She clearly hated him.
“Stop it. Don't think about her. Do something useful.”
He sighed. He had tried to learn sword-craft, like the other men his age, but he had always hated the idea of weapons and violence, even done for show. There were no other skills taught to gentlemen – besides riding – and the only thing he'd learned that brought him joy was the skill an old gardener had taught him: woodcarving.
He reached for his case and drew out a little knife, and a small section of beech-wood he was shaping. He always kept his work concealed, even from his friend. However, it helped, sometimes, to do it, when the darkness closed in on him.
The little figure he was carving lay on his hand. It was a woman, her waist curved, her face a long oval. He had given her fine-boned features, and long, tapering fingers. Her dress was long and styled like a riding-dress, her hair a cloud of curls.
Damn it! Stop denying it to yourself. You know who this is.
He closed his hand on the little carving, surprised by the depth of pain inside him. It was obviously Genevieve's likeness. He hadn't meant to make it – when he'd started, it had simply been a piece of wood the length of his forefinger, something to shape into a candle-holder, perhaps. It had grown over the last two evenings, changing shape until it had become a carving of the woman who bemused and intoxicated him.
He gripped it tight, fighting the impulse to throw it away. Seeing it caused him such pain he could barely bear it. He wanted to rid himself of it, the way she'd callously and carelessly cast him away. However, he could not.
He looked into the eyes of the little carving, and the thought of throwing her into the fire tore at him. The face shifted and blurred, becoming another face. One with the soft cheeks of an angel, and a cloud of brown curls, eyes wide and luminous, and smiling down at him...
“Damn you!” he shouted. He threw the carving across the room. That was all he needed. Her. He had forgotten her, burying her in the darkest depths of his soul, where nobody could ever touch the memory or remind him. He never entered the dark recesses where he'd locked that memory. Not ever. He was not about to have that specter lured out into the light of day.
He put away his carving tools, resolving to leave the little figure wherever it had gone. If he couldn't see it, then it couldn't torment him. And it would probably lie forgotten in this room until it cracked or weathered, becoming unrecognizable again.
Good.
He stood, noticing himself in the mirror. He arranged his hair, realizing he looked a mess. He washed his face again and checked his cravat, turning the knot carefully so it was at the front.
“I need to go for a walk.”
It was dark outside, but the distant church had recently chimed five o'clock. Another two hours until supper. He shrugged on his coat and headed out to the courtyard.
As he rounded the corner, going past the stables, he found his feet heading in that direction almost against his volition. He had to try and find out more about what happened there. He hadn't seen the rider trailing them, but if Genevieve said he was there, he believed her. And if he could show her that he wasn't involved, then maybe...
“You're wrong, you know,” he told himself bitterly. It wasn't going to make any difference if he proved his innocence. She didn't like him – why else would she have even assumed it was him, behind it? – and so he could unmask the true threat and still not make her like him any more.
“Even so.”
He bent down to look at the door of the barn. It was still open – it seemed nobody ever shut the place, which he felt was an oversight. It was a perfect place for intruders to hide. He stuck his head in, looking about in the darkness.
“Hello?”
No one answered, a fact that made him feel a little silly. If someone was in there hiding, they weren't about to reveal themselves to him, now were they? He walked around and then went out and shut the door, impatient with himself.
He was about to head out to the front gate when he caught sight of something. A glint, as the light from the bracketed torch shone on metal. The glint was the right height for the hilt of a sword. He stared into the darkness by the stable. There was somebody there.
“You!” he yelled. He ran at the figure, but they set off faster. He looked around, lest his shout had disturbed anyone else at the manor, but nobody appeared, so he raced to catch a glimpse of the shadow he'd seen. He reached the gate just as the fellow ran through.
