Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 2

A dark premonition gripped her, making her blood pound thick and heavy through her veins. Someone was watching her. She could feel his eyes upon her, sense a threatening and malicious intent. Tamping down the urge to flee this deserted corner of the house, to run pell-mell through these unfamiliar halls, she turned a slow circle, every sense attuned. A mad flight would only serve to lose her way even more than it was already.

She squinted into the darkness. There. She heard it. The rough sound of a breath drawn and released, again and again, mingling with the wild and wretched pounding of her own heart.

Mrs. Bolifer's instructions sounded in her mind: down a second flight, along the hall, down the back stairway to the right.... Resolutely Emma turned away from whatever lurked in the dust-laden shadows, away from the whisper of evil that crawled, unseen, through this house. She carefully picked her way along the path she had trod the previous night. She heard no footfall in her wake, no hint of someone giving chase. Her pulse slowed to a more regular pace.

She might have convinced herself she had imagined the whole of it, but for the deep certainty that for at least a short while she had not been alone. A sinister distress plagued her as she wondered who had been watching her, and why.

As she neared the kitchen, Emma hesitated, unsure if she should voice her concerns to the others. She had no proof, only a story of losing her way, imagined sounds, and a dark feeling of unease. There really was nothing to tell.

"Nicky! You are to breakfast with your father and new governess. Put that scone back this instant." The housekeeper's voice was gentle, but firm.

Emma felt a jolt of surprise as she stepped into the kitchen. Mrs. Bolifer was smiling, as was Cookie. They were both looking at a small boy who kicked at the floor with his toe before putting the scone he held back on the platter. The child looked as if he had dressed himself from the ragpicker's bag. His breeches sported a large hole at the knee. His stockings were mismatched. And his dark hair stood up in unkempt tufts from his head.

"And perhaps we should do something with your hair. You are to meet your new governess at breakfast."

"I hope Papa makes her go away, just like the others."

Cookie exchanged a worried look with the housekeeper before crossing the room to kneel in front of the little boy.

"Oh, no, Nicky," she said as she wrapped her arms around him in a warm hug. "Miss Parrish is quite nice, lovey dove."

"I don't know," the boy replied, his voice m.u.f.fled by Cookie's shoulder. "I haven't met her yet. But if she is like Miss Strubb or Miss Rust or..." The child s.h.i.+vered and hesitated briefly before saying the woman's name in a hushed whisper. "...Mrs. Winter, then I think I should not like to meet her at all. And certainly if she is like Mrs. Winter, then she should go away and never come back. Papa could send her off in a pine box. Just like he sent Mrs. Winter."

A pine box? Emma stood frozen, digesting the implications of all she had overheard. Clearly the child was frightened, and had quite possibly been ill-treated by his previous governesses. That he had suffered was a sad thing, to be sure, but his trust could be gained with patience and love. So she worried not overmuch as to Nicky's opinion of her, but the mention of a pine box for the unknown Mrs. Winter gave her pause. There was only one type of pine box he could mean.

A chill crept across Emma's skin. It seemed that Mrs. Winter had left Manorbrier in a coffin, and by the child's account, it was Lord Anthony who had put her there.

Even as she struggled with that thought, the boy looked up and caught her in her unintentional eavesdropping. His blue eyes widened and all color left his cheeks as he huddled deeper in Cookie's embrace.

"Good morning," Emma said brightly as she crossed to him and quickly knelt so that her face was on level with his. "I am ever so pleased to meet you, Master Nicholas."

If possible his eyes rounded even more.

With a quick look at the housekeeper, Emma continued, "I heard Mrs. Bolifer address you as Nicky, and I trust you will allow me the same familiarity. And you shall call me Miss Emma. I rather think that 'Miss Parrish' is too stuffy sounding."

The child sucked in his cheeks. He was all pursed lips, hollow cheeks, and great round eyes as he studied her suspiciously. But he did take Emma's proffered hand and shake it in a gentlemanly fas.h.i.+on, thus confirming for Emma that he had a modic.u.m of tutelage in fine manners.

