“I couldn’t sleep.” She smiled freely, cheerfully, one of those smiles that made him want to smile in return. He stood his ground and refused to return her smile. A man who made war for his living had little use for smiles and less for spinster redheads hopelessly tangled with his family history. “I often come here to write. It’s warmer here than in my room.”
Sebastian started toward the desk. When he stood but two feet distant, he said softly, “My brother used this room.”
“It still feels like him.”
That was true. Everything about the room felt like Andrew. He half expected to see his brother on a chair before the fire, ready to light his pipe and waiting for his mistress to attend him. “Why are you here? Besides making me think you’re a ghost.”
She laughed, softly, and touched a bound volume of paper open to a place nearer the end than the middle. Ink glistened on one side of the pages. Her long, bare fingers matched the script on the page. He couldn’t make out individual words, more’s the pity. He wanted intensely to know what she’d written. He felt quite certain this was her diary. Her most secret thoughts laid out on the pages. “Passing strange you’d be writing at this hour.”
“I’m an early riser, my lord, and off to Far Caister, soon. To see Mama. You didn’t think I was a ghost, did you?” Her skin gleamed as if lit by the dawn yet to come. Shadows rendered her face in fey beauty, a fairy trapped in the world of men. Another smile, very small, appeared. A smile to enchant a man’s soul. “For, you know, I thought for a moment that you were a ghost. I heard a noise earlier, but when I looked, no one was there. Until just now when you came in.”
“Your hair looked like blood.” He reached for a lock, turning a ringlet around his finger. She had the sort of curls that would never lie flat, small coils from top to bottom and surprisingly soft considering the determination to twist.
“Oh, dear.” She laughed, sunlight and silk wrapped in one soft sound. “I’m so sorry.”
“Did you take me for the Black Earl?” He hoped that would make her laugh again.
“Oh.” Her smile drained away. “No. No,” she said. “I took you for Andrew.” She spoke with wistful innocence. “I saw you, and—”
He raised one eyebrow.
Her smile drained away. “For a moment, the resemblance was remarkable. Uncanny, really.”
Silence gathered while he waited for her to master herself. Not an uncomfortable quiet, but pregnant.
“Now,” he said, “it’s I who am sorry.” He reached around her, leaning close enough to smell earthy verbena and beneath that something secret and wholly feminine, and to feel her flinch when his arm brushed hers. Strange how the desk had looked like mahogany before. Now he would swear the thing was the dark honey of oak. Pretending he hadn’t noticed the contact or her reaction to it, he picked up her diary.
With a cry of outrage, she tried to snatch it from him, but he lifted it out of her reach, which wasn’t hard because he was bigger, at least a foot taller, and despite his injury, quite a bit stronger.
“Give it back. You’ve no right.”
He scanned the page. Once again, he was set on his heels. “And what, pray tell, is this monster of which you’ve written? The wolf that will take your life?”
She shrugged, backing away to put a lamentable distance between them. A fine display of unconcern in no way convincing. He wondered if she knew how much her eyes gave away. The callowest lieutenant could hide more from him. She stretched for the diary, but he raised it nearer his head. If she wanted the book, she’d have to lean against him to reach it. She didn’t. Instead, she eyed his hand like a gunner’s mate peering along a cannon sight. “My private thoughts are not your affair. Most certainly not.”
He laughed. Really, he knew her too well and read her too easily for her to think she could fool him. “It’s about me, isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Liar.” Her shoulders stiffened, and he knew his guess had hit home.
“I’m not.”
“I’m your wolf.”
“No.”
“Yes, I am, and you know it.” He brought her journal to his eye level—which remained out of her reach if she meant not to touch him. He fanned a few pages then stopped and pretended to examine the page but, really, he watched her. Panic filled her remarkable eyes. “True enough, I am nothing like Andrew.”
“You’re not.”
“Neither am I a monster.”
“I wrote that before I knew you.”
He grinned. Both lamps flared and wavered with the draft that plagued the room. The air here was no warmer than in the hall. She looked him square in the eye, judging, he suspected, the likelihood she could retrieve the book without touching him. He leaned in to place the journal on the plain oaken desktop. “I’m flattered you spend your private hours thinking of me.”
