Abigail Jones (Chronicles of Abigail Jones #1)

by Grace Callaway

"'Tis not that." I felt increasingly awkward by the instant. "I'm ... indisposed at the moment, that's all. I must focus on my new duties—"

  "I said I'll 'elp you in the li'bry, didn't I? And wherever 'is lordship pleases to send you." His voice lowered to a coaxing whisper. "Why don't we meet up, later on. I knows a cozy li'l place—"

  "No, thank you," I said bluntly because I saw no other way to dissuade him. "I am not interested."

  He looked at me a minute longer, his gaze icy. "Plenty o' other girls be happy to take up wif me, you know."

  "I wish you luck with them, then," I said.

  His smile turned ugly, but not as ugly as the next words muttered under his breath. "Uppity bitch. Takin' on airs, just because you've spread yer legs fer the master—"

  I stood, the legs of the chair squealing at my abruptness. Heads turned in my direction. Several places down, Ginny and William, the handsome new footman, stopped their merry banter to look at me.

  "Is everything alright, Miss?" William asked, his dark gaze swinging between Derrick and me.

  "Y-yes," I mumbled. "E-excuse me. I just need some air."

  Cheeks flaming with anger and embarrassment, I escaped the kitchen. It doesn't matter what he thinks, I told myself fiercely. What anyone thinks. All that matters is Hux.

  My insides continued to roil. Before I could glean my own intentions, my feet took me outside into the rear courtyard. I passed the tranquil beauty of the groomed hedges and graceful flower beds and headed toward the stables glowing in the distance. In my impulsiveness, I had not thought to fetch a cloak. I hugged my arms to myself as the winds of dusk bled through the layers of taffeta and linen, the chill sinking into my bones.

  Thankfully, the doors to the stables were open, and I slipped inside. It was much warmer in here; the blazing brick hearth at the far end must have kept the horses cozy even during the coldest of nights. Sounds of stamping and soft huffing indicated that the occupants were indeed content in their spacious stalls. A few poked their heads out, tossing their manes in an inquiring manner. Who are you? They seemed to ask. What are you doing here?

  I could not answer them. Uncertainty returned as I regarded the unfamiliar territory. It was a reminder of Hux's great wealth: his stables were reputed the finest in the county. Mayhap a dozen stalls lined both sides of the central walkway, and the animals that bothered to peer out possessed a powerful grace. Ignorant as I was in equine matters, even I could appreciate the eloquent beauty of their narrow heads and luminous, liquid eyes. Overhead, the rafters rose with the majesty of a cathedral, and at the far end was a ladder leading up to the loft.

  Edgar's lodgings, no doubt.

  At the thought of the surly groom, I came to myself. What on earth was I doing here? There was no question I was beyond the limits of my normal routine; if confronted, I would have no excuse for my presence in the stables. No reason at all to be standing here in the luxurious warmth, inhaling the fresh, sweet smell of hay mixed with the crisp air of the outdoors. Yet my boots took me forward. As I passed the threshold, the wooden planks made a creaking sound. A head poked out from one of middle stalls.

  No elegant filly, this.

  "What business have you here?" Edgar growled.

  Before I could blink, he had hopped over the enclosure—no small feat for a man who was barely taller than I. He was, however, built twice as wide across, and I suspected most of that barrel-chest was pure muscle. He stood in my path like an irate bulldog, his bald palate gleaming and his whiskered jowls quivering.

  "Come to make trouble for the master, have you?" he barked. "As if he hadn't enough on his shoulders already. Take yourself off before I see fit to remove you myself."

  With my hands held in front, I took a faltering step back. "I'm not here to make—"

  The groom bared his teeth at me. "Yer a female, aren't you? What else are yer kind good fer, if not trouble? Begone, I say, before I toss you out on your ear!"

  I had the unnerving sense he meant as good as his word. Loathe to turn my back on the menacing little man, I backed slowly away. He followed, hackles raised. I'd made it outside when a thundering sounded behind me. I spun in time to see a monstrous form of rampaging muscle and midnight flesh bearing upon me. Sharp hooves flashed over my head as the horse bucked and emitted an ear-splitting whinny. With a scream in my throat, I threw myself instinctively to the side.