Emma rose and quickly brushed the front of her skirt before turning back to her young charge. "Well, Nicky," she said with a smile, "I will have to ask you to escort me to the breakfast room. I have no idea where it is, and I am sure we do not wish to keep your father waiting."

She drew in a fortifying breath. The thought of seeing Lord Anthony this morning gave her an odd feeling, half apprehension, half nervous antic.i.p.ation.

"A gentleman escorts a lady so." Emma positioned Nicky's arm and laid her hand gently in place. He looked up at her uncertainly, and Emma's heart gave a little kick. Clearly he was wary of her, perhaps even fearful. She turned the full magnitude of her smile on him and gave a brief nod. "Lead on, sir."

Nicky hesitated, his gaze sliding from hers, focusing on her hand where it rested on his arm. Then he cast a desperate look at Cookie, who smiled and nodded her encouragement.

"That's just fine, love," the cook said gently. "You take Miss Parrish on in to breakfast."

Cookie's encouragement proved to be all that Nicky needed. With a nod he hiked his arm up in recognition of Emma's greater height and led her from the kitchen. Rather, Nicky galloped and Emma took long strides in order to keep up. She found it promising that the child maintained the position of his arm and escorted her to the best of his ability, rather than shaking off her touch. A most approvable beginning.

Although, it seemed that Mrs. Bolifer did not agree, for as they walked past, Emma noticed that the housekeeper sent her a look of unconcealed distrust.

Upon entering the breakfast room, Emma paused. There were three settings at the table, and the aroma ascending from the foods held in silver chafing dishes on the sideboard permeated the air.

Nicky skirted the dining table and threw himself into the seat closest to the window. His movements were so exuberant that Emma feared he might dislodge the pristine white tablecloth, and all of the china and crystal with it. She gave a tiny sigh of relief when he was safely seated with the tableware still intact.

"Good morning, Nicholas," a deep voice rumbled from the doorway behind her.

Startled, Emma spun so quickly she nearly lost her balance. Lord Anthony was directly behind her. He reached forward and grasped her elbow, steadying her.

"And good morning to you, Miss Parrish. I trust you are recovered from the fatigue of your journey." That voice. Warm and lush, it stroked her senses, made her want to lean closer and revel in the sensuous baritone.

"Good morning, my lord." Her heart skittered within her breast as she looked up and took in her first clear view of Lord Anthony Craven. Why, he is young, she thought in surprise. No aging tyrant but a man of perhaps three decades, vital and strong. He was tall, well formed, the tailored cut of his coat caressing his frame. Dark hair, overly long and sinfully thick, hung straight to his collar, framing the hard planes of his face. She had the oddest urge to reach out, to run her fingers through the s.h.i.+ning strands of his hair, to test the softness.

Dear heaven. He was more than attractive. He was masculine perfection. Emma wet her lips, stunned by his stark, male beauty, and by her own inexplicably strange reaction to it. The full, sensual curve of his lips pulled taut, and she held her breath waiting for his smile.

"And thank you, yes, I am quite recovered from the fatigue of the journey." She felt breathless, akin to the sensation elicited by a vigorous walk.

The smile she antic.i.p.ated never came, and she found herself oddly disappointed. He stared at her intently, as if he could read her every thought, his gaze locking with hers, and then dropping lower to peruse her person in a most indecent manner.

Emma's pulse raced as he returned his attention to her face. She felt undone by the look he settled on her. Somehow, the way he looked at her, with pupils dilated and dark, rimmed in topaz green, made Emma think that Lord Anthony Craven was hungry. For her.

Her breath left her in a rush.

"Then you slept well?" he inquired. "Undisturbed by things that go b.u.mp in the night?"

Emma's shoulders tensed at this oblique reference to the terror she had exhibited in the coach the previous night. "I am rarely disturbed by things that go b.u.mp in the night, my lord. My const.i.tution is normally quite steady."

"Indeed. Not p.r.o.ne to overwrought imaginings, Miss Parrish?"

