by DeVa Gantt
A sound from across the lawns drew her away from her musings. She looked toward the paddock. Paul emerged from the stables and walked back to the house. Evidently, he wasn’t leaving, just checking on Chastity, the mare due to foal.
She hung her head, knowing it was best to stop thinking about him. She’d come to the conclusion she was merely a distraction—someone to toy with when she was present, but easily forgotten when she wasn’t. Hadn’t he dismissed her from his thoughts each time he left for Espoir? Certainly, she didn’t plague his waking hours as he did hers. After all, she was only the governess. He had made it quite clear she would please him in bed. As for a decent proposal, it would never happen. Thus, she’d be wise to avoid him. What had Colette said? He’s a ladies’ man…I’d hate to see you give your heart to someone who has no intention of returning your love. If she didn’t heed Colette’s warning, she’d be nursing a broken heart. Put him from your mind, she reasoned, forget what his kiss would have been like. Be happy you were in your room tonight. The less you see of Paul, the better.
A knock resounded on her door, and she invited Millie and Joseph Thornfield into the chamber. They’d come to empty the tub and take it away. Charmaine waited until the boy had waddled off with two brimming buckets, then spoke nonchalantly to his sister. “I noticed Master Paul going into the stables, but he didn’t leave. It’s awfully late. Is something amiss?”
“He is worried about the mare,” Millie replied as she straightened from the tub, a third bucket in hand. “She’s been whinnying all evening, but it’s too early for her to foal. He’s sent for Martin.”
“Martin?”
“The town farrier,” Millie explained, then shuddered in exaggerated revulsion. “A disgusting man, who’s full of himself, if you know what I mean. Once he’s been asked to help with the horses, he makes himself right at home. I just hope he doesn’t barge in here like he did the last time—midnight it was—rousing the entire house so someone would make him something to eat.”
Charmaine had never met this Martin, but she seemed to remember Yvette mentioning him once. “I don’t think you need worry,” she said. “Surely he won’t behave badly with Master Paul at home.”
“You think not?” Millie countered. “He’s downright rude to Master Paul, and Master Paul indulges him—all because Dr. Blackford refuses to minister to horses anymore.”
Joseph returned and refilled his buckets. This time, Millie left with him. One more trip, and the tub was removed, and Charmaine was once again alone.
Thunder rumbled far off, and the drapes flapped in a hearty breeze. She closed the French doors and tiptoed into the children’s room. Yvette was sleeping ramrod straight, her thin blanket tucked under each arm. Jeannette’s linens had been kicked aside, and Charmaine drew them over her again. Pierre was nearly snoring, one fat thumb stuck in his pudgy mouth, the other hand clutching his stuffed lamb. Stroking back his hair, she kissed him on the forehead, her love abounding as she considered him a moment longer. Then, hearing the first droplets of rain, she latched the glass doors and returned to her room.
The storm was rapidly approaching, the thunder growing louder, bringing with it a sense of dread. She turned down the oil lamp on the night table, knelt to say her prayers, and climbed into bed. Already the night resurrected memories of Colette, simulating that terrible day before her demise. Charmaine hugged her pillow and squeezed her eyes shut, awaiting the worst…
But the worst did not come. The foyer clock tolled eleven, and the storm continued to toy with them. Though it rumbled, it did not roar, as if it were purposefully holding back, circling them, waiting for the kill.
Footsteps on the staircase eased the tension. Paul was retiring. Perhaps now she’d be able to sleep, knowing he was close by and would protect her.
That comforting thought soon took wing. The heavens ripped apart, and the tempest unleashed its full fury on the house. Violent, sporadic wind drove sheets of rain into the French doors. They rattled loudly in objection. Blinding lightning lit up the room, and earsplitting thunder replied, the former rivaling the latter in its power, as if the two were fighting for the upper hand. Then, they were lashing out simultaneously, and Charmaine shrunk under the blanket, curled up and trembling, bracing herself for each explosion, frightened of the interim silence as well, a void that amplified other eerie sounds…
She attempted to ignore the rustling of clothing near her bed, but the cold, clammy hand that touched her arm was real, and she screamed, throwing back the linens to escape. Thankfully, the sound was swallowed by another roar of thunder, for there, standing next to her bed, was a quaking Jeannette and in the doorway to the children’s room, Yvette, patting back a wide yawn.
