"I'm not." A rumble of thunder echoed through the night. "I wasn't," Calvin said then, "until I met your brother." Without warning, he maneuvered his horse until it was turned in the opposite direction and reached for Achilles' bridle.
The horse let out an indignant snort, but came to a halt. Abigail frowned, curious.
"Now that I have answered all your questions, my lady," he said, "perhaps you will answer one of mine."
Abigail felt her heart sink, but she offered a brief nod. "Ask."
He was silent for a long time. Then: "Why did you choose to move yourself out into the country all alone?"
She blinked; it was not the question she had been expecting. Not the carefully worded one that always came when people first met her. Yet, Abigail was certain, there was little about this man that had struck her comparable to anyone else in the world. She smiled.
"Actually, I have always liked the country. My grandparents lived here when I was small, and I can remember visiting them, riding with my grandfather and sitting with my grandmother as she read. Mrs. Poole already had her post at the estate; she was my age now."
"That cannot be right," Calvin said. "That would only put her in her forties now. She must be older than that."
"Either poor Mrs. Poole hasn't aged well at all," Abigail chuckled, not displeased, "or you have a misconstrued idea of my age."
"So you wished to live here all along?"
Abigail nodded. "I was forced to live with my parents when I was a child. Then my brother and sister and I took care of each other when they passed. I was kept in London after I turned eighteen for other reasons."
"The engagement you mentioned?" Calvin's tone suggested he was interested in that detail but would not ask.
"Yes. Once that ended, I saw no reason to keep myself in Town. It's very peaceful here"-Abigail smiled wryly-"or at least it had been until the trouble with the viscount began. London's not so far away that I cannot see my family and friends after less than a few hours' ride. One of my best friends, Bernice, lives here in Rutherford."
She tried to explain. "There's something very nice about returning to a place that always brought you happiness in your childhood, you know?"
"No."
Abigail blushed.
Calvin appeared unconcerned with her thoughtless words. "Do you not miss the goings-on of polite society? The parties and danc-" He cut himself short.
"I miss it sometimes," she answered with an honesty she had never even shared with her friends. "I miss the dancing most of all. You may not believe it to look at me now, Calvin Garrett, but I used to be a wonderful dancer."
"I believe you."
She felt heat steal up her cheeks at his words. "The worst of it is, I think I could still maneuver about the floor if given the chance and a slow waltz."
"Then why don't you?"
Abigail's gaze dropped, as it always did, to her leg sitting stiff in its stirrup. "No one asks anymore."
Calvin shifted, and she was suddenly aware that he was much closer than he had been before. While she had talked, he had moved his horse until their knees-his left and her left were almost touching. Abby could see his chest rising and falling in time with her own breathing.
"I would have liked to see you dance, Abby."
A burst of lightning flared above, clearly illuminating the blunt lines of Calvin's cheekbones, his hard jaw, and the unnameable emotion that filled his dark eyes. He lifted a hand.
"We should go back now," Abigail said quickly. Achilles moved fluidly, turning around on the path without pause then breaking into a gallop in the direction of the estate.
Behind them, she could have sworn she heard a familiar chuckle.
Storm clouds heaved across the sky. A violent crack of thunder pierced the night, as the water became something foul. It clung to her like a black mud, weighing down her limbs and sinking into the material of her gown to chill the skin beneath.
The phaeton was a living thing: she saw it first from the corner of her eye and managed to turn her head from the congealing liquid in which she lay only with the greatest effort. The vehicle closed in on her, cutting through the mire like it was water. There were no horses drawing it along; the phaeton moved of its own accord, picking up speed as it closed in on her.
Her eyes widened in horrified understanding, and the vehicle came barreling toward her. Her heart threatened to burst from her chest as she struggled in vain against the sticky ooze that held her in place. The wheels of the phaeton would crush her skull-she knew it as surely as she knew they had crushed her leg years before-and she did now what she hadn't been able to do then. Abigail screamed.
