Shades of Midnight (18 page)

"I know."

Lucien turned her around so she faced him, and with a finger beneath her chin made her look him in the eye. "You get to bed. I need to examine the harvester and the meter and then I'll let myself out and climb back into my room so that come morning no one will know I was ever gone."

In spite of herself, she smiled. "I can't believe you actually climbed out the boarding house window."

"Neither can I." He turned her about briskly. "Now, off to bed with you."

Eve took two steps toward the stairway before stopping in her tracks. It was as if her feet were made of lead, like her heart. "I can't go to bed," she said softly. "I can't watch that murder and then go to sleep! It was so real, Lucien, so... so horribly difficult to watch. What kinds of dreams will I have tonight? Will I be able to sleep at all?"

Lucien very gently took her arm and led her into the parlor. He sat on the sofa and pulled her down beside him. "We'll sit here and talk for a few minutes. We'll talk about other things. Ordinary things. And then you can go to bed and dream sweet dreams."

She wished it could be that simple. Somehow, she didn't think a little diversionary conversation would make her forget what she saw night after night.

But she was willing to try. "It certainly is chilly, this time of year."

"Yes, it is," Lucien answered as if he had given the inane statement serious thought.

"But I hear it's lovely here, in the spring. When the weather's warm again, I want to plant a truly proper garden."

"Really?" he seemed surprised.

"Yes. Flowers and vegetables. And... and..." Her heart sank. "Oh, this is ridiculous, and it isn't helping at all!"

"It seemed a good idea," Lucien muttered.

"Maybe Mr. Hunt is right, and I should just leave. I should get out of the house, out of Plummerville. I can find another house... somewhere."

"I thought you loved this house."

"I do."

Lucien placed his arm around her and gathered her close, and she allowed it. Nothing else mattered, at the moment, except that he was here and she needed him. Dammit, she
needed him.

"Then let's not give up just yet."

She rested her head on his shoulder and relaxed. Listening to the ticking of the clock, letting herself melt into Lucien just a little bit, her heart gradually returned to a normal rhythm. She closed her eyes and drank in this moment: the way Lucien held her, the warmth of his touch, the temptation of his scent so close.

She had missed him, much more than she was willing to admit. And during their engagement, they had never been so close! When they worked together there were always other people about, and Hugh had been terribly protective of her, even where Lucien was concerned. They had rarely found themselves alone for more than two minutes.

But he'd been there for her, in more ways than she'd imagined. A smile, a quick stolen kiss or two, a hand on hers, ever so briefly.

And now here he was, holding her close, shielding her from the night and the horrors of watching Viola die again and again.

"Thank you for coming here," she whispered. "For staying. I couldn't face this alone."

The next thing she knew he was kissing her, and his mouth on hers felt so right she didn't even think of protesting. She parted her lips and drank, breathed him in, sucked something primal into herself. And Lucien drank her in; she knew it. Felt it.

His mouth danced over hers, sucked and nibbled. Oh, he was such a wonderful kisser! She copied his moves, nibbled his lower lip and tasted him with the tip of her tongue, and she was rewarded with a moan low in his throat, one that matched her own.

This was so much better, so much more powerful than the stolen kisses she remembered. The quick pecks had been nice, and she'd cherished every one, but this... this was extraordinary. She felt as if she were flying. Flying so high she had to hold on to Lucien to remain steady.

His hands stroked her, touched boldly, and she didn't mind at all. In fact, she loved the sensation of Lucien's fingers brushing her throat and her chest. She loved the way those fingers trembled, with passion and nervousness. She loved the way the kiss didn't end, but continued to grow deeper and more satisfying.

Most of all, she loved Lucien.

It was so easy to forget everything else while he touched and kissed her. Just for the moment, she set aside the pain of the past, of the present, of the uncertain future. She put everything from her mind but this beautiful moment.

"Oh, God," he whispered huskily as he took his mouth from hers and kissed her throat. "Pink."

"What?" she asked dreamily, her head dropping back to bare her throat, her eyes closed.

"I had to know," Lucien said as his sweet mouth moved downward.

His lips left her throat to kiss her chest, and her eyes slowly opened. When had he unbuttoned her dress? She should care, she really should.

"Had to know what?" she whispered, her hand resting in his hair, her fingers getting lost in the long dark strands. She held on, gentle and sure.

"The color of your corset." His lips brushed against the swell of her breasts just above that corset.

"Strawberry."

"What?" His voice was husky, muffled.

"The catalog said it was strawberry."

His mouth moved lower. "It doesn't taste like strawberry," he muttered.

As if she'd been dashed by cold water, Eve suddenly came to her senses, remembering where she was. Who she was. Why they could not continue.

"Lucien," she said, trying for a sharp tone, "stop this."

He raised his head and kissed her. "Why?"

"Is Alistair here? Viola?" Oh, she'd almost completely lost control! That couldn't possibly be her. The only explanation was that the amorous ghosts were with them again.

"No. They're gone."

But she and Lucien were sitting on the sofa where Alistair and Viola cavorted every night, and what she was feeling—this tingle, this desire—could not possibly be real.

Heaven above, it certainly felt real.

"We should stop, now." Before things went any further. Before she forgot why she couldn't love and want Lucien Thorpe as much as she did at this moment.

"All right," Lucien said, sitting back and drawing her head to his shoulder. "We'll stop. You're right about that. I'm quite sure you're right." He didn't sound at all convinced. "Close your eyes and relax, and in a few minutes you can go up to bed and I'll check the equipment before I let myself out. I'm not ready to let you go. Not yet."

That was fine with her, because she wasn't ready for him to leave.

