Nick turned the book over, undeterred. He tilted a page into a spread of moonlight to see the words. “This book validates the same belief in other cultures. Perhaps your brother became one with the butterflies when he passed, perhaps his faith wasn’t so foolish after all.” He tucked the almanac away again. “Your cook mentioned something about an urn being kept upstairs in the turret. Jasper was cremated, correct?”
Felicity swallowed the urge to tell Nick how preposterous his ramblings were. “What you’re suggesting … is impossible.”
Nick took his cane and twined a vine around its base, rattling the leaves—an eerie distraction. “Implausible, perhaps. But never impossible.”
“But Jasper wasn’t…”
Nick let the vine slide back into place, intent on her. “Wasn’t what?”
Felicity wound her gloves in knots. “Wasn’t the sort of man who would’ve haunted his own children. He would never have terrorized Aislinn, or caused her to fall from a tree. He loved the girls more than anything in this world. Too much, perhaps.”
After a thoughtful pause, Nick crossed his ankles. “Could it be he didn’t intend to startle her? He could’ve meant to warn her. He might have feared she would fall and wanted her to get down.”
“Nonsense. This is Landrigan’s handiwork. I know it is.”
“Well, then he has mastered the art of transcendence. For he’s somehow sweeping into the castle at night without even using the door.”
Felicity’s pulse took a tumble. “What are you going on about?”
“Lia informed me that she’s been having moonlit tea parties with the Raven in her bedchamber.”
Felicity nibbled the leathery tip of her glove, tasting soil and dust as she fought a wave of panic. “Lia is a storyteller. She must be pretending.”
“Hmm.” Nick propped his left elbow on his knee, leveling his face with Felicity. “I guess we shall see tonight. I’ve decided to sleep in her chamber, despite the tiny bed. And I promise you this: If Donal makes a midnight call to that little angel’s room, I’ll kill him myself. With my bare hands.”
Felicity fought the burn beginning behind her eyelids. This was all she needed. Another damnable mystery in a castle already rife with them. “If you experience anything inexplicable, you must go to Clooney and tell him immediately.”
The silhouette of Nick’s head tilted. “Not sure I’ll be able to make the two flights of stairs fast enough. I assumed I would come down the corridor and get you.”
“You can’t.” She touched the fading wrinkles at her eyes. “I-I have trouble relaxing … I often take sleeping drafts.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. “I’m difficult to awaken. Perhaps one of the stable hands could sit in a chair in the hall; then you can send him sprinting up the stairs for Clooney, should the fiend make an appearance. I believe Tobias would be choice. He has the longest stride of the boys.”
“Miss Felicity.” Nick’s voice sharpened to a scolding pitch.
Shaken out of her musings, Felicity glanced up. “Yes?”
“Do you think it prudent to invite Tobias out of the male servant’s lodge and into the castle to spend the night, knowing what’s happening between him and your niece?”
“Lia? I know she’s harsh with him … but he takes it good-naturedly.”
“Aislinn. Tobias is infatuated with her. And I would venture the feelings are reciprocated.”
“That’s ludicrous. Those children are not of the age—”
“Tobias looks close to fifteen. I was already visiting brothels by then.”
Thank goodness for that. Felicity clenched her teeth against the thought, willing Nick to get on another subject. He was dancing too close to their shared past.
“And Aislinn is a young lady,” he continued. “Not a child. There’s a romance blossoming under your nose, and you can’t see it for your preoccupation with Donal and your caterpillars.”
Felicity shoved to standing, moving with such force she nearly toppled Nick from his perch. Her fingers tugged at the scarf around her neck. “You’re judging me? You who know nothing about my life or family … or how hard it’s been to manage this estate without a husband. Or how difficult it was to play mother to two girls heartbroken over their father’s tragic choice.”
“Choice? He died of a stroke. Where’s the choice in that?”
