A Night of Secrets (33 page)

He frowned, and jerked his hand away. Unable to argue that point, he lifted his glass. He was just about to take a long drawl of his whiskey, when Hanna cried out and tossed her cards to the table in a fit worthy of her age.

“
Non!
”

Grayson stiffened, sucking in a sharp breath.

“Grayson, are you well?” Millie reached out, resting her hand on his forearm. But he couldn’t seem to answer her for he couldn’t form words, to think, to breathe.

Meg was frantically gathering the cards together, her attention on the table, but he could see a blush making a path up her neck and into her face. Suspicion flared, his fingers bit into the arms of his chair. Was Meg embarrassed because of Hanna’s temper, or was it because the child had most definitely just spoken French?

Shock gave way to anger, so acute he could feel the animal within slowly coming to life, crawling its way to the forefront. He pulled his gaze away and intentionally brought his glass close to his mouth. “Did you hear her?” he asked softly, his voice more controlled than he thought possible.

Millie’s brows drew together “Who?”

“Hanna.” He glanced at the James’ family out of the corner of his eye. They’d gone back to playing, enraptured in their cards, or pretending to be. Grayson carefully set his glass on the side table. His hands were shaking, his anger surging. He could take the secrecy no longer.

“She spoke French.”

Millie frowned. “I didn’t notice. What did she say?” Millie’s gaze jumped from Grayson to Hanna and back to him.

“She said no.
Non.
”

“Perhaps you misunderstood—”

“I did not,” he snapped.

Confusion made his head pound. Had he misheard? Had his mind finally become so desperate that he was imagining things as he had accused Meg of doing?

Millie shook her head, looking as confused as he felt. “But what does that mean. You said she couldn’t possibly be Collette.”

He wanted to slam his fist into a wall. He wanted to shake Meg until she gave him answers. “It means if Hanna is Collette and I don’t uncover the truth before she changes completely…” He didn’t go on. He couldn’t. The emotion that welled within his throat prevented him from speaking further.

She sighed. “I know Vicar James is quite the intellect. He speaks German, for I saw him reading a German bible this morn. Perhaps he taught them some French too?”

“Perhaps,” Grayson replied, but why were his instincts telling him otherwise? Why was his heart racing in his chest? Perhaps he’d misheard her. Surely she hadn’t spoken French. No,
non
, they were too similar to tell the difference.

“Gray, have you noticed that the child avoids the sun?”

His gaze snapped to her. “What do you mean?”

She sighed, playing with the ruffle at the end of her long sleeve. “I hadn’t wanted to say anything for so many Englishwomen avoid the light. But she seems to more than others. Long sleeves. Large hats.”

His heart practically stopped. “What are you implying?”

Before she could answer, Meg stood. “We should continue this tomorrow. It’s getting rather late.”

“Oh no, Meg, please,” Sally cried.

“Please, Meg, one more game?” Hanna added.

Hanna. That black hair, those green eyes, that pert nose…

Millie stood and smoothed down the skirt of her pale, green gown. “Miss James, allow me to take your place. Perhaps Grayson will escort you around the room.”

Startled, he blinked the rest of them into focus. Millie was helping him, he knew that. He should be grateful, and he was. But a part of him wondered how he would keep himself from grabbing her and shaking out the answers he so desperately needed.

Meg twisted the ribbons on her dark blue skirt around her fingers. She looked anything but pleased. “Oh no, really, I’m quite well.”

“Nonsense.” Millie took her hand and pulled her from the chair. The other girls had fallen silent, for once, and were watching with wide eyes. Making sure Meg had no other alternative, Millie slipped into her chair. Meg hesitated, her face a mask of confusion, then finally moved to the windows across the room. She was intent on ignoring him. Well, too bloody bad.

Millie picked up her cards and discretely nodded at Grayson. “Now girls, where were we?”

His heart thudded in his chest, drowning out the sound of girlish chatter. He hadn’t been alone with Meg since he’d asked her to marry him. She’d fled the room in response. A lesser man would have given up. But then, he never retreated. He would uncover Meg’s secrets, and he would get answers to the questions that kept him up at night.

Determined, he made his way toward her. Although her back was too him, she stiffened at his approach, no doubt seeing his reflection in the dark windows.

“Miss James.” He stopped close to her, his chest practically touching her back. Her scent swirled around him, seeping into his lungs, seeping through his body. “Would you care for a stroll around the gardens?”

She spun around, and he felt her gasp like a warm caress across his neck. His hands curled into his thighs as he resisted the urge to grab her, to pull her forward and demand answers. To pull her forward and press his mouth to hers. He hadn’t kissed her in days. His skin itched. His body tensed whenever he thought of her. He needed her.

“But it’s dark,” she whispered, her gaze darting toward her family.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Meg?”

She flushed. “Of course not. I just do not believe it would be appropriate.”

He laughed, trying to force humor into the sound. “I dare say you need not worry about propriety at this point.”

She tilted her chin in that stubborn way of hers. “I do for my own sense of comfort.”

He leaned toward her, the side of his face pressed to hers, his mouth at her ear. “Meg, I have asked you to marry me, you’ve been living in my home for days. Surely we can take a stroll alone through the gardens.” He pulled back slowly.

At his words, her face flushed a darker shade. “I am not ready to answer that.”

“I didn’t ask you to. I would merely like to partake in the benefits of fresh air.” He slipped her arm through his. “Now come along.”

He started out the French doors and considering the fact that he was gripping her arm, she had no alternative but to follow. She stumbled after him, mumbling under her breath about annoying men and he suddenly found himself smiling. His mood lightened merely because she was near him.

