Lady Midnight (18 page)

He had had the same sense out on the moor that day, when she spoke of the spirits.

The tall clock in the corner chimed the half hour, and Michael was suddenly starkly aware that time, which had seemed to stretch on eternally as he held Kate, had really only been a short second. An instant of heat and intimacy that was now fled like so much candle smoke.

"I am sorry, K—Mrs. Brown," he said. His voice was hoarse, catching in his throat as if he had run a great distance across the moors. He lowered her carefully to her feet, feeling the lithe length of her body against his. She swayed a bit, like she stood in a great wind, and he held her arm until she stood strong on her own feet. Only then did he release her entirely.

His arms felt strangely bereft as they fell to his side, his skin cold.

She took a small step back but then stood still, her arms wrapped about her waist, her gaze still focused on the window. What was she thinking? What did she see there? She gave no clues in her perfect stillness.

More and more, Michael felt that Kate Brown was a book written in some mysterious ancient language, one he desperately wanted to know the contents of but that he could never hope to read. He had lost the code to that language in the midst of hard work and respectability. The puzzles of young, sad ladies were beyond him.

He ran his shaking hands through his hair, and tightened the sash of his dressing gown. He was suddenly quite acutely aware that he wore nothing beneath the velvet robe, and that his body had responded insistently to the allure of hers.

"I am sorry I startled you, Mrs. Brown," he said again, his tone now marginally more steady. "I thought no one would be down here, and when I saw the light I wondered if it was a servant snooping about after hours. I never meant to make you fall."

She turned back to him, and gave him a small half smile. Her cheeks were faintly dusted with pink, but her eyes were clear and direct as they met his. "It is quite all right, Mr. Lindley. There is no harm done, as you see. Your quick action saved the day—or rather, the night. And I also apologize. I did not mean to—snoop. I just could not sleep and thought I would try to find a new book to read."

Michael frowned at her interpretation of his words. "Oh, no, Mrs. Brown, I did not mean to imply that
you
are a servant. Some of the footmen and maids like to use this room for a moment of stolen flirtation, despite Mrs. Jenkins's best efforts. I think they are quite harmless, myself, but it would never do for her to catch them. You are perfectly welcome to borrow any books you like."

Her smile widened, her eyes sparkling with an alluring hint of mischief. "Am I
not
a servant, Mr. Lindley?"

"Of course not. You are more of a—companion to Amelia and Christina."

"I hope I am their companion, too, as well as a potential friend. But fifty pounds per annum says differently." This last was spoken so quietly as she turned away that he almost thought he did not hear her right.

He had to laugh aloud, and he fancied he heard an answering chuckle from her. He glimpsed a volume on the floor where she must have dropped it when she fell. Its pages were splayed open. Michael bent down and picked it up, turning it over to examine the cover.

"Legends of Yorkshire?"
he asked.

"Oh, yes." She hurried forward and took the book from him, her cool fingers just barely brushing his hand enticingly before sliding away. "Your sister told me a most intriguing tale on our walk this afternoon, and I wanted to read more of it."

"Which tale is that, Mrs. Brown?" Michael's leg was beginning to ache a bit, along with other, more sensitive parts of his anatomy. He sat down in one of the upholstered chairs by the fireplace and gestured for her to sit across from him. She eyed the seat uncertainly, as if it might suddenly turn into a dragon and bite her delectable backside if she tried to lower herself onto the cushions. He smiled to try to put her at some ease. "Is it the trolls that hide beneath the bridges? The barghest, with glowing red eyes? Peg o'the Well, who drags unsuspecting children down to join her at the bottoms of wells?"

She laughed at last, and sat down in the chair, holding her book on her lap. "Nothing so unromantic, though I do think now I shall never cross another bridge for thinking of trolls. She told me there is a city under the waves of Semerwater, drowned by a curse."

"Ah, yes. I have heard that, too, though I can't say I believe it. The waters there are usually quite calm, but sometimes a storm blows up almost out of nowhere, whipping up the waves and swelling the rivers that feed into the Semerwater until they overflow their banks. But no bits of any city have ever washed up."

She turned her face to the side, her smile fading, and Michael suddenly felt like the greatest heel alive. "I am sorry, Mrs. Brown. You were once in a boating accident, were you not?"

She nodded. "I was. And I was fortunate to survive, as my poor mother did not."

"I am sorry," he repeated. It seemed to be all he could say tonight. Once, he had possessed the glib gift of charming ladies. Now it seemed he could only make them sad. "It is a hard thing to lose a parent. My father died several years ago, but Charles, Christina, and I still miss him very much. He was a good man."

"And my mother was a good woman. Or at least she tried to be." Kate gave a strangely wistful, bittersweet laugh. "She would be happy to see me making a new life here, though it seems I cannot escape from cities made of water."

"But Yorkshire is hardly Venice. Almost no one wears a mask, for one thing."

Her laughter turned lighter, and she seemed to settle back in her chair a bit.

"Perhaps we could take a picnic to the Semerwater one day soon, so you can see it for yourself," Michael said. Then he really heard himself, and hastily added, "With Christina and Amelia, of course."

"Of course," she answered quietly. She seemed to think about it for a moment, then finally nodded, as if having concluded that a picnic might be relatively harmless. "Thank you, Mr. Lindley. I should like that very much. I do love this country, at least what I have seen of it. It is strange, but beautiful. Almost enchanting."

