by Jane Godman
“My mother was English,” I gasped. It was very difficult to remain aloof and evasive in the circumstances. He started to kiss my neck, and, hovering on the brink of orgasm, I found I couldn’t speak anymore.
“Well, wherever you are from, it’s very nice to meet you,” he murmured, as, with strong, commanding hands, he turned me onto my stomach and raised my buttocks. In the same movement, he positioned himself between my legs and replaced his questing fingers with the iron-hard length of his cock. I came instantly, screaming with pleasure as, holding my hips steady, he thrust in and out of my shuddering body.
We spent that night and most of the next day in bed, only venturing into the kitchen once in search of bread and wine. “You have the most amazing mouth I have ever seen,” he said as we sat on the bed, sharing this feast. “Almost a perfect cupid’s bow, but your lips are just a little too full, a touch too sensual. Beautiful mouth—belle bouche—how do you say it in your language?”
“It does not sound quite so pretty,” I said, achingly aware of the perfection of his mouth. Kissing him was the second most wonderful thing that had happened to me. Making love to him was the first. “It is ‘szép száj.’” I spoke Hungarian without thinking.
“No,” he said, continuing to study my lips dispassionately, “that definitely does not do you justice. I will call you bouche instead.” I decided it was the most wonderful endearment I had ever heard. I used the mouth he admired so much to show my appreciation.
I studied his slumbering face in the faded afternoon of the next day, and an unexpected jolt of sweet-sharp sadness tugged at my chest. I knew what it was, of course, but I could not afford to acknowledge it. I had made myself a promise, one I could not break. I slid from his embrace and quietly, in an effort not to disturb him, dressed.
As I tiptoed to the door, his sleep-filled voice halted me. “Where are you going?”
“To change my clothes and reassure my roommate that I am still alive.”
“Don’t be too long, bouche,” he murmured, pulling a pillow over his head to shut out the light. In muffled accents, he added, “And get back here before dark. Another girl was murdered two nights ago.”
I made my way along the familiar streets, finding them altered now by new emotions. It was then that I realised I didn’t even know his name. It didn’t matter. He was destined to forever remain a beloved, anonymous memory, and the reason my heart belonged to Paris.
Chapter Six
Meeting Cad again shook me to the very core of my being. I felt restless and alive in a way I had not felt for a long time. Not, if I was honest, since I had left him satiated and dozing in his apartment all those months ago. Sleep was a million lifetimes away, and I prowled my room in the restless candlelight. Everything looked different now because of him.
You fool! I looked pityingly at my reflection in the mirror. You stupid, reckless fool. I had been unable to resist allowing myself the luxury of that one night, and look what it had brought me. This burning, aching longing bordered on madness. Everything I had heard about Cad Jago screamed at me that he was dangerous. Everything I already knew of him confirmed that fact. Yet I wanted him with a frenzy that had nothing to do with reason. It came from the depths of my soul, and it terrified me.
I threw the windows wide and stepped onto the balcony, breathing in the harsh scent of the ocean and letting the salt breeze sting my cheeks. I wondered if he was doing the same thing on the other side of the house. Because I knew, beyond any shadow of doubt, that, despite his animosity, seeing me again had affected him just as profoundly. When I stepped back into my room at last, I was shivering with a combination of despair and excitement.
I was just about to climb into bed when a sound from the balcony made me pause. There it was again. A soft, persistent scratching on the glass. My mind was still on Cad. Could it be him? Would he be so bold? A laugh trembled on my lips. Of course he would.
I threw back the heavy curtains and then recoiled in surprise. A woman stood on the balcony, shaking with cold or fear, I knew not which. She was staggeringly beautiful with high, sharp cheekbones, midnight-black hair and eyes that were unmistakably Jago-gold. Her old-fashioned gown of ruby velvet was opulently styled with full skirts and a bodice cut low to display the swell of her breasts and the creamy smoothness of her shoulders. She regarded me steadily through the glass, and I knew a sudden compulsion to let her in. I hesitated with my fingertips trembling in the act of reaching for the handle.
