Dark Gothic: His Dark Kiss Part 20

It seemed the longest day of Emma's life. Nicky was sullen and uncooperative. He balked at his lessons and went so far as to have a tantrum when Emma insisted he work on his sums. Her patience strained to the limit, she tried desperately to keep her mind on the task at hand. At last the day was done, and the child was washed and changed and more than ready for his bed. As she leaned over to place a good-night kiss on his cheek, she sensed a presence behind her. Her heart sped up, but she forced herself to rise slowly from her stooped position, hoping that her expression betrayed none of her thoughts.

Hope, confusion, sadness-all swirled in a maelstrom that threatened to overwhelm her.

Anthony stood on the other side of his son's bed, watching her, his expression shuttered. He had once regarded her with what she was certain had been some form of affection. Now, he looked at her, his eyes betraying nothing of his thoughts, his gaze distant and aloof. She could not read him, could get no inkling of what he contemplated behind that icy mask, and she thought that were she to reach out and touch him, she would feel the solidity of the protective walls he had erected about himself.

"Miss Parrish."

She thought perhaps he mocked her with the formal address, the lordly nod of his head. But no, there was no mockery in that smooth, rich voice. Rather, she detected a subtle undertone of grief. Emma ached to step back to nights past, to be able to look at him as she had, with a lover's admiring gaze. The compulsion to touch him, to find some rea.s.surance in the human warmth of him was nearly overwhelming.

Something flickered in the depths of Anthony's eyes, an answering need. Emma recognized it and seemingly of its own volition her hand began to move toward him.

Nicky murmured drowsily, and Anthony turned his attention to tucking in the covers and plumping his son's pillows. He smiled down at the child, the hard curve of his lips softening as he looked at the sleepy boy.

Emma watched in puzzlement. Two nights past she had seen the knife in Anthony's hand. There was no doubt about his intent. He had meant to cut Nicky while he slept, for what nefarious purpose Emma could not guess.

Her confusion grew as she watched him standing there gazing at the boy with all the love that any parent could bestow. What possible answer could explain the absolute oddity of Anthony's behavior? Was he mad, with unseen demons gnawing on his soul, urging him to perform horrible acts outside the normal bounds of society? She could not fathom it. He was eccentric, to be sure, a trait she found appealing, rather than sinister. Being unconventional was not necessarily an indicator of an unstable mind.

Suddenly, Emma realized that her hand hung suspended, poised in midair, the fingers stretched toward him as if pleading for his touch. Self consciously, she tucked the wayward appendage behind her and was grateful that Anthony seemed not to have noticed her gesture.

Without warning he swung his attention back to her. Whatever warmth she had read in his expression was gone now, replaced by a cool facade that veiled his thoughts.

"I think Nicky may be feverish," she said softly. "He was out of sorts this afternoon."

"Yes, I expect he was. He'll have a fever and a sore head, but it shall only last a few days."

Emma frowned, for Anthony's words implied that he had antic.i.p.ated Nicky's illness.

"Come. I would speak with you," he said.

Emma swallowed, his words bringing both hope and dread. "Of course, Lord Anthony."

He fairly grimaced at her answer, though she was unsure of whether it was her tone he disliked, or the formality of the address.

He strode confidently through the adjoining door into her chamber. Emma followed. Her gaze darted to her bed, then back to the broad expanse of Anthony's back.

"Perhaps we should speak in your study," she ventured, her tongue feeling thick and heavy as she spoke.

He glanced at her over his shoulder, but said nothing. Instead, he crossed to the window, staring out at the oncoming night. The last light of the day barely lingered, illuminating Emma's bedroom with a soft glow.

"You thought me a monster. Then you thought me a man." His voice was heavy with emotion, and Emma longed to go to him, to press her cheek against the smooth expanse of his back and wrap her arms around him. Instead, she fisted her hands in the material of her skirt, her heart beating a hard and steady rhythm that pounded in her ears. "And again you think me a monster."

He turned, pinning her with the intensity of his stare. "You shared with me the beauty of your pa.s.sion and now you shrink from my touch."

