The Heart Denied (36 page)

Turning to go, he glimpsed her arm swiftly raising, and ducked; a well-heeled shoe struck the door. His smile turned wry. "You needn't trouble yourself, I'll see myself out. Good day, ma'am."

Halfway down the wide stairs, he heard her door open, then the sound of her quick step on the gallery; continuing his casual descent, he steeled himself for whatever was to come.

"I'll have you know, Thorne Neville," rang out a strident voice he barely recognized as Caroline's, "that you couldn't bewitch me no matter
what
your powers! And 'tis not
mine
whose spell hangs over your proud head, you fool...'tis your
mother's
!"

He stopped in his tracks and turned to glare at the she-cat leaning over the balustrade.

She sneered. "Do you think I'm blind? Did you truly think I wouldn't notice her likeness hung on your walls, perched on your desk? Any
fool
could see the resemblance between us...can't
you
?"

"Stop it," he said, his voice deadly.

"Really, Thorne, haven't you noticed that whenever your life is out of kilter, you come running to me?"

"Cease this tripe."

"We shall cease it indeed, for I'll not be a party to incest, even by proxy! And when next you think to treat me so, talking of favors and seeking out your bed, think again, Thorne Neville--I am
not your whore
!"

"I could never mistake you for her," he said coldly. "She has far more heart."

He finished his descent under a cloud of colorful curses. A scarlet-cheeked Gilbert was handing him his tricorne when Caroline recovered sufficiently to take a parting shot.

"Go home, Thorne! Go home and face your ghosts, and what is left of your life! We
all
have our troubles, and whether or not you choose to admit it, the two of us have recently lost a brother--
I
, for one, am not
past
that loss."

She turned away without waiting for a response. It was just as well, for one never came, and as Thorne crossed the threshold of the Georgian mansion, he knew he had done so for the last time.

"I must speak to you."

Arthur gave a start, as Thorne had appeared in the stable with all the subtlety and suddenness of a ghost. In fact he looked only slightly better than one.

"Here, M'lord?"

Thorne shook his head, glancing grimly about the tack room. "In my study."

It wasn't difficult to gauge Thorne's state of mind, as they entered the room where the two of them had most often conducted business until recently. The fire was hearty, the furniture glowing with fresh beeswax, and the air redolent of tobacco smoke--the last of which warned Arthur that this meeting would delve deeper than manor business.

"I am taking stock," Thorne said flatly.

"Of what, M'lord?"

"My life." Thorne opened the gold humidor and pushed it across the desk. "My life, and my obligation to all those whose lives I've touched."

Arthur selected a cigar without comment, cutting and lighting it before taking a seat across from the desk.

"Yesterday," Thorne said, closing the humidor, "it was succinctly pointed out to me that each of us has his own problems. And though it pains me to admit it," he confessed on a stream of blue smoke, "I've gone about my life rather half-cocked since my Oxford days, and others have suffered into the bargain." He stared at the blotter. "I owe a debt to them, and I feel that until that debt is paid, my life shall continually veer off course--until at some point I'll either wreck or drown."

Arthur softly cleared his throat. "I've begun to think you're a man of the sea, M'lord, despite your love for the land. But might I inquire what, or who, prompted this revelation?"

Thorne pulled a wry face. "An acquaintance, one who looks like a goddess but rants like a fishwife. At any rate, I owe
you
, my friend, the greatest debt of all, for I've caused you to lose the closest person to a son you ever had."

Arthur regarded him soberly. "You, Thorne, are as near as I've come to having a son. I loved Toby, but he was belligerent, rebellious and conniving--traits of which I'd not have been so tolerant, had he been anyone but who he was."

"Nevertheless, he is dead because of my high-handedness," Thorne said glumly. "And my need for vengeance."

"'Tis hardly high-handed, M'lord, for a man to avenge his wife's honor, let alone her life. And as you reminded me, there are two other souls gone to their reward prematurely, hastened there by none other than Toby Hobbs. His death was recompense. Even I know that."

"Aye, well I'd sooner he'd hung from the hangman's rope than mine."

Arthur shrugged his bent shoulders. "What better way to avenge himself than borrow yours, and thus find a way to torment you even after he's gone? In no way do I blame you for his end, indeed had he lived I shudder to contemplate the brevity of your own life--for I suspect he'd an eye toward owning these lands someday."

