Chapter 7
Servants had long ago concluded that silence lingered differently in certain houses, thick with unspoken history, where even laughter seemed reluctant to disturb whatever memories clung stubbornly to the walls.
Lucien spent the entire afternoon in his study. The leaded windows reduced the room to a wash of pewter, interrupted only by the flare of the hearth and the gleam of embossed book spines, decorative bottles, and brass fixtures that lined his walls.
The hounds lay stretched before the fire. Braccus with his muzzle on his large paws, Eirin curled in a tight coil, and Ronan snoring gently in the spot nearest the grate. But even asleep, their ears remained alert, as if some impending calamity would burst through the doors at any moment.
He had not gone down to the stables. The thought of facing Max, of hearing another account of blood on the snow or missing crofters, of having to discuss what to do about the fact he had broken free for the second night in a row, filled him with disgust. Worse, with self-loathing.
He still could not figure it out. The last two nights, something had been different. And tonight was the third night of the full moon, when its pull was at its strongest.
He knew he needed to come up with a plan.
Somehow, he needed to ensure he did not break free tonight, lest he hurt someone.
Tonight, if he could not hold himself, the wolf would claim whatever was left of his mental peace, for he could not endure another dawn of waking, naked and lost, with blood upon his tongue and the void of forgotten savagery clawing at his soul.
But what more could he do? It now seemed like no plan could guarantee safety for the people in his estate, or for the household itself, or for Miss Hale.
Miss Hale. The memory of her was a hot ache.
He had kissed her. God, he had seized her in the snow and kissed her, and for a moment it had felt as though he would die if she did not kiss him back.
But she had. She had wanted to, and for one luminous second they had been a matched pair, hunger meeting hunger.
Focus, you fool.
He shook his head. All day, he had been thinking of her, always in the periphery of his mind. Even now, her name felt dangerously bright, as if spoken aloud it might conjure her into the room. He shoved the thought of her away. He needed to plan. Tonight was critical.
Perhaps what the wolf needed was to know Max would be waiting with a pistol and a silver shot.
Lucien had it in him to ask for it. “Do not hesitate,” he would order, though he was unsure whether Max would agree.
At the same time, Lucien dreaded the notion of knowing that his friend would have to carry the guilt forever as he himself did for causing the death of his own parent.
He stood, stretched, and paced the length of the study.
Through the windows he saw that the afternoon light had faded.
A barely visible layer of fog was slowly beginning to press against the glass, threatening to swallow the world beyond.
He liked the isolation, the sense of being the last man on earth, but today it only made his heart feel heavier.
Something moved on the edge of his senses, a disturbance so slight he might have imagined it, except the dogs roused in the same instant, all three lifting their heads and turning as one toward the closed door.
His own skin prickled. The air had shifted, and beneath it, fainter but infinitely more intoxicating, was the scent of her.
Lucien knew, with a certainty that was half animal, half rational, that it was her.
Her essence drifted beneath the door, sweet and unmistakable.
He cursed under his breath. She had found her way to him.
With the full moon seeking to ride high in its perfect roundness very soon, the quickening surged through his blood like hot brandy.
It was always right beneath the surface at this time of the month, sharpening every one of his senses.
Beneath his ribs, the beast paced, restless, eager, tasting her nearness on the air and urging him on.
His hounds shuffled to attention, Braccus positioning himself directly between the desk and the door, Ronan flanking to the left, Eirin slipping around to guard the right. Lucien felt it too, the need to shield, to protect, even against a danger that was only within himself.
Finally, there was a soft footstep right outside the door. The creak was cautious, as if the person behind it warred with herself about approaching. Then a knock came, quiet and tentative.
“Enter,” he said.
The door swung half-open. For a moment, she did not move. She seemed to waver there, uncertain, her hand still on the knob as though she might change her mind and flee.
“Miss Hale,” he uttered her name as steadily as he could. “Please, come in.”
