Chad wasn’t ready to concede his point. ‘‘Someone found and used that cave without Tom’s knowledge. It’s possible, Gray. You know it is.’’
‘‘Not in this case. My brother wasn’t one to spend his days in his drawing room. He was always abroad on the estate. He might not have managed the finances well, but he constantly had his finger on the pulse of Blackheath’s activity.’’ He shook his head, feeling as bleak as the storm gathering overhead. ‘‘He would have known.’’
He set off walking again, but his friend remained rooted to the spot. Grayson stopped and questioned him with a look.
‘‘Suppose for one moment I’m right,’’ Chad urged. ‘‘Suppose smugglers gained access to the beach and loaded that cave, thinking they were damned clever about it. And then suppose Tom stumbled upon them because, as you say, he was always abroad.’’ He fell silent, the summation of his conjectures evident in his grim expression.
Grayson’s breath tangled with his heartbeat. ‘‘You’re suggesting that Tom’s death was neither accidental nor suicide.’’
Chad nodded. ‘‘And if so, my friend, you, Nora and Jonny are no longer safe here.’’
Chapter 18
Nora had spent the better part of an hour poring through the library, pulling books from the shelves and fanning through them, opening drawers and littering the desk and the floor with their contents. She even got down on her hands and knees to inspect those contents.
Only now, when her growling stomach signaled the nearing of teatime, did she admit the futility of her endeavors. She had found nothing of importance. But for a few odds and ends, every drawer echoed of abandonment, and the pages of the books she had searched lay flat and unruffled by hidden notes. She had opened the beautifully painted bow-front music cabinet, the doors and drawers of the tall secretaire, the glass-front cupboards beneath the east windows. Apparently the room had already been scoured clean of memories.
Her efforts brought her no closer than before to understanding how Thomas Lowell had died. All that remained was the conviction rooted deep in her heart that Grayson could not have been responsible, neither actually nor metaphorically.
She perched on the mahogany desktop—as devoid of personal effects as the rest of the room—and drew her feet up under the hem of her skirts. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she battled a sinking feeling as she wondered what to do next. Raindrops splattered the diamond-paned windows and her spirits plummeted further, for even the morning’s sun had deserted her.
With no warning the library doors burst open. Startled, she found herself confronted by Grayson’s perplexed expression, and her eyes widened around the unsettling sensation of having been caught stealing— again. The last time had been in his bedroom, and the memory raised a chill of foreboding.
He took in the room while she studied the ever-increasing fatigue dragging at his features. With each shadowy bruise, each deepening worry line, her heart broke a little more.
‘‘Mrs. Dorn said I’d find you here,’’ he said. His tone held nothing of anger, nothing that heralded another frightening episode. Yet chills persisted in sweeping her back, perhaps because his controlled greeting seemed so artificial, so fragile and distant.
How she wished he would come to her, take her in his arms and kiss her as only he could—until the breath and strength drained from her body, leaving hot, melting pleasure—rather than stand there in the doorway, regarding her with the cold indifference of a stranger.
Then his words sunk in and produced a frisson of annoyance. ‘‘How in the world did Mrs. Dorn know . . . oh, never mind. Yes, I’ve been exploring the texts.’’
‘‘More than just the texts, I’d say.’’ Was he accusing her, or simply making an observation?
‘‘Yes.’’ She groped for excuses, but there were none. . . . None but the truth. She raised her chin. ‘‘I’d hoped to learn something more about . . . what happened here last summer. Some clue that might be of help to both you and Jonny. I hope you aren’t angry with me.’’
He stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘‘You may do as you like, anywhere in this house you like.’’
She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him, shake him out of his complaisance. His former ranting suddenly seemed preferable to this . . . this nothingness. This lack of emotion and regard. It wrung her heart dry and tugged her temper at the same time, and before she knew what she was about she’d slid from the desk and strode to him.
Grabbing his lapels, she pulled him close and stood on tiptoe, face-to-face. ‘‘Don’t you wish to know if I’ve found anything? Don’t you care? Or have we reverted back to those dismal days before our wedding, when we were two strangers forced together by happenstance? Are we no better off now? Have we not progressed beyond mutual disregard?’’
