Felicity studied his face. “It has nothing to do with timing. The attraction is so intense they cannot refrain or wait a moment longer once the process has begun.”
Her lower lip glistened in the moonlight. Nick thought upon the taste of her. How the flavor had smoldered between them … an ember that could’ve ignited a blaze hot enough to burn down the surrounding forest.
She might not want to talk about that bloody kiss, but talking was the last thing he wanted, too. He wanted to sample her lips again. And he wanted it right damn now.
She still held his gaze, so he leaned in. Her chin tilted up as if to surrender, but at the last minute the two butterflies broke free in a distracting rush of movement.
Nick cursed beneath his breath then watched one of the insects flutter to the other side of the room, defeated. The vanquisher took his place atop the cocoon. Nick assumed the male would wait for the female to emerge. Instead, the insect penetrated the exoskeleton of his mate’s cocoon with the tip of his abdomen.
“Impatient little crank, isn’t he?” Nick glanced over Felicity’s shoulder, catching a hint of her citrus-spiced scent. He debated if burying his nose in the hair bundled at the back of her neck would be worth the beating that would ensue.
“He knows that heaven’s waiting beneath that calloused exterior, and he’ll stop at nothing to get at it.” Felicity spoke with a far-away reverence, as if she’d fallen into a trance.
“Poor deluded fellow,” Nick mumbled.
Felicity didn’t seem to hear his sarcasm. She crept forward on hands and knees, watching as the female emerged from her pupa. Even as the fragile creature began to unfold and dry her wings, she remained linked to the male. Nick had never seen a more profound depiction of how all-consuming the need to merge with another soul could be.
His awareness of the countess heightened, even more than when he’d had her pinned to the wall. He admired the curve of her neck, the swan-like turn of her profile in the dimness as she watched, mesmerized by the phenomena.
She fascinated him. This delicate lady with the mind of a sage, the body of a seductress, and the soul of a nurturer, all wrapped within a shell as tough as granite.
“In the morn, she shall be flying.” Felicity’s voice still had that ethereal quality. “She’ll be flying … and inhabited with new life.” At the end of the statement, her vocal chords released a plaintive rasp—an audible ache.
“Are you all right, Miss Felicity?” Nick grasped her shoulder, but she raised to her feet, forcing his release.
“You asked earlier what I believe in? I am not blind to the creation around me. It begs rumination … such exquisite loveliness boasts an artist’s touch. I do believe in a higher power. I simply feel that at times, we humans are forgotten. Set aside for the brighter and more beautiful aspects of His handiwork.” She brushed off her skirts, still facing the butterflies as Nick stood up behind her.
The back of her hand lifted, wiping something from her cheek. “When I was a little girl, I spent every waking moment outside with my brother, searching for bugs and plants and flowers.” Her words drifted on a far-away tremor, as if she were lost to the memory. “Until one day, I saw a creature that appeared to be all three. Wings the shape of leaves, colors so vivid they rivaled any blossom, all springing up from the body of an insect. It was a butterfly … and I wanted to be one. Oh, how I prayed to be something of such exquisite design. When Jasper told me I would never burst from my cocoon, that my metamorphosis was already complete, I cried for hours on end to know I would never have wings. My mother gave me this brooch”—she touched the glittery pin at her neck— “to tender my heartache. But wearing it was never the same as seeing wings splay out from behind my shoulders. Never the same as being a butterfly myself.”
Nick felt the need to contribute, to keep her talking before she realized her barriers were down. “So, you were the superstitious one. Not your brother.”
She shrugged. “Funny, how life … and death … changes a person.”
Nick raked his cane’s tip along the ground, humbled by that truth and this glimpse into the sacred place where her little girl fancies still lived. She was beautiful and fragile in her soft reminiscing, all aglow with dreams and moonlight. It had been worth him spilling his heart to her, if this was the result of that moment of vulnerability. He squeezed the plush horse beneath his hand to stave a blinding rush of compassion, overcome by the communion between them. By the alikeness of their souls.
Composing himself, he spoke. “What if there were someone who could give you your wings, Miss Felicity? Would your faith be renewed?”
