by Lara Temple
‘Why should they? I was a burden they accepted because they were very devout and also afraid of my father. They were relieved when Papa came to take me away after my mother died and he was invited to Illiakos. Apparently he considered leaving me with them, but they refused.’
His hands gentled, his fingers moving softly, almost absently just above her elbows. The warmth that spread out from each stroke pushed back the remembered fear and resentment.
‘I’m glad for you they did.’
‘So am I. I know you think I am servile to the King...or worse, but I owe him everything. He is more a father to me than my own ever was. He helped teach me Greek himself and when the son of one of his ministers made fun of my accent he said in front of the whole assembly that he had never met anyone who had learned the language so quickly and he gave me his own copy of The Iliad. In front of everyone. I was horribly embarrassed and proud all at once. I doubt it was true, but it didn’t matter. No one had every stood up for me before in my life. I just remember praying I wouldn’t cry. No one made fun of me again. He is a good man.’
His fingers shifted down, gathering her hands in his.
‘It seems I owe you another apology, Miss James. This is becoming a habit. I shouldn’t have judged you.’
‘I didn’t tell you that so you would pity me.’
‘I don’t pity you; I see no reason to. By most accounts you are very lucky.’
‘I know I am. Very lucky.’
‘Too much gratitude can be dangerous as well. You should want something for yourself, not just for them.’
‘Why must you harp on that? As you said, I am very lucky. I see no reason to be greedy.’
‘Is that greedy? To want something other than what they can provide? What would happen if you did?’
‘I could lose everything that matters.’ Her voice was a little ragged and she cleared her throat and tried to laugh. He didn’t answer; he looked as forbidding as he had earlier. Her hands hummed in his grasp and her mind rushed back to his room in the castle six years ago when he had asked her to come with him. What would have happened if she had said yes? If she had been greedy? It would have been madness. He would have tired of her, given her the money he promised and continued on his way. There would still have been a Countess Vera and countless others. She would have lost everything and her heart into the bargain. Except she already had lost that.
‘I should go. I must prepare for our departure. We leave for Oxford within the hour.’ She tried to pull her hands away, but he didn’t release them, just stood staring down at them.
‘In a moment. You have a little time. You still have to tell me about the colours.’
‘There is nothing to tell. I don’t know how to explain it, anyway. It is just that letters and numbers and sometimes even languages have a colour so when I look at a number I see it, but also the colour associated with it.’
‘Do they ever change?’
‘No, never. I don’t know why.’
‘So, what colour are the letters of your name, for example?’
‘Mine? Brown, blue, yellow, pink and red.’
‘I’m not surprised you are so colourful. And mine?’
‘We have mostly the same colours because L and T are both yellow, but you also have black and two blues—midnight and sky. I only have one.’ She tried to be her pedantic best, but the final word caught as her treacherous breath stalled and she had to draw new air into her lungs.
‘Midnight and sky. Which letter is which?’
‘D is midnight, R is sky.’
‘So you take the sky. You mentioned black as well, which is fitting. Which letter is that?’
‘X is black.’
She should have been more careful. She realised the impropriety only when she saw his eyes darken. He had thought she was referring to his title, Lord Stanton. Using his given name, even without uttering it, was an intimacy she had no right to, however freely he chose to abuse her name.
‘I am glad you don’t think of me as Lord Stanton, but I prefer you called me Alex rather than Alexander. You did on the island, remember?’
She shrugged. Of course she remembered, but Alex was even worse than Alexander—sheared of its cool edges, it descended into darkness and flame, dragging her with it.
‘Is there a letter the colour of your eyes?’ His voice was drawing her in and she tried to find purchase to stop, to think. Be reasonable.
‘No. They are the shade of the number two.’
‘Two. Is there a language that colour?’
‘French. It is a little darker.’
‘French. Also fitting. And English?’
‘Grey, like your eyes.’
‘So, we are back to that—is that what you think me, Chrissie? A dull, grey Englishman?’
She shook her head, unable to navigate an answer as liquid fire poured through her. Why could there never be a moment between them that didn’t end with her feeling as though she had been shoved against a wall?
His gaze swept over her and her blood followed its progress, a beating of drums in her veins. What would happen if she stepped forward as she had in the conservatory? It was surely the most natural thing in the world to move towards him, raise her face, touch the tense line of his cheek, feel it soften...
She raised her hand and he took it, turning it upwards, holding it as a gypsy might when searching for revelation.
‘I remember your hands...’ he murmured. Her hand shook visibly in his and he pressed his other hand on top, either to quiet that shiver or to block it from view. For her it felt like the setting of some fateful seal, a ritual bonding of their fates. In some communities such a moment would be enough to bind them for life. For her it marked something that had already happened. ‘I remember how they felt on me, as soft as velvet, but never weak. I told you that you had dangerous hands, do you remember?’
‘I remember,’ she whispered.
‘You had no idea what I meant then, did you? You were little more than a child.’
‘I was eighteen. Older than Ari is now.’
‘It has nothing to do with age. Now you know what I mean, I can feel it in you. Right here. Like the ground echoing from a galloping herd of wild horses. Trying to free itself.’
