When he took his leave, Pembroke placed a decanter of whiskey and a box of cigars on a tray and followed. It was common knowledge that the lord worked late into the night on his grandfather’s accounts.
Olivia watched as Bennett was carried up the stairs to his bedroom, followed by Minerva. It saddened her that Lord Quenton had made no attempt to speak to his brother. But, she amended, the loss was his.
Catching the boy’s hand, Olivia trailed behind the others. “I was very proud of you, Liat. That was a very kind thing to do.”
“I just wanted him to know that he isn’t a monster. He’s just a man who can’t talk.”
She had to swallow several times as they climbed the stairs.
“Sometimes I don’t like to talk either. Especially when I’m feeling sad and lonely.”
“I understand. I guess it’s the same with everyone. Well,” she whispered, when they reached their chambers. “tonight wasn’t so bad, was it? Lord Stamford did look at you. He even spoke to you.”
The lad nodded his head. “Aye, miss. But that may be even worse than before.”
“Why?”
“Now I’ll have to worry about answering his questions.”
As Olivia led him to his bed and helped him into his nightclothes, she felt a kinship with this lad. She was beginning to think she would much prefer being ignored by the lord of the manor to being singled out for his wrath.
In the future, she would try to keep her thoughts to herself. With that resolve firmly in mind, she decided to go below stairs for a soothing cup of tea.
The hallway, like all the others at Blackthorne, was dimly lit, with candles guttering in pools of wax. As her footsteps echoed hollowly, Olivia paused. Had she heard someone behind her?
She turned, but could see no one. Feeling slightly foolish, she stiffened her spine and continued on. But the hair at the back of her neck prickled and she knew, without turning again, that there was indeed someone behind her.
Her stomach clenched, and it took all her willpower to keep from running. Still, determined to remain composed, she lifted her skirts and quickened her pace. And knew, with absolute certainty, that the one following her had also picked up speed.
“Pembroke? Mistress Thornton?” The slight quiver in her voice shamed her. But when she stopped and turned, she was certain she saw a shadow dart away.
This was nonsense. She was allowing some childish notion to overrule her common sense. What reason would anyone have for following her? Yet she was convinced that someone was.
The tea was forgotten. Now, all she wanted was to return to her own chambers and close herself inside. Despite her attempt at caution she was running now, darting looks over her shoulder, her breath coming in short gasps. As she rounded a corner she went crashing into solid muscle. Strong arms gripped her. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t even cry out. All she could do was hold on while her breath tore at her lungs and she found herself looking up into Lord Stamford’s scowling face.
“What’s wrong?” He could feel the fear vibrating through her. Instinctively his arms tightened, and he ran a hand down her back to soothe, to comfort.
“I can’t...” She sucked in a breath and struggled for calm. Her chest heaved from the effort. Her arms circled his waist and held on, grateful for his. quiet strength. “Give me a moment, my lord.”
“Shhh.” Without thinking his voice softened, as did his touch. “Take all the time you need.” The feel of her arms around him caused a jolt that was not at all unpleasant. In fact, he found himself enjoying the feeling far too much. She was so small, so fragile. So very feminine.
“I thought...I heard footsteps behind me.”
“Of course you did.” He breathed in the woman scent of her. Her hair smelled of rainwater and that half-remembered fragrance from his childhood.
The troublesome ledgers were forgotten. As was everything except this woman in his arms. “Probably one of the servants.”
Now that he was holding her, she felt her fears evaporating. How could she have been so foolish? What could she possibly have to fear here at Blackthorne?
But even as her fears subsided, and her breathing returned to normal, she became aware of something else. The hands at her back had not stilled, but were moving along her spine in a most provocative manner. She looked up to see Lord Stamford staring down at her with a strange, intense look that had her heart starting to race again. This time it was a new and different sort of fear that gripped her.
“My lord...”
“You’re fine now, Miss St. John. Nothing’s remiss.” Before the words were even out of his mouth, his lips lowered to hers.
It was a jolt to the system that had him reeling. He wasn’t even sure how this had happened. One moment he’d been holding her, offering her comfort. The next his mouth was fused to hers in a kiss that robbed him of his senses.
She tasted as sweet, as fresh as morning mist. An innocent, untouched by the things of this world. If she knew what he was thinking she would be shocked to the core.
The touch of Lord Stamford’s lips was so very different from the way Olivia had felt when Wyatt had tried to force her. Despite the aura of danger that surrounded this man, there was a feeling of safety here. And pleasure. And simmering passion. As he took the kiss deeper, she sighed and found herself slipping under the spell.
The hands at her shoulders tightened, and she could feel his heartbeat as wild, as erratic as her own. Could it be that he was feeling the same quivering need? As he lingered over her mouth, she lost the ability to think at all.
Quenton knew exactly when she became so caught up in the kiss that her fear faded and the first stirrings of passion flared. She sighed and he found himself thinking about things that had long been forgotten. The thought of taking her, here, now, had him pulling back abruptly.
Something flared in his eyes briefly before he blinked. His tone was rougher than he’d intended. “You’d best go to your room now, Miss St. John.”
“Yes. Of course.” It was an effort to speak. Her throat was dry, the words strained.
As she turned away he laid a hand on her arm. At once they both felt the heat.
“It might be best if you bolt the door.”
She avoided his eyes.
“Just so you’ll rest easier.”
She nodded, then strode quickly away.
He continued to watch until she entered her suite and closed the door. He waited until he heard the bolt.
His hands were trembling, he noted. He clenched them into fists at his sides and strode quickly away. And cursed himself because, if truth be told, it wasn’t some dark shadow that had him ordering her to lock her door. It was the knowledge that he didn’t trust himself around her. Not tonight, with all the memories swirling in his mind.
She was too sweet. Too innocent. She stirred something in him. Something that was better off remaining buried forever.
Quenton stood on the windswept hillside, oblivious to the bite in the air. His feet were planted, steady, wide apart, as they had always been on the deck of his ship. Beside him, the hound’s fur ruffled in the wind.
The sea had been his refuge. At sea he had not been treated with deference because, of his name. He’d had to earn the respect of his men with sword and fist, and at times, with swift justice. But at least he’d been free to curse the storms and rage