Nothing else mattered except the feel of his hard body against hers, the taste of his mouth upon her own, and the desperate, driving need to know him better—in every way. Abigail seized her chance in the shadowy passage, running her fingers through his silky hair, gilded golden by the lantern light, pressing her lips against the heated skin of his throat, and moving her palms over his shoulders and chest. Somehow she ended up tugging at his coat, and he shrugged it off so that she could feel the strength of his arms through the pale linen of his shirt before he seized her again.
Wishing that one of her own garments might be so easily discarded, Abigail rued her usual companion’s clothing, dark and ugly, long of sleeve and high of neck to hide her from the world and its denizens. The material, which had suited her well before, now seemed too heavy, too thick, a barrier between her needy flesh and Christian’s caress.
Christian. She whispered his name, and to her surprise, he answered her in kind. The sound of his voice, deep and low, murmuring Abigail against her hair, nearly made her swoon. Her head fell back even as he pushed her higher against the rough plaster, his lower body, hard and pulsing, finding a niche between her thighs.
At her gasp, he lifted his head, and she peered through a fringe of lashes at his dark gaze, intent upon her. “You… You make me… I’ve never…” he whispered brokenly, in a manner wholly unlike his usual glib self. “Oh, hell,” he swore, and then he seized her again. He moved, and the world upended. Literally.
One moment Abigail was pressed up to the wall, the next she was dropping through space, Christian with her. The man possessed amazing reflexes, for in the span of that instant, he turned her to take the brunt of the fall himself. Abigail felt him land with a thud, his arms round her, and then they rolled, coming to a stop in sweet-smelling grass. Her head spinning, she thought at first that she was imagining another’s voice, crying out, but then she heard it again, and she knew she wasn’t dreaming—or alone.
“I say! What the devil?”
The voice, exceedingly loud, was impossible to ignore, and Abigail slowly opened her eyes to the sight of a pair of men’s feet. Men’s bare feet. Ugly, bare, men’s feet. Surely they weren’t Christian’s? Gulping in surprise, she followed the line of the toes, past a thick ankle to a pair of hairy, bandy legs and, thankfully, the hem of some sort of banyon.
“Abigail? Lord Moreland? By love!” Glancing just a bit higher, Abigail realized the bare feet, bandy legs, and banyon all belonged to her cousin, the elderly colonel, who was standing before them clutching his robe in one hand and some sort of cudgel in the other.
Having identified them, the colonel apparently no longer saw the need for the makeshift weapon, so when he lowered it, Abigail took the opportunity to sit up. After attempting to smooth her disordered skirts, she lifted a hand to her head, only to recall that her hair was loose down her back, her pins gone. Her face flamed, and her only consolation was that the colonel’s was just as red.
“I say! I was just about to have a bath when I heard the most peculiar noises emanating from the hill here. Rather alarming, I must say.” He looked a bit sheepish as he put the cudgel, a rather hefty branch, to one side.
A bath? Abigail glanced about her and realized that they were in some sort of valley that apparently housed the Hall’s plunge bath. She vaguely remembered the solicitor pointing out the spot when giving her a tour of her property, but she had dismissed it, having no desire to trudge outside to cleanse herself. A small tub in her room suited her much better, thank you.
And well she had been proved in her decision, for now the colonel stood before them looking utterly ridiculous and indecently unclothed. As Abigail saw the folly that housed the bath nearby, she could only be thankful that they had not come upon the man ensconced in it! Of course, their own precipitous arrival had to look extremely odd to her cousin, and she tried to find some kind of suitable explanation.
It eluded her, however, and she simply stared blankly at the old gentleman while Lord Moreland rose to his feet, dusted himself off, and reached for her hand. With his help, Abigail managed to stand, but her legs were shaky, and she was far too aware of the warmth of his touch.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
She nodded swiftly, unable to meet his gaze.
“Nothing broken?”
