Lessons After Dark (17 page)

She couldn't stay slow for long. Not with Gareth's body pressed against hers while his manhood throbbed inside her. Certainly not when he leaned forward and sucked at her nipple again. By the time he gripped her hips and urged her into an ever-quickening rhythm, she was more than glad to go where he led. Olivia let her head fall back, closed her eyes, and let go.

Pleasure didn't so much build as break like a storm. Everything blended: Olivia's increasingly frantic motions; Gareth arching beneath her, forcing her to take him deeper and harder; heat and sweat and lights flashing behind her eyelids.

Olivia had barely enough presence of mind to scream into her hand when her climax hit. Gareth wasn't far behind. One more powerful thrust forward and up, a long breath escaping through gritted teeth, and then a spreading warmth within her that matched the aftershocks of her own release.

A moment or two later, she opened her eyes reluctantly.

The world was still there.

This was going to be a slight problem.

Thought followed far too quickly on the heels of satisfaction. Gareth would have welcomed a little more time before certain realizations sank in: that he'd just given way to lust on a library chair, for instance, or the woman he'd given way with was, Olivia Brightmore. Particularly the latter.

Briefly, he indulged in a wholehearted wish that his recent activity hadn't burned off the rest of the magical energy. A little intoxication would have been quite welcome.

Gareth forced himself to look up at Olivia. Flushed and disheveled, with her bare body rising up from her dark skirt, she was enough to quicken his pulse even then. Nonetheless, it took an effort for Gareth to meet her eyes. It didn't help either that Olivia's were still a little dazed.

Gareth cleared his throat. “Well,” he said and stopped, having come to the end of his store of speech.

“Well,” said Olivia. She looked around, glanced down at Gareth, and rose quickly. Gareth's body protested the loss of her warmth, but he resolutely ignored it. “We'd better get back before someone comes looking.”

Her voice was crisp now, if not entirely steady. As Gareth watched, she plucked her corset from the floor and began to undo the laces, fingers moving quickly and precisely.

After a moment to rearrange his clothes, Gareth sat up, looked at the wall, and braced himself. Honor demanded certain things from him. Obligations he'd never thought to have toward a confidence woman, granted, but…

He had known Olivia's past when he'd kissed her. He had known it when he'd undressed her and drawn her down onto the chair. Gareth couldn't pretend he'd been under any illusions about her then.

When he looked back at Olivia, she was hooking up the front of her corset, her dark head bent forward. Locks of her tumbled hair fell against one cheek, obscuring Gareth's view of her face. Perhaps that was just as well.

“You must permit me to apologize,” he began. “My conduct was—”

“I don't.”

Her voice was quiet, and the words were a little muffled by the position of her head, but Gareth heard them well enough.

Still, he asked, “Sorry?”

Olivia sighed. “I don't permit you to do any such thing.” She sounded exasperated, hardly flattering at such a time, and she jerked hooks into place as she spoke. “You took no advantage. If anything, I was in more control than you were. I'd less power affecting my mind, and I'm more used to it.”

What she said was true, and Gareth couldn't deny it was a relief to hear. He hadn't really expected tears or recrimination, not from Olivia, and yet, a man could never be certain. Especially since he hadn't bedded any respectable women before, not even one with Olivia's nebulous claim to the title.

Nonetheless it left him floundering a little. “Ah…”

The last hook clicked into place. Olivia lifted her head and met his eyes, her gaze as steady as her voice. “You haven't ruined me. I was married before, if you'll recall. And…” Then she did break off and bit her lip. Color rose up her neck. “I'm in no danger of…I know how to keep from…”

“I
am
a doctor, you know,” he said and then frowned. “But most methods of preventing children aren't very reliable.”

“The magical ones are.” Olivia turned away and reached for her blouse. The corset didn't fit at all well now, but it would stay on, or it looked like it would. “Or they're supposed to be. I'll let you know if there's any trouble.”

“Yes,” said Gareth, trying to get his thoughts into some kind of order. She had magic to keep from getting pregnant? He should have expected as much. He felt rather like the floor was moving.

When he reached for some sort of mental handhold, the lessons of his youth came back again, damn them. “I really think I should—”

Olivia snapped her head up. Her hair fell in dark curls against her bare neck. Glaring at him, she looked like some Olympian goddess faced with a presumptive mortal. “Well,
don't
,” she snapped. “It happened, there's no going back, I'm really quite aware of all your regrets, and I give…I'd lose as much as you would if the Grenvilles found out. More, probably. So you don't have to worry about that.”

“I wasn't,” said Gareth, who truly hadn't thought of the possibility until then.

Some of the flame went out of her eyes. Not all, though. “Then stop apologizing, and stop trying to work yourself up to whatever offer you think you have to make.” Olivia pulled her blouse up onto her shoulders. “I assure you I don't find the idea any more enticing than you do.”

