The Spare (28 page)

"That's excellent news," Olivia said. "Far Caister will have a grand school." Relief flooded her. The school could not be opened a moment too soon.

"Renovations begin Tuesday next."

"There's better news yet," said Alice.

Olivia felt the weight of the world lift from her shoulders. At last. At long last. Surely, the school committee would agree to advance her enough of her salary to find new lodgings. "I should like to hear it."

Mrs. Leveret lifted her chin. "We have engaged our professor."

Her heart stuttered, but she smiled. "Have you?"

"Shall I tell her, Mrs. Leveret, or will you?" Alice patted Olivia's arm. "Such a thrill for us. I'm sure you'll be as excited as I was when I heard."

For a moment, hope soared. But Mrs. Leveret aimed her smile at Alice, not her.

Alice clasped her hands. "Mrs. Leveret's nephew just down from Cambridge. Mr. George Marshall. We are most ecstatic to have his services, I can tell you. An exceptional man. Quite exceptional."

"I'm sure you're right." Olivia nodded. "I look forward to meeting him and helping in any capacity that I may."

"I think, Miss Willow," said Mrs. Leveret, "that though we must thank you for your past efforts, my nephew, Mr. Marshall, has the school well in hand and no doubt has his own notions about its proper conduct."

"I am more than willing to assist, Mrs. Leveret."

"How kind. But with your mama so ill, I would not dream of imposing further. Mrs. Verney, will you come with me? I'd like a word with you."

"Of course." Alice turned to Olivia. "I'm sure you're as thrilled as I am about the school. Official at last. And a headmaster from Cambridge. What a condescension for us. How very fortunate we are, said I to Mr. Verney."

While Price pointed out the gothic arches above their heads and demonstrated the working of the ladder that reached to a height of twelve feet, Olivia walked to a set of mullioned windows overlooking the gardens. The extent of her latest reversal sank in. The earnings on which she had counted to meet her expenses had just vanished. She had no employment, and now, no prospect of employment at anything like the salary she needed. No way to pay Mrs. Goody, no money for lodgings and everything she owned burned in the fire, every pot or pan, every stick of furniture.

She stared out the window. Panic welled up, a tightness in her chest, a prickle of anxiety that grew and swelled until she thought she could not bear it. Snow drifted past the diamond-paned glass. White-covered lawns extended for yards and yards in every direction. Farther away, mist shrouded the, treetops. Clouds gathered at the horizon, promising a storm. How marvelous to live such a life, where one might look out a window and know that as far as the eye could see and farther one still did not reach the limits of one's possessions.

Olivia left the window for a glass case containing a manuscript open to an illumination of the letter
T
. Next to that was a sheet of vellum on which gleamed the Tiern-Cope crest. The colors, cobalt and gold with reliefs of red and silver seemed as bright as the day they'd been inked. Above the shield arched the words
Chomh Crua Leis An Iarann
. Everyone in Far Caister knew the translation of the Gaelic phrase: "As Hard As Iron."

She looked over her shoulder and saw Tiern-Cope had separated from Diana, and that Fitzalan, Diana and Miss Cage, with Hew as her support, were at the moment unaware that he'd left them. Like any good parent in the presence of three such eligible men, Mr. Cage was absorbed in a book. Light from the windows between shelves of books shadowed Tiern-Cope's face in grave profile. The look of cold reflection much suited his temperament, she thought.

He half sat, half leaned on a corner of a table, imagining, she supposed, Diana in the role of his bride. He shifted, taking no notice of her, or of Diana, for that matter. Today, though, he would announce his engagement to Miss Royce. He must, for unless everyone was much mistaken, Captain Egremont had brought his orders. Light flared around him so that all she saw for the instant he moved through the light was his outline against a snow-filtered glow.

In the next glass case a banner, tattered at the edges, rested on a background of black silk. Woven of gold cloth it, too, depicted the Tiern-Cope crest. Below it lay a shaft of dark wood three or four feet in length, broken at one end, as if it had snapped under some terrible strain. Despite the centuries since the banner was sewn, the needlework retained an otherworldly brightness. The lion prepared to leap off the fabric; the unicorn just now reared up.

