by The Rival
“Help me,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said, bending. “Yes.” He thrust, taking Olivia up the wall. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, holding on tightly, sobbing with pleasure. Garrick thrust again and again. She cried out wildly. His mouth took hers, cutting off her cries, tasting her while driving into her hard and harder still until she climaxed with his name on her lips, her fingers in his hair, her nails in his skin.
She lay limp in his arms, her back against the wall, her head buried against his shoulder, his hands beneath her buttocks. Having just reached his own climax, Garrick began now to relish the warmth and softness and vitality of her. He held her. He did not want to leave her, not yet—this was where he belonged; nothing had ever felt this right. It was so obvious in that moment. She could flee Arlen—but not without him. Never without him.
The hand was soft and cool, kind, and not unpleasant. It cupped Hannah’s cheek.
She stirred, aware of the caress as sleep left her. She opened her eyes, for one brief moment confused, not knowing where she was. “Mama?”
Hannah sat up, realizing she was alone. She had dreamed about her face being touched, she thought, and now she recalled that she was at Lord Caedmon’s home in Cornwall. They had arrived late last night.
Outside, the wind howled like a banshee and the very first few drops of rain began to come down. Drip. Drip. Drip. But Hannah heard the rain as clearly as if she could see it. Although her world was black, she knew that the morning was dark and gray. Something was banging repeatedly, loudly, downstairs, probably a shutter or a door. The wind moaned, and lightning flashed very close by. Hannah felt it, and it was followed by a deafening crack of thunder just overhead.
She shivered, but not because she was cold or afraid. Then she felt the human touch again, fingers slipping over her elbow and her arm, a palm closing over her hand. Hannah stared sightlessly as her hand was tugged gently forward.
Who are you? she asked silently.
Come. Although she heard no words, the idea materialized instantly inside of her head. As did another thought. I won’t hurt you.
But Hannah already knew that. She slid from the bed, still dressed in her clothes from the day before. The setter sat up, its tail thumping; outside, the wind groaned, as did some nearby part of the manor. Hannah moved her feet around and found her slippers, then bent to put them on. The setter licked her face.
Hannah smiled, hugging him. She felt him wagging his tail again.
This time the hand tapped her shoulder, with impatience. No message could have been clearer. With the dog at her side, her hand on its collar, Hannah left the room.
He squinted through the darkness, knowing it would soon be pouring, sitting astride a tired hack because that had been the fastest way to travel. Damn it, but he could hardly see. He peered harder through the dawn. As he did so, lightning flashed, too close for comfort, and thunder rolled and cracked and rolled again. He was stiff with tension, because he hated thunderstorms—he had feared them since he was a child.
He hated this place, too. He had always hated it—with good cause.
He stared ahead. He had always known that Garrick would return to Caedmon Crag. He had known that it would just be a matter of time before he did so, but what he hadn’t known, or even guessed, was that he would return with Olivia and Hannah. He was more than grim, he was furiously angry. But the time had come to stop this madness. He must stop them all.
The rain began. The wind slashed the icy cold fingers of water against his face, the only part of his body exposed to the elements, as he wore a huge cape with a hood. He spurred his mount forward, not caring that the gelding snorted in protest, as the manor took shape before his tired eyes. How ramshackle, how run-down, it appeared after all these years. He had not been back since the vanishing. And then he pulled up abruptly, seeing Hannah and the dog at the exact same time, the strange duo hurrying out of the barbican. His pulse roared.
Suddenly the child and the dog froze, as if aware of him, too. Immediately he rode forward, but at a rapid trot. Hannah whirled, no doubt turning to flee. He spurred his horse into a canter, coming up instantly upon her and cutting her and the dog off. And it was only because of the dog that he did not grab her. The setter had moved in front of Hannah, its hackles raised, its teeth bared.
He smiled his most charming grin and removed the hood from his face. “Hello, Hannah. I am sorry to scare you. What are you doing out and about in this storm? Surely you are not lost? Where is your mother?”
