Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 13

"He died and she wanted to be with him, tried to be with him. Thought no child should be separated from his parent."

Emma stared at her, and then growing certainty made her flinch. Had Cookie tried to take her own life, to follow her child to the hereafter? She could not make her lips form the question, and so she sat in unhappy silence.

The housekeeper glanced up, then down. "Enough of idle chat, now," she muttered and then briskly flipped open the journal she had been working on earlier, her actions signaling the end of the interview. Emma eased to her feet, feeling more confused than when she had first arrived. The conversation with the housekeeper had answered little, and given rise to a slew of fresh questions and concerns.

Nicky was asleep. Emma sat at his bedside, her own eyelids drooping. The child had chattered endlessly about ice cream and ponies before exhaustion overtook him at last. Placing a kiss on his forehead, she then rose and went into her own adjoining chamber, the one she had moved to at Lord Anthony's behest.

Leaving the door between the two rooms slightly ajar, she walked softly across the carpeted floor, her fingers trailing along the heavy curtains of the large canopied bed. She glanced at the night-table, and paused to retrieve the diary that sat, forgotten, on the polished surface. She had tossed it there the day she discovered it, and had yet to find the time to read it. No. That was untrue. She had not wished to look at the diary for it brought to mind unsettling emotions and thoughts of the other things she had discovered that afternoon-the sweet ache of desire to be found in Anthony's arms, the yearning fueled by his kiss.

Her mouth felt dry. She could hear his voice, his sensual baritone, stroking her, promising untold delights. I want to thrust myself inside you, my tongue in your mouth, my body pushed deep inside yours. She could think of naught else. Her wayward imaginings burgeoned and grew until she closed her eyes and gave in to her longing. She could almost taste him, feel the wet thrust of his tongue, twining with hers, teasing her until she was molten and burning with dark pa.s.sion. A gnawing hunger tugged at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and low in her belly, and there, between her thighs.

The temptation to hurry from her chamber and seek him out was nearly overwhelming.

A soft cry escaped her and she paced forward, back, until, resolutely, she yanked her thoughts from places they should not wander and focused on the small leather journal in her hand. Mild curiosity teased her, and she welcomed it, anything to relieve the mad yearning that chewed at her insides. She carried the diary to the low window seat and sank down onto the cus.h.i.+oned surface. After removing her boots, she tucked her stockinged feet underneath her.

She opened the diary to the first entry and ran her finger over the delicate, feminine script. She recognized her cousin Delia's flowery hand from the letters that she had posted with regularity to the aunts.

I am ever so happy, Emma read. I have met the man I shall marry. And like a princess in a fairy story, I shall live happily ever after. Pity tugged at Emma's heart. There had been no happy ending for her cousin, only an early death.

I met L.S. and am quite enamored of him. But, alas, he is a simple country doctor, without t.i.tle or vast means. A shame that our a.s.sociation can have no future for I sense in him my kindred spirit, my true mate. Instead, I have decided to marry Lord P. Emma's brow furrowed in confusion. Lord P.? Who was Lord P.? She read on, her curiosity piqued. The pages spread before her an endless catalogue of b.a.l.l.s and soirees, and tidbits of nasty gossip that ill.u.s.trated how sad and shallow Delia's life must have been for her to find her only joy in the misfortunes of others.

Miss C. was caught kissing Lord Q. in the garden, Delia wrote. Lord L. wore a stained cravat and the ladies laughed behind their fans. The Dowager Countess of S. pa.s.sed wind at the opera. And at the end of each description of each ball, Delia listed the initial of a lord she had decided to marry. It seemed the same lord was never listed twice.

Emma was stunned by this insight into Delia's character. The aunts had always led her to believe that Lord Anthony had swept into Delia's life, convincing her to be his bride before she could lend thought to her decision. The implication was that Delia, a sheltered and naive girl, had been given no opportunity to consider any other suit. The aunts had presented Lord Anthony as a jaded monster who plied Delia with false promises to gain her hand. But clearly, by Delia's own written admission, this was not the case.

The musicale was enchanting. I met Lord A. He is terribly handsome, terribly enamored of me already, and rumored to be rich as Croeseus though he is a younger son. I think I shall marry Lord A. I mean it this time, dearest diary, my only confidant. Lord A. is the man I shall marry, for he is the wealthiest of the lot.

