The Ravencliff Bride (4 page)

Having finished eating, he looked up from his coffee cup and caught her out. Hot blood rushed to her cheeks, and her fork rattled against her plate as she tried to set it down. Her heart skipped a beat. She was physically attracted to this man. That couldn’t be. She couldn’t let it be. There was no hope of anything physical between them—he’d made that quite plain. She would have to guard herself. Such a onesided attraction could mean only heartbreak, and she’d had her fill of that.

“Is something amiss?” he asked.

“N-no,” she replied, “It’s just . . . all this seems unreal somehow. A sennight ago I was eating moldy bread, and some anonymous, maggoty swill that passed for stew; was dodging rats, and foul, unsavory jackanapes in that place . . . and now this. You must be patient with me. It will take time to adjust.”

“You weren’t . . . harmed?” he said, his brows knitted in a frown that cast his eyes deep in shadow.

“No, not physically,” she said. “But keeping abreast of the dangers was a challenge.” That hadn’t changed. There could well be more danger right here at Ravencliff than there ever was in the Fleet—rats and rogues notwithstanding.

“Have you any pressing questions before we adjourn?” he said.

Sara opened her mouth to speak, but thought better of it, causing his eyebrow to lift. She had many questions, and more kept cropping up, but this was not the time to voice them. She wondered if there would ever be a time. He studied her in his inimitable manner for a moment, before folding his serviette and setting it beside his plate.

“Very well,” he said. “I shall summon Mrs. Bromley to show you around the manor. After your tour, do take a moment to look at the tapestries. I think you will find them . . . consoling.”

That would have to wait. A silent command passed to the butler only moments earlier brought the housekeeper before they’d risen from the table. After sketching a dutiful bow, Nicholas strode out of the room and disappeared in the shadows that lurked everywhere—day and night—in the old house.

Mrs. Bromley was an excellent tour guide. In less than an hour, they’d visited the dining hall, morning room, several sitting rooms, the parlor, library, and music room on the first floor. While pointing out a green baize-covered door beside the grand staircase as they started to climb, the housekeeper didn’t offer Sara access to the servants’ quarters that it marked; it was inappropriate, and a breach of household etiquette for the master or mistress of the house to venture below stairs.

The second floor was comprised of bedchambers and suites of rooms like her own. Each followed a theme as well, and but for poking her head in for the purpose of identification, the tour of these was brief. When Sara started toward the third-floor landing, the housekeeper held her back.

“Ya can’t go up there, my lady,” she said. “That part o’ the house is restricted—it ain’t safe ta go poking around up there. Storm damage has weakened the upper part o’ the house over time, and the master don’t want ya goin’ up and comin’ ta harm. His suite is the only one in use up there anyway. The rest has been shut up since his father died. The whole third floor will come down one day—granite rock or no—you mark my words. Why, the master’s chamber is the only turret suite on the sea side up there that ain’t lost its roof ta the gales.”

“Why on earth would he want rooms in such a dangerous place with so many fine chambers down here on the second floor to choose from?” Sara asked, thinking out loud.

“I dunno, my lady, he’s a creature o’ habit, the master is. He’s had rooms up there since I come here twenty-four years ago, when he was a lad o’ twelve. He likes ta keep ta himself.”

“How old is the house, Mrs. Bromley?”

“Ta hear him tell, they carved it outta the cliff out there. Built it outta the same rock around the time the Normans come, at least its roots go back that far—maybe farther, for all I know. It’s changed over time, o’course. It started out as a keep, then over the years it become a monastery, an abbey, and a priory, amongst other things at different times. More rock was quarried as time went by, rooms was added, outbuildings and stables and stacked stone fences went up, until it come to be what it is now, and has been for the last two hundred years—Ravencliff Manor. Except for storm damage repairs, o’ course.”

“It must have a fascinating history if it’s stood here since before the Norman Conquest,” Sara said, trying to imagine.

“There’s books in the library that’ll tell ya a lot more than I ever could.”

“I shall make it a point to avail myself,” Sara replied.

