Imogen agreed, leading both horses to him as he picked up their picnic. In mutual silence, they walked towards the forest, neither one knowing of the pain they shared as they tried to deny their battered hearts.
Chapter Seven
“What happened?” Imogen murmured as her eyes fluttered open. Above her was the library ceiling. Sitting up in surprise, she stared at Dougal’s face. His eyes were strained with worry. He searched her expression, as if desperate to read what was in her mind. Finally, he managed a smile for her, though his eyes were sad.
“You swooned.”
He turned his back to her as he made his way to the window. Imogen ached to go to him, but held back. “I don’t swoon,” she said, taking offense at such a notion. He glanced back at her. For a moment, his eyes softened and he took her breath away.
“You keep telling me that, right before you collapse.” He chuckled at her horrified expression.
“What were we doing?” she inquired, feeling the back of her head for a bruise. A dull ache threatened her with blackness. She resisted its pull, not understanding why she should feel ill.
“You don’t remember?” he asked, swallowing nervously. Had she forgotten time again? Had he pushed her too hard?
“I remember that we…” Imogen stopped. She looked at his mouth with an expression akin to horror. Weakly she amended her original thought. “Agreed to be friends.”
Dougal hid his smile at her modest portrayal of all that had happened between them. She watched his mouth carefully as he spoke. The avid attention drove him to distraction. “And beyond that?”
“Did we walk the horses?” She furrowed her brow, wanting desperately to recall. All she could remember was the feel of his kiss, the tight hold his hands held on her hair, and the deep wretchedness of her spirit when he pulled away from her.
“Yes, we did. We walked to the forest by the stream.”
You turned pale and refused to go on once we heard the water. When I tried to make you, you grew weak and fainted. Come on, remember. Tell me why you are afraid of the forest, he added silently, as if he could will her to remember with his thoughts. Tell me what happened the day of your accident. Tell me what you saw.
“I cannot remember the forest,” she said at last with a delicate shrug.
Dougal sighed in frustration. He wanted to shake the truth from her, scream at her until she told him what had happened that day. He hid his feelings behind a blank mask.
Once again he turned to the window. The sun shone over the garden, threatening the grasses with the golden hues of evening. His heart pulled at him desperately. Tonight he would search again for his daughter. And tonight he would again fail. The knowledge slammed into him like a rock to the head.
“What happened in the forest?” she wondered aloud, disturbed by his brooding silence. She slid her feet from the settee, setting them neatly on the carpeted floor.
That is the question, is it not my lady? Dougal frowned. “Nothing. I think you were overtired from the walk. You mentioned you haven’t been sleeping well.”
“That doesn’t sound like me,” she said, wondering why she got the impression he was lying. His face had not changed when he turned to acknowledge her. “I didn’t do aught that would be construed as improper, did I?”
“No,” answered Dougal truthfully. He had not allowed her to seduce him again with the blue tint of her eyes, though she had inadvertently tried. Seeing color returning to her pallid features, he announced abruptly, “I need to go. There are things to which I must attend.”
“Oh,” gasped Imogen, part in question, part in surprise. “Will I see you later this evening?”
“Mayhap.”
“I should find my father. Have you seen him?”
“He has left for London with your mother,” Dougal answered quietly. “I believe they were needed by your sister, Harriet, for some reason.”
“Oh, Harriet,” mumbled Imogen with a mischievous laugh. “No doubt she has run up her bill with the dressmakers again and father has gone to take her to task for it.”
“I couldn’t say,” Dougal replied, desperate to go. Her next question washed over him in a wave of agonizing torture.
“Then it us just the two of us?” she wondered. “They have left us to our own devices?”
“It would appear so.”
Imogen’s eyes narrowed at his hoarse tone. Before she could inquire as to his mood, he abruptly took his leave of her.
“Good day, Miss Imogen.” He bowed and strode from the library as if he could not wait to be free of her.
“Good day, Mr. Weston,” she uttered to the closing library door. When she was alone, she whispered, “My most darling Dougal.”
