“Strangest damn honeymoon I’ve ever had,” he said. Then he clasped her hand and led her up the stairs without another word between them.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Nick awoke at the crack of dawn, cradling a pillow in his arms.
He’d dreamt it was Felicity. They were dancing to a waltz drifting from the phonograph, and the music brought her to her knees on the floor. She’d looked up at him with those tragic eyes and confessed everything—all of her feelings, all of her secrets, all of her fears and hopes. Then he’d knelt beside her, laid her down, and made love to her in front of the fireplace until she cried out his name in rapture.
He growled and tossed the pillow, ruffling the bed’s canopy. Pink light filtered through the curtain seams and shimmied across the wall.
Bloody delusional subconscious.
But he hadn’t imagined the way she’d felt beneath his hands last night—so hot, so receptive. He’d given her a woman’s pleasure, that very pinnacle of elation no other man had ever taken the time to offer. And she’d been so beautiful afterward, flushed and basking in her ecstasy. Then she stopped him cold before they could consummate their marriage and both be satisfied.
He’d stayed up half the night painting his finished carving, remembering her expression when release first took her. And as he mused, he ran his hands over the figurine’s curves in a pathetic pantomime of the way he wanted to touch his bride—without any barriers—clothing or secrets. While filling in the final lines, he had thought he heard a sound in the corridor … something scraping the wall. When he’d peered out, he could’ve sworn there were silhouettes in the darkness going up the turret stairway. Curiosity got the better and he trekked down the long corridor to climb the stairs himself. He’d failed to take a candle and felt his way up blindly with only the moonlight through the tiny windows to guide him.
No one had been there when he reached the broken steps. As he’d passed Felicity’s bedchamber on the way back to his own, he wiggled her door knob and found it locked.
It infuriated him. They were married, yet she felt as if she had to bar the door against him.
He’d been so worked up, the only way he finally got to sleep was by rubbing his pillow case with the scent of orange blossom and burying his nose into the cushion. This was what he had been reduced to. A man so desperate for his bride’s touch that he kept a bar of her soap hidden in his chamber so he could imagine her beside him.
Well, no longer. He’d found her weakness.
She’d cried last night in his arms as they danced. Then she’d admitted the truth about Landrigan’s visit. And—most astonishing of all—she’d become playful, initiating a masterful seduction, almost giving in to their passions before all was said and done.
Music was the way to level her walls, something he never would’ve guessed. To that end, he planned to play the phonograph again today, every chance he got. He had the perfect excuse with Lia’s gala being tonight. Even though no visitors would be attending, the girls wanted to learn every kind of dance imaginable. And he wasn’t about to disappoint them. All he had to do was talk Felicity into being his partner. They would teach the girls together. Then later, after the festivities, they would dance alone.
After washing up and donning a grey shirt and navy trousers from Hannah’s bundle, Nick stepped out into the corridor. He considered exploring the turret stairs in the daylight to see if any new footsteps were there, but when he passed the main stairway, he nearly tripped over Lia. She sat on the top step, brushing out her doll’s long curly hair with her fingers.
Looking up from under her riding hat, she held out a hand so he could help her stand. “Morning, Mister Sir.”
“Happy birthday, Lady Lia.” He smiled.
“Do you like my attire?” She flung out her long braids and posed in her baggy trousers and blouse, nearly toppling from the step.
Nick captured her arm to help her balance. “Very nice.”
“And I’m plenty brightened enough, too.”
“Enough for what?” Assuring she had the footing to walk down the steps beside him, he studied her profile, those pale, thick lashes trembling like dandelion fuzz on a breeze.
“To learn to ride Butterscotch. You said if I stayed abed and slept all night you would teach me.” Her vivid blue gaze turned on him, drowsy and accusatory. “Did you forget?
He grinned. “A gentleman never forgets a promise to a beautiful lady. We’ll go after breakfast.”
One dimpled hand grazed the railing while the other clutched her doll to her chest. “Oh, I’ve already taken breakfast.”
