Dark Obsession

by Allison Chase

  Rushing forward, she ran her palms over the plasterwork and framed panels of wallpaper. Carefully she inspected every reachable inch of wall to the right and left of the wardrobe closet, which was far too heavy to be moved. Perhaps one of these papered rectangles . . .

  Solid. All of it. Hands on hips, she stepped back, a rueful grin curling her lips.

  Secret passage indeed. She was merely letting the mysteries of the house affect her judgment, just as she had last night in believing she’d seen a ghost. Of course she had merely fallen asleep in the chair by the window. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d dreamed vividly, which explained her tugging the curtain until it fell.

  That curtain had been restored earlier by the upstairs maid. She walked over to it, inspecting the rod and brackets, when an airy rustle of silk sent her gaze darting back to the wall she had just scrutinized.

  Her pulsed throbbed in her wrists as she stood utterly still, listening. Waiting. Holding her breath.

  At least a full minute passed and nothing more occurred. As she was about to dismiss her fears as beyond silly, a thought struck her.

  Her bedroom was a perfect square. The two dressing rooms lay between her room and Grayson’s, but they were small and set against the outer wall of the house. Then . . . what else lay between the two bedrooms?

  There had to be something she had missed. She stood in front of the wardrobe, considering. It towered some eight feet high and surely weighed a ton.

  Her gaze dropped, and a discovery sent her sinking to her knees. The piece sat on three, not four wheels. The left rear leg was different. On hands and knees, then, she crawled to inspect what turned out to be a sort of pivot.

  Gathering her skirts, she pushed to her feet. A tight frown tugged her brows as she opened the doors, peered inside, closed one and gripped the edge of the other with both hands. With a quick little prayer that she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake and bring the massive cupboard crashing down on top of her, she gave a fierce tug.

  And was rewarded when, after an initial hesitation, the wardrobe swung away from the wall as easily as an opening door. Which perhaps it was.

  Heart thumping with the excitement of her discovery, not to mention the outrage of Grayson’s subterfuge, she studied yet another tall, wallpapered rectangle. While it appeared innocent enough at first, further inspection revealed it to be slightly different from the rest. By nearly pressing her nose against the paneling, she could detect a hairline gap between the molding and the wall itself.

  She pressed the flats of her hands against the panel and pushed. It didn’t budge. In the same position, she tried sliding the panel to the right, then to the left.

  On the second try she felt a tiny shift, as if the panel were held by some sort of latch. She peered closely . . . and saw it—a miniscule recess near waist height at the edge of the panel, just large enough for a fingertip. She placed her forefinger into it, pushed . . . and heard a faint click.

  Her jaw dropped even as she slid the panel open. Goodness. With all her searching, she hadn’t truly expected to find anything. With one hand braced against the wall and ready to pull back should the need arise, she leaned and peered inside. Detecting no immediate dangers, she stepped over the foot-high threshold into a stairwell swathed in shadow.

  The hairs on her arms bristled. She tossed a wistful look over her shoulder to the safety of her room. Then she lifted her skirts and placed a foot on the bottom step. It gave a creak, loud in the stillness, a jarring counterbeat to her racing pulse.

  The darkness thickened as she climbed, pressing in around her. Once she stopped to peer down at the light spilling in from her bedchamber, just to assure herself the sliding panel hadn’t somehow closed, sealing her in. Slowly she ascended to the top . . . to find nothing but a dead end.

  There was nothing, merely a small landing. A staircase to nowhere? Indeed, if the past half hour had taught her anything, it was not to put stock in the obvious.

  She debated going back down and returning with a lamp, then discarded the notion as one that would take too much time. Bother the darkness, for it couldn’t hurt her. Only this house’s secrets had the power to do that. She wanted answers, and she wanted them now.

  As she had done below, she ran her hands over the walls on either side of her, flinching and stifling a cry when her fingers tangled in a sticky web. She quickly wiped them on her skirts and continued her search. On the wall to her left, her fingertips detected a tiny catch similar to the one downstairs. She pressed, and this wall too slid open. Dusty light from inside bathed the stairwell.

