The Secret Desires of a Governess (6 page)

It was no benign sound, and it crept through Abby’s mind like a serpent over her bare flesh.

Through all this, the woman maintained her hold.

The long nail of Bethesda’s thumb pressed into the soft tissue of Abby’s wrist. The pressure, even through her gloves, seemed to relax Abby and make her light- headed.

She swore she swayed in the witch’s hold. For how could she be anything else but a witch, when the old woman had bewitched everyone around them?

Nothing could have stopped the hissed warning from reaching Abby’s ears. There was desperation in the old woman’s slurred speech. Stark belief resonating in each consonant uttered, and firm conviction was laced in the tone of the message conveyed.

Abby was not wont to believe in local fables, legends, curses, and whatnot. She’d never been one for stories of this nature.

But the way in which she was warned made her want to caution herself. Made her wonder. It was as if a spell was being put on her. Suspending her thoughts and allowing impossible slander to root into her head and worm its way so deep, it could never be plucked away. So deep, she’d have to explore every facet until she knew the truth of the matter. A sliver of apprehension embedded itself right into her bones.

“Too late, Tommy boy.” The woman gave a bitter laugh.

“Too late. Truths have a way of coming out. Just helped her along in figuring it out sooner.”

When the woman released her arm, Abby swayed where she sat. She felt as though she’d been sitting in a room full of cigar smoke from her father and his acquaintances for too long. It lent to the light- headedness—the feeling of disembodiment.

The woman set her knobby cane to the cobbled road and wobbled away on rheumy legs. She limped with every step down the center of the town’s road, cutting a swath through everyone. Another cart went around her, pedestrians moved away, even the village children who were more focused on one another veered far out of the woman’s path.

Lord Brendall’s fingers were light under her chin as he tipped her up to face him. His lips were pinched in an angry frown, his eyes softer than they’d been since she’d met him. What he searched for she didn’t know.

“Thomas,” he called over his shoulder as he released her and turned his horse away from the cart.

Abby said nothing on the ride home with Thomas. He did not ask her any questions, did not ask what the old woman had whispered for her ears alone. She felt dazed with all the questions going through her head. There was a mystery to be solved. Secrets to uncover. And she hadn’t even been here two days. She would find the truth in the old woman’s words. If there was any truth in them.

Lord Brendall did not follow them back. When they arrived at the castle and her luggage was unloaded and taken to her room, she had no more energy after climbing the stairs.

She did not search out the child she was there to teach.

She could not. She could hardly think. There was one thing aside from finding the boy she must do on the morrow.

She had to find the grave that had been whispered about in her ear.

In leaving, the prince allowed his father’s rule to stand, despite his promises made to the woman he loved true.

—The Dragon of Brahmors

Abby did not find the grave. She’d had plenty of free time to herself in the last few days since she could not find her charge. Her search had been to no avail, so she doubted the grave’s existence. The woman who’d spoken to her in town had lacked a sound mind. In fact, Abby had given up the silly notion that there was a mystery to solve in regard to Lord Brendall.

The less she thought of him, the better.

The simple fact of the matter was that she shouldn’t care to know more about him. Giving in to the urge to find the grave showed she wanted to better understand him.

Good thing she’d come to her senses after a couple of fu-tile and rather frustrating searches.

Another mystery she had yet to solve was where her pupil whiled away his days. She’d seen neither hide nor hair of him. It was understandable why the governesses hired in the past didn’t stay on long. Without a child to teach, their days were spent idle. She didn’t like idle.

It seemed strange that the staff went about their day without looking after the boy. It shouldn’t surprise her that the boy was intentionally avoiding her. She thought maybe that Martha had something to do with that. The woman didn’t believe in her ability as a teacher. Had made a point in saying she was too young on the first day they’d met.

Had further questioned her abilities whenever they’d chanced to meet. The dislike most likely stemmed from not successfully having one day of studies with Jacob. It wasn’t precisely her fault she couldn’t find the child.

How did a child of eight go about his day alone? How was it that the staff allowed such a thing? Or that Lord Brendall permitted his son to be left to his own devices morning, noon, and night? It wasn’t right. It stirred up empathy in her breast, and a desire to help the child in any way she could. She just didn’t know what she should do.

Lord Brendall was no help. She’d not seen him since her and Thomas had taken the cart back from town. He kept to himself as far as she could tell. She was a bit thankful for that.

Finishing a bowl of warm oats and tea for an early breakfast, she left the women to their meal preparations to search for Jacob. She was determined to find him today and would leave no stone unturned in doing so. Wrapping her shawl around her shoulders, she headed for the stables hoping to have a smidgen of luck on her side.

All six stalls for the horses were occupied— including Ivan’s— which meant Lord Brendall was in residence. Not that she cared. She was simply taking notice that he often didn’t leave the castle.

