Lord Monroe's Dark Tower: The Albright Sisters: Book 2 (14 page)

Nausea ground in Claire’s stomach. “But you said she was sick.”

“We thought she would die, but she stood there in the night, and trip after trip, she forced the servants to bring it all back to the tower — covered in dirt, foul beyond measure. I tried to reason with her — begged her to let me burn the old things, send them to heaven in the smoke where they would be made new and pure again, a true gift to Hernando, but there is no reasoning with an unreasonable mind.” He stopped talking suddenly and seemed to have aged tenfold.

Seeing him so devastated, Claire longed to put her arms around him and kiss away his pain. If Abella were away even for a few short months, he could regroup. “Could her mother … ?”

He shook his head. “Her mother … can’t take her back.”

“What about relatives, cousins?”

“Stop.” He hit the table hard. “Not another word. Her brother asked me to look out for her. The man saved my life.” He kicked back his chair and stormed from the breakfast room.

Flavian’s footfalls echoed through the walls of Bingham Hall
. Tight, confining. Scarcely enough air to breathe in this house
, he thought. He rounded a corner on the way to the conservatory. Why did he ever invite Claire to visit? Her presence was a colossal failure of his rational mind to control the whim of his emotions … and of his lust. When he’d seen her last night alone and racing across the lawn like a forest nymph, she’d stolen his self-control. The woman stirred him, and he was powerless against her charms.

She must leave soon, before his resolve snapped. What kind of future could they have? And oh, how she would despise him if he tied her to this house of debt and despair.

She wouldn’t remain much longer; the jeweler had written he’d found a pearl to match the one on Hernando’s watch fob. A few weeks more and the earrings would arrive. But what if — he came to an abrupt halt. What if she felt that he cared nothing for her? That she was a mere dalliance who, as a side benefit, concocted some herbs for Abella, too? What if she fled this house hating him? His gut dropped. He’d always pictured himself bending close to her, breathing the sweet rose and bergamot of her skin
,
and
telling
her how grateful he was for everything: for her compassion that brought forgiveness to his life, her presence, which warmed him to the bone, her smile that lit his heart, her beauty, which dazzled him, and her arms that wrapped around his soul. When he presented her with the earrings, he wanted her to know that he cared deeply, but circumstances made a life together impossible. Yet, she was a woman he’d kissed and then scarcely spoken to.

Panic swept through his blood. If she were following, he ought to have heard her footsteps by now. Flavian turned and raced back down the corridor, catching up with her just as a slippered foot touched the first stair leading upstairs. “I came back for you,” he blurted.

She looked tired and preyed upon by hurt. “My stomach is a bit unsettled. I thought I’d lie down.”

He put his hand on hers as she gripped the rail. “Please forgive my pique this morning. It was inexcusable of me.” The words sounded stiff, even to him — not at all expressive of his feelings.

Confusion worried her features. He realized she must be wondering if she should retreat to her room, sooth her injured heart as best she could, and then pack for London. “Please, please,” he said, “come join us in the conservatory.”

Claire balanced herself on the stair. He knew she was studying him for signs he would reject her again. If only for a moment, he wanted her to see how much her presence at Bingham Hall meant to him. He dropped the veil of cool detachment and met her gaze with his raw and injured soul.

• • •

The sweet notes of Abella’s voice drifted through Claire’s troubled thoughts as she sat in the music room.
He saved my life
, Flavian had said of Hernando. She admired his loyalty, but she couldn’t chase back the feeling that Abella’s brother played only a partial role in Flavian’s unhappy story.

A high note from the girl pierced Claire’s thoughts and she gasped in alarm. Since this morning’s incident in the tower, her legs nearly broken by the oncoming barrel, Abella’s voice filled her with dread. Heat rushed to her cheeks. Guiltily looking around the conservatory to see if anyone noticed, she caught Flavian’s eye. Without taking his gaze from his ward, he lowered his hand and squeezed her fingers.

She squeezed back, and in that instant, Abella’s singing faltered.

“Pardon, I make mistake.”

Flavian’s hand remained around Claire’s, but the digits had gone stiff, and was it her imagination, or had the warmth drained away?

Abella’s focus remained on the music. She seemed oblivious to them, and continued fumbling with the keys of the pianoforte. As with a blocked chimney, however, the room filled with the girl’s displeasure. “Stupid
manos
,” she mumbled, flexing her fingers.

Claire slipped her hand from his grip and rested it in her lap.

Still without looking up, Abella smiled and made another attempt at the verse. This time her voice sailed through the difficult passage with the grace of a dancer.

Claire kept her eyes off Flavian, though she occasionally felt his gaze drift toward her. Had she become afraid of upsetting Abella? Perhaps as afraid as he must have become after all these years. The pensive atmosphere of Bingham Hall … could both servants and master be constrained by a dread of Abella’s reaction? But these thoughts were ridiculous. As she’d told herself before, it was impossible for anyone to predict the direction that monstrous barrel would roll.

At the end of the song, the girl shuffled the sheets of music propped on the pianoforte. “What I sing next?” she said, more to herself than to them.

“Play something cheery,” Mrs. Gower said. “I liked the tune about the lovers.”

Abella’s features clouded. “In this song, the damsel die.”

“Then don’t play it,” said Flavian. But his ward hit the keys hard, drowning him out.

About midway through the song, her nimble fingers failed again. She halted as if stunned and looked at the instrument in confusion. “I start again.”

The notes rang true through the stanza, but stumbled on the next passage. “Maybe I tired,” she said, collapsing into herself like a rag doll, balanced, but without the bones to hold the doll up.

The herbal remedy must be working, Claire realized, and triumph swept through her veins.

