Historical Jewels

by Jewel, Carolyn

  “He’s not a bad sort.”

  “Hew?”

  “James. If matters do not fall out as I hope, you might do worse than James.”

  She frowned. “Then why did you warn me about him?”

  “Why do you think?” He traced a feather-light line along the pulse point of her wrist. Feeling as warm as his voice, she shook her head, then watched in disbelief as he brought her arm toward him.

  “Don’t do something you don’t mean. Please don’t.”

  He drew her closer. She lifted her free hand to push him back. “No mistake. My love. I mean a great deal with you.”

  “You mean to break my heart, don’t you?”

  “Could I?”

  Her hand drifted to his shoulder. It wasn’t a lack of response on her part that had her standing as if benumbed, but too much. “I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t mean it,” she said.

  “Come to me, Olivia.” The softness of his lips on her throat just above her collarbone, the scent of him, the size and power of him, but most of all, the sensation that inside she was melting, dissolving, kept her motionless. His lips parted and moved to the point where throat became shoulder. She discovered he still held her wrist because he brought her arm sideways away from their bodies, interlacing his fingers with hers.

  Like that, nothing separated them. But he wasn’t the one pressing her against him. He didn’t need to. She leaned forward, her chest to his but bending her head back. One hand clutched his shoulder, hanging on for dear life. The other tightened around his hand. She felt his fingers skim through her hair, molding the back of her skull, moving her head just enough to expose more of her throat or neck. Then, he stopped.

  “No,” she moaned. “Please.”

  He smiled with an easy, fluid grin, a glint of triumph in his blue eyes. He touched her cheek. The caress left a chill in its wake. Her eyes fluttered open. His arms were around her. “I mean every moment. Every heartbeat.”

  “I love you,” she said.

  As suddenly as that, she found herself looking at Tiern-Cope. He clasped her hand, their fingers interlaced. He held up the splinter with his free hand. “That must have hurt like the devil.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you all right? Is it the headache again?”

  He had not, she realized, ever been nearer to her than he was right now. He had never touched her or caressed her bare hand, or kissed her. Her stomach lurched and her knees threatened to crumple. He caught her elbow and steadied her. “I think I must be going mad,” she said.

  “Why?”

  “You—I’m seeing things. Imagining things that aren’t there and never happened. I’m not even sure anymore what’s real and what’s not.”

  Tiern-Cope lifted her hand and pressed his lips to her fingers. “My own,” he whispered. “Nor I.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  3:40 p.m.

  Price cleared his throat. “Have we everyone assembled?” Tiern-Cope released her hand. The butler glanced at the assembled guests. “Excellent. If the ladies have their cloaks and wraps, let us proceed.”

  They followed Price outside where grey clouds and a chill wind promised more snow. The history of Pennhyll was a fascinating one, and Price had perfected his delivery of the details.

  “We stand,” Price intoned when they’d gathered in the north courtyard, “on the exact location of the original motte built by the first earl’s ancestors.” He indicated an incline at the top of which one could see a crumbling foundation. In the middle of the ruins, a tall figure stood with one foot propped on a stone. The sword strapped across his back rose over his shoulder, and the sigil of the earls of Tiern-Cope shimmered across his chest. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the figure was still there, so real and true to life she could see the brilliant blue eyes, the folds of his tunic, and the buckle on his belt. She looked around, but no one else noticed him. She glanced at Tiern-Cope, standing with Diana. He stared, too, at the spot where the swordsman stood. As if he’d sensed her attention, Tiern-Cope turned his head. Their eyes met.

  Fitzalan glanced at the gathering clouds, and then at her. “Cold?”

  “Not at all.”

  He slipped off his coat and draped in over her shoulders. “Are you going to marry your cousin?”

  “Yes.”

  Fitzalan searched her face. “Why, if you do not love him?”

