Once Upon a Wallflower

by Wendy Lyn Watson

  Now he did pause to look up at her, his gaze the searing silver of lightning. “Call it instinct.” A slow, hot smile spread across his face, instantly conjuring up every intimate moment they had shared in his quarters. “Or, perhaps,” he purred, “simply call it magic.”

  “Am I disturbing you?” Mira was moving to rise before he answered.

  “Sit. I was very nearly finished, anyway. The light was changing. You did not disturb me at all.”

  She settled back on the bench. She took a deep breath, steadying herself before clearing her throat. “May I ask you a question?”

  “Of course. Though I suppose I cannot guarantee I will answer it.”

  “Did you kill those girls?”

  After blurting out the question, Mira froze, unable even to breathe. A little voice in the back of her head—one that sounded suspiciously like Nan Collins—chided her that asking Nicholas whether he was guilty was a pointless exercise, that, guilty or innocent, he would deny wrongdoing. But even with that voice imploring her to be cautious, she found every nerve was taut in anticipation of his answer. Before he said a word, she knew in every fiber of her being that, if he claimed innocence, she would believe him. After all, she reasoned, she already knew he was innocent. Logically he had to be, so his answer would merely confirm an established fact.

  Nicholas’s expression did not falter in the least. He stared unwaveringly into Mira’s eyes as he finally answered her question with one of his own. “Does it matter?”

  “‘Does it matter?’” she repeated, her voice hesitant with genuine confusion. “Of course it matters. How could it not?”

  His mouth stretching in a thin, tight smile, Nicholas responded, “Perhaps it matters to you, Mira-mine. Perhaps it should even matter to me. But it certainly does not matter to anyone else.” His breath rushed out in a short, mirthless laugh. “Do you realize that you are the first person to ever ask me whether I am guilty? The very first person. The truth of the matter does not seem to concern anyone but you. And for that reason, I find no use for protestations of innocence.”

  Mira ached for Nicholas. His tone was cavalier, nonchalant, but she detected a defensive note that spoke volumes to her. She understood the pain of people assuming the worst of you, having no faith or confidence in you. But she could not allow him to give up so easily.

  She took a deep breath, looked him square in the eye, and told him, “I know you are innocent.”

  She was unprepared for his response. He laughed. He sounded genuinely amused. She tried not to take offense.

  “How, pray tell, do you know I am innocent?” he asked. “Do you have some otherworldly power of sight?”

  Drawing herself up, Mira responded, “No, sir, I used my intellect. I used logic. I have found that logic is the most reliable means of ascertaining the truth, and I have the utmost confidence in its powers. The details are unimportant, but suffice it to say that I have concluded that you simply could not have been the killer. And if I can be made to believe in your innocence, then others can be made to believe it as well.”

  Nicholas’s expression softened. “Your faith in me, while humbling, does not persuade me that others will share your opinion.”

  “So everyone thinks you guilty. That does not mean the truth is irrelevant. Prove everyone wrong!”

  “It is not my responsibility to champion the truth,” Nicholas hedged. “People labor under a great many misconceptions, and it takes a great man to change their minds. I am not a great man. I am an ordinary man who wants to paint. Nothing more.”

  “The common perception seems to be that you practice black magic or that you consort with the devil or some such thing.”

  “So I have heard. Though I am not sure what prompted people to believe me so powerful and mysterious.”

  “Well, I think it’s because you roam the moors.”

  For an instant, Nicholas froze, and something in his eyes, some glimmer of apprehension, sent a shiver down Mira’s spine. But then he shrugged, and his eyes narrowed in sardonic amusement. “I roam the moors? Of course I roam the moors. Everyone in Cornwall roams the moors. It’s all we have…moors and cliffs. If we did not roam moors, we would be forever housebound.”

  Mira laughed, and her moment of unease was forgotten. With a great sigh of exasperation, Nicholas flopped down on his back without any apparent concern for his waistcoat or shirt. By the time they ventured indoors, every item of his clothing would be ruined, Mira thought. She couldn’t help but smile a bit at his absent-minded disregard for his appearance. It was rather endearing. And it suddenly made her remember something else.

