The Spare (20 page)

When he pushed aside her arms so he could bring her tight against him, cup the back of her head with his palm, she offered no resistance. They came as close as two dressed people could get. She softened against him. His brain, which had been leading the way quite nicely while providing such information as she felt nice, she smelled good, her mouth was responding under his and that everything so far suggested she would let him kiss her a deal longer, ceased functioning.

The tightness in him uncoiled like a spring. He had no more control of himself than he did of an ocean tide. The currents swept him away. His arms encircled her, grounding him when the room disappeared in a wave of emotion. The world condensed to just the space occupied by their bodies. Oh, Jesus. She was exactly what he needed: soft and warm and passionate. When her mouth yielded to his, quite suddenly he was the one kissing with all the eagerness of a tyro desperate to understand his craft.

Instinct and greed took over. He swept his tongue into her mouth, his hands shifting up and down her back, molding her to him, and he actually trembled with the desire raging through him. What he wanted was to be inside her. No, he needed it. Required it. He would die unless he was. They could have been standing on the quarterdeck in the middle of a pitched battle, and he would have wanted to be inside her. The sooner the better. He stopped kissing her just long enough to say, "Olivia."

He peeked over her shoulder, and sure enough, there in the corner, not quite free of the shadows, he saw a man. The pattern of his tunic flashed with color. Gold. Crimson. Well, he'd vanish again in a moment, and he had better things to do than watch shadows. "That was much too fast," he said. "I'm not usually a clod." Easing her back, he smiled. "It's been a long time for me, and I—"

"Why did you do that?" Her breath came rapid and uneven. Her eyes were pools of honey.

He touched one of her curls. "Because it's you." He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, then let them drop again to her shoulders. "Because I haven't—" He stopped short of the earthy phrase that came to mind. "Not since Macao and that was— God, months and months ago. Because I want to make love to you. I have since the moment I saw you." He stroked the side of her face, unable to believe the extent of his need or even begin to fathom the impulse that had him begging like some downy-cheeked boy. He stared at her mouth and wondered why it drove him mad with desire. A pleasant mouth and not more. Not lush or plump or winsome. An ordinary mouth he wanted with extraordinary heat to kiss again. So, he did.

Everything in the world was right with kissing her. His body settled right into hers. He brought her head toward his, his mouth over hers and the whole thing started over. He spread his thighs and brought her between his legs, hard against him. She was better at it this time. Miles better. The damn shadows flickered again. He turned so that her back pressed against the wall, his palms just above her shoulders. Slowly, her eyes closed, as if her lashes were unexpectedly heavy. He was hers, he thought. She owned his heart and his life. He put a finger beneath her chin and brought her face back to his. Through a veil of deep red lashes he saw the honey-gold of her eyes. "You have the most beautiful eyes of any woman I've ever known."

Her arms lifted and went around his shoulders. "That's very sweet."

He bent his head and brushed his lips over hers. Her eyelashes fluttered against his cheeks, then stopped. With a bit more display of finesse this time, he explored the surfaces of her teeth, her tongue, the inside of her cheeks. His lips sought and took, firing a need that drew him closer and closer to conflagration. In the back of his head, he heard someone in the hallway, distant, and not headed in their direction but the sounds reminded him they were far from private. With his mouth hovering over hers, he said, "Olivia. My love. My own. If we're to continue this, I want you on your back." He breathed deep. "If you cannot agree to that, then we stop now."

She opened her eyes, a sleepy look. The look of a woman thoroughly kissed. His body wound itself even tighter.

«
^
»

January 21, 12:00
a.m
.
—
St. Agnes' Eve

The clock in Olivia's room tolled midnight. Uneasiness carved a hollow in the pit of her stomach as she readied herself for bed, and not just because the closed curtains of her window covered a space large enough to hide a man. She hadn't gone downstairs for supper, instead, pleading headache, she cowered in her room. She hadn't the courage to face Tiern-Cope after what had happened this afternoon. Nearly happened. This time, he really and truly had kissed her. She hadn't imagined his mouth covering hers, the sensation of his arms holding her close, or how she'd leaned against him, and she had most certainly not imagined the way her body wanted more. Except she'd panicked, and she really didn't understand why when even now she wished she was still in his embrace.

