Eve Silver (16 page)

Then her eyes fell on the miniature of the dark-haired girl, and a great sadness washed over her. While she had shared her deepest secrets with him, he had shared nothing of himself with her. With that realization came comprehension of the thickness of the walls he had built around himself.

Dry-eyed now, Darcie sat in Damien's embrace, her heart wringing silent tears for her lack of ability to offer him comfort, to ease his pain as he had eased hers. She had offered him her trust, but he had denied her his. So where, then, did that leave them?

o0o

 The sound of Mary and Tandis laughing together echoed through the back of the house when Darcie returned from a walk late the following afternoon. Damien had gone to an anatomy lecture, and bid her do as she would for the remainder of the day. John Coachman was at her disposal. Hence, the afternoon had been her own, and she had spent it taking a brief ride through Hyde Park, then walking, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh air.

Darcie hung her bonnet on a peg before following the sound of cheerful voices that led her to the kitchen. In a way, she was envious. The laughter implied closeness, camaraderie. She felt a bit left out now that she no longer held the place of maid in the below-stairs hierarchy of the house.

On the other hand, she was glad that Mary seemed in better spirits today. Last night, Mary had cried herself to sleep, burying the sound in her pillow as best she could, mourning whatever horror had left those bruises on her body. She still refused to speak of it, and Darcie did not force the issue, sensing that such a tack could prove disastrous.

Darcie found the two girls polishing silver in the scullery next to the kitchen. They looked up as she entered.

“Hello,” Mary said with a smile.

“Might I help?” Darcie began to roll up her sleeves.

“Help would be much appreciated.” Mary nodded her head.

“You mustn't even think of it!” Cook exclaimed at exactly the same moment. Standing in the doorway with her fists planted firmly on her ample hips, she sent Mary a quelling look before returning her stern gaze to Darcie. “What would the doctor say if we had you scrubbing and scrubbing till your hands were blistered and sore? You wouldn't be able to draw pretty pictures then! No, no! That wouldn't do at all.”

Cook said the words kindly, but Darcie felt the sting of them all the same. She was excluded now, an outsider, neither servant nor employer. That was how the rest of them saw her. How she saw herself. The painful bite of loneliness gnawed at her, but she pushed the feeling aside.

“Perhaps I could dust, then. Or wash the windows?” She had no wish to sit idle. Having nothing to do gave her mind too much time to roam in areas that were better left unexplored.

“No. And again, no.” Cook was firm. “Now off with you. We've work to do. I've a special pudding I want to make the doctor for his supper.”

“But you could use my help,” Darcie insisted. “Poole still hasn't hired another maid, and I have two good hands right here.”

Suddenly, a peculiar ripple surged through the small room and all eyes turned to Darcie.

“We've been short-handed before. This household has made a habit of losing its staff,” Mary said softly, exchanging a quick glance with Cook.

“We have indeed been short-handed before,” Cook agreed. “But there will be no more talk of lost staff, Mary Fitzgerald.” Pressing her lips together in a thin line, Cook stood silent and somehow forbidding.

Tandis put extra vigor into her polishing and spoke not a word, her head bent low over her task.

Confused, Darcie looked from one to the next, wondering how to restore the convivial humor that had laced the women's actions when she had first arrived. At a loss to explain the charged atmosphere, she decided that perhaps she should simply remove herself and let them get on with their work.

“Well, I'll go find a chore in the doctor's study, then.”

Cook nodded. “Perhaps that would be best.”

Mary flashed her a strained smile, saying nothing.

Darcie crossed to the door, edging past Cook, who shifted to the side and let her pass. She hesitated for a heartbeat, wanting to say something to the other women, to somehow regain her place within the fold, but she had no clear idea of how to accomplish her goal. With a sigh, she moved along the hallway, determined to go to the doctor's study and retrieve a book. That would cheer her, she thought.

She pondered the cryptic statements of Mary and Cook as she walked in the direction of the stairs. Yes, they had been short-handed before, when the maid, Janie, left without a word of farewell. She already knew a portion of that story from the things Mary had told her the other night. Still, there had been an inexplicable undercurrent of fear beneath the women's behavior just now. Shrugging it off for now, she decided to ask Mary about it later. There were questions here that begged answers.

