by Karen Ranney
He looked surprised again. “Why not to you?”
“Because I’ve experienced the same kind of sorrow, and I know what it’s like to lose my parents.”
“Do you sleep?”
“What a strange question. Yes, I sleep.”
“I don’t. When I do, I have nightmares.”
Beatrice walked back to the end of the bed and put the dead snake on the floor before sitting on the end of the mattress. She leaned against one of the massive posts supporting the bed, drew up her legs and wrapped her arms around her knees.
“Tell me about the nightmares,” she said.
He stared at her for a moment as if he would like to tell her to get off his bed or go away. But evidently, the lure of companionship was too great. In him, she recognized the same weakness she herself felt. They were separated by two decades, by sex, and by role, but she couldn’t help but feel akin to this young duke, spoiled though he was.
“Tell me about the nightmares,” she said again.
He folded his legs in front of him, placing a hand on each knee like a pasha sitting on a throne of cushions. She smothered her smile at his unconscious arrogance. Cameron Gordon had done his nephew no favor by catering to his every whim.
“I dream someone is watching me while I sleep. They’re standing in the shadows and just watching.”
She felt a shiver race across her skin.
“What a horrible dream. No wonder you’re in no hurry to sleep. Do you ever dream about your parents?”
He nodded. “When I dream of them, it feels just like it happened. I was waiting for them to come home. But they never did. In my dream, they never do, either, and I stand there at the window waiting and waiting.”
He was too young to feel the weight of such sorrow. But she could not eliminate it from his life any more than she could wave a wand and make her own situation different. The secret was in finding a way to live until the loss became bearable.
How did she help a seven-year-old child endure such grief?
“So you keep a lamp lit.”
“Devlen says it helps. You can hear noises in the darkness you can never hear during the day. As if there are things there, whispering to each other. As if they know you’re asleep and defenseless and can’t fight them off.”
She felt another chill race down her spine. The child had wanted to frighten her with the snake and had ended up doing so with his own words.
“Shall I tell you a story? It might help you sleep.”
“I’m too old for fairy tales.”
“I will tell you one of Aesop’s fables,” she said. “They are simply stories, but each one has a lesson. Anyone, even someone of your great age, might enjoy them.”
She arranged herself so she was more comfortable and began: “Once upon a time, the queen bee of a very large hive traveled all the way to Mount Olympus. Everyone knows Mount Olympus is the home of the Greek gods. Once there, she told the gatekeeper she wished to visit with Jupiter. She waited some time until he could meet with her and once in front of him, she bowed low, spreading her wings upon the golden floor. ‘I give you a gift,’ she said. ‘A gift of my honey. My workers have labored diligently these past weeks and months to produce only the finest honey for you, Jupiter.’
“Jupiter, very pleased, thanked her, and took a bite of the honey. So impressed was he at its quality, he asked what he could give her in return for her gift.
“‘I ask only one thing, Jupiter, and that is to be able to protect my people. Mankind comes and invades my hives. They steal my honey, and they frighten and kill my workers. Give me the power that I might wound,’ she added, pointing to her stinger.
“Now Jupiter was a friend of man, and he was very much troubled by the queen’s request. But he granted her the ability to wound any with her stinger.
“Excited her wish had been granted, the queen returned to her hive. That very next day, a man approached the hive and she flew out of it and stung him over and over until he collapsed on the ground.
“But something strange happened to the queen. Once she stung the man, she lost her stinger, and with the loss of it, she fell to the ground and died.
“The moral of this story is evil wishes, like chickens, come home to roost.”
“That’s a stupid story,” Robert said.
“Would you like to hear another?”
“Another fable?”
Beatrice nodded.
“No. They’re stupid stories.”
“Then I won’t tell you another one,” Beatrice said.
“Why didn’t you scream when you saw the snake?” Robert asked.
“Are you disappointed? I could scream now if you wish.”
Robert surprised her by smiling. “You almost screamed last night.”
“You’re right, I did.”
“But you fainted instead. Did I scare you that much?” The little boy sounded proud of himself.
“I fainted because I was hungry.”
“People don’t faint because they’re hungry.”
“Have you ever been hungry? I doubt you have.”
“Why were you hungry?”
“Because there was no food to eat, and I had no way of earning a living.”
“We give food to the poor.” Robert moved up in the bed.
“Some people would much rather work than take charity.”
He had no comment to this, for which she was eternally grateful. Despite the fact he was only seven years old, he was an arrogant seven-year-old, and exceedingly irritating.
He slid down in bed beneath the covers. “Are you going to stay here until I fall asleep?”
“Do you want me to?”
“Is it something governesses are supposed to do?”
“I don’t believe so, no. But since I have never been a governess before, I don’t quite know.”
“I am the duke,” he said sleepily. “I should have a governess with experience.”
“If you had an experienced governess, no doubt she would have left you after the experience with the snake.”
“Do you truly think so?”
“I do.”
“Perhaps that’s why my tutors left. They were all very experienced.”