A soft sound of denial escaped her, and she sank her teeth into her lower lip, trying to hold back the words that sprang to the fore. Words of denial. Words of affection. Foolish words born of dangerous emotion.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her, and then his gaze s.h.i.+fted to the stack of books he had brought her. Emma followed his glance.

"I see you found my gift."

"Yes. Thank you. I...they...the gift means a great deal to me." You mean a great deal to me, she thought with anguish but held the sentiment trapped in her throat.

"So, it is done now," he said gruffly, then made a sound of disbelief. "Over before it even began?"

She had wounded him. Her heart broke at the thought. A single tear slipped from the corner of her eye, tracing a path along her cheek. If Anthony saw it, he gave no indication.

He hesitated, as though waiting for words she could not give, questions she was too afraid to ask.

"I shall leave you to your solitude," he said and walked toward the door.

The words sliced through Emma. Solitude, she thought, when she had so yearned for exactly the opposite. She had arrived at Manorbrier full of hope and optimism, and a wide-eyed idealism. More than that, she had arrived with dreams of finding a home, of hollowing out a place for herself. The last thing she had ever wanted was solitude.

Emma squeezed her eyes shut against the magnitude of her desperation. Would Anthony send her away for daring to oppose him, for questioning him?

"Wait!" she cried, the thought of leaving Nicky, of leaving Anthony, too terrible to consider. "You said you wished to speak with me, but you have said nothing." Trust me. Come to me. Share yourself with me.

He froze, and when he spoke his voice was rough. "Ask your questions and I will answer."

So many questions swirled in a dark eddy, fighting to spring forth. She took a slow breath and chose one, the one that demanded the least. "Will you send me away?"

"No." The denial burst from his lips, then he continued more softly, "I gave you my word."

"I remember," she whispered, her relief so acute as to be painful. Despite everything, he said he would honor his word, and she believed him. Dear heaven, was this trust, this feeling of warmth and clear, sweet relief? "I remember everything about that night."

In three strides he crossed the s.p.a.ce that separated them. Looming above her, he held her gaze. Emma's head fell back as she watched his eyes. His beautiful eyes, full of promise and danger. She could smell the seductive scent of him, feel the heat of his body radiating toward her like the warmth of the sun. She longed to tangle her fingers in the hair at his nape, to pull his hard, firm lips to hers.

With a cry, she spun away, nearly running from him in her haste to place the solid bulk of the bed between them. His nearness mesmerized her, and she prayed that physical separation would lend rationality to her thoughts.

"Why?" he asked simply, and Emma could feel his hurt in that single word.

Why what? Why did she turn from him? Why did she stop him from whatever terrible thing he intended that night?

Why did she love him still?

"Why did you awaken in me this need to feel, to care? To trust? Why, Emma?" His words came in a rough whisper that rasped over her, leaving her flayed, her inner core laid bare.

She pressed her lips together, her control near to shattering. His questions almost broke her heart. She had hurt him in a way she had never intended, had made him care. He cared for her. And she had turned on him. But with reason...

"Emma" -catching her hand he drew her close- "I have some things to say to you."

"I-" She tried to pull away. Too close to him, and she was singed by his fire, her thoughts muddled and confused. She needed her wits for this discussion, her distance.

He held his fingers to her lips, halting her before she could speak.

"Listen." He whispered the word, and then replaced his fingers with his mouth, letting his firm lips rest on hers in a brief caress. She ached to wrap her arms around his waist, to pull him close and rub her body against the solid length of him.

Too quickly, he pulled away, and then smiled ruefully as he continued, "Physician, heal thyself. Many times over the past years I admonished myself to do just that. But I could not. Instead, I allowed my wounds to fester and rot my soul, walling me off from life, from love. Leaving me alone in my crumbling tower. Until you came and began to knock down the wall, stone by stone, with your open nature and giving heart."

With a gentle touch he brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. She turned her cheek against his warm skin, nurturing the hope that unfurled in her breast like a new leaf in spring.

"That night, when you stood over Nicky with the knife, what were you doing?" She asked the question that had been held back for too long, the words tumbling from her lips, opening the door to his trust, just a crack, but, oh, she prayed it was enough. Something tugged at her thoughts, some connection that hovered just beyond her grasp.