He raised her hand and pressed his mouth very gently to the crest of her palm, his words hot against her skin, pumping fire through her. She wanted to shove everything out of the way, take what he was offering for however long it lasted. Free herself. Lose herself in him even if it meant losing everything. She felt dizzy, the portrait-packed walls leaning in on them, making it hard to breathe. Soon they would collapse on her and she would cease to be.
‘I must go. The King and Ari will be waiting.’ Her voice was hardly audible, but the transformation was almost instantaneous—he dropped her hand and stood back, both physically and in every other way. The moment was past and Lord Stanton was back.
‘Thank you for the reminder of your priorities. All this reminiscing has rather made me forget who and what we are. Run along, Miss James, before I demonstrate I can act in a very un-English manner.’
Chapter Eleven
Alex cursed and put down the gouge, staring at the gash of blood welling on his palm. It had been a long time since he had cut himself like that. Working with wood had become such second nature, he rarely made mistakes. He might often be dissatisfied with his work, but he was too skilled to be sloppy. Usually.
He wasn’t even happy about the figurine. The grain was working against him and he wasn’t clear how to continue. When he had seen this piece of wood a month or so ago he had had such a clear image of what he wanted, but now it was murky and twisted like an old olive tree.
It was her fault.
No, to be fair, it was his.
It had been difficult enough to maintain objectivity while Chrissie was at the
Hall and he had hoped her departure for Oxford would provide some perspective, but she had contaminated Stanton more effectively than ever his father’s dour looks had. Absurdly, though he knew it was impossible, her scent was everywhere, elusive but inescapable when he turned a corner or sank into his bath. The surges of lust that followed were like stepping on live coals in the dark—sharp, painful, annoying as hell, and the burn took far too long to calm. Even when it did a tight heat lingered just below his throat, like the beginnings of an illness. It should have been a relief to have the Hall to himself for a few days so he could clear his mind and calm his libido, but it wasn’t.
Any pretensions to the contrary were rendered ridiculous by his reactions to Watkins’s announcement that his Majesty’s carriages had arrived. Alex had stubbornly persisted at his task, refusing to rush to welcome them as he had first been inclined. He would have done better to act the fool rather than continue working while his concentration was completely shattered. The result was blood dripping on his pantaloons.
He cursed again and pulled out his handkerchief, pressing hard on the gash. It wasn’t deep, but he should still probably bind it and maybe put something on it so that it didn’t turn putrid. Alby always applied that horrible powder when he scuffed his knees or fell out of trees as a boy, or the time Raven had fallen off the gate when they had crept off to the village inn that summer.
He made his way to Alby’s rooms, holding the handkerchief to his palm, and stopped short in the entrance to her parlour. She was seated by the table, her back to him, one arm leaning on it and the other outstretched and held between Miss James’s hands which appeared to be pulling on it. Meanwhile Susan, the maid, stood clutching a wicker basket full of vegetables, her eyes wide and worried.
‘What you did yesterday after I twisted it was marvellous, but it is seizing up again. Oh, heavens, yes, that’s the place.’
‘You never should have tried to move those pots in the Physic Garden in Oxford yesterday; you could have told the gardeners that the anemones were receiving too much sun. And it certainly wasn’t wise to carry up the tubers from the garden yourself just now, Lady Albinia.’
‘They weren’t heavy,’ Lady Albinia protested and then groaned as Miss James moved to press her hand into the older woman’s shoulder.
‘Yes, they were. You must not pick up heavy objects until your shoulder is quite healed. Perhaps you should even see the doctor just to be quite sure.’
‘I shall see a doctor on my deathbed and no sooner, and even then I shall probably send him packing.’
Susan, catching sight of Alex standing in the doorway, squeaked and bobbed a curtsy.
‘Alby? What happened to you?’ Alex shook himself and strode forward.
‘Nothing that time won’t mend, Alexander. More to the point, what happened to you?’ she exclaimed in sudden concern as her eyes alighted on the bloodied handkerchief.
‘I cut myself. Nothing serious, but I wanted some of that powder you used to inflict on us. Are you certain we shouldn’t send for Dr Upton?’
She humphed and held out her hand peremptorily, slashing twenty years from his age. The effect was ruined as she groaned and Miss James moved forward.
‘Please rest, Lady Albinia. I will see to Lord Stanton’s wound myself. Is it basilicum powder? Does Susan know where it is kept?’
Susan bobbed a curtsy and scurried out. Alex tried not to groan aloud himself. He didn’t need the cause of his carelessness to tend to its effects.
‘There is no need for that, Miss James. Once Susan brings the powder I shall have my man see to the binding, thank you.’
She ignored him, moving forward to take his hand without waiting for his consent and with the same cool competence he remembered from the island. He should have been grateful, but he wasn’t. Still, he didn’t pull away when she unwound the handkerchief which clung to the congealing blood and inspected his hand, the dark wings of her brows twitching together, forming a well-furrowed line between them as her lashes dipped and rose. This is what he would have seen had she tended him all those years ago without those foolish veils. She looked serious and impersonal, as if none of the tension between them had ever existed.
