Chapter 7 #3
“I’m not typically so easily startled,” she said softly.
Desire prickled down his body, a slow awakening.
Muscles tensed, groin tightened. She was so very pretty; lashes long, nose interesting, mouth full.
The ten-year gap in their ages was made so very obvious by her sweet yellow dress, her dewy skin, the litheness of her body against him.
She was unspoiled and innocent and pure.
It should’ve repelled him—not only was it the opposite of the plan, he didn’t even like youthful, virginal idealists.
He liked mature women. Of a certain age.
And level of experience. And understanding. And resignation.
Luke cleared his throat. “I think perhaps a little bell is in order for Abbott. Something he might wear round his neck like
a goat.”
She laughed and he felt the sound in his gut. If ever his heroism was proven false, it was now. He wanted her. And not for
his revenge and rescue. He wanted to show her pleasure. He wanted her for his very own. He wanted—
Through sheer force of will, he slid his hands from her spine to her waist. After that, he dropped them to open air. He took
the smallest step back. “Shall we carry on?”
She nodded, staring up. The sail in his chest puffed out again,
“After you,” he rasped. She stumbled when she moved away.
“Careful.” He reached out a hand. He’d unsettled her. The notion made him happier than it should’ve.
She took his arm and he allowed her to lead, scooping up the lantern on their way out. The next two rooms were largely empty:
a hodgepodge of busted lanterns and wax for candles. Then the corridor emptied into a light-filled, glass-walled room cluttered
with tree stumps in large pots.
“An orangery,” Danielle proclaimed, going from pot to pot, testing the soil and plucking at the stumps. “Mr. Abbott must be watering them,
or they’d be entirely dead. Can you imagine, citrus in winter?”
It would never occur to Luke to dedicate a room to growing oranges on a cold island, three thousand nautical miles north of the equator. “No,” he said, “I cannot imagine it.”
“I’d no idea Eastwell Park housed an orangery. But these should be pruned, and this one needs to be repotted immediately.
Perhaps Mr. Abbott could see it done.”
“Careful, the mere mention of his name may conjure him,” Luke said, frowning into the dry basin of a tile fountain.
“I should’ve brought graphite and parchment,” she was saying. “I suppose there will be plenty of time for notes after we—that
is, after.”
He watched her poke around the glass room, tsking over plants and foggy windows. Several times today, she’d neatly avoided
speaking the word marriage. In theory, these citrus stumps would become her citrus stumps. But she wouldn’t go so far as to say the words.
The result of not talking about the wedding was, of course, not having to explain the reasons for it. And so he did not press. Instead, he drifted through this house with her on his arm and listened to her chatter. Instead,
he simply existed. With her. Contented. Slightly aroused. Wholly intrigued. After months of bitterness. It was too satisfying
to disrupt with life-changing revelations about her identity. Not yet. Another hour, perhaps. Half a day more.
He felt guilty for how much he enjoyed the tour of the house. This was never part of marrying her, and he felt like a traitor
to his dead friends. He felt even more guilt toward Linus.
Linus, who was rotting in a French dungeon. Luke touched a hand to the fossil in his pocket. Linus, who waited to be rescued.
Luke tried to do right by all of them, to think of the starless night, and the cold sea, and their cries.
When he slept, the horrifying dreams flooded in; every detail replayed.
But here in this house—here with her—the memories came in short flashes, disjointed, diluted.
His consciousness was sinking, he was drowning in the smell of her, the feel of her on his arm, her laughter.
“This next door must connect the orangery to the salon we saw at the other end of the great hall,” she said. “Unless I’m mistaken,
we’ve traversed the length of the house along the back. The great hall comprises the front. By my count, we’ve missed only
a dining room?”
“Or a library,” Luke said. It had been the only room of interest to him.
“The library is just through there, sir,” interjected a mournful voice.
Luke spun, startled. “Bloody hell, Abbott.”
“You asked about the library, sir?” The old retainer lurked among a grove of potted lemons.
Luke glanced at Miss Allard. She’d fallen against a potting bench on a gasp.
“You were nearly to it,” intoned Abbott. “The library.”
“Thank you,” said Luke, tugging his lapels and scooping Miss Allard from the bench. “Might I request that you announce yourself
when you come and go? You’re scaring the devil out of Miss Allard, and I’m no better. A small knock might be in order? A click
of the heels? A little cough? Anything to alert us to your presence?”
“Very good, sir,” said Abbott. “But shall I admit you to the library?”
“The door is locked?”
“It is, sir.”
“And none of the fifty keys I was issued by the estate agent would unlock it, I suppose?”
“ ’Tis a lock I installed myself, sir,” informed Abbott. “It is the only room in the house into which I regularly come and
go.”
“Of course you do. Lead the way,” grumbled Luke.
They stepped from the hard, cold brightness of the orangery into the dark, leather oasis of the library. The room was dominated
by richly stained wood, plush chairs, and towering bookshelves. Miss Allard snuggled closer, not expecting the contrast, and
Luke held the lantern high, taking in the magnificence of it. There were hundreds and hundreds of books. On the floor, he
saw stacks of periodicals and journals. The desk was strewn with what appeared to be diagrams and charts. Large globes floated
on their axes and, in the corner, a model of a human skeleton kept watch.
Just look at it, Luke marveled. Now it was his turn to spin.
“You enjoy reading, Captain,” realized Miss Allard, releasing his arm.
“I enjoy knowing,” he said.
“Well, there is much to be known in here, I daresay.”
“The baron took various broadsheets and chronicles,” informed Abbott, “and they’ve continued to arrive every month all these
years. I’ve stacked them along this wall, organized by date. Seemed like a shame to burn them, and I did not know how to stop
their coming.”
“Very clever, Mr. Abbott,” said Miss Allard. “The reason for your special lock, I presume.”
“Can the lamps be lit?” asked Luke, stepping to the nearest shelf. “And the fire?”
“Yes, of course, sir. Shall I bring tea?”
“You’ve the means for tea, Mr. Abbott?” asked Miss Allard.
“It will be a modest spread, but it will warm you until the fire takes.”
“That would be lovely. Thank you.”
“Very good, miss. But there will be more room for tea in the salon.” He gestured to an opposite door.
“Through there?” asked Miss Allard. “So the orangery connects to the library, and the library connects to the salon? I see.
Do you mind, Captain, if we take tea in the salon? I should like to see it.”
Luke read spine after spine of books. There was an entire shelf devoted solely to philosophy. He barely heard.
“Or would you rather—”
“The salon will do,” he said, not looking at her. “I’ll be along. Can you manage?”
“Take your time,” she said from behind him. “Mr. Abbott will show me the way.”