by The Rival
“Olivia?”
She whirled, to find Garrick standing wide-eyed in the hall outside of an open door in nothing but a pair of breeches that were not even buttoned. But she had no time to absorb either the sight of his muscular body or the obvious implication that he slept, apparently, in the raw. She ran to him. “Hannah is sleepwalking! I awoke to find her gone! We have to find her!”
He gripped her arms. “Olivia. Calm yourself. No harm will come to Hannah.” His tone was commanding and firm.
She met his gaze and felt tears filling her eyes. His strength and reassurances were so dearly welcome.
He continued to hold her, but his grip eased. “We will find her. But it may take some time, the house is very large.”
Olivia nodded, her pulse finally ceasing its wild rioting. Then she became aware of the musky scent of his bare chest—and just how bare he was. In fact, his chest was extremely hard and broad and dusted with dark hair. His arms, flexed as he held her, bulged with muscle. Her gaze slipped. His torso was beautifully sculpted; she could just see his ribs and the soft indentation below them. Then she glanced at his navel—and the dark hair swirling below, where his breeches had been left suggestively open.
Olivia flushed and looked away.
He released her immediately, turning and buttoning the flap. The glance he threw over his shoulder at her was dark and powerful. Olivia’s heart drummed yet again. She watched him walk to his room and shrug on a shirt, which he buttoned as he returned to the hallway. Then he gave her a pointed glance.
Olivia realized she wore only a thin cotton nightgown, for it had not even occurred to her to throw on her wrapper. “I don’t care,” she said defensively, folding her bare arms across her chest. The nightgown was sleeveless. She was quite bare beneath it.
“Let’s find your daughter,” he said tersely. “Is Treve with her?”
Olivia nodded as they returned to the stairway. “Miss Childs is waking the staff.”
“Good. We shall begin our search from where she was last seen. I imagine she is in the central wing, not far from your bedchamber.” He allowed Olivia to precede him down the stairs. “Does she sleepwalk often?”
Olivia hesitated. “Recently she has begun to do so, and it worries me.” She recalled Arlen’s reaction to the one time she’d told him—falsely—that Hannah had been sleepwalking: the night Susan had tried to kill herself. In truth, Hannah had started walking in her sleep about a month ago. Olivia could not guess why.
“You should worry less,” De Vere said as they entered the center wing. “Hannah is blind, and far more at ease in the dark than you or I.”
Olivia did not hesitate. “She is afraid of the dark. At night she insists on sleeping with candles blazing in her room.”
He stumbled, facing her.
Olivia met his gaze, which was wide and filled with concern, and nodded.
“Was she born blind?” he asked, taking her arm, his hand strong and warm and large on her bare skin. He guided her down a corridor. They could hear the staff speaking in hushed tones in the great hall.
“Yes.”
He did not reply as they entered the hall. Two dozen servants stood there in their nightclothes, holding tapers. De Vere quickly divided them into pairs, ordering each to a section of the house. “You and I will take this wing,” he said as the staff began to disperse. “And we will begin on the second floor where you have your rooms.”
But Miss Childs had yet to leave the hall with the maid she had been assigned to, and she approached Garrick and Olivia. “My lady,” she said, her tone low, “can you not feel anything?”
Olivia froze. She did not dare look at De Vere, praying he would not understand the question. And now her suspicions were confirmed—Lucy knew the truth. “I have been too frightened even to try,” she said, as hushed. “We will speak later,” she said, hoping Lucy understood that she did not wish to discuss this subject now.
Miss Childs hesitated, shot Garrick De Vere a glance, and left with the housemaid. Refusing to look at him, Olivia started for the stairs, calling Hannah’s name. Garrick was silent as he followed behind her, but she could feel his gaze, unwavering, upon her back. A moment later he let out a piercing whistle. Olivia tensed but heard neither the little girl nor the dog respond.