Her gown rustled as she turned to him in the darkness.
A moment of intense unspoken emotion passed between them as they held a stare.
“Not only would such a person have my faith. They would have my heart.”
Silence wreathed the moonlit chamber.
Nick made a move toward her but Felicity bounced to life. “Tis late. I should go inside. The girls are awaiting me.”
“May I walk you to the castle?”
Felicity fell back into the shadows. “I prefer to walk alone.” She stooped to scoot the pail and crate back into their perspective spots, her shell in place once more—aloof and blunt. “I suppose I’m correct in assuming you never meant to invest in my business? You must be cut off from your father’s funds after your falling out.”
Nick helped her with the crate, then glanced outside where mist and stars draped the turret. Her cold abruptness reminded him he was a temporary guest, only welcome if he could offer financial aid. The shame of his lie shocked him out of his emotional euphoria like a cold splash of water. “Have you no money left of your husband’s estate?”
“Most of it went to debts he’d accrued before he died. For the past three years we’ve been living off of my butterflies and livestock. But no matter. It isn’t your—”
“It is my concern,” he growled, interrupting her. “We can make a trade. If you let me read Jasper’s journals, I’ll repay you. I can get funding. Just give me a little time.”
Felicity grew quiet as she hung the pruning shears on a standing hook next to the wall. “And how would you win this grand purse? By stealing it, like you no doubt did that book you’re so fond of?”
Nick’s skin heated at her blasted perceptiveness. That’s exactly what he planned to do. He would need some means to fund his trip out of Carnlough anyway, once he healed enough to leave the castle. He would need something to tide him over until he found a new location. “I steal mostly from the rich. Those who won’t miss a pearl here or a ruby there. Or sometimes, I take things no one will miss at all. Junkets.”
“Like an arthritic, knotted up bog pony? What appears to be junk to you, Master Nicolas, might be their heart’s dearest treasure. Sentimental value. One cannot put a price to that.” Her gaze fell on his earring in the same instant she touched her brooch.
He felt as if he shrank three sizes. “A man has to make a living,” he said—a last ditch effort to save face.
“Yes. I daresay he does. Even at the expense of another man’s misery.”
Her high and mighty manner left an acrid aftertaste. “I wouldn’t think a woman who holds her nieces hostage would have the brass to accuse anyone of bringing people misery.” He regretted saying it the moment it slipped from his lips.
The air frosted between them, and all the progress they’d made this night crumbled at his feet like shattered ice.
“Goodnight, Lord Thornton,” Felicity said.
Clenching his jaw, Nick left her where she stood without looking back.
Chapter Eleven
The door creaked as Nick stepped into the dark chamber. He swayed—dizzy from his indulgence in bourbon, still tasting liquor at the back of his tongue. He mentally questioned why no fire burned in the fireplace, why no lamp was lit to greet him.
Shutting the door, he stumbled along until his foot kicked something. The lump moaned and moved against his boot
tips. An odor—sickeningly familiar—stung his nostrils. The scent of rust and copper. He stalked to the window, throwing open the sashes to bid moonlight over the surroundings. Upon turning back around, he crashed to his knees on the hardwood floor.
“Oh … Lord, no.” He crawled toward the whimpering body where a shiny pool of liquid reflected his movements in the half-light. “No, no, no. Mina…” He reached out with a trembling hand to stroke his wife’s back. She was face down, but dread stayed him from turning her over.
His carver’s knife laid next to her, its blade sticky and glinting red in the moonlight. An empty bottle rolled away at the touch of Nick’s hand. The words Opium Tincture came into view on each revolution.
“I tried to get him out.” Mina’s words were weak and muffled—her face buried in her hair as it was. She sobbed. “He’s still crying inside of me.” She brought her blood-stained hands up to her ears, covering them. “Make him stop crying!”
Battling a hot flash of nausea, Nick gently eased her onto her back. Blood had caked on her gown’s skirt between her thighs.
