She doubted it. Nevertheless, his absence left her with no other choice than to look for answers on her own.
“I’m quite impressed with your education, Miss Bourne. I daresay, not many men are as learned in Greek and Roman mythology,” Graham said, closing another book as she accepted this compliment with a gracious nod.
He laid the book on the ever-growing pile atop one of a pair of mahogany tables, its twin standing empty on the opposite end of the long narrow room. If not for that incongruity, she might have thought a grand mirror bisected the library, because both halves of the room were nearly identical.
Every object was positioned with great precision, from the pair of azure blue and silver-hued rugs that flanked either side of the tables, to the two wingback chairs in dark, faded leather, facing each other at a standoff. Even the floor to ceiling bookshelves, lining the inner wall and separated by the doorway, seemed arranged with similarly sized books. It was as if the room was built on a great scale that demanded equal weight on each side. Though, to be fair, there were different tapestries hanging at either end.
Despite all of the fastidiousness, she liked this room. The musty sweet aroma of the books soothed a forgotten part of her.
She wondered if Rydstrom came in here to survey his lands, admiring the view of the picturesque, tumbled hillside and forest glade to the north. If he ever lingered inside the pages of a book until the tapers burned down to the quick. If he ever put his feet up and warmed them in front of the broad fireplace . . .
“Perhaps we will alter our course to philosophy next,” Graham said, interrupting her peculiar domestic musings. Which was for the best. She had plenty of other things on her mind, and didn’t need the distraction.
What she needed was answers.
As luck would have it, in that same moment, Mr. Fellows appeared in the open doorway and cleared his throat.
When the doctor joined him in the corridor, she tried to position herself to capture an errant word or two. Pretending to scan the shelves, her fingertips inattentively glided over the book spines, her ear tilted toward the doorway.
The conversation was too muffled to overhear every word, but she caught the essentials—farrier, shoe, and temperamental stallion. Hmm . . . she wondered if her watchguard might be called away.
Only a simpleton would not see this as an opportunity.
When the conversation came to an end, she quickly plucked a book from the shelf and made it appear as if she were engrossed in the contents by bending her head and then turning it right side up.
“I’m being summoned on an important matter in the stables, Miss Bourne,” Dr. Graham said, moving to her side. “Would you mind perusing the shelves without me for a short duration?”
She placed her finger on a line of text as if to mark her place and pursed her lips in a mask of disappointment before offering a reluctant nod. “I’ll wait here until your return.”
Dr. Graham left the room and disappeared down the hall with Mr. Fellows.
In the very next instant, and with no one else about, Jacinda slipped out of the library and up the nearest staircase.
After traversing a confusing array of corridors, she found herself in the hall beneath a minstrel’s gallery. Wait a minute . . . she’d been here before, on the first day after she’d slipped out of the tower room. Hadn’t she?
Her mind flashed with glimpses of an angelic, golden-haired girl, a table full of sketches, and a neatly scrawled name of Sybil. Then Jacinda recalled Rydstrom himself, furious and holding her tightly against him, his gruff voice oddly soothing.
It was this last part that made her wonder if she was imagining things. Of course, she could simply ask Dr. Graham or Rydstrom if there was a girl named Sybil beneath this roof. But what if there wasn’t?
If there was a possibility that Jacinda had lost a bit of sense as well as her memory when she’d hit her head, she didn’t want anyone else to know.
There were certain things a woman kept to herself, after all, like uncomfortable stomach ailments, for example, and . . . a moderate case of lunacy.
Therefore, she decided to proceed on her own.
Spotting the narrow servants’ stairs, she climbed up one floor and then another, pausing to catch her breath along the way before traversing the winding corridor and then . . .
She expelled a breath of relief. Through the doorway, she saw the girl sitting at the desk in front of the window.