  Again she paused. What would she find inside, and did she truly wish to know? She entertained no doubts that Grayson had used this passage to steal into her room last night. Perhaps other nights as well. Could he be hiding something here, something she might regret discovering?

  Vague fears slid like ice through her, raising goose bumps. Pausing to draw a fortifying breath into her lungs, she stepped into a narrow room, cramped beneath the sloping roof of the house and illuminated by a single recessed window. A faded rug partially covered the wide pine floorboards. A small escritoire with a glass bookcase occupied one corner. Against the back wall, an exposed mattress slumped like an idle slattern. That was all.

  A secret hideaway, but for what purpose? An unpleasant sensation gripped her. She nudged the mattress with her toe, raising a puff of dust. Seeing neither blanket nor pillows anywhere, she decided the bed could not have been used in a long time, and dismissed unsavory thoughts of her husband, midnight trysts and anonymous women.

  By the direction she’d come, she deduced herself to be standing directly above her dressing room. If she crossed to the other side and found yet another sliding panel, surely she would descend to Grayson’s chamber.

  She had never entered his bedroom before. A kernel of trepidation skittered through her, yet in a deeper, darker place inside her, desire stirred.

  But Grayson would not now be in his room. He had left the house early again on another of his mysterious errands, and hadn’t yet returned.

  Like a seasoned thief she stole across the room, treading lightly and going utterly still when a loose floorboard shifted beneath her weight. Hearing nothing beyond the blood rushing in her ears, she continued on. Easily she opened the room’s second sliding door, all the while marveling at the astounding ingenuity that had gone into concealing the little garret.

  Once more in semidarkness she felt her way down the predicted second set of stairs. By the time she reached the bottom, accessing the final hidden latch felt nearly as natural as opening any other door in the house.

  No wardrobe or other piece of furniture blocked her entry into the adjoining chamber. A note of mixed triumph, indignation and pure fascination set her ears ringing. Until this moment, a tiny part of her had clung to the threadbare hope that the passage did not lead to Grayson’s room, and that she had merely imagined him in her room last night, dreamed of his heated presence, his fiery touch.

  She stepped into the masculine environs of dark wood walls and forest green draperies, of furnishings dominated by heavy English oak. A headboard carved with a lion’s head at its center towered above a massive bed, hung with folds of green and gold velvet gracefully gathered and secured with tasseled cords to the bed’s four tapering posts.

  Though unoccupied, the room breathed Grayson’s familiar scent, a heady mingling of the earthy outdoors and genteel grooming, entirely masculine, vaguely unsettling and, as Nora breathed it in deep, undeniably arousing. Had she not known this to be his room, she would have guessed correctly. His imprint was everywhere—in the dark intensity of the colors, in the hulking furniture, in the brooding silence broken only by the rain against the windows.

  Detecting movement at the corner of her eye, she jumped, then calmed when she realized the source. Outside, rain traced wavering patterns down the windowpanes, throwing writhing shadows across the floor.

  To her right stood a bureau, wide and high, i
ts top littered with Grayson’s personal effects. She couldn’t help running her fingers over a comb and brush, his silver pocket watch—funny he didn’t have it with him—and a pair of onyx cuff links. A cravat lay coiled beside his watch. She picked it up, the fine linen leaving traces of dampness across her fingertips. Bringing it close to her nose, she breathed in a faint salt tang.

  ‘‘How odd.’’

  ‘‘Indeed.’’

  At the sound of the rumbling baritone, Nora yelped. Spinning about, she whisked her hands behind her like a child caught stealing. Her gaze searched the dusky corners; at first she didn’t see him. But she felt him, oh, she felt his presence filling the room and surrounding her like a physical embrace.

  He stood in the dressing room doorway, taking shape from the surrounding gloom like an apparition materializing from thin air. A full day’s growth shaded his jaw in baleful reflection of the shadows beneath his eyes. His clothes, a white shirt lying open at the neck and tight breeches tucked into riding boots, seemed to adhere to his body like a second skin. She saw a scratch at the corner of his eye, another across the bridge of his nose.

