“Raaaa,” he growled, his head falling back. She continued her exploration, tasting the salt of his body, smelling the musk of him, growing closer to the stream of hair leading her down. He pulled her night shift over her head and threw it on the fallen log. His hands slid up her sides and cupped her breasts as his mouth lowered to a nipple. Stubble rasped against her skin while the slick wet of his tongue teased the tender nub. She buried her face in his hair—the silk of it on her cheek, the heat of him under the silk, the Beltane fires leaping in her soul. Their mouths met, opened, tongues laved the essence of one to the other, creating a mixture more intoxicating than the wine of Bacchus.
Together, they fell to the forest floor; she lifted her knees, opened her thighs and invited him to slip between them.
Suddenly, there was a crash in the woods—the crack and rattle of breaking branches, of undergrowth bending, of leaves disturbed.
“Oh God, what have I done?” Claire sat up. Cold fear rushed like floodwater. What if someone saw? What had she been thinking?
“Who’s there?” cried Flavian. He held her tight in his arms, protecting her naked body from prying eyes. The noise ceased. They waited, eyes straining into the dark.
“We should go,” said Claire. She covered herself with his shirt and got up. Whatever had approached through the woods, it turned tail now. A limb snapped, leaves rustled, until the noise ceased in the distance.
“A deer, probably,” he said.
Claire brushed pebbles, twigs, and grasses off her back, her bottom. She’d felt nothing but him when they lay together. The thought made her ashamed. She reached for her night shift.
“Wait.” Flavian stayed her hand. He dusted off her back, and plucked a leaf from her hair. “You’re covered in dirt. Your lady’s’ maid will notice.”
“We need to go,” she said. If he asked her to stay, she would. But she shouldn’t. Cold rode up her spine and she shivered.
His hand lingered in her hair. “Magnificent Claire,” he sighed. The night stilled and she waited for his signal, their breathing the only sound. He let the strand of hair drop, turned, picked up her night shift and robe, and gave them to her at last.
Why was she so disappointed? She pulled the thin cotton over her head. Yet, how much more upset would she be if he’d proved a rogue and took her right there in the dirt and leaves? Disgusted with herself, she hauled the undressing gown over her shoulders then placed two hands on his still naked chest. “Thank you for stopping,” she said.
“I’m not certain I’ll have the strength next time.”
A flutter of joy raced through her. Pulling the gown close, she smiled privately. Aware of it or not, he’d just said, next time.
His Lordship's Darkest Secret: Chapter Eight
Claire woke to the sound of Arabella singing. It was a happy song, and each lovely note rang with joy. Past the curtains, thin shafts of light sneaked across the horizon. It was early, barely dawn, yet the girl’s voice beckoned to Claire to rise and kiss this magical day.
Stretching every limb, she reveled in the newfound sensuousness of her body. Blood pulsed more quickly in her veins as images of Flavian’s naked body flickered through her mind. She threw back the bedclothes and went to the window, letting the early sunshine flood the room. In the distance, the bridge appeared almost human with its soft, curvaceous form. She ran her hand over her hip bone and smiled. At the sight of the holly beyond the bridge, her cheeks grew hot. In that hidden glen, she’d nearly lost her maidenhood. Why did the idea thrill her? When she caught herself making plans to visit the glen that day, she forced her eyes away. “You are a Pagan of the first order,” she told herself, trying to sound cross.
Though she understood the rules of society, she knew as her eyes wandered back to the holly that she would never again think less of women who found themselves with child before the banns were called. Rather, she would pity smug virgins who never felt the sharp sword of lust.
A knock at the door jolted her thoughts. “Who’s there?”
A trill of musical notes answered her question. “Ah Miss Arabella, good morning.” Claire unlocked the door, and the girl swept into the room, still in her dressing gown.
“Come away,” Arabella sang, indicating the door, “Come away.”
“To where, little bird?” But rather than answer, Arabella took her hand and sang the series of high Fs from the Queen of the Night’s aria in The Magic Flute. Though the German meant, “The vengeance of Hell boils in my heart,” the girl’s voice made the notes float like kind spirits.
“But I’m not dressed,” Claire said.