Just my pride, Abigail thought, as she abruptly became aware of the ramifications of the situation. She shook her head glumly.
“Very good,” he murmured, before turning to address her cousin. “I beg your pardon, Colonel! We had no intention of interrupting you, or indeed, coming outside at all, but we seem to have stumbled across a hidden passage in the Hall.”
“Really?” Completely disregarding his state of undress, the colonel was all curiosity, shuffling past her to peer into the blackness that they had but recently vacated.
“I say! I had no idea!” the old fellow marveled, though he evinced no interest in actually stepping into the opening.
“I suspect it is an old priest’s escape route,” Lord Moreland said. He swung round as if to study the area in which they now found themselves. “I would imagine it was already here, buried in that hill, when the plunge bath was built and was simply incorporated into the design. Perhaps for the purpose of midnight trysts,” he added, flashing a grin that made Abigail recoil.
Although seemingly amused by her reaction, Lord Moreland sobered as he turned back to the colonel. “However, if you don’t mind, I would prefer to keep the discovery of the passage among just the three of us.”
The colonel gave him a bewildered look.
“Part of my research and all that,” Lord Moreland explained, with an air of confidentiality.
“Oh! Of course!” the colonel said.
“Besides, the other cousins might worry, or take it upon themselves to have a look,” Lord Moreland said. “And I would hate to see anyone hurt or trapped. Why, we barely made it out ourselves.”
“I can see that!” the colonel said with a glance at their disheveled state. Although he seemed quite happy to accept that excuse, he was eyeing her hair a bit quizzically, and Abigail had no idea how to account for the loss of her pins— unless she claimed Sir Boundefort had plucked them out.
“The place is quite narrow and low and frightfully confining,” Lord Moreland said, surprising her with the lie.
“Miss Parkinson’s hair was caught on a nail, and I, uh, lost my coat, as well.”
The explanation sounded feeble even to Abigail’s ears, but the colonel seemed to swallow the falsehoods with equanimity. “Dreadful business!” he muttered. “Ought to have the place shut up or blocked off!”
“Yes, of course, but in the meantime I think I shall try to close it myself,” Lord Moreland said. Ducking inside, he returned, thankfully wearing his coat, and proceeded to push the stone face into place with apparent ease. But then he did everything with ease, didn’t he? Abigail reflected.
Turning back toward them, he flashed a smile. “Now, we must be off, so as to close the other end of the passage and to allow you to continue your ablutions.”
The colonel, reminded of his state of undress, turned redfaced and pulled his banyon tighter around his body. “Yes, of course. Most unseemly.”
Abigail was glad to escape any further scrutiny from her cousin, but when she felt the light touch of Lord Moreland’s hand at her back, she drew in a ragged breath. Suddenly she wasn’t that eager to leave the area and her relative, no matter what he might think of her. The colonel’s company now seemed eminently preferable to being alone with Lord Moreland, considering what had gone on between them. Swallowing a groan of dismay, Abigail looked back with longing to where her cousin stood awkwardly by one of the pillars.
If the old fellow hadn’t been half naked, she would have rejoined him in an instant.
13
Christian headed toward the nearest entrance to Sibel Hall, aware that he must close the opening to the passage before someone else stumbled upon it. However, his
thoughts kept darting from the hiding place to what had happened there, and he felt a new rush of heat and want and… wonder. What else could he call it when the Governess who so often looked upon him with disapproval, the woman who had once spurned his advances, whispered his name in the darkness and became a lilac-scented creature of desire?
His heart thudding anew, Christian glanced at the woman beside him, half convinced he had imagined the whole thing, but her hair, tumbling down her back in glorious disarray, told a different tale. He grinned, pleased with his handiwork, then shook his head. He couldn’t believe how his previously dismal luck had turned, how the formerly standoffish Miss Parkinson had changed, or how incredibly passionate their encounter had been.
