“Aye. So I am. What of it?”
“I’ll thank you to leave my chambers at once.”
He gave her a silly grin. “You’d thank me a whole lot more if I stayed.”
“Oh.” She scrambled out of bed and headed across the room. Thor pranced at her side.
“Where are you going?”
“I’m taking you to your bed.”
His smile grew. “Now there’s a good lass. I never dreamed this would be so easy.” He followed, draping an arm lazily over her shoulder.
She pushèd his arm away and strode through the sitting chamber and into the hall, closing the door behind her, taking care not to make a sound. The last thing she needed was to have someone hear them. The whole household would be buzzing with gossip and rumors by morning.
With a silly grin he draped an arm around her shoulders and leaned heavily against her. He was like a deadweight, as he pushed his face close to hers. “I suppose I should have asked you weeks ago.”
“Asked me what?”
“To come to my bed. Had I known you’d be so agreeable...” He paused to nibble her neck.
“Stop that.” She slapped him away. “We have to get to your room.”
He blinked, then grinned. “Oh. Aye. You’re in a burry, I see. Well then...” He tried to walk faster and succeeded in weaving, dragging her with him as he bumped into a wall.
He gave a muttered oath before squaring his shoulders and plunging forward. They rounded a corner and paused at the door to his chambers, where Thor stood, his tail swishing, tongue lolling.
“Here we are, my sweet thing. And not a minute too soon.”
As she paused to nudge open the door he pulled her back against him and pressed his mouth to her ear. “Oh, the things I’ll show you.” His lips nuzzled her neck while his hands closed around her, resting just below the fullness of her breasts. “Treasure beyond belief, my lady. A garden of delight.”
For a moment Olivia went very still, feeling her bones turn to liquid, her blood turn to fire. Then, reminding herself that he was very drunk, and probably wouldn’t remember a thing about this in the morning, she disengaged herself from his arms and firmly opened the door.
“Come, my lord.” With a crook of her finger she beckoned him across the room toward the bed.
“Aye. Willingly. I can’t wait to taste the nectar of your lips.”
“I believe you’ve tasted enough nectar for one night.” She paused beside the bed and, while the hound curled up before the fire, considered whether or not to relieve Quenton of his clothes and boots.
He drew her into his arms and buried his lips in a tangle of hair at her temple. “Oh, you smell so good. Like a summer garden. Have I told you how much I love the smell of lavender?”
“And you reek of ale, my lord.” She decided her best course of action was to dispose of him as quickly as possible.
“Let me help you with your night shift, my lady.” As he released her and reached for the buttons of her gown, she pressed both hands against his chest and pushed with all her might.
He tumbled backward into the bed and thrashed among the linens, looking for all the world like a turtle trapped on its back.
“Are you...ready to join me, my lady?” he managed finally.
All he heard in answer was the slamming of his door. And the sound of footsteps retreating along the hall.
And then the room spun dangerously out of control. And he knew that on the morrow he would pay a dear price for tonight’s momentary lapse.
Chapter Twelve
“G
ood morrow, miss.” Scowling, Edlyn entered Liat’s chambers and stood watching as the nursemaid helped her young charge work on his letters. “Mistress Thornton sent me to fetch you. You and the lad have been summoned by His Majesty to the dining hall.”
Olivia looked up in alarm. “Did she say why?”
The servant nearly smiled, then caught herself. “Nay.”
“Thank you, Edlyn.” Olivia tried to shake off the feeling that the surly servant was studying her a little too carefully.
She had seen a shadow in the hallway when she’d taken leave of Quenton’s chambers, and had the feeling that someone had been watching. If it had been a servant, the scandal of the nursemaid and the lord of the manor would be all over the household by now. But there was something much worse to fret over. Last night she had overheard secrets not intended for her ears.
She ran a brush through Liat’s hair and gave him a glance of approval before catching his hand and heading toward the door.
“Do you think the king is going to punish us for what we did last night?”
“If he does, it is because we deserve it. What we did was very wrong.”
Though she spoke firmly, her heart was pounding. Liat was certainly safe, since he had fallen asleep and had heard nothing of importance. She, on the other hand, knew that Quenton had been a spy for his country. Knew also, that the king was considering accepting help from certain individuals in exchange for favors. Dangerous knowledge indeed.
Perhaps it would be even worse if the king heard about Quenton’s drunken display, and had somehow learned that she had been in Quenton’s chambers. Would such an indiscretion offend King Charles? Would she be publicly humiliated? Would her actions bring shame upon Quenton and his family?
By the time she arrived at the great hall she had worked herself up into a case of nerves that had her pulse hammering in her temples.
Pembroke announced them. “Majesty, Miss St. John and young Master Liat.”
