by Jo Goodman
“Nick hasn’t gone to bed yet?”
“No. When last I saw him he was passed out in his favorite chair in the study.”
“Drank him under the table, did you? Do you remember the time—”
Rhys shook his head. It was not the time for memories. “I won’t ask again, Kenna. What do you want?”
It didn’t seem real to her any longer, not the questions she was going to ask, not the half-formed thoughts that had tumbled about her head since she had seen Rhys beside Old Tom’s body. She couldn’t remember why she thought the things she did, couldn’t concentrate on anything when she was this close to Rhys and he was searching her face with his smoky eyes. “Did you send for the authorities?” she asked finally.
It was a beginning, Rhys thought, and he went along with it. “Yes, Nick and I talked to them. McNulty and Wilver. I believe those were their names. They seemed like good men. They certainly asked a lot of questions. They wanted to talk to you, but Nick wouldn’t let them. They’ll probably be back in the morning after they talk to Tom Allen’s sons.”
“I’d like to speak to them,” Kenna said. “I want to help.”
“I know you do. I think there is every chance they’ll find the poacher. If they don’t, Nick will. He was livid when I told him about the trap on his land and your own narrow miss of it.”
“He’s going to be angry with me for not telling him right away.”
“I think he’s calmed down. In the morning his head will be throbbing too hard to give you proper scold.”
“Is that why you’re being kind to me now? Your head’s throbbing, too?”
“I never mean to be unkind to you, Kenna. Sometimes—well, too often you strike a nerve and I say things I regret. But then you are not so different from other women there. You always knew you could hurt me.”
But I didn’t know that at all, she wanted to say. Of late Rhys’s mind seemed impenetrable to her. She never could guess what he was thinking or feeling. She had concluded he thought overmuch and felt not at all. She could not find the words to express what she was thinking and perhaps it was just as well. She did not know what to make of this softening, this new vulnerability, she felt toward Rhys. She steered the conversation back to her original intention.
“Do you really think Old Tom was killed by a poacher, Rhys?”
“No.” He couldn’t find it in himself to lie to her now, no matter what she would make of it.
“I don’t either,” she said slowly.
“Do you still think I did it?”
Kenna’s fingers curled around the belt of her robe and she toyed with the knot. “I did. Earlier. I don’t know any more.”
“Yet you came here. Why? Did you think I might confess?”
He had caught her out so neatly that she gave a little start.
“Don’t bother to answer. I can see that you did,” he said mostly to himself. It was no more than he expected but it still had the power to disappoint him. He reached his innermost soul for calm when all he could feel was a rising anger. “Let us suppose I did kill Tom—”
“I said I wasn’t certain any longer.”
He waved aside her hasty reminder. “For the sake of argument, let us say I did kill Tom. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Do not play the scatter-brain for me now. Why would I kill Old Tom? You must have some theory.”
“I thought he could have identified the trap.”
“As mine?” Rhys asked, clearly incredulous. “Kenna, be serious.”
“I didn’t think he would know it was yours,” she said quickly. “But mayhap he would have known if it was made locally and if it was, it could be traced to the purchaser.”
“That’s a quite a bit of speculation,” Rhys said dryly.
“Well, I didn’t think you’d have carried the thing the whole way from London so, of course, I thought you bought it locally.”
“Why would I be carrying the damnable contraption in the first place? I can hunt on Dunnelly lands freely if I have a mind to. Why must I resort to a trap?”
Kenna drew in a deep breath and said in a rush, “Because it had to look like an accident, you see. You knew where I rode every morning, you said so yourself. And if Pyramid had found the trap who would suspect it was you who had laid it? Who would have considered you set the trap before you announced your arrival and that you came to ride with me only to steer me and my horse toward the trap. I would have been thrown and trampled and no one would have thought of you.” Her hands were trembling now. “It would have been some poor poacher who would have been held for the blame. Perhaps even Tom Allen.”
“My God!” Rhys breathed heavily. He got up from the bed, shoving his hands in his pockets to keep from making Kenna’s words come true. At that moment there was little that would have given him more pleasure than strangling her. He sat down beside her and when she recoiled from what she saw in his face, the terrible anger that had hovered near the surface finally broke through. His hands came out of his pockets and he grasped her shoulders, shaking her first then doing the only thing that would give him more pleasure than throttling her.
He kissed her.
Chapter 2
Kenna’s eyes opened wide and her lips closed in a mutinous line as Rhys’s mouth met her own. She recoiled from the hard, angry pressure of his mouth and tried to push at his chest with her palms. Rhys was having none of her resistance. He caught her wrists in his hands and held them at her side. At the same time, he gave her a little jerk and moved Kenna so her back was flush to the ice-flowered window panes.
A small whimpering sound came from her throat as Rhys began to deepen the kiss. It was as though her heart was being wounded and healed in the same moment. The feel of the rough, wet edge of his tongue outlining her lips was more startling than it was unpleasant. Some part of her wished it were otherwise. She did not want to feel anything but contempt for his hard, silencing kiss. This was not the loving, gentle kiss she had once hoped to receive, not the infinitely tender, intimate caress she had believed she could reciprocate. It did not seem that Rhys wanted anything from her.
