So Enchanting (27 page)

Authors: Connie Brockway

Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General

BOOK: So Enchanting

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The breath caught in Violet’s throat. Natural enemies lying quiescent in the shadows cast by a blue moon. What could it mean? As she stood watching she realized something else: The night was filled with a low humming sound, rough and beautiful and hypnotic.

Violet’s mouth dropped open as she realized what she was hearing: The animals, leastways all those that could, were purring.

She drew her breath in on a low whistle. A smile broke over her narrow, dirty little face.

Wait’ll Grammy hears about this.

Chapter Thirty-one

Well, this was awkward.

The next morning, Fanny walked along the edge of the road leading into town, swinging her golf club as she went, using it as a sort of scythe, thoughtlessly beheading the heather sprouting from the verge. She barely remembered picking it up, and must have been so distracted she’d forgotten to put it down before she’d fled the house just before lunch, certain Grey would be feeling well enough to come down to eat. Last night had proved he wasn’t in the least incapacitated. Not in the least.

She knew fleeing said little for her character, but she was not so much a coward that she wouldn’t admit to the act. She’d fled, run away because it
was
awkward. Last night she’d felt so sure of herself. Of Grey. So certain that she understood him and that he understood her. But with daylight had come doubt. Neither of them had spoken of their feelings. This in itself was not unusual. They were both prickly and self-contained, wary of emotions.

She wanted to believe Grey loved her as she loved him, but was that simply wishful thinking? He hadn’t said as much, but there were other ways to speak aside from words. But again, always there was his suspicion of her, the well-founded suspicion that she was keeping something from him, which she was and would continue to do.

It was all very awkward and confusing. She needed to think.

She sighed, her golf club’s arc slowing until the club rested in the dust at her feet. She looked around, startled to realize that she was at the end of Bernard’s drive. Now she saw that the iron gate had been closed and a chain latched around it.

Bernard would have locked Caesar and Brutus in the house to guard his stamps. Grammy would be by later to heave a haunch of beef in through the front door. Grammy was the only person the poor brutes tolerated.

Except for Fanny.

She looked around. This was as good a place as any to think. The boulders guarding the bottom of Bernard’s drive were flat-topped and sun-warmed. She clambered atop one and sat, swinging her golf club disconsolately at a thistle head below.

Should she return to Quod Lamia and tell Grey her feelings? Would he insist once more that she was keeping a secret from him, was planning something or concealing something? Yes. He would. It was his nature to abhor lies and demand truth. He had already demonstrated that he knew she concealed something. As long as they were in proximity to each other, he would not stop until he had revealed what she hid. Which meant, quite simply, that she shouldn’t be near him. But . . .

She hesitated, frowning, for the first time in six years considering the unthinkable: What if she did tell him?

All her self-preservation instincts recoiled at the thought. Telling him could not end well.

He would think she was lying for some dark purpose or perhaps—marginally better—he would think she was crazy; or worst of all, he might believe her. Worst because then how would he see her? The answer was simple: just as everyone else she’d ever loved and confided in had seen her, as an oddity, a peculiarity, someone to be watched carefully. Even her loving parents hadn’t been proof against that innate cautiousness that came when one was confronted with something abnormal.

Maybe she could write a letter. Damn, she wished she’d more experience with this sort of thing, but all she had to guide her was four years with a lying, conniving, dishonest fraud. Hardly good proving ground for future relationships with the opposite sex.

At the sound of a train’s whistle, she lifted her head toward Little Firkin. Bernard’s house was elevated above the town spread out below her a mile away, its twisted streets wending out from the center like an unraveling bit of lace. On the near side of town, the spur line had begun slowing as it approached the loading dock.

A single figure waited on the platform beside a pile of trunks. Ah, yes. Bernard. She was not the only one fleeing, she thought. She watched as the train pulled to a stop and a conductor jumped out, dragging out a short stack of steps leading into the single railway car. He then scurried forward to hoist Bernard’s trunk to his shoulder, motioning for McGowan to precede him into the car.

At the back of the train, another worker hauled out a pallet and made quick work of unloading a few wooden crates before disappearing back inside. The whistle blew, and with a squeal of wheels, the train pulled away from the dock. And that was it. That was how easy it was to leave Little Firkin.

A savage outburst of barking coming from McGowan’s house sent Fanny turning around again. Grey Sheffield was striding up the road from the direction of Little Firkin, bareheaded and without a collar, his sleeves rolled up over his dark forearms and his jacket slung over his shoulder.

He looked up at the sound of the dogs barking and caught sight of her. At once, he skidded to halt. For a long, awkward moment—she’d just known it would be awkward—they stared at each other, the dogs barking wildly in the background.

