Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt

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by Call Back Yesterday. txt (lit)


  pooled water, and heat. Looking up, she saw a domed

  skylight which would welcome in sunshine and starlight.

  “Oh, my,” she whispered.

  From the bed came a rusty laugh, and she realized her

  words must have been spoken more loudly than she

  intended. Hastings, who was dressed in a scarlet smoking

  jacket, sat there with a green satin coverlet over his legs.

  Around his head was a bandage that dimmed his silver

  hair, but he held his pipe as if this day were no different

  from any other.

  “Do come closer, my dear,” he commanded like a king

  seated on a throne. “I welcome your comments about the

  accuracy of the artwork in this room.”

  Darcy glanced at Simon who dropped his arm from

  beneath her fingers in a silent order to obey his father. She

  was aware of all three men watching her as she walked

  toward the bed. The mattress was so high above the floor

  she could have leaned forward and perched her elbows on

  it without bending far.

  As she came closer, she saw how wrong she had been

  to assume that, save for the bandage, Hastings was fine. A

  bruise darkened his left cheek from beneath his eye nearly

  to his chin. His left hand was bandaged, and she could not

  guess if it was cut or broken. Hints of red still glistened

  along the bandage around his head.

  “I’m not dead,” he grumbled. “Not yet.” Looking past

  her, he said, “Andrew, just the man I wanted to see.”

  “How are you, Hastings?” asked the vicar, surging

  forward to pay his respects.

  Darcy swallowed her distaste as she watched the vicar

  fawn over Hastings. Even though he was family, Reverend

  Fairfield owed his living to Hastings, so he would be wise

  to stay in Hastings’ good graces. However, he did not need

  to be such a disgustingly obvious bootlicker.

  Was she the only one disturbed by him? Simon was

  joining in the conversation as if this were customary.

  Maybe it was, but the vicar’s groveling bothered her.

  Her thoughts were disrupted when Hastings said, “But

  Darcy has what I wanted to show you, Andrew.”

  All three men turned toward her.

  “Come here, my dear,” Hastings said, motioning for

  her to stand closer to where he was propped in a nest of

  pillows. “Do show it to us.”

  “Show what?” she asked.

  “Why, your necklace, of course.”

  She pressed her hand over the amulet beneath her

  demure blouse as she locked eyes with Simon. After he

  had promised to tell no one of it, he had wasted no time in

  running to his father with the story of her necklace.

  “Do show it to us,” Hastings gushed. “I’d like to

  examine it closer.”

  “It is inaccessible at the moment,” she replied.

  “We shall wait while you do what you must to retrieve

  it.” He pointed toward the wall divided by the fireplace.

  “You can go into my dressing room.”

  “Not necessary,” said Simon as he moved behind her

  and put one hand on her shoulder. “The chain is visible

  above her back collar. If I may, Darcy.”

  She had never heard such a chill in his voice, and she

  wondered why he was distressed. She had not broken a

  promise made to him . . . not even for three hundred pounds.

  Before she could reply, his finger slipped along her

  nape to hook around the chain. She fisted her hands in the

  folds of her gown. Not in anger, but to keep herself from

  flinging her arms around his shoulders as she gave him

  the opportunity to touch more than her neck. She wanted

  his warm breath against her face in the moment before he

  kissed her. As the chain was drawn up along her skin, she

  imagined his fingers moving along her. She should be

  furious with him—and she was—but even her vexation

  could not submerge the yearning.

  Then the pendant dropped against her ruffled shirt,

  and he stepped away to put one hand on the bed’s carved

  upright. A sense of loss threatened to overwhelm her. She

  kept her face serene as she picked up the pendant, cupping

  it in her palm. Nothing must betray her thoughts.

  “It is Thoth,” exclaimed Hastings as he leaned toward

  her. “I thought that was what I saw.”

  “Saw?” she asked, puzzled.

  “When you were tending to me after my fall. I wasn’t

  sure I was seeing correctly, but, by Jove, it is Thoth. Why

  do you wear a pendant with him upon it?”

  “My grandmother gave it to me when I was born.”

  She added nothing else as she saw the recriminations in

  Simon’s frown. She must apologize to him, but not here.

  “Who’s Thoth?” asked Reverend Fairfield.

  Hastings laughed. “I would not expect you to know.

  After all, you did not have a classical education.”

  “Like you and Simon.”

  Was Darcy the only one to hear the bitterness in the

  vicar’s voice? Neither Simon nor his father seemed to take

  note of it.

  “Sit down, Andrew,” Hastings ordered, “and I’ll tell

  you all about it. I can see by Simon’s posture he’s anxious

  to return to his work now that he knows I’m going to

  survive, and I know he’ll want Darcy to go with him to do

  her magic on that machine of hers.”