* * *
Crispin gripped the ebony hilt of the broadsword, the weight natural in his hand as if the weapon were an extension of his arm. He slashed through the air in a fluid arc, mindful of the rectangular table in the center of the armory, and lunged forward toward an unseen opponent. But in his mind’s eye, he was battling himself.
If anyone deserved to be thoroughly slaughtered, it was him. Because he was the fool who’d put Jacinda Bourne in the bedchamber across from his own.
Had he truly imagined her presence would have no effect on him, other than giving him the ability to keep a closer watch on her?
“Idiot.” Growling, he made another series of revolutions, relishing the bite in his shoulders, the strain in his arms, and the first prickles of sweat.
He should have foreseen the distraction she would pose. He’d understood it all too well last night when he’d escorted her to the room. She’d been tired and hiding her yawns behind a napkin all through dinner, so much so that she hadn’t needled him with questions. And more than that, he’d noticed a faint, purplish hue beneath her eyes, marking her exhaustion.
She’d done too much. And Crispin had found himself quietly brooding, angry at Graham for having overtaxed her with memory exercises. It was only for that reason that Crispin offered to escort her from the dining room to her chamber. And every step of the way, he’d fought the urge to press his hand to the small of her back and offer his shoulder for her to lean against.
Thankfully, he hadn’t succumbed, but the temptation irritated him, nonetheless.
That mood had stayed with him, starting this morning when he dressed. With his valet still in London, there was no idle chatter to distract him from the fact that Jacinda was across the hall. Facing the door while he buttoned his clothes and tied his cravat, it was if he stared through a window instead.
He’d imagined seeing her a dozen steps away—sleepy, warm and rumpled, her hair a mass of auburn tangles, her cheeks flushed—and a keen, nearly painful arousal had built within him.
“Only a . . . masochist . . . fantasizes about . . . his living nightmare. Take . . . hold of . . . yourself,” he huffed, slaying hundreds of invisible marauders, leaving their carcasses in heaps at his feet.
Out of breath, he set the point of the blade on the stone floor and rested his hands over the pommel. Looking around the room to the four walls covered in weapons and shields—each side proportionate to the other, of course—he felt centered once again, more like himself.
This was his home, his domain, ergo he was in control. He wasn’t about to let some misguided, inexcusable temptation get the better of him. No, indeed!
Moving toward the high table, he set the broadsword down, intending to polish the steel before replacing it to the stand. Before he’d begun his exercises, he’d removed his coat, waistcoat, and cravat. But after mopping his brow and the back of his neck with a handkerchief, he set about dressing again. He just finished tucking the edge of his cravat into his waistcoat when Fellows appeared at the door.
“Ah, Your Grace. I thought I would find you in here,” Fellows said, lifting a polished silver salver where a single square missive lay. “You asked that I bring any correspondence from Miss Bourne’s family whenever it arrived.”
Crispin stared at it, his stomach twisting unpleasantly. He’d sent a rider and a pair of his fastest horses, but he never expected to have a response so quickly. And now, for some unknown reason, he was reluctant to remove it from the salver.
So instead, he reached for his coat, shrugging into the garme
nt that was a little snug after his exertions. “Just set it down on the edge of the table, if you will.”
Fellows inclined his head, wearing a pleasant grin that had become a recent addition to his countenance, the worried lines from the past four years altering their direction in more of an upward tilt. “Miss Bourne will be happy to hear from her family, I should imagine.”
“It would not be prudent to tell her of it at this time,” Crispin said with a note of warning.
“Yes, of course, sir. Now that you mention it, Dr. Graham did say something along those lines when I escorted him to the stables a short while ago.”
Adjusting his cuffs, Crispin went still. “But if Graham is in the stables, then who is with Miss Bourne?”
Chapter 13
“The visit afforded her many pleasant recollections the next day . . .”
Jane Austen, Emma
The floor creaked beneath Jacinda’s feet, and the girl looked over her shoulder.
An instant smile bloomed on Sybil’s face, her cheeks lifted, her gray eyes twinkling. Hopping up from her chair, she rushed out into the corridor.