The sound of her own cry echoed in the dark of the bedchamber as she sat up amidst the tangled sheets. Her unbound hair clung to her cheeks, and she brushed away both the dark tendrils and the remnants of her tears as she concentrated on steadying the ragged beat of her heart. Memories of the nightmare settled at the base of her spine, where her skin was chilled from sweat and the cool night breeze. A brief flicker of lightning brought her surroundings to light, and she caught her own reflection in the mirror on the far wall.
Her hair was damp, her skin pale, and her eyes haunted. Abigail sighed. Dark spirits disturbed her dreams on stormy nights, yet she looked like the ghost. She saw the mirror image of herself jerk abruptly at the sudden banging on her chamber door.
She pressed the back of a hand to her heated cheek. "I'm all right!"
Abigail was not surprised when the knock was repeated. Her voice sounded weak and wobbly to her own ears. Despite her frequent dismissals of their offered comfort, she reasoned silently that perhaps she did need one of Margot's warm hugs or Mrs. Poole's stiff drinks this night.
With the ease of someone who had performed the task for a long time, Abigail reached for the crutch she kept against one of the bedposts without having to look. She favored her left leg even more than usual, not simply because she had not donned her leg brace but because the chill in the air made her joints ache abysmally. There was a third, more insistent knock by the time she was halfway to the door.
"I'm coming," she called even as the fingers of her free hand closed around the door handle. She let the door swing inward under the complete certainty she would find Mrs. Poole in her ruffled, round cap or Margot with her hair sprouting about at odd angles on the other side. Later, she would be loath to imagine what her face looked like when she found Calvin at the opened door.
Dim light from the wall sconces in the hall flickered across the hard angles of his face and the muscles clearly defined between the folds of his opened shirt. Abigail felt an odd tingling run up her scalp as she stared at the broad expanse of dark skin exposed before her, then a hot blush stain her cheeks when she realized that she was staring.
Her wide eyes lifted quickly to the face of the man before her. He did not appear too concerned with her ogling. As a matter of fact, he appeared totally unaware of where her attention was directed, as his had also drifted. Abigail felt the heat of his gaze like a physical caress as it ran along the exposed skin of her neck then lower to her bare shoulders and the upper curves of her breasts. Abigail had not donned her robe in coming to the door and felt ridiculously exposed in only her thin nightgown with lace straps in lieu of sleeves.
His gaze had been on her bare flesh for perhaps seconds, but they had passed like hours for Abigail. When Calvin's eyes finally lifted to hers, she noted that they had gone to an almost smoky shade of blue. She swallowed.
His attention dropped again, watching her throat work, and she felt her mouth go dry.
"I'm sorry if I woke you." Her whisper sounded loud and, she thought, a little unsteady.
Calvin ignored her apology. "I have something for you." His words were low and gravelly, hinting at things she could only imagine.
"Oh?" Abigail's voice cracked. Her heart stopped when Calvin's gaze dropped until he appeared to be looking down the length of himself.
"He was under my bed."
Abigail blinked, and her own gaze lowered. In noting the man's almost-naked chest, she had quickly diverted her eyes before allowing them to travel any lower than the plane of his stomach and the delineations of sinew set therein. Now she focused on the hands he had cupped just beneath his belly. In his large palms, the bundle of brown and gray fur looked as tiny as he had been when Abby had first brought him home.
"Harry!" Her mouth curved in a smile, and shimmering black eyes peered up at her from behind thick lashes.
"Where shall I put him?"
Abigail blinked at the roughness in Calvin's voice, her smile dimming only a little when she saw he was watching her lips.
"I'll take him." She maneuvered back from the door and held open her free palm.
Calvin eyed her arm and then the rabbit that was nearly three times its width.
Abby chuckled when he lifted a brow and slipped her fingers between Harry's belly and Calvin's palm. She made herself ignore the rough skin of the man's hand and concentrate on the rabbit's soft fur as she lifted him. Her leg shook warningly.
