Dark Splendor

by Parnell, Andrea

  Silvia’s senses came back with a delectable slowness. She lay beneath Roman, trapped willingly in the haven of his arms. Waves of ecstasy still flowed within her as she closed her eyes and whispered his name.

  Pressing soft kisses to her lips, Roman stirred above her and rolled to his side. An instant later their eyes met in amazement as they discovered the mattress on which they lay now half-rested on the floor. Smiling, Roman rose and pulled Silvia to her feet. He moved their feathery ship back to its proper resting place on the bed frame, and amid a free giving of kisses and caresses, found and donned his clothes.

  Silvia had to fetch another chemise from the bureau, but once the new one was on and she busied herself with the myriad of buttons on the bodice of her gold gown, there was little evidence of passion’s fire remaining in the Emerald Suite. The lovelight, though, continued to burn in Silvia’s eyes as she watched Roman retie the leather cord that bound his hair. In Roman’s eyes the savagery had mellowed to a gentle blue.

  Catching a glimpse of her tangled hair in the mirror, Silvia left her gown only half-fastened and hastened across the room to brush the wildness from her ebony tresses. Roman came to stand behind her, his gaze reveling in the double view of radiant beauty presented him as he looked over her shoulder at the image reflected in the mirror.

  Silvia quickly restored her coiffure and began to fasten the tiny buttons on her gown.

  Feeling his blood stir once more, Roman slid his arms around her and pulled her hands from their work. His fingers played with tantalizing deftness along the inviting valley between her breasts.

  “This thing between us must be reckoned with, Silvia, my sweet,” he whispered as his lips nibbled gently at the soft morsel of her earlobe. “You and I—”

  Silvia cringed as a knock sounded at the door.

  “May I come in?” Another light tap at the door preceded the cool voice.

  “Martha.” Roman pulled his hands away and turned stiffly.

  Silvia hurriedly finished the task of fastening her gown. But not waiting for an answer, Martha swung the door open and entered.

  “Forgive me.” She smiled lamely, her hands pressed together prayerlike as she stepped into the room. Her eyes raked coldly over Silvia, then flew in a rigid stare to Roman. Her face, livid with rage, belied her calm voice. “I’ve searched the house for you, Roman. Eric sent me to find you.” Martha circled innocently about the room, stopping once as she spotted Silvia’s ripped chemise lying on the floor. Fierce spots of color appeared in her cheeks, but she continued to speak as if the sight had not affected her. “He is waiting at the stable. You were to accompany him to the mill, I believe.”

  She gave Silvia a look of cold indifference. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy,” she said flatly. “I only meant to ask if you had seen Roman. I did not expect to find him here.”

  Silvia looked imploringly at Roman, but he had turned away from her, his face searching Martha’s, and in a moment he took his cousin by the arm and left without a backward glance. Silvia heard the echoing of Martha’s voice and trilling laughter as she accompanied Roman down the hall.

  The coolness of Martha’s stare seemed to hover in the emptiness of her room. Silvia sat motionless on her bed. She felt suspended on a thread in the black hole that waited to swallow her up. Her mind darted wildly about. What had she done? The tiny ray of hope held out to her vanished. She had thought Roman was about to offer her his heart, or perhaps only his assistance. No matter what, she sorely needed it from him, and now...now there would be nothing.

  Martha’s eyes haunted her, as she picked up the chemise Roman had torn from her body. She remembered the hurt reflected in Martha’s pale blue eyes, and she felt a shudder of humiliation as she put the chemise away. Her actions had been unforgivable. She had alienated the one person nearest to being a friend.

  And Roman would probably think she had planned the rendezvous, that she had meant to seduce him. He would believe that had been her purpose in asking him to her room. He would think her shameless. Sighing, she sank wearily onto the bed where only minutes earlier Roman had loved her with a passion that still lived in her heart.

  Her life seemed to dissolve into misery as she covered her face and sobbed in her hands. Without willing it, she was doing exactly as Schlange had planned. She wept uncontrollably, her tears coming in a flood of bitter rivulets that stung her cheeks and splashed dark spots on her dress.

