Echoes in Stone (4 page)

A woman, looking for all the world like one of Holly’s fairy princess stories come to life, sat on the floor, his daughter on her lap. Buttoned primly at throat and wrist, her deep blue gown rippled out around her, as if he’d caught her rising from some enchanted pool. She’d twisted her hair into a braid, wrapped like a gold crown around the top of the head tilted toward the child.

Holly laughed up at her, then turned from her examination of Jessamine’s jet brooch to share a smile with her father.

Dash took a deep breath, tamping down his anger. He struggled to keep his voice calm and even. “Good morning, Miss Palmer. I see you’ve found my daughter. I won’t let you have her, you know.”

Tilted eyes of an almost vulgar shade of green stared up at him from a heart-shaped face. Dash sensed all semblance of control slipping from his grasp.

Full, deep rose lips, shocking in such an otherwise innocent-looking face, parted in a mockery of a smile, revealing small, even teeth. Although she smiled at him, she ground her words out between those shining pearls.

“Good morning yourself, Lord Tremayne. Yes, I’ve found
my niece
. And if you believe I will, for one minute longer than necessary, allow her to stay in the care of a handful of servants, in a gloomy house, under the
protection
of a whisky-soaked, bellowing, sot of a father, you sir, are sadly mistaken. I will not leave here without her.”

“Then it seems, my dear little sister-in-law, we are at an impasse. I will not allow you to leave here
with
her.” Dash growled the words, failing to return her smile.

He spun on his heel to leave, then turned back again. “Breakfast will be served in the morning room in ten minutes. I will expect you there.”

Damn the woman, and damn her pretty pink mouth, and damn her witchy green eyes. He would feed her, make it clear to her he would not be swayed, and then drive her himself to the closest coaching inn if that’s what it took. One way or another, he would get her out of his life—and Holly’s—before the morning was over.

6.

Lily, who loved the light and heat…

JESSA SAT ROOTED to the floor, astonished at her unusual temerity, and more than a little distracted by the sight of her host’s tautly muscled
derriere
departing through the door. She continued to stare at the spot long after that enticing picture disappeared from view. Heat rose in her cheeks. Heavens, she was becoming just like Lily, allowing a glimpse of a fine figured male— No, if she’d really been like Lily she’d have been wearing something to show off her
décolletage
and that dratted man wouldn’t be forever slamming doors in her face. She rose, still cradling Holly against her.

“Is Papa mad?” Holly’s cupid bow mouth frowned, her blue eyes wide.

Jessa laughed, hugging the little girl. “Of course not, sweetie. I expect he’s just the sort who’s grumpy until he’s had his breakfast.” She was gratified to see the relief in the child’s eyes. How often had she witnessed her father’s anger? Dear God, please, that wasn’t fear she’d read in Holly’s eyes, was it? She gave her niece a broad smile.

“Auntie Jessa has to go now, little one, but I’ll be back to play with you again later. For now, it looks as though Gwenna has some lovely warm porridge for you.” She rubbed noses with the child, which made Holly giggle, then handed her off to the young girl who’d said she’d watch over Holly.

Jessa frowned as she hurried down the stairs, following the maid’s directions to the morning room. Really, the man didn’t even provide a proper nurse for his only child, just a simple maid. Dolls, books, and toys couldn’t make up for the loneliness Holly must feel in this yawning cavern of a house.

“Tremayne” indeed. Lily had told her the name was Cornish for “House of Stone.” A fitting name for this pile of rock. And for its master.

She paused outside the entry of the morning room, donning mental armor to prepare for the coming battle with the child’s father. She smoothed imaginary wrinkles from her skirt, checked to ensure none of her wispy locks had escaped their pins, then threw back her shoulders, raised her chin, and sailed through the door.

The butter yellow walls of the room, the spare fire burning in the grate, and the feeble light from a small chandelier offered the only bright spots in the room. Even the paintings, of exotic birds and flowers, were coated in a layer of dust, adding little cheer.

It was if the man rising from his seat at the head of the small table had sucked all light, all life from the atmosphere. The leaf-green draperies remained closed against the day. The silver salvers on the sideboard were tarnished and dull. Not a single item in the room reflected even the smallest bit of light.