While she fastened up the remaining buttons, Gareth stood silently, trying to find some words that were appropriate ones she wouldn't see through as lies. Not that she was repulsive—far from it—or even that marriage would necessarily be unpleasant, though he hadn't thought of the prospect in some years. But to let anyone so intimately into his life, and especially a woman with Olivia's past…

It would have gone against all sense.

Therefore, it must be a relief to hear there was no need for such an offer, to have Olivia reject it before the words had even crossed Gareth's lips. She was certainly a woman of the world and would understand, or should.

Yet Gareth found he couldn't simply say so.

After a little while, she looked up at him with a softer gaze, one hand full of the buttons that had tumbled onto the floor. “Really,” said Olivia, “trying to live up to your name is all well and good. But I'm not a damsel in a tower, and this isn't Camelot. We both know anything that…came from this…would be horrible. As for the rest…” She shrugged. “You're a grown man, I'm a grown woman, and we had a moment of weakness after a very trying event. It's hardly the end of the world.”

“One can only hope,” said Gareth, seeking refuge in wryness. “Hard to know for certain around here.”

Olivia laughed quickly. “I think one of the books would have mentioned something,” she replied. She slipped the buttons into her skirt pocket, tugged at the front of her shirtwaist, and glanced over at him. “Do you think I can get back to my room without scandal?”

Gareth eyed her, trying to keep his gaze clinical and dispassionate. The missing buttons wouldn't be too obvious unless someone stood very close. Her hair might be a bit of a problem, though. He personally wanted to run his fingers through it, just before trailing them down her neck…

“If anyone asks,” he said, “tell them you had a headache after everything upstairs, and I said your hairpins were making it worse. Other than that, I think you'll do.”

She flashed him a smile, quick and almost impersonal. That was probably wise, Gareth told himself. “Thank you,” she said and headed for the door.

At the last moment, her hand on the knob, Olivia turned back. “Really,” she said. “Don't worry. I don't blame you, and there won't be consequences. These things happen. Now that we know, they won't happen again.”

“Of course not,” said Gareth, because he couldn't think of anything else.

***

On any other day, Olivia knew her appearance would have drawn attention then questions then probably outrage. Even Gareth's reassurance had been halfhearted, and reasonably so. Her loose hair was blatant, and once someone noticed that, they'd almost certainly be looking for other things amiss.

Take
the
headache
a
step
further
, she told herself, keeping to a swift but decorous pace as she climbed the stairs. She wanted to run, but that would have looked suspicious and she wasn't entirely sure her legs were up to the challenge.
I
felt
faint, I had to loosen my laces quickly, and I tore some buttons in my haste. Gareth was in the room with me, but he
is
a
doctor. There's some advantage to that.

She repeated the story in her mind a few times, couldn't find any noticeable holes, but still wasn't sure it would hold up. People found scandal in the most innocent things. Her mother had been very clear on that point, long ago, and there was nothing innocent in what she'd just done.

As had happened when she'd come to Englefield, a memory rose up to give her comfort: Hawkins, when she'd first started working for him. She'd asked a similar question, though not about anything carnal. He'd laughed and pulled the ends of his ginger mustache.
Human
nature, my dear, straining at gnats and swallowing camels. Lie boldly enough, and a man will believe whatever you tell him. Look nervous, and nobody will believe you if you say the sky is blue.

Remembering that helped. Regardless, as soon as Olivia made it back to her room, unseen, thank God, or so she thought, she sat heavily on the bed and let herself go weak with relief.

She knew she had been astoundingly lucky. Lucky she wasn't seen, lucky she had a handy excuse, and lucky she'd lived by herself and her clothes still reflected as much, although the idea of Gareth assisting her was diverting on a few levels. Lucky, horribly enough, the Grenvilles' return and distress had kept the household's attention.

Lucky she knew how to lie well, if it came to that.

Quickly, she stood up from the bed and began to repair the damage to her appearance. It really
wasn't
too difficult, not now that she was back in her room and not trying to talk with Gareth at the same time. Not being distracted by his attempts at propriety.

Although the apology had been a bit exasperating, and the halfhearted approach to a proposal more so, Olivia had to admit most men wouldn't have bothered with either. Not for a widow who'd been quite enthusiastic about the whole process, not for a woman who they knew had been on the stage in any capacity, and certainly not for a woman whom they held in less-than-high regard. Gareth was more civil these days, but Olivia was certain his feelings toward her were decidedly mixed, at best.

Despite all of that, she hadn't been surprised when he'd spoken. Irritated, but…Of
course
he'd apologized. Of
course
he'd felt he should offer. Anything else, from Gareth, would have been like sprouting wings or growing a second head. Perhaps even less probable, given their surroundings. Olivia knew him well enough by now.