A breath of cold air swept through the room and, with the shifting of light from the windows, stirred the hair on the back of her neck. She shivered. Her head ached worse than ever, the familiar pain along with a sense of fullness, a pressure behind her ears.

"Still lovely, isn't it?" a low voice asked. She turned and saw Tiern-Cope.

"Yes."

"Did I startle you?"

"No… All right. Yes, you did."

He smiled his slow, cold smile. With a nod toward where Price demonstrated a secret passage that led to the upper floor of the library, he said, "I've had the tour before." Fitzalan, Captain Egremont, Hew, Miss Cage and Diana were being allowed, one by one, to walk up the hidden staircase. "I'm told the Black Earl himself saved the banner you are admiring."

"Perhaps a Willow fought in whatever battle broke that pike," she said.

"Do you suppose he had red hair?"

She smiled. "A Willow might have held the banner. But he would not have allowed it to break."

"Surely not," he said. He stepped closer. "According to legend, had not the fourth earl been murdered, we might have been kings."

"I believe that." She traced on the glass the outline of the ragged banner. "Imagine the stories it could tell."

The earl smiled again, and his resemblance to his brother struck her. The man at rest might be his brother's twin. Except she found him far more compelling than Andrew. He bent closer. The air crackled with invisible energy. He, too, touched the glass, and his fingers brushed hers. A glancing touch, inadvertent. The contact made her heart thud. He wasn't wearing gloves, and his fingers resting on the case were proportionally long for his hand. He d held a cutlass in that hand. Those fingers had pulled the trigger of a pistol with mortal intent. "Do not romanticize war, Miss Willow. If that banner could speak, be assured it would tell horrible tales."

She moved her hand off the case because his hand was too close, but clipped the side of her finger on the wooden edge. A sliver jabbed into her finger, right through her glove. She yelped and pulled on the wood. It broke off. "Ouch."

"Allow me."

"It's nothing. A splinter. I'll soon have it out."

With a tilt of his head, he took her hand. "I said, allow me."

"I do not like managing men."

"If I were to manage you as I ought to do, you'd understand what it means to be managed. And appreciate my present restraint. Now hold still." He drew off her glove and turned over her palm, angling it toward the light to see the sliver lodged under the skin of her smallest finger. "Fitzalan will not stop staring at you when he thinks no one is watching." He pinched the bit of wood between thumb and forefinger and pulled it out. "There. Hardly worth the name splinter."

"Thank you."

Still holding her bare wrist, his other hand touched her cheek so softly it was more a whisper of air than a caress. Olivia discovered she was standing right up against him. The entire time they'd been talking, he'd drawn her nearer or else she'd moved closer. She wasn't sure which. The snow brought with it cold that swept through the windows. Dark clouds swirled in the sky so that the shadows constantly changed. The tip of his finger touched just below her palm. His fingers cradled the back of her wrist and a portion of her hand. She wasn't the least bit afraid, because she knew she was safe with him. "A grand passion, Olivia. Settle for nothing less."

"As if that matters."

"He's not a bad sort."

"Hew?"

"James. If matters do not fall out as I hope, you might do worse than James."

She frowned. "Then why did you warn me about him?"

"Why do you think?" He traced a feather-light line along the pulse point of her wrist. Feeling as warm as his voice, she shook her head, then watched in disbelief as he brought her arm toward him.

"Don't do something you don't mean. Please don't."

He drew her closer. She lifted her free hand to push him back. "No mistake. My love. I mean a great deal with you."

"You mean to break my heart, don't you?"

"Could I?"

Her hand drifted to his shoulder. It wasn't a lack of response on her part that had her standing as if benumbed, but too much. "I couldn't bear it if you didn't mean it," she said.

"Come to me, Olivia."

And she did. Because Sebastian would never harm her. Sebastian made everything right. The softness of his lips on her throat just above her collarbone, the scent of him, the size and power of him, but most of all, the sensation that inside she was melting, dissolving, kept her motionless. His lips parted and moved to the point where throat became shoulder. She discovered he still held her wrist because he brought her arm sideways away from their bodies, interlacing his fingers with hers.

