‘Then you think I should marry her.’
It came out as a remark and not a question.
She stopped what she was doing. She should say nothing. It was not her place. And besides, she could not trust herself to speak rationally on the subject. But something inside her would not be denied. She turned to look at him. Then, folding her hands in front of her, she said, ‘No, I do not.’
‘Oho.’ A gleam of something unfathomable lit his eye. ‘You don’t think I should marry her. Why not?’
There was no turning back. She had started. She must continue.
‘Because she will not make you happy,’ she said. ‘She is selfish and shallow, and she will not help to heal your pain.’ Her spirit spoke to his. ‘She will not dispel the darkness inside you.’
There was a deathly hush.
In the silence she became aware of every inch of him. She saw the hurt in his eyes and the droop of his mouth, the fall of his shoulders and the clenching of his hands.
He stood there like a statue, before her, and she became aware that he was fighting an inner battle. She dare not move. She dare not breathe. If she did, she was afraid of breaking the moment and pushing him back into his private hell.
The logs crackled in the hearth.
Then even they became still.
But it was not peaceful. There was no true contentment. Instead, the silence was ominous, like the calm before a thunder storm.
I should not have spoken, she thought with sudden fear, as the tension began to mount. The air was becoming thick, buffeting her with a force that emanated from him as he wrestled with his inner demons. It grew and grew, until it had become almost unbearable in its intensity.
And then it broke in great tidal waves, and the crusty armour with which he had surrounded himself began to crack. She could see it happening as he stood there in the candlelight. His whole body began to change. The tension that had twisted him was cracking and splitting asunder, and beneath it he was coming to life. The pain was on the surface now, where she could reach it, and heal it ... if he would let her.
‘Do you think a wife could do that?’ he asked.
Her eyes were drawn to his and she felt herself grow weak.
But now was not the moment for weakness. Now was the moment for strength.
Lifting her chin, she said, ‘I do.’
She saw him walking towards her, and she began to tremble. Every inch of her began to shake. She longed for him. For his touch. His caress.
And then he was standing in front of her.
She could feel the heat of him, generated by his body, as it almost touched hers. She could see the lines on his face. They were etched across his forehead. She could smell the musky scent of him. She could see the rise and fall of his powerful chest, and fell the whisper of his breath on her skin.
‘Perhaps there is one who could manage it,’ he said throatily.
Then the air was filled with a new energy, a freshness and vibrancy that made her spirits soar. Her focus sharpened. She saw him with greater clarity than she had ever seen him before. She noticed every hair, every pore, every bristle on his chin.
As he lifted his hand a shiver ran over her from the top of her head to the soles of her feet. Every one of her senses was heightened, and without him even touching her he made her body react.
She could tell by the look in his eyes that the experience was as new to him as it was to her. It was unexplored territory for both of them, this powerful attraction of body, spirit and soul.
His fingers stroked her face and her shivers intensified. She felt as though no one had ever touched her before.
‘So smooth,’ he said, as he ran his fingers over her skin. ‘So soft,’ he went on, as he turned his hand over and trailed the back of it across her cheek.
She trembled with anticipation.
‘Your skin is like the petal of a rose,’ he murmured huskily. ‘When I brushed your ankle through the tear in your stocking on the day of our first meeting I was aware of it, and I have never forgotten the feeling. I have dreamed of it ever since.’
He ran his fingers over her head. They were impeded by her knot of hair. He pulled out the pins, and let it fall about her shoulders. Then he ran his hands through it.
‘You should not be doing this,’ she protested.
But she made no move to stop him. It felt wonderful to be cherished by him. She cared nothing for the danger, but wanted it to go on for ever.
‘I know.’ He took her face between his hands, and looked deeply into her eyes. ‘Better than you can ever do. But for one sweet moment I want to pretend ... ’
His voice tailed away. He bent his head. He kissed her. As his lips brushed hers she trembled from head to foot. The touch of his lips was so gentle that she barely felt it, but she felt its effects as it sent rivers of tingles up her arms and down her legs. She was drowning in the new and wonderful feelings, enlivening, exhilarating, almost unbearable in their intensity. And then, as his mouth moved more firmly over hers, it took her to another world altogether, opening up new horizons she had never even dreamed of. She found herself responding, her mouth moving under his with instinctive understanding, and a passion to match his own.
His arms slid round her waist, pulling her closer, and in return her arms twined themselves round his neck.
They were so close there was nothing between them. The line of their bodies met and held, the front of his jacket merging with the wool of her gown, so that it was impossible to tell where he ended and she began.
She felt him deepen the kiss and her lips parted in unknowing invitation. She was lost to all reason, forgetting that she was a lowly librarian whilst he was an earl; forgetting, too, that a secret still lay between them; knowing only that it felt wonderful to be held by him and that she never wanted the moment to end.
