The Lady Series (46 page)

Blinking herself into alertness, Belle drifted up out of her dreams then grimaced. Peg's snores were nigh on rattling the wall between them. The maid gave a great snort then silence followed.

With a quiet laugh, Belle rolled over and sighed. Lord, but it was heaven to be sleeping on her own mattress once again.

Because the night was so warm and the room stuffy, she'd not only opened her windows before retiring, she'd left the bed curtains tied to their posts. Now as she waited for sleep to retake her, she let her gaze roam over her new living quarters.

The wall across from her was a rolling landscape of grays and blacks as shadows played across the design carved into the paneling. At its center was her precious hearth, its mouth a gentle black arch. The brass firedogs rising from its brick floor were but a muted gleam in the night. The white plastered mantel above it was painted a silvery gray by the moonlight that streamed into the chamber.

Not a breath of air stirred. Uncomfortable, Belle kicked her coverlet all the way down to her feet then removed her nightcap in the hopes of finding some relief. When that didn’t help, she pulled her loosened hair over her shoulder to bare her nape.

Yawning, she let her thoughts drift back to this evening's meal. The food had been rich, with at least three dishes in each course. As for the wine, she cringed over her behavior whilst meeting Squire Hollier. That experience had been embarrassment enough to make her sip at but a single cup for the rest of the night.

Since the dinner’s intent had been to display her to the residents of Graceton Castle, she’d sat at the hall’s head. It wasn’t an experience she wanted to repeat, nor would she need to, not until the wedding. From now on her meals could be taken in the parlor’s privacy.

Unlike most betrothal dinners where the happy couple—or not so happy as the case might be—would be seated together, her new husband hadn’t been at her side to introduce her to his servants. Instead, Master James had once more acted as his employer’s proxy.

A sigh escaped Belle. It had been hard enough to think of herself as Squire Hollier's wife when Master James stood with her before Richmond's chaplain to recite his employer’s vows. The task was even more difficult now that she knew she was to be the squire’s wife in name only.

It was a shame Master James wasn't her husband. A tiny smile crept over her mouth. As near as she could calculate he had all the qualities she required of a life companion. But even if Squire Hollier didn’t want her, their vows made her just as married to him as any cherished wife would be. Adultery was adultery no matter how pretty the face the sinner tried to put upon it.

Shifting on the mattress, she let her thoughts drift to Brigit’s behavior tonight. Because Graceton Castle had neither chamberlain nor ushers, positions usually manned by gentlemen with whom Brigit might sit, there had been nowhere appropriate for her except at the high table. With two men and two women at that table it was only natural they’d be placed as couples. This resulted in Brigit sharing a bench with Sir Edward.

This hadn’t concerned Belle at first. After all, the governess swore hatred for the knight because of how he'd treated Richard. Moreover, Sir Edward had been surly and curt at the evening's start. But as the night progressed his mood seemed to soften. By the middle of the meal he and Brigit were conversing. This progressed to the trading of witticisms and open laughter. By the meal’s end Brigit had been obviously and deeply smitten.

Sir Edward was a very handsome man. Tonight proved that he could be as charming as he was good-looking. Aye, but judging by Brigit's behavior this evening, Sir Edward might not be the only one doing the seducing.

Disappointment in herself and Brigit filled Belle. She simply didn’t know what else to do with the girl other than warn her most sternly away from the knight. Belle doubted it would work. She just wasn’t the sort of mistress a woman of Brigit’s spirit required.

A tendril of air whispered in through the windows. The bedcurtain rings, tiny ebony circles on an even darker pole, shifted with a gentle clack of wood against wood. Deep in the pit of Belle’s stomach, something pulled. The sensation was so odd that she put a hand to her midsection.

As her stomach tension eased yet another breath of air sighed into the room, this one cooler still. Sitting up, Belle reached toward her knees to grab her coverlet. With the bed curtains open she could see to the windows. She frowned. Until this moment, she hadn’t realized air could look heavy, but that was how it appeared in the casement as tendrils seemed to swirl and shift, congealing into a thick darkness.

Another puff of air hit Belle, this one so icy it raised gooseflesh on her arms. She caught a sharp breath. Well now, the weather was turning indeed.

As she slipped from her bed to close the windows she caught the distant sound of weeping. Thinking it was Lucy, awake in the night and frightened at finding herself in a strange room, Belle turned toward the door, only to stop. It wasn’t a child she heard, but a woman sobbing as if her heart were broken.

Wondering how any of her servants could be so distressed after such a pleasant evening, she turned back into her room and froze, her heart in her throat. Misty white fingers of air swirled and drifted before the open window. Rooted to the spot, Belle watched them coalesce into a woman's form.

The sound of sobbing grew louder. A face appeared upon the apparition's shoulders. Just as the squire's black mask had concealed all but his eyes, all of the ghostly woman's face was revealed except her eyes, which were naught but black spaces.

Belle’s heart banged in her chest. She wanted to run, but not a single muscle moved. A scream filled her throat but her jaws were locked tight. All that escaped was a tiny, panicked squeal.

As if it heard her the spirit’s head turned, scanning the room with its sightless eyes. Their gazes met, or would have met if those sockets hadn’t been empty. Mouth agape, Belle stared into those bottomless, blackened holes.

God save her, but this couldn’t be happening!

Paralysis shattered. Belle whirled. It was like running in a dream, her arms and legs moving as if through mud. It took an eternity to reach the door. Her fingers clawed at the wood as she sought the latch. At last it opened.

Gulping in air, she shot out of her bedchamber and across the sitting room. The outer door gave way with a quiet shriek. It was more sound than Belle could make. Gasping and shivering, she leapt out into the safety of the gallery.