* * * *
“You sent for me, my lord?” The cheery smile faded from Reverend Stillwell’s smooth, ruddy complexion when he saw the Marquis’s hollow grimace. It had been his greatest hope that the all would have been resolved.
It was a clear day, the sun bright with the perfection of summer. Coming around the tree to sit next to Dougal, the vicar waited for him to speak. He didn’t have to wait long.
“There has to be another way. It’s not working,” Dougal said without preamble. “She is not getting her memory back. Every time she gets close she blacks out and then forgets time. I never know when our conversation is going to restart, or how much she remembers.”
“Did you take her riding?” asked the vicar. He leaned his back against the bark of the oak, taking brief pleasure in the cool shade.
“Yes. It is like you said, she avoids the forest. When I finally got her to walk the horses to the stream, she fainted as soon as we heard water. There has to be a way to make her remember. Mayhap I should tell her who I am.”
“No. If you do that she may be lost to us completely. You know as well as I that she must come to it on her own.”
“But she seems fine knowing about Margaret and the man who holds her prisoner,” Dougal insisted. “She admits to not being frightened by them. Mayhap she will not be frightened by any of it. She is strong.”
“It is because she learned of it on her own when she was ready to learn of it. Her mind won’t let her take in more than she is ready for. Her swooning is proof of that. And if you force it on her, bad things could happen. She could go mad.” The vicar stood, pushing his weight up from the ground. “You are both my flock. I will not favor the happiness of one over the other. I will not allow you to send her down into the abyss of insanity.”
“You know I don’t want that! It’s just that I don’t know what to do,” growled the Marquis angrily. “I cannot stand this waiting. I am losing Margaret. And we are so close to finding her, to getting her back. You read Imogen’s letter to her sister. The demon has my daughter. He comes for her every night and whisks her away on his black horse. How long until he takes her to the fires of damnation?”
“Mayhap it is not the demon that has her,” said the vicar. “We cannot know for sure.”
“It is,” he insisted. “It was a knight who killed me. And it is a knight who has my Margaret.”
“There is no way of knowing for sure. There is no telling how many spirits linger here. I have heard mention of over twenty, all not visible to the other.”
“This you have told me,” Dougal said. “And all have said they were killed by a knight. Margaret’s knight.”
“And some have mentioned being protected by an unknown being,” offered the vicar. “If the knight were taking Margaret to damnation, would he not have gone?”
“Who can tell with such as demons?” countered Dougal darkly. His helplessness made him bitter. “And we won’t know until Imogen remembers.”
“Perchance there is something else bothering the woman,” mused the vicar. He rubbed his thick jaw thoughtfully. “Mayhap she is facing too many things and needs to sort through them before she can handle remembering that day.”
“What do you mean? What else is there for her to face?”
“There are t
hings—” Stillwell began.
“Speak clearly man,” Dougal snapped impatiently. “I feel like I am losing time. I know I am losing my daughter. I will do anything. Just tell me how I can help Imogen remember.”
“All right, mayhap she is having trouble with her feelings for you.”
“For me?”
“Do not forget that she is foremost a young woman with a heart. And if her heart is confused, she will need time and help putting it right.”
“Did she say anything?” An unfamiliar tremor shot through him. “Did she speak with you about me?”
“No,” answered the vicar, seeing that the girl’s affections were not going unreturned. He read well the hope that the Marquis was trying to hide from him. “She said nothing. But I can see it in her. She is not unaffected by you. And perchance her preoccupation with you is keeping her mind from focusing elsewhere. If she were secure on that front, then mayhap she would be more apt on others.”
“Are you suggesting I take advantage of her?” Dougal demanded in disgust. He would not use her for his own purpose in such a way. No matter how desperate he was, he could not purposefully mislead her. On that he had decided. “Would you have me seduce her to have my way?”
