Whispers at Midnight

by Parnell, Andrea

  Jubal Wicklow had installed a large marble tub in the house, the “Roman bath” as Aunt Elise had called it. The room was a work of art and, Amanda imagined, patterned after one he must have seen in some Eastern palace. It had a magnificent carved cinnabar screen for dressing. One wall was entirely covered in tiny mosaic tiles that pictured a midnight garden where cherry trees bloomed and lilacs lined a little path. The path led to a turquoise fountain with a silver spray of water which tumbled into a pool filled with floating pink water lilies. To enter the room was like being transported to a world of springtime, a world that excluded disharmony of thought, a world where peace and beauty prevailed.

  In the dusky lamplight, Amanda ran water from the two large urns beside the bath and heated a good supply on a small stove in the rear of the room. She had thought of this bath for days of travel and washing from a basin, and now, even though the hour was late, she didn’t think she could sleep until she had submerged her tired limbs beneath the shining mirrored surface of the water.

  The experience was worth the wait. The warm, scented bath relaxed her. Languidly Amanda scrubbed her skin with a bar of rose-scented soap she had found in a box, washing away the travel dust and much of her weariness and replacing it with mollified contentment. She splashed the thick, creamy lather away with clear water and stretched her slender arms and legs out in the luxuriously large bath. A rolled-up bath sheet that had been packed away with a fragrant sachet made a soft pillow for her head. Soon she was resting in more comfort than she had known for many months.

  A relaxed smile quivered on Amanda’s lips. Like a flower closing soft petals for the night, her lids slowly slipped down over misty green eyes, shutting out the mellow light of the lamp. Yes, she thought dreamily, snuggling in the cozy warmth of the water, she would be happy at Wicklow. She would cherish every part. She would polish and shine the house and all its contents back to full glory.

  Softly Amanda sighed, her gentle breath making tiny rings on the surface of the water. Everything in the house seemed to be under a layer of dust. Perhaps Gussie was too old to keep the house clean and in order by herself. Aunt Elise hadn’t left enough money for the staff of servants a house this size generally required. But Amanda had no aversion to hard work. She loved Wicklow, really loved it.

  The house was a repository for relics Jubal Wicklow had collected from all over the world: odd little statues, carvings, and some beautifully made chests and boxes. Albeit most of them had no monetary value, according to Aunt Elise, she had kept them because they had belonged to her father. Most of those oddities Elise had stored out of sight and replaced with more modern gewgaws of her own choosing: a few miniatures, some good silver and porcelain, but mostly bric-a-brac. Though Amanda had found some items she could sell for a bit of extra cash, most she would cherish just as Jubal Wicklow and Aunt Elise had done.

  The hour was late when Amanda awoke, cold, her limbs cramped and aching. How long had she slept? The heated water had been like a sleeping draught. Now it was icy and she was shivering, but it was not that which had awakened her. She heard voices and laughter. Sitting up quickly, Amanda stifled a frightened cry. One rancorous voice echoed loudly through the hall, the deep-timbered voice of a man. She was suddenly, horribly aware of her nakedness and vulnerability. Cringing, she crossed her trembling arms over her breasts and tried to think.

  A moment later she rose slowly, deliberately, so as not to make a sound. She stepped over the marble rim of the bath. Rivulets of water streamed from her legs and left a trail of wet footprints on the floor. Her heart sank as she remembered leaving her damp dress spread over a chair in the bedroom. She had brought nothing with her to the bath but a bag of toiletries and the blanket she had used as a wrap. Feeling her lungs tighten in fear, Amanda threw the blanket around her and crept guardedly across the floor to reach her bag.

  “Take it off, my pretty.” The words were uttered with a drunken twist. Amanda froze even though she knew the words were not meant for her. She found herself in another muddle of confusion and wondered what she should do, even as her fingers were tearing open the drawstrings of her small bag and pulling out the black leather case.

  The gleaming silver handle of the small Belgian flintlock pistol that had belonged to Sarah Fairfax felt cold to her hands. It had seemed prudent to keep the weapon. One never knew what dangers a sea journey or life in the colonies might bring. Quaking like a leaf in a storm, she loaded the pistol and hid it beneath a fold of the blanket. Then, moving with trepidation, Amanda eased the door open and glided like a shadow in the direction of the sounds.

