the issue of the rooms to Mrs. Bolifer. I would not wish to have her think I was overstepping myself by making demands in your absence."

He smiled, that perfect curving of his lips that made Emma feel as though he were a work of art that she could admire for eternity. "As you wish, Miss Parrish. Is there anything else?"

She sank her teeth into her lower lip, her thoughts whirling this way and that. Why do you have a dead man in your tower, and what in heaven's name do you wish to harvest? What happened to the last governess? And the one before that, and the one before that?

A choked sound of dismay escaped her, and she shook her head unable to find the words, or the courage, to ask. "It was kind of you to bring Nicky up to say farewell. I shall miss him."

"I am not kind, Miss Parrish. Never mistake me for a man who is kind." Lord Anthony's voice was a whisper, the tone caressing her, though the words made her shiver.

The need to touch him was a wicked torment that gnawed at her, a fierce hunger. One kiss was not enough. It could never be enough.

For one arrested moment, she thought the intensity of his gaze would devour her. And then he crossed to the fire, breaking the sizzling connection that arced between them. Picking up the poker, he then jabbed at the log, creating a flurry of sparks accompanied by a series of hissing and popping noises.

Then the meaning of his words penetrated her jumbled thoughts. Never mistake me for a man who is kind.

"Why do you deny all decency? I have seen you treat Nicky only with benevolence." She wondered why he refused to acknowledge any goodness in himself. A part of her was afraid of him, truly afraid. Of the secrets he hid, of the mystery that enshrouded him. Yet, that fear was tempered by the conviction that he would do her no harm. More than that, he would let no evil touch her. That certainty was clear and strong, and she did not wonder at its source.

"I love my son," he said at length. "And he has formed an attachment to you. If there is any kindness left in me, that kindness is for him."

Was he trying to convince her, or himself?

"Yes. Of course," she murmured, fighting the swell of disappointment that his words produced. Had she hoped for some declaration of affection?

"You will be here when we return?" He turned his attention from the fire, and now regarded her with that peculiar intensity that so disquieted her.

"Yes," she whispered, looking down at the coverlet. "I will not leave Nicholas." I will not leave you.

She could feel him watching her but dared not look up to meet his gaze.

"You are a most unusual woman, Miss Parrish." Warm, lazy words, spinning through her senses.

A rush of air escaped her. "Unusual? Why? Because I ran like a madwoman across the field?"

"Nay." She heard the sc.r.a.pe off his boots on the floor as he covered the short distance between them and caught her chin in his hand, tilting her face to his. The contact sent lush heat sluicing through her. "You are unusual because you have a rare and precious constancy, a steadiness of nature I value above all else."

A thrill of pleasure thrummed in her veins, and then she exerted her practicality, tamping down the feeling until it simmered lightly, held in tight confine.

Constancy. He valued her constancy. She would be wise not to read any greater meaning into his statement. Surely he valued her as a master values a servant. 'Twas not the first time he had mentioned such. There was some current in his words, some truth she sensed but could not define. Who had betrayed him that he found honesty and loyalty to be so rare, so special?

She swallowed against the constriction that clogged her throat, and she found the courage to ask, "About the corpse, my lord...."

"The corpse, Miss Parrish?" His dark brows drew together in a frown. "A local man with no family. I shall see that he receives a proper burial."

"So you brought him here to bury him?" How odd to drag the man's body up to the tower, only to bring him down once more.

His brows rose. "No. I had him brought round so I could harvest his organs. His blood."

Dear heaven. The ghastly calm of his voice. A choked sound escaped her.

"There is beauty in death. And lessons to be learned," he whispered, warm breath brushing her cheek as he twined his fingers through her hair. "I could show you, Emma. I could show you wonders that would make you understand. You have a quick mind. It would only take time to teach you, but you could have untold knowledge." He paused. "Anthrax is only the beginning. There is smallpox and the other pox-syphilis."

"Syphilis!" she squeaked, horrified. "What are you saying? I cannot...you cannot mean that you..." Stunned, she pulled away, a sudden jerking movement that tore her hair from his grasp. Her eyes filled with tears at the sharp sting, but she welcomed the pain for it brought her back to reality. "Do you mean that you suffer from such?"

A harsh laugh escaped him. "No. And I am utterly astounded that you asked."

She astounded herself, but had no intention of telling him so. "How can you say these things to me?"

Was he mocking her? She could not be sure, but somehow it seemed that his derisive laughter was aimed not at her, as she had originally thought, but at himself.

"You asked." His shoulder lifted then dropped in an elegant shrug. "You asked and I answered."

There was a coldness to him now, a distance that he had erected. Emma thought perhaps he had whispered those words on purpose to alarm her. To push her away more surely than if he had used his body to thrust her from him. To protect her from himself.

Lord Anthony had set out to establish the boundaries, and he had succeeded. Suddenly, Emma wished to be as far from him, from his inexplicable behavior and cryptic actions, as possible.

She twisted the coverlet about her fingers, and stared at the stub of the candle by her bedside. In the silence, she imagined she could hear a spider spinning its web, or the dust gathering on the furniture, so great was the absence of sound. Then the fire crackled, the noise dispelling her imaginings, making her jump at its suddenness.

Lord Anthony crossed the room. "Good night, Miss Parrish. Sleep well." He paused for a moment in the doorway, his back to her, his palms resting on the doorframe, and then he moved on, his footsteps fading as he left her to her solitary thoughts.

"Good night, Lord Anthony," she whispered, though only the shadows remained to hear her.