“Good day, Sybil.”
The girl tilted her head to the side and then wiggled her fingers in a wave.
“Ah. We must be playing the silent game again today,” Jacinda said, stepping through the doorway.
“She does not speak, Miss Bourne.”
Jacinda startled, turning guiltily. “Oh, Mrs. Hemple . . . I did not think I would find anyone here. I was just looking for . . . my room, you see, and I must have gotten turned around.”
The housekeeper, whom she’d met yesterday morning, was sitting in the chair nearest the fire, holding a length of fabric, an open sewing box on the milieu table in front of her. But at Jacinda’s statement, a knowing gleam lit her brown gaze as her lips curled slightly. “You are welcome to stay. I see no harm in it.”
In response, Sybil skipped around the table and wrapped her slender arms around Mrs. Hemple’s shoulders.
“Thank you. After the morning I’ve had, I could use a diversion.” Still weak from her boat-borrowing ordeal—not to mention climbing five thousand flights of stairs—she crossed the room toward the chair she’d occupied the first time she was here. What a relief that Mrs. Hemple was not as strict and forbidding as the duke. “Is Sybil your daughter, then?”
The housekeeper hesitated, glancing briefly to Sybil and then back to Jacinda. “She is in my charge and has been since she came to Rydstrom Hall four years ago.”
A series of prickles tripped the nerves along Jacinda’s spine in what she’d begun to think of as her curiosity sensors, but she couldn’t quite understand the reason for them in this circumstance. There was nothing suspicious in the statement. Likely, this time, the reaction was nothing more than a lingering chill.
Smiling, the mute girl blinked coyly at Mrs. Hemple and pressed a kiss to her cheek.
The housekeeper clucked her tongue as she tenderly brushed back the gold fringe of curls from Sybil’s forehead. “Ack, go on with you, now. Back to your studies. His Grace expects a neat column of figures.”
Sybil rolled her eyes and trudged back to the desk, but brought her pages and chair to the table, sitting beside Jacinda.
“Rydstrom marks her schoolwork?” Jacinda asked, somewhat stunned. This didn’t seem like a typical task for a duke. Then again, Rydstrom was the only one she knew.
Still, something about it seemed strange, only she didn’t know what.
Mrs. Hemple began plying her needle once more. “Without a tutor in the keep, I can think of no keener mind. Though, I gather you are sharp-witted as well.”
Distracted by her thoughts, she absently asked, “What makes you say that?”
“Perhaps because you are always carrying a book with you.”
Forgetting that she had it, Jacinda looked down at the blue leather tome and placed it on the table. “Oh yes, I haven’t read this one yet. Fascinating subject.”
Mrs. Hemple lifted her gaze from the sewing to study the book more closely, her brow wrinkled.
More interested in learning about her new acquaintances, Jacinda turned her attention to Sybil. “Do you know that for a while, I thought I’d imagined you? That, perhaps, you were part of a dream I had, nothing more than a pretty fairy spending her time drawing, while waiting for her wings to grow.”
The girl made a singular sound—a laughing wheeze through her nose. As if to play along, she craned her neck to peer over her shoulder and down her back. Then she shrugged.
“No wings today, hmm? Well, we’ll check again tomorrow.” Jacinda glanced over at Mrs. Hemple to ensure that was acceptable and received a nod and a pleased grin. “Now what have you been drawing since we last met?”
Sybil scrambled to put together a pile of her most recent pages and rushed over to Jacinda, standing tall as she handed them over.
Looking through the stack, Jacinda admired the girl’s talent, remarking on the beauty of each drawing. Again, she noticed that every object in the pictures was displayed in a romantic pair—two fleas, two mice, two flowers—as if everything in her world belonged joined with something else. A veritable matchmaker in the making.
“Have you ever read the story of Emma by the incomparable Miss Jane Austen?” When Sybil shook her head, Jacinda pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well then, we shall have to remedy that. If Mrs. Hemple approves, of course.”