  A woman’s voice and flirtatious laughter rose shrilly from the bedroom Amanda had prepared for herself. Who could it be? Thieves? Drifters who thought the house empty and had broken in for shelter? They seemed totally unconcerned about the noise of their revelry. Amanda crept nearer the door, pausing a moment to cock the pistol and to brace herself for an encounter she meant to win.

  Hazy candlelight spilled out through a crack in the door and lit a patch of floor in the hall. Amanda’s heart pounded like a heavy rock smashing against her chest as she surged forward and pushed the door open. It crashed heavily against the wall. The splintering noise startled the people wrapped together just inside.

  Amanda’s first glimpse was of a man’s broad bare back. She saw muscles tense and coil under tanned skin. Like a wild animal, the man snarled and spun around. Hot, black fury twisted his scowling face. But as soon as he saw her, his mouth went slack in surprise. He stared unbelieving at the absurd sight Amanda presented, wrapped in a blanket and brazenly wielding a pistol. She looked no more than a child or a sprite of a woman.

  “Hold still!” Amanda shouted, clutching the blanket with one hand and waving the pistol threateningly with the other. “Who are you?”

  The fair-haired woman’s face drained of color beneath her heavily rouged cheeks. She crushed a dove-gray velvet bonnet in one white-knuckled hand as the other flew to her heaving bosom that bulged like great white melons from the open bodice of her gown.

  Amanda stared back at the couple and chewed her lip painfully. She had interrupted a cozy little rendezvous. But who were they and what gave them the audacity to use Wicklow for their assignation? Her small hand grew numb around the handle of the pistol. The fury in the dark-haired man’s lean, sardonic face yielded to a look of taunting humor. The corners of his mouth twitched as he gazed knowingly at her from behind lowered eyelids.

  “Why, it’s dear Cousin Amanda,” he said smoothly. “Welcome to Wicklow.” A devilish smile framed a flash of white teeth. The man took a step toward Amanda, a cautious one.

  Amanda gasped and colored fiercely. Her whole body shook at the sound of his voice speaking her name.

  “Ryne?” she asked weakly. His face was shadowed in the dim light, but as he drew near, Amanda could see the piercing blue eyes and the handsome features of his face. It was most certainly Ryne. His hair was jet black and arrow straight. Black breeches fitted tightly on his thighs and loins. With them he wore high black boots, nothing more. His muscular chest had a mat of crisp black hair that narrowed and trailed downward like a dark shadow slipping over his gleaming skin.

  The sight of him, head thrown proudly back, arms crossed imperiously over his chest, and only half-dressed, made Amanda critically aware she wore nothing beneath the blanket.

  “Ryne Sullivan! You beast!” The blond woman came to life with a burst of wrath. She struck Ryne on the back and shoulders with her rumpled velvet bonnet. “How dare you trick me into coming here!” Her high voice shook with feigned indignation and her large bosom heaved with the labor of heavy breathing as she made fumbling attempts to fasten the bodice of her gown. “If I’d known what you intended, I’d have never set foot in this house.”

  Ryne’s piercing blue eyes went to the blond woman. He had forgotten she was there.

  “Be calm, Maggie.” Ryne’s voice came softly, but a hard, cold look stole into his eyes. His lips lifted swiftly into a c
ynical smile. “My intentions were the same as the last time we came here.”

  Maggie’s eyes dropped in defeat. “You are a beast, Ryne.” She pronounced the words tightly and followed them with a coy smile. “I’ll wait downstairs,” she added, fluffing out her bonnet and giving Ryne a wink as she edged past him. Maggie nodded knowingly to Amanda as she eased by her in the doorway. She could be heard breathing a deep sigh as she trotted hastily down the hall.

  Ryne’s probing eyes assessed Amanda. A hint of challenge hovered in the burning look he gave her. He had seen only the green fire in her eyes at first glance. Now he was evaluating the delicate lines of her face. A lovely fawnlike creature she was, too. She had her mother’s beauty, the high cheekbones and straight nose and the perfect little mouth that had been Sarah Fairfax’s trademark.

