Seduced by a Stranger (25 page)

Sebastian went to her and squatted down by her side, taking her hand in his and murmuring words of comfort, but Gabriel stood frozen, a statue of ice gilded by firelight. His expression was so hard and cold that Catherine thought even the slightest tap would shatter him.

“It is like before. Exactly like before. She had been cut open and her…they’re…missing…parts of her…” Mrs. Bell’s voice faded away.

Missing parts of her
…

Catherine stiffened, her skin prickling, the hairs at the nape rising.
Martha
.

“You were in London.” Madeline hurled the words at Gabriel like knives, then she turned her gaze on Sebastian. “And you. And now you are both here and Susan is dead.
Dead
.”

All eyes turned to her, the air crackling.

Then Madeline rose with the grace of a queen, twitching her skirt to the side as she passed Sebastian, as though she would not suffer the cloth to touch him.

“A moment, if you please.” Gabriel’s voice halted her, and she looked back over her shoulder. His gaze never left Madeline’s face as he continued. “Why do you mention London, Madeline? What is the relevance?”

For an endless moment, Madeline made no reply. Then she whispered, “You know. The murdered woman in the newspaper. Killed, as Susan was killed. As the girl buried in the graveyard was killed.” She turned her face to Catherine, eyes shimmering, features twisted in a mask of despair. Her voice rose. “Explain it, Sebastian. Explain it, if you can.” Turning, she fled.

The air rang with her accusation, with all she had said and all she had not.

And Mrs. Bell huddled on the floor shaking her head from side to side, moaning as she buried her face in her hands.

Catherine stood by the window in Madeline’s chamber and stared out, the stars winking in the velvet sky, the outline of the encroaching woods dark and formidable in the distance. Gabriel and Sebastian had gone from Cairncroft. Though they had not shared their destination with her, she suspected they went to the place that Susan Parker had been found. Mrs. Bell said it was a shallow grave dug in the same place that the body of that nameless girl had been discovered so many years ago.

An eerie and chilling happenstance; Catherine had long ago learned not to trust such coincidence. It was as though the killer meant for Susan to be discovered, meant to leave her body as a horrific clue in some macabre scavenger hunt. She shivered now to think of it.

When she had said as much to Gabriel, catching his arm as he walked past her, feeling an urgency to tell him her thoughts, he had stared at her for a long moment.

“Or perhaps he never meant to be discovered,” he had replied. “The grave is not along a road or well-worn path, but instead deep in the woods. Perhaps he only meant her to be in a place he found familiar, one he could visit again and again.”

Catherine had felt en inexplicable horror clutch at her. “Why would he visit her again and again? Why?”

But Gabriel had offered no reply. His expression shuttered, he had glanced at Sebastian, the current between the two cousins crackling in the cool evening air as something Catherine could not grasp passed between them. There was something dark and terrifying in Gabriel’s eyes, something awful and knowing.

Could he suspect his cousin of these horrific crimes? Could he?

She had not been afforded the opportunity to ask. He had reached out and grazed the backs of his knuckles along her cheek, his gaze intent, his jaw hard, and then he and Sebastian were away, riding into the night. But in the wake of Madeline’s accusatory words, Catherine could not help but recall her strange thoughts that first day Sebastian had come to Cairncroft, her ponderings about whether or not he had been in London when Martha Grimsby was killed. Nor could she discount his self-avowed fascination with the canopic jars and the removal of organs in preparation for burial.

Madeline had certainly made her suspicions clear. She thought one—or perhaps both—of her cousins was involved in these monstrous deeds. Was Catherine a fool to discount the possibility?

The thoughts that came to her now were horrific. Chilling.

Closing her fingers in the thick cloth of the draperies, she drew them across the window and turned to Madeline to help her prepare for bed. She wondered how either of them would be able to sleep this night.

“Why did he take Susan?” Madeline asked, forlorn. “I preferred her to any other. Surely he knew that. She had soft hands. Susan had soft hands.” She wrung her own hands together, and sighed and moaned, sinking down on the edge of a chair.