“Sweet Jesus!” Charmaine cried, clamping a hand over her bosom. “I’m sorry, Jeannette, but you frightened me.” She laughed in gargantuan relief, holding out her arms to the petrified girl, who eagerly fell into them.
Yvette moved to the foot of the bed. “You’re afraid of this storm?” she queried in disgust.
Charmaine nodded, feeling quite foolish now. “Even more than Jeannette.”
“She isn’t frightened of thunderstorms,” Yvette countered.
“No? Then why are you here?” Charmaine asked, looking down at the twin who had yet to speak.
“Someone was standing over my bed,” Jeannette whimpered, trembling.
“That’s what woke her,” Yvette added. “She didn’t believe me when I said it was you, coming to check on us.”
Charmaine smoothed back Jeannette’s hair. “Yvette is right. I did look in on you, sweetheart. I even covered you up. I’m sorry if I disturbed you.”
But the girl shook her head adamantly, fear sparkling in her wide eyes. “It wasn’t you. It was a ghost that ran away when I turned over!”
Charmaine gave her another hug. “You must have been dreaming, a nightmare brought on by the storm, no doubt. Come,” she encouraged, taking the lamp from her night table, “back to bed with you.”
“I wasn’t dreaming!” Jeannette cried. “I wasn’t! I saw it, and it wasn’t you. It ran out the French doors. It’s on the veranda right now, waiting for me!”
“I wouldn’t let anything harm you, Jeannette,” Charmaine averred, “but I can’t be brave alone. Won’t you help me? We’ll go back into your room together, and with the light of the lamp, you will see there is nothing there to frighten you. All right?”
Jeannette nodded tremulously, taking Charmaine’s hand. As they entered the nursery, they were buffeted by a chilling draft. The French doors were swinging on their hinges, the room at the mercy of the storm.
“Why didn’t you close them?” Charmaine demanded, placing the lamp on the dresser. But as she rushed over to the wind-beaten panels, face turned away from the pelting rain, a spine-tingling aura took hold, and she came up short. Petrified, she slammed the doors shut, slipped the latch into place, and jumped back, grateful no ghost had appeared from beyond.
Expelling a shuddering breath, she surveyed the damage. The drapes and rug were drenched. Laundering them would have to wait until morning, but she pulled a towel from the bureau and mopped up the floor.
Next she checked on Pierre. He hadn’t budged, which seemed almost unnatural. The storm hadn’t subsided. In fact, with the French doors open, it had been magnified, yet he’d slept through it all.
“As you can see, there was no one on the balcony,” she said. “I think your ghost was nothing more than those billowing drapes, Jeannette. After all, your bed is the closest to the veranda.”
The girl remained unconvinced, complaining that without a lock, the doors could open again.
“I know what will help you go back to sleep,” Charmaine announced, hoping to defuse Jeannette’s fears, “warm milk and cookies. Now, climb into bed, and I’ll go get them. How would that be?”
Jeannette nodded, but jumped into bed with Yvette. “I’ll wait here,” she whispered. In the next moment, they were snuggling under the covers together
, giggling softly.
Charmaine donned her robe, then lifted the lamp. But Jeannette immediately objected, begging her to leave it, so Charmaine lit a small candle instead. “I’ll be back in a short while,” she said.
As she walked down the hallway, the flickering flame cast grotesque shadows on the far walls, feeding her apprehension. Though she was getting good at timing the lightning and thunder, she was unprepared for the first toll of midnight and nearly jumped out of her skin when the foyer clock struck the hour. “Goodness,” she scolded herself, grabbing hold of the stairway balustrade, “what’s the matter with me? I’m acting like a frightened rabbit. There is no such thing as ghosts!” Then she began her descent.
