A Man Of Many Talents

by Deborah Simmons

  Christian winced, his heart lurching within his chest. Yet what was he to do? He could roam the house tonight, but what of tomorrow and the day after that? His work here was finished. He couldn’t linger, no matter what the pretext. He frowned. Although the threat of Emery was hardly a pretext, there was no denying that he would seize any excuse to remain. He had routed the ghost, but he couldn’t exorcise Abigail as easily.

  A heavy wind sent rain lashing against the outer walls, and Christian welcomed it. The storm, which had begun after nightfall, suited his mood. He felt edgy, full of energy in a dangerous way as he prowled through the darkness. The mantle of his scholarly pose weighed heavily on him, and he wanted to throw it off, like the veneer of civilization that stood between him and his pirate ancestors.

  Their legacy was a tempting lure. If he were one of them, he would simply break down the feeble piece of wood that barred his way and march into Abigail’s bedroom. Would she scream and hold the sheet to her luscious breasts or would she indignantly order him to leave? The vision of her in some sort of nightdress—any sort—made him hard, as did the thought of finally subduing the Governess.

  Like a formerly caged tiger on the loose. Christian paced the corridors, restless and hungry, only to find himself, finally, before her door. No matter what he willed, all steps led him here—all his thoughts, his hopes, his dreams, his desires lay behind that portal. Although he longed to break it down, if only to relieve some of the tension that had driven him, he did not. Instead, he knocked. And he waited.

  At first Christian thought she hadn’t heard him. She might be a heavy sleeper, or the sound might have been lost in a roll of thunder. But, at last, the handle turned, and the door swung inward. Without pausing for an invitation, Christian stepped inside and shut it tight behind him.

  “You might have asked who was there before welcoming me in,” he muttered. “I could be any manner of intruder.” But his anger at her lack of caution faded away at the sight of her, tall and straight and wearing the same robe she had worn that night on the staircase. When she had spurned him. Would she spurn him again?

  “Christian,” she said, her voice a lush feast for his senses. She wore no guise of disapproval, no hint of the Governess as she watched him wide-eyed. “What is it?”

  What is it, indeed? Christian stared at her, and all the frustration and want and need of the last few weeks boiled over. Lifting a hand to his face, he tore off the hated spectacles and threw them to the floor.

  “I’m no scholar, and I don’t wear spectacles.” The words came out in a harsh growl. Drawing a deep breath, he stepped forward. As usual, Abigail held her ground even though she gaped in surprise at his admission.

  “My family wasn’t founded by a Crusader or a knight of any sort, but by a pirate, and his descendants have all been plunderers of one kind or another, giving allegiance only to their own. That’s the blood that runs in my veins.” Christian stopped but a few inches from her. He offered no apologies, only the truth, at last.

  “I know,” she whispered.

  Christian didn’t pause to consider her reply; he only knew that she had not denied him. And then he did what he had always wanted to do. He picked her up, cradling her in his arms, and covered her gasp with his mouth. He tasted her long and thoroughly, branding her as his own, breathing in lilacs and Abigail, and reveling in the heady feeling that came only with her. Love.

  Carrying her to the bed, he tossed her down, looming over her like the pirate he was. She gasped, half in outrage and half in laughter, then grabbed the front of his shirt and tugged him down on top of her, demanding a kiss. Her eagerness, her touch, the feel of her beneath him only fed his rampant hunger. He had never before been more alive, more aware of everything around him, and more true to himself. His pose was at an end, and yet here was Abigail accepting him, welcoming him into her bed.

  And this was no dream. As if to prove that, Christian rose over her, stopping her teasing with his mouth, and opened her robe, sinking against the luscious body clad only in a thin nightdress. He groaned. Releasing her hair from its braid, he spread the thick mass over her shoulders, then paused to admire his work, dark silken strands glowing in the lamplight.