  “The blood!” she blurted.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Just another rumor I heard. That the smithy said he saw you one night on the curtain wall between the tower and the main house and that there was blood smeared all over your shirt and face. It’s a rather gruesome story and, frankly, seems fantastical. I am certain it was made up out of whole cloth,” she concluded with conviction.

  “Hmmm. Probably not.” Nicholas laughed. “Do not look so shocked, Mira. I assure you that, whatever crimes I may be guilty of, stupidity is not one of them. I am hardly likely to wander about drenched in blood. I imagine what the good smithy saw was me smeared with red paint. I often become, well, a little exuberant when I paint. It is a messy endeavor. It was a source of great consternation to any number of valets I have employed in the past. That is one of the reasons that I finally decided to forego a more traditional manservant in favor of Pawly. Pawly cares even less for my appearance than I do, a quality that most would consider reprehensible in a valet but which is essential to the sanity of anyone in my service.”

  Mira supposed that Nicholas intended his ramblings to be humorous, to make her laugh, but her attention had caught on something he said—whatever crimes I may be guilty of—and she found nothing amusing about it at all. The man before her, lazing in the grass with the sunlight filtering through the trees dappling his face, was possibly the most frustrating person she had ever met.

  “My lord,” Mira said, her use of his title meant to convey that she meant business. “My lord, I do not understand this game you insist upon playing, and I do not enjoy it at all.”

  Nicholas sat up, and his expression of hurt confusion almost made her back down. Almost.

  “What game?” he asked.

  Mira adopted her most stern expression, determined not to show weakness. “You say that protesting your innocence would do no good and, while I happen to disagree with you, I can understand your position. But you go too far, sir, when you drop hints that you really are guilty. ‘Whatever crimes I may be guilty of,’ you say. Honestly. You seem determined to provoke people and encourage their ill thoughts of you.”

  An angry flush had crept up Nicholas’s cheeks as she spoke, and his eyes now snapped with annoyance. “Madam, there is no need to take that shrewish tone with me. And your accusations are preposterous. Why on earth would I encourage people to think ill of me? They seem perfectly capable of doing so without my assistance.”

  Mira’s temper subsided on the wave of a deep sigh. “I believe you have answered your own question, Nicholas. I believe you encourage people to think ill of you because they do anyway.”

  He did not say anything but, with his brow lowered and his jaw thrust out, Mira thought he looked more like a mutinous, watchful boy than an angry man. She stood and, taking the dark green shawl from her shoulders, spread it on the ground so that she could sit face to face with Nicholas.

  Nicholas dropped his eyes to stare intently at a small periwinkle blossom. Mira reached out her hand and laid it over one of his, her touch timid and unsure.

  “Nicholas, I think maybe you do care what others think. But you cannot bear the thought that you would proclaim your innocence and still be reviled. And, perhaps, you hope that someone will trust you without any protestations on your part. Simply believe in you.

  “Well, I believe in you. I beli
eve in your innocence. I believe in you, and all of your suggestions of guilt will not sway me. So you may as well save your breath. There is no need to test me, sir. My mind is quite made up about you.”

  They sat in silence for a moment. Nicholas swallowed visibly, his Adam’s apple sliding up, then down beneath the dark, beard-shadowed skin of his throat. When he finally looked up at Mira, his eyes were narrowed with a fierce intensity entirely at odds with his words. “Well, then. You seem to have put me in my place. I am duly chastened.”

  She offered him a teasing smile. “My lord, I doubt you have been chastened since you were in leading strings. But I am glad you see I have the right of it.”

  He chuckled. “You are quite the bloody-minded female, aren’t you? With that determination, I imagine you could conquer any task you set for yourself.”

  “Well, I certainly hope you are correct, for I have a monumental task ahead of me.”

  “Oh? And what task would that be?”

  “Finding the real killer.”

