by Olivia Drake
“He’s come to trust me, to love me like a mother. Yet if I were your mistress, I couldn’t possibly remain his governess. It would be too scandalous. I’d have to move away from here and never see him again.”
The catch in her voice affected Simon deeply. “I could bring him to visit you from time to time.”
“And taint him with my notoriety? No! Meanwhile, he would feel abandoned by me—and that I could never bear.” She glared over her shoulder at Simon. “But I don’t suppose you stopped to think of the effect your selfish plan would have on him.”
“Selfish.” Rejecting the sting of guilt, Simon fastened the last button and then turned her around to face him. “By God, you’ll find me a most generous man. I’ll buy you whatever you like. A house, a carriage, jewels. You’ll want for nothing.”
“Nothing but my self-respect—and the little boy I’ve come to love like my own son.”
Despite her forceful tone, her eyes held a watery sheen. The realization that he’d driven her to tears shocked Simon to the core. He had wanted to give her happiness, not cause her pain. “Annabelle…”
She ignored his entreaty. Brushing past him, she snatched up her garnet slippers from the floor and walked out of the room without looking back.
Chapter 21
Just after luncheon the following afternoon, Annabelle was giving Nicholas an art lesson in the schoolroom when the sound of shuffling footsteps emanated from the outer corridor. A few moments later, Ludlow appeared in the doorway.
The stooped old retainer inched his way past the assortment of small tables and chairs. It was so odd to see him here in the nursery that Annabelle set down her pencil at once and went to greet him.
He handed a parcel to her. “For you, Miss Quinn.”
Mystified, she took it. It was slightly larger than a book. The brown paper wrapping held no name or address. “Did this arrive by post?”
“Nay, but perchance you might guess the sender.” Much to Annabelle’s astonishment, Ludlow winked one rheumy blue eye at her.
As he turned around and retraced his steps, a blush suffused her entire body. Of course. Ludlow was Simon’s personal manservant.
Lord Simon. She must not allow herself to think of him in so familiar a fashion. He was her employer, nothing more.
But no matter how many times she’d repeated that to herself, Annabelle could not erase the memory of what had happened between them. Once she had succumbed to that fateful kiss, their relationship had altered forever. She had relived their intimate encounter a hundred times since leaving Simon in the guest bedchamber …
Nicholas trotted to her side, his eyes agog. “Is it your birthday, Miss Quinn?”
She gave him a distracted smile. “No, not until December. Perhaps this is from the school where I used to teach. I may have forgotten something there when I moved to Castle Kevern.”
Nicholas accepted the explanation. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
“Later. For now, I’m more anxious to see how your sketch is progressing.”
She placed the parcel on the low bookcase nearest to her bedchamber, then went to view his drawing of horses in a pasture. She made some suggestions for improvement, adding shading in certain areas. All the while, her gaze kept straying to the parcel.
What lay inside it?
The light weight of the package gave a clue to its contents. I’ll buy you whatever you like. A house, a carriage, jewels.
Well, it couldn’t be a house or a carriage, so perhaps Simon had sent jewels as a bribe to entice her into yielding. The very notion was insulting to the extreme. How could he believe her so shallow, so greedy, so unprincipled that she would sell her body for a few precious stones?
In the midst of her anger, she felt the bone-deep ache of loss. When he had drawn her into his arms and kissed her for the first time, nothing could have prepared her for the intense pleasure of their closeness. A storm of desire had swept away her morals and reason. She had become a creature of sensuality, so susceptible to his persuasion that she had allowed him to disrobe her, to caress her in the most shockingly intimate manner. Now, in the cold light of day, she understood the origin of her weakness for him. She had lulled herself into believing he felt the same depth of emotion as she did. Because his whispered words had been a siren call to her lonely heart. You are so very beautiful … We belong together, my love.
But he didn’t love her. Those tender phrases had been lies designed to deceive Annabelle into surrendering to him. She despised him for duping her—even as she yearned to experience the madness all over again.