She gazed toward him as if she could see, except clearly she could not. Her eyes were ugly to him in their blindness. “You frightened me,” she said, low. Her face was flushed. He could see the fear in those sightless eyes.
“I did not mean to startle you,” he said easily. “Let me give you a ride back to the house. You could catch your death out here in this storm, you know.”
She shook her head stubbornly.
“Perhaps you should call Caedmon’s dog off,” he said.
Again she shook her head. Her entire posture was that of a tiny soldier ready to flee or do battle.
“What’s wrong?” he asked in his gentlest tone. “Hannah, surely you are not afraid of me?” His smile remained wide and firmly in place. “Come. Let me take you back to the house, before your mother wakes up and finds you gone. She will be furious then with us both.”
Hannah backed away from him, a single cautious step at a time.
The dog was snarling now, preventing him from acting as he wished. “Why are you outside in the middle of the rain?” he finally demanded, losing his temper and his patience.
She stared at him as if she could not, or would not, answer. Then she cried, “Leave me alone!” And she whirled, running away as hard as she could, the dog at her side, down the narrow road, which was rapidly turning to mud.
He watched her awaken, smiling. Being with Olivia like this was bittersweet. They had so many problems to face and to solve, but even a single night like the last one was worth all of the travail. “Good morning,” he whispered, stroking her bare arm.
Her eyes fluttered open and she smiled up at him. “Oh, what a pleasant way to awaken,” she murmured.
“I can think of a better way.” He pressed against her, in case she had any doubt as to his meaning. Just being with her, watching her, thinking about her, had made him hard. He slid his hand down her rib cage.
But she tensed. “Something is wrong. Oh, God.” She sat up instantly, the covers dropping to her waist, revealing her magnificent breasts.
“What is it, Olivia? What have you felt? Perhaps it is the storm which is bothering you.” Outside, the world was cast in a black downpour. One of the shutters, which was hanging lopsidedly against the window, kept banging against the house. Garrick had not slept well last night, and only partly because he lay in bed with such an extraordinary and desirable woman. The other reason had had to do with ghosts and vanishings and the truth about his brother, a truth he must unearth.
“It is not the storm,” Olivia said, already out of bed. She stepped into her drawers and chemise, then threw a cashmere shawl about her shoulders. Barefoot, she rushed from the room. Reluctantly Garrick also slipped from the bed. Last night he had felt again as if the walls had eyes and were watching him. It had been an uncanny, eerie, yet not quite frightening situation. He had never felt that way before, either, and he did not feel that way now, in the light of this dismal morning. He was stepping into his breeches, thinking about the feeling of being watched, when he heard her cry out.
He rushed to Hannah’s room, only to find Olivia staring at the empty bed. Half of the covers lay upon the floor.
Olivia whirled. Consternation masked her face. “I have not a doubt as to what happened.” She ran past him, back into their bedroom, now throwing on her clothes. She made no attempt to don the many layers of her underthings.
Garrick moved behind her to do up the laces on the back of her dress. “Then enlighten me.”
Chills swept up and down his spine, his chest, even his goddamned legs. Had Lionel been watching him last night? “Why? Why Hannah? Why not you?”
“I am torn by your feelings, Garrick, and my love for you is interfering with my ability to see clearly, to feel clearly, to use my gift. But Hannah is very sensitive. Oh, God. She has been lured somewhere, but where?”
“Try to stay calm. We will find her.” He kept his tone even, but as he donned his shirt, he was more than concerned. What if Olivia was right? Had a ghost, perhaps Lionel’s, seduced the child into following it? Had this very same ghost watched him as he tried to sleep all of last night? Was he succumbing to madness himself, to even consider such a possibility? But he could not forget what had happened before, at Stanhope Hall. Hannah had felt someone in the attic—had she been summoned there?