Several days later, Emma went out walking in the sunshine. The uneven terrain of the field caused her gait to be slightly unsteady as she made her way carefully to avoid re-injuring her ankle, which throbbed as she walked. She welcomed the discomfort. It meant she was healed enough to put weight on her injured limb. Good thing, that. Because Nicky had been gone for a week and a half and her days were a study in boredom. Ten days had pa.s.sed with the rapidity of a snail making its way across a hay field.

At first she could not leave her bed, forcing Cookie to brave the stairs in order to care for her or to send the downstairs maid, Glynnis. Of Mrs. Bolifer there had been no sign. Once the swelling decreased enough to let her move around, Emma found that she had nothing to do. No Nicky, no responsibility, and too much free time with nothing to fill it.

Nothing, except thoughts of Lord Anthony Craven, and Emma preferred not to allow herself to spend two long weeks mooning over her employer.

With a sigh, she pulled her mind away from Lord Anthony, from his demons and secrets. From the dark, sweet taste of him and the tug of her own desire. She had spent days lying abed thinking about nothing but him. Foolish, foolish girl. She regretted the wasted energy of spinning dreams about him, just as her mother had spun a web of false hopes in regard to her father only to have those hopes so cruelly dashed. Though she was a poor hand at it, and detested it to boot, Emma should have better poured her efforts into embroidery. Something constructive. Anything to occupy her hands and mind.

Unfortunately, she was in possession of neither colored threads nor cloth. So instead of patterning a sampler, she was left spinning fantasies in thin air.

Increasing her pace, Emma walked briskly along the field, enjoying the sun, the birds, the breeze. Days ago she had fled the castle in a full panic, running through this field as if the demons of the underworld nipped at her heels. Today she walked through the exact same field, but at a more sedate pace, taking the time to enjoy the clumps of wildflowers, the buzz of a bee.

The weather was warm, with just a hint of cooling breeze. She paused, closing her eyes and turning her face to the sun.

"Good afternoon."

Emma jumped at the sound of a voice behind her. Spinning round, she found herself facing a man. He was neither overly tall nor overly large. Maintaining his distance several feet away from her, he stood regarding her with a perfectly amiable expression on his face. He was handsome, with sandy hair and light eyes, but there was something...

"Good afternoon," she returned the man's greeting somewhat warily, resting her palm against the base of her throat. She was in a deserted field with a man she did not know. Though the situation ought not to be threatening, neither did it feel completely safe.

"Lovely day for a walk."

"Yes, it is."

"I am Leonard Smythe. Dr. Smythe. From Bosherton." He inclined his head.

"Emma Parrish. Recently arrived at Manorbrier." She inclined her head in return, letting her hand drop back to her side. He was a doctor. A healer. No one to fear. "How far to Bosherton?"

"Hmmm. 'Bout half hour to the west at a good pace."

She nodded. "I have yet to visit the village."

"You must be the new governess," he said, taking a single step toward her.

"Yes. How did you know?" Emma fought the urge to take a single step back. What on earth was the matter with her? The man was not the least bit obtrusive; in fact, he was gentlemanly in both manner and appearance. His sandy hair was neatly trimmed, his features regular and even.

"Talk is that Lord Anthony has brought in a cousin to help with the boy." He arched a brow inquiringly at Emma. "You are his cousin?"

Emma frowned.

"I am." Despite the warmth of the sun, she felt gooseflesh rise on her arms and a chill seep through her body. Wrapping her arms about herself, she wished she had her sweater. The breeze had taken on a chilly nip. "Lovely to have met you, Dr. Smythe, but I should be getting back now," she said, knowing that her dismissal bordered on rudeness, but suddenly desperate to be away. There was something in the way he looked at her, something in his eyes that unnerved her.

Emma turned and began to walk away. Her ankle was taxed from her long walk, and she could not help the slight limp that crept into her gait.

"Miss Parrish, you have hurt yourself. Shall I have a look, then." He was beside her before she had time to protest.

She shook her head, anxious to be away from him but uncertain why. "Thank you, no."

"Did he hurt you?" His voice was a hoa.r.s.e rasp.

Emma could not think whom he meant. She stared at him, trying to decipher his meaning.

"Forgive me," he muttered, stepping away from her, clasping his right hand with his left. "I should go. I am sorry to have troubled you. It is just- Be careful, Miss Parrish. He is a dangerous man."

It struck her then.

"Sir, do you refer to Lord Anthony?" she ventured uncertainly, completely baffled by this odd man and his even odder comments.

"Lord Anthony," Dr. Smythe mused. "He is lord of nothing, Miss Parrish. Merely the sixth son of a Marquess. A courtesy t.i.tle, nothing more."

His statement came as no surprise. Cookie had told her as much several days past, though her tone had been ever so much more polite as she said it. "What is your purpose in telling me this?"

He seemed taken aback by her question. Perhaps he had expected some stronger reaction, though, truly, Emma could not imagine what his intention was, and he did not seem inclined to elucidate. The silence lengthened, and Dr. Smythe's eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "You have been beguiled, Miss Parrish. I offer this unsolicited opinion because of my grave concern for the well-bred young lady you most certainly are. Beware."

Oh, dear. Yet another cryptic warning. She sighed.

"Beware of what, Dr. Smythe? I have yet to encounter any threat to my person." Save for the anthrax-riddled corpse in the Round Tower, and the person who had spied on her that first day at Manorbrier, and the frightening episode in the icehouse. She caught her lower lip between her teeth, wondering if he detected her deception.

"Not all threats are obvious, Miss Parrish." Dr. Smthye paused, then continued in a softer tone, as though he was hesitant to impart gossip. "The last governess at Manorbrier died a terrible death."

He must mean Mrs. Winter. "What sort of death, Dr. Smythe?"