There was a s.h.i.+ft in tone and content after that statement. The fervor of Delia's writing and thoughts no longer reflected her earlier frivolity but, instead, depicted a single-minded purposefulness. She had become the hunter, and Anthony the hunted, though Emma guessed he had not known it at the time. According to Delia's recitation, she had been extremely careful to allow her prey the impression that in truth he pursued her. It was difficult for Emma to imagine that Anthony had ever been the young man that Delia described, a man who would easily fall under the spell of fluttering lashes and pouting lips.

She paused, index finger resting lightly on the last word of the page. Not only was the written description of Anthony so one-dimensional as to make it laughable, but there was something else missing from the story. Emma tapped her nail slowly on the paper then stopped abruptly as the answer came to her.

Strangely, Delia forbore to mention the proposal, the first kiss, what it felt like to be held in Anthony's arms. Emma knew from her own experience in Anthony's embrace-her own taste of his lips-that were she given to keeping a journal, she would have devoted boundless prose to those thoughts and the feelings engendered by his touch.

Frowning, she skimmed the pages that itemized the contents of Anthony's London house, Delia's shopping trips, and the agonies of being forced to choose between the pink gown or the blue. And then the tone of the diary changed once more.

I have no wish to go to Wales. I have no desire to see Manorbrier. Anthony has ever doted on me, acquiescing to my every demand, save for the one where I asked him to give up that horrible surgery in the East End, where he ministers to the poor. That one small request he denied me. And now he has turned against me altogether. I have begged him to let me finish the season, but he is adamant, tyrannical, even cruel. And all because I made one small choice that he disapproved of.

All right. Perhaps he has his point. Perhaps the choice was partly his to make, but he never would have agreed with me, never would have let me finish the deed. Sometimes I think I hate him.

Emma was as much startled at the emotion evinced by the written words as she was by the content of the statements. So lacking had the diary been in all but the most superficial information regarding Delia's thoughts and feelings toward Lord Anthony that her sudden vehemence was made more extraordinary in contrast. And to what deed did Delia refer? What choice had she made that angered Anthony so?

I hate Manorbrier. Anthony locks himself away for hours, even days, in that horrible crumbling tower, and I am left to my own devices. There is no pleasure to be taken in good society. The village, Bosherton, with its peasants and farmers has no fine shops. I am bored, bored, bored. I cannot say why we are even here. The village has no need of Anthony, as they already have a doctor. Though I must say that I have begun to become reacquainted with Dr. Smythe, and a kinder and more solicitous man could not be imagined. It seems that he knew Anthony from London, but when I suggested to my husband that we might invite his friend to supper, he became irate. He stormed and scolded, his voice thunderous before he stalked away from our dinner of larded pheasant. I am afraid of his moods. They have become more frequent since we came to this horrible place.

Afraid of Anthony? Emma could not fathom it. Even in the face of his icy rage the night she had inadvertently worn Delia's gown, she had never felt truly afraid. Nay, she had been certain that he would never harm her.

Leafing ahead, Emma scanned the dates at the tops of the pages. Weeks and, toward the end, even months, pa.s.sed without an entry.

I have not seen Anthony in days. He locked himself in the tower, and when I ordered Griggs to unlock the door, he refused me. Imagine the gall. A servant refusing the mistress entry. But that is the sad truth of it. I am not mistress of Manorbrier. Instead, I think I am prisoner here. Though no iron bars span the windows, and no jailer locks me in at night, I am not free to go. The other day I went walking and upon pausing to study a hyacinth I caught sight of the housekeeper, that horrible one-armed creature, following me at a distance. She saw me look at her and all she did was smile. I must find a way to leave the manor without her notice.

My only friend here is Dr. Smythe, who remains steadfast in his support. He is my confidante and I bare my soul to him when we meet.

But I must be careful of Griggs. Like the housekeeper, he, too, is my husband's minion. Only the cook, simple being that she is, is kind to me.

And now that I have come to a most terrible realization, the danger to me increases. I cannot write the words, for to see them on paper would make them too real, and that I cannot bear to face. Not yet. Not until I must. I shall tell Dr. Smythe-Leonard-first. He will advise me, as he always does now.

