I Adored a Lord (15 page)

Lord Vitor had suggested that she examine the ladies' garments for blood. How could he imagine she would do that? Perhaps he only wished to busy her with an impossible task. Perhaps he did not in fact wish to pursue the mystery. Perhaps it was not in his interest to discover the murderer's identity. Perhaps . . . perhaps taking her hand behind the rack of armor last night had merely been a diversion to distract her from looking for the dagger.

No guard followed her. Despite Lord Vitor's orders, she had not seen the man assigned to protect her yet. Or had he ever assigned a guard to her?

In the final winding stairwell to the turret room the air was still and cold. Her breaths misted as she reached the top. She turned the door handle and stepped inside.

On the other side of the parlor, a woman was bent forward over a table, her skirts about her waist and her buttocks entirely bared to the winter light streaming through the windows. A man with guinea-­gold hair and breeches around his knees stood between her spread legs, clutching her hips and pumping into her like a rutting ram on a ewe.

Lord Whitebarrow was now accounted for
.

Ravenna's limbs ceased to function.

The woman groaned. “Harder.” Her next groan was a plea. “I beg o' ye, my laird. Harder nou.”

“Vixen,” he grunted and thrust into her with such force that the table creaked.

Ravenna stumbled backward and knocked her shoulder against the door frame. Her muffled “Oh!” sounded beneath Lord Whitebarrow's grunts.

Lady Iona's shoulders twisted around, her breasts spilling out of her gown, eyes wide as she met Ravenna's stare. They gaped at each other in mutual paralysis. The earl reached forward, shoved his hand into Iona's bodice, and drove into her again. Her stunning features slid into a grimace of pain. Eyes closing, she dropped her head and moaned. “Aye, my laird.
Aye
. Just like that.”

Not pain
, apparently.

Ravenna fumbled with the door handle, slipped out, and shut the panel as quietly as she could. Pressing her back against the wall, she struggled for air.

Lady Iona and Lord Whitebarrow.

Lady Iona and Lord Whitebarrow?

Miss Abraccia and Mr. Anders, perhaps. Even Lady Margaret and Lord Prunesly would not have surprised her, if he ever turned his attention away from his studies. But Iona? And Lord Whitebarrow? He was married and she was . . . not a maiden after all, it seemed. True, she'd been making outrageous comments about the gentlemen for days to Ravenna. But in company she behaved modestly.

There was nothing modest whatsoever about her behavior in that parlor with Lord Whitebarrow. Ravenna hadn't known a man could take a woman like a stallion mounting a mare. She always imagined ­people copulated face-­to-­face. They could, after all. It was anatomically more feasible. Female animals had hooves or paw pads to brace themselves. Women did not. Face-­to-­face, a woman would not have to worry about scraped knees or, in this instance, splinters in her elbows. But it didn't seem like Iona had been having trouble with the table arrangement. On the contrary. Lord Whitebarrow hadn't seemed particularly inconvenienced either.

Vixen?

Ravenna could not imagine anyone calling her that.
Hoyden
, yes. Frequently. But
vixen
? She wished she could wipe the sounds and images from her mind. Especially Iona's horrified stare. And her moan of rapture.
The entire thing
. Her stays pinched at her ribs and she felt hot all over.

On the other side of the door the grunting and moaning scaled peaks. Breaking away from the wall, she pressed her fingertips into her eyes and hurried down the winding stairway.

V
ITOR FORCED HIMSELF
to endure another several minutes of the gentlemen's fawning over Sepic before he left the billiards room. Sufficient time had elapsed to dissuade any of them from imagining he was following Ravenna.

He
was
following her, of course.

The night before in the hall he hadn't been able to get distance from her quickly enough. But he'd barely closed his bedchamber door when, greeted by the
yip
of the pup she had forced upon him, he cursed his hasty retreat. Encouraging her to flee from him was a temporary measure at best. He had wanted her since the first time he touched her. Until he'd taken her hand in the dark, however, he hadn't known quite how much.

“Monseigneur,” General Dijon called after him. “Wait a moment, if you will.” He came forward, his posture militarily erect. “My daughter has heard that you and Miss Caulfield are pursuing an investigation of your own into the murder and the theft of her pet.”

