Moonless (16 page)

“Your mother is dead. You just found out you are Passionate—oh, and illegitimate. Would you rather I believe your lies?”

She glared at him.            

“Please, Alexia.” The tender quality of his tone convinced her to take his hand, made it impossible to refuse. He lifted her up, their faces very near. “It is all right to be sad. You should be.”

She nodded.

He led the way back across the roof, keeping possession of her fingers. She was certain he kept custody to ensure she didn’t lose her footing, but tremors vaulted through her at the connection and made it difficult to breathe.

He shook his head. “You do such a good job of deceiving your family, they hardly know you suffer.”

“How do you see through it?”

A side smile dimpled his cheek.

They reached the window alcove that led into the attic, a five foot drop. The ladder she’d used to ascend was missing.

He stopped her on the brink and leapt down. “All right, come now.”

She hesitated, cheeks instantly flushed with heat.

“I will catch you.” His offer left her giddy and baffled.

She slipped carefully over the edge and dropped. His arms fastened around her, pressing her firmly to him while he laughed at her terrified expression. She gazed back, speechless at the proximity.

His smile faded. A hand slid up her back, fingers pressing at the nape of her neck. The pressure of his incredible eyes raked over her, plunging her under deep waters. She ached to drown in them.

He leaned in, halting so close that he breathed in her air. She surrendered it to him willingly, unable to tear her gaze from his parting lips. His mouth reached for hers, and she tilted up toward him, heart thundering. Needing him, begging for him.

His fingers went rigid on her neck. He pulled back, meeting her eyes, wild desperation in his.

Please!
She stretched up on her toes, arching as close as she could to his retreating lips. His forehead wrinkled in panic, worry, pain? She couldn’t guess, but she could not disregard the terror.

He shoved her away. She stumbled to a stop, catching her breath but not her wrecked heart. It shattered on the landing. Hugging herself, she was unable to squeeze the question free: why?

He drew a hand slowly over his mouth. The emotion smoothed from his face, replaced by carefully constructed granite. “Forgive me.” His tone was one reserved for business.

She lowered her eyelids to keep him from witnessing the forming tears.

He stepped nearer, tucked a hand up under her jaw, and pressed his lips to her brow. Warmth radiated from the connection. She accepted it, trying to be grateful for the simple reassurance that—despite his reluctance toward romance—he did care for and would protect her, even from himself.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, and forced her chin upward. His lips crashed down over hers.

Shockwaves rolled through her, her knees going limp. His arm slipped around her back, pressing her to him. His fingers tugged through her hair. She surrendered entirely to the cataclysmic torrent tearing through her body. The world disappeared.

The only things that existed were he, she, and the storm ripping through them. She clung to him. The only reality was this—this incredible connection. She wanted him, and nothing else. She wanted this, and nothing more. She wanted him, and he wanted her!

He pushed her back, holding her arms against her sides.

Panting.

Eyes closed.

She reached for him.

He grimaced, released her and stepped into the shadows, vanishing.

Any moment he’d reappear. He had to. Didn’t he?

He would come back.

The sun glided across the sky, shrinking her shadow as she waited.

And he did not return.

40

Distance

Kiren didn’t stop moving until her home was a distant dot on the horizon. Only then did he land against a tree. The sweetness of her kiss lingered on his mouth. Every muscle tensed against the need to fly back across the distance, to consume her with every ounce of passion threatening to burst through his skin.

He closed his eyes and fought the draw—like a mad man lost in the desert, battling the roar of a cascading waterfall.

“Oh, Alexia . . .” His head fell into his hands. She would crush him, crush them both. Even if they had evaded detection this once, he couldn’t be alone with her again.

Not if he valued his life.

Or hers.

41

Of the Dominant Sex

Sarah occupied the entry with John as Alexia floated down the stairs. Sarah giggled, John’s rough chuckle accompanying her until his eyes snapped to Alexia. His grin dropped. He bowed a quick farewell to her aunt and stepped out the door.