  The appalled expression on Nicholas’s face was comical, and Mira couldn’t help the giggle that escaped her. When she laughed, he collapsed back onto the grass, the breath leaving his body in a great rushing sigh. “Oh, Mira, that was not the least bit amusing. For a moment there I took you quite seriously.”

  Brow wrinkled in puzzlement, Mira responded, “But, Nicholas, I am quite serious.”

  Nicholas sprang back to a sitting position.

  “I intend to flush out the real killer and prove you innocent before we wed. I admit it is a Herculean task, but I see no alternative.”

  “Of course there is an alternative: leave well-enough alone!”

  “Nicholas, I have to disagree. It is imperative that your name be cleared of these murders before we marry.”

  “Why?” he sputtered. “I have already explained that it does not matter to me what other people think and, while I might hope that one or two people should think better of me, for the most part I truly do not care. I live a solitary life. What could it matter what the empty-headed gossipmongers in London think of me? No one is about to arrest me, and beyond that, you must believe me, I have little care for the consequences of the rumors.”

  Mira shook her head sadly. “Nicholas, soon your life will not be so solitary. I must confess, this is not about you at all. It is about me and any, um, children we might have.” She colored at the mention of children, ducking her head to avoid his gaze. “Have you considered that the scandal which clouds your name will shadow us as well? If you are not received in company, I, as your wife, will not be received either. And, even worse, if the scandal persists, our children will lead a lonely life, filled with scorn for something not of their doing. You may not care about what others think, but for my sake and the sake of the family we will make together, I do.”

  When she finished her explanation, Mira looked up to find Nicholas staring back at her with the most remarkable expression on his face, an expression of puzzlement and wonder and frustration and satisfaction all mixed together.

  Suddenly, then, he leaned forward until his face was just a whisper away from her own. He raised his hand to stroke one finger along the curve of her ear, and then he pushed his fingers through the baby-fine hairs at the nape of her neck, pulling the hair loose from its pins, until his large warm hand wrapped entirely around the back of her head, cradling it gently but firmly.

  Mira gasped at the sudden intimacy of the gesture, and before she could release that breath of surprise, Nicholas closed the distance between them, his lips meeting hers in a tender, searching kiss.

  Mira’s lashes fluttered closed and, with only an instant’s hesitation, she returned his kiss, her own lips moving softly against his. Her response elicited a groan from Nicholas, more a vibration than a sound, and he deepened the kiss. While his right hand continued to cup her head, steadying it carefully, his left hand rose to caress her jaw, his fingers gently but insistently stroking the tender skin at the corner of her mouth until her lips parted. When she gasped again, she drank in Nicholas’s warm breath, redolent of sweet smoky tea and something sharper. Cloves, perhaps. Mira timidly ran the tip of her tongue along the supple curve of flesh of Nicholas’s lower lip. Definitely cloves, and still another taste that she could only describe as Nicholas. He was delicious.

  Nicholas responded to Mira’s overture by pulling her closer and plunging his own tongue deep into her mouth with a sudden tender ferocity, drinking in her essence like a man dying of thirst. She raised her hands to the hard wall of his chest to steady herself beneath his passionate onslaught. His heart raced beneath her fingers, his breath filling his body in deep ragged gulps.

  Then, as suddenly as the kiss began, Nicholas ended it. His mouth left hers, but his hand continued to cradle her head, fingers massaging gently, and he rested his forehead against hers. His hot breath fanned her face, sending shivers of delicious sensation over Mira’s skin.

  When Nicholas finally leaned back, somewhat more composed, he pinned Mira with his insistent gaze. “You will not investigate the murders of those young women, do you understand me?”

  His words were like a dousing with cold water, shocking Mira out of her pleasant, muzzy haze. She sat upright, pushing against his hand in a fruitless effort to break free of his grasp. “My lord, we are not yet wed. You do not yet own me. I shall do as I see fit!”

  Nicholas’s fingers tightened slightly in her hair, and he gave her head a gentle shake of exasperation. “This is not a question of marital power. You silly goose. Have you considered that you nosing about, asking questions about the murders, might put the real villain on the alert? God forbid, what if you stumble onto the truth? Do you think that a man who has killed at least two young women, quite probably three, will simply say, ‘Jolly good show, old gal, you got me!’ No, Mira, you will be putting yourself in very real danger. I cannot have that.”

