Beneath a Waning Moon: A Duo of Gothic Romances (25 page)

He seated himself across from her and waited patiently while she removed the pins from her hair.
 
Lenore’s cheeks burned hotter with every pin she laid on the table, and the silence in the room thickened.
 
The last time she performed this small intimacy in front of another person, she had been standing before Nathaniel in his bedroom, dressed in nothing more than a blush.

The Guardian busied himself with filling the basin with water from the pitcher and wetting one of the towels, his gaze on his task.
 
Yet Lenore felt the weight of his scrutiny, intense and admiring.

The thought made her pause.
 
Did Guardians feel as other men felt?
 
Know affection and passion for another?
 
Or had Dr. Harvel’s gruesome experiments left them so transformed that they retained only the shades of emotion?

“I have you my sweet.”

Her breath caught in her throat.
 
Whatever horrors this Guardian had suffered under the mad doctor’s hands, he still possessed the ability to show kindness and express sympathy.
 
And feel desire.
 
She was certain of it, knew it right down to her bones.

With the removal of the last pin, her hair fell around her shoulders, thick and straight.
 
She’d have a devil of a time taming it back into a neat bun, especially with her scalp hurting the way it did.

The Guardian stared at her, pale features expressionless.
 
“Lean forward, please.
 
I’ll tend that cut.”

Lenore did as he instructed and bent toward him so he could better see the crown of her head.
 
She closed her eyes at the light touch of his fingers parting her hair.

The tree root she struck had left a nasty gash, and she hissed when he applied the wet towel to the wound.

“Forgive me,” he said.
 
“I will do my best to be quick and careful.”

“I know you will,” she replied.
 
“I trust you.”
 
Those gentle hands rested briefly on her head before continuing their work.

To ease the silence and take her mind off her stinging scalp while she stared into her lap, Lenore asked a question.
 
“Did you see them?
 
The resurrectionists?
 
I thought they were like rats and only scurried out at night.”

“They’re either growing bolder or more desperate.”

Her mind raced.
 
Desperate for what?
 
“I think they escaped.”

“No, they didn’t.”
 
The gloating satisfaction in the Guardian’s voice was palpable.

Lenore recalled one of the thieves crowing triumphantly when she fell, its abrupt end followed by a brittle snap.
 
She didn’t ask her rescuer to expound on his statement.

He took up the fallen threads of conversation.
 
“Who is your companion?”

Lenore glanced at the dog from the corner of her eye.
 
It held sentry duty not far from the table, tail thumping when she met its gaze.
 
“Some poor stray.
 
It tried to protect me when the resurrectionists gave chase.”

“Cleaned up and fed, she’d make a fine companion.”

Lenore tried to straighten and regretted the action.
 
“Ouch!”

The Guardian’s voice held a touch of amusement.
 
“Patience, Miss Kenward.
 
I’m almost finished.”

“The dog’s a girl?”
 
Not that Lenore had looked closely, but for some reason she had assumed her canine friend was male.

“It’s hard to tell, as emaciated as she is, but I believe she’s still a pup, not yet whelped a litter.
 
If her paws are anything to judge by, she’ll be a large bitch hound.
 
A good hunter or guard dog.”

This mysterious, deathless being possessed more layers than Lenore imagined, and similarities to someone else that made her reel.
 
They at least explained why she was so drawn to him.
 
“I once knew a man with a keen eye for a good dog.
 
He would have liked this one.”

The Guardian dropped the last bloody towel into the emptied basin.
 
His hand on her shoulder prompted her to straighten.
 
The stoic mask he wore hadn’t altered, but something flickered across his face—a yearning.
 
“Then I suspect he also had a keen eye for dauntless women.”
 
He gestured toward her forehead.
 
“I’ve cleaned the gash and washed away the blood in your hair.
 
I don’t think you need stitches, but once you’re home, I implore you to call out a physician.
 
Let me see your hand.”

She offered him her scraped hand, squeezing his fingers when he instructed.
 
Her two fingers ached, but were far less painful now.

“Nothing broken or sprained,” he announced.
 
“That hand will be good as new by tomorrow.”

Lenore reached up to touch the laceration on her scalp, halting when the Guardian shook his head.
 
“Resist the temptation,” he said.
 
“And you may wish to forego both hair pins and bonnet for now, improper though it may be.”

She shrugged.
 
“I’ve often thought the rules of society to be both inconvenient and illogical at times.”

A wide smile curved his pale lips.
 
“Why does this not surprise me?”

He stood and retrieved her cloak from where it lay on the floor.
 
“It’s still damp, but I have no coal for a fire to dry it or warm you.
 
Not even a kettle for tea.
 
But I have wine if you wish to partake.”

She accepted the cloak and his offer of wine.
 
He gathered up pitcher, basin and towels and left her alone with the dog to disappear into the dark hallway from which he emerged earlier.
 
No longer muzzy-headed and huddled in her damp cloak, Lenore abandoned her seat to travel a circuit around the room—a parlor once, from the look of the paneled wall on one side and the remnants of faded wall paper on the other three.
 
Grime hid much of the decorative plaster work that edged the ceiling and filled the medallion from which a chandelier or gasolier once hung.
 
The window, cloudy with dirt, looked onto a garden choked with dead weeds and surrounded by a low stone wall in tumbled disrepair.