No. She must never again succumb to temptation. It would mean the ruination of her. Gentlemen could carry on discreet affairs, but a woman in her reduced circumstances would suffer severe consequences. Annabelle would lose her position and no decent family would ever hire her again.
Dear God, she should have refused the parcel, sent it back with Ludlow. She really ought to take it downstairs unopened and leave it in Simon’s study. Yet her intense curiosity persisted.
What had he given her? Surely there could be no harm in knowing.
When Elowen brought the tea tray, Annabelle used the opportunity to take the parcel into the privacy of her bedchamber. With trembling fingers, she untied the string. The paper fell away to reveal a pretty, enameled box. She slowly lifted the lid. Instead of jewels, a length of fine, cream-colored merino lay inside.
Unbidden, her fingers stroked the exquisitely soft fabric. It was the shawl she had admired in the village shop. Simon must have seen her holding it when he and Nicholas had come to take her back to the castle.
As she picked up the shawl, a card fell out of the folds. It was embossed with the gold Kevern seal. A single sentence was scrawled boldly across the front: My love, I hope you can forgive me.
In lieu of his name, he had signed a heavy black S.
Annabelle stared down at the card in her hand. Against her will, the dangerous allure of yearning filled her heart. My love …
How desperately she wanted to believe Simon loved her. But those were the same two words he’d spoken so ardently in the midst of her seduction. He hadn’t meant them then, and he didn’t mean them now. His sole purpose was to coax her into his bed. Because if he truly had deep, abiding feelings for her, he would not have dishonored her with his loathsome proposition.
A wild anger flared inside her. How dare he try to wheedle her with pretty gifts and false endearments! She would tell him so to his face, refuse him once and for all.
Snatching up the shawl, she left the bedchamber. She bade Elowen stay with Nicholas and then hurried downstairs to the study. But Simon wasn’t there. The chair behind the mahogany desk was empty.
Of course, it was only mid-afternoon and he must still be digging at the Celtic site on the hillside. So much the better. She needed a brisk walk to clear her head. It would give her time to plan exactly what she would say to the scoundrel.
Annabelle hastened back out into the corridor. Upon reaching the landing overlooking the great hall, she glanced down and spied a couple standing in the shadows beneath the grand staircase. Their heads close together, they appeared to be deep in conversation. The woman had her hand on his arm in a distinctly intimate gesture. With a jolt, Annabelle recognized the two of them.
Mrs. Wickett and Mr. Bunting.
What was he doing here? For that matter, why were they whispering together?
In her agitated state, Annabelle didn’t really care to find out. She had no wish to encounter either of them. But she could see the door to the courtyard and this was the quickest route to it.
She marched down the stairs. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the housekeeper cast a furtive glance upward. The woman swiftly dropped her hand from the vicar’s arm and took a step backward.
Pretending not to see them, Annabelle walked past a medieval suit of armor on display and headed toward the massive oak door. Her footsteps tapped sharply on the flagstones.
“Where are you going?”
Mrs. Wickett called out.
Drat. Annabelle stopped and turned, feigning a look of surprise. “Oh, Mrs. Wickett, Mr. Bunting. I didn’t see you there. If you’ll excuse me, I’m going for a walk.”
The vicar stepped out of the shadows. Clad in black except for his white clerical collar, he watched her with those foxlike features, his lips slightly curled. “Neglecting the young duke, are you?” he said. “I wonder what Lord Simon will have to say about that.”
“I’ll ask him. I was just going to visit Lord Simon on the hillside to check on his progress.”
Bunting exchanged a glance with Mrs. Wickett. The two of them seemed to share a wordless communication.
“Then I shall accompany you,” the vicar said. “I have been wanting to take a look at this much-vaunted Druid site.”
Annabelle’s fingers tightened around the shawl. Oh, for pity’s sake! How was she to confront Simon with the vicar present? But she could hardly refuse the man’s company when she’d already stated her destination.