And even though she'd meant it when she said nothing would happen again, she couldn't find it in her to regret what had already passed between them.

For a man who had been so obviously close to death a few hours before, Mr. Grenville looked remarkably well when Olivia saw him again. That wasn't saying a great deal. He was still lying in bed and very pale, but his eyes focused when he saw her, and he smiled. Joan was actually sitting in the chair by him rather than pacing.

She still looked like she wanted to hit someone.

A bouquet of pink roses lay in her lap, wrapped in several layers of white cloth. “I didn't touch it bare-handed,” Joan said when she saw the direction of Olivia's gaze, “and I don't think anyone else did. It was still on the floor of the carriage. Have a look.”

With most of her remaining magical strength, Olivia invoked her sight again and peered at the flowers. To her surprise, she saw nothing overtly sinister there—nothing like the light that had attacked Simon—but the roses didn't look normal either. In the aether, they were gray shadows of themselves, bleached and drained of all vitality. When Olivia looked at them again in the normal world, the blossoms were already beginning to decay.

“They were…wrapping,” she said, reaching for a metaphor. “Concealment. The spell was the package.”

“Bloody good package,” said Mr. Grenville, his voice hoarse. “The thorn went straight through my glove.”

“Should I—?” Olivia started to rise, thinking of defenses. “All the students are indoors and being watched, but if there's more someone should do…”

Mr. Grenville shook his head. “Not just now. The wards hold. Anyone who could get past them wouldn't have bothered with roses.”

The door opened again. It could have been a maid, it could have been one of the students, but Olivia knew it was Gareth even before she glanced backward and met his eyes.

Any hopes she'd had about their attraction dying out now that they'd acted on it had clearly been vain ones. The time and place quelled some of the energy Olivia felt when she looked at Gareth, and so did her exhaustion, but it was still there, like a faint but constant whisper.

She looked down quickly, and Gareth looked past her, letting his breath out as he approached the bed. “Simon…my God, you're a quick healer.”

“Mostly your doing, old man,” said Mr. Grenville and then gestured to Olivia. “And Mrs. Brightmore's. So Joan tells me, at any rate. You both have my deepest thanks. I rather suspect I owe you my life.”

Customers had been effusive in their gratitude sometimes. Women had clung to Olivia and wept, and men had made all sorts of melodramatic speeches. Compared to them, Simon's thanks was almost curt. But Olivia blushed and couldn't think of anything to say for a moment.

“What in the name of God
was
that?” Gareth asked even more abruptly than Olivia might have expected for such a question.

“St. John, if I say more than ‘a curse,' you won't understand and you won't want to know,” Mr. Grenville replied. He reached for the glass of water on the bed stand, sipped, and went on. “And I'm afraid I don't know much more than that, in any case. We had come off the train from London, and John was just bringing the carriage around. Joan got in first. I was about to join her when someone called my name—Miss Talbot.”

“
Rosemary
Talbot?” Olivia asked, though she would have found it just as hard to believe Rosemary's sister had been involved in this affair.

Mr. Grenville nodded. “We spoke a little. She—” He shook his head. “Some of the specifics are blurred now. I probably could have remembered more before I was ill. She was very friendly, very pleasant. Now I think there was something off about her, but…hindsight taints these perceptions.”

“And she gave you these?” Gareth gestured to the roses in Joan's lap.

“She told me to give them to my wife,” said Mr. Grenville. He spoke bluntly and without inflection in his voice, but Olivia caught the glance that passed between him and Joan.

Joan shrugged. “Doesn't mean I was the target. Young women here wouldn't give a man flowers for himself. She was very enthusiastic about something, though. I didn't hear her speak, but she put a hand on your shoulder for a second.”

“That's…not usual,” said Mr. Grenville and sighed. “But it's not exactly damning either. Perhaps she was eager for news of my sister. Or she'd just become engaged. I wish I could recall more clearly.”

“Do you know where she got the flowers?” Gareth asked. “Perhaps someone from London. Someone who heard you were looking into the Ripper.”

“No,” said Mr. Grenville. “Joan was right. There's no magic in the killings.”

“That doesn't mean there isn't any around them,” Joan said. “Flies gather. And we didn't keep our return a secret. Talbot makes a much better dupe than she does a magician. If someone on an earlier train gave her the flowers—”

“We'll have to talk with her,” Olivia said.

She stood and went toward the window, where she could see a thin line of darkness between the blue velvet drapes. She knew about the purpose of the school. The aim wasn't simply teaching children to control their powers. However, until now, any outside threats had been purely theoretical. Her hands were cold, as if she'd pressed them against the window glass and held them there.

