The bundle in his arms abruptly stopped squirming. After a moment of silence, an acerbic voice came out of the darkness. “The next time you need something in the middle of the night, my lord, you might try simply ringing the bell.”
Chapter Eleven
ANNE HELD HER BREATH as she awaited Lord Dravenwood’s response, resisting the dangerous urge to relax against the broad expanse of his chest. For such a cold man, he was incredibly warm. He radiated heat like a cookstove on a blustery December day.
Once he had seized her, it hadn’t taken her long to realize her struggles against his unyielding arms were futile. He seemed to be exceptionally well formed for a man who had probably spent much of his career seated behind a desk.
Despite holding herself as stiffly as she could, there could be no denying the shocking intimacy of his makeshift embrace. One of his muscular arms was cinched around her waist while the other was wrapped firmly around her shoulders, just above the swell of her breasts. He’d planted his feet apart to balance them both, leaving her legs to dangle between his splayed thighs, the tips of her toes barely brushing the floor. His hips cradled the softness of her rump as if they’d been designed by their Maker for just such a provocative purpose.
The awkward silence only made the rasp of his ragged breathing more obvious. His chest hitched unevenly against her back while his heated breath caressed the back of her neck. A helpless shiver of reaction danced over her flesh. Anne almost wished she’d left her hair unbound to protect her vulnerable nape from that tantalizing assault instead of dividing it into two precise braids.
She had assumed identifying herself would win her freedom.
She had assumed wrong. Although Lord Dravenwood’s grip had softened a nearly imperceptible degree, his arms showed no sign of relinquishing their prize. He lowered his head next to hers in the darkness, his brandy-scented breath grazing the side of her throat.
Her eyes drifted shut as if even the darkness was too much for them to bear. She could feel both her muscles and her will softening of their own accord. Could feel her head listing to the side to expose the tingling curve of her throat to his lips.
It had been so long since a man had touched her . . . kissed her yearning lips. If he turned her in his arms and used his weight to bear her back against the nearest wall, would she have the strength to resist him? Or would she twine her arms around his neck and draw his warm, seeking lips down to hers?
“Honey. Sugar,” he murmured, his husky baritone a seduction all its own. His breath danced over the delicate swath of skin behind her ear. “Cinnamon. Nutmeg. Vanilla. Fresh cream.”
His words slowly penetrated the languorous haze threatening to overcome her. She frowned in bewilderment. He wasn’t whispering endearments but ingredients. And it wasn’t his lips gliding toward the curve between her throat and shoulder but his nose.
Her eyes flew open. The man wasn’t trying to seduce her; he was sniffing her!
“My lord,” she snapped, having no difficulty whatsoever striking just the right note of exasperation, “have you any intention of unhanding me before morning?”
This time her words had the desired effect. Dravenwood released her so abruptly she stumbled and nearly fell. She was surprised by how chilly the air felt without his arms to shield her from it.
She slowly turned to face him. He loomed over her, a faceless silhouette against the deeper shadows.
“Why do you always smell like that?” he demanded, his voice deepening to a near growl.
“Like what?”
“Like something that just came out of the oven. Something warm and freshly baked.”
Although it certainly wasn’t the accusation she had expected, Anne still felt oddly guilty. “As housekeeper, I spend a fair amount of my day in the kitchen planning the weekly menus and overseeing the cook.”
“I’ve yet to see anything emerge from the kitchen of this house that smells like that. Except for you, that is.”
“Is that what drove you to accost me? You mistook me for a warm cross bun?”
“I mistook you for”—he hesitated—“an intruder. It’s a risk you run when you wander about the manor in the dead of night . . . without your clothes,” he added pointedly.
Anne could almost feel the heat of his gaze sweeping over her. Apparently, his night vision was much keener than hers. She touched a hand to her throat, reassuring herself there was no need to stammer or blush in embarrassment. Her modest nightdress shrouded her from throat to ankle. Of course, now he knew exactly what it was shrouding. He had felt the softness of her curves mold to the hardness of his own body, had felt the wild patter of her heart as she writhed against him.
