This Perfect Kiss (21 page)

“Is that why you visit the kitchen daily to prepare her meals?”

“Your cook is already busy enough. Mrs. Gables requires special meals. She has no one else to do it, my lady.”

“Then you will find no problem taking on the responsibilities of Anna's governess full time.”

Only when it was time for Lord Carrick to take a wife. But it was more, Christel realized. For as uncertain as she was about mothering another woman's child, she was less certain about living for a year in the same household as the child's father. Her solitude had always kept her heart safe. Nor was she drawn by a desire to be more than who she was. She was not always comfortable in her own skin, but it was her skin and she had accepted the fit.

So far, Christel had been able to resist getting too involved in this family's life, but little by little, she had already begun to spend more of her days and nights at Blackthorn Castle, especially as it had become apparent that Mrs. Gables was having difficulty caring for an energetic eight-year-old. The nurse had admitted such to Christel, afraid that once she could no longer do her job, she would be of no use to anyone and turned out. Christel had reassured her that was not true but that she had taken on more of Anna's care and education so Mrs. Gables could rest, though she'd had no idea why she was confident of such.

Aye, the impossible thing about emotions was that once out of the bottle, they could not be easily poured back inside and corked. Attempting to do so was like trying to catch smoke with one's hands. In the end, it was all Christel could do not to kiss the dowager's powdered cheek for bringing her the deed to Seastone Cottage, and out of relief or gratitude, tears welled in Christel's eyes. “I will do my best by Lady Anna, my lady.”

“I know. You will also remember your place when it concerns my grandson's future. When 'tis time for you to go . . . you must go.”

Christel nodded. She dabbed away the moisture from the corner of one eye. She had no delusions concerning the earl of Carrick's responsibilities and future. Christel would never be mistress to a married man. Would she?

“You trust my judgment concerning Lady Anna?” Christel tentatively asked.

“Only as long as you understand that my granddaughter is a precious, beautiful wee gel. I will not have her spirit stomped from her.”

This was a new face from the dowager. “Nay,” Christel agreed. “I will not do any stomping.
However,
if she is going to be given over to my care, I will ask that you no longer indulge her every whim. In fact, you and Grams have set no boundaries for her, and I wish to rectify that beginning tonight.”

“I beg your pardon.”

Anna's obvious loneliness reminded Christel of herself as a young girl after her own mother had died. “If you have ever been a recipient of spiders in your bed or molasses in your shoes, you would understand that she is a very bored, but creative, little girl. When she is out of the nursery, 'tis akin to giving her the keys to the castle.”

Indeed, Christel had already spoken to Smolich and later the housekeeper concerning some of Anna's antics. “Your servants already spoil her. She is allowed to jump on beds. She rides the banister down the stairs, raids strawberry tarts from the kitchen and spends a great deal of time reorganizing her menu so as
not
to eat anything that might be good for her. Everyone here allows her to do what she wants.”

Evidently, by the pinched look on the dowager's powdered face, no one had ever dared tell her that her precocious great-granddaughter had a propensity for creating havoc to keep herself occupied.

“Humbug. She is a lady, the daughter of an earl—”

“No one
expects
anything from her, my lady. 'Tis not fair to her. She needs boundaries and purpose.”

Surprisingly the dowager made no other protestations. Instead, she raised her lorgnette to her eye and peered closely at Christel. “You will need a new wardrobe more fitting of your position,” she said briskly. “Shall I hire you to be your own seamstress as well?”

Christel smiled. She had not thought of asking. But truly, it was an excellent idea.

T
wo evenings later, the sound of soft footfalls awakened Christel. She sat up in bed. A storm was moving inland from off the sea. Wind gusts whistled through the seams in the sash. Christel eased out of bed, walked to her door and cracked it open to peer into the corridor.

Realizing at once she must have been dreaming, she returned to bed and pulled the blankets over her head. This was how rumors of ghosts began, she thought, listening as a chime banged against a stone wall somewhere in the courtyard below.