She was wrong.
“Open your mouth,” Rhys said against her lips.
Kenna gave a small negative shake of her head, then ruined the effect by whispering her refusal, Rhys’s mouth captured the small puff of air and drew the breath from her lungs.
She tasted sweetly innocent, a little like chocolate, and Rhys realized she must have had a cup of hot cocoa in her room. He knew there was nothing remotely innocent about the way he touched her, tasting of whiskey and tobacco. This was not the kiss he had wanted to give, not for her first kiss, and Rhys knew it was that. It occurred to him that she did not deserve an initiation to intimacy that was conceived of anger and despair but he did not want to stop. His tongue swept the slightly uneven line of her teeth, pushing deeper when she gave a tiny gasp that was part shock, part surrender.
Rhys released her wrists and there was an instant when only their mouths were touching, when Kenna could have renewed the battle, but didn’t. Encouraged, Rhys’s fingers tugged at the knotted sash of her dressing gown and when it fell open he slid his arms around her, supported her back and drew her closer. Her breasts were crushed to his chest and he could feel them swelling, hardening with the contact. He ached to touch them with his hands, cup their firm roundness, arouse the tender, sensitive tips, but he held back, instinctively knowing the liberty would force her to fight him again.
Rhys softened the kiss when he felt her first tentative response, the wider opening of her mouth to accommodate his hunger. He drew back slightly, a breath away, and searched her eyes for the permission his body craved. He saw bewilderment, even fear, but he also saw the evidence of the need she could not name.
His anger faded. He touched his mouth to hers lightly. Then again. Again. Her head swayed weakly to one side as if too heavy to be supported by the slender column of her throat. His lips grazed her cheek, the telling pulse in her
neck. He buried his face in her damp hair and whispered her name against her ear. His mouth hovered near her eyes and when she closed them he kissed the pale lids and fan of dark lashes.
Kenna’s hand rested lightly on his shoulders, fluttered there like uneasy songbirds, then were still. She did not know what was happening to her. She could not reconcile within herself that she was experiencing desire for someone she professed to fear and despise. Yet Kenna could not deny the peculiar drugged sensation she felt in her arms and legs, nor could she ignore the uneven beat of her own heart and the warm, oddly liquid feeling that seemed to radiate within her.
“Rhys?” She choked on his name as his mouth was evoking pleasant sensations on the cord in her neck. Kenna wanted to make him stop; he was confusing her with his experienced mouth and hands. “Please. No more. Don’t…” Her voice was silenced by the return of his lips to hers. She felt herself helpless under the sweet pressure of his mouth and tongue. His fingers were spread across her back, his thumbs just narrowly brushing the underside of her breasts. One of his hands moved, sliding along the length of her spine and in that instant Kenna became detached, moved outside of herself and saw another couple similarly entwined. The man’s strong hands were gloved and the woman’s were petite and elegant. He was wearing black and she was as bright as sunrise. The highwayman was slipping his hand along the Elizabethan lady’s back, crushing her to him.
Kenna pushed with all her might against Rhys’s shoulders, shoving him sideways so that she could bolt across the window seat. She huddled in the corner, drawing her robe together and wiping her swollen, cherry-red mouth with the back of one hand. Her dark eyes were awash with tears that would not fall and they glistened in the firelight like twin stars.
Rhys leaned forward, reaching for her hand, but she drew up her knees and hid her face in shadow. He looked at his hand in disgust, saw the slight trembling and withdrew it, busying himself with the belt of his own robe. He got up from the window bench but did not walk away. Instead he stared at the frosted panes and imagined the great expanse of Dunnelly land beyond his vision, blanketed by the falling virgin snow. Someone was moving out there, he could make out the path of swinging lantern light and he tensed. The light was not moving toward the stables as he had first thought, but away, toward the summerhouse and the sea.
He wished he had not seen it, even now he wished he could ignore it. But it was, in part, the reason he had returned to Dunnelly and for the moment it was more pressing than the woman at his side.
“Kenna, I want you to leave,” he said, turning away from the window. He drew the heavy velvet drapes so the night walker could not see in. It was a risk in itself, for the man might easily notice one of the lights winking out from the manor. It was the slim possibility that Kenna might be seen from the yard that made him take it.
Kenna was too numb to bristle at the rude dismissal. No apology. No comfort. Just, “I want you to leave.” She was afraid to say anything that would arouse his anger and cause a repetition of events just passed. She nodded dumbly and edged off the seat, careful not to call attention to her legs by keeping them covered. Head bowed to hide her shame, her face curtained by the heavy fall of her red-gold hair, she began to gather her own belongings. The nightgown and robe were still damp and had watermarked the back of the chair they lay on. She rubbed at the stain.
“Leave it,” Rhys ordered. Nothing in his hard and finely etched features gave away the ache he felt for her.
Without a word her hand dropped away, falling uselessly to her side. She glided like a wraith toward the door, silent, graceful. She touched the brass handle just as Rhys called her name, giving it a pained little sound, but she did not turn.
“Kenna. I…we’ll talk in the morning.”