  It was evil, this house. Every word she spoke, every action she made, was part of a trap. Schlange knew, and somehow, as if she were a mindless candlemoth, was luring her nearer and nearer the flame. She shuddered; feeling the heat and smelling the powdery scorched wings just before the fire consumed her. She was burning, burning as she was drawn up into Schlange’s evil ways. Grudgingly her fingers moved to smooth the tears from her cheeks and brush at the sodden spots on her gown.

  Why had she thought she could defy Schlange? She could not. She had no more defense than the marble statues in his library. She was becoming what he demanded, an ornament for the house, a pretty puppet strung to Wilhelm’s wicked hands, moving as he willed, doing as he demanded. She would bear Schlange’s grandchild or bear the blood of his son. She sobbed again, unchecked, and bit her lip until the salty taste of blood filled her mouth. Perhaps this time the deed was done.

  ***

  “I looked for you in your room,” Martha remarked as her hand clasped a tortoise comb with a shell-and-scallop design she carried concealed in her pocket. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  “No,” Roman snapped.

  “I do hope Uncle doesn’t learn of this,” Martha went on, composedly lifting her little chin.

  “What?” he asked brusquely. Roman’s jaw was set in a tight clench. Since he had left Silvia’s bedroom he had not truly been aware of Martha by his side.

  “Why,” she said in amazement, “you are not the first to visit her bed. I believe both Eric and Morgan have also fallen victim to her charms.” She sighed innocuously.

  Roman turned in surprise. His lips twitched, then thinned in irritation. “You’re sure of this?” There was an edge to his voice. Roman clenched his jaw tighter; she had touched a raw spot.

  “Surely you don’t think I would joke about such a thing.” A quick bright flush appeared on Martha’s cheeks and there was a tiny flicker of her eyelids as she looked demurely at Roman. “Willy, I suppose, has not the fortitude to keep a new bride satisfied.”

  Roman shrugged, then strode off alone. Martha watched him go, a wisp of a smile spread across her lips.

  ***

  Wilhelm Schlange was in a fine state of fury when Silvia sat down opposite him in the sitting room. Weeks had passed and she had failed to deliver the message he wanted to hear. His high temper brought a deathly pallor to his face and a wrathful, smoldering light to his eyes.

  A trembling, withered hand held a feathered quill poised above an inkwell. On a small ebony lap desk rested a leather-bound book much like the one Eric used for daily notations. Schlange scrawled a few more lines without bothering to look up. Again he dipped the pen in the jar, his hand shaking violently and causing him to spatter drops of black India ink on the open page.

  “Blot it. Quickly.” He made a jerky, agitated attempt to hand the journal to her. The ink trickled downward from the large splotches forming dark, spidery lines just below the last entry.

  Silvia snatched a piece of blotting paper from the table and applied it to the spots. As she removed it and looked down to see that she had not worsened the spatter, she was amazed to see that her name was the last word he had written. She had only an instant to make out a few sentences before Wilhelm reached for the book and she reluctantly returned it to him. But the glimpse was enough for her to know that he made regular entries in a journal.

  He was staring boldly at her. “An old man’s memory will not keep pace with his deeds.” His voice was harsh and bitter. “I have kept a record these last years against the one stored in my mind.”
Grating laughter assailed her ears. “Your story is here, my dear. What would you not give to have my journal and prove your case?”

  Weakly he nodded to Odin, and the black man advanced from his post beside the door. Odin now always accompanied Schlange. As Schlange’s health grew slowly but evidently poorer, he would not risk being alone.

  Silvia had become so accustomed to Odin’s presence that at times she forgot he was in the room. He stood at his post soundlessly, remaining tirelessly alert as he waited to do Schlange’s bidding. Odin seemed always to anticipate the old man’s needs and to be in motion before Schlange could issue his feeble summons, and now, silently, Odin took the journal and left the room.

  Silvia’s eyes darted after him. “Is there a safe?”

