Anne Barbour (10 page)

With only a moment’s hesitation, Claudia descended the stairs. She made no sound as she kept her eyes fixed on the faint radiance that bobbed ahead of her in the corridor leading to the library. When she herself reached the library, January was no longer in sight, but from inside the room came sounds of movement Drawing a deep breath, she placed her hand on the door handle and, taking care not to make a sound, cautiously opened it.

Chapter Seven

Claudia stopped just inside the door, her eyes drawn immediately to where Jem stood near one section of the bookshelf. She watched as he selected a volume and brought it near the taper, and she let out the breath she had been holding for what seemed like several minutes. How ridiculous she had been. Of course, he was only here to find some reading material.

The first book he chose was evidently not to his liking, for he—what on earth was he doing? Holding the book in both hands, he raised it above the candle and opening it, he peered not at the pages, but along the volume’s spine. He shook the book a little, and thrust a finger inside the space between the spine cover and the page binding. He shook his head, muttered something to himself, and chose another volume, whereupon he repeated the same procedure.

A chill crept over Claudia that had nothing to do with the draft that floated over her bare toes. January was not here to borrow a book. He was searching for something! She stood motionless for another few minutes as the butler removed several more books from their places and subjected them to the same scrutiny. He paused once to sneeze as a cloud of dust from an upper shelf enveloped him.

Claudia turned to steal out of the room, but suddenly changed her mind. It was time, she decided, to find out more about this interloper. She must discover his purpose. She slid back out into the corridor and soundlessly closed the door behind her. Then, she swung about, and with a determined clatter of the door latch, entered the library once more.

January turned as she entered. He did not appear discomposed at being found outside his quarters at this late hour, but raised the candle in an effort to discover who had interrupted him.

“Ah, Mrs. Carstairs. I hope I did not disturb you.”

“Not at all, January. I remembered something I omitted to do for my sister and rose to tend to the matter. I heard a sound and came to investigate. Are you unable to sleep?”

Jem surveyed the young woman as she glided into the room. With her hair streaming over her shoulders, and her ruffled cotton night rail brushing her bare toes, she looked almost childlike. As she grew closer, however, the soft curves that proved her to be all woman could be seen beneath the cotton. Jem swallowed.

“Yes, ma’am. With all the excitement today, I found it difficult to compose myself to rest. I thought perhaps a book—”

“Of course, I often read to make me sleepy. After all”—she glanced at him from beneath lowered lashes—”books contain treasure that appeals to all of us, do they not?”

The butler made no response, and Claudia drew closer to him. “Tell me, January, are you happy here so far?”

Jem caught the faint scent that enveloped her. Lavender, he thought, with something else sweet and fresh blended in. Her hair caught the candlelight in golden reflections as it fell over her shoulders in a silken rope, and her eyes as she gazed at him were large and mysterious. She moved with an unknowing, sensuous grace, like a young woodland deity from the depths of the forest.

Noting the extinguished candle in her hand, he took it from her, and her fingers trembled slightly as they came into contact with his. He lit the little taper from his own, then set them both on a nearby table. He gestured to a chair, and when she had seated herself, he took another close by her.

“To answer your question, ma’am, yes, so far I like it here very much.” He smiled, and to Claudia it seemed that the light in his eyes came not from the candle flame, but from an inner compelling luminescence. “I thought butlering might be boring,” he continued with a laugh, “but such is far from the case.”

Claudia returned his smile. “We endeavor to keep our employees entertained here at Ravencroft. Tell me, Mr. January, what do you do when you are not buttling? Or delivering colts?”

Jem paused for a moment, the laughter dying on his lips. “Oh, a little of this and some of that,” he replied.

“And where do you accomplish a little of this and some of that?” Claudia made an effort to keep her tone casual. “I first thought that you must be from Gloucestershire, but now I am not so sure that is true.”

“Indeed,” replied Jem easily. “I am originally from this part of the country, but I left many years ago and have only recently returned.” He had learned a long time ago that the best way to perpetrate a deception is to tell the truth whenever possible.

