The Bride of Time (8 page)

He scowled at her. “Zeus, what a look!” he replied. “Nothing unlawful, I assure you. He will be found and confined to his rooms. You are certain he didn’t really bite you?”

“I’m certain.”

“No skin was broken?”

Tessa bristled. “No, none. Now, look here—”

“Very well, then,” he interrupted her. “You will report to me before you resume your duties in the morning. Now, I must ask that you lock yourself in your suite and stay put. Good night, Miss LaPrelle.”

Chapter Six

He was aroused—
aroused!
How the devil could he be hard against the seam in these dire circumstances? Nonetheless he was, gazing down into Tessa’s limpid eyes, which sparkled in the soft glimmer issuing from the candle sconces. His arm still tingled from the touch of her hand. He’d felt its warmth through the fine lawn fabric. He could feel it still. He balled his hands into white-knuckled fists at his sides to keep from reaching out and taking her in his arms, from ravishing those dewy lips with his own. What would they feel like? What would they taste like, those soft-looking, sweet, pouty lips shaped like Cupid’s bow?

It wasn’t the brandy. He’d sobered as if he hadn’t touched a drop the minute she said the child tried to bite her. Foster was right. He’d put her in harm’s way—not only from the child, but from himself. Tomorrow night the moon would be full. He could already feel the pull of it, the strange unrest it brought to bear upon every cell in his body as the moon waxed closer and closer to fullness, the bestial restlessness that mounted until the blackout. Then he would no longer be in control until the dawn. The last time it had been thus for four nights altogether: one coming on, like now; two full-blown
nightmarish nights while the moon was at its fullest; and one more as it began to wane. Then the madness subsided until the moon waxed full again. Would it always be the same? He had no way of knowing. That was the worst of it. Lycanthropy was myth, not fact; at least that is what he’d always believed until now.

Tessa was safe enough from that for the moment, but not from his other urges. It had been too long since he’d had the pleasure of soft, willing flesh in his arms, and a warm, eager body to welcome his release. But he kept his distance. He might be a savage when the moon was full, but elsewise he’d always prided himself on being a gentleman. Besides, it was too soon. Make a move now and he would spoil any chance he might have if he waited. It was some time since he’d had to play these silly mating games. All that seemed so ridiculous now. And, of course, it was clear she did not return his favor in kind.

“In you get,” he said. “Lock the doors, and stay inside no matter what you hear or think you hear.” She seemed reluctant, and he muttered an exasperated string of expletives under his breath. “No harm will come to the boy, you have my word,” he said. He brandished his wrist. “Hah!
I’m
the savaged one; or had you forgotten? Keep in mind that you could have very well been next.”

“You have a vile temper, Mr. Longworth,” Tessa said frostily. “I saw it in action when I arrived on your estate. Directed toward the doxy, it was shocking enough. I would entreat you to curb it before meting out your brand of justice—nay,
retribution
—upon the boy. And, I would hope that you do not go so far as to make my position here impossible afterward. I wish I’d never called the matter to your attention.”

“Well, you did, and there it is. Now kindly step inside and lock the door, and leave us to do what needs be done.”

Despite all his noble resolve, Giles couldn’t keep his roaming hand from reaching out and pressing against the small of her back as he guided her over the threshold. The warmth of her rushed through the thin gray muslin. Her scent ghosted past his nostrils. Why couldn’t he identify that flower? Had that stifled moan just come from his own throat?

His hand jerked back as if he’d touched live coals, and he cleared his voice. “Remember,” he said, “I will call you to me in the morning before you resume your duties with the boy.”

Tessa nodded, and he waited until he heard the rasp of the bolt being thrown before sprinting off toward the staircase.

He’d just started down the stairs when Foster met him coming up from the first-floor landing. The valet wore a haggard look. Giles didn’t need to ask him if he’d found the boy; failure was written all over Foster’s face. Clinging to hope, Giles asked nonetheless.

“No luck, I take it,” he said.

The valet wagged his head, leaning on the banister. “I’ve searched his usual hiding places on the first floor and below stairs, but he isn’t in any of them. I’ve alerted the others.”

“You didn’t tell them—?”

“No, no, of course not!” the valet assured him. “We wouldn’t have a servant on the place if I did. Trust me to have some semblance of intelligence. Besides, I scarce believe it myself!”