"I have to sit." She did not look up as she cuddled Harry to her breast and moved toward the nearest available place to position herself. On the edge of the mattress where she sat, she settled the rabbit down beside her. Harry sniffed the sheets worriedly before the familiar scent of the woman who raised him and the gentle stroking of her fingertips behind his ears calmed him. He lay down with his nose bobbing against her hip.
"Thank you," Abigail said.
"You called out."
She felt suddenly embarrassed, more so than she had been at the thought of being caught gaping at him, and managed a crooked smile. She doubted he could see her, however, in the shadowed bedchamber. "I have nightmares." She repeated, "I'm sorry if I woke you."
"I was awake." Calvin stepped into the room.
Abigail's heart stopped.
"What was your nightmare about?"
His gall at both invading her private domain and sleeping thoughts should have angered her. She should have insisted he leave her room.
"My accident," she said.
"Would you like to talk about it?" The offering came stiffly.
Abigail couldn't help it. There was something about his discomfort that was amusing. She chuckled in the dark, and the brittle laugh changed directions, aimed at her own actions. "There's a storm and an accident. I fall into a stream, and my phaeton comes down after me."
"Not just a nightmare, then."
A cold shiver snaked down Abigail's spine. She wasn't sure if it was memories of the past or the sudden closeness of the man that affected her. "No," she said. She peered up at Calvin, nothing more than a large shadow looming over her in the dark. "If you'll excuse me, I should put Harry in his hutch and myself back to bed."
He stood for so long she wondered if he was deliberately ignoring her, then said, "All right." He turned and took two steps away before coming to a halt.
Abigail's fingers stilled in Harry's fur.
Calvin came back to her and in one fluid move reached out. She gasped when his hand almost brushed her cheek then dropped to her shoulder. She hadn't even realized the strap of her gown had fallen until he carefully lifted the scrap of lace back in place. The door closed heavily behind him, and Abigail continued to sit wide-eyed atop her bed. Her skin burned where his fingers had touched it ... where they had lingered.
Chapter 13
The parchment made a satisfying crackling sound as Calvin crushed it within his fist. Remnants of the rain that had stopped only a few hours before dripped off the roof of the stable and onto the brim of his hat. It felt like an icy drop of rainwater had found its way inside the collar of his coat and shirt, trickling slowly down his spine. The chill was not that of cold water, however, but harsh awareness.
The initials P.V. bring to mind only one name.
The note had come early that morning; Mrs. Poole had given it to him along with his breakfast of sausage and tomatoes. Calvin had recognized Thomas Wolcott's wax seal instantly and silently hoped the cook did not. So much had happened in the short space of time since he had sent Thomas the brief query, he had forgotten to expect a reply. The one he had received had been more than unexpected, in fact. Upon reading the response, Calvin had felt an unwelcome rush of emotions, one of which was rage.
He could still see her face each time he closed his eyes. Her dark hair unbound and cascading down her shoulders like a shimmering cape. Her face soft and white, save for the few freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. As if it had been moments and not almost twelve hours before, he saw her bay-colored gaze lift from beneath lashes damp with tears as she opened the bedchamber door.
Not the gaze of a woman who appeared either stupid or suffering the pain of a broken heart.
Calvin couldn't understand what the hell she was doing.
Patrick Valmonte, the scoundrel to whom Abigail was engaged three years ago.
Calvin jammed the crumpled letter into his coat pocket, glaring into the sun as it broke through the lingering clouds above and stole under the brim of his hat.
The man, as far as he understood it, had abandoned Abigail when she needed him the most. Whether it was because Valmonte couldn't handle the horror of what had happened to her or the disfigurement it entailed, Calvin didn't know. He was certain, however, that the man he had never met before was nothing short of a bastard.
"So why," he breathed low in his throat, "in God's name is she giving him money?"
