The Spare (27 page)

"Olivia?"

She plunged down the stairs, descending a spiral no wider than her shoulders. The blackness went unrelieved even by the usual arrow slits. Despite the lack of ventilation, the air felt less musty than it had farther up. Her shoes echoed on the ancient stone. In the back of her mind she thought if Hew were to follow her, she would hear him. The twisting descent into blackness dizzied her until she was certain her foot would miss the next stair. Another turn and light appeared on the walls and stairs, a spreading gray against black. She reached a landing where light outlined a door. The stairs continued down. The door opened easily, and she exited into a large and empty room.

The door closed, disappearing into the pattern of the wallpaper. If she hadn't come through it, she'd never have known it was there. She felt a shiver of unease. The room felt familiar, the surroundings comfortable, though she knew she'd never been here before. Green silk covered the walls and curtains the color of new bronze hung at the windows. The furniture was beautiful, if one liked exquisite veneers, gold fittings and round-bellied chests-of-drawers. Smuggled from the Continent, she thought, or, more likely, prizes won by a ship's captain. Portraits lined one wall as high as the ceiling. The largest hung in the center. An armored knight sat a wild-eyed destrier. He clutched a plumed helm under one arm in a pose reminiscent of Tiern-Cope's portrait in the salon. The knight smiled with Andrew's mouth, but the cold blue eyes could have been the earl's. Behind him another man held a pike in one hand, atop which a banner rippled with the wind, bars of crimson and gold against a cobalt background. The bannerman rode a bay horse and though the shadows made it difficult to be sure, his hair looked red.

The sensation of familiarity persisted. She turned from the portraits. An empty room, but not uninhabited. A newspaper lay on a table. The folded pages no longer retained sharp creases. Beside the paper a crystal goblet held a few drops of bloodred liquid. In the very center of the table was the painting of her father and brother. She picked it up. The canvas smelled of smoke. The fire had damaged one corner, but it hadn't been burned with everything else. Her mouth trembled. Tiern-Cope must have saved it, and if so, then this must be his room.

No sooner had that horrifying thought occurred than a low, pained moan lifted the hair on the back of her neck. She looked around her, but there was no way to tell where the sound came from. A second moan, briefer, a little softer, but just as agonized had her turning toward another door, open more than wide enough for her to have been spotted by anyone inside.

She heard the sound again. Definitely coming from the other side of the open door. Not imagined. Someone was hurt. A now familiar prickle of gooseflesh moved along her arms and spine. The spot between her shoulder blades itched with the expectation of a dagger's icy chill. Had she not been distracted by the painting on the table, she'd have seen into the other room just by turning, which she did now.

Tiern-Cope stood near a window so the sun fell on his head and shoulders. In the strong light, his hair, a rich brown just shy of black, looked disturbingly short, cropped as it was close to his neck. He was coatless. And shirtless. Oh, Lord, he was naked. Or very nearly so. His broad and very naked back was not smooth or soft as she had imagined of men. Muscle flowed over bone and sinew and gave his torso shape the way a sculptor gave shape to marble. Nor was his skin pale. His back had a golden tone. He'd sailed the Indian Ocean. Andrew had read her his descriptions of Macao and Barbados, of long weeks on blockade in the brilliant sun on the other side of the world.

One white-knuckled hand clenched the top of the window casement. On his smallest finger, a cabochon of pale, silky blue caught the light. His chin pointed toward the ceiling. Dr. Fansher examined his rib cage, probing until he elicited another exclamation from his patient. Tiern-Cope shifted toward her. His closed eyes were the only reason he did not see her. His skin was faintly brown everywhere she could see, a lovely, warm color that reminded her of summer. How much had the tropical sun seen of Tiern-Cope, she wondered, that he could be so brown?

"The devil." The earl sucked in a hissing breath. "Damn you to hell, Ned. Do you mean to break my ribs again?"

Unperturbed, the man continued his examination. A red gash surrounded by very pink and puckered scar tissue ran from about four inches below the earl's armpit forward and upward to nearly his nipple. "You should have had this looked at sooner."

"I did."

"By whom?" He sounded offended.

"A doctor in Far Caister. Fitzalan sent for him."

"It's not healing as quickly as it should."

"That's why you're here, Ned."

