A Curse of the Heart (5 page)

She glanced up at the clock on the mantel. “Well, it is after eleven. Perhaps we should take our places as I think it best I follow my usual routine.”

“And what is that? What is your usual routine?”

“Well, I wash and change out of my clothes. I lock the door to my chamber and wear the key on a ribbon around my neck.” She put her hand to her throat, her delicate fingers tracing the line of the imagined ribbon and suddenly the tips of her fingers became the tip of his tongue. “Then I climb into bed and wait.”

He needed another glass of claret, a large one, preferably a bottle.

In a bid to focus his attention, he jumped out of his chair and picked up the candlestick from the middle of the table.

“Very well, let us go to your chamber and take our places.”

With a spring in her step, Miss Linwood led him towards the door but then stopped abruptly, forcing him to cover the flame with his hand.

“Of course, you cannot come inside my chamber,” she said, by way of clarification, her face flushing a pretty shade of pink. “I do not think it would be appropriate.”

Gabriel suppressed a grin. If he wanted to ravish her, he did not need to be in her bedchamber to do it. Just to prove his theory, his mind concocted the perfect image of a naked Miss Linwood stretched out on the chaise.

“You do not need to un-undress,” he said, stumbling over the word. “But I do need to be with you when you hear the noises.” By way of reinforcing his point, he added, “It is the only way to be certain we hear the same things.”

Her eyes narrowed as she scanned him from head to toe.

“May I remind you that you asked me here this evening,” he continued. “You asked me to help you solve the mystery of the ancient curse.” He was being a little dramatic but did not want to admit it had taken no effort at all to persuade him to come this evening.

“You’re right,” she said lifting her chin. “Come, Mr. Stone. You may follow me.”

Miss Linwood took the candlestick from his hand and with a swish of her skirt went out into the hallway.

The shabby corridor felt dark and oppressive as opposed to the feeling of pure decadence created in the drawing room. Gabriel wondered what the decor in her bedchamber would reveal about her character.

As she opened the door, he noticed her hand tremble. Did the room remind her of her nightmares or was it his presence in such an intimate space that affected her most?

Gabriel followed her inside, watched her light the candelabra at her bedside and despite all his pious protestations, thoughts of seduction swamped his mind.

The decor in the room did not help matters: the red walls, the deep-red hangings on the canopy bed, the soft muted light, all excited his senses and fed his ravenous appetite.

What the hell was wrong with him?

As she brushed past him to lock the door, he covered her hand with his own, trying his best to dismiss the fire coursing through his veins.

“You do not need to lock the door tonight,” he said, quickly dropping his hand before he did something he would later regret.

“If you’re sure.”

He simply nodded, fearing his voice would reveal the depth of his desire and so feigned interest in the oak furnishings, in the view from the window, in anything to help cool his heated blood.

“These are an unusual choice,” he finally said, pulling the black shutters closed. They felt cold to the touch, the wood moist, and he could smell a faint hint of soil.

“They were not my choice,” she replied. “The wind rattles the window at night, and they only serve to enhance the sound.”

“I imagine the noise is rather like an echo.” He turned to face her, pulling his watch from his pocket. “It’s eleven thirty. Perhaps we should take our positions.”

The corners of her mouth curved slightly, the weak smile revealing nerves, apprehension, he was not sure. “Where do you want me?” she whispered.

Oh, he could answer that question. He wanted her everywhere and every way he possibly could. “Follow your usual routine,” he said bringing his fist to his mouth to cough, resisting the urge to bite down on his knuckles. “As I said, you do not need to get undressed. I shall pull the chair up to the bed and sit here.”

Picking up the chair from the corner of the room, he positioned it in such a way as to offer a perfect view of the door, before hanging his coat over the back and taking a seat.

“Normally, I undress and then wash here,” she said, pouring water from a pitcher into a floral bowl. She set about washing her hands, rolling the soap between her elegant fingers, and a waft of lavender drifted through the air just to tease him. She was still wearing her muslin dress, but that was not the vision he saw. “Then I lock the door,” she continued as she dried her hands, “fasten the key around my neck and climb into bed.”

“And the candles?”

Dipping the tips of her fingers into the water, she extinguished the single candle, the wick sizzling in protest as she tiptoed over to the bed.

Noticing his questioning brow, she added, “Usually, I would have bare feet.”

“I see,” he said, turning to inspect the sudden draft breezing in through the shutters. Thankfully, it had no effect on him as his body was about ready to combust.

After dousing all the candles they were plunged into darkness, and his other senses soon sprang to attention.

As she lay on the bed, her breathing became short, strained, perhaps from the anticipation of what the next hour would bring. His nose twitched causing him to inhale deeply, the smell of lavender swamping him now, obliterating the sterile smell that always accompanied the cold.

Even in the dark, he was aware of the rise and fall of her chest. The movement roused thoughts of gentle waves drifting back and forth upon the shore, and he found the image calming, soothing.

They remained silent for a few minutes, maybe more.

Alert to all sounds, Gabriel heard a distinct shuffling noise coming from the room beneath them. Not the shuffling of feet, more like an object being pushed along a bare floor.

“Did you hear that?” she whispered.

He raised his hand, although doubted she could see it. “Yes, but I need you to be quiet.”

The noise continued for a few minutes and then stopped, replaced by a scratching — nails against hollow wood — the sound of someone or something trying to claw its way out of a box.

