by Olivia Drake
Something scraped in the next room. Her heart leaped in mingled hope and alarm. A footstep.
“Kit?”
Her voice sounded hollow in the cavernous space. Walking cautiously toward the direction of the noise, she passed a porticoed doorway and found herself in a lofty staircase hall.
A grouping of stuffed black bears reared by the back wall, their giant teeth yellow, their claws washed pale by the moonlight coming through a bank of windows.
Shivering, Norah rubbed her arms against the chill of the night. Her nerves were overwrought. She must have imagined the sound. The museum lay as still as a tomb.
An iron balcony overlooked the gloom of the first floor. She hesitated by the newel post and peered down the broad marble steps. She hadn’t passed by here earlier. She was lost.
Should she turn around and grope her way through the labyrinth of rooms? Or should she head downstairs and find another exit?
A vast loneliness enveloped her. Contrary to good sense, she ached to feel the security of Kit’s arms enclosing her. What was wrong with her, that she could want him so desperately?
She started to turn back. At the edge of her vision, one of the bears sprang to life. Its feral eyes glittered in a rush of movement.
A scream burst from her throat. The black shape barreled at her, knocked her off balance. She snatched at the iron railing, but her fingers lost the anchor.
“Norah!” Her name drifted from afar, like a distant dream.
She felt herself falling down the stairs. The moonlit windows wheeled before her eyes. Pain erupted inside her head as she plunged into darkness.
Chapter 12
Damn, which way had Norah gone?
Kit strode through the north gallery of the museum. His footfalls rang hollow on the wood floor. He passed shadowy cases of toads, lobsters, and crocodiles with maws opened in eternal ferocity. A swordfish hung from the ceiling, in a school of sharks and conger eels and other marine reptiles too large for the display cases.
With every step, Kit flailed himself. He shouldn’t have let her rejection of him hurt. He shouldn’t have told her that embarrassing episode about Emma Woodfern. He shouldn’t have stood there like one of these great stuffed beasts and watched Norah dash into the maze of rooms. He should have followed her instantly.
Damn. He had pressed her too hard with his lust. He had driven her to the brink of tears. Distracted by her allure, he had forgotten his vow to go slowly, to woo her into returning his love.
Yet the memory of her slim body in his arms, the way she had returned his kiss with fire and longing, made his regrets ascend into jubilation. Norah wanted him. No matter how she protested, deep down she felt the same passion as he.
His problem lay in convincing her of his sincerity and overcoming her fears. And in his ability to show her pleasure where she had known heartbreak. A tide of anger crested inside him. Damn her inept husband—
A scream broke the quiet. A female scream.
He pivoted sharply. His elbow struck a giant crab shell mounted on a pedestal. The display teetered, then crashed like cheap pottery to the floor.
Heedless, he yelled, “Norah!”
From the distance came a series of thumps. Then silence.
Kit was already running. His heart thundered as fast as his feet. He shot into another shadowed room.
He cast a frantic look around. The gloom held only cases of nests and webs and insects.
Please God, let the scream have been an illusion. A trick of the eerie surroundings, a prank played by his strung-taut nerves.
“Norah? Norah, where are you?”
Only the harshness of his own breathing answered. On the far side of the chamber loomed a doorway. He pounded through the opening and skidded to a halt. A staircase hall. To his left, arched windows emitted silvery moonlight. To his right, a collection of bears clawed at the gloom.
He hastened to the head of the steps. On the small landing, where the stairway made a ninety-degree turn, lay a puddle of darkness. Paleness gleamed against the inky heap.
A face against a black velvet gown. Framed by a pool of red.
“Norah!” Her name emerged from him in an agonized moan.
Kit leaped down the steps, three at a time. He slid onto the marble landing and caught at the hard iron rail to steady himself. One of her arms draped her breast; the other splayed outward on the marble, palm up. The amethyst necklace gleamed against her white bosom.
Dropping to his knees, he pressed his finger to the silken skin of her throat. A faint pulse beat rewarded him with a surge of dizzy relief.