Would it have been any better than the anonymity that had forced him to create his own images and injected that false sense of mystery and promise? At the moment he had no idea. All he knew was that he didn’t want her to touch him and he didn’t want her to stop.
‘It isn’t as bad as it looks. Most of the blood is from the skin you scraped off here, but the wound itself is not very deep,’ she said. ‘Still, it must be cleaned and dressed. Thank you, Susan. Could you put that on the table and fetch me a bowl and some hot water? Is there any still hot on the hob over there?’
‘I know it is merely a scratch,’ he said, but didn’t withdraw his hand. Susan bobbed again and hurried to pour water from the kettle heating for Alby’s precious afternoon tea. The cut throbbed and stung, but it was more bearable than the firm and gentle pressure of her hand supporting his. He didn’t move away when she let go of his hand to dip a linen strip in the water and when she held out her hand he let her take his own again. It was simpler than arguing with her.
He watched her clean the blood, moving towards the gash. After a moment he kept his eyes on the wound itself, a slightly jagged line, broader at one end and bleeding sluggishly. When it was clean she glanced up at him, but then returned to her work, dusting it with basilicum powder and winding the linen strips over it, careful not to press down on the wound itself as she tucked in the loose edge against his wrist. The memory of her fingers working the salve into his skin around the wound in his side came back as fresh as if it were yesterday—the pleasure and the agony, imprinting itself on his body again.
He had missed this. Her touch. Her. It should be natural to put his arm around her and draw her to him, thank her as he wanted to by kissing her tense mouth into softness.
He held down a groan. This was not what he wanted. More importantly, it wasn’t what she wanted.
‘There. You should change the dressing tomorrow. It doesn’t appear deep, but if it becomes inflamed you should consult the doctor.’
‘That’s right,’ Lady Albinia concurred, nodding with approval at the dressing. ‘You don’t want it turning putrid, Alexander. Give the woodcutting blades a rest until it’s healed.’
‘I will if you also do as Miss James suggests and give the garden a rest until your shoulder heals, Alby.’
Lady Albinia waggled a finger at him in an uncharacteristically undignified manner.
‘Cheeky boy! Run along now, you two. I can at least be of some use reviewing the household accounts.’
Alex followed Miss James out into the corridor. They didn’t speak until they reached the head of the stairs, but then there was no getting around it and he turned to her.
‘Thank you for your help and your kindness to Lady Albinia.’
He couldn’t help the way his tension made him sound stiff and priggish. It must have sounded even worse than it did to him because she flushed.
‘You needn’t thank me.’
‘Do you think Alby’s...Lady Albinia’s condition is serious?’
She looked up with a sudden burst of laughter warming her eyes, reminding him how alive and joyful she was when she let down her guard.
‘Overwork?’ she answered. ‘Exceedingly serious. You should know, from what I hear you suffer from the same malady.’
He was glad the stairwell was dark. It might or might not have been a compliment, but he felt a completely uncharacteristic warmth of pride, as if he were a schoolboy being commended.
‘I see. I’m afraid in Alby’s case it is incurable. But I probably should have Mrs Bright from the village come in for a few days to help her.’
‘That would be a good idea. I don’t think your aunt is capable of resting.’
‘Probably not. Her work defines her.’
Again her smile encompassed him and though she didn’t speak he could hear the teasing words as clearly as if she had.
‘No, I don’t think the same can be said of me and I certainly know how to delegate more effectively than Alby. If you see her doing anything foolish these next few days, you have my permission to tell me and I shall confine her to her rooms.’
‘She will defy you and clamber down the ivy if need be.’
The image of his staid aunt climbing out the window like an eloping damsel threw his discomfort to the winds and he burst out laughing.
‘You have a vivid imagination, Chris...Miss James. Is that what you would do if someone dared lock you in?’
‘Probably. No one has tried yet.’ Her smile dimmed, perhaps because she realised that she was just such a prisoner, however comfortable her cage. He didn’t want to think about that, or about his own cage. He wanted her to keep talking to him and smiling, so he grasped at the first thing he could think of.
‘Did your father teach you your nursing skills or did you learn by observation?’
‘I often helped him on Illiakos. Ari’s mother, the Queen, was rather timid and she preferred having me present when my father tended to her. It became a habit for me to help him when he saw patients, especially women. People on the island trust midwives, healers or priests more than doctors. My father was a practical man and he realised that my presence and the use of herbs made his ministrations a little more palatable for them. He might not have been affectionate, but he was always eager to learn and he was very interested in local cures and plants.’
He could imagine her calm, practical presence would soothe women already made timid by tradition and doubly so as they were forced to admit their woes to a foreign male. It was quite a skill, balancing composure and sympathy. An invitation to relieve their burdens and an assurance she would expect nothing in return.
Except that it was a lie. There was a greater need in her than in any woman he had ever met, a subterranean cry she didn’t voice, but which hummed around her like a struck bell. Even now he could sense it shimmering just below her surface, whether she was conscious of it or not.