How did Lily live this way, day after gloomy day? Lily, who loved the light and heat.

He’d at least finally managed to do up all his buttons and don a more proper amount of clothing. He now wore a deep blue vest and black cravat with his crisp lawn shirt. The black trousers, which had caused Jessa such consternation earlier, were tucked into the tops of dull knee-high riding boots. Spit-polished boots were one of the hallmarks of a gentleman. Clearly, this man did not qualify as one.

But then, she’d already discovered that last fact the previous evening.

Jessa clasped her hands together, stilling the tremor in them, refusing to let them betray any sign of nerves to the man who’d come around the table and held out her chair, waiting. He solicitously helped her into her seat, his breath warm against the back of her neck, raising prickles in that sensitive spot. The same peculiar electricity that had stolen her breath last night set her blood racing. It danced across her breasts before settling into an odd throb in the private place between her thighs. She wriggled unobtrusively in the chair to ease the strange ache.

“So my dear, shall we forget the madman who held you inappropriately close last night, and begin again, as strangers?”

His voice rumbled in her ear. The vibration exacerbated the tingling along her skin.

He didn’t wait for a response, but moved away from her, crossing to the sideboard. “We mostly serve ourselves here in the mornings, unless you wish something special from the kitchen. As I discovered from my manservant, we are very nearly related. I do hope you’ll allow me to use your first name.”

His smile didn’t deceive her.

“Jessamine, isn’t it? Such a lovely name.” He lifted the cover from a serving dish. “I always find myself ravenous in the mornings, don’t you? Especially after such an enervating evening. Poached egg?”

Looking at that ruined face across a dining table should have dampened her appetite, but the smell of bacon wafting from the salver set her mouth watering. She could no longer tell if her stomach clenched in hunger, or in fear.

“Yes please, an egg. And some of that heavenly smelling bacon.”

He fulfilled her requests, then added an odd flat piece of fried bread to her plate. In response to her questioning look he said, “It’s a bannock cake. Made with oats, I believe. Try it with a bit of jam.”

He placed the plate on the table before her. Once again, he crowded too closely behind her as he leaned over her shoulder, stretching across the table to retrieve a stand containing four small bowls of preserved fruits.

“May I suggest the apple butter?” he said, pointing to one of the dishes. “It’s made with our own Cornish Gillyflower, one of the finest apples you’ll ever taste.”

Jessa swallowed, pushing away the fleeting thought of what had happened the first time someone had tempted another with an apple. She nodded, then spooned some onto her bread and tasted it. Spicy notes, reminiscent of cloves, tingled on her tongue.

“Oh my. They truly are delicious. I do believe I could become quite fond of your Cornish Gillyflower apple.” She smiled. One glance at the tragically scarred man who’d moved away from her and now studied her from his seat at the end of the table, chased the smile away.

“Whatever the lady likes. I will instruct Cook to see to it this apple butter is always on the table during your visit here.” The tone of his voice made it clear he intended it to be a very short visit.

“About my stay, Captain—”

“Heaven knows you already have enough endangerment to your appetite this morning, sharing a table with a less than appetizing companion. Let’s not add acrimonious words to the table fare. Finish your meal in peace. We can meet in my study later this morning, after I’ve given my horse a bit of exercise.” He lapsed into silence, unmistakably expecting the same from her.

In spite of his claims to a ravenous appetite, the captain had taken very little food for himself. He nibbled one of the oatcakes and did no more than idly stir his spoon around in a bowl of stewed apples. He slouched in his green and white-patterned chair, watching her from beneath hooded lids.

The only sounds in the room were the occasional clank of his spoon against the white china bowl accompanied by the sporadic spit of rain against the windows behind the closed draperies.

While she ate, she covertly studied her host from the corner of her eyes. She was frankly surprised he wore his long hair pulled back, leaving the torn face fully exposed. It was as if he dared her to look at him. To be repelled. Oddly, this morning, she didn’t feel the same immediate revulsion she had the previous night.