He ran his hands down the length of her motionless form. He could find no visible sign of injury. But she might have fractured a bone, cracked her skull...or worse.
He brushed back the curly strands of hair from her face. His hands shook, making his movements clumsy. Her eyes were closed, her lashes like delicate fringe against cheeks bleached of color.
Praise God he saw no blood. The dreaded red splash had been her unbound hair.
He lightly rubbed her cheek. “Norah, darling. Wake up. Speak to me.”
She lay deathly still. Worry choked the breath from him. Christ, she couldn’t die. She couldn’t. Not when she shone like a radiant purpose in his aimless existence. Not when his love for her had never had the chance to flower.
He cupped her neck. “Norah, please hear me. Talk to me. Please, please say something.” His voice sounded rusty, thickened.
Her chest rose and fell in a sigh. She swayed her head back and forth. Her lashes stirred; then she looked straight up at him. “Kit?”
He restrained the urge to yank her up against him, to guard her close to his heart. He contented himself with stroking her satiny cheek. “I’m here, darling. I’m here.”
She lifted her hand to her brow. “My head...hurts.”
“You’ve had a nasty fall. Lie still now. I must go fetch a doctor—”
“No!” She caught at his coat sleeve and strained to pull herself up. A shaft of moonlight illuminated her eyes, green as emeralds. “Kit, don’t leave me alone!”
Her vehemence wrenched him. “Calm down,” he murmured. “You may have fractured a bone. You mustn’t move until you’ve had medical help.”
He tried to press her back down, but she squirmed so much he was afraid of hurting her. “I’m fine,” she insisted. “There’s something I have to tell you—”
“Are you in pain? Show me where your head hurts.”
She batted away his hands. “Please stop fussing. I’m bruised, that’s all.”
“You’re not a doctor. You could have suffered a concussion. Or an injury to your spine. Christ, Norah, if you think I’ll take any more chances with your life—”
“That’s why you mustn’t leave me.” She braced herself on her elbow. “Kit, someone pushed me.”
“What?” he whispered.
She pointed toward the next floor. “I was standing up there, at the top of the stairs. Someone jumped out of the shadows by the bears...” A violent shiver shook her.
He tore off his coat and draped it around her shoulders. Fear and fury squeezed his chest. “Are you absolutely sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. I might have banged myself on the head, but I know what I saw.”
“Was it a man or a woman?”
“I don’t know. Just the dark shape of a person.”
He sprang up, drew the pistol from his pocket, and put himself between Norah and any danger. He scanned the darkness, the cluster of bears beyond the iron balustrade and the corners where the shadows lay as thick as black treacle.
No movement. No gleam of eyes. No hint of someone still lurking there.
“Did this person look like the intruder who broke into the shop?”
“I don’t know,’ she murmured. “It happened so quickly.”
Christ, he’d been careless. Thaddeus and Winnifred and Ivy had attended the exhibit tonight. And a host of people like Bruce Abernathy who resented a man of
mixed blood occupying an exalted position in the Upper Ten Thousand.
But why would someone who hated him strike out at her?
Jane. Maybe he’d been wrong to believe her protestations of innocence in the mourning brooch incident. And she was the only witness to the murderess in the red cloak.
Yet surely she hadn’t vanished long enough the night of the New Year’s Eve party to kill a man.
One fact settled like a cold rock in Kit’s belly. The incident tonight proved his suspicions. Whoever had murdered Maurice Rutherford now meant to kill Norah.
“Do you see anyone?” she asked.
He swung around to find her sitting up. “No. The coward must have run off.” Christ, he wouldn’t shed this nervous feeling until he got her away from this hall of bones and corpses. “Can you stand?”
“Of course. I’m not an invalid.”
Crouching, he slid his arm around her waist and gently helped her to her feet. A cry tore from her, icing his soul. She sagged against him.
“For God’s sake! What’s wrong?”
“My ankle gave way.”
“Does it hurt?”
“A little.”