He didn’t look like someone who’d been knocked unconscious and drugged a mere twenty hours ago. His hair had been carelessly raked back from his face, and his trousers were dusty. He looked entirely too virile.

A wave of yearning seized her, so strong that she had to clench handfuls of moss to keep from sliding off the boulder and flinging herself into his arms. Instead, she demanded, “What are you doing walking about?”

Her voice freed him from whatever paralysis held him. He started toward her, scowling. She didn’t fear his scowls. Not anymore. They were simply his fallback expression, to be donned when he feared anything less would show vulnerability.

“I was in town,” he said, stopping in front of the bolder where she perched. “Asking questions. Wasn’t that what you wanted?”

“You should be back at Quod Lamia, lying in bed.” As soon as she said the words, her face lit with heat.

She expected him to make some sort of rude comment. Instead, he answered by turning just as ruddy beneath his tanned skin. Oh, yes. This was all going to be excruciatingly awkward.

Too bad it didn’t keep her from noting the curl of dark hair peeking from the vee of his open collar, or the dark down covering his forearm, or how that same forearm was sculpted of long, sharply defined sinew and muscle, and how strong his wrists were, and how elegant his long fingers—

No. No. No.
She was not going to do this to herself. She looked up, determined not to spend a second longer rhapsodizing about Grey Sheffield’s forearms. Doing so, she walked straight into the trap that was his eyes. Dazzling aquamarine eyes ringed by thick, sooty lashes, ensnaring her with their beauty, the heat in his gaze feeding the fire in her veins. She heard the golf club clatter to the ground as she felt herself falling forward, drawn by an irresistible force.

And then his arms were around her and he was snatching her from the boulder top, dragging her hard against him, his lips opening over hers. He plundered her mouth with hot, wet kisses, his tongue making salacious sweeps along the silken interior of her cheeks, his hands roving feverishly down her body to grip her buttocks and hoist her up against his body.

He moved forward to ease her against the bolder, his mouth never leaving hers as he whispered hot, ardent words against her lips. She dug her fingers into his cool, thick hair, tugging at him, wanting more, wanting to melt into him, dissolve into his body. Her reason evaporated under the sensual ferocity. She panted, wriggling against him helplessly, not knowing how to tell him without words what she wanted, needed, could not imagine never having again: him inside her.

With a low oath, he grasped her knee, urging her leg up around his hip. She struggled to wrap it around him, cursing her skirts. . . .

The sound of ripping cloth rent the air like a lightning strike, and with just as devastating an effect; Grey stopped kissing her.

He froze, his lips still tight against hers, one arm supporting her derriere, the other hand at his pants opening. Slowly, he withdrew his lips from her mouth and for a brief second rested his forehead against hers. His chest labored like a stevedore’s. His eyes were clenched shut. Then he let her slip slowly to the ground.

Her sense of place, time, of how easily they could have been seen fell in on her with avalanche force. Yet still . . . still . . . a part of her wanted to say,
The hell with “could-be’s,”
and climb once more onto Grey’s solid, heavily muscled, perfectly masculine body. She didn’t, of course. Instead, she stumbled back a step and touched her hair and fiddled with her collar. When she looked up, she saw Grey engaged in a similar activity, loosening a nonexistent collar and clearing his throat. He caught her eyes.

At the same time they both blurted out, “I’m sorry.”

He smiled, and her embarrassment melted under the rare, gentle look. “I shouldn’t have done that,” he said.

She laughed, blushing like a schoolgirl. “And here I was under the impression that I’d been the one who’d ‘done that.’ ”

“I don’t think so.”

“I do.”

“Are we going to fight about it, do you suppose?” he asked. The idea didn’t seem to upset him. His eyes glittered.

“Do you want to?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

Good heavens, they were
flirting
with each other, she realized incredulously. What was she doing? She had just finished outlining for her poor, senseless heart that any relationship between them did not stand a chance. Yet here they were, involved in some sort of bizarre mating ritual, the sort reserved for hedgehogs and porcupines and other equally prickly species. The thought made her smile, albeit sadly. Grey reacted by taking a sharp, involuntary step forward. He stopped himself.

“More than you can imagine, but this is hardly the place or time.”

Her spirits collapsed in disappointment. “Of course. Did you discover anything in town about the threat to Amelie?” She struggled to find her dignity. She couldn’t. Her heart was singing too loudly. “Not the place or time” meant there
was
a place and time.