  But Abigail grew impatient beneath him, and she tugged at his shirt until Christian lifted it over his head and tossed it aside. He shuddered at the feel of her pale hands upon his chest, and while she dragged him down for a kiss, he stripped the robe from her shoulders. Gasping for breath, he pushed it aside, reveling in the sight of her, both the Governess and his Abigail, in nothing but white linen.

  With trembling hands, Christian explored her body, rubbing the soft material against her, seeking out her curves, and then slowly lifting the hem. His heart hammered in his chest, his breath coming fast and hard like some boy at his first lesson in love, but no amount of control could dampen his fevered excitement. The feel of her skin, warm and smooth, made him dizzy, and he followed the trailing material with his hands and his mouth, tasting every inch of her as he had desired to do for so long.

  No timid girl, she explored him as well, her tentative touch growing more assured and more demanding. “Take off your breeches,” she ordered, in a breathy sigh that made his body jerk in response. Christian fumbled with his fall only to realize that he was still half dressed.

  “Oh, hell, my boots,” he muttered, swinging to the side of the bed. Yanking them off, he dropped them on the floor, then stood and stripped off his breeches. When he turned to face her, he was totally nude and suddenly uncertain. Would she look at him with the maidenly horror of a Governess?

  Their gazes met across the few feet that separated them, and in her eyes Christian saw a feverish desire to match his own. Instead of shying away from him, she rose to her knees and lifted a hand to his chest, and he drew in a harsh breath as her fingers trailed across his skin. Then she moved closer, pressing kisses to his heated flesh, imitating his own techniques with alarming skill and amazing nuance.

  When she ran her tongue over his nipple, Christian groaned. When her hands roamed along his back down over his buttocks, he shuddered. And when her breasts brushed against his genitals, he swore aloud, tossed her onto the bed and rose over her, subduing her shrieks of laughter and protest with his body.

  “Abigail,” he whispered, and her expression softened, her lips ripe, her eyes wide and dreamy, her body yielding to his own.

  “Christian,” she answered, and this time the sound of his name on her lips only brought him joy.

  “Say it again,” he said. “Again, and again, and again.”

  Her breathy whisper urging him on, Christian mounted her, probing and testing, but she welcomed him with such moist heat that he set his teeth against an urge to plunge deep. Instead, he moved slowly, rocking his hips, carefully making his way until he felt the last barrier between them give way. He exhaled then, a long, harsh breath as he stroked her, coaxing forth her passion, holding himself back until he felt the first tremors of her release. And when he shuddered uncontrollably with the force of his own, Christian knew he had met his fate, and no conquest this, but an alliance.

  Like his pirate ancestors, he had captured his woman at last, and made her his. Yet while doing so he had surrendered himself, his very heart and soul, into her keeping.

  Christian had thought to hold her close, to finally sleep here in her bed beside her, but he soon found out that Abigail had other ideas. The woman he had once thought stiff and unyielding wouldn’t hold still. She stroked his arm and his back, nipped at his ear and whispered questions about his anatomy that made him grin.

  “Can’t a man get some rest?” he teased.

  Smiling wickedly, she swung over him, and Christian reached for her, only to spring back with an oath as something struck his nose. “That necklace of yours is lethal,” he complained, lifting a hand to grasp the deadly piece. “What is this, your own personal cudgel, for use upon any importune male?”

  She laughed softly, a throaty sound that, impossibl
y, managed to arouse him again. “No, it’s an old brooch of my mother’s, handed down through the family.”

  “Yet you always keep it hidden,” Christian said, glancing up at her face. She colored, the faint tinge of rose making her even more beautiful. Then she shrugged, a gesture Christian found wholly endearing.

  “The clasp is long gone, so it is easier to hang on a chain. And, as a companion, I thought it best to keep it hidden away,” she explained.

  The implication that Abigail was prey to the petty jealousies of other household members, or worse, theft, was evident in her tone, and Christian felt a rush of anger that she had ever been put in such a position. He closed his fingers tightly around the golden circle only to pause in surprise at its heavy weight.

