There had been no such reports from the headland. And where had Chad gone today? Almost assuredly not to Helston. Gray’s suspicions mounted like the many debts that had once gone unpaid. He loathed himself for hurting Nora—and God, he knew he had. But for safety’s sake, he wished to keep her and Jonny as far away from Chad as possible for now.
He’d considered telling Nora the truth. Christ, each time he’d had to step between her and Chad with a cutting remark and a quelling look, he had simply wanted to draw her aside and tell her what he had learned.
But what had he learned? All he had were suspicions, and what might only amount to troubling coincidences. Before he’d be willing to condemn his friend, he needed more evidence linking Chad to the goods in the cave and, possibly—his gut wrenched as he contemplated it—Tom’s death.
Tom might have trusted where he should not have. Yes, in the very same person Grayson had trusted all his life.
Had he invited a murderer into his home, into his family? Then not telling Nora might be the surest way to ensure her safety, for if Chad did prove guilty, and he detected signs that Nora knew of his guilt, what might he do to silence her?
Grayson didn’t mind putting himself in danger. What of it? But he’d see both himself and Chad in hell before he’d allow anything or anyone to harm his wife and nephew.
He gave the panel one final, futile tug. Her message to him was clear.
Stay out.
He pressed the flats of his hands to the door. ‘‘Nora, forgive me,’’ he whispered. ‘‘I will make this up to you. As soon I know you and Jonny are safe, I swear I will make amends.’’
The following day brought more storms. More questions. More of Grayson’s inexplicable behavior.
He had ordered breakfast sent to Nora’s room this morning, a gesture that gave her reason to rejoice. She had believed he would be joining her and they would share some rare time alone together. Perhaps his dour mood had passed. She had held the notion close to her heart as she waited for him. But he hadn’t come. Alone, crestfallen, she had finally swallowed a few cold spoonfuls of porridge before pushing away the tray. Grayson, meanwhile, had breakfasted with Chad in the morning room, and soon afterward they had left the house.
Later she had found him alone in the drawing room. With little to lose, she had put her arms around him and kissed him, hoping to reignite the spark that had so recently flared between them. Had she only imagined his response, the heat in his lips, the shudder of passion that passed from the taut planes of his body into hers?
But at the sound of Chad’s booted footsteps outside the room, Grayson had thrust her to arm’s length, silenced her stammered protest with a severe look and left her to join his friend.
Thunder rumbled, rattling the windowpanes in the schoolroom and wrapping Nora in a sense of dismal isolation, despite sitting across the oaken library table from Jonny and Kat.
With a weary sigh she eased to her feet. When the boy questioned her with a lift of his solemn blue eyes, she managed a smile, a painful effort that tapped what little fortitude remained to her.
‘‘You and Kat continue playing if you like. My head is aching. I’m going to lie down before supper.’’ At his sudden frown of concern she added, ‘‘No doubt the result of your growing monopoly of the world’s riches and my impending poverty.’’
She alluded to the game she had devised for him, presently cluttering the table at which they sat. For the past couple of hours, she, Jonny and Kat had moved tiny wooden ships around a map of the world, ‘‘sailing’’ according to the roll of a die from port to port to either buy, discover or trade goods accumulated along the way.
Thus far Jonny had bartered for tropical fruits in the West Indies, discovered gold in Mexico, bought silk in China, and was now working his way to India and the exotic spices to be found there. The first to make his or her way back to England with a large treasury and a cargo hold filled with riches won the game.
The boy fingered the stack of tiny silk squares cut from one of her old scarves. Beside that a pile of amber beads from a broken necklace twinkled in the lamplight—that was Jonny’s ‘‘gold’’.
Despite his victories, he showed little enthusiasm for the game today. Nora had attempted inviting both Gray and Chad to join them, and while Chad had showed interest, Gray had waved her off.
We’ve no time today for children’s games.
If they were continuing their investigations of the estate and surrounding areas, Grayson might simply have said as much. She would have understood, would have wished them luck.
The hardest part had been watching the disappointment wilt Jonny’s eager expression. On the surface, he and Grayson had taken no great strides into their relationship. But Nora knew better. No longer did she see the frightened child who had once cowered at his uncle’s touch. Jonny remained silent and Grayson continued to be tentative with the boy, but she had sensed, or thought she sensed, a sincere and growing desire on both their parts to, well, be a family.
But today Grayson had flat out rejected his nephew, and now with each halfhearted roll of the die, she had sensed Jonny’s thoughts drifting farther and farther away until even the silence she had so grown accustomed to seemed ponderous.
The first raindrops pattered the windows. She leaned to press a kiss to the top of his head. ‘‘Do leave a trade route or two open for Kat. I’ll see you both later.’’
Outside in the corridor the cheerfulness she had maintained for Jonny’s sake abandoned her. Her back sagging to the wall, she scrubbed at the tears rolling down her cheeks, each one a scalding memory of Grayson’s disregard.
If you wouldn’t mind, Nora, we’ve business to discuss.I daresay, it’s nothing that would interest you.
Curt and condescending, and as painful as if he’d slapped her.