“She heard the truth, sir.”

The general's brow relaxed. “
Bien
. Perhaps the criminal will be found.”

“I am afraid we've found more questions than answers.”

“Yet I am reassured.” The general shook his head. “I intend no insult to Sepic. His ser­vice to his community is admirable. But I do not entirely trust in his intelligence.”

Vitor thought it best not to respond.

“You see,” the general said with an air of urgency, “the dog, it is not only a valuable breeder. My wife gave it to our daughter. For long they were—­how do you say?—­incompatible, always misunderstanding each other. My wife, she was despondent, sorrowful. You know the way of women, of course.”

Precious little. Especially the way of one woman.

“My daughter is dear to me beyond telling,” the general said. “But my wife, monseigneur, she is the queen of my heart. She has been that for twenty years. When the gift of the dog brought them into harmony again, I could have asked for nothing else.”

“I see.”

“I trust you will find it.”

“I will.”

First he needed to find the woman. He left the general and went searching. A guard had seen her mount the stairs of the northeast tower. Vitor started up the winding stairs and only a breath came between the sound of soft footsteps pattering downward and her body flying around the spiral.

She slammed into him. “Oh!”

He caught her and grasped her shoulders to steady her, and her gaze upon his chest snapped up. Her eyes were distant.

“What is it?” He scanned the curve of the stair and listened for pursuit. But her face showed confusion, not fear. “From what are you running?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” She ducked her head and tried to shrug out of his hold but he held her. Touching a fingertip beneath her chin, he tilted up her face.

“Tell me.”

“I said it is nothing.”

“I have never seen you run from anything, not even me. Don't lie.”

She was hot to his touch and her gaze darted across his face. “I ran from you in the stable.”

“Ravenna—­”

“But I am not running now. I am moving with haste away from two ­people who should not have been doing what they were doing when I accidentally happened upon them.”

“Two ­people?”

She jerked her chin away and he allowed her to shift out of his grip. But color remained in her cheeks.

“What two ­people?” he said.

“I cannot tell you. I am not Lady Penelope.”

“For which I thank heaven daily.”

She blinked. “You do?”

“Of course.” This morning his contemplation had focused not on the words of the ancient prophets and apostles of scripture, but on her. “How are you not she?”

“I don't spread malicious gossip.”

Ah
. He leaned his shoulder into the stairwell's central pillar. “Telling me whom you saw is not spreading gossip. I will not share the information with others, as I believe you know.”

“I don't know that. How did Lady Penelope learn that I cannot dance?”

“Not from me.”

“And how is it that Mr. Walsh once worked for your father but you hadn't any notion that he would be at this castle in France at precisely the time you and Lord Case are guests here?”

“I don't know. My brother might, but if so he hasn't told me.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Ravenna, I am telling you the truth.”

Her eyes skittered away. “I don't know that the information I just learned is useful to the investigation of the murder.” But even as she spoke, he could see that she doubted her own words, and that troubled her. Her nature did not incline toward secrecy, rather honest clarity. She had the hands of a healer and the beauty of a wild creature, and Vitor wanted to take her into his arms and taste her, now, here, until he had his fill.

She worried her lower lip between her teeth.

“I can nearly see the gears grinding,” he said to distract himself from what he wished to do to her lips.

Her heel shifted up a step, retreating. “My mind is not a clock. There are no gears.”

“Give me your thoughts. Please,” he added.

“It was Lord Whitebarrow, but . . . not Lady Whitebarrow.”

Unsurprising. Like most men of his status, Whitebarrow took what he wanted. More instructive, perhaps, would be the identity of his partner.

A reluctant smile rippled over her lips. “I had the same thought.”

“What thought was that?”

“That with an Ice Countess like his, it's no wonder he looks elsewhere.”

The general's avowal of devotion to his wife came to Vitor as he looked into the dark star eyes of this woman he wanted. “Whitebarrow was not only looking.”

Her gaze retreated into the confusion he'd seen in them when he had touched her the night before. “No,” she agreed.

“Who was he with?”

“I cannot tell you.”