“And what are we having?” Nick paused on the middle step so she could catch up.
“Sausages and pudding. Auntie said it’s in honor of you.”
His thoughts digressed to their fervid sport on the table and his ears grew hot. “Did she, now.”
“Yes, because you bought them for us with your earring.”
He rubbed a palm along his stubbled chin, stepping down again. “Has your aunt already eaten?”
“No. She’s drinking tea and awaiting you. She says a husband and wife share everything together. It’s one of the rules.”
Nick huffed. “Would that I could get those in writing.”
“Those what?”
“Rules.”
Lia frowned up at him with a crinkle stitched between her blonde eyebrows.
“Ah, never mind,” he said.
They’d reached the last step and the sprite leapt to the floor while holding her doll upside down. Its brown curls swept the marble tiles. Lia gasped upon noticing and tucked the doll beneath her chin. “Oh, Sasha. We should’ve left your hair in a bun.” She slanted her gaze up to Nick. “Sasha’s going riding with us.”
“Is she? She looks more primped for a performance than a horse ride.”
A proud smile lit Lia’s face. “She’s an expert ballerina.” She fondled the frilly tutu on her doll’s velvet leotard. “I wanted to show her that dance you taught us. The minute one.”
“The minuet.”
Lia scowled. “That’s what I said.”
He smirked at her impertinence. No matter how foul his mood, bantering with Lia always managed to lift his spirits. “Well, let’s go show her then.”
“We can’t. It’s gone.”
Nick threw a glance toward the dining hall. From this angle, he could only catch the tail of Felicity’s orchid colored skirt draping her chair. But he had a clear visual of the desk where the phonograph once sat. A bleak foreboding unfurled within his gut. “Gone.”
“Auntie says it’s broken. Clooney will look at it when he has time.” She flashed that pout which softened his heart to putty. “If it isn’t fixed by tonight, we’ll have no music to dance to.”
Nick tapped his hand on the curved edge of the stair’s railing. “I’ll speak to your aunt. We will have music tonight. I promise.”
“Thank you!” Lia hugged his leg. “I love you, Mister Sir!”
Though the proclamation was as casual as her love for rain puddles and mud pies, it brought a softening deep within—and a warmth that spread to his soul.
He patted her hat then watched her skip to the front door.
She twirled around. “We’ll be in the greenhouse with Bini and Aislinn, awaiting you.”
Nick shaded his eyes from a flare of sunlight when she trounced outside.
A slow burn began behind his sternum as he stepped into the dining hall to find his bride intently studying a familiar ring of keys.
“Does your selfishness know no bounds?” he asked.
Felicity placed the keys next to her silverware with a gentle clink. Her butterfly brooch glittered as she turned toward him. “The cook deigned it best to send her daughter away for the incident with you and the skeleton key. It was not my place to interfere.”
“I’m not talking about Rachel or her bloody keys.”
Trying to ignore how his bride’s skin glowed radiant against the vivid hue of her
chiffon gown, trying to discount the sparkle of sated bliss so clear this morning within her lovely dark eyes, Nick poured himself a cup of coffee.
Not sparing her another glance, he strode to the wall to study the girls’ artwork. Lia had put up a new picture: stick figures dancing beneath speckled stars and a smiling moon. There were two girls and two boys. She’d scribbled Mister Sir beneath the tallest one. His jaw clenched.
He tensed when he heard skirts rustling behind him.
“Nick…?” Felicity placed a hand on his shoulder.
He shook her off, still not facing her. “Have you ever stopped to consider that the girls are innocent in all this? You cry and lament about the distance Donal has put between you and your nieces, when it’s you and you alone. Every time, it’s you.”
“What—”
He rounded on her, holding her gaze. “All their lives, they’ve been deprived of anything that might give them even an inkling of joy or normalcy. Because of your fears. Your blasted insecurities. Last night they laughed and danced for hours to that phonograph. They were typical children living life, Felicity.” He gestured to the empty desk. “Why can’t you let them live?”