She snatched up the journal and faced him. Carefully, she thumbed the side of the pages. Her middle finger, he saw, was stained black where her pen had rested against it. The corner of her mouth lifted, trembled a little. Her chest lifted with a breath that caught when he moved so close there was but an inch between his chest and her bosom.
He felt awash in her, full of a rutting lust for the deep scent of verbena and for red hair twined around his fingers. The light continued to flicker so that the shadows danced with shapes unnervingly like a man peering at them from the darkened corner of the room. But whenever he stared at the shapes, the darkness broke apart and became again formless shadow. Briefly, he wondered if he could be dreaming. But dreams were not as real as this. He was awake. Alone with Olivia Willow. Consumed by her. He wasn’t to be trusted.
She backed up, and he walked forward until he stood smack against her, pinning her against the desk. Satan’s own smile appeared on his mouth, had he but seen it. More than worthy of the Black Earl at his most horrific. He put his hands on the desk, one on either side of her, thinking how her hair was flame bright against that sea-blue background. He felt her thighs, her hips, along his body, the side of her slipper against his foot. She pretended nothing untoward was happening but with such poor success he threw back his head and laughed. The laughter felt good. Joy and triumph came together in him, gathering her in and joining them as tenon joined the mortise. The moment felt right. God, it felt good to feel again.
“I won’t take anything you don’t offer me, Olivia,” he said, imagining her body against him, moving, shifting, yielding to his every pleasure. The image filled his mind, a thousand times more intense than any dream. “I swear it. In return, you will have passion. And love. I swear that, too.”
She fumbled behind her for something and produced the book in which she’d been writing. She held it tightly. Hard use bent the corners of the uneven green cover. “What do you want from me?”
“You,” he said in a low voice. “I want you.” He heard the faint ring of metal moving against metal, a sword sliding in its scabbard. Next, that damn wind would have him hearing an army at the gates. “I promise you,” he said in a voice so thick with lust he didn’t recognize it for his own, “I have more than enough passion for us both. I’ll love you right out of your mind.”
The shadows in the corner formed into definite shape. A man. Not just shape, but color, too. A flash of blue and red. “I am not mad. Therefore, this is a dream, and a hellish real one at that. And so, lovely Olivia, what’s the harm if we indulge in each other now? We’ll be married soon.”
She stirred, and for a moment, he would have sworn she wasn’t in his arms. He shook his head, and she came back into focus, warm and supple and soft in his embrace. He stroked her back near her shoulder blades. He would not let her go. Not when she was at last where she belonged. Damn that lamp for flaring so. The shadows behind her moved and swirled into impossibly human shape. His skin prickled despite knowing the impression for a trick of uncertain light.
“Sebastian,” she whispered. She touched his arm. The effect of his whispered name shocked him. His gaze settled on her fingers res
ting atop his sleeve. A shiver of heat and arousal shot through him. Would she touch his naked skin as daintily as this? He’d been months without a woman, and at the moment he felt the abstinence like the edge of a blade to his throat. He felt pressure built in his head, behind his eyes and between his ears. Cold chilled the room. The lamp flared, then settled into a steady flame that stopped the shadows from moving.
She was gone. Vanished. He didn’t know what the hell had just happened, except that he had not held her in his arms. She had not let him kiss her six ways from Sunday nor melted in his arms nor whispered his name. A sense of loss ripped through him, ruthlessly deep. “Olivia.” He shouted. “Olivia!”
He awoke with a gasp and a heart pounding like hurricane winds on a hapless ship. First light through the window bathed the room in pearl light. Bloody, sodding St. Agnes’ Eve.
Chapter Nineteen
January 21, 8:11 a.m., sunrise
On his way out of the castle Sebastian met whispers cut short at every turn. Some fool of a footman claimed he’d seen the Black Earl pacing the ramparts. Ridiculous. Even McNaught, whom he would have thought immune to such superstition did not belittle the gossip as he usually did. He helped Sebastian into his coat and cautioned him against walking out so early. Superstitious fools the lot.
