Echoes in Stone (9 page)

“Mmm.” She snuggled deeper against the solid form that held her.

“Now open your eyes for me, Jessamine. Let me see those pretty green eyes, throwing daggers at me in your usual fashion. Come now. Look at me.”

The light hurt as if she’d been stabbed in the eyes with a heated needle. She turned her face deeper into the dark warmth of the man holding her, fighting the pain. Struggling to remember.

Dashiell Tremayne. They’d argued. About Holly. Marguerite. Lily. The scent of lime cologne enveloped her. She remembered that.

He’d kissed her.

Jessa’s eyes popped open, staring straight into a pair of silver eyes. She tried to spring away from his firm grasp. Her feeble push on his chest was no match for his strength. His heart thudded against her palm. The same rhythm that had pounded in her ear.

Dash Tremayne had kissed her. That kiss had almost killed her.

13.

Being dead is a bad thing…

“NOW SEE, CAPTAIN, ye have frightened the lass. I told you she wasn’t quite back with us.” Mrs. Penrose stood at the foot of the bed, peering at Jessa. A smile hovered on her lips.

“How are you feeling now, Miss? Careful there, your lordship, or you’ll have tea all down the front of her nightgown. I’m not certain she has a clean one left.” The small woman moved to the head of the bed to plump up a stack of downy pillows.

Dash eased Jessa from his arms, propping her upon them. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Miss Palmer,” he said. He scooted off the bed. He looked much as he had that first night—his hair tumbling to his shoulders, a stubble of black beard shadowing his cheeks and chin. “I, for one, am glad to see you looking better. A bit more color in your cheeks, and you’ve stopped making those god-awful noises.” He clasped his hands behind him, rocking back on his heels.

“What’s going on here?” Jessa asked. The last thing she remembered was feeling both hotter and colder than she’d ever been, then something about rosebushes. She widened her eyes as memory returned. Her hand flew to her mouth.

“God lord woman, you’re not going to pitch the contents of your guts on my boots again, are you? Winston had the devil’s own time getting it all out the last time. Mrs. Penrose, fetch that basin.” In spite of his stern tone, Dash loosed his hands, hovered, as if ready to come to her aid in an instant.
Contradictory beast
.

“No.” Jessa managed to say, “I don’t believe I’ve anything left to pitch.” Hollowed out, empty, but at least her stomach didn’t churn as furiously as it had when she last remembered.

Dash stood back again, hands resting at his side. “Thank God. You’ve been rather disgusting for the last two days. I’m not sure how much more Mrs. Penrose and the poor maids would be able to tolerate. Mrs. Penrose.” He turned to the housekeeper. “Perhaps we could try putting a bit of food into our houseguest.” Dash eyed Jessica as if she were a ticking bomb. “Some dry toast, perhaps, or a bit of beef broth. Something that won’t make too great a mess if she decides she isn’t finished being ill in my rosebushes.”

At least Jessa was no longer cold. Heat flared in her cheeks. The odious brute, to remind her of her humiliation.

“If you’re quite sure you won’t be doing anything revolting in the next ten minutes, Miss Palmer, I will stay with you until Mrs. Penrose can send a maid up with a tray.”

Jessa smiled at him, baring her teeth. “Oh, your lordship, I can’t be certain of anything. I’m not even certain where I am.”

She glanced around. This wasn’t the blue room she remembered. The walls here were the color of old gold. Deep red draperies hung at the windows, repeating the color from the bed curtains. She’d seen this color somewhere else recently, but memory eluded her. An elegant room, but not hers.

The captain sent Mrs. Penrose scurrying out the door with a gesture. He strode to a wingback chair pulled close to the side of the bed, all but flinging himself into it.

“Tell me, Jessa. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Sick,” she said. “Sick and—”. Something else. Something had frightened her. Why couldn’t she remember?

“Who is Luther? You called out for him rather often the last two days. A lover, perhaps?”

Exhaustion and residual fear gave way to anger. He didn’t trust her. Fine. Let him believe she was the sort to let her passions run away with her. Let him draw whatever conclusions he wanted. He’d already tarred her with that brush anyway.

She considered lying to him, weaving him the sort of sordid tale he expected of his wife’s stepsister. But what strength she’d mustered drained from her as suddenly as it had come. Anger wouldn’t help her cause.