With his dressing room door slightly ajar, Paul heard the sound of footfalls beyond, a shaky voice accompanying them. He opened the door and leaned casually against the frame, admiring the lovely vision before him. Charmaine Ryan was indeed a fetching sight, even more so in her state of dishabille: hair unbound and thin robe drawn taut, accentuating her slender waist and shapely hips. She had turned into a temptress, and his mind wandered back to the night in the drawing room, some two weeks ago, when she had brazenly chosen to sit next to him. She was ready for the plucking, of that he was certain, but it was exceedingly difficult to corner her alone…until tonight. He smiled wickedly. Hadn’t he hoped for an occasion such as this? What better time than when everyone else was in bed? Yes, what better time indeed!
Although the storm had lulled, Charmaine was by no means relieved. The house was shrouded in darkness, her passage illuminated only by the candle and the erratic flashes of lightning. Beyond that, she could not shake the feeling she was being watched, though it appeared as if everyone had retired. Fear tied a knot in the pit of her belly, and she hastened past the study, through the dining room, and into the kitchen. “I was a fool to suggest coming down here.”
She began humming to blot out the creaks and ticks emanating from the dark recesses of the kitchen. The haunting melody she had been forbidden to play on the piano spontaneously came to her lips, and oddly, she felt at ease, secure. Haunting, indeed! She warmed the milk without spilling it and found the cookies Mrs. Henderson had baked that morning, placing everything, including her nearly extinguished candle, on a serving tray. Then she retraced her steps.
As she emerged from the dining room, a burst of lightning silhouetted the figure of a man standing near the study doorway. Darkness instantly enveloped the corridor, and he was gone. Charmaine gasped, but the ensuing roar of thunder muffled the sound.
“Who’s there?” she called, praying her eyes had deceived her.
The apparition was real. Paul stepped into the circle of candlelight, bringing with him a draining relief that left her weak in the knees. “I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said, moving closer, his hair mussed, his robe askew.
“I didn’t know anyone was awake,” she sputtered, slowly recovering.
“I heard you on the stairs and thought perhaps you were in need of company. But I can see I was mistaken.” He indicated the tray she balanced in her arms. “It was hunger, and not loneliness, that has you roaming the house at this late hour.”
Charmaine glanced down and laughed self-consciously. “This isn’t for me. It’s for the twins. They were awakened by the storm, and I thought a snack might help them fall back to sleep.”
“I suppose I shouldn’t detain you,” he said with a dynamic smile, “but I shall. Come…” He walked into the dark study.
Though his manner seemed benign, an inner voice counseled her not to follow. She went no farther than the door. “I really must see to the children. They were frightened,” she added lamely, “and if I don’t return shortly, they’ll begin to worry.”
“I’m certain they’ll survive a few moments longer,” he replied. “In fact, when you do return, you are likely to find them asleep.” He hoped his words proved true; the hour would be late when she left him. “Besides, Charmaine, aren’t you the least interested as to why I really followed you down here?”
She was intrigued, but before she could reply, he turned his back on her again and felt his way to the table with the tinderbox. There he struck the flint and lit the lamp, adjusting the wick. Its flame flared high, chasing the darkness to the far reaches of the library.
The rumbling storm lost its ferocity, and Charmaine relished a sense of security that made it easy to ignore her rational mind and enter the room. She obeyed him when he spoke over his shoulder and casually told her to set the tray of food down. But her momentary calm was shattered when he faced her and she read the raw passion in his eyes. Cauterized, a sudden spasm shook her.
“Are you cold?” he inquired softly.
“No,” she whispered, his magnetism pulling at the core of her being.
“Are you afraid of me?” he queried.
Yes, her mind screamed, and of myself! Dear Lord, we’re alone, and I am bewitched. But she said none of this. Heaven forbid! “Should I be afraid of you?” she asked instead, cleverly setting aside his question.
“That depends on what you’re afraid of,” he answered just as cleverly, cocking his head to one side.
Dear Lord, he’s handsome, Charmaine thought, one stray lock of hair curling on his brow, bidding her to stroke it back into place. She dismissed the temptation, certain that such familiarity would send her straight into his arms.
