“I’d like to point out that a hundred … no, fifty years ago, my sister and I could both have burned at the stake. Many of my ancestors were! This isn’t Macbeth, Spencer, with old crones dancing around a cauldron. Someone skilled in herbs, who knows the right combination of ingredients, could easily induce the kind of madness you’ve been experiencing. When you are, well… in that state—.”
“Mad as a March hare, you mean?” he asked. There was a snap to his tone, one which she did not deserve.
“Unwell,” she corrected, calmly. “Your eyes are glassy and your pupils enlarged such as with someone using laudanum or perhaps absinthe.”
“I’ve no taste for either,” he said gruffly. “I’ve no wish to be so addled that I cannot tell fact from fantasy!”
She smiled sadly. “No. You would never wish that. You have always been quite grounded to the here and now…Have I, or has Emme, told you much about our father?”
Spencer watched her as she paced the length of the room. She was nervous, and while it ought to have been about him, he had the distinct feeling it was not. Whatever was distressing her was something else altogether. “No,” he answered. “She has not, and neither have you. Is there some reason you should have?”
“Until now, no. There hasn’t been. My father had gifts very similar to Emme’s and to my own.”
“Your sister sees spirits and you see future events… how are those gifts similar?”
She perched on the corner of the desk and faced him. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, so tightly that her knuckles were white. “That isn’t truly my gift. I don’t see future events. I cannot look ahead and tell you what will come to be, though to those who do not know about such things, it would appear that is the case… What I read, Spencer, are people’s intentions. I can feel their darkest desires, their most painful secrets. I know what they want, what they hate, and what they fear. It was much the same for my father, but I fear he was less capable of coping with it. So he medicated himself, as it were. He numbed the pain, at first with drink, then with herbs and remedies, and finally with opium. Eventually, even that did not work and he took his own life.”
Spencer recalled the weight of the pistol in his hand, the temptation to simply end it all and be done with it. He sympathized with her late father, but found he was quite grateful to have resisted the urge. It was not something he would wish on her, to have someone else in her life, even in his limited capacity, to do such harm to themselves. “I am sorry for that. For his pain and yours.” He paused for a moment, and then added, “I’d never do that. Regardless of how awful things might seem, that isn’t my way.”
“But you’ve considered it,” she said softly.
“Considered and discarded,” he reiterated. “You need have no fear on that score.”
She nodded, and breathed deeply as if a weight had been lifted from her. “When Father was indulging in these vices… I remember looking into his eyes. His pupils were great black pools, so deep and dark it should have possible to drown in them. That was a result of the drug, Spencer, and whatever you’ve been given has the same effect.”
“Magic? Some potion or spell? I cannot grasp that connection, Larissa.”
“What many call magic, Spencer, is simply herbalism with different religious practices built around it… Much in the same way the Whitbys indulged in violence and torture as part of their bizarre beliefs, witches often incorporate nature and herbs into theirs.”
“And how does what you can do fit into this?”
She looked away. “I do not have an answer for that. I don’t understand what I can do, what Emme can do. Where it comes from or how it works is a mystery to me and I imagine that it will always be so.”
He leaned forward in the chair, his hands steepled beneath his chin as she tried to come to terms with what she’d said. It was a difficult thing to fully comprehend. Prior to his past experiences at Briarwood Hall and its resident spirits, and now his own disturbing descent into madness at Kinraven, he’d always been very grounded, prosaic even. He’d survived fighting on the Peninsula simply because he hadn’t allowed for distraction. Focus. Control of his emotions. The ability to distance himself from fear and panic. Those were the qualities that had allowed him to survive and to continue the work he’d done for the Crown after the war. What Larissa suggested was not something he could easily accept, but given what he knew of her and her extraordinary family, it was not something he could deny outright.
“Tell me how—tell me what you see from others,” he asked. The question, unbidden, of what she’d seen from him came to. Aside from that last unfortunate evening at Briarwood, he’d never acted on his desire for her, but had she sensed it? His thoughts had, more often than not, been far from pure.
She rose again and resumed her pacing. That alone told him it was an answer she did not wish to give. “Larissa,” he said. “Tell me.”
“You’ll be angry,” she said softly.
“For something you cannot help or change?” he responded. “I will not be angry… humiliated perhaps but not angry.”
She glanced at him over her shoulder, the pose unintentionally alluring. “I cannot imagine why.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Do not be coy with me. From what you’ve said, I can only surmise that you have an unfair advantage in being fairly certain of my feelings for you when I have bumbled about, thoroughly in the dark.”
“Oh,” she said. “It doesn’t work exactly the way. Until that night at Briarwood, I was bumbling about in the dark as well, as you put it. If the emotions are strong enough, I can pick them up just by being close to someone, though typically those are somewhat negative. If someone is angry or jealous… that comes through much more clearly than more tender feelings might. The exception to that is with touch.”
“Touch?” he queried. Was that it? Had her reason for avoiding his touch all those years not been fear but something else? He dared not hope for it.
“Yes,” she answered breathlessly. “If I’m touching someone, the connection is much stronger and their feelings are much more easily discerned.”