  Mira stilled, considering his concerns. It was true, she had not thought much about the possibility that her investigation would prove dangerous, only that it would be difficult. But Nicholas was right; her inquiries could draw the attention of the true culprit and make him nervous enough to want to eliminate her. It was a chilling thought. On the other hand, she could not see that she had much choice. “I am moved by your concern, but I believe that the truth is worth the risk. I will simply endeavor to be discreet in my inquiries.”

  Nicholas drew back farther still. He removed his hand from the back of her head, only to twine one scarlet lock of her hair about his finger. He studied it closely, appearing fascinated by its texture and color. “Discreet?” A ghost of a smile passed his lips. “Somehow I doubt discretion is your forté.”

  He let the curl slip from his finger and tucked it carefully behind her ear. Looking into her eyes again, he sighed. “Well, Mira, you leave me little choice,” he said. “If you are determined to throw yourself in harm’s way, I will simply have to follow you there. I will accompany you on this fool’s errand of yours. Perhaps I can keep us both from meeting an untimely end.”

  Mira’s face lit up. “Truly, Nicholas? You would help me?”

  He nodded with glum resignation.

  “Excellent! I thought that this afternoon I would venture into Upper Bidwell, speak with one or two people there. Does one o’clock suit you?”

  Nicholas squeezed his eyes tightly closed, as though he were about to plunge into a cold bath and could not bear to look. “One o’clock it is.”

  Chapter Ten

  Nicholas met Mira in the cavernous entryway of the modern portion of Blackwell Hall. He had taken the time to shave and dress as respectably as possible. The good people of Upper Bidwell viewed him with everything from cold suspicion to outright hostility. He knew his presence on this mission would not be conducive to loose tongues and candor, and that suited his purposes perfectly.

  But he did not wish to embarrass Mira by appearing unkempt and unlordly in public, giving the gossips even more fodder. If only Mira Fitzhe
nry knew the pains he had taken on her behalf, he thought, as he slipped a finger between the high starched collar of his shirt and his tender, newly shaved neck.

  Mira appeared promptly, a bundle of fiery energy in a bright blue day dress and her dark green shawl. It was clear she had gone shopping before traveling to Cornwall. He had yet to see a single gray dress on her since she had arrived. The bright, crisp colors she had chosen suited her, putting apples in her cheeks. She looked as fresh as a rain-washed spring morning.

  “Nicholas! It has occurred to me that we should have a map.”

  Nicholas couldn’t hide his smile at her efficient, business-like tone. “A map? I assure you I know my way around this area quite well. I will not get us lost.”

  Mira huffed. “I am confident of your sense of direction, sir. But I think it would be useful to look at a map of the area, attempt to locate where Bridget Collins and Tegen Quick were killed relative to various structures and roads so that we might ascertain their movements on the nights they died. I think a map would help us gain a sense of perspective. And I think it would be most useful to study the map before we begin asking questions, so we can do a better, more thorough job of it the first time around.”

  “Ah. Well, then, if it is a map you want, it is a map you shall have. After all, this is your investigation, my dear. I am simply along for intimidation purposes.” He smiled at the thought of himself as the noble protector, so out of character for him.

  He suggested they look in the library for a volume of local history or, perhaps, a survey of the surrounding area.

  Mira gasped when she walked through the library door and saw the tightly packed floor-to-ceiling shelves. “So many books!” she breathed, voice hushed with awe.

  Nicholas smiled. “And you may read every last one of them, if you wish.”

  By silent agreement, Nicholas undertook the task of finding an area map. Mira stood quietly back, eyes scanning the collection with a covetous gleam, while he dragged the library ladder over to the corner in which the estate books were kept. Within a few moments, he had located a decent map, in a book that was not yet crumbling to dust. He caught Mira’s attention, and they both crossed the exquisite Aubusson carpet to meet at a round table in the middle of the room.