“Ah.” Claudia’s nose wrinkled disarmingly. “Did you go to London to seek your fortune?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“But the Cotswolds called you back.”

“Indeed.”

Claudia felt perspiration break out on her brow. This was like trying to nail a blancmange to the wall. Faint but persistent, she continued. “But, why did you not return to your own village—wherever that may be?”

January did not rise to the bait, merely lifting his brows as he remarked, “Jobs are scarce, and a man must eat.”

Abandoning this line, Claudia waved her hand toward the books lining the walls. “And apparently a man must read as well. Were you looking for anything in particular, January? We have a wide range of selections.”

“But not nearly as extensive as it was before,” replied Jem, indicating the many gaps that appeared on the shelves. “How unfortunate that so many are gone.”

“Yes, but I’ve found that we still have less valuable copies of most of the volumes that were sold, and I feel that the substance of a book is its most important feature.”

“Very true,” agreed Jem gravely. “The value of a book lies in what the author has to say rather than the fact that it is bound in Moroccan leather, or that it was the first copy to be printed. I was looking for, ah,
Tristram Shandy,
but I do not see it. Would there perhaps be a copy somewhere else in the house?”

Puzzled, Claudia stared at him a moment before answering. “Well, there are quite a few books in the study. Those are mostly volumes on farming and country life in general.”

“Ah, I find rural subjects most interesting,” said Jem, his attention fully caught.

“Really? Let me see ...” Claudia rose and went to the bookshelves, lightly brushing his arm as she passed. “Yes, up there”—she pointed to a thick volume resting on a shelf high above her head—”is a book on agricultural practices, published in the last century.”

She made a futile effort to reach the book, and Jem moved to stand close behind her. He plucked it from its position, bringing it down so that they could both read its title.

“On
Maintaining a Country Estate in the Cotswolds, with Instructive Treatises on Agriculture, Animal Husbandry, and Hints on Household Management”
read Jem. “Whew! That seems to cover the subject pretty thoroughly.”

He was very close to her, and a tremor passed the length of Claudia’s body at the warmth of his breath on her cheek. Lord, he smelled good—of soap and his own peculiarly musky scent, and very faintly of horse. Had he just come in from the stables? She laughed shakily. “Yes, indeed. I leafed through it a year or so ago, hoping to find some useful information.”

“And?” His voice had taken on an odd, husky tone and Claudia had the sensation that the rest of the world had vanished into the surrounding darkness, leaving the two of them standing alone in a warm, glowing pocket of intimacy. She tried to move away from him, but found herself alarmingly enclosed by the bookshelf, the butler, and the volume he was holding. She glanced up and encountered a gaze containing, she thought, amusement and a certain tenderness.

Hurriedly, she dropped her eyes again to the book. “And,” she replied in a voice she hardly recognized as her own, “I did find some helpful facts on raising horses—and sheep—and...” Unable to help herself, she lifted her head once more and found herself caught, helpless as a rabbit pinned beneath a predator, staring into eyes that held all the brightness and all the mesmerizing promise of morning starlight.

Slowly, and with infinite tenderness, Jem lifted his hand to where her hair met her cheek. She was appalled at the shudder of response that shot through her at his touch, but she seemed incapable of withdrawing from him. His head bent to hers until his lips rested on her mouth with a softness that was at first tentative, but which flamed immediately into urgency.

Frightened at the need she felt to press against him—to offer him the welcome of her body, she drew back with a startled gasp, and at her withdrawal, January stepped abruptly away from her.

“I’m sorry.” His voice was a rasping growl, and he appeared almost startled as his hand dropped to his side. “I—I don’t...”

But she did not stay to hear. Whirling, she ran from the room. Stumbling blindly through the silent house, she reached her bedchamber at last and flung herself on her bed.

What had just happened? The library, she reflected wildly, was neutral territory—at least—surely more so than the servants’ quarters, but she was very certain that kissing one’s butler in the former was a far greater solecism than swilling brandy with him in the latter.

