A Night of Secrets (9 page)

“Come, settle down, no reason to hover,” Papa said.

In a huff, Meg dropped to the blanket, tucking her legs under her brown skirt. Mary Ellen and Sally stared at Bellamont as if they’d never seen a man before. Meg didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or cry.

“How do you find our countryside?” Papa asked.

Bellamont settled against the elm tree that shaded them. He was a man at ease, yet his eyes told her otherwise. Always looking, always searching…for what? His gaze never remained on one thing long, but when his gaze did find you, it was as if they pierced your very soul.

“The countryside is charming,” he said. “If one discounts the bodies.”

Mary Ellen pressed her hand to her mouth, her gaze alight with shocked laughter. Meg narrowed her eyes in silent reprimand. But Papa, dear man that he was, noticed nothing. He scooped up a helping of pie, humming under his breath, oblivious to Mr. Bellamont’s blunt words. Their new neighbor was trying to shock them; she wouldn’t oblige.

“Is it true you’re French?” Sally asked, leaning forward, clasping her hands in the lap of her pink gown; her awe and excitement tangible. She never had been one to hide her emotions.

Meg silently cursed. How had her sister found out so quickly? Blasted small town.

“My parents were French, yes,” Bellamont replied.

He looked French, dark and arrogant and handsome…yes, very, very handsome with an elegant leanness that masked an underlying strength. Meg’s gaze traveled up his broad chest, the white linen of his shirt contrasting against the dark color of his jacket. Yes, she supposed she could admit he was attractive. Her gaze lingered at his mouth, suddenly finding fascination in the way his lips moved, the bottom lip slightly fuller than the top.

“You’re from London?” Sally’s voice broke into her thoughts. “We have family in London. A Vicar Beazley.”

Meg sucked in a breath. She wanted to reach over and slap her hand over her little sister’s mouth. A pale Mary Ellen, realizing the direness of the situation, jerked Sally backward. Sally fell onto her behind with a yelp.

“Have you been to London?” Bellamont asked and those eyes were on her once more. He leaned back against the tree trunk, in the shade where one couldn’t read his face, one leg stretched out, the other drawn up. He rested his arm on his knee, awaiting their answer as if he had all the time in the world. A man at ease, but not his gaze. No, his gaze spoke of intensity, desire…for what?

She tore her attention from him and refilled her father’s plate. “Oh, one time. Can’t remember when. Such a long while ago.”

“A year ago?” Bellamont slowly rubbed his knuckles across his jaw line. “Two?”

Meg furrowed her brows, pretending to think. “Can’t quite remember. Here, you must try one of my biscuits.” She leaned forward, so close she could see the gold flecks in his emerald eyes. His lips parted as if to speak. Before he could get a word out, she stuffed the biscuit into his mouth.

Bellamont gagged.

“Now, where did Hanna go? I should find her.” Meg jumped to her feet and rushed away.

“Miss James,” he snapped.

Blast, she could hear him catching up to her. Like a frightened hare, she darted left, thinking only to make her escape. Instead, she ran directly into Vicar Young. Her hands flattened against his chest. Bones there. No muscle, just bone. Involuntarily, she shrank back. If anyone should have been invited to dine with them, it should have been this man. Not Grayson Bellamont who was obviously healthy and rich enough to feed himself.

Heat rushed to her neck. “I do apologize, Vicar. I seem to be running into a lot of people today.”

The man smiled, adding color to his pale, thin face, but it didn’t help his appearance. Whereas she thought of a hawk or eagle when she pictured Grayson and his intense eyes, the Vicar reminded her of a raven, with his long beak nose and black clothing. She was afraid nothing would improve the dear man’s disposition.

“Tis all right, Miss James. How do you fare?” His gaze slid from her, to the area beyond her shoulder and she knew Grayson had caught up.