  Schlange shook with bitter laughter. “There are many hiding places in this house. None know them but Odin and myself. Nor will they find them. Nor will you, though I see in your eyes that you wish to. The journal and the will that passes all I own to my grandson are hidden where they cannot be found.”

  “You have made your bequests in favor of a child that has not yet been born?”

  “I have made it to whom I choose,” he answered sharply. “Steel yourself for that day, my dear. You will have no friends in this house when the will is read.” His spirit sagged, and like a sail with the wind gone out of it, he sank down in his chair. The corners of his mouth twisted downward, but whether from pain or anger, she could not tell.

  It was a brief lull. A moment later his voice sounded again, as harsh and cold as before, and he shook his head grudgingly.

  “The reaper would claim me today, my dear, if I did not will him away. But I am prepared for what I know must occur.” He looked at her with his sunken, burning eyes. “And you, my dear, can forget your thoughts of prying the information from Odin. He would die before he would be disloyal to me.”

  Silvia wet her dry lips. Odin’s loyalty she believed. Eric had told her of how Schlange had rescued him from a brutal beating years ago and brought him to Schlange Island as his personal servant. He was more than that now. He was Schlange’s eyes and ears and sometimes his legs. Odin had protected his master on many occasions. No. There would be no chance of wresting information from Odin. But there might be another way of finding the journal.

  She lost her train of thought as queasiness assailed her stomach. She had been troubled by it for days now. Fear had hung over her like a shadow, growing darker and larger each day until at last she had come to accept the cause of her malady.

  A brief flicker of fury raged in her mind. He would read her secret in her face. Yes. He would make a new entry in his journey for this day. Schlange, for one, would be pleased with the news she bore.

  He brought her abruptly back to the present with a noise made between his teeth. It was a gratuitous hiss that grew to a rumble of laughter from a crack in his mouth.

  “Tell me,” he rasped. “I want to hear you say it.” His color heightened, his sallow skin tinged with a scarlet flush, his thin chest heaving with excitement and blatant delight.

  What could she say? The child will come in the spring...you will have your grandson?

  She was sure enough of her condition to be torn in an agonizing conflict between joy for the thought of a child growing within her and horror for the circumstances under which it would be brought into the world.

  “It is done,” she said quietly. Her cheeks paled. Parting with her secret was as odious as having a limb torn from her body.

  “Ahhh...my triumph,” he said, breaking into a coarse laugh. Wilhelm’s pupils were spotted with fire and his face enlivened with satisfaction. “And the father, my dear?”

  “Allow me some degree of privacy,” she answered, bright spots now dotting her cheeks as well.

  He shook with silent laughter. “As you wish, my dear. It matters little to me, as long as the child carries Schlange blood.”

  “That it does.”

  “Then I will content myself with that knowledge and happily await the arrival of my grandchild.” He gave her a slanted smile from a pair of white, papery lips. “The grandson of Wilhelm Schlange will receive a king’s welcome into the world.” He rubbed his hands together and smiled wickedly at her. “Keep your secret and concentrate on the joys of motherhood.”

  Silvia rose and wandered restlessly about the room, her back purposely to Wilhelm, not wanting him to see her face. Eventually she came to rest at the windows and looked out over sloping ground covered with thick, bearded oaks. In the distance she could make out the tips of sails in the little harbor, and beyond them the endless gray-blue of the unsettled ocean.

  It was true that she had long looked forward to the prospect of motherhood, yet now she could not be truly pleased. The father of her child could never know the child was his. Nor could she anticipate a warm welcome for Wilhelm’s grandchild. He would be viewed as a usurper of inheritances, an unexpected interloper who would rob his relatives of things they had become accustomed to.

  Schlange’s crackling voice intruded on her reverie.

  “See that you are cautious. I want nothing to happen to my grandchild.” His voice fell to a weak whisper and the thin lips shook with a faint tremor.

  She didn’t turn. The remark warranted no response, nor apparently was one expected. A brittle silence built in the room and she felt as if the breath had been snatched out of her.