  “Before you go,” the vicar said, “I would like to

  examine that.” He came around the foot of the bed and

  plucked the pendant from her hand. Turning it over once

  and then looking at the figure on it, he smiled. “This is

  very interesting.” His eyes drilled into her as he added,

  “Most interesting indeed. I look forward to hearing what

  you can tell me about this Thoth creature, Hastings.”

  Stepping back, Darcy was relieved when the vicar

  released her pendant to let it fall against her. She nodded

  when Simon excused both her and himself, motioning for

  her to follow him out of the room.

  She gladly did. Her breath came out in an unsteady

  rush as soon as they were back in the hallway. When Simon

  walked away, she hurried down the stairs after him,

  ignoring how her pendant bounced against her on each

  step.

  “Simon,” she said.

  “It’s time to go to work.” He did not give her the

  courtesy of looking at her.

  “I’m sorry I thought you had broken your promise not

  to speak to anyone about my pendant.”

  He paused in the doorway to his office and faced her.

  Anger sparked in his green eyes. “I told you I wouldn’t

  tell anyone of it, and I take my vows very seriously.

  Jumping to conclusions is an unhealthy habit.” He opened

  the door, adding as he walked in, “I trust you won’t break

  your promises as easily as you believe I would break mine.”

  “I won’t.” She was not sure he heard her, and she

  wondered if it mattered. He had already closed her out as

  completely as he had when she first arrived at Rosewood

  Hall.

  Ten

  “Good afternoon,” called Darc
y as she entered Simon’s

  office. He did not look up from what he was reading. She

  placed the stack of books on the table next to where he

  sat. Although she knew her words might be thrown back

  into her face, for in the past two days he had said no more

  to her than was necessary to continue work on his

  manuscript, she said, “Simon, Mrs. Pollock asked me to

  let you know that she has kept your tea warm for you if

  you’d like to take it on the terrace. She believes you should

  enjoy this day before it is over.”

  He surged to his feet, a single page instead of a book

  in his hand. An odd glint brightened his eyes. “A walk in

  the last of the day’s sunshine is the last thing I need at the

  moment.”

  “What’s wrong? Did you receive another letter from

  Mr. Caldwell?” She lifted the cloth off her typewriter,

  looking away from him. Even so, she could feel his gaze

  cutting into her back. After him ignoring her, she was

  unprepared for this odd stare . . . or her reaction to it, for a

  quiver inched along her, urging her to turn and welcome

  him into her arms. She forced a smile as she continued to

  keep her eyes focused on her typewriter and said, “Tell

  Mr. Caldwell I’m typing as fast as I can with these poor,

  aching fingers.”

  Darcy gasped as Simon caught her by the shoulders

  and spun her to face him. “I ache at night, too,” he replied,

  the passion in his eyes growing stronger as his fingers

  stroked her arms.

  “Simon—”

  His mouth covered hers, driving all protests from her

  mind. She gripped his elbows to push herself out of his

  arms, frightened by this sudden change. If she did not know

  better, she would have guessed he was a completely

  different man from the one who had glowered at her for

  two days.

  He refused to release her. His fingers slipped up her

  back, drawing her even closer. Slowly his lips tantalized

  each inch of hers. His mustache was soft and caressed

  her. When his tongue brushed her lower lip, her fingers

  rose along his arms. Melting into the kiss, she surrendered

  to the wild pulse throbbing through her.

  The sound nearly drowned out his voice as he drew

  his lips away only far enough so he could whisper, “Better.”

  “Than what?”

  His muted chuckle, so lighthearted she could barely

  believe it was his, sent a renewed flood of delight sweeping

  through her. “I could say better than not kissing you.”

  “But?” She did not open her eyes. She wanted to

  remain in this hazy world where anything was possible,

  even being able to give life to her fantasies of this

  passionate man instead of the reality of the domineering,

  often overbearing Simon Garnett.

  “But nothing. Do you have any idea how wonderful

  you taste?” His mouth traced the pulse along her neck.

  She was enveloped in delicious sensations. Her fingers

  slipped beneath his coat and up along his shirt to caress

  the strong muscles beneath it. The overt virility she had

  noticed from the moment she saw him in the library

  doorway was unleashed to entrap her in a seductive web.

  A gasp of amazement and delight burst from her lips

  when his hand rose to brush her breast. He stroked it, and

  the quiver that had rippled along her now gathered deep

  within her, an enthralling need she had never imagined.

  When he bent and lifted her in his arms, she gazed up

  into his eyes. Who was this man staring back at her, a man

  who was unafraid to show his passions? His mouth slanted

  across hers, and his fingers curved up her side to graze her

  breast again.

