Authors: Blackthorne
Ruth Langan (6 page)
“What’s wrong?” He could feel the fear vibrating through her. Instinctively his arms tightened, and he ran a hand down her back to soothe, to comfort.
“I can’t...” She sucked in a breath and struggled for calm. Her chest heaved from the effort. Her arms circled his waist and held on, grateful for his. quiet strength. “Give me a moment, my lord.”
“Shhh.” Without thinking his voice softened, as did his touch. “Take all the time you need.” The feel of her arms around him caused a jolt that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, he found himself enjoying the feeling far too much. She was so small, so fragile. So very feminine.
“I thought...I heard footsteps behind me.”
“Of course you did.” He breathed in the woman scent of her. Her hair smelled of rainwater and that half-remembered fragrance from his childhood.
The troublesome ledgers were forgotten. As was everything except this woman in his arms. “Probably one of the servants.”
Now that he was holding her, she felt her fears evaporating. How could she have been so foolish? What could she possibly have to fear here at Blackthorne?
But even as her fears subsided, and her breathing returned to normal, she became aware of something else. The hands at her back had not stilled, but were moving along her spine in a most provocative manner. She looked up to see Lord Stamford staring down at her with a strange, intense look that had her heart starting to race again. This time it was a new and different sort of fear that gripped her.
“My lord...”
“You’re fine now, Miss St. John. Nothing’s remiss.” Before the words were even out of his mouth, his lips lowered to hers.
It was a jolt to the system that had him reeling. He wasn’t even sure how this had happened. One moment he’d been holding her, offering her comfort. The next his mouth was fused to hers in a kiss that robbed him of his senses.
She tasted as sweet, as fresh as morning mist. An innocent, untouched by the things of this world. If she knew what he was thinking she would be shocked to the core.
The touch of Lord Stamford’s lips was so very different from the way Olivia had felt when Wyatt had tried to force her. Despite the aura of danger that surrounded this man, there was a feeling of safety here. And pleasure. And simmering passion. As he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and found herself slipping under the spell.
The hands at her shoulders tightened, and she could feel his heartbeat as wild, as erratic as her own. Could it be that he was feeling the same quivering need? As he lingered over her mouth, she lost the ability to think at all.
Quenton knew exactly when she became so caught up in the kiss that her fear faded and the first stirrings of passion flared. She sighed and he found himself thinking about things that had long been forgotten. The thought of taking her, here, now, had him pulling back abruptly.
Something flared in his eyes briefly before he blinked. His tone was rougher than he’d intended. “You’d best go to your room now, Miss St. John.”
“Yes. Of course.” It was an effort to speak. Her throat was dry, the words strained.
As she turned away he laid a hand on her arm. At once they both felt the heat.
“It might be best if you bolt the door.”
She avoided his eyes.
“Just so you’ll rest easier.”
She nodded, then strode quickly away.
He continued to watch until she entered her suite and closed the door. He waited until he heard the bolt.
His hands were trembling, he noted. He clenched them into fists at his sides and strode quickly away. And cursed himself because, if truth be told, it wasn’t some dark shadow that had him ordering her to lock her door. It was the knowledge that he didn’t trust himself around her. Not tonight, with all the memories swirling in his mind.
She was too sweet. Too innocent. She stirred something in him. Something that was better off remaining buried forever.
Quenton stood on the windswept hillside, oblivious to the bite in the air. His feet were planted, steady, wide apart, as they had always been on the deck of his ship. Beside him, the hound’s fur ruffled in the wind.
The sea had been his refuge. At sea he had not been treated with deference because, of his name. He’d had to earn the respect of his men with sword and fist, and at times, with swift justice. But at least he’d been free to curse the storms and rage at the inhumanity he was forced to witness all around him. There, among men hardened by life’s blows, he was just another rough seaman.
For a brief time, while he engaged in battles and found an outlet for all the anger and rage, he’d fooled himself into believing that he had put the past behind him. But upon his return, he’d discovered that he’d merely hidden all the pain and fury. And now the feelings seethed and bubbled just below the surface, threatening to erupt for the slightest reason, catching him by surprise.
His gaze swept the nearby graves. His parents, resting side by side. His young bride, so beautiful, so vital. He knelt beside the freshly dug mound. And now this dear old man, who had taken in his two grandsons after the untimely death of their parents and had raised them with discipline and love.
How had it all gone so wrong?
Perhaps the Stamfords had been born under some sort of curse. Or a dark cloud, which would always blot out the sunshine. It seemed the only explanation.
In Jamaica the paper-skinned, blackbird-eyed old woman had looked into her crystal and had told him to beware.
“There is one who wants what is yours. Not just your fortune,” she had warned, “but everything you hold dear.”
He’d managed a bitter laugh. “That may have been true at one time. Now I value nothing in life, except a ship under my feet and a moonless night in which to ply my trade for His Majesty.” His remark had been tossed carelessly, causing the old woman’s tone to frost over.
“You think to bury your heart so deeply it cannot be broken again. But you are wrong, my young friend. You are fooling only yourself. One day you will step out of the darkness. But only you can find the pathway back to the light.”
“No, old woman. It is you who are wrong. You see, I much prefer the darkness.”
He had tossed her a coin as carelessly as he had tossed his casual remarks. But her words had remained with him. And haunted him still.
He studied the marker over his wife’s grave. With her he had been, in those first heady months, deliriously happy. What made it even more perfect was the fact that his grandfather and his younger brother adored her as much as he. Their family had seemed, in that brief time, to have reached a pinnacle of happiness.