They returned to the second floor and began going through the rooms one at a time, Olivia calling Hannah’s name, Garrick whistling for the dog. No child cried out in response; the dog did not bark or howl. In her bedchamber, her spirits low, Olivia retrieved and donned her wrapper, avoiding his gaze again. Finally she looked up at him. “Clearly this floor is deserted. It is so quiet, we could hear a pin dropping.”
“I agree,” Garrick said, his golden regard slipping over her firmly belted robe.
“Would not your dog hear that whistle even on another floor?” Olivia asked as they went toward the stairs.
“He would. And he would come—if he could.”
Olivia stumbled on the steps. She was ahead of Garrick, and he caught her from behind. She pushed his hands away from her body. “What does that mean?” she demanded, facing him on the narrow staircase. He had crowded her against the wall.
“Treve wouldn’t leave Hannah alone unless it were safe to do so.” He took her elbow.
“You’re frightening me,” Olivia said.
“There are no ghosts here. This is merely an old house with far too many rooms and hallways. Hannah is fine. But if she is frightened, my dog will stay by her side. Let’s skip the next floor. They are probably not there, for Treve would have barked.”
“What is on the fourth story?” Olivia asked as they again ascended the steps.
“The nursery, servants’ rooms, and an attic.” His tone was sober.
Olivia was pierced with the image of the two boys again.
“I used to play in that attic when I was a child,” he said wryly. They had paused on the landing. De Vere let out a determined whistle. And they heard it, faint or mufned—a series of barks.
He gave her a swift, hard look and began striding up the hall, Olivia running to keep up with him. “Where are they?” she cried.
“That,” he said grimly, “was from the attic.”
The attic. Of all the places for Hannah to go. Why would she venture up into the attic—unless she had not been walking in her sleep, unless something, or someone, had compelled her?
At the end of the corridor Garrick pushed open a narrow door, and Olivia saw very steep, extremely narrow stairs that were cast in utter blackness. Her pulse beat hard. His single taper cast the barest glow in the cramped space. “You wait here,” he ordered.
Olivia did not even reply; she merely followed him up the stairs. At the top of the stairwell was another door, this one half as tall as De Vere, and slightly ajar. He pushed it open. And the setter was there, wagging his tail, his entire body swaying with eagerness, brown eyes alert.
“Good boy,” De Vere said. “She is here, Olivia.”
Olivia pressed against him, straining to see over his shoulder, desperate to find her daughter safe and sound. The attic was as dark as the stairwell, but Hannah was sitting on the floor, her back against the wall, near an open window. Her white nightclothes stood out starkly in the darkness. She was not moving. “Hannah!” Olivia cried.
Hannah did not answer.
Olivia pushed past Garrick and crept through the small doorway. Once inside, she could stand upright. She rushed to her daughter. And the moment she dropped to her knees beside her, Olivia’s heart sank. Hannah was sitting tensely near the attic’s single window. Rain beat on the sill and poured inside. Half of Hannah’s nightclothes were soaking wet. She was concentrating.
“Darling, are you all right?” Olivia cried, pulling her into her arms. But as she did so, the wave of grief hit her, shocking her with its strength.
“I am fine, Mama,” Hannah said calmly. But her expression was severe.
“Did you walk in your sleep?” Olivia asked, glancing around at th
e shadows surrounding them. But no one was there, she was certain of it; it was just her and Hannah and, of course, Garrick and the dog on the attic’s threshold.
“No. I was not sleepwalking,” Hannah said.
Olivia stared. It was as she had thought. What secrets—what tragedies—were hidden at the Hall? Olivia’s temples throbbed. Hadn’t she felt that in coming here, she would unravel a mystery? And that mystery had to concern Lionel De Vere. She was convinced of it.
Hannah bit her lip. “She woke me up, Mama. That woman. She was so sad. I had to find her.”
Olivia’s pulse raced. She did not dare glance at the doorway, aware that De Vere was watching them and listening to their every word. She knew that she had come to Stanhope Hall for a reason. Something—or someone—awaited her here—another truth to be revealed. She had assumed that Lionel De Vere was involved, but now she was not sure. “We will talk about this later,” she whispered.
