Lessons After Dark (11 page)

The rain was Gareth's warning again.

If he hadn't known about Fairley's powers, he might have started to believe in omens. This one would have been particularly bad. The sky had been blue one minute and pitch-black the next, and freezing rain had fallen in a sudden downpour that made Gareth pity anyone caught out in it. As prophecy, it would probably have meant war or some other great disaster.

As a manifestation of Fairley's will, it didn't bode very well either, though the damage would likely be confined to Englefield. Gareth still didn't like it.

He was halfway down the hall when he heard a sharp crack. At first he didn't recognize the sound. Then, as a loud boom followed it, he blinked and thought
thunderstorm
. Not too surprising, given the clouds. Very surprising, given November. Surprising even for Fairley.

The boy was supposed to be getting better. Olivia was supposed to be keeping him under some kind of control. And his power had never gotten away from him as Elizabeth's had. Gareth shook his head at the empty hallway then started walking again, his boots loud on the polished floors.

One of the maids was crying somewhere in the neighboring rooms, and the footman Gareth passed looked considerably white around the lips. Someone certainly needed to have a word with Fairley, perhaps a harsher word than Olivia had managed.

He strode into the front hall, ready to round the turn to his office and slam the door behind him, and then stopped. Froze, really.

There was a small clump of people coming through the door. Michael was near the front, and Gareth dimly noticed he was paper white, his eyes huge and frightened. Perhaps there was more to this storm than temper, then. The thought was vague. Other things pushed it to the background. Mostly Olivia.

A man, one of the stable hands, Gareth thought, was carrying her. Rain and mud had soaked through her clothes, her wet hair hung down around her face in dark strands, and most importantly, her face was as blanched as Michael's. There was pain in her expression, not just fear.

“What happened?” He was speaking even as he stared at Olivia and moving at the same time to open his office door. “What's wrong?”

Michael and the stable hand began to speak at once, looked at each other, then hesitated. For a second, Gareth thought he might give a black eye to one or both.

“I think my ankle's broken,” said Olivia. She sounded breathless, but she kept her voice fairly level. The effort that took was obvious. “I'll explain the rest of it later.”

“Damn the rest of it,” Gareth snapped and cast a quick look over Fairley. “Are you well?”

The boy swallowed. “Yes. Sir.”

“Not really,” Olivia said and then winced, and went back to biting her lip.

“You shouldn't be talking,” said Gareth. Somehow they'd made it into his inner office. “Waste of strength when you're injured. Fairley, get dried off and have something hot to drink. I'll take a look at you later.” The boy left, moving at half his usual speed but neither limping nor bleeding.

Olivia grimaced, though Gareth suspected it was as much a reaction to pain as to him. “It's just a broken ankle,” she said sharply. “They're not usually—
hssst
—mortal.”

It was best, Gareth decided, not to dignify that with a response. He gestured to the long couch against one of his walls. “Put her down there, please. Gently,” he said to the stable hand. Then, without thinking, he stepped forward and slipped his arm under Olivia's knees. “More stable with two.”

“Sir,” the other man replied. He didn't sound as if he understood entirely, but he moved, which was the important thing.

“Thank you,” Gareth said once they'd gotten Olivia settled. “You may go now.”

“You've been very helpful,” Olivia added. “Thank you.” She glanced at Gareth as the stable hand left, closing the door behind him. “I can talk, you know.”

“Well, don't,” said Gareth. “It's distracting.” He knelt to examine her ankle, getting both skirt and shoe out of the way without concerning himself with propriety. Olivia didn't seem inclined to scream or faint, at any rate, not for reasons of etiquette. She did flinch when he touched her ankle, though. “Sorry. You know I'll have to set this.”

He didn't look up. Her quick intake of breath was enough to stab him in the heart and so was the forced steadiness in her voice when she spoke. “Best do it quickly, then.”

It would have been better, in a way, if she'd cried and carried on, or gotten demanding and petulant.

Gareth turned his attention firmly to the ankle, trying to consider the injury separate from the woman: one fairly simple fracture, no complications or puncturing of the skin, no apparent blood vessels severed. He took a breath, reminded himself he'd once been used to doing far more complicated and dangerous injuries daily, and brought the ends of the bone in line with each other.