  Had he been brawling?

  As he returned her stare, his nostrils flared and his stark blue eyes simmered with . . . anger, displeasure . . . desire? Whatever it was both chilled her and lit a smoldering fire inside her . . . and made her want to defy her fears and go to him. Go to him and kiss the scrapes on his face, soothe the wounds in his heart.

  He pushed forward into the room. ‘‘Good afternoon, Lady Lowell. Perhaps you’d care to explain what the blazes you’re doing here.’’

  Chapter 16

  "I ... I ..." As though cornered prey, Nora backed against his bureau, hands twisting behind her. Guilt glittered in her eyes while mortifiication fllamed her cheeks. She looked about to turn and bolt the way she’d come.

  He wished she would, wished with all his being that she wasn’t here now, staring at him with her wide, innocent eyes and her open, ingenuous spirit.

  What would she see? How lost his brother had become in his last months of life? And how indifferent Grayson had been during that time?

  Even if Thomas hadn’t been directly involved in smuggling, someone had been using his land for criminal purposes. The Tom that Grayson had known, the honest, generous earl who had cherished Blackheath Grange above all else but his wife and child, would never, ever have allowed such an outrage.

  That he had allowed it, or had remained ignorant of it, gave testimony to how far his life had fallen apart, how desperate and distracted he had become in the end. That is what the ghosts wanted Grayson to know when they led him to the headland today. . . . The full consequences of his actions, or lack of them, in the year—no, years—leading to his brother’s death.

  And now, with Nora cowering against his bureau, her beautiful face filled with alarm and uncertainty, his culpability for her and for Tom and Jonny, felt like a jagged weight of granite cutting into his shoulders.

  He crossed to the corner of the bed, leaned against the curtained post and folded his arms across his chest. He supposed the pose made him look cavalier. In reality he needed that post to shore him up, because he feared his strength might fail him, that he might land flat on his face.

  ‘‘If you wished to speak with me,’’ he said with false calm, ‘‘you might have simply knocked on my door. Even if you had merely wished to snoop about my room, I’d have let you in.’’

  That produced an instantaneous transformation. Her shoulders squared, her chin swung up and her eyes fired off hot little flares that singed his flesh.

  ‘‘Knock?’’ A hand shot out from behind her back, flailing his soggy neckcloth at him. ‘‘Did you knock before breaking and entering my chamber last night?’’

  ‘‘I broke nothing when I entered, and yes, I did try knocking first.’’ When she looked thoroughly unconvinced he added, ‘‘Softly, and at both doors. I didn’t wish to disturb you if you were sleeping. I also tried both knobs, but you seemed intent on barring my way.’’

  ‘‘Oh, and so you took it upon yourself to steal in like a common thief?’’

  ‘‘On the contrary, I stole nothing and left something. Did you see my note?’’

  ‘‘Yes, I saw it.’’

  ‘‘And?’’

  His gut clenched as he waited for her reply. He had been so certain when he wrote that missive last night that he was doing a noble thing in urging her to leave. Today he felt more convinced than ever.

  But the desire to grab her and hold on tight pulsed through him as the silence stretched. As he watched an inner battle toss shadows across her lovely features, he questioned his ability to ever let her go, to face the rest of his life—and his demons—without her quiet strength and steady faith to anchor him.

  All the more reason for her to fly free. For in the end he’d only drag her down, as he’d dragged Tom. . . .

  She stepped away from the bureau. ‘‘Are you wet?’’

  ‘‘No.’’

  ‘‘You are. You’re soaked through. Especially your trousers. Where were you? Out in the rain?’’

  ‘‘It doesn’t matter.’’

  ‘‘You’ll catch your death.’’

  ‘‘I doubt it.’’ He ran his fingers around his decidedly damp collar, then wished he hadn’t.

  ‘‘What have you done to your hand? How did you get those scratches on your face?’’

  He balled the injured hand in to a fist. ‘‘You read my note, Nora. What are you going to do about it?’’

  ‘‘Yes, well, I’m not leaving.’’