• • •

Days later, as Flavian sat working in his study, he realized that for the first time in years, he rose in the morning without the weight of Abella’s illness pinning him to the bed. A week of tinkering with the dose — of allowing the girl’s body to adapt to the medicine — had resulted in a radical change in her behavior. The collecting stopped. The outbursts at the table ended. Granted, she slept a great deal. Also, her concerts weren’t quite as lively, but peace — at last — had settled on the house. He hadn’t realized how carefully they’d all tread for fear of a tantrum. And it was Claire — magnificent Claire — who’d brought about this miracle.

Now that the cure he’d longed for had been achieved, what reason had he to keep Claire at Bingham Hall? None.

He pictured her at Almack’s surrounded by a hive of marriage-seeking dandies. Her intelligence, beauty, gentle spirit, breeding, and money would make her a prime target.

An overwhelming desire to see her lifted him from his desk chair and propelled him to the window. A stack of correspondence beckoned from the desk. His secretary glanced up worriedly then lowered his eyes and broke the seal on another envelope. “How extraordinary … My lord, a piece of good news.”

“What’s that?”

The secretary waved the letter. “It’s from your solicitor.”

Flavian scanned the missive then read it again slowly.

“By God,” said Flavian, shaking his head in wonder, “this is astounding news!”

The secretary removed his glasses and wiped them with his waistcoat. “Barring unforeseen disaster, my lord, this year’s crop should cover your complete debt. For the first time in a decade Bingham Hall will be unencumbered.”

Flavian circled the room, reading the letter once more just to be sure he hadn’t misinterpreted it. “Astounding … ” If only Claire were here, he’d kiss her to celebrate. He’d kiss her several times — over and over, in fact. Battening down desire, he returned to his seat behind the desk and crossed his legs. “We’ll have a feast and invite the town. Roast pig and venison. Vats of ale and pies filled with harvest apples.”

The secretary, who usually hid his smile, now exposed a full row of twisted teeth. “The locals will like that, but do we want to tell them what they’re celebrating?”

“There’s probably not a single one of them who won’t guess. All of Bournemouth suffered from my brother’s greed and bad judgment. Still, let’s not announce it. Besides, one mention to Apple Bess and she’ll have the news out faster than a rabbit grows a new hare.” The secretary hid his mouth behind his hand, while Flavian threw his head back and laughed.

The room suddenly darkened — a cloud had squatted before the sun. Dusk was falling, and the cloud would likely grow its shadow until morning. The desire to see Claire gripped Flavian with the power of a brawler at a pub. Before lunch she’d declared a desire to collect more St. John’s wort while the herb’s yellow flowers still bloomed. He scanned the broad sweep of lawn out to the horizon, which was dotted with white puffs floating on pink underbellies. Not a trace of her. The image of her hip, the sharp angle of the bone illuminated in the moonlight, the flat of her stomach with its round little cleft in the center, vied with the tug of responsibilities waiting on the desk.

“Betteridge-Haugh visited earlier,” the secretary droned, “Though his message was not urgent, Squire Radcliff has dammed a portion of the stream running through the north pasture. His action caused a slowdown in the water’s flow. In turn, our fish now lack sufficient depth to spawn.”

The secretary folded his hands on the desk and sniffed, expecting a reply.

“Oh, to hell with it,” Flavian said.

“Beg pardon, my lord?”

“Write to that fool Radcliff and tell him I’ll tear his dam down with my bare hands if he doesn’t release more water. I’m going for a walk.” Without waiting for the secretary’s answer, Flavian strode through the door and took the stairs to his room, two at a time.

At the top stood Simmons, nonchalantly talking to a maid who, on her knees, ran a rag under a console table. “Simmons, come. I need your assistance immediately,” he said. The valet nearly knocked his companion over in his haste to obey.

Minutes later, Flavian slammed through the door to the garden and stepped into the soft gray of dusk. Heat rose in his blood as he surveyed the area. Because of the moisture in the air and the lateness of the hour, the sky behind the Greek temple had turned mauve. “If I were an attractive maiden, where would I wander?”

“Mr. Ross,” he shouted to a worker, who had just thrown a fistful of weeds onto the path of the formal garden. “St. John’s wort — where does it like to grow?”

“Are you looking for the young lady, my lord? I sent her to the lake. Sandy soil. Plenty of sun.”

“Am I that obvious?”

The workman grinned. “Aye, my lord.”

As Flavian passed the barns, he thought of getting his horse, but restlessness kept his legs in motion. He recognized the dangerous heat in his groin; perhaps the long walk would cool his ardor. All he wanted to do was tell Claire the good news. Nothing more.

Plunging into the fringe of trees ringing the lake, his temperature climbed.
She’s a healer here for Abella only. You cannot marry her.
Marry her? That he would even consider such a thing surprised him. Yet the debt was almost paid off, and Abella was behaving … .
No, you’re cursed
.
Leave off such thoughts.
With each stride he repeated like a mantra, “Healer. Healer. Healer,” but his words died with the memory of her breasts, warm and round in his hands. “Claire!” he yelled, “Claire!” He started to run. “Claire!”

Half way around the lake, he finally heard her answering call. His heart lurched when he caught sight of her. Dressed in pale green, she stood surrounded by a sea of yellow flowers. A straw bonnet shaded the perfect oval of her face. His eyes scrolled down her bodice. Between her breasts, she’d tucked a tiny bouquet of wild flowers: purple, pink, yellow, and white. He swallowed.

As he strode toward her, she said, “This spot has enough St. John’s wort to supply … ” He crushed the end of her sentence with a kiss. All the frustration, all the passion he’d whipped back since she’d come to Bingham Hall, broke free the instant his mouth met hers. He tipped her till her bonnet came off and dangled by the string around her throat. His tongue parted her reluctance and demanded her participation while he explored the wet grotto of her mouth.