She stepped across the threshold, her red hair shimmering in the light, and the dogs all bristled, as if in anticipation of something electric. Lucien watched her as one might watch the approach of a thunderstorm. Awed, terrified, and unwilling to look away.
Her face was pale, paler than it had been that morning, and her eyes, usually so steady, darted from the dogs to him and back again to the dogs. There was something in her hand, a piece of paper, its edges crumpled from being gripped too tightly.
Had she come to resign? After his conduct that morning, after placing his hands on her like some feral creature, not to mention what she must think of a man found half-naked in the snow, of course she would flee this house and its mad, monstrous master.
The idea of her leaving was upsetting. His mind raced for arguments. Higher wages, longer holidays, a cottage of her own. Anything to keep her from walking out.
Yet every coherent thought of his drowned beneath the thunder of her pulse and the warm sweetness pouring off her skin. As quickly as his mind raced, his senses were overwhelmed by her scent and her heart beating so loud it was like a herd of elephants stampeding through his home.
She stared nervously at the hounds. They sat with their eyes fixed on her as though she were the only living thing in the room. “Might I have a word, my lord?” she asked. Her voice trembled.
Lucien felt his heart clench at the thought of this luminous young woman departing Blackfen Castle forever, her light vanishing from these shadowed corridors.
Her quiet courage and sparkling wit were a rare brightness amid the gloom that shrouded his days.
To lose her now, after his unforgivable lapse that morning, would be a torment he richly deserved yet could scarcely bear.
“Of course,” he replied, striving to keep his tone steady and composed, though internally he stirred restlessly at her nearness. “Would it ease your mind if I removed the hounds to the corridor? They can be rather formidable when they choose to glare so.”
She swallowed hard, her delicate throat working visibly, and her emerald eyes began to shimmer with a gloss of unshed tears, as if some profound emotion threatened to overwhelm her fragile composure.
“Yes,” she croaked, the word emerging hoarse and strained, her gaze flickering away from the dogs.
“It would help me greatly to state my business if … if they were not here.”
Lucien nodded gravely, attempting to steel his resolve against the resignation he felt certain was imminent.
He could not fault her for wishing to flee.
How could any lady remain after he had handled her so roughly in the snow, his hands gripping her with a hunger born of the beast rather than the man?
The memory of her soft curves yielding beneath his touch and her luscious lips parting in startled surrender filled him with desire. Then, just as quickly, fresh shame. He wondered if he ought to apologize yet again, to beg her pardon on bended knee before she condemned him irrevocably.
With a soft command, he summoned the hounds to heel, their massive forms rising in unison as he led them to the door and secured it firmly behind them, the click of the latch echoing like a final judgment in the sudden quiet.
Returning to her side, he stood tall and resolute, preparing his heart for the words that would sever her from Blackfen forever.
“Miss Hale—” he began, his voice low and edged with the remorse that gnawed at his soul.
“Please, Verity will do, your lordship,” she interjected softly as her gaze lifted to meet his, a flicker of vulnerability in those wide green depths.
Lucien hesitated, genuine surprise cutting through the fog of his grim expectations, for why would she extend such intimate permission, her very name as a gift, if she intended to resign and vanish from his life like mist at dawn?
It confounded him, this quiet offering amid her evident distress, stirring a fragile hope he dared not nurture.
“Verity,” he repeated, the syllables lingering on his tongue like a forbidden caress, warm and intimate in the firelit gloom. “I wish to apologize once more for my behavior this morning. It was highly improper, utterly inexcusable, and I can only?—”
Verity stammered, her words spilling forth in a breathless rush that betrayed her agitation, “I have told a lie … my lord … and … I am hoping … with all my heart … that you will find it in yours to forgive me.”
Lucien observed the frantic leap of her pulse at the base of her throat, the distraught lines deepening the delicate skin of her forehead, and a profound worry surged through him for this brave yet burdened young lady who had unwittingly ensnared his regard.
Without conscious thought, he reached out and gently took her small, chilled hand in his larger one, feeling the fine tremor that ran through her fingers like a current of unspoken fear.