From further back on the couch, he heard nails dig into fabric.

He switched his vision then, almost automatically. The lines of force that made up Olivia in Gareth's magical sight were a warm amber color, mostly. Gareth could spot the rising bruises, oddly enough, paler than their surroundings when he looked at a person this way. And, most importantly, the snapped lines around her ankle. Nothing tangled. He'd done his work well there.

As he'd done so many times before, he reached with his power for the loose ends. They came to him more easily than he'd expected or he'd remembered from other times and people. Perhaps it was long practice. Perhaps it was that Olivia had more control than most over her response. Perhaps she knew what he was going to do and didn't fear it. Any or all of those factors could have explained the newfound ease.

None of them really accounted for what happened next.

Connection
was the only word Gareth could think of for it, particularly in that instant, when he almost froze with surprise. He reached to tie his energy in to Olivia's, only to find no tying was necessary, no effort. Her life force reached to meet his. His mind interpreted the contact as an unexpected warmth. The whole sensation was like extending a hand for a stiff greeting and finding himself in an embrace.

Most such embraces, in the real world, would have been uncomfortable. Gareth easily saw how the magical equivalent could be so—worse, likely enough, if the other party lacked scruples. Half-remembered stories came back to him, mentions of succubi and vampires. He'd given his vital energy dozens of times, and the worst he'd ever suffered was three days of lethargy, but he'd always been in control of the process. If Olivia pulled on the connection…

But she didn't.

As close as he was to her, Gareth was certain she wouldn't. She didn't give him her own energy either, and so he thought the situation was probably as unexpected to her as it was to him. For a little while they stayed still, simply joined.

Best not to let his mind dwell on that fact too long. The last thing he needed was to start considering symbolism. He had a job to do. They could sort the rest out later.

Although Olivia didn't give him any energy directly, her participation, half-conscious as it might have been, was surprisingly helpful when the healing actually began. There was no sensation, as there usually was, of reaching or pulling, of coaxing uncooperative elements along or nudging them out of the way. Everything went quickly and easily, until Gareth blinked back into normal vision and found himself kneeling by the couch, feeling far less drained than was generally the case for far more trivial injuries.

To make sure he'd done everything right, he took another look at Olivia's ankle. It lay straight and unswollen, and the few bruises he could see had already begun to fade.

Without thinking, Gareth let his gaze travel up the straight, slim line of her leg. Her disarranged and rather badly fitting riding habit left it well outlined, particularly as she lay on the couch. The fabric clung to her, in fact, clearly showing the curve of her hips. It took a moment for Gareth to realize it was damp, and to remember Olivia's condition when the stable hand had brought her in.

He was a beast, really. Normally healing would have left him too tired to notice a woman's figure. He'd have to be careful now. Gareth cleared his throat. “I'm sorry. You must be cold.”

“No.” Olivia sounded surprised and a little dazed. “I should be. I was, but not anymore.” Then she laughed and started to sit up. “Abusing your furniture horribly, though, I suspect, and probably anything but presentable.” She pushed back her hair absently.

The laugh had been almost normal, perhaps a little high, nothing at all obvious, but her hand was shaking. “No, stay there for a moment,” Gareth said. Without thinking, he reached out to stop her. His hand landed on her leg just below the knee.

Beneath his palm, her bare skin was warm and very soft. They held still for a few seconds, though Gareth's hand ached to move, to glide up and under the hem of Olivia's disarranged skirt. His cock just ached.

Gareth started to back away. He moved too late and too slowly to pretend he was anything but reluctant to stop touching her, even if his body had let him. Still, he knew he should. Then Olivia leaned forward and reached out. One slim hand skimmed up Gareth's chest, found the lapel of his coat, and pulled him to her.