The girl kept singing, spreading the thin linen of her dressing gown like a pair of wings. For a moment, Claire wondered if she had seen her tripping across the lawn last night, but no malice marred Arabella’s expression. Seeing Claire hesitate, the girl playfully tugged her out the door.
Dazed as any sleepwalker, Claire followed Arabella and her intoxicating music down the hall, watching her cavort in her white gown like froth on a wave.
At the door to the tower, the girl stepped aside, and still singing, motioned Claire up the stairs.
“No songbird, I’m not comfortable going up there.”
“Why you no come up? Is surprise. Is beautiful.”
“I’m afraid I’m not fond of rats.”
She giggled. “Is no rats. Vav, he put the poison.” She took Claire’s hand and tried to draw her into the stairwell, but Claire held back. “Why didn’t he tell me, then? That seems curious.”
“Is surprise! Come up and see.”
But Claire extracted her hand. “I think not. Not yet…”
Shrugging her shoulders Arabella fixed a dazzling smile on her. “He like you, this I know.”
Claire said nothing, but couldn’t help a little inward smile.
“Oh, you like him too!” Arabella pointed and giggled happily. “You come up and see surprise. He be so happy.” Turning, she floated up the stairs, not bothering to see if Claire was following.
Left to her own devices, Claire stood frozen with indecision. Truly, had Flavian rid the tower of rats? Was he trying to make his home more comfortable for her, and if so, would he be crestfallen that she failed to acknowledge his efforts? She took the first step. The second. The third. By the fifth, the smell of rat feces hit her nostrils and panic hit, but Arabella was singing again, as sweetly as any turtledove. The melody bounced off the walls of the winding stairs, layering sound upon sound until its mesmerizing noise drowned Claire’s fear. She moved forward, up and up until she came to the dingy hall, its walls even more crowded with detritus than she remembered. If poison had been laid, she saw no signs of it, nor of telltale carcasses. But with Arabella singing, it was impossible to know if the rodents pattered and scratched in the piles.
The girl raised her arms high, and finished the Queen of the Night aria: Hört, Rachegötter, Hört der Mutter Schwur!”
“Brava, brava,” Claire clapped. “But, ‘Hear, Gods of Revenge, Hear a mother's oath!’”
A startled look widened Arabella’s eyes. “You speak German?”
“I don’t, but I know the aria.”
“Is fun to sing, is all. Those glorious high notes!”
“And you warble it more beautifully than the finest prima donna.”
“Gracias, gracias. You say these thing and my heart leap here,” Arabella said, tapping her chest. “Come now—I have wonderful thing I show.”
Taking her hand, Arabella drew her through the cave-like entrance to the bedroom. Light leaked in weak rays through the yellowed windows. Though every fiber in Claire’s body vibrated at full alert for any signs of rodent activity, the light was a relief after the closeness of the hall.
Arabella skipped to a mound of frayed clothing, “Look,” the girl said. Eyes bright with excitement, she held up a tattered gown. The dress was made of robin’s egg blue silk and had clearly once been fine. The stitching showed a talented seamstress, but the garment was stained beyond r
epair. Parts of the waist had separated from the bodice, and the lace at the sleeves hung like filthy cobwebs. “Is beautiful, si?”
Claire didn’t know how to respond. “Where did you find it?”
“The luckiest—I come by the Othello. Strollers be in town to perform. They leaving, and the actress, she throw this dress in dirt. She tell manager, ‘buy me new gown or I no go on.’ What a fight! Then I say, ‘May I take gown?’ That actress, she curtsey to me and be ashamed. The theatre manager call me, ‘my lady,’ and just like that, give me dress.”
She held the shabby frock in front of her and rocked to and fro, as if dancing. “With this, I go with you to London and make a debut, sí?”
If she’d been hit in the face, Claire could not have been more shocked. “Don’t you want a new gown?”
“Maybe Vav don’t buy. He say ‘can’t afford.’ Besides, now I no order fabric, wait for silly seamstress to come, stand for measure, and fitting, and nonsense. I ready when coach stops at front door.” She fixed a brilliant smile on Claire.