Catherine went to her and stroked her hair, her own sadness welling in her heart.

“I knew she was gone,” Madeline said, looking up at Catherine. “But I did not want to believe it. Why would he take her, of all those he could choose? Why did he not take another? I do not like it that he took Susan.”

Catherine had no idea how to reply. She did not like it that he took
anyone
.

She shook her head, faintly repulsed by Madeline’s behavior. Then she reminded herself that her friend was not well, that she likely had no idea what she said. Clearly she was overset by the maid’s death. She vaguely recalled that Madeline had mentioned Susan before, had expressed a preference for her, perhaps even a fondness.

There was the explanation, then. It was shock and grief that had Madeline rambling so.

“Open the drapes. I must see the sky,” Madeline said after Catherine had helped her change into the nightrail and brushed her hair and tucked her into bed.

Moving to the window, she did as Madeline asked.

“Stay until I fall asleep,” Madeline pleaded, childlike and small.

“Yes, of course. Close your eyes now, and sleep,” Catherine replied, wondering if any of them would sleep this night, or if vivid images of blood and murder would haunt their rest. “Would you like laudanum?” she asked, thinking to fetch it from her chamber.

“No. Not tonight. It makes me afraid. I feel as though I am floating away from my body and may never return.” Madeline shuddered.

Catherine only nodded and turned back to the window, staring out at the dark, endless night, wondering where Gabriel was, and what horrors he would find.

Standing at the edge of the woods with the overhead branches blocking the moonlight and the blackest shadows swallowing his form, he stared up at Madeline’s window. Flickering light silhouetted a woman behind the glass panes, the pale oval of her face framed by the spill of her dark hair.

He had not expected to see her there, so clear that as he stretched out his hand, his blade showing silver even in the darkness of the forest, he almost imagined the tip would just touch her.

Yet there she was. Catherine. She made him think of the night sky and the moon.

She made him think of blood and pain. Long for them.

He had not planned to take the maid. That he had done so without forethought was unusual. Normally, he chose his dance partners with care. But there she had stood, alone on the road, innocent and impossibly young, squinting against the sun. The lure had been too much to resist. But the maid had been a mere morsel, a taste.

Catherine would be a banquet. He felt certain of that. She had killed a man. Burned him to a charred lump. So the gossipmongers said, and though he often placed little weight in rumors, this once, he thought they might be true.

What had she felt when she killed him? What had she thought? What would she think when she realized he was here for her? A killer come to claim a killer.

Boxes within boxes, like the ones Madeline had stacked and unstacked as a child.

He had everything ready. The jars. The perfect white feather. He had taken such care choosing the right one for her. He wanted not a spot of color or dirt to mar its perfection. Catherine would be a masterpiece. He would stroke her and pluck the strings of her torment, make music of her muffled cries and pleas.

Ever since he had first learned of the scales and the feather and the belief in another life, one that came after death, he had known what he was meant to be. The judge. The executioner. He had been so young, then. So naïve.

But he had practiced and he had learned. He was so much more adept now.

The first time he had acted, there had been comfort and a soft voice talking to him afterward, promising him he had made the right choice. He had only to trust in her. To do as she bid, and he would become stronger. Braver. Her guidance would help him find joy.

And it did. Oh, it did.

He took those who caught his eye, and he controlled them. For those endless perfect moments, he controlled his precious chosen one, controlled her breath, her sobs, her life, her death.

He was the master. All powerful.

For those moments he owned his chosen partner. As he would soon own Catherine Weston.

Tipping his head back, he watched the window. Watched her pull the pins from her hair, shake her head, and let the loose curls tumble free. Watched as she ran her fingers through the lustrous length.

Soon. Soon, he would take those strands in his fist and yank her hair back and she would taste his kiss. The only kiss he would offer: honed steel on soft flesh.

Her blood blooming like a rose.

She smelled of roses. She would bloom in death, for him, at his will and command.

He had been forced to wait, to show patience.
Patience
. He was not good at that. Not after all the years of forced patience. But the time was near now. He could feel the anticipation racing through his veins, making his skin tingle and his muscles clench.

