Dark Obsession (20 page)

‘‘Indeed. Jonny, this is extraordinary. I’d no idea you were so talented.’’ He leaned again over the boy’s shoulder. ‘‘And this is the front of the house you’re drawing, isn’t it? I can hardly believe it, but you’ve captured far more than just the building. Somehow this picture speaks of the Grange’s history, the secrets and the intrigue. There’s a mood about it. . . .’’

As Grayson went on, Nora experienced a renewed burst of hope. He seemed genuinely pleased with his nephew’s work, sincere in his admiration. Perhaps Jonny—and art—would provide a common ground where it didn’t matter that they’d married for the sake of convenience, that they knew so little about each other, or that, except for a simmering physical attraction, most days they seemed hardly compatible at all.

‘‘Yes, it’s in the colors he chose.’’ She gazed with pride at Jonny’s work. ‘‘See how the clouds, the slate roof and the walls seem to blend into one another? We discussed how color can be very atmospheric.’’

Grayson’s head snapped up. ‘‘You and Jonny discussed?’’

‘‘Well . . . I discussed.’’ She tipped an apologetic nod, realizing she must learn to choose her words more carefully when it came to the child. ‘‘He listened and made good use of my advice. As you can see.’’

‘‘I certainly can.’’ Their gazes met, locked, heated by several degrees. His nostrils flared, and she could all but feel his desire curling like steam around her. But he didn’t reach for her, didn’t take her hand or lean in to kiss her again.

Abruptly he turned away and put several paces between them. ‘‘May I see what’s on the easel?’’

‘‘No!’’

He ground to a halt, hand freezing inches from the cloth that concealed the painting beneath. With an amused lift of his brows, he regarded her over his shoulder. ‘‘Nothing scandalous hiding under here, I trust?’’

It wasn’t his obvious reference to her nude portrait that sent flames to her face, but rather the fact that his curiosity showed no signs of abating. He continued around to the front of the canvas, prompting Nora to heft her skirts and hurry after him.

‘‘It’s nothing. Just a little project I started a few weeks ago.’’

‘‘I’d love to see it.’’

‘‘I’d rather you didn’t. It isn’t finished.’’ She stood behind him, willing him away and hoping he wouldn’t insist on unveiling the portrait she’d begun soon after they’d met.

It hadn’t been the most flattering likeness at first, for she had allowed her anger and frustrations about the marriage to color her work. She’d since begun alterations—a lightening of the shadows here, a warming of color there—but she was far from satisfied with the results.

He reached behind him with both hands and grasped hers. With a tug he pulled her arms around his waist. She leaned readily against him, her breasts pressing against his back in a way that made her wish they were alone.

He raised one of her hands to his mouth, nuzzling her fingers. ‘‘Show me,’’ he whispered.

She breathed a sigh that ruffled the hair across his collar. ‘‘Oh, if you insist.’’

She stepped from behind him, grasped the edge of the cloth and tugged. ‘‘Voilà. But remember, it is a work in progress, so don’t judge too harshly and don’t say I didn’t warn you.’’

He stepped forward—and went utterly still.

‘‘I don’t think it’s a terrible likeness, do you?’’ He didn’t answer, wasn’t listening. He just stood there glaring, a sheen of sweat glossing his brow and upper lip.

‘‘Gray?’’ Prickles of unease raised the hairs at her nape. ‘‘It isn’t that bad, is it? If you don’t like it I could—’’

‘‘Good God.’’ The whispered words seemed to shudder outward from some fissure deep inside him. The astonishment gripping his features hardened to something approaching horror. His mouth opened, forming a strangled sound that made no sense to her, that turned her blood to ice.

"Thomas."

"Gray, I don’t understand."

Nora reached for him, but the look of utter revulsion on his face made her drop her hands. Amid a rising perplexity, she searched the details of the painting. What did he see that she didn’t?

‘‘I told you I began it some weeks ago. I don’t suppose it’s very good—the tone is all wrong, but . . . Gray, why do you look like that?’’

‘‘Is this your bloody bad idea of a joke?’’

‘‘I don’t know what you mean. . . .’’

‘‘Good God, not from you.’’ His voice, thus far little more than a murmur, strengthened like gathering thunder, producing a current that ran beneath her skin. ‘‘I’d never have suspected this of you.’’