Lightning flashed again, and the thunder answered. A fierce draft skirted across the floor, grabbing at her robe and wrapping it around her legs; then it was gone. In that eternity of passionate thoughts, neither of them spoke.
Paul’s eyes blazed brighter as he admired her lithe form, her innocent beauty highlighted by the copious tresses that fell over her shoulders to her waist. His smoldering gaze returned to her lovely face and the dark eyes that lacked the carefree abandon the moment demanded. There, he noted the last shred of wariness. He moved toward her, much like a panther stalking its prey.
Though unknowingly she flinched, Charmaine did not flee. Rather, she stood her ground until they were but a breath apart. She tilted her head back to look up into his face, her heart leaping when his callused hand caressed her cheek.
“You are most desirable, my sweet,” he murmured huskily, confident of the romantic web he was spinning, savoring the spell she had cast on him as well, his own pulse thundering in his ears. “That is why I sought you out, and now, I would ask for a kiss.”
His eyes lingered on her lips, and her eyelids fluttered closed. There was no turning back—she didn’t want to turn back—and she leaned forward, relishing the quintessential moment. He grasped her shoulders and slowly drew her into his embrace. His head descended, and he delivered a tender kiss meant to put her at ease. Then his mouth turned persuasive, testing and tasting, his moustache coarse and prickly, masculine. Abruptly, he pulled her hard against him, his mouth cutting across her lips and devouring them. One hand traveled to her nape, the other caressed her back.
Charmaine’s head was spinning with the onslaught, and she kissed him in return, rising on the tips of her toes, her hands creeping up his sinewy arms and grasping his shoulders, molding her body to his. Her brazen response belied her innocence, and her unleashed ardor sent his desires soaring.
Sharp laughter rang from the doorway.
Paul quickly disengaged himself, an oath dying on his lips.
“That’s the ticket, Paul. Bring her home, put a roof over her head, strip the bit of clothing off her back, bed her, and then, when you’ve tired of her, out she goes on her fondled ass with little money spent!”
Mortified, Charmaine turned toward the doorway and the resonant voice that dared utter such vulgarity. A bedraggled stranger stood there, badly beaten by the storm, drenched from face to foot, with the stubble of a beard on his cheeks, and a leather cap cocked to the back of his head. With the slightest movement, she espied Paul out of the corner of her eye. He was straightening his robe, a mock display at dignity, yet he held silent, making no
t the slightest inquiry as to why the man was in the house.
The intruder strode unceremoniously into the room, and though his wet attire should have placed him at a disadvantage, he did not seem ill at ease. He proceeded to audaciously circle them, and Charmaine was unable to move out of sheer embarrassment, appalled when his assessing regard raked her from head to toe, measuring her worth as if she were on display at an auction. His eyes met hers, and she dropped her gaze to his boots. He’d tracked a considerable amount of mud on the carpet, as if he had come from the stables. And then she knew: He was the livery hand who’d been called to help with the foal. Still, she couldn’t understand why Paul would suffer such insolence.
But there was no time to think, for the derelict held them captive. His wandering gaze fell on the tray of cookies and milk, and a smile broke across his face, revealing gleaming white teeth that were not perfectly straight, but perfectly aligned with his sardonic demeanor.
“How cozy,” he mused wickedly, “a passionate kiss followed by refreshments.” He settled into one of the chairs, crossed his arms over his chest, and said, “Do carry on! I was moved by this romantic performance. Your lines were fabulous! Could you repeat that one again, Paul, about wanting a kiss? I never thought to ask before.” He chuckled deeply.
Charmaine’s ire boiled over. “You rude, despicable cur!” she spat out, emboldened by her temper. “From which filthy hole have you crawled? No!” she quickly added, holding up a hand and wrinkling her nose in overemphasized revulsion. “I don’t want to know!”
His smile broadened, the whole of his face one enormous jeer now. It could not be borne, and she lashed out again. “Thank God I live here and need never place name to your arrogant face!”
The grin ruptured into rich laughter, trampling her bravado. She lifted her chin and grabbed hold of the snack tray. But as she marched from the room, his voice followed her. “Give us a kiss, you saucy, brazen wench!”