Now he ran a hand through his hair, turning away. Or trying to. Cecilia put herself in front of him as he did, one hand resting on his chest. The physical contact seemed to anchor him. She barely touched him but might as well have thrown him into chains. His eyes met hers and he did not want to look away. He became lost in them, so wide and bright. So deep and gentle while at the same time blazing with the force of her will.
“I was not myself in that moment,” he whispered.
“Are you yourself now?” Cecilia replied.
Her voice carried as much barely controlled emotion as Lionel himself felt. She was mere inches from him, though she had not taken a step. It was a shock to realize that it was he who had moved, drawn to her. A flush rose in her pale cheeks, evidence of the same excitement he could see in her eyes. Her lips partedand her breath came in quick gasps. Lionel felt his own heart racing, hands twitching from the desire to hold her. He wavered on the brink of self-control, feeling as though he held on by his fingernails only.
Then the control was gone. His hands went about her waist and his lips found hers. For a glorious moment, reason fled along with time. There was only the feeling of her warm lips against his, of her soft, curving body in his hands. Then he was pushing against his chest roughly. He stepped back. Cecilia danced away from him, a hand to her lips.
“No. Not again,” she started, “I will not be used. I will either be your wife or not. There is no halfway.”
Lionel felt a tearing wrench within him. Denying the passion that had risen within him was nearly impossible. It raged through his veins, demanding satisfaction. Shutting off that desire was like trying to dam a river in full flood.
But Cecilia was right. He could not use her like this. Nor allow himself to be used. They could not be what she wanted. What they both wanted.Never. There was no room in his life for it.
“You’re right. No halfway,” he murmured. “Keep the paintings here if you wish, and feel free to use the music room. In a few months, this will all be over.” With that, he spun and left the room without awaiting her response.
CHAPTER 13
ONE WEEK LATER
Lionel felt eyes on his back and turned. A beech spread its boughs over his head, casting a deep shade across him. The castle was silhouetted against the bright morning sky behind it, the sun not yet visible. He knew that he was looking towards the distant south tower. Was she at the window watching him? The distance was too great for him to see but an instinct told him that she was. He had caught her once before doing just that.
For a long moment, he gazed at the dark tower, imagining the beautiful face at the window. Such beauty as he had never beheld. It had seemed fortuitous when she had appeared at the ball after so many years. An opportunity presented by fate for him to set the record straight, to tell her the truth about her brother. And perhaps to court her. The last time they had met, he had been enamored of Arabella Wycliff, foolishly so he now saw.
Now he was free.
Except that he wasn’t.
Free of romantic entanglement—but not free to pursue his heart.
Fate had brought Cecilia back into his life to taunt him, to show him what he might possess if he gave up his quest for revenge. For Lionel was convinced that the two desires could not co-exist. He could either have Cecilia or take his revenge on Thorpe. An innocent lady was not something that should ever be compromised by the depravities of vengeance. That was the decision he had made a week before after his confrontation with Cecilia and the kiss they had shared. So far, he had managed to maintain his resolve.
He turned away, letting the deeper shadows of the grove swallow him. After just a few yards, the earth path that had led him into the woods had vanished. Long grass brushed his boots with dew. Saplings grew amongst each other in a tangle of young, pliable branches. Older trees towered overhead filtering the daylight through broad, green leaves. He followed an unerring path through the thick undergrowth, stepping carefully around rocks and roots, gritting his teeth against stabs of pain from his leg under its brace. At the corpse of a lightning-blasted willow, he turned, crossing a clearing of bramble and grass, and then following the course of a small stream. Where the banks of the stream became low and the stream bed choked with pebbles, he crossed, the water barely deep enough to reach his ankle. On the far side was a line of ash trees, planted in a double row. In between was an ancient trackway, old before even the convent that predated the castle was built. Lionel followed it, noting the occasional stones that were the only remains of the antique road. It curved along the outer edge of the wood, marking thefar northern boundary of his estate, before descending into a narrow valley.
Lionel limped down a stair made of protruding tree roots and old stones until he reached the floor of the valley, which spilled away to the north, curving out of sight. Before him was a shape swathed in ivy and brambles. Trees poked their heads through a broken roof and blackberries bloomed in jagged branches thrust through windows. A wooden door hung on a solitary, rusted hinge.
As he approached, he saw the corroded long still waterwheel. The mill was not as old as the track that led to it but rather had been placed there to take advantage of the busy stream that began back in the wood. Here, it tumbled over rocks into the valley and its merry tinkle would once have been a ferocious roar. Except it had long since silted up and become a still, green-tinged mere next to the long idle wheel of the mill. A secret place, long forgotten by the servants of Thornhill and the people of the village alike. Tucked away in a fold of the land, quiet and secluded.
He pushed past the door and into a room that belied the overgrown exterior. Inside, the vegetation had been cleared. Furniture had been moved from the dustiest cellars and attics of Thornhill to provide some comfort. An old, leather armchair whose upholstery was cracked and missing in several places. A bureau propped at one corner by bricks. In another corner was a wrought iron safe, secured by a combination lock and a chain thick enough to anchor a ship.
Lionel fished for the chain he had placed around his neck. On the chain was a long, bronze key. He undid the padlock and then swiftly turned the combination dial to open the safe. Within were an assortment of papers and a writing box. He took all out and sat before the bureau, brushing from its surface stray leaves. He spread the papers before him and tried to focus on their contents. But his mind was not on his work this morning.
A head of fiery red hair, brown—almost hazel eyes, and luxuriant, olive-shaded skin kept intruding into his mind’s eye. He ran a hand through his hair, then pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes tightly. Almost a fortnight past, he had given in to his desire and made love to Cecilia. It should not have been a subject of consternation. She was his wife. Legally and in the eyes of God. They were married and nothing was more natural. But it was a source of consternation for Lionel. He did not wish to use Cecilia like that. It bothered him that she might think he was using her. Trying to have his cake and eat it too. He had married her as she had become embroiled in scandal because of him. A trap set by Sir Gerald Knightley and Sir Rupert Sinclair, for reasons best known to themselves. He had stepped innocently into it and marriage seemed the only honorable way to remedy the situation.
Had Cecilia behaved as though she were part of the scheme, he could cheerfully have ignored her and nullified the wedding when the social furor had died away. But she behaved as though she were entirely innocent. Worse, she believed that he had killed her brother. That was not true but he couldn’t tell her the truth without proof. And not without potentially revealing his hand to the man he intended to destroy. If one word reached Thorpe that Lionel had revealed the truth of what happened thatnight, he would know that he was not safe. He would look hard at every decision he took. It was his reckless nature that Lionel had come to rely on to destroy him. That and the fact that in his arrogance, he had come to believe that he had been able to commit murder and get away with it. All of Lionel’s plans depended on secrecy. It was so ingrained in him that he could not bring himself to change the habit.
Lionel’s fists closed tightly, only to spring open when he realized that he still held the precious papers. These were the instruments of his revenge. The information that would allow him to utterly destroy the Viscount of Thorpe.
“Do I intrude, Your Grace? I did knock,” came a voice in a lilting Scottish accent.
Lionel jumped to his feet, whirling, and causing himself a stab of pain in his left leg. A man stood just inside the ruined doorway, his approach rendered silent by Lionel’s deep introspection.
“Not at all, Lennox. I was expecting you,” Lionel started, forcing a smile and offering his hand.
Lennox was gray-haired and pencil-thin with a beak of a nose and powerful eyebrows. He took the hand offered and shook it before holding up a leather satchel.
“I have the information you requested, Your Grace. And interesting reading it makes. I believe we have reached a turning point in your plans with this. May I?”