The Guardian returned, this time bearing two goblets and a decanter of wine the red of faceted garnets.
 
He placed them on the table.
 
“Enjoying the view?” he asked as he poured the wine.

Lenore joined him at the table.
 
“This was once a lovely home.
 
With a little repair and a lot of scrubbing, not to mention a few more sticks of furniture, it could be that way again.”
 
She accepted the glass he passed to her.
 
“Do you live here?”

He shrugged.
 
“I take sanctuary in here from the elements when needed.”
 
Again that fleeting smile that so charmed her.
 
“And minister to injured ladies.”

There was nothing suggestive in his remark, yet Lenore felt her face heat yet again as if with fever.
 
The Guardian’s smile melted away, and she rushed to coax it back once more.
 
“Then you are a very busy man,” she said.
 
“Consorting with the departed, chasing off resurrectionists, rescuing women with clumsy feet.
 
When do you find the time to socialize?”

Her teasing worked its magic, and his smile returned.
 
“I’m doing so now, Miss Kenward.”
 
He raised his glass in toast.
 
“Not a rare vintage.
 
A home brew made by the neighboring rector’s wife.
 
I hope you like pomegranate.”

His features turned serious again, though not from awkwardness this time.
 
“I don’t want to compromise your reputation.
 
I’ve left a note with the rector’s housekeeper.
 
Both he and his wife are currently out but will return soon.
 
Due to my position and my appearance, I can’t accompany you home, but I won’t allow you to return alone, not with that head injury.
 
Mr. and Mrs. Morris will see you safely home.”

Lenore shook her head, prepared to protest, until the room’s axis tilted a little.
 
She stumbled and reached for the Guardian who steadied her with a hand at her waist.
 
A scowl darkened his pale visage.
 
“I must agree that yours is a proper plan,” she said.

His hand, pressed against her ribs, no longer chilly but scorching.
 
She felt the heat all the way through layers of black wool, corset and shift.
 
Neither wine nor wound made the blood surge through her body like this or made her so exquisitely aware of each breath this man took, each subtle slide of his coat against her skirts or the way the lamplight carved out the deep hollows beneath his cheekbones and made his long fall of hair shimmer in the gloom.

His fingers tightened before sliding to spread across her back and urge her closer.
 
A glass fell to the floor.
 
Hers or his, she didn’t know, nor did she care.
 
Propriety be damned.
 
For five years, she had lived a half life, numb to all but the darkest emotions.
 
Now, in the arms of a man no longer considered one, she came alive.
 
A gift of Mercy or Fate, she had no intention of squandering it.

Corded muscle tightened under her touch as she slid a hand from his elbow to his shoulder. “We’ve shared conversation and now wine,” she said softly.
 
“And you’ve played both rescuer and nurse to me, yet still I don’t know your name.”

A smear of wine darkened his lower lip like blood on an Alba rose petal.

“Colin” he replied in equally subdued tones.
 
“Colin Whitley.”

She startled, and his hand fell away.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded.
 
“Are you dizzy?
 
Do you need to lie down again?”

Lenore grasped his sleeve, refusing to allow the distance between them.
 
Colin had been Nathaniel’s middle name.
 
She didn’t believe in trickery of mediums or claims of reincarnation, but this was uncanny.
 
“No, I am well.”
 
She reached for his hand and returned it to her waist.
 
“Thanks to you.”
 
A lock of snowy hair caressed the back of her hand.
 
“I am in your debt, Colin Whitley.
 
Many times over.”

Once more his fingers splayed along her ribs before sliding to her back, urging her closer.
 
He was taller than Nathaniel had been, sinuous as an adder and seemed to coil around her as well as loom over her.
 
“There is no debt, Lenore,” he whispered.

One hand stroked a path up her arm, leaving hot trails on her skin through the black wool of her sleeve.
 
It lingered at the slope of her shoulder before gliding over the stiff crape edging her frock’s high collar.

She arched her neck, inviting him to climb higher and stroke the skin bared to his touch.
 
They were pressed together from shoulder to hip, confirming for Lenore that these beings of stark light and shadow still experienced the same sensual pleasures as other men.

The hand on her back ascended her spine to bury itself gently in her hair.
 
The one at her shoulder accepted her invitation to curve around her throat before settling under her jaw.
 
The Guardian’s black gaze with its white-sun pupils, held her captive.
 
He lowered his head, breaking the spell.
 
Lenore moaned softly as the tip of his nose glided down the bridge of hers.

“Come in to the garden, Maud,” he recited in a voice guaranteed to lead Eve out of Eden.
 
“For the black bat, night, has flown.”

Her legs buckled at the suggestive verses, and she leaned hard against him.

“Come in to the garden, Maud.
 
I am here at the gate alone.”
 
Cool lips, damp with wine, tickled a path along her jaw.

Her arms twined around his narrow waist so that her hands clutched the fabric covering his back and shoulder blades.

“And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad.”

She tilted her head back, the ache behind her eyes nothing compared to the stunning pleasure of his mouth tracing a path over the arch of her throat to the hollow under her chin.

“And the musk of the rose is blown.”

His tongue slid into her mouth in a kiss deep, and hot, and possessive.
 
A groan vibrated low in his throat when Lenore returned his caress by stroking her tongue along his.