“Mina, what have you done?” He wailed, already knowing. Her pale face became a blur of white with black smears in place of her eyes, a subtle transformation until her features melted back to clarity to become Felicity’s: flawless and youthful. Her tragic eyes stared up at him, unblinking.
She reached for him, her abdomen sliced through, seeping blood. A pair of butterfly wings appeared, swishing along the floor behind her shoulders. “Help me…” she begged. “Please, help me.”
The wings swished again.
Aghast, Nick shoved backward and tried to stand. His feet slipped in blood and he fell, a spinning fall which cast him in a fetal heap upon the billowing softness of his sheets.
With a jolt, Nick sat up, gasping—his nightshirt soaked in a clammy sweat, his bare feet tangled in blankets and bedlinens. Darkness veiled his surroundings. He shivered, anticipating the convulsions and sneezing. They always came next.
His breath hitched as he heard the swishing of wings against the floor again. So, he hadn’t imagined that?
Johnny Boy whined and nudged Nick’s leg with his cold, wet nose, grounding him. Nick inhaled deeply. The scent of roses and vanilla eased through him as he remembered where he was.
Lianna’s room.
He wasn’t coming off of an opium high at all. He’d been asleep.
“Mina.” He groaned, scraping his face with his palm. How he wanted to forget. It had been months since the memory had taunted him in the guise of night terrors.
Though this one was different than the others. Somewhere within the fuzzy dredges, Felicity had appeared. Gutted and winged.
Nick threw off his sheets.
Why? What could the parallel be between her and his wife?
Guilt.
His harsh accusation of earlier came back to slap him: “I wouldn’t think a woman who holds her nieces hostage would have the brass to accuse anyone of bringing people misery.”
His fingers tightened around the pillow beside him. He shouldn’t have spoken to her that way. She’d only been trying to grant him some wisdom, no doubt hard-earned by her own mistakes. She wanted him to see the selfishness of his choices. And she was right. The little pony he stole had belonged to an elderly couple. And they no doubt loved it just as much as he did Johnny. But he’d really only borrowed it. Planned to return it all along.
Felicity didn’t understand. He needed to steal. The rush of a heist, however small, filled his loneliness … gave him power over an addiction that even now courted him with the promise of amnesiac nirvana. Poverty had a way of making a man forget his resolutions—especially the tender, recently acquired ones. Each and every day he craved a substitute for the opium.
His fingers slid to Johnny Boy’s head. During his recovery, Nick had found company and solace in the pit bull. So many nights, when the laudanum called, Nick sat up and told jokes to Johnny. The dog would listen intently and laugh in that clown-like way, his black lips drawn up nearly to his eyes. Invariably, his enthralled attention carried Nick through until the temptation passed. Other times, when Nick would wake with a start from a nightmare, the dog’s snores would lull him back to sleep. The sound was more of a sedative than a dreamy drizzle on a rooftop.
Johnny Boy’s companionship had granted Nick the strength to stay away from the drug during his recovery. But over the past few days, Nick had found himself craving a new kind of companionship: the purr of a voice, soothing and feminine yet biting with a wicked wit … the touch of a hand soft as rose petals yet strong enough to crack a whip … eyes as brown and glossy-deep as a polished mahogany chest, and holding just as many fragile secrets.
Tonight, he’d seen that Felicity’s shell wasn’t impervious at all. And he’d rewarded her for sharing that vulnerability by being a pompous brute. No wonder she’d thought him in league with Donal. Nick had the same self-serving motivations as the Irishman, in many ways. He’d been planning to seduce Felicity for his own purposes from the very beginning.
Well, no more.
This attraction … connection … whatever it was he felt for her was very real, and it begged exploration if for no other reason than his own peace of mind.
He eased out of the small bed. Johnny Boy smacked his lips and stretched out across the mattress, obviously pleased to have the extra space.
Nick pulled his trousers on beneath his nightshirt—surprised at how much better his leg felt. After fastening his waist’s clasp and tucking the shirttail in as best he could, he felt around in the darkness for the stick-horse he’d propped next to the nightstand.
He wasn’t sure how much time had elapsed since he’d come to bed. He hoped Felicity was still up. Because he wouldn’t sleep another wink until this was settled between them.