Lungs burning, chest heaving, Adair followed down the path at top speed. It occurred to him, as he ran through the trees, that he was being foolish. In the woods, this fellow – dark-dressed, armed, and clearly at home here – had advantages, and he had none. He had no weapon to speak of, and he was wearing a white cravat that plainly shone out in the night to reveal him to any ambushers. He knew the woods a little, but in the darkness and alone, he knew he would easily lose his way.
“What would you do, anyway? Ask him what he's doing?”
He shook his head and turned back, heading up the incline toward the gate. His chest still felt bruised and aching after the run as he passed in through the gate. He paused there, looking around. He knew now, beyond a doubt, that the person he and Genevieve had seen was real. There really was somebody infiltrating the manor, trying to do somebody harm.
I need to tell Richard about this.
He walked back across the courtyard, past the stables, and went inside. The house was quiet – he could hear distant laughter from the parlor, and guessed that the party was in there, talking and sharing a glass of whiskey, perhaps, before dinner. He tiptoed past, not ready for company.
Shaken by the encounter, he headed to the gallery to think. It was dark up there, the portraits of the ancestors of Richard – Arabella's ancestors hung in Duncliffe – concealed in shadow. He listened to the sound of his own footsteps, echoing in the blue dark.
At the end of the gallery, he stopped, listening. Someone else was up here. This time, he had more sense than to cry out. He stood still in the shadows, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. The sound he'd heard echoed again and he noticed a shadow denser than the rest, over by a portrait. He frowned, watching.
As he watched, the shadow detached itself from the others, and stepped into the brighter patch in the center of the room. He caught a glimpse of hair, long and wavy, tumbling down to waist-length, as the shadow turned. He stared.
It couldn't be.
It was, though. Tall and graceful, the form was Genevieve. In addition, the sound he'd heard was crying.
He tensed. He wasn't sure what to do. Should he go to her? Or remain where he was, and listen? He was sure she'd be angry if she knew he'd seen her. He didn't want to risk her anger – it was bad enough as it was, and he didn't want it getting any worse.
He watched as she looked at the portrait again, and then turned away, walking back down the gallery. She paused opposite the big window, where the drape was still open, letting in the fitful light of the stars. She stood there, looking out onto the night.
Adair felt an impulse to go over to her and he tensed, walking silently over the carpet, his each footfall carefully placed, heading to the window. She was speaking, he realized, as he froze, almost eight paces from her.
“I don't think I've ever let myself cry for you before.”
Her voice was soft, but the gallery was silent and the words just reached him. He took in a sharp breath and listened to her, wishing himself invisible. Whatever she was saying was deeply personal, clearly. He didn't wish to intrude.
“I don't think you'd care – not really – if I cry or not. Nurse said you're with Christ, and beyond all worldly care. I didn't ever want to think you'd be beyond caring for me.”
Adair heard her voice wobble. He felt agony twist in his own heart. He knew exactly how she felt. In his own darkness, in his own tears, he had long ago concealed that central pain.
“Silly,” Genevieve sniffed. “I suppose it's silly of me to care so much about this, when you're at peace, and safe
now. But I wondered why you would do that to us – go away, and leave us all alone. It wasn't fair.”
Adair bit his lip. He could feel her pain as if it were his own. He looked down at his hands, making his heart be still. She was sobbing quietly. He saw the silver of her tears.
His heart twisted and he had to grip the back of a chair to hold back from rushing out. He wanted to throw his arms around her and hold her and let her cry, expressing the pain that both of them had held concealed so long.
I would never have guessed.
He listened, wonderingly, as she sniffed, and sighed. “I should go down,” she said to herself. “They'll be wondering where I am. I wish I understood about this shadow. I need to know who it is. What's going on here? Then I can go home, my job done.”
“No,” he whispered, feeling ice in his heart. Don't, he wanted to say. Don't go home, not yet. He was amazed by the strength of his reaction. He hadn't known how much he longed to know her better, how much he simply wanted to talk to her. He had already talked more naturally with her than he had with anyone, for years, besides Ascott. He couldn't bear for her to leave. Not yet.
