The Secret Desires of a Governess (5 page)

He made no response. And he did not make eye contact with her again. With a strained ruffle of his hand through his hair, he frowned and turned away. Wherever did he learn his manners? Ha! It was quite clear he’d never learned any.

Thomas chose that opportune and most awkward moment to enter the stable. She turned and greeted him, happy to not be in the sole company of Lord Brendall. “I hope I didn’t make you rush your luncheon.”

“Not at all, Miss Hallaway. Besides, a break’ll do me good this afternoon. Even if it’s only a few hours.”

He opened the stall door that housed a horse farther down than his lordship’s. An old hag of a horse, half asleep where she stood blinked one large brown eye at her. The beast blew out a breath of air as though she didn’t want to do any human’s biddings today. Abby stepped forward, offering her hand to scratch the horse. Thomas stepped in front of her.

“You don’t want your fingers too close to old Betsy here. A bit temperamental she is. She’ll nip

them right off.

When she wants some attention, she’ll give you a nudge.”

She pulled her hand away and shoved it into the pocket of her dress.

“You can go outside, miss, I’ll be there in a minute with the cart once I get Betsy here set up.”

She left the stable without further word. How odd for the master of the house to ignore her as he’d done. Then suddenly approach her and impulsively touch her. What a strange man. Did he dislike her, or dislike his servants in general? Maybe he was trying to figure her out as she was him.

Thomas came out with the horse and cart a few minutes later. The cart was as old and decrepit as the horse.

All rotting grayish wood, with a wooden bench full of knotholes in the seat. No cushions adorned the bench for comfort. Well, beggars— though she was far from that point— could not be choosers.

Grasping the handle of the chair, Abby tried hoisting herself up. It was a rather high perch. Before she could reach out to grasp Thomas’s proffered hand, another set of strong hands— Lord Brendall’s— grasped her around the waist and lifted her to the seat.

She felt the heat of him through every layer of material she wore. His touch lingered even after he released her and she was set up in the cart. She turned to glare at Lord Brendall, but he’d already turned away from her.

She muttered a thank you, then turned her attention to Thomas. She would not allow her thoughts to be consumed by her employer. To think of his strong grip wrapped about her and the ease in which he lifted her to her seat was unsettling and thrilling. She disliked him for making her feel at odds with herself.

She pinched the bridge of her nose. Lord Brendall was a bit of a mystery, so that explained her curiosity toward him. It did not explain why her heart felt as though it would skip right out of her chest whenever he looked at her, or why her face grew flush under his regard, or why she kept stealing glances in his direction.

Lord Brendall mounted his horse next to Thomas. The muscle in his legs flexed beneath the tight trousers as they gripped the barrel of the horse. She swallowed the sound of appreciation that threatened to spill from her throat and focused on Thomas.

“How long till we reach the rail by cart?” she asked.

“Maybe an hour and a half. Betsy’s hardier than she looks.”

With that last comment, the horse bobbed her head and pulled forward.

The ride was mostly silent. It was very hard to concentrate on the surroundings with the brooding presence of Lord Brendall. Whenever she glimpsed his way, she was sure he’d been staring after her, but she never did catch him in the act.

On leaving the castle grounds, Abby turned around in her seat to better look upon the castle in all its grandeur.

It had been too dark last night to see the formidable, imposing sight.

A rocky outcrop surrounded the walls; the trees looked as though they climbed the great white stone. The castle could only be described as a medieval monstrosity. The outer walls stretched past what her eye could see.

The fields around her were filled with tall grasses and rushes of yellow flowers. On any other day she might appreciate the natural beauty of the place. But she was all too aware of Lord Brendall following close behind them on his horse.

He kept to the side of the cart she sat on. She had the urge to scratch the back of her neck where the hairs prickled up. She knew he was watching her. She also knew that if she turned to face him, he’d look away and pretend as though he had never been making a study of her.

What did it suggest about her character that she wanted him to meet her gaze? Wanted to see some of his thoughts flitting across his mind by reading his body language?