Felicity touched the brooch at her neck. “Enough pontificating about my brother.” Vying for a distraction, she kicked the cane out of Nick’s hand. It clacked onto the floor then slid out of his reach beneath the vines. A flutter of butterflies burst upward with the disturbance, settling again in a matter of seconds. “And dare not presume to tell me how to raise my nieces when you are nothing more than a thief and a liar.” Clooney’s ugly hypothesis began to glide like a shadow over her rattled psyche. “I know the truth about you, Lord Thornton. You are here to ruin my life.”
Chapter Ten
Nick stood with surprising grace and balance for one who’d lost his cane. “What the deuce do you mean, ruin your life?”
Felicity stiffened her spine. “You were sent to spy on me.”
“Are you mad? I was with you when the ‘ghost’ showed up last. And you’re still linking me to that Irishman. What do I have to do to prove my innocence in this matter, fall from a tree myself?” He was so close his warm breath veiled her face with the scent of berries from their dessert earlier.
Ignoring the strange hunger this awoke, Felicity continued on her tirade. “That article you mentioned … the one my brother wrote. You said it drew you here. I remember it now. It was about his skill with raising rare butterflies, published by a newspaper in London five years ago in an effort to garner my business some publicity. And it worked, in spades. Your father and brother bought that newspaper recently. I’m surprised they could afford such an investment, after your careless dalliance with some woman nigh caused your family’s manor to fold.”
Nick leaned in, face dark and unreadable. “How do you know any of this? Did Emilia tell you?”
“As I said, she and I are no longer corresponding. Once we finished the book, she became too familiar … asking personal questions I wasn’t willing to answer. All you need know is I have my own resources, and I know enough to surmise why you’re here. This is all a plot to infiltrate my estate … your father put you up to this, to earn back his good graces by bringing him something that can give his recent investment an edge over the others. A news-worthy story. The truth about the reclusive dowager and her haunted castle of horrors. That’s why you brought your blasted book. To either disprove all the theories of specters and spirits and expose my lies, or to prove me insane.” Her vocal chords squeezed tight against a sob. “How could you put my family on display like this? You’ll break down all the defenses it’s taken me years to build, in one sweep of your bloody pen. You may not be working for Landrigan. But you are for your father. You’re under his thumb.”
Employing a lightning-fast reflex, Nick caught the ties hanging around her neck before she could step away. The scarf scraped her nape—a sensual shackle of lace and thread.
Trying to put some distance between them, Felicity pressed her shoulder blades to the wall, nearly tripping over the bucket. “Master Nicolas!” She caught his wrists where they dangled at her chest. “Release me at once.”
“It is Nick.” There was a wounded rasp in his voice, as though her words had been a slap. “Simply Nick.” He nudged the bucket from between them with his wounded leg. Holding her taut by the scarf—completely unaffected by her efforts to force his release—he bent down until their nose-tips touched. “And I am under no man’s thumb.”
A molten awareness pooled within Felicity’s breasts at the proximity of his hands. She could fight him. She had the advantage of an able body. With his gimp leg, if she were to push hard enough, he would topple like a castle of cards. But she was taken aback by how convincing his touch could be, how persuasive his pain when it fell from lips so close to hers.
Clawing within herself … grappling for her waning resolve, she flattened her nape against the cool glass, putting space between them. “So, are you angry at me for overturning the truth? Or your bastard father for forcing you to win back his love?”
“Your assumptions are dead wrong, Your Ladyship.” Nick’s deep voice rolled through her like a rumble of thunder. “And do not disrespect my father. He rescued me from laudanum. In spite of how I’d shamed him, he helped me break free. He has no idea I’m here, that I snuck into your greenhouse like a fool … seeking forgiveness from my dead bride through some preternatural butterflies. And he’s been a loyal patron to you, even during his near loss of the family business. He deserves your respect for that, if nothing more.”
Nick released her scarf and his features appeared strained in the dimness, as if just realizing the confession he’d sandwiched between the noble defense of his father. Felicity watched him, awed. This was why he carried the almanac. Why he was drawn to the butterflies.