What terrible realization could Delia mean? Emma flipped the page, anxious to read on, and was disappointed to find that the next entry held no answers, instead embarking on a minutely detailed description of Delia's visit to her aunts, Hortense and Cecilia. There was a lengthy diatribe against the weather, and an even more verbose attack on the quality of Anthony's coach and four.

With a sigh Emma closed the diary, her heart heavy.

She had not loved him. Delia had not loved Anthony Craven, had, in fact, detested him. Emma blinked back tears, wondering for a moment at such melancholy. And then, with a sad little laugh, she acknowledged the source. It was because Delia had not loved him, while he had treasured her with all his youthful ardor. All Emma could think was that if Anthony Craven had given his heart into her keeping, she would have treated it like the greatest treasure.

What had he said to her that night as he stood before Delia's portrait? I did love Delia, once, if love can be named as the obsession of youth. And then I hated her, with the powerful hatred of a man. Dear heaven. He had loved her, and she had broken his heart, never returning his love, never offering her own heart for his safekeeping. Emma sighed, Anthony's loss twisting her insides in a hard, sharp knot, her mind focused on the wish that she could take away his heartbreak.

She wondered if he mourned her still. No. From what he had said, Emma surmised that he had finished mourning his lost love long before Delia died. But what of the terrible hatred he described? Was it merely because of unrequited affection, or was there some deeper tragedy to this tale? Did it have something to do with the choice Delia had made, the one she had described in her diary?

Emma stood and went to replace the journal on the table. She had no wish to read more right now, for it seemed the small volume contained no answers, and the contents increased her unease rather than a.s.suaging it.

She returned to the window seat, allowing her thoughts to wander where they would, and in doing so brought the focus of her attention to the very place she least wished it to be. Lord Anthony Craven.

Closed her eyes, she struggled against her inner turmoil, her tangled thoughts revisiting Lord Anthony's kiss, the touch of his hand on her skin, the feel of his hard-muscled frame pressed close to hers. She wanted him with a longing that bordered on pain. She wanted to run her tongue along the hard line of his mouth, to taste him, to touch him, to lie with him. She dreamed of it with a hot, hungry yearning that left her aching and weak. And what did that make her?

She, who was the product of an illicit union, branded with the ugly mark of illegitimacy, knew only too well where such an alliance would likely lead. She must steel herself, unless she wished to end up like her mother or Meg, pregnant and alone.

Yet, it was not only his touch, his kiss, she craved. She longed for his presence, his discourse, the way he looked at her with startled admiration and interest and even humor.

With an exclamation of bitter frustration, Emma turned her head toward the window. Through the panes of gla.s.s she could barely discern the silhouette of the Round Tower against the star-tossed night sky.

The tower that was ever kept locked.

The tower that hosted the dead.

Suddenly, a flare of light burst against the night sky and then abruptly disappeared. Dousing her own light, Emma returned to the window and pressed her nose to the gla.s.s, peering into the darkness. A shadow s.h.i.+fted, a bare hint of movement, there but a second, then swallowed by the night.

She s.n.a.t.c.hed her boots from the floor and laced them with all haste. She had had quite enough of s.h.i.+fting shadows, whispered warnings, and veiled allusions. Enough of snippets of conversation that led only to confusion, and hazy threats that boded ill.

Tonight she would have her answers.

Carrying a tallow candle, Emma made her way through the silent house and out the kitchen door. She marked her good fortune at failing to encounter a single soul on her nocturnal journey across the well-manicured lawn.

Pausing in the shadow of the tower, she recalled with vivid clarity the image of Griggs, the cloth-wrapped corpse hoisted across one hulking shoulder as he fitted the key that hung round his neck into the lock on the tower door, and she wondered how she might gain entry. Her concerns proved to be for naught. The door was already unlocked, a gift of luck that sent a s.h.i.+ver of wariness skittering across her skin. Breaching the fortress was proving to be all too easy.

Dampness oozed from the lichen-covered walls. The stone stairs were ancient, slick, the centers worn away. No bal.u.s.trade marked their winding course; no handrail guided the unwary person along this treacherous climb that wended its way up the interior of the tower. The meager illumination fanning from the paltry flame of her candle could not adequately light her way, and she felt as though the chill from the stones crawled deep inside to the marrow of her bones.