She turned where she stood, studying the inside of the stable area. There were two doors. One was painted a deep red and led back outside, the other a ruddily worn wood door that probably housed the stable hand.

She walked over to the adjacent room and opened the door. Empty, aside from a cot and small table. It was dusty enough to attest to the fact that no one had slept here for some time. She shut the door and pressed her back to the hard surface. This old castle had too many hiding spots to name.

If she were eight, where would she hide?

There was a ladder that led up to a hayloft. She’d have to check there before she searched the abandoned half of the stable. Setting her shawl over the door of Ivan’s stall, she rubbed at his muzzle before making her way to the ladder and climbing the steep steps. It was quite high up.

There was plenty of hay stacked up here, but no dark-haired child.

“Jacob?” she called.

Not that she expected an answer. All she hoped was that her search

wouldn’t take her the majority of the day. Would the little rascal hide in among the stacks of hay?

She climbed up off the ladder and hunched over so she didn’t hit her head on the low- hanging beams of the ceiling.

“Jacob,” she called again.

There was a small square window set into the east wall.

The wood planks beneath it were cleared of hay, and a few marbles littered inside one of the larger knotholes. Evidence that the boy did spend time hidden away up here.

With that knowledge, Abby reluctantly made her way back down the ladder.

If she didn’t find him today, she might sit up there for the full day tomorrow. It was better than sitting in the library where she’d set up her teaching things, or in silence with the kitchen staff.

She looked over her shoulder to assess how much farther she needed to climb down and met the stoic gaze of Lord Brendall.

She lost her footing. Foolish of her to be distracted by the man. He habitually showed up without warning.

To say he caught her before she could land on the ground was and wasn’t quite the truth. It was much more than simply stopping her fall. Her chin hit one of the ladder rungs, leaving a sharp sting and a light ringing in her ears; her knee smacked against another step lower down, and her skirts rode up high enough to reveal her drawers.

She knew this last fact because she felt Lord Brendall’s warmth seep right through the frivolous, impractical silk.

“I’m sorry.” It was the best she could come up with by way of apology. Her arms still hugged the ladder. Lord Brendall still held her tight to him with her back to his front.

Not a predicament she wanted or ever planned to be in.

And good Lord, why wasn’t he letting her go? And why was she starting to feel flushed and pliant in his hold?

“I’m fine now,” she pointed out.

Since her feet finally reached the ground and she no longer needed the support of the ladder, she released it.

Lord Brendall, however, did not let her go. She stilled, her body as rigid as a board, as she felt the heat of his body through her clothes.

Abby knew she should at the very least push him away, but the adrenaline pumping through her body from the fall did something funny to her. Her legs felt unsteady, and her hands shook a little as she waited for him to say or do something.

With a deep breath, Abby found the calm she displayed to everyone in her acquaintance. “Do you wish to intimidate me, my lord?”

One of his hands moved to her chin and tilted her head to the side. “Only to make certain you’ve not caused yourself any lasting damage.”

He was surprisingly gentle, his hands a little shaky as he skimmed over her jaw with the blunt tips of his fingers and inspected the spot that had smacked against the ladder rung.

She remembered how those fingers felt against her own hand. What would they feel like on other parts of her exposed skin? Her stomach flipped with the thought. She should pull away; she should slide out from under his arms. It wouldn’t be that difficult. It was the right thing to do.

She pinched her eyes shut and focused on herself. Only herself. Why didn’t she want to do the proper thing? She had no answer to that question. Admittedly, she had pictured herself in this type of scenario with Lord Brendall over the past few days. Idle time was dangerous to one’s thoughts and imagination. Especially hers.

It was true that she’d always walked a thin line between right and wrong, but always on the side of propriety. Doing what she ought to do suddenly seemed dull and mind numbing.

She hissed in a breath when his finger prodded under her chin. He stopped his inspection

immediately upon hearing her pained sound.

“The skin is only reddened. You’ve bruised yourself, nothing more.”

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him, but her voice wavered, which was probably due to the fact that he was still touching her.

Lord Brendall turned her around to face him, moving his warm body away from her. She didn’t like the loss of his warmth one bit. And that wasn’t good . . . wasn’t right.

“What else did you hurt?”

“My knee, but it’s no worse than my chin.”

She was beside herself when he slid his big hands down to gather up her skirts and went on bended knee to inspect the damage. She tried not to think about what he’d reveal in lifting the heavy twill. She should put a stop to his actions. Should but would not, because she liked the excitement that coursed through her with his surprisingly gentle inspection.

Her knee throbbed in time to her heartbeat. She couldn’t meet his gaze when his hand skimmed over her calf and then around her lower thigh as he lifted and studied her knee.

Was it her imagination or did he toy with the ties that held her stockings in place? Her breath caught in her lungs.