“I thought you reviled me,” he admitted reluctantly.
Larissa gaped at him for a moment. “Oh, Spencer, no … never that. How could you have possibly thought—?” She broke off. Of course, he’d thought it. He knew the truth about her past. He knew why she might have been averse to being touched by any man. She thought of her true reason for coming to Scotland. His letter had been the catalyst, but the truth of it was quite simple. She’d come there to finish what they had started at Briarwood Hall all those months ago, to finally put her fear behind her and experience passion.
Before her nerves could get the better of her, Larissa crossed the short distance between them. She didn’t stop until she stood close enough to feel the heat of his body through her gown. “I was afraid for a very long time, but never of you. That night at Briarwood Hall, Spencer, I ran away… I ran because I could see what you wanted from me. For the first time, I knew how much you desired me that night, how intense your feelings were for me.”
He turned his face away from her. “I never meant to frighten you.”
“But you didn’t. I frightened myself because I wanted those things, too … desperately.” She reached out, placing her hand on his face, the rasp of his whiskery cheek beneath her palm sent shivers over her skin. Haltingly, breathlessly, she resumed her confession, not because she wanted to but because he needed to hear it. “I never imagined that I would be capable of feeling such desire. I had thought that what happened with Moreland would have robbed me of that. I wanted to give myself to you, but I never imagined that I would crave you in return.”
He placed his hand over hers, pressing it to his cheek. Then he turned his head and pressed the softest of kisses into her palm. His breath was warm as his lips moved against her skin with blatant sensuality. Unable to resist the allure, Larissa brought her other hand up to cup the back of his head, to tangle in the sil
ken strands of his overlong hair. She found she rather liked his longer hair. It made him look like his Viking ancestors.
“Is this the sort of touch you meant?” he asked her.
“No.” Larissa couldn’t stop the smile that curved her lips. “For some reason, since coming to Kinraven, my gifts have been strangely absent, dampened somehow. My dreams are unfocused, unclear. When I touch people or objects, I get nothing. For the first time in my life, when I most want to use this gift, it has abandoned me.”
“Why do you think that is?” he asked. His hand still rested over hers, his thumb drawing lazy circles on the delicate skin of her wrist. She shivered, even that slight touch from him created a maelstrom of emotion within her.
With some effort, Larissa managed to focus just long enough to answer his question. “I suspect the answer is not one that you would like… You do not believe in witches and spells, or herbs that have mystical properties but no other cause comes to mind. There are herbs that can be used to heighten psychic gifts. There are also herbs that can be used to dull them. I imagine, if one is skilled enough in the art of herbalism, or witchcraft as you call it, then one might manage to block someone’s gift entirely.”
He considered the answer for a moment before replying. “Is that not what you wanted all along? To be free of that burden?”
Unable to help herself, she continued to touch him, stroke his hair, and savor the curious sensation of his unshaven jaw beneath her hand. She could feel the play of muscle in his shoulders as he moved. “I had thought so… but I find that I feel rather lost without it. It is like being deprived of sight or hearing.”
“Then we shall endeavor to return it to you. I would never have you feel less than certain in all things.”
She smiled then. “I am very certain of one thing.”
“And what is that?”
She met his gaze for just a moment, then her own lowered to his mouth. “I want you to kiss me again.”
“That is unwise,” he said.
“So you mean to refuse me?” she asked as she took another small step toward him. Their thighs brushed through the layers of clothing.
“I did not say that. Only that it is unwise,” he replied.
“I saw the letter you wrote to Rhys… and I used it as an excuse to come here. I didn’t imagine that you, of all people, would ever truly need assistance, but it was a convenient catalyst. I came here because I meant to seduce you,” she offered the admission as barely more than a whisper. “Even though I haven’t a clue what I’m about.”
He was so tall that even though he was seated and she stood, his head was nearly at her shoulder. It took little effort to lean in and press her lips to his cheek, a scant inch from his lips.
“Larissa.” He whispered her name like an oath. “You are playing with fire.”
She smiled at him, her fingertips moving along his jawline, his throat, down to the open neck of his shirt and the crisp hair that fascinated her so. “I am fully prepared for the burn… That is the point, after all, is it not?”
“Should I remind you that I very nearly killed you this morning?” he demanded.
“Should I remind you that were it not for you, I would have died years ago at the hands of Moreland? I’m tired of being afraid, Spencer … I’m tired of his spectrer hanging over me. You wanted me that night at Briarwood—no, you craved me. Do you still?”
“You know that I do. With my last breath,” he admitted gruffly.
“Then let us use our lips for something other than talking,” she whispered.
It was all the incentive he needed. With the slightest turn of his head, his lips were on hers. Warm, insistent, they coaxed and claimed and she gave eagerly in return. His arms came around her, his hands splayed about her waist and tugging her to him. She stood between his parted thighs, her body pressed to the hard wall of his chest, her head bent to his as he feasted on her mouth. His lips toyed with hers. His teeth nipped, demanded. Her lips parted of their own accord and he seized the opportunity offered there as his tongue glided sensuously inside, tangling with hers. Her heart pounded. Blood rushed in her veins and inside her, fire raged. The heat grew more intense with every passing second, with every bold sweep of his tongue.