What had she done to make him so despise her? Did he resent her private talk with Chad, or had he grown jealous of her affections for his friend? But that latter notion was madness. After all they had been through in so short a time, after all her assurances that she would never leave his side no matter what happened, surely Grayson could not think so little of her.
Perhaps it was madness. The notion sent a chill shimmying down her back. He had tried many times to warn her about his true nature. Perhaps she should have listened, and not invested her heart in a Grayson that didn’t truly exist, that was no more than an illusion.
The corridor darkened with the approaching storm. She wanted only to reach her room, shut the door and give in to these abominable tears, if only for a brief time. Until a better plan occurred to her.
She had almost reached her threshold when the sound of Grayson’s voice stopped her cold.
‘‘Nora, wait. I wish to speak to you.’’
Yes, she wished to speak to him too, wished to give him a piece of her mind and demand why he would toss away love as though it were so much rubbish. But not now, not with her anger and wounded pride and these blasted tears between them. In her experience, tears never solved anything, only made matters worse.
Without turning to look at him, she strode into her room, flinging the door closed behind her.
Except that it didn’t close. When a slam should have vibrated her walls, she heard only a thud. She whirled, glared, while her heart clogged her throat and impeded every scathing remark sizzling for release.
Lightning hurled his face into stark relief, his eyes fierce against the jagged definition of his features. He stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind him.
She backed away, for although he made no move to touch her, his presence surrounded her, suffocated her. Threatened to release those tears like floodwaters. Thunder boomed, reverberating through the room.
‘‘What do you want?’’
He moved toward her. ‘‘Nora, I—’’
‘‘No.’’ She took another step back. If the past days had taught her anything, it was that he possessed the power to hurt her deeply. She needed space, and safet
y, between them. ‘‘Whatever it is, tell me from where you are.’’
‘‘I know you’re angry with me. I understand—’’
‘‘You understand?’’ The word, the audacity of it in light of his recent behavior, set off a firestorm inside her. ‘‘Don’t you dare patronize me. You’ve been a cad of the worst sort and I . . .’’ The words trailed away. Rain lashed the house. Had she been about to wish him to the devil? Offer up an ultimatum?
‘‘I can explain, if you’ll let me. But I haven’t much time.’’ His face was a study in shadows, infinite ones, yet still so ruggedly handsome despite the ravages of sleeplessness and guilt. Within those shadows, his stormy eyes blazed with tenderness, possessing her, caressing her as they did only at the most intimate of moments.
She didn’t want him handsome, tender. Irresistible. She needed her anger. Needed that self-righteous indignation to shore her up because, blast it all, he had made her love him, then treated her merely as a woman he’d been forced to marry.
And that hurt more than she had words to describe.
After all she had endured for him and from him. After all the good she had insisted on seeing in him.
And then she realized what he had said. ‘‘You haven’t time to what?’’ she said. ‘‘Fit me into your demanding schedule? Never mind, then. You wanted to hurt me and you did. But you hurt Jonny as well. And that I cannot forgive.’’ Indignation coursed through her in great, hot gusts. ‘‘Get out. I don’t want you here.’’
No, because those damned tears were falling, burning her skin and stinging her eyes. She turned her back on him. Moments passed, taut and brittle, while her tears and the rain smeared the view outside and she thought certainly he had left the room by now.
She heard footsteps in the corridor, assumed they were his, but when she peeked over her shoulder to ensure that he had complied with her wishes, she discovered him standing behind her, a breath away.
His strong arms seized her, turned her. She gasped. He clutched her to him and kissed her, swallowing her cries of protest. Went on kissing her, filling her mouth with the taste of him and her own tears until the struggle melted out of her, until she could only lean into the solidness of his chest and cling to the one thing beyond her easel that had ever, ever brought her joy.
Even if that joy were little more now than the lingering smolder of a lightning bolt.
His hands were on her face, in her hair, cupping her cheeks. His lips moved against hers. ‘‘Trust me. That’s all I can tell you. All I can ask of you. But do it.’’ His fingers tightened, insisted. ‘‘Please.’’
Something in his entreaty caused the blistering resentment inside her to still, to listen. But the hurt ran deep, was still too new and raw to be ignored.
She pulled away, glowering at him from behind wisps of hair pulled loose by his roaming, claiming fingers. ‘‘That is all? No explanation? Nothing?’’
Beyond her closed door, the footsteps became louder, closer. Grayson pricked his ears and held up a hand to silence her while he listened. The rain maintained its constant lament against the house, taken up by the somber growl of thunder.
‘‘Gray? Nora? Are you up here?’’
It was Chad.
Neither of them answered. In the tense moments that followed, she watched Gray’s expression change, saw the tender urgency freeze to an icy disdain that sent her hopes plummeting.
‘‘You have nothing to say,’’ she challenged.
‘‘Nothing else,’’ he murmured.
‘‘Get out, then.’’ She shoved at his chest, but she needn’t have. He was already backing away. Then he turned and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
A sob sent her lurching forward until she was up against the door, arms outstretched, fingers spread, cheek flat to the wood. She thought of Charlotte— wretched Charlotte, mourning what she’d once had, grieving for what she might never have again. Her heart splintered as, from the other side, the men’s jovial voices drifted along the corridor.
