Eve Silver (31 page)

Bunching the cloth of her skirt in his hand he drew it up over the skin of her thigh, his touch driving her half mad with wanting. Her tongue darted out, searching for his, dragging a rough sound from deep inside him, something between a laugh and a groan.

He was Anthony, Lord of Manorbrier, a lonely castle set atop a hill, the thick crumbling walls and whispered stories holding all at bay, just as the walls around his heart let none draw near. But not her. Never her. Untouchable Anthony Craven touched
her
, and let her touch him, and together, they were whole. She felt it deep inside.

With fingers made clumsy by passion, she tore his shirt open, and his trousers, pressing her mouth to the smooth warm skin of his chest, tasting salt and man. She licked him, nipped him, pressing wet kisses to his belly, and lower, until her mouth closed around the hard, velvet length of his erection. Drawing on him, she pulled a growl, and then a moan from his lips.

The feeling was indescribably lush. Delicious feminine pleasure. Power. He was there before her, sprawled in slavelike ecstasy, half clothed, his glorious body kissed by the dusk, by her lips, touched by her hands. She found that she liked this feeling, and she swirled her tongue around the proud thick rod that jutted forth, the smooth, round head of it, and then she sucked him deep inside her mouth.

“Christ, Emma.” A growl rumbled from deep inside him as she drew hard on him, then ran her tongue from base to tip. “Where…? How…?”

She drew back, circling the hard thickness of him with her tongue, then letting him go as she met his gaze. “I liked it when you did it to me. I thought you would like it too.” And he did like it. Of that, she had no doubt.

A raspy laugh escaped him. Rolling with her, he tumbled her back, pulled the clothes from her body, tossed them carelessly aside, kissed her, wet and openmouthed and deep. One hand tangled in her hair, and his mouth pressed to hers, rough with passion, his naked chest brushing her breasts. He bent his head, suckled one nipple as he squeezed and stroked the other with his fingers, and she moaned, lost in the wet heat of his mouth and the pinch of his fingers, her nipples hard and aching.

“Now,” she whispered, and then louder, “Now.”

 And, dear heaven, he was pushing himself up into her, stretching her, filling her as she moaned her pleasure, her body closing around him, her fingers grasping his buttocks.

The feeling was unearthly perfection. Wicked torment and unutterable pleasure. She wanted him so desperately she was trembling with it, burning, half sobbing as he filled her, smooth and slick and hot, and she arched up, her knees bent, heels digging into the sheets as she struggled to draw ever closer, ever tighter, to make them one.

He went deeper still, each move a slow climb to madness, withdrawing then thrusting until she cried out, a high keening sound of wicked pleasure and aching need.

“Oh, please…” She panted, whimpered, every nerve so sensitized she thought surely she would go mad with longing.

Wrapping her legs tight around him, she angled to meet each thrust, gasping as he moved harder, faster, every muscle taut, and then he came into her and held still, his body rigid as a bow. With a cry, Emma shattered, and she felt the pulsing release of him, there, with her.

And for that moment, she could pretend to forget that he had not said he loved her in return.

o0o

As the hour drew close to midnight, Emma snuggled against Anthony’s side, wrapped in the soft cloak of her contentment and the warmth of his embrace.

“Emma, we must talk. About…”

Ah. Her wayward tongue had betrayed her, and now he would speak of it.
I love you.
I love you.
Oh, why had she let the words escape?

A frantic tapping came at her door, forestalling their conversation. Dragging the thick coverlet about her naked body, Emma tiptoed to the portal, relieved that her words of love, her frantic avowal, would not yet be opened to his denial.

She opened the door to find Mrs. Bolifer standing in the dark hallway, her hair falling wildly about her shoulders, her face white with strain.

“Meg’s time has come,” she said tightly. “And she’s in a bad way. The babe’s breach, and her being a wee thing, I have a fear for her life. Her sister’s come for me. Alice. And she’s dreadful afraid.” She looked past Emma into the dim room, her expression indicating that she felt neither surprise nor censure at the discovery of her master in Emma’s bed. “You must come.”

Turning, Emma saw that Anthony was sitting on the edge of the bed, the sheet draped across his loins. He raked his fingers through his hair and shook his head. “I can offer her nothing.”