Of course, he wasn’t really a butler, was he? Not that that made things any better. Good God
,
she had vowed war against this man, and her defenses had crumbled at the first skirmish. To make things worse, she berated herself, she had no doubt brought the whole episode on herself. She had been conscious the whole time she was in the room with him that her appearance, barefoot and in her night rail, without so much as a robe, was highly improper. She had consoled herself with the thought that the night rail was very concealing and made of the sturdiest cotton. Apparently, she was mistaken in this concept. Lord, she must have looked the veriest wanton. It was not surprising that the interloper had tried to force his attentions on her. The man had no morals, after all, or he would not be here with the purpose, in all probability, of preparing to throw a practically destitute widow out of her own home.

A
moment, my girl. Forced his attentions on you?
The small, cool voice spoke in the back of Claudia’s mind, and she stilled in the act of punching one of her pillows. Well, not forced precisely, but if she had made the slightest resistance, he no doubt would have...

Ah.

She rose from the bed slowly and padded across the room to her mirror. She lit the candle resting on her dressing table and stared for several moments at her reflection.

No, she had not resisted. In point of fact, when his mouth had brushed hers with such tender authority, it had taken every scrap of willpower she possessed to refrain from burying her hands in that silky, dark mane and pulling him into her very being. She had never thought of herself as being “that sort” of woman, but with his kiss, she knew she wanted to feel the length of his body against hers. Her tongue curled with the desire to know the flavor of that lightly bronzed skin.

It must be sheer lust—mustn’t it? She certainly felt no tender sentiments toward him. She hardly knew him, for heaven’s sake. Was this aching—this fire in her veins merely the result of her own innate passion, too long repressed?

She thought of her distasteful couplings with Emanuel Carstairs. On their wedding day, as she had stood beside him at the altar, she had felt cold at the appalling realization that the hour was fast approaching when she would have to undress before this man—when she would be forced to endure his embrace, which she had already learned was a sweaty, smothering invasion of her senses. The reality had proved even more repellent.

She shuddered and drew the high neck of her night rail tighter about her neck. The memory of Emanuel Carstairs’s touch inspired nothing in her beyond a sick horror and a sense of relief that she would never again have to submit to a man’s advances. Why then should she feel a vastly different response to the touch of Jem January’s strong, slender fingers on her flesh?

Determinedly, she blew out the candle and scuttled across the room, fairly leaping into bed. She would waste no more time thinking of silvery eyes and hair like night. With an effort, she turned her thoughts to his replies—or lack of same— to her questions. He had admitted that he was a native of these parts. Was he telling the truth? But, why would he lie? She turned his words over in her mind, and realized to her chagrin that his supposed origin was the only bit of information she had been able to prize from him. And she already knew that he must be from around here. He very well might be one of the former residents of Ravencroft, if not Lord Glenraven himself. Lord Glenraven. She shivered, wishing that name did not have the power to cause a frisson of panic to skitter up her spine.

And what had he been searching for in the book spines? What could be hidden in such a small space? Well, any number of things, she supposed. A small utensil, a piece of paper, jewelry, coins... She sighed, realizing that she was wasting her time, time that could much better be spent in sleep, for morning would come early.

She rolled over resolutely, but it was many minutes before her eyes closed in sleep.

Downstairs, Jem stood for some moments, motionless, after Claudia’s flight. After a long while, he made his way back to his own quarters and again, stood in the center of the room, staring dazedly about him as though he had strayed into a foreign universe.

He had never considered himself to be a ladies’ man. There had been brief moments of brightness in the bleak chill that was life in London’s underbelly, occasions of warmth and pleasure, but they had been few and fleeting. In the main they had consisted of solace given and taken. He had never loved, and, he rather thought, had never been loved. He did not consider this an unfortunate state of affairs. It was his observation that those who fancied themselves in love appeared to be among the most wretched of creatures, always miserable at the slights, real or imagined, inflicted on them by the objects of their affection, and eternally eaten by petty jealousies.