‘‘Do not ask me such things, Nora.’’ A vein lashed in his temple. Did it reveal an aversion to her touch, her nearness? Is that why she couldn’t help him— because he didn’t feel the way she did about their marriage?
‘‘I won’t be silent and I won’t be frightened off,’’ she snapped. More bitter words, desperate words, waited to be spoken but she bit them down, feeling a traitorous sob rise in her throat. Here, this close to him, she breathed his scent, felt his warmth, gripped the solidness of him beneath his clothing . . . and wanted him. Oh, Lord, she wanted him—against her, around her, in her. That and nothing else. No more grief or guilt or fatal secrets. Just the love she could not dismiss, the desire she could not refute no matter his sins, past or present.
‘‘Nora, do not do this. I’ll only hurt you.’’ He was stiff and unmoving in her grasp, unblinking as he stared back at her, his features frozen in a grimace of dismay. It opened wounds inside her, that look, left her sore and bleeding.
‘‘Hurt me, then,’’ she urged in a whisper. ‘‘Let me feel what you’re feeling. All of it. I’m not afraid’’
‘‘No.’’ His chest convulsed once and went still.
She blinked away stinging tears and shook him. When he merely stood there, rocklike, her resolve and her strength deserted her. She fell against him, fingers curled in his coat sleeves. ‘‘Is there nothing left between us? Was there ever anything but my own delusions?’’
His hand shot out, groping for purchase on the open door. He caught the edge and wrenched out of her grip. ‘‘Not your delusions, Nora. My dream. God, such a beautiful dream. But I’m awake now and it’s gone. Over. I cannot find my way back to it.’’
Her arms fell to her sides. He pulled farther away, hitting his back against the door, flattening both palms against it. A powerful emotion—fury, terror, love; she couldn’t tell which—blazed in his eyes. It frightened her even as it filled her with relief. He wasn’t empty and devoid of feelings. Wasn’t indifferent to her after all.
Hope remained, as tenuous and indistinct as the ghosts haunting them, but real all the same.
‘‘I’m sorry.’’ She didn’t know what else to say.
‘‘No.’’ His voice plunged to a husky note, a rumble from the earth itself. His hand rose, trembling, and found its way beneath her chin. The warmth of his fingers flooded her; the remorse in his eyes filled her. ‘‘I’m sorry, Nora. This isn’t your fault. It’s entirely mine. And mine to work out. Until I do . . .’’
‘‘Until you do, I will be here.’’ With both hands she wiped the tears from her cheeks. ‘‘I am Zachariah Thorngoode’s daughter. I neither frighten nor discourage easily.’’
She meant those words, found strength in them, but because of the way he continued gazing down at her, with shimmering eyes and a lost, mournful expression, she turned away before her tears might fall again. With no clear idea of where she was going, she hurried down the corridor of the east wing and to the main hall, where a sight in the drawing room stopped her in her tracks.
Grayson’s footsteps echoed as he followed her into the hall. ‘‘I had a reason for coming to find you in the library.’’ He gestured into the drawing room.
‘‘We have a visitor.’’
Indeed, seated in a wing chair beside the hearth, the Earl of Wycliffe came to his feet and bowed. ‘‘Good afternoon, Nora. I do hope you don’t mind an uninvited guest.’’
A multitude of sensations swept through her. As Grayson’s closest friend, perhaps the earl might succeed where she continued to fail miserably. He had certainly proved his goodwill toward this marriage that night at his London town house, when he’d welcomed her as a sister in spirit.
Then why did she once more experience a sense of unease, a vague prickling beneath her skin? Even his smile, wide and charming though it was, hinted at some unidentifiable quality at odds with his polished exterior. . . .
Or was there nothing more here to be found but a good-natured aristocrat, looking thoroughly amused as he waited for her to properly greet him?
‘‘My lord, do forgive my manners.’’ She blinked and walked to him with a hand extended. ‘‘This is such a surprise. You are always welcome, of course. How long can we persuade you to stay with us?’’