She must have heard something, for he saw her tense and whirl round, eyes scanning the gallery. He leaned back, holding his breath, letting his eyelids drop down over his eyes so their shine would not give him away. Stood there, rigidly, waiting for her to move.
“I need to uncover this shadow,” she said aloud. Then she walked, lightly and briskly, to the top of the staircase and headed quickly down, the light from the hallway turning her back into flesh and blood and form.
He stayed where he was, leaning against one wall of the gallery, considering what he'd heard. The knowledge that she, too, had a painful past she was concealing, was overwhelming. Someone had passed away – that much was clear. A parent, perhaps. He sighed.
I would not have known.
He looked at his hands, realizing that he and Genevieve had yet another thing in common – they were both scarred by the past. Both of them held a sorrow in their core. He shook his head. Talking to her would help ease his pain, and mayhap hers as well.
However, there was no way that could happen. He knew she didn't trust him; suspected she didn't like him, either. He needed to do what she was doing, now – he needed to uncover the shadow.
He headed swiftly downstairs, into the light.
As he passed the drawing room, now empty, he noticed that the clock said half an hour past six. It was almost dinner time, and the rest of the party would be gathered in the parlor, maybe playing cards and chatting, until dinner time. He felt his feet take him in that direction, feeling the need for company.
“And then I told him what I really needed was a horseradish and a pinch of gunpowder,” Richard said.
Arabella giggled. “Gunpowder?”
“Yes,” Richard said. “It was the only way I could think of to liven up McGilder's awful cooking.”
Everybody laughed. Adair slipped in through the doorway and took a seat on a long couch beside Ascott, unseen. The warmth and lightness of the company closed around him like a cloak, warming him from the inside. He glanced around, looking for Genevieve. He couldn't see her yet, but he was sure she'd come down for dinner. He felt a flare of hope inside him.
He knew more about that tall, mysterious woman now, and he wanted more than ever to reach out to her. He knew now just how much they shared and he wanted to help.
CONVERSATION OUTDOORS
Genevieve slipped into the parlor, hoping that her face was unmarked by her tears. She crossed the room and took a seat opposite Arabella, as Richard and the other gentlemen stood to greet her.
“Good evening,” she said softly.
“Cousin! So glad you joined us. Here...have some of my new cordial. I made it myself, you know – Mrs. Webster just did the bottling,” Arabella said, lifting a glass flask and drawing out the stopper. The damask liquid glugged into the glass.
“It tastes lovely,” she said, lifting it to her lips. Rich and dark, it had the flavor of damson plums.
“You used the plum cordial recipe?” Francine asked.
“I did indeed,” Arabella nodded. “Sorry, Richard, what was that?” she asked, turning to her husband, who smiled.
“It's fine cordial. Best use of our plums anyone ever made.”
“Thank you,” Arabella dimpled. “Though I trust that's not a poor reflection on my plum jam?”
He grinned. “I will revise that – the second-best use.”
They all laughed. Genevieve felt as if the lump of ice in her core was melting slowly. There was something very comforting about Arabella, and she wasn't at all surprised that her household gathered silent, taciturn sorts like Adair: here, he was under no obligation to perform or converse. Everyone seemed perfectly happy just to let him be.
She caught sight of him – he was sitting on the edge of the group, silent and still. He had changed out of the brown suit from earlier, she noticed, donning something slightly more elaborate, suited for dinner, with gold braid at the cuffs.
As the sound of conversation rose and fell around her, she watched him from the corner of her eye. He seemed tense and brooding. She told herself she was watching for signs of having been unmasked.
He looks jumpy. And preoccupied.
She studied his posture. He was sitting with a wine glass in one hand, the stem gripped in his fingers. He wasn't really listening to the conversation around him either, but staring off into the fireplace.
What is bothering him so?