Caught in a trap of her own making, she reluctantly led the way out into the courtyard with its merrily splashing dolphin fountain. The air was brisk, but she refused to put on the shawl, preferring to carry it over her arm lest Simon see her wearing it. The heat of her anger would have to keep her warm.
However, she didn’t have the leisure to think about Simon, not with Mr. Bunting strolling beside her. They took the path that skirted the castle wall and for a few minutes there was only the scrape of their footsteps to fill the silence. It was apparent from his closed expression that he still resented her for ousting him as Nicolas’s tutor. So did Mrs. Wickett, who had made her exalted opinion of the vicar quite clear.
After seeing them together, Annabelle wondered if there might be a secret romance between him and the widowed housekeeper. That would certainly explain Mrs. Wickett’s resentment of Annabelle. The woman wouldn’t appreciate having her lover banished from the castle.
Annabelle’s wayward mind tried to picture those two sour, disagreeable people kissing with the same wild passion she and Simon had shared. But she succeeded only in stirring erotic memories of her own that were best kept buried.
As a distraction, she made a stab at polite conversation. “Have you an interest in the history of the ancient Celtic people, Mr. Bunting?”
“I’ve done some reading on the era,” he said stiffly. “I know they had sacred groves of trees where their Druid priests practiced magic.”
“There are four ancient oaks at the site. Though I can’t imagine that such trees could survive for nearly two millennia.”
“The Druids were reputed to be masters of spell-casting. Some might argue that they cast an enchantment over the place.”
Annabelle laughed. “Surely you don’t believe that.”
“I am merely extrapolating from published works, Miss Quinn. For instance, Pliny the Elder described a ceremony in which the white-robed Druids climbed a sacred oak, cut down mistletoe, and then killed two white bulls. In that manner, the Druids gained the power to heal.”
The spark of fervency in his dark eyes surprised her. She had read that selection herself, though with less enthusiasm for the animal sacrifice. “Mistletoe is said to be a natural healing agent. So perhaps their magic was really quite ordinary.”
Bunting cast a disagreeable look at her. “That is hardly the only type of magic attributed to the Druids. It is written they were able to stop entire armies by uttering strong incantations. They even had influence over the weather.”
“If that were true, then why are these powers not known to us today?”
“The Druids performed their rituals in secret. The spells were lost over the ages as the Celtic people were conquered.”
“Thus we can conclude that the Druids’ ability to stop armies must not have been very effective.”
He narrowed his eyes to slits. “You are entirely too flippant, Miss Quinn. It would behoove you to develop a serious appreciation for British history since you are teaching His Grace of Kevern.”
Annabelle had no wish to discuss Nicholas’s schooling with this man. Besides, she was beginning to wonder at the cleric’s interest in pagan priests. He appeared overly fascinated by their magical abilities. “Then do tell me more. You seem to be quite the expert on the Druids.”
“I taught ancient history at Oxford, so I am well versed in Greek and Roman writings about the Celtic peoples.” He slid a cunning glance in her direction. “You may be interested to learn, there is evidence the Druids were practitioners of human sacrifice. It is said they were able to read the future by observing the gushing of a man’s blood from his body and the writhing of his limbs as he died.”
Annabelle felt a twist of revulsion. The vicar must be deliberately trying to unsettle her. Or perhaps there was something more sinister to his knowledge of the Druids. Perhaps he was the one who had been secretly digging at the site.
The one who had fired the warning shot at her.
A chill tiptoed down her spine. They had reached the place where Nicholas had gone chasing downhill after the rabbit. Her heart beating faster, Annabelle felt a keen wish to reach Simon. Despite their estrangement, she would feel safer in his presence.
“The site is down this way,” she said, pointing.
“Do lead on, Miss Quinn.”
Annabelle had no intention of turning her back on the vicar. “Perhaps we should walk side by side. The way is difficult in places and I may need your assistance.”
Clutching her skirts, she started down the slope with him. The humus was thick underfoot as the oaks and beeches shed their crimson and gold leaves. The scents of autumn decay masked even the ever-present brine of the sea. Brambles caught at her hem, and once she had to bend down to unhook herself.