She shivered. With the covers up to her chin, she watched the shifting light from the fireplace. One thick wall sloped outward and another boasted a window ledge six feet deep and tall enough to sit in. The ledge narrowed in a squared-off V shape and ended in a slender window facing an adjacent tower. The opposite wall had another window with three large steps cut into the ledge. That window overlooked the back of the castle where the moat had been before some Tiern-Cope ancestor decided to enlarge the rear of the castle. Carved stone outlined the fireplace in the third wall, and in the fourth was the door to the hallway. In that same wall, another door near the corner—so short even she had to dip her head to get through—led to a small room for the necessary. As for furniture, there wasn't much: the wardrobe, a desk, a chair, a dressing table and a four-poster bed with blue hangings. Quite the grand bed. Her favorite thing about the room. In the Black Earl's day, no doubt, tapestries had covered the now bare walls. She suspected if the hour were right and she were to lie just so in the larger window, she might see the moon. Right now, however, the walls chilled to the very bone. Another draft rippled through the room.

The terror that had overwhelmed her when Tiern-Cope kissed her wasn't really gone. She probed the edges of that moment. The panic hadn't come because of anything he did. She'd felt safe in his arms. She remembered the longing, an ache of wanting, the feeling that at long last her life had come right. And then, suddenly, a wave of unreasoning fear swept everything away and left her cowering, trembling and empty. He hadn't made fun or been angry or insistent. He just stopped.

The fireplace flared, coals hissed and popped. Olivia listened to the sound die down, shivering despite the fire. Where on earth was that infernal draft coming from? She distinctly recalled fastening the window locks, but one must have worked loose because night air stirred the curtains. A slow, deliberate motion that for one heart-stopping, breath-stealing moment convinced her someone crouched behind the fabric. The air swirled, chilling straight through the covers.

She slipped out of bed. Arms clutched around her for warmth, she went to the draped window ledge. Dread crept up her back like frost on glass, but she forced herself to reach for the curtain. Perhaps a barbarian Scotsman from one of her less tormented dreams lurked behind the fabric, deadly claymore drawn for attack. Her heart slammed in her chest. She held her breath, let it out and told herself she was being silly. She drew aside the curtain.

Cold air surged past, but no sword streaked down to chop off her head, no Highland warrior attacked from inside. Indeed, the latch was loose. She hiked up her nightdress and climbed into the ledge. The stone beneath her feet felt like ice. Outside, a pale crescent of moon shone on the snow-covered ground below, a layer of white covered the sill. She secured the lock in the fitting and, backing out, drew the curtain closed.

In bed once more, she curled into a ball with the covers tight around her for whatever warmth she could find. The opposite curtains moved, a ripple of motion, and it did seem as if there was someone behind them. It did. She pulled the covers to her nose, ignoring the curtains and the shadows, thinking she'd rather dream about the Black Earl separating her head from her neck than find herself awake in the night, shaking with fear and unable to see the face that so terrified her. She remembered Tiern-Cope's arms around her, the protection and comfort of his presence. He'd held her, just that, until her panic passed. He never complained or insisted on an explanation. He just held her until she felt safe. How strange, her drowsy mind thought, that the only place she felt safe was in the arms of man who didn't like her. Came of his being a hero, she supposed.

She was halfway to deep sleep when the door creaked, a noise loud enough to rouse her, yet soft enough to doubt her having heard anything. She lay motionless, listening but hearing only the wind outside, the clock, the sounds of an ancient building. Normal sounds, but still her skin prickled. Pressure built in her head. Her pulse beat in her ears. The feeling of pressure thickened, stealing over her, a sense of envelopment, a shift in perception. Not her pulse, but footsteps. Someone pacing. Ten steps toward the fireplace. Ten back to the foot of her bed. The
susurration of fabric against fabric. Metal sliding along metal, a low ringing sound, and mixed with that a murmuring. She peered into the darkness but saw nothing. No moving shadows, no figure approaching her bed, just the inert shapes of furniture and the resulting shadows. The resonance in her head grew, half convincing her she heard footsteps and the low, regular sound of breathing. The murmuring began again, a breath, then a whisper.