Had she said or done anything to offend him the last time they met?

“. . . not clean, as even a child can see!” Father’s shouts echoed down the hall—drunk again. Alexia hesitated at the dining room door. At least his wrath had been diverted elsewhere.

“And for the fiftieth time, who hired that wretched girl?”

“So sorry, my lord.” The housekeeper’s head bobbed. “I’ll see that she is replaced immediately.”

“Good riddance!”

The middle-aged woman hurried out of the room and his attention turned to his daughter.

“Hello, Father.” She took a seat.

He resumed his place, a bottle of caramel-colored liquor sitting next to his plate. She wished he wouldn’t.

“Impossible,” he muttered, trying to excuse his behavior. “Good help is impossible!”

The servants set a platter before her. She stared into the mottled eggs and cheese-doused bread without the least interest. She never should have confronted him about the picture. It was certainly to blame for this early morning remedy.

“I wondered—” She took a breath. “—if I might have the miniature of Dana?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

His lips tightened. “Because you do not need it.”

“It is a picture, Father. Need hardly defines any part of it.”

He lifted his fork. “Why do you want it anyway?”

Alexia decided to stop playing games. “She reminds me of myself.”

His eyes flashed up. “What did you say?”

She swallowed. “Her face, it is the same shape, and we have similar eyes and hair and skin . . .” His cheeks reddened. “Why did you do it, Father?”

“Do what, Alexia?” His eyes blazed, shoulders tensed forward.

She poked at her food, allowing him a moment to cool. “Why did you hide the miniature?”

“I did not hide it. I put it away.”

“Beneath the lining of an old chest in the attic? That is not hiding?”

He braced on the table. “Your mother did not like her.”

She scowled. “Is that why you had her turned out?”

He inhaled. She couldn’t decide if his stare was because he’d been taken off guard, or he feared she’d discovered the truth.

“Her work became sloppy.” He dug disinterestedly at his meal.

“Because she was pregnant?” Her own ears smarted from the use of the vulgar word.

Metal rattled on wood, echoing through the room as his utensil came to a halt. He sat deathly still. “Who told you that?”

Had she gone too far? Did she dare address this subject next to a half-empty bottle of scotch?

He rose. “Who told you?”

“Mother.”

His jaw dropped.

“She thought it best I know.” Forcing the tears to remain hidden, she stood. “She deserved so much better than this deceptive silence.”

He moved toward her. “You have no idea what you are talking about.”

Her fists balled. “Seventeen years of watching her suffer, and I have no idea what I am talking about?”

“How dare you! Your mother gave everything to raise you—”

“You are the one who killed her!” she shrieked, unable to contain the animosity an instant longer. “She died of a broken heart!”

“You have no right . . . !” He reached her and stood, trembling.

“If you loved Dana you should have married her and spared Mother!”

The back of his hand smacked across her cheek. Her head was knocked to the side, cheek burning.

She glared at him, shocked. “I hate you! I hate what you have done to me, to Mother, to Sarah! I hate you!”

She fled the room.

“Alexia!” She kept moving. He followed. “Alexia, stop!”

She leapt up the stairs three at a time, reaching her room in record time. She threw the door shut and fastened it. She sat against the door in stunned dread, feeling the ache across her cheek, terrified he would burst through the barrier and take her tongue lashing out on her back. Why had she said it? What was wrong with her? Why?

She lay back, new tears springing to her face. It was not fair. None of it. Mother shouldn’t have died. She shouldn’t have been any part of this cursed family. Father ought to have married Dana. Alexia deserved to be born into a loving home. Her mother should have lived. Her
real
mother should have lived.

***

“Alexia?” Sarah’s gentle call from the other side of the door pulled her to her feet. “Are you in there?”

She opened the barrier. Sarah stepped in and tucked an arm around her.