Thunk
.

She lowered the blankets and stared up at the plaster ceiling. Wind gusted against the window. The sound could have come from outside. Yet at once, she rose again. She drew on a heavy wrapper, then left the room to make sure Anna was asleep.

A lamp burned on the dresser near the child's bed. For a moment, as Christel stared down at the little girl, she realized a fierce want to protect her. She covered her more securely against the cold before drawing away.

By the time Christel returned to her room, dawn had begun to spread a thin gray line across the horizon. She washed and, throwing a black shawl over her shoulders, went below to the kitchen to secure a breakfast tray for Anna and Mrs. Gables.

“What is above the nursery?” she asked Smolich when he came down to iron that morning's broadsheet for the dowager.

He peered over his nose. “You mean other than the roof?”

“I thought I heard something up there last night.”

He considered this. “There used to be servants' rooms up there, but they were closed when the new part of this house was built around the old castle,” he said. “Other than cats or occasional rodents Mrs. Gables has heard on occasion, no one has lived up there in decades.”

A
week passed before Christel heard the sound again. A
thump
and a
creak,
as if the planked floor protested the tread of a heavy boot. This time Christel was sure she had not imagined the sound. She flung off the covers and rose, drawing on her wrapper as she eased her door open. She listened and heard another creak above her head.

As was her custom since the last time she had heard the sound, she kept a sconce lit in the hallway beside her room. She lifted the glass, grabbed the candle and quietly paced herself beneath the muffled sound above her until she reached the end of the hallway, where it dead-ended into a brick wall. The candle fluttered, but she could find no crack.

An old servant's corridor must have serpentined through these old walls. Her breath suddenly caught. She blew out the candle.

Someone was on the other side of the wall, she realized, afraid to move lest the floor creak and give away her position. Footsteps continued past her and down a stairway. She had no idea about the layout of the inner hallway between the walls, but she did know that the kitchen was directly below this area of the house on the bottom floor. If the rooms above this floor had once belonged to the servants, it made sense that this corridor would take them directly below stairs.

Whirling around, she retraced her footsteps to the stairway. She had no sword or pistol in her possession. She imagined that, depending on the intruder, she could scream, but something about the cadence of the steps as they had walked past seemed familiar. Since Lord Carrick was not in residence, that left one other who would know the inner meanderings of this house.

She found Leighton coming out of the pantry carrying a wedge of cheese and bread in one arm and a bottle of wine in his hand, like some recalcitrant adolescent stealing food and drink after sneaking into the house after curfew. Surprise etched itself briefly on his handsome countenance. He was still wearing his cloak. Mud caked his boots.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

His mouth cracked into a smile. “Until your return to Scotland, I had resigned myself to utter boredom. Now everywhere I go, you seem to be there awaiting me.” His eyes slid the length of her in masculine appreciation. “And in your nightclothes, no less. Are you Blackthorn Castle's new gatekeeper?”

Aware of the firelight behind her, Christel moved to the side of him. Still, she felt undressed as she clutched the neck of her nightdress. The hesitant movement raised his eyes to hers.

“Pity my brother is not here to see you,” he said.

Tucking the bottle of wine beneath his arm, he proceeded to walk past her toward the back wall. She followed on his heels. “Is stealing food and drink not stooping to new lows for you?”

“Big brother told me to stay away from Anna and so I am. But I will not stay away from Grandmamma. Sadly, I have arrived too late tonight and will have to make it up to her. But now I am off to sleep. I will be gone in the morning.”

“She knows you come here?”

“Aye, she is more tolerant of my faults than my dear brother.”

“Does her tolerance extend to your bedding your brother's wife and getting her with child?”

Leighton stopped dead on the stone floor, his action so unexpected that she walked past him. His fingers wrapped around her arm, spinning her around. His silver eyes flashed. “What did you just say?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, aye, my hearing is excellent. I just did not
understand
you.”