The idea of resisting didn't cross Gareth's mind until much, much later. He went willingly, bending over her, finding some space on the sofa and getting one arm behind her head. She'd moved, she had to have, but he neither knew nor cared about the exact logistics. Then he took her mouth. It was as hot and as silky as he remembered, and Olivia arched upward against him when they kissed. If it hadn't been for her damn corset, he could have felt every inch of her through her clothes. As it was, she was soft and sweet and warm, and his erection was right against the juncture of her thighs, all quite enough temptation.

Then she wriggled against him, caught her breath at the sensation…and did it again.

Gareth thought he might have sworn, or maybe just growled. He knew he spread one hand over Olivia's bottom, pulling her closer, yet even as his hips jerked forward, and he heard her moan deep in her throat when he ground against her. Her legs parted, as much as her skirt would allow, and she rocked back up against him, finding his rhythm and matching it

There were many buttons on the top of Olivia's riding habit, not to mention everything beneath it. Too much to handle just then, far too much. So Gareth simply cupped one of her breasts in his free hand, hating the layers between his skin and hers, pressing gently and then a little harder as the sounds coming from Olivia's mouth continued to express pleasure. He brought his other hand up to do the same and rubbed, small circles, just as he rubbed his cock between her thighs—

Until she stiffened, suddenly, and cried out into his mouth, and a wave of color swept over her face and neck. Her hips jerked against him once, twice, then again, and Gareth nearly spent himself then and there.

He pulled away from her again. Not much. Just enough to start undoing his trouser buttons with one hand, the other pushing her skirt up, sliding over her leg like he'd wanted to do in the first place. Damned distracting, trying to do both at once, but he felt no inclination to stop touching her, particularly as she showed no inclination to stop him. She was breathing hard in the aftermath of her climax, and watching the rapid rise and fall of her breasts was enough to make Gareth yank the rest of the buttons open, hearing threads break and not caring. His fingers reached her thigh, slid farther up to feel wetness and soft hair, and Olivia made another of those maddening noises in her throat.

And then there was a knock at the door.

None of the words Gareth used were exactly new to Olivia, not after ten years in a not-precisely genteel neighborhood of London, but she hadn't ever heard them in such close proximity. One had to give the man credit, though. He kept the profanity under his breath. Given the circumstances, Olivia wouldn't have blamed him if he'd sworn at the top of his lungs.

She found the idea rather tempting herself.

Nonetheless, she didn't say anything, only lay still and managed not to protest as Gareth drew his hand out from under her skirt then got to his feet. Several of his trouser buttons had come off, and his arousal was still quite apparent behind the ones that remained. She felt another pulse of heat between her legs, an echo of her earlier crisis and the excitement that had been starting to build again.

Another knock.

“Yes?” She and Gareth answered as one, and neither of them sounded particularly patient.

There was a longish pause. Then: “Um. It's Violet, sir, ma'am. Mrs. Grenville asked me to come and see if Mrs. Brightmore was all right.”

Olivia raised herself gingerly from the couch, supporting herself on one of the arms until she found out her ankle would bear her. She didn't look at Gareth. “Yes, thank you. Dr. St. John's been very helpful.”

At least she'd remembered to call him by his title and last name when she spoke. Her mind, apparently, had decided it was absurd to keep thinking of the man that way, considering what had just passed between them. Considering what had just passed between them, Olivia told herself, was a horrible idea just now.

After a moment of silence, Violet continued. “Oh. Um, in that case, she says you're to join her and Mr. Grenville in the drawing room. In about an hour. Mrs. Brightmore, we've some dry clothes upstairs, if you can walk, and we're running a bath.”

“I'll be right out,” she said.

“Let the Grenvilles know I'll join them shortly,” said Gareth. Olivia couldn't resist glancing over her shoulder at him, and saw he was sitting at his desk and staring fixedly out the window. His hands were flat on the top of the desk pressing hard. She didn't want to think about the urges he was resisting.

Really, she did. That was the problem.

Olivia made a few quick adjustments to her dress and opened the door. The accident would explain any lingering disarray.

It was a good thing she did have an appointment downstairs, or she might have lingered in the bath, retracing the path of Gareth's hands on her body and remembering the moments of mindless pleasure she'd felt when she'd rubbed herself against him.

