Dark Obsession (38 page)

A burst of vexation sent Nora to her feet. ‘‘You speak always of truth, yet reveal nothing.’’

‘‘I’ve told you I cannot.’’
Another brush across her shoulders sent Nora spinning about, only to confront her bedside table.

‘‘At least tell me what’s happening to Grayson.’’

The voice faded, leaving her standing, trembling, alone in the middle of her room.

Did she—
could
she—trust herself? Her beliefs, her convictions, her ability to judge the world and the people around her?

She had loved him. Loved him still. Had she been utterly wrong to place her heart in his keeping? Her creature of darkness.
Hers.

Why? Because within the darkness she had seen something in him no one else had. Because she looked at the world differently than most people. What did solid objects, defined and finite, mean to her artist’s eyes? Eyes were frail things, easily tricked. Art had taught her to view the world with her instincts, her intuition, to see in terms of light and shadow, form and substance. The essence of a subject. The soul.

Had she seen his soul, or only what she wished, hoped, to see?

A small pair of pliers lay beside her hairbrush on the dressing table, left behind by Gibbs. She snatched them up and went to the wardrobe.

Just as she gave the wire one last twist to release the wardrobe from the panel, a current of air fluttered against her cheek.

‘‘I will never leave him,’’ she replied to the emptiness. ‘‘No matter what, I shall always be here to take care of him. I swear it.’’

An impulse, raised by a startling wisp of thought, had prompted Grayson to make his excuses to Chad and race up to his bedchamber. From there he had wasted no time in opening the sliding wall panel and taking the steps two at a time.

In the waning afternoon light, the garret’s small window angled a dull diamond pattern across the floor. Near his feet, the feather tick lay glowing in the murky shadows like a ghost at rest, which, in a way, it was. A phantom memory of this room’s original purpose.

A hiding place. By God, why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

After he and Tom had first discovered this room with its sparse contents, a series of recurrent events during their childhood had fallen repugnantly into place. Their father seemingly absent from the house for hours. Maids neglecting their work but, oddly, not sacked for it. Their mother complaining of strange noises traveling down the walls of her chamber, sounds no one could trace to their source. Even now, Grayson cringed to think of his overbearing, self-absorbed father trysting with his lovers here, above his wife’s head, and she none the wiser.

But this attic had once played a far more significant function, as a bit of research had divulged. Just as the sliding panels downstairs revealed no trace of what lay beyond, the feather tick, devoid of a frame, would make no telltale creaks in the night. The Lowell family, secretly and dangerously Catholic during Henry VIII’s Reformation, had needed a convenient and secure place to hide their priest.

As a testament to just how perilous England’s changing religious and political climate was then, the family had thought far enough ahead to realize the advantage of providing two ways into—and out of— this lair. One opened upon his bedroom.

The other . . . Nora’s. It couldn’t have been any more convenient.

He reached a decision. He would tell Nora of his suspicions concerning Chad. If need be, she and Jonny could take shelter here.

Planning to go to her, to break down the door between their dressing rooms if necessary in order to speak with her, he turned to descend to his room. The light patter of footsteps, slippers tapping on bare risers, stopped him short.

For what possible reason would she climb those stairs? Surely not to see him. He had played his deceit all too well these past three days. Yet as the sound drew closer, the air that should have occupied his windpipe was replaced by a piercing hope.

The attic door on her side opened, and still he mistrusted what his eyes told him. Surely the graceful shadow hovering on the threshold could only be another ghost come to haunt him.

‘‘I heard you up here.’’ Her whisper sent the breath surging from his lungs, brought tiny pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes.

In two strides he reached her and tugged her into his arms. Real. She was real. In his elation, he wrapped her tight, closing as much of his body as possible around her. ‘‘My paramour. You are here.’’

‘‘I am here.’’

The words brought him to his knees and she with him. There seemed no divisions between them; they were of one breath, one heat, one body joined at the arms and torso and lips.

A single reservation prompted him to ease his cheek from the warmth of hers. He pulled back to gaze into her lovely, infinite eyes. ‘‘I won’t ask you to forgive me. Not yet. But can you, do you—’’

‘‘Yes. I trust you.’’