She had spent the afternoon writing in her journal, noting the things that she had discovered thus far. A man is here who seems an intruder, she had written. He stays on the edge of things, watching. I haven't seen him actively gathering information, but there is something altogether suspicious in his matter – he is hiding something.
A prickle down her spine made her realize he was watching her. She swallowed, seeing something in his eyes she couldn't read. It was softness, and it melted her heart a little. She tensed, biting her lip.
Francine's words had touched her almost as intensely as her own reaction to them. She hadn't realized how much she'd learned to harden and mistrust her heart. Her trip to the gallery had made it all the more obvious to her, as she stood before the only portrait of her own ancestors here.
With a long, oval face and big dark eyes, the woman in the portrait had looked, so much, like her mother, Lady Claudine. In that moment, all her bitterness and sorrow had welled up inside her and she'd shouted at the likeness, and then simply wept. Now she felt hollow inside, strangely empty.
“Lady Genevieve?”
“Yes?” She turned to find herself looking at MacCleary, one of the household guests she'd barely noticed. A smooth-faced man, with big-lidded, lazy eyes, he smiled.
“Milady, I have been meaning to ask you for a long while...how fares our sister-country, France?”
“I cannot speak for the country as a whole,” Genevieve murmured, sipping at her cordial. What a strange question! “All I can say is that Malpons, our town, is faring very well.”
“You're far from the capital?” he asked.
“Not far,” Genevieve said automatically. “Two days in the coach, or a day's full ride.”
“Oh,” he said. “You must hear much news from there.”
“We hear a little,” Genevieve said. He was leaning toward her, flushed a little, those eyes gleaming with an unwholesome interest she didn't like. She felt his fingers on the arm of her chair, brushing her upper arm. She drew back.
“I would love to travel there,” he said, leaning back a little, as if he'd noticed her distaste. “It seems a country where things of rare beauty can be found.”
Again, that unwholesome gleam. Genevieve shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She supposed MacCleary was a handsome fellow, in a smooth, unctuous sort of way. She just didn't like him much.
She leaned back in the chair, turning to face Francine, who sat at her left. Her cousin was eng
aged in some involved conversation with Henry, and didn't notice her. She looked up.
Eyes – black and piercing – locked with hers. She was floored by the depth of feeling there. Like two coals, they burned with some intense feeling she had never thought to see. She saw the gaze was not directed at her, but at MacCleary.
“...and you would agree, milady?”
His unctuous voice cut through to her where she sat beside him. She turned, aware that he'd been asking her something or other.
“Excuse me, milord,” she said, feeling shaken. “I wish to go outside to take the air before dinner.”
“Of course.”
Nodding to Arabella, she stood and briskly headed through the back door of the room.
The parlor was on the second floor, two rooms down from the library, which opened out onto a lovely terrace. She had discovered the place earlier when looking for the gallery. She went through, opening the door onto blissful quiet. She leaned against the railings, breathing in a lungful of fresh, cold night air.
“I don't like that fellow. Not at all.”
Adair was taciturn, aloof and confusing. MacCleary was downright disquieting. She shuddered, recalling his fingers reaching for her upper arm. He would have said it was an accidental meeting, but she knew he'd intended to touch her.
“I wish Papa knew how hard this is.”
She leaned on the rail, looking down into the garden below. A knot garden had been made there, she noticed, hedges – black in the darkness – laid out in squares and circles, making an intricate maze. She felt wistful, looking at it: It was slightly more unkempt and simpler than the one at her home in Malpons, but it was close enough. If she squinted at it, she could almost believe it was the one at home.
She sniffed, thinking of her papa, alone in the chateau. She'd written one letter to him – concealing information between lines of everyday talk – but had no idea if it would reach him within the month.
“Milady?”
She turned, jumping with fright. A man had sneaked up to almost within an inch of her. She tensed, thinking it MacCleary, but she knew the voice. “Oh. You,” she said.
Shadowy Highland Romance: Blood of Duncliffe Series (A Medieval Scottish Romance Story) Page 12