Tor closed his own book. “That is why you swear?” His deep blue eyes caught hers.
Bronwen got to her feet and climbed to the main floor and swept past him. “I’m hungry. It must be near afternoon tea. Coming?”
Tor considered her for a moment. Then he put the book down and followed.
* * * * *
“Will you be heading out this afternoon, Bronwen?” Lilly asked, as she put down the teapot. “It is a mild day, perhaps one of the last this year.”
Bronwen frowned. She had intended to stay in the library all day. Now, though, the idea of staying indoors was intolerable. She grasped the straw that Lilly had provided. “Yes,” she said firmly. “A short walk, to clear the cobwebs.”
“Will you be accompanying her, Tor?” Lilly asked.
Tor put down the slice of fruitcake he had been eating. “I would not presume to intrude upon Bronwen’s excursion without her permission. I know how much she likes her solitude.”
Relief trickled through her. Bronwen tried to look apologetic. “I would prefer to wander alone, thank you. Besides, you are still to finish Mr. Darwin.”
“The Origins of Species?” Lilly clarified. “How do you find Darwin, Tor? Do you consider him to be the blasphemous fool the newspapers call him?”
Tor smiled. “I can understand why many think that of him. It is uncomfortable to entertain the idea that humans are descendants of monkeys, with no higher purpose than the apes. Although I have been reminded that reason is a tool for reaching the truth. If I use that tool, then I must say that Charles Darwin makes rational sense. Whether I like that sense is immaterial.”
“Hmm…” Lilly said, fixing him with a look from under her brow. “You sound just like Bronwen.”
“Truth is truth,” Tor said, with a tiny shrug of one shoulder.
Bronwen caught his glance toward her and tried to ignore the skip and leap of her heart.
Truth was a sharp tool. The truth was, she could not afford to be drawn to this man in any way. A walk out in the dales, with the wind whipping her hair and chilling her face and hands, was just what she needed.
* * * * *
Once Lilly had returned to her immeasurable duties and Bronwen had departed upon her short walk, Tor returned to the library. He glanced at the big portfolio sized volume of Darwin, lying waiting for him.
Mr. Darwin had lost all appeal.
Instead, Tor wandered the library, sliding his fingertip across the spines of volumes, absorbing the titles and the boundless range of topics and subjects. A restless energy gripped him.
As he took another turn about the library, he grew aware of the throbbing pain building in his head. Now his inability to settle to reading was explained. He paused at the far end of the big library, looking up at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight shining through the windows.
He should return to his borrowed room before the pain grew stronger. He was familiar with these attacks and knew the course this one would take.
Only, why was he being inflicted with the malady today?
No one knew of the debilitating headaches. At least, no one in his dukedom knew. There was a certain German doctor, Heinzman, whom Tor had contrived to have visit him in secret, a year ago. The man was an expert in matters of the head and the brain, yet his consultation had been useless.
“A relaxation of the mind and the soul, no?” Heinzman said, pressing his hands together. “Less work and more pleasure, that is the answer. You know what they say about all work and no play.”
Tor had paid the doctor and sent him on his way, disappointed by the useless diagnosis.
The headaches had persisted. Not many—certainly not enough of them to lead anyone to suspect him of ill-health, which would put Baumgärtner, the Council and the entire dukedom into a panic. Silkeborg most certainly did not need such uncertainty these days.
Tor did not have time to be ill, yet the headaches would ensure an entire day was wasted while he lingered behind a locked door and prayed he would not be called upon to tend to an emergency and be revealed to the world.
If the doctor, Heinzman, had been correct and it was simply a matter of less taxing work, then why was a headache visiting Tor here, in Northallerton, the most peaceful location in which he’d ever lingered?
Tor made his way toward the door, moving with deliberately slowness as he considered the puzzle.
Only, with every step toward the exit, his headache bloomed larger and stronger, until he could think of nothing but the exquisite pain. His vision blurred.
Feeling blindly ahead, he turned and moved toward the sofa, instead. He would not be able to negotiate the stairs and the route to his room. Not now.
He lay on the sofa and gripped his head. His fingers added to the agony. Breathing in soft, shallow sips, he waited. He had waited in this way many times in the past. His thoughts fell into a darkness, unnoticed, as the pain moved to the forefront of his consciousness.
Time had no meaning. He only realized the short afternoon was growing to a close when the lowering sun burst through the high window up by the ceiling and dazzled him where he lay on the sofa, immobile.
He winced, despite his closed eyes.
“Tor, what is wrong?” Bronwen asked, from nearby.
Then her shadow fell across his face, blocking the light that danced redly against his eye lids.
Tor eased open one eye. “Nothing,” he said, the lie coming to him automatically. He shut his eye again,
“Nothing is making you wince in that way and hiss with pain?”
He heard the soft rustle of her hems.
“You have a headache?” she asked, from much closer.
Tor opened his eye once more. “A headache is far too limiting a description for this.”