She had never known it would feel like this to be kissed. It was an explosion of senses, an exhilaration she had never even dreamed of, an all-consuming experience that almost overwhelmed her. She revelled in the feel of his mouth, the texture of his lips, the taste of him, a sensation so new yet so right she felt she had been born to experience it. She was locked in the moment, no future, no past, only present, with Marcus pressing her closer and devouring her with his kiss.
There was a slight noise, but she did not want to hear it. She didn’t want anything to pierce her haze of bliss.
But Marcus had heard it, too.
He pulled away from her, and she knew he had been recalled to reality by the slight sound.
Hilary tried to restore her breathing to its normal levels, then glanced towards the door.
The sound had been an unmistakable click, as though the door had opened, or closed. To her relief, there was no one there. If they had been discovered in such a compromising position ... But they had not.
Could it have been the wind? she wondered. If a stray gust had rattled the door, could that perhaps account for the sound they had heard?
‘We had better return to the drawing-room,’ said Marcus. ‘We have been away too long.’
Her heart sank. The openness that had existed between them for a few short minutes had gone, and he had buried his demons deep again. She knew he would not now tell her what was tormenting him. She could only hope that the moment would come again.
But for now it had disappeared.
Gathering her thoughts, she said, ‘That isn’t a good idea. I have already left it once. I have no reason to return.’
‘Perhaps you are right. It won’t do to tempt the Palmers’ spite. I will go alone.’
She watched him leave the room, then sank down into an enormous oak chair. What had been the meaning of his behaviour? Why had he kissed her? And what had been the meaning of her own?
She gazed into the fire, as though it might hold the answers.
She had told him he should not be kissing her, and he had said, "I know. Better than you could ever do". His words had been enigmatic. She had not noticed at the time
- she had not been in a condition to notice - but now she wondered about them. Was it because she was in his house, and therefore under his protection, that he felt he should not have been kissing her? Or because he knew that he had no intention of marrying her? Or had there been some other reason for his strange words?
Whatever the case, she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she could never marry Mr Ulverstone now. It was not because she thought Lord Carisbrooke would marry her. On the contrary, she was certain he would not. Even so, she could not regret their kiss. It had been the most breathtaking experience of her life. She could still feel its after effects reverberating through her entire body. Not only were her lips tingling, but her limbs were trembling. It had been the most intimate sensation she had ever experienced, and the most exhilarating. She would not have missed it for all the world. But having experienced it, she knew she could never marry another man. It would be impossible.
By and by she turned her attention back to the library. She still had some work to do before she went to bed.
Slowly she roused herself. She stood up, pinning her hair back into a knot, and went over to the table once more. She had a dozen or so books still to arrange.
She let her gaze wander over them. They would not take her long to do. Then slowly and methodically, she began to work. Arranging the books was soothing. Gradually, it had a calming influence on her spirit, and the tremors that had coursed through her body began to dissipate. She was relieved. They had been making it difficult for her to concentrate on her task, but at last they disappeared altogether.
She unrolled the next manuscript to see where it should be shelved ... and then stopped. This was the manuscript she had seen before, the one that had been tugging at her memory.
Her eyes travelled over it rapidly. It contained a plan of the abbey, and was a more detailed version of one she had glimpsed on the previous day. It showed the floor plans, and they revealed something that made her apprehensive: there was only one staircase to the attic on her floor, and it was to the west of her room. She felt herself grow cold. When Lord Carisbrooke had passed her door, seeping blood, on her first night in the abbey, he could not have been not been coming from the attic as he had claimed.
She felt a shiver of apprehension. If he had not been coming from the attic on the night he had been injured, then where had he been coming from?
And why had he lied?
Suddenly, the abbey seemed a colder place.
She had allowed herself to grow close to its enigmatic owner, but what did she really know about him?
No, she would not doubt Marcus. She trusted him. Perhaps the plans were not accurate. They were very old.
Even so, she knew she could not let the matter rest until she had discovered the truth of the matter for herself.
In a fit of rashness, she almost took a candle and made her exploration at once, but her common sense reasserted itself and she knew she must wait until morning. Then she could explore at her leisure, and in the clear light of day.
Chapter Eight
Can I keep her?
That was the thought that plagued Marcus as he paced his room later that night. The abbey had turned him from a man into a surly beast, but in a few short days Hilary had breached his defences and turned the beast back into a man.
And how had she done it, this plain little woman? By seeing through his irascibility to his tortured soul beneath.
He thought of what she had said to him in the library: “She will not dispel the darkness inside you.”
It had cut through the last of his defences. She had known he had dark places, and known they needed illuminating, and she had been right. Miss Palmer could never do that. But Hilary could. He knew it with certainty. She could pour the light of her understanding into the blackest corners of his mind, easing his burden and brightening chasms so deep and dark he had thought they would never see the light of day.
But could he let her? Had he that right? No. A thousand times no. If he decreased his burden, he would surely increase hers. He would dim her life, not all at once, but gradually, as she came to understand the secret that haunted the abbey, and to learn that there was no escape.