“I'll go tomorrow,” she said to the window.

“Take St. John, then,” said Joan. “He's tangled with the curse. He might be able to see its tracks. Also, he can probably shoot,” she added and turned to Gareth with no apparent apology for talking about him like a piece of furniture. “Can you?”

“Barely,” said Gareth.

“Better than not at all. I'd go myself, but if Simon's wrong, and that's been known to happen, something
might
try to hit us here. I'll need to be here if it does.”

Any other two men Olivia had known would have protested the idea of a woman trying to fight off whatever forces were behind the curse. She didn't hear any objections, though. When she turned from the window, Mr. Grenville was actually grinning at his wife with both affection and confidence.

Gareth, Olivia suspected, was less happy about Joan's plan, but he knew her too well to speak against it. So did Olivia, for that matter.

“Who do you think might have planned this?” she asked.

“I couldn't say,” said Mr. Grenville, “not with certainty. We mostly encountered stories in London. Some of the groups we heard of may exist. Some may be as old and as bloody as people claim.”

“But, at the time, there was nobody who looked like an immediate threat,” Joan said and grimaced. “We'll have to revise that now, obviously. But who would've noticed us
and
decided Simon needed to die
and
gotten an agent down here before we did? We didn't even get in any fights.”

She sounded almost disappointed.

“You might not have had to,” Olivia said. “If someone knew about Englefield already and thought you were expanding your interest…maybe. However, it does seem odd.”

She leaned back into her chair. Now, after a sort of love and a sort of war and all sorts of worry, exhaustion was creeping into her bones. She resisted the urge to lean her face against the plush and fall asleep.

“We shouldn't tire you,” Gareth said. He spoke to Mr. Grenville, but Olivia thought he'd glanced at her first. She straightened up and tried to look alert. “If we can't do anything before tomorrow—”

“You can tell me what happened while we were gone,” said Simon. “I think I probably have the strength to hear it.”

“I wouldn't be so sure of that,” said Gareth.

***

“This place
was
a monastery once,” Simon said when Olivia had finished her account of the forest. “Dissolved sometime in the 1540s, so we can blame old Henry VIII for most of our troubles. My enterprising ancestors took a heavy hand with anything that looked too connected to Rome. I think the only remnants of the original are the foundation and your monk.”

“Your monk, really,” said Gareth.

“I somehow don't think he'd take that well,” said Simon. “I'm surprised there weren't more…dramatic events in the history after Brother Jonathan died.”

Olivia, who was looking remarkably tired and remarkably lovely at the same time—rather unfair, to Gareth's mind—shrugged. “Perhaps there were,” she said. “Perhaps the people responsible left, one way or another. If you couldn't exercise your powers without them getting out of control, you'd probably move away too. Or they stopped doing anything outdoors near the forest, and the land had some chance to repair itself. Then most people stopped believing—”

“Until we started a school here, full of exactly the kind of people who
would
try magic outside”—Mrs. Grenville sighed—“or ask her students to do it.”

“You couldn't have known,” said Olivia. “Besides, it's better that we found out when we did. Otherwise, the power out there could've fed something even worse than Michael's storms. As it was, it very nearly did,” she admitted, startling Gareth with her forthrightness. “Waite and Fitzpatrick summoned Balam yesterday.”

“
Did
they?” Gareth wouldn't have quite called Mrs. Grenville's expression surprised. One didn't describe a lion as surprised when it spotted an antelope came in sight. “I see.”

There was a world of promise in those words, and Simon clearly heard it. He laughed and winced at the same time. “Try not to kill our students.”

“I damn near didn't have the chance. I wish I had pictures to show them. Visual aids always work better.” Mrs. Grenville sighed again, directing it at the world rather than herself this time, and turned back to Olivia and Gareth. “Everything's all right, though? Nobody's hurt?”

“Nobody's hurt,” Olivia said. “And I sent Balam back. I haven't really dismissed many demons. There was some strange resistance there toward the end, but I don't believe I left him a passage back here.”

Gareth thought again of the shadow he'd seen. Perhaps Balam had been calling in reinforcements? He wasn't sure how demons worked, and he hadn't seen either the demon or the shadow since.

“You'll have to give me more details soon,” Simon said. “I've never dismissed a demon before, not one that was incarnate physically, and certainly not one of the Ancient Lords. Well done.”

“I was fortunate,” said Olivia, “to get there before he'd fully manifested.” She glanced over at Gareth then, subtly and just for an instant, and raised one eyebrow.

Somewhere in the last few months he'd learned to read her face. She would tell the Grenvilles what had happened. They needed to know, but she was giving him the chance to speak first, to be the one to tell his part of it.

Gareth fought back the absurd urge to take her hand.