  “As well you should have,” he said. “It might be worth something.”

  “Oh, I doubt that,” Abigail said. “It has no jewels or stones, and is rather plain. But that is why I like it.”

  Of course. The Governess would not be dazzled, which was one of the reasons he loved her. Even showered in jewels, she would never be garish or tasteless, but always herself. And this piece, odd though it was, seemed to fit her, Christian thought, examining it more closely. Cast all in gold, it resembled a large, flat ring, with a gold bar across the center and unusual indentations along the outer rim which might be some sort of Old English or runes.

  Christian paused, rubbing his thumb over the surface, while something nagged at his thoughts. “The pattern looks… familiar to me somehow.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. It has been in my mother’s family for years and years.”

  But Christian still struggled with a memory. He knew nothing of jewelry, particularly antique pieces, and yet… “Do you know what it says?”

  “Something about true love, I imagine,” she said.

  Christian glanced up and grinned. She was blushing again, and he decided that he had a definite fondness for that delicate rose hue. Indeed, he began to think of all the ways he might induce that lovely flush all over her body. Loosing his hold on the jewelry, he let it swing free, only to grab it suddenly again.

  “Ah! I’ll take it off if you are going to choke me with it,” Abigail said indignantly.

  “I have it!” Christian crowed, unable to contain his excitement.

  “I know. Now please let go of it,” Abigail said tartly.

  “No! I know where I’ve seen that design before! Get dressed!” he urged, releasing the brooch from his hold. Even as she protested, Christian was already on his feet, tugging on his breeches. The mystery of Sibel Hall, having taunted him so long, now felt tantalizingly close to solution.

  Abigail was still protesting as Christian took up a lantern and hurried her downstairs, through the darkened rooms of the old house. “But you routed the ghost. What on earth are you looking for now?”

  “The answer,” Christian said as he raced to the great hall, still and silent except for the crash of thunder and the lash of rain against its walls.

  “What answer?” Abigail asked.

  “The answer to everything,” Christian said, pulling her behind the fretwork. But this time he moved past the first door to the one that led to the old buttery and the kitchens that were no more. He paused at the end of the passage, where stout oak prevented their exit.

  “You are talking in riddles,” Abigail complained. “And…” Her words trailed off when he bent to pick the lock. “I am not going out-of-doors in this weather!” she cried.

  “Oh, come on. It’s only a few steps,” Christian argued as the door swung wide.

  “We’re liable to be struck by lightning,” she said in her Governess voice. At least that’s what he thought she said as the sound of rain and wind swallowed her speech.

  Christian flashed her a cajoling smile. “We won’t be out there long enough. And it’s warm. Wet and warm. You don’t mind getting a little wet, do you?” he coaxed in his most seductive tone.

  “Oh, very well,” she muttered, her color high. With a triumphant laugh, Christian took her hand, and they ran pell-mell across the overgrown grass to the next building.

  “Where are we?” Abigail asked when they stepped inside.

  “The chapel,” Christian explained, running a hand through his damp hair. “I should have guessed it, of course. But I knew the chapel was built after the original hall because it wasn’t attached. So I didn’t think Sir Boundefort had a hand in it. After learning his story, I’ll wager he built the chapel himself after his lady died.”

  Christian lifted the lantern high and pointed to the left wall. “See? I don’t know if they’re singing, but there are angels.”

  “ ‘ ’Neath the angels singing fair,’ ” Abigail murmured. She turned to Christian. “The line about blessed care must refer to the chapel. I suppose we ought to have realized that meant a holy place, but the words were all so cryptic, I thought them nonsense.”

  Christian walked to the wall below the painted cherubs. “And look here. Does this remind you of anything?”

  Abigail stepped forward to examine the strange carvings, lifting a hand to run her fingers over the indentations in wonder. Then she turned to him with an expression of astonishment. “Why, they remind me of my brooch.”

  “Exactly,” Christian said in triumph. “May I have it?”

