I Adored a Lord (8 page)

“Lord Vitor has gone, mademoiselle,” he said, as though he knew her intent.

Her heart did a little uneven thump. “Gone?”

“
Oui
, mademoiselle.”

Ravenna looked out the window at the forecourt below, a stretch of pristine white. Throughout the night, snow had again fallen upon towers and battlements and the hills and treetops around the chateau. Now the sun shone in a brilliant sky. “But where to?”

“He did not indicate, mademoiselle,” the butler said stiffly.

“Did he go on horseback?”

“
Non
, mademoiselle.”

She went down to the foyer, where she tugged on her cloak, threw the hood around her ears, and went out into the forecourt. Her eyes teared at the bright sparkle. A single set of footprints in the snow made their way toward the main gate. Turning to look at the castle, she caught movement at an upper window, a drapery falling back into place.

A guard stood at one side of the open portcullis. “Good morning,” she greeted him. The prince had given orders that no one was to leave the castle grounds. The guard bowed but said nothing. She hurried through the gate.

In the fresh snow, the single track of footprints turned not down to the village but to the right from the gate toward the castle's north flank, following the wend of the river below. Trudging through snow above her ankles, Ravenna followed the footprints along the external lower wall. To one side a line of trees sloped to the river. To her left a cluster of aged cedars bordered a cleared, ascending hill. She had walked this road two days ago before the snowfall. Now unrecognizable beneath the covering of white, it ran above and roughly along the river to a saltworks three-­quarters of a mile distant. Hundreds of years ago the masters of this mountain had built the fortress to protect the valuable industry.

The going proved slow as she followed the footprints; her skin grew damp and her breaths hard. She paused on the hill and turned to look back. Rising from the silver river, the castle's towering walls grandly outstripped pines and cypress. Layered with white on roofs and battlements and dark like the river below, it seemed almost at home in this graceful wilderness, a sleeping giant set into the wintry landscape.

At the edge of the bushes across the road, a rabbit, light of flesh from the long winter, poked its nose from the foliage and sniffed the sunshine. Ravenna smiled.

An arm snaked around her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth. She struggled, tried to scream, tears leaping to her eyes again.

“Foolish woman,” a hard voice rasped at her ear. But through her own scent of fear she recognized his—­clean, masculine, leather. She sagged in his hold.

Lord Vitor released her and with his hands on her shoulders turned her to face him. The sunlight slanted off cheekbones cut as though with a sculptor's blade. “That is how you could come to be the murderer's second victim. Do you have a death wish?”

“I have a clue.” She pulled free and stumbled backward. “But if you grab me again without my permission I will do to you what the murderer did to Mr. Walsh.”

His midnight eyes glimmered. “Without your permission?”

“
Ever
.”

“A clue?”

“To the murder.” Her face felt atrociously hot, her feet frigid. All around, the snow quieted the world, leaving only the twitter of winter birds and her quick breathing. “I know how to do it, you know.”

The corner of his perfect mouth tilted upward. “Cattle and sheep?”

“Well, I haven't done it myself. But I have assisted in the procedure a number of times.”

“My anxiety on the matter is relieved on account of your professional expertise. Could we now address the clue?”

“You don't object to me attempting to solve this crime?”

“If I did, would it make a difference?”

“Probably not. The murderer was not a man.”

“How do you know this?” The sky framed his handsome face in azure. Beyond him, the line of cypresses rose up dark and thick.

“Why are you out here? Hiding behind trees so you can jump out at unsuspecting women?”

“I was at the village observing Monsieur Paul interrogate the servants. The mayor under-­exaggerated his deputy's incompetence.”

“He is less than helpful?”

“He's a drunken simpleton. Also, the mayor's nephew.” His grin reappeared. “Alas, mountain communities.”

“You are now here. On the north side of the castle. The village is to the south.”

“I must have gotten lost.”

She pursed her lips. “You are withholding information from me. This is clear. But Monsieur Sepic is a numbskull. If we hope to discover the identity of the murderer, it will be best if we work in concert. Agreed?”

He seemed to consider this, or rather
her
, then said, “What have you learned?”

