by Darcy Burke
A long bath helped, at least on the surface. The tea tray that arrived shortly thereafter after also did not go amiss. After toweling her damp hair, she lay back against her pillows. First thing tomorrow, she needed to do some reconnaissance. A chill crept over her. Finding a trapped robin in a room that should have been long since boarded over had well and truly discomfited her. She could not claim to have caught any evildoers red-handed, but something was definitely not right inside the abbey.
She drifted in and out of troubled dreams until a knock upon her door startled her awake. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she crossed slowly to the door.
“Yes?”
“Miss Smythe, it’s me,” came Mrs. Tumsen’s familiar voice. “I’ve come to check on ye.”
Violet swung open the door in relief. “The excitement has ended?”
“I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Tumsen answered soberly.
Frowning, Violet took a small step backward. “Did something happen?”
“That’s the problem. It seems nothing has happened. Again. When ye got the master praying for miracles and human gents unable to make any ... Saying he’s disappointed is kind of like saying Napoleon was a mite competitive. If ye pardon the comparison.”
Violet nodded in understanding. Whatever one might say about Mr. Waldegrave, his devotion to his daughter was wholehearted and absolute. If the respected scientists he’d been so eagerly anticipating had been unable to provide any hope whatsoever ... Her heart twisted. He would be devastated, and doubtlessly twice as determined as before.
“That poor man,” she murmured.
Mrs. Tumsen gave her an odd look. “Poor gel, don’t ye mean?”
Violet shook her head. “I wish Lily were healthy, of course, but every day brings her a slightly greater measure of peace. I doubt her father has ever experienced such a thing.”
Mrs. Tumsen chuckled. “Ye’d be right about that. Not in the past decade, anyway. Oh, and before I forget, I’ve got that key ye asked for.”
Violet pressed a hand to her unadorned throat.
Mrs. Tumsen nodded, and held out her hand. “I won’t ask why ye wanted another copy, but I hope it was worth the eight pence.”
“Peace of mind is always worth every penny.” From Mrs. Tumsen’s outstretched hand, Violet plucked the worn skeleton key on its chain and a shiny new key forged in its image. If she were truly a prisoner here in the abbey, a spare key would not go amiss if Mr. Roper chose to divest her of her old one. Since it was common knowledge she kept her key about her neck, she’d tuck the new copy deep in her pocket.
“Oh, one more thing, if you would be so kind.” Violet turned toward her escritoire. “Can I give you a bit more correspondence to post for me, please?”
“Of course, dear. None of them barristers worked out for ye?”
“Actually, yes. There’s one who seems both personable and affordable. When the first of the month comes, I’ll have enough saved to engage his services. The preliminary investigations and court fee, I believe it was.”
Rather than congratulate Violet on her impending freedom, Mrs. Tumsen’s face fell. “So that’s it, then? First of the month and ye’re out of here?”
“Just to meet him, and likely sign some sort of contract,” Violet answered, then caught herself. Would she be going anywhere at all if she were physically barred from stepping foot outside the abbey? “You saw what Mr. Roper did the other day, didn’t you?”
“I saw ye tumbling from atop his shoulder, if that’s what ye mean, but I didn’t ask him and I didn’t ask you. Yer business is yer own.”
“He wouldn’t allow me to leave,” Violet admitted quietly.
Mrs. Tumsen’s expression of surprise was genuine. “He what?”
“He thought I was leaving, and took it upon himself to—well, you saw him. Tell me the truth, Mrs. Tumsen. Am I prisoner here?”
“If ye are, nobody told me,” the older woman said stoutly. But her brow creased in worry. “What did the old goat have to say for himself?”
“There wasn’t much opportunity for conversation,” Violet said dryly. Besides, what was there to say? He must have been ordered to keep her inside the abbey walls at all times. Why else would he have kept her from leaving? Her eyes widened as an alternate explanation sprang to mind. “Did you tell him about ... about the sketch?”
