Authors: Kathryn Smith
“Chapel?” Pru’s mouth tucked to one side. “I wonder if he ever gets teased about that—a man named Mr. Chapel working for the church.”
Marcus chuckled. “Perhaps he considered his name a sign of his true calling. Regardless, I have much to do to prepare for their arrival. They will no doubt want to see all of our notes and research.”
Pru regarded him from beneath arched brows as she fixed him another cup of tea. “Will they see
all
of our notes and research?”
Again came the grin. “No.”
She grinned back, caught up in their conspiracy.
Finishing his tea in one long gulp, Marcus excused himself, as he wanted to start going through his papers to select what the Catholic representatives would see.
“I do not know why you do not take advantage of him,” Caroline mused boldly once they were alone again. “He is a lovely man.”
Lovely was a perfect word to describe Marcus.
“I do not want to take advantage of him,” Pru explained, sipping her tea. “And even if I did, you know very well it would be wrong of me to do so.”
“Why?” Caroline’s countenance grew fierce. “Why can you not indulge in an affair? What is wrong with seeking a little happiness for yourself?”
Pru’s own brow puckered. She swallowed against the lump in her throat. “You know why, Caro.” Normally her sister would never dream of making such a scandalous suggestion. Then again, it wasn’t as though Pru had to worry about her reputation. And she would be lying if she said she didn’t wonder the same thoughts on occasion.
For one moment, Pru saw the pain in her heart reflected in her sister’s eyes before Caroline’s expression twisted with frustration. Caroline’s cup and saucer rattled as she set them on the tray. She rose to her feet, her posture stiff and restrained.
“We all go through life knowing we will someday die, Pru.”
“Yes.” Pru sought to keep her tone gentle, even though the urge to scream seized her. She wanted to rail and rant about the unfairness of it all. “But most assume they will live to be old and gray. I may not even see the new year.”
Her sister’s gaze sliced through her. Caroline was about to make a dramatic exit—a talent she excelled at. “All the more reason for you to stop acting like you are already dead.”
There were tears in Caroline’s eyes as she swept from the room like a diva. The sight of them broke Pru’s heart.
She slumped against the sofa and covered her face with her hands. Caro didn’t understand. And Pru had no way of making her see that she intended to live—just not the way Caro wanted her to. She was chasing a miracle, and it was so close she could taste it.
How could she expect anyone to understand that she was almost as afraid to “live” as she was to die?
O
n the evening that “those Catholic fellows,” as her father liked to call them, were to arrive, Pru decided that red would be a good color for the gown she would wear to dinner. Red was strong and bold, and with any luck she would feel strong and bold in it. God knows she needed that strength almost as much as she needed the Grail itself.
At first the doctors hadn’t told her much about the cancer that was slowly but deliberately killing her—she was a delicate female, after all. They told her father what they would not tell her, afraid that the truth would be too much for her to comprehend.
Perhaps she should have left it at that. Thanks to the medical books in her father’s library, she
knew more about her affliction than what the doctors would ever tell her. Sometimes she could feel it inside her, gnawing, whittling away at her strength.
It had started in her ovaries, which the doctors had removed, but it hadn’t been enough. They could not operate now, nor could they tell her how much time she had left. On her last examination—not much more than a month ago—they had told her that if she was lucky she would live to see the turn of the century.
There were so many things she wanted to do before she met her end. She wanted to drive the Daimler as fast as it would go. She wanted to see the great pyramids of Egypt. She wanted to experience real passion. Unfortunately, it seemed unlikely that she would achieve any of those things.
Her maid, Fanny, arrived just as she was exiting the bath, her thoughts a mixture of bitter melancholy and resigned practicality. A towel hid the scars on her abdomen from the maid’s pitying gaze. Pru’s dinner gown was cradled in the girl’s arms, rich and opulent as a perfect crimson rose. Darker red lace lay over the bright, accordion-pleated chiffon, adding rich depth to the sumptuous garment.
Once dry and dressed in stockings, chemise and corset, Pru sat to have her hair dressed. A simple loose bun high on her crown left a full halo of hair around her face. Fanny wove fresh dark roses around the bun and arranged a few auburn strands artfully around her ears.
