Chapter 22 Moira #2
Mr. Martin barely looked at Leena and Rami. “Wards of yours, eh?” His glance landed on Rami a second too long, and Rami stared back with barely disguised hate. “Ah, the sword fighter.”
Rami smirked. “Never yet lost.”
“May your luck endure, son.” If they hadn’t known that it was Mr. Martin who had attempted to kill Rami, Leena would have thought he sounded sincere.
He sat at his desk, making a show of adjusting his papers.
He turned to St. Silas again. “I do apologize for the lack of reception on your arrival; I must’ve mistaken the time. ”
In contrast to Mr. Martin’s high-handed mannerisms, St. Silas—who moments before had been seething for a fight—was now perfectly at ease.
“Was my letter not precise enough?” A warning lurked beneath St. Silas’s airy demeanor.
“Of course it was. But it was the fault of my new secretary, who is not so well trained. I will certainly make my displeasure known.” Mr. Martin squinted at him.
St. Silas leaned back casually, looking around the opulent room, then gave a low whistle.
“Mr. Martin, you have come a long way. I take pride in being the one to have brought you here. I would hate for my own secretary to make a similar mistake and release information on my clients that would better be kept secret.”
Mr. Martin paled. “I am sure, sir, you would employ nothing but excellence.”
What possible secret did St. Silas have over this tradesman? Leena knew without a doubt that such a secret would be life-destroying, and she itched to uncover it.
Just then, a knock sounded on the door. Without waiting for admittance, the door swung open and a ginger-haired man sauntered in. His fine breeding was evident in his bearing and his low bow.
Leena jolted. She knew him.
It was Lord Kilworth. The servants of Lord Hargreaves’s estate used to call him the Hunter, for more reasons than just his proclivity for collecting animal trophies. She remembered with ferocity the sobs of the scullery maid who’d been a victim of his wandering hands.
Mr. Martin made the introductions with a tight frown. “Lord Kilworth, this is Mr. St. Silas, Miss Al-Sayer, and…er…Mr. Al-Sayer.”
His Lordship’s gaze instantly landed on Leena, his perusal lingering moments too long on her corseted bodice.
Leena knew that look. It was the way certain Morish men viewed Algaraan women—imagining submissive, pliant bodies; desert-brown skin against pale; an exotic adventure to be experienced then discarded.
She met his gaze with frank disgust, and her obvious refusal seemed only to stir him more.
She heard St. Silas slowly rise from his reclined position, deliberately stepping closer to her, a hardness erasing his previous carelessness.
“My ward,” he said, a coldness to his eyes.
“Yes,” Lord Kilworth said with a raise of his brows. “I had to see the…er—wards of the infamous Saint of Silence for myself.”
Lord Kilworth’s eyes flickered over them, their features so out of place, so foreign, in the magnificence of Weavingshaw. What must they think, Leena wondered, of the Saint of Silence bringing Algaraans to this gathering of Morish nobility?
Rami stood staring out the window, but something about Kilworth drew his attention. “I’ve seen you at the Black Coats’ games,” he said. “You hunt, don’t you? I heard you once telling tale of a boar you’d shot.”
Kilworth’s pale lips tightened at Rami’s casual address. “Aye, boy, I’m a keen hunter.” His eyes fell to Rami’s missing arm.
Rather than be provoked, Rami turned back to the window, already losing interest in the conversation.
Leena had been momentarily distracted with shooting her brother warning glares: Do not draw the wrath of the aristos. But a conversation had been happening in the interim, and when she refocused she managed to catch only the tail end of it.
“…shown to separate quarters.” Mr. Martin’s expressive glance fell on her and St. Silas.
“Have a care,” St. Silas said softly.
Mr. Martin flushed. “As the owner of this fine house, I intend to keep its reputation pristine. You must forgive my caution.”
St. Silas’s smile was barbed. “Your owning the house alone is a scandal, Martin.”
“Sir, I would like to remind you—”
Lord Kilworth barked out a laugh. “The Saint has a secret over you, doesn’t he?”
Mr. Martin froze, a hitch forming between his brows. Abruptly he stood up, barely facing St. Silas. “It would give me great pleasure if you would accept my hospitality, sir. In the meantime, we will both take our leave now.”
It took only a few seconds for Mr. Martin to forcibly usher Lord Kilworth out.
Once the door to the study had closed, Rami plucked up a brass ornament and held it at eye level. “Quite a welcome. At the mention of a secret, Mister Martin was tripping over his feet to run out the—”
But Leena was no longer paying attention.