“Yer wanted bill, ye mean?”
Violet smiled politely. “That’s the one.”
Mrs. Tumsen shook her head. “Haven’t breathed a word. Of course, I’m not the only one what goes to town from time to time, you know.”
“Of course,” Violet echoed weakly. Keeping a secret that large was truly hopeless. She bade the housekeeper good day, then slumped against her closed door with a sigh.
How was she meant to stay safe? If the only souls who never went into town were herself and the Waldegraves, likely every single servant both above and below stairs had seen her face in pen-and-ink infamy. Which meant leaving Waldegrave Abbey by hook or by crook would end up being the easy part. Getting from Shrewsbury to London without being trussed and gaoled along the way would be the delicate bit.
Violet’s pulse raced. While the Waldegraves might be perfectly happy for her to remain sequestered within the abbey walls—to be honest, she wasn’t sure any brows would rise if she simply never left—she did not want the life of a fugitive from justice. She wanted to stay of her own free will, not out of necessity.
Besides, it was only a matter of time until the news made its way from the servants to the master, and then what would happen? She’d be out on her ear, that’s what. No governess was worth overlooking a murder charge. Once he knew the truth, his eyes would fill with contempt instead of longing.
Mr. Waldegrave sought perfection, and he particularly would not stand for a violent murderess minding his daughter. Until she was cleared, she could not come clean.
***
Not long after nightfall, the mystery of the waylaid robin began to prick at the edges of Violet’s conscience. She slid the novel she’d been patently not reading into the secretary drawer and decided to revisit to the room with the missing boards. Right now, before she lost her nerve. This time, she would pay special attention to any sounds she could detect. Try as she might, she heard not a whisper from behind any of the locked doors, however.
Save one.
With her pulse sounding in her ears, she hesitated outside the same doorway that had entrapped the unfortunate robin. Not all the stained glass windows had been exposed, but she had made sure the ones that were had been tightly secured. There was no way another bird had found its way into the chamber.
There was also little chance that a robin would make what sounded suspiciously like a muffled human sneeze.
There was definitely someone on the other side of the locked door. But who, and why? Dare she burst inside to catch whatever might be happening within, or was the wiser action returning to the safety of her bedchamber without further incident? Violet gnawed uncertainly at her lower lip. She slid the skeleton key from about her neck.
Ever so carefully, she slid the key into the slender opening and turned the brass head bit by bit until the lock disengaged. Before she could change her mind, she twisted the handle and shoved the door inward.
She clapped a hand to her throat in surprise.
Although the sun had set, and the new moon kept the room cloaked in shadow, faint stars filtered enough light through the thick colored glass segments to reveal the identity of the person responsible for removing the long-forgotten boards.
Mr. Waldegrave.
If she were startled to see him, he was twice as surprised to have her come upon him without warning. He spun to face her, the claw of a hammer dangling from his ungloved hand.
“What are you doing here?” they blurted in unison.
She almost collapsed in relief. “You first.”
He gestured behind him with the base of the hammer. “Uncovering the glass.”
“I can see
that,” she answered, stepping into the room. “But why?”
He shifted self-consciously before meeting her eyes. “For you.”
Her suddenly limp fingers released their hold on the door, and it swung closed behind her with a soft thud. “What?”
“I have you trapped in a windowless tomb,” he answered simply. “It isn’t right. And I’m doing what I can to fix it.”
She stared at him, unsure how to gauge his sincerity. “Mr. Roper told you he thought I was leaving, didn’t he?”
“Yes,” Mr. Waldegrave admitted. “But I’d already begun this project well beforehand. I worked late at night, after the sun was long set. I’d forgotten how beautiful these pictorials are. I just ... I wanted to surprise you.”
Her eyes tracked from the pile of recently removed planks against one wall to the large expanse of uncovered stained glass behind him. Now that there was less obstructing wood, the pattern of the reds and blues and yellows lost their abstraction and the meaning became clear. This was a Renaissance-style Bible passage. Three men silhouetted against the sky approached the tail of a star set on high.
