“I remember now,” North said slowly, staring down at that huge book. “My father spoke of this when I was a small boy. He told me stories of King Mark to send me off to sleep at night, stories of how if men couldn’t trust their beloved nephews, probably their best friends and their brothers as well, then civilization would crumble.” He riffled through the rest of the pages. “It appears that my father wrote only an odd dozen pages. Tell me if he says anything earth-shattering, Caroline.”
She nodded.
“I should prefer believing King Arthur was buried here,” Flash said, peering over North’s shoulder at the thick tome. “He was surely a more dashing fellow, more famous, what with old Merlin, and his Round Table and all. Just think, the Holy Grail could be buried on Nightingale land.”
“You’re right,” Caroline said. “King Arthur is much more romantic. Not all that many people even know about poor old King Mark. What is this, North? You’re looking skeptical. You’re young enough to be converted. Perhaps in your doddering years you, too, will write about poor old Mark and how he’s buried twenty feet beneath the apple trees down the east slope.” She’d looked briefly through the immense number of journal entries, the philosophic meanderings, the occasional map and offered proof of King Mark’s presence here, and had seen immediately that no women had penned a word or offered an idea about Arthur or anyone else. Of course, not many women were given credit for ever having an idea. Or, in the case of the Nightingales, the misogyny obviously went deeper, it had to go deeper, witness the aversion in which Coombe, Tregeagle, and Polgrain held her. As there were no portraits of a single woman she’d seen here at Mount Hawke, there were no writings either. Why? What the devil had happened? Of course it had something to do with betrayal. By North’s great-grandmother? Goodness, if that were true, the Nightingale men had very, very long memories.
She looked up to see Flash studying her closely. “Do I still have the shadow of the pilchard head on my chin?”
“Oh no, Miss Caroline. Actually, I was thinking that the captain’s wife, Lady Victoria, would enjoy meeting you. She gives the captain, er, Sir Rafael, fits, makes him yowl with rage, and he quite enjoys it.”
“I should like to meet her,” she said with little enthusiasm. She had more on her plate now than a vicar had on his collection plate in a church full of converts.
“Caroline,” North said. “Flash will get on with it now and I’ll see that your stomach doesn’t shrivel into dust. I won’t be long.”
It wasn’t Coombe or Polgrain or Tregeagle who delivered her dinner. It was North himself and it was obvious that he had overseen the preparation. There was enough baked pork for a good dozen feasters and at least a half-dozen other dishes, all covered with highly polished silver domes.
“Eat,” he said, and sat down in his chair beside her bed. He waited until she’d forked some of the delicious flaky pork into her mouth before he said, “Rafael Carstairs was a ship captain, a spy, really, for our war office, doing all the harm he could to Napoleon on the seas. When he came home after it became known who he really was and what he was really doing, he was asked to destroy a revived Hellfire club. You know the sort of thing—young men debauching to their hearts’ content. He did destroy the club and was then knighted. He’s an identical twin, and his brother is Baron Drago, and therein lies a tale for a long winter night. As for Rafael, however, Flash still calls him Captain. He’s helping me with the tin mines here at Mount Hawke. Wheal David in particular needs many repairs. There’s flooding from God knows where and I don’t know what equipment I need to buy to stop it or where the flooding is even coming from. It’s strange; it’s very near to one of yours: Wheal Kitty, which is running smoothly as a damned carriage with new wheels.”
“I’ve only spoken to my manager once, but he seems competent. His name is Mr. Peetree. Why don’t you speak to him and see what he has to say?” North nodded and she forked down another bite of the most delicious buttery boiled potatoes. But she wondered about her own tin mines. Mr. Peetree had told her everything was dandy, but on the other hand, she was a female and thus perhaps he didn’t believe her capable of understanding any problems the mines might be having. She frowned, resolving to speak to Mr. Peetree again.
“What are you frowning about? Does your head hurt?”
“Oh no, I was just remembering that I’m a female.”
“Surely it can’t be all that difficult to keep in mind.”