“You are right, Sarah,” she whispered. “He turns out all he loves to misery.”

“Let us leave.” Her aunt cupped her cheeks.

“And go where?”

“Anywhere. London. Liverpool. Wales. Am I not a wealthy widow? Why should I not go out and play?”

Alexia closed her eyes. “What about Father?”

“What about him?”

She shook her head. “We cannot leave him to mourn alone.”

“And why not?” Sarah demanded. “What if that is what he wants?” They both knew it to be untrue, but Sarah persisted, “Why should he
need
us? He has an entire household of servants—and I cannot tell you how oppressive these walls are becoming!”

Becoming? No. She had merely forgotten, having been away so long.

Sarah took her hand. “A carriage is being prepared as we speak. Come away with me.”

Alexia nodded.

***

Three weeks they wandered, traveling the country, stopping wherever tickled their fancy. Alexia had been drowning in the overwhelming implications of her new identity. The fresh atmospheres revived her.

Even so, the whole time she thought about that solitary kiss. She watched for the captor of her heart to appear, hoped he would. Her mind returned again and again to the impassioned moment, haunted by the tension in his face as their lips parted.

Finally they made aim for the only place she wanted to be: Wilhamshire. Quiet filled the house, a silence she couldn’t stifle. Regret staked a deafening place at the forefront of her thoughts as she pondered her last words to Father. She should not have confronted him.

Sarah put together a list of invitations for Christmas, and Alexia was relieved to see her aunt’s old self resurface, away from the pressures of society.

Monday afternoon, as she toyed with her puzzle box and Sarah stitched, the bell tolled. Sarah bolted for her room. Alexia dodged after, avoiding the shed slippers, petticoat and stockings. By the time she reached the bedroom door, Sarah had another more pleasing gown selected and the old one halfway off.

The butler knocked at the closed door. “One John Radcliffe to see you, countess.”

“Seat him in the parlor,” she called.

Alexia gave her a look. “Is that it?”

“Do not use that tone with me.”

She laughed at her aunt.

“Greet him for me, Lexy?”

Alexia moved down the stairs, taking a book with her. She loved that Sarah was so happy. John would certainly make for a fun, if not slightly odd, husband.

As she neared the den, apprehension flared. She descended from the calm of a summer afternoon to the heavily-shadowed watch of a resentful wood. Intense pressure weighed her shoulders, the air stale. Her legs trembled, but none of this made any sense. He hadn’t come for her, so why did her heart pound?

Pretending to read, she rounded the stair and made a pass by the den. He sat on the couch, a Titan against the dainty parlor. She paused and looked up innocently. “John! How wonderful.”

His eyes turned to hers, brown, encircling a core of—

She fell back a step.

Crimson? No. She’d imagined it, but she didn’t imagine the rest.

He fixated on her . . . hungrily.

42

Unaltered

She fell back. Her book clattered to the floor.

He rose.

Her heart thumped. She was the rabbit, cornered by a leering coyote—afraid to flee and commence the chase to the death.

Unexpected pain seared into her brain. She exhaled. Stubborn wind wound through her lungs. Her dress dragged like a hundred scales of lead.

Her back landed against the wall. John leaned toward her, one foot lifting so slowly she could have fled up the stairs in the time it took him to set it down. She squinted through her headache, questioning why he moved so slowly. And more importantly, why was her skull threatening to split open?
 

Stop! Stop hurting!

A wave of blackness washed over her vision, and her mind cleared.

John advanced swiftly, trapping her in a corner.

“What have we here?” He grinned. “At last, a moment to ourselves and you want to run off on me?”

She cowered. “Please . . .” She shouldn’t be having this reaction.
This is John,
her head screamed,
the man you would willingly have marry Sarah!

“Thriving, blooming ostentatiously. I do believe you have been touched, touched by one of significant luster.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

“I shall have to thank him.” He sniggered. “A tasty morsel—”

The door slammed inward. Sunlight burst about them.