“Only a scratch, but you’ve torn your stockings right through.” His finger traced the edge of that hole, making her heart skip and speed up to double its normal tempo.

“Yes,” was her pathetic reply.

As Lord Brendall stood, her skirts fell back around her legs. Casually, he grasped the ladder behind her with one hand and gave her a thoughtful look.

The shiver of anticipation she’d felt earlier now did a jig throughout her body. What was he about?

“Why is it that you don’t find me intimidating, Miss Hallaway?”

She didn’t miss the note of wonder in his voice. But it was an odd question to ask of her. Was she supposed to run shamefaced and embarrassed from the stable? She should have protested his improper inspection of her injured knee.

“You are a bit of a brute at times.” She was proud of herself for keeping her voice level, uninterested. Even a bit superior.

“So I’ve been told,” he replied.

The remark was made in a light bantering tone, and it made her grin to hear a teasing side of his lordship.

His free hand traced the line of her jaw, stopping well before he reached the tender part of her chin. His action had all the air leaving her lungs in a rush, and she closed her eyes. Was it her imagination or was there a tremble to his hand as he held her almost reverently?

She forgot how to breathe in that moment. Felt her heart skitter and stop, skitter and stop. She swallowed against her dry throat and gasped for a breath of air. It didn’t fill her lungs easily, and the second and third breaths were just as hard to take.

He made no move to touch her further. Why was she disappointed by that fact? When she opened her eyes, she said, “I doubt that.”

What was wrong with her? Why wasn’t she stepping away from him? Whatever her reason was, it must have something to do with the kick of excitement coursing through her, like the instant jolt you got upon tipping back a whole shot of liquor. What game was Lord Brendall playing at?

The bigger question that needed to be answered was: What would she gain in continuing this game whose rules she didn’t fully understand?

This was exactly how her sister Grace had ended up married. Doing things like this with a gentleman. Not a predicament Abby wanted to be in. The thought of marriage somehow cleared her mind and allowed her to breathe easier.

She met his gaze with indifference. At least that was what she hoped he read, before his pale blue

eyes hypnotized her. Silenced her. She could drown there, she decided. Lose herself so easily. So completely.

The only question left on her mind was, what would happen if she just let go? Just this once?

Elliott had come to the stable with no other purpose than to ask his governess why lessons had not commenced in the last few days. He’d talked to Jacob briefly this morning, asking his boy what he thought of Miss Hallaway.

Jacob had done nothing more than shrug and say he hadn’t seen her since that first day in the stable, then had relayed a story about a young red squirrel that had fallen out of a hole in one of the trees on the property.

After he’d assured Jacob that the mother squirrel would look after the baby with great diligence, the boy had scampered off to make sure the animal was well looked after.

He’d taken that as his cue to find Miss Hallaway immediately to remedy the fact that she hadn’t yet started any sort of schedule with Jacob.

Elliott certainly hadn’t meant to cause Miss Hallaway to fall from the ladder. Hadn’t meant for her to hurt herself. Definitely hadn’t meant to touch her inappropriately.

Well, that last bit was a lie. He’d wanted to touch so much more of her but had refrained. She was a temptress.

A veritable siren luring him into the water and farther from the shores of decency and sanity.

His long- dead wife, Madeline, would be laughing in her grave right now knowing he couldn’t keep his desires in check. Wright men had no business where women were concerned. He had his heir; he did not need a companion.

Hard to resist Miss Hallaway when she’d given no indication that she objected to the liberties he’d carefully taken. His attraction toward her had not dimmed one whit since he first met her. He’d gone out of his way to avoid her for the past three days, but couldn’t continue to do so when his son had yet to sit for a lesson.

He should leave her be, it was obvious she was searching for Jacob. And he’d been about to turn away and let her find the boy on her own when he’d had a peek at her pretty underthings, embroidered in a delicate pattern of fine pink and green fleur-de-lis. The French silk undergarments were enough to make his feet move forward instead of retreat to the house.

Then when he’d made her fall from the ladder and had put his arms around her . . . he couldn’t keep himself from touching her, if only to reassure himself that she’d caused no lasting damage.

For more years than he cared to remember, he’d awoken early in the morning, broken his fast alone in his study, headed out to some part of the castle that needed to be repaired, and had spent his days out of doors, rain or shine. The evening didn’t fare much better. He dined alone in his study as he went over grain counts and the investments he’d made in the early days of his marriage.

Without that money, the castle would still lie in ruins around him. His father had squandered the Wright fortune on bad investments.

But with Miss Hallaway . . .his whole routine had changed. She was a welcome distraction from the monotony of his daily life. He watched for her first thing in the morning. She liked to walk the grounds before taking a quick breakfast in the kitchen. By lunch, he had done at least one round of the castle in search of her, hoping to catch a glimpse. At night, dining alone in his study held little appeal. He craved more.