Eve Silver (11 page)

Darcie jerked back and slammed her eyes shut. There was a reasonable explanation for this. He was a doctor. But even as she insisted to herself that the blood had come from a patient, or that the dark stains truly had some other, non-sinister source, she could not completely thrust aside the feeling of foreboding that rose like a tide.

As she stood shivering in the chilly hallway, she heard the frightful howling of the wind as it whipped against the windowpanes, rattling and shaking them with the greatest force. The storm had grown stronger, more restless. A great rumbling of thunder shook the heavens, the windows, perhaps even the walls, and the frenzied illumination of bolts of lightning sent flickering shapes and shadows across the floor.

Darcie peered hesitantly into the chamber once more. Damien had not moved. He stood, angled toward the doorway, and she watched, mesmerized, as he slowly, sinuously, drew the shirt from one shoulder and then the other. With a careless motion, he tossed it into the fire. She saw his actions, but though she realized that burning one's shirt was an exceedingly odd thing to do, her thoughts were distracted by the sheer splendor of him.

The glowing embers of the fire cast him in light and shadow. He stood, wearing only his breeches, and even those he had loosened so they rested low on his hips. Darcie stared in fascination at the hard planes of his naked chest, the supple ridges of his abdomen. Her mouth felt dry. She licked her lips. Suddenly, she had the terrible, tantalizing thought that she'd like to lick
him.
To run her tongue over his flat male nipples, to follow the thin line of hair that arrowed down his belly to the open waistband of his breeches.

She wrenched her gaze away, mortified by the brazen wantonness of her thoughts. But even as she admonished herself silently, she couldn't quell the urge to look at him again, to sate her desire for the sight of his glorious body, truly more beautiful than any sculpture formed by the greatest master.

When she looked into the room once more, she found that he had moved to the washstand. Lifting a folded linen cloth, he poured water from the pitcher to the basin. He dipped the cloth and ran it around the back of his neck then across the top of his chest. Beads of water glistened on his golden skin.

Again, he dipped the cloth in the basin. She watched his reflection in the large oval mirror that hung above the washstand as he ran the wet cloth down, over the ridges of his abdomen to the waistband of his trousers. Darcie swallowed, her blood pounding thickly in her veins. She wanted to walk into the room and take the cloth from his hands. She wanted to wash him and touch him—

The though froze half-formed as Damien raised his head and met her gaze in the silvered glass. She stumbled back, unable to tear her eyes away.

He knew she was there. He couldn't help but know.

No, no, it was mere coincidence that he had glanced up, their eyes meeting in the mirror. She was well-hidden by the shadows. Wasn’t she?

Horrified by what she had done—hovering in the hallway spying on her employer—and terrified of the possibility that she had been found out, Darcie turned and bolted back to her chamber. There she crawled beneath the sheets, tears of humiliation pricking the backs of her eyelids. She seemed to be making a terrible habit of this. Spying on Damien Cole, watching him from the shadows with the bewildered longing of a schoolgirl in the throes of her first infatuation. Imagining scenarios that she had no business considering. For shame.

Yet, despite her mortification, she could not deny that a part of her wanted to return to his chamber, to pull his mouth to hers and assuage the gnawing hunger that tugged at her breasts, her belly, the juncture of her thighs. She lacked experience, but life on the streets of Whitechapel had lent her knowledge of the reality of the joining between a man and a woman.

With a sob, she burrowed deeper beneath the covers, beating back the desperate need that she had allowed to surface. At length, she drifted into restless slumber, and dreamed that she lay with Damien in a field of flowers, wrapped in his ardent embrace. In her sleep she cried out as the bright blooms shimmered and smudged—their petals dripping from their stems—and the field turned to a sea of blood.

Chapter Six

The next morning Darcie had her breakfast below stairs, though she had to force herself to choke down each bite, the oppressive atmosphere among the servants who gathered at the table reflective of her own glum mood. She tried to tell herself it was the weather, but her imagination whispered that each and every one of them
knew
how she had slunk to Dr. Cole's room and watched him at his ablutions. Of course, the idea was ridiculous, but she could not seem to quell her guilty conscience.