Then I saw the knife in her hand, gleaming silver and dripping crimson. As I gasped in horror, her eyes blazed with the fires of hell itself. Her lips drew back to show even white teeth in a demonic snarl. “You shall not have him.” Her low monotone penetrated the glass. “He is mine. He was always mine.” Then she was gone.
I shook my head in an attempt to clear the fog of fear that gripped my mind with cold, loathsome fingers. What had I seen? Or imagined? My rational self clung steadfastly to the latter. My overwrought mind was creating monsters where none existed. With shaking hands, I drew the curtains closed and spent long, trembling minutes ensuring that no chink of moonlight could slyly penetrate their folds.
* * *
“They have found the young girl who disappeared. She’s dead,” Eleanor said, her face registering shock. “Her body was discovered in an outbuilding down in the village.”
“How awful.” Lucy indicated a chair, and Eleanor flopped shakily down onto it. “Do they know how she died?”
Eleanor nodded. “They are saying in the village that she must have been murdered.”
Lucy’s hand flew to cover her mouth. “Dear God.” Her eyes flew to Tynan’s face.
He was grimly frowning. “Are you sure?”
Eleanor nodded, her eyes huge in her porcelain face. “Mrs Webster told me. She had been to see her sister, the one who has the haberdashery, and she said that the police arrived this morning. It was the smell that made people suspicious. Is that not quite horrible? That a person should be the cause of a bad smell? Mrs Webster’s sister made the police officers tea, and one of them, a new young constable, said he had never known anything like it. The sergeant had to send him away because he couldn’t stop, you know…” She pretended to put a finger down her throat and mimed a vomiting motion.
“Not at the breakfast table, if you please, Eleanor,” Tynan said mechanically. Sombrely, he added, “Ordinarily, I would go down to the village. My presence at a time like this is important, and I should offer the support of the estate to the police or see if I can assist the magistrate in any way.”
“You are not fit enough to do so, however. It’s a pity Cad has already gone into Wadebridge for the day,” Lucy said in her unruffled manner. “But don’t worry, my love, I will go in your stead.” She turned to me. “Dita, perhaps you would care to join me? It is not the most pleasant of missions, but one of the obligations placed on us is our duty to be publicly active on such occasions. When you marry Eddie, you will be expected to fulfil this sort of unpleasant task.”
The scene, when we arrived, was bleak. The village was little more than a row of slate fishermen’s cottages set in a curve that followed the contours of the bay. Athal Cove brooded in shades of grey and white as though reflecting on the brutal crime it had witnessed. Most of the local populace were huddled in small, silent groups on the cobbled street. Death had come on stealthy feet to their quiet home. Several uniformed police officers stood stiffly at the entrance to the alley where another group of men, dressed in dark, severe suits, could just be seen. They were supervising what appeared to be an operation to remove the contents of an outbuilding.
Lucy approached one of the police officers, and he directed us to a tall, thin man who was puffing on a pipe. The battered bag he held proclaimed his profession, and as he turned, I recognised Doctor Munroe, who had tended me when I was ill.
“You look considerably better, Miss Varga,” he commented. “But I hope you are not overdoing things?”
“What can you te
ll us about this dreadful business, doctor?” Lucy asked after I had given him an assurance that I was indeed taking care of myself.
“Very little, my lady,” he said, with a nod toward the alley. “The body has been concealed in one of the sheds, and until the police have cleared some of the accumulated junk, I cannot get in there to examine it.”
“It seems reasonable to assume that she was murdered, however?” Lucy questioned.
“Nothing definite yet,” he stated ponderously, sending a cloud of smoke into the still air. “It’s possible it was an accident. Unlikely, but possible.”
“And is it definitely Amy Winton, the girl who disappeared?”
“Again, it seems highly likely, but I can’t confirm anything yet.”
A middle-aged man and woman were waiting on one side of the path. The man was marble still with shock, but the woman had fallen to her knees. Her hands covered her face and she rocked back and forth, a high, keening wail escaping her. I surmised that they must be Amy Winton’s parents. A chill shadow of pity touched my face like the sweep of a raven’s wing. Hurrying over, I knelt beside the woman, drawing her into my arms. She collapsed against me, clutching my arm and gasping through her tears, “I need to see her. Please, I need to see my baby.”