  What a faultless package for a schemer, someone cunning enough to hoodwink an old woman into leaving her an inheritance. He could imagine how she used that guileless face and sweet voice to play on his mother’s maternal nature.

  The tips of his nostrils flared as he breathed out a sigh. He found himself wishing her character matched her elfin beauty. She had the deceptive fragility of a newborn fawn. Her green eyes glowed gold in the candlelight and a cascade of honey-brown hair fell like morning sunshine around her shoulders. With his blood already hot, Ryne would have liked nothing better than to pull that offending blanket from her grasp and to see the treasures hidden underneath.

  Instead he took a slow, deep breath and noted that the look of panic had not left her face.

  “We didn’t expect you so soon, Amanda,” Ryne said calmly, bending to the floor to retrieve a shirt of black silk that lay like a pool of ink at his feet.

  “So it seems.” Amanda watched him pull the garment over his head and then carelessly tuck it into his trousers. She had seen men dress before. She had seen many sights a young lady should never have known about. Her experiences in the frivolous and fast-paced world of the theater had hardened her to the wiles of men. Why a flush of heat should rise to her cheeks at the sight of Ryne posturing about and adjusting his clothes was a mystery. It occurred to her in turn that he would have been no less uncomfortable under her gaze had she found him completely disrobed.

  “You might put the gun away.”

  She frowned. The gun was heavy and her outstretched arm ached under the weight of it. Gasping, she dropped the barrel toward the floor and gently lowered the hammer in place.

  “You had it cocked?” Ryne’s eyes widened in astonishment. He could imagine her inexperience with a gun. This little sprite, this little usurper, might have ended his escapades with a nervous clench of her fingers.

  “I find it fires best that way,” Amanda said flatly. “I had no idea you used the house as a bordello.”

  Ryne’s brows flickered up a little. “I have yet to adjust to the fact that Wicklow no longer belongs to my family.”

  “But it does,” Amanda countered quickly. “At least Aunt Elise considered me family.”

  Ryne smirked. “Then it’s ‘family’ we are, my sweet.”

  He shook his head and ran his fingers through the tousled black hair, fighting the temptation to accept the gentle innocence in her voice. Amanda Fairfax had inherited not only her mother’s beauty but her skills as an actress as well. He shrugged and went on in a lowered voice.

  “I’m at a disadvantage to give you the greeting you deserve, dear cousin, but I promise to make it up to you.” A step brought him very near. He took the pistol she held limply, his fingers rough-edged and warm on hers, his large hand dwarfing her small, delicate one. “Let’s put this somewhere safe. We don’t want to add a new ghost to Wicklow.” Ryne laughed softly as his devilish gaze ran harrowingly over Amanda.

  She swallowed hard and trembled inside the blanket. So Ryne had grown up to be a rogue—an arrogant, confident one who resented her having Wicklow. What would his brother Gardner be like? Still a gentleman, she hoped. Two like Ryne would be hard to contend with.

  “Hadn’t you better take your friend somewhere?” Amanda asked, a sly smile breaking out on her face. “She’ll grow tired of waiting for you.” For all her bravado, Amanda had taken a cautious step away from Ryne and now stood squarely in the doorway, one arm tightly holding the blanket together. Ryne, however, made the step with her as if they were engaged in a kind of mental dance that coordinated their movements. Too aware of his closeness, she took another step back, and once again he followed her lead.

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. “Never let it be said I kept a woman waiting,” he whispered. He stood so close she could smell the scent of brandy that clung to his lips. She could feel the moist warmth of his breath on her face, see the invitation in his eyes. “You’re blocking the door, m’lady.” A long, slender finger caught her under the chin and lifted her face to his. A shiver ran through her flesh as he caught a lock of her hair in his hand and brushed the fragrant curl against his lips.

  Amanda caught her breath quickly. Ryne was practicing his debauchery on her. He was evidently a man who knew and enjoyed the magnetism he had for women. No doubt they flocked to him like hens to a wriggling worm. She had seen such performances played out around her mother, both on the stage and off. She had no intention of preening her feathers for Ryne Sullivan. With a sudden jerk Amanda stepped out of the doorway and out of reach of Ryne’s gentle touch.