"Move so. A bit more, Captain." He stopped short and bobbed his head. "I beg your humble pardon. My Lord."

"Hell, Ned. Not you, too. Don't you 'my Lord' me. I cannot abide that from you."

"I need a better look. I must be certain they've not left behind a bit of the bullet."

"You'll not cut me open, you cursed sawbones."

With a start, she understood this wasn't like seeing the swordsman. This was no dream or hallucination. She really was here. The moment could not be more improper. She'd blundered into Tiern-Cope's private quarters, and he wasn't dressed. She shouldn't be here, let alone be spying on him. She had to leave, but she just couldn't. The sight of Tiern-Cope in his naked skin paralyzed her. The muscles of his chest were every bit as defined from the front as from the back and they disappeared right down into the band of his breeches along with a narrow trail of dark hair. He was, simply, magnificent.

"Enough, Ned." He sighed and gingerly moved his arm. "I've had enough for now." He reached for the shirt dangling from the back of a chair. Turning away, he drew it on but left the front gaping open. "Besides, I'm better than I was. I've been walking to Far Caister and back every morning for the last week."

"Probably what set you off."

"Bollocks. I've had a belly full of laying about like an overcooked potato."

"Saving lovely ladies and their crippled mothers from fires. Aye, lad, you've been a worthless nit, you have." Dr. Fansher turned, a grin on a weathered face browner than Tiern-Cope's. "Later then, Captain." He moved out of sight. "My Lord."

"Don't go. Not yet. I want to talk to someone with some sense. If I must converse about the weather or the color of Diana's bloody eyes even one more time, I'll puke."

Olivia didn't dare move now, not when as much as a twitch from her might attract their attention. "When you're a married man, I'll pour us both a nice warm ale, and we'll talk about the old days when we were young and foolish."

"Sod off, Ned. I'm still young."

"That you are, my Lord." Dr. Fansher reappeared with a bag in one hand. He retrieved his coat from a table. "I'll set aside the lager."

"Stay. Ned." His eagerness made him sound like the young man he was.

"Are you really to be married? To Miss Royce?"

"I don't want to talk about that."

"Ah, now, what about Miss Willow?"

"Now there's a woman worth a man's time. She's the only one here worth talking to."

"Just your sort, I thought. Intelligent. Attractive, too."

"Jesus, yes."

"Why all this talk about you and Miss Royce if it's bonnie Miss Willow who interests you? Do the headaches worry you?"

"Can you help her?"

"The lass was lucky to survive her injury. As for her memory—"

"Never mind that." He made a sharp gesture. "I don't want her reliving what happened."

"You care for her that much, then?"

"She suffered an unspeakable ordeal, Ned."

Dr. Fansher put his bag on the table and rested his hands on it. "Do you want my advice?"

"Yes."

"Waste no more of your time with Miss Royce when it's Miss Willow you want."

"Get out, Ned. You know the way."

With a laugh, the doctor bowed and left by another door.

Once he was gone, Tiern-Cope reached for the gaping fabric of his shirt, pulling it together the merest bit. Olivia followed the disappearing expanse of muscle. She saw herself caressing his chest, running her hands over skin and muscle. Her palms tingled as if she'd touched him. He sighed and threw himself on the chair, legs sprawled. The upper halves of his shirt fell open and Olivia saw nothing but golden leanness and the livid scar. Dream and reality bled one into the other. She didn't know if she'd seen his bare chest before now or dreamed it. Did she recall the shape and feel of a man's muscles moving under sun-touched skin, or was that something else she'd dreamed? Tiern-Cope stood, careless of his open shirt, as any man would in the privacy of his own quarters. Horrified, Olivia realized he was heading for the room in which she hid, and only his preoccupation with the fastenings of his shirt kept him from seeing her.

The stairwell down which she'd come was too far. She'd never make it in time and besides, she wasn't sure if she knew how to open the door from this side. She dashed to the only other exit. Thankfully, it wasn't locked. She closed it as gently as she could.

