by Jane Godman
“It’s how it looks, Annie.”
I drew a deep, steadying breath. “Why would I be jealous of you and Finty becoming engaged when I am about to be married myself?”
He held my gaze. “Perhaps because what Finty and I have is a normal, happy, healthy relationship. And because somewhere deep down inside—in a part of you that you haven’t acknowledged—you know Uther is not the right man for you. Perhaps you even know what the rest of us do…that there is something very wrong about your relationship with him.”
“The rest of us? Have you been having cosy little chats about us with Finty and Nicca? Perhaps darling Uncle Tristan or poor, dear Aunt Eleanor?” I mimicked Finty’s breathy voice, and then felt mean and spiteful for doing so.
“You know me better than that. But you are different when you’re with him, Annie. It’s obvious to anyone who knows you. And I know you best of all.”
“You know what, Rudi? I think you should mind your own bloody business about who I marry, and I’ll do the same for you. I happen to like Finty”—Was that true? The thought fluttered away from me, rather in the manner of Finty herself—“but if you want to get me started on whether I think she’s the right wife for you—”
He interrupted me. “You mean she might not cope with the climate and the insects and the animals in Africa, don’t you? Yes, she might struggle with those things, Annie. She’s not evil, though, is she?” I didn’t answer. I knew where this was going, and I couldn’t trust my voice. He stood up, his limp more pronounced than ever as he walked to the door. “You can look daggers at me all you like. I mean it, Annie. Uther is evil, and if you had any sense you would run a mile—several miles—to get away from him.”
When he had gone, I turned to study my reflection in the mirror. My face was white, my eyes huge. Because, until now, Rudi and I had never argued or even exchanged an angry word. And contrary to what anyone—an image of Ouma’s strong, tanned features appeared in my mind—might think, it was not because he had always, before this day, deferred to me. It was because I actually listened to him. Because his opinion mattered to me. And because, when we did disagree, he was usually right.
“You are left with only me now, aren’t you?” Nicca asked. We were rarely alone together, a circumstance I knew was his choice. On this occasion, however, he had deliberately sought me out while I was seated in the parlour, writing a much-put-off letter to Ouma. When I returned an uncomprehending look, he continued in the same harsh tone. “Well, Eleanor is most unlikely to return to her family home. The place where she was born and has lived all her life. Finty will be off to Africa soon. So there is only me left for you and Uther to get rid of now. Don’t worry, I’ll go quietly. But there is something I want you to hear first.”
I bounced up from my seat. Following my conversation with Rudi, another lecture was the last thing I needed. But there was a very determined look in those blue eyes. In this mood, Nicca Jago had the ability to make me feel like I was back in that Ladysmith schoolroom on the day I put a toad in the teacher’s desk.
“What’s the matter, Annie? Don’t you want to know the truth about the man you are going to lock yourself away with, all alone here at Tenebris?” Nicca demanded, and I knew from his expression that he had fought a bitter battle with himself before confronting me. I tried to walk away then, but he grabbed me by my upper arms and shook me. Shocked, I squirmed and twisted in his grip, but he didn’t release me. “No, by God, Annie, I’ve stood by and watched for long enough. You are going to listen to this!”
I tried a new tactic and subsided against him, standing still and submissive and timing my breathing to match his own. I thought it would unnerve him, but he didn’t respond. “Very well, Nicca,” I said quietly. “What do you wish to tell me about Uther? Your brother…the man I love?”
He drew in a ragged breath, which I felt resonate through my own body. “God knows how hard I have tried to dismiss these thoughts about my own brother, Annie. I haven’t spoken of my suspicions to another soul, but before you marry him, you deserve to know.” It was as though the words were being dragged forcibly from him one by one. “I don’t believe that Rory Jago was killed by a sniper’s bullet. I think Uther murdered him.”
I surprised myself my managing to stay calm. “I see. And you have proof for this interesting theory, of course.”