Felicity slipped into the cool folds of her chemise. The brush of linen raised gooseflesh along her sensitized skin. Having just returned to her chamber after washing in the hipbath, she smelled of flowers and orange blossom soap.
She contemplated whether to pull the pins from her hair or just fall into bed and give herself over to nocturnal oblivion. Her soul ached from what Nick had said in the greenhouse, and she wanted to forget it all, if only for a little while.
Her nieces meant everything to her. She yearned to do right by them. But thus far, she’d failed miserably. Her eyes filled with tears as she remembered earlier when she’d tucked them into the playroom after prayers.
“Please Auntie…” Lianna had begged. “Lay abed with us. Tell us a story.”
Coaxing Nutmeg and Dinah off the bed to make room, Felicity had crawled beneath the covers between the two girls. Touching their bare feet with hers, she curled her toes around theirs. The blanket where the animals had laid smelled of fur and spices. “What story, Lia?”
“Tir-Na-nOg.”
Propped on pillows, Felicity wove her fingers through both of the girls’ hair, an action that had always soothed her. “Ah. The Land of Ever Young.”
Beaming, Lianna closed her eyes. Her lashes fringed the top of her cheekbones like sandy-blonde ferns. Felicity shifted her gaze to Aislinn’s and found her older niece studying her intently, waiting.
“In Tir-Na-nOg,” Felicity murmured, her forefinger tracing the edge of Aislinn’s bandage along her forehead, “the leaves never wither or die. The trees are always green. One never trades the scent of blossoms for stale snow or mildewed moss. It is spring forever, and anyone who is fortuned enough to live there will never age.”
“Like you, Auntie,” Lianna whispered.
“Dear child. I’m aging constantly.”
“But your wrinkles fade every night. You become young again.”
Aislinn intensified her glare at Felicity and tightened her jaw as if struggling to hold her mouth closed. An uncomfortable heat gathered in the base of Felicity’s throat. “I’ve explained that to you, Lia. I only look different because the light is dimmer and your eyes are sleepy.”
&nb
sp; Lianna yawned—her breath tinged with milk and mint leaves. Her lashes remained shut. “All right. More, Auntie. Tell me of their dishes and clothes.”
Felicity tore her gaze from Aislinn’s accusatory frown. “Tir-Na-nOg has a stream gurgling through the green hills. The water is magic, and can be spun into crystal threads so shimmering and fine they resemble crushed diamonds. The fairies who live there wear gowns and suits made of the special, sparkling fabric. And when they are hungry, they eat off of solid gold lily pads and drink wine out of silver-lined tulips.”
Lianna’s tiny snore preempted the rest of the telling. Felicity turned to find Aislinn’s deep blue eyes boring into her face.
“Now that your sister is sleeping, Aislinn, tell me of the Dark Raven. You’re convinced you saw him in the tree with you, that he’s made of butterfly shadows?”
Aislinn rolled to her back. She drew the sheets to her chin and looked up at the sheer canopy. “I think it’s father.”
Felicity’s throat clenched shut. “You know that is impossible, dearheart.”
“Only to someone so narrow-minded as you.”
Felicity met her niece’s turbulent gaze. Every time she looked at this older child, she saw Jasper—the dear brother who had come back into her life after so many years only to fade away again.
It was in part Aislinn’s features and coloring that brought to mind his image … but so much more. The speckling of freckles on her nose which crinkled when she smiled … the eyes that opened to wonder and fascination, then in a blink shuttered, holding back a savant’s temper. And the hair that when brushed swirled across her shoulders and back like a starless sky. All of these were reminiscent of Jasper.
Even more, they shared the same thought processes, the same amenable mind—so open and willing to believe the impossible. Felicity often wished she hadn’t lost that ability herself. Though it was hazy, she did remember a time…
Perhaps these likenesses were what made it more difficult to be close to her older niece. Felicity feared, were she to let down her defenses and need Aislinn too much, she would vanish from her life, just like Jasper.
The Glass Butterfly Page 11