A soft huff of laughter escaped him.

He was more than ready for her. More than ready.

Catherine slept and dreamed of fire, always fire, dancing and writhing, the heat coming upon her like a blow, filling her nose and throat. She was woken by the pounding of her own heart. At least, she assumed that was what had done it, for the house around her was silent. She did not even hear birds beyond the window, though the first fingers of dawn crept through the narrow crack between the curtains.

Sitting up in her bed, she tried to clear the cobwebs from her thoughts, and for a moment, could not recall what day it was or the reason for the unease that nibbled at her with sharp rat teeth. In the end, the fog cleared and she knew exactly the cause, harsh memories rubbing her like lye soap.

A girl was dead. No, not just one. At least three that she knew of—Martha and Susan and the nameless girl buried in the graveyard—and perhaps even more. She felt certain there were more, though she had no proof. But what was the common thread that tied the victims together?

Susan Parker and the nameless girl buried in the graveyard were connected to Cairncroft. But what of Martha? She had no link to Cairncroft save the tenuous one through her friendship with Catherine.

Climbing from her bed, Catherine prepared for the day, her limbs heavy, as though weighted by stones, a result, no doubt, of a restless sleep. Yet her mood was not as somber as it might have been, for the prospect of seeing Gabriel was like a candle in the darkness. Her ablutions complete, she pushed the last of her pins into her hair and went down to the breakfast room.

Gabriel was not there.

It was more than disappointment she felt. The unease that had nibbled at her earlier burgeoned into a stronger distress, though she had no solid reason for that. She felt as though she waited for something, a great shadowy beast that would prowl from the corner, unexpected. With a shake of her head, she pushed aside such fancy and went to the sideboard where the covered servers held eggs and toast and pickled salmon.

The morning fare held no appeal. She took only a cup of tea and when that was done she paused by the open door and asked the footman, “Have Sir Gabriel and Mr. St. Aubyn returned?”

“They did, miss. Late last night. But they rode off again early this morning. The sun had not yet risen when they went.”

“Is there any news?” she asked.

The footman shook his head, his expression somber. “No, miss.”

Having exhausted that resource, she was left at odds, worry clouding her thoughts. She went to the blue parlor and paced, then sat, then rose and paced again, trying not to think of Susan and Martha, then trying to think of them as they had been when they were alive. They deserved that, at least. Someone to remember them.

At noon, she roused Madeline from slumber and tried to coax her to dress, to eat, to venture outdoors for a walk. Catherine’s efforts met with failure and in the end she settled in to read to Madeline for a bit, then to simply sit by her and listen to her broken ramblings for the remainder of the time.

It was not until late afternoon that Gabriel returned, and Catherine knew that only because she caught a glimpse of him quite by accident.

She had fled Madeline’s company for a few stolen moments outdoors, desperate for air and activity and a short break away from her despondent friend. Madeline only lay in her bed and twisted the sheets in her fingers, then untwisted them, again and again, saying little. She made monosyllablic responses to Catherine’s attempts at conversation, and those only grudgingly.

Catherine thought that she must escape that stale, closed room or she would go mad. She ought to feel guilty for that, she supposed. But in truth, she could not.

Once outdoors, she chose to take the path that she and Gabriel had walked that first morning, the twisted maze to the graveyard. The sun was high, casting the path half in light, half in shadow as the tall hedge blocked its rays. She walked to the graveyard, acknowledging the silent hope that she would find Gabriel there, waiting for her.

Of course, he was not.

Turning, she retraced her steps and was just leaving the mouth of the maze between the high walls of hedge on either side when she saw him. His back was toward her, his strides quick and sure. Her heart gladdened, her steps lightened. Almost did she cry his name. Then something—she could not say what—stilled her tongue.

Perhaps it was his purposeful tread away from any place he might have hoped to find her. He did not go to the parlor, or her chamber or even Madeline’s. He went to the crumbling ruin at the side of the abbey, a place he could be certain she was not.