As the noise grew louder, he was aware of Miss Linwood’s hand gripping the counterpane, gathering the material into a tight fist. Guilt delivered a single stab to his chest, a punishment for thinking her foolish and delusional. The terrifying image of her lying night after night alone in her bed delivered the second blow.

How on earth had she coped with this for more than a week?

It was while he was straining to listen that the wind rattled the shutters, the shock causing him to jump. “Is that a coincidence?” he whispered.

“No. Listen for the weeping.”

The sound of squeaking rats could easily be mistaken for whimpering. He closed his eyes in a bid to focus his attention, hearing the faint mumble, deeper in tone than a whisper. As the noise grew louder, it sounded more like a sorrowful wail, yet it struck him that it had a distinct pattern, a rhythmical beat, like the chanting of a spell or a curse.

Miss Linwood sat up. “Do you hear it, Mr. Stone?”

“I do,” he said, taking a firm hold of his boot before yanking it off and placing it gently on the floor next to him.

“What are you doing?”

“Shh. Taking off my boots,” he said, removing the other article in question.

She shuffled closer. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to go down there.”

Her hand flew out and grabbed his arm, gripping his skin through the fine lawn shirt. “No. You mustn’t.”

He placed his hand over hers, ignoring the intimacy of the moment. “Lock the door when I’m gone.”

With the stealth of a wildcat out on the hunt, Gabriel padded over to the door, picking up the candlestick on his way out and holding it at his side like a club.

The hallway was dark, but his eyes were accustomed to it now and with ease he found himself in the Egyptian museum. Glancing up at the ceiling, he imagined the layout of the upstairs rooms and so followed the walkway, searching for the room beneath her bedchamber.

As he approached Miss Linwood’s office, he could hear the mumbling and followed it to a closed door a few feet away.

This was no curse, he thought, gripping the candlestick tightly, the metal getting hotter in his sweaty palm. This was not an infestation of rats, either.

What he suspected was something far more sinister.

Chapter 6

Rebecca watched him walk through the door, her heart beating so loudly she thought it might burst through her chest.

Her fear had nothing to do with her own predicament. The only thing she feared now was for the safety of Gabriel Stone.

It should have felt awkward having him in her private chamber. It should have felt unnatural and constrained, but it didn’t. For some strange reason, it felt as normal as taking a breath. There was something about his presence that made her feel safe, made her feel the world was full of bright and wonderful things. Now he’d gone, the room felt cold and desolate once more.

She climbed out of bed and tiptoed towards the door, her head telling her to turn the key in the lock, her heart refusing to shut him out.

What if there really was a curse?

What if another bust toppled over the stairs? He would never see it falling in the dark. Mr. Dempsey almost died. Now Gabriel Stone had run off into the night with nothing to aid him but a candlestick.

She knew then what she must do.

Easing the door away from its jamb, she crept out into the hallway, tiptoed along the corridor and down the stairs.

“Mr. Stone.”

Rebecca whispered his name, her plea met with nothing but an eerie silence and so she made her way through the Egyptian room, peeking behind the tall display cases as she moved cautiously along. The door at the end of the gallery led out into a hall containing various rooms: her office, the pot room, and the storeroom. It was from there that she heard the commotion.

“What the hell!” Mr. Stone yelled at the top of his voice. “Come here you —”

Rebecca heard bangs, thuds, the sound of shattering glass and tumbling boxes. She hurried over to the door to grab the handle but it flew open, a frantic figure knocking her to the floor as he took flight along the gallery.

Her scream got lost in her throat, and she rolled onto her back to see Gabriel Stone charge at her, his face twisted and contorted, his eyes as cold and as hard as flint. It was as though he didn’t know her, seeing an image of his own creation. He raised the candlestick above his head, and then Rebecca screamed.

“Miss Linwood?” he gasped, his bewildered gaze flitting between her limp body and the figure in the distance. He threw the candlestick to the floor and pulled her back up to her feet. “Are you alright? Are you hurt? Wait here a moment.”

He rushed from the room, skidding on the floor as he navigated the door. Barely a minute passed before he returned, his face flushed, his breathing ragged. “He’s gone … gone out through the front door.”

Rebecca watched him catch his breath, fixated by the raw masculine power emanating from him. His muscular arms strained against the constraints of his shirt. His fists were like clenched weapons primed for attack.

“What happened?” she asked. But he ignored her question.

“I told you to lock the door,” he said, marching towards her. “What are you doing down here? I almost hit you with the blasted candlestick.”

Rebecca took a few deep breaths. “I was worried. I thought something might have happened to you.”

He narrowed his gaze and then his expression softened. “You were worried about me?”

When she nodded, he seemed surprised and simply stared at her. “Come,” he finally said. “We need to secure the house, and I do not want to leave you up here alone.”

Although his words were softer now, he took her by the arm, as a parent would a disobedient child.

That was not how she wanted him to see her.

It was not how she wanted him to remember her when he was lying in his bed at night. The thought roused a strange mix of emotions: the need for him to see her as strong and independent and the need for him to see her as a desirable woman.

“I’m quite capable of walking on my own, Mr. Stone,” she said shaking her arm free and striding on ahead.

“You may walk on your own, Miss Linwood,” he said, catching up with her and turning to block her path. “But you’re not spending another night on your own in this house.”

The image of her half-brother, George, flashed through her mind, a man whose need to control outweighed any other good deed. George would have her out of this house, too, if he had his way. He would have her married and settled in the country, away from Society’s prying eyes, hidden away from his real family.

“I’m not leaving this house, Mr. Stone,” she said, squaring her shoulders, as nothing would sway her decision.