Indignation spurred him to walk from Pennhyll at a rapid pace. Pandelion trotted at his side. Snow had fallen during the night, and he could see a set of footprints in the formerly pristine snow. Small feet. Olivia, he was certain. Every now and then the hem of her gown or cloak had skimmed her tracks, blurring the shape. He cursed under his breath. No matter what sort of dreams he had about her, Olivia Willow was not his concern. Not after tonight. She could live her own life, damn her to hell, with Hew or James or no one at all. He was not responsible for her present status in life, nor her future one.
He reached Far Caister in record time. Fifty-six seconds ahead of his usual pace. And, despite having pushed himself, his legs didn’t wobble, and his lungs didn’t burn. In short, he didn’t feel like he’d been thrown overboard and left to drown. Mightily pleased to feel as if he could cover the return journey at the same clip, he hardly slowed as he entered the village. At the Crown’s Ease, the innkeeper stepped out just as Sebastian reached the door. Broom in hand, Twilling touched his forelock in a now ritual greeting. “Best of the morning to you, Milord.”
“Mr. Twilling.”
He leaned on his broom. “Right bit of business up at Pennhyll since last I saw you, milord.”
Sebastian gave him a look.
“Preparing for your night of dancing and carousing. A merry success, I hope.”
“Thank you.”
“The young lads and lasses here are prepared to dream of their future wives and husbands.”
“Codswallop.”
“Oh, aye.” He took a bit of bacon from his apron and when Sebastian gave the nod, offered it to Pandelion. “I’m predicting a good business at the Crown’s Ease, my lord.”
“Indeed?”
“Geoffrey Peterman’s cows broke through his fence last night. Still chasing after them, I expect. Seven of Calvin Barfield’s ewes dropped twins yesterday, and six of ’em sickly things.” He tugged on the end of his nose. “Nyllie Williams near cut off his foot when his best axe slipped and then broke.” The innkeeper nodded slowly, but his twinkling eyes gave him away.
“Don’t tell me.”
“Not five minutes ago I saw Harry Leroy, and he swore he saw the Black Earl pacing the ramparts of Pennhyll.”
“You can’t believe that nonsense.”
“I reckon I do. I’ll sell twice the amount of ale what with all the tale-telling there’ll be tonight. May the good ghost send me as brisk a business every night.”
Sebastian laughed. “And a good morning to you, Mr. Twilling.”
He moved out of the doorway. “Kettle’s on, milord.”
“Later. I’m feeling fine, and I think I’ll walk to the end of town and back.”
Twilling took up his broom. “Watch your step, milord. Trouble’s afoot whenever the Black Earl’s about.” He put a finger alongside his nose. “I can feel it when the old man steps out.”
Sebastian set off, pulling up his coat collar against the chill. The Black Earl, indeed. Overheard, the sky turned from pearl to pale blue. A wagon blocked the street he meant to take so he veered left down a street of grey shadows. He came up short when he recognized the tobacconist’s and then the stationer’s shop. Between them was the door to Miss Willow’s flat. Was she inside? He stood while the sky shifted from between palest blue and orange. More color emerged. He felt like he’d forgotten something and that any moment he would remember what. But he had no reason for being here but coincidence. A rope of mist curled from the upper window of the Willow’s flat. Strange, considering the lack of wind. The round and acrid scent of smoke floated on the air. An orange glow flickered at the window and then, with a thump that rang in his ears, the glass shattered. He threw an arm over his head, twisting away from the shards and splinters raining down.
The wagon driver dropped the sack he was loading and rushed down the street. “Fire!”
Smoke billowed from the upper windows of the building. Someone started ringing a bell. While the other man pounded on doors, rousing people from their homes and beds, Sebastian tried the entry door and found it shut fast. What if Olivia were inside? She’d walked to Far Caister this morning. He knew it. Where else would she have gone but home? The door flew open just as he raised his leg to kick it. A wide-eyed woman hugging an infant to her chest stumbled out, followed by a man carrying a trunk. A window opened to the street and someone started tossing out furniture. More people came out, laden with belongings. Children cried. Men called to each other. Women cried out for loved ones.
“Olivia.” He didn’t see Olivia anywhere. An obese woman clutching a ragged blanket staggered into him, nearly bowling him over. She gripped his arms, eyes red-rimmed. He thought his heart would stop.