Hannah shook her head. “She isn’t here. I couldn’t find her. But she was here, Mama. She left the window open.”
As Olivia took Hannah’s arm and tugged her to her feet, she noticed that Hannah had been sitting on an old, misty Scottish plaid. How odd, she thought, for the De Veres had not a drop of Scottish blood in their veins. “It is late and you have given everyone a vast scare. You may not disappear again like that, Hannah,” Olivia scolded gently.
Hannah was silent as they crossed the attic. Olivia finally dared to look at Garrick. He was staring at them both. “What is she talking about?” he asked bluntly.
“I have not a clue,” Olivia said too lightly.
“A very sad lady. She comes here to hide and cry. I wanted to help her,” Hannah said.
Garrick studied the child, set down the candle, then held out his arms. “Let me help you out of the attic, Hannah,” he said quietly.
As if she could see, Hannah walked trustingly into his arms. Garrick lifted her through the doorway and set her down on the stairs. Olivia allowed him to help her step through, her palm in his, the contact disturbing her even more than she already was. The setter stood patiently on the stairs, waiting for them, watching them.
And Olivia’s head whipped around and she stared at the dog.
“What is it?” Garrick asked sharply.
The setter was relaxed, his tail wagging slightly, ready to follow his master. Olivia inhaled, not answering—determined not to. Of course no long-dead soul was lingering in the attic, for the dog would be aware of it. Animals could see and sense these things far more easily than their human counterparts. The setter was at ease now, but had he been as complacent before she and De Vere had arrived in the attic?
“Olivia,” Garrick said as sharply.
Olivia met his gaze and looked away. “It is late. I must put Hannah to bed.”
Garrick lifted Hannah into his arms. “Please take the candle and close the door,” he said, carrying Hannah downstairs.
This time Olivia obeyed, aware of leaving the grief behind.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Olivia sat beside Hannah, who was now dressed in fresh, dry nightclothes and tucked carefully into the four-poster bed. She stroked her hair. The setter slept quietly on the floor just below the bed.
“You look very tired, dear,” Olivia said, thinking that Hannah would be asleep within moments.
Hannah yawned, answer enough.
“Dear …” Olivia hesitated. “That sad woman. Do you have any idea who she is?”
Hannah yawned again. “She is very beautiful. I would know her if I met her.”
Olivia’s eyes widened. Did this mean that she was not dead? “Hannah, I had assumed we were speaking of a lost spirit.”
“I don’t know.” Hannah rubbed her eyes. “Sometimes I think so, but then I feel that she is still with us, Mama.”
“Was there anyone in the attic with you before Lord Caedmon and I arrived?”
Hannah’s eyes were closing. “No. She had already left.”
Olivia watched her beautiful daughter as her lids remained closed and her breathing grew deep and even. She tried to think clearly, no easy task after the events of the evening. Perhaps Hannah might identify the ghost as a Stanhope ancestor from one of the portraits in the hall. Perhaps that was what she had meant.
Flickering light fell over her.
Olivia started, in time to see De Vere walking casually into her bedroom, holding a candle in one hand. He remained barefoot, in his snug breeches and silk shirt, the latter still hanging about his hips. His dark hair fell to his shoulders in thick waves, still untied. Her heart thudded wildly against her chest and she was on her feet. “You cannot come in here!”
He had left the door partially open. His smile was brief. “Is she asleep?”
A quick glance showed Olivia that Hannah remained asleep and oblivious of them. “Yes, she is, and I ask that you leave right now.”
He set the candle in its holder upon the heavy side table beside the bed. Olivia’s eyes widened as he straightened, his body inches from hers. “What was it,” he asked, “that Miss Childs meant when she asked if you could not feel anything?”
Olivia felt as if she had been struck in the face with icy water. “I do not even remember what you are speaking about,” she said huskily, perspiring now.
“You are hiding something. But what?” he asked very softly, his golden eyes somehow mesmerizing, making it impossible for Olivia to look away.