“Thank you, Pembroke.” The king looked up from his platter, which was heaped with thinly sliced beef, a joint of fowl and several slices of bread still warm from the oven. In his hand was a tankard of hot mulled wine.
To his one side sat Bennett, whose skin was the color of wax. Beside him was Minerva, whose pleas that he eat something were being ignored.
On the other side of the king sat Quenton, toying with a goblet of water.
Both brothers looked so miserable, Olivia felt certain her fears were correct. Had she brought shame upon all of them?
“Ah, Miss St. John. Liat. Come closer, so that I can better see you.”
Olivia felt heat rush to her cheeks and cursed this weakness that had her blushing so easily.
“Will you join me for some meat and fowl?”
“Join you...?” She caught herself before she started to babble. “We have already broken our fast, Majesty.”
“Then sit and watch me eat. I crave some pleasant company.” He pointed his tankard at Bennett and Quenton. “My two hosts are extremely unpleasant company this morrow.”
“Perhaps it is something they drank,” Olivia muttered as she took a seat beside Quenton.
He shot her an angry look before glancing away.
“There was a time,” Charles said between bites, “when I envied these two their strong Stamford constitutions. But they’ve obviously grown old and weak. Very soon now, I’m afraid, they’re going to need someone to cut their food and tuck them into bed each night.” He waited a beat before adding, “Perhaps what each of them needs is a wife.”
Quenton’s jaw clenched, and for a moment it looked as though he might counter with an equally cutting remark of his own.
Charles quirked a brow. “Something you care to say to your king, Lord Stamford?”
“Nay, Majesty,” he managed through his teeth.
Charles chuckled. “I thought not. Ah well. Perhaps later tonight you’ll find your voice.”
“Aye, Majesty. You can depend upon it.”
The king glanced beyond him to Olivia. “Lord Stamford has been kind enough to plan a day of hunting. I hope you and the lad will join us again.”
“Of course, Majesty.” She would have agreed to almost anything, as long as it meant she was not to be publicly humiliated by the king.
“Good.” He pushed aside his platter and called, “Mistress Thornton. My compliments to Cook. That was excellent. I can’t wait to sample her next meal.”
Quenton and Bennett groaned. And longed for their beds.
“Come on, boy.” Quenton opened the door and Thor raced ahead of him to the garden.
Quenton knew he needed this late-night walk as much as the hound, to work off his energy, to settle his mind. Once again he’d been forced to play the part of host, drinking with Charles, reminiscing with him about their boyhood pranks.
What dreams they’d had. What grand plans. Charles had been so determined to ascend to the throne. He had spent his life in single-minded pursuit of the crown. Yet, now that it was his, he wore it grudgingly.
Bennett, the baby of the group, had wanted so badly to be treated as a grown-up. He’d kicked, fought and scrapped his way to acceptance by the others. And here he was, being carried about like an infant.
Even his own dreams of spying for the monarchy had only come about because of family tragedy. And though the work had given him a measure of satisfaction and had helped him put his personal problems aside, it had solved nothing. For all his cleverness, he had no answers to the mystery surrounding the death of Antonia and the disastrous injury to his brother.
He walked along the path briskly, keeping pace with the hound. Tonight he’d been a little wiser, switching to water when he’d had enough ale, and carrying his brother to bed at his first yawn. After a day spent in the saddle, the king had followed willingly.
Quenton breathed deeply, enjoying the familiar tang of the ocean. He had expected to miss the pitch and roll of his ship, the keen edge of danger that was a constant companion on the seas. Instead, he found himself settling into life at Blackthorne with unexpected ease.
Because of Olivia.
The thought came without warning.
He glanced toward her window and saw a light burning. She was clearly silhouetted, head bent over a task at her desk. What was she doing while the rest of the household slept? Perhaps writing to relatives about her strange experiences here at Blackthorne. Perhaps she kept a journal His lips curved into a smile. Wouldn’t he love to read it, and discover all her secrets? He had already learned that there was much more to her than the prim and proper image she showed the world. She had a kind heart. He’d heard it from all the staff. How she put them at ease and genuinely seemed to care about all of them. He’d seen for himself how she could spot a need and find a way to answer it.
She was gentle yet firm with Liat. And, if truth be told, more mother to the lad than mere tutor. She had found a way to draw Bennett out of himself and bring him back to the land of the living. A true miracle, in Quenton’s mind. The physicians had suggested Bennett be put away, a suggestion that Quenton and his grandfather had adamantly refused. But until the arrival of Olivia, nobody had found a way to bring Bennett out of the terror locked inside his mind. Nobody but Olivia. With simple charm and an amazing determination, she had done what no one else could. Perhaps that was why he loved her.