“Mrs. Goody?” She nodded. “Is Olivia still up there?”
“Aye, and her mother.”
He thrust the woman into a pair of waiting arms and raced up the stairwell. The higher he went, the thicker the air and the harder it was to breathe. Smoke curled from under the door to Olivia’s flat. He stripped off his cravat and wrapped the fabric around his nose and mouth. Two kicks shattered the door. Fire consumed most of far wall and threatened the ceiling. Smoke cut off his breath. He stooped for better air lower down. The mantel was on fire, but the painting of Olivia’s father and brother hadn’t yet caught. He lunged across the room, grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket.
He found Olivia in the second room, dragging another woman toward the door, sobbing, pleading, praying as she inched them closer to the door. A roaring, crashing boom shook the structure. The roof caving in. Timbers big enough to crush a man. Ashes stung his eyes, embers skittered in the hot air. Beneath his feet, the floor bucked like a living thing, hot and treacherous.
He scooped the older woman into his arms and grabbed Olivia’s arm. He mouthed the words, “Follow me.” Smoke tore at his throat, and he could only pray that Olivia understood what to do. He made for the inner doorway. From across the parlor, he saw the wagon driver balanced at the top of the stairwell, motioning with one frantic hand, the other arm flung over his mouth and nose.
Heat pulsed, the sound of the flames deafening. With Olivia’s mother cradled against his chest, Sebastian headed for the stairs, Olivia behind him, clinging to his coat. A shout rose when they came out. Someone held out his arms to take Olivia’s mother. Thank God. Jesus, thank God. He swallowed great gulps of air and staggered from the building. He turned, expecting to see Olivia and to pull her into his arms. Someone pounded on his back, striking his wounded side such a ringing blow he doubled over.
“Your coat, milord!”
The garment was on fire. He stripped off his greatcoat and flung it smoldering into the snow. Ignoring the pain in his c
hest, he scanned the crowd for red hair. She wasn’t here. “Olivia!” He grabbed a man lugging a full blanket over his shoulder. “Olivia Willow. Have you seen her?”
“No, milord.”
He lunged toward the building. Someone blocked his way, but with a roar of despair, he shoved the man aside and sprinted up the stairs. Air thick with ash and smoke and heat dropped him to his knees. One of the massive ceiling beams creaked, a long, slow sound that vibrated between his ears. The floor quivered, and the air danced before his face. He looked, trying to see through the smoke. There. A flash of red near the inner door.
He crawled toward the color. Flames licked through the floor behind her, a line of spreading orange surrounding Olivia’s inert figure. He stretched an arm and got hold of her hair. He pulled with every ounce of strength he possessed. She slid forward. His fingers curled around her arm, then her torso. He hauled her toward him. The ceiling beam dissolved in flame and crashed with a whoosh of scalding air. The floor where she’d lain collapsed into flame. Sweeping her into his arms, he lurched to his feet. He wheeled toward the stairs, sliding and skidding down.
Another roar rose up when he burst into fresh air. Olivia slid free of his arms, collapsing in a fit of coughing, sinking to the street with her arms tight around her chest. “Mama?” she said, when she got a breath.
“Safe” he said. Soot streaked her face, her eyes were red. The fire had singed her curls. Another cheer pulsed on the air which mystified him until he realized it was snowing. Huge flakes drifted onto the street. Several landed on Olivia’s head. He whipped off his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. The hem fell to her knees. He kept his arm around her shoulder, pulling until she gave in and leaned against him. “My heart,” he said. “You’re safe.”
Mr. Verney hurried up. He wore a coat buttoned over his nightshirt and his bare legs stuck out over the tops of his boots. “Praise be to heaven. I heard the commotion and came running—Are you all right, my lord?” The vicar put a hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “Help her over here. We’ll have them safe and sound at the vicarage in no time.” Those arrangements were made, for someone offered a cart at hand, another a blanket, and Olivia’s mother was soon settled. Verney smiled as he prepared to get into the cart. “If you’ll have a servant send down her clothes from the castle, milord. Come, Miss Willow.”
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