‘‘Perhaps just long enough to persuade you to stop calling me my lord.’’ He met her partway, raising her offered hand to his lips. ‘‘I insist you call me Chad, for I fully intend to call you Nora. I’m afraid you’ll find me an exceedingly brazen fellow, especially here in the wilds of Cornwall.’’
She found a smile for him. ‘‘Chad it is, then.’’ An impulse, born of realizing she would no longer be alone in her efforts to help Grayson, prompted her to add in a heartfelt whisper, ‘‘I’m so very glad you’re here.’’
He responded with a look of concern, even mild alarm. Her admission had disclosed more than she’d intended. Quickly she turned away, moving to the tasseled bellpull hanging in the corner.
Over tea, the news from London provided precisely five minutes of conversation. Then a rather ponderous silence weighted the drawing room, punctuated by the pointed looks Chad continually shot Grayson from beneath his brows.
Nora refilled her teacup and set the pot on the refreshment cart. ‘‘There is something afoot. I sense it from both of you, and I think one of you had better tell me what it is.’’
Grayson scowled at his friend, then met her gaze with what she could only term reluctance. ‘‘There is nothing—’’
‘‘Oh, come, Gray.’’ Chad made an impatient gesture and rolled his eyes. ‘‘She’s an astute one, this wife of yours. She has every right to know about your discovery and what it might mean.’’
She looked from one to the other. Grayson’s eyebrows knotted above his nose. ‘‘Now is not the time.’’
‘‘Not the time to warn your wife that there might be danger at Blackheath Grange?’’
Nora set her tea aside and surged to her feet. ‘‘I’d like an explanation. This instant.’’
‘‘Gray has found evidence,’’ Chad explained, ‘‘of pirates using the caves along the beach to store their plunder.’’
‘‘Good heavens. Is this true, Gray?’’
‘‘Smugglers.’’ He pressed his fingertips to his brow, then pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘‘The term pirate is a bit overdramatic. And I hadn’t mentioned it because I only just made the discovery myself. At this point, I don’t know who has been using the beach or why.’’ He shot a brief glare at Chad. ‘‘I saw no reason to frighten you.’’
The irony of that last statement made her wince. Nor was it lost on Grayson, judging by the suddenly ruddy cast to his skin.
She sank into her chair. ‘‘What sort of evidence did you find?’’
‘‘A cave filled with what could only be stolen goods. Crates, barrels, casks—a small fortune, by the looks of it.’’
‘‘The other day you said you’d found evidence that your brother may have taken his own life.’’ She frowned at the memory of his ravings. ‘‘That he’d got into trouble he couldn’t get out of. This is what you meant.’’
He nodded. ‘‘My first thought was that Tom tried to recoup his finances through criminal means.’’
‘‘That I do not believe, not a bit of it.’’ The earl shook his head. ‘‘Not Tom. Far more likely he stumbled upon their lair and they . . . well, they eliminated the threat he posed to their operations. This is the root of the danger I spoke of, Nora. If you ask me, you should all leave as soon as possible. No telling when the brigands might return.’’
‘‘Nonsense. We can’t simply leave and allow them run of the place—’’
‘‘I’m afraid Chad may be right,’’ Grayson interrupted. ‘‘When I found that cave I jumped to a conclusion. Now I realize my brother’s death may have greater implications than I ever imagined. I’d never forgive myself if . . .’’
He trailed off and again Nora wanted to grip him and shake him—shake loose all the truths he seemed to fear so desperately. That he cared for her, for one; that he cared deeply about so many things in this life. And that he was no killer, neither directly nor indirectly.
It would not have done any good. For now he insisted on shouldering the blame. . . . And Nora realized with a jolt that it must be as her lavender lady had told her. They must discover the truth and see it with their own eyes, their own hearts, in order to believe it.
Could Grayson ever be made to see the truth and believe in it? Dare she hope this discovery of his might be the first step?
‘‘I’ll leave with Jonny on one condition,’’ she said evenly. ‘‘That you accompany us.’’
‘‘Don’t be stubborn, Nora.’’ His voice rose, tinged with anger, and with the ever-present fear that now seemed so obvious to her, so pervasive. ‘‘I want you and Jonny safe, but I must stay and see this through. I owe that much to Tom.’’