She turned then, finding strength in the nearness of her escape. “I doubt if we shall talk again, Rhys. About anything. Ever.” She had no idea whether Rhys intended to protest her statement or not. She was shutting the door behind her in the next moment and in her room a little later, crying herself to sleep.
Before Kenna’s head touched the pillow Rhys was dressed and pulling on his boots. His greatcoat was downstairs but he knew where he was going his jacket would serve him just as well. He checked the corridor before he left his room and walked quietly down the hallway until he reached the south wing. It would have been easier for him if he had been given a room here, but the wing was seldom used except when Dunnelly was receiving great numbers of guests. On his left he counted down three doors, cursing his luck as he found it locked. Nothing he was ever commissioned to do was simple and he intended to let the Foreign Office hear directly that he was through with these cloak and dagger matters. Rhys had opened enough locks in his years of service for the crown that this one posed few problems. From an inside pocket in his jacket he extracted a slim leather pouch which held the finely crafted implements of the vocation he had once volunteered for and now could not escape. He selected a thin pick and inserted it into the lock, twisted it twice until he heard the tell-tale click. He tested the door handle. It opened without a creak in protest.
Rhys ducked inside quickly, locking the door behind him. He paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark and put away his pick. The room was much the way it had been when he first discovered it the night of the tragic masque. The furniture, even in this unused wing, was cared for with the same attention given to the rooms occupied by the Dunnes. Still, Rhys was careful not to touch anything in case the maids had been less than conscientious about their duties and he left incriminating dust-free fingermarks behind him. He immediately walked to the window and drew back the drapes just enough so he had a view of the sea. The lantern light was gone but Rhys had not really expected it to be within his sight. The curtain fell back and Rhys moved to the dark walnut panels on the right side of the fireplace. He touched the base of one of them with the toe of his boot, applying pressure gently while he pressed the upper two corners with his thumbs. There was a faint noise as a catch was released and the panel gave way in front of him. He caught the panel before it fell, for it was not hinged like a door, and stepped inside. A cobweb brushed his face as he replaced the panel. It was an annoyance, but also a good sign. It meant the passageway had not been used for some time, perhaps not since his last visit two years ago. That in itself struck him as odd, for he was certain he was not the only one at Dunnelly who knew of its existence.
Rhys groped in the dark to find the lantern that he had left behind on a previous trip. He swung it gently, swishing the oil around, then struck a match against the stone wall and touched it to the wick. He took a moment to adjust the light then began the steep descent of the dusty stairs in front of him. The steps were narrow and creaked ominously beneath his weight. He paid no attention to the noise and concentrated on not falling. The staircase was an economical spiral, taking up very limited space between the walls of the manor. He had never counted the steps but he knew there were well over one hundred and as he neared the bottom their edges were slippery, covered with sprinklings of moss as were the damp stone walls he used for support.
When the staircase ended, well underground of the manor cellars, Rhys’s environment changed. The stone walls, constructed by laborers hundreds of years earlier, vanished. On either side of him and beneath his feet was smooth, sheer rock. The passageway he walked through was cut by a natural underground water source eons before the builders of Dunnelly found it and connected it to the house. Having seen the Dunne ancestral portraits in the gallery Rhys could well imagine any one of them in the role of patron to the smugglers. It was easy to think of a ship, laden with booty from a pirate vessel or with treasure from the New World, anchoring off Dunnelly’s shore and bringing the best of the prizes to the family, then paying tribute to the queen. He wondered if Kenna knew of her family’s less than honest past.
He grimaced, tucking the thought of Kenna away. He would not, could not, think of her now. The passageway widened as it wended its way closer to the sea an
d eventually opened to a small antechamber. Rhys walked through four such chambers, each increasingly larger, until he came to the one in which Robert Dunne had been murdered. He did not enter it, indeed he could not, without attracting attention. There was a heavy stone that blocked his entrance and it could only be moved with the aid of the fulcrum and the steel bar lying near it. The stone could be edged up a narrow ramp so only the slightest touch from the other side was required to make it fall back, blocking the exit. It was not possible to reenter the corridors once the stone was in place. Rhys had tried it several times; even with tools he failed to budge it. The carefully constructed ramp on the other side kept it secured.
He was unafraid his lantern light would be seen. There was not even the tiniest crack through which light could escape to the chamber beyond. There was in one place, however, a pocket in the rock, making part of the natural wall thinner than in other places, allowing some sounds to carry to Rhys’s waiting ear. Unfortunately, though he could make out enough words to grasp the import of the conversation, the rock and the cave distorted voices.
Ever since he had seen the night walker heading toward the summerhouse Rhys had known the man would eventually come here. Even if he did not suspect anyone had seen him, common sense would have told him not to risk a conversation with his contact on the beach. The inner recesses of the cave were much safer, unless one knew about the pocket, and Rhys did not believe that was the case. He had only stumbled upon it after an extensive search of the chamber.
Rhys could make out at least two different speakers beyond the wall only because one of them tangled his speech with English and French while another spoke only English. There may have been more men in the room, it was difficult to know for certain but there seemed to be only two main speakers. If there had been any pleasantries they were well behind the men now, for they were now arguing over a matter that struck Rhys like a blow to his midsection.