The gift of that simple statement racked him with relief. He pressed her to him, surrounded himself with her, fought back tears as she folded her love around him.

Clothing came off, peeled away to blanket the floor and the pallet on which they sprawled. His world became the fire in her lips, the satin heat of her breasts, the scorching strength of her thighs squeezing for purchase around his waist.

As her moans filled his mouth, he drove into her, drove with his tongue and his loins and his soul.

‘‘Yours.’’ His whisper rasped in his throat, stinging with urgency. He drew nearly out of her, then plunged deep, deeper. ‘‘I am yours.’’

‘‘Yes. Mine.’’ She pushed up against him, impelling him deeper still. ‘‘As I am yours.’’

With a heave he rolled with her, setting her on top. She smiled down at him with the glory of a goddess and rocked her hips, swaying him toward sheer bliss. Rolling again, he arched above her, moving in and out, sliding, delving, churning their passion to a frenzy until her cries sent the room spinning about his head, and with a roar of redemption he unleashed his passion inside her.

A triflling thought drifted languidly through him, unable to do more than make his eyelids fllutter.

It must be nearing suppertime.

Then another thought: Chad could damned well eat without them.

Followed by another, one that admittedly spit venom through him. Chad could go to the devil.

But Nora always settled Jonny down to his supper in the schoolroom with Kat before descending to the dining room, and he knew tonight must be no different.

The rain had picked up again, slapped against the little window by gusts of wind. A cloud-ridden twilight lingered beyond the dusty panes, unable to penetrate the eaves. Darkness draped the room.

He didn’t need to see her to know she was there, her scant weight feather soft in his arms, her breathing butterfly delicate against his skin.

How he envied her ability to sleep so peacefully. How he loathed having to disturb her. He drew a long, luxuriating breath as a portion of her tranquillity flowed through him, relaxing him in a way he had not experienced in weeks. Months.

He kissed the crown of her head, nestled in the curve of his neck. ‘‘My paramour. Time to wake up.’’

‘‘Hm.’’ She burrowed deeper against his chest. ‘‘No.’’

‘‘I’m afraid so, my love. Jonny will—’’

She pulled up abruptly. ‘‘Yes, Jonny. He’ll be waiting for me.’’

When she would have pulled to her feet, he caught her wrist and tugged her back into his arms. ‘‘You needn’t run off this instant. Another minute or two shan’t make a difference.’’

After what they had just done, he didn’t have the heart to tell her about Chad. Not yet. What harm in waiting until after supper?

‘‘It’s grown so dark,’’ she said.

‘‘I’ll go downstairs for a lamp.’’ With a sigh he eased out from under her, then dragged his discarded shirt around her. ‘‘This will keep you warm till I get back.’’

He located his trousers and stepped into them.

‘‘Gray, wait. Perhaps there are candles in the escritoire.’’

‘‘Could be, I suppose.’’ In bare feet he shuffled to the little writing cabinet. He opened the drawers and the glass-encased shelves, feeling inside with his hands. ‘‘No, there’s nothing.’’

‘‘Did you check the bottom cabinet?’’

He smoothed his hands down the front of the piece until his palms closed over a pair of knobs. He gave a tug. ‘‘It’s locked.’’ He found his shoes and shoved his feet into them. ‘‘Don’t move. I’ll go down for a lantern.’’

‘‘Do be careful,’’ she called after him as he half felt, half sensed his way by memory down the staircase.

When he returned, the lantern swinging in his hand revealed her sitting up, her slender figure engulfed in the folds of his white linen shirt. Stealing a peek at him, she allowed the garment to slither down one arm. She tossed him a kiss over one exquisitely bared, alabaster shoulder.

‘‘I thought you’d never return.’’

He knelt beside her and kissed her shoulder, running his tongue over its silky smoothness. ‘‘Mmm. You taste good in my shirt. You’d best beware, woman, or Jonny shall have to make do on his own tonight.’’ His lips traveled up her neck and closed around the tip of her ear, making her shiver and laugh and squirm.

He was thinking he must make a point of doing that more often when she swatted him. ‘‘Jonny must
not
make do on his own.’’ With a sigh she reached for her shift and corset. ‘‘Will you help me? Then I must run down and slip into a fresh gown, or the entire household will suspect the worst of us.’’