There were few options. Lady Margaret: unlikely. The duchess: unlikely for different reasons. A maid: possibly.

“Lady Iona,” he said.

A breath shot from her. “I cannot confirm that.”

She hid her feelings in dissembling as well as she hid her beauty in plain gowns and unkempt coiffures: without success. Watching her with the other guests had left him with few questions as to her loyalties. “In this house among the women, you would only go to the gallows for Lady Iona or Miss Feathers.”

Her chin lifted infinitesimally. “Perhaps you do not know me well enough to know whom I would protect if I must.”

“I do.”

“Really? Then since you have already pronounced upon my loyalty to the women here, tell me, whom among the men would I defend?”

“Sir Beverley and Pettigrew.”

“Anybody can see that.”

Now he could say what he might have said in the darkness before he had ordered her to go. He could tell her of the desire he had seen in her eyes when he had touched her so simply, the naked longing. He could tell her that he had made her go because he hadn't trusted himself not to take advantage of it.

He said, “And me.”

 

Chapter 11

The Wild Creature

H
er lashes beat once. “You are astoundingly arrogant. But I suppose handsome men are rarely otherwise.”

“I do not speak from arrogance.” He spoke from the certainty born of a single meeting of hands that she was as moved by him as he was by her.

A frown marred the bridge of her nose that was not of classical proportions or fashionably pert and as such was infinitely more adorable. Then she pushed by him and hurried down the steps. “I will question her later. After she is . . . finished.” She seemed to choke on the last word.

Vitor pivoted and descended behind her and grasped her by the arm. The color drained from her cheeks.

He bent his head, willing her to look at him. “You are as skittish as a filly.”

“I have been called many things, but never before a horse. Thank you.”

Damn it
, he felt all sorts of at a loss. He had never done this—­never come close to doing this. He had never needed to say such things aloud. Men simply didn't. He shook his head. “You have nothing to fear. Not from me.” He felt her life beneath his hand and he wanted his words to be true. “Look at me, Ravenna. Look at me.”

Finally she obeyed, and the black stars glittered with panic.

Now he could not say what had finally come to his tongue, untested as it was, and astonishing, and uncertain as he was of its purport. But he could not bear to distress her either. “What happened last night changes nothing.” He would do penance for a month for this lie. “You are a pretty girl and it was a dark place and I am a man and that is all there was to it. We will pursue this mystery and when it is solved the prince's party will commence as planned. Until then let us continue as we were.”

For a moment's silence there was only the chill of the medieval tower and his heartbeats battering his ribs.

Then her lips twitched. “As we were when I nearly drowned in a frozen river and you risked your life to save me?” she said. “Or as we were when I attacked you with a farm tool yet you kissed me anyway?”

Her spirit was irrepressible. He smiled. “Perhaps we should establish an entirely new footing.”

The softest breath of relief issued through her lips. “That would probably be best.”

Now he should release her. But holding her even in this manner felt too good. He sought for words to delay the moment.

“Does their liaison”—­he glanced up the stairs—­“lead you to believe that she might withhold the truth in other matters?”

“No. Not precisely. But . . . Did you see the faces of the others at the moment the prince announced Mr. Walsh's death?”

He had not. He had been watching her, as he had not ceased doing since he first saw her. “No.”

“She did not think to mask her reaction.”

“Which was?”

“Shock, I think. But not generic. She stared as though she were stunned, as though she had not expected him—­Mr. Walsh in particular—­to die.”

“Understandable, perhaps, if she had encountered him earlier in the day.”

“But she had not. She told me that she had not made his acquaintance.”

“Might she have lied about that?”

“I don't know,” she said slowly, her gaze shifting down to his hand still wrapped around her arm. “I shan't tumble down the stairs now, you know.”

He released her.

“And by the by,” she said, “did you truly assign a guard to me? Because if you didn't, I won't heed another word you say to me.” But he could see in her bright eyes that she did not believe this. Her mistrust of him had been momentary, it seemed. “On the other hand,” she said, “if you did, he is woefully negligent.” She started down the stairs again, this time without haste. “You needn't waste the man on me, you know. I have been going about the castle and stables for two days now without incident. More to the point, before this week I spent three-­and-­twenty years going about the countryside largely upon my own governance.”