“I thought I heard a noise so I came to investigate,” she said primly.
“Without a lamp? Or even so much as a candle?”
“I would think you’d be more in need of a candle than I would. I’m far more familiar with the house and less likely to bark my shins or tumble down a flight of stairs.”
“Or out a fourth-floor window,” he said coolly, reminding them both of the fate another, less fortunate, master of the house had met.
Anne’s mouth fell open, then snapped shut. She could feel him studying her again, but was grateful she couldn’t see his expression. She would do well to guard her sharp tongue. If she goaded him into dismissing her, all was lost.
“I left my chamber with a candle,” he finally admitted. “But it was lost to a draft.”
“Old houses do tend to have an abundance of those.”
“Among other things. Aren’t you the least bit concerned about roaming around the manor in the dark yourself when it’s been rumored there’s a vengeful ghost on the loose?”
Anne shrugged. “We seem to have reached a mutual agreement with our White Lady. We don’t trouble her and she doesn’t trouble us.”
“Aha!” He drew a step closer to her, bringing his triumphant features into focus. “So you do believe in ghosts!”
“It’s impossible to live in this house and not believe in spirits of some sort. The past can be a very powerful influence on the present.”
“Only for those who insist on dwelling in it.” His words had a bitter edge, as if he had recognized the irony in them even before they were out of his mouth. “You claimed you heard a noise. Just what did you hear?”
“Nothing of consequence. Probably just a loose shutter banging against a window.”
“I heard a woman laughing.”
His stark confession hung between them, a shimmering thread of truth cutting through the darkness.
It pained her to neatly sever that thread with her next words. “What you most likely heard was a pair of housemaids giggling over some nonsense in their beds. The girls rise early and work hard during the day. I try not to deny them their simple pleasures.”
He was silent for so long Anne knew he hadn’t believed a word of her explanation. But he’d been a diplomat long enough to recognize a standoff when he saw one. “What of yourself, Mrs. Spencer?”
“Pardon?” she asked, confused by his question.
“Do you deny yourself your simple pleasures? Or do you prefer the more complicated ones?”
For a long moment Anne found it difficult to breathe, much less formulate a coherent answer. When she finally did, the arid formality had been restored to her tone. “I trust you can find your way back to your bed, my lord. I’ll strive to see you pass the rest of your night undisturbed.”
As she turned away from him, she would have almost sworn she heard him mutter beneath his breath, “Pity, that.”
She started down the darkened corridor, still feeling the prick of his suspicious gaze against her back. She forced herself to measure each step, though she was nearly overcome by the absurd notion that he was going to seize her again. That he was only a breath away from closing the distance between them so he could wrap a powerful arm around her waist and draw her back against the seductive heat of his body. She’d resisted the temptation to me
lt against all of that enticing masculine strength once, but she wasn’t sure she’d have the fortitude to do it again.
She waited until she’d reached the shelter of the servants’ staircase before giving in to the overpowering impulse to flee.
BY THE TIME ANNE reached her attic room, she had a stitch in her side and was gasping for breath. She slipped inside the room and closed the door, twisting the key in the lock with trembling fingers.
Pippa and Dickon had helped her install the lock before their last master had arrived. The three of them had laughingly celebrated their efforts, knowing all the while it would be a feeble defense against a powerful shoulder or a booted foot.
Anne pressed her ear to the door but heard no sign of pursuit. She sagged against it, going limp with relief. She had certainly never intended to end her evening in her employer’s arms. She had only her own carelessness to blame. She knew every cranny and nook of this house. If she had anticipated his pursuit, she could easily have eluded him.
She’d grown accustomed to men fleeing her company, not seeking it. She certainly hadn’t expected Lord Dravenwood to plunge headlong into the darkness, turning the hunter into the hunted.
