Heart of the Flame (10 page)

Kenrick reached out his hand, and stilled her with the barest touch of his fingers at her wrist. She froze, half a pace beyond him and less than a hand's width separating their bodies on the narrow garden path. He was still holding her wrist in his hand, the heat of her skin coursing through him like a living thing.

"Faith," she whispered, closing her eyes as he brought his other hand up between them. "Do not..."

But Kenrick was already touching her cheek, stroking the backs of his fingers along the silken line of her jaw.

He wanted to kiss her.

He knew little more than her name, knew not whether she belonged to another man or nay, but the urge to take her into his arms nearly rent those concerns to pieces.

He wanted her.

God's blood, how he wanted....

Mincing footsteps approached then drew to an abrupt halt somewhere behind him, followed by the wordless gasp of a female servant. Haven pulled her hand out of his grasp at once.

"Oh--mercy! Beggin' pardon, m'lord...and miss. Excuse me, but I didn't see ye there--"

Kenrick turned to find a mousey serving girl gaping at his back, her floppy white cap wilting over her head, an empty vegetable basket hooked over her thin arm. She stared as though encountering the devil himself and fearing for her very life. Kenrick realized he was likely glowering at the girl, though it was more from his own inwardly directed anger than for any fault of hers in coming upon them unawares.

"I've no wish to disturb ye." The maid backed away, nearly stumbling, dread looming in her wide-eyed gaze. "Beg pardon, m'lord. I'll be goin' now."

She did not wait for his leave. Flustered and quaking, she turned and bolted back whence she came.

"God's blood," Kenrick growled, disgusted with himself for the uncharacteristic breach of his control. "My apologies, Lady Haven. I had no right--nor was it my intent--to be so bold here."

Through a fierce blush that rode bright pink on her cheeks, she waved her hand in a mildly dismissive gesture.

"'Tis all right," she murmured, but Kenrick could not help noticing that she took a couple of steps away from him, retreating well out of arm's reach. "I think I had better...I wish to return to the castle now."

"Of course. I'll take you--"

"No. Please, just...no. Excuse me."

Her denial was swift. Understandably so. She stepped past him in a rush of movement, hastening away without another word.

Chapter 9

The next day, Haven was still rattled from her encounter with Kenrick. She could not believe he dared such liberties with her. Worse, she could not credit her own reaction to him.

His touch had left her shaken, though not from outrage as would be her right. Kenrick's unexpected caress had unsettled her in a way she dared not consider too closely. Not when her skin yet burned from the memory, her thoughts yet spinning from the tenderness he had shown her. There was danger in that silken touch. Just as there was an unspoken danger in the man himself.

She did not want to think on him at all, and glad she was that she had not seen him since their stroll the day before. She dearly hoped he would remain out of her sight this morn as well, for she had no wish to be reminded of their brazen exchange by the mere appearance of him in the hall or about the keep as she took her morning walk.

As it was, she would be taking that walk alone. According to the maid who arrived to dress Haven's shoulder wound, Lady Ariana was indisposed within her chambers and could not join her. Haven accepted the maid's news with a pang of disappointment and a note of true concern for her new friend.

"Is anything amiss, Mary? Did she say why she could not come?"

The maid, a young woman with a freckled face and shy demeanor, gave a shake of her head. "Nay, lady. She turned away her breakfast this morn and asked to be left alone to sleep a while."

"'Tis nearly midday," Haven said. "I hope she is not unwell. Perhaps I'll go look in on her after a while."

The servant nodded agreeably as she removed the old bandages from Haven's wound and set them aside. With a warm, wetted cloth, she cleaned the area, then sat back to allow it to dry. "You are healing quite well, Miss Haven," she remarked. "Another sennight and I wager you'll be good as new."

Haven glanced down at her shoulder, where the ugly gash had indeed begun to mend. It was progressing quickly, already losing much of its inflammation. She could not look at the deep wound without thinking how close it had come to killing her. She might have had just days--perhaps only a few scant hours--before Kenrick of Clairmont happened upon her that night in Cornwall.

He had saved her life, and she should be grateful.

In truth, she was, but she could not help wondering if her golden rescuer didn't present another, equally lethal, brand of trouble. That he was involved in something suspicious was clear enough to any person with eyes and ears in their head.

Even his servants and the folk about the castle whispered of their lord's peculiar habits and secretive ways. He skulked about the keep and grounds like a wraith, always deep in thought, watching. It had not taken more than a few overheard whisperings to know that it was rumored he never ate or slept, that he studied the dark arts, and damnation awaited any who dared breach his sacred domain.

Haven doubted Kenrick wanted anyone's soul, but she did wonder what made the enigmatic lord so brooding and aloof. From what she could see in her short time observing the keep's goings-on, only Ariana and Braedon held any bit of his confidence, and even they seemed to be kept at a safe arm's distance.

Did anyone truly know the man?

It did not seem likely to her when he appeared to take great strides to ensure his own solitude. Kenrick of Clairmont was unreachable, certainly unreadable, and Haven did not doubt that there were many secrets lurking behind his cool blue gaze.

It was those secrets that made him all the more dangerous in her mind.

Although she could recall little of the life she lived before coming to Clairmont, she knew that to remain here now was to put herself at risk of further peril. Beyond the unsettling presence of the man himself, there was something deadly in this place. Haven could feel it pulling at her with as much force as that which warned her to flee at first chance.

But escape would take physical strength she presently did not have.

