Dark Before the Rising Sun (45 page)

Opening her nightdress, she guided Kit's little head to her breast and sat back against the pillows while he nursed, his fine fringe of lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his eyes began to close. Rhea continued to sit there rocking him while she hummed softly, and soon his tiny hands stopped their kneading. His head rested heavily against her breast while he slept in her arms, contented.

Carefully Rhea placed him back in his cradle and arranged the fine wool blankets around his shoulders, rocking the cradle for a few minutes when he gurgled and threatened to waken. Then he sighed and slept.

Pulling her gown together, Rhea walked to the window. A bright silver stream of moonlight poured into the room, and it was almost like standing in daylight. She stared out on the wild disorder of the gardens below.

Where was he? With dread she remembered the other night when she had awakened and found the bed beside her empty. Rhea strained to see into the night, but the gardens and trees seemed to darken and crowd closer to the lodge as she watched. In the distance the shimmering sea looked blindingly brighter. The shadows around the lodge seemed to be moving. Rhea rubbed her eyes, staring harder at the line of trees that suddenly seemed to hide secrets.

She gasped as she watched a tall shadow grow taller, then detach itself from the copse and move closer to the lodge. Then she sighed, for she knew that walk. As he drew closer, she could almost make out his familiar features. She smiled in relief. She was acting as foolish as Robin and Conny, and she would never listen again to their stories of ghosts and Wild Huntsmen.

Rhea continued to watch as Dante's figure approached, then disappeared from view as he walked along the path leading to the lodge entrance. She was about to turn away from the window when she saw another shadow sliding away from the trees, and her heart began pounding deafeningly, for the figure was a lady dressed in flowing white robes.

Dread rising inside her, Rhea knew she was seeing the spectral figure of the Pale Lady of the Ruins, an omen that meant certain death.

Guess if you can, choose if you dare.

—Pierre Corneille

In the cold, revealing light of dawn, Rhea found herself questioning what she had seen the night before. She still believed that she had seen something moving through the trees, but she had said nothing about it to Dante. Her mind was occupied with something more important, for he had denied leaving the lodge. Or, rather, he neglected saying anything about leaving the lodge for a midnight assignation, which she was beginning to believe had been his purpose in stealing away.

She found herself remembering the note he had been handed in Merleigh and had also neglected to tell her about. Had he, perhaps, gone to meet the person who had sent him that secret missive? And could that person possibly have been what she saw from the window? In the back of her mind she kept remembering that scarlet figure she had seen in Merleigh at about the time Dante received the note.

Whatever he was involved in, he apparently had no intention of telling her, for, upon entering their room, he had met her inquiring gaze and said nothing about leaving the lodge. He had explained that he couldn't sleep and had gone downstairs to get some brandy. Indeed, he was holding a dram glass of the burnished liquid. As he stood there in his bare feet, his nightshirt tucked into his breeches, one would almost have believed his story. But Rhea suspected that his muddied boots and his coat were lying outside the door and that the brandy was for taking the chill out of his bones. But she doubted that he'd been out searching for the smuggling gang, for there was a moon riding high, and he had said that the smugglers preferred to work in darkness.

Dante asked what had awakened her, and her explanation that she was feeding their son seemed to relieve his mind. He smiled at her and seemed to relax. Then he placed the glass on the bedside table and, sitting down next to her, took her into his arms as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

Rhea had felt the pressure of his lips against the side of her neck. His hands moved caressingly across her shoulders before encircling her waist. His brandy-scented breath was warm against her face, then his lips found hers for a long moment. Despite herself, Rhea felt that quivering sensation growing inside of her, that need to respond to his every desire. But she would not do so this time, she argued with herself, not with a lie between them. Especially not with the suspicions she felt, for that would make a mockery of their love.

So she had freed her lips from his and turned her face away. It was the first time she had denied him since they had declared their love to one another. Rhea thought she would remember forever the stunned expression on his handsome face. Their eyes had met for a long moment, and then he released her abruptly.

Getting to his feet, he stood there with an expression of hurt bewilderment, and Rhea had wanted to reach out to him and hold him against her. But something prevented it.

“What is wrong?” he demanded, his hand rubbing the back of his neck as if he was tired, then his shoulder as if it ached.

“Nothing,” she lied, unable to meet his eyes.

“You have never been a very good liar, my dear,” he'd said softly, and grasping her chin in his cupped hand, he raised her face to his searching gaze. “I shall ask you again, Rhea. What is wrong?”

Rhea could still feel the tenderness where she had bitten her lip while wondering whether she should keep silent, or tell the truth. But she had never been one for subterfuge, and so she stared him straight in the eye and said quite distinctly, “I was standing at the window, Dante. I saw you coming through the gardens from across the lawns. I know you went out. You needn't have lied to me, Dante.”

