Lady Midnight (12 page)

"Sancta Maria Mater Dei, or a pro nobis..."

He heard the soft voice, floating from somewhere above him, softly, as if in yet another fever dream. The click of rosary beads, the gentle rustle of cloth. He sucked in a breath, and the scent of lavender overlaying some medicinal tang seared his lungs. It hurt just to breathe, to move at all.

How long had he been like this? An eternity? Was this the afterlife, then?

It was nothing like he had expected. He had not often contemplated Providence in his earthly life, but he did have some vague thoughts that the Vikings had the right of it. A mead hall, with endless streams of alcohol and beautiful Rhine maidens to fulfill his every wish.

Beautiful, raven-haired maidens, with skin like Devonshire cream and swanlike necks. With soft laughter, and a voice like a Renaissance princess.
That
would be paradise. Not this aura of medicine, this feel of cold bed linens under his hands.

He could see the woman in his mind, see her so very clearly. She was very young, but her dark eyes held such depths of wisdom, such pools of knowingness and delicate humor. She leaned toward him with her willowy grace, and said...

"Et in hora mortis nostrae.
Amen."

No!
Not that. She would never say that to him. His princess was all poetry and beauty, not chill prayers.

Katerina,
he thought frantically. Yes, that was her name. Katerina. Like the Renaissance princess he knew her to be, full of mystery and culture and serenity as she glided along the corridors of her palazzo, velvet skirts trailing. She would speak of art and music and the riches of ancient kings, not cold prayers.

He had to see her, to restore her to her place as his princess, his Beatrice, his Laura. His alone.

"Katerina," he gasped aloud. His eyes flew open, and he glanced around frantically. If this was indeed heaven, it was a poor excuse for a paradise. Only bare, whitewashed walls and a sloping ceiling, a floor of pale ocher tiles. An elaborate crucifix hung on the wall just opposite. There were white screens set up on either side of the narrow bed he lay on, and a table next to him held a pottery pitcher and cup, a cluster of glass bottles.

On his other side sat a woman, but not his black-haired princess. This was a nun, her round, plump face framed by a starched black-and-white veil. Her short figure was swathed in black wool, and a rosary of glistening amber and topaz beads threaded through her fingers.

She stared at him with wide brown eyes, her mouth a round
o
of surprise. The clicking and the soft monotony of her words were still.

"Signore!" she whispered. "You are awake. Our Lady be praised!"

He turned his head on the pillow, and tried to move himself into a sitting position. His bones and muscles ached, and seemed turned to useless porridge-like mush. It was impossible agony even to shift. He cried out in raw agony, frustration.

The nun leaped up from her seat and slid her hands beneath him, helping him to sit up against the pillows with practiced efficiency. She smelled of clean lavender and fresh water, and her habit was rough on his skin. Not like the rose-scented silken softness of his dream princess.

"Is this heaven, then?" he whispered hoarsely. "Am I dead?"

The sister chuckled as she smoothed the sheets over him. "Not quite, signore. But this
is
the Convent of the Queen of Heaven. And it was a very close thing. Fra Fillipo administered the last rites to you twice. I'm very glad to see you awake at long last."

She poured out a cup of water and held it to his lips. Only then did he realize how deeply parched he was. He drained the cup, the liquid like a healing miracle to his shriveled throat.

"More," he croaked when it was gone, but she shook her head.

"Slowly at first," she said, replacing the cup on the table and returning to her chair. She took up her abandoned beads and tucked them neatly into her rope belt.

He forced down a sudden rush of hot anger that she dared refuse him. She was a
nun
—he shouldn't strike her. Besides, he was so weak he couldn't kick a kitten. He had to regain his strength, to save it for what was truly important. Finding his princess, wherever she was.

"How long have I been here?" he asked tightly.

"Oh, a very long time. Several months."

"Months!"

She nodded serenely. "You washed ashore on a beach not far from here, after a great and sudden storm. The men who found you brought you here to us, for we are a nursing order. Do you remember any of this, signore?"

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, struggling to find images that would bring her words to life, that would tell him how he came to be here in this damnably weak position. But there was nothing. No memory of the ocean, of coming here to this place of cold prayer and piety. He could only remember
her
, her soft touch on his hand, her dark eyes, whose gaze told him that they belonged together, that they had loved in many lifetimes before and would again.

"No," he muttered. "I don't remember."

"Oh," the sister clucked sympathetically. "That is hard, I know, but it often happens that way with such dire injuries. The memories will return soon. In the meantime, you must rest." She reached out to smooth the bedclothes again, drawing a woolen blanket over his shoulders. "I am Sister Maria Clare, by the way. Do you even remember your own name, signore?"

He
did
remember that, he found. It was balanced on the tip of his tongue. "Julian," he answered. "I am Sir Julian Kirkwood."

Chapter 7

The schoolroom was not large, but it was very pleasant, Kate thought as she studied the space. It was no cramped attic, lightless and chilly. Several tall windows, draped in pale green, let in the daylight, and a fire burned cheerfully in the polished grate, chasing a lingering morning draft from the corners. The room had obviously once been a sitting room, attached to Kate's chamber, but now settees and armchairs were moved out and neat desks, stools, and cushioned wooden seats were brought in. Bookshelves lined the walls, and a comfortable chair was placed next to the fire with an embroidery frame and a small worktable within easy reach.