As Darcie started up the stairs, a cold voice stopped her in her tracks.

“Finch.”

She turned and found Poole standing at the foot of the staircase.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Poole,” she said calmly, though she felt the same discomfort in his presence that she always had.

“I would have a word with you.”

“Yes, of course.” Darcie made no move to descend the stairs. Ordinarily, Poole towered over her, looking down his long, thin nose at her. Today, from her vantage point on the stair, it was she who stood taller than he.

With a jolt, she realized that Poole no longer intimidated her as much as he once had. In fact, it seemed that lately she was less and less likely to allow herself to hide beneath a meek and frightened exterior. She wondered if sharing her burdens and heartache with Damien had somehow begun to free her from the terror and anguish that had dogged her since her stepfather had sold her for a bag of coin. The thought deserved further consideration, but right now she had Poole to deal with.

“I have been watching you.” He moved a step closer as he spoke. “I saw you with Dr. Cole. The other day, outside the carriage house.”

 She realized with a sinking sensation that it had been Poole who twitched the curtain aside and watched her and Damien together in passionate embrace. The thought sent a shiver of disgust across her skin.

“I am often with Dr. Cole,” she said coldly, praying that he wouldn't hear the slight tremor in her voice.

Poole inclined his head slowly, a tiny nod that acknowledged her bravado. “We are both aware of the occasion to which I make reference.”

Darcie held her breath for a moment. The air left her in a whoosh. She decided to brazen it out, though her heart pounded horribly in her chest, and her mouth felt dry as five-day-old bread.

“I cannot see that my actions are any of your affair, sir. I am in Dr. Cole's employ—”

“But did he employ you for
that?
” His harsh tone cut her off.

Darcie felt a hot flush rise at his implication.

Holding up his flattened hand, Poole warded off arguments or excuses. “Dr. Cole is a man of many faces, not all of them as pretty as you might think. I have been in his employ many years, seen many things. Watch yourself, Finch. For I cannot always watch you.”

Her mouth fell open as she sought a reply, but no words came to mind. With a curt nod, Poole turned and strode away, leaving Darcie standing on the stair, frowning in confusion.

“For I cannot always watch you...What could he possibly mean by that?” she murmured, bewildered. Turning the words over and over in her mind, she continued her ascent to the upper floor.

Lost in thought, she settled in the doctor's study, a copy of Charles Maturin's
Melmoth the Wanderer
lying open on her lap. She found herself unable to concentrate. The words seemed to blur and waver on the page. At last, she gave up. Closing the volume and staring at nothing at all, she wondered what Poole had meant, and why he had chosen to give her a warning at all.

How long she sat there, she could not say, but when next she looked about, she found that the hour had grown late. Her lids felt heavy, and her neck was cricked at an odd angle. She must have dozed off. Shifting uncomfortably on her chair, she drew the back of her hand across her brow, pushing aside the wayward strands of hair that had escaped the neat roll at the base of her neck.

She rose, smoothed her skirts, and rolled her shoulders to work out the kink. Then she crossed to the window. Pushing aside the heavy velvet drapery, she peered out. A sliver of bright moon peered back at her. She suspected the time was well past the supper hour.

After replacing her book on the shelf, she left the study, her destination the back stairs that led to her chamber. Her steps took her past Damien’s closed bedroom door. A thin line of light showed through the narrow crack at the bottom. Pausing, Darcie listened for any sound that might indicate Damien's presence in his chamber, but silence reigned.

The feeling of isolation that she had experienced earlier crept over her once more. She stood in the hallway, hovering uncertainly outside Damien's door, feeling inexplicably lonely and bereft. She raised her hand, her knuckles poised to knock.

After a long moment, she lowered it and turned away, intent on seeking her bed. She took only three steps before drawing to an abrupt halt and whirling back towards the closed door. Her hand raised, she froze once more just before her knuckles touched the wood.