She should not care about him in the least. But he was a hard man to ignore outright. He was so silent and brooding, like a character right out of a gothic novel. She wanted to crack through his rough exterior just for a moment and see what he was hiding of himself.

Who was to say he hid anything, though? She didn’t know this Lord Brendall, had never had prior association with him, and hadn’t ever heard his name once whispered in her circle of acquaintances.

When they arrived at the rail, Lord Brendall dismounted his horse and lifted her from the cart before she could climb down on her own. She pretended that this strange, out- of- place, and very unnecessary chivalry didn’t make her hands shake in nervousness— even though she had to grip her palms together in front of her once she was set on her feet. Why did he affect her so?

Some men liked and even preferred to treat the fairer sex as though they were helpless, inferior.

The only rebellious thing she could do in her position, and out in the open with passersby, was put her nose in the air and refuse to thank him. Though she did pry his fingers away from the underside of her breast where they’d grasped and this time lingered. And damn her for liking these stolen liberties of his. He suddenly released her, and she was left to find her footing so she didn’t teeter over.

Cool as ice, he turned to Thomas as though she were no longer there. The two exchanged no words as they walked into the rail station.

“Well, Miss Hallaway”— Thomas turned at the entrance—“let us retrieve your luggage.”

Abby pushed between the two men and made her way to the clerk. The same man who had checked her baggage.

The same man who had declined to help her find a coach or cart to take her to her destination the previous day. Of course, she’d learned soon enough he hadn’t lied about people refusing to take her up to the castle. She walked through two villages on her way to her new posting; everyone she’d met had refused to offer her a horse for the remainder of the journey.

The attendant was in his fifties, if not older. His wizened face and white hair gave him a fatherly air. He looked up from the ledger of names he was copying from a loose sheaf of paper to a bound book.

“Madam,” he addressed her. Setting his pencil down, he folded his hands over his work. “Did you make the trek well yesterday?”

“There was a spot of rain and thunder rumbling across the skies quite frightfully last night. The walk was not comfortable.” Cool as ever she had set him down, though he didn’t look away from her.

“I’m sorry to hear that.” There was no sympathy in his voice for her ordeal. “How may I be of assistance?”

“I’d like to retrieve my belongings, if you please.”

The attendant’s kind expression turned dark. The laugh lines scrunching the corner of his mouth moments ago turned to scowl lines. His gaze shifted to her left and narrowed. All the kindness in his expression was void. Absent. Not so fatherly now.

She didn’t need to turn to know Lord Brendall stood close to her like the very dev

il on her shoulder. She imagined— it had to be her imagination because she was wearing so many layers of cloth and linen, it couldn’t be the truth— that she felt the warmth of his body engulf her.

Nearly suffocating her with its heated proximity.

His penchant for invading what she liked to call her personal space needed to stop. It overwhelmed her. Made her feel less in control.

The old man finally tore his gaze away from Lord Brendall and pulled open a drawer on his desk. Picking something up from the top— a key, most likely— he stood, straightened his jacket, and squared his shoulders as he led them to the storage room.

Opening the door wide, he pulled his fob, checked the time, and announced, “Your cases are all there on the right. If you could please take them quickly, I have a train arriving in three minutes.”

Abby didn’t need to be told twice. On entering the room, she made her way to her portmanteaus.

She was intercepted by the men who had followed in on her heels as though she were some great dame. She nearly snorted at the image that presented in her mind. Too bad she couldn’t be more lighthearted about this. Not with Lord Brendall dogging her every step.

He took the larger of her trunks back out to the cart, giving her a much- needed moment to pull herself together so she could face him again with cool regard. She dragged one of the smaller cases too heavy to carry.

She only made it outside the door of the station before the very man she was trying not to think about took the case directly from her hands. She squealed in surprise when he once again picked her up by the waist and set her in the seat of the cart.

“I’m far from helpless, my lord,” she quipped as she settled her skirts around her.

Hard to say if the anger she felt was directed toward him or herself. What was wrong with her? She didn’t want to think about the infernal man another moment. Ignoring him would be best.