Lord, what strangeness lurked in this place that it so inspired the fear of those who dwelled at Manorbrier?

The air was rank with the smell of mold and decay. A faint scratching sound leached down from above, the noise dampened by the thick stone construction. Emma shuddered. Rats, she suspected. But even the threat of repulsive vermin could not sway her from her course. Firmly planting the sole of her boot on the next stair and the next, she ascended toward she knew not what.

The stench grew stronger. Her stomach roiled as her senses recognized a vileness to the aroma that permeated the crumbling walls. Not the simple decay of an old castle. The tower reeked of death, and with each step she took toward her destination, the smell advanced until she fancied she could taste its bitterness on her tongue.

Splaying the fingers of one hand against the stones, she continued her climb. Nearly there now. The steady beat of her heart accelerated until it roared in her ears like a river after a storm, turbulent and frantic.

At the top of the staircase she paused, extending her arm, holding the candle at the end of her reach in order to amplify the scope of its illuminative power. The glow flickered against the far wall. With a subtle s.h.i.+ft of her hand she moved the flame so its light fell across a closer structure, a table, on which she saw papers piled with meticulous care. Gliding closer, Emma examined the worn wood surface, stained dark in places by age and use.

She traced her fingertips over the wooden ribs that defined the back of a simple chair pushed neatly against the table. Lifting the candle high, she watched as the light spilled across the plain furnis.h.i.+ng, and she squinted into the gloom of the far edge.

Something looked back at her with sightless eyes.

A squeak of dismay escaped her. Empty sockets set in the yellowed bone of a human skull held her shocked attention. Her stomach rolled, and she swallowed against the bile that clawed upward, demanding release. She would not throw up. She would not allow fear to overcome reason.

She had known from the outset that her expedition was not for the faint of heart.

"Stuff and nonsense, Emma Parrish," she said firmly, peering into the gloomy corners of the room. Her eyes slid back to the skull and her voice trembled when she spoke again. "Be sensible. Be strong. There are no monsters here. Just dry bones, and silly imaginings."

As if in response to her words, the wind picked up, rattling the shutters and whispering through c.h.i.n.ks and cracks, the sound of its eerie wail snaking along her spine and sending her stomach plummeting to her toes.

The candle flame flickered, its beam bouncing against a series of gla.s.s jars on a second table that stood against the far wall. She moved forward cautiously, the rank aroma of rotting matter growing stronger as she approached.

Setting her candle on the table, Emma looked at the collection of gla.s.s.

Something moved.

Jumping back, she pressed her palm against her heaving chest. With a nervous laugh, she again leaned forward to examine the contents of the jars.

Her horrified gaze remained locked on the writhing contents, even as her thoughts rebelled. Maggots. Dozens- no, hundreds!-of thick, fat maggots oozing through what appeared to be a collection of rotting flesh.

Human flesh? Dear heaven.

Instinctively, Emma turned her face away, sucking in a desperate gasp of air. Slamming her eyes shut, she pressed the flat of her fingers against her lips, swallowing convulsively. What manner of man was Anthony Craven? This place, his realm...it was disgusting.

With determination she picked up her candle and moved on to yet a third table, which ab.u.t.ted the second. In the dark, she could make out the outline of even a fourth table, set back in the farthest corner.

Frowning, she stared down at a collection, plate after plate of what appeared to be dantzic jelly, or blood pudding, gone bad. There was a film across the top of each shallow plate, and a second gla.s.s saucer covered every one of them. Reaching out, Emma meant to touch the murky growth, to smell it, to determine exactly what it was.

Suddenly, Griggs's face flashed before her eyes, and his harshly whispered warning ricocheted around in her mind: There's death in that tower, miss. Death in the very air.

Emma s.n.a.t.c.hed her hand back to her side. Death. She stared at the innocuous saucers and s.h.i.+vered. Again the wind howled, and the scratching sound she had heard earlier returned. Glancing at the stones beneath her feet, she half expected to see a rat gnawing at her booted toes. With a s.h.i.+ver, she stepped away, into the shadows of the darkest corner.

The last table held an a.s.sortment of larger jars crowded against each other, their macabre contents floating in clear fluid. A small dead pig. What appeared to be a cow's heart.

