by Lily Maxton
When Fiona had married and her husband had refused to let Annabel live with them, Annabel had felt the betrayal like a dagger to her heart. Fiona knew what it was like to be unwanted, and she was abandoning Annabel without a backward glance.
But now, without that betrayal clouding her perception, she wondered what she should have seen. Had Fiona been scared of him, even then? Scared of what he would do if she refused? Why hadn’t Annabel seen it? Why hadn’t she looked harder?
Her heart twisted. “I should have protected you,” she whispered hoarsely.
Fiona looked up, a sheen over her eyes. “No,” she said. “You didn’t know.”
“I should have suspected. I should have done more. It was up to me to protect you,” she said. She’d failed. The one thing she should have done in all the world, and she’d failed. “I’m so sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Fiona said.
But the words felt empty to Annabel; they didn’t touch the depth of guilt she carried in her heart. She left the kitchen, feeling agitated and restless, knowing that even if she laid in bed she wouldn’t sleep. She hadn’t protected her sister then, and she was doing a dismal job of protecting her now. She needed to do more, fight harder.
A half-formed idea burgeoned in her mind…a bit silly really…but if it worked…
If it worked, Lord Arden might at least reconsider his stubborn desire to live in the middle of nowhere.
She stepped out into the courtyard; the moon was half full and bright enough to cast a dim silvery glow along the grass. She blew out her candle and crept along the outer wall so she wouldn’t be seen if someone glanced out their window. She shivered in the cool night air, noting the shadows that hung from every tree and nook and crevice. The wet grass seeped into her stockings.
She drew in a deep, deep breath. Tipped her head back.
And howled at the moon.
The sound was lonely in the dark, loud to her ears, almost savage. A little bit haunting.
It was perfect.
She continued along the wall, wanting to get another howl or two in at a different location before she snuck back inside, to make it sound like there was more than one wolf surrounding the castle.
She drew a breath to howl again, and the faint, pleasant scent of tobacco smoke hit her nostrils. That was strange; she didn’t know why she should smell tobacco smoke at this hour of night—
Annabel’s second howl turned into a yelp as she collided with something strong and warm and undoubtedly male. She nearly lost her balance and fell backward on her rump, but a strong, hard grip took hold of her elbow.
With an unpleasant jolt, she looked up, into Lord Arden’s implacable face.
“It appears I’ve caught our resident wolf,” he said.
Chapter Nine
It felt like Theo had just fallen asleep when he woke again, his heart pounding, his skin clammy, and a sick feeling spreading through his stomach. He retrieved the empty chamber pot from under his bed and bent over it, retching, the spasms painful on an empty stomach. Images, bright and noisy, flooded his mind and forced him from bed, then he shoved his shaky limbs through his clothing, piece by piece, dropping some of them along the way.
He knew from experience that he wouldn’t be able to fall asleep after that, even though he was dog-tired, so he went outside, hoping tobacco and the cool night air might bring some modicum of relief. Moonlight painted the grass silver and cast an eerie, unearthly glow off the castle walls. He’d just finished smoking a cheroot and was trying not to think about the nightmare that had woken him, trying not to recall fading blue eyes and another man’s dying breaths, when he heard the snap of a twig being crushed underfoot.
He startled, his senses on high alert, blood thumping as he instinctively turned and lifted his walking stick to defend himself. But when he saw the person who’d created the noise, his pulse eased, even if his surprise didn’t.
Annabel Lockhart rounded the corner of the castle, snuffed out her candle, and continued on her way, one bare hand gliding along the stone wall.
He stood in the shadows, taken aback. She obviously didn’t want to be seen. Was she about to take part in some kind of witchy midnight ritual? Was she meeting someone? His brother? Cameron with the bonnie knees?
His gut clenched at the second thought—stupidly not the first, which should have been far more alarming. He told himself he didn’t care personally if she had assignations with the Highlander or his brother—he just didn’t want her bad behavior rubbing off on Georgina and Eleanor, who were innocents, and whose behavior now would dictate the success of their marriages.
That was it. That was it, exactly. He was indignant on his sisters’ behalf. When he put an end to these nighttime wanderings, which he would, obviously, it would be because of his sisters, not because of his own feelings. Not because of this little pinprick of disappointment at the knowledge that he was the last man she’d look at with desire in her gaze. This gut clenching was indignation…not even close to anything as insipid as jealousy.
And when she tipped back her head, her throat glowing in the moonlight, and howled, goose bumps raced along his skin. For a stunned moment, he thought his first assumption had been correct, and this was how she began whatever it was witches did in the middle of the night. But then his startled, slow mind put two and two together, and he realized exactly what she was doing.
Anger, and a twinge of betrayal, twisted in his chest. Damnation. He’d actually been feeling guilty about removing her from his home. It had actually been niggling at the back of his mind that maybe he wasn’t being fair. That maybe he should think of a better way than just sending her off to a place where she wouldn’t be happy.
All of that guilt was swept away in a single instant. Theo stayed where he was…her path would lead her straight to him. She hadn’t seen him past the shadows. She drew a deep breath as she continued walking, and he braced himself for the moment of impact, almost wanting it.