Dante had stood there, an expression of indecision on his face, and his silence convinced her that he did indeed have something to hide.

Finally he spoke. “Yes, I did leave the lodge. I went for a walk,” he had told her, which she suspected was only part of the truth.

“Did you not meet anyone?” Rhea asked hesitantly, and Dante laughed.

“Just whom would I be meeting at this hour?” he demanded, almost daring her to accuse him.

Then, at Rhea's stricken look, he knelt down before her and took her hands between his.

“Rhea, little daffadilly,” he said, forcing her to meet his ardent gaze, “you need never be jealous of another woman. Is that what you fear? Believe that, and trust me. I once asked you to promise me that you would never turn away from me, no matter what you heard, and even if you had doubts. As surely as the sun will rise each day, you may believe in one thing, and that is that I shall always love you.” Meeting the comforting warmth in his gray eyes, Rhea had believed him.

A little later, when he took her in his arms, she did not draw away from him. And in the heat of passion, she forgot to tell him about the pale figure she had seen moving through the woods. Or perhaps she did not forget. Perhaps she did not want to know the truth.

Rhea glanced around her at the sparkling beauty of the lodge that would be her home for most of the coming year, and she knew a deep sense of contentment. She had risen early, before the servants, and in the silence of the first light of day, she enjoyed a rare moment alone. How different the lodge hall looked, she thought as she touched the golden daffodils gracing the oak table, their reflection shining in the brilliant waxed surface. A tall case clock chimed the early hour as Rhea walked over to the hearth. Several tall-backed cane chairs and a pair of velvet upholstered winged chairs were positioned in a semicircle around the clean hearth.

Rhea stood for a moment staring up at the painting above the mantelpiece. Dante himself had hung it with great care. It was the portrait of a very beautiful woman and a boy, the sea mists swirling around the woman's figure while the boy seemed to stand apart, his small hand clinging to the folds of the woman's silken gown. Her flaxen hair was tousled and blowing free while she stared down with compassionate, soft gray eyes. And the color of her eyes was reflected in the young boy's eyes. Until Rhea gazed at that portrait, she had never seen such an innocent, trusting expression in Dante's eyes. Time had banished that expression and replaced it with one of cynical wariness, and Rhea cried for that loss of innocence.

She sighed, thinking of the tragedy that had befallen those two people so many years after the portrait was painted.

“Aye, 'twas a real shame, what happened,” a voice commented sadly from behind her.

Rhea spun around. “Kirby! You scared the life out of me,” Rhea said, but felt an overwhelming relief as she stared at his familiar face.

“I'm sorry, m'lady. I didn't mean to startle ye,” Kirby apologized as he came forward carrying a small silver tray, a china cup and saucer sitting squarely in the center. “I heard someone down here and came to investigate, but ye was so lost in your thoughts that I didn't disturb ye. I thought ye might welcome a cup of tea.” He set the tray down on the tea table beside one of the winged chairs, then waited for her to sit down before handing her the brimming cup.

Rhea smiled. “You must be a wizard, Kirby, always anticipating a person's thoughts. This tastes wonderful,” Rhea complimented him.

“I took the liberty, m'lady, of preparin' it for ye. I reckon by now I know how ye like your tea,” he said with a grin.

“You should have brought a cup for yourself,” she told him, wondering if he would ever remember that he was no longer a servant.

“Oh, m'lady, what would the captain think if he was to come down and find us in here sippin' tea?” Kirby asked, grinning widely. He truly did believe it would be improper, especially with her still clad in her nightdress.

“He would think that two friends were sharing tea,” Rhea responded, but her smile didn't come quite as easily as it should have. “What was she like, Kirby?” Rhea asked, glancing up at the portrait.

Kirby sighed deeply. “Ah, the Lady Elayne, she was a saint, she was. The kindest, most thoughtful lady I've ever met, exceptin' for yourself, m'lady. And, of course, Her Grace,” Kirby added, for the Duchess of Camareigh was a lady he would not soon forget. “The Lady Elayne adored Dante. Lived for him, she did. I imagine 'twas because she wasn't all that happy with her husband. He was a fine man, but he didn't care for anythin' except books and paintin's and all them things he liked to collect. Loved fine things, he did, and spent more time lookin' over his sculptures and paintin's than he did with his family. Even collected engravin's, medals, gems, all sorts of little gewgaws. And, beggin' your pardon, m'lady, just in case ye happen to run across one, he brought back some statues of half-naked women and naked gents from one of them foreign countries he visited on his Grand Tour. Remember like 'twas yesterday, I do. Nearly sent the old housekeeper, her bein' a maiden lady, into an apoplectic fit when she caught sight of them bare-as-s-ah, forgive me, m'lady,” Kirby choked.

“A dilettante,” Rhea remarked, unembarrassed.