Like that, nothing separated them. But he wasn't the one pressing her against him. He didn't need to. She leaned forward, her chest to his but bending her head back. One hand clutched his shoulder, hanging on for dear life. The other tightened around his hand. She felt his fingers skim through her hair, molding the back of her skull, moving her head just enough to expose more of her throat or neck. Then, he stopped.

"No," she moaned. "Please."

He smiled with an easy, fluid grin, a glint of triumph in his blue eyes. He touched her cheek. The caress left a chill in its wake. Her eyes fluttered open. His arms were around her. "I mean every moment. Every heart beat."

"I love you," she said.

As suddenly as that, she found herself looking at Tiern-Cope. He clasped her hand, their fingers interlaced. He held the splinter between thumb and forefinger. "That must have hurt like the devil."

"I think I must be going mad," she said. He had not been nearer to her than he was right now. He had never touched her or caressed her bare hand, or kissed her. Her stomach lurched and her knees threatened to crumple.

He caught her elbow and steadied her. "Are you all right? Is it the headache again?"

"You—I'm seeing things. Imagining things that aren't there and never happened. I don't know what's real and what's not."

Tiern-Cope lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. "My own," he whispered. "Nor I."

«
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3:40
p.m.

Price cleared his throat. "Have we everyone assembled?" Tiern-Cope released her hand. The butler glanced at the assembled guests. "Excellent. If the ladies have their cloaks and wraps, let us proceed."

They followed Price outside where gray clouds and a chill wind promised more snow. The history of Pennhyll was fascinating, and Price had perfected his delivery of the details.

"We stand," Price intoned when they'd gathered in the north courtyard, "on the exact location of the original motte built by the first earl's ancestors." He indicated an incline at the top of which one could see a crumbling foundation. In the middle of the ruins, a tall figure stood with one foot propped on a stone. The sword strapped across his back rose over his shoulder, and the sigil of the earls of Tiern-Cope shimmered across his chest. Olivia closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the figure was still there, so real and true to life she could see the brilliant blue eyes, the folds of his tunic, and the buckle on his belt. She looked around, but no one else noticed him. She glanced at Tiern-Cope, standing with Diana. He stared, too, at the spot where the swordsman stood. As if he'd sensed her attention, Tiern-Cope turned his head. Their eyes met.

Fitzalan glanced at the gathering clouds, and then at her. "Cold?"

"Not at all."

He slipped off his coat and draped it over her shoulders. She stiffened at the contact. "Are you going to marry your cousin?"

"Yes."

Fitzalan searched her face. "Why, if you do not love him?"

" 'Twas here," Price said, "the barons
Iarann
fought off many a highland barbarian. The barons were never defeated in battle. Nor were any of the earls Tiern-Cope." He turned and led them to a doorway in the north tower, a massive rectangle of stone that housed Olivia's rooms. He rattled a set of keys. While he unlocked the door, he continued to speak. "
Iarann
, as some of you may know, is Gaelic for iron. The man who sired the original baron was Irish. He came to England to be civilized by an English bride whom he married, so the story goes, because her red hair reminded him of Ireland." He pointed upward. "Indeed, the motto of those Irish ancestors is carved over the lintel of what was once the original entrance to Pennhyll.
Chomh Crua Leis An Iarann
. 'As Hard as Iron.' A motto," he continued, "I am sure you will agree is well suited to the earls Tiern-Cope down to the present day."

The door swung inward on its hinges and they filed inside. "We now enter the oldest portion of Castle Pennhyll. Take especial care as you walk. Watch the shadows, for you may see not the first earl but the fourth earl, the Black Earl, he was called, as we draw nearer his former chamber. Ladies, keep your shawls at hand, for I've heard the chill air signifies the presence of the unhappy dead." This brought a shriek from Diana. Price's somber expression deepened. He would, Olivia thought, have made a fine actor.

"Terrifying, isn't he?" Fitzalan said. "No, please, Miss Willow," he said when she tried to return his coat.

"Thank you, but I insist." She slipped free of the garment and held it out.

"Very well."

From the corner of her eye, she saw Tiern-Cope watching the viscount. She found it impossible to act naturally around Fitzalan and even less so around Lord Tiern-Cope.