Eve Silver (4 page)

Slumber had been long in coming.

She tossed back the counterpane and climbed from the bed. Shivering, she crossed to the pitcher of clean water that Cookie had sent up with her the night before. Carefully doling out tooth powder onto her brush, she acknowledged that she felt a little foolish for having let her imagination and the exhaustion of her long journey influence her thoughts and observations the previous night.

Don't know where they go, dear. But His Lordship makes sure they never come back.
She shook her head as she thought of all the possible sinister scenarios she had attributed to that statement. Ridiculous. She was a sensible girl, not prone to wild exaggeration or fanciful musing. Surely the exhaustion of her long journey was to blame for her morbid thoughts. Obviously the previous governesses had not suited, and they had moved on.

After donning her dress and pinning her hair in a neat coil, Emma followed the same path she had taken to the kitchen once before, making only a single wrong turn along the way. As she paused, uncertain of her way, a chill slithered along her spine. She spun, her gaze darting about, searching the dusty shadows.

A dark premonition gripped her, making her blood pound thick and heavy through her veins. Someone was watching her. She could feel his eyes upon her, sense a threatening and malicious intent. Tamping down the urge to flee this deserted corner of the house, to run pell-mell through these unfamiliar halls, she turned a slow circle, every sense attuned. A mad flight would only serve to lose her way even more than it was already.

She squinted into the darkness. There. She heard it. The rough sound of a breath drawn and released, again and again, mingling with the wild and wretched pounding of her own heart.

Mrs. Bolifer’s instructions sounded in her mind:
down a second flight, along the hall, down the back stairway to the right
…. Resolutely Emma turned away from whatever lurked in the dust-laden shadows, away from the whisper of evil that crawled, unseen, through this house. She carefully picked her way along the path she had trod the previous night. She heard no footfall in her wake, no hint of someone giving chase. Her pulse slowed to a more regular pace.

She might have convinced herself she had imagined the whole of it, but for the deep certainty that for at least a short while she had not been alone. A sinister distress plagued her as she wondered who had been watching her, and why.

As she neared the kitchen, Emma hesitated, unsure if she should voice her concerns to the others. She had no proof, only a story of losing her way, imagined sounds, and a dark feeling of unease. There really was nothing to tell.

“Nicky! You are to breakfast with your father and new governess. Put that scone back this instant.” The housekeeper's voice was gentle, but firm.

Emma felt a jolt of surprise as she stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Bolifer was smiling, as was Cookie. They were both looking at a small boy who kicked at the floor with his toe before putting the scone he held back on the platter. The child looked as if he had dressed himself from the ragpicker's bag. His breeches sported a large hole at the knee. His stockings were mismatched. And his dark hair stood up in unkempt tufts from his head.

“And perhaps we should do something with your hair. You are to meet your new governess at breakfast.”

“I hope Papa makes her go away, just like the others.”

Cookie exchanged a worried look with the housekeeper before crossing the room to kneel in front of the little boy.

“Oh, no, Nicky,” she said as she wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. “Miss Parrish is quite nice, lovey dove.”

“I don't know,” the boy replied, his voice muffled by Cookie's shoulder. “I haven't met her yet. But if she is like Miss Strubb or Miss Rust or...” The child shivered and hesitated briefly before saying the woman's name in a hushed whisper. “...Mrs. Winter, then I think I should not like to meet her at all. And certainly if she is like Mrs. Winter, then she should go away and never come back. Papa could send her off in a pine box. Just like he sent Mrs. Winter.”

A pine box? Emma stood frozen, digesting the implications of all she had overheard. Clearly the child was frightened, and had quite possibly been ill-treated by his previous governesses. That he had suffered was a sad thing, to be sure, but his trust could be gained with patience and love. So she worried not overmuch as to Nicky's opinion of her, but the mention of a pine box for the unknown Mrs. Winter gave her pause. There was only one type of pine box he could mean.

A chill crept across Emma’s skin. It seemed that Mrs. Winter had left Manorbrier in a coffin, and by the child's account, it was Lord Anthony who had put her there.