With slow, even tread, she walked the length of the table, pausing to bring the candle close and examine the contents of each jar in turn. The damp chill penetrated cloth and skin and even bone, and the fine hairs at her nape p.r.i.c.kled and rose.

Emma whirled to face the gaping, dark entry to the stairs. "Who is there?" she called out, straining to see in the dimness. The mounting wind howled a mournful reply.

Girding herself against what she might find, she faced the specimen jars once more, silently rea.s.suring herself that they contained nothing to fear. Merely pickled pieces of meat. Yes, she would think of them as such. Like a pickled tongue or brisket that could be sliced and served cold. She grimaced.

The image revolted her.

She thrust the candle before her and turned her full attention to the last jar at the end of the row. The jar was neither larger nor smaller than the others. It contained the same clear fluid with a specimen floating therein, preserved against decay ad infinitum. She stared and the specimen took shape, the nature of what it was becoming clear. As her mind a.s.similated that which her eyes saw, her hand that held the candle began to shake. A tremor slid insidiously from fingers to palm to elbow, and all the while a horror took hold and grew inside her, a poisonous flower. She was past nausea, past fear. She was past even rational thought.

The thing floated, white and dead, shriveled despite its wet milieu, and Emma gaped at it in abject revulsion. She could not reason, could not think at all.

Staring back at her from a gla.s.sy prison were human eyes, devoid of consciousness. A human mouth gaped wide, forever frozen in a parody of a soundless scream. A head, a human head, severed cleanly at the base of the neck, hung suspended, buoyed by the liquid that bathed it.

Emma cried out, but her horror dulled the sound to a dry croak. She was caught in a tableau of obscene unreality.

The wind howled once more. The shutters rattled, and then stopped, the sudden silence somehow more ominous than the din. Her candle flickered, sputtered, failed, leaving her in the darkness. She clutched at the candle holder, but her trembling was so great that it slid from her nerveless grasp. She heard it clatter against the stones, the sound hollow and ghostly.

Frozen by dread and disgust, she stood for a moment in the blackness, a.s.saulted by keen, sharp terror. Then she ran in the direction of the stairs. Something snagged the edge of her skirt. She fell, her knees slamming against the hard stone floor. Scrambling to her feet, she pressed on, tears streaming unheeded down her cheeks.

She reached the stairs at last. Some wispy remnant of common sense warned her to slow her pace. Too late. Her foot slid and she went careening forward. With a cry, she flung out one hand to steady herself, her fingers closing around emptiness.

CHAPTER TEN.

"Emma!"

Strong arms closed around her as she teetered on the edge of the precipice, a breath away from cras.h.i.+ng like a rag doll to the bottom of the stairs.

Too numb to struggle, she allowed Anthony to scoop her against his hard chest. He carried her back to that terrible room, that chamber of abominations. A murmur of protest escaped her lips but did not halt his progress. He set her on her feet, leaned her against his solid frame, offering the support of his body as he took something from his pocket. There was a faint scratching sound and a Lucifer match flared to life. Sliding one arm about her waist to balance her, he leaned to one side and touched the match to the stub of candle that sat near the edge of the table-the one that held nothing more threatening than yellowed papers and a brittle skull.

"Th-th-th..." Still trembling, she could not speak, could not form an articulate sound, let alone string together a series of words to form a sentence.

"Are you hurt?" His voice held a harsh urgency as he ran his hands firmly along her arms, her ribs, then down to her thigh and the curve of her calf as he bent low.

"N-n-n-n-" She shook her head.

He straightened abruptly and turned toward the table that held the rows of saucers. Stepping closer, he dragged her with him, one arm securely wrapped about her waist. She was glad for the firm support of him, for if he let go she would surely pool at his feet with all the solidity of melted wax.

"Did you touch any of these? Did you remove the covers?" He spoke brusquely, his diction painfully precise. Facing her, he clasped her shoulders. "Tell me, Emma. Tell me."

"I touched nothing." She shook her head to emphasize her words, sensing that her answer was infinitely important to him.

The tense lines that furrowed his brow relaxed, and the rigid carriage of his frame eased.

"Ah. You have regained your voice," he said.

She nodded, uncertain of his mood.

He glanced at the gla.s.s saucers once more.