He was still hot. Just a whiff of lilac was enough to tighten his breeches, and he groaned as he shortened his stride. Beside him, Abigail wore a more circumspect expression, at odds with her rather wild coiffure, and he wondered how the devil he was going to prevent the Governess from reappearing. It was this woman, the one who had whispered his given name in the darkness, he wanted. Abigail.
What had caused her transformation? Christian wondered. All he could think was that his spectacles must be working, though he found the realization rather jarring. Holding the door open for her, he leaned forward to draw in a deep breath of her delectable scent. To hell with the passage. His immediate inclination was to haul her upstairs to his bed or at least somewhere where they could continue what they had begun.
But would a scholar do that? Christian frowned and forced his steps toward the open panel even as he wondered what course to take in this extraordinary situation. A scholar would do… what? Christian tried desperately to remember all he knew of studious types, but he could recall only how dreadfully boring they were.
“I, uh, really must repair my, uh, myself.” The sound of Abigail’s voice, low and breathless, brought Christian from his musings, and he glanced over to see her looking rather stricken as she tried to put her hair into some kind of coil.
“Here,” Christian heard himself saying as he pulled the lone hairpin from his pocket and held it out to her.
She smiled rather nervously, and he knew a fierce urge to keep her with him, perhaps forever… only because once out of his sight, she might change back into the distant creature of scorn and rules and rigidity.
“Thank you, though I don’t think one will be much help,” she said. At least she took the pin, anchoring the heavy weight of her hair precariously at her neck, where it hung half unbound.
Christian swallowed hard, fighting the need to spread the silken strands across her breasts and rub his palms over their softness. He sucked in a harsh breath. He wanted to rub her all over. Hell, he wanted to lick her all over, tasting every inch of the delicious body hidden beneath her dowdy garments. Opening his mouth to say as much, Christian paused. A scholar would never say such a thing, he realized, and he grimaced, suddenly finding his new persona constricting. Far too constricting, as he gave a surreptitious tug at his breeches.
Having secured her hair, Abigail turned to go, and Christian frantically sought some way to stop her. Besides tossing her over his shoulder. “Wait,” he said, hurriedly shutting the passage entrance. “Did I close the way to the minstrel’s gallery, too?” he asked, uncertain. His mind was in a muddle, a lust-crazed delirium.
“I, uh, don’t remember,” she answered, in her Abigail voice. Low, soft, and so sensual it made Christian feel as though her hands were running over his body. If only they were. Gooseflesh rose as he imagined himself naked and…
She eyed him uncertainly, and Christian shook his head. “Let’s make sure. Walk with me,” he said, inclining his head. He was afraid to touch her, afraid to scare her away, afraid, for once in his life, to take what he wanted. Should he say something about what had happened between them? Should he apologize? Hell, no! Not when he was aching to do it all over again.
What would a scholar do? Christian wondered rather desperately. For perhaps the first time in his confident existence, he was at a loss, so they moved along in silence that seemed to grow more uncomfortable by the moment. Although he had no idea how some studious type might behave, Christian was fairly certain this was not the way to hold any woman’s interest. When they finally reached the great hall, he poked his head into the unlocked room and saw that he had indeed pushed the cabinet back into place, where it hid the opening behind it.
When he returned to the great hall, Abigail lifted her brows in question, and he nodded while trying to think of something—anything—to keep her with him. Should he drag her back into the darkness? Simply reach for her? But when he took a step forward, she took a step back, suddenly wary.
“I, uh, really should go,” she whispered.
“No!” Christian tried to put some order to his careening thoughts. How to stay her? Words of admiration? Words of love? Words of poetry? Christian balked. He wasn’t really a scholar-—or even a ghost router.
“That’s it,” he muttered to himself. Then he flashed a grin at Abigail, who eyed him uncertainly. “Before you go,” he said, intimating that he would let her leave… someday, “I wanted to remind you not to mention our little discovery to anyone else, including your relatives. And while we’re on the subject, I’d like to ask you a bit about them, as well.” Before she could refuse, Christian continued, assuming his most thoughtful expression. “Just how well do you know these cousins of yours? What can you tell me about them?”