“No, I don’t have any proof, damn it. Just hear me out. Please?” I remained silent, and he risked letting me go. “Uther was in debt. I don’t just mean he owed a few pounds here and there. He was in deep trouble and some of the people to whom he owed money were turning nasty. His gambling has always been his downfall. He said to me once—half-jokingly—that if only Rory would die, all his problems would be solved. Oh, he took it back immediately when he saw the look on my face, but I had no doubt he meant it.”
“That’s a big leap to make, Nicca, from Uther making a throwaway remark—admittedly one that was in bad taste—to building a theory that he committed a murder.”
“Rory was our Colonel, our commanding officer,” he continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “And he was a bloody good one. He wasn’t a man to take unnecessary risks. That day, the day he died, was a quiet one. Most officers of Rory’s rank didn’t come down into the trenches at all, but he was different. He wanted to see what sort of conditions his men had to endure. Rory asked Uther to take him on a tour of the trenches so as not to disturb the other men. We called it a ‘make and mend’ day. We were resting, tending the wounded, repairing our uniforms and cleaning our weapons, getting ready for the next push forward. I warned them…” He broke off, his eyes looking into the distance. I knew he was seeing something other than the elegant parlour of Tenebris. Perhaps dwelling on the mud, blood and misery of that Flanders hellhole. “I often wonder if I might have given Uther the idea. I said, you see, that we had seen some sniper action a few days earlier. Rory assured me that he would stay low. He even laughed and said it was good to know his back was being covered by another Jago. They had been gone ten minutes or so when I heard Uther shouting for help. He was carrying Rory’s body.” He passed a hand over his eyes as though trying to shut out a memory.
“What makes you think it was not a sniper?” I asked quietly.
He shrugged. “Perhaps it was. Perhaps I’ve allowed the horror of that time in Flanders to cloud my judgment. At the time, I had to act fast. With Rory dead, I was in command. The opening attack at Passchendaele was planned for the following day, and it was my job to ensure we were ready. It was only later that I began to question the events surrounding Rory’s death. The bullet was very low for a sniper, you see. Rory was shot through the neck. Here.” He pressed his fingers to the base of his throat. “So he must have been standing upright. Which was remarkably foolish for any man in the trenches, but for a soldier with Rory’s years of experience…Well, it is downright bizarre that he should have taken such a risk.”
“Could he have tried to fire at the sniper if he saw him?” I asked. “He’d have had to stand to do so, wouldn’t he?”
“It went against all his training to raise his head above the trench,” he said.
“But the bullet itself must have confirmed that he was shot by a German,” I said. “If Uther shot him, the bullet would have been a British one.”
“If there had been a bullet it might have answered those questions,” Nicca agreed, “but the bullet passed right through his neck and no trace of it was ever found.”
“Couldn’t the doctor who examined him tell what distance the shot was fired from?”
“Annie, we were in the trenches on the eve of a major battle. Before Cad brought his body home after the war and had him buried here, Rory lay in a Flanders Field with the thousands of other men who died in that monumental bloodbath. He never saw a doctor. He was bloody lucky to have a priest say a few words over his body.”
I thought I was doing a very good job of keeping my temper in check, but he wasn’t exactly helping me. “And what did Uther say happened?
”
“He said he didn’t see anything. He turned away for an instant, heard a shot, turned back and Rory crumpled into his arms.”
“Nicca, I still don’t see—”
“No, I’m not telling this story very well, am I?” he said ruefully. “Rory was a man I liked and admired. The circumstances of his death are not a memory I care to dwell on. But there is more to it. In the furore that followed Rory’s shooting, I barely noticed another man—a private by the name of Wilson—make his way into the dugout. He came from the same direction that Uther had come as he carried Rory’s body. He was a little weasel of a man, and I watched him sidle up to Uther and whisper a few words to him. Uther went even whiter and muttered something about speaking to him later. It was a brief exchange, and I thought very little of it at the time. It was only after the war, when I saw Wilson again, that I recalled the incident.”
I felt a tight sensation in the pit of my stomach. Like something was alive and squirming in there.
Nicca continued. “I was visiting Uther at his barracks and I passed Wilson on the stairs. He was coming out of Uther’s rooms as I was going in. When I asked Uther about it, he was evasive, denying any knowledge of Wilson’s visit and saying I must have been mistaken.”
