The Temptation of Your Touch (7 page)

Perhaps both his barber and his valet had met with just such a fate. The thick, sooty waves of his hair weren’t artfully trimmed as was the current fashion but were long enough to brush the collar of his greatcoat. Striking threads of silver burnished the hair at his temples, and his beautifully sculpted jaw was shadowed with at least two days’ worth of stubble.

His dark-lashed eyes were gray, as gray as the mist that swirled over the moors. Anne had always thought gray to be an ordinary color, but his eyes had the disconcerting habit of flashing like summer lightning when he was displeased.

The greatest threat to them was the glint of intelligence in those eyes. He was not a man who missed much, and that, more than anything else, could prove to be their downfall if they weren’t careful. When she had introduced herself, his gaze had flickered over Anne, taken her measure, then dismissed her for what she was—a menial, an underling, his inferior. He didn’t find her wanting; he simply found her beneath his notice.

Which was exactly where she needed to stay.

“Well, you have to admit dispatching him with a poker would have solved most of our problems,” Pippa suggested cheerfully. “Or at least bought us a bit more time to continue our search before the next master arrived.”

“Not if we all ended up in the village jail, awaiting a visit from the hangman. But you are right about one thing: the sooner Lord Scowly—Lord
Draven
wood,” Anne corrected herself, “is in a carriage and
on his way back to London, the sooner things can go back to normal around here.”

“Normal? We’ve spent the last four years combing the manor from the cellars to the attics for a treasure that may not even exist. I’m not even sure I remember what normal is.”

Hoping to hide her own misgivings from Pippa’s bright, dark eyes, Anne said firmly, “The treasure exists and it’s only a matter of time before we find it. Once we do, we can leave this place forever and make a home of our own far away from here.”

“But what if it’s nothing more than a family legend? A fairy tale trotted out to entertain children and stir the imaginations of dreamers? Dreamers have been searching for Captain Kidd’s buried plunder for over a century now and not a single coin has been found.”

Anne touched her fingertips to the familiar shape of the locket that always hid beneath her bodice, and never strayed far from her heart, reminding them both of why they had no choice but to keep searching. “I stopped being a dreamer a long time ago. Which is why I know the treasure is real and that we’re going to find it. We simply have to send Lord Dravenwood on his way as quickly as possible so we can get back to the business at hand. Preferably without the assistance of any hearth tools.” Sweeping the makeshift weapon from Pippa’s hand,
Anne started down the gallery, her steps once more brisk with confidence. “The earl may appear to be invincible, but he’s already proved he has the exact same weakness as any other man.”

Pippa trotted along behind her. “And just what would that be?”

Anne stopped in front of the portrait that faced the descending staircase, holding her candle aloft.
“Her.”

Angelica Cadgwyck gazed down upon them from her exalted perch, her lush lips quirked as if she were hiding some delightful secret that could only be coaxed from her with a kiss.

“Ah,” Pippa said softly. “So our lady has already added another heart to her collection. Her appetites really are insatiable, aren’t they?”

“Up until the moment Lord Dravenwood saw the portrait, I would have sworn the man didn’t have a heart.”

Anne had seen the look on the earl’s face often enough on the faces of other men. Men who stopped in their tracks and gaped at the woman in the portrait as if they had been struck both mute and blind to everything but the beauty before them.

As Anne had watched their new master succumb to that same old spell, she had felt herself disappear, winking out like a star at the approach of dawn. She
should have been pleased her efforts to make herself invisible had met with such success.

Instead, she had felt a sharp twinge of disappointment.

For the briefest blink of time, she had allowed herself to believe this one might be different. That he might be immune to such superficial charms. She couldn’t imagine what had prompted her to entertain such an absurd and dangerous notion. Perhaps it was the cynical curl to his lip, his droll sarcasm, or the way the grooves bracketing his mouth deepened when other men might have smiled.

But the second she’d seen him surrender his heart—and his wits—into Angelica’s lily-white hands, she had known he was no different from any other man.

As she gazed up into Angelica’s knowing eyes, she felt a pang of something even sharper than disappointment, something more akin to jealousy. Now she was being truly ridiculous. Angelica would serve them well, just as she always had.

“Come, Pippa. I need to send Dickon up with some supper for our new master. The sooner he takes himself off to bed, the sooner he can make the acquaintance of the woman of his dreams.” She lowered the candle, robbing Angelica of her halo of light. As she herded Pippa toward the stairs, Anne stole one last glance over her shoulder at the
portrait, barely resisting the childish urge to poke her tongue out at Angelica’s smug visage. “And his nightmares.”

A
NGELICA
C
ADGWYCK STOOD GAZING
down at the stranger who had invaded her home. Even with his unshaven jaw and unruly hair, there was no denying he was a beautiful man. But she had learned the hard way that a beautiful face could hide a dark and destructive heart.

She had hoped to catch a glimpse into that heart by coming here tonight, but he was no less guarded in sleep than he had been in wakefulness. His lips were pressed into a forbidding line, and the faint furrow between his brows made it look as if he were still scowling, even in his dreams. She was seized by a peculiar urge to touch him, to see if she could soothe that furrow away with the tender caress of her fingertip.

But he was flesh and she was nothing more than a dream, deliberately fashioned to haunt the hearts of men.

She was already beginning to suspect this man was no stranger to ghosts. He muttered something beneath his breath, then gritted his teeth and stirred restlessly, sending a lock of dark hair tumbling over his brow.

Angelica reached out a pale hand toward him, yearning only to touch something warm and solid and surging with life before she had to go drifting back into the cold, lonely night.