Even as she struggled with that thought, the boy looked up and caught her in her unintentional eavesdropping. His blue eyes widened and all color left his cheeks as he huddled deeper in Cookie's embrace.

“Good morning,” Emma said brightly as she crossed to him and quickly knelt so that her face was on level with his. “I am ever so pleased to meet you, Master Nicholas.”

If possible his eyes rounded even more.

With a quick look at the housekeeper, Emma continued, “I heard Mrs. Bolifer address you as Nicky, and I trust you will allow me the same familiarity. And you shall call me Miss Emma. I rather think that 'Miss Parrish' is too stuffy sounding.”

The child sucked in his cheeks. He was all pursed lips, hollow cheeks, and great round eyes as he studied her suspiciously. But he did take Emma's proffered hand and shake it in a gentlemanly fashion, thus confirming for Emma that he had a modicum of tutelage in fine manners.

Emma rose and quickly brushed the front of her skirt before turning back to her young charge. “Well, Nicky,” she said with a smile, “I will have to ask you to escort me to the breakfast room. I have no idea where it is, and I am sure we do not wish to keep your father waiting.”

She drew in a fortifying breath. The thought of seeing Lord Anthony this morning gave her an odd feeling, half apprehension, half nervous anticipation.

“A gentleman escorts a lady so.” Emma positioned Nicky's arm and laid her hand gently in place. He looked up at her uncertainly, and Emma's heart gave a little kick. Clearly he was wary of her, perhaps even fearful. She turned the full magnitude of her smile on him and gave a brief nod. “Lead on, sir.”

Nicky hesitated, his gaze sliding from hers, focusing on her hand where it rested on his arm. Then he cast a desperate look at Cookie, who smiled and nodded her encouragement.

“That's just fine, love,” the cook said gently. “You take Miss Parrish on in to breakfast.”

Cookie's encouragement proved to be all that Nicky needed. With a nod he hiked his arm up in recognition of Emma’s greater height and led her from the kitchen. Rather, Nicky galloped and Emma took long strides in order to keep up. She found it promising that the child maintained the position of his arm and escorted her to the best of his ability, rather than shaking off her touch. A most approvable beginning.

Although, it seemed that Mrs. Bolifer did not agree, for as they walked past, Emma noticed that the housekeeper sent her a look of unconcealed distrust.

Upon entering the breakfast room, Emma paused. There were three settings at the table, and the aroma ascending from the foods held in silver chafing dishes on the sideboard permeated the air.

Nicky skirted the dining table and threw himself into the seat closest to the window. His movements were so exuberant that Emma feared he might dislodge the pristine white tablecloth, and all of the china and crystal with it. She gave a tiny sigh of relief when he was safely seated with the tableware still intact.

“Good morning, Nicholas,” a deep voice rumbled from the doorway behind her.

Startled, Emma spun so quickly she nearly lost her balance. Lord Anthony was directly behind her. He reached forward and grasped her elbow, steadying her.

“And good morning to you, Miss Parrish. I trust you are recovered from the fatigue of your journey.” That voice. Warm and lush, it stroked her senses, made her want to lean closer and revel in the sensuous baritone.

“Good morning, my lord.” Her heart skittered within her breast as she looked up and took in her first clear view of Lord Anthony Craven.
Why, he is young
, she thought in surprise. No aging tyrant but a man of perhaps three decades, vital and strong. He was tall, well formed, the tailored cut of his coat caressing his frame. Dark hair, overly long and sinfully thick, hung straight to his collar, framing the hard planes of his face. She had the oddest urge to reach out, to run her fingers through the shining strands of his hair, to test the softness.

Dear heaven. He was more than attractive. He was masculine perfection. Emma wet her lips, stunned by his stark, male beauty, and by her own inexplicably strange reaction to it. The full, sensual curve of his lips pulled taut, and she held her breath waiting for his smile.

“And thank you, yes, I am quite recovered from the fatigue of the journey.” She felt breathless, akin to the sensation elicited by a vigorous walk.

The smile she anticipated never came, and she found herself oddly disappointed. He stared at her intently, as if he could read her every thought, his gaze locking with hers, and then dropping lower to peruse her person in a most indecent manner.