Good heavens! What was she doing standing outside her employer's chamber in the dark hours of the night? Did she intend to rap on his door and seek entry? And once inside, what exactly did she intend to do?

Turning away once more, Darcie wrapped her arms tightly about her chest, admonishing herself silently, shocked by her own behavior. She must take herself off to bed and be done with this foolishness.

“Darcie.” Damien’s voice, pitched low and warm, caressed her, sending tiny chills cascading along her spine.

At a snail's pace, she turned to find that he had opened the door of his chamber, the well-oiled hinges having allowed the portal to swing wide without a hint of sound. As she had on more than one previous occasion, she could not help but wonder whether he possessed some mystical knowledge, some preternatural power that allowed him to know her exact whereabouts.

 The sight of him, standing framed in the doorway with the light of the fire flickering behind him, made her heartbeat quicken, her breathing grow shallow. His linen shirt hung loosely on his muscled frame. It was open at the neck, revealing a vee of golden skin. She stared at his chest, recalling the night she had seen him shirtless, his torso bared to her gaze.

She lifted her eyes to his. The corners of his mouth curved ever so slightly and his eyes glittered with a primitive light, beckoning to her in silent invitation. Darcie stood frozen, pinned in place by a desperate desire to be with him, even while her common sense demanded she flee as far from him and his carnal sensuality as was humanly possible.

“Have you supped?” He cocked a brow, his query posed casually, as though in denial of the intoxicating spell that he wove about her senses like a heady wine.

Darcie shook her head. “No, I'm afraid I fell asleep in your study and missed the evening meal.”

“Did you?” He drew back from the door, sweeping one hand before him in a gesture of welcome. “Cook left a tray. There are even some berry tarts. More than enough for both of us.”

“Oh. It would be improper…I should not.”

He sent her a guarded look. A strange, tight smile graced his lips, and he raised one hand to reveal a bunch of plump red grapes. Taking the small round fruit between his teeth, he tore it from the stem, his eyes never leaving hers.

 “No, you should not,” he said, his voice a velvet caress.

Chapter Nine

“Run away, Darcie, to your safe bed,” Damien said, the words a warning, his tone a caress.

Darcie shivered, more in anticipation than in fear. Every instinct warned her that sharing a meal with him in the privacy of his bedchamber was a dangerous thing to do. Yet, even as her common sense screamed against accepting his invitation, warned her to follow his last directive and seek her own bed, the secret yearning of her heart bid her enter. She looked intently at his face. His eyes glittered with a silvery light as his gaze dropped to her mouth.

“You know what I want,” he said softly.

She knew what he wanted. The breath left her in a rapid huff, leaving her lightheaded and panting for air. Her legs felt weak and boneless. One hand jerked upward in a gesture of supplication as she sank against the doorsill.

“I want you, Darcie. In my arms. In my bed.” He caught her wrist and pulled her against him, his expression hardening with passion. “I want to do all manner of things to you, and have you do them to me. Wonderful things. Pleasurable things.” He ran the pad of his thumb across her lips. “Wicked things.”

His words made her feel hot and flustered.

Dr. Cole is a man of many faces, not all of them as pretty as you might think.
A memory of Poole's warning intruded, leaving Darcie bewildered, her thoughts a maelstrom of unfamiliar emotions. Fear, anticipation, confusion.

Desire.

She thought he would drag her close, kiss her, take that which he so obviously wanted. But he did not. He held himself in check and only after a drawn out moment that felt like an eternity did he say, “Kiss me.”

She wanted to. More than anything she had ever wanted before, she wanted to do exactly as he bid her.

For this single, shining moment, she could make her secret dreams come true. For this moment, she could have him. Going up on her toes, she raised her mouth to his, welcoming the firmness of his lips, the thrust of his tongue. He tasted of wine and fruit and promised pleasure.

Bracing his forearm around her waist, Damien turned her into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

There was nothing subtle or sweet about their kiss. It was a frantic and wild melding, a conflagration of heat and need.

Darcie tangled her fingers in his hair, reveling in the silky feel of it. Molten desire shot through her veins, tugging at her breasts, her belly, until she thought she would scream aloud at the intensity of her hunger.