“I am suggesting you be honest about your feelings and not send her differing messages. Either show her affection or don’t, but stay constant.” The vicar sighed with weariness. Closing his eyes, he felt the wind blowing on his face. “Once she figures you out, she will be able to see the rest of it.”
Dougal couldn’t answer.
“Be careful, my son.” Stillwell opened his eyes to stare pointedly at the pale Marquis. “Do not take advantage of her. Do not make her love you if you do not return the sentiment. Love is a splendid burden. Do not burden her heart unless you are prepared to share in its suffering.”
“How can you speak of such things? You know what I am and you know what she is. There can be no love between us.” Dougal stood. He knew he spoke the truth, but hated the words nonetheless. His was a lonely existence.
“It is God’s place to decide who shall love and who shan’t. You would do well not to question his decisions.”
“You still believe in him after all these years?” Dougal asked in amazement. “After what you have seen?”
“Yes, I still believe. And so do you. You are just lost right now. But you will find your way.” Rising, the vicar turned, moving down the path from whence he had come, calling over his shoulder, “We all, eventually, find our way.”
“But what if our path is one of heartache and loneliness?” Dougal muttered. He received no answer. The vicar hadn’t heard him. He watched the man go until his portly figure disappeared into the distance. The Marquis scratched the back of his head, confused. Then, turning toward home, he followed the path to Rothfield.
* * * *
The power of the night fog once again overwhelmed the land. It stayed nestled about the countryside, hugging to the gardens of Rothfield Park like a thick blanket. Shadowed by moonlight, the ample cloud inched its way closer to the house, twisting and creeping like vine up the sides of the manor.
Drawn by a power outside her own mind, Imogen made her way through the labyrinth of halls toward Jane’s empty room. She followed her feet, not thinking to question their path as they led her over the hard floor. In a dreamlike state, her eyes were fixed ahead of her.
From the holder clutched in her hand, candlelight flickered, threatening to blow out. Imogen lowered the flame to her side. The soft illumination alighted on her white nightgown, glowing on her bared feet. Outside the world was dark and quiet. With her parent’s gone to London to visit her sisters, she had seen no one in the house. Dougal did not return to be with her and the servants kept from view. Not even Charlotte stayed after dutifully delivering the evening meal to Imogen’s bedroom.
The fine swirl of a smoke trail curled around Imogen’s feet, seeming to move around her body as she turned the corner. Numbly, she watched the white fog spiral from the base of Jane’s door, pulling her closer as it was sucked back. Imogen stopped to press her ear to the thick wood. The door trembled, seeming to quiver with life. She swallowed, refusing to retreat as she listened. She heard a movement within.
“What are you doing?”
Imogen jumped at the sound of Dougal’s voice, nearly dropping the candle in fright. His words broke through her trance, clearing her mind of the fog. Spinning around to face him, the candle blew out. She couldn’t see him in the darkness.
“Dougal? Is that you?” she asked in a fearful whisper. The smoke withdrew, hiding inside her sister’s chamber. Its trance was gone.
“Yes,” came the low response. She detected a chuckle in his words. “What are you doing? Why are you whispering?”
“I thought I heard something in my sister’s room.” Unconsciously, she moved towards the sound of his voice. She felt for him in the darkness. Her hand came up against his chest and the beating of his heart. The fine material of his waistcoat was warm from his body. She shivered, mesmerized by the feel of him.
“Step aside,” he commanded seriously. “Let me look.”
“We will look together,” she said, no longer scared now that he was with her.
Dougal stepped past her, reaching for the door. Finding the latch in the darkness, he pushed it open. Imogen dropped her hand from him in disappointment, but stayed close to his side.
Jane’s room was lighted by the silvery flow of moonlight. It streamed in from the window, falling over the cherry wood bed with its yellow coverlet. The room was cold, empty. The fireplace, newly built since the great house fire, was barren.
Imogen huddled close to Dougal’s back. Her hand reached up to touch his jacket, resting between the blades of his shoulders. Dougal angled his chin to her to whisper, “There’s nothing here.”