She leaned back, closing her eyes. “Luther is—Luther takes care of me. I don’t live with Marguerite. When I came of age, I set up my own household, thanks to a small inheritance from a spinster aunt. Luther is my—my friend. I couldn’t manage without him.”

Luther would love Holly, love having her in their cheerful home. If only she could make Dash see that. Make him see she was nothing like Marguerite. Nothing like Lily. That she could be entrusted with the care of his daughter.

If she lived long enough.

Her senses tingled. Where had that come from? She glanced at Dash, considering the way he’d barked questions at her. As if—what? A test of some kind? Interrogation? It wouldn’t do him any good. She only remembered pain. Pain and an unnamed fear.

A small, high voice interrupted them. “Is Auntie Jessa going to die like Mama?”

In two strides, Dash reached the fair-haired child and scooped her into his arms. “Hush now, Holly. Auntie Jessa needs to rest.”

“Yes Papa,” she said. “Mama sleeped in the afternoons, too. Then Mama sleeped and sleeped and went away for a long time. Susanna said Mama died, but she was wrong. Susanna is wrong all the time. But she’s funny sometimes, too.”

A frisson trembled through Jessa. Susanna. She’d heard that name. Recently. It set off alarms. Why couldn’t she remember?

She opened her eyes, observing the exchange between father and daughter. This was the first time she’d seen Dash with Holly. Curiosity roused her. How would he treat her?

Holly perched in Dash’s arms, her chubby legs wrapped around his waist, one arm flung around his neck, nose to nose with the scruffy man. Somehow, she managed to both hold a bedraggled doll and suck a thumb. She seemed content and familiar in his embrace.

She popped her thumb out of her mouth, looking at Jessa. “See? Auntie Jessa’s awake now. Susanna said Auntie Jessa was going to be dead like Mama, but Mama said not. Can I see Auntie Jessa, Papa?”

The little girl unwrapped her legs, kicking the air. Jessa and Dash stared at her, appalled. What on earth was the child saying? Dash looked utterly stricken.

“Of course,” Jessa said, before Dash could launch into his usual headfirst, barking-of-questions style of interrogation. He’d only upset the child. “I’d love to have you for a short visit, sweetheart. Captain, please, could you bring her here to sit next to me?”

Dash caught her look and glared at her over Holly’s head, but acquiesced to her silent plea. “Of course you may visit for a few minutes with Aunt Jessa, but you must sit very still. No jumping around. She’s had an upset tummy. You’ve had upset tummies, haven’t you, little one? You know how you like to lie still when you feel that way?”

Dash set Holly on the bed near Jessa, then bent down to look at her at her eye level. “Do you think you can sit here next to her and be quiet, poppet?”

The child smiled, and nodded. “I’ll be very still, Papa.” With only a minimum of fussing and squirming, she settled herself in the tousled covers, watched over by her father, who looked ready to snatch her back up if Jessa gave the slightest hint of distress. The child sucked her thumb, suddenly shy. Her blue eyes, with the same cat-like tilt as her mother’s, studied Jessa.

She finally removed her thumb from her mouth and smiled. “And how are you feelin’ today, Auntie Jessa?” she asked, in her very best imitation of a grownup.

Jessa raised her hand to her mouth to hide her grin. She composed her features, responding in kind to her tiny niece. “I’m doing very much better today, thank you, Holly. I’m sorry if you were upset at my being ill. As you can see, I’m much better now. You mustn’t worry.”

Holly had her thumb back in her mouth, her eyes grave.

Jessa cast about for something to say to the suddenly solemn little girl. “Who is that you’ve brought to visit me?”

Holly considered the doll in her arms, then held her out for Jessa’s inspection. It had a porcelain head and limbs, and a soft cloth body. The painted brown hair and eyes had probably once been bright and shiny, but were now faded. Its dress, a simple thing of muddy brown, was tattered. It looked a great deal older than Holly. Jessa remembered the nursery, with all its bright toys. She didn’t remember seeing this ragged old thing among them. The doll must have been something special to Holly.

She handed the doll back to Holly. “What is your little friend’s name?”

“This is Susanna. I don’t much like Susanna, but Mama says she will keep me safe and keep away the bad things. Being dead is a bad thing, so I bringed Susanna with me to keep the dead things away.” There was resignation in her Holly’s voice, as if the doll were some distasteful, but necessary, accessory to her white dress with its blue apron.