“And you could not have been mistaken, of course?” I allowed a note of sarcasm to sting my words. “I take it you have never been known to get something wrong?”
“I know what I saw.” His expression was stubborn. “Besides, I went to see Wilson. He had sold out and bought his own tobacconists shop by that time. He seemed to be doing well for himself. I asked him why he’d gone to see Uther. He was evasive at first, then he said that Uther was a ‘sleeping partner,’ having invested heavily in Wilson’s business. Which struck me as decidedly odd since Uther has never had two pennies to rub together. Even after he became Cad’s heir and was given an allowance out of the Athal estate, he simply increased his spending and gambling accordingly.”
I dredged inside myself for the feelings that bound me to Uther. It was there, waiting for me, coiled and ready. Stronger than ever and eager to spring up and dispel any doubt. I grabbed it gratefully. “And on that basis, you are ready to label your own brother a murderer?” I swung round to face him, allowing the full force of my anger to show now. “Shall I tell you what I think, Nicca?”
“I’ve no doubt you are about to.” His lips twisted into a hurt parody of a smile.
“Damn right I’m about to! I’ve listened to you, now it’s your turn.” I stormed back so that I stood within an inch of him, jabbing my finger into his chest to punctuate my words. “I don’t know when this interesting theory was born. It may, as you say, have surfaced at the end of the war. Or it may have emerged more recently, perhaps as recently as when Uther arrived here. Don’t interrupt me!” I stamped my foot as he opened his mouth to protest. He held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. “But if you think I’m going to end my engagement to your brother and hurl myself into your arms for consolation on the strength of that little fairy tale, you don’t know me very well. If I did or said something that made you believe there was an attraction between us before Uther came, I’m sorry for it. I made the mistake when I first met you, Nicca, of thinking you an honourable man. This nasty little stunt of yours proves how wrong I was. And this jealousy you feel toward your brother only makes me think of you as pitiful.”
His face had whitened as he listened to me. I had spent my rage and we faced each other like statues.
“Thank you for your honesty, Annie,” he said with a stiff little bow. Turning on his heel, he left the room.
What instinct was prompting me suddenly to run after him, to beg him not go? What worm of suspicion was eating its way insidiously into my mind? I meant every word. I trusted Uther implicitly. Didn’t I? Yet part of me wanted to feel Nicca’s hands on me again. I wanted him to shake me once more, to force me to listen to him, to convince me beyond doubt that he was right.
Chapter Seven
Later that evening, Uther came to my room before dinner. I was seated at my dressing table and he dismissed my maid, coming to stand behind me so that I could see our reflections as he kissed the back of my neck. I felt my insides plummet. When I was with him, there was no room for questions. When he touched me, I knew this was meant to be.
“The strangest thing, my sweet,” he murmured, sliding his hands inside the neckline of my strapless dress, his palms warm on my breasts. My nipples pebbled instantly. “Brother Nicca has decided life would be easier all round if he took up residence in the gatehouse.”
“Did he say why?” I asked, leaning back against him. He didn’t answer immediately. His lips were otherwise occupied as he kissed his way along my jaw.
“No, just that he felt he needed some privacy and so did we. He also said that he thought I should advertise for a more experienced estate manager after the wedding, as he intends to return to the city.” He came and knelt in front of my chair, smiling up at me as he slid my dress down to my waist. Although we had agreed that we would wait for our wedding night before we made love, at times like this he took every opportunity to ensure we both spent every moment thrumming on a knife-edge of suppressed lust. His lips traced a path from my shoulder down to my nipple while his hand slid beneath my skirt, finding the flesh at the top of my stocking. As his fingers moved higher, I closed my eyes and felt the world shift onto a different axis and into an earlier century. I was no longer in Athal House, no longer in my bedchamber. The man who touched my flesh so expertly was called Uther Jago, but he was not my fiancé.
His hand slid inside my panties and cupped the warmth between my legs. “You are so wet.”
