Belmary House Book One Page 20

  “Oh, Julian,” she sighed, and took his hand. She scooted closer, only wanting to lessen the pain he was so clearly feeling, as he relived the memories. “That’s awful, it really is. But people get sick and sometimes they don’t get better.” She swallowed hard, fighting tears, wishing she could have such a balanced outlook in her own life. “It’s a shame he was young, but it would have been worse to interfere if the means were …” she trailed off, not wanting to offend him, coming as he did from a long line of witches.

  “Unsavory,” he finished ruefully. “Wrong. Evil. Take your pick.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He stood up, pulling her with him. “You’ve no need to be sorry. You’ve been remarkably helpful throughout this.”

  “How?” she asked, perplexed.

  She could have sworn he found her a nuisance at worst, a mild distraction from his bad moods at best.

  He shrugged, leaning down to look closely into her eyes. “Perhaps you’re a bit magical yourself.” She gaped at him and his stark features relaxed into a smile. “Perhaps you’re just exceptionally kind to put up with my nonsense.”

  “It’s not nonsense,” she argued, thinking how admirably he managed the crappy hand life had dealt him. She herself would have given up long ago.

  “There, you see. That’s a kind answer, thank you,” he said stubbornly. “Now, I must pay my respects. Come along and let me lean on you if need be.”

  They picked their way along a wildflower scattered path behind the church, then up a gentle incline to a low walled cemetery. He stood at the gate perusing the old and new tombstones and Tilly perused him, feeling the tension that came off him in almost palpable waves. He didn’t seem to know exactly where he was going and they wound through the stones until he came upon a modest, smooth rectangle, clearly a new one.

  Tilly read the names and dates to herself as Ashford stood stiffly in front of it, and knew without being told that it was Camilla’s paramour. He’d been a year younger than herself when he’d died and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mild summer weather. Ashford had said it was an illness, and there was no reason for her to think anything sinister might have happened to the unwitting young man, but she couldn’t help but wonder if he hadn’t got mixed up with Ashford’s sister, he might still be home and well on his family’s farm. She felt guilty at the thought and dismissed it as jitters from Ashford’s mood and being in a cemetery. She’d never been good at dealing with death.

  “I knew he couldn’t have been right,” he muttered, then turned to her. “I almost believed Jeremy when he told me—”

  Footsteps behind them cut off his sentence and he turned, beginning to bow in greeting, but the appearance of the older man who approached them stopped him. His face froze and he took a step in front of Tilly. Confused at what threat this slightly bent and sad looking man held, she leaned around to see if she recognized him. His tired, lined face turned almost vicious with anger, making her recoil back behind Ashford. She’d never seen him in the village, nor visited his home with Serena. Ashford looked embarrassed and ducked his head at the man.

  “I apologize. We’ll be on our way.” He began to pull Tilly toward the gate but the man stopped him in his tracks with a hissing noise.

  “How can ye come here? How can ye pretend to mourn my lad?” The old man’s eyes were filled with tears, but his mouth was twisted with rage. “Your wicked sister stole him from us. D’ye know she didna even let us see his body after he passed on? My wife canna go an hour without crying over no’ getting to say goodbye. Just up and buried my lad in the heathen city where we canna properly visit him. Did she think this memorial stone would appease us?”

  “He’s not buried here?” Ashford asked, his grip on her hand turning vice-like.

  “Ye didna even know? Bah, ye’re never here anymore, so why should ye? Hie on back to London, laddie, and stop pretending to be one of us.”

  Ashford apologized again, backing away from the grieving father. She could tell he was hurt by the man’s words, but most of all he seemed bewildered. He all but dragged her from the graveyard he was walking so fast, not speaking until they were well away from it.

  “He’s not there,” he said, stopping under a tree.

  He paced back and forth, sometimes looking at her as if he wanted to say something, but didn’t. She stood in the shade and waited, not sure what kind of questions to ask and not wanting to drive him into a silence with a wrong word. It was better to wait him out. Had Ashford decided to suddenly visit that grave out of a sense of guilt or was there another reason behind it?