Dash stood behind Holly. The horror on his face echoed the feelings she tried desperately to hide.

Holly was a bright child. She’d notice any disturbance in the adults around her. She must have been listening to the servants talking. The minute Holly was out of the room, she’d insist Dash hunt down this Susanna and dismiss her. Imagine, some maid’s idle chatter putting such awful ideas in the child’s head.

“Come along now, Holly,” Dash said, scooping her off the bed. From his thunderous look, he’d had enough of the disturbing conversation as well. He turned to Mrs. Penrose, standing at the door, a maid in her wake carrying a tray. “If you would, please escort Holly back to the nursery. I can’t imagine where Gwenna has gotten, to let Holly roam free in the hallways.”

The housekeeper smiled down at Holly, who Dash had set on her feet again. Holly took her hand without hesitation, then turned to wave at Jessa. “‘Bye-bye, Auntie Jessa. Do you want Susanna to stay with you, to keep away the bad things?” She held out the battered doll.

“Thank you for the offer, sweetie, but I’ll be fine.” Jessa smiled, waving as she watched Holly leave. That doll. Something about it disturbed her. Memory struggled to the surface.

She must have been ten or eleven years old. Lily had come home. Everything in the house was topsy-turvy. She’d been sent off to play. Picking through a trunk of toys in her room, she’d found a doll and taken it to show her mother. Marguerite had taken one look, then become hysterical. Lily, seeing the doll in Jessa’s arms, had snatched it from her, shouting at her.

The remainder of the memories were scanty. Only that Luther had come, whisking her off to her room. She remembered shouting. Doors slamming. She hadn’t seen Mama for several days after that.

She only had one other clear memory of that afternoon, of her mother screaming. “Jessa! Where did you get that? What are you doing with Lily’s doll?”

The doll from her childhood had painted brown hair and a brown dress, just like the doll Holly called Susanna.

Susanna. A name from a nightmare. The memory she’d struggled to recover slammed into her, taking her breath away. Not a nightmare. A real woman. A woman who looked like Lily, but wasn’t. Susanna. A woman who’d said hideous things. Called her names. A woman who’d tried to kill her.

Until a man had stopped her.

Jessa slid a glance to Dash. His face wasn’t the only off-kilter thing about him. Comfortable holding his daughter. A gentleman when it suited him. A man who’d lit a match to dangerous passions. A devil who’d poisoned her with a kiss.

Did he know a madwoman roamed the night in Tremayne Hall? Had that been the reason he’d demanded to know what she remembered? Who was Dash protecting?

14.

Did Lily mean so little to you?

“I’VE BEEN LYING in that bed for two days, Mrs. Penrose. I’m
fine
. Since I finished all my breakfast—almost—I’m getting up whether or not Mr. High-and-Mighty Captain Tremayne thinks I’m ready.” Jessa sat before the dressing table, trying to pin up her hair while Mrs. Penrose held a hand mirror in front of her. Why on earth, in a house this size, was there no mirror above the dressing table in a guest room?

Mrs. Penrose twisted her apron, her nervousness causing the mirror she held to shake. The housekeeper was doing the work normally assigned to a maid. The house was chronically understaffed. Few servants were willing to live in this dark house, far from the village.

“I believe that’s as good as it’s going to get,” Jessa said, appraising her efforts in the hand mirror. “You’re doing a wonderful job helping me, and I appreciate it, but I’ve never had a lady’s maid. I wouldn’t know what to do with one anyway.”

She smiled at the housekeeper, then stood on still wobbly legs. If not for that, she’d have declined any help. “We’re not such fine folk as you may believe,” Jessa said. “For most of my life our only help was a jolly cook, and a maid who came twice a week to clean. And of course, Luther. He was our only fulltime staff member and really more like family. He turned his hand to whatever small thing needed to be done, whether it was answering the front door, supervising the meals, or chasing after me.”

“A most interesting tale, Jessamine, and one I wish to hear more of.”

Jessa spun in her chair, to find Dash standing in the doorway. Drat the man, did he have no manners? How much had he heard?

“Captain Tremayne.” She jumped to her feet, the sudden movement causing her a brief wave of dizziness. She stood straighter, surreptitiously steadying herself against the dressing table. “I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you knock.”