There was no denying the buckled wound caused the left side of his face to be misshapen. A bit of finer stitching by a more skilled surgeon’s hands would have reduced the distortion, made for a finer scar. Whoever had first cared for the wound must have been a hack. Or drunk.

It began just above his left eyebrow in the form of a white slash through the thick black brow and the upper portion of his eyelid. From there, it arced out, having mercifully—and miraculously—missed his eye. At its bottommost part, the scar met fine, hard lips, pulling the corner into the smirk she’d noted last night. That side of his face would never again be handsome, but it no longer put her in mind of a fearsome gargoyle.

A tragic—rather than a hideous—face, it would have been less striking, had it not been so mocked by the beauty of the other half.

Lily’s letters had told her about the years Captain Tremayne had spent on one or another of his ships, transporting cargoes to far-flung ports. Those days of sun and salt winds had left their mark in the form of weathered, bronzed skin. Fine, light colored lines rayed out from the corners of his eyes from years spent squinting into the sun at distant horizons. Deep grooves bracketed the corners of his wide mouth. On anyone else, they might have been laugh lines. Not on Captain Tremayne.

Dashiell Tremayne was thirty-six years old, twelve years older than she, but the grim set of his mouth, the furrows between his brows, made him look older. She wouldn’t be surprised to find strands of silver in his thick black hair, but it would take more light than was available in this stygian room to spot those strands.

It was a petty thought, but she didn’t care. She was in a mood for less than charitable thoughts. Less than a day here, and she was already fed up with Dash Tremayne’s rudeness and his mercurial moods, and disconcerted by her reactions to him.
Drat it, Lily, what have you gotten me into this time
?

7.

These Palmer women were tricky creatures…

DAMN THE WOMAN. May as well damn himself while he was at it, if he weren’t already condemned to this living hell. Dash took a sip of coffee, nearly scalding his tongue.

How dare she sit here at his table, calmly eating as if she hadn’t overset his household and his composure? The sight of her sitting on the nursery floor with Holly—it left him unsettled. Aroused some itch under his skin. She’d been in his home only hours, and was already insinuating herself into Holly’s life. And his.

Now Lily’s stepsister sat across the table from him, spooning bits of egg into her moist little mouth, nibbling on the edges of that damned bannock. He ground his teeth together at her sigh of pleasure when she crunched the smoky bacon. When she snaked out her tongue to lick a bit of that thrice-damned apple butter from her full lips, he barely controlled the impulse to flee the room.

At least Holly hadn’t appeared to be in any immediate danger from her aunt, but these Palmer women were tricky creatures. Apparently, the only danger the woman presented was to his libido. Lily had barred her door to him long ago. Then after what had happened to his face—

To the devil with decorum. Dash leaned back in his chair, stretching out his legs in an attempt to ease the fullness between them. If he stayed where he was, his napkin tented over his nether regions, she’d be denied the satisfaction of seeing the effect her attempt at feminine seduction was having on him. Lily had enjoyed playing the same game with him; she’d apparently taught her little sister the rules.

Smile. Flirt. Charm.

Deny.

Except Jessa didn’t smile at him. She scarcely even glanced at him, except when she thought he wasn’t looking. Those dangerous green eyes would slide sideways, peek quickly at him, then glance back down to her plate when he returned her look.

She didn’t chatter inanely at him about the weather, either, or her need for a new bauble, as Lily would have done. In fact, after her first aborted attempt at conversation, she gave every appearance of having been chastised into silence.

Dash refused to feel remorse for that. He’d have fared better had he played the brute, rather than the gentleman, when he’d held her chair for her.

She’d fussed about, smoothing her skirts beneath her, preparatory to sitting, providing him a fine view of a sweetly rounded bottom barely disguised by the drape of her skirt. Her hand, brushing his as he handed her the plate, had set off the same hiss of electricity he’d experienced last night. The last straw had been the scent of her hair when he leaned rudely—and deliberately—over her shoulder to retrieve the stand of jams. Her smell stirred memories of things long ago forgotten. Sunshine. Freshness. A tantalizing bit of lemon.