  “You said something about Jeremy being wrong earlier, or not believing him. What was that about?” Her curiosity finally got the best of her after he stopped pacing.

  He stared at her, or really beyond her, for a while, eyes bright with anxiety. “It’s nothing, Matilda. It’s certainly nothing.”

  Both his looks and his tone told her he didn’t believe his own words, but it was also clear to her that he was done with the subject. She’d have to wait awhile before questioning him again, or worse, wait for him to bring it back up, if he ever did. But something was definitely amiss, something that upset him deeply, and it went well beyond being berated by the villager.

  ***

  Ashford’s mood improved as they came upon the spot where they’d had their breakfast picnic. She was surprised to see the blanket and basket had disappeared.

  “Do people just follow you around picking up after you?” she asked. “Doesn’t that get annoying?”

  “Why would it?” he said absently, leaning down to pick a straggly wildflower from the side of the road. He began shredding its leaves off the stem.

  She snickered at his spoiled upbringing, but had to admit it wouldn’t be all that annoying when she really thought about it. It might actually be awesome. She was about to make a crack about the idle rich, but realized he was anything but idle. He barely sat still for a moment, and his mind seemed to be constantly in a state of manic upheaval.

  She wished she could get him to relax, but knew he wouldn’t until Camilla was found and she was back in her own time. Even then the constant threat of Solomon Wodge, his in-laws, and the various other people who would continue to wander across the portal would never truly let him rest. Her heart felt like butter left out on the counter as she watched his hands pick at the stem. To fight the nearly overwhelming urge to wrap her arms around him, she took the flower from his hand before he tore it to pieces.

  “What did this poor plant ever do to you?” she demanded. It was really quite pretty, purple and brushy.

  “I was taking the scratchy bits off so you can put it in your hair.” He took it back from her and tucked it behind her ear. “There. I thought it would look nice with your lovely multi-hued eyes, and I was right.”

  His self-satisfied smile as he gazed at his handiwork, continuing to mess with strands of her hair, melted what was left of her already gooey heart. Plus, a compliment? She was done for.

  “Multi-hued?” she prompted, hoping for more.

  He nodded firmly and leaned close, staring into her eyes. “Yes, they’re not just green, they’ve got gold and bronze and even sparks of amber. They’re quite mesmerizing.”

  His nearness reminded her of her dream, the one that was just getting good before he woke her up. If only he could keep leaning in. She edged up on her tiptoes, her nose almost touching his. She was a fool if she thought he would start anything with her. He was far too responsible, and she knew he viewed himself as her guardian. She had zero chance of ever feeling his lips anywhere on her. And yet, he didn’t move back, only blinking slowly, his gaze dropping from her eyes to her mouth. Her skin prickled with pent up anticipation.

  “Mesmerizing, you say?” she asked.

  He snorted a laugh and stepped back, and she shriveled up at the sudden turn of events. “Really, Matilda, you act as if no one ever gave you a compliment before, as if you’re fair starved for th
em. But that’s all you’ll wring from me this day.”

  She turned away and continued walking along the path to hide her dismay, praying for a breeze to cool her burning cheeks. It was true she didn’t get a whole lot of compliments, and certainly never from a dashing, brooding, nineteenth century Scot. She’d gone overboard, and now he was laughing at her. She stayed several yards ahead of him until they came within sight of the manor’s circular drive where she stopped short at the sight of a strange carriage, big and showy.

  Turning eagerly, she waved and hollered at Ashford to catch up. He was walking with his head down and looked up at her call, completely lost to another world. He went from a look of mild irritation at being interrupted from his thoughts, to a look of extreme irritation when he clearly recognized the coach.

  “Bugger,” he said resignedly when he caught up with her.

  “Who is it?” she asked, shielding her eyes from the mid afternoon sun as it reflected off the shiny brass carriage fittings.

  “Ah, he’ll surely want to stay for Serena’s ridiculous ball.” He sighed and took her arm, smiling down at