 Mary sat at Darcie's side, huddled into herself, her food ignored, grown cold on her plate. The little scullery maid, Tandis, was abnormally quiet, her sunny disposition eclipsed by the morning's gloom. Only Poole seemed immune to the mood. He reigned at the head of the table like a king, carrying forkfuls of food to his mouth with obvious relish and impeccable manners. He applied his absurdly high standards even to himself.

Suddenly he turned his cold eyes on Mary, studying her for a long, protracted second before focusing on his meal once more. Darcie felt a flicker of surprise, for she thought she had seen a softening of his expression as he had stared at the other maid. But, no, Poole was horribly hard on everyone. She must have imagined the momentary thawing of his icy demeanor.

Darcie looked away, turning her attention back to her own plate, mechanically moving eggs and bacon to her lips, her actions fueled by the memory of days of endless hunger when she had barely survived on the streets of Whitechapel. Never again would she treat food with the innocent indifference she had shown during the plenty of her childhood. At last, the interminable meal was over, and she hurried to Damien's study.

She was apprehensive about seeing him after last night, but there was also a part of her that was hoping to lose herself in her work, and if she was honest, in the joy of his presence.

He was not there.

Pressing her fingers to the glass, she looked out into the gray morning. She wished that for once the sun would peek from behind the clouds to cast the world in bright light rather than sullen gloom. Her own face was reflected back at her, the glass turned into a mirror by the gray backdrop of cloudy sky. She looked wan, forlorn.

With a sigh, she turned from the window and moved to the doctor's desk. He had made no mention of being away this morning, given no indication that this day would differ from the many they had shared recently. Tipping her head to the side, she shifted a pile of papers. There was no evidence of a note for her, nor an indication of any work that the doctor might wish to see completed. Darcie sank into the leather chair in front of the desk.

“Good morning.”

She jumped at the softly spoken words. Leaping to her feet, she turned to find Damien standing in the doorway. There were purple shadows beneath his eyes. Again he had not slept. She wanted to go to him, to run soothing fingers along his brow.

He came forward until he stood directly before her, then reached out and crooked his index finger beneath her chin. His touch sent a frisson of electricity through her body.

Tipping her face upwards, he stared down at her, his eyes searching hers. He knew she had watched him, secretly, longingly. She was convinced of it. Her gaze jerked from his as riotous feelings and competing urges battled within her breast. She both longed to press herself against him, to feel the strength of his arms close about her, and at the same time she trembled with the desire to withdraw from his touch, to protect herself from the frighteningly magnetic pull he exerted on her.

“You look tired,” he said, his finger still resting lightly on the underside of her chin. “Have I been working you too hard, then?”

His softly spoken observation was nearly her undoing, his consideration weaving a seductive web, tugging at her emotions. The room seemed to spin. Her breath came in harsh little gasps and her heart raced as she stared at the sculpted line of his lips. She wondered what they would feel like if she touched them. Hard? Smooth? Soft?

One side of his mouth curved, revealing the dimple in his cheek. Lured by his beauty, while aware of the price she would pay if she overstepped, Darcie balked. She ought to distance herself from him and the strange and frightening feelings he sent cascading through her like a fire in her blood. But the need to retreat was overwhelmed by a much stronger urge to lean closer, to breathe in the clean, fresh smell of him, to reach up and run the tip of her finger along the fullness of his lower lip, and set free the fire in her veins until it roared, an inferno out of control.

Oh, God! What was happening to her?

Darcie's gaze flew to his. He was watching her with an intensity that was simultaneously alarming and appealing. His eyes darkened, the centers dilating until they were deep, endless pools surrounded by a rim of molten silver.

“What is it about you that draws me?” he asked hoarsely, moving closer until just a whisper of air separated them.

His touch strayed from her chin to the line of her jaw, then the column of her neck. The touch was feather-light, the callused tips of his fingers scraping gently against her tender skin.