Needless to say, Olivia told herself, she hadn't entirely been in her right mind to begin with. She'd heard of great fear producing certain reactions afterward, excess energy and survival instinct and all that. She would have responded the same way to any halfway attractive man, probably, and she'd found Gareth handsome as soon as they'd met. Fortunately, and a little amusingly, he was also the least troublesome of the men at Englefield in a way, being neither married nor too young nor a servant.

Besides, there'd been that odd connection when he'd mended her ankle. It hadn't been sensual at the time. She'd been in too much pain to register anything like pleasure, but she'd been aware of the contact between their energies. That had probably played into the attraction she'd felt.

There were explanations for everything. Moreover, they'd been interrupted, thank God, before anything more could happen, and it wouldn't happen again. So there was nothing to worry about.

That is, nothing except looking him in the face next time they met.

Olivia rinsed her hair, toweled off, and told herself not to be a ninny. Gareth was a man of the world and a man of some experience, obviously, and she was no debutante. She bit her lip at the memory of his hands, knowing and firm and urgent. Things had happened. Life went on.

She'd made paying audiences think she could summon the dead and float crystal balls around. Keeping her countenance around one man should not, would not, be a problem. Even so, she chose the plainest of her black skirts and a high-collared shirtwaist in dark gray and pinned her hair up in the primmest knot she could manage.

At times like these, a woman did need some armor.

***

Everyone else was already in the drawing room when Olivia walked in: the Grenvilles on one of the couches, Gareth straight-backed on the edge of a chair, and Michael, whom she hadn't expected, perched on another. Michael and the men rose as Olivia entered, and everyone looked at her.

The Grenvilles, to her relief, seemed only polite and curious. Gareth met her eyes soberly and squarely. His hands moved slightly on the arms of his chair, fingers flexing, but his face was a very careful blank. Michael, on the other hand, let out what sounded like an hour's worth of held breath, then gulped and flushed and looked down at his shoes.

While Olivia found a seat, everyone was silent, her footsteps on the carpet were the only sound, and then the rustle of her skirt as she sat. Even such small noises seemed obtrusive. The atmosphere felt solid and fragile all at once, like cut glass.

“Well,” she said and smiled at Michael. “Nobody's come to any great harm, it seems, and now we know something we didn't before. Not a bad afternoon on the whole, I'd say, though I hope none of the horses were hurt.”

“No,” said Mr. Grenville. “A little frightened, but that's all.”

“An apt description for everyone involved, then,” Olivia replied.

“I'm sorry, ma'am,” said Michael, dragging his head up so he met her eyes. “I didn't mean to. I'd
never
have meant to do anything like that.”

Olivia reached over and patted his shoulder. “Of course you didn't,” she said briskly. “I saw you, remember? If you knew what you were doing, you'd have to have been a remarkable actor indeed to have looked
that
scared. Furthermore, I told you to—”

“And I told you,” said Joan.

Mr. Grenville smiled. “Perhaps Gareth's the only one of us who shouldn't be castigating himself this afternoon.”

Briefly, Gareth's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair. “I'm sure I can think of something to regret,” he said and did not look at Olivia.

The door opened again before anyone else could speak, and hopefully before anyone but Olivia noticed the slightly husky tone in Gareth's voice. One of the footmen came through, carrying a silver tea tray. Pouring and serving broke some of the tension. Michael in particular seemed heartened, though whether that was due more to the words or the sandwiches and cakes, Olivia couldn't say. For a thirteen-year-old boy, it was probably a fairly close race.

“The question is,” Mr. Grenville said once the footman had left, “what exactly happened, and why? Michael, how much do you remember?”

“Most of it, sir. It's…a bit hard to put in words, though.” Michael toyed with one of his crusts.

“Do your best,” said Mr. Grenville. “We'll figure out the rest of it.”

Michael took a deep breath. “All right. I started to try to reach the clouds, like Mrs. Brightmore told me to do. And I did. Only I went…too far, maybe?” His forehead wrinkled. “It was like I meant to whisper and wound up shouting instead. Only it took me a bit to stop shouting once I realized I was doing it, and then I'd, um, woken things up.”