“Did you put snakes in their beds?”
“No.”
“Then it’s to your advantage I have no more experience than I do. I shall practice on you.”
“I am the duke. I should not be practiced on.”
“We can learn together. Whenever I do something you dislike, I give you leave to tell me. Not to put snakes in my bed, but to tell me. Together, we’ll discuss the matter.”
He murmured something, an incoherent response that summoned her smile.
She sat there in the darkness at the end of the ducal bed and listened to his breathing.
When she was certain she would not disturb him, Beatrice slid off the end of the bed and stepped down from the dais, walking to the windows. Not surprisingly, Robert had not drawn the drapes against the night.
The stars blanketed the sky, twinkling back at her as if to say she was not alone. But stars were so far away and they neither conversed nor held hands nor smiled. The glass was cold against her fingers, and there was a draft as if one of the panes was not properly sealed. The gentle breeze ruffled the curtains as if someone were standing there. But she knew she was alone except for the sleeping boy.
There was a certain emptiness to the cavernous chamber, as if life needed to be inserted into it. A life that was exuberant and noisy and filled with laughter. Not one that dealt in whispers and fear.
The chamber, for all its riches, and for all it belonged to Robert, somehow did not suit him. He needed a brightly painted room, one that wasn’t adorned with portraits of ancestors on the walls, and ornate and heavy furnishings.
He needed to be a boy before he became a duke.
From her vantage point at the window she could see the ocean surface brightly illuminated by the moon until it looked silvery white,
and the curving road winding around to the entrance and then behind the castle to the stables. As she watched, a carriage led by four striking ebony horses slowly made its way to the front of the castle.
She had seen that carriage before, more richly crafted than the duke’s, but without a crest on its door. Was Devlen Gordon leaving so soon?
How silly to feel suddenly abandoned. He was a stranger who’d dared take liberties. He’d kissed her when she’d not given him leave to do so. He’d smelled her hair, and treated her as if she were a loose woman, and oh, perhaps she was, because she couldn’t forget either gesture. Foolish Beatrice. She was a governess, late of Kilbridden Village, a schoolteacher’s daughter with hardly any accomplishments to her name. Yet she had a yearning for more, more excitement in her life, more sin perhaps.
At the moment, she only had the energy to be safe, well fed and secure. Perhaps one day she would venture out into the world and have some excitement. For now she was content.
Then why did she feel so suddenly bereft? Devlen Gordon was about to embark upon an adventure, she knew it. Anyone else would have departed Castle Crannoch in the brightness of day, but not Devlen Gordon. As much as he disliked the night, it suited him. Who else traveled in darkness?
She put her finger to the window again and blocked out the sight of his carriage, and the feeling of abandonment eased somewhat. If she could not see him leave, then she need not feel disappointed. Some errant idiotic notion, some girlish sensibility, some silliness that hadn’t been leached out of her by the travails of the past three months no doubt was responsible for the feeling. Or curiosity. That’s what it was. He was simply the most interesting, most compelling man she had ever met. The most dark and dangerous.
Movement below caught her attention. Devlen strode from the castle door to his coach and stood in conversation for some time with the driver. He wore a long coat notched at the collar, his black hair uncovered. The horses stamped their feet, their breaths white billows in the night. A moment later, Devlen glanced up toward the window where she stood. She didn’t move, didn’t step backward, didn’t hide herself from his gaze. To do so would mark her as a coward, and she had no reason to be afraid. He was leaving.
For a long moment they exchanged a look, her with her fingers on the glass and him with a question in his eyes she couldn’t decipher.
She wanted to ask him where he was going and why it was so important he leave for his destination tonight.
And what question did he wish to ask of her?
She would never know.
One by one, Beatrice drew the drapes, moving along the wall of windows until she was done. She stood at the last of the windows, looking down at the drive. From here, she could barely see the coach. She didn’t want to see him leave. Everyone in her life had left her, and she had come to dislike departures of any sort, transitory or permanent.
Chapter 11
She was half-hidden by the drapes when she heard a sound. Beatrice stepped back, allowing the billowing fabric to conceal her.
Soft footsteps crossed the room, hesitated.
She pulled back the fabric of the curtains to see Devlen standing at the end of the bed, staring at Robert.
Her heart beat so fiercely in her chest she thought he must surely hear it. At that moment he turned and looked directly at her.
He walked to where she stood, and pulled back the curtains.
“Are you hiding, Miss Sinclair?”
“Of course not.”
“Then may I inquire why you’ve made no effort to announce your presence?”
She was not dressed. She was attired in only her nightgown and wrapper, but rather than call attention to her clothing, she said, “To do so might have awakened Robert.”
“Is he all right?” There was a tone of concern in his voice she’d not heard before.
“Why do you ask?”
“I should think that was obvious. You are here. Why are you in his room, Miss Sinclair?”
She didn’t want Robert to be punished for what was a childish prank. “I told him a story.”
“And sat with him until he fell asleep.”
“Yes.”
