“Ah hell,” he said, and then he kissed her.
Chapter Five
SURPRISE HELD HER MOTIONLESS. The arm about her waist drew her closer as his lips moved over hers, firm and demanding. Heat streaked through her and she opened to him, gasping as his tongue licked at her upper lip. Somehow, she’d grasped his shirt and it crumpled as her hands tightened, his heart beating wildly against her knuckles. A moan built in her, and she wanted to be closer to him, to have him so close she never lost him again, that he would be with her always.
Suddenly he was gone, his back to her, his shoulders heaving. “You should not be here,” he repeated darkly.
She raised her hand to her lips. She’d been kissed before, but never like that. Not like he would die if he didn’t. “What was that for?”
He stilled. “You had to know.”
“Know what?”
“There are bad people out there.” Emotions played over his features before he ducked his head. “I am sorry.”
She lowered her hand. “What are you sorry for?” she asked in a more normal tone.
“For…that.” He waved his hand in her general direction.
“You’re going to have to be more specific.”
Raising his head, he met her gaze. Guilt painted his features.
Realisation pierced her. “Oh,” she said in a small voice. Had he really kissed her to teach her a lesson?
“I am sorry,” he repeated.
Beside the fact it was grossly condescending and supremely idiotic, the first time he’d kissed her had been because he’d thought to teach her a lesson. She wasn’t ready to address the hurt, so she allowed anger to grow.
“I am truly sorry,” he said again. “I should not have done so. It was ungentlemanly of me and…. I was wrong. I apologise.”
“You kissed me as a lesson.”
His cheeks ruddied. “It started that way, but I—It—”
Anger and heartache warring within her. “A lesson, Maxim? I do not require a lesson. I am well aware this world holds dangers and horrors. My best friend disappeared when I was fifteen years old and we all thought him dead. I thought I had died with him. I could not breathe for the hole in my chest. I learned to smile, and I learned to laugh, but that hole remained. Reports came, of privateers and shipwrecks, and suddenly the world was filled with peril and treachery. The world had taken you from me, Maxim.” Tears burned behind her eyes. “I have long been aware this world is not safe.”
“I apologise,” he said softly.
She closed her eyes briefly. It had happened. Neither of them could change it. “Thank you.”
“Are you going to undertake your investigation?” he asked just as softly.
Grateful for the change in topic, she said, “I believe I shall.”
“May I join you?”
Conflicting emotion warred. “I don’t know....” Did she even want him to come? But over and above, he was still Maxim, for all that he’d made a move wrong-headed and dumb.
No expression crossed his face. “I can assist. I can carry heavy objects, hold your notebook when you do not require it, measure distances. If you require a second pair of eyes, mine are available.”
Macabre suggestions popped into her head and amusement tugged at her. “Can you remove them from your head?” she asked, as seriously as she could manage.
Clearly thrown by her question, his brow creased. “I beg your pardon?”
“The second pair of eyes. Can you remove them? Maybe I could keep them in my pocket.”
His lips twitched. “Though you would look strange with brown eyes,” he said, just as seriously.
She nodded gravely. “Hazel has been my eye colour of choice until now.”
He ducked his head, but not before she saw the half-smile on his lips.
Triumph rose, that she had managed to make him smile again. Clearing her throat, she said, “You may assist me, but you understand you must undertake my direction?”
He nodded once, sharply.
“Good. We shall investigate the north-facing rooms on the second floor first.”
“Really? Why?”
“They are the rooms facing the village. All the reports came from the village.”
He nodded again. “Do you remember the way?”
“Of course.”
“You’re going to go up the main staircase, aren’t you?”
“I—” She closed her eyes. Oh. She had forgotten. Opening her eyes, she found him looking at her with an expression one could almost term smug, if one were generous and discounted that his features were often inscrutable. “It’s rude to smirk.”
“I have no issue with you taking the stairs,” he said. “I’ll meet you there, shall I?”
“Maxim.”
“Such a novelty: someone else possessing a faulty memory.”
She looked at him sharply. His smile was almost a grin, and in that moment, he seemed so like her Maxim. Averting her gaze, she bit her lip against the roiling tide inside her. “Where is it?”
“Just outside the conservatory. Come.” He held out his elbow and she took it, curling her hand around the hard, unyielding muscle of his bicep, his shirt damp from the sandbags and his work.
Lifting her skirts, she grinned. “Let us traverse a secret passage.”
***
SECRET PASSAGES RIDDLED WAITHE Hall. Some were hewn into the rock, some were rickety wooden structures, some were less than three feet, and others wound almost the entire length of the Hall. They linked floors, servants’ quarters to the family bedrooms, the kitchen to the mews. They were a variety of styles, as if each earl of Roxwaithe added his own passage along with a section of the Waithe Hall. Family lore had it the Jacobites found them useful, as did the Catholics, and every rebellion Roxwaithe had ever felt sympathy towards.
