The Spare (10 page)

"Yes."

"Tell me that, then." They stood close, and if he occasionally touched her shoulder or caressed her cheek, she took no notice.

"I wake up crying. My heart is pounding, my head hurts and sometimes—sometimes I cannot breathe. I feel I am being smothered and that if I do not get away, I will die." She lapsed into a silence he chose not to break. Eventually, she lifted her hands an inch or so apart.

"Did you do anything unusual in the days preceding?"

"Oh, no. My life is quite dull."

"Tell me about Andrew and his wife." Jesus, she was a pretty woman. Damn James for telling him of his designs on her, for now he could not help thinking of her in a passionate embrace. His passionate embrace. He did not think of Diana or of any other young lady in such a prurient fashion, but her, hell, yes. He wanted her so badly, it hurt. In his head, he removed her gown and unlaced her corset. The images came to him with such intensity he wondered she didn't see them herself. "Did anything seem out of the ordinary with them?"

Her eyebrows drew together. "No."

"But?"

She flushed. Not deeply, a pale pink. Naked.. Twining her body around his, straining up to meet him.

"Miss Willow. Please. However difficult this must be for you, you must tell me all that you know or surmise."

Today, she was not wearing her coral necklace. No other piece of jewelry took its place. How easily he could imagine her bare neck exposed to his searching mouth. Indecent, really, that naked throat.

"Guenevere, though she possessed many fine qualities and in many ways I considered her my friend, in truth, she rarely saw the world except through her own eyes."

"You thought them unhappy."

"I admired your brother for his spirit and his joy in life, for his intellect and his unswerving love and admiration for you and your accomplishments."

"But?"

"Guenevere was very unhappy." She shivered and drew her cloak closer. Then she surprised the hell out of him. "You could help me. Help me remember."

"Miss Willow."

"You could." Her voice fell low and urgent. "Andrew never said so, but I guessed some of what you did in the war. You made people tell you things they did not wish to reveal."

"They were sailors and soldiers, men of war, not women of gentle birth."

"I want to know what happened to me. Sometimes I feel so close to knowing—to remembering everything." She put a hand just over her head, as if pushing against a barrier. "Here. It's all here. Only I can't see. I can't make myself remember."

Lord, she was pretty. And while the color of her hair was outrageous, he could not stop imagining his hands entangled in her curls. Or her body against his. Her breath hot against his skin. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I know I cannot bear not knowing. You could help me remember. I know you could."

"Jesus, you're serious, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"No matter what I've done in the name of my country, I've never, ever subjected a woman to that sort of questioning." Questioning that broke down barriers and made a man talk whether he wanted to or not. He glanced at the tops of his boots. "Astonishingly, I have some scruples left."

"My Lord." She startled him by grasping his hands. They felt small in his. Cold, too. "Please."

He refused absolutely to return her tremulous smile.

"You don't know what it's like," she said. "Living with a hole in your life. You want to know, too. Don't deny it. Whoever killed Andrew and Guenevere is free because his identity is trapped in my head."

His body coiled with anticipation. Only a fool would turn down the very thing he most wanted: her memories and, he had no doubt, should he stoop so low, her sex. They'd be alone. They had to be. He couldn't question her like that with anyone present. Not even McNaught. What would she be like? That body, her body, soft and sweet in surrender to him, under him, moving with him. He did mean to discover who killed his brother and up to now he would have sworn to the high heavens he'd do anything, anything at all, to know what had happened to Andrew. Here she was, offering everything he wanted, and a good deal more besides, if only she knew.

"Please," she whispered.

He drew himself up, trying to stop the images in his head, the pounding of his heart, the conviction that he must and would possess her. He put his hands on either side of her head. "Are you sure?" She nodded. He knew he ought to say no, but what came out of his mouth was, "Very well."

She swallowed. "Thank you."

"You may not say so later."

"Nothing could be worse than not knowing."

James hailed them from the street, waving so his hat tumbled off his head. "Come along you two. Sebastian."

"When?" she asked.