“Allow me to explain…”
“What, that it’s conveniently broken today? Tell me, did you actually render it useless with a hammer, or did you simply put it away somewhere?”
She glanced down and he noticed a pearlescent shimmer to her eyelids. Was she wearing cosmetics?
He shook off the random thought, instead watching the tears that built along her lower lashes. He hated to be the cause of them, but he could see the guilt behind her sorrow. She’d lied to Lia.
“The player still works,” he accused.
“Yes,” she whispered.
He scowled. “You hid it out of sight because the music affected you. It breached that damnable shell you hide within. We connected last night. You opened up to me after our dance. You wanted me … touched me like a woman with desires. Then I gave you bliss. But you can’t let yourself embrace such happiness. You can’t let yourself feel anything at all, so to hell with the rest of us who want nothing more than to feel.”
A shocked expression replaced her wounded frown. Tears streamed down her face in earnest now, and Nick resisted the urge to kiss them away. He knew that taste: salt intermingled with her floral scent. His mouth watered for wanting it. But the floodgates to his pent up frustration had opened, and he was caught within the torrent.
“Until meeting you, I never realized that a scar could be contagious. A cancer in fact, that slowly eats away its bearer, and threatens to do the same to those who care for her.”
She touched her chest. “No. It isn’t that. It isn’t only that…” Her lower lip trembled and it took all his resolve not to touch her, to stop the tremor with the strength of his thumb.
It was then he noticed the stain upon her mouth. She was wearing lipstick. The color was a shade paler than her gown, and made her lips look like petals … dewy and soft. The memory of last night, of her tongue torturing him with sweetness, came rolling over him.
He tightened his grip on his coffee. Fragrant steam drifted up, scorching his chin. “Well if it’s not only your scar, then it must be my past. Your disdain of my weakness is causing this distance between us. Causing you to hurt your nieces.”
“No, Nick!”
Her intense scowl almost convinced him. But he needed proof. “You have the keys. Open that sideboard. I want to see the laudanum.”
Felicity blinked and a fresh stream of tears trickled down her cheeks. “Please … don’t do this.”
Since she made no move toward the table, Nick strode over and got the keys himself. Squeezing them so hard they left jagged lines in his palm, he went to the sideboard, crouched down, and unlocked the door. The hinges squealed open, revealing empty imprints in the dust where the laudanum once was. The vision gored his soul like rusted razor. He slowly stood and looked at Felicity. “You trust me, do you?”
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then pressed her fingertips over her lips.
Nick gritted his teeth. “I made a vow to Lia. And seeing as my truest friend Johnny is gone, and those girls are the only ones here who have any faith in me at all, I intend not to disappoint the child. I promised her she would have music tonight at her party. So, the truth, Felicity. Where did you hide the phonograph?”
Swiping her cheeks, she glanced at the hem of her dress where it swished from her nervous jitters.
“You hid Father’s phonograph?”
Nick’s attention snapped to the doorway.
Aislinn stood there glaring at her aunt, one hand clenched to the knob. “Have you truly become so bitter?” Anger tightened her pretty features and cast shadows beneath her eyes, making her as desolate and pale as a weathered statue. “Fine then! Banish everything that reminds us of him. But you cannot make me give up, no matter how hard you try!”
Wiping her cheeks, Felicity stalked to the fireplace, her long skirt trailing behind her. Nick paused to watch her … to really look at her. Her shimmering hair hung down past her waist with a portion of the front and sides pulled into a knot at her nape. Dried forget-me-nots and lavender had been tucked within the tied strands. The flowers looked suspiciously like remnants from her wedding bouquet.
She’d taken great pains with her appearance this morning, and the result was nothing short of resplendent. A woman didn’t go to such lengths unless she wanted to impress a man.
Why would she care, if she despised his past and refused to let him consummate their union?
Massaging his pounding temple, Nick moved to the table and dumped his untouched coffee back into the pot.
“Aren’t you going to eat?” Felicity asked without turning around.