A door opened and closed. A chill gust of air followed, moving through Jamie's office with enough force to make the flames of his candles jig. He leaned back in his chair and stretched, watching the wild dance of shadows on the stone wall across from him. God be praised, Cecily had finally arrived.

His absence from Graceton had dimmed his memory of how miserable this chamber could be. The tower had its origins in a more violent time when windows were never more than narrow slits. In the deepest of winter Jamie cursed those tiny openings for being without glass while for these few humid weeks of August he cursed them for not being big enough to admit even a hint of the river's fresh breath.

More than ready to be done with his day, he came to his feet and straightened the papers on his desk. Most of his evening had been consumed in listing all the families to whom announcements of Nick's wedding would be sent. Although Nick was a recluse and his title in abeyance, the Holliers were not an insignificant family. Even if none of the notified would attend the ceremony, the gifts they’d send would both celebrate the event and renew their connection to Nick and his name.

As Jamie set the list aside his gaze shifted to that idiotic note about the cannon. It taunted him for the fool he was. He laid the sheaf of papers in his hand atop it. He should have just admitted he thought Lady Purfoy innocent and been done with it. Instead, all his frenzy to escape his own emotions had done was pique Nick’s interest where Jamie didn’t want it to be.

He reached for his doublet. Because this was home and there was no need for formality he’d shed that garment directly after the meal, leaving it hanging over the back of his chair. Rather than grab it, he paused, listening.

It was a trick of the spiraling stairway that intensified the sounds made within it. If Cecily were climbing the steps, he should have heard every footfall, every scrape of hardened leather on stone. Not a sound emanated from the stairwell outside his office's open door.

He strode out onto the landing. Nothing disturbed the silence. If not Cecily, then who?

Suspicion prickled up his spine. He looked to the gallery door. Surely, Sir Edward wouldn’t be so bold as to be prying on this, his first evening in the house.

Crossing the landing, Jamie gently cracked the door. There was no illumination in the gallery save for the moonlight streaming in through its windows. At the nearest oriel stood a shadowy woman dressed in white, her head bent as if in prayer.

Born out of Mistress Miller's tale this morn, the possibility that he was at last seeing the castle’s ghost flickered through Jamie. He rolled his eyes at such a thought. He was more exhausted than he thought if he was paying heed to her nonsense. More likely this was one of the newcomers suffering from sleeplessness. Since the last thing he needed was for any of Lady Purfoy’s party to see Cecily on her way to Nick’s chamber, whoever it was would have to be shooed back to bed and right quickly.

Throwing open the door, he stepped out into the gallery. The woman whirled toward him with what sounded like a frightened gasp. Light from his office streamed past him to catch her in its muted glow. It found pale gold in the curling waves of hair that fell to her hips.

Lady Purfoy.

Jamie caught his breath. The lady wore no bed robe atop her nightshirt. There was light enough to show him how that garment's thin fabric clung to her full breasts.

“Oh,” Nick’s wife whispered in recognition.

Her single word brought Jamie's gaze back to her face, which by all rights it should never have left. Lady Purfoy's brow was creased, her eyes wide. Before he had a chance to ask her what she was doing in the gallery in the middle of the night, she launched herself at him. His breath huffed out as he caught her against his chest. Hands on her hips, he staggered back a step, struggling to hold them both upright.

She latched her arms around his neck and buried her face into his shoulder. The scent of her soap and roses filled his every breath. Her hair felt like silk where it tumbled over his hands and forearms. God help him, but all that lay between his flesh and hers was the fabric of their shirts. Her glorious breasts were pressed against his chest and the sensation was marvelous.

He swallowed. Even as his conscience warned that he mustn’t, his arms pressed her closer still. Her breasts flattened against his chest until he could feel their every detail on his skin. His eyes closed.

She shuddered against him. The movement was both heaven and hell rolled into one. Desire exploded to life, too huge to be denied.

His head bent. His lips touched the curve of her neck. Her skin was soft and sweet under his mouth. He traced a line of kisses down the length of her throat then splayed a hand over the gentle roundness of her hip. With a careful nudge, he shifted her until her womanhood rested against his shaft.

As she felt the strength of his desire for her, she gave a quiet gasp. Her head lifted from his shoulder, her hands loosened at his nape. She began to straighten, her arms lowering as if to push him away.

Jamie frowned. Nay, he wouldn’t allow it. She was his. Hadn’t he spoken the words that made it so? Closing his arms about her, he caught her lips with his, intent on destroying her resistance.

The feel of her mouth beneath his was better than he'd imagined. Taunting himself, he plied her lips with tiny kisses, each press of flesh to flesh sending an exquisite wave of need rolling over him. Her arms relaxed. Sighing against his mouth, her hands slid up to once more clasp behind his nape. As she yielded to him his ache to own all of her grew until he was filled with it.

Jamie let his kiss deepen until his mouth slashed across hers. She melted into him, every inch of her touching him. All breath left him at the sensation and he lifted his mouth from hers to gasp in wonder.

With a sound of disappointment she rose on her toes to catch his lips with hers. Lost in passion, Jamie slipped his hands between them to cup her breasts. She arched away from him, giving him room, her very motion begging him to continue. He obliged, fingers taunting and teasing her as he kissed her brow, her eyes, then touched his lips to her cheek.

And tasted the salt of her tears.

Shock pierced his lust. She was crying.

Jamie froze. What in all hell was he doing?

Forcing himself on Nick's wife, that much was obvious.

His hands opened. He straightened. As if not looking upon her would somehow shield him from the wrong he'd done, he turned his head to the side. With a tiny cry she leaned against him, her arms tightening around him as she tried to draw him back to her.