She shrugged. ‘‘Then I am going nowhere.’’
‘‘Don’t be foolish,’’ Chad blurted. ‘‘Gray, you’re her husband. Persuade her.’’
It wouldn’t be the first time Grayson had ordered her gone. Nor the first time she’d refused. But today, the urgency seemed far more on the part of the Earl of Wycliffe. Perhaps, in his heart of hearts, Grayson desired her to stay here with him, and be the wife she so wished to be.
With a decisive heft of her chin, she spoke before he could. ‘‘This is our home and I’m not about to let anyone run us off. I daresay it is highly doubtful any pirates will go to all the trouble of sneaking up to the house to murder us in our beds, but to ensure our safety we can hire local men to keep watch. I’m quite certain a coastal village the likes of this one will yield any number of young ruffians eager to wrangle with anyone threatening their own. If not, a letter to my father would certainly—’’
Grayson held up a hand. ‘‘I’ve already instructed Gibbs to post a guard over the beach. I’ll extend that to include the grounds around the house.’’
‘‘You could be making a terrible mistake,’’ Chad said.
‘‘But it is my mistake to make.’’ Nora lifted her teacup and pretended to ignore their resigned expressions.
Soon afterward Chad excused himself to seek an hour’s rest in the bedchamber always reserved for his visits. As his footsteps receded, Nora met Grayson’s gaze. ‘‘You aren’t at all convinced about these pirates, are you? Or you wouldn’t have given in to me so easily.’’
‘‘Smugglers, and what difference does it make what I believe?’’ He made a crooked attempt at a grin, not much more than a twist of his lips, but the sight produced a tiny thrill inside her just the same. ‘‘As you so recently pointed out, you are Zachariah Thorngoode’s daughter, and you follow orders about as easily as you frighten or become discouraged.’’
‘‘Would you prefer a biddable wife?’’ she could not help asking.
He hesitated, jaw going rigid and lips tightening around unspoken thoughts. ‘‘No.’’
‘‘A different wife?’’ Why she felt the need to test him, almost taunt him, she didn’t know. Perhaps to push him to his limit, from where he must either flee from her or turn and embrace her.
He did neither, but sa
t brooding.
Frustration propelled her out of her chair, sent her to stare out the rain-streaked windows facing the front park, silvered by a layer of mist. Feeling Gray’s scrutiny on her back, his melancholy filling the room, she bent to rearrange a vase of flowers on a table beneath the window. Almost angrily she tugged the stems free and speared them back into the crystal vase, finding the delicate petals all too reminiscent of fingertips on flesh. . . . Of Grayson’s fingers on her.
She slid a rose from the vase. Its sweet fragrance danced beneath her nose while the petals, glistening with dew, sent droplets trickling down her forearm. Lightly she brushed the rich red blossom across her lips, conjuring Grayson’s kisses until she ached for them.
‘‘No.’’ The whisper grazed her nape and startled her. The heat of Grayson’s length followed as his torso cradled her back and his hips nestled against her bottom. The feel of him set her body on fire. His lips moved against her hair; his voice smoldered in her ear. ‘‘If you must press for the truth of it, no, I do not wish another wife. I wish you another husband.’’
She longed to turn, to wrap her arms around him, but his unyielding stance held her pressed to the table’s edge and would not allow it. Her gaze searched the clouds outside while her other senses reeled with desire. ‘‘And if I wish no other husband but you?’’
‘‘Then perhaps you are foolishly brave.’’ She felt a gentling of his posture, an easing of the muscles pressing into her. An arm came up around her waist, his large hand splayed against her belly. ‘‘Or merely foolish.’’
"Grayson ..."
A knock at the open door stilled the words on her tongue, words that eluded her, in any case. Beyond breathing heat into his name with the passion building inside her, she hadn’t the slightest notion what she might have uttered next. Grayson stepped away, and she turned to see Kat entering the room.
‘‘Sir. Ma’am.’’ She curtsied twice. ‘‘Beg pardon for interrupting. There’s a small matter in the art studio that requires my lady’s attention.’’
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