“Was it you shouting?” Joan asked, leaning forward. “Or was it something acting through you?”

“Me, ma'am. I didn't really know what I was doing, but it was me.” Michael looked down at his plate again.

Joan relaxed back against the couch. “That's something.”

“Gareth,” Mr. Grenville said, “have you had a chance to look at Fairley?”

Gareth nodded. “Shortly before we came in here. There's nothing physically wrong with him. He's in excellent health.”

“Good,” said Mr. Grenville, and Michael looked considerably relieved as well. Mr. Grenville hesitated for a moment and then went on. “I can think of a few reasons someone might use more power than he intended. Splitting his attention between the magical task at hand and controlling a horse, for example, one of the things we were originally attempting to test. You're looking doubtful, Fairley.”

“It didn't feel like being distracted, sir,” Michael said.

“Distraction doesn't always,” said Mr. Grenville slowly, “but that's certainly a point away from the first theory. Another factor could be, well, your age.” He coughed and picked up a sandwich. “That may be something you should discuss with Gareth when the ladies are gone.”

A brief, awkward silence ensued, in which Joan rolled her eyes, Olivia tactfully pretended to consider her teacup, and Michael turned red again.

“The third possibility,” said Mr. Grenville, “is location. Have you worked outside before?”

Olivia shook her head just as Michael replied, “Not here, sir. At home, once in a while, but not most of the time. Nothing ever happened there.”

“It might not,” said Olivia, looking over at Mr. Grenville. “We talked about the forest before, you know. The gardens are tolerably close, and if there's any kind of effect, the rest of the land might share in it to some degree. Magic doesn't have terribly strict borders most of the time.”

Mrs. Grenville lifted her eyebrows and shrugged. “Could be,” she said and then smiled. “I hear men see strange things there.”

“On occasion,” said Mr. Grenville with a smile of his own. Olivia decided to pour herself some more tea and noticed Gareth seemed to need another biscuit as well.

She looked across the table at Gareth, intending to be businesslike, and ended up noticing the line of his neck, almost golden against his white collar. “Have you,” she asked, trying to keep her voice brisk, “ever been in places where it was easier to use your talent? Or harder, I suppose?”

“I haven't exactly kept records,” Gareth said, immediate and curt. He looked slowly from Olivia to Mr. Grenville to Michael, then, and sighed. “But there might have been a place or two. Possibly. Nothing as showy. Then again—”

“You have a great deal of practice in not being showy,” said Mr. Grenville.

“Right,” said Gareth. “And it wouldn't have manifested. I mean, healing is self-limiting.”

“Sometimes,” said Joan. “You got off lucky that way.” She grimaced, and the others followed suit as unpleasant alternatives came to their minds.

Olivia finished off a sandwich, her third, but it wasn't exactly a formal party, and she was unexpectedly hungry. Terror and lust, she supposed, would do that. Certainly Gareth had put away most of a plate. “It seems to me,” she said, “we should try a few tests. Only, less dangerous tests.”

“How?” Joan asked. “Fairley's dangerous. Donnell'd be worse, floating off the way she does.” The room collectively shuddered at the thought. “And Woodwell's talent isn't internal and wouldn't increase in power even if it was. I guess you could always cut yourself and see how much it takes out of Dr. St. John when he heals you.”

“Perhaps as a last resort,” Mr. Grenville said while Olivia blinked and Gareth coughed.

“I was thinking perhaps ceremonial magic rather than natural talents,” Olivia said. “If there's a thinning in the world in the forest or a nexus point of power, it should influence all sorts of magic. Ceremonial's much easier to control. That is, it's easier to find spells that won't do much damage if they do get away from the caster.”

Mr. Grenville nodded. “At the very least,” he said, “I think it's time to more seriously investigate the forest. You and I, St. John, and Mrs. Brightmore.” He said to Joan, “If you don't mind keeping the students in line while we're out.” She nodded briskly. “Perhaps, Miss Woodwell as well. The wild beasts might know something we don't. We'll set out tomorrow, weather permitting.”

“Meanwhile,” said Joan, “keep any experiments indoors. Nobody's died from that so far.”