“Christ,” Garrick muttered.
“The only fact that relieves me at all,” Olivia said swiftly, “is that I felt no malice or evil, neither here nor at the Hall. Still, Hannah is blind and defenseless.” Her last words caught in her throat.
Buttoning up his shirt, he said, “Treve is with her. He will protect her with his life.”
Tears shone in Olivia’s eyes. “Oh, why didn’t she come to me first?”
Garrick started to respond, but Olivia cried out, “Ssh!” gripping his shoulder with such strength that he felt her nails. He froze.
And very clearly, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside of their room. Heavy footsteps. Booted footsteps. A man’s footsteps.
At least this was no ghost. But Garrick thought he knew who it was, and expecting Arlen, he regretted not having either a pistol or dagger on hand. He lunged around the doorway—and for the second time, he froze.
Lionel smiled at him. “I pounded upon the front door, but no one answered, and I decided to come in.” He stepped forward, that single stride taking him into a position where he could now see Olivia in her disheveled state in the bedchamber, with the mussed-up bed dominating the room. He bowed. “Good morning, Lady Ashburn. I hope I have not interrupted anything?”
Olivia flushed. “Good morning, my lord. This is a rather early hour for callers, do you not think?” Her smile was so stiff, it might have been made of wax.
“I do apologize, but when my brother left the Hall in such haste, and so unhappily, I felt it my duty to come to his aid.” He appeared chagrined. “Had I known he had guests here, I would hardly have come. Again, I do apologize, but you can count upon my discretion.” Now he smiled.
Garrick folded his arms, not convinced by Lionel’s theatrics for even a moment. Nor did he believe in coincidences. He had come to Caedmon Crag to learn the truth about his brother—and this man had suddenly appeared there as well. He could guess why. If this man were an impostor, then he suspected what Garrick intended to do and wished to forestall him at all costs. “You are always welcome in my home, Lionel,” he lied. Of course, if this man was who he said he was, then he had every right to be at the manor—for Caedmon Crag belonged to him.
Before Lionel could reply and thank him, Olivia stepped between the two men. “Lionel, have you seen Hannah? Either in the house or outside?” Her tone cracked with her worry and anxiety. “She is missing.”
“Missing?!” He raised both blond brows as he faced her. “She is not in the house? We must find her. We must search until we find her!” And he smiled.
While Garrick stared.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
A blast of wind blew in the stable door the moment Garrick pushed it partially open. He was soaking wet. The rain pounded down now far harder than before. He had left Olivia combing the manor for her daughter, while he and Lionel had split up, agreeing to look for Hannah outside, despite what Lionel had said. Logic had led him immediately to the stables. If he had been outside in this torrential downpour, he would seek the first dry, available shelter.
Inside, the stable was dark and damp, smelling of old, moldy straw and horses. Both mares whickered as he came in, their heads appearing over the edges of their box stalls. He left the stable door open, but the illumination that was afforded him was minimal. “Treve,” he called, squinting through the gloom.
A bark sounded from one of the empty stalls. Almost simultaneously, the setter’s broad brow appeared as he stood with both front paws on top of the stall door, his brown eyes warm and eager. Relieved, Garrick walked forward and peered down into the stall.
Hannah sat in the far corner, hugging her knees beneath her stained skirts to her chest. Her face was pale and showed the marks of dried tears. She was gazing sightlessly in his direction. Bits of hay clung to her gown and braided hair.
“Hannah, it is I, Lord Caedmon,” he said softly. “I am pleased to see you found a safe place to avoid the rain.”
“Hello, my lord,” she said, her tone so low it was almost inaudible.
He opened the stall door and stepped inside, absently patting the setter’s head. Hannah’s expression was strained. She seemed distraught. “Are you all right?” Garrick asked. “You gave your mother quite a fright, disappearing from your bed like that.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, laying her cheek against her knees.
Garrick sat beside her in the old, moldy hay. “You do not seem all right. Are you afraid of storms?”