“Yes, well, you overheard I’m sure, so I shan’t go into it again. We have to find the boy and see he doesn’t escape again. The little blighter is dangerous. Considering what he’s done to me, no one in residence is exempt from danger, and meanwhile, Miss LaPrelle thinks I am a beast who brutalizes children. God only knows what lies he’s told her.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but don’t you think you need to make her aware now?”

“Once I know exactly what we’re facing, yes,” Giles said.

The valet clicked his tongue and wagged his head. “You’re afraid she’ll leave the Abbey,” he said.

“Let us just say I would not like her to do so for no reason, and we’ll leave it at that, shall we?”

“If you’re forming a
tendre
for the gel, I’d imagine keeping her safe from harm would be your first priority, sir.”

Giles heaved a sigh and raked his hair back roughly. Foster meant well, but this was not the time for moralizing. “Not now, Foster.” He slapped his forehead. “Zeus! I forgot to lock the studio. I wouldn’t put it past the little bastard to savage ‘The Bride of Time’! Go ’round to the stables and ask Able and Andy to search the grounds…just in case. I’ll join you directly.”

Turning back the way he’d come, Giles scaled the staircase toward the upper regions, taking the steps two at a stride.

Tessa listened at the door until Giles’s footfalls grew distant along the corridor. She would stay put, indeed. She was not about to go prowling about the darkened halls of Longhollow Abbey in search of an obstreperous child. Giles Longworth could have that pleasure. If she had any sense, she’d leave the Abbey straightaway. It was plain Longworth did not share her attraction; she was merely a con ve nience to keep the boy out of his way. Yes, she should leave. She should run and keep on running, but she couldn’t. The fates had brought her here. There must be a reason.

Wracking her brain, she tried to pinpoint the exact moment she’d crossed over from her time to his. She’d been running eastward, trying to get out of the city, and
she’d traveled some distance when the cobblestones underfoot softened to a dirt lane tufted with grass down the center. Tall clumps of grass, bracken and gorse hemmed it. Could she have stumbled upon a lay line in the fog? Folks claimed there were such corridors crosshatching the land between London and the Cornish coast. It was said that they threaded through the region, linking churches named St. Michael’s like beads on a string. It was also said that the churches were built on the invisible lines deliberately, and named for the Warrior Angel of God to ward off the supernatural phenomena associated with lay lines, not the least of which was that they were avenues leading back and forth in time. Tessa had never credited anything but the existence of lay lines themselves as more than superstition…until now.

She had passed several churches on the way. Were any of them St. Michael’s? Tessa couldn’t remember. All she recalled was their spires and square bell towers shrouded in the fog. Lay lines? Everyone knew they existed, but to credit them with such as this! Could the superstitions be true? What other explanation could there be? There was no use to puzzle over it. She was here and that was that. The whys and wherefores were the mystery of the Fates.

Tessa took a nightdress from the chiffonier, lifted the candle branch and went into the dressing room. Since she wasn’t privileged to have the services of a lady’s maid, Dorcas had selected frocks that were easily donned and didn’t require a corset that laced in back. She was grateful for that, wriggling out of the gown, and equally grateful that the nightdress of butter-soft lawn slipped over her head just as easily. It was very finely made, hand-stitched, and sheer. Tessa had never seen anything so delicate, much less felt the like against her skin. She’d known nothing but homespun, and on occasion muslin.

Sitting at the vanity, she took the three tortoiseshell hairpins from her Gibson coiffure and set them on the vanity top in a neat row. A shake of her head and the long curtain of mahogany hair the pins had tethered fell about her shoulders in a cascade of silken waves to her buttocks. There was a brush on the vanity with silver
repoussé
roses on the back and handle, and she took it up and began brushing her hair. There was a matching comb, and a pink glass hair receiver also; she laughed at the latter. She had no need of hairpieces to feed into it at the end of the day through the little hole in the silver lid. Her hair was voluminous enough without such.

She pulled the length of it in front over her shoulder, and began brushing from the scalp to the ends; long, rhythmic strokes. How soothing it was with such a fine brush. A soft moan escaped her, and she shut her eyes, basking in the sheer pleasure of the task. When they fluttered open again, she froze in place, her shuddering stare riveted to the mirror, where another image glared back at her.