But he could see by the pinched tightness of her mouth that she was minimizing the injury. Anger at the person who’d hurt her swelled inside him like a foul tide. He scooped her into his arms and tightened his muscles around her slender weight.
She clung to his neck. Her scent of roses wafted over him. Her curly hair formed a fiery nimbus in the moonlight, and for one mad moment he saw himself laying her down in a private corner, reaching beneath her velvet skirt and petticoats, and giving her the rapture of life...
Ashamed of the untimely fantasy, he closed his mind to all but the need to protect her. He started down the stairs, his footsteps a harsh echo in the mammoth hall.
“Shouldn’t we go back upstairs?” she said. “Ivy and Winnifred will be worried.”
“I’m sorry, Norah, but we can’t trust them. We can’t trust anyone until we learn the truth.”
He thought she would protest, but she merely rested her head on his shoulder, as if she were too weary to hold it upright. When they reached the shadowed ground floor, she looked at him again. “Where are we going?”
“To the safest place I know. My house.”
Norah awakened to hazy sunlight and a spring garden.
Groggy, she lay beneath the coverlet and studied the four-poster bed with its silk hangings, the fabric abloom with lilacs and roses against a cream background. Draperies of the same delicate floral pattern covered a wall of windows, though light seeped through the cracks to spread a soft radiance throughout the room. In her sleep-drugged mind, the cloth exuded the rich aroma of its flowery print. Until she turned her head and noticed the vase of pink hothouse roses on the nightstand, and beside it, her amethyst necklace.
A coal fire burned in the grate. Near the bed, a uniformed girl sat in an overstuffed chair, her russet head bent over the shirt in her lap, her needle flashing in rhythmic strokes.
The events of the previous night came rushing back to Norah. The dark shape bursting from the shadows. The horror of falling. Kit cradling her in his arms. Kit. Thank God for Kit. He hadn’t let go until he had settled her here in his guest bedroom. The doctor had diagnosed a sprained ankle. He had administered a dose of laudanum. That must be why the haze in her mind felt so thick.
The ticking of a clock drew her attention to the marble mantel. She squinted at the gold hands. Frowning, she squinted again. One o’clock? Surely not.
She cautiously wriggled into a sitting position. Soreness throbbed in her stiff muscles. She winced from the pain that stabbed her ankle.
The rosy-cheeked servant set down her mending and dashed over to prop up the pillows. “Bless me, you slept long and good, milady.”
“I’m not...” Norah paused in confusion. How crass to deny she was a lady. Her head ached dully, making it difficult to think. “I’m Mrs. Rutherford. What is your name?”
“Betsy, mum.”
“Is the mantel clock correct, Betsy?”
“Right as rain. Mr. Peacock checks all the clocks, ’isself every morning.” Betsy went to the window and drew back the heavy curtains. Sunlight flooded through the sheer lace panels and gilded the elegant furnishings. “Of course, ’e didn’t come in this morning. The master gave orders you wasn’t to be disturbed.”
“I see.” Where was Kit? Norah swallowed the question.
Betsy approached the bed. “I’ll ’elp you to the necessary room.”
By leaning on the servant and hopping on her uninjured foot, Norah reached the doorway. Light through a jewel-toned window illuminated a cozy boudoir decorated in purple and ivory.
“Thank you. I can manage from here.”
“Are you sure? If I didn’t see to your needs, the master’d lop off me ’ead.” Her smile denied the gruesome threat. She gestured at the claw-footed tub. “Might I run a bath? A good long soak’d do your soreness good.”
Norah wondered what version of the truth Kit had told his staff. Her stomach twisted. Betsy acted so matter-of-fact. Doubtless it was no extraordinary event for the Marquess of Blackthorne to have a female guest spend the night.
Oh, dear heaven. Her hard-won reputation must be in shreds. People would shake their heads and whisper about her bad blood. No one would believe her stay here had been innocent, despite the impediment of her injury. Yet, oddly, she felt only a twinge of regret. The opinions of society mattered less to her these days. Her heart ached for Kit, for the boy who had suffered the rejection of a cruel girl, and for the man who even now endured the narrow-minded judgments of bigots like Lord Carlyle and Lady Romney.
