The Lebrus Stone (17 page)

Cream cheese and crackers were now included in my fortified micro biotic diet. My trim waistline was becoming dangerously non-existent. At any rate, I wasn't all that hungry to begin with, so I nibbled on a celery stick to curb my appetite in a non-fattening way. Even if it was far too late.

"Crystal," Isobel's voice echoed from the hallway.

"Better see what she wants," Syd said with a nudge. "Go on."

I dried my hands with a cloth and gave Syd a look of disapproval, which she didn't even comprehend.

I hadn't told her about what I had found in Marsi's book. There was no need, I think. She knew about it, or had a way of knowing something was worrying me without me having to pry.

"This should to be interesting," I said, stepped out into the hallway.

Isobel wasn't there, but the door to the study was still creaking open with faint mumbling coming from inside. It sounded like she had company.

She did. Reverend Sinclair.

"Ah, Crystal. Do join us." Isobel's smiled.

Father Sinclair was sitting opposite her large chair, his legs crossed. His paint stained hands were folded on his lap, and his shiny black shoe tapped rhythmically.

He had turned slightly; his profile with the bent out of shape nose was unflattering. Flushing pink, he stood, beckoning me into the chair he'd been in. I sat down, feeling uncomforted by the warmth of his indentation.

"Isobel tells me you've been unwell. How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Much better; thanks." I looked to Isobel. She beamed back with an unjust happiness.

"I have to say you missed an auspicious gathering," he said. "Plenty was raised for the church. Although there is much more we could do to try and obtain a benefit completely."

I could have told him that, I thought, but nodded in agreement.

"I've brought you this." He offered me a heap of papers that were stapled together.

They were songs, religious songs, handwritten and fading from overuse.

"I'm sure you will have them learned in no time," he said.

"Excuse me?" Was he expecting me to sing these?

He looked to Isobel, who smiled, nodding at him to continue.

What was she scheming now?

"It was brought to my attention that you sang," he said.

"When I was nine." I shot Isobel a disgruntled look. It didn't diminish her impish grin. I had only mentioned my stint at singing once. It wasn't supposed to be broadcasted.

"You no longer sing?" he asked.

"Um…no, I don't. I wasn't very good at it."

"I'm sure that's not true."

And I was sure he was pretending to care.

"How about you come over some time on Thursday night. You could get acquainted with the other members of the choir."

"I'm really not interested. Sorry." I didn't care how blunt I must have sounded. I didn't ask to join any choir. If they wanted less people to attend the church, they would be going the right way about it. Dogs and cats would have kept their distance from my howling.

"How about you give it one more try?" Isobel finally said, her smile at breaking point.

"Isobel. I don't want to sing in the choir." It was said with a calm certainty I hoped would register.

"Very well." She pouted.

I handed the papers back to Sinclair. He watched us both nervously, trying to muster up a smile when he was clearly embarrassed by the mistake.

"I didn't mean to offend," he quibbled, packing the sheets of paper into a plastic folder.

I actually felt sorry for him. For some reason, Isobel felt the requirements of the local Minister to exploit her unusual intentions. He was, after all, an innocent in all this.

"All the same, I would like to give you this. To keep." He handed me a book wrapped in brown cotton, fraying round the corners. I pulled back the flap. It was a bible. No surprises there at least.

"Thank you."

"Try and read it before you sleep. It should keep the nightmares at bay."

Did Isobel not spare any of my personal information?

Did she deliberately want to infuriate me?

The Reverend detected my mood.

"It was mentioned to me by mistake," he said. "but I'm pleased Isobel confided. She cares deeply for your welfare. As do we all for fellow children of the Lord."

I had nothing to say. Not when I was being fought two against one.

"I shall see myself out," he added.

Isobel held out her hand to him. Were fellow children of the Lord supposed to touch the Minister so intimately?

"Do stay, Reverend, and join us for dinner. Sydney shall cook your favorite. Soufflé."

"That's a very tempting offer, Mrs. Locke." He smiled. "Perhaps some other time."

He took her hand and kissed it. Maybe I was old fashioned, but I had never seen a man of the cloth kiss a lady's hand, and with such tenderness.

I was so shocked, I felt uncomfortable. It was as though I was intruding on a private moment between husband and wife, except he was young enough to be her grandson.

Isobel led him to the front door. I remained sat, astonished by the way they had forgotten all about me and quietly left the room hand in hand.

~ * ~

I slipped out of the house to avoid dinner. Thankfully, nobody noticed.

Before I knew it, it was nine o'clock; so dark I could barely see through the trees as I waded my way back to the house.

When I fell and scratched my hand on a small rock, I glanced up and saw a tall, lean figure walking along a footpath that snaked around a fallen gate. Smoke billowed. It looked like Cray, or maybe I just half hoped.

I ran to him anyway. The person turned ever so slightly before walking faster. I could see the glowing end of a cigarette.

I caught up and found it
was
Cray. He didn't bother to glance at who had joined him. He had no need to guess. My very scent must have signaled I was gaining in on him, and so he walked even faster.

A stitch pinched at my side as I failed to keep up. He glanced at me occasionally as I rubbed at it. The street lamps in the distance made it possible to see the faint bruise on his left eye. I bit my lip, feeling gripped with that same consuming guilt.

"Mother was about to send out a search party," he said, his deep, smooth voice making my stomach dip.

"Did she send you to try and find me?"