It was like as not a question he would never get an answer to. He had invaded her privacy, Abigail's personal accounts, to obtain the little he now knew. To confront her with his knowledge would be to expose himself for what he was and why he was really there. He was certain, once she knew the truth of his and her brother's scheme, she would be enraged with them both and might very well banish Calvin from her life forever.
It was a risk, Calvin admitted to himself while standing alone outside her home with tentacles of jealousy and anger curling around his heart, he did not want to take. He couldn't explain it and, in truth, didn't even try to exhaust himself doing so. He was well aware he had found out everything Thomas had wanted to know about his sister. Knew what was going on between her and Lord Raleigh and actually believed the rather peculiar women who were her friends added quality to her life. That she was sharing funds with Patrick Valmonte was a mystery in itself, but nothing Thomas could not confront her with himself.
Yet Calvin had sent no word to the other man that their investigation need not continue. In truth, he had a bad feeling about what Raleigh was trying to do, which had only been magnified upon watching Abby's encounter with the magistrate. Abigail was alone, and too stubborn, Calvin believed, to accept her brother's help no matter the circumstances. Whether she knew it or not, she needed her new butler for reasons only he was aware of. And reasons he had stopped trying to tell himself only concerned the safety of his best friend's sister prevented Calvin from even conceiving of taking his leave now.
Reasons that had a lot to do with her smile the night before, undeniably innocent and unknowingly seductive as the strap of her nightgown slipped quietly off her shoulder. Calvin only hoped when this farce was over, Thomas wouldn't be calling him out onto the dueling field and Abby did not hate him.
The gleam of sunlight on steel caught his eye, and he lifted his gaze to the open field. It stretched from Abigail's land to the fallen oak and beyond. Just at the singed tree, there stood two men. The first Calvin recognized as Lord Raleigh; the other was more broadly built. The man standing in the shadows of the stables muttered a dark curse as his gaze followed the beam of the sun to the guns both men carried.
Harry calmly approached the rug where Abigail sat, left leg stretched out beneath the designs she was scrutinizing. He sniffed the charcoal and the stained fingers in which the chunk of black rock lay, then shifted his survey to the thin paper unfolded on Abigail's lap.
She frowned, losing her focus on the bookshelves th
at took up most of the library wall. "Would you kindly stop that?"
Harry did not pause in nibbling the corner of her designs.
"Quit." Abby put a clean fingertip to the rabbit's nose and gave a gentle nudge.
Harry gave her a brief sniff, snuck his head under her hand, and continued to consume her paper.
Despite her poor mood, Abigail could not bring herself to yell at her found pet. She carefully rerolled the papers she had been reviewing for the bookshop and put them atop the settee beside her. As she used both the sofa and her crutch to rise first to her good knee and then her feet, she cursed the nightmare that had ruined her sleep the night before. Then she cursed herself for not admitting that it had not been the nightmare but what had occurred afterward that kept her tossing and turning for the rest of the night.
Once on her feet, her gaze traveled back to her bookshelves. On a sigh, she moved to the farthest column to her right. The books on these shelves, Abby was certain, had not been touched in three years. Her charcoal-stained fingertips ran across the well-worn spines and remembered titles. When she found one of her old favorites, she carefully tugged it from the rest.
"I thought you didn't read those anymore."
Abigail turned to face the woman who stood in the doorway. The coat she wore, her gown, even the barrettes in her hair, were new, suggesting she was a woman of considerable means. The fact that the coat was brown, the walking gown was pale green, and one of her barrettes was slightly askew clarified that-despite the fact she had gone from rather meager beginnings to marry a notorious earl-she would always be Bernice.
"I'm growing rather worried with all the books Harriet suggests," Abigail said. "All those stories about the avenging souls of murdered persons and restless spirits cannot be good for one's constitution."
"It makes you wonder...."
"About ghosts?"
"About Harriet." Bernice grinned. As she stepped in the room, her bronze gaze flashed behind her spectacles, inspecting Abigail's eyes and the shadows the other woman knew were beneath. "I hear tell it has been storming a lot. Are you all right?"
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