  “T’was here,” Price said, “the barons Iarann fought off many a highland barbarian. The barons were never defeated in battle. Nor were any of the earls Tiern-Cope.” He turned and led them to a doorway in the north tower, a massive rectangle of stone that housed Olivia’s rooms. He rattled a set of keys. While he unlocked the door, he continued to speak. “Iarann, as some of you may know, is Irish for iron. The man who sired the original baron was Irish. He came to England to be civilized by an English bride whom he married, so the story goes, because her red hair reminded him of Ireland.” He pointed upward. “Indeed, the motto of those Irish ancestors is carved over the lintel of what was once the original entrance to Pennhyll. Chomh Crua Leis An Iarann. As Hard as Iron. A motto,” he continued, “I am sure you will agree is well suited to the earls Tiern-Cope down to the present day.”

  The door swung inward on its hinges and they filed inside. “We now enter the oldest portion of Castle Pennhyll. Take especial care, my lords and ladies, as you walk. Watch the shadows, for you may see the not the first earl but the fourth earl, the Black Earl, he was called, as we draw nearer the earl’s chamber. Ladies, keep your shawls at hand, for I’ve heard the chill air signifies the presence of the unhappy dead.” This brought a shriek from Diana. Price’s somber expression deepened. He would, Olivia thought, have made a fine actor.

  “Terrifying, isn’t he?” Fitzalan said. “No, please, Miss Willow,” he said when she tried to return his coat.

  “Thank you, but I insist.” She slipped free of the garment and held it out.

  “Very well.”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Tiern-Cope watching the viscount. She found it impossible to act naturally around Fitzalan and even less so around Lord Tiern-Cope.

  “The day of my arrival at Pennhyll,” Fitzalan said, “three different servants made a particular point of warning me the fourth earl yet walked the castle halls. I think they must have taken lessons from Price.” He paused. “Your cousin is watching you again.” Her feeling of unease increased, for indeed, Hew stared at her, eyes narrowed. “I do believe he’s jealous.”

  “Of what, my lord?”

  “Me.”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” She laughed. “With the wealth and position that is yours, you are to be envied, indeed.”

  He gave her a dazzling smile. “If you mean my position next to you, you’re quite right.”

  “Ridiculous.” But she burst out laughing despite not meaning to. They’d reached a set of stone stairs, and Price waited for them to assemble before leading them upward. Fitzalan moved closer, speaking in a low voice.

  “I would not for the world have you uncomfortable, Miss Willow. But I confess he’s made me wildly jealous.”

  The others started up the stairs. She stopped at the first step and faced him. Fitzalan kept his distance, for which she was grateful. “You have no cause for jealousy. Nor does my cousin.”

  “Don’t marry him.” He grabbed her hands and went down on one knee. “Miss Willow. Olivia. I must speak.”

  “Pray do not.”

  “Whatever Sebastian told you about me, he was wrong.” Fitzalan tightened his fingers around her hands. “He wasn’t once, but my feelings are not what they were. I admire you and respect you. You’re a lovely, lovely woman, and I am out of my mind with love for you. Olivia, I want to marry you. The honor would be mine, I assure you. I will cherish you to the end of my days.”

  “For pity’s sake, stand up.”

  “Olivia. I adore you. I want you to be my wife.”

  “Stand up.”

  He did, thrusting h
is hands deep into his pockets. “I love you.”

  “That’s nonsense.”

  He stepped toward her, too close, slipping an arm around her waist. She retreated. “All I ask is that you not reject me out of hand.”

  She laughed because the scene was so horribly accurate. Exactly what Tiern-Cope had warned. “Someone once told me never to trade a present liberty for a promise.”

  “Sebastian told you that, didn’t he?”

  “He was right.”

  Some of the light went out of his eyes. “If I even try to kiss you, you’ll think he was, and that I’m trying to seduce you.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “It’s only natural I’d want to kiss the woman I love. The woman I intend to make my wife.”

  “Shall we go? Before we’re missed.”

  “Olivia, I love you.”

  “I am not much amused.”

  “For once, I don’t mean to amuse you. I am free to marry where I choose. There is no impediment. No reason in the world why I cannot marry you and no reason for you to marry your cousin. Not when my heart is yours.” He took her arm. “Now, let us go. I don’t want talk until I can announce you’ve made me the happiest man on earth.”

  “The fourth earl,” Price was saying when she and Fitzalan rejoined the others, “whom some call the Black Earl, died before his time, found dead in a pool of blood that to this day stains the floor of the lord’s chamber. Neither soap nor lye can remove that mark of unholy death.”