Her only other adornment was a sheer gold ribbon around her neck that fastened with a pearl button in the back. Anything else with such a gown would be garish.
Pru stepped into the dress, her heart hammering as Fanny pulled it over her shoulders. It seemed a shame to waste such a gown on men who probably wouldn’t notice how nicely it clung to her torso or pushed up her bosom, but Pru wanted to wear it. It was maudlin, but God only knows if she’d ever have the chance to wear it again.
“You look real lovely, miss,” Fanny confided bashfully.
Pru smiled in pleasure. She did look lovely. She also looked healthy, her cheeks rosy and bright. She appeared confident and not about to be intimidated by men who might—or might not—try to take her miracle cure away.
Leaving the warm blue and burgundy haven of her room, Pru made her way down the corridor toward the winding staircase that led to the ground floor. Perhaps the dress hadn’t been such a good idea. She didn’t want the priests to think she was mocking them. But it was such a beautiful gown….
Oh, perdition! She was in it now, and life was too short to fuss over the color of a dress no one but her family and a couple of priests were going to see.
All heads turned as she entered the drawing room. Was that her father who gasped? Matilda was staring at her as though she believed Pru had taken complete leave of her senses. Of course,
Matilda was the very picture of English delicacy in a lacy gown of rose chiffon. Caroline was demure also, in creamy ivory. Only Georgia had opted for a stronger color—Pru could always count on Georgia—and stood there smiling in a gown the color of tiger lilies.
It wasn’t just the color of her gown—a color Pru had never worn before—it was the gown itself. It was very feminine and daring and provocative, and it had been a long, long time since Pru had taken the time to make herself look like a woman of her station should in a social setting. Even Marcus looked impressed.
But Pru was more concerned with the reaction of people who didn’t know her. Her gaze searched the group as her father called her forward. There was only one unfamiliar face—an older man with graying hair and kind eyes. His collar gave away his profession.
“Father Molyneux, this is my youngest daughter, Prudence. She is the one who started this whole business.”
Pru glanced at her father with an expression that was part smile, part frown. Was that praise or censure she heard in Papa’s tone?
“It is a pleasure to meet you, mam’selle.” The priest’s voice was low and soothing, his accent heavy but not too thick.
Smiling, she offered him her hand. “I am looking forward to working with you, Father.” Strangely enough, she was. Perhaps she was simply naive, but this man wasn’t the least bit intimidating.
“And where is your companion? I understood we were to have two guests.” Pru glanced around, searching for another unfamiliar face.
“Yes,” Molyneux answered. “My friend needed to step outside to indulge in his nasty habit of smoking.” His gaze lit over Pru’s shoulder. “Ah, Chapel, there you are!”
Eager to catch a glimpse of their second guest, Pru turned.
Perdition.
Mr. Chapel was tall—wonderfully so—and dressed in black jacket and trousers with white waistcoat, shirt and tie. Tawny hair streaked with gold was brushed back from a tanned face. His brows were thick and high, his nose long and straight. His lips were neither thin nor full, but a pleasant balance of the two, wide and sensual. His cheeks and jaw were chiseled, as though carved by a master sculptor. But it was his eyes that drew her attention the most. Even from this distance, his eyes looked as bright and clear as honey.
Good God, she was staring at the poor man! And he was staring back, adding to the uncomfortable heat that crept through her blood.
“Mr. Chapel,” her father began the introduction. “May I present my daughter Prudence.”
Dimly, Prudence remembered to offer her hand. Mr. Chapel took it in his much larger one. His fingers were strong and warm, with a heat that seemed unnatural—or perhaps it was just because her own fingers were like icicles that his felt so deliciously heated.
“It is an honor, my lady.” His voice was low in
pitch, smooth as honey, with an accent that didn’t sound like any French she had ever heard before.
“I hope you enjoy your stay in Cornwall, Mr. Chapel.” It was a trite comment, but the best she could manage, given the fact that her mind seemed to have shut down.
“No mister,” he said, running his thumb along her knuckles as he lifted her hand to his mouth. His gaze remained fixed on her face. “Just Chapel.”