  "Easy, Mephisto!"

  The earth quaked beneath me where I lay, huddled and dazed. Dimly, above the booming pulse in my ears, I heard a voice saying my name. Hands took hold of my shoulders, and I was gently turned over. I blinked up into Hux's grim-angled face.

  "Abby, are you hurt?"

  Gulping for breath, I managed to shake my head. Hux's hands probed carefully over me nonetheless. When he was satisfied that I had no injury, he lifted me into his arms. My cheek against the wool of his coat, I drew in the familiar male spice of him, the essence sustaining as the air surging into my lungs.

  "Edgar, see that Mephisto gets a cooling down." Beneath my ear, Hux's voice was deep and resonant. "Miss Jones and I are not to be disturbed. Lock the door on your way out."

  With a churlish snort, Edgar did as he was bade. As Hux carried me into the stables, I saw the groom take the stallion's reins. He cooed to the black horse, making no effort to dampen his tone. "Damn foolish girl. She's lucky you're bit-smart, Mephisto, elsewise she'd be trampled beneath those fine, fighting hooves of yours. Didn't spook you, did she? There now, fella, let Eddie take you for a nice walk ..."

  Eddie? My brows raised.

  Hux seemed to take no notice, continuing his imperious stride through the stable. On both sides of the aisle, the horses studied us as we passed by, their ears flicking with curiosity. It occurred to me that I should protest being carried. Instead, I burrowed into the hard shelter of his embrace. I inhaled his smell, taking lungful after furtive lungful of what I craved. The rich blend of spice and virile male made my skin prickle all over. A rash of heat spread beneath the layer of my unmentionables.

  He brought me into the last stall, the one closest to the roaring hearth. This enclosure was larger than the other stalls and apparently used as a tack room. Bridling and rope hung upon the three walls. At the far end, a workbench held a saddle, a pyramid of oil and saddle-soap cans, and assorted grooming tools. Setting me into the lone chair, Hux took off his jacket and covered me in its delicious burgundy warmth. He took a seat opposite me upon a bale of hay, his long legs stretching out in front.

  His severe gaze settled on me.

  With a sinking heart, I saw it was not the look of a lover. Nor even the look of an employer pleased to see his secretary. It was a fierce, brooding look: the look of a gentleman capable of extremes. Having removed his riding gloves, he was slapping the black leather against the side of his tall black boots. His chest moved in rapid measure, the gold buttons of his waistcoat catching the firelight with each rise and fall. And his face—the only thing softening those granite planes was the dark lock fallen upon his forehead.

  When the silence grew too much to tolerate, I blurted the first words that came to mind. "I wanted to see you, Hux."

  This statement brought an abrupt halt to the tense rhythm of leather-on-leather. I saw his grip tighten, crushing the finely tanned hide. "Did you?"

  The intimacy we had shared in recent hours had vanished completely. And along with it, my absurd hope that Hux might have missed me as much as I had him. His gaze, remote and foreboding, raked over me in sullen question. In that moment, the idea of confessing anything—let alone my visions—seemed impossible.

  Mayhap later I would tell him. Or maybe ... never at all.

  I tried to summon up another excuse for seeking him out so brazenly. One that wouldn't cause my cheeks to flame further or my body to squirm with shameful longing. Perhaps it was due to the startling events I had undergone, but I felt a fissure spreading in the wall of my self-composure. As if my impulses had somehow grown stronger, as if they were pawing agains
t the boundaries of my restraint ...

  "The—the painting." Relief washed over me to hit upon this important point. Since awakening, questions had tumbled in my mind about this missing piece of the puzzle. "You did not finish telling me about it."

  His eyes hooded. "What is it that you wish to know?"

  I felt distinct relief at being the one to ask questions again. "The lady in the portrait," I said. "You said she is not your—not the countess?"

  A pause. A muscle leapt in his jaw. "No, she is not."

  I thought of what Mrs. Beecher had told me, of what she had seen him vow before that sneering beauty. In quavering tones, I asked, "Then who is she? What connection does she have with ..."—I faltered on the strange syllables—"the Lilin?"