She pulled off her gloves and flapped her cloak open to dig in her skirt pocket. She felt watched. It had never before bothered her to be watched by a man; no man ever did unless she worked on his animals. Now her fingers slipped on the packet.

Lord Vitor caught her hand. His were large, without gloves but warm. She jerked back.

“I spoke with Mademoiselle Dijon, and with Lady Margaret and her daughter, Ann,” she said too quickly, “then the duchess and Lady Iona. I learned nothing useful, unfortunately. Gossip may not suffice to draw them out.”

“You are honest to admit it.”

“I haven't any pride to be wounded by admitting my mistakes.”

He stepped close to her. “That is refreshing to hear. Pride is one of my worst faults.”

“You are admitting to a fault? I am astonished.”

“I'm hoping to turn up your good side.”

She looked up from the packet in her hands, and her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. She loosed it with effort. “Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you intend to kiss me again.”

“I am not looking at you like that.”

“Are you intending it?”

“Since you have made very clear the consequences of doing so without your permission—­”

“Ever.”

“—­it would not be in my interests, would it?”

“I have never been swayed by a pretty face.”

A single dark brow rose. He wore no hat and the sunlight shone in his eyes, lighting them to sapphire like the jewel in his neck cloth the night before. “Pretty?”

“Rather, a handsome face. Beast was the ugliest pup in the litter.”

“Who is Beast, I wonder.”

“The best—­” Her throat closed. “Just don't.”

The color was high on his cheekbones and his eyes were abruptly serious, like in the drawing room when he and his brother had spoken. “I do wish to kiss you, Miss Caulfield, however unwise that would certainly be.”

Her pulse beat so hard she could nearly hear it. “But you will not.”

“Even if I intended to, I have a fondness for the wholeness of my person.”

“Are you still limping today?”

“I never limp.”

“You did last night.”

He held her gaze. “The clue?”

“After I spoke with the ladies, I asked Monsieur Brazil what the mayor thought of Mr. Walsh's wound and clothing. He said Monsieur Sepic seemed uninterested in them. So I studied the clothing again.”

“Did you?”

“Don't patronize me.”

“I am not patronizing you. I am pondering your keenly curious mind and the pleasure it affords me.” The crease had appeared in his cheek again. She ignored it. Still, it proved difficult not to look at his mouth, remarkably well shaped, firm, and nicely contoured, despite the wound. And it had kissed her, which made it unique among men's mouths in that manner, of course.

“I found this caught in a coat button.” With cold fingers she withdrew from the paper packet a single strand of hair.

Lord Vitor studied it for a moment on her palm. “Martin Anders's hair is similar.”

“Correct. That along with his bruised eye, which he has not apparently explained or justified to anyone, could make him our main suspect.”

“My lip and brow are bruised and I have not justified them to anyone. Might that indicate that I am also the killer?”

“You justified them to Ladies Penelope and Grace and Miss Feathers.”

“I did, didn't I?”

“The field is narrowed to suspects with long hair.”

His gaze came up to her face, then to her hair where the hood of her cloak had fallen back. She had never cared about her hair before, no matter how Arabella and Eleanor tried to teach her how to tame it and no matter how Petti teased. Now she became acutely aware of its tangled mess, damp from her walk through the snow. For an instant she wished she knew how to smooth and bind it like a lady—­like fiery Iona McCall or lovely Arielle Dijon or any of the other beautiful girls at the chateau whose shoes and hems were not now soaked with snow and who, she had no doubt, this nobleman had never mistaken for a servant.

But she did not care about her hair. Or her gown. Or her shoes. She never had.

“My mind
is
keen and curious,” she said, her jaw unaccountably tight.

“I have said I believe that to be so, haven't I?”

“Yet you think me a fool because I came out here unprotected.”

“On the contrary. I know you are not a fool. I only suffered a moment of . . .
concern
over your safety. It rendered my reaction harsh. I beg your pardon. Again.” The corner of his mouth ticked up.

She frowned. “Why did the guards at the forecourt allow me to leave the chateau?”

“I told them to allow it.”