He was under no illusions about her feelings for him. Though he had known her for such a short space of time there was a deep and intuitive bond between them, and she was already half way to being in love with him. But he could not let it go any further, though he longed to with all his heart. She had come into his life and shown him what it was to be human again, and if she was half in love with him, then he was at least half in love with her.
Which was why he must send her away.
The thought made him grow cold. She was the break of sun through the clouds, the first breath of spring, the rain after a drought. But he could not let her love him. He had to let her go. She was young. She would forget him. The passage of time would do much to alleviate her feelings, and with occupation and enjoyment, it would be accomplished. Already he had written to a friend of his late mother’s who lived in Bath, and who would offer Hilary a position as a companion at his asking. Her duties would be light, and her company congenial. There would be time and opportunity for her to visit the libraries, to enjoy the Assemblies, and to experience Bath’s other pleasant distractions. Then, too, her salary would be generous, and would provide her with the comforts and small luxuries she now lacked. Some pretty clothes, a collection of books ... And in time she would meet someone else. Bath had a large number of visitors and she would have an opportunity to get to know a variety of people, at last marrying and enjoying the life she deserved. She would marry a learned gentleman, perhaps, or some other good man who would give her an establishment, with the added blessing of children.
He ground his teeth at the thought of her in the arms, and the heart, of another man, but it had to be. He might want to give her all the things she lacked, providing her with a home and a family, but he could not - not without taking her to the mouth of hell and forcing her to look into its gaping maw.
If only he could keep her ...
But he could not. As soon as the roads were passable he would send out his letter, and within a very short space of time he hoped to have Hilary settled in a comfortable and rewarding life.
What did it matter if the thought of it made him grow cold? In time he would not be sensible of it. In time, he would be sensible of nothing at all ....
* * * *
Hilary slept badly. She rose with the first light, and having washed and dressed quickly she slipped out of her room. She turned left and continued along the landing in the direction from which Lord Carisbrooke had been coming on the night he had been injured. The landing was hung with tapestries on her left hand side, and on her right there was a banister protecting her from the drop to the hall. The first tapestry showed a battle scene, and Hilary found herself wondering whether it had been stitched by Lord Carisbrooke’s ancestors. If so, it must have taken the Carisbrooke women years to complete. The men and horses were strangely flat and oddly shaped, but the stitches were beautiful. Next to the tapestry was a mirror, then came another tapestry.
By and by the landing turned a corner, whereupon the tapestries continued on her left whilst a row of windows were now on her right. So far Hilary had come across neither staircases nor doors. Then from where had Lord Carisbrooke been coming when he had been injured? she wondered.
She went on. Another tapestry adorned the wall, portraying a hunting scene. A man on horseback was winding a horn, and hounds were running free. But still there were neither staircases nor doors.
Up ahead of her the corridor came to an end. She went right up to the wall. It rose before her in all its golden beauty, as solid as a rock. She was nonplussed. Lord Carisbrooke had definitely been coming from this direction, but what could he have been doing in an empty corridor? And how could he have been injured? she wondered, looking up to see if there were any holes in the roof. She saw none.
She turned and began to walk back down
the corridor, feeling perplexed. But just as she was passing the tapestry of the hunting scene it billowed outwards, as though there were someone standing behind it. How could they have come there without her seeing them? she thought, as icy fingers clutched at her chest.
Her heart began to beat more rapidly. What if the abbey was haunted?
Common sense told her it was impossible, but there was definitely someone coming out from behind the tapestry. Someone dressed all in black.
Hilary gave a sigh of relief as the figure emerged. It was not a ghost but a human being of flesh and blood; an elderly woman with gaunt features, and iron-grey hair scraped back into a severe bun.
They stood face to face, looking at each other in surprise. Then the elderly woman’s face quickly set itself into a conventional expression.
‘Can I help you, miss?’ she asked, breaking the silence.
‘I ... ’ Hilary was at a loss for words.
‘The stairs are that way,’ said the elderly woman firmly.
‘Th ... thank you,’ stammered Hilary.
Feeling foolish, she turned and walked back along the corridor. But her morning’s exploration, instead of satisfying her curiosity, had only roused it more. Instead of reading a Gothic romance, she seemed to have found herself embedded in one.
What dark secret hung over the abbey? And how was the mysterious woman in black linked to it?
Her sudden appearance had been remarkable. How had she materialised behind the tapestry? Who was she? And what was she doing in the abbey?
Hilary was still wrestling with these problems when, fifteen minutes later, she sat in the dining-room sipping her breakfast cup of tea. The woman had either been hiding there, for which Hilary could see no reason, or she had emerged from a secret door, hidden behind the tapestry. Or perhaps not even a secret door, Hilary told herself, knowing that she must not let her imagination run away with her. Perhaps it was an ordinary door which was hidden by the tapestry for the simple reason that the tapestry was too large to hang elsewhere.
Carisbrooke Abbey Page 10