Kirby looked embarrassed. “M'lady, really, he wasn't like that at all.”

Rhea smiled. “I meant no offense. A dilettante is someone who has a love and appreciation of the arts. It sounds as if the late marquis wished to surround himself with beauty. I think that is admirable.”

“Oh, is that what it means, then?” Kirby said, rubbing his chin in relief. “Aye, reckon ye be right. I sometimes got the feelin' that he looked upon Lady Elayne as one of his possessions. And he was always pushin' away his son. He was a high-strung young lad, and I guess Lord Jacqobi thought the lad would break one of his figurines or somethin'. Can still remember the hurt expression on the captain's face every time he was told to get out by an irate Lord Jacqobi. All the lad wanted was a wee bit of affection. The marquis was the same with Lady Elayne, and if ye ask me, she was a far sight prettier than one of them marble statues without their proper clothes on,” sniffed the little steward. “Reminds me a lot of ye, m'lady,” Kirby said unthinkingly, then turned a bright, painful red. “Oh, m'lady, I didn't mean what it sounded like I said,” he said, flustered.

“Oh, Kirby, I know what you mean. I am honored that I remind you of Lady Elayne,” Rhea told him, her lips twitching.

Kirby stared up at the portrait, feeling the same melancholy that Rhea had been feeling. “I wish with all of my heart, m'lady, that ye'll be happier than Lady Elayne was. I'd hate to see ye suffer the way she did. Sometimes I feel it would be worth hangin' for, just to see Sir Miles punished for what he did to her.

“Never liked him, I didn't,” Kirby said. “Never trusted the man. Always figured I couldn't go wrong if I believed just the opposite of what he said. Always lyin' and connivin'. Usin' people, he did, then he'd sit back and smile that evil grin. He took real pleasure in sellin' them things of Lord Jacqobi's.

“Aye, 'twas probably a blessin' Lady Elayne died. Only way she could escape him,” Kirby declared. “Always thought it real queer like, 'cause it was almost as if Sir Miles both loved and hated the Lady Elayne.” Then, glancing around nervously, he added in a whisper, “Ye don't really think her ghost is hauntin' the cliffs, d'ye, m'lady? I'd hate to be thinkin' she wasn't at peace,” Kirby said, his face screwed up with worry. Rhea was about to reassure him, despite the fact that she had seen that pale figure in the darkness, when Kirby suddenly cried out. Jumping up in surprise, he felt something rubbing against his stockinged legs.

“Jamaica!” he growled, picking the big tom up in his arms. “Ye old reprobate. How did ye get in here? Where have ye been? Hasn't been home in three days now. Out courtin' the ladies, eh? Aye, once a tom, always a tom, that's what I say,” Kirby pronounced. “Say hello to Lady Rhea Claire. Not that she should have been worryin' about ye, but she asked me where ye was time and time again. Ye oughta be ashamed of yourself, causin' the lady such concern.”

“Hello, old boy. Where have you been? Have you a lady friend?” Rhea asked, rubbing the purring tom under his chin while Kirby gingerly held him close to her. He thought he'd better check Jamaica for fleas before he let her ladyship hold him.

“Not talkin', eh?” said Kirby with a disapproving shake of his head, for Jamaica was no youngster. “Got your secrets to keep. Well, reckon I might think about cuttin' up some chicken livers for ye if ye behave yourself and don't get greedy. Last time I was doin' that, he took the whole dam—the whole chicken instead,” Kirby grumbled, but Rhea knew that the little steward was very pleased to have Jamaica home.

“Can I be gettin' ye any more tea, m'lady?” Kirby asked.

“No, I really should dress before the footmen come down and I embarrass them,” Rhea said with a grin that was reminiscent of Robin's when he was up to mischief.

“Aye, m'lady,” Kirby agreed. “'Tis disgraceful that ye should be up before your maid is. Lettin' her sleep in like ye do. I dunno what Her Grace would be sayin' and I know her grandfather wouldn't be approvin', Lady Rhea Claire. I'll see that she gets up before another few minutes have passed. I only hope she has brushed out the wrinkles and dust on your ridin' dress. But don't worry, I'll make sure 'tis ready for ye,” Kirby told her with a glint in his eye, for he knew how to crack the whip over sluggards' heads, even if Lady Rhea Claire didn't. Too kind, she was, he thought.

“I don't think I will have need of my riding habit today, Kirby,” Rhea informed him. Placing the empty cup back on the tray, she got to her feet, glancing one last time at the portrait of Dante and his mother. She knew that Kit would one day look very much like that boy.

“Oh, but, m'lady,” Kirby said, stopping her as she left the room, “the captain said ye was to ride over to Westlea Abbot today.”

Rhea halted. “That is odd. Dante did not mention it to me,” Rhea said.