“High praise indeed.” He smiled, about to say more when the sound of whistling distracted him. Devlin released the temptress in his arms and walked over to the arbor’s vine-canopied entrance. Tom Rooney steadily approached the one hop arbor where the steward just happened to be giving a kissing lesson to the housekeeper.
“Bloody hell,” Devlin mumbled under his breath.
What in God’s name was the man about now? And what was that ridiculous tune? It hardly sounded like a melody at all—more like a strange bird call or signal, repetitious and peculiar.
Doubt pricked Devlin’s brain. He looked over his shoulder. With her back to him, Miss Tatum stood still as a marble statue.
Had Rooney been signaling her?
Warning her about something?
At once, Devlin’s reason for being at Bellewyck Abbey returned with startling clarity.
Hands resting low on his hips, he waited until Rooney noticed his presence and stopped advancing. A silent test of wills ensued before the old man reluctantly returned from whence he came.
Despite an almost overwhelming desire to make love with Miss Tatum, he would go no further. A dark secret surrounded Bellewyck Abbey. It involved not just the missing ward, but the condition of the estate, and the carefully recorded ledgers. As a result, everyone must be held suspect—especially the housekeeper. Until she spoke truthfully with him and told him all she knew, there could never be anything more between them.
And, by God, he wanted more.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he looked about the odd-looking vineyard, searching for the right words to say. He could take his cue from her earlier behavior in the malting house. Pretend nothing had happened
“So, this is hops,” he said inanely.
“Yes,” she replied in a near whisper.
“They are quite aromatic.”
Christiana faced him. “They become more fragrant as harvesting nears.”
Obviously, they both needed to compose themselves. The task proved very difficult. He could still taste her sweet lips. He tried not to notice the high color on her cheek, or the rapid rise and fall of ivory breasts above the rounded neckline of her gown. Much as he didn’t want to close the door on their desire for one another, he begrudgingly accepted the inevitable.
“I should not have kissed you,” he said.
She nodded then turned away. Directing her attention to the fertile vines, she gently caressed a cylindrically shaped cone. “The cones become lighter in color as they mature.”
“I am sure you agree any further intimacy between us would be a mistake, particularly when so much uncertainty exists about, well, everything.”
“We use the leaves for tea.” She plucked a leaf from a vine. “There are medicinal purposes to hops. Many people do not know that.”
He closed the distance between them, stopping just behind her. His hand reached out to stroke the length of her heavy braid, but he closed his fist against the impulsive gesture.
“So many secrets surround you. Surround everything and everyone here. If you would just tell me the truth, things could be different between us. And I want things to be different between us.”
“Do you have a family?” she asked in a quiet voice.
He frowned at the change in subject. “Are you asking whether or not I have a wife?”
Half cast in shadow, she turned toward him. “Actually I am asking if you have a family—parents, brothers, sisters.” She looked down at the hop leaf all but shredded now in her hand. “But, do you have a wife?”
“No, I am not married.” He almost smiled at her attempt to be cavalier about whether or not he might be married—especially after their passionate kissing a few moments ago. “As for my family, there is but my widowed mother and two sisters already wed.”
She nodded. “Do you love them?”
“What?”
“Do you love them?”
“Do not be ridiculous,” he muttered, and combed his hair with his hands.
“Are you embarrassed to answer?” She stepped closer, her gaze intent as she looked up at him. “Never mind; let me rephrase my question. If your family needed you, if their very lives depended upon you, could you turn your back and walk away?”
“Of course not.”
With a sad smile, she gently touched the side of his face. “Neither can I.”
Stunned, Devlin could do nothing but watch as she quickly exited the arbor. He knew one truth now—Miss Tatum protected someone. No doubt, in her mind, to divulge the truth to him would be an act of betrayal against those she loved.
He admired loyalty, but could not be swayed by such a dilemma. He must learn the secrets of Bellewyck Abbey and nothing, not even his burning desire for her, would prevent him from doing just that.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“He is not a lover
who does not love forever.”
~ Euripides
(480-406 BC)
Troades
“I should not have kissed you.”— So said the man of my dreams. Lured by a strange, seductive enchantment, I fancied myself falling in love, amazed at the whirlwind of emotions soaring through my body. I doubted every rule by which I have lived. Tempted to bare my soul to a stranger, I almost spoke of what I have never voiced aloud. It grieves me how close I came to abandoning those I love.
Christiana blotted the ink from her carefully scripted words then blew on the precious paper for good measure. It seemed rather pointless to keep a diary. No one would ever read it, not unless they ventured beneath the abbey into the ancient, winding labyrinth known as the Shadow Walk. And yet, the small red book had become so much a part of her life, it would be impossible to stop writing in it now.
Within the pages of her diary were recorded the dreams she’d once believed would come true. It had been the secret friend to tell her fears. The instrument to bear witness to all she’d seen and heard. And when, on occasion, she found herself too weary or worried to write, a quote, scripture, or bit of poetry had been inscribed to bring solace, hope, or a greater understanding about life and her place in the world.