Emma's pulse raced as he returned his attention to her face. She felt undone by the look he settled on her. Somehow, the way he looked at her, with pupils dilated and dark, rimmed in topaz green, made Emma think that Lord Anthony Craven was hungry. For her.

Her breath left her in a rush.

“Then you slept well?” he inquired. “Undisturbed by things that go bump in the night?”

Emma’s shoulders tensed at this oblique reference to the terror she had exhibited in the coach the previous night. “I am rarely disturbed by things that go bump in the night, my lord. My constitution is normally quite steady.”

“Indeed. Not prone to overwrought imaginings, Miss Parrish?”

She had no answer for that because he had already seen her at her worst, with ridiculous flights of fancy spurring her to uncharacteristic behavior. Worse, she had spent the night exactly as he described, struggling to fall asleep as she waged an out-of-character battle with her overwrought imaginings, and then again, on her way to breakfast, when she had been so certain she was being followed…. Had that been nothing more than foolish fancy?

No. She thought not.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up to find her employer staring with marked intent at her mouth. She sucked in a quick, ragged breath.

Lord Anthony was not looking at her in a way that a gentleman might look at a lady.

And she liked it. She
liked
the way he stared at her, his gaze warming her, touching her, making her body tingle in a foreign and wicked way. The realization shocked her, leaving her feeling disoriented and uncertain.

As if from a distance she heard the sound of Nicky’s voice, and she latched onto his words as though they were a signal light in a wild storm.

“...and I escorted her to breakfast, and here we are,” he said.

“You were very helpful, Nicky.” She turned to him, smiling encouragingly, grateful for the distraction, only to find her progress stopped short.

She glanced down at Lord Anthony’s lean fingers where they yet curled along her forearm. The length of time that he had maintained the contact was quite improper, and Emma frowned in confusion, half relieved, half disappointed when he finally let his hand drop away.

Nicky bounced up and down in his seat as his father rounded the table and leaned forward to place a kiss on the child's brow. Emma masked her surprise at this outward display of fatherly affection. Somehow she had assumed that Lord Anthony would be a disinterested parent, at best. Then she recalled the man's admonition that she not raise her voice to his son, and she had the bewildering sensation that she had somehow misjudged the situation. Whatever information she had about this father-son relationship was based on gossip, supposition, and the opinion of Aunt Cecilia, who was herself a bitter and cruel guardian. Clearly these were not solid groundings on which to form an impression.

Lord Anthony moved around the table and held Emma's chair, the one across from Nicky. She felt awkward as she made her way to her seat, her skirts brushing against her employer’s muscled legs as she took her place, the sandalwood scent of him teasing her, making her long to draw nearer still and inhale until she had enjoyed him to the fullest.

She was acutely aware of a fluttering sensation low in her belly, and she felt certain it was caused by neither hunger nor fear. The experience was new to her. It made her feel hot and restless, and she fought the urge to press her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. This, then, was attraction. Dangerous, foolish attraction. The kind that had drawn her mother into a web of heartbreak.

Emma sought to steady her galloping pulse. She, who was the product of her mother’s unfortunate liaison with a nobleman, who had spent her life burned by the brand of illegitimacy, knew better than to fall prey to the physical allure of her employer. On that path lay only danger and disaster.

Doubly so, given that Lord Anthony was a widower rumored to have murdered his wife, Emma’s own cousin. The thought felt wrong, and that wrongness made Emma wary. She did not know this enigmatic man, and she would be most wise to avoid swift judgment of him, whether to good or evil.

She glanced up once more. He was watching her, his changeable eyes glinting like finest gems, his expression revealing little.

And still her blood pounded, thick and strong in her veins. Oh, why was it Anthony Craven made her pulse race as it had never done before, made her every nerve tingle? She was foolish in the extreme to allow her thoughts to travel this path.

What was it about him that…stimulated her so? The way his clothes caressed his lithe frame, or the hint of dark stubble along the sculpted line of his jaw? She busied herself with smoothing her skirt, praying he would step away and leave her with some semblance of sanity. She had seen the man exactly twice. This…attraction was surely a temporary madness.