I helped her to her feet and drew them both over to sit on a low wall set slightly farther away so that the oblique angle meant they could not see the activity in the alley. “Wait here,” I said. “I will go and speak to the police inspector.”
That gentleman was inclined to regard me with a condescending eye, which had the effect of igniting my temper. “I am Mr Edward Jago’s fiancée,” I informed him haughtily. “Now, Mr and Mrs Winton are understandably anxious to know what is going on, but I don’t think this is the best place for them. I suspect that you agree it would not be wise to allow them to see their daughter’s body?” He nodded morosely. “In that case, I will accompany them to their house, but you will need to send an officer along to keep us informed of events here.” He looked a bit taken aback at my imperious manner, but he acceded to my request. I paused to tell Lucy what I was doing and she threw me a grateful, approving look.
The Wintons’ cottage was sparsely furnished, but neat and clean. I busied myself making tea while Mrs Winton flopped heavily into a chair, gazing numbly into space. Her husband began to pace restlessly up and down, which was not an easy feat in the confined space.
“She were a good girl, our Amy,” he told me, with a fierce look that defied me to say differently.
“Of course she was,” I said.
“Only one we had,” he continued. Clearly a man of very few words, he suddenly seemed to feel the need to unburden himself to me, “We was older, both of us, when she came along and Martha here, she could have no more after. She wouldn’t have gone off with a man, like some have tried to say. Not our Amy…”
“Is that her?” The room was devoid of ornament, but above the fireplace, a portrait of a young girl dominated the room. She was pale skinned and slender, and her fair hair appeared thick and abundant. Her expression was serious. I judged her age to be about fifteen.
“Aye.” He took a seat near his wife and patted her hand. She did not seem to notice his touch. “Nothing would do but for Martha to have our Amy’s likeness taken by that fancy painter in Wadebridge. That would have been two or three years since. Cost every penny of the money she was left by her maiden aunt. Proper fierce we rowed about it! Didn’t we, love? I wanted a new shed.” His wife stared at him blankly, and we drank our tea in silence.
Some time later, Lucy arrived with the sober-looking police officer, whom she introduced as Inspector Miller. He confirmed, in tones of deep theatrical tragedy, that the body was indeed Amy. “The doctor thinks she might have been, you know, interfered with,” he said hesitantly, casting a guilty, apologetic look around at our faces as he said the words. Mrs Winton raised a shaking hand to cover her mouth. “But it’s not possible to say for sure because of her injuries. Her throat was cut, and he stabbed her frenziedly on her breasts, her women’s parts and her lower abdomen. Where the womb is.” The explanation was unnecessary and jarring. “The doctor couldn’t count how many wounds there are. She had been there for some time, so he thinks she died the same day she disappeared.” He broke off abruptly as Mrs Winton fell to the floor in a faint.
* * *
There followed a strange time. It was as if we were all waiting for some unknown event, yet dreading it at the same time. I tried to avoid Cad whilst being achingly aware of him. My heart would pound wildly just at the sound of his voice uplifted as he called to a servant in another part of the house. When I heard his ready laugh ring out, a bittersweet pang of nostalgia tugged at a very specific point in the centre of my chest.
“Stop scurrying away from me, bouche,” he said as he entered the library a few days after our first meeting. I had put my book aside and begun to rise from my seat.
“I don’t scurry!” I protested, unaccountably annoyed at his use of the word.
Cad’s beautiful mouth twitched slightly in appreciation. “Sorry. Stop gliding gracefully away from me, bouche. Is that better?”
I gave the matter some consideration, my head on one side. “Marginally,” I conceded. “I am not afraid of you.” I lifted my chin proudly, at pains to convince him of that fact.
“Well, you should be,” he said. “Because if you knew what went through my mind every time I look at you, you bloody well would be!”