As she straightened up, Bunting’s voice startled her. “Has Lord Simon discovered any treasures?”
He was too close, and she edged away. “I don’t know. He hasn’t told me.” The previous day, she had been too otherwise engaged with Simon even to think of asking. Nothing else had existed but the two of them, wrapped in bodily pleasure …
“Whatever he finds may contain a clue,” Bunting muttered.
“A clue?”
“To the ancient ways of the Druids, of course. It would be most intriguing to discover more about how they performed their rituals.”
His interest was too keen to be a coincidence, she thought uneasily. Did Simon know of it?
They passed the place where she’d almost been shot, but if Mr. Bunting had been the gunman, he showed no sign of recognizing the spot. His gaze was fixed downhill on the site now visible through the trees. A workman trundled a wheelbarrow full of dirt toward a heap at the edge of the clearing. Simon stood in a deep hole, only his head visible as he shoveled out more earth.
Uttering a low exclamation, the vicar hurried ahead of her, his shoes scuffing through the blanket of leaves. Annabelle breathed a little easier as she followed him. Apparently he meant her no harm—at least not in front of witnesses.
Simon must have seen them coming, for he hoisted himself out of the hole and brushed the dirt from his shirt and trousers. Lifting his arm, he swiped his sleeve across his brow. He frowned at the vicar and then at her as she descended the final few yards to the site.
Annabelle’s mouth went dry. The sight of him caused an involuntary pulse of desire deep inside her. His shirt was damp with sweat, the linen clinging in places to his muscled torso. With his black hair mussed, he looked more like a common laborer than the privileged son of a duke.
He glanced down at the shawl draped over her arm. His gaze searched her face again, and he took a step forward. Annabelle compressed her lips. How she wished they were alone so that she could tell him exactly how she felt about his attempt to buy her affections.
“This is quite a surprise,” he said, frowning at both her and the vicar. “I hardly expected to see the two of you together.”
“I came to the castle to deliver some relig
ious tracts for the staff,” Mr. Bunting said. “When I learned that Miss Quinn was on her way here, I thought to fulfill my curiosity.” He peered into the hole. “Have you found anything yet, my lord?”
Simon coolly studied the man. “As it happens, yes. Have a look.”
Annabelle turned her attention to the excavation. The vines had been cleared away and Simon had tunneled underneath the mound in the center of the clearing. Deep inside that hollowed-out place there was a large slab of stone rather like an altar. On it lay a jumbled pile of what looked like pale sticks.
“Are those … bones?” she asked in faint horror.
“Animal bones,” Simon clarified.
“From sacrifices,” Mr. Bunting said, a quiver of excitement in his voice. “That proves the Druids used this place for their holy rites.”
“It would seem so. Though perhaps it’s too soon to draw conclusions. I’m far from finished with the excavation.”
Simon was watching the vicar closely, and Annabelle wondered if he had known of the man’s interest in the site. In case he hadn’t, she said, “Mr. Bunting is very knowledgeable about the ancient Celts, Lord Simon. On the walk here, he told me all manner of stories about the Druid priests. You may wish to consult him if you find anything else of significance.”
Simon sent a scowl her way, and she had the distinct impression that he was warning her to stay out of the matter.
“Now there’s a capital notion,” the vicar said, rubbing his hands together. “As well you know, my lord, my background as a historian at Oxford eminently qualifies me for the task.”
“Then you’ll be interested to hear that I have found something else. I’ve just broken through to an underground chamber.”
“Truly?” The vicar almost fell over in his haste to hunker down and peer again into the hole. “Where?”
Simon pointed deep into the hollowed-out opening. “In the back,” he said. “It’s hard to see without a lamp, but there appears to be an entrance to a small cave.”
“A cave?” Annabelle asked in surprise.
“The area is honeycombed with them,” Simon said. “Which is why I wouldn’t get my hopes up that it’s anything significant. It may be a natural occurrence that has nothing whatsoever to do with the Celts.”