Petrescu did not respond, but the small, enigmatic smile remained.
There was a predatory element to the man that Sam was determined to uncover. Hazel had initially seemed to hope the count was a benevolent, beloved family member. She’d not known a father in her life, and it could be she would place Petrescu in that role. Sam was unencumbered by sentiment, and therefore more objective.
He grimly thought again of Hazel making the voyage alone, which reminded him they were under the ocean at an unseemly depth, which then boosted his heart rate and made a sheen of sweat break out on his brow.
He fought to maintain control, to avoid losing his first course all over the second, and took a shaky breath.
Hazel’s hand crept beneath the table and found his fist, which he’d shoved hard against his thigh. When he relaxed his hand, she placed her thumb and forefinger over his and gently pressed them together.
The motion prompted his memory, and he took a deep breath while moving his vegetables around on his plate with his fork. His hand was pleasantly warm beneath hers, and he noted again her effortless ability to heal. He was unsure if the sensation emanated from her gold chain, which touched his skin, or simply from her.
“Tell me about your homeland,” Hazel said to the count. She kept her hand atop Sam’s, and if Petrescu noticed Sam’s distress, he didn’t remark on it.
“It is green,” Petrescu said with a chuckle. “Rugged, and incredibly beautiful. Charming villages clustered in valleys and around ancient monasteries, and situated against mountainous passes. My country is filled with a rich history and resilient people. Castle Petrescu is located near Vania, which is a town dating back centuries that has survived differing invasions and rule. The people remain steadfast and unbroken through the generations, despite attempts at subjugation by foreign invaders and despite any number of plagues.”
Sounds lovely, Sam thought as he focused on the light touch and warmth of Hazel’s hand.
“Your surname is certainly Romanian, is it not?” Hazel continued.
Petrescu nodded. “Places and names in Romania often bear three names: Romanian, Hungarian, and German. We have only ever been known as Petrescu, however.”
“And how long has your—our—family been in the country?”
Sam straightened in his seat and tried to focus on the conversation.
The count smiled at Hazel. “Five hundred years.”
She nodded. “And before? Do you know where the family originated? I couldn’t find any reference to the family name before the 1300s.”
Petrescu blinked.
The silence stretched, and Sam watched the count with interest.
Hazel cleared her throat and added, “I read a book on Romanian history last night.”
“You read an entire book on Romania’s history last night?” Petrescu asked.
“I skimmed over passages,” Hazel said. “Perhaps I missed something.”
“I’m certain that must be the case,” Petrescu said. His smile was cold, like everything else about the man. The light from the chandelier cast shadows on the table, and Petrescu’s pupils seemed to obscure any color in his eyes. “Histories of nearly any subject tend to be dry and laborious.”
Sam kept his mouth shut. Hazel’s verbal retreat had been smart, but he also knew it was untrue. If she said she’d read a book last night, it meant she had truly read the book, and she hadn’t missed a thing. Why would Petrescu evade explaining something as simple as the family origins?
Hazel laughed. “So true. I confess, parts of history volumes bore me to tears.”
Sam was forced to reevaluate his analysis of Hazel’s innocence and vulnerability. She was lying through her teeth, but anyone unfamiliar with her would be none the wiser. Her comment lightened the mood and allowed conversation to naturally flow to other topics. She was much savvier than he’d realized, and at that point he knew his association with her over the past year had done little to illuminate her depth.
Perhaps she didn’t need him after all. He’d rushed in, assuming she required rescuing. Her hand still rested over his, and he acknowledged that if anybody had done any rescuing to that point, it had been she.
“Tell me about my sister,” she said.
Petrescu’s face took on the grave, compassionate air he seemed to have perfected. “Your sister is identical to you in appearance, save hair and eye color. It is as you said earlier: where you are golden-haired and golden-eyed, she is blonde—nearly silver-haired—and her eyes are a unique shade of lavender.”