“Yes, my lady. Now, there’s plenty o’ time before nuncheon
for a lie-down,” the housekeeper offered. “Ya won’t be disturbed. Nell will come ta fetch ya when ’tis time.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Bromley. I think I shall,” Sara said—but she wasn’t planning on napping. Nicholas’s comment about the tapestries had intrigued her. His use of the word “consoling” in particular piqued her interest, and she dismissed the housekeeper and made her way back to her bedchamber.

The storm was still flinging sheets of rain at the windows. Whipped by the wind, the cascading ripples obscured the view. It was just as well. All was dark and depressing. Somehow, Sara couldn’t imagine what the place would be like in bright sunlight. The shadow-steeped manor seemed at home in dirty weather.

There was a fire in the hearth, throwing pulsating warmth at the drafts that seeped through the very walls where the tapestries hung. The tapestries shuddered, attracting her attention, and she took up a candle branch and began her inspection. The periods represented varied from medieval, to pastoral, to Renaissance. A common palette threaded through the lot—muted shades of green and cinnamon brown, sand, claret, burgundy, cream, and various shades of blue. The theme was the same:
the hunt
. Dogs and horses surrounded her, among them the works of Detti, Oudry, and Bernard Van Orley. Each was more magnificent than the rest, but the most magnificent of all hung beside the bed: a breathtaking rendering of Diana the Huntress with her noble hounds.

The candle branch trembled in Sara’s hand. Was this strange man she’d married a saint or the Devil? He seemed so austere, and now this tender consolation. He had surrounded her with the animals she’d loved and lost. He’d assigned her that suite before she ever arrived. He’d
known
. What else did he know? Her eyes misted with tears; the tapestries blurred before them. She blinked her sorrow back and moved on to her sitting room, which was likewise deco-rated.
An exquisite medieval piece depicting a unicorn hunt caught her eye, and she fingered the hounds worked at the bottom. All around the room unicorns and horses pranced, and dogs cavorted. The storm forgotten, Sara moved from wall to wall, and room to room of her spacious suite, drinking it all in to the last detail.

Sara couldn’t wait for Nell to come and collect her for the noon meal so she could thank Nicholas for his thoughtfulness, but the breakfast room was vacant when she reached it. Her husband didn’t come down to dinner that evening, either, and she faced his absence with mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was anxious to use the tapestries as a means of easing the tension—the awkward strain mounting between them from the very first. Something in his voice, in his furtive glances had put her on her guard, made her wish she possessed more experience with men. It was almost as if those eyes said one thing and his lips another. The man seemed full of contradiction. On the other hand, she was glad of his absence in that it gave her more time to marshal courage enough to address the issues that had nagged her since she entered Ravencliff Manor. She hadn’t fooled him. He knew she had questions. He was about as eager to answer them as she was to ask.

Mrs. Bromley wasn’t able to tell her why Nicholas hadn’t made an appearance at nuncheon or dinner, only that he often skipped meals, and that she shouldn’t take it to heart.
Whatever the reason, Sara felt it was rude. He should have sent his apologies, and she had half a mind to march into his study and tell him so. That was where she presumed him to be, since she saw a sliver of candlelight showing under the study door when she came down to dinner.

After the meal, she decided to do just that, but the study door was ajar, and the candles had been extinguished—recently, judging by the strong odor of smoke and tallow in the musty air. Gripping the doorknob she eased it open a little wider and peered inside. The fire in the hearth had died to glowing embers, casting just enough light to show her that the room was empty. Nicholas’s Hessians stood beside the wing chair, and what looked like some of his clothing lay in a heap on the floor. The boots were caked with mud, and the clothing looked wet. Had he been out in the storm? What were his clothes doing here—had he left them for the servants to collect? Was he accustomed to changing in the study? Her breath caught. He could be coming back! Cold chills gripped her at the thought of being found there, and she repositioned the door just as she’d found it. Glancing up and down the corridor, she searched the shadows, but nothing moved, and she hurried toward the grand staircase and went straight to her suite.

Entering through the little foyer, she turned right, and opened the door to her bedchamber, where Nell had turned down the bed and was laying out her ecru silk nightgown and wrapper.

“Oh, la, my lady!” the abigail said. “Ya look like ya just seen a ghost!”

“Nothing of the kind,” Sara responded. “I took the stairs too quickly after eating.”