Beautiful did not even begin to describe the artistry. And shocked did not even begin to describe Violet’s state of mind. It was true. He had begun this project long before Mr. Roper prevented her supposed escape. She had stumbled across this very room whilst fleeing him.
For no reason except to please her, he had left his daughter’s bedside night after night, hammer in hand, painstakingly removing nails from layer upon layer of thick boards.
That was not something one did out of a sense of employer-to-employee obligation. Spending days and hours toiling with a hammer would not occur to most people, even for a friend. Her skin flushed with warmth. The only reason a man like Mr. Waldegrave would devote himself to tearing down part of his home as a gift for someone like her would be because he cared. Her heart swelled with hope.
He shrugged and glanced away. Clearly mistaking her humbled silence for being unimpressed with his efforts, he tossed the hammer atop the closest board and dug into his pocket for his change purse.
“But here,” he said quickly. “Never mind the windows. I’ve been meaning to give you a bonus, and now is as good a time as any. All I have is ... four sovereigns. I—I’ll give you the rest next week with your wages.”
“The rest?” She shook her head, unable to believe her ears. She crossed the room to stand before him beneath the stained glass, hoping the filtered moonlight would help him see the joy in her heart. “How much more money do you plan to give me?”
“All of it,” he replied without hesitation, a sheepish smile curving his lips. “As much as you want. How much would you like?”
“None of it,” she answered without thinking. She glanced away as her cheeks heated. “Are you bribing me to stay?”
“Yes.”
She gazed up at him through her lashes. “For Lily’s sake, or yours?”
“I don’t know anymore,” he answered hoarsely.
Foolish man. How could she not surrender to such a confession? The most honest gifts came from the heart, not the coin purse. He had ensnared her from the first moment he’d extracted the first nail.
“Money is rarely the answer,” she said softly, and lifted her hands to his chest.
The coins clinked back into his pocket. His hands gripped her hips and pulled her to him. “Then what do you want?”
Was the truth not written in her eyes? She rose on her toes so that her answer would whisper directly into his ear. “You.”
His breath caught and he took her mouth with his, roughly, tenderly, as if he wanted to imbue the moment with romance but was too starved for her kisses to go slow. His hands were in her hair, stroking the still damp curls she hadn’t had time to tame. His tongue made wicked promises that set sent a stab of longing from her heart to her core.
She leaned into him, helpless against the onslaught of sensation and heedless of where it might lead. She absolutely, positively, did not deserve him, but his hands and mouth offered a palette of seductions she was powerless to resist.
Not that she wished to stop. She willed the embrace to go on forever. Dimly, she knew that if he thought of her even once as the untouchable governess or the puritanical angel, the moment would shatter like so much colored glass. If she wished him to see her as a woman, as a mate, she would need to show him, to prove to him, his desire was more than reciprocated.
With a self-consciousness made all the more erotic by its very brazenness, she pressed her breasts against his chest. The forbidden sensation tantalized with each agonizingly deliberate brush of erect nipples against thin layers of clothing. Being bold was not something she’d ever had to do before, and the courage it required was as stimulating as it was terrifying.
She need not have worried. He did not recoil from her touch. Instead, he gasped hungrily and slid his hands to cup her buttocks, pressing her to him even harder. She thrilled with the sensation of heretofore unknown power. The proof of his arousal throbbed against her pelvis, and she could not help but rub her body against it again and again. She loved that she was affecting him physically, emotionally, just as he affected her. But how could she let him know she needed more?
She slid her hands behind his head, tangling her fingers in his hair and telling him with her quickened breath and straining nipples that she was his, that she wanted him and wished to give him pleasure, that she was his to command. Hesitantly, she glided her hands from his hair to the musculature of his shoulders, pulling him to her. Although his kisses never lessened, she would need to be bolder still if she wanted more. And, oh, did she want more.