“No. I saw McGowan before he left on the train, but he had nothing new to add. Then I spoke to a half dozen people, and then another half dozen”—his smile turned wry—“to appease you. No one knows anything about a letter. Most of them don’t even know Lord Collier ’s title, let alone where to send correspondence, which leads me back to my original theory: Whoever sent that letter must be someone who wanted to keep Collier from whatever business he was attending on the Continent.”

“I see.”

And she did. Grey and Hayden would leave on the next train, at first light the day after tomorrow.

There was nothing else to say. What had she expected? Her heart felt as though it were being ripped to shreds, and her vision blurred. She turned her head so he would not see the threatening tears as Caesar raised his voice in a long, mournful howl, echoing the despair she felt. Brutus added his plaintive cry.

Oh, no. Not now.

She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, willing herself to go numb, feel nothing, shed the emotions roiling through her. No good. Her heart contained a maelstrom of anxiety, desire, fear, and . . . and . . .

She had to leave, get away from him now, before others arrived and gave her turmoil a voice.

Gray looked toward the house. “Poor brutes,” he murmured.

“Yes,” she whispered. She had to leave. She could feel them, vague, sympathetic spirits drawn like metal filings to a magnet.

Grey sighed. “I hope McGowan made arrangement to have them fed.” He was filling the void with words. But the void she foresaw was too large ever to be filled.

“Yes.”

“Do you suppose they miss him and that’s why they are baying like that?”

“No.”

They are baying because they know my heart is breaking.

Chapter Thirty-two

Grey was missing something; he was certain of it. Something important. He just couldn’t figure out what. The dogs were howling like the end-time was near. Fanny’s eyes had dilated to enormous black pools, and she was staring at him with a completely unreadable expression.

“I have to go,” she said. She sounded flustered, unnerved.

So was he. “Don’t,” he heard himself whisper.

Her gaze flew to his face. She looked startled. What was he doing? What was he thinking? He wasn’t. He was feeling, always a dicey proposition, but damn, he was tired of fighting his emotions. He couldn’t do it anymore. He didn’t even want to try. He wanted to trust her. Trust what he felt as well as what he thought.

“Grey. You don’t understand.”

He laughed. “You’re right.”

“You don’t. . . .”

“I don’t,” he agreed.

“Please.”

“Whatever you want.”
For however long
.

“You are making this very difficult.”

“Yes. I know. I’m a bastard.” He was. That she wanted to leave, ached to leave, couldn’t be more apparent. She kept twisting around, her gaze darting anxiously. “I have never learned the art of pretense.”

They were the wrong words. Her face blanched.

“Damn it,” he said. “Fanny. Please. You must believe me, that wasn’t a subtle gibe.”

That brought a tremulous smile to her face. It was ridiculous how much pleasure it brought him. “It wasn’t all that subtle. But you never are.”

“I know. But let us both agree the past is over. I am sorry I judged you without knowing you.”

She sobered. “You don’t know everything about me now.”

He shivered, controlling the impulse to sweep her up in his arms. He’d done enough sweeping for one day. “I know enough. You must believe me.”

A fleeting expression of bewilderment and tenderness touched her face. “I do,” she whispered.

He smiled. “Well, there’s that.”

“I wish I could tell you—”

Crack!

Whatever she’d wished to say was lost in the sound of a gun report. He swung toward the sound. It had come from the direction of Quod Lamia.

“What was that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Fanny said, frowning down the road.

“Poachers?”

“No.” She shook her head. “There are no poachers in Little Firkin. There’s no need to poach. Anyone wanting to hunt has an entire mountain range at his disposal.”

A tingle of apprehension touched his spine. “We have to go.”

She didn’t answer; she was already hurrying toward Quod Lamia.

They arrived at the house ten minutes later to find a breathless Hayden in the drawing room with Amelie collapsed in his arms, shaking uncontrollably. On the floor behind them a pool of shattered glass lay beneath a broken window.

“Someone shot at her!” Hayden exclaimed, his mouth drawn tight with shock and anger.

“From where?” Grey demanded, going to the window and looking out. “Did you see anyone?”

“No. I just got here,” Hayden replied. “I was coming to see how you were faring. I must have been half a mile away when I heard a shot. I ran as quickly as possible and found Amelie huddled in the corner.”

The girl began sobbing. Hayden’s arms tightened around her.

“Thank God, thank God she wasn’t hurt.” The boy’s voice shook, and in response the girl’s cries grew even more heartrending.

Damn whatever coward had done this, Grey thought, frustrated. There was nothing to see out the broken window, except some more glass sparkling on the terrace below.

“Where is Violet? Ploddy?”

Hayden shook his head. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen either of them.”