"There you are now," the maid said as she fixed the last binding of Haven's new bandage. Mary helped her to her feet, then assisted with her gown. With a whisper of silken luxury, the borrowed blue cotte settled over Haven's body like a cloud, the long skirts floating down to her slippered feet.

"Shall I show you to the great hall? 'Tis nearly time for the noontide meal."

"No. Thank you, Mary," Haven replied. "I think I will take a small stroll first and stretch my legs."

"As you wish."

The maid smiled, then gathered up the soiled supplies and quit the chamber.

Eager to continue her recuperation, Haven was not long behind the girl, venturing out of the chamber and into the corridor outside.

The folk had grown accustomed to her frequent walks about the keep, and, no doubt informed by their lord that she had his permission to do so, no one bothered her as she casually made her rounds.

As was becoming her habit, Haven first walked the length of the second floor of the keep. Most of the living quarters were situated on this level of the tower, a stroll of several hundred paces, which Haven took at a slow rate lest she push herself too hard, too soon. She felt less weakness every day, encouragement she needed as she planned for the time she would be strong enough to leave Clairmont as Kenrick had promised her.

And leave she would, Haven thought as she made one final pass down the corridor. As soon as she was able, she would accept Kenrick's offer of a mount and escort, and she would return to where she belonged.

Wherever that might be
, she admitted, weathering a pang of dismay over the loss of her past.

Indeed, the loss of herself.

She felt only half alive as she walked the halls of this strange castle, awakened to a strange world and an existence that seemed somehow foreign, incomplete.

As black and disturbing as the memories of Greycliff's attack seemed to be, Haven knew she would need to face them one day. Not for the sake of Kenrick of Clairmont and his secretive cause. Not even for the sake of the family who had died that night in Cornwall--people whom Haven murkily recalled with a sense of mingled fondness and regret.

She had to remember the details of that night primarily for herself, because she felt certain the key to her own preservation lay somewhere in the shadowed depths of her slumbering mind.

The thought of what continued to elude her put a heaviness in her easy gait. She longed for the freedom of the outdoors, but knew she would not be permitted to leave the castle to stroll the grounds by herself. Kenrick's granted liberties were not entirely without limit.

Perhaps there was another solution.

With most of the folk preparing to assemble for the midday meal, Haven sought the tower stairwell that circled high into the keep. Wondering if it might open onto the roof of the tall structure, she began the spiraling climb up the steep, narrow steps.

As she circled her way toward the top of the keep, passing another floor of living space, her legs began to tire. She paused to allow herself a moment of rest before trudging up the rest of the climb.

While she leaned against the curved wall to catch her breath, she felt a queer heaviness lingering in the air around her. She could not blame it on dankness or the close confines of the stairs, for just beside her was an arrow slit window that allowed the breeze to filter in and freshen the cool humidity of the stairwell.

But the feeling persisted, like a stillness that came before a storm.

It seemed to reach out to her where she stood, the prickle of tiny fingers skittering up her arms and neck, and into her scalp. The sensation drew her gaze up, into the shadows that lingered farther along the climb.

Curious now, she gathered her strength and continued up the steps.

She reached the uppermost floor of chambers and was dismayed to see no obvious means to the outside. Her path came to an abrupt end before a dark, iron-banded door that was barred with no less than two heavy locks. The unwelcome space was all shadows and gloom save the slim light that sliced in through another thin arrow slit window.

And now that she had finished her climb, she realized that the peculiar feeling she experienced before was still with her. If anything, it seemed to intensify the longer she stood there, contemplating the forbidding door at the top of the stairs.

This was
his
domain.

Haven knew it at once, her gaze straying to the solid locks that proclaimed the high tower chamber as none other than the private quarters of an elusive man with more than one secret to hide. Secrets so substantial he felt they needed to be stored within granite walls as thick as she was tall, bolted, and housed ninety feet off the ground.

The lure of discovery was a strong one, if hopeless, given the barrier that stood before her. Nevertheless, Haven could not help herself. Her skin yet tingling with the odd sensation, she reached out, moving her hand toward the door.

Her fingers had not even brushed the surface of the dark, oiled wood before she felt the rising flush of gooseflesh travel the length of her arm. The closer she reached, the more intense the feeling...until suddenly the bite of an unseen fire leapt out to meet her fingertips.

"What are you doing up here?"

Haven jolted at the sound of the deep voice and spun around. Dread coiled in her stomach. She knew who she would find waiting at the mouth of the stairwell, for there was little that escaped the notice of Clairmont's keen-eyed lord.

"I was merely taking a walk. I thought these steps might lead to the tower roof."

"They do not."

"No," she said, rubbing at the queer tingle of heat that still gripped her hand. "I can see that they do not lead there after all."

Kenrick glanced from her face to the undisturbed locks on the door. Then he strode toward her with a measured coolness that seemed at odds with the suspicion that sparked in his gaze. "This part of the tower is mine alone. You are trespassing here, lady."

"I am sorry. It was not my intention."

He grunted as though unconvinced and advanced another couple of steps, regarding her as he might a stranger...or an enemy. His gaze narrowed to dangerous intensity. There was no trace of the tenderness he had shown her in the garden the day before, only unblinking scrutiny and plain mistrust.

As he approached, Haven edged away from the door, gradually circling around him as he placed himself between her and the chamber.

"W-what do you keep in there?" she stammered, wondering what it was he guarded with such deadly caution.

"None of your concern."

He put out his hand and caught one of the big locks in his palm. When he gripped the knot of iron without so much as flinching, Haven's gaze flew wide. She was still staring, now scowling in confusion, as he tugged the lock to test its hold.