"Ah, I wondered when you would get to that." He looked at her sharply. "You thought I would harm him, harm my son? I sought to protect him. There is smallpox in Derrymore."

Emma stared at him, befuddled by this apparent non sequitur. Something teased her memory, and again she thought there was some correlation she knew, but could not define. "And the smallpox in Derrymore has a connection to your knife and to the fact that you near scared me to death?"

"You defended Nicky like a lioness defending her cub. I must admit that in retrospect I understand your concerns."

"You understand my concern at finding you standing over your son, knife in hand, your expression stark as a barren field...?" she prompted. "Explain to me the connection between knives and smallpox." She studied him for a long moment, letting the certainty that there was a connection wash through her. For some reason, she thought of the pamphlets she had seen in his study, the ones that spoke of the eradication of smallpox. "You do have an explanation...."

"I do. Twenty years ago, a man named Edward Jenner found that by and large milkmaids do not develop smallpox. He concluded that their exposure to cowpox rendered them safe from the disease. Hence, he began experiments in which he purposely inoculated individuals with liquid from a cowpox pustule. Vacca is the Latin for cow. Jenner's process has come to be known as vaccination. That is what I intended to do to Nicky that night. Jenner's method uses quills to sc.r.a.pe the matter from the cowpox pustule into the subject's skin, thus conferring protection. The knife was merely to pry open the box of quills. The lid was stuck." At her stunned exclamation, he shrugged. "I had hoped Nicky would sleep through the worst of it, and wake up safe from possible contagion."

"And you chose not to explain yourself at that moment because...?" Frustration lent a sharp edge to the question. Such a simple explanation, and had he but chosen to share it, much of her distress could so easily have been avoided.

"Nicky was awake, upset, already pulled in to an argument that should never have occurred." He raked his fingers through his dark hair, and the expression he turned to her was a tad sheepish. "And then my ego demanded that you come to me."

"Ohhhh!"

He held up one hand, palm forward. "Ridiculous. I know."

Emma stared at him, her mind spinning, a.s.similating all he had shared and suddenly she s.h.i.+vered with jolt of understanding. Cowpox. He spoke of cowpox. She jerked upright, eyes wide with newfound insight.

"Farmer Hicks's cow! I was learning to milk the cow," she cried, her anger and hurt forgotten in the face of her dawning knowledge. Dear heaven, he had gifted her with understanding, and he had not even been aware of her question. "I have wondered these many years why our entire household was struck down by that terrible plague. Three of the children, and their parents. The butler, the maid, even a sweep who came to do the chimneys. My mother." She drew in a shuddering breath. "Yet, I remained untouched. The guilt of surviving while others died was terrible." She shook her head at the unbelievable strangeness of it. "And all because I was learning to milk the cow."

"I shall be forever grateful to that cow," he murmured, his voice husky. He eased closer to her, and she stared at him, her thoughts whirling.

"Oh, no! I stopped you from protecting Nicky! We must-"

"I took care of it later that night," he interjected. "He slept through the whole of it. As did you."

"So that is why you expected him to be feverish. He has cowpox," she said.

"A benign form of disease that will cause him temporary discomfort but leave him none the worse for it. In fact, it will leave him better off, for smallpox will not touch him."

Emma fisted her hands in her skirt, suddenly unsure of herself and her place in Anthony's esteem. Was he angry with her? Disappointed? He had not been about any nefarious business. His sole intent had been the protection of his son. She should have known, should have trusted... And then the realization dawned. She had known. In her heart, she had trusted him.

With new perspective, she acknowledged the insecurities that had clouded her entire life. Her father had tossed her aside before she was even born. Oh, she had had a mother's love but, at the same time, had borne the scorn of others. The servants had gossiped, and with each new post that her mother was forced to find, Emma had prayed that this time would be different, this time none would dig out the rumors and point an accusatory finger, this time she would truly be home. But each new place had turned out the same in the end, until her mother died, leaving Emma alone and at the mercy of her aunts, cast aside and offered to the highest bidder, a horrible man who would take her as mistress whether she wished it or not.