He stroked her cheek with the side of his thumb. "I'll send for you."

Miss Willow nodded, lifted her chin and walked past him, a wisp of red hair trailing in the breeze. He followed. When she reached the causeway that wound around the side of the church and back to the street, she joined James, his sister and Miss Cage. The ladies linked arms and walked ahead, heads together.

James stuck out a hand and stopped Sebastian from passing. "Are you poaching?"

He pushed away James's hand, shooting a glance at Mr. Cage, who had let the ladies walk ahead. "As if you didn't intend to ruin her for a decent husband."

"God in heaven. Am I to find myself with the dilemma of protecting her from you, of all people?"

"That is not necessary, I assure you." Snow fell in increasing thickness, staying on the ground now. Sebastian ignored the cold and wet. His mood was peevish, and he made no effort to hide it.

James gave him a look. "You do intend to marry Diana?"

"Consider the matter all but settled."

"Well, well."

"I expect you'll be making an announcement on St. Agnes' Eve."

James grinned. "Excellent."

"In the meantime, what do you intend to do about Miss Willow?"

"Have her in my bed, of course."

"She'll not fall in without a ring on her finger."

"Then let her think she'll have one." James smiled. "She's leading me a chase, I won't deny that, but Sebastian, for pity's sake, I'll take care of her. On my honor I will. And—" He kept his hand on Sebastian's chest. "I'll thank you not to interfere."

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January 17

Olivia glanced up from her notebook to see Price, Pennhyll's butler, in the doorway of the tower parlor she already thought of as her unofficial office. She closed the cover in case his eyesight was better than she thought. The pewter-haired butler watched with what she fancied was a gaze of sorrowful concern. He always seemed on the verge of a solemn delivery of terrible news or just leaving to attend a dear friend's funeral.
Good morning, Miss. I regret to report the world has come to an end
.

"Yes, Price?" she asked.

"My Lord Tiern-Cope requests a moment of your time this morning, Miss."

Her heart slammed against her ribs, but she lifted her pen and squinted a little so Price would think she was consumed by thought instead of caught completely off guard by the summons. She wasn't ready. She'd let herself believe he didn't mean to follow through, and was relieved to think so, too.

Price gestured toward the door. "He is most anxious to speak with you." She put away her pen, blotted her journal page and slid the book into the desk drawer. She had a sudden recollection of Tiern-Cope staring at her before they left the churchyard in Far Caister. Eyes like blue ice. A ruthless man. No mercy in him. None whatever.

The butler waited while she draped her shawl around her shoulders, which she fussed over more than necessary. "This way, Miss."

She followed him from the salon. She felt like a criminal on her way to the gallows. They turned a corner to a wood-carved hallway. A hard left took them through a closet lined with shelves of jars and dried plants and then into a salon of ivory and blue accented in yellow the shade of new butter. Olivia frowned at his back while he opened a double set of doors leading to a parlor of crimson and gray. She did not think herself far wrong in supposing Price was taking her to the earl's private quarters. Where they were unlikely to be interrupted. No wonder Price disapproved. From the parlor, they passed through a withdrawing room with gilt doors.

"Mind your step here, Miss Willow." He stopped at the next set of doors but instead of opening them tapped on one of the gilt panels. "Miss Willow, my Lord."

"Permission to enter." That voice gave no hint of anything save that the speaker possessed a soul of granite, which did nothing to quell the racing of her pulse.

Price opened the door and nodded as she passed him. Although not large, the room imposed on her senses. To her right, three high, arching windows let in early light of day and offered a sweeping view of the hill falling away from the rear of the castle. Portraits lined the opposite wall from above the wainscoting to the ceiling. She noticed little else after that, for Lord Tiern-Cope stood from the desk. Hands clasped behind his back, he made the very slightest of motions with his head, conveying at once both an acknowledgment of her and, so she imagined, his approval at seeing her. He must have expected her to refuse. She ought to. She wanted to.

"Thank you, Price," he said. "Dismissed."

