Potent Charms (23 page)

Stephen pulled her to his side, extended the candle high
in the air, and peered down both passages. Pulling a small
piece of charcoal from a handkerchief, he marked the left
wall with an arrow. "If I'm right, this should lead us toward
the music room."

"You were quite prepared, weren't you?" The thick
walls absorbed most of the squeak in her voice.

Winking, thoroughly enjoying this little adventure, he
slowly led the way, occasionally testing the stability of
their path with his foot or arm. He never left her side. They
passed two more forks, each as uninviting as the first.
Every time Stephen checked the new tunnel for signs of
use. So far all the passages seemed to be undisturbed or too
dangerous to risk entry. He marked the wall again. After
countless minutes, they reached a small room, eight feet or
so across. A collection of candles sat on a wooden box and
a white robe hung on a wooden peg with a tin can of powder beside it. Nearby, several blankets lay on a straw pallet.
Four wooden stairs led to a raised section in the ceiling
above.

Stephen stared and mumbled, "Amazing."

"What? Tell me," Phoebe nervously asked. "Are we
below the music room?"

"I believe so." He climbed the stairs and tapped on the
wood. "And this would be the window seat you sat upon
last night. I never thought to check there. Very clever."
After searching a few more moments for a latch, he shoved
against the barrier with all his strength. "Blast. It seems to
be jammed or locked from the other side. But look." He swiped at a handprint the size of a man's on the bannister
and held his finger in the air to reveal white powder. "I
think this proves your ghost to be quite human."

"I just don't understand why Hampson or Wibolt would
do this."

"I'm not sure either. Let's go find out."

She sensed that he would have stayed longer and investigated further on his own, but she jumped at the chance to
leave without a second thought. Together they threaded
their way back to the beginning, approaching the stairway
to the cook's room. Phoebe didn't remember it being quite
so dark. When they reached the stairs, she understood why.
The panel at the top was closed. Stephen poked, pushed
and shoved, all to no avail. They were thoroughly trapped
in the bowels of the mansion.

A wave of apprehension flowed through her. She sucked
in a deep breath and tried to relax. No matter how unreasonable, how unwarranted, she couldn't vanquish the
child's memory of being trapped. Stephen's presence
didn't help.

"What to you propose to do now?" she asked, pounding
on the wood. Stephen continued to calmly probe the wall,
with no success. "Do something," she ordered.

He grabbed her hands and pulled them to his chest.
"Phoebe. We closed the door to the bedroom. Mrs. Potter
won't be spending her nights here. There is no reason for
anyone to enter this room."

"Well that's a fine how-do-you-do. What do we do
now?" she asked, her voice an octave higher.

"We have several choices. We can sit here on the steps or
we can venture back to where we were. The odds are greatest that someone shall hear us there. We'll have more candles and a place to sit. I left Winston a note. He'll know to
look for us."

"What about the other passages?"

"I'd rather not risk it. Most of them appear unused and
possibly unstable, and I'm not sure where they might
lead."

Her nerves calmed somewhat. After all, what he said
made perfect sense. "I'll say one thing. When you offer a
lady a diversion, you certainly keep your word."

He clasped her head to his chest and stroked the back of
her head, his touch soothing and provocative at the same
time. "Trust me, darling. Winston will find us. Besides,
when both of us fail to appear for lunch or tea, Dee will initiate a search that would rival any led by an army of Bow
Street runners. The staff shall have no reprieve till they find
us. I promise to keep you safe until then."

The warmth of his embrace and the gentle stroking
eased the tightness in her chest. The man had an uncanny
effect on her. She did trust him. She lifted her head to tell
him just that and noted the gleam in his eyes. A flicker of
excitement skittered across her skin. Who would keep her
safe from him?

Beneath the music room for a second time, with the full
understanding that they were possibly stuck for hours, she
studied their meager supplies and said, "I'm hungry and
cold."

Lordy, she sounded like a petulant schoolgirl, and it
seemed so silly to be thinking about food and all, but she
was hungry. She hadn't bothered with breakfast, and last
night's supper barely qualified as a meal. The chill clinging
to the walls seeped into her bones.

Stephen lit several candles. The light didn't dispel the
cold, but improved her mood nonetheless. He spread the
robe they found and the woolen blanket on the straw mat,
sat down and extended his arms. As her teeth began to
chatter, she willingly slid into his arms, eager to absorb
some of his heat. He briskly rubbed his hands up and down her arms. As she relaxed, the tension faded from her body
and she yawned.

"Why don't you try to sleep. It might be hours before
they even search for us. If I hear anyone, I will pound on
the floor and raise such a noise they shan't miss us."

Lying there as the flickering flames undulated on the
walls like a dozen fiery dancers, she considered his suggestion ridiculous. Yawning again, she didn't even intend to
close her eyes. Still, the warmth of Stephen's body, combined with his calming touch, lulled her toward drowsiness. Within moments, lack of rest from the previous night
pushed her over the edge to sleep.

Stephen watched Phoebe as she slept and contemplated the
last time he had simply held a woman. Other than his very
first wedding night, not one other circumstance came to
mind. Usually after lovemaking, either he dressed and
tended to other business or moved to his own bed.

Emily's blind faith had fed his youthful arrogance and
made him feel powerful. Their lovemaking had been pleasant but had lacked real passion. His second wife had possessed the passion but lacked the kindness. Their
relationship had relied solely on lust and greed. He didn't
think he'd ever spent one complete night in Louisa's bed.
Phoebe was kind and passionate; she had a zest for life
rivaled by few women. If they were together, he doubted
he would ever let her sleep elsewhere but in his arms.