Nick studied the curve of her hips, her small waist, and rubbed his knuckle across the table’s slick edge where that exquisite body had writhed in abandonment beneath his the night before. “I’ve lost my appetite.”
He thumped the wood then strode toward the door.
“You’ll still be joining us for our hike?” Felicity asked, almost too quietly to be heard.
He stalled at the threshold and met Aislinn’s bewildered gaze. He squeezed her shoulder, pleating the soft pink cambric of her dress. “I wouldn’t miss it. The girls are looking forward to it. Their happiness is more important than my petty sensitivities.” With that, he left the room.
In a matter of moments, the castle door slammed shut.
Stinging from Nick’s accusations, Felicity fondled her wedding ring and turned to her niece. “Before you say another word … come with me to the tower.”
The turret smelled of warm wax and fragile hope.
Soft light streamed in through the dusty, cobwebbed windows overhead. A candelabra was lit on the wall, illuminating the phonograph and bottles of laudanum which sat beside Isabella’s urn on the table next to Jasper’s bed. Clooney had transferred his medical supplies to this chamber last night when they brought the player and medicine in.
Felicity glanced over her shoulder. Aislinn waited in the doorway with an anxious frown on her face.
Moving around to the other side of the bed, Felicity felt the gentle heat of the pot-bellied stove off in the corner. She motioned her niece closer to her father.
“I know about the pupas,” Felicity said as Aislinn stood opposite her on the other side of the bed.
They both looked down at his motionless body. His eyelids were closed, showcasing an intricate network of bluish veins along the translucent skin.
“I have no regrets, Auntie. I had to try.”
“Just like I had to try the phonograph. Clooney and I played music for him last night.”
Aislinn’s gaze captured Felicity, an apology swimming in the aquatic depths. “What I said downstairs … I never meant to hurt you.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “Thank you for trying. And for not being angry with me. It wasn’t my intention to compromise your caterpillar business.”
> “Your father’s health is more important than any business. It was worth it. For we were successful.” Felicity waited for a reaction.
“What do you mean?”
“I know now, what you know. The Dark Raven is real. It’s your father’s spirit somehow connected to the butterflies. I’ve seen him, Aislinn. And I’ve told Clooney. I told him that I believe with all my heart that your father is trying to come back to us.”
Aislinn slapped her hands to her mouth. “Oh!” She gasped behind her fingers, “You saw him, too … you believe? At last you believe!” Wet lines slipped down her cheeks, streaming faster with each blink. Her hands fell to cover her father’s where they rested on the sheet. “Wait … you said we were successful?”
Feeling the burn of happy tears behind her eyes, Felicity cranked the phonograph. A waltz began to play—tinkling and soft. She leaned over her brother, smoothing some black hair off his forehead. “Jasper. Look who’s here to visit.”
His eyelashes fluttered first—straining to break apart, then his lids followed suit, opening slowly. He seemed to struggle to focus, his eyes rolling in their sockets, but soon his pupils were fixed on Aislinn. The slightest smile turned his lips.
“Aislinn…” The word was soundless—carried on a wisp of air pushed from his lungs.
Aislinn fell to her knees beside the bed, lifting his limp hands to kiss them. “Father!” The rest of her stunned proclamations broke beneath a sob.
“He hasn’t the faculty of his body yet,” Felicity hurried to explain. “He still can’t use his vocal cords. He can barely whisper and can’t move anything but his eyes and lips. But somehow the phonograph lures him out of his shell. Clooney believes … if we have faith and continue the pupal treatments, he will be able to speak aloud again. And one day, perhaps even use his arms and legs. That’s why we brought the laudanum up. Clooney wants it accessible. Your father is bound to be in pain when he starts trying to move. But our hope is that his body will one day be whole again.”
“Yes. It will.” Smiling, Aislinn touched her father’s features, tracing his eyebrows, skimming the beard on his chin. “I’ve been reading your journals, Father. I found the answer there … you gave me the answer.”
The Glass Butterfly Page 29