Ferguson, J. A. - Call Back Yesterday.txt
Page 17
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