And she did look at his mouth. Then she tore her gaze back to his eyes, only to realize that he was smiling slightly again—knowingly. As if he could read her thoughts. Which bordered on the improper. “We cannot be in this room together.”
“What did Hannah see in the attic? Or should I say, what did she feel?”
Olivia inhaled.
His hands closed on her upper arms. “I am not your enemy, Olivia. I only wish to help. Do we have ghosts at the Hall after all?”
“I don’t know.” His touch was making it difficult to concentrate on his words. She was remembering his kiss in the Laytons’ garden.
“Hannah can feel the presence of a ghost, can she not? Her blindness helps her in this.”
Olivia shook her head. “It is all the wild imaginings of a young child used to playing alone.”
“I don’t think so. Nor do I think that Hannah was sleepwalking,” he said flatly.
“You may think whatever you want,” Olivia began, and then she stiffened. “What do you know about that attic?”
He looked at her.
“You played there as a boy,” Olivia cried, an accusation. “With your brother.”
“We did. And we were always soundly punished for disobeying my father,” Garrick said dryly. “You see, the attic was supposed to be under lock and key. No one was allowed up there.”
Olivia remembered watching the shadows in the attic while trying to feel a lingering presence. But she had not felt anything. On the other hand, she had been too emotionally upset to use her gift. Strong emotions always interfered with her abilities.
“Did you ever feel anything?” Olivia heard herself ask.
Garrick hesitated. “I don’t know. Maybe. It was never a friendly place. It was always dark, even on the sunniest of days, dark and dreary and sad.”
Olivia stared at him. He stared back.
Suddenly he smiled and reached out to touch her cheek. “Little boys have wild imaginings, too.”
Olivia jerked away from his touch, breathless now. And her reaction had little to do with the attic upstairs or any anguished soul.
“What are you so afraid of?” he asked softly. “Are you hiding from me, Olivia?”
“I am only afraid of your boldness!” Olivia said.
“I know,” he said suddenly. “I know what you are afraid of now.”
Olivia met his gaze and was shocked at the intensity she saw there. She knew, and tensed, her body preparing to resist him.
“Don’t,” he whispered harshly. Then his hands eased and slid slowly, suggesti
vely, sensually, up and down her arms.
Olivia bit off a cry, one that was hardly a protest. Myriad sensations, heated and delicious chills, were flooding her. She forgot that her daughter was asleep in the bed behind her.
His large hands stroked back up her arms, increasing her body’s heat, fingers splayed, pausing below her shoulders. His thumbs rested firmly against the sides of her breasts.
Olivia inhaled. Her nipples hardened immediately. And she was wearing only two fine layers of cotton. She saw his eyes move to the two erect points on her chest.
His brilliant gaze lifted, met hers. His hands slid over and cupped her breasts, which were full and womanly. Olivia’s heart pounded far more swiftly than before—it was becoming difficult to breathe.
“What is wrong, Olivia?” he whispered roughly.
She could not answer—not when his hands molded her so skillfully. “Garrick,” she finally breathed.
Abruptly he framed her face with his strong hands, making her acutely aware of his power and her fragility, and his mouth was on hers, hot and hard and demanding. Olivia did not pull away, knowing that she should. His tongue thrust inside of her, strong and rhythmically, repeatedly. A wet heat gathered on the insides of her thighs. I must not, she managed to think. But she was gripping his bulging arms—she was kissing him back frantically.
His mouth had forced hers open. Now his tongue swept along the seam of her parted lips. “What?” he whispered. “What is it, Olivia? Tell me.”
“Garrick.” She clung.
His hands moved from the sides of her face to her buttocks. Olivia gasped. He continued to kiss her, penetrating her deeply, but he gripped her buttocks, separating them, then slid his hands impossibly lower. Touching her through the two fine layers of cotton.
Olivia cried out. She could not stand it, this, him. She became light-headed, needing more. Her knees buckled. His wicked hands did not stop. From behind, he caressed her femininity through her nightclothes. Olivia had to cling to his shoulders now to remain standing upright. She thought she might soon die. She was shaking like a leaf.