She stole a glance at Jonny, who tilted his head to study them from his place on the floor. ‘‘Please don’t be angry.’’

‘‘Angry?’’ His hands clamped her shoulders. He dragged her to him and pressed his face close until his labored breath lashed hot across her cheek. ‘‘And to think I’d begun to care . . . to trust . . . to . . .’’

His fingers tightened, lifted her to her toes. In the position he held her, her breasts strained against her bodice. Her skin prickled beneath his scrutiny, devoid now of all tenderness, all affection.

His grip bit into her with a savage edge that frightened her. In the feral glint of his eyes, in his blanched and barren features, she saw a man surely slipping from sanity. A man she no longer knew in the slightest.

‘‘Burn it.’’ He abruptly released her, sending her staggering backward until her shoulder hit the edge of the portrait.

Hints of doubt and remorse flickered beneath the anger blazing in his eyes. He pivoted and strode from the room.

Heart thrashing, Nora stood frozen, her shoulder pinned to the canvas where she’d struck it and tipped it askew. Slowly she mastered her breathing, caught control of her shaking hands by fisting them in her skirts. Then she turned and righted the painting on its easel.

‘‘Jonny, please come here.’’

The boy set his charcoal aside.

‘‘Tell me what you see,’’ she urged in a trembling whisper when he stood beside her. Then she remembered he would tell her nothing. She draped an arm around his shoulders and struggled to remain calm. ‘‘Look at this painting. Do you see anything but your uncle Grayson?’’

Without hesitation he shook his head. His bright blue eyes brimmed with questions. She smiled down at him, hugged him tighter.

‘‘Does the face remind you of anyone besides your uncle Grayson?’’

Another shake of the head.

She had to be sure, had to risk upsetting the boy in order to understand fully what had just happened. ‘‘Other than the fact they were brothers, does this picture remind you very much of . . . your father?’’

His small chin lifted against her side, prodding her ribs as he gazed steadily up at her. He shook his head.

‘‘Oh, Jonny . . .’’
What are we to do?
Wrapping her other arm around his slight frame, she pressed him to her and held on tight.

Grayson fled down the corridor, blind to all but the taunting, damning image burned into the corneas of his eyes.

When Nora unveiled the portrait, he’d seen his own likeness for the briefest instant. Then it was Thomas filling his view—Tom with his limbs flailing, his lips stretched in horror and the sea raging beneath him.

It hadn’t been a mere illusion, could not have been slanting sunlight working with his state of mind to transform one image into another. He
had
seen his brother’s face on that canvas, distinct and indisputable.

He forced his feet to move, dragged one after the other until he reached the stairs. As he groped his way down, he struggled to draw breaths through the choking mire that clogged his throat. He could swear the gargoyles carved into the newel posts snickered as he passed. What in this forsaken house didn’t mock him, didn’t accuse him of the most unforgivable of crimes?

The clunking of his boots on marble told him he’d reached the hall. The front door—escape—awaited mere paces away. But the hellish images chased him, and the faster he went the clearer it became that there was no escape.

Gravel shot out from beneath his feet and pelted the flower beds as he strode the pathway around the house. The same instinct that had sent him galloping across the moor earlier now brought him stumbling over the cobbles in the stable yard, groping his way to the wide double doors of the main entrance. He tugged at one of the handles, only to have the door stubbornly refuse to open. He backed up and kicked the door in.

‘‘Get me a horse,’’ he shouted to the dust motes inside. His demand met with the agitated snorts of the horses. ‘‘Devil take it, does anyone hear me? Have you all gone daft? I said I want a horse. Now!’’

He stood panting, chest heaving, pain slicing at his temples. The scents of damp hay and dung stung his nostrils and prickled his throat. Just as he was about to shout again, a voice drifted down the line of stalls.

‘‘I hear you, sir. I haven’t yet finished brushing Constantine down. Will another do?’’

‘‘Just bring me a horse and make it fast. I don’t need a damned saddle.’’

Edgar, one of the groom’s young assistants, came out of Constantine’s stall, holding a brush. He eyed Grayson with a puzzled expression, and seemed about to question his command.

Grayson forestalled him with a simmering glare and a terse, ‘‘Do as you’re told.’’