She laughed. “You’d be surprised. Really, I was just now wondering if perhaps there are problems in my own tin mines from which Mr. Peetree is protecting me.”
“If he has half a brain, he isn’t.”
“Thank you,” she said, reached out her hand, saw him frown at it, and drew it back.
He kept frowning, down at his boots now. “Rafael Carstairs seems to love his wife. I heard them laughing when I was still outside. Then I saw him kissing her.”
She swallowed, cocking her head to the side in question. “Why ever shouldn’t he love his wife?”
North merely shrugged and looked put out with himself for having said anything. “Nothing. She’s a woman, pretty, I suppose, but nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Well, her captain obviously thinks her beyond the ordinary.” She pushed a pile of peas into a small mound of potatoes and began mixing them together, saying, “Have you ever thought a woman beyond the ordinary, North?”
“No.”
“You’re very young yet, and a man. Perhaps you do need seasoning, perhaps even more ripening, before you’re able to attach yourself properly to a lady.”
“Perhaps, but doubtful. Is that what you believe Rafael Carstairs has done? Attached himself?”
“It sounds like it, according to Flash Savory. They sound as if they’re much in love.”
North grunted, saying only, “They probably haven’t been married all that long.”
“Not only are you not ripe, you’re a cynic. It doesn’t become you, North.”
He only shrugged. “Your pregnant girls will be arriving at Scrilady Hall tomorrow.”
“Coward,” she said under her breath but not under enough. However, he didn’t say anything. “Oh dear,” she added, choking on the tender bite of baked pheasant she’d just swallowed. “My pregnant girls. Oh dear.” She grabbed for a glass of water and drank deeply. She managed to catch her breath and wheeze out, “Oh, goodness, I must be there, North. I am feeling fine. Another night in this magnificent bed will see me fit as Mrs. Tailstrop’s pug, Lucy, a repellent animal but healthy nonetheless.”
“I’ll have Dr. Treath come and check you over tomorrow morning.”
“No, truly, I’m fine, North.” She gave him a crooked smile. “Besides, all your male minions will be so happy to see the back of my skirts, they’re likely to dance the waltz in the entrance hall. It’s a sight I don’t want to miss.”
“It’s possible. Very well, I’ll see you home tomorrow morning.”
“North?”
He turned and raised a dark eyebrow. His shining dark hair swung over his brow and onto his cheek and he looked as dangerous and brooding and as utterly fascinating as any gothic hero could ever look.
He looked magnificent and she said, “Perhaps you’d like to kiss me good night?”
14
HE FLINCHED AS if he’d been struck. The dark brooding hero was gone. In his place was a man who wanted to take flight immediately. He looked panicked. “No,” he said. However, after just a moment of hesitation he quickly walked back to her. He leaned over, lightly took her chin in his palm, and brought her face upward. “Damnation,” he said, his warm breath touching her flesh, “your mouth is delicious and soft and—” He kissed her then, teasing her with his tongue, caressing her mouth with his, lightly nipping at her lips, then licking where he’d nipped. He took her face between both his hands and sat down beside her. “This isn’t a good idea,” he said, and began kissing her again. “It’s a wretched idea. Any idea that feels like this has to be not onl
y bad, but dangerous as the Devil’s right hand.” His tongue glided over her bottom lip and the pressure deepened. She parted her lips to him and felt a jolt of sharp pleasure at the taste and feel of him in her mouth.
“Oh goodness,” she said, then wrapped her arms around his back, pulling him down with all her strength.
He did try, he truly did, to pull himself off her, but before he knew it, he was lying his full length on top of her and he could feel her belly beneath him through the covers and her nightgown.
He was pushing at her, not meaning to, but unable to stop himself. His mouth was more insistent now and his hand went unerringly to her breast. It was the touch of her soft flesh through the light lawn nightgown, her woman’s flesh fitting so perfectly into his hand that made him very nearly leap off the bed. He stood there over her, panting hard, his eyes nearly crossed with lust, knowing that if she weren’t so damned innocent she’d look at him and see how desperately he wanted her, to take her now, with no more of kissing or caressing, just thrust himself into her and feel her closing around him and knowing, simply knowing, that it would be unlike anything he’d ever known in his life.