She looked once more at the words she’d just written, unable to forget what happened in the arbor with Mr. Randolph. And unable to forgive what a fool she’d been. With a sad sigh, she closed the book and placed it inside the strongbox.
The strongbox that held the secret she must guard. The strongbox that could destroy everyone she loved. The strongbox that Lord Bellewyck said would bring freedom.
She pulled a gray woolen shawl closer about her shoulders, but it did little to ward off the chill that always came when she thought about the dead man that Pemberton and Mr. Randolph believed incapable of deceit.
“I wonder,” she said softly. “What would Mr. Randolph do if I were to gift him with this box and its contents?”
Most likely, the steward would leave at first light and deliver it to Pemberton. Nevermore would Mr. Randolph cast his eyes upon Bellewyck Abbey or give another thought to those he’d left behind, especially her.
“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “The secret is mine to protect; the truth—mine to give.”
Standing, Christiana gathered her slipping woolen shawl tighter about her shoulders then picked up the tall, lighted candlestick from the desk. She walked across the room, ignoring cases of leather-bound books and ancient manuscripts. She stopped before a large, gilded painting that rested against the wall. Setting the candlestick on a nearby table, she lifted the black cloth protecting the canvas.
A distinguished gentleman stared back with a somber expression. His hair was light brown in color, and his eyes were large and dark like the buttons on a man’s greatcoat. His manner and attire proclaimed him a man of wealth and influence. Even the hound at his feet looked up at its master with reverence. Whenever she came down to the Shadow Walk, she looked at the portrait. Yet as familiar as she was with the image, the man remained a stranger.
It was to an adjacent, smaller portrait that she felt
tethered in some way. Gently revealing its subject, she looked upon a face that might have been her own. How strange to look upon one’s mirror image and have no recollection of that person. How sad to never have known the sound of her voice, the lilt of her laughter, or the touch of her hand.
She told herself there had been no sentiment involved when saving these two portraits from the clutches of Lord Bellewyck. In truth, her heart ached for the absence of this man and woman—and the difference they might have made in her life.
Were they watching now from heaven? Does a golden window open from time-to-time, a portal through time and space? Do those that sleep in death ever visit loved ones still living?
Even should they visit this very moment, shame prevented her from wishing for such a reunion. At one time she looked upon the portraits and engaged in one-sided conversations about her day. Not anymore. Neither did she whisper for guidance or invoke prayers of understanding at what she’d become. And yet, today, she studied the two faces, searching for the blink of an eye, a quivering breath. Nothing happened. She covered the images again.
Retrieving the candlestick, Christiana walked out of the secret chamber that had been her private sanctuary since childhood. The flickering, solitary light of the taper formed an eerie halo about her head. Without a backward glance, she continued onward into the vast darkness of the Shadow Walk, her steps sure and certain.
Iron sconces, forged in another time, had been strategically placed along the walls but their torches remained unlit now. She’d grown accustomed to the darkness and had no need for their light.
The trickling sound of water echoed as she ascended the steep path winding above an underground lake. She paused at the turning point, reflecting on the alternate path she’d taken as a child. It led to a hidden grotto where she’d first met Blackjack. Badly wounded, sick with fever, and hiding from men who wanted him dead, she’d befriended the smuggler. She protected him, brought him food, read to him, and helped nurse his injuries. And she’d only been six years old.
So much about the Shadow Walk influenced her life from an early age. In truth, it was as much a part of her now as the blood in her veins. This secret world she loved so well, hidden beneath the ancient abbey, had helped her overcome her fears and survive. It had strengthened and inspired her to learn more about herself, the sacrifices of others, and the history of Bellewyck.
And somehow she knew the Shadow Walk didn’t just hold the guarded key to her past and her present, but her future as well.
Leaning against the high stone wall surrounding a secluded knot garden, a blade of grass clenched between his teeth, Devlin watched Tom Rooney pause from trimming a box hedge and wipe his brow. Only then did the old gardener notice someone else present.
Devlin suspected Rooney knew some intimacy had happened between the housekeeper and the steward in the hop garden. Of course, he could only speculate whether the man had told anyone else. It seemed likely.
Why else would the other servants be eyeing me peculiarly all week—or rather more peculiarly than usual?
Miss Tatum had been avoiding him, too. Was she embarrassed because the servants knew about their stolen kisses in the arbor? Or, hurt by the inept way in which he’d handled what happened afterwards?
Pulling away from his position at the wall, Devlin followed a narrow turf path among neatly manicured box hedges and vibrant flowerbeds, making a point to admire the color and variety of the many blooms.
“It appears you spend a great deal of time here, Rooney.”
Continuing to study the flowerbeds, a sickening thought came to mind. He remembered the morbid reference Duncan had made about the possibility the ward had been murdered and buried beneath the roses in Kent. The thriving flowerbeds took on new meaning.
He contemplated Rooney and his elegant garden. Although Duncan’s notion might be absurd, it couldn’t hurt to enquire why the gardener kept this particular area so well tended.
“I daresay there are a number of other areas about the grounds also requiring attention,” he commented. “The ivy about the west façade resembles more a jungle.”
When Rooney said nothing in response, Devlin tried to decipher the expression on the annoying man’s face. Like everyone else, the old gardener resented him. But today there seemed more contempt than grievance in the man’s eyes.