She had no answer for that because he had already seen her at her worst, with ridiculous flights of fancy spurring her to uncharacteristic behavior. Worse, she had spent the night exactly as he described, struggling to fall asleep as she waged an out-of-character battle with her overwrought imaginings, and then again, on her way to breakfast, when she had been so certain she was being followed.... Had that been nothing more than foolish fancy?

No. She thought not.

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and looked up to find her employer staring with marked intent at her mouth. She sucked in a quick, ragged breath.

Lord Anthony was not looking at her in a way that a gentleman might look at a lady.

And she liked it. She liked the way he stared at her, his gaze warming her, touching her, making her body tingle in a foreign and wicked way. The realization shocked her, leaving her feeling disoriented and uncertain.

As if from a distance she heard the sound of Nicky's voice, and she latched onto his words as though they were a signal light in a wild storm.

"...and I escorted her to breakfast, and here we are," he said.

"You were very helpful, Nicky." She turned to him, smiling encouragingly, grateful for the distraction, only to find her progress stopped short.

She glanced down at Lord Anthony's lean fingers where they yet curled along her forearm. The length of time that he had maintained the contact was quite improper, and Emma frowned in confusion, half relieved, half disappointed when he finally let his hand drop away.

Nicky bounced up and down in his seat as his father rounded the table and leaned forward to place a kiss on the child's brow. Emma masked her surprise at this outward display of fatherly affection. Somehow she had a.s.sumed that Lord Anthony would be a disinterested parent, at best. Then she recalled the man's admonition that she not raise her voice to his son, and she had the bewildering sensation that she had somehow misjudged the situation. Whatever information she had about this father-son relations.h.i.+p was based on gossip, supposition, and the opinion of Aunt Cecilia, who was herself a bitter and cruel guardian. Clearly these were not solid groundings on which to form an impression.

Lord Anthony moved around the table and held Emma's chair, the one across from Nicky. She felt awkward as she made her way to her seat, her skirts brus.h.i.+ng against her employer's muscled legs as she took her place, the sandalwood scent of him teasing her, making her long to draw nearer still and inhale until she had enjoyed him to the fullest.

She was acutely aware of a fluttering sensation low in her belly, and she felt certain it was caused by neither hunger nor fear. The experience was new to her. It made her feel hot and restless, and she fought the urge to press her thighs tightly together beneath her skirts. This, then, was attraction. Dangerous, foolish attraction. The kind that had drawn her mother into a web of heartbreak.

Emma sought to steady her galloping pulse. She, who was the product of her mother's unfortunate liaison with a n.o.bleman, who had spent her life burned by the brand of illegitimacy, knew better than to fall prey to the physical allure of her employer. On that path lay only danger and disaster.

Doubly so, given that Lord Anthony was a widower rumored to have murdered his wife, Emma's own cousin. The thought felt wrong, and that wrongness made Emma wary. She did not know this enigmatic man, and she would be most wise to avoid swift judgment of him, whether to good or evil.

She glanced up once more. He was watching her, his changeable eyes glinting like finest gems, his expression revealing little.

And still her blood pounded, thick and strong in her veins. Oh, why was it Anthony Craven made her pulse race as it had never done before, made her every nerve tingle? She was foolish in the extreme to allow her thoughts to travel this path.

What was it about him that...stimulated her so? The way his clothes caressed his lithe frame, or the hint of dark stubble along the sculpted line of his jaw? She busied herself with smoothing her skirt, praying he would step away and leave her with some semblance of sanity. She had seen the man exactly twice. This...attraction was surely a temporary madness.

After a moment, Lord Anthony withdrew to his own chair and sat watching her in narrow-eyed contemplation. His intent regard held a degree of puzzlement, and Emma wondered if he, too, felt the inexplicable current that pulsed between them.

He looked away as Griggs arrived with another warming dish. Emma wondered at the peculiarity of this household to have the coachman serve as footman, and heavens knew what else.

They each served themselves from the array of foods offered, with Lord Anthony helping his son to fill his plate. Emma noted absently that there was a boiled rice pudding dotted with currants and flavored with cinnamon and vanilla, an unusual breakfast choice unless one was a six-year-old child. Nicky was especially excited about it, demanding a huge scoop alongside his eggs and bacon.