She collided with him. He should have let her fall on her arse, but he found himself steadying her, instead.
“Lord Arden!” she said, trying to play the innocent. “I didn’t expect anyone to be outside at this time of night.”
“Nor did I.”
“Did you hear the—”
“Annabel,” he said, almost savagely. “Don’t play me for a fool.”
Her mouth snapped close.
“I almost pitied you,” he said. “If you hadn’t tried such an idiotic thing, if you hadn’t tried to make me look like an idiot in the process, I might have considered letting you stay.”
Her face paled and her eyes widened. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not the liar here.”
Her chest rose and fell rapidly. “I wasn’t trying to make you look like an idiot,” she said.
“Oh?” he asked dangerously. “Forgive me if I don’t believe a word you say.”
“You have to understand—” Her voice faltered. “I’ve lived at the whim of other people my entire life…until I arrived here. I love this castle, more than you ever will. More than you ever could.”
It hurt him, somewhere deep, that she would say such a thing about him. But she wasn’t wrong. She did love this castle, while he looked at it, not as a thing to be loved, but a necessity for his sanity.
He didn’t know if one was nobler, love or need. He only knew he wasn’t going to give it up.
“It’s not right that you can simply come along and do whatever you please because of a title you don’t even seem to want. It’s not—”
“Fair?” he said, voice deathly quiet.
Was it fair that he’d lost his leg? That he’d lost his soul? That he was alive and better men were dead? Was it fair that he couldn’t even find peace at night because he could barely sleep more than a few hours?
“Children think that life is fair, Annabel. Surely you know better by now.”
She flinched at the vitriol in his voice. She had no way of knowing that most of it
was directed at himself.
“I know better than most.”
Yes, she did. She would. An orphan who’d been unwanted, and neglected, and used. An innocent girl who deserved love as much as anyone else deserved it, and who never found it, never received it, while other children had all the love in the world. She knew that fate didn’t give a damn about what was fair. But sympathy for her didn’t change his mind.
It couldn’t.
“What am I going to do with you?” he asked.
The question unintentionally came out husky, and his mind put it in an entirely different context. One of bare skin and hot breath and pleasure found and pleasure taken—and why in God’s name was he standing so close to her? He should hate her for her treachery. He should be leaving yards of space between them. Miles of space. Maybe she was a witch—something other than the laws of nature had to explain why he couldn’t work up one ounce of strength and draw back from her.
“Although I suppose I should thank you,” he added quickly. “You did inadvertently reveal how untrustworthy my factor is.”
“Don’t blame Mr. Cameron,” she said. “He didn’t want to go along with it, but I pleaded with him. He is trustworthy. You won’t regret keeping him in your employ.”
He stared hard at her, some damned, weak part of himself responding to her dismay, wanting, blasphemy of all blasphemies, to ease it. Even if he wanted to hate her, even if a part of him did, a part of him could also understand why she’d done what she’d done.
But he wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice. “I won’t dismiss him outright. But I shall make that judgment myself.”
A relieved breath gusted out from between her lips. He was close enough to feel the warm air against his own mouth. Close enough to smell a faint trace of cloves. Her face was only a dim outline in the night, skin pale from the moon, but features shadowed. She looked like she might be a phantom, some strange, wild, maddening creature from the depths of his imagination.
If things were different, he might have…
Well, there was no use in thinking about how things could be different. There was only what was.
“Your aunt? Is she truly ill?” If she’d been willing to enlist Ian Cameron’s help to deceive him, he didn’t doubt she might also enlist her aunt. But he hoped it wasn’t the case. Hoped he hadn’t been made a fool since nearly the very moment he’d arrived.
Annabel fidgeted. “She is…perhaps…not as frail as she may appear.”
His head fell forward, so close that a wisp of her hair touched his brow. “Damn you,” he breathed. “I can’t believe you manipulated me so easily.”
“That wasn’t my intent,” she said. He froze when she lifted her hand, pressed her cool palm to his cheek in an almost tender caress. Everything inside him stilled. She should be pushing him away. Why wasn’t she pushing him away? Instead, they were very nearly embracing. Very nearly in each other’s arms. Maybe the moonlight had caught them both in some dangerous spell. “It was never about you.”
That didn’t make him feel better, at all. And still, knowing he was no different to her than any other aristocrat seeking to claim what was his, he still wanted to close the distance between their lips. He still wanted to see what that petal pink mouth tasted like. He still wanted to let his face fall into the crook between her neck and her shoulder and rest there, and breathe, and listen to the silence.
That vulnerability had him stepping back, away from the danger.
“What are you going to do?” she whispered, her hand falling.
“My plans haven’t changed,” he said. “I’m going to wait to hear back from my solicitor about housing for you. In a matter of weeks, you’ll be gone.” He ignored her small flinch of pain. “And until then, my dear, I’m not letting you out of my sight.”