She dropped her gaze to the hand still latched onto her arm. “You are hurting me, Leighton.”

“Where did you hear that accusation? From Camden?”

“Does it matter? Tell me you did
not
bed Saundra? Ever?”

“Ever,
” he said flatly. “I defy you to tell me who would say I did. I will ask you again. Was it my brother who accused me of such?”

Christel studied him. Leighton was a rake, a bounder, and most likely a liar, but no one could fake the pain she'd briefly glimpsed in his eyes—raw, honest emotion.

“I did not hear the accusation from Lord Carrick,” she finally said. “But he must believe it of you. Why else would he hate you?”

“I can name a dozen reasons, starting when I was five when he took a strapping for me for a transgression he did not commit. But to my credit, I did try to correct the matter. Our good papa only then took the strap to my backside, thus convincing me that great pain comes from taking responsibility. 'Tis better to lie. My brother, on the other hand, prefers pain.”

“You are despicable.”

“Aye, I am,” he said readily. “I am a thief, a pirate, a libertine and plagued by a general lack of morals. I dislike our government to the point of subversion. I am not averse to stealing what my brother thinks belongs to him as long as he is not wed to it. Sleeping with my brother's wife is low, even for someone like me.”

He was being honest with her. Why admit to treason and lie about this? “Are you telling me that you and Saundra never . . . ?”

“If she was guilty of adultery, 'twas not with me, Christel. She and I . . . were always
only
friends.”

“Then why would people suspect such a thing?”

“Because of who I am. Because when Saundra needed a shoulder to cry upon, I was there. She cried a lot. Camden was . . .
is
a bastard.”

“You are as wrongheaded about him as he is about you.”

“Am I?” His eyes narrowed. “They argued fiercely that last night. Three people saw him go up into that tower just before she jumped. By the time the rest of us reached the tower, 'twas too late.”

“He did not push her or cause her to jump.”

Leighton clenched his jaw, looked away, then brought his fierce gaze back around to her. “Neither did he try to save her.”

“You are a fool.”

“He wanted a divorce. He was taking Anna from her. The proud Carrick name would better stand the scandal of her death than the scandal of adulterous affairs and divorce.”

Christel whirled on her heel, but he grabbed her arm, and this time his touch was not so gentle. “Who told you I fathered her child?”

“If you touch me again, I will lay you flat on the floor, Leighton. And I will
not
be kind about it.”

He lowered his arm and adjusted his load. “You do not have many friends, Christel. I now see why. You are about as soft and gentle as a quill-stuffed bed.” Leaning nearer until they were nearly nose to nose, he said, “I know things about you, too,
Madam
Claremont. And I do not play nice any more than Camden does when angry.”

“Do not threaten me. You are not going to do anything to me. Anyone who has spent the past year keeping Seastone Cottage afloat because of your loyalty to my uncle is not going to suddenly murder his niece.”

“You put too much faith in people, Christel. You always did.”

Leighton attempted to leave, but Christel stepped in front of him. “Did Saundra ever tell you that she was trying to leave Scotland with Anna? How could she have supported herself on her own?”

“Are you asking if I was helping her? No, I was not. Nor did she ever ask for my help, financially or otherwise.”

“Surely someone must have known her heart.”

His mouth crooked. “You were the only one she ever truly trusted, Christel. You would know more about her secrets than I.”

He stepped past her and continued his way across the kitchen. “Leighton . . .” She stopped him as he popped open a hidden panel door near a breakfront filled with white and gold porcelain plates.

“Write Anna a letter. Tell her you miss her and that you are visiting France or Italy or Africa. I do not care where, as long as you make it convincing. You can slide it beneath my door or leave it on the desk in the library. Please,” she added in afterthought. “If you do this . . . I will not tell anyone that you are visiting here.”

“Blackmail, Christel, me gel?”