  ‘‘It would be for the best if you did.’’ Even to his ears, the statement lacked the smallest shred of sincerity, while the intensity of his relief convinced him he hadn’t a noble bone in his body.

  ‘‘I resent your telling me what I should and shouldn’t do,’’ she said.

  ‘‘Never mind what I tell you. Haven’t the past several days spoken well enough?’’ He pushed out a grim laugh. ‘‘Surely you can’t deny having had the inclination to end this unfortunate marriage of ours.’’

  ‘‘I did not marry you expecting heaven-sent bliss.’’

  ‘‘To say the least.’’

  ‘‘But things have changed since then.’’ She twisted his neckcloth between her hands. ‘‘I’ve discovered you don’t despise me any more than I do you.’’

  ‘‘Perhaps you should.’’

  ‘‘No.’’ She came closer, and he pressed tighter against the bedpost. ‘‘Don’t you see? There is something here worth holding on to.’’

  Yes, her. She was worth holding on to. But what would she have in return? Something empty and insubstantial. A lie of a husband.

  ‘‘If you’d only talk to me, tell me the truth of what’s troubling you. I know what you said about your brother but—’’

  ‘‘You didn’t believe me? Did you think I spoke metaphorically about pushing my brother over that cliff?’’

  ‘‘I don’t believe you did any such thing. You’re not capable of . . .’’

  Her words faltered as he shoved away from the post. She backed away quickly, hitting the bureau with her shoulders and rattling the drawers.

  ‘‘Aren’t I, sweet Nora?’’ Reaching her, he wrapped his hands around her slight hips and tugged her against him. ‘‘How can you be so certain?’’

  She went rigid against him, but didn’t pull away. ‘‘I know perfectly well—’’

  He dipped his head and cut her assertion short by covering her mouth with his. He kissed her hard, painfully, teeth biting into lips. Her muffled protest vibrated inside him while her hands slid up between them. He only held her tighter while his tongue pushed into her mouth to duel with hers.

  He heard the catches in her throat, felt the tension of her resistance. But he watched himself go on frightening her with his devouring kisses and crushing embrace. Just as he had once watched himself beleaguer Tom with angry words. Unable to stop. Loathing himself. Wishing he were differen
t, stronger, better.

  And then . . . it all changed. She changed. Took control somehow, slowing their kisses until each one lingered sweetly, softly. Until his senses swam in pleasure. Until his anger and grief melted into the fire smoldering between their joined mouths.

  Just as he began to believe he might warm his frigid heart in her arms, she broke the kiss and pushed him to arm’s length. Dampness from his shirt darkened the front of her dress, making it cling to her breasts in wanton invitation.

  She panted for breath but regarded him unblinkingly, one eyebrow quirked above the other. ‘‘I think you need me more than you know.’’

  ‘‘And more than I wish to.’’ The words escaped before he could catch them. Triumph sparked in her eyes.

  With a scowl he pulled free of her grasp. ‘‘Go, Nora, get out,’’ he commanded, knowing he must be adamant or he’d end up gathering her in his arms and burying his soul in her lusciously willing body. Losing his soul, and endangering hers. ‘‘Leave Blackheath Grange.’’

  ‘‘I’m not going anywhere.’’ Slipping his cravat around the back of his neck, she held the trailing ends and pulled him close. Her breath heated the cold skin inside his sodden collar. ‘‘I married you and I’m in this for keeps, despite your attempts to frighten me away. You didn’t murder your brother—’’

  ‘‘Damn it, Nora—’’

  ‘‘No, damn you for feeling so guilty about his death that you’re willing to punish everyone around you for it.’’

  ‘‘That isn’t what I’m doing.’’

  ‘‘Yes, it is.’’ Her fingers encircled his arms, digging in. Tipping her chin, she peered fiercely into his eyes. ‘‘Tell me the truth. How did your brother die?’’

  He yanked free, turned and stumbled to the bed. Sinking onto the edge, he dropped his head into his hands. ‘‘I don’t know for certain.’’

  ‘‘What do you think happened?’’