Chapter Ten
Lord Arden made good on his threat. When she woke up, he was already awake. He grunted a greeting between bites of oatcake, seemingly nonchalant, but when she turned, she felt his eyes burning into her back. She tried to forget the way his face had felt against her palm, warm, ever-so-slightly stubbled; he must not shave every day without the services of a valet—but it was a pleasant roughness. She didn’t know what had possessed her to touch him in that moment; she just…she’d hurt him. As much as he tried to deny vulnerabilities, she could tell she’d hurt him.
It had never been her intent. She shouldn’t even care if she’d caused him pain—she wanted him gone, didn’t she? Would he care, if the positions were reversed?
She didn’t know.
When she went out for a short morning stroll, he followed. Not close, but close enough to see what she was doing.
Annoyed, she called out, “Your siblings will think you’re besotted!”
And he called back, “I highly doubt it,” which smarted, even though she tried not to let it.
She brushed past him on the way inside. She was going to brush right by him, but she stopped suddenly and turned. “You can’t possibly keep this up for more than a day or two.”
“I can try,” he said, looking down his nose at her.
“You must be the most pig-headed, arrogant—”
“If you don’t like it, you can go.”
“With little money, no carriage, and no accommodations?”
“You can take our cart,” he said. “I could give you some blunt for the journey. You might not be able to find anything very decent on such short notice, but I’m sure you’ll put your ever resourceful mind to the task and come up with something.”
“Your generosity astounds me,” she drawled.
“I never claimed to be generous. I don’t really care where you live, just so long as you’re gone.”
With a noise of disgust, she swept past him.
The rest of the day, she did her best to show him she was unaffected by his hostility. She flirted with Robert, she laughed with his sisters, she chatted with her aunt, and all the while, she was aware of Lord Arden in the background, even though she didn’t want to be aware of him. He was like a specter, watching her, disapproving of her, mistrusting her. Not that she wanted his trust. She didn’t really care if he trusted her or not.
She hoped she would have some freedom at night. At some point she would need to speak to her sister and not fear the earl would be stalking about, waiting for her to slip up.
After an hour of futilely trying to sleep, she wrapped a dressing robe around herself and went down to the library, guided by the light of a single candle in a candleholder.
She selected a book and was about to go back upstairs to read, when she noticed a faint light spilling from the drawing room. She crept forward and glanced into the room.
Lord Arden was there, which shouldn’t have surprised her. He had set a candle on the pier table and appeared to be perusing the objects she’d placed there. He was still dressed in his evening clothes, but his waistcoat was open and his cravat was undone. It was as though he’d begun to undress and then decided not to bother.
She sighed, and he looked up at her, his face half in shadow and half in light, and stiffened. But he didn’t look entirely surprised to see her.
“Good evening,” she said, as if it were completely normal for them to meet in the middle of the night, by the light of lone candles. “I feel like Mary, Queen of Scots under house arrest. Your plaguing of me won’t cease even this late, I see?”
“I was already awake,” he said gruffly.
“Better to catch me at something?” she prodded.
When he didn’t respond, she looked at him, really looked at him, and saw that his face was pale and clammy, his eyes bruised. Something in her eased, softened, reluctantly.
“Theo?” she said tentatively, his name slipping from her tongue with a naturalness that startled her. She stepped closer to him. “Were you having trouble sleeping?”
That seemed to snap him from his reverie. He looked almost embarrassed.
“Memories?”
His frame stiffene
d, and for a moment, they simply stared at each other. It felt like they were the only two people alive in these small rings of light, the night pitch-black and inclusive around them. A strange feeling—that the rest of the world was gone, lost to the darkness forever—swept through her. But even in the dark, she could see the hollow at his throat, a vulnerable spot that was usually covered by cloth and decorum, a soft spot where a faint pulse trembled. It felt like they were on the edge of intimacy, too close to the abyss.
Annabel wanted to turn her head, but something in her willed her not to look away.
“What business of yours are my memories?” he asked.
“None at all. But it might help if you talked about them.”
“No,” he said with a swift jerk of his head. “No, I don’t think it would help.”
He sounded so certain, she didn’t know quite what to say. “Do you like horses?” she asked, after a pause.
He stared at her, bewildered. “What?”
She’d met an injured soldier once who’d said he’d adopted a pet dog after he’d returned home and that the animal’s presence had done wonders for his nerves. Annabel didn’t have any dogs—and she wasn’t certain if Willoughby, the cat, was affectionate enough to do much good—but there were plenty of horses around.
“Do you ride?”
“I, no… I don’t,” he said.
“Can you not ride with the fake limb?” she asked, frowning down at his knee. A servant could help him mount and dismount, but perhaps riding would present a difficulty as well? She was so deep in her thoughts that she didn’t register his utter silence until she glanced up at his face. Which was stark and furious. She swallowed.
“I hope I was an entertaining topic of conversation,” he said, his voice dark and quiet.
She breathed through her nose. “I asked your brother about your injuries and he told me. That was all. We were not laughing at your expense, and we certainly meant no insult.”
He didn’t answer, and she sighed, feeling like she’d run into a brick wall.
“Why didn’t you know the old earl?” she asked, wondering if he’d walled off every part of himself, or just the part associated with the war.