And that struck her as odd. Not that she bloated her own importance, but that it seemed very strange that he did not seek her out.

Catherine could not say what made her follow him, only that curiosity got the best of common sense. She was adept at creeping about. Her childhood had made her that way. All the times her parents had sunk into the dark depths of mourning, she had tiptoed about the house, never seen, never heard. Now she called upon those skills and followed Gabriel, driven to do so, unable to understand why.

He went to a part of the abbey she had never explored. It was dank and crumbling, parts of the stone chipped away. At the bottom of a listing tower, he pushed open an old, iron-girded door, the wood stained by time. Stepping through, he disappeared within, leaving the door half ajar behind him. She waited and watched, careful to remain concealed lest he look out one of the narrow windows above and spy her here spying on him.

She could not help but acknowledge how ridiculous her behavior was. She clung to a large bush and peeked through its thick foliage and stared at the crumbling stones for a very long while.

What was she thinking?

For a moment, she considered turning and going back the way she had come, leaving Gabriel to his privacy and secrets. The day was fading. Madeline would be anxious if she woke from her nap and found Catherine gone. Susan Parker’s murder had had a terrible effect on her mood.

But something made her stay. Curiosity, yes. And something more. She felt compelled to remain here, as though this was her sole hope for answers. So she stayed where she was, waiting, though for what, she was not certain.

Finally, the door opened once more and Gabriel emerged looking grim and drawn. Something in his expression chilled her. He looked…tired. But it was more than that. He appeared tense, anxious.

His gaze slid past the place she hid, but did not linger, and she was certain he did not see her there for he strode off the way he had come earlier. She watched him until he disappeared.

Still, she held her place. When moments passed and he did not return, she ran to the door and tried it, expecting it to be locked, startled to find it was not.

With a quick glance about, she slipped inside and drew the door closed behind her. It moved on well-oiled hinges without a sound.

A narrow stone staircase rose before her, and as she placed her foot on the first step, she wondered again why she did this. What did she think to find?

What did she
hope
to find?

Answers evaded her. She only knew that she must climb these steps, must discover what awaited her above.

She was so tired of secrets. His. Hers. She wanted trust between them.

Why?

There could not be love without trust. The thought sneaked up on her, like a fox pouncing on a hare. She was left feeling just as shocked and startled and afraid.

Love.

Dear God, did she think she loved him? Loved Gabriel St. Aubyn?

A shudder took her and she dropped her head, dizzy with the answer that slapped her. Yes, she did. She loved him. She had been so foolish as to fall in love with him. Where were her boundaries, her walls, her guards? They had failed her.

She slid her foot from the step, freezing in place, suddenly certain that she could not go up and steal his secrets like a thief. She refused. It was a betrayal of the worst sort, and his secrets were of no value to her if he did not share them willingly.

She loved him.

And so she would not betray him. She would find him and ask him what he hid in this moldering tower, and trust that he would tell her. And if he did not…Well, she would have to hope that in time, he would.

Spinning away, she barely had time to find her balance before arms closed around her, strong and tight. She struggled, shoving and kicking, the sound erupting from her more squeak than scream. Fear coiled about her heart, serpentine, tight.

“Catherine!”

She gasped. It was Gabriel. He had caught her out. But still, the fear eased.

“You frightened me,” she accused, her heart yet pounding, her breath coming in sharp rasps.

“If you sneak about in dark places, you must expect to be frightened.”

There was that.

Despite his cool tone, his arms about her were warm and sheltering. He kissed her forehead, then her mouth, forgiving her trespass before she even asked.

“I did not go up,” she said in a rush, needing for him to know that, to know she had not betrayed him. “I took only one step, but turned back.”

His arms tightened around her, and he whispered, “Why?”

“It felt like the worst sort of betrayal, a breach of your privacy. I thought that if I lo—” She bit off the word before it could fly free and reared back to look into his beautiful, cold, beloved face. “I thought that if I have any…respect for you, I ought not to trespass.”

The side of his mouth quirked. “But you wanted to.”