“You have a tender heart, Miss Sinclair.”
“He has nightmares.”
“Did he tell you?”
She nodded. “Has he always had them? Or only since the death of his parents?”
“I regret to say I don’t know. I hadn’t much to do with my cousin before his parents died. I had other interests I deemed more pressing.”
“Like the ones that are causing you to leave now?”
“I’ve been told I’m unwelcome. Besides, you of all people should be glad I’m going back to Edinburgh.”
“What do you mean?” Her heartbeat escalated, her breath grew short. Devlen Gordon had an odd effect on her, one that was not altogether unpleasant. She felt as if excitement was flowing through her veins, as if she’d just sipped the finest chocolate, or just finished a potent glass of wine.
“Will you watch after him?” He turned back to watch the sleeping boy.
“Of course,” she said. “I’m his governess.”
“He needs a friend more than he needs a governess. If anything untoward happens, tell one of the drivers, and he’ll come to Edinburgh.”
“What do you mean, untoward? What do you expect to happen?”
“It’s not what I expect, Miss Sinclair. I expect the sun to rise every morning and those I care about to continue living happily. However, I have learned what I expect and what happens are not necessarily the same.”
“If you have such dire thoughts about the future, how can you leave?”
“I would think you’d be relieved.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“I think you do, Miss Sinclair. But I also think you choose to remain cloaked in ignorance or virtue, either one. One of us has to be wise in this instance. I applaud your wisdom.”
“Are you normally so cryptic?”
“Are you normally so obtuse?”
She smiled, startled into amusement by his rudeness.
“I’m not obtuse at all, Mr. Gordon. I have attempted to be a lady at every one of our encounters.”
“Cloaked in virtue.”
In the light, he was devastatingly handsome, but in the darkness, he was even more alluring.
“Tell me, Miss Sinclair, do you ever wish to be simply a woman? Simply a female? Unencumbered by rules or expectations?”
“What you are speaking of, sir, is anarchy.”
“Anarchy of the self. An apt description. Do you not ever wish to rebel, Beatrice? Before you answer no, let me warn you. I see flickers of rebellion in your eyes.”
How on earth was she to answer such a challenge?
“Is there not one single part of you that wants to put aside your strict upbringing, that wants to loosen your stays and laugh at convention?”
He stepped closer, reached out one finger, and traced the edge of her bottom lip, a tingling touch reaching all the way down to her toes.
“Is that how you talk women into your bed? By daring them?”
He smiled at her. “Would it work with you?”
“No.”
“Do you really want to know why I’m leaving, Beatrice?”
“You’ll say it’s because of me, but it isn’t. You can find your share of willing partners at the next inn. No doubt you have a mistress in readiness, eagerly waiting for your return.”
“Is there nothing here that would tempt me?”
“Not me. I’m cloaked in virtue. I’m not an antidote to your boredom, Mr. Gordon.”
“Is that what you think it is?”
She nodded.
“I could agree except for one thing. I have an eagerness to share your mind as much as your body. What do you call that?”
“Foolish.”
His fingers trailed across her cheek, behind her ear, and down to her throat. Did he know how difficult it was to swallow su
ddenly? Did he feel how frantically her pulse was beating?
Let me go. But the words didn’t come. She opened her mouth to speak, but the only sound to emerge was a sigh.
“You are the most unlikely governess, Beatrice.”
He really shouldn’t call her by her first name. It wasn’t proper, but at the same time she dared herself to answer in kind.
“Why, Devlen?”
“Because, my dear Miss Sinclair, you really are tempting. If I stay, I will bed you. I’ll take you to my bed or to yours or to any surface we find amenable and comfortable, be it the floor or a washstand or a table. And I will plant myself in you so deeply that when you swallow you’ll be certain that it’s me. I’ll have you again and again and again until you are as wanton and tempestuous as I think you could be. And we would both enjoy it.”
She slapped him. Her hand reached up so quickly he couldn’t anticipate the blow. When she did it again, he didn’t flinch, didn’t move away or otherwise shield himself. He merely stood there quietly, a towering presence, a shadow, a force.
Beatrice could feel the smoothness of his cheek against her palm even through the tingling. He’d recently shaved, and he smelled of spices and something delicious. A scent she’d forever associate with darkness and Devlen.
She stepped back and crossed her arms around her waist not because she was cold. Not because she was suddenly frightened at the somber look on his face, but because she needed to restrain herself from placing her hand gently against the cheek she had just slapped. Or raising up on tiptoe and kissing his skin tenderly in apology.
“Are you done?”
She nodded.
“You are quite correct to be outraged,” he said softly. “I am a rake and a lecher and a despoiler of innocents. And you, Miss Sinclair, are very much in danger from me. But I suspect you’re innocent only in your experience, and not in your wishes or your deepest heart.”
He took one step closer to her, and she pressed herself against the window. The glass was cold against her wrapper.
“But if it makes you feel safer to deny your nature, then so be it. As I said, the reason I’m leaving is for your benefit and not mine.”