Bronwen had lowered herself next to the sofa to examine him. She tilted her head. Her large gray eyes considered him. “I have read of such headaches before. Stay there…” She grimaced. “Of course you will stay there. I will be but a moment. I have something I suspect will help.” She rose to her feet.
“Shut the door,” he whispered and closed his eyes once more, surrendering to the throbbing.
He didn’t hear her leave. He didn’t hear her return. The first notice he received that she was back was the touch of her cool fingers against his wrist. “Put your arm down. I must reach your temples.”
Tor eased his arm away from shielding his eyes, returning it to his side. The movement sent a roll of agony through him and he held still, waiting for the thunder in his mind to ease.
Her fingertips were pressing against his head. Soft touches on either side, then the center of his forehead.
Another touch under the back of his neck.
Where her fingers had touched, cool liquid eased the skin there. It was like the touch of water on a hot day.
“Let yourself sample the aroma,” she told him. “It is very pleasant.”
He could smell it now. It was distinct and unique. “Lavender,” he whispered.
“Oil of lavender,” she replied. “An old wife told me how to ease headaches.” He heard the humor in her voice.
Only, he was not in the mood to jest. He still did not dare open his eyes wide. “A dab of oil against the flesh is hardly scientific.”
“Wait and see,” Bronwen assured him.
As he could do little more than wait, he was forced to obey her instructions. He let his eyes shut once more and wondered how he could ensure Bronwen remained silent about his temporary condition.
He could hear her moving about the big room not because she tramped heavily, but because the room was so silent the swish of her hems against the floor gave her movements away.
Then, the soft sound of pages being turned. She was reading.
Time passed. Tor resigned himself to spending the long hours the headache would continue here upon this sofa. He would have to negotiate with Bronwen later, to secure her discretion.
The change was so gradual that at first, Tor did not reali
ze the headache was lessening. His first hint was when his head did not throb and threaten to explode when he shifted too quickly upon the leather.
He deliberately turned his head again, rolling it to one side.
Yes, the sickening, swooping bellow of pain was gone. His head thudded. It was a minor ache, somewhat similar to what he suffered in the morning after a heavy night of cards, drinking and smoking. That pain was easily tolerated.
Carefully, he opened his eyes.
He could see without his stomach roiling.
Intense relief circled through him. The worst of the headache had disappeared. Her oil of lavender had worked.
Tor pushed himself up until he could put his back against the padded arm of the sofa.
Bronwen stepped around the reading stand and came to him, her smile soft and warm. “It worked, then.” She lowered herself to meet his eyes once more, her gaze traveling over his face, assessing.
“It appears it has,” Tor said. “Perhaps learning why should be your next research project. It really is simple oil of lavender you used?”
“It really is simple oil of lavender.” She slid her hand into her pocket and withdrew a small, dark brown glass bottle with a waxed stopper and a hand-written label. “I made the extract myself, although any competent herbalist could do the same.” She held the bottle out to him. “You should take this.”
He met her gaze. “I will have no future need of it,” he lied.
Bronwen’s smile was tiny. “I have been reading, while waiting for the lavender to work. Most people consider headaches to be a woman’s complaint and men who suffer them to be malingerers reaching for an excuse to escape their duties. Only, a Flemish doctor—Aarden—pointed out that the very worst of the headaches, the ones that leave a person prostrate, come most often to the opposite type of person. The person who does not cease, who considers leisure to be unholy sloth.” Her gaze met his. “This is not the first time you have had such a headache, is it?”
Tor drew in a breath, startled. “You have given exactly the same diagnosis the most expensive expert in Europe supplied.”
Bronwen held out the small bottle once more. “Take it,” she said. “You will have need of it in the future. Your palace cannot be anywhere near as calm as Northallerton.”
He took the bottle, considering her. “I don’t suppose your reading has told you why I fell victim to this onslaught, here in placid Northallerton?”
Bronwen’s smile was rueful. “Perhaps the lack of calm is here,” she said, her fingers resting briefly against his temple. “Only you know what is in your thoughts.”
Her touch was soft. It brought her wrist close enough for him to register the warmth against his cheek. Her scent was intriguing. Unlike the usual rose water or one of the flowery alternatives sophisticated women favored, he sampled the most delicate mix of spices. He could name none of them. His heart beat harder. It was as though he recognized the scent, even though he knew he had never come across it before.
He closed his eyes, wishing the scent would linger awhile, for it was so pleasant. His heart hurried on even harder, while at the base of his belly, tension curled.
“Did you just sniff my wrist?” Bronwen asked. Her voice was strained.
Tor looked at her. She cradled her hand as if he had injured it. “You should not wear such a scent if the sniffing of it gives you offense.”
She lowered her wrist. “I wear no scent. If I did, the strength of the oil of lavender would mask it.”
Tor stared at her, at last recognizing the strain in his body for what it was. He wanted her—this plain, strange woman who challenged him at every turn. It was not a voluntary decision. His body had arrived at the conclusion independently of his mind. It had not occurred to him to even entertain the possibility of Bronwen as a potential dalliance. That was not why he was here.