“You are not now in the countryside but in a castle in which a murderer still dwells.”

She looked over her shoulder at him. “In the normal course of things I can defend myself. Barring the presence of frozen rivers, of course,” she added.

He rubbed his lip that was nearly healed. “I believe you.”

Delight suffused her face. “What a relief that you don't lecture me. Do you know . . . I like you. You're smarter than most humans.”

Vitor's throat was too tight to speak. He bowed.

With a last candid grin, she disappeared below.

S
HE HAD FORGOTTEN
to tell him about the thumbprint in the wax seal. Her steps faltered in the middle of the great hall. But she continued even quicker. Nothing would be accomplished by sharing her suspicions now. It could wait until later. And she was not at all certain she could maintain the facade of nonchalance that she had forced upon herself the moment he called her pretty and followed that up with the assurance that his interest in her behind the armor screen had been entirely—­even predictably—­momentary.

She wanted to believe that he was an honest person. No man, however, had ever called her pretty. Not even her father. Petti occasionally called her a “pretty minx” and encouraged her to dress more befitting her station. But
pretty
?

In a distracted haze she shuffled through the icy slush toward the stable and nearly collided with Cecilia Anders.

“Hello, Miss Caulfield. What a surprise to see your head in the clouds. Are you dreaming of a princely husband, perhaps?”

Ravenna blinked. “No.”

“He favors you, you know.” Miss Anders's hazel eyes were direct, her handsome face without any trace of rancor.

“The prince? I don't think—­”

“He does. You must become accustomed to the idea. You will see. This afternoon when he announces the lady that will play Juliet opposite his Romeo, it will be you.”

“But I'm not even in the play.”

Miss Anders laughed. “How true. You are the reason for it!”

“And yet you seem entirely unperturbed by this.”

“Do not mistake me for those vapid twins, Miss Caulfield. I haven't any intention of throwing myself at the head of a prince.”

“Then why are you here?”

“Sir Henry, of course.”

Ravenna's imagination instantly conjured an image of Sir Henry and Cecilia Anders disposed as Lord Whitebarrow and Iona had been in the turret. This could only mean her wits were addled by
pretty
more than she liked. “What—­ That is, what is your interest in him?”

“His stables, of course. Do you know, Miss Caulfield, that Sir Henry's stallion, Titus, is the most sought after Thoroughbred stud in Britain. Not England, Miss Caulfield. Britain.”

“Is he?”

“With that stallion, my father and Sir Henry could own the racing industry.”

“Your father? Has he an interest in horse racing? I'd thought his scholarship was—­”

“Esoteric? Theoretical? It is. He likes a spirited debate over Aristotle's
De Generationum Animalium
as much as the next man. But, Miss Caulfield, he is far too brilliant to confine his studies to the theoretical realm. Last summer upon a lark I set the racing schedule before him and bid him draw a genealogical table of the animals currently active at Ascot, Catterick Bridge, Beverley, and the Newmarket gallop.” She bounced on her toes. Ravenna had spent years in the company of men devoted to horses yet she had never seen one bounce on his toes.

“Did your father make the table?”

“Not a table. An entire graph. With every pertinent detail of each horse figured upon the vertical and horizontal axes.”

“Oh.” Ravenna had never heard of such a thing. It was clearly far more sophisticated than the sort of bets Taliesin used to make on the races at the Gypsy fair each summer, for which her father predictably scolded him. “Interesting.”

“I hope to encourage Sir Henry to take on my father as a partner,” Cecilia said.

“I see. But you needn't have come all the way to France to meet with Sir Henry.”

“I wished to meet Prince Raynaldo too. His son has no interest in horses, but Raynaldo is one of Portugal's most renowned horsemen. Discovering that he was not to attend was a sore disappointment to me, Miss Caulfield.”

“Miss Anders, did you engineer your invitation to this gathering?” As Arabella had engineered hers.

“My godmother is the Duchess of Hammershire. She is an old termagant, but in devotion to racing we are well suited. She wrote to Prinny and he wrote to Prince Raynaldo on my behalf.”