  They were, she realized, not just in the north tower, but heading toward the stairs to her room.

  Tiern-Cope turned his head toward them, catching Olivia in the act of tucking a curl into place at the back of her head. Fitzalan stood close behind her, and the earl’s cold gaze flicked from her to Fitzalan. She felt a rush of heat because she knew what he thought had just happened.

  Single-file, they ascended the stairs and exited on the floor below her room. They halted midway to the parlor. The air felt cooler, and she shivered again. With two long strides and a flourish of his hands, Price threw open the parlor door. “Behold, my lords, ladies and gentlemen. The scene of the Black Earl’s murder most foul.”

  “I thought you said this was the earl’s chamber,” said Diana, who was the first to enter after Price himself.

  “Not the present earl’s chamber, of course,” Price said. He walked farther in, turning to the guests. “The family now resides in a more modern wing. Five hundred years ago this was the earl’s chamber. You must imagine not this gilt-edged desk but an oaken table, thick and solid enough to withstand use by a warrior knight of the realm. No delicate sofa or book-lined shelves, but an enormous black wardrobe and a carved chest. There a stand for a knight’s sword. Imagine, if you will, silk hangings surrounding the bed. Rushes cover the floor and firelight flickers over the walls. The air, despite the fire, chills. Imagine not this exquisite marble mantel straight from the finest quarries in all of Italy, but the stone hearth beneath. Captain Egremont, perhaps you will be kind enough to stand just here. Facing the fireplace, just off the carpet, as if back from a melee.” Egremont shrugged and moved into place.

  As one of the last in, Olivia stood furthest from the fireplace. No one paid her the slightest attention, not even Fitzalan who, at the moment, stood next to his sister and Mr. Cage. Nor Hew either, for that matter.

  “Listen for the sound of treacherous footsteps,” Price said standing behind Captain Egremont. “The door makes no sound, for the hinges have been well oiled against this night’s dark deed. A soft padding behind the Black Earl who stands unaware the sanctuary of his rooms has been breached. He contemplates his day, thinking perhaps of his lady wife, or planning a campaign for the next.” Egremont put a booted foot on the grate. Suddenly, Price bent and grasped the edge of the carpet. “Imagine murder.” With a practiced motion, he threw back the carpet, baring the stone floor to Egremont’s right. An irregular stain marred the floor. Diana threw herself against Tiern-Cope’s chest. He patted her shoulder then put her into the care of Mr. Cage. He backed away to let others examine the floor.

  While awaiting her turn to look, her eye was caught by something glittering in the darkened angle where the wall met the floor. Intrigued, Olivia stooped and peered into the corner. She stretched out an arm. Her fingers closed on something small and cool to the touch. The object felt like a bit of sharp-edged ice. Her blood ran cold when she saw what it was; the urge to throw it back to its shadowy corner made her fingers twitch. She stared at the letter engraved on the surface, then closed her hand around it.

  Dr. Fansher leaned to Olivia. “Have you found something, lass?” His eyebrows shot upward when she opened her fingers. “What is it?” Behind them the others crowded around the stained floor. She knew what she held and even, it seemed, how it came to rest in the corner, only she couldn’t know. “A cufflink.” He took it from her. “A for Alexander. Captain Alexander? My lord, is this yours?”

  Tiern-Cope took the cufflink from Fansher. The center of Olivia’s palm tingled. “Where did you find it, Ned?”

  “Didn’t. Miss Willow did. Ah, I want a closer look at the floor, and I can see Captain Egremont is wanting a word with me. Do excuse me, Captain. Miss Willow.”

  Tiern-Cope pocketed the bit of metal when Fansher took his leave. “Did we?” he said.

  “Onward,” Price said. “If the ladies dare—”

  On cue, Diana said, “Where?”

  “The dungeons, Miss. Where the Black Earl once imprisoned his own dear Lady wife.”

  People shifted position, moving toward the door. Fitzalan joined Tiern-Cope and tucked Olivia’s arm under his, obstructing Hew’s attempt to join Olivia. “Hullo there, Mr. Willow. Chilling sight, wasn’t it? Come along, Miss Willow. You, my dear Captain, most shamefully neglect my sister. Shall we, Olivia?”