"My Lord." Price bowed and on his way out, very pointedly left the door open.

Tiern-Cope glanced at the desktop and set aside a stack of papers. A tray with a teapot, one cup, a saucer and a half-eaten scone took up the space to his right. To his left sat a wooden chest about a foot square. She supposed he locked the household cash and his most important papers in the chest. He gestured to a tufted armchair, inviting her to sit. "At ease, Miss Willow." All business. Not a drop of warmth. She had no idea what to expect. Except that she would at last know what she'd come to Pennhyll to remember, for she had no doubt as to the reason for his summons.

"My Lord." She perched on the edge of the chair, fighting the urge to put a hand to her aching head. Lack of sleep, she decided. Since coming to Pennhyll, she'd begun having nightmares again, horrible dreams of someone threatening her, of running and running and however fast she ran, never escaping. She'd not slept well since. "I'm ready."

Still standing, he moved another sheet of paper to the pile on his right, ignoring the chest, the tea and her. He wore fawn breeches, a brown waistcoat and a camel-hair jacket. Despite the informality of his dress, he seemed more formal than ever. No level of informality disguised his Alexander looks. What, she wondered, would happen if the present Tiern-Cope ever learned to smile? Half the women in Far Caister swooned over him without his mouth so much as twitching. If ever he did crack a smile, she suspected the rest would swoon, too, while the other half fainted dead away. He looked up, and the question seemed irrelevant. This man surely never smiled in all his life and never would. "I have not been myself since I came to Pennhyll, Miss Willow. I do not sleep well."

"An epidemic, it seems."

His icy gaze fell colder yet. "I am well aware of my social shortcomings, Miss Willow, and I hope you will make an allowance for them, as well as forgive me for bringing you here in order that we may be private."

Her heart flew to her throat. "I imagine it's necessary. Privacy."

He gave tier a stare that made her wish she'd chosen a chair farther from his desk. Lord, that icy-blue gaze could peel paint from the walls. "Are you absolutely certain," he said, "that you agree to this?"

"Yes."

"Then I may expect your full cooperation."

"Yes."

He looked at her. "My
Lord
." After a long moment, he said, "I will have you know your place, Miss Willow, and have you stay in it. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"What is your income per annum?"

"It varies, sir."

"Let me ask the question another way. May I presume that your father left you and your mother adequately provisioned for his absence?"

"No. He did not."

"Your father owned property. A fairly considerable estate."

"Yes, sir."

"And he took no steps to provide for his family?"

"It seems not."

"You will not be disrespectful." He spoke in an uninflected tone, but the effect was worse than a shout.

"I cannot believe he left us nothing." She met his gaze and found no comfort in the chilly blue depths. "I engaged an attorney to look into Papa's estate."

"And?"

"Nothing came of it but his bills."

He moved from behind his desk until he stood before her, hands clasped behind his back. "Had you no guardian?"

"My uncle, I suppose."

"You don't know?"

"I was ten when my father died. No one told me what was going on. My uncle looked after us. For a while."

"What does your uncle say about your fortune?"

"He passed on seven or eight years ago. My cousin Mr. Hew Willow has the estate now."

"Why doesn't he look after you?"

"I do not know."

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. He's been away. We don't correspond."

"Miss Willow."

"There was talk of a duel, sir. I heard, and I believe, that he fled England because he killed a man. Or nearly so. I do not know the particulars."

"A swordsman, I take it."

"I've no idea. My cousin is considered an excellent huntsman, though. He lives for shooting. He would surely have used a pistol though, for all I know, they fought with cudgels."

"You have no guardian and the man who ought to be responsible for you is not. How, then, do you support yourself? Are you a charity case? A burden upon the parish?"

"I have a small stipend from teaching in Far Caister." She stared at his neck cloth in a vain attempt to avoid the chill blue eyes.

"And yet," he said in words sharp enough to cut paper, "you are compelled to carry away food from my kitchens."

Her eyes snapped to his, and she felt her face go hot. "My Lord?"