  A sound that was both a gasp and a shriek escaped her. Ryne had his foot planted firmly on the trailing edge of her blanket. It peeled quickly from her shoulders and dropped to the floor, leaving her naked as a new moon to his searching eyes.

  A smile played lightly upon Ryne’s lips as Amanda covered her breasts awkwardly with her arms and whirled to shield herself from his view. A moment later she felt the soft fleece of the blanket floating over her bare shoulders, and Ryne’s soft laughter feathered her ears.

  “Lost your wrap, m’lady,” he crooned, letting his lips brush against the fragrant curls at her nape.

  Burning with embarrassment and anger, Amanda bit back words a lady shouldn’t utter. Had he deliberately. . . ? No, surely not. Surely even Ryne Sullivan could not be that much a rogue. She gathered her courage and turned to face those mocking blue eyes. Instead she met emptiness and silence.

  A moment later she heard his light laughter and the clack of his footsteps on the stairs. Maggie’s shrill voice joined the deep, mellow tones of Ryne’s. Amanda heard him say a few words of appeasement and heard them both laughing until their voices faded away. Then abruptly they were gone, and an odd emptiness descended with the heavy silence that once again filled Wicklow.

  Amanda went quietly to the hall window when she heard a loose shutter rattle and pound against the outer brick wall of the house. She welcomed the disturbance; it brought back a sound of life to the house. From below, the anxious neighing of a horse joined the sudden howling of the wind as heavy drops of rain began to fall.

  She peered out in time to see Ryne hook a lantern to the side of his carriage. He had tied his team close to the house rather than sheltering them in the stable, making it clear his visit to Wicklow was not meant to be a long one.

  Ryne, a dark, lean figure in his black garb, took a moment to stroke the arched neck of each horse before he sprang into the carriage and took up the reins of the handsome pair of dappled grays. Amanda saw Maggie’s pale arm slip from beneath her cloak and wrap familiarly about Ryne’s thigh. She looked away as he snapped the reins, and without cracking his whip over the horses’ backs, started the team down the sloping lane that led to the main road.

  The carriage was out of sight when Amanda looked out again, a bit sadly. She had hoped they could all be friends, but that seemed an impossibility with Ryne. Perhaps Gardner would be more civil.

  She left the window as the drops grew heavier. All day the rain had been threatening and now that the downpour had come, her elation vanished. But no, that had happened when she saw Ryne. What a joke he would be sharing with that Maggie at h
er expense. Why had the scoundrel come along to spoil her mood? Amanda held the blanket firmly around her shoulders. She could still feel those dark, flaming eyes skimming her body.

  Nerves stretched beyond endurance, Amanda returned to the bedroom and drew back the covers on the narrow bed. Ryne’s bed, she thought, discarding her blanket and climbing between the crisp linen sheets. She couldn’t fault him for coming here. He must have expected the house to be his. Or his to share with Gardner. And she had come much earlier than she had told them she would.

  Her letter to Gardner had said she would arrive in September, but it had taken only a few months to settle her mother’s estate. She gave a brittle laugh that sounded lost in the darkness. Settling the estate amounted to selling everything she could find to cover bills and debts. Her mother’s extravagance had been her greatest fault.

  Not so with Aunt Elise; she had no such faults, unless one could count generosity. Perhaps her mother had known about Elise’s will, but Amanda had known nothing of her inheritance until sometime after the funerals, when she had received a letter from Aunt Elise’s solicitor. Perhaps Aunt Elise had experienced a premonition of death and that was why she had come to London for that last visit. But who could know? In any event she had endeared herself to Amanda long years ago. Consequently Amanda had lost in a single tragedy the two people who meant most to her.

  Aunt Elise had been in London less than a fortnight when both she and Sarah were killed when their carriage overturned. Witnesses to the tragedy had reported the carriage was involved in a race with another to prove who had the better team. Had the women not attended the house party at Lord Connington’s estate, they might both be alive. Instead they had died on a dusty road outside London. Elise’s body had been sent to Ireland for burial. Sarah’s funeral had been a public affair in London. She had been popular with theatergoers and most of the city.

  Since then Sarah’s friends had dwindled away and Amanda and Elizabeth had been left with barely enough money to book two passages to Virginia. Thankfully Elizabeth had a sister in Philadelphia who would welcome her.