Once seated, Nicky chattered to his father and sent Emma several uncertain glances, as if expecting some reprimand. She smiled rea.s.suringly when she caught his eye, but refrained from entering the discussion. Still grappling with her inexplicable physical response to Lord Anthony, she felt unequal to the challenge of polite conversation. Moreover, she wanted to take this opportunity to simply observe Nicky and learn a bit about him. She had a strong suspicion that the child would come around to her fairly quickly, if this morning's experience was any indication. Had she been alone she would have laughed out loud at her recollection of Nicky galloping down the hallway dragging her behind.

Nicky stuffed a piece of scone smothered in strawberry preserves into his mouth, then gathered up a fistful of s.h.i.+rt from over his chest and rubbed it forcefully across his jam-stained lips. He stopped mid-action and turned a frozen stare in Emma's direction, his mouth a little round 'O' of terror. Stomach clenching at the sight of his fear, Emma raised her serviette from her lap and blotted it delicately on her own lips. She held Nicky's gaze the entire time, then purposefully looked down at the serviette that lay on the table beside his plate. The child's eyebrows shot upward as he grabbed the linen square and enthusiastically scrubbed his mouth.

Glancing up, Emma found Lord Anthony studying her with a slow perusal that left her feeling as though her skin tingled in the wake of his regard. Then he nodded once, an action she read as silent approval of her handling of his son.

Again Emma felt that odd sensation of having her expectations turned upside down. She had a.s.sumed that all the previous governesses had fled from Lord Anthony's evil influence. Yet, given the conversation she had overheard in the kitchen coupled with Lord Anthony's evident concern for his child, she was faced with confusing and conflicting information. It was feasible that he had merely dismissed those women from his employ. She had barely formulated that thought when the words Nicky had spoken in the kitchen slammed through her mind. Send her off in a pine box. Just like he sent Mrs. Winter.

Before Emma had a chance to ponder further that chilling possibility, Griggs returned to the breakfast room and leaned over to whisper something in Lord Anthony's ear. Whatever news Griggs imparted seemed to cast an immediate pall over His Lords.h.i.+p's mood. No explanation was forthcoming. He simply placed his serviette beside his near-empty plate and stood.

"You will excuse me, Miss Parrish." His gaze lingered on her for an unsettling moment before he strode from the room, pausing only long enough to ruffle his son's dark hair.

Lord Anthony's exit brought the return of Emma's appet.i.te and she proceeded to empty her plate with ladylike precision while discussing Nicky's favorite topic - horses. Several times she glanced up to find Nicky watching her handling the utensils and copying her movements.

"Well, Nicky"-Emma placed her knife and fork together on her plate, and smiled when Nicky did the same-"we shall begin your lessons this morning."

The child's expression took on a wary cast. Emma rose and crossed to the window. The sun peeked from behind a cloud, s.h.i.+ning down on an expanse of manicured lawn.

"Could you tell me the normal schedule of your day?"

"Normal schedule?" Nicky echoed.

"Yes." Emma glanced over her shoulder at him. "The things you do and the order in which you do them. I should like to practice our letters and numbers before luncheon. But the day is so lovely that perhaps we could spread a blanket and take our lesson outdoors. Do you have a slate?"

"Outdoors, Miss Emma?" He shook his head vehemently from side to side. "Miss Rust only let me outside for a walk in the afternoon. After lessons were done. And Mrs. Winter never let me out at all."

"Not at all, Nicky?" Emma asked with a hint of laughing suspicion in her tone. "Not even to play?"

Nicky huddled against the back of his chair. "Mrs. Winter said play was evil. Sometimes, she left me alone in the nursery. She told me to kneel and recite my prayers. Then she would go away for a very long time." He cast a quick glance at Emma, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "If I thought she'd be gone long, I would sneak out to the stables to see the horses. But one time she caught me and switched my legs until they bled. Then Papa sent her away. In a coffin that was nailed up tight."