“I understand perfectly.”

What did he understand? Did he realize it made her uncomfortable when he was in close proximity? She gave an annoyed huff and stared at the twitching ears of the old nag set to pull them home.

Home?

How interesting that she’d already labeled the castle as her home. Was she so desperate to be out of her sister’s manor that any house would do in place? She’d never considered anyplace a home aside from the one she’d grown up in with her sisters and parents. That house had gone to some cousin of hers last in line to take her father’s title.

Thomas did not immediately join her. She guessed the men were parting ways since they spoke for some minutes away from her range of hearing.

“Miss,” a woman said to her from the side of the cart.

She was older, in her sixth or seventh decade. Her black and gray hair was braided and fell like a thick rope down her back. Her clothes were tattered and moth- eaten; tears and holes the size of a shilling speckled her burgundy plaid shawl and old sackcloth dress of the same ratty material.

Was this a beggar that had approached her? She loosened the string on her reticule to find a farthing.

“Miss,” she said again, shaking her head at the coin Abby held out. “All’s fair in warnin’ thou. Yer young, miss.

Don’t be taking up with the likes o’ that man.”

Not only did the woman’s words make the hairs on her forearms prickle, but Abby also felt insulted and rose to defend herself, as any Hallaway woman would. “I’m the governess for the boy. I shall never allow myself to be ‘taking up’ with a gentleman.”

“Smart lass. A brain in thy head. Be thee warned, nothing good comes out o’ that castle.” The woman pointed a knobby cane in the direction of her new home. “Bad things be happening to those who stay. Be warned.” Her cane pounded against the wooden floorboard of the cart as though it added to her decree.

“Bethesda,” Thomas scolded with a firmness that seemed contradictory to the man she’d been charmed by since midmorning. Abby turned her chin up to look at him. It was as though everything in time and space had slowed as she eyed the man she’d chatted kindly with over the past few hours. He was not that man anymore. In his place stood a man who was as much a brute as his master.

The look in his eyes seemed vicious. Pitiless and angry toward the old woman.

“Be off, witch,” Lord Brendall growled in his deep, rumbling voice. This was a man who had many shades of black. She saw that now as she hadn’t before. There was something indefinable in his expression. Something she couldn’t quite comprehend passing between the old woman and the men. What that secret was she not privy to.

Abby sat frozen in her seat, shocked and outraged at the abuse they showed toward a woman who clearly did not have her wits about her. But she was wary to interrupt, for fear of missing something important. Something that defined her employer’s character, which she was all too interested in uncovering.

The old witch pointed her cane in Lord Brendall’s direction. Even coming from a feeble old woman, the move seemed threatening. “Yer no better than your father.”

As repulsed as Abby was by the whole situation, she felt the old lady unjustly attacked by the two men.

“She means me no harm.”

To show her goodwill, and her support toward the woman, she pressed her hand upon the woman’s bony shoulder and gave it the lightest of squeezes.

The woman looked back to her with a wicked smile full of holes where her teeth should have been. Abby swallowed back her disgust and attempted a smile. She feared she failed miserably. There was an unease snaking through her veins, skittering up her body in a nervous, uncomfortable shiver.

“Miss,” the woman crowed. This time when she spoke, she grasped Abby’s hand and pulled her down with unexpected strength so she could say something of import next to her ear with her fetid, humid breath.

She felt a prick at her wrist. A buzzing in her head seemed to drown out all the others— except the hypnotizing voice that spoke to her.

How odd that Abby then noted her surroundings. A crowd had formed since the woman had approached the cart. Half a dozen citizens of the town stalled their daily activities in the street to see what transpired; a lady and a gentleman who came out of the rail station stared at the scene with barely concealed disgust. Thomas attempted to pry the old woman’s bony hands away from Abby’s hand and wrist.

Lord Brendall trotted over on his great horse. The bay, feeling the agitation in the air and in his handler’s hold, stomped his foot in annoyance and neighed. The sound was like the screaming of a soul in the hands of the devil.