My love.

Steps paced near, and she swore she could feel the air thicken. Pain lanced along her temple.

My heart.

Unendurable pressure. She tried to move, but couldn't. Her limbs were frozen, trapped in her nightmare. More footsteps. A breath on her cheek. Cold air wafted through the room.

My own.

A face flashed before her eyes. She tried to breathe and couldn't get air into her lungs. She screwed her eyes shut, but the face didn't go away. The features blurred, looming, threatening, laughing. She knew that face, but the recollection refused to come. Terror like she'd known only once before in her life consumed her. Her lungs refused to expand. Or couldn't. She was going to die. She knew it. A scream bubbled in her throat.

The fullness in her head vanished, leaving deafening silence in its wake. In one motion, she shot to her knees, throwing back the covers, gasping as if she'd run from Far Caister to Pennhyll. No matter how hard she stared, there was no one. Her door remained shut tight. Not even a difference in light around the frame. The only sound was the wind rattling the glass in the windows. There wasn't anyone in the room. She trembled, heart tripping like a sparrow tangled in a net. There was nothing. There was nothing and no one here. She sat with her arms wrapped around her drawn-up knees, taking slow breaths. This time the dream had changed. The footsteps and voices were new. The endearments, those were new, too. She didn't remember that from any previous nightmare.

Why couldn't she remember?

She stared at the dark folds of the hangings as if they were to be her last sight in the world of the living. Another coal popped. No barefoot, tartan-covered Scotsman hid in the widow ledge. No foully murdered earl walked the halls of Pennhyll. The curtains stirred again, languidly, as if an elbow or perhaps the blade of a sword disturbed the fabric.

This time she refused to acknowledge the prickles of fear running up her spine. She got out of bed. Even though her belly felt empty and her knees shook so she barely trusted them to hold her up, she checked the windows. Both of them. Again. Both were open. She secured the last and climbed down. As she closed the curtain, the wind outside rose. A draft came down the flue and made the fire flare. Startled, she whirled and this time there was someone there. She couldn't help it. She let out a yelp.

A young woman stood at the side of her bed, very young, practically a girl. She wore plain clothes in thick woolen given shape only by the apron around her waist. A white cap on her head gleamed like bone in the dimness. "Good evening, miss," she said, dipping into a curtsey.

"Good heavens, you frightened me nearly to death. I didn't hear you come in."

"I knocked, miss. Several times, so I was sure you were asleep. I've come to look after the fire." She held up a bucket of coal before crossing from the hearth to the door. "There's a chill on tonight."

What a relief to discover such a mundane explanation of her dream; she'd translated the sound of the servant tapping on her door into footsteps, and the sounds of her tending to the fire into the Black Earl himself pacing her room. "It's always chilly in here."

"I reckon," the girl said, "it's usually cold on St. Agnes' Eve."

"Why, so it is. I hadn't realized. St. Agnes' Eve, I mean. You're new here. At least, I've not see you before. What shall I call you?"

"Edith, Miss." She finished with the fire and rose.

"Have you been here long, Edith, or were you hired for the party tomorrow?" She laughed, a thin, nervous sound. "Well, I suppose I ought to have said today."

"A while." She went to the bed and plumped the pillows. "I'm sorry I frightened you. I was certain you heard me knock."

"I didn't. I was thinking of the Black Earl and… and St. Agnes' Eve."

Edith untangled the covers and then faced her. "You'll dream of your future husband tomorrow night, that's sure."

"What if I forget to fast?"

"Who knows? Perhaps you'll dream of him tonight."

"It's more likely I'll dream of the Black Earl wandering the halls of Pennhyll angry with Miss Royce for summoning him."

"The Black Earl can't be summoned," Edith said, smiling.

"Why not?"

She put a finger to the side of her nose. "If he wants you to see him, you will. Otherwise…" She shrugged. "Come to bed, Miss. You'll catch your death if you don't."