She exhaled in a rush as his fingers slipped just beneath the collar of her high-necked gown and came to rest on her collarbone. But she held still as a rabbit in a field, unwilling—or perhaps unable—to break the spell.

“What is it about you?” he whispered again.

Staring up at him, she felt the weight of his touch on her skin. She had no answer for his question, though she knew well what it was about him that drew her. Her attraction was a painful need, tearing at her, flaying her sensibilities with sharp-edged talons. Damien Cole drew her, like a fly to flypaper, but once caught, would she be snared forever in his spell? Had she not learned her hard-won lessons? He was so beautiful, like an angel fallen from heaven. Her common sense warned that he was dangerous to her, and she ought to heed her own warnings lest she find herself well and truly lost.

Her employment, her comfort, her safety all rested in his strong hands, just as Steppy had once held the reins of her life. She would do well to remember what she had learned from Steppy’s betrayal, and from the wasted life a man had led her sister to.

Suddenly, the hand Damien rested on her neck felt heavy and strange and a cold whisper chilled her heated emotions, snaking through her mind, drawing to the fore memories of his blood-drenched shirt. The thought jarred her from her stupor, and she jerked away with a small cry.

She looked up to find him watching her, his expression grown cold and remote. Abruptly he turned away, making a great show of arranging an already immaculate pile of documents on his desk into imaginary order.

His hand brushed the small miniature in the gilt frame. Darcie had seen it dozens of times, dusted it dozens of times, devoted a thousand minutes to contemplation of why the picture held a place of honor on Damien's desk. The pretty, dark-haired girl posed delicately for the artist, but the painter had only moderate skill, and though his brush had caught her beauty, he had painted her as stiff and unyielding as a board, with little vibrancy or emotion.

Damien picked up the miniature and stared at it. Darcie felt as though the seconds crawled along her skin, so slowly did time seem to pass.

“I did not mean to cause you distress. A man who forces his attentions on a woman is no man at all.” His hoarse voice broke the silence.

“You did not!” The words leaped from her.

He turned his head and raised a questioning brow. “You hardly seemed to welcome my touch. Did I misread?”

Darcie stretched out her hand, palm up, in a gesture of supplication. “I only meant...your attentions...you hardly...” Dragging a breath past the constriction in her throat, she went on in a rush. “You forced nothing on me. Did me no harm.”

Even as she said the word, memories of the bloodied shirt and her suspicions as to its source uncoiled like a venomous serpent. He had done her no harm, but had he harmed another? No, she could not believe ill of Damien. She would not.

“Please, let us simply proceed with our schedule for the day.” Her voice was small, tinged with desperation. It was so hard for her to trust anyone, and she wanted to trust him, her glorious golden angel.

Damien glanced at the miniature once more, and then replaced it on the desktop.

“Who was she?” Unable to stop the question, Darcie laid her hand lightly on his forearm. She desperately wanted to know, while at the same time she abhorred the thought of having him confess his affection for another aloud.

“She was part of my foolish youth. She represents all I lost, all I once was, but am no longer,” he said solemnly.

“You loved her.”

He nodded once, a curt movement of his head. “I did.”

“Where is she now? Why is she not here with you?”

Damien shot her a measuring glance. “Has the mouse grown fangs?” he asked.

Darcie felt a blush heat her cheeks, and she ducked her head, unable to hold his gaze, yet unwilling to let the matter go. She wanted to know. She needed to know. A part of her wished that she were that girl, that she held a piece of Damien’s heart.

“Did she marry another?” The question came out in a whisper, spoken to the floor.

There was a slight rustling sound, and then Damien's boots, polished to a glossy finish, moved into her line of vision. She stared at the tips of his toes, unable to meet his gaze.

“She never married. She was not asked. A terrible thing, is it not, when a woman is passed over, left unclaimed like unwanted baggage.” His words were hard. Cold. But Darcie heard the underlying anguish and her heart constricted in her breast.

He loved her still, she thought, the unnamed woman in the picture. Somehow, though she knew neither his story nor his history, she suspected that he would love that dark-haired girl until the day he died. And the realization was poignantly wrenching.