  The dungeons extended the length and width of the north tower, but were reached via stairs from the Great Hall. Bare stone steps descended to blackness. Price, lamp held high, led the way. At the bottom, he distributed oil lamps to several of the gentlemen. Within the circle of light, the corridor was comfortably bright but ahead lay impenetrable darkness. “Stay close to the gentlemen, ladies.” Price laughed. “If we lose you in here, the only way we’ll find you again is by the gleam of your bones in the darkness.”

  Olivia wished her cloak were warmer as Price ushered them down several steps into a chamber that angled back into solid darkness. Cell doors opened to enclosures no larger than a carriage. The smell of decay and damp and of things left to rot made the air heavy. Several of the ladies pressed handkerchiefs to their noses. Walls glistened with blackish-green mold. Frost and ice clung to the stone. Manacles hung from the walls, a gruesome reminder of the former use of Pennhyll’s dungeons. Olivia could not help thinking the lanterns did not entirely relieve the dark. Blackness waited to reclaim its own. A shiver crawled up her spine at the thought of being trapped here, closed in by a brute of an earl.

  Price took them down another flight of stairs to a cell no less cold and dank than the others, but smaller yet. He pushed on the black metal door, opening it wide. “We stand at the extreme rear of the castle in Pennhyll’s most infamous cell. La Morte Froide,” he said. “The Cold Death. Where the Black Earl imprisoned his countess. Come in. Come in. No more than five at a time.”

  Olivia was in the last group to enter to cell. Price pointed to an opening high up the wall. “That aperture admits air. And snow or rain or water. And—Other things. Disagreeable things. No fewer than six gutters converge there and empty into this cell. A prisoner held here during a winter storm might well drown, if the cold did not kill him first.”

  “But could he not escape?” Hew asked. “The hole seems rather generous. Could not a prisoner climb out that passage?”

  “Indeed, sir.” Price nudged a manacle hanging beneath the opening. The metal scraped against the stone. “He could, if the guard forgot to secure him. But, I assure you, no one at Pennhyll was ever so forg
etful. And if one was, the prisoner who managed to navigate the tunnel would should fall to his death on the rocks below, for beyond this wall lies a sheer drop down the mountain.”

  Upon their exit, Olivia was at the back of the group because a jagged bit of metal from the manacles snagged the hem of her gown. She tugged. This was her only dress. If this one were damaged, quite literally, she had nothing else to wear. She tugged again, fingers searching the snarl of fabric in the hope of avoiding a tear that couldn’t be easily mended. Metal sliced her fingertip. The cell door screeched on its hinges. She cried out, and jerked her skirt. The muslin ripped free. Olivia turned in time to see a flash of bright fabric disappear into darkness.

  “Wait.” She dashed for the door but slipped on the slime-coated floor. Her arms flailed, and she teetered disastrously close to falling flat. The time it took to regain her footing cost her. The door closed with a resounding clang and trapped her in a world without light. In the blackness, she felt for the door. There wasn’t any handle on the inside. She hooked her fingers in the gap between the door and the stone wall, but it was jammed too tightly to open. With a fist, she pounded on door, bruising the side of her clenched hand on one of the metal cross struts. “There’s someone here. Open the door!”

  Thunder boomed, drowning out her voice. The heavens opened. Five minutes later, water and melting sleet poured through the grate and cascaded to the floor. The stench overpowered her. Frantic, she thumped on the door again. She could hear nothing through the walls. A sense of unreality took hold, deepened by the darkness.

  Couldn’t this be a dream, too? Just as she’d imagined the earl back there in the library, kissing her or the Black Earl leading her to Tiern-Cope’s private quarters, mightn’t she now be imagining herself trapped in this cell? The cold felt bitterly real. Her eyes adjusted to the black. She could see the walls now, dank with mold. A glimmer of grey came from the opening in the far wall. Runoff converged at the hole in a collision of water and granite. She leaned against the door and waited. Forever, it seemed. Her shawl did not protect her from the cold. She shivered. The water seemed to be coming down faster now.