This train of thought was not the wisest. The fact that
they were quite alone clouded his better judgment. All
attempts to wrest Phoebe's presence, her delectable body
pressed against his, from his mind were pointless. He dipped his head and, pulling in a deep breath, he savored
the scent of lavender clinging to her hair. As she burrowed
closer to his chest, the growing awareness of their situation
rose solidly and uncomfortably in his lap. He brushed his
hand across her forehead, each eyebrow, his gaze riveted
on her face. He traced the contours of her mouth with his
finger. She stirred, rubbing against him like a kitten seeking a caress. The moist heat of her breath fanned his cheek.
Her stomach grumbled.

Lost in the haze between dreams and reality, she opened
her eyes and graced Stephen with a lazy grin. "I'm hungry"

"So am I, darling. So am I." He hadn't intended to kiss
her, knew the folly of such action, but with her heavy-lidded eyes filled with the dewy gleam of sleep, he couldn't
overcome the impulse.

Phoebe mewled, a soft sigh of satisfaction, as she reveled in Stephen's mouth on hers, the abrading of his mustache against her skin. What a lovely way to wake from a
nap. She touched her tongue to his, and taking the initiative, deepened the kiss. Her mind whirled and her pulse
quickened. Her skin heated and like a glowing cinder;
warmth swamped her entire body. Stephen's kisses seemed
endless, arousing, often gentle, sometimes playful, all
demanding her response.

His fingers grazed her cheeks, her neck, and the highlaced collar she wore suddenly seemed too restrictive. As
though he read her mind, she felt his hand on her gown's
buttons, which proved to be minor obstacle's for his clever
fingers. The cool damp air rushed over her nipples, but she
felt only heat as his hands hovered in the valley between
her breasts. She arched her back as if to say "Yes, touch
me." His mouth replaced his touch, trailing a path of heat
from one turgid peak to the other, caressing her inflamed
flesh, stoking her body's need, her mind's curiosity. An unexpected and disturbing yearning, palpable in its intensity, spread from her breast to the juncture between her
thighs, the secret place long dormant until she had met this
man. She crushed her legs together in an effort to ease the
discomfort, the insistent throbbing she didn't quite understand.

Thank goodness Stephen understood. While cooing
sweet words of encouragement into her ear and kissing her
time and again with magical thrusts of his tongue and persuasive lips, he slowly edged the hem of her dress higher,
his hand following in its wake to finally tease the tiny nubbin she never knew existed. She thought she just might
faint then and there. Forgotten were the dank walls surrounding them, the chill hanging in the air. She felt
flushed, feverish. Then he moved his fingers in the most
delightful, unexpected way. Brilliant colors of violet and
orange danced in her mind. Nothing else mattered except
the incessant burning deep within her body. Instinctively,
in a rhythm as old as time, her body demanded she lift her
hips to greet and welcome his caresses. Her explosive reaction left her breathless, humbled and awed, and truth be
told, unsure of what to do next.

Stephen smoothed the wisps of hair from her brow, and
he burrowed his forehead in the curve of her neck as he
commanded his own desperate body to forget its baser
urges. Sweet mercy, remembering this passionate moment,
her uninhibited response, he wouldn't sleep for a week. He
should never have allowed this interlude to go this far.
Thankfully he had kept Phoebe more or less dressed. Otherwise he doubted he would have possessed the strength to
refuse the warmth, the solace, he would find buried deep
within her body.

She shifted, pressing her hardened nipples against his
arm. Damn, if he didn't move, he would loose very ounce
of willpower. Lifting his head, he pulled the edges of her jacket together, covering the lush bounty of her breasts
before he lost his good intentions. He tucked her chin back
to his chest. "My dear darling Phoebe, what am I to do
with you?"

Marry me. It was the first, unbidden and fanciful thought
to leap into her mind. Thankfully she held her tongue. She
shivered with the aftershocks of pleasure and waited for
the shame. None came. Wanton or not, she treasured the
touches, the pleasure that Stephen had wrought upon her
body. The yearning to understand him, the need to understand his past, overwhelmed all else. Wrapped in the comforting warmth of his embrace, she quietly asked, "Will
you tell me about the curse?"

His body tensed, but his arms remained tight about her.
Fighting the impulse to prod and push, she waited and
accepted his need to consider her request. He wasn't accustomed to sharing parts of himself with many people, of that
she was sure.

"Knowing the details won't change the outcome," he
said. "The only reason I tell you this is so you know why I
will not marry again."

"I would like to understand."

With a deep, cleansing breath, he relaxed his shoulders.
"My great-grandfather was betrothed to a prominent
noblewoman. Nonetheless, two months before his wedding
he seduced a young gypsy girl. Pregnant and shamed when
she discovered he had no intentions of marriage, the poor
thing killed herself. The girl's mother, a Juliana Romov,
cursed my great-grandfather. No daughter would be born
to our line and every male heir would know only death and
sorrow in his marriages. No daughter has been born since.
Five women married into the Badrick line. All died within
two years of their wedding night, my own two wives
included. I refuse to add a sixth to the family cemetery."

"How did they die?"

"You want the gory details?" Disentangling himself
from her arms, he stood and marched three steps to the corner of the tiny room. His face fell into shadow, hiding any
expression that might have revealed his feelings. "My
great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as she fled
her husband's temper. Another fell from her horse during
some idiotic race. The last drowned in her very own bathtub. I already told you about Emily and our two-week-old
daughter. Louisa fell down a flight of stairs, a bottle of
brandy in one hand and a diamond necklace in the other."
His voice sounded horribly cold and ever so empty. She
felt his withdrawal with each word he uttered.

"Accidents happen, Stephen. More likely, those women
suffered from a combination of poor judgment and bad
luck."