Ravenna feared she gaped now. He trusted her. He respected her mind. It even seemed that he liked her. She enjoyed the friendship of her elderly employers and of various farmers and grooms throughout the countryside around Shelton Grange. But she had never been friends with a young, handsome nobleman. The idea that she might become friends with such a man sent a twining tingle of pleasure from her throat right into her fingertips.

“You don't know that I did not kill him,” she said. “Now you have proof that I might have.”

“Proof that you yourself have produced.”

“What if this is an attempt at diversion?”

He scanned her hair again, then her mouth for a lingering moment. His hand moved toward her face. Ravenna's blood seemed to all rush to her heart.
He meant to touch her now
. The tingling pleasure in her veins transformed into a surge of swift, hot dread. She pulled back.

“Ow!” She slapped a palm to her smarting scalp.

He brandished the plucked hair. “Let us compare.”

“You did that on purpose.”

“Did what?” He draped the single black strand over his broad palm as though laying a string of pearls upon a satin pillow.

“You made me think—­” Her tongue stumbled. “Oh, bother.” She lifted the hair she had found on Mr. Walsh's coat and laid it on his palm. Hers was inky compared to the other, which was brunette with a hint of chestnut.

“My fears are put to rest,” he said, and returned both strands to her.

She studied his face. “You were not afraid.”

“Not about that.” He bent his head. “Guards or not, Miss Caulfield, do not leave the chateau unprotected.”

“Rather, I should remain locked inside with the murderer who is also locked in?”

“I have assigned a guard to remain near you in the chateau.”

She blinked. “You have? But not out here?”

“He should have followed you outside the walls. I will rectify that. Do you object?”

“My brother-­in-­law, Duke Lycombe, put a guard on my sister without telling her. She thought it was because he believed she was being unfaithful to him—­”

“Which of course is not at issue here.”

“—­but it was actually because he was concerned for her safety. Would Lord Case serve as protection, if I left the castle with him?” she asked. “Or the prince?”

His brow creased. “The prince, yes.”

“Not your brother?”

He looked over her shoulder toward the castle draped in winter's embrace.

A chill shivered along her spine. “In the drawing room yesterday the two of you were like rams pawing the earth. Do you truly suspect him?”

“There was no love lost between my brother and Oliver Walsh.”

“What was their connection?”

“Walsh was my father's secretary for several years. My brother at one time intended to marry his sister.”

His
father's secretary? “At one time?”

“She perished before they were wed.”

“Oh. That is tragic! From what did she perish?”

“A broken heart.”

 

Chapter 6

The Quickening

H
er wide eyes reflected the winter sun. Her lips were arrested in mid-­parting, dusky pink and expressive. She had come out with only a cloak as protection from the frost; framed by the wildly black cluster of silken locks, her skin shone rosy from brow to collar. He could place his mouth over her pulse there and feel the life bursting from her as he caressed her. She swelled with it—­with pleasure and vitality and an urgent vibrancy that robbed him of sense and made him admit aloud that he wished to kiss her again, despite his promise to himself not to come close to her.

And yet behind her eyes was sorrow. It had glittered forth for an instant when she spoke of the beast, and now again swiftly before she banked it.

“I don't believe in anyone dying of a broken heart.” Her words came crisply into the chill air. “What made her ill?”

“A fever.”

“Lord Case did not like Mr. Walsh?”

“No.”

“You must know your brother better than anybody, and yet I cannot imagine him murdering and castrating a man,” she said, a little crease between her brows. “He was kind and gently solicitous to Arielle Dijon about the abduction of her dog.”

Another mystery. The animal was gone. A prized breeder, one of only a handful of Barbichons Lyonnaise bitches on the Continent and America, the French girl's pet was worth a fortune, the general had confirmed. It had been with Mademoiselle Dijon when they were all in the drawing room, but moments later it disappeared. The theft benefitted the search for Walsh's murderer: convinced that the dog had merely escaped into a crevice of the vast chateau, the guests had turned all efforts to finding it. Vitor had gone to the village as much to escape the pandemonium of the search as to avoid the woman standing before him now.