“No,” Fanny said, her voice oddly harsh. “No. You will not suspect either of them.
I will not allow it
.”

She was breathing hard, her face as white as milk, her eyes filled with suffering. But she hadn’t moved from the doorway. She stood rigidly. “Tell us where they are, Amelie.”

Her voice held a note of pleading. Grey understood. This was her family. She would be devastated to discover that one of them sought Amelie’s death. Amelie finally lifted her head from Hayden’s chest to look at her companion. Her eyes were huge, stricken, afraid.

“Violet went to see Grammy Beadle, who has taken poorly with a stomach ailment. Bernard asked Ploddy to drive him and his luggage to the train platform. He’s still in Little Firkin.”

Easy enough to check. Too easy. Grey mentally removed them from a list of suspects.

Amelie’s words released Fanny from the tension holding her. She stepped forward, her hands outstretched toward her young charge, her eyes filling with tears. With a choked sound, Amelie left the shelter of Hayden’s arms and flung herself into Fanny’s waiting arms. She enfolded the girl tenderly, her cheek resting against the bright red hair, her eyes closed, tears seeping from their corners.

By God, he would find whoever was responsible for this. By all that was holy, he would. To think he’d almost left them here in such imminent danger. What if he’d gone yesterday? How could he have been so horribly wrong, and who would have paid the price for his error in judgment? Amelie? Fanny?

“Where did the shot come from?” he said.

Hayden, his eyes on Amelie, gave a short, frustrated shake of his head. “I don’t know. Close. Near the house.”

Grey nodded. “It would have had to be quite close if the shooter intended to hit his target,” he said.

“Why is that?” Fanny asked quietly. Her eyes had opened, but she still stroked Amelie’s hair.

“That was the report of a sidearm, not a rifle or musket.”

Fanny’s hand stilled. “I see.”

“I doubt there are many sidearms in Little Firkin. We should be able to discover who owns one easily enough, and from there who has access to one,” Grey said.

Amelie lifted her head from Fanny’s shoulders. “Unless someone brought one in,” she suggested softly.

Ah. Good.
Her fear was subsiding. He’d already figured that Amelie had a sharp, analytical mind. It was a relief to see her using it.

“True. But at least it gives us a place to start.”

“We must send for the constabulary,” Hayden said. “At once. This is no longer a matter of speculation. Amelie’s life is in danger.”

“Oh!” At this reminder, Amelie buried her face once more in Fanny’s shoulder.

Hayden’s handsome young face collapsed in misery, and he looked as if he were an instant away from snatching her back out of Fanny’s embrace into his own.

“Of course,” Grey said. It was not in his nature to sit back and wait while others uncovered schemes and subterfuge. “But it might be some time before they arrive from Fort George. In the meantime, there is no reason I shouldn’t try to discover things that might aid their investigation.”

The reality of her situation had once again set Amelie’s shoulders to shaking with fear.

“I swear nothing will hurt you, Amelie,” Hayden said, coming closer and lifting a tentative hand toward the girl.

“Amelie,” Fanny said softly, trying gently to disengage her. “Amelie. Lord Hayden is in
agony
.”

It struck Grey as an odd thing to say, but the girl responded, allowing Fanny to unwind her arms from her neck. She clasped Amelie’s wrists, lifting her hands between them. Tenderly, she kissed Amelie’s knuckles and froze. It was only a fleeting instant, but long enough to catch Grey‘s attention. Then she turned the girl toward Hayden and stepped back.

Amelie took one look at Hayden’s anguished face and began sobbing again. Hayden tried to put his arms around her, but she shook her head, backing away and burying her face in her hands.

Grey, whose well of unquestioning sympathy had just about been plumbed, grew aware of a frisson of impatience. He couldn’t imagine Fanny going on like this, and was frankly becoming a little bored.

“She’s overcome,” Fanny gently told Hayden, who looked as though he’d just taken a dagger to the heart. She put a bracing arm around Amelie. “Come along, darling. You should lie down.”

“Yes. Of course,” Hayden said. “I’ve been insensitive.”

Amelie wailed through her fingers.

Grey frowned, a terrible suspicion forming in his mind.
No. It couldn’t be.

Hayden blanched.

“You should begin your investigation,” Fanny said. All her tears had dried up, leaving behind an oddly chill cast to her magnificent eyes.

“Yes,” he said, his frown deepening. “I will.”

Her arms still anchored firmly around the girl’s shoulders, she led her from the room.

Grey watched her, troubled.

Amelie had just been fired upon, the house was empty of servants, and yet Fanny hadn’t asked either Hayden or him to stay and act as a guard.

Why was that? What reason did she have to want to be alone in the house?