She pushed herself away from the door. She’d left a candle burning on the washstand, and as she crossed the floor, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the looking glass that hung over it.
Mesmerized against her will, she drew closer to the mirror. She expected to see what she saw every morning when she arose—an ordinary face, not unpleasing, but certainly not worthy of praise or adulation. But tonight her breasts were rising and falling unsteadily beneath the plain, white linen bodice of her nightdress. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks flushed a soft rose, her lips slightly parted as if awaiting a lover’s kiss. She lifted her hands as if they belonged to someone else and raked her fingers through her braids, releasing her aching head from their pressure. Taming the thick mass was a constant struggle, usually requiring a wealth of pins that stabbed her scalp every time she turned her head. Her hair spilled around her shoulders in a rippling cloud, and she was left staring into the face of a stranger.
Her lips tightened. No, not a stranger at all but a face she knew only too well, a face she had hoped never to see again except as a distorted reflection in the eyes of those too foolish to recognize it had never been anything more than an illusion.
Leaning forward, she blew out the candle, banishing that creature to the past where she belonged.
Chapter Twelve
ANNE STOOD AT THE head of the long pine table in the kitchen the next morning, her gaze traveling the circle of faces turned expectantly toward her. Each of those faces was desperately dear to her, but she still felt the burden of their need weighing down her heart. Sometimes she didn’t know if her heart would be strong enough to bear it.
Nana had already finished her porridge and retreated to her rocking chair in front of the hearth to rescue Sir Fluffytoes from the hopeless tangle the cat had made of her yarn. Hodges was rocking back and forth in his chair and humming the singsong notes of a nursery rhyme beneath his breath, the front of his white waistcoat already dappled with various food stains.
Anne sighed. She had hoped to send Hodges back to the cellar to do some more excavating while Lord Dravenwood was occupied elsewhere, but in his current condition, Hodges probably wouldn’t be able to find the cellar, much less any treasures that might be hiding there.
Pippa and Dickon sat directly across from the maids, who had managed to stop giggling and chattering just long enough to give Anne their attention.
Anne had found the five young maids on the streets of London, living from one crust of bread to the next. They shared one thing in common with her—they had all been left to fend for themselves after being betrayed by a man. Or in some of their cases, by many men.
When Anne had first brought them to Cadgwyck, they had slunk around the manor like a pack of feral cats, shying away from every sudden movement and loud noise. Their hair had been stringy and dull, their features pinched by a combination of hunger and mistrust.
Now their hair was shiny, their faces full and glowing with good health and good humor in the cozy light from the kitchen fire. To them, Cadgwyck Manor wasn’t a pile of crumbling stones, but the only true home they’d ever known.
Anne had deliberately chosen the window of time before the earl would rise to address them all.
“I don’t wish to alarm any of you,” she said, pitching her words at a volume even Nana could hear over the steady creak of her rocking chair, “but I’m afraid we’re going to have to endure Lord Dravenwood’s company for a little longer than we anticipated.”
“And just why is that?” Pippa demanded, looking alarmed.
Anne bit her bottom lip. “I fear I have only myself to blame. In my haste to be rid of the man, I may have overplayed my hand last night.”
“Oh, dear!” Betsy’s cheerful little pumpkin of a face went as pale as the starched folds of the mob-cap perched atop her yellow curls. “He didn’t catch you, did he?”
If she closed her eyes, Anne could still feel Dravenwood’s arms enfolding her, hauling her against the hard, ruthless planes of his body as if she weighed no more than a feather from one of his pillows. “In a manner of speaking, yes. But I told him I’d left my bed to investigate a mysterious noise myself.”
“And he believed you?” Lizzie asked hopefully.
Anne could still see the skeptical gleam of the earl’s eyes shining down at her out of the darkness. “I’m not sure Lord Dravenwood believes in much of anything. Since his suspicions have already been stirred, I think it would be best if we try a more subtle approach from this day forward.”
Pippa blew an errant curl out of her eyes, her expression sulky. “Just how long must we put up with the insufferable man?”