‘‘Let them.’’

He swept her hair aside and pressed one last, lingering kiss to her nape while his free hand fondled the curve of her bottom. She released a wistful sigh, but still managed to issue a glared warning over her shoulder. He reluctantly resorted to his best behavior and helped her lace her corset after she tossed her shift over her head.

She helped him on with his shirt, her fingers delving beneath to fondle his pectoral muscle. ‘‘I like this,’’ she murmured. ‘‘Very much.’’

He caught her wrist and yanked her against him, tipping her back in his arms. She lost her balance, and he knew his hold was all that kept her from falling. He leaned in and kissed her until he felt the breath leave her, and couldn’t but admit he enjoyed the sensation of rendering her helpless in his embrace.

It was because she didn’t fight him, because her yielding body communicated nothing but her complete trust in him . . . along with a desire that could not be denied, despite her obligations downstairs.

‘‘I told you to beware, my paramour,’’ he growled. ‘‘Think I was jesting?’’

She looked giddy as he helped her upright.

They gathered their remaining clothing, preparing to descend the separate staircases to their bedchambers. When he raised her chin for a final kiss, her gaze slid beyond his shoulder.

‘‘Why is it locked?’’

He drew back. ‘‘Why is what locked?’’

‘‘That.’’ She gestured with a flick of her chin. ‘‘The escritoire.’’

‘‘Who knows? May have been locked for decades. Centuries.’’

‘‘No.’’ She moved to it. ‘‘It isn’t that old.’’ She ran her fingers over the rounded edges, the carved medallions on the drawer fronts. ‘‘Not very old at all. Who used this room?’’

‘‘I don’t know for certain. Perhaps my father. My parents occupied our suites when they were alive. Tom and I didn’t know this place existed until he inherited the house.’’

She straightened and faced him, her expression somber. ‘‘Did Thomas begin using the room then?’’

He couldn’t help smiling. ‘‘I teased him about it, saying he secreted his doxies up here. He denied it so vehemently we nearly fell to fisticuffs.’’ His heart gave a painful squeeze. ‘‘Charlotte was all he ever needed. All he wanted. After she died, he did take occasional lovers, but he never brought them into this house.’’

‘‘In memory of her.’’ Nora’s voice wavered with emotion.

‘‘Yes, and because this was his son’s home.’’

‘‘But your brother knew the room existed.’’

‘‘Well, yes, but what are you . . .’’ His throat ran dry. ‘‘My God.’’

She moved aside as he fell to a crouch in front of the desk.

‘‘Damn it. Why didn’t I think of it?’’ He gripped the wooden knobs and gave the doors a futile tug. ‘‘It only makes sense. This is the one place he could hide things where no one would ever stumble upon them.’’

‘‘Perhaps the key is in one of the drawers?’’

He had already opened the drawers during his search for candles and had found nothing. He checked again. ‘‘They’re empty.’’

‘‘Perhaps on one of Mrs. Dorn’s key rings.’’

‘‘Hardly likely.’’ He thought a moment. ‘‘Do you have a hairpin?’’

Her fingers made a quick search through her hair. ‘‘I believe they’ve all fallen out, thanks to you. Check the floor.’’

They both crouched, palms sweeping the floor-boards. ‘‘Here.’’ She handed him one.

‘‘Learned this little trick just the other day.’’ He inserted the pin into the cabinet’s lock and twisted. Twisted again. Pulled it out and tried once more. His fist rammed the door. ‘‘Confound it. She made it look like child’s play.’’

Nora lifted his hand to her lips, kissing the raw knuckles. ‘‘Who did?’’

‘‘Your maid.’’

‘‘Ah. Like so many of my father’s staff, Kat is a woman of many talents.’’

‘‘Talents I apparently lack. Hang it.’’ He pushed to his feet and backed up. ‘‘There are more direct methods of opening a door. Stand clear, my love.’’

He lifted a foot and swung it dead center at the cabinet doors. The splintering of wood brought a burst of satisfaction. He kicked again, and the doors caved inward with a crash.