As children, she and Maxim had delighted in discovering each one, keeping tally in her ever-present notebook, the same notebook in which Maxim had drawn pictures, silly doodles that had made her giggle. Over the years, she’d filled countless notebooks, all locked in a chest in her bedroom in London. The ones featuring Maxim’s drawings were close to the top, for when she had particularly missed him.
The passage from the corridor outside the conservatory to the hall on the second floor was of wooden construction, the staircase fairly sturdy despite its obvious age. They reached the top of the stairs and she followed Maxim as he confidently negotiated the narrow corridor, the lamp he held lighting the way.
He stopped, pressing a hand against the wall. She waited, but nothing happened.
“Is it—”
“It’s here,” he said. He pressed something and a panel slid open. Standing aside, he beckoned her. She passed him, glancing at him as she did so. He remained expressionless. She didn’t know why she was surprised.
Entering the room, she looked around. It was the earl’s bedchamber, the room large and airy, though like all the other rooms the furniture was draped in holland covers. Large windows looked over the gardens and, on a clear day, the chimney pots of Waithe Village could be seen in the distance.
“I remember this,” Maxim said suddenly.
Alexandra jumped almost a foot. “Don’t scare me like that!”
Unrepentant, he continued, “I remember traipsing around after you.”
“Oh. Well. Good.”
“You don’t understand.” Though his expression was neutral, his eyes were alight. “I remember. I didn’t remember anything, not for the longest time.”
“Congratulations.” Was that harsh? It seemed harsh, but then he had kissed her as a lesson.
A scowl drew his features. He looked like sullen child. A tall child with obscenely large muscles, and sulky full lips, and…she was stopping right there, thank you very much.
Certain her cheeks were red, she moved further into the room. There was nothing obvious that could be attributed to spiritual activity, but perhaps it was only at a certain time of night, or year, or…She frowned. Rain las
hed the window. What if the storm affected it?
Arms crossed, Maxim leaned his hip against what must be the dresser. “Are you setting out to prove it?”
“Prove what?”
He gestured. She wasn’t sure at what. “Your ghost.”
The mantelpiece contained an inlay of mother-of-pearl. Perhaps it shone in the moonlight? “I am not looking for proof. I am looking to discount every other possibility. Once that is done, whatever remains must be the truth.”
“Very scientific of you.”
“It is a science.” The sketch of the fireplace in her notebook looked slightly off. Oh well, she’d never been much good at pictures. “Would you take my notebook?”
He recoiled. “Why?”
What a strange reaction. “Because I need to take measurements and it will be easier if you write them for me.”
Shoulders hunched, he took the notebook from her.
She measured the facing width of mantelpiece first. “Facing width, three foot, seven inches.”
Brows drawn in concentration, he stabbed at her notebook.
“Mantel, five foot, two inches.”
And again. She repeated for each measurement. Regarding the fireplace, she said, “I think I am finished.”
He surrendered her notebook with something like relief.
She squinted at the page. The scratches he’d made could be numbers and letters. “You never could write neatly.”
Cheek turned toward her, he set his jaw. “This is frivolous.”
Surprised at the turn of thought, she asked, “What do you mean?”
“We are doing this simply because it brings us pleasure.” He made a circular gesture with his hand. “Frivolous.”
“It is serious.” In her ears, a hundred other voices—friends, acquaintances, society at large—chanted the same chorus, frivolous, frivolous, frivolous. “I am serious about this.”
“I mean no offence. My days have been working from dawn until dusk. This is…different.”
“It is work.” The chorus grew louder, adding her sister, her parents, her brothers.
He cocked his head. “Is it, though?”
“It is my work.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” she demanded
“I didn’t say anything,” he said.
“No, you just scoffed.”
“Scoffed? I did no such thing.”
“Yes, you did, because you just did it.”
“If I did—and I in no way am agreeing that I did—then you should—” The strangest expression came over his face. He didn’t continue.
“Then what?” she asked impatiently.
A full smile lit his face, turning him from darkly handsome to stunningly beautiful. The chorus could not compete with such splendour and she drew in her breath sharply, her heart beating wild.
He shook his head, still smiling, oblivious to the impact he’d had on her.
“What?” she managed.
“Banter,” he said.
“I beg your pardon?”
“We were bantering.”
“We were arguing,” she argued.
“Nevertheless. I haven’t done that in…” Thoughtfully, he rubbed his mouth. “Probably since I last did it with you.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t tear her gaze from his fingers running softly over his lips. She knew they were as soft as they looked. She knew his taste. “You still scoffed.”
He laughed. He actually laughed. Joy lit his face, his dark eyes warm.
Swallowing, she glanced away. It was too much. He made her feel too much. It was as if the emotion of eleven years that had been crammed inside her was expelling itself all at once.
Shaking his head, still smiling, he said, “So why do you hunt ghosts?”
Drawing in her breath, she pulled herself together. “I am a spiritualist and psychical phenomena inquiry agent.”
“So…you hunt ghosts.”
Opening her mouth to dispute him, she realised the folly in such an action. “I hunt ghosts,” she reluctantly admitted.