Such matters were possible, yet complicated. They took careful negotiation and arrangements that involved discrete conversations and the assistance of Baumgärtner and his most trusted employees. A night in a country inn, away from the eyes of his people. A “chance” encounter in a country where neither of them would be recognized… Tor had risked such affairs a few times since his father had died, although they were time-consuming, perilous adventures. The ladies he considered worthy of such effort were self-contained, highly cultured women who understood the politics. Adventuresses themselves, they knew the value of discretion.
Bronwen was not that sort of woman. She was not any type of woman. She was unique.
And inaccessible. She was a distant cousin by marriage, a young woman of royal descent, marriageable and, he presumed, innocent. She was Jasper’s guest, just as he was. Tor would not despoil his brother’s guest under Jasper’s roof. It would be an insult to Jasper and a larger insult to Bronwen, too, for there could be no permanent outcome to such an affair.
The impossibility of indulging in his physical interest in her passed through Tor’s mind in the brief moment their eyes met, as his body tightened and his heart squeezed.
He should return to his room and put the stout door between him and temptation. Instead, he remained where he was, his body throbbing in a different, far more pleasurable way.
He might have stayed there until he gathered the will to get to his feet and leave the room as he must. Only, Bronwen swayed forward. Her lips met his.
Tor was too shocked to move. Never in his life had a woman dared to initiate such an intimacy. He was the Archeduke. It was he who chose whom he kissed and when.
The intoxicating scent washed over him, making his skin prickle and his belly to tighten even more.
Then her tongue slid against his lips. The soft heat of it acted as a goad, triggering him into unthinking reaction. He pulled her against him, bringing her over his chest so he could kiss her deeply. He held her face, reveling in the smooth delicate silk of her skin under his fingers. She had a small face, which surprised him because she seemed much larger in his mind.
Then he realized what he was doing and to whom. His mind stirred. The protest, the alarm, was faint. Reluctant. It was enough for sanity to restore itself, though.
Tor didn’t push her away. He couldn’t bring himself to do that. He lifted his mouth from hers.
Bronwen breathed heavily, her lips swollen and red. Her eyes, the gray pure and rich, were warm with…
Tor shook his head. “We cannot.”
“Why not?”
Tor’s breath expelled heavily as he cast about for a simple answer. “I am…me. You are my brother’s family.”
Bronwen lifted herself off him. She had been lying against his chest, which told him how much the moment of insanity had stolen his good sense. With her weight gone, cool air rushed in to replace her heat. He shivered in reaction, which was yet another measure of the tight heat in his body.
She settled on the floor, her hands in her lap. Her gaze was unflinching. There was no shame in her. No upset at his rejection. “You are Tor Besogende. What of that man prevents anything?”
Tor sat up and pushed his hand through his hair. “Besogende is just a name, something for other people to grasp, that allows me to stay here without complications. It isn’t me.” He stopped himself from finishing the thought aloud.
It wasn’t Tor Besogende who had kissed her.
“Besides,” he added, his voice rough, “you are a lady of good family. Such a lady—”
“You are about to lecture me on morals?” she asked, her voice rising. “After everything you have read and heard me say this past week?”
Tor hesitated.
Bronwen got to her feet. “Have you not learned that I care nothing for the artificial concepts of morals and etiquette? Only the truth interests me. The truth I can see for myself in your eyes. I can see it in the way your chest rises.”
Tor pressed his hand against his betraying chest. “You do not understand. Nothing could come of…of following our impulses. No matter how truthful they are.”
Her g
aze met his. Her chin came up. “I expected nothing but a pleasant experience.”
Tor clenched his hands together. “You should have,” he said flatly. “You are worthy of far higher expectations than you allow yourself.”
Her expression softened. “Thank you.” She got to her feet and brushed out the folds of her dress.
Tor automatically rose to his feet, the habit ingrained. The movement did not jar his head or start it throbbing. Even the mild ache was leaving.
Bronwen’s gaze met his once more. There was no coyness there. “I do know who I am and my expectations. You are the confused one. That is why you came here, is it not? In search of perspective?”
“I would not sully you merely to achieve it.”
Bronwen laughed and moved toward the door.
Tor spun to watch her leave. “Why do you laugh?”
Bronwen opened the door and stepped through, then turned to put her hand on the outside handle. She drew the door halfway closed and looked at him. “You do not earn the privilege of my favor without it.”
She shut the door.
Startled, Tor sank back onto the sofa. He was still sitting there when dinner was announced, forcing him to hurry to his room and change.
His evening clothes smelled dry, the starch caustic, making him think of state dinners, braid and tiaras, sashes and medals. He heard the slap of ceremonial swords against legs. Danish spoken softly, the French of diplomats spoken badly. Decorative women who did not speak until spoken to.
It was a relief to step out into the wide corridor and move downstairs to where the warm fire crackled and children with piping voices sat at the table with the adults, where everyone spoke freely, including Bronwen.
Chapter Eight
Bronwen eased open the door of her room and winced at the squeak of the hinges. She had not consciously noticed the small sound the door made, until now.
Mask of Nobility (Scandalous Scions Book 4) Page 7