Tessa vaulted to her feet. “Master Monty!” she breathed. “What are you doing here?” She snatched her wrapper, which was draped over the chair, and shrugged it on. “Do you know what time it is, young man? The whole house is in an uproar looking for you.”

“You told Uncle,” the boy said.

“I had no choice,” Tessa returned. “You gave me none.”

“You are not afraid of me,” the boy said, marveling.

“No, Master Monty, I am not.”

“You should be, you know, and you will be. Uncle is.”

“Your uncle does not impress me as someone who frightens easily, Master Monty.” The boy giggled, and the sound ran her through like a javelin. She added steadily, “You haven’t told me what you are doing here. These are my rooms. You do not belong here.”

The boy shrugged. It seemed his favorite mannerism. “ None of the rooms are ‘your rooms,’” the boy snapped. “Now you know that!” Giggling again, he darted past Tessa, flipping the vanity chair over in her path, and ran through the rooms to the sitting room door, where he threw open the bolt and burst out into the corridor.

Slowed for righting the toppled chair, Tessa entered the hallway in time to see the boy skip over the landing, fly down the stairs and disappear in the shadows of the second-floor east wing corridor below. In close pursuit, she rushed down the stairs…and ran right into the arms of Giles Longworth, approaching from the opposite direction. The impact of her soft flesh against his hard-muscled body caught the breath in her throat. Her breasts flattened against his chest became hard, traitorous things, her nipples tightened to turgid buds pressed up against him through the thin gown and wrapper. His posture clenched upon contact. His hands were holding her to lend support, for they had impacted with force enough to knock the breath from her body; at least that’s what it seemed at first. Why didn’t he let her go? She was steady enough now.

Reluctantly, she met his gaze and gasped in spite of herself. It was like facing a dog whose tail was wagging while its teeth were bared. His embrace was warm and inviting, arousing feelings hitherto unknown to her—frightening, delicious feelings deep inside that pulsed through her like liquid fire—but that look in his eyes was deadly, smoldering with rage. She didn’t know which to believe, much less trust, and a strangled sound escaped her throat as he shook her gently.

“What are you doing down here like that?” he snapped. “I thought I told you to stay put!”

“And what, be savaged in my own rooms?” she defended, wrenching free of his grip. “I
was
‘put,’ sir!
That little devil was in my apartments. I might have caught him if I hadn’t collided with you just now.”

“Did he harm you?” he pleaded.

“No! He’s a
child
, Mr. Longworth,” Tessa reminded him. “A disgruntled child. You make him out a fiend. He’s hardly that.”

Longworth’s eyes flashed about the darkened corridor. “Which way did he go?” he demanded.

“That way,” Tessa said, pointing toward the east wing chambers. “He threw a chair in my path or he never would have gotten out of my rooms.”

Just then, Foster came shuffling along the corridor, out of breath. “Able is searching the grounds,” he panted. “If the boy is out there, he’ll find him.”

“He was in Miss LaPrelle’s rooms,” Giles said. “Didn’t you search them first?”

“Why, no, sir, I thought you—”

“Never mind now,” Giles interrupted. “The damage is done.” He gestured toward the shadowy east wing. “He went that way. I’ll fetch him. You wait by the landing. He cannot escape us from there without passing the stairs. Be ready, and be quick…but be careful, Foster.” He turned to Tessa, his gaze sliding the length of her. Only then did she realize how transparent her nightrail was. It was only a brief glance, but his hooded eyes stripped her naked, and she tugged the wrapper close in a vain attempt to hide what he’d already seen. He cleared his voice. “Go back up to your rooms at once and let us handle this,” he said gruffly. “This time, stay there.”

For one fleeting moment, their gazes locked, onyx jousting with blue-violet; then, spinning on his heel, Longworth stalked off into the east wing shadows.

Chapter Seven

Seizing a lit candle branch from the hall table, Giles stormed through the east wing chambers like a man possessed. How could he have neglected to search Tessa’s chamber first? Capital! Now he was calling her
Tessa
in his thoughts. There was no hope for it. He was smitten. How had that happened? He’d always been in total control of his emotions and his urges. Now, but for the crisis, he’d have made a complete fool of himself.