Lord Prunesly's family had been invited to Chevriot upon a recommendation from the Prince Regent? The layers of privilege and connection and influence among England's elite seemed infinite.

“I must see to Sir Henry's horse now,” she mumbled.

“Of course. But first, Miss Caulfield, I wish to congratulate you.”

“About what?”

“For telling off my brother.”

“Telling him off?”

“I saw you reject him in the corridor before your chamber two nights ago. My compliments.”

And yet Ravenna had not known at the time that she was being watched, like Lord Whitebarrow in the tower parlor. “I didn't cause him permanent damage.”

Lady Cecilia chuckled, but her eyes were fierce. “I wish you had. However much I adore my brother, he often needs a mighty kick in the pantaloons.” Her brow pleated. “I . . .”

“Yes?”

“I worry about his foolishness, Miss Caulfield. I worry that he will hurl himself into danger and I will not be able to help him.” She drew a decisive breath. “But that isn't your concern, of course. The prince is. I shall see you indoors.”

In the stable, Ravenna changed the hoof dressing on Sir Henry's prized stud. After that, a quarter hour spent with the bitch and her four remaining pups restored her peace of mind. Seeking out Sir Henry's head groom, the only person in the stables with whom she could speak English, she asked after the fifth pup.

“Followed his lordship out riding this morning, miss.”

“His lordship?”

“Lord Vitor, miss.”

He'd kept the puppy. Or else he'd gone up the mountain to set it loose.

When she entered the castle, luncheon had already been served. All the guests were present except Lady Iona and Lord Vitor. She avoided looking at Lord Whitebarrow and poked at her food. She had never cared before what titled ladies and gentlemen did, the parties they attended, or their scandals. Petti's stories about society had always amused her, but they meant nothing to her. And she had never, ever before cared what a nobleman thought of her.

Why had he not come to luncheon? Where had he gone without telling her? Was she a fool to trust him when no one else in the house was proving trustworthy? Their secrets and schemes seemed infinite.

Monsieur Sepic had departed for the afternoon and Prince Sebastiao announced that in his absence they would rehearse in preparation for staging the play on the morrow. The party adjourned to the drawing room.

At the door to the drawing room, Sir Beverley paused beside her. “Will you keep a hawk's eyes upon the door here too, as you did at luncheon, all the while pretending that you are not?” he asked.

“I am waiting for Lady Iona. I must speak with her about a matter of importance.” She dreaded speaking with Iona. What were they to say to each other? All had already been said in a single horrified stare.

“My dear girl,” murmured the man who within moments of knowing her had understood her. “You are a remarkably poor liar. I hope you do not attempt it with him.”

Miss Feathers stood alone by a window, nearly part of the shadow of the drapery. Ravenna shook her head at Sir Beverley and went to her.

“Oh, Ravenna, how kind you are to come over.”

“Of course I came over. You are the nicest person in the room, perhaps alongside Mr. Pettigrew.” She refused to include Sir Beverley in that company. “But also, Ann, I am eager to know what you did not finish telling me about your encounter with Mr. Walsh.”

Ann's soft face was pale, her eyes rounder than ever. “I fear I have done a great wrong to withhold that information from the mayor while I have shared it with you. His royal highness puts such faith in Monsieur Sepic.”

“I beg of you, Ann, tell me the rest of your story.”

Ann lowered her voice to the whisper of moth wings. “It was not yet midnight. Perhaps even before eleven o'clock. I had not yet heard the bell chime in the hall. I was walking through the gallery. Papa had bid me braid Mama's hair in the absence of her maid. Mama likes the way I do it. She often asks me to do her hair even when her maid is able.”

Ravenna nodded. Eleanor had tried and tried again to bind her hair so it would please the headmistress at the foundling home, and later their father, and to teach her how to bind it herself. For years. Then one afternoon, watching Ravenna struggle over it, Eleanor had snatched away the ribbons and declared that her hands had been made for much greater tasks than primping. “A girl must be what God intended her to be, not what others expect of her,” she stated. Then she kissed each of Ravenna's palms, tied a single ribbon around her hair, and sent her out into the summer day with Beast.