Sam tried to imagine Hazel with her sister’s coloring, and found it was impossible. He could only see the gold he had always known.
Petrescu set down his silverware. “I have been forced to consider that, of course, someone may know of you and your sister and of the abilities I believe you both possess.” He leaned forward and braced his forearms on the table’s edge, his fingers laced loosely together. “You see, my dear, we are a family of wealth with our share of enemies.”
Sam wrapped his fingers around Hazel’s, which she had tightened into a fist. She glanced at him, and he gave her hand a small squeeze. He looked at their host, whose eyes flicked from Hazel to Sam, and back again.
Petrescu watched her for a moment and then relaxed in his chair. This time, his gaze rested only on Sam, and the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.
Challenge accepted.
Hazel slowly paced the length of her suite and examined the details within it. It was truly beautiful, and had she been on an excursion of a different sort, she might have found pleasure in it. She’d learned some things about her uncle at dinner tonight, things that cast his truthfulness into question.
She had read the entire book on Romania’s history, in less than an hour, in fact, and while she didn’t consider herself an expert on the subject after one volume, Dravor had paused tellingly when she’d asked about the Petrescu family history. She wouldn’t have given the matter another thought if he’d stated he was unsure or he hadn’t found records before the 1300s—there was certainly nothing suspect in that—but something about his expression hinted that he knew something he did not want to tell her.
The sitting area in her suite contained a faux mantel with an illusory flame. Hanging above it was a bucolic painting of a meadow, a stream, and a forest line in the distance—it could have been anywhere in the world. There was nothing to tie it to Romania, and while she appreciated the eclectic value of the ship’s décor, it was also unfamiliar and unattached to any one style. She felt adrift, cut off from everything she knew, and an aura of uncomfortable mystery, of half-truths and deception clouded the whole experience, and she knew a moment of truly alarming confusion.
She wandered to the lovely bed and touched a length of the gauzy fabric that threaded around the frame atop the four posts and then draped down each one. She sat down on the mattress, which was soft and decadent, and closed her eyes.
She’d been concerned for Sam. She had known the moment when his fears about the submersible resurfaced and had been gratified to know her gesture helped him reclaim a sense of relative calm. The best moment of the meal, however, had been when he must have sensed her own distress at Dravor’s subterfuge and turned his hand over to protect hers. She couldn’t reconcile her feelings of guilt that Sam had put his own life aside to help her, and her gratitude that he had, that she had no choice but to be in his company, to enjoy the thrill she felt sitting next to him.
She heard a sound in the maid’s room adjoining hers, and she made her way to the French doors that connected them. The glass was frosted, but she saw Sally Tucker’s shadowed image within. She knocked quietly.
“You’re settling in?” She asked when the girl opened the door.
“Yes, miss—my lady.” Sally curtsied and lowered her eyes.
Hazel smiled. “Please, you must call me Hazel. And your hair—I didn
’t see it before in the dark of the carriage. It’s the most beautiful shade of red I’ve ever seen.”
Sally blushed. “My thanks, miss—Hazel.”
“Have you been acquainting yourself with the ship?”
Sally nodded. “The count said I should introduce myself to the other servants, and the cook’s assistant gave me a tour. I hope I’ll be useful to you, but I found myself quite lost while looking for the laundry.”
Hazel smiled. “I’ve yet to see the whole of the craft, but I’m certain we’ll manage it together. Is your room to your liking?”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes. I’ve never had my own room before.”
“I confess, my accommodations are beyond anything I’ve seen in some time.” Hazel paused. The girl was extremely thin, and very pale. “Have you eaten dinner?”
Sally nodded. “Only just. I’m to take meals and tea with the servants in the kitchen. I quite like it—it’s warm in there.”
Hazel was struck by the simplicity of the statement, and the knowledge that she had much for which to be grateful. She’d never been cold; Rowena had provided comfortably for the two of them. It had never been extravagant, but it had been more than enough.
“I’ll leave these connecting doors unlocked between our rooms. Feel free to access the lavatory just through here.”