Emma’s heart twisted at his words.

“You must come,” Mrs. Bolifer insisted.

“I will come, but I will not touch her. You know that I cannot. There is nothing I can do. We both know that now.” He heaved a sigh. “You will be a far greater comfort and help to the girl, Mrs. Bolifer.”

The housekeeper stared at him, her expression bleak, and then she nodded once before hurrying away.

“You
can
offer her something,” Emma whispered, stricken by his refusal. “You are a doctor. A healer.”

“No longer, Emma mine. I am a researcher, a scientist.”

“You can save her,” she insisted, her voice rising. “At least, you can try!”

“Try? And fail?” He shook his head. “Never again.”

Anthony tugged on his clothes and came to stand by her side. He ran the backs of his fingers gently across her cheek. “I cannot. Stay here in case Nicky wakes. There is nothing you can do for Meg.”

Sinking down onto window seat, Emma stared at the empty doorway long after he had left the room, a feeling of indescribable sadness washing over her. She had won a measure of his affection, perhaps even a small corner of his heart, but she had not healed his wounded soul, had not chased away that demons that gnawed at him.

Only he could do that. And until he did, until he healed himself, what hope was there that he would come to love her?

The clatter of hooves on the cobbled drive announced his departure. She thought he must have taken Mrs. Bolifer in the coach and left for Bosherton. She could only hope he would choose rightly once he saw Meg.

She frowned, rubbing her hands along her arms, feeling chilled. Reaching for her gown, she slipped it on first, and then her stockings to warm her cold toes. Something felt wrong. The coldness came from inside of her, clawing icy talons along her limbs. Shivering, she rose and crossed the room.

Silently she eased open the door that joined her chamber to Nicky’s and moved to his bedside. She let out a gasp. The chill intensified, numbing her.

Nicky was not there.

“Nicky!” she called, hurrying to check the hallway. It was empty.

With mounting concern, she returned to her own chamber, wondering if he might have come in after his father left and crawled into her bed, though how he would have done so without her notice she could not say. But no, her chamber was empty as well. She realized she had expected that. Every instinct cried out at his absence. Something was terribly wrong.

Thoughts in turmoil, Emma crossed to the small table, intent on lighting the candle that rested there. She would need light to carry out a search of the house. Perhaps she should wake Cookie and Glynnis, the downstairs maid. Her gaze skimmed the window, and a subtle movement outside caught her attention. She leaned closer, peering through the glass. Two shapes emerged from the shadows, a child and a man dressed in pale breeches. Together they hurried along the drive toward the gate.

Alarm made her stomach pitch. Without pausing to think, she hurried from the room, down the stairs, and out into the night, her breath coming in harsh gasps as she gave chase.

“Nicky!” Emma cried, running now, stumbling at the sharp bite of stones into the soles of her stockinged feet.

The soft nicker of a horse carried on the breeze. An enclosed carriage waited just beyond Manorbrier’s crumbling wall, its hulking shape somehow threatening in the darkness. She watched in horror as the man yanked open the carriage door and lifted the child inside.

“Stop!” she yelled, panic rising in a sickening surge. Oh, God! This was a nightmare. “Stop! Nicky!”

The man’s head jerked up at her cries, and he melted into the shadows. Dr. Smythe, she thought. Dr. Smythe was stealing Nicky away in the dead of night.

Skidding to a halt directly before the carriage door, Emma curled her fingers around the handle. She tugged frantically on the door.

“Climb up beside me on the box,” a voice whispered from directly beside her right ear. “We must be away. There is danger here.”

Not Dr. Smythe.

“Cookie!” Emma spun toward the voice, her relief so acute that she slumped under the force of it, pressing one hand to the side of the carriage. “Oh, thank heaven. I thought”—she shook her head—”never mind what I thought. What are you doing out here at this time of night?”

“Hurry, now. Up onto the box,” Cookie urged. “We must be away as quickly as possible.”

“Why? What is amiss?” Suddenly, she thought of the night she had gone to the portrait gallery, and her certainty that someone had entered the house. “Is there someone in the house? Do you take Nicky to his father?”

“To his father. Yes. A child should be with their
true
parent.” Cookie’s voice was urgent, harsh. “Hurry!”