Stalling for time, Claire took the frock to the window. Hopelessly faded and lined with grease at the collar and sleeves, the dress could scarcely contribute a square to a quilt, much less be worn in public. Lips dry, she said, “It’s a bit worn.”
“Apple Bess know secret ways of cleaning. She make perfect.”
Claire shook the dress out, noticing a view of the fly-specked window through a hole in the bodice.
Arabella stepped close. “You see, stitch, stitch. I be princess of London.”
Rolling the dress into a ball, Claire blurted, “I just can’t.” Then she dropped it on the floor and pushed into the tunnel leading to the hall. Upset and urgently wishing to leave, she stumbled the wrong way, heading further into the murky depths. She didn’t realize her mistake until she nearly collided with a pile of what appeared to be bracken. What strange logic had Arabella used to collect that for her dead brother? she wondered.
When a branch caught on the arm of her dressing gown, she realized it was holly. Picked days before, its prickly leaves had dried, and curiously, there was something else she noticed. “No berries,” she said out loud.
“What you found?” called Arabella with a touch of hostility.
Confused, Claire turned. “But holly berries are poisonous.”
* * *
Even in the tower’s gloom Arabella’s eyes cast a strange, dangerous light. Unnerved, Claire stepped back, only to feel pricks of holly pierce her thin robe. Moving forward, however, the branches stuck, causing a mass of the bramble to topple. A thick bed of the stuff filling the narrow hall behind her. “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “I’ll help you pile it back up.”
“Holly berries poisonous?” said Arabella, her dark eyes wide with wonder.
“It takes a great quantity of berries, but . . .” There was something too innocent in the girl’s features, “they can cause vomiting and diarrhea.”
Arabella smoothed a black tress at her shoulder. “How funny.”
“Not to those sickened by it.”
The girl’s eyes flicked away, and the note of hostility thickened. “So you think that what make house sick?”
Afraid of her reaction if directly accused, Claire hedged. “Holly berries are one of many possibilities.”
Arabella laughed, “Then it be something else. Clever Lady Claire, you go find who did this.” The girl turned, and giggling wildly, danced down the hall, kicking her legs high in front and behind. The reaction was so bizarre Claire followed at a safe distance, afraid to get too close, yet terrified of remaining in the tower alone.
Pivoting in her dance, Arabella sang, “La, te, da, dat, ta,” and with a swift kick, slammed the edge of a wheel of broken spokes jutting like teeth into the narrow path. Under the wheel was a pile of newspapers, above it a few feet of tree branches, and stacked on top was a huge wooden barrel. The kick set the heap in motion, a branch hit the floor, and the barrel teetered in its nest of sticks. Claire held her breath as it shifted slightly right, then left. In an explosion of movement, the pile of branches collapsed sending the barrel crashing down. “No!” Claire shrieked, leaping backward. Another step and her slippers tangled in the holly, thorns tearing at her ankles tripping her further as it caught on her robe. She scrambled back, just as the barrel struck the floor with a report like gunfire, and a shower of vile liquid splashed into her face. The stench of wine gone to vinegar filled the air as the cask spilled its reeking contents in the aisle.
“Oh no,” cried Arabella, “Esto es terrible!”
Heart pounding, Claire fought her way out of the holly to stand, swaying with shock. Far down the hall, Arabella raced for the stairs. “Where?—help me!” Claire screamed, but the mad thing didn’t miss a stride; she disappeared down the stair well, echoes of her running feet growing fainter until the door below slammed shut.
* * *
Eyes stinging from vinegar, anger, and fear, Claire wondered if Arabella would frolic and sing until Flavian noticed his guest hadn’t come downstairs for breakfast. Coughing in the rancid air, she sought a path over the shattered barrel and matrix of scrap wood, when she heard rustling, then short shrieking bursts of sound. Rats… Dear God, rats! “Help!” she screamed. “Help me!”
Stiff with terror, she watched as the vermin squeezed between loose sheaves of paper, out of grain sacks, from holes in the detritus. They poured out by the hundreds, perhaps the thousands, and ran in circles squeaking, confused, desperate to escape the unbreathable vinegar-filled air. And the walls of the granary where she’d been trapped as a child rose, locking her in, cornering her, so her limbs lost feeling, and she screamed and screamed, and coughed as a million dots blackened her sight.