Emma winced at this horrifying tale, even as a dull thud of anger pulsed through her. She thought that if Mrs. Winter were here, she, too, might be tempted to send her away in a pine box.

"Oh, Nicky," she whispered, turning fully and kneeling by his chair, touched beyond measure that he had trusted her with this ugly tale. Slowly, she reached out and laid her hand on his head. "I do not have a switch. My mother was a governess. She was very kind, and she taught me that if you work very hard, then you must play very hard. That way you keep a balance in your life. Play is not evil, Nicky. It is a child's way of practicing for the future."

"Your mother was a governess?" Nicky asked. "What was your father?"

The unexpected question caught her off guard, digging at an old wound. A n.o.bleman, she thought. A cad. A man who promised a young girl the world, then left her ruined, pregnant, without so much as a good-bye.

"My father died a long time ago." That much was true. He had been crushed to death when the carriage he was racing overturned.

"Oh. So did my mother." He glanced at the window and heaved a mighty sigh. "There is Papa now. I wish he had stayed a little longer."

Emma rose and turned, her heart doing a strange little dance when she saw Lord Anthony crossing the long drive. The sun glinted off his dark hair as he strode briskly toward Griggs, who stood waiting in the shadow of the tower.

There's death in the Round Tower, miss. Death in the very air. You stay away from that tower. It seemed that Griggs did not heed his own advice, for there he stood not an arm's length from the very thing he so feared.

"Nicky," Emma said, an inexplicable chill creeping along her spine. "Do you know what is in the tower at the end of the drive?"

"Yes, Miss Emma."

Something in his tone made her turn.

"Can you tell me?"

He stared up at her in a way that made her uneasy, his eyes grown wide and wary. Clearly, Griggs was not the only one afraid of the Round Tower.

"No, Miss Emma," Nicky said tremulously, then finished in a whisper, "and you cannot make me."

Her heart wrenched at the fear that shadowed his eyes.

"Come show me the nursery," Emma said brightly, moving toward the door. She held out her hand, waiting as Nicky cautiously clasped his small fingers around her larger ones. "We will find the things we need, and we will take our lessons outside in the suns.h.i.+ne today."

Her mood lightened as he gave her a shy smile and then pulled ahead to lead the way. Still, she felt disconcerted by the child's revelations, wary of things unspoken.

Moments later, Emma and Nicky settled on the gra.s.s, having gathered all they needed from the nursery along with a blanket from a sullen-eyed upstairs maid who bobbed a curtsy but hurried off before Emma could ask her name.

One hour spun into the second and the third, and the morning fled past. Nicky was bright and sweet, soaking up everything she offered, and then asking for more. She had hoped he could count to twenty, but she quickly found he could go even further, treating the lesson like a game. Emma was pleased that he seemed to so enjoy learning, and again she wondered at his experiences with his previous governesses. With the resiliency of childhood, he had quickly left behind his initial reticence, and now embraced her company with obvious affection.

Emma found that she, too, could forget some of her initial apprehension of the previous night, and for this morning at least, Manorbrier seemed fine indeed. In the bright light of day, she could see tiny flowers poking through the c.h.i.n.ks in the ancient wall. The stone of the manor house glowed a soft, warm gray and the many windows glinted in the sun. A gentle breeze drifted past, carrying the subtle scent of roses from the garden. Even the gra.s.s beneath her was soft and inviting.

Lessons complete, Emma and Nicky flopped on their backs to study the great blue expanse of sky.

"A sheep. That one is a sheep, Miss Emma." Nicky poked his finger at a fluffy cloud directly overhead. Emma thought it looked more like a rabbit with floppy ears, but she allowed Nicky to take the lead.

"That one looks like a fancy carriage, with four horses in front," she said.

"And that one looks like a fox." Lord Anthony's deep voice joined their banter.

"I did not hear you approach, my lord," she said, pressing one hand to her chest as her gaze met his. His eyes were a deep, rich green, bright against the frame of black lashes. The most stunning eyes she had ever seen.