A pained frown touched Thorne's brow. "Just as he laid claim to my wife. Very well then, we've eulogized the man sufficiently, I think. I appreciate your efforts to purge me of my guilt."

"On to other debts, then?"

Thorne nodded, tamping out the cigar. "Gwynneth. I owe her the greatest debt after you. God's blood, Arthur, if I'd only listened to you when you warned me that her religion would come between us...although 'twas
I
who
came between Gwynneth and her religion...as did Radleigh. Who, by the by, fares poorly. His love for rich food and spirits is taking a toll, gout and jaundice. At least Lord Whittingham no longer backs his wagering, and no one else has taken the reins from the bloody bastard, thank Providence."

Arthur nodded, aware of past dealings with the unsavory earl.

"Radleigh grieves for his daughter," Thorne allowed, "but then he was well into his cups most of the time he was here, too, and Gwynneth was quite alive."

"A pleasant man, though, Lord Radleigh."

"Aye, and a good one as well. And he'll never go hungry, cold, or unkempt as long as I'm living. His estate will pass to me in lieu of his debt, but with no living heir, he claims he'd be inclined to leave it to me at any rate, as homage to my father. Still, I see no way to pay my debt to Gwynneth."

Silently puffing away, Arthur soon felt Thorne watching him through the blue haze between them.

"What is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can see you've something on your mind, Pennington. Say it, then."

"Very well, I shall. Do you not think that, with the hell your wife put you through, she owed you a debt as well?"

"Surely not her life!"

"No, God no. Lay that at Hobbs' door. I meant before that."

"Perhaps. But my debt is the larger by far. And at any rate, 'tis hard to compensate a ghost." Thorne's face suddenly and inexplicably paled.

"Not necessarily," Arthur countered, startled by his odd pallor but determined to pull him out of this quagmire. "I once heard her tell Lord Radleigh she would have liked to confer her dowry on the Sisters of Saint Mary in Leicester."

For a long moment Thorne only stared at him; then he grinned almost idiotically. "Capital! A splendid idea!"

"You catch my drift, then," Arthur said, pleased and relieved.

"I most certainly do, my friend, and an inspired drift it is! I hope Radleigh will see it as such...I think out of respect for Gwynneth, he'll agree. The prioress and the priest will be overjoyed, and the endowment will stand in Gwynneth's name...by God, Arthur, you are the very best of stewards! My father knew bloody well what he was about when he advanced you." Arthur's face had grown warm, and Thorne chuckled. "I don't mean to embarrass you," he said apologetically, "but I feel as if I've just been given a good dose of tonic. On, then, to other matters that weigh on my conscience, and perhaps you'll offer still more inspiration."

"I'll try." Arthur couldn't help but smile; it was gratifying to see his young master in good humor. But the mood changed swiftly.

"I know I said we'd spoken enough about Hobbs, but there is one matter unresolved. His babe--my nephew or niece--is in this world somewhere, whether inside or out of its mother. I want them found, Arthur."

"M'lord?"

"I want Elaine Combs and her child found. And whatever you or anyone else can accomplish toward that end will be rewarded."

"Rewarded," Arthur echoed dully.

"Aye, and generously so. I'll offer a thousand pounds to the person who can direct me to their whereabouts. In gold, if that increases the allure."

This time Arthur held his tongue, but he could hardly help looking shocked. "Very well, I'll put word out."

"Good." Thorne smiled wryly. "You needn't worry, I've no intention of hounding the mother. I only want to assure myself that she and the child are properly lodged and amply fed, and of course I'll see to it that the child is educated and its future provided for. After all, he or she is of my blood. No, don't go just yet, there is something else."

"M'lord?"

"I want both entrances to the tower sealed. Permanently." As Arthur only stared at him, Thorne lifted an eyebrow. "What, have I grown horns?"

Arthur shook his head in bewilderment. "May I ask why?"

"Only if you've no intention of arguing the point," was the somewhat impatient reply. "I might remind you that, for some ungodly reason, two inhabitants of the Hall have felt inclined to take flight from the battlements. As I can think of no good reason to keep the tower accessible, I shall here and now end all further temptation for any other misguided souls."

"What of the watch, if we need it?" asked Arthur.

Thorne snorted. "'Twas only needed while Tom Barker was dusting my fields at Hobbs' behest! I say we can do without the tower. Leave the damned thing to the bats, they make much better use of it."