John turned, growling as he shaded his face. Around his figure she could barely make out the shape.

She gasped.

Fierce blue eyes landed on her before piercing the caller. John’s surprise broke in an aggressive sneer.

“Out,” her guardian grated. Chills ran down Alexia’s spine. Her knees trembled with giddiness from the protective rage behind his command.

“I have been invited,” John spat.

“Not by me.”

“I thought I smelled your stench on her.” The bear-man laughed. “So even the great ones have weaknesses.”

“She is not mine.”

Her heart shriveled.

“Make me believe it.” John angled closer. She pressed into the wall, strangling the cry that leapt to her throat.

Her rescuer took several quick steps. “I am giving you a chance!” His blue eyes burned, hand clasped tightly over something mid-chest, beneath his shirt.

John laughed. “You would not do that, not at the risk of exposure.”

“Would I not?” The words escaped through clenched teeth.

Alexia slipped from beneath John’s reach. Her savior’s clear eyes turned questioningly to hers as she reached his side: was she well? She nodded.

“Day walking?” he hissed, returning to John.

“Yes?”

“Disgusting.”

“Well yes,” the caller agreed, “and costly, but necessary.”

“And the sacrifice?”

John grinned broadly. “There is always a cost.” His eyes revolved to Alexia. She fell back and her protector advanced on the threat.

“Arik?” They all turned as Sarah brushed down the stairs and into the entry. Her saffron gown garnered the sunlight that warmed the entry, adding to her already breathtaking semblance.

Alexia’s protector and John met glares, a quiet something passing between them. The tension in the room drained.

Her aunt’s eyes glittered, fixated on
him
. “Arik, what are you doing here? And what odd timing!”

“Sarah.” Alexia’s rescuer
bobbed decorously as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Her heart seized. She knew him? Her wonderful mystery—Sarah knew him—and he knew her? Not only that, she had a name for him?

“John.” Her aunt curtsied.

“Sarah.” He moved toward her, releasing one impudent glare Arik’s direction. Sarah placed a hand in his custody, and he bestowed a kiss thereon. “You are a vision today.”

She blushed, and looked from one man to the other. “Do you know one another?”

“No.”

“Vaguely,” they supplied at the same time, John the more cool-headed of the two.

“Sarah, may I have a word?” Arik stepped up to her, taking a tender grip on her elbow. Alexia’s chest tightened. Her aunt did not even flinch, as though she were completely comfortable with his touch.

Sarah grinned, a hand fluttering to her neck. “Would you steal me away, my dear Arik?”

He glanced a warning at John. “Briefly, if I may?”

Alexia bit back jealousy as Sarah strode down the hall with
her dear Arik
, still in sight, but out of earshot. She turned back on the man who had so easily spoken of sacrificing her. He wore a half-cocked grin, but when he noticed her watching, the smile swept cleanly away.

“You run with a dangerous crowd,” he advised quietly.

“Funny, I do not recall running with anyone.”

An eyebrow rose. “Then you have not made a decision?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I see.” His gaze returned to the secret conversation down the hall. “Strange, but convenient nonetheless.”

Her eyes followed his. Arik’s lips hovered at Sarah’s ear, his hand on her hip as she flushed profusely. Did his perfect mouth touch her skin?

Alexia’s fists balled, nails digging into flesh.

Had she at last uncovered the mystery, the reason for his guarded distance? The proper girl locked at her core knew she should break up the inappropriate display, but if she moved a step closer, the barely-contained panther tearing to escape through her skin would break free and attack. A silent scream clawed up her windpipe and she stepped around John to the stairs.

“You stay away from me,” she ordered.

“Ah, but will you stay away from me?” Why did he no longer threaten to end her existence—and why did it appear he actually strove to be charming?

“I want nothing to do with you!”

He smiled.

She hurried away.