Norah realized Betsy stood waiting. “I’ll bathe later,” she murmured. “I’d like some tea first.”
“Straightaway, mum.” Betsy started to go, then turned back. “I near forgot. Two ladies been waitin’ downstairs all morning. The one said she wouldn’t budge till she saw you.”
Winnifred, no doubt. And Ivy. Knowing she would have to parry Winnifred’s sharp tongue sooner or later, Norah sighed. “Give me a moment, then send them up, please.”
“Yes, mum.”
Norah limped into the bathroom. The grape-hued carpet cushioned her bare feet in luxury. Moving gingerly, she availed herself of the convenience, then hobbled to the white sink with its gold faucets and the spigot in the shape of an arched dolphin.
Handsome but decadent, she thought, running her fingertip over the shiny metal. Just like the master of the house.
She washed her hands and face, and dried herself on a thick ivory towel. Then she gripped the cold porcelain sides of the sink and leaned toward the oval mirror. Dear Blessed Virgin. She looked like a hussy after a long night.
One of Kit Coleridge’s hussies.
Her hair poured in a riotous red river around her shoulders. Her eyes retained a sultry, sleepy expression. She wore a nightgown of cream-colored silk so fine it revealed the coral shadows of her nipples. Lace hugged the neckline and short sleeves, and flowed like a bridal train down her back. The exquisite stitchery must have cost a fortune. She tried to recall who had put it on her, but the effects of the laudanum fuzzed her mind. Surely Kit hadn’t helped her.
Had he?
She blushed over every inch of her body. Then a disagreeable notion struck away her embarrassment. This gown must belong to one of Kit’s lovers. Jane?
Norah reached in distaste for the buttons at the back, but stopped. Her own gown had vanished. Sheer silk won over the prospect of wearing nothing at all.
A greenish-yellow bruise decorated her jaw. A similar discoloration graced her left forearm. Her heart lurched with remembered terror. Against her closed eyes, she saw the black figure running at her, relived the hard thrust that knocked her off balance, felt herself falling...falling...
Then Kit’s voice: I’m here, darling. I’m here.
She wrenched open her eyes. The dizzy sensation diminished, though her head still
ached and her stomach felt queasy. Someone wanted her dead. The realization caught her in a web of horror. She dared trust no one. No one but Kit. Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself from the sticky tendrils of fear.
Darling, Kit had called her. She resisted his allure, yet the endearment curled around her like a soft blanket.
Shuffling back into the bedroom, she found a dressing gown draped over the foot of the bed. She plunged her arms into the sleeves and tied the sash tightly.
A knock sounded. As Norah swung around, needles of pain pierced her ankle. She grabbed at the bedpost. “Yes?”
The door opened. Kit stuck his head inside. His jet-black hair and dusky skin formed a striking contrast to his snowy cravat and topaz coat. His doeskin breeches fit as snugly as a second skin and outlined the muscles of his thighs.
Her own legs felt on the verge of melting. His perfect grooming made her even more conscious of her tousled state of undress. “I’m sorry, but I can’t see you now—”
“For God’s sake, Norah.” A silver tea tray balanced on his palm, he strode into the bedroom. “The doctor warned you not to put weight on that ankle.”
She clutched the edges of her robe with one hand. “I feel fine,” she lied. “Besides, I’m leaning on the post.”
He set the tray on the bed. Before she realized his intent, he hoisted her into his arms in a giddy repeat of the night before. “Lean on me instead, partner.”
His male aroma made her head reel. She moistened her dry lips. “Kindly put me down.”
His stern mouth eased into a decidedly sinful slant. “As you say. I consider it my duty as host to see to your every comfort.”
He carried her across the room. Sinking to one knee, he lowered her to a chaise lounge in a sunny spot by the window. With the familiarity of a lover, he arranged the folds of silk around her legs, then checked the wrapping on her ankle.
“The swelling is down.”
“I told you I felt better.”