She peppered a trail of hot kisses down his neck, down his chest, intending to show him precisely how much pleasure her mouth could bring. To set his body afire the way hers burned for him.
But before her lips had even reached his fall, he tilted her backwards into his arms. To her surprise, he gently laid her to the floor, cradling her head in one hand. As his free hand sweetly cupped her cheek, his mouth slanted across hers in drugging kisses. Desperate to feel the heat of his bare flesh against hers, she unbuttoned his waistcoat and tugged his shirt from his breeches.
Ever so slowly, he slid his hand from her face, down her neck, along the curve of her bosom until his fingers finally cupped an aching breast. She shuddered with pleasure. His tongue teased hers as his fingertips toyed with her nipple. She had never dreamed she could want someone this much. She arched her back into his touch until she almost screamed with desire. She wanted him to feel the same way.
Her hand sought his breeches, slipping between his fall to the hot skin hidden within. She closed her fingers around his member, first gently, then firmly, and slowly began to stroke.
He nearly collapsed upon her, which only served to align their bodies even closer together, as if they were two halves of a whole finally coming together. The closeness of their bodies allowed the curve of her thumb to brush against her own core with every stroke of her hand along his shaft. The warmth of his kisses and the sensation of his fingers lightly tugging at her nipple caused a whirlwind of need and want pulsing between her legs. Violet could hardly process the heady new feelings as they overwhelmed her senses, she only knew she wanted him and she wanted more.
The combination of kisses and swirling fingers and the relentless stroke of the back of her own thumb stoked her fire until she was certain she would shatter right then and there. Something was happening to her body, something almost painfully sweet, that tightened every muscle with the promise of impending pleasure. Her breath caught. As if sensing her close to the precipice, he lifted his fingers from her breast and loosened his other hand from her nape.
Dismayed by his retreat, she craned her head forward but he was already moving, baring her breast and fastening his mouth over the nipple still swollen from his touch. Her breath was rapid and shallow. He bunched her skirt and petticoat against her waist. As cool air kissed her bare flesh, she could almost imag
ine they were out-of-doors beneath the stars. Her heart soared.
As he suckled first one nipple and then the other, he slid his hand down her now-bare belly. Her legs parted and widened of their own accord. Thanks to her hard-luck past, Violet imagined herself the most sexually experienced private governess in the history of Mother England, but she had never, never imagined lovemaking could be anything like this. Her buttocks tightened and rose up, tilting her pelvis into his touch as if unable to withstand another moment of anticipation.
When his finger slid across the moist heat between her legs, she gasped. When that same finger slid inside, entering her in tantalizingly arrhythmic thrusts, she cried out in wonder. This was what she’d been missing. The wanting, the craving, the building pressure infusing her senses with his taste, his touch, his scent. She reached for his hair to lock him tight to her breast, but he was moving once again.
His mouth joined his finger at her core. Bolts of pleasure electrified her entire body. He licked and suckled as his finger relentlessly drove into her again and again. Her hands fell atop her own breasts, the nipples swelling beneath her fingers. Her trembling legs locked about his shoulders, pinning him in place, as his mouth and his finger worked their magical torture. This was beautiful. This was incredible. Her head thumped back against the floor, her eyes closing in anguished surrender.
He slid a second finger in to join with the first, widening her, filling her, as his tongue teased her into a frenzy. He was perfect. He was going to make her—
Helpless, her back arched as her muscles contracted against his fingers. She gasped at the unexpected pleasure, the sudden rush of ecstasy and release as her spasms ebbed and her limbs relaxed bonelessly against the floor.
Only then did he return his hands to her hair and his mouth to hers.
“You’re so beautiful.” The words were so soft, she felt them rather than heard them.
“Mrmph,” she mumbled inarticulately, muscles limp. “And you’re so talented.”
Chuckling, he rolled sideways, pulling her atop him so that he was the one on the floor, and she the one cuddled against his chest. “That was better than boring old gold sovereigns?”