“Do you truly think someone stole it?” she asked.

“Perhaps.”

Her brow remained knit. “Why are you here?”

“As a favor to Prince Raynaldo, to see Sebastiao suitably wed.”

“No. Why are you
here
? Outside here now?”

“To study that.” Through her cloak he grasped her arm and turned her toward the chateau. She stiffened but did not draw away. She was a small thing but strong, he already knew, and not easily frightened. He suspected that if threatened she would fight him—­or anyone else—­before she called for help. But he liked to hold her. He liked to feel her in his hands. “Do you see how that stair descends on the exterior wall behind the trees?”

“I think so. It's covered in snow, isn't it? I don't see its top.”

“It begins in the northwest tower and continues around the corner to a platform rock on the bank of the river.”

Disquiet settled upon her features. “The murderer might have escaped by boat?”

“It is possible. I have yet to study the platform, but at this distance I see little indication that anyone has used those stairs since it snowed.”

“Desperation can make for daring acts. What are the chances that if we go down to the river we will find a person who, two nights ago, tried to leave by that stairway and slipped on the snow and fell to her death?”

“Little.”

“Are you saying that because you believe it, or because you don't want me to accompany you to investigate it?”

“The latter.”

She whirled about and, like a fawn leaping through snow, headed across the road toward the slope down to the river, her cloak billowing out behind. He followed until she came to the trees where a person might be concealed, then he moved beside her. The sunlight's glare upon the snow made searching the shadows difficult, and he remained close to her, the uncertain footing upon the slope justifying his grasp of her arm when she slipped. She darted him a glance and pulled free of his grasp. He continued close behind her.

Denis's words from the day before played in his mind like Matins chant: The devil liked to take female form to tempt a man. That was balderdash, of course. Vitor knew the truth of it. He wanted this woman because he could not have her, and because she was plainspoken and uniquely enchanting with her black hair tangling about her shoulders and her starlit eyes that retreated when she found him watching her. She made him hungry.

At the base of the castle walls the bank cut sharply into the river, the snow forming a heavy ledge at the edge of the water that reflected the sky like a mirror. Vitor had navigated this deceptively still, broad silver ribbon in the past. It could sweep a man away before he could utter a word of protest. She plowed a path away from its glittering surface directly to the base of the stair that climbed the side of the chateau like a scar to the turret in its uppermost room. Submerged to her knees, she attempted the steps. She tried thrice and three times slipped. The third landed her on her behind.

“Finished now?” he asked from a distance.

“For the time being.” She brushed off her cloak and studied the risers. “No one could climb down once the snow began. Do you really believe someone tried to leave via this route?”

“I don't. I do believe that someone made the attempt.”

“Why?”

“In the room at the top of the tower, the rug and floorboards near the door are soaked, and footprints lead from the chamber down the stairs. Also, a quantity of rust is scattered about the threshold, suggesting a door opened after long disuse. An attempt may have been made to depart through this door, then abandoned.”

“Then why did you wish to come here to study the base of the stairs when the murderer never came down all the way?”

“To encourage my memory.” He walked toward the platform from which in warmer seasons a boat could be launched. “To try to imagine what the murderer might have intended by descending.”

She moved away, peering at the turret high above as she disappeared around the corner. “Perhaps it was not the murderer who opened that door in the tower room,” she called back. “Perhaps it was someone else.”

“I found blood on the door handle, and upon the floor a candlestick stained with it as well.” Before him, half buried, was a door to a storage shed built into the castle wall. Within he would find a boat and oars. “You might consider searching the ladies' belongings for garments or linens stained unusually with blood.”

“I will if I can manage it. It would be fairly easy to disguise such a stain as—­
What?
No!”

The splash that followed her exclamation grabbed Vitor's chest and catapulted his legs along the wall to the chateau's corner. A flash of a dark body darted into the trees, but his eyes sought the woman in the river. Her cloak and skirts ballooned with trapped air but in moments they would tug her to the bottom. Not wasting breath to shout, she struggled toward the bank, but the current pulled her away faster than she could paddle.

He stripped off his coat and boots and dove.