‘‘Yes, sir.’’ The young man set the brush down and trotted up the aisle into the tack room. Within moments he’d harnessed a roan gelding and was leading him to Grayson.

It was then he heard Nora’s shouts.

‘‘Gray! Don’t leave. Please, we need to talk.’’

Framed in the open stable door, he saw her running down the path, a flurry of muslin, petticoats and streaming hair. He didn’t want to see her; couldn’t face her just now. Snatching the reins from the groom’s hand, he led the horse outside to the mounting block, ignoring Nora as he climbed onto the horse’s back.

She came to a halt, bending at the waist to catch her breath. Then she moved quickly forward and caught hold of the bridle. ‘‘Don’t run off again like you did this morning.’’

‘‘Stay away from me, Nora.’’ He clucked to the horse and tried to swing its head around to loosen her grip.

‘‘No.’’ She dug in her heels and held fast, knuckles whitening around the leather straps. ‘‘Not until you explain.’’

‘‘You can’t understand.’’

‘‘I’ll toss the portrait in the hearth if you want. Just tell me why it upset you so.’’

‘‘You can burn it or tear it to pieces. It won’t change anything.’’ His voice eased a fraction. Despite what his eyes had told him, he knew she hadn’t painted Tom. Couldn’t have painted Tom. Never mind that she’d never met him. Gentle Nora would never do such a thing. He’d known that even as he had stood gaping at the portrait.

The alternative had been too ghastly to contemplate. Too . . . impossible. Yet he could not but believe that what he’d seen was a message from Tom himself, an admonition from the grave.

He sat atop the gelding, head bent and shoulders bunched, palms pressed to his forehead. Guilt burned his gullet while a relentless, throbbing pain threatened to tear his skull in two. Nora was talking, pleading, her voice a distorted echo in his ears. Nausea roiled, threatened to rise.

Unable to stand it a moment longer, he swung down, landing hard on his feet on the cobbles. Nora jumped back with a startled cry, but came just as quickly back to his side.

Her hand closed on his arm. ‘‘I can help you if you let me. If you’d only—’’

He spun away, glaring out over the green-carpeted paddock, seeing in its gentle tufts and hillocks the waves and rocks that had swallowed his brother. ‘‘You can’t help me. Destroying the painting can’t help me. I’ll be damned just the same.’’

‘‘That isn’t true. It can’t be true.’’

That fragile show of faith set off a tempest inside him. He whirled, lurched, caught her wrists as she attempted to back away. ‘‘Why didn’t you listen to the truth when you heard it?’’

‘‘I never heard anyone speak the truth. Not about me and not about you.’’

Such guileless trust undid him. He thrust his face in hers, his features clenched in painful knots. She shuddered but stared back as if daring him to say the worst. So be it. ‘‘They spoke the truth. At least about me.’’

‘‘I don’t believe it. I never will. Your brother’s death has left you distraught. . . .’’

‘‘It’s because of me he’s dead.’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘Do you believe he could have fallen from that cliff by accident? He knew every inch of Blackheath Grange like the back of his hand. He could have maneuvered up or down that headland with his eyes closed. We’d done it a thousand times as boys.’’

She went completely, utterly still. ‘‘What are you saying?’’

His hands fell to his sides. He raised his face and spoke to the clouds scuttling overhead. ‘‘Thomas was pushed.’’

Mute, she gaped, the whites of her eyes gleaming around irises gone deadly black. It was her very silence that challenged him, defied him, to finally speak the truth. All of it.

‘‘My brother is dead by my hand. Can I make it any plainer? I sent him over that cliff.’’

The color leached from her face.

‘‘Tell me now how you feel about your husband. Will you defend me to the gossipmongers? Will you write your mama about how wildly happy we are? Will you welcome me into your bed at night—me, with my guilty heart and my murderous hands?’’

The silence stretched, filled with the ironic gaiety of birdsong. He shut his eyes and listened to the crashing hammer of his heart. Why had he done that? Why hurt Nora so irrevocably? To ease his guilt? It hadn’t worked. No, God, he only felt more alone, more desolate.

Of its own volition his hand came up. ‘‘Nora . . . forgive me. . . .’’

A cool breeze skimmed his fingers. He opened his eyes and saw her retreating back, her fluttering hair, her skirts swirling around her ankles. He heard her muted footsteps as she ran toward the house.