I writhed against him. “Please, Uther.” I pressed myself against his passive hand.
“Say it.” His hand remained still. I heard an echo of feminine chatter and laughter growing ever closer. Even though the sound was almost a century old, the sense of danger, of imminent exposure was real. It added spice to the situation.
“I want you, Uther. Only you.” I was answering a question that had been asked almost a century earlier. By another Uther.
“Good girl.” He moved his fingers. Deep, fast and hard. In reality, my own Uther had never touched me intimately, yet those fingers reaching high up inside me were achingly familiar to us both.
The voices grew closer. “They are coming,” I moaned despairingly.
He leaned in close and nuzzled my neck, laughter in his voice. “But what about you? Are you coming yet?” He showed no mercy, driving me ever onward, relentlessly flicking and stroking the taut, slippery little pearl that throbbed for him. Always for him. “Hurry up.” Then, as I exploded in a sudden rush of violent, gasping pleasure, his voice inside my mind whispered, “Lucia.”
I opened my eyes. I was back inside my bedchamber. “What just happened?” I leaned my forehead against Uther’s shoulder, still shuddering.
“You came,” he murmured, kissing my neck. “You just had an orgasm, my sweet.”
“You know that’s not what I meant.” I lifted my head and looked into the golden fire of arousal in his eyes. “You didn’t touch me. That wasn’t you.”
“I know,” he replied. “But it wasn’t you either, was it?”
Mrs Winrow adhered to the ancient Tenebris tradition of providing enough breakfast to feed the population of a small country. Finty explained that, in Tynan and Lucy’s day, it had been customary to try to anticipate any and every possible combination of dishes that might be required and provide these for the first meal of the day. As a result, the breakfast parlour had to be overloaded with every imaginable foodstuff. On this particular morning, I sipped tea and nibbled a slice of toast, while Uther drank coffee and ate nothing. The vast array of hot and cold dishes on the sideboard seemed to reproach us. The house was oddly quiet with no one else stirring at this early hour.
“Just think, my sweet.” Uther leaned in close to press a kiss at the corner of my mouth. “Before long, this is how it wi
ll always be, just you and I.”
I looked into the endless gold of his eyes. When I was with him, I was caught up in the enchantment that bound me to him. But Rudi’s words about our relationship being a tainted one had stayed with me and left me troubled.
“Will it?” I asked. “Or will we always share our lives with these ghosts of long-dead lovers?”
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Don’t tell me you don’t like it, Annie,” he murmured, running a finger along my collarbone. Instantly I felt the familiar insistent thrumming between my legs. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” He leaned in closer. “Imagine how much better it will be when I am inside you.”
“But will it be you?” I asked. I could feel myself arching toward him; I had no control over my instincts when I was with Uther.
His laughter was soft and low. “Will it matter?” His tongue followed the line of his finger, and I moaned. My longing for him was a physical pain tugging hard and insistently on an invisible cord that joined my nipples and my clitoris. Instantly I felt his touch and his tongue in both those places.
Winrow, his expression wooden but somehow conveying his disapproval of such blatantly demonstrative conduct, cleared his throat as he entered the room. “There were several letters this morning, my lord. I have had them sent to your study.”
Uther rolled his eyes at me, but drained his coffee cup. “Business calls,” he said, rising from the table and following Winrow from the room.
Collecting my scattered emotions, I wandered over to the window, regarding the rain-swept landscape. The ties that bound me to Uther were too strong and too tight to break. And I didn’t want to break them. At least, I didn’t think I did. I wanted to test them, however. I needed to talk to him about this strange, compelling eroticism that bound us to the past. It might be the most wonderful, magical thing either of us had ever experienced…but did that make it right? I was thousands of miles from my home and, in less than a month, I was going to marry a man I knew absolutely nothing about. I didn’t know what music he liked, what books he read, if he played any sports. All I really knew was that there were times when he could become something more than his mortal self and bring me to orgasm just by looking at me. Which was undoubtedly a considerable skill. But was it really a lasting basis for marriage? It was a situation that, even for me, took impetuosity to the extreme.