“You’re leaving in the morning,” he said, panting as if he’d just run a mile. “You must. I can’t take this, I simply can’t.”
He strode away from her, not pausing even when she called out, “You’re being a coward again, North. A bloody coward.”
He slammed the door behind him.
Both Dr. Treath and his sister, Bess Treath, visited Caroline again the following morning. As before, Miss Treath sat off to one side, ready to assist her brother should he ask her to. He sat down beside Caroline, took her wrist between his fingers, and looked at his pocket watch.
“Excellent,” he said after a bit. “Normal as can be. Let me see your eyes.” He leaned closer and she felt his breath on her face, warm and minty. It didn’t do at all what North’s breath did to her. She just wished he’d finish. She closed her eyes then as he felt the bump on her head.
“That’s going down as well. Do you have a headache this morning?”
“Oh no. I feel fine, truly.”
She felt his hands lightly skimming over her throat to her shoulders. He leaned against her chest, listening to her heart.
“She looks fit, Benjamin.”
Caroline opened her eyes to see Bess Treath standing over her next to her brother.
Dr. Treath smiled down at her, taking her hand in his as he did so. He squeezed her fingers. “She has the look of Eleanor, doesn’t she, Bess?”
“Perhaps a bit. There’s a goodly dollop of deviltry in those green eyes of hers, but Eleanor was different, so filled with fun and laughter and so very beautiful. Caroline will have to grow into her kind of beauty. Let her be herself.”
Dr. Treath smiled. “She does have her own beauty, but there is a look of Eleanor about her, despite what you say.” He rose, still looking down at Caroline. “His lordship tells me he’s taking you to Scrilady Hall this morning if I agree to it. I do. You’re fit again. However, I will come to see you tomorrow morning. No sense in taking any chances.”
Bess Treath smiled down at her and gently shook her hand. “You are yourself, Miss Derwent-Jones. I hope you didn’t take my words amiss. Your aunt was very special in her own right, particularly to my brother, as I’m sure you know. I will also see you tomorrow. Good luck with the sparrows.”
“What sparrows?”
“The pregnant girls,” Dr. Treath said. “My sister has an interesting sense of humor.”
Caroline leaned back her head, watching the two of them leave beneath slitted eyes. Why hadn’t North come up with Dr. Treath?
She asked him when he was assisting her down the great stairs of Mount Hawke. She didn’t need the support, but she enjoyed the feel of his arm beneath her hand, the closeness of him. She wondered if he felt anything at all this morning or if men’s lust was reserved only for the evening hours.
“I had other matters to attend to,” he said only, not looking at her.
“What other matters?”
He did look at her then, stopping on the stairs. “I don’t recall thinking it was any of your business. Prying doesn’t become you, Caroline. Why do you ask?”
“It would seem to me that your male minions would demand that you monitor Dr. Treath so that you could assure them that I was fit as a stoat and ready to leave here within the hour.”
“Ah, but that happened anyway. Just look, Caroline, all of them lined up to bid you a fond farewell. A pity they’re not waltzing.”
“I hope they all rot,” she said under her breath, but he heard her and chuckled. It was a nice sound, that raw chuckle of his.
“Miss is leaving,” Tregeagle announced when she hadn’t yet even reached the bottom step.
“Yes,” she called out, “but I’ll be returning for dinner. Won’t that be nice, Coombe?”
“I daresay it could be pleasant,” Coombe said, “but I fear that Mr. Polgrain is beginning to suffer from a severe migraine. The good Lord knows what we’ll be eating this evening. Perhaps you’d best wait, miss. Yes, you’d best favor Scrilady Hall with your custom this evening.”
She laughed. They were really quite good, all of them. “Well, in any case, do tell Polgrain that even though I enjoyed the pilchard head thoroughly, my guests nearly vomited upon viewing it.”
“Surely that is too stark a word, miss,” Tregeagle said. “Far too vulgar for a Female Person to use. Perhaps retch is less offensive. Ah, look, I’ve opened the front door for you and there is Mr. Owen all ready to take you away from… to take you home.”