Yes, it
was
a nice space. Cozy, clean, and, best of all, quiet. Kate let the blessed silence soak into her conscience. This was a room that could be her own—hers and the girls she was to teach. The past, the future, they were both far away in here. Only the present mattered.

She sank down onto the soft seat by the fire, running her fingertips over the plush green velvet upholstery as she remembered the morning just past. When she first awoke in her new bed, she couldn't shake off a sense of confusion, disorientation. Her sleep was so full of dreams, strange visions of the sea, of gardens, of crazed sheep chasing her across gray landscapes. They cast their sticky-cobweb spell over her even when she opened her eyes, and for an instant she imagined she was back in Venice.

Where is Bianca with my chocolate?
she had thought irritably, pulling the bedclothes up over her head.

But the sheets were not her own blue, monogrammed silk, and there were no gondolier songs or slapping of water outside her window. And she remembered. Venice was gone. She was in Yorkshire, at a house called Thorn Hill. The home of the archangel Michael.

As she burrowed deeper under the bedclothes, she recalled everything—especially their walk in the garden, all alone in the moonlight. The way he watched her, as if he could discover all her secrets just by studying her face. The way he smiled, with those beguiling, unexpected dimples. How warm and strong his touch was when his hand lightly brushed her arm as they walked.

It was dizzying, almost like another dream. Yet it was real;
he
was real—not like the insane sheep she fled in her sleep.

Sheep might actually be preferable.

Kate heard a click at the latch of her bedroom door then, and pulled the bedclothes away from her face to see a young, freckle-faced maid coming into the chamber bearing a tray of rolls and tea. All she could think was praise be to San Marco that she wouldn't have to face the Lindley family over the breakfast table! She would have a few more hours to compose herself.

"Good morning, miss," the maid greeted cheerfully when she saw that Kate was awake. She put the tray down on the bedside table and hurried over to open up the window draperies. The light that poured in was weak and pale, but not gray as it was yesterday. "My name is Sarah, and Mrs. Jenkins said I was to bring you breakfast, and see if you need any help this morning."

"Mrs. Jenkins?" Kate said stupidly. The rigid old housekeeper had actually sent someone up to help
her,
the governess?

Odd. Someone, probably Lady Darcy, must have ordered her to do it.

"Yes, Mrs. Jenkins, the housekeeper," Sarah said. She poured out a steaming cup of brown, bracing-looking tea and passed it to Kate. "You met her yesterday, miss." Sarah suddenly giggled, and clapped her hand to her mouth. "Oh, no! You're
not
a miss, are you? You're a missus. Mrs. Brown. I beg your pardon."

"That's quite all right," Kate answered, bemused. She had never met a young housemaid quite so giggly before. Or so fidgety. Sarah twitched at her apron, staring around at the room.

"Here, Mrs. Brown, have a roll," Sarah said, plopping the warm, yeasty bread onto a plate. "Cook just made them—they're piping hot."

"Thank you," Kate murmured. She took a nibble of the proffered roll, and it was indeed delicious, studded with currants and almond slivers. So far, every detail of this house was perfect. It was so much more than she surely deserved. A lovely room, welcoming people, a perfect currant roll—and all the time she was lying to them. Selfishly grasping at all they offered when she had nothing to give in return.

The thought made the delicious bread turn to cold ash on her tongue. She put it back on the plate and took a long gulp of tea.

"Hot water for washing is on the way," Sarah said, oblivious to Kate's sudden fit of conscience. "Can I do anything else for you, Mrs. Brown? I'm very good with hair. I dress Lady Christina's."

Kate remembered Christina's wild mane of tangled curls and had to smile. That wasn't much of a boast. "Thank you, Sarah, but my hair is fairly easy for me to dress myself."

Sarah obviously didn't want to leave, though. She kept on plucking at her apron, her gaze darting around the room. Perhaps she had an unpleasant task waiting for her, or maybe she was just curious about a newcomer to the household. Either way, Kate took pity on her. She pushed back the blankets, and as she swung her legs out of bed and reached for her dressing gown she said, "Perhaps you would be so kind as to help me brush it, though, Sarah. As you can see, I forgot to braid it last night before I retired, and now it is quite a mess."

Sarah's eyes lit up. "Oh, yes! Of course, Mrs. Brown."

Kate settled at the dressing table and handed the maid her brush. As Sarah dragged the bristles rhythmically through the black strands, surprisingly gentle as she detangled the knots, Kate's eyes slowly drifted shut. She had forgotten how soothing and delicious such a simple thing as hair brushing could be. It felt sinfully luxurious.

"So, you are from Italy, Mrs. Brown?" Sarah said, smoothing Kate's hair over her shoulders. She pronounced it
Eye-taly.

Kate gave a half smile without opening her eyes. The maid had fidgeted from curiosity, then. "Yes. From Venice."