“If you say so, my lady.”

“How long have you been in service here, Nell?” Sara asked.

“Long enough ta know the tales o’ ghosts are
true
,” said the maid, casting a furtive glance about the room.

“I haven’t heard any such tales.”

“You will. Just ask any o’ the servants, they’ll tell ya. There’s strange goin’s-on in this old house, my lady, you’ll see.”

Sara didn’t dispute that for a minute, though she wasn’t prepared to subscribe to ghosts. As far as she was concerned, the enigmatic Baron Nicholas Walraven was at the bottom of the “strange goings-on” at Ravencliff, and that was more frightening than ghosts.

It was still early, and she wasn’t tired, but she did want to be alone to order her thoughts. That meant dismissing Nell. She let the maid help her change and brush out her shoulder-length hair before the vanity mirror in the dressing room, then bade her good night. Snuffing out the dressing room candles, she stepped back over the threshold into her bedchamber only to pull up short before Nero, sitting on his haunches in the middle of the Aubusson carpet, watching her, his eyes like mirrors glowing red in the firelight.

“Nero?” she breathed. “You frightened me. How did you get in here?” She took a cautious step closer, but the animal made no hostile move, and she ventured nearer still. “You shouldn’t be here, you know, but I shan’t tell.” Squatting down to his level, she reached to stroke his shaggy black coat. “You’re soaking wet!” she discovered. “Have you been out in the storm, too? So that’s why the master’s clothes were all wet. He was out looking for you, wasn’t he? And you’ve escaped him. Well he mustn’t find you here. He knows you visited me last night, and it’s the first place he’ll look.” She surged to her feet and started toward the foyer. “Well, come on, then.”

Nero hesitated, then stood and padded toward her. Sara gasped again, taking a good look at the animal—at the long, corded legs, and slender, barrel-chested body; at the way he held his head, and the way the strange eyes staring at her picked up the firelight. It was impossible to tell their true color.

“You do have wolf in you, don’t you?” she murmured. “If I didn’t know better . . .”

The door to the corridor was ajar. She could have sworn she’d closed it earlier. She opened it wider, but the animal stood his ground. He had a lean, hungry look about him. Whatever the conditions of his residence, Sara was certain he wasn’t happy with them. He was obviously lonely, too, to seek her out—a total stranger—and she wondered when he’d had his last meal.

“Don’t they feed you, Nero?” she said. She hadn’t finished everything on her plate at dinner, and she wished now that she’d thought to tuck something into her serviette for him, since she’d been hoping he’d return. “I have nothing for you now,” she said, “but the next time you visit me I shall . . . I promise. Now, you need to go back to the servants’ quarters before someone catches you out. Go!” she charged, shooing him away with a hand gesture. But he stood his ground, staring up at her with those penetrating red-fire eyes.

What a soulful expression for a dog. Of course, he couldn’t understand what she was saying, but she was certain he would respond to her tone. She knew how to gentle dogs, and horses, too, come to that, but this dog was . . . different. He seemed to understand every word.

“What am I to do with you?” she scolded. “You cannot stay here. One bark, one howl, and we are found out. Then I shall be called to task, and God alone knows what will happen to you.”

Still Nero stood his ground, and Sara poked her head out into the corridor. Candle sconces dotted the walls, but only half were lit. She looked both ways. The hallway was deserted, and she pulled her wrapper close around her against the drafts, and stepped over the threshold.

“I suppose I could walk you down to the servants’ quarters,” she said. “It isn’t that far. The door is doubtless closed, and you won’t be able to get below stairs otherwise, will you? Is that what you’re trying to say, Nero? What I want to
know is how you got out. There must be another entrance. I don’t suppose you’ll show me, will you, boy?” The animal made no move to comply. He nuzzled her hand with his cold, wet nose, and followed her into the corridor.

“Yes, I love you, too, you poor wretched creature,” she soothed, ruffling his shaggy coat. “Well, come on, then, we shall have to do this quickly.”

Nero padded along beside her. His nails made no sound here the way they did in the downstairs hall, where there was no carpet. She could detect his step just the same. They had nearly reached the landing, when he bolted and streaked on ahead of her.