She said nothing more, just walked beside North onto the wide, very worn front steps of Mount Hawke. Owen was dutifully standing beside an ancient gig, pulled by an equally ancient old cob.
“Goodness, Owen, where did you unearth that thing?”
“Good morning, North, Caroline. Mrs. Trebaw insisted you must be pampered, Caroline, thus this relic. I just hope the wheels don’t fall off.”
Caroline turned to North and laid her hand on his sleeve. “Thank you,” she said simply. She wished she could tell Owen to take the ancient gig and drive it to London, anything to give her more time with North, but she said instead, “Will you come dine with us this evening?”
He shook his head and said, “Yes.”
She smiled wickedly, lightly touched her fingers to his chin, then stood on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek, her tongue lightly touching his warm flesh. She said into his ear, “There, that should have Polgrain, Coombe, and the inimical Tregeagle in a dither for at least an hour.”
He was breathing quickly, wanting her right this moment, here on the front steps, perhaps in the gig with her sitting on his legs, or bent over, leaning on the opposite seat of the gig, her petticoats thrown up about her head—good Lord, the gig didn’t have an opposite seat. He was fast becoming a half-wit, a lust-sodden fool. North shook his head. He gave her the coldest look he could dredge up. “Damn you, Caroline, you did that on purpose.”
“Yes, but it was so very nice, North. I will see you this evening. Now, I’m off to see that everything’s in order for my pregnant ladies.”
“Take care,” he said. “Tonight, you and Owen and I will discuss what the devil to do with his damned father.”
“Er, North,” Owen said, drawing close. “Your men haven’t kept him in a dungeon, have they?”
“No, Owen, he’s in a small room up there in the east wing. He isn’t happy, but on the other hand, he isn’t free to go after Caroline again.”
“If he saw Caroline kissing you then he must realize that all will soon be lost.”
North jerked as if he’d been shot. “What the hell does that mean, Owen?”
“Why, the two of you, the way Caroline looks at you and she’s always smiling when you’re nearby and touching you whenever you’re close enough to touch. And you, North, your eyes get all dark when she’s about and you look at her like a man would at a meal when he hasn�
�t eaten for a week, and well, it’s very obvious to everyone that, well, that is—”
“Nothing is obvious to anyone,” Caroline said. She firmly took Owen by the arm and led him to the gig. “Do you want to drive, Owen, or shall I?”
Owen was staring up at the east wing, his body suddenly as stiff and tense as a maiden aunt at a horse mating. “Oh dear, do you think he’s watching us?”
“I hope so,” she said, then grinned and kissed Owen lightly on his chin, and hugged him tightly for a moment. She gave him another kiss for good measure. “There,” she said with a good deal of satisfaction, “let him think I’ll be a bigamist.”
“Caroline!”
“Oh goodness, Owen, don’t be such a prissy prude. Now, let’s go home.”
Owen clicked the old nag forward and Caroline found herself looking back at Mount Hawke. North was still standing on the steps staring after her. She raised her hand and waved. He turned and strode back into the castle.
North hadn’t really seen her, she thought. He was perhaps shortsighted, that was it. He hadn’t seen her wave. She shivered then as she looked upward at the third floor of the east wing. Somehow she knew Mr. Ffalkes was there by the window, watching her, watching and waiting and planning.
Caroline looked at each of the three young women who were now her responsibility and hers alone. Only one of them was younger than she—Alice, only fourteen years old, her belly huge on her thin body. She was so very pale and frightened; if Caroline ever met up with the man who’d forced her, she was certain she’d kill him. She felt such fury for a moment that she held herself very still and very silent.
When she’d managed to control her rage, she said, “Would you like another biscuit, Alice?” This time, she was careful not to make any sudden movements. She’d already done that and poor Alice had nearly jumped out of her pregnant skin. “They’re filled with currants and ever so delicious. Mrs. Trebaw thinks we need to fatten you up a bit.”
The Nightingale Legacy Page 15