10. Chapter 10 #2
Raising his voice to be heard above the ever-present winds off the mainland toward the sea, he shifted ‘round to face whichever of his servants appeared. “I told you to take yourselves off for the rest of the day. I am perfectly able to see the lamp doused and get myself to bed—or hasn’t Lady Montrose finished dining?”
A sharp gust of southwesterly wind hit him head on, carrying a scent that had his insides clenching before his brain had a chance to register his mistake. Not Chip. Not Cogsworth.
That scent. That fresh, feminine scent she had no business emitting after days spent wearing the same gown. Though she’d undoubtedly washed, he knew firsthand none of the soap the castle stocked bore that distinct, alluring bouquet. Yet, there it was, teasing his senses relentlessly.
With the bearing of a queen, Annabelle rounded the tower. Her gaze seemed to capture all of the muted light of the oil lamp to spark with icy censure.
Had the lady disliked being ignored? At the thought, a perverse sense of satisfaction lanced through him before a more likely reality presented itself: The woman detested him, plain and simple.
Now, if he could only recall the feeling was mutual.
Especially as, after witnessing that scene with Babette this afternoon and after hearing the very real humility in her voice when it dawned on her he’d overheard her singing, he was having a hard time remembering that fact and everything for which she stood.
“Lady Annabelle, did you need something? You might’ve sent Cogsworth to do your bidding. It’s stopped snowing, but the temperatures are still below freezing.”
She lifted her chin and sauntered nearer.
Good God. Despite the whiskey and the frigid night air, his body reacted as if his long-lost lover had returned. Nothing his greatcoat wouldn’t conceal, thankfully.
“I most certainly do need something, sir. You.”
For the life of him, he could do nothing but attempt to swallow over a throat gone suddenly dry.
“Upon due consideration, our conversation earlier opened up a new line of inquiry for me in regard to my brother’s death.”
“Did it?”
“Indeed.”
“Well, then, madam, ask your question.” In truth, he was intrigued despite himself. What had set the wheels in motion in her sharp-as-a-tack mind this time?
“You more than implied you had inside knowledge of Gaston’s difficulty in gaining entrée into the esteemed halls of White’s.”
He folded his arms over his chest and felt the flask he’d so ill-advisedly tucked away. He should have drunk more. Much more. “What of it?”
She laughed, but the sound held no humor.
This was the lady he remembered. Haughty. Superior.
“A true friend would have taken his part.” She watched him through narrowed eyes.
“Is there a question coming?”
Her jaw flexed, but otherwise, she did not take the bait. “You and my brother were not friends, but you expect me to believe that you assisted him in his supposed state of inebriation—something else I find hard to believe, as I know Gaston did not over imbibe—to see him home the night he died?”
“Lady Annabelle, did anyone ever tell you that you are like a dog with a bone?”
“That is not an answer.” As she spoke, she stalked closer. Not indecorously close by society’s standards.
But far too close for his comfort.
“Your wish for answers must be great, indeed, to cause you to seek me out under these conditions when you could have as easily broached the subject tomorrow, en route to Fenwick. One could almost assume you simply missed me.” He flashed a wicked smile, purposefully goading her.
“Do not flatter yourself, sir. I am here for one purpose only. To uncover your role in Gaston’s death. I will. I must. I cannot return empty-handed.”
Toward the end of her speech, her eyes widened, her fists clenched, and her words tumbled from her lips in a frenzied rush.
This was not grief, he realized with stunning clarity. Indeed, he’d seen no sign of that particular emotion on her since her arrival.
This was desperation.
“Annabelle…” He started to reach toward her, then stopped himself. “Why? Why is it so critical that you prove some sort of conspiracy in Gaston’s death?”
“I…because…you do not understand the depth of my mother’s loss.” She licked her perfectly shaped lips and gazed, not at him, but over his shoulder toward the North Sea.
“Explain to me how answers—whether attesting to wrongdoing or finding none at all—change that for her? It won’t. It can’t. Only time will heal her wounds.”
Her gaze shot back to his face. “But if I show her, if I prove to her that I can be helpful, by solving his murder, by removing her misplaced guilt over his death…” She broke off, glancing down at her gloved hands, now twined very tightly before her.
“She feels she’s to blame?”
Annabelle did not answer.
He didn’t care. He didn’t give a damn about Annabelle’s mother’s guilt or lack thereof. But…what had she said before that? He replayed her words in his mind. “Annabelle, what will happen to you if you prove helpful in this?”
A shiver went through her, and he knew instinctively her shiver had nothing to do with the cold of the night air. It took everything in him not to reach for her.
“What will happen, Annabelle?”
She gave a choked laugh. “What do you care? You, with your perfect family. Your status, and that of your line, is secure. You will not be expected to—” Her words cut off as if sliced by an invisible blade, and she stared at him, wide-eyed, as if stunned by her own outburst—not that she’d revealed anything, damn it.
He could tell her he was equally stunned. Because he wanted her to complete her statement. He wanted to know what terrified her so. He wanted to tell her he would let nothing and no one hurt her.
All of which was ridiculous. Maybe he had drunk enough whiskey.
But he could see that she had no intention of divulging any further secrets tonight.
“To clarify matters, madam,” he said, “while I did voluntarily escort your brother home thanks to his unfortunate state, I never claimed to have done so for his sake.”
She blinked at him.
“He was making a nuisance of himself, and he was my sister’s intended. I did what I needed to do.”
And that was all she needed to know. With any luck, she’d storm back indoors and leave him in semi-peace.
She did not. Instead, nature itself seemed to conspire against him, sending a strong gust of wind that had pebbles skittering over the rooftop, the skirts of her gown and velvet-lined cloak swirling about her, and Annabelle stumbling toward him.
In the nick of time, he edged aside, preventing a collision of their two bodies that would have proved disastrous for him and his sanity, for starters.
“Change places with me,” he said, ushering her toward the parapets and sliding in front of her to shield her body with his.
Reaching the wall, she shifted around to face him. From this direction, moonlight bathed her porcelain skin in its silvery light, and her face glowed with a near incandescence.
“Thank you,” she murmured stiffly.
Abruptly, her gaze lifted to the skies and her expression lit with wonder.
“Oh. Oh, my. A shooting star. How marvelous.” She steepled her fur-lined, gloved fingers under her chin.
“I’ve never seen one. And the sky. So many stars…
it’s like someone scattered a bushel of priceless diamonds.
” A laugh of sheer delight spilled from her lips, the sound tinkling and innocent.
“I agree,” he said in a low voice, unable to look away from her rapt face. “A magnificent sight, indeed.”
Something in his tone, the tell-tale gruffness, if he had to guess, must have struck her because her eyes snapped to meet his, then, lashes fluttering, lowered to his mouth. Her lips parted.
Holy hell. He did not need the repeat evidence of her interest in him as a man. The episode this afternoon was more than enough fodder for his own sexual hunger.
He told himself he was glad when she looked away and pulled the edges of her cloak more tightly around herself.