“Well, thank you.” She couldn’t help herself and glanced over her shoulder. There he stood, in all of his glorious splendor. Meg felt heat move from her neck, to her face, always blushing under the man’s intense scrutiny, as if he could read every one of her intimate, sinful thoughts. She felt Grayson’s nearness as if he touched her, yet he stood a good two feet away. He bowed low, all politeness and manners.

“Vicar Young, Mr. Bellamont, our new neighbor,” she murmured reluctantly.

The Vicar looked anything but pleased. “Wonderful to meet you. And will you be with us for long?”

Grayson’s eyes remained on her. “I haven’t decided as of yet.”

Vicar Yong straightened, peering down his beak nose. “What brings you here?”

There was a short pause, still Grayson did not break eye contact with Meg. “Hunting.”

Why did the word raise the fine hairs on her neck? She jerked her gaze away, needing something, anything to focus on rather than her new neighbor.

Vicar Young frowned, those beady eyes flickering from her to Bellamont. “Is the area known for grouse? I hadn’t realized.” His attention remained on Meg, dismissing Bellamont altogether. “Your father, how does he fare?”

Meg resisted the urge to cringe, instead forcing a smile to her lips. “Well. We are all well.” Why would the man bring up Papa now of all times, in front of a bloody stranger?

“My mother, God bless her soul, claims people with your father’s condition have an illness. Others, I’m afraid, are not so forgiving. You must watch him, Miss James, makes sure he does not give into temptation.”

Embarrassed heat rushed through Meg. How dare he! Her fingers curled as she resisted the urge to react to the anger surging underneath her skin. “Thank you for the warning, I really must find Hanna.” She dropped into a quick curtsey and spun around darting toward the trail that led into a group of firs.

“Miss James,” a deep voice rumbled.

Meg ducked under a low branch, her foot hitting the dirt path. She didn’t bother to slow, but hurried into the darkness, eager to outrun Bellamont. How could Vicar Young mention Papa’s mishap in front of a stranger? Why would he humiliate her so? Her eyes stung, but she refused to give into tears.

She felt hunted by the man. She darted around a tree, allowing the dark shadows to hide her form. Firm fingers bit into her upper arm. Meg cried out. She was jerked to a stop, then spun around. Suddenly, she found her back pinned to the rough bark of a fir tree, a broad chest blocking her view. How had he caught up to her so quickly?

“Release me,” she demanded immediately.

“No.”

A tremble of fear swept over her body. Her gaze jumped to his. “Excuse me?”

He lifted a brow, his face hard planes of arrogance. “I said no.” Then he had the audacity to step closer, too close. Meg shrank back until the bark bit through her gown. She couldn’t seem to breathe, to think. Her brain and body had grown oddly numb.

“I’ll scream,” she managed to whisper.

He smiled, the bastard, knowing a useless threat when he heard one. “From what I’ve heard, Miss James, the town does not hold your family in very high regards.”

Anger and despair ate through her. She couldn’t get a hold of her thoughts, and she knew she needed to have her wits about her when she was near Bellamont. “Are you saying that if you try to … to harm me, no one will care?”

He braced his hands on either side of her head. “What I’m saying,
Meg,
is that if you scream, if you accuse me of something vulgar, who will they believe?”

She wouldn’t scream. They needed no more trouble. They had enough as it was. But still, for him to threaten her in this way only confirmed he was the horrible man she’d assumed. “What do you want?”

His gaze slid from her eyes, to her lips, lower, to her neck. “Merely answers.”

Heat curled through her body. Blood rushed through her veins. Too much, too soon. She couldn’t take his presence. The trees wavered. She felt dizzy, off balance. “Answers to what?”

His gaze flashed back up to her face. “Mr. Brockwell’s death. Why is it the town despises your father?”

“Despise?” she said, attempting to cling to the anger coursing through her body, instead of the strange need tingling in the pit of her belly.

He stepped closer, his body pressing to hers. Power radiated from his hard form. “Don’t play coy, it’s annoying.”