And then it had all come crashing down. At first he’d been unwilling to admit the truth, even to himself. But then, as she had become more distant and more riddled with guilt, there had been no room left for denial. Antonia had been unfaithful. The rumors and whispers of a secret lover were rampant. Even young Bennett was suspect, though Quenton adamantly refused to dignify such a suspicion.
Even now it wasn’t anger or jealousy he felt whenever he looked at Bennett; it was shame. Shame that his brother had been there in his stead. And pity, for what the once young, handsome Bennett had become. A hard, cold knot of pity that ate at Quenton’s soul. The sight of all that suffering and torment was tearing him apart.
Their loving family had been shattered beyond repair by grief and scandal and despair. Despite what the old woman had said, he could see no way back to the light.
He shivered and glanced up. Two figures strolling across a moor caught his eye. Even from this distance he could see the shiny blue-black cap of hair on the boy, and the wind-tossed curls of the nursemaid.
If he were to leave now, he could avoid running into them. That was his first thought. He had steadfastly ignored Olivia St. John since the night he had kissed her. But something made him stay where he was. Perhaps it was curiosity over the wild gesturing of the boy, as he pointed to something in the long grass. Or perhaps it was the way the young woman knelt down and guided the boy’s hand to whatever had taken cover. Quenton remained very still, watching and listening.
Their voices carried on the breeze. The boy’s soft, musical; hers low, cultured, with a gentle laugh that touched a chord deep inside him.
“It is a baby bird. See, his mother hovers nearby, scolding us. She was probably giving him a flying lesson when he fell to the ground.”
“May I keep him?”
“Oh no, Liat. That wouldn’t be right. He needs his mother. She’s the only one who can properly feed him and teach him the things he needs to learn to survive on his own.”
“May I hold him?”
“No, dear. His poor mother is nearly mad with worry. Listen to her heartbreaking cries.”
The boy glanced up at the bird that was circling their heads.
“Let’s leave him now, so his mother can sit beside him and satisfy herself that he’s unharmed. Come. I’ll race you to that rock.” Olivia caught up the hem of her skirt and started running.
Liat followed suit.
Olivia slowed her pace to give her young charge a chance to pass her. He touched a hand to the stone and turned to her in triumph. “I beat you.”
“So you did.” Her cheeks were flushed from the effort. Her eyes crinkled with laughter.
Just then her eyes widened as Quenton shifted and the hound beside him gave a deep growl of warning. “Oh, Lord Stamford. Forgive me. I didn’t see you there.”
“It’s quite all right, Miss St. John.” The breeze caught a strand of her hair and he found himself staring at it Not brown, as he’d first suspected, but a rich chestnut, with glints of honey and russet. The need to touch it, to allow those silken strands to sift through his fingers, had him clenching his hands at his sides.
“I see you found the boy the proper clothing.” He turned his gaze to Liat, noting the sturdy boots, the warm breeches and snug sweater. “How are you enjoying your walk, boy?”
“Fine, sir.” His eyes, which only moments ago were dancing with unconcealed pleasure, now lowered, avoiding contact.
“I overheard you discussing a baby bird. Would you care to show it to me?”
The boy shrugged. “I suppose so.”
Quenton began to follow the boy, taking perverse pleasure in the fact that the nursemaid had no choice but to go along. She lengthened her steps to keep up with his.
“Miss St. John said I couldn’t keep it.”
“She was quite right. Babies need their mothers.”
As they approached the spot, the mother bird once again took flight, squawking and scolding. The baby lay in the grass, its little wings fluttering. At a word from Quenton, the hound remained several paces behind them, standing as still as a statue.
“What happens to baby birds that lose their mothers?” Liat asked.
“Someone else is obliged to take them home and care for them.” Quenton knelt in the grass beside the boy. “But no matter how much care they are given, it is never the same as they would have received from their mother.”
“I would know how to care for them.”
“You would?”
Liat’s tone, his manner, were hushed and solemn. “I would take the baby with me everywhere. And I would talk to it, and love it. And when the bird cried for its mother, I would sing to it just the way the mother bird sang.”
Quenton sat back on his heels a moment, studying the boy with great interest. He had the feeling the boy was no longer just talking about the bird.
He got to his feet and glanced at the mother bird, hovering nearby. “We’d best move away, or this baby’s mother won’t be singing, but attacking with that sharp beak.”
As they made their way across the moor Quenton asked, “Have you learned the names of any plants or animals, boy?”
Liat nodded. “Miss St. John pointed out Agri...Agri...”
“Agrimonia eupatoria,”
she prompted.
she prompted.
“Ah, yes.” Quenton nodded. “Agrimony. The Greeks called it
philanthropos,
because the seeds would cling to the clothes of passersby.”
philanthropos,
because the seeds would cling to the clothes of passersby.”
Olivia was surprised at Quenton’s store of knowledge. “You know of agrimony?”
“A little. My grandfather thought it an excellent cure for his ailing back.”
“Very wise of your grandfather.” Olivia’s smile widened as she directed her words to her young charge. “You see, Liat, herbs like agrimony can be helpful for many things. For healing wounds. Even for curing a naughty liver.”
“A better cure might be to give up drinking spirits,” Quenton said dryly.
She shook her head. “Papa used to say that a nip of spirits at the end of a day warmed a man’s blood, cleared his brain and soothed his soul.”
He smiled. “I believe I would have liked your father.”
“You would have had no choice.” Her eyes danced with unconcealed joy. “To know Papa was to love him.”
“Then you are fortunate indeed, Miss St. John.” He loved the way she looked, her skin glowing, dark hair wind-tossed. Without thinking he tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear.
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