  Below, she watched the mild stirring of the treetops and the whimsical fall of their shadows on the ground. The light breeze was followed by a surprising moment of complete stillness, and then, like the casting of a net, a dark, swelling cloud appeared and blocked out the bright sunlight. A wild, rolling gust of wind accompanied the darkness and shook the trees, spiraling leaves high in the air before dropping them to the ground like a dry pelting of rain.

  Such changes in the weather were not unusual near the coast, yet the muggy and unnatural air always brought a pallor of gloom to Silvia. A minute later the wind whipped up again and with a loud whoosh carted off the single gray-edged cloud that had obscured the sun. Light burst through the window so rapidly she had to blink against its glaring brightness.

  At that moment she heard a sound behind her and realized Odin had reappeared. His dark presence had almost the same effect on her as did the lack of sunlight. Seeing that Schlange was tired and out of breath, she excused herself and slipped out before he could protest.

  ***

  “Silvia, you’re dressed for a ride,” Eric said cheerfully.

  Eyes downcast and heart heavy, Silvia carried the fawn colored jacket of the riding costume over her arm and was halfway down the long corridor that led to the kitchen and pantries that supplied the castle.

  “Yes. I thought I’d take Cricket over by the marshes. It’s a lovely afternoon and I would like some air.” She caught herself, forcing a pleasant smile to her lips. Eric had asked her to ride with him one day, and now that he had come into the hall unexpectedly, she hoped silently he would not offer to go with her today. She wanted to be alone. She wanted to ride as far from Serpent Tree Hall as possible and try to forget for a short time that she was snared in Wilhelm Schlange’s trap.

  “I wish I could join you,” Eric went on. “We’ve had so little time together. But I’ve come in to tally the accounts, and the work is already overdue. However, if you like, we can arrange to ride together another day.”

  “Yes. We must. Tomorrow perhaps?”

  “Depend on it.” His eyes were shining and grew more luminous as his brows rose with the dawning of an afterthought. “I was on my way to the stables to fetch the journal from my saddlebags. Shall I saddle Cricket for you while I’m there?”

  “Thank you. Please do.” She nodded appreciatively and saw the disappointment register in his face as she continued. “I have to see the cook to discuss the week’s menus. Mrs. Bately is expecting me or I would walk there with you now. But I’ll join you directly in the stables.”

  Silvia had quickly adapted to managin
g household affairs. There was actually little to do. Martha had done well in establishing routines and responsibilities for the servants. The house virtually ran itself, and now that Silvia was familiar with the procedures, her duties were largely a matter of approving what was to be done each week. It took only a few minutes to make a selection from the choice of menus the cook had prepared. When the job was done and she had complimented the soft-spoken but thoroughly efficient Mrs. Bately, she left the kitchen.

  Eric met her on the path, the brown leather journal tucked under his arm.

  “Cricket is saddled,” he called out. “Enjoy your ride.” He caught her hand unnecessarily and forced her to stop for a moment, his voice taking on a lighter note and his head inclined appreciatively. “I look forward to sharing the afternoon with you tomorrow.” He smiled. “I look forward to every moment shared with you.” Eric pulled her close against him, too close for propriety, and his voice dropped to an insistent whisper as a faintly eager gleam shone in his eyes. “You’ll not forget?”

  “No. I’ll not forget,” she said, withdrawing her hand and looking away quickly as she heard a familiar nicker from the stable. A cloud of annoyance settled over her. Wilhelm’s poison had spread to Eric as well. She hoped by tomorrow he would have been warned to leave her alone. “I’d better hurry,” she said tersely. “Cricket is growing impatient. “Good-bye now.”

  Eric stared at her without responding. She felt uneasy as she saw his eyes glimmer. She thought she would have to walk on and leave him there still staring, but then he blinked rapidly and smiled.

  “Good-bye then,” he said gently, and turned away.

  Involuntarily Silvia shook her head. No doubt his mind would soon be on the long lists of figures in his account books. He worked especially hard for Wilhelm and took little time for himself. How angry would he be when he learned she carried Schlange’s grandchild?