Clooney had been terribly mistaken. Nick was here because he somehow thought he could make peace with his own ghosts. Make amends for some past mistake, whatever it was. But what a sad, hopeless way to go about it.
She wanted to help him, to comfort him … but did she dare?
As if reading her thoughts, he murmured. “I would ne’er put you in the public eye, nor hurt you or your girls.” He lifted her gloved fingers to his chest.
She fell into the scent of his skin—leather and rain. Her staccato breaths hit his face and rebounded into hers in a smothering rush of moist heat as he drew her closer. She didn’t refuse him, but she did turn her head.
“Trust me,” he whispered in the ear closest to his mouth.
“Trust you? I-I don’t even know you,” Felicity said, trying to distance herself from her body’s melting betrayal.
“All you need to know is that I understand wanting to hide away from the world better than anyone could.” His lips skimmed her earlobe—the gentlest of touches.
She gasped at the soft contact. All these years she’d longed to thank him … to touch him. To tell him how he’d changed her life. How he’d given her the means to escape a hopeless life and find her own haven. She could never say the words … never admit it aloud. But she could give him this moment, a silent offering of gratitude. Against her better judgment, she turned into him and tilted her face, pressing their mouths together. She broke their clasped hands and reached for him, fingers brushing across his shoulders to sculpt the ripples of muscle hidden beneath his clothes.
His lips parted on a stunned breath, and she drank of berries and maleness and heat. His beard tickled her skin—leaving delicate traces of sensation like a caterpillar’s silken stream upon a leaf. Her hands wove through his hair and she wished her gloves were off so she might feel the strands there, too. Insistent yet gentle, Nick trapped her chin to shape her mouth to his, coaxed her tongue to touch his. He moaned.
She felt his potency building—the tense coils of his fingers around her jaw, the tautening of muscles in his nape and shoulders as he held himself in check. His fingers skimmed down her neck.
“You’re silk,” he mumbled, a sentiment filled with wonder. His hand trailed further, loosening the scarf at her collarbone. The warmth of his touch permeated the fabric and seeped into her scar like a living salve.
She arched into him with a whimper and he smiled—a scintillating curl of lips flush with her mouth. Sweeping more whisker-rough kisses across her jaw, he allowed his palm to traverse her clavicle. His fingers skimmed the bodice’s neckline—only inches away from the tip of her scar hidden underneath—her hideous deformity.
Felicity snapped into action. “Nick … stop!” She pushed him backwards.
He tried to salvage his stance but his leg gave out, sending him sprawling into the passion vines below.
“You pushed too far,” she scolded from above.
“You’re the one who pushed.” Entangled in ivy and flat on his back, Nick winced from the ache in his jostled bones and the agonizing reminder of torn muscles and screaming nerves from wounds not yet healed.
She straightened her clothes and fondled her scarf. “Are you hurt?”
“No more than I already was.” His pride especially. Her accusations of him being under someone’s thumb had cut too close to home; it had sliced so deeply, he’d nearly lost his mind. By God, the woman riled him into confessing everything about Mina and his reason for being here. She now knew he was an addict and a superstitious fool.
He couldn’t believe all he’d said in that bumbling mind spill, not to mention the clumsy way he went about it. But for her to kiss him afterward … where had that reaction come from? A place of pity? If so, it had been short-lived, because the moment turned into something completely unexpected. Something intimate and binding. She had to have felt it, too.
He focused on her, sure that he saw stars floating over her head. After a few hard blinks, they came into focus as a dozen butterflies fluttering around her with moonlight gilding the edges of their wings, filmy and transparent.
Lord, they were beautiful. Their color spots—red, lavender, and gold—stood out like embedded jewels on the glasslike splay of their wings. Only one word could describe these creatures: celestial. Surely there must be something to the folklore. Felicity had as much as admitted that Jasper believed it. Now all Nick had to do was convince her to let him read the late professor’s journals.