He stopped in his tracks, stunned by the enormity of such a thought. Love? It wasn’t possible. After Antonia he’d vowed to never love again. But there it was. The moment the word had formed in his mind, he realized it was true.
God in heaven. He loved her. But what to do about it?
Though her kisses were chaste, he could sense a simmering sensuality just beneath the surface. There were secrets there. Dark, deep secrets. Aye, there was passion in Olivia St. John. He clenched his hand into a fist at his side. And he wanted, more than anything in this world, to be the one to unleash it.
By day, the sight of her taunted him. By night her image played in his dreams. He hadn’t wanted to admit to Charles just how much she affected him. But the king had been right. That impertinent little nursemaid was driving him mad. And all because she had somehow tricked him into falling in love.
Olivia labored over the contents of the letter to her aunt and uncle. She wanted it to be concise, yet polite. She would thank them for taking her in after the death of her parents. She would assure them that her current employment suited her and that, even when she was no longer needed at Blackthorne, she would seek a position as nursemaid or governess elsewhere. That way they would be relieved of the burden of having to care for her in the future. And lastly, since she would have no further contact with them, she would ask that the balance of her mother’s estate, provided there was anything left, be sent to her here at Blackthorne.
Though her aunt had made it sound as though she might be penniless, Olivia had seen their lavish lifestyle in London. Grand furniture. A household staff that rivaled the staff at Blackthorne. Food and clothing fit for royalty. Old Letty had said that her mother’s family had enjoyed both wealth and title. If that were true, then there ought to be some small pittance left in her mother’s estate. The fact that Wyatt had been so determined that she sign over whatever inheritance she might have nagged at her mind.
How she wished she could talk to someone who was knowledgeable about such things. But the only one she knew was Quenton, and the thought of sharing such information with him was unimaginable.
Quenton. She lifted her head to look out at the darkened sky. What was she going to do about these feelings for Quenton? She knew very well that he was a worldly man who would be completely unsuitable for the likes of her. What was she, after all, but a penniless nursemaid, with no knowledge of the world beyond her door?
Yet she had feelings. Strange, unsettling feelings that seemed to ebb and flow whenever she was around Quenton. And if those feelings weren’t bad enough, there was more. A strange yearning of her heart. A rare sort of joy whenever she saw him speak kindly to his brother, or encourage Liat. A sense of pride whenever one of the staff said something flattering about their very own Lord Stamford. As though his goodness, his kindness reflected upon her.
In the secret recesses of her heart, she thought she loved him. Truly loved him. But it frightened her to think that she could be nothing more than a little fool.
Oh, how she wished her wise mother were here to advise her. Was it love she was feeling?
Seeing the path of a shooting star, she squeezed her eyes shut and made a wish. And found herself blushing because of the things she’d wished for.
Quenton moved soundlessly up the stairs, with the hound at his heels. For the space of a heartbeat he paused outside Olivia’s chambers, debating the wisdom of what he was about to do. Without bothering to knock he tore open the door and entered the sitting room. At a signal, Thor settled himself in front of the fireplace to await his master. Quenton crossed to the bedroom, opened the door and peered inside.
She was seated at her desk in a little alcove, her face lifted to the sky. Her feet were bare, and peeking out from the hem of a night shift that was made of some delicate fabric that could have been spun by angels. She had brushed her hair long and loose, and it fell in darkened tendrils around her shoulders.
Feeling a dryness in his throat, he crossed his arms and leaned a shoulder against the doorway, enjoying the view.
She turned and caught sight of him. For a moment all she could do was stare. He looked every bit like the seagoing privateer the servants whispered about. The pirate who, in her dreams, carried her off to his ship and sailed with her to distant, exotic shores.
The quill slipped from her fingers and fell, unnoticed, to the desk. She pushed back her chair and got to her feet.
“I didn’t hear you knock.”
“That’s because I didn’t bother with such formalities.”
His tone, as much as the narrowed eyes, alerted her to his dangerous mood.
“Well.” She started toward him, intending to escort him to the door. “If you think you can just walk in here...”
“I can.” He caught her roughly by the arm and dragged her close. “I can do anything I want here at Blackthorne. Here, just as at sea, I make the rules. This is my own little kingdom.”
She tried to brush him aside and was caught in a grip of steel. “Then find yourself some pliant subjects.”
“I don’t want pliant, Olivia” He closed a hand over her other arm and pinned her against him. “I want strong, willful, defiant. I want a woman who will stand up to me. And stand with me.”
“You want.” She hoped her attempt at a sneer didn’t sound as weak to him as it did to her own ears. But the nearness of him had her heart doing strange fluttering things. “And what about what I want?”