‘‘Dornie sent me up to convey a message from Cook,’’ Chad was saying. ‘‘There’s been some minor disaster in the kitchen and supper is going to be about half an hour later than usual. Simply can’t be helped, I’m afraid.’’
‘‘Not a problem, my friend. A quick game of chess?’’
About an hour later, Nora heard a creak above her head.
The storm had lulled to a drizzle, rendering the thunder mute for now. Lying in the middle of her bed, she left off feeling thoroughly miserable, sat up and went utterly still, face tipped toward the canopy above her.
A minute passed. Then she heard it again. The whimpered complaint of an ancient floorboard. Not directly above her head, but off to her left, over her dressing room.
It could only be Grayson in the attic. But why? If he had tried to access her room through the sliding panel, he would have discovered the way barred. She had never removed the wire holding the panel and wardrobe in place. In fact, in the events of the past days, she had forgotten all about it. At any rate, the one time Grayson had spent in her bed, he had entered the room through one of its conventional doors.
Another creak convinced her she hadn’t imagined the previous ones. Did he think she’d come up to meet him? Did he wish her to? Based on everything he had said and done these past two days, her only answer could be a resounding no.
Yet . . . the no that tolled inside her dissipated on a wavering note.
Trust me . . . do it. . . .
He’d added a please, but that had done little to soften the effrontery of his demand.
Do it. As if it were easy. As if darkness hadn’t once more invaded his mind, as if—
Something brushed her, touched her. Surrounded her, like a cool embrace.
‘‘If you cannot trust him, Nora, trust yourself.’’
‘‘Charlotte?’’ As with each visitation, a chill raked the hairs on her nape and arms; her pulse sped to a canter. And yet something had changed. The currents running through the air and beneath her skin felt drained of energy. She probed the room’s deepest shadows, searching for that uncanny light she knew so well. ‘‘Where are you? I cannot see you.’’
‘‘Time runs short. You must be your own guide. Must look into your heart and believe that what you see there is the truth.’’
A burst of vexation sent Nora to her feet. ‘‘You speak always of truth, yet reveal nothing.’’
‘‘I’ve told you I cannot.’’ Another brush across her shoulders sent Nora spinning about, only to confront her bedside table.
‘‘At least tell me what’s happening to Grayson.’’
‘‘You do not need me to tell you about Grayson. You already know. Trust yourself, Nora. Trust. . . .’’
The voice faded, leaving her standing, trembling, alone in the middle of her room.
Did she—could she—trust herself? Her beliefs, her convictions, her ability to judge the world and the people around her?
She had loved him. Loved him still. Had she been utterly wrong to place her heart in his keeping? Her creature of darkness. Hers.
Why? Because within the darkness she had seen something in him no one else had. Because she looked at the world differently than most people. What did solid objects, defined and finite, mean to her artist’s eyes? Eyes were frail things, easily tricked. Art had taught her to view the world with her instincts, her intuition, to see in terms of light and shadow, form and substance. The essence of a subject. The soul.
Had she seen his soul, or only what she wished, hoped, to see?
A small pair of pliers lay beside her hairbrush on the dressing table, left behind by Gibbs. She snatched them up and went to the wardrobe.
Just as she gave the wire one last twist to release the wardrobe from the panel, a current of air fluttered against her cheek.
‘‘Do not leave Jonny. Watch over him.’’
‘‘I will never leave him,’’ she replied to the emptiness. ‘‘No matter what, I shall always be h
ere to take care of him. I swear it.’’
An impulse, raised by a startling wisp of thought, had prompted Grayson to make his excuses to Chad and race up to his bedchamber. From there he had wasted no time in opening the sliding wall panel and taking the steps two at a time.
In the waning afternoon light, the garret’s small window angled a dull diamond pattern across the floor. Near his feet, the feather tick lay glowing in the murky shadows like a ghost at rest, which, in a way, it was. A phantom memory of this room’s original purpose.
A hiding place. By God, why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?
After he and Tom had first discovered this room with its sparse contents, a series of recurrent events during their childhood had fallen repugnantly into place. Their father seemingly absent from the house for hours. Maids neglecting their work but, oddly, not sacked for it. Their mother complaining of strange noises traveling down the walls of her chamber, sounds no one could trace to their source. Even now, Grayson cringed to think of his overbearing, self-absorbed father trysting with his lovers here, above his wife’s head, and she none the wiser.
But this attic had once played a far more significant function, as a bit of research had divulged. Just as the sliding panels downstairs revealed no trace of what lay beyond, the feather tick, devoid of a frame, would make no telltale creaks in the night. The Lowell family, secretly and dangerously Catholic during Henry VIII’s Reformation, had needed a convenient and secure place to hide their priest.
As a testament to just how perilous England’s changing religious and political climate was then, the family had thought far enough ahead to realize the advantage of providing two ways into—and out of— this lair. One opened upon his bedroom.
The other . . . Nora’s. It couldn’t have been any more convenient.
Dark Obsession Page 29