He nodded, seeming finished with the conversation. I wanted to ask if he knew about the curse, but chose to keep things simple.

"I didn't know you smoked," I said, to carry on the conversation.

He just glanced at me; his eyes a silvery white as they skimmed my lips.

Like most things these days, I was still imaging his eyes changing color. I couldn't worry about me needing psychiatric help again to deal with what had happened to me just yet, not until I got back home. I licked my lips, afraid they were as dry as they felt. He blinked…a lot, and then looked ahead.

"I'm sorry," I offered.

He inhaled more smoke.

"About your eye, I mean. I'm sorry I didn't apologize when it happened. You know, sooner."

He straightened and walked faster. After another intake of smoke, he threw the stub of his cigarette into a cemetery bush.

"Hey!"

His eyebrows shot up.

"Uh, I mean, show some respect," I said, realizing how confrontational I sounded.

"To the dead? What do they care?" He sneered, but it wasn't repulsive. The cute dimple in his cheek smoothed out as soon as it appeared.

"Maybe they care more than you think."

"Sounds like you care for the dead more than they care for you." He turned onto a lit street, his hands tucked deep into the pockets of his leather jacket.

"At least I care for something," I retorted, wishing I hadn't.

He turned and stood so close I could smell the nicotine on his breath. It wasn't a turn off. On him, it smelled good. A scent I could get used to tasting in my mouth. A tingle crawled up my stomach.

"Meaning?"

"Nothing, it just came out," I said, gutless.

"It came out because you meant it."

His tone wasn't unkind, just a little disgruntled. I was confused by my own snappy accusation.

What did I mean?

The street lights on the quiet road shimmered as his silvery eyes trailed down to my lips and made them burn. I had to survey the street behind him, but there was nothing, no one, only an acre of land and empty roads that couldn't distract me from him and how handsome he was, how his eyes scoured me clean of any memories that didn't include him.

He was undeniably all the more sexy when annoyed. As the streetlights shadowed one side of his face, the side of his lips curled toward the wanting-to-form dimple.

"Me," I answered, like an automatic reflex.

"You, what?" he asked, his voice still smooth but rapacious, sending further tingles all the way down to my toes. I didn't usually act like this around guys. I'd never let any close enough. I'd never been this…affected.

"You don't…care for me," I croaked.

His mouth curved into a full smile, just like in the drawing room, but in this dim light it held an extra wickedness. Tingles extended to a head rush, flaring with a warmth that enclosed my heart and climbed to the base of my throat.

I coughed.

He leaned in close enough to make my heart flutter liker it had gained wings.

"Care for you?" he asked as I shook in my two inch heels. "Why would I need to care for you?" His voice became thick and rasp, almost baiting. I wondered if it was a clever way to make me think he was coming on to me. I knew any signs of him flirting was all in my mixed up mind, but likable all the same.

"Because I'm practically family," I managed to say. It was the wrong thing to react with. His dour expression told me that whatever I had miraculously initiated had been well and truly thrashed.

"You were found in a book store in Aspen," he ground out.

"Utah."

"Whatever," he griped. "You're not family." His seductive tongue had changed to being crabby again. The pounding of my heart simmered, but now my blood boiled. His arrogance affected me in ways I couldn't ignore.

He turned and stalked toward the gates to the manor. I deliberately took my time and he deliberately walked faster.

We still ended up at the top of the steps at the same time, waiting for the door to open. I risked one last comment. "What makes you think I want you as family anyway?" I eyed the lion's head knocker and fantasized about hitting him over the head with it.

"I don't," he said, his tone thicker, displeasured.

My frustration churned in my stomach. His belittling was like stretching his ego across my mouth like duct tape.

"You're right," I said.

His lips parted to retort, but no words came out.

My skin prickled with heat and my heart pounded. I was slinking back into myself, peering through a shield I thought could protect me from how I would automatically act around him. They way I would always fall away from myself. Always way too much.

"I just wanted to speak to you like we had in the drawing room that day," I said, a little breathless.

"So speak," he said coolly, but I heard a treble in his voice.

I turned slowly and found him standing too close. His chest was directly in my field of vision. His standoffish chin was just an inch upwards from a glance. I allowed his cologne to sift through my nose, the taste of it to settle at the back of my tongue.

"Right now you could be showing a bit more…politeness." I swallowed. "At least some respect. You could let things be…" I couldn't finish. I had forgotten in the mix of feelings washing over me with his heady but needed scent. I was losing myself. And I had no way of controlling it.

"Enjoyable," he finished, his ragged voice tired. By me perhaps. My need to speak, but then say nothing much at all. My defenses were always surrendering to the changing slur of his compressed but hauntingly smooth voice.

I nodded, my tongue chose to lay uselessly flat.

He inhaled a deep breath. "Your kind just aren't welcome here."

"My kind?" I whispered, keeping my head lowered and my eyes on the button of his shirt.

"Your kind," he repeated, virulent.

My shock came out as a whisper. I tried to move my feet to get away from him. Of course, I felt stuck.

"Who else?" He gritted.

"Have I…" I clenched my eyes closed. I wanted to say much more to him, shout, stomp, kick him in the crotch. But I couldn't do anything; just stand there motionless, unable to confront him.

He stepped away from me. I felt my hand rise by itself and grip the arm of his rumpled shirt. He shuddered, I think…just as I drew him back.

"If I've done something, you have to tell me," I said, forcing my eyes to look at him.