Sally’s eyes widened. “Oh, I couldn’t! I’m to use the servants’ facilities down one deck.”
“That is utter nonsense. I insist we share mine. Agreed?”
Sally’s brow pinched, but she nodded. “Thank you, my la—Hazel.” She paused. “I’ve never been a lady’s maid, forgive me if I slip in my duties. Shall I help you change clothes?”
“Not this evening, thank you. We’ll discuss routines tomorrow. I shall be fine for now.” Hazel smiled.
“Very well.” Sally curtsied again very properly, and Hazel felt tenderness settle into her heart. The girl was earnest, and more than a little apprehensive.
“Do you have a book to read, or a journal?”
Sally shook her head. “I can read some, but I don’t have anything like that.”
Hazel held up her finger and crossed the room. She took a copy of Gulliver’s Travels from her portmanteau, along with a small, blank journal she’d intended to use for sketching once her other journal was filled. She retrieved a spare pen, checked it for ink, and then handed the small stack to Sally, who took it with trembling hands.
“I cannot . . . my lady, I—”
“I insist, Sally. Take them, or my feelings shall be bruised. I find I often sleep better at night after I’ve read for a bit or written some thoughts in my journal.”
Sally swallowed and offered Hazel the first smile she’d seen. “Thank you, I shall treasure them. Thank you.”
Hazel nodded, and before she closed the door, widened it a bit and added, “Also, you may come and go as you please. You’ll not bother me; I could sleep through a monsoon.” That last was a stretch—Hazel was a light sleeper—but Sally would never use the facilities otherwise and would instead make the trek to the lower deck.
Sally nodded and curtsied again.
Hazel quietly closed the door with a smile and released a sigh. She thought of Sam, one cabin over, and wondered if he were sleeping.
She hoped Eugene had been able to follow through on her request while they were at dinner. A quiet knock sounded at her outer door. She opened it, half expecting to find Dravor, but saw Sam instead. He braced one hand on the doorframe and looked at her with eyes that were glossy with unshed tears.
Her heart pounded in alarm. “Sam, what is it? Are you crying?”
He shook his head and scowled. “No, I am not crying. Well, perhaps. May I come in?”
She stepped back and opened the door wider, and he entered. Suddenly, her suite seemed smaller—not unpleasantly so, but he was a big presence in any room.
He ran his hand across the back of his neck. “Hazel, I don’t know what to say. I am touched beyond words. Imagine my surprise when I entered my room tonight and found small Tesla bulbs wound cleverly around my canopy. Eugene told me he procured them at your insistence and that the lights are substitutes for stars in the night sky.”
Hazel blushed and looked at her feet. Suddenly hearing a grown man verbalize her silly idea made her feel self-conscious in the extreme. “I . . . I didn’t assume it would be an actual substitute, but I had hoped you might find a measure of comfort in it.” She paused. On further reflection, she wondered if it had been a good idea at all. If he awoke to see the lights, it might serve as an unpleasant reminder of where he actually was.
“It is perfect, Hazel, and I simply do not have the words to express it.” He took her hand and pressed it between his. “Thank you.”
She smiled. “I simply wanted to help. I am conscious of the emotional imposition this trip entails, and I hoped to make it more pleasant for you. At least less onerous.”
He brought her hand to his mouth and placed a kiss on her knuckles. He lingered there, his eyes holding hers, and he slowly lifted his head. His eyes roamed her face, her throat, even her hair that she’d released from its pins. A messy braid hung over her shoulder, strands escaping it to curl in every direction. He swallowed, and a muscle worked in his throat.
He released her hand carefully and backed toward the door. “I am most grateful, and I am grateful for your friendship. Very grateful.” He fumbled for the door handle. “Grateful,” he repeated, and if the light in the room hadn’t been dimmed for the evening, she might have imagined she saw a blush. He opened the door without turning around and stepped out of the room. “Good night, then. And thank you.” He closed the door, and a moment later, she heard his door open and close.