Peeling away curly stems and leaves from his clothes, Nick concentrated on nothing but Felicity’s face. She hadn’t yet noticed that she stood in an errant strand of light. She’d made an effort to stay hidden earlier. Now that he could truly see her, the moon’s glow seemed to soften her wrinkles, coloring her even lovelier than before.
Felicity offered a gloved palm to help him stand. He considered pulling her down on top of him for a closer look but waved her off instead.
“Allow me some dignity.” He found his cane, and his entire body ached with the effort to stand, yet it was nothing to the taste of Felicity still heavy on his mouth.
He wanted more. He wanted her naked and wanton beneath him, begging him to satisfy her. He’d bet his sorry life this woman hadn’t been pleasured by a man in years. He recognized the ravenous tremors of her flesh beneath his mouth and fingertips … the way she arched into him, clung to him as if her very breath depended on the completion of that one act.
There was an emptiness deep within her that made him feel necessary. It had been so long since he’d felt needed by anyone other than Johnny.
“I did not intend for you to fall,” she said, disrupting his inner musings.
He stood and fought the urge to snarl. She’d retreated into the shadows again. “Least you finally got my name right.”
“About what happened…” She stepped around him to lean over the vines, searching each leaf with her back turned.
“You mean the kiss you initiated?” At his mere mention of it, she nearly toppled over into the ivy herself.
She regained composure and shook her head. “It gets lonely here; and I’ve been so anxious of late. You were kind and listened. I-I felt gratitude, and let my defenses down, you must understand. It will not happen again. Nor will we speak another word of it.”
Nick bit back a growl. He had a mind to oblige her; to wrap her in his arms and show her how delightful an evening without words—with only touches and sighs—could be. A jab shot through his ribs, reminding him if he tried anything else, he’d be risking paralysis. Damn his uncooperative body.
She wound across the enclosure, following the labyrinth of vines.
“What are you doing?” he asked, lagging behind her with his cane leading.
“The Heliconius are most active this time of night. If all goes well, they’re going to mate. Unless you’ve ruined it with your buffoonery.”
“My buffoonery. You were the one so afraid to give in to a moment of abandon that you shoved a wounded man into a nettle of thorns a
nd briars.”
Felicity glared at him over her shoulder, and he saw her again—exposed and unkempt in a spill of moonlight. Long, silvery strands of hair had fallen from her bun and framed a face where there was barely a wrinkle in sight. Was it that unfinished kiss wreaking havoc with his imagination? His desire painting her in a softer bias?
“There are no thorns in passion vines,” she hissed.
“But there are thorns aplenty in passion. And you fear getting pierced by them.”
She paled in the hazy glow. “I need to study my butterflies’ breeding cycle. It is private. So please leave.”
“These butterflies are the very reason I’m here. You’ll have to physically drag me out. Think you have the muscle to do it?”
Felicity held silent, a defeated scowl upon her face.
A sporadic rush of movement along the vines claimed their attention. Along a slim, twisting tendril of green, two butterflies climbed atop one another, slapping wings in a heady rhythm.
“They’re mating?” Nick asked, intrigued by the spectacle.
“They are fighting,” she answered.
Nick grinned as she eased down on her knees for a closer view.
“Their courting rituals aren’t so different from those of humans, then,” he teased. He imagined Felicity’s eyes rolling—a mannerism he’d seen tied to that petulant flick of her head.
“They are both males.” Her voice strained to a whisper. “They’re fighting over her.” Careful not to disrupt the event, Felicity pointed to a cocoon hanging by a silken thread on a leaf. The casing was almost as transparent as their wings. “She has released her pheromones to attract them.”
“But she’s not yet hatched.”
Felicity glanced up at him again, her pretty mouth smirking. “Hatched? She’s not in an egg. That is her pupa.”
Nick knelt to one knee so they were almost eye level, using the stick-horse for balance. He grinned back. “Right. Where she morphs into her adult form. And she’s not there yet, or she would’ve already broken free. Their timing seems a bit off.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 10