'Twas no wonder she knew nothing of trust.

But she knew of heat and need and the pull of Anthony Craven, the temptation of him so strong that she would sell her soul for the taste of his lips, the feel of his hard body under her palms, the sound of his honey-smooth voice as he whispered against her ear.

Her lips parted, and she jerked her gaze up to meet his, trying to read the deepest secrets of his heart.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

"I am so sorry," Emma whispered, meaning the words with every fiber of her being. Sorry for her lack of trust. Sorry for breaking down his walls, making him care for her, and then disappointing him. Sorry because she knew the truth, that his caring was not enough. She wanted him to love her as he had loved Delia. No, more than he had loved Delia. Different. Deeper. Stronger.

A sorry state that, for he had clearly vowed that such were the emotions of the youth he had once been and not the man he was now.

But, oh, the emotion she felt for him, pure and clear as a mountain spring, welling from her heart to flood her veins. How to hold such a thing secret? How to guard it and keep it safe?

"The fault is mine," he replied. "I should have explained my actions right away."

"Yes. You should have."

Apparently caught off guard by her reply, he blinked. The silence spun its silken web. "I wanted you to trust me," he said at length.

Her heart twisted in her breast. Trust. There was something in his eyes that made her think the word held a depth of meaning she could not begin to fathom.

"And yet, in the end, you did explain yourself."

He smiled ruefully. "I am unused to justifying my actions to anyone. I am afraid that I made a poor showing of it."

She stared at him, touched beyond measure that he had been willing to give her an explanation, and even more than that, willing to forgive her trespa.s.s.

"Emma." Her name. Only her name. But the sound of it on his lips, warm and rich with promise, made a twist of longing gather in her core. She could see the faint quickening of his breath and the darkening of his eyes as his pupils dilated, telling signs that spoke of his own response.

He stepped closer, not quite touching her, but almost, the great shadow of the bed looming so close beside them.

Overwhelmed, she stared into his green-gold eyes, pulled into the depths, emotion churning hot and feral inside of her, battering the limits of her control.

"I love you," she whispered and then froze, the enormity of her confession cras.h.i.+ng over her.

His eyes widened, darkened, and a tiny furrow marked his brow. She stood poised, quivering, and then she did not want to wait even a second more. With a low moan, she threw herself against him, tumbling them both onto the bed in a tangle of arms and legs.

His lips slanted across hers, and she felt the rough texture of his tongue as he probed and stroked, demanding a pa.s.sion that she readily yielded. She gave a purr of pleasure. Oh, glorious relief to savor his kiss.

Bunching the cloth of her skirt in his hand he drew it up over the skin of her thigh, his touch driving her half mad with wanting. Her tongue darted out, searching for his, dragging a rough sound from deep inside him, something between a laugh and a groan.

He was Anthony, Lord of Manorbrier, a lonely castle set atop a hill, the thick crumbling walls and whispered stories holding all at bay, just as the walls around his heart let none draw near. But not her. Never her. Untouchable Anthony Craven touched her, and let her touch him, and together, they were whole. She felt it deep inside.

With fingers made clumsy by pa.s.sion, she tore his s.h.i.+rt open, and his trousers, pressing her mouth to the smooth warm skin of his chest, tasting salt and man. She licked him, nipped him, pressing wet kisses to his belly, and lower, until her mouth closed around the hard, velvet length of his erection. Drawing on him, she pulled a growl, and then a moan from his lips.

The feeling was indescribably lush. Delicious feminine pleasure. Power. He was there before her, sprawled in slavelike ecstasy, half clothed, his glorious body kissed by the dusk, by her lips, touched by her hands. She found that she liked this feeling, and she swirled her tongue around the proud thick rod that jutted forth, the smooth, round head of it, and then she sucked him deep inside her mouth.

"Christ, Emma." A growl rumbled from deep inside him as she drew hard on him, then ran her tongue from base to tip. "Where...? How...?"

She drew back, circling the hard thickness of him with her tongue, then letting him go as she met his gaze. "I liked it when you did it to me. I thought you would like it too." And he did like it. Of that, she had no doubt.