With one simple tug, she was sprawled across his lap, completely enveloped in his embrace. At one time, it would have induced panic but for six months, she’d dreamed of his kiss. She’d recalled every minute detail, every erotic image that had filtered from his mind to hers. Any fear she might have felt was drowned beneath the desire that washed through her. She wanted him.
He moved, shifting away from her slightly. Desperate, Larissa gripped his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his flesh. “Don’t,” she whispered.
“Don’t what?” he asked.
“Do not let reality intrude… It doesn’t matter what’s happened in the past. I can’t even bring myself to care about what will happen tomorrow. For tonight at least, can’t it just be us?”
“I’ve no intention of letting anything get in my way… I’ve waited far too long for this,” he agreed. “But I hardly think this study is the place? Though we do seem to be making a habit of behaving inappropriately in such places.”
She giggled. The sound surprised her. It was carefree and flirtatious and so far from who she had become. “Then where should such deeds be done?”
“My chamber,” he said and rose to his feet with her cradled in his arms.
“Oh, dear heavens! Put me down!”
He moved toward the door. “No. You might change your mind and it would be quite lowering to have to chase you through the halls.”
“I won’t change my mind. Nothing could make me change my mind. But it would be equally lowering to come face to face with Finella, or heaven forbid, Katherine, in the throes of such thoroughly inappropriate behavior!”
He grimaced, and reluctantly, put her on her feet. “Let us make a pact to mention neither of them for the remainder of the night.”
“Agreed,” she said in a whisper and moved toward the library door. She peered out into the hallway but saw no one.
With the coast clear, Larissa stepped out and made for the stairs. Spencer was just behind her as they reached the landing. A door opened and hushed voices, clearly distressed, could be heard.
Panicked, Larissa turned to him and whispered, “What do we do?”
“We do nothing,” he responded. “But listen. Out and about this late, they are surely up to no good.”
“We’re out and about this late!” she protested in a hiss.
“And I was most assuredly up to no good. Now be quiet!”
She might have been offended by that if the whispered voices from the hall hadn’t grown significantly closer. Pressing herself against the wall, Larissa tried to listen. It was clearly a woman who was speaking and she was quite distraught.
“I don’t know where she is, ma’am! She didn’t return to her bed last night.”
The second voice was one Larissa recognize immediately. It was Mrs. Agatha.
“What would you have me do, Rose? I will not raise the entire house because your light skirt of a cousin has run off with her worthless beau!”
“She didn’t have a beau! Poor Mary is painfully shy. She’s barely spoken two words to anyone since she’s been here… and she needed the work, ma’am. She’d not have left without her pay! She’s not like that!”
“I will discuss the matter with Fergus tomorrow. In the meantime, you should seek your own bed and stop worrying about a feckless girl who is too busy occupying someone else’s bed! Good night!”
The tirade was followed by the slamming of a door. It was obvious Mrs. Agatha had retreated to her own room by the soft weeping of the other woman in the hallway. Larissa turned to Spencer. “We have to help her!”
Spencer did not utter the word that came immediately to his mind, but his jaw clenched tightly to hold it at bay. “Larissa, Mrs. Agatha is undoubtedly right and the girl has run off.�
� Even as he said it, he knew it wasn’t true. There were several inches of snow piled up outside and it was the dead of night. Though pointing that out in the present situation would not help his cause.
“Spencer, you can’t possibly believe that!” she protested. “What do you know of this maid?”
Very little. The name teased at his memory, but like so many things, it was simply gone from his mind. There was very little over the last few weeks that he could recall clearly. “You will not let this be, will you?”
“Should I?” she challenged.
It goaded him to admit the truth and he sighed, “No. Stay here and I will speak to her.”
“Frankly, she will be more inclined to speak with me. The staff is rather intimidated by you,” she pointed out.
Her tone was mild, but the meaning was clear. They thought him a lunatic and with damned good reason. Relenting, he nodded. “I will accompany you, but you may speak to her.”
“People will know that we were together,” she protested.
“I don’t give a damn. You’re inserting yourself into what could be, if your suspicions prove correct, a dangerous situation. You will not do so alone.”
She nodded her assent and he followed her up the stairs. The maid was seated in one of the chairs that had been placed along the corridor, weeping softly. Larissa called out softly, “Rose, tell me what has happened.”
The maid looked up with a startled gasp and stood quickly. Her gaze flew from Larissa to settle on him and Spencer felt her fear as surely as a blow. The girl was terrified of him. Fists clenched at his side, he said nothing and waited for Larissa to gather the information. It pained him to be so useless.
“Oh, miss! Forgive me, if I woke you,” Rose said, but even as she uttered the words, her gaze roamed over Larissa’s gown, slightly rumpled and askew. Her hair was as well, half the pins left scattered on the library floor. By morning, the entire house would believe he’d seduced her and he would fervently wish they were correct. Sadly, he felt certain that their amorous pursuits for the evening had come to a crashing halt. He could only pray it would be a temporary situation.
The Dark Regency Series: Boxed Set Page 60