Michael thought those very words could perfectly describe Kate Brown herself. Strange. Beautiful. Enchanting. "Then we shall go on the next fine day, if you can make space in your lesson plans."

"I can make it
part
of the lessons," she answered. "I'm sure Lady Christina would appreciate a day outdoors, away from deportment and curtsies."

Michael chuckled. "No doubt of that. Poor Tina. Mother is determined to make a fine lady of her."

"She is fine enough as she is. Perhaps I can give her a bit of polish, though. A way to make her feel more comfortable when she must go out in Society."

"If anyone can, Mrs. Brown, I am sure it is you. Tell me, how are your lessons progressing?"

She settled back into the cushions and told him of Christina's mishaps with curtsies, Amelia's progress with French verbs. He laughed at the image of Christina clumping her way through deep Court curtsies, and feared he beamed proudly at the news of Amelia's quick language skills.

"She is a very intelligent young lady," Kate concluded. "Wise beyond her years, I suppose. She feels things very deeply."

Michael nodded, thinking of his daughter's solemn blue eyes, always watching everything around her. "I fear she still misses her mother. Another lost parent, you see. I try my best to help her, as do Mother and Tina. That was why I came down here tonight. I thought I heard a noise from her chamber, and I went to look in on her. She sometimes falls out of bed at night."

Kate gave him a rueful smile. "That noise was probably me. I checked on her before I came to the library. She was fine—she had just kicked off the bedclothes, so I tucked her back in."

Michael laughed. Something strange and warm sparked in his heart at the thought of Kate bending tenderly over little, sleeping Amelia. "Thank you for that, Mrs. Brown."

"Of course. She is truly a lovely child."

They fell into a silent moment, punctuated only by the click of the branch against the window. Michael knew he should retire, leave this improper situation of sitting around with Kate while they were both clad only in their nightclothes. He had more work to do tomorrow, the wall to finish repairing. But he was loath to leave her enticing presence.

"I do have a confession to make," she said softly, gently breaking into the quiet.

A confession?
Michael glanced at her sharply. Midnight confidences were not what he expected from the mysterious, self-contained Mrs. Brown. But he was willing—eager—to hear anything she wanted to say. "A confession?"

"Yes. The maid who dressed my hair this morning said you have Italian
objets
in here."

"And you would like to see them? Of course you would—being Italian."

She nodded, almost shy. "I
would
like that very much. But it is too dark now, yes? And too late."

He noticed then that her eyes were shadowed in purple, her shoulders drooping. It was late, and he was ungentlemanly for keeping her awake just to talk to him, to keep him from his nightmares.

But he still did not want to let her go.

"I can show them to you tomorrow, then, or the day after," he said. "Whenever you like. I always enjoy showing off my Italian treasures."

"Thank you, Mr. Lindley." She stood up, the folds of her dressing gown falling around her. Michael followed her, reaching down to the floor for his abandoned walking stick. "I will walk with you back to your chamber, Mrs. Brown. The corridors can be quite dark."

She shook her head. "No, that is quite all right, Mr. Lindley. Thank you. I found my way down here just fine. I'm sure I can make my way back."

He knew that she was quite right. What if someone saw them together, slipping through the house so late at night? His mother, Amelia, or Mrs. Jenkins, patrolling the corridors for errant maids. What a scandal! But he still did not like to think of her alone in the dark corridors. He reached for a single candle in a silver holder and lit it from the candelabra. He handed it to her, and said, "Then I bid you good night, Mrs. Brown. Thank you for our conversation."

"Good night, Mr. Lindley." She turned, her candle held high, and walked slowly away down the length of the library. She moved like the perfect lady, back straight, head held high, her hair glossy in the amber candlelight. He watched her hungrily, longingly, until the door clicked shut behind her.

Michael leaned on his stick, his head bowed, and took in a deep breath. And another.

Once he thought he could walk in a straight line again, he followed her path along the floor, his stick thumping hollowly against the polished floor. Hanging above one of the low, glass-topped cases of Italian treasures was a portrait, small and square in a silver-edged frame.

Caroline, young and lovely in a white gown sashed in cherry red, her shining curtain of guinea gold hair falling over her shoulders. She held a branch of spring cherry blossoms between her fingers, and she seemed to smile down at him. Sweetly, knowingly. As if she sensed his intrigue toward Mrs. Brown—and approved.

Or was it his imagination?

Chapter 10

The schoolroom was quiet in the gray midmorning, full of the efficient air of scholarly industry. Kate had set Amelia to tracing a map of England and marking the various counties with different colored pencils. The child murmured inaudibly to herself as she bent her golden head over the task, obviously absorbed in the dilemma of whether Kent should be green or blue. Christina studied Italian today, copying out vocabulary. All the words she chose from the Italian grammar book had to do with plants and trees, of course.

Kate sat beside her, occasionally offering assistance with pronunciation but otherwise occupied with her own ostensible task of mending her stockings.

Her needle moved in and out of the finely knit cloth, but her thoughts were far away from the routine chore. Far away even from the cozy schoolroom. She could not forget her moments in the library with Michael Lindley last night. The few precious moments that seemed more like a dream now than anything in the real world.

She loved sitting there with him in the dim candlelight, surrounded by books and the shadowed, unseen artifacts of her homeland. Loved talking with him, hearing his voice. She knew very well she should not have stayed there—for a governess to sit about in her dressing gown with her employer was impropriety of the first order, and could have led to all manner of trouble. Yet, somehow, Kate had never felt safer, warmer, more secure in her life.