  The name hung in the silence like an invisible pendulum. It swung between us, tugged back and forth by his resistance and my persistence. 'Twas not difficult to ascertain he regretted what he had revealed to me yesterday. My heart fell at the same time that my curiosity piqued. There was something important about that portrait, what it meant to him. With a certainty I could not explain, I knew it held the key to his pain. To Lilith.

  "Ah, Abby," he said, "are you certain you wish to know the rest?"

  I urged him on with steady eyes.

  "Very well, then." Studying the gloves he held, he inhaled deeply before continuing. "After John's death and the visit from Michael, I embarked on a personal grail—to hunt and kill Lilin at any cost. Fool that I was, I thought this would be an easy task. I had the sword after all, and the incantation to purge the demon." His mouth twisted. "My first effort nearly got me killed."

  "The scar ... below your heart," I said, remembering with a shiver.

  "It turns out that a demon is not without power," he said wryly. "She can resist being extricated from her human form. And she will fight with all her might not be removed from her fleshly home."

  "Couldn't you simply employ the sword? The way you did in the tower."

  He shook his head grimly. "There is nothing simple about it. The slaying must be precisely timed with the emergence of the demon from the body. The Lilin must be called out; if not, the sword will kill the human body she possesses. I cannot risk the lives of the innocent victims—for that is what they are, these unfortunate women chosen by evil against their wills."

  "How do you know when the Lilin is drawn out?"

  "I've learned from experience," he said. I shivered again, sensing a world of peril in that matter-of-fact statement. "There are clues that indicate the demon is sufficiently surfaced: a certain cast to the eyes, a slant to the smile, a lasciviousness of manner beyond the ordinary. It is a subtle transformation into malevolence. I cannot describe it better than that."

  My throat turned dry. Remembering Lady Priscilla and the woman in the tower, I could picture the details he described. Slight, devious shifts in appearance and manner that had set my nape tingling. "If you cannot simply force the demon out," I asked, "how do you bring about the emergence?"

  "There are ways," he said tightly.

  Seeing the tautness of his shoulders, I wondered what he meant. Then the implication crashed over me, riding on the wave of our last encounter. I remembered the skill of his kisses, the sweet hunger reaped by his every touch. And how I had responded: with utter abandon, with no thought for anything but the need he sowed within me. I felt my pulse skittering, my cheeks burning. Yes, I knew from experience his expertise in seduction; I did not doubt him capable of rendering any female hapless to his charms—even a demon.

  The very thought of it pierced my heart.

  "Abigail, look at me."

  I forced myself to lift my eyes.

  "What I did with them," he said in a stark voice, "it had nothing to do with pleasure. I want you to understand that."

  I understood all too well the power of his carnal persuasion. "Of course, my lord." I said it without inflection.

  After a moment, his mouth took on a sardonic edge. "So we are back to that, are we?"

  I maintained my neutral expression, though my feelings quivered beneath. "How exactly does this all relate to the painting in the library?"

  "Slain, by one look of Athena's eyes, the judgment of virtue too much to bear."

  In no mood for the Ancient Greeks, I regarded him with a cool stare.

  Tossing his gloves to the ground, he rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, the damned portrait. Three years ago, I chanced to see it in an exhibition at the Royal Academy. It had been hung high in a corner, not at the eye level of the finest works, and yet my gaze went to it immediately. Ice filled my veins; I could not drag my eyes away. The artist had captured her perfectly."

  "But who was she?" I persisted. "The initials on the frame, P.R.B. What do they stand for?"

  "The letters refer to a group formed by the artist and his friends. They call themselves the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood. They are a renegade collective with one aim: to reinvigorate modern art with classical principles of realism and spirituality—or so that was the pitch Dante Gabriel Rossetti used when he sold me the painting. His mistress served as the model. A woman by the name of Fanny Cornforth."

  "Is Miss Cornforth a Lilin?" I asked in hushed voice.

  Slowly, Hux shook his head.

  "But her expression," I said in surprise. "It is that of a Lilin such as you have described. She has that smirking look in the eyes, the mouth ... the angle of her chin. It's there in the way she looks into the glass: as if the world holds no interest for her beyond the power of her own beauty ..."

  I broke off, aware of Hux's intent blue gaze.