Hazel stared at the space he’d just left, jaw slack. What on earth had just happened? In the time she’d known Dr. Samuel MacInnes, and in all the settings she’d seen him, she had never, ever seen him bumble, stumble, hesitate, or exhibit any sort of awkwardness. And he’d certainly never blushed. She reviewed the conversation in her mind, going over every minute detail. He’d said thank you, she’d mumbled something about wanting to help, he’d kissed her hand, and had . . . had . . .
She blinked in delighted surprise. She walked to the lavatory and looked at herself in the mirror. She braced one hand on the edge of the porcelain pedestal sink and covered her mouth with the other. He had made eye contact with her and, then, as though someone had flicked a switch, he’d gone from grateful friend to something different. Something more.
She stifled a laugh and looked at her reflection. Her large, golden-green eyes showed the smile hidden behind her hand. Perhaps he had suddenly felt awkward being in her suite. Perhaps he was embarrassed that someone had needed to install night-lights in his room. Perhaps he’d reminded himself she was his imagined younger sister, and her bedtime was long past. She conjured a multitude of reasons for his sudden, awkward departure, but to her surprise, nothing stuck. She couldn’t talk herself out of the fact that she had turned the smooth, suave Dr. MacInnes into a blushing schoolboy.
As she readied for bed and hung up her clothing, her smile remained. Even if nothing of significance ever developed between her and Sam, she had the satisfaction of knowing that, for a moment, she’d rendered him witless.
She pulled out her journal and made notes of the day’s events and her observations. She wrote down every detail, drew sketches of the Magellan and the rooms she’d seen thus far, and scribbled until she could think of nothing else to add. Then she jotted down a few last thoughts.
I hardly know what to think of my new reality. Now that I know I have a sister, and that she is in danger, I feel anxious. There is nothing more to learn this evening, nothing I can read or examine that will shed more light on this mystery, so I shall go to bed and imagine a world where I am strong and brave and can conquer all.
And perhaps I shall indul
ge in reliving a splendid memory, a moment just passed, where a certain paragon fumbled a bit in my presence.
Hazel extinguished the lights in her room, and using a handle next to the “fireplace,” dimmed the illusion of flames until it looked as though the grate contained only glowing coals. She climbed into the fluffy bed and sighed. She’d not realized how incredibly tired she was, and her body insisted her mind finally rest.
She woke later to a dark room. The image of coals still glowed, and the only noise was the subtle vibration of the Magellan’s huge engines. There was nothing to indicate a reason she’d awakened. She was still incredibly tired, her thoughts groggy and her vision blurry as she rubbed her eyes and fluffed her pillow. Something felt different, but it was nothing she could define.
Her ears pricked as she awoke more fully, and she lay very still on the pillow. The light in the water closet remained off, but the outline of the door to it stood ajar. Could Sally be searching for it?
“Sally? Are you awake?”
A rustle of fabric sounded at the foot of her bed, and she forced herself to continue breathing deeply, calmly. She thought of her ray gun, which was across the room in her portmanteau, and nearly ground her teeth in frustration. Isla had told her to always keep it within reach if she were ever away from home or afraid for her safety.
She was being silly. She’d given her maid access to her room, and Sally had simply risen to use the facilities and returned to her room.
The light from the fireplace suddenly went black, and she sucked in a breath. The same rustle of cloth sounded—so quietly she wondered if she imagined it—and she realized the coals hadn’t been extinguished with the turn of the handle. They were no longer visible because someone stood at the side of her bed, blocking her view of them.
She couldn’t imagine Sally would stand silently at the side of her bed, but then, she didn’t know the girl.
She drew in a deep, shuddering breath and slowly slid to the far side of the bed. She had nearly decided to get up and at least fight for her life when she saw the coals in the fireplace appear again. The figure had moved.
The Lady in the Coppergate Tower (Proper Romance) Page 10