This must be why Arik hadn’t come to her in the open or in Sarah’s presence, why he’d hesitated to touch her, why he’d frowned so sourly after their kiss. Sarah had always been the champion in wars of attraction, and of course she made the more fetching prospective. Alexia felt dirty, tainted by stain of her parents’ infraction. No man in his right mind would desire the product of an unwholesome relationship, not when Venus-in-the-flesh stood by to lure him away with her beauty and fortune.

But Arik hadn’t seemed concerned by these. He had been so tender, so gentle in her hour of need . . . as he had been with her ailing mother, and with Bellezza.

She closed her door and the realization dawned: He had come to protect her. Nothing more. He stood guard on moonless nights. He patted her hand or offered kindnesses as they were needed. He had provided her company when she most desperately required comfort.

But his kiss . . .

No, she had seen the bitterness and fear. Every time he touched her there was pain in his eyes, every nearness weighed on him, every kindness balanced with a degree of sorrow. She was a burden to him, one he bore out of obligation to her safety. It was possible to love more than one person, wasn’t it? After all, Father had—and
Sarah
knew his name!

Not herself. Sarah.

Alexia berated herself for not seeing it sooner, for allowing herself to believe in an illusion. Silly dreamer! She glared into the mirror across the room, at the mirage artists would venerate throughout generations. She pulled out a barrette and launched it at the glass. Shards shattered in reflective brilliance, ricocheting across the floor.

Wrapping her arms around herself, she wished she could go back in time, that she could remain an oblivious child in Father’s home, or locked in that moment, that perfect, deceptive moment on the roof.

Distant laughter carried through her door.

Sarah was happy. She deserved it after all she’d endured for five long, lonely years.

Alexia swallowed back the misery and laid her head against the wall. Her stomach cramped. She wanted to go home—but what home? Did she want to return to the silence, suppressed anger, and betrayal of too many years? Was there somewhere else she ought to or could go—like Arik suggested?

A silent shriek tensed her body. There was only one possible solution: She would not love him!

She sat long into the night, listening, trying not to think until Sarah dismissed her company with gracious flirtation. Alexia hadn’t eaten all day, but she didn’t care.

She’d intended to speak with her aunt about Arik, but that ambition evaporated as she clambered up, undressed, and tottered dizzily into bed. She wanted to die.

Tears started, stifled by her pillow.

She hated him. That could be the only other outlet for such extreme passion. She hated Arik so deeply it moved her to weeping. She hated him with her whole soul! Hated, hated, hated him!

The fit left her lethargic. She fell into a dream, a nightmare, but even that knowledge couldn’t make it less horrifying.

She raced toward the road, heart thundering, needing escape but knowing the futility of her efforts.

She froze.

Crimson pupils glared from the darkness, seizing the scream in her throat. Her chest tightened. They glided toward her, hunger in their malevolent eyes. She tried to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight! She couldn’t.

In a blink, her dead body lay on the dusty night road, fingers crooked at her bodice . . .

Alexia sat up. Sweat trickled down her brow, heart palpitating. She took several minutes before working up enough courage to breach the distance between herself and the washbasin. Glittering fragments of mirror grinned maliciously up at her, and her countenance gleamed like dead Alexia’s in the water.

It had been a dream, nothing more! What was wrong with her?

But it wasn’t her birthday. Why did it come apart from the yearly anniversary? What had awakened the horror?

She stepped out to the hall. Cider would calm her nerves, and then she could sleep. Yes, let her sleep and forget, then leave and never come back!

She’d become familiar enough with the estate she didn’t need a candle to travel, although it seemed unusually dark tonight. She trembled all the way down the stairs and into the kitchen, quickly retrieving what she’d come for. Why did she have the shivers even now?

When she turned to leave, she realized: No moon tonight.

Sweat broke out. She retraced her steps quickly, coming to a horrified halt at the stairs. Someone sat in the den, silent as death, profiled against the window.

The glass in her hand shook, slipping from her grasp.

The head turned.