  She moaned against his lips, and his tongue darted

  into her mouth, filling it even as she became so aware of a

  void within her where she longed for him, too. As he placed

  her on the settee, he leaned over her, pressing her into the

  soft cushions. His tongue lured hers to explore his mouth,

  and she did not resist.

  When his hand cupped her breast again, she tilted his

  head to burnish his ear with her kisses. Her breath was

  frayed as he caressed her, teasing her through her clothes

  until she writhed beneath him. She whispered his name,

  unable to say more.

  He pulled away from her and looked at her as if he

  had never seen her before. Even as she watched, the potent

  spark in his eyes muted, and his mouth hardened into a

  frown. In a clipped tone, he said, “You must think me mad.

  I can only say my brazen actions are the result of a mind

  so unsettled by a longing to hold you last night that I didn’t

  sleep.”

  “You look it,” she blurted before she could halt herself.

  She was not sure if she was more shocked by his actions

  or his words. After being so cold to her since the

  conversation by his father’s bedside, she had not expected

  this. She had dreamed of him apologizing and welcoming

  her back into his arms.

  But not like this.

  He swore and stood.

  “Simon, what’s really wrong?” Darcy asked, rubbing

  her arms and adjusting her clothes, which were askew.

  That was not the question she wanted to ask. Who are

  you? One minute you are icy to me, and the next you are

  seducing me with so much fervor I can do nothing but

  cede myself to pleasure. Who are you?

  This was identical to the other times he had kissed

  her. She had been deluged by a joyous knowing of how

  splendid his caresses would be. In recent days, she had

  pushed aside the unsettling idea Simon was someone she

  had met before. Now it returned, doubly strong.

  She wrapped her arms around herself as her gaze was

  caught by wisps of light floating behind him. It was a

  thicker cloud than the one she had seen before.

  “What are you staring at?” he asked.

  “That light.”

  He turned and walked toward the cloud. She choked

  on a gasp she did not want to release when he walked

  through the cloud of light without dispersing it. Looking

  closely at the gas lamp, he said, “I see nothing out of the

  ordinary with this light.”

  The cloud moved toward the ceiling as the other one

  had, and then it was gone. Once again, emotion flowed

  over her like an undammed torrent. Sorrow . . . unspeakable

  sorrow that was so familiar she could almost put a name

  to it. The truth was on the tip of her tongue, yet she could

  not form the words.

  “Darcy?” The impatience in Simon’s voice warned her

  to focus on this conversation instead of trying to unravel

  the puzzle. His frown had deepened. “You asked what’s

  wrong. My father is what’s wrong.”

  Horror gripped her, wiping away the fragments of

  passion. “Hastings? He hasn’t taken a turn for the worse,

  has he?”

  “You have a remarkable compassion for a man who

  wants to rid his house of you.”

  “What?” She searched h
er mind to recall some faux

  pas that would cause Hastings to insist she leave Rosewood

  Hall. She clutched the settee’s arm. Had Reverend Fairfield

  spread his tales to Hastings? Those lies mixed with just

  enough truth could poison Hastings’ mind. And if someone

  had chanced to look into the office a few moments ago . .

  . She managed to gulp, “Why?”

  “Because of your grandmother.”

  “My grandmother?” That horror became a cramp in

  her middle.

  “My father is in receipt of a letter from her.” He

  straightened his waistcoat with a motion that suggested

  he was determined to forget what they had shared. “A letter

  that has distressed him greatly. He is in such an agitated

  state I fear for his health. Such aggravation could endanger

  his heart.”

  She pushed herself to her feet. Hands clenched at her

  sides, she sought the strength to fight the battle she had

  hoped to avoid by leaving London. She could not guess

  how her grandmother had found her, but it did not matter.

  She had, and Grandmother Kincaid would be determined

  to destroy Darcy’s dreams of being independent and

  moving to Egypt.

  “If you want me to leave,” she said with quiet dignity,

  “I’ll offer my resignation immediately.”

  “Is that it? You’ll leave?”

  “Do you want me to stay?”

  He laughed, but the raw pain in the sound cut through

  her. “Why are you asking such a ridiculous question? I

  can’t finish my book on time without you. And—”

  “Don’t say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “What you said before.”

  “About having you haunt my every thought?”

  “But you have said barely anything other than ‘good

  morning’ and ‘good evening’ to me for the past two days.”

  “Being angry doesn’t mean I want to stop doing this.”

  When he ran a fingertip along her cheek, she gasped at the

  renewed flare of lightning searing through her. She stared

  up into his green eyes, unable to move and not wanting to

  even if she could. His finger glided down her cheek and

  curled beneath her cheekbone before edging over her

  bottom lip.

  She moved closer, then paused when she heard a

  crackle.

  “You should have told me the truth,” he said as he

  looked down at the sheet of paper that he must have

 

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