His harsh words gave her the strength she needed to confront him. “No, Sir! You’re annoying.” She flattened her palms to his chest and pushed. He didn’t budge. Trapped, she felt trapped. “Move, now.”

He leaned closer, his breath cold at her temple. “Not until you answer my questions.”

Only her hands kept his chest from crushing her breasts. “I owe you nothing, Mr. Bellamont. You may order your soldiers and servants about, but you hold no power over me.”

Challenge gleamed in his eyes and she realized her mistake only too late. “Oh, I think I hold something over you, Miss James, something very powerful indeed.” Those hard thighs touched hers as his fingers clamped around her wrists.

Meg bit back her squeak of protest. “Power?” She forced a laugh from her lips, even as her body quivered with fear, with need, blast but she wasn’t sure which. Grayson Bellamont frightened her as much as he thrilled her.

He leaned down, his lips only a cool breath away from hers. “The power of seduction, Miss James.”

Power, indeed. Her lashes lowered, her breath coming out in sharp pants she couldn’t control. He smelled of mint. He smelled of man. He smelled delicious.

“You are attracted to me and it would be so easy to seduce you.”

She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to lift her knee to his groin and show him just how much he affected her. She did none. She merely let him command her, let him touch her, let him hold power over her as if she were a servant and he her master. Blast, but he was right. She felt oddly seduced by this man.

“No,” she managed weakly.

“Yes,” he whispered, right before his lips lowered to hers.

He was proving a point. She didn’t care. His touch was soft, a quick brush of his hard, velvet lips, then another. All too soon he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath cold and seductive across her lips.

She wanted more. Her fingers curled into his fine, linen shirt.

With a growl low in his throat, he crushed his mouth to hers, his kiss demanding this time. Meg’s legs grew weak and she sank into the man’s hard body. She’d been kissed before, but never had her body reacted this way. Never had her skin tingled, her stomach tightened. Never had she had the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and never let go.

Grayson’s tongue slid between her lips. Meg groaned, opening for him. She couldn’t stop herself from touching him, from pulling her hands free and sliding her arms around his neck. She couldn’t stop her tongue from rubbing against his, from tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth on her bottom lip and pain mixed with pleasure.

“Meg?”

Someone was calling her name. Vaguely, she was aware of someone calling her name, but she couldn’t seem to pull away from Grayson, couldn’t seem to stop kissing him. Her fingers entwined in his hair, the strands cool and silky. With a whimper, she pushed ever closer to him, needing to have more.

“Meg?” Louder this time.

Grayson’s cold fingers wrapped around her wrists. With a growl, he pushed her back until her shoulder blades hit the tree. Alone, reality invaded. Meg’s horrified gaze found Grayson’s green eyes. So green. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling.

“Meg?” Mary Ellen called out.

Meg dared to open her eyes.

Mary Ellen wavered in and out of focus in front of her. “What is it?”

“Where is he?” Meg pushed away from the tree, stumbling forward.

“Who?”

“Bellamont! Where is he?” She spun around. Trees mocked her, standing stoically watchful, waiting. Dark shadows hinted at mystery. But no one was there. Grayson had disappeared.

Chapter 5

Grayson rested his forehead against the piano. His trembling hands hovered over the keys as he waited for the courage to play, for the courage to remember a life when he enjoyed the music. When guilt didn’t destroy everything he loved. The courage never came. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall. The crashing cacophony of notes slammed against his ears, irritating his frayed nerves. His fingers refused to move, to stretch fluidly over the keys, to produce anything remotely resembling music.

Gone.

Just like his life as he’d known it. At one time his hands had produced beautiful music, now…now they were only known for killing. He slammed the cover down with a thud that echoed through the room. Would he ever have the desire to play again? Did he care? Certainly there were more important things in life than producing music. He had a lead, a very promising lead on Collette, after all. So why, then, did that thought not lighten his mood?