“Mayhap I imagined it,” Imogen said, unconvinced. She had heard something—something that drew her from a deep sleep to travel across the manor.
“Are you sure?”
As he turned, her hand did not leave him. Her fingers glided over his jacket around to rest on his arm. She could feel the firmness of his muscle beneath her palm. Swallowing, she met his eyes. Weakly she nodded, unable to speak. A blush colored her cheeks and she bowed her head. However, her fingers could not be persuaded from their perch. They wanted to feel him near.
Dougal looked at the line of loose hair about her shoulders outlined by silvery light. Glancing once more around the room to look for a trace of his daughter, he saw nothing. The smell of roses engulfed him, making him forget all but the woman before him. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but her nearness.
“Imogen…” he began. She lifted her face to him and he was lost to her. Her porcelain skin shone, the moonlight glistening from her moist eyes. She tried to smile and failed. Her gaze dropped to his lips. He knew what she was asking for. And, heaven help him, he wanted to give it to her.
“Imogen,” he said again, his voice thick with longing. His hand shook as he lifted it to touch her cheek. His long fingers brushed softly over her skin. Tortured, he whispered, “I want to kiss you.”
You mustn’t, cautioned his brain, trying to spin him with guilt. She is not for you! He paid his reasoning no heed. With her he could no longer think, only feel.
Imogen smiled insecurely at the admission, but nodded her head. She would allow him anything. Closing her eyes, she lifted her lips to him. Her mouth puckered in waiting.
Dougal chuckled, a dark sound that held no merriment. His fingers continued over her skin to touch the pad of his thumb to her offered mouth. Imogen waited. He balled his hand in a fist, pulling it stiffly away. He did his best to resist her. His best wasn’t good enough. She was a force beyond his control.
“If I kiss you,” he murmured, pulling off his cravat. “I won’t be able to stop there. If I kiss you, you can’t ask me to try.”
At that, Imogen opened her eyes with a nervous flutter of her lashes. She didn’t understand his wo
rds, didn’t comprehended the depths of their emotion. Seeing his eyes, the gray-green orbs she trusted, she nodded her head. She was not afraid of him. Inside her chest, she wanted him to kiss her—to do what he would with her for he already claimed her every waking moment.
“Kiss me,” she begged earnestly. “I want you to. I don’t care that you are poor and that it shouldn’t be. I want it to be.”
Dougal closed his eyes in pleasure. Resolutely, he grumbled, his tortured voice hoarse, “Sweet woman, you don’t know what you ask for, but so help me I cannot deny you.”
Her face brightened at his words, but she had no time to answer before his lips crushed down to claim hers. This time, she did not hesitate. Her hands climbed up over his arms to wrap around his shoulders. Her shaking fingers buried themselves in the warmth of his jacket behind the nape of his neck.
Her lips parted for him, allowing his tongue to lick between them. His kiss deepened, moving slowly in languid desire. Imogen’s knees weakened at his deliberate force. A moan escaped her lips.
Dougal stepped forward, forcing her back toward the bed. His hands began to roam over her body, stroking over her shoulders, moving down her arms until they found hold on her waist. Pulling her back, Dougal broke for air.
“Oh,” gasped Imogen in wonder, unable to say aught else. She looked at him in wide-eyed wonderment.
He released her to hurriedly shrug out of the confines of his jacket. She saw his purpose and lifted her hands to help him. The material slipped to a pile on the floor. Instinctively curious to see him, she began to unbutton his waistcoat. Her eyes stayed steadily on his. He felt her fingers trembling as she worked the buttons loose. His hands found her, pulling at the back of her nightgown, looking for laces. His mouth once again claimed hers.
Imogen freed him of his waistcoat, gliding the material off his arms. Moaning into his kiss, she murmured, “You’re so hot.”
“Yes,” he agreed with a tormented groan. His hands became frenzied when they couldn’t find the laces to her gown. Giving up, he pulled her hard to his chest.
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