“Have you found one?”
“Not as yet.” She put her notebook in her pocket. “We should examine the next room.”
He nodded, standing aside to allow her to lead them through the door to the earl’s dressing room. “When did you start doing this?”
The earl’s dressing room was much smaller than the bedchamber. “Always.”
“Why do I not recall?
“You don’t recall much.”
A smile flirted with his lips. “Touché.”
The window was much smaller also, letting in only a portion of the weak light from bedchamber. Where was the lamp? Perhaps it was still in the earl’s chamber. They should retrieve it to assist with the examination of the room.
“You were always odd.”
Disturbed from her thoughts, she asked distractedly, “Pardon?”
A small smile played about his mouth. “You were always odd.”
Blinking, she glanced away. It didn’t hurt he thought so. She was odd. It was universally acknowledged. It didn’t hurt.
“We used to sail ships in the conservatory,” she said suddenly
Now it was his turn to be confused. “What?”
The memory popped into her head, holding whatever this…feeling was at bay. “When it flooded. We used to sail ships. We would pretend to be captains of rival countries and the warfare in which we would engage was the stuff of legends. Or, at least, we thought so.”
He studied her a moment. “Was your ship always green?” he asked finally.
“It is my favourite colour,” she defended.
“I know, you always—” He stopped abruptly. Just as she was beginning to wonder why, he continued softly, “You always picked green.”
Always. He had remembered she always picked green. Ducking her head, she resolved not to draw attention to his recollection unless he did. She would not push.
A quiet fell for some time as she moved around the room.
“You have discounted the possibility of the moon flashing off the windows?” he said.
“I have not yet discounted it,” she said. “It would be hard to establish at present, with the rain such as it is.” She glanced at him. “I have also considered the possibility it could be you, lurking and such.”
“Lurking?” His lips twitched.
She nodded. “And hulking. You have gotten extraordinarily large, you know.”
An almost-smile playing about his mouth, he shrugged, said large muscles moving distractingly under the thin fabric of his shirt. “I cannot help it.”
“You can help your muscles. Your brothers are not so large.”
“Are we really discussing my physique when we could instead be investigating?”
“You are right.” Squaring her shoulders, she got to work and ignored how his deliciously hulking presence made her breathless.
Chapter Six
THE WORDS ON THE page swam before him. Frowning, Maxim concentrated on making them still but they, stubborn bastards, changed order and shape, becoming nonsense. Most days, he could muddle through, but tonight he was tired and irritable, and that always made it worse.
Exhaling, he rubbed his eyes. He loved reading, he truly did, but it was always a struggle. What took others a moment took him four, and he knew it made him bothersome and slow. The pile of books on the table beside him was a challenge, but he would read every single one, even though he remembered his father sighing and directing him to more physical pursuits, even though his masters in America had cuffed him across the head whenever he’d had trouble reading their missives. He wore the scars of those displeased with his doltishness on his skin and on his soul.
Now, though, he had a whole library of books and no one to pester him. Well, no one but Alexandra. She sat in the chair opposite, her legs drawn up beneath her, frowning at her notebook as she pressed her pencil against her lips.
A flash of memory hit him, a younger Alexandra doing t
he same as they contemplated how best to explain to their respective parents the landslide wasn’t really their fault and there was no way anyone could have a) predicted it and b) prevented it.
The shaft of the pencil dug deeper into the fullness of her bottom lip. He drew in his breath, his body hardening as he thought of other things he could press against those soft lips.
Damnation. Closing his eyes, he rubbed his brow. He shouldn’t think such things, and especially not about her. He was a pent up mess of emotions, too cowardly to leave this hall and face his family. She deserved better than him.
Exhaling, he grabbed the cricket ball he’d placed on the table. He’d spied it in the nursery and something about it called to him, so he’d stolen it. It had felt familiar in his hand, the hard, shiny surface a comfort, his forefinger rubbing the raised seams. With a flick of his wrist, he flipped the ball in the air, caught it, flipped again. And again. And again.
Across the room, Alexandra’s frown increased.
She’d always been studious. When they were younger, she’d carried around notebooks, jotting down thoughts and observations. He’d stolen the notebooks, but the words had swum before him and so he’d drawn in them, little scribbles to make her smile. It had always awed him, that she was so clever.
All day they’d traipsed through the upper reaches of the house, she cataloguing and he holding her equipment. It should have been tedious, but he was beginning to believe nothing could be tedious with her. His life since he’d woken in America had been work—first as a servant in his rescuer’s home and then as longshoreman and, finally, as a sailor. He’d had little of ease and contentment, and he’d had no time to pursue an interest simply because one was interested, and certainly not one as strange as ghost hunting.
She’d always been odd, but he admired that about her. She was unconcerned with the expectation of others, and her parents had loved her, her siblings had looked up to her, and he…he’d loved her too. She’d been his best friend, his partner in crime, the person he turned to when he’d needed comfort.
Finding Lord Farlisle Page 4