Darkness surrounded them in a comforting hug. His boots tapped against the flagstone path, the only sound in the quiet gardens. But underneath that tap was the sound of her heart, beating in tune to his.

“Tis a lovely night,” she said softly.

He scanned the dark heavens above, stars twinkling in the clear sky. Laughter and chatter floated out from the open windows. It’d been some time since any of his homes had contained laughter, sometime since he’d been surrounded by such feminine chatter. Instantly he was reminded of Emma. Her friends shamelessly flirting with him when he’d come home. He’d enjoyed the attention, he could admit that now. He thought he’d have his pick, until his parents had died and he’d no longer cared.

He pushed the thoughts aside and attempted to focus on Meg’s body pressed to his. His father would have liked Meg. He would have appreciated her warmth, her loving nature, but would he have accepted her? Probably not. They’d been horrified when Emma had wanted to marry a human. Humans were to be used, humored. They’d been perfectly fine with their children socializing with humans, pretending to be human… but marriage?

“Has there been any word on Lord Brockwell’s mother?” she asked.

“No, no she has not been found.”

Meg stopped. “Grayson, did you tell the Constable about what I thought I saw at the marsh?”

He cupped the side of her face, his thumb brushing her lower lip. He could not help himself. “No.”

“Why ever not?”

He dropped his hand to his side. “Because the man would accuse you.”

“And you care?”

He looked directly into her gaze. “More than you realize. More than I want to.”

She stood there, staring up at him, the dew soaking their shoes, but she didn’t complain. Meg rarely complained, unlike most of the London women he’d been forced to endure throughout his long life.

They had stilled near a bush of honeysuckle, but the heady scent had vanished with the late summer, only Meg’s perfume remained, intoxicating him like no other scent could. “What are you thinking?”

She played with the ribbons at her waist. “I’m thinking that Lord Brockwell was involved with something seedy. Perhaps he owed money. When the culprit went to the house to search for the money, Lord Brockwell’s mother interrupted him.”

He was surprised by her astute nature. He’d only known one other woman with such a sharp mind, Millie, but she’d been born to think that way. Most Vampires were.

Meg tilted her face to him, and the moonlight caressed her porcelain skin, giving her an unearthly glow. “What? You think I’m ridiculous?”

He tucked a long lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on the delicate curve of her neck. How badly he wanted to nibble that skin, to taste her flesh. “No, actually, I’m impressed.”

She flushed and looked away.

He let his hand drop to his side. “And you are most likely correct, from what I have gathered about Lord Brockwell.”

Her attention was focused on him once again. “Could...could Beth be in danger?”

Grayson frowned. He could lie. If he told her Lady Brockwell was in danger, would she admit where her friend was hidden away? But she was looking up at him with those wide, trusting eyes and he couldn’t seem to force the lie past his lips. “I doubt it. After all, not even the law can find her.”

She nodded and seemed to relax at the statement. Damn, if her reaction didn’t anger him. Taking in a deep breath, he attempted to calm his nerves. He needed answers. As easy as it would be to frighten her into the truth, he wouldn’t do that to Meg. He took her hand and led her to a marble bench, surrounded by yews where the light from his home could not reach.

Primly, she sat next to him, taking great pains to see her skirts were smoothed in place. He’d noticed that about her, how carefully she took care of the clothes Millie leant her. He wasn’t sure if it was because they didn’t belong to her, or because she’d had few beautiful dresses in her lifetime. Damn it all, but he wanted to buy her beautiful dresses.

Finally settled, she sighed and gazed into the darkness. She seemed too melancholy for such a night and he wanted desperately to see her smiling again.

“What are you thinking?” he asked, truly eager to hear her response.

“That you’ve changed your tune awfully quick toward me.” She was playing with those ribbons again.

He was certainly surprised that of all the subjects she could be pondering, she was contemplating him. Surprised, and yet, strangely pleased.

“Do you truly believe me, Mr. Bellamont, when I say I would never harm anyone, nor would Beth?”

For God’s sake, he’d taken her virginity, drank her blood, and she was acting as if they’d only just met. “Grayson, Meg.”

She rested her hand atop of his and her touch was a shock of warmth. “You didn’t answer my question. Do you truly believe I had nothing to do with Lord Brockwell’s death?”

He looked into her eyes and saw the hope there, the weariness, the innocence. “Yes, I do.”

Her face softened and she pulled her hand away. “Thank you.”

“As for Beth, I believe
you
believe she wouldn’t harm a soul. But you must think...”

She parted her lips to protest and he silenced her by holding up his hand.

“You must at least contemplate the idea that she was angry with the man. He was a scoundrel. His actions caused her unborn babe to die. If a man treated you such a way, what would you do? A woman either dies a slow death inside, or she fights back. And I ask you, Meg, to think about it. Would Beth fight back?”

Meg stared at her lap and shook her head.

“Just think on it Meg. I do not say she was right or wrong, I do not fault her.” God knew he’d killed enough in his life to know better than to throw stones. “My only worry is…” He trailed off wondering if he gave away too much with his words.

She looked up at him, her face shadowed, but her eyes bright. “Yes?”

“My only worry is you.”

“Why?” she whispered.

He swallowed hard and looked away. “Perhaps, you remind me of what I’ve always wanted. Perhaps, I feel I can repay those I’ve disappointed by helping you.”

She touched his hand, light as a butterfly, her fingers slipping between his. He stilled, afraid if he moved she’d pull away. Slowly, seductively, her fingers traced his hands. Heat shot through his body, pooling in his groin. He couldn’t take it anymore. He wrapped his fingers around her, stopping her action.

“I don’t want you to feel indebted,” she whispered, her words full of emotion. “I don’t want you to feel guilty.”