"Very well," Arthur said slowly. "I'll see to it, though 'twill likely give some credence to the 'haunting' story."

Thorne looked at him sharply. "What 'haunting' story? What do you mean?"

"Why, the man on watch at the top of the tower, the one who claims he was pushed from behind...surely you remember?"

"Aye." Thorne looked oddly relieved. "Well, 'tis of no matter. If people are wont to talk, they'll talk. 'Twill all die down after a few days, and at any rate, most folk will credit my decision to my wife's death. Which is entirely correct."

"You're right, of course. Silly of me." Arthur tamped out the tiny stub of his cheroot. "If we've finished here, I'll get on with it."

"And Arthur..." Thorne looked mildly exasperated.

"Aye, M'lord?"

"If I am truly like a son to you, will you please dispense with formality when we're alone and call me by my name?"

"If you insist, Lord Neville." Arthur tried not to smile.

"My Christian name, Arthur."

"Ah, that one!" The steward grinned. "Aye, Thorne...I shall be honored to do so."

* * *

The clock struck ten. Thorne silently counted the strokes despite his acute awareness of the time. It being his first evening home since he'd fled to London, he was determined to avoid windows, particularly on the south and west sides of the Hall.

Let her stand there 'til the sun rises,
he thought.
If her specter is inclined to haunt the road, it will do so unobserved by me
. He smiled grimly to himself.

Reading for a while, he was not even once drawn to the window, though the draperies were wide open. When at last he snuffed the candle and climbed into bed, he felt triumphant, untouchable. Nothing, he thought smugly, could haunt him in such a mood: not ghosts, not memories, not regrets.

He failed to consider dreams.

* * *

He thought he was alone in the dream, standing in the lower nave of the manor church; then he became aware of someone behind a wooden column. His first thought was that Elaine had come back, and his heart skipped a telltale beat.

And a woman
did
step out into the open, with the hood of her cloak pulled well up over her head, and her face in shadow. Thorne started forward, then stopped, his breath hitching as the hood fell back, just as it had on the Northampton road.

He stumbled backward, his heart racing, but slowed his retreat when Gwynneth tilted her head and looked perplexed at his reaction. Then came the gesture he'd learned to dread: she smiled.

To his surprise, the gesture wasn't the least bit terrifying, but sweet, open and gentle. It was then that he knew he was dreaming--for shouldn't she be blistering him with that sulfurous glow her eyes acquired when her rage was high? Punishing him for the hell she'd deemed his making in her last days on earth?

He tried to speak, but no sound passed his lips. He gestured impatiently, only to see her shake her head slowly and smile all the more, as if she were amused at such childish impetuosity.

So he waited; after all,
she
had appeared to
him
. The next move should be hers.

She turned suddenly toward the carved column, and nodded her head. Thorne clutched the side of the pew as yet another woman stepped from the shadows.

Katy
.

Katy?

He was utterly confused. Even dreaming, he felt his mouth open and close as a question struggled to escape his throat. But then Katy smiled down at a bundle of cloth in her arms--something he hadn't noticed until now.

He felt as if he were floating down the nave instead of walking. His heart hammered, although his conscious mind had yet to accept what his subconscious already knew.

Katy stepped forward, holding her burden out to him; rather awkwardly, he took it. Inside the lightweight bundle, something moved, giving off a sweet-smelling warmth, and Thorne brushed the edge of the blanket aside.

The babe was a wee thing, born no more than a month ago, from the looks of it. As it gurgled--the only sound in the dream--it opened its eyes.

Thorne's heart lurched: he was looking into Robert Neville's eyes. Vivid, of an arresting blue, they could even be his own.

He gazed inquiringly at Katy, vaguely aware that Gwynneth was no longer in the church but that somehow it didn't matter. Katy reached to take the babe from him, and he was stunned by the bereft sensation he felt as it was lifted from his arms. He wanted to hold the wriggling creature a while longer, perhaps take it home with him.

As if reading his thoughts, Katy smiled, but stepped back and shook her head as if to say, "Not just now."

A tapping sound began to invade his consciousness--the first sound he'd heard other than the cooing of the child. It escalated in rhythm and volume, finally waking him altogether.

He lay staring through the windows into utter blackness, until a bright flash of lightning informed his now cognizant mind that a pre-season thunderstorm was in progress, and that hail was bouncing off the windowpanes. He sprang from the bed, as determined now to look as he'd been earlier to stay away.