Sybil unleashed a look of so much eager yearning that Jacinda wasn’t surprised by the housekeeper’s instant consent.
“As long as you don’t neglect your studies.” Mrs. Hemple gave a pointed look down to the untended page.
Grinning broadly, dimples on full display, Sybil returned to her column of figures, scribbling out her sums furiously.
“Miss Bourne, you are welcome anytime you like.”
“That would be lovely.” But at the mention of time, Jacinda noticed a rosewood clock on the mantel and realized she’d been away far too long. “Oh dear. I imagine Dr. Graham has returned to the library by now. I do not wish to be absent so long that he sounds the alarm, affording Rydstrom another reason to glower at me.”
She lifted her eyes and sighed comically, earning a broad grin from Sybil. “It seems we both have studies to attend, and I fear that I have only been a good example of truancy.”
A stuttered puff of air accompanied Sybil’s laugh in something of a snort, and the effect of the charming, unabashed sound lifted Jacinda’s own cheeks. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”
Leaving the room, she felt as if she’d made two new friends. And while she wasn’t any closer to remembering why she’d traveled from London to Whitcrest, she had managed to navigate the castle by memory.
“. . . many places in Rydstrom Hall are in disrepair. Therefore, for your own safety, you should never venture anywhere without either Dr. Graham’s escort or mine,” the duke had said. But the more she made her way through the halls, the more she was convinced he’d only wanted to know her whereabouts. And likely to avoid her so that she wouldn’t find out whatever information he was keeping from her. Ha!
A rebellious grin curled her lips and stayed in place as she traversed down two sets of stairs, and around three—or was that four?—corridors.
Yet, when she did not find herself in the minstrel’s gallery as she expected to, she stopped congratulating herself.
Her surroundings were completely foreign. This corridor was much narrower than the others and not adorned with a single table or bench. The ceiling hung low overhead, the plaster seeming to droop in between wooden supports. The planks beneath her feet tended to rise in the center, nearly buckling.
And suddenly, it was all too clear that she’d found her way into the part of Rydstrom Hall that the duke had warned her about. Drat.
She had to leave before he found out and had something to lord over her.
Thankfully, the door was just behind her. Though, when she tried it, she found it wedged in place. Tucking her borro
wed book to her breast, she leaned her shoulder into the thick panel, but still her efforts failed to yield a result.
It made no sense. She’d just come through this way, hadn’t she? Yet, as she looked down the corridor, she saw that she’d passed a good number of doors.
A tiny frisson of worry skated over her. She was no longer certain which door she’d come through.
Retracing her steps, she tried each one in turn, but found them all stuck. Frustrated and a little more than worried, she stormed down the canting corridor, hoping that the pretense of confidence would somehow seep inside her. By the time she reached the end, she was prepared to use whatever force she had to in order to escape this portion of the castle.
Lifting the latch, she pushed with all her might.
The door scraped away from the casing inch by inch, push by push. Then with an abrupt resounding squawk it swung open, leaving her floundering, arms waving, and staring down at a room with . . . no floor!
Jacinda didn’t even have time to scream. Momentum propelled her forward before she could grab the casing. She was falling headlong into the abyss.
Then something hard wrapped around her waist and snatched her back.
In the next instant, she found herself turned and crushed against a solid wall of chest and arms. A pair of large hands covered her back, holding her in place as if to keep her from bolting. But that was the last thing on her mind.
Jacinda knew it was the duke without even looking up. No one else smelled like him, that heady combination of cedar, cloves, and sweet earth. No one else warmed her all the way to her bones with a single touch, or felt as solid and safe.
“Damn it, Miss Bourne. What in the hell were you thinking?” With every harsh word, his hold on her tightened, her dress pulling taut as if he were fisting the muslin in his hands. His lungs worked like a bellows, fanning heated breaths over the whorls of her ear.
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