“Yes.”

“Well, come along, love.” He took her hand and led the way, confident in each step though the staircase was gloomy and dim. He had walked this path many times, she realized.

The stone stairs were slick beneath her feet, and she clung tightly to Gabriel’s hand as they climbed up and up.

“The walls feel very close,” she said, reaching out to trail her hand along the stones as she passed.

“They
are
very close.” He did not sound particularly concerned, though she knew he did not like confined places any better than she.

“You have been this way often.” Her words echoed back at her. He said nothing, and she thought he must view this as one of those pointless conversations he abhorred. She supposed it was, but she preferred to hear something, even if it was only the sound of her own voice.

Then he said, “It was my secret place when I was a child,” and she realized he had only delayed, likely weighing the decision of whether or not to share that information. She was more pleased that he had than the situation warranted, as though any bit of knowledge about him eased her hunger.

Finally, they came to the top of the stairs and a large space with stone walls and a stone floor and a hearth to her left. Across the far wall were high, narrow windows set in the stone, and before them a desk and a tall, leather-backed chair. Before the hearth was a rug. And that was all. There was not another stick of furniture to be seen.

Gabriel drew her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her palm. Then he left her and crossed to the large mahogany desk, rounding it so he stood with his back to the windows. With the position of the light, she could not clearly see his face or his expression.

Reaching up, he drew a necklace from beneath his shirt. She stepped closer and saw that it was a leather thong bearing two keys. He had not worn it the other day when they had made love, or perhaps she had only not noticed it then. One key, he separated from the other and unlocked a drawer in the desk. He withdrew a metal box and set it down, then unlocked that as well, pushing back the lid so it hit the polished wooden desktop with a thud.

Then he placed the keys beside it and crossed to the hearth, where he took up a flint box and set about making a fire. Catherine watched him warily, uncertain what his intention was.

“Go ahead,” he said, glancing at her before turning his attention back to his task.

Slowly, she made her way to the desk. She peered into the box and saw the cover of a leather-bound journal and some letters.

“What are these?” she asked.

“My secrets.” He was watching her very carefully now. “And the secrets of others.”

Her heart gave a hard thud in her breast. He offered her these things? Nothing could be so easy. Why would he bring her here and show her this now? Why?

He
trusted
her with this? So it appeared. Yet she had difficulty in trusting his trust.

Such a tangled web.

She reached out and rested her fingers on the string that tied the packet of letters. Then she looked up at him once more.

“You mean for me to read them?”

“Yes.”

He held her gaze for a long, measured moment, then turned back to his efforts to start a fire. At length, it was done and he rose to stand facing her, but so far away. She had yet to summon the courage to take the packet from the box, let alone unfold the letters and discover their dark truths.

She shivered, suddenly chilled.

“Look your fill, Catherine. And when you are done, burn them. Burn everything. It is past time.” He crossed to her then and put his palms against her cheeks, tipping her face to his, her mouth to his. He kissed her. There was nothing tentative or gentle about it. His mouth was hard and hungry, his tongue a hot slide of velvet in her mouth, his teeth nipping at her. Sharp. Deliberate. His breath mingling with hers.

His body was hard and warm and solid against her, and for an instant she lost her breath, lost her thoughts, lost all will to delve into his secrets. For an instant, she wanted to draw him to the thick rug before the hearth and make love with him there and simply burn everything without ever looking at the words written within. She was not certain now that she wanted to know.

He pulled back, ran the pad of his thumb along her lower lip, his eyes reflecting the light of the fire.

“Why?” she whispered.

“Catherine.” He studied her for a long moment, and then offered a dry smile. “You have woken my dead heart, the heart I stabbed and believed I had sliced from my breast years ago at Hanham House. I love you,” he said, his tone smooth and even and cool as it always was, but the words, oh, the words, the gift of them, made her heart soar. “I have loved you since the first moment I heard your voice. Since I sensed your pain and recognized your strength.” He pressed his lips to hers, swift and firm. “Only one who has suffered can understand depth of suffering in another.”