Although she sounded surprised, Abigail answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “I had never met them, as I can recall, before my arrival here, so I’m afraid I can’t tell you much about them at all.”
Christian frowned. Not the answer he cared to hear. “They all lived here until the death of the previous owner, Mr. Bascomb Averill, your uncle?”
“Great-uncle,” Abigail amended. “And they weren’t all living here. I think the colonel has made Sibel Hall his home for some time, but Emery was just visiting, down from school, and as I understand it, Mercia simply came for the funeral.”
“And stayed on?” Christian prompted.
“Yes, well, you can hardly blame them,” Abigail said, though her expression seemed to belie her words. Christian had to struggle against an urge to kiss her practical yet luscious mouth.
“I know you are eager to sell the house, but should you succeed, what will become of them?”
“They each were left a small stipend in the will.”
“But they won’t be staying on here?” Christian prompted.
Abigail shook her head. “None of them has that kind of money, I’m certain. Nor have they evinced any interest in purchasing the house, no matter how attached they are to it.”
Christian paused, then strode across the tiles as he spoke. “So each of the three has either visited here before or even lived here and has some attachment to the place. And yet you are the one who now owns it.”
Abigail stiffened. “I was as surprised as anyone by the inheritance.”
“Obviously, your great-uncle had some good taste,” Christian said, flashing Abigail a grin that seemed to catch her by surprise—and put her back at ease. “Yet his choice would seem to cause some resentment among the other relatives, wouldn’t it?”
Abigail paused, as though to choose her words carefully. “I suspect they were as surprised as I was by the contents of the will, though I don’t think anyone could claim to have held Bascomb’s affections. However, if they are resentful of me, I have never seen any sign of it.”
“Still, it’s not a good situation,” Christian murmured, half to himself. “You are the one who will benefit from the sale of the house, yet someone is preventing you from doing so.”
“Someone or something,” Abigail amended.
“Perhaps,” Christian acknowledged, though he didn’t believe for one moment that anything otherworldly was responsible for Sibel Hall’s haunting.
As if reading his thoughts, Abigail looked at him quizzically. “But if it truly
is not Sir Boundefort, then what could someone hope to gain by such nonsense?”
“I’m not sure, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.” Christian turned to her sharply. “If anything should happen to you, who would inherit?”
She blinked at him, as though astounded by the question. “Well, I have never had the need to make out a will, so I assume my next of kin, and, before you ask, I’m not sure who that would be.”
Christian swore under his breath. So far, nothing untoward had been directed at Abigail herself, simply the interested buyers, but what if whoever was behind those incidents decided to scare the lady of the house? Or worse? Christian’s dormant protective instincts rose to the fore, and he was seized by a sudden desire to take her away—from Sibel Hall, its resident ghost, and all her relatives.
But to where? He didn’t even have a home. Of course, he could take her to the family seat, but what would his grandfather say? Hell, the earl would probably welcome her with open arms. It was Christian who felt a certain uneasiness about the plan, the kind of uneasiness that came from sudden, irrevocable life change. Still, he was tempted, driven by a need to keep her safe, above all else.
He opened his mouth to make the suggestion, only to shut it again. One look at Abigail’s face told him she would never leave. The woman was nothing if not resolute, an admirable trait… sometimes. Christian frowned. “Do you have a firearm?”
Abigail arched a lovely brow. “Am I supposed to shoot the ghost or my relatives?” she asked, displaying the acerbic wit that Christian appreciated more fully when it wasn’t directed at himself.
He answered her sardonic look with a grim one, well aware of the role reversal. “I am serious. What if our specter, whoever or whatever it is, decides that you’re standing in his way, that you’re expendable? I don’t like the idea of you running around here, revealing yourself to some unknown assailant at every turn, without any way to defend yourself.”
“Who says I can’t defend myself?” she retorted.
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