She shook her head and bit her lip, her eyes shining with tears.
He put his arm around her. “What is wrong? Why didn’t you return to the house when it started to rain?”
She turned her face toward him. “I was afraid.”
“Afraid? Hannah, have you seen a ghost?” he asked quickly.
She nodded.
When she did not speak, he said kindly, “I did not know you were afraid of ghosts.” But his heart was thundering now, almost deafening him, with the oddest kind of hope. Had Hannah seen Lionel?
“I am not afraid of ghosts,” Hannah returned evenly. “And especially not of this one.”
“I do not understand. Then why are you hiding?”
“I am afraid of your brother.”
He started, stunned, confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“I don’t like Lord De Vere,” she whispered, turning her face away from him, her cheeks flushed.
His mind whirled. She had seen a ghost. She was not afraid of ghosts. But she was afraid of his brother. Yet Lionel was not the real Lionel, he was a fraud. Wasn’t he? “Lionel is here,” he said cautiously. He did not know what to think.
“I know.”
He smiled slightly. “Is there anything you do not know?”
She grimaced. “I met him on his way in, my lord. It was nothing more than that.”
Garrick stared. Then he cursed the man calling himself Lionel for lying to him and Olivia about not having seen Hannah. Why had he done such a thing? A small, blind child lost in the rain could become quite serious, especially in the cold Cornish climate. The answer seemed obvious—because Hannah could unmask him. Yet Lionel could not know that, and surely Garrick was overreacting—Lionel might be a title hunter, but that did not mean he wished a small child ill. But was he, or was he not, his brother?
Garrick patted Hannah’s shoulder. “You were hiding from Lord Lionel? Why?”
She shook her head, as if refusing to answer. Then she blurted, “He doesn’t like me. I don’t like him. I am afraid of him. He isn’t good.”
Well, Garrick thought, we are in accord on one subject. He studied her face, so angelic, now downturned. He was gaining confirmation of his feelings about Lionel from an eight-year-old blind girl gifted with an ability to see and feel truths that others could not discern. That thought made him grim. And he was even grimmer thinking about the fact that Hannah had referred to him as his brother.
But he said slowly, “Hannah, why do you think Lionel isn’t good? What do you know about him?”
She shrugged. “He doesn’
t like me—or you—or Mama. He has come here for a reason. It is not a good reason. But I do not know what that reason is.”
Garrick squeezed her shoulder. “Thank you,” he said. “Hannah, earlier you called Lionel my brother. Is he my brother?”
She blinked, staring sightlessly at him. For a long moment she did not speak. “Yes,” she finally whispered.
He also stared, directly back at her, his heart sinking. “Could you be wrong?” he asked after a pause.
“I do not know,” she whispered, shifting uncomfortably. Her tone had become high and strained. “He isn’t what you think he is. My lord, can we go back to the house now?”
He realized that she was upset and was furious with himself for pushing a small child for answers she might not have—or even be able to cope with. But he did recall that Olivia had said Hannah did not make mistakes. Could his brother have changed so much? If Lionel were not a fraud, then he, Garrick, was at fault for despising him so much. The worst part was that a stubborn part of himself insisted that Lionel was an impostor. “Let’s go back to the house and have breakfast,” he said, standing and holding out his hand to her. “You do not have to worry about Lionel anymore.”
She hesitated, then reached out, and he clasped her small, warm palm in his, pulling her to her feet. “Thank you, Lord Caedmon,” she whispered. “I am hungry.”
“You have nothing to thank me for,” he said, leading her out of the stall, the setter dancing around them.
Suddenly Hannah pulled back, just as a familiar voice rang out, “So there you are. I see that you have found her.” And Lionel, standing on the threshold of the stable, smiled at them both.
Garrick was positive his smile did not reach his blue eyes. Protectively he put his arm around the child. “Yes, I have found her,” he said.