* * *

Lucien woke with a start, unsure of what had caused him to awaken so abruptly. He glanced at the clock on the mantel. Four-twenty.

He looked down at the woman who slept so peacefully in his arms. The fire had died down long ago, but the lamp at the end table burned softly, lighting Eve's serene face.

Strawberry,
he thought as his gaze dropped. The staid and proper woman Eve pretended to be would never order a strawberry-colored corset from a mail-order catalog. Not red, darker than true pink, the strawberry corset against Eve's pale skin was so tempting his mouth watered.

For two years, he had regretted his damned forgetfulness. He had never regretted his mistake more than he did at this moment. Evie was his, she would always be his. They should be lying together at this moment, man and wife, joined forever.

"Strawberry," a broken and distant voice said.

Lucien's head popped up. Alistair stood by the fireplace, leaning against the mantel with a wicked smile on his face. Lucien's first thought was that he looked nothing like Alistair Stamper, no matter what Justina Markham and Viola said.

This was the first time Alistair had shown himself this way, the first time he had spoken like this. It was easier, in these early morning hours just before dawn, for the spirits to manifest, for them to show themselves and speak for themselves.

If Eve were to wake she'd see nothing. She'd hear nothing. This ghostly visit was for Lucien, and Lucien alone.

He grabbed the afghan from the end of the sofa and covered Eve with it. He didn't like the way Alistair looked at this partially unclothed woman who slept on in Lucien's arms. What dreadful timing.

"I'm here to help," Lucien said when Eve was properly covered.

"Viola always wore white, when she wore a corset," Alistair said, looking at Eve as if he could see through the afghan. "Sometimes there was lace, and perhaps a pale blue ribbon, but
strawberry!
My oh my. How wonderfully daring. How exciting."

"Why haven't you and Viola moved on?" Lucien asked, trying to turn the ghost's attentions from Eve's corset to the matter that had brought him to Plummerville.

Alistair sighed and turned his ghostly gaze to Lucien. "Have you ever tried to reason with a dead woman who won't even admit that she's dead?"

"Yes, I have."

"Viola won't listen. She blames me, still..."

"Did you kill her?" Lucien asked. He held his breath. If he'd offended Alistair with the question, the ghost might disappear and refuse to speak again.

"No," Alistair said without emotion. "Of course I didn't kill her. But will she listen to me? Will she listen to reason? Of course not. Women." His eyes fell to Eve again, and a half smile spread across his face.

"I do love women," he said wistfully. "I always have, since the day I turned fifteen and discovered that there was more to little girls than pigtails and giggles. Much, much more. Oh, they can be maddening, and it's impossible to know what a female is thinking at any time, I'm sure you know that. Still, with all their faults and foibles and maddening inconsistencies, I adore them."

Lucien swore to himself then and there that he would not leave Eve alone in this house with Alistair again. Reputation be damned.

"Women like Gertrude," Lucien prodded gently, wondering if any part of his landlady's story was true.

The ghostly smile faded. "Ah, Gertrude. Such a beautiful woman. Hair like spun gold and a body that makes my mouth water, even now."

Obviously Alistair hadn't seen Miss Gertrude in thirty years. "Did you love her?"

Alistair's eyebrows popped up. "Gertrude? Of course not. She was a bit of fun, that's all. Eager and passionate and... it really isn't my fault that she mistakenly thought an afternoon in her father's barn meant we were going to be married."

No, Alistair was not a nice man. "She thought you were going to marry her."

"And I might have, eventually, if I hadn't met Viola." The spirit's expression changed. "My life was perfect for a while, then everything went wrong. And now Viola won't even listen to me."

"Why not?"

"She's afraid," Alistair said in a broken and distant voice.

"Of what?"

"Of me," he whispered, the final word dying into almost nothing.

"Should she be?" Lucien asked.

Alistair smiled—not a happy grin, but a smile all the same—and then he faded away.

Lucien looked at the equipment he had placed near the opening between the parlor and the foyer. The harvester was overflowing. The needle on the meter was jiggling, still. He really should lay Eve down and check on the readings, but something kept him right where he was.

"What if I'm wrong?" he whispered as he drew Eve in close and wrapped both arms protectively around her. "What if Alistair is a killer, and I only sense his innocence because he feels no guilt?"

A small flame in the fireplace leapt to life. A sign from one of Eve's ghosts? Or a simple gust of wind through the chimney bringing the fire to life momentarily?

Viola didn't know she was dead. Alistair did. So why did he replay that lascivious and then horrific scene with her night after night after night? Lucien pondered the possibilities, as the clock on the mantel ticked. Alistair was present for most of the evening that was relived over and over again, but in truth they never saw him when Viola died. Where was he, while a knife was being thrust into his wife's back?

Everyone who knew the couple and the story of their deaths believed Alistair to be guilty. Maybe they were right, after all, and when Viola died each night Alistair was standing behind her with a knife in his hand.

No, he didn't dare leave Eve alone in this house, especially with Halloween approaching.

* * *

Eve felt herself coming awake, slowly and reluctantly. She hadn't slept this well since she'd discovered Alistair and Viola! On this night, there had been no active dreams that exhausted her, no tossing and turning in her bed... She opened one eye. Make that on her sofa. No, make that on Lucien!

With one arm still around her, and her head more on his chest than his shoulder, Lucien slept on, unaware that she was awake. A glance at the window proved to her that it was morning, early but not too early. Bright but not yet too bright.

Instead of immediately jumping up, as she should, Eve lowered her head to Lucien's chest, resting her cheek there for a moment longer. What on earth was she going to do? She loved him. If she thought for a single moment that he could love her back...