  While Abigail tugged the necklace from the bodice of her gown, Christian walked the length of the wall, studying the various circles and pausing to touch each in turn. He knew the brooch would match only one, and finally he stopped before it. He held out his hand, and Abigail dropped the circlet into his palm, the gold cool against his heated skin. Turning the brooch carefully, he lifted it to the wall and set it into the recession. With one small adjustment, it fit to perfection. Then he pressed the face of the brooch hard against the surface. There was a creak, followed by a click.

  “What on earth?” Abigail whispered.

  Feeling rather proud of himself, Christian grinned. “I have a friend who knows quite a bit about locks.”

  “The one who taught you how to pick them?” Abigail asked wryly.

  Christian nodded. “This is an old type of puzzle lock. Sometimes the keyhole is concealed by a pivoted cover or elaborately hidden in decoration. Or sometimes, as in this case, there is no keyhole. The secret here is pressure, either on certain parts of the design or, as it turned out, on the entire design, triggered by the front of the brooch, the ring brooch.”

  “ ‘The ring when set against its mate, Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate,’ ” Abigail murmured. “But why my brooch?” She turned toward Christian with a puzzled expression.

  Christian shook his head. “How does the rest of it go?” He was hard-pressed to remember one word of the rhyme, even though it had been rammed down his throat for weeks.

  “There’s only one more verse,” Abigail said.

  “Then start at the beginning. Give me the whole thing again,” Christian urged.

  Abigail drew a deep breath and recited in a low voice,

  My grief is such I cannot bear,

  So must my worldly goods despair.

  All my treasures sacred keep

  In stone abode and darkness deep.

  There shall they rest in blessed care

  ’Neath the angels singing fair,

  Untouched by all but she who wear

  Mine own love token in her care.

  Thy ring when set against its mate,

  Sweet kiss! Shall unlock the gate

  For only her, all others spurning

  Until my lady's love returning.

  “ ‘Mine own love token,’ ” Christian repeated. “This must be the brooch that Sir Boundefort gave to his lover.”

  “But how would I have it?” Abigail asked, obviously baffled.

  “Because you are the one who will return!” Christian exclaimed with sudden insight. “That’s why we could find no record of your connection to the Averills. There is none! You are not a descendant of Sir Boundefort, but of his l
ady. Wasn’t she a widow, with a daughter?”

  Blinking in astonishment, Abigail lifted a hand to her throat, groping for the brooch that was no longer there. “But that would mean that Bascomb solved the rhyme. Why didn’t he ask me for the brooch? Or bring me here?”

  Christian shrugged. “He was an old man. Perhaps he wasn’t interested in the treasure, just the answer to the puzzle. Or maybe he felt that no one except you could actually unlock the so-called gate.”

  “And just what have we unlocked?” Abigail asked.

  With a flourish, Christian pushed on the end of the wall, which swung inward at his touch.

  “Another hide?” Abigail asked.

  “The first and yet, the final, one,” Christian answered. “It’s larger than the occasional space used by medieval homeowners to safeguard their wealth, and, may I add, far more ingenious, as well. Sir Boundefort was a clever character,” he added.

  “Very nicely done, my lord.”

  The sound of another voice in the dim chapel made Christian whirl around, poised and alert. He half expected to see Emery smirking in the darkness, but the shadowy form was smaller and female. Mercia. Christian breathed a sigh of relief. After all his cautions, he had let excitement over their discovery distract him from potential dangers.

  “Oh, Mercia! You startled me,” Abigail exclaimed.

  The older woman, eccentric as always, remained just outside the lantern light, and Christian wondered what the devil she was doing out and about at this hour.

  “Again, very nicely done, my lord,” she said. “For someone our dear cousin, or shall I simply say, our dear Abigail, dismissed as her Last Resort, you have proved to be surprisingly clever. Far more clever than Emery with his books and studies. Far more clever than I, even, for though I knew the rhyme held the key, I failed to unlock its secrets.”