Frowning, Emma clambered up the side of the coach. The vehicle rocked and swayed as Cookie came up beside her onto the small bench meant to hold the coachman. Taking up the leads, the cook set the carriage in motion.

Fingers curled over the edge of the seat, pressing against the hard wood as the vehicle jolted wildly along the rutted road, Emma wondered at the sharp coil of unease that looped in her belly. Twisting, she sent glance at the road behind her, watching as Manorbrier receded in the distance, a dark smudge against the night sky.
Wrong. Wrong. The night felt wrong.

She turned forward once more, trying to calm her racing heart. A thin glow diffused from the face of the moon, lighting their way. She pressed her fingers harder against the wooden seat, welcoming the pain, focusing on it instead of on her growing distress. Turning her head, she glanced at Cookie. Her expression was intense, lips compressed in a thin line, eyes staring fixedly at the road ahead.

Emma glanced down. Cookie wore breeches. Buff breeches. And polished black boots.

And the smell of lemon mixed with horseradish and turpentine.

Oh, dear heaven.

Pulling away, Emma slid to the farthest edge of the hard little bench, but there was nowhere to go other than over the side and into the black void. Were she alone, she would fling herself from the seat and hope that she could land with little more than a bruising. But she was not alone. There was Nicky, her precious boy, locked in the carriage.

Emma struggled to stem the surge of mindless panic that swelled to monstrous proportions. Clearing her throat against the knot that had lodged there, she raised her voice to overcome the pounding of the horses' hooves. “I…I should ride with Nicky. I do not wish for him to be afraid.”

The cook did not answer. Instead, she stared impassively ahead, flicking the reins and encouraging the horses to greater speed. Emma thought they were traveling at a most dangerous pace already, but when she tried to bring the matter to Cookie's attention, the woman ignored her and flicked the reins anew.

As the carriage careened wildly to one side, she yelled, “Cookie, please slow down! This is dangerous! The carriage will overturn!”

Emma fought the urge to grab Cookie’s arm, fearful that any sudden movement might cause her to lose control of the team. As if her thoughts became reality, the carriage wove precariously from side to side as it lurched around a curve in the road.

“Miss Emma! Miss Emma!” Nicky's panicked cries were muffled by the walls of the coach, the din of the horses, and the rising wind. But some maternal instinct allowed Emma to hear the terror in his voice. The sound of his fear mirrored her own.

“Please!” she cried frantically.

Perhaps it was her own desperation that reached the other woman, or the child’s frantic cries, but at last Cookie eased their wild pace.

“Why are you doing this?” Emma asked. “Where do you take us?”

“A child should be with his true parent. Do you not see? His true parent. No child should be separated from his parent.” A broken sob escaped the cook. “My child was taken from me, separated from me. It isn’t right, isn’t natural.”

“Cookie, please. Take us back to Manorbrier. Take us home.” Emma eyed the taut leather reins, wondering if she could safely snatch them away from Cookie’s grasp. And then what? She had never driven a coach in her life. Dear heaven, she could kill them all.

“Not his home.” Cookie sent her a dark glance. “You read the diary. You
know
. Manorbrier is not Nicky’s home.”

The diary, Delia’s diary. So it was Cookie who had taken it. Suddenly, the puzzle solved itself. The boots and breeches she had glimpsed in the hedge outside the icehouse. The medicinal lemony scent that had haunted her. She recalled Mrs. Bolifer telling her that Cookie prepared her liniment. And Cookie had been nowhere to be found that day when Emma returned to the kitchen from the icehouse, and the night she had sensed an intruder in the portrait gallery, Cookie had been wandering about. It was Cookie. All of it. Cookie.

“Tell me about the diary. I never read to the end. Tell me,” Emma urged, desperate to sway the cook’s attention, hoping to make her slow the coach still more.

“Lord Anthony is not Nicky’s father.”

Emma gasped, and reared back in shock. “Not his father? What do you mean?”

But even as she asked, she knew the answer. Words from the diary, written in flowing feminine script drifted through her thoughts.
The time has come to face the terrible truth. I am pregnant. Pregnant. The terrible, astonishing wonder of it. After the choices I made, I had not thought it possible. He was so angry when I told him. Oh, God, nothing is as it seems. Nothing
.