Her eyes were trained on the far corner of the room where a young woman lingered by an empty vase.
Another spirit; no human could be that still.
She was lovely, clear-eyed, with fair hair and a slight, girlish figure.
She met Leena’s gaze with keen curiosity, inclined her head at Rami, but paused on St. Silas the longest.
In an instant, she was in front of him. A gentle hand lingered on his cheek, but then the touch hardened.
She was angry. Furious.
Her small hands wrapped around St. Silas’s throat—a futile attempt, as effective as a ruffle of cool breeze. Her mouth opened and silently she screamed—
Except it was Leena who was screaming as the ghost and Leena became one, and the anger and betrayal the spirit felt now made a home in Leena’s chest. It scorched an unbearable heat across her sternum.
Then all was black.
—
She was no longer Leena. Of this she was certain.
She inhabited another body, another memory. That of the fair-haired ghost.
And standing in front of her was Lord Percival Avon.
Not as a spirit, but with the stunning animation of the living. Leena sensed the fair-haired girl’s physical reaction to Lord Avon, her cheeks flaring when he looked down at her.
“My Lord Avon,” she whispered, bowing. The girl’s voice was higher than Leena’s own.
“Percy,” he corrected, with a caress to her cheek.
With a pang, Leena—the fair-haired girl—noticed the gold band on his left hand. He followed her gaze.
“I wear it for society’s sake. Believe me, I’ve long forgotten her.
” Percy’s words brought her no comfort, however.
He was a flash of lightning that could not be contained, no matter how hard she tried.
He held up his other hand to show the silver ring that bore his house insignia.
“Ignore my wedding band; pretend it is cast far into the sea. It is only this ring that I cannot be parted from.”
“Your family ring,” she breathed in awe. Then a sudden thought struck her. “Do you care for it more than me?”
Instead of answering her question, he asked her to play for him.
Leena felt acutely how much this girl wanted to please him; the pain of her devotion was like thorns scratching her skin.
And yet the taste of this woman-child’s fear was very bitter.
Here was an older titled man with vast lands and endless sophistication far beyond her grasp. What could he possibly see in her?
But whenever she played, he smiled. And she would have done anything on this earth to see him smile at her in just that way.
She sat by the piano, her posture straight.
Her fingers skimmed the keys and soft music streamed forth. She knew she could bring her listeners to tears, but His Lordship’s eyes remained dry even after the last note faded into silence.
Yet her reward was his hand on her cheek again; she shivered from the contact. “One day, my little one, I will take you to Weavingshaw.”
The scene dissolved.
But another image arose. Percival Avon lay next to her wearing only a nightshirt, the firelight catching the gold in his hair and softening the blue in his eyes.
They were in bed.
He loomed over her, large and masculine, and for the first time the girl felt an inkling of fear. She now saw that the muscles of his arms, which had only been used to protect her in the past, could also be used to hurt.
“I’m sorry, my little one,” Percy cooed, his blue eyes shadowed with remorse.
“Oh, my dearest one! I’m sorry, but he can’t know where we’ve hidden it, and if he catches you, he will do terrible things to you.
I shudder to imagine.” Here he clutched her close to his chest. “I must save you from the worst of fates.” His whispered words landed as a sharp dagger between her ribs.
“My sweetest Moira, will you keep this secret for me?”
“I will,” Leena heard herself promise in Moira’s voice. Her pulse thrummed in her ears—both from his embrace and the passion in his voice.
Percy swept the hair from her eyes. He looked at her deeply and, Moira thought, with some confusion, in sadness.
“I’m sorry, my darling, but I have to be certain.”
Suddenly, Percy’s hands gripped the delicate curve of her neck, his touch unforgiving and hard, as he squeezed her throat until no more air passed into her lungs.
—
The shattering clatter of two copper coins striking each other.
Someone humming tunelessly.
Leena drifted in and out of consciousness.
The taste of grit in her mouth. A blistering headache behind her eyes.
“What’s happened to her?”
“She fell. I reckon she saw something—”
“Has this happened before?” It was St. Silas’s voice, sharp.
“A few times…” That was Rami.
Leena tried to tell her brother to refrain from revealing more to St. Silas than he’d already guessed.
All she managed was a raspy plea for water.
Within moments, a glass was tipped gently to her mouth, a few droplets dribbling from her chin. She opened her eyes to see St. Silas standing over her with a glass in his hand.
“More,” she pleaded.
He turned to Rami. “Hail a servant to fetch more.”
Rami was already making his way into the hall, opening and shutting the door with a slam.