Anne took a deep breath. “A fortnight at least. Perhaps as much as a month.”
Dickon groaned. “I can’t wear that silly wig for a fortnight. It itches something fierce!”
“You’re just going to have to bear up. He’ll be gone soon enough, just like all the rest,” Anne assured the boy. “We don’t want to make him too comfortable, of course, or he might stop pining for his London luxuries and decide he fancies it here. We’ll keep feeding him uninspiring meals and making sure the house is as inhospitable as possible. But for the time being there will be no more peculiar noises in the night or mysteriously closed chimney flues. I think it would be best if Angelica didn’t put in any more appearances for a while.”
“She won’t care for that,” Pippa warned. “You know what a brat she can be when it comes to getting what she wants.”
“I’ve often thought the two of you were kindred spirits in that respect,” Anne shot back, earning an appreciative chuckle from Dickon. Pippa made a face at him.
“Angelica has always been a good girl,” Hodges said softly to the remains of his porridge. “If she is overly indulged, it is only because she deserves to be.”
Anne gazed down at his snowy-white head, forced to swallow around the sudden tightness in her throat. “Yes, darling. Angelica is a good girl. If not for her, none of us would be here right now.”
Dickon still didn’t look convinced. “How are we supposed to keep hunting for the treasure if he’s always lurking about, ordering us to fetch his gloves or lick his boots clean or glowering at us as if we’d accidentally gelded his favorite stallion?”
“We’ll simply have to take more care,” Anne replied. “Once the earl has relaxed his guard a bit, we’ll have a much better chance of—”
“Mrs. Spencer!”
Chapter Thirteen
ANNE FROZE RIGHT ALONG with the rest of them as the echo of that familiar roar slowly faded. After a stark moment of silence, one of the rusty bells strung over the door began to jangle with undeniable violence.
“Do you hear the cathedral bells?” Hodges clapped his pudgy hands, his eyes shining like a child’s. “Why, it must be Christmas morning!
”
Lizzie gazed up the inscription above the bell, her eyes as round as saucers. “ ’Tis the master’s bedchamber.”
Pippa gave Anne a wide-eyed look, but Anne shook her head in answer to the girl’s unspoken question. Neither Anne nor Angelica had had a hand in this bit of mischief. Anne was as bewildered as the rest of them by their master’s abrupt summons. Keenly aware of their anxious gazes following her every move, Anne forced herself to walk calmly from the kitchen. She waited until she was out of their sight to quicken her steps to a run.
WHEN ANNE ARRIVED AT the east wing, Dravenwood was pacing back and forth in the corridor outside his bedchamber in shirtsleeves and trousers, his untied cravat hanging loose around his throat. He wasn’t trailing smoke or reeking of fire and brimstone, but he did appear to be in a devil of a temper.
As she approached, he wheeled around and stabbed a finger toward the closed door. “There is a creature in my room!”
To Anne’s credit, she managed to keep a straight face. “What is it this time, my lord? A ghost? A bogey? Or perhaps a werewolf?”
Scowling at her from beneath a brow as dark and forbidding as a thundercloud, he reached down and flung open the door. Anne gingerly peered around the door frame, unsure of what she would find.
Piddles was curled up right in the middle of his lordship’s bed, chewing on a piece of mangled leather. As they crept into the room, the dog bared his pronounced underbite and let out a low growl, as if to warn them away from attempting to wrest his prize from him so they might chew on it themselves.
A smile slowly spread across Anne’s face. “That is not a creature, my lord. That is a dog.” She squinted at the shiny leather tassel dangling from one corner of the dog’s mouth. “And what is that? Is it . . .”
“It was one of my very best boots,” Dravenwood said morosely. Piddles gulped, then swallowed. The tassel disappeared.
As the dog went back to gnawing on what was left of the boot, the earl glared at him. “I discovered him when I came out of the dressing room. How do you suppose the little wretch got in here?”