I decided to maintain a dignified stance and ignore that remark. “Do you intend to stay for long?” I asked conversationally.
He came and sat next to me on the small sofa I occupied, and I was forced to turn in my seat to face him. He lounged with his usual casual grace, long legs stretched before him. “I have told my mother I will stay for Christmas. She has an idea, probably a misplaced one, that a family gathering for the festive season might just heal some of our wounds.”
“But you do not agree?”
He shrugged. “We Jagos never do things by halves. Our rifts are more than surface deep. Indeed, they are as old and deep as time. But, for the sake of the name, it behoves us all to make the attempt—or at least the pretence—of putting them behind us.” I got the distinct impression that he was not enamoured of the idea. “What are you reading?” The abrupt change of subject surprised me, but I went along with it, and we discussed books for a few minutes. It was a slightly surreal situation, as if we had never met before. As if those perfect lips had never anointed every part of my body.
I rose from my seat at last, explaining that I had promised to take a walk with Eleanor. “You will observe that I am not scurrying,” I said with a slight smile.
The answering light in his eyes warmed me. He rose, too and, because of his superior height and nearness, I was forced to tilt my head up to look at him. “Do you know what I would like to do now, bouche?” he asked conversationally, his eyes on the pulse at the base of my throat. Since my own instincts were urging me to hurl myself at him and tear at his clothing, I must admit I did have a suspicion. But I shook my head. It would hardly be seemly to mention it, I decided. The air between us was thick with longing. Like sexually charged honey. “I would like to run the tip of my tongue upward from the base of your perfect, white neck to the tip of your chin,” he whispered. Instantly, that became the only thought in my head. I swayed toward him with a little gasp. “But I can’t, can I?” He continued, in a brisk tone, “Because you are engaged to marry my brother.” With his unique, wicked grin and a slight, ironic bow, he walked away. I was left alone, quivering with desire and humiliation. In spite of my determination to remain aloof, I had betrayed myself at a mere word from him. How could I have been so blatant and so foolish?
As we walked, I asked Eleanor about Cad’s earlier, brief visit, during which he and Eddie had met for the first time in several years. “I got the impression, from things that Eddie has told me, that their relationship in the past has not been good?”
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br /> “No, and it does not appear to have improved with time or distance! Eddie was waiting in the hall when Cad strode in through the door. They shook hands and Cad made a comment to Eddie. It was a throwaway remark, something about not being able to hide forever. But Cad has a way of saying things sometimes. It sounds silly, but it’s like there is a laughing devil deep down in his eyes.” I knew exactly what she meant. “Anyway, Eddie promptly flung out of the house in a rage without speaking. It was like a scene from our childhood all over again.”
“There are certainly some strange undercurrents in your family home,” I commented. “It must be hard for you sometimes to be caught in the middle of it all. Do you ever think of leaving Athal?”
“Of course I do. I don’t want to dwindle here and end up an old maid. But then…” She hurried on without finishing. “In the general way of things, I would be married and gone from here by now. Most of my friends are either wed or betrothed. But my father’s illness this summer put paid to any plans for me to have a London season and find a ‘suitable’ man. And, of course, according to my mother, I am not to be trusted to find my own way in life.” There was a bitter tang to Eleanor’s words that surprised me. Her disposition was generally as easygoing as a sunny Parisian Sunday.
“Your parents would both be sorry to see you leave Tenebris, I think.” We were strolling through the rose garden, which was Lucy’s particular domain. She told me that, in summer, the scent of the massed blooms was heady and the drone of the bees sadly soporific. Now, the bushes were stark and we had to take care to avoid their thorny grasp.
Eleanor sighed and, with one accord, we sat on an ancient bench that, I knew from one of the gardeners, had occupied a similar corner in the old castle grounds. “You don’t know,” she murmured, her head bent to watch her restless hands as they fiddled with the plaited trim on her gown.
“Tell me,” I invited. When she didn’t speak, I hazarded a guess, “Was there someone you were fond of, Eleanor?” Lilylike, her head drooped into a nod. “But your parents didn’t approve?”