M
AX HAD NEVER BEEN
a man who dreamed. When he had confessed that to his fiancée, Clarinda had looked up at him with her dazzling green eyes and exclaimed, “Don’t be ridiculous! Of course you dream. All men do. You just don’t remember what you dreamed.”

He’d given little credence to the notion until late that night in his bed at Cadgwyck Manor when he felt a woman’s cool fingers tenderly brush the hair from his heated brow. He groaned and shifted restlessly in the bed. That simple touch was somehow both soothing and arousing, stirring his body and his soul. He longed to capture her slender wrist in his hand, to bring those fingertips to his mouth and kiss them one by one as a prelude to tasting the softness of her lips.

Determined to do just that, he reached for her. But his hand closed on empty air. He opened his eyes and gazed up into the shadows gathered beneath the canopy of the unfamiliar bed, finding himself exactly as he had expected to.

Alone.

How was it that such a simple dream could seem more vivid and real to him than the waking fog he’d been wading through in recent months? Even if he willed himself to do so, he didn’t think he would be able to forget it.

It might have been easier to do so if he weren’t still fully aroused and aching for a woman’s touch on some far more provocative spot than his brow.

Despite the cool façade he presented to the world, Max’s appetites were stronger and more driving than those of most men. That was exactly why he had vowed never to lose control of them. If his brother had taught him anything, it was just how much damage a man could do when he selfishly indulged his lusts without stopping to count the cost to those around him.

Of course, Max hadn’t exactly lived as a monk, either. He had always been too much of a gentleman to pay for his pleasures, but he was not above satisfying his baser needs with some discreet widow looking for a bliss more transitory than matrimonial.

All of that had ended when Clarinda had finally accepted his suit. Temptations were far less difficult to resist when he was anticipating sharing a marriage bed with the woman he had adored for most of his life. He had been confident marriage to
Clarinda would fulfill his every desire, both emotional and carnal.

Bloody fool,
he thought, kicking away the tangle of bedclothes and throwing his long legs over the side of the bed. As he emerged from the bed curtains, shoving them aside as he did so, the damp chill hanging in the air struck his overheated flesh like a dash of icy water.

The fire the surly little footman had laid still languished on the grate, its soft glow bathing the ancient mahogany armoire crouched in the corner and the tray of nearly untouched food on the Pembroke table. After the tray had been delivered, Max had discovered he was too exhausted to eat after all. He had listlessly pushed the bland bits of beef and potato around on the plate until tossing down his fork in disgust and taking himself off to bed.

An unexpected draft played over the crisp hairs furring his naked chest. With its chill caress stirring gooseflesh wherever it touched, Max slowly turned his head to find the French windows leading to the balcony standing wide open, as if to invite in whatever the night had in store for him.

Chapter Seven

T
H
E LACE PANELS ADORNING
the French windows fluttered in the breeze like a bride’s tattered veil. Max’s scowl deepened along with his bewilderment. Those windows had been closed when he had retreated behind the musty velvet curtains of the bed. He would be willing to swear his life on it.

He reached to the foot of the bed to retrieve his dressing gown, thankful he’d had the foresight to pack it in his portmanteau since the rest of his baggage wouldn’t be arriving until morning. Knotting the robe’s silk belt around his waist, he rose and padded over to the windows.

The rain had stopped but the moon was still huddled behind a towering bank of clouds, leaving the night beyond the balcony shrouded in darkness. Thinking that perhaps the windows had blown open, Max examined both the latches and their
moorings. They seemed perfectly sound, but that didn’t mean they were strong enough to withstand a particularly violent gust of wind.

Accepting the irrefutable logic of his own deduction, he reached to close the windows and return the night to its proper place. But before he could, an unexpected scent drifted to his nose. A scent quite distinct from the clean fragrance of the rain and the briny tang of the sea.

A scent that was delicate and floral and unmistakably feminine.

Max’s nostrils flared as he drew the heady elixir into his lungs. It stirred long-buried memories of sultry summer nights and velvety, white petals too shy to bloom while the sun was still up.

Jasmine.

Lured by the irresistible aroma, he stepped out onto the balcony, barely feeling the chill of the rain-soaked tiles beneath his bare feet. Had it not been the wrong time of year for such a tender and fragrant flower to bloom, he might have been able to convince himself that a pergola or a trellis was nearby beneath his balcony. With the wind whipping his hair from his eyes and snatching at his dressing gown with greedy fingers, he found it difficult to believe anything but the hardiest of plants could survive this harsh climate.

The wind also dispelled the lingering hint of
perfume, leaving him to wonder if he had imagined it. Shrugging off the scent’s intoxicating effects, he started for the balcony windows. He might as well return to the dubious comfort of his bed, where he could blame any other such ridiculous fancies on dreams he would not remember in the morning.

That was when he heard it—the distant tinkling of a music box playing a melody that was hauntingly beautiful and yet just off-key enough to make the tiny hairs on the back of his neck shiver to life.

He slowly pivoted on his heel, his narrowed eyes searching the night. The east wing had been built at just enough of an angle to the gatehouse to give him an unobstructed view of the tower standing sentinel over the far side of the manor. Without the moon to give it an air of tragic romance, the structure was nothing more than a crumbling ruin—a darker shadow against a sea of turbulent clouds. The tower’s windows were vacant eyes with no mysterious flashes of light to bring them to life.

Yet Max would have sworn the eerie waltz wafting to his ears on the wings of the wind was coming from that direction. He drifted to the edge of the balcony, his hands closing around the damp iron of the balustrade.

The music ceased abruptly, almost as if spectral hands had slammed the lid of the music box.