Pru watched his languid motions in a daze. His breath warmed her chilled flesh, sending a thrill throughout her blood so acute that her spine tingled at it.
“Chapel,” she repeated, shamefully hoarse, as his lips brushed her skin.
The sound of his name on her lips seemed to startle him, for he jerked just the tiniest bit. There was a stinging on the back of her hand, but as soon as he lifted his gaze to hers, the fleeting sensation was gone, replaced by a disjointed confusion that Pru was certain everyone noticed.
Fortunately, they were all too busy talking among themselves to witness the flush in Pru’s cheeks, or the predatory interest in Chapel’s eyes. This was not how a priest was supposed to look at a woman.
But he wasn’t a priest.
He released her hand—more’s the pity. “Have you been with the church long, Mr.—Chapel?”
He smiled, as though they shared a private joke. “It seems like centuries.”
That meant he must have been in service for quite some time, but he couldn’t be any more than
thirty. Perplexed, Pru raised her gaze to his, only to find it unnervingly locked upon her face. “Are you studying to be a priest?”
His expression might have been comical if it weren’t so horrified. “No.”
That revelation—abrupt as it was—should not have sent her heart pounding as it did. “Oh. Forgive me. I thought—”
He held up a hand. “There is no need to apologize. Your conclusion was a logical one.”
Pru’s gaze narrowed as she studied him. She couldn’t help it—she had never seen a man like him before in her life. “Then why are you here?”
He blinked at her bluntness, but didn’t hesitate to answer. “I’m here in a purely historical capacity.”
She tilted her head in interest. “Historical?”
He nodded, seemingly unbothered by her curiosity. “Yes. I am a historian.”
So he was like Marcus, then, except that Marcus loved talking about his work, and often did so with great enthusiasm to anyone who would listen. Mr. Chapel was slightly more subdued. He also exuded a quiet strength that Pru found intriguing.
Pru took a step toward him. “You should talk to Mr. Grey, then. No doubt you will be interested in what he has uncovered.”
Chapel moved backward, increasing the distance between them once more. After looking at her with such heat in his eyes, he was acting very cool all of a sudden.
Had she said something off-putting? No, she
could not think of any remark that might have been taken as an insult, unless he thought her mention of Marcus and his research was a slight against his own expertise.
She took a step toward him, closing the polite distance between them. “So, as a historian, what do you hope to find here in Cornwall, Chapel?”
The gaze that lifted to hers was not the same gaze she had seen just moments before. His eyes were no longer like warm honey—they were as bright and brilliant as newly minted gold, drawing her into their molten depths until she thought she might be lost within them. Heat engulfed her as his lashes lowered, his nostrils flaring ever so slightly. He drew a deep breath into his lungs as a sensual smile curved his lips.
Good God, he was
smelling
her.
Honey-colored eyes opened, locking with hers. Pru’s throat tightened. She lifted her hand to her breast in an attempt to quell the pounding there. Chapel’s gaze flickered to her fingers, cooling so suddenly that Pru scarcely knew what had happened. When his eyes met hers again, there was none of the brightness there that had been present before. In fact, his gaze was totally unreadable. Had she imagined it all, then?
“Treasure,” he replied in a tone as neutral as his expression—
too
neutral. “Is that not what you want as well?”
Pru swallowed. He knew this was more than a treasure hunt to her, of that she was certain. No one outside her family knew why she wanted the Grail, not even Marcus, but somehow this
man knew that she had personal reasons for wanting to find the holy cup.
She was saved from answering when her father’s voice called Chapel to his side. The man who was not a mister, not a priest, bowed to her and excused himself without a flicker of regret. Pru watched him go, not entirely certain of what had just happened. Her hands were no longer cold and she looked down to make certain they weren’t clenched or trembling.
There was a mark on her right hand that hadn’t been there before. Her brows drew together as she raised it toward her face. A thin red mark about half an inch long dipped between her second and third knuckles. It was a scratch. Gingerly, she touched it with her other hand—it was fresh and it hadn’t been there before she met Chapel.
Her head snapped up and her shocked gaze flew across the room to where the golden stranger stood, engaged in conversation with her father.
Good Lord, had he actually
bit
her?