  "You see it," he murmured. "So quickly and impassively you grasp the ignominious facts I throw in your direction. Why is it that you understand me as no one else does? Why am I not afraid to share my secrets with you?"

  It was an opening. Go on, tell him, a part of me urged. I could understand his demons because I had seen them, heard them ... even inhabited them. But another panicky voice, considerably louder than the first, forestalled my confession. He's not going to like that you've held secrets, Abigail. He's going to assume the worst about your connection to Lilith. He's going to think you're one of them ...

  "I—I am your secretary, after all," I blurted on a thrum of guilt.

  His lips softened with a faint smile. "And a fine one at that, Miss Jones."

  In a flash, I realized what I needed: incontrovertible proof of my innocence. I needed to know for him—Dear God, for myself—that whilst I had these visions, I was not tainted by evil. To do so, I must learn everything I could about these demons.

  Swallowing, I asked, "But how do you know Fanny Cornforth is not a Lilin? Did you meet her in person, or did you merely question Mr. Rossetti about it? Perhaps she hid it from him—"

  "I know."

  The bald statement cut short my questions. When I comprehended its meaning, my chest gave a foolishly possessive lurch. "You mean you ... seduced her? You made love to Rossetti's mistress?"

  "Love had nothing to do with it."

  I had to force out the next words. "What happened?"

  "Devil take it, Abigail," he said softly, "do you really wish to know the details?"

  I quavered, seeing the dangerous flare in his eyes. And I realized that I did not want to know—I did not want to even think of Hux with another woman. With anyone but ... me. My heart beat against my ribs, so violently I thought that battered organ might shatter.

  "No," I whispered, and I could not look him. My gaze blurred upon the toes of his large leather boots. "No, I don't."

  I heard him curse. In the next moment, he was crouched before me so that we saw eye to eye. He placed a large hand atop my own trembling ones. I sucked in a breath as the heat of his skin ignited an inferno of yearning. I tried to pull free, but he did not relinquish his hold. Instead, his thumb traced a hollow between my knuckles. That bare movement caused a liquid flutter in another cove, a deeper place that had once been privy to his touch. One time only, and yet how I ached to ha
ve more of him, to hold his strength fully inside me ...

  "Yesterday afternoon, between us. It—it should not have happened," Hux said in a low voice.

  Pain skewered through me. Blinking rapidly, I sought to control my bubbling emotions. He regretted making love to me. I knew he would, of course. It had been a mistake, a moment's weakness on his part. Then other thoughts broke through with anguished clarity. Had I done something wrong? Had I ... disappointed, in some way? Compared to all the beautiful, sophisticated women he had known ...

  Fingers lifted my chin, and I was made to look into a blaze of blue. "But selfish bastard that I am, I cannot regret it, Abigail. The memory is your gift to me. I will cherish it, as I do all the moments that have passed between us."

  I could not move, so paralyzed was I by the sudden burst of feelings within me. Disbelief, mingled with a dizzying sort of joy.

  His knuckles brushed across my cheek, a gesture of infinite tenderness. The vivid desire in his eyes made everything in me tighten in answering need. Before I could react, he backed away. Abruptly, he strode to the adjacent table, his hand coming to rest upon the saddle that lay there. I saw that the movement was not quite steady. He did not look at me. Licking my dry lips, I followed the slow stroke of his long-fingered hand against the curved leather.

  When he spoke again, his voice possessed a guttural quality. "After I knew for certain that Fanny Cornforth was no Lilin, I asked her about modeling for the painting. She laughed and told me 'twas the oddest experience of her life. According to her, Rossetti had woken from a dream one night, sweating and garbling nonsense. When he finally became coherent, he told her he'd been visited by a vision. A deity needed painting, he'd said, and he was the one to do it. Fanny said he was usually slow to plan a scene, but this night he knew exactly how he wanted the pose. From the laying of the foxglove on the table down to the scarlet ribbon wound round Fanny's wrist, he arranged everything with frenetic energy. He instructed Fanny to sit upon the chair and pick up the comb. And that is the last detail of the night she remembers."

  My head was spinning, my body alive with humming energy. "What did she mean? It must have taken a long while to complete such a painting. How could she not remember any of it?"