Having made a complete turn about the garden, Devlin noted a series of leafy Hornbeam arches leading to a second walled garden—larger, and secured by a heavy iron gate. Peering between the ironwork he saw an enclosed orchard.
“Are those lemon trees?” He glanced back at the groundskeeper. “For Miss Tatum, I presume?”
Rooney’s stern frown conveyed all too well he didn’t appreciate the new steward enquiring about Miss Tatum and her use of lemons. Walking back toward Rooney, Devlin stopped directly in front of the disgruntled servant.
“Surliness is unacceptable behavior for a servant to possess.” Realizing the man must be in his sixties and would have trouble finding a new situation, Devlin sighed. “Then again, you are not paid for your conversational abilities. You are obviously skilled as a gardener. Still, I suggest you perform your duties with the least amount of animosity directed toward me.”
The sound of iron creaking distracted Devlin. He turned to see the woman who’d been haunting his days and nights. She emerged from the enclosed orchard, radiant in a pale pink gown and faded gray wrap. She stopped short at the sight of him.
“Where the deuce did you come from?” Devlin neared her. “I looked in that orchard a moment ago and saw no one.”
Miss Tatum glanced down at a basket of pears she carried. “I must have been in a section of the orchard out of your view.”
“Impossible.” Devlin walked around her and went into the orchard.
A few moments later, as he sat on a stone bench, the sound of the gate opening drew his attention. He looked up to see his beguiling housekeeper. As she walked, the skirt of her gown brushed soft blades of freshly cut turf with but a whisper of sound. She stopped before him, her body casting a shadow upon his face and making her presence appear rimmed in an almost ethereal golden light.
“The view from the gate can be deceptive, Mr. Randolph. A person can be in the orchard and still not be seen from the gate.”
Devlin stared hard at her.
“You simply made a mistake.” With a gentle, if not, sympathetic smile, she added, “No need for upset or ill temper.”
“I am not upset, and I do not make mistakes.”
“I see, well then it must be a great hardship to be so perfect. Are you quite certain you are not royalty in disguise?”
“Just what do you mean by that!” he snapped.
“Nothing,” she said and took a step back.
Devlin closed his eyes and tried to rein in his temper. What the devil is wrong with me? This is the first time they’d spoken in days. The first time they’d been in each other’s company since the morning in the hop garden. He’d gone over in his mind a million times the things he would say and how differently he’d act if given another chance. This churlish behavior had not been in the scenario.
Why was he so angry? And suddenly he knew. She seemed not the least bit affected by his presence. His first instinct—after recovering from the shock of seeing her—had been to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless. One thing was certain. He couldn’t pull her close then push her away each time they met. Either he wanted her or he didn’t. She was guilty or innocent. Did he listen to his head or his heart?
Well, when all else fails, change the subject.
He looked about the magnificent orchard. “I have often wondered what the grounds would look like if maintained properly. To think, I believed Rooney did nothing—apart from making my life miserable, of course.”
Miss Tatum walked over to stand beneath the canopy of a cherry tree, the soft rustling of its leaves casting delicate shadows upon her face. “Why are you always so suspicious about everyone and everyt
hing?”
She selected a pear from her basket and bit into the ripened fruit. There was an innocent sensuality about her, an almost coquettish glint in her enchanting eyes. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she flirted with him. Then again, he found himself half-tempted to look over his shoulder and see if some other gentleman stood behind him.
Is this the same woman who’d been avoiding his company for days at a time? The same woman he’d feared wounded by their amorous encounter in the hop field?
The woman had every right to be angry with him. But her demeanor now appeared quite the opposite. She seemed to want his company. In truth, she could have returned to the abbey. Instead, she’d followed him into the orchard where they were quite alone.
“Human nature, I suppose.” He joined her beneath the shade of the tree. “I might ask the same of you. Why are you so suspicious of me?”
A stray lock of silky hair danced about her face on a soft breeze. He gathered it in his fingers, inhaled its floral scent, and tucked it in place behind a delicate shell-like ear. “You are suspicious of me, are you not?”
“I think perhaps I have reason to be.”
Devlin grinned. “Our suspicions could be nothing more than two people trying to deny something else.”
“And what might that be?”
“As to that, my dear Miss Tatum, permit me to demonstrate.”
Lost in the beauty of her eyes and the lush shape of a rosebud mouth, he lowered his head. There followed a delicate, sensuous melding of their lips and tongues. Remembering her tentative, virginal response to his kiss in the hop garden, and the skill she now demonstrated under his private tutelage, he smiled against her mouth—savoring the lingering taste of pear juice upon petal-soft lips.
Her pear and the basket fell upon the ground with a soft thump. Her arms then circled his waist in a delicate grasp. Groaning low, he deepened their intimacy. From that point on, the kiss became wildly erotic—to such an extent it seemed they both might burst into flames.
Womanly gasps lifted from parted lips as he kissed the side of her soft neck. “If you ever think to hide from me again, I shall tear the abbey apart stone by stone.”
THE SENSE OF HONOR Page 13