She leaned against the wall and prayed for a miracle to transport her safely to her room. No such luck. She was in another hallway. Across from her, a niche contained a marble bust of Socrates. To her right, the hall showed only darkness. To her left, another hall extended perpendicularly. Which way led out, she had no idea. Left then. Away from the darkness. She came to six stairs terminating in an alcove where pink roses decorated a walnut table. Cut from the greenhouse just this morning, by the look of them. Behind the flowers hung a gilt mirror. Her cheeks glowed as pink as the flowers, and her eyes were far too bright. Sinking onto a wooden settee nestled along the wall, she bowed her head to her knees and groaned. It hit her, then, what a wicked thing she'd just done, spying on the earl. Seeing him practically naked. Listening to his private conversation.

"Sebastian," came a masculine voice from the opposite end of the alcove. "We're off." Lord Fitzalan came up a flight of stairs, heading toward the earl's quarters, which, apparently, one reached by the stairs where she now sat. Trapped.

A shadow darkened the alcove. She snapped to attention. Tiern-Cope stood over her, one eyebrow arched. "What are you doing here?"

Buff breeches hugged lean, muscled thighs. A clean white shirt, cravat, embroidered navy waistcoat and navy coat completed the picture of male beauty. The way he gazed at her so intently, she felt as if he were trying to read her mind. God help her if he could. Her pulse raced triple-time.

"Well?" he said, tapping his fingers on his thigh.

"I took a wrong turn."

His mouth quirked, but he did not smile. "Quite a wrong turn. Are you well enough to be out of your bed?"

"You saved my painting." Oh Lord, where had that come from?

He studied her, eyes moving over her from head to toe and back. "How did you get into my rooms without anyone noticing?"

"I was lost."

"Is that so?"

"Yes."

"What
do
you see, Olivia?"

The moment went deep with silence as his voice rippled up her spine. "Nothing."

"Liar." His eyes pinned her. "I think you see exactly what I do."

"Where are you, Sebastian? Diana is waiting." Fitzalan came up the last stair and stopped dead when he saw them. He smiled, and it was cool water to a parched throat after the burning look the earl gave her. His eyes shifted from Tiern-Cope to her. "Good afternoon, Miss Willow."

"My Lord."

"I hope you are well, Miss Willow."

"I am, now that I don't smell like smoke."

"Your cousin is here," Fitzalan said. "He's been asking after you."

"Thank you."

"Come along, Miss Willow," said Tiern-Cope as if it were natural for them to be chatting here, so close to his quarters. "No doubt the others are waiting for us."

Fitzalan inserted himself between her and Tiern-Cope. He extended his elbow to her. "Yes, Miss Willow. Do come. We're done with tea and Price is about to give us a tour of the castle."

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2:13
p.m.

"The library at Pennhyll houses one of the greatest collections of books and manuscripts assembled in all of Britain." Price's voice resonated as he opened double doors that ran the considerable height of floor to ceiling. Olivia sighed with the envy that the sight of all those volumes always inspired. Miss Cage and her father, Mr. and Mrs. Leveret and Mr. Verney and his wife added to the number of guests arriving for the St. Agnes' Eve festivities. Alice, now Mrs. Verney, strolled arm-in-arm with Olivia. Mr. Verney walked with Fitzalan, Hew and the Leverets while Tiern-Cope escorted Diana, one hand fisted in the curve of his lower spine. Captain Egremont walked just behind with Dr. Fansher. The arrival of Captain Egremont had Pennhyll in an uproar. Lord Tiern-Cope was going back to sea, and he could no longer afford patience in offering for his bride. Everyone expected Fitzalan would make an announcement about his sister and Tiern-Cope tonight.

"Oh now, this is lovely," Verney said, looking over his shoulder. "What do you think, Mrs. Verney? Shall we redo our library?"

"How you do go on, Mr. Verney." Alice glanced at Diana walking on the arm of Lord Tiern-Cope and bent her head to Olivia. "He ought to order himself new boots, don't you agree? Tasseled Hessians would suit him. Like Lord Fitzalan's. Or your cousin's."

Olivia couldn't help a smile in return. "Perhaps a striped waistcoat, too, in gold and blue, I should think."

"Surely two more handsome men than Lords Tiern-Cope and Fitzalan there have never been. Both so tall and broad-shouldered. Ah, here is Mrs. Leveret. Dear Madam, how do you do? By the by," Alice said, leaning toward Olivia. "I'm sure Mrs. Leveret does not mind if I share her wonderful news." Alice tucked her arm under the older woman's.

"Indeed, not," said Mrs. Leveret.

"The school committee has taken a three-year lease on the Lodge."