When she came to, she lay on holly soaking in a pool of vinegar. Crates of pamphlets had tumbled all around her, joining piles of broken furniture and shattered pottery. High on the wall were scratch marks. She must have climbed the piles of holly trying to escape, and only a miracle had kept her from being buried under wreckage.
Barely able to contain her horror, she stood and grabbed a fistful of holly branches. Then she beat the floorboards as she approached the teeming swarm of rats; their black eyes glittering with indecision—to attack or retreat. “Get out! Get!” she howled, sending a shower of pricking leaves at the defiant ones as the more timid dodged from her path, squealing, scratching, hopping into the stacks along the walls.
She ran now, past their naked, snaking tails as they leapt aside, so frantic to get away, so desperate for fresh air, she feared her mind would shatter. Down the winding staircase, she fled, holly still sticking to her skirts, rattling, skittering, so that she imagined the rats chased her, coming for their revenge, seeking their ultimate, living feast.
The door was closed, with only a strip of light leaking under it. What if Arabella had locked her in? Claire found the handle, a round metal loop, but terror made her fingers clumsy, so that they slipped and turned the wrong direction, and yanked before the catch was free. At last, it twisted fully, grinding the catch from its socket, and she pushed hard, hard, the shriek of hinges lost to her mind’s anarchy.
Sun, space, relief flooded as the door swung back, and all she could think was, Tell him!
Sobbing and shaking, Claire raced through the corridors of Bingham Hall, bent on waking Flavian and telling him, in detail, about Arabella’s misdeed, but the servants were stirring. They stared as she passed, not one of them offering to help, or asking how she came to be bleeding and filthy with wine vinegar. It wouldn’t be right to be seen in his room alone in her dressing gown, even in such a frenzied state—especially in such a frenzied state. And what would he say? Would he believe her? Would he tell her Arabella knocked the cask by accident?
At the juncture of two hallways, one to her room and the other to his, she halted, and a shuddering breath tore through her body. Tears flooded her cheeks, and she needed to blow her nose. On the verge of absolute hysteria, her knees nearly buckled. She l
eaned against the wall and fought back great wails of fear. And then she heard a voice call out, “Child, child, what has happened?” A slender pair of arms came about her, and pressing her close, Lady Monroe whispered, “It was Arabella, wasn’t it.”
* * *
Sitting at the breakfast table, Flavian wondered where Claire might be. He’d risen extra early to spend time alone with her since she tended to beat him downstairs. He suspected she remained in bed, perhaps dreaming of last night’s woodland encounter. His lips curled in a smile. God knows he’d lingered between the covers, letting images of her loose hair and satin skin tease his thoughts.
He didn’t look up from the paper when she entered the breakfast room, just lowered the pages so she’d see his grin. “Good morning, tired poppet.”
When she didn’t reply, he peeked above The Times then instantly jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” Clothed in a white morning dress, with wet hair tucked in a bandeau, it was her complexion that struck him first. Claire was white as a sheet, and her luminous eyes were wide and lost.
“I must speak to you at once,” she whispered, so the footmen wouldn’t hear.
At that moment, Mrs. Gower burst into the room and sneezed. “Lawks, that’s the first one of the morning, and here comes the second.” She faced into the sun. “Achoo!”
“Bless you,” Flavian said.
“I’ll have the kippers, and the eggs, and the ham to start,” the woman instructed Acker. “Ooo, Sally Lunn buns! Just put three on the plate.” She snuggled into her seat, and beamed happily. Seeing Claire, however, her brow creased. “There are days a little rouge does a world of good—nothing trollopy, mind you, but a touch. Go ask your abigail.”
But Claire remained as if she hadn’t heard, hands trembling.
Dear God, Flavian had never seen her in such a state, and it tore the heart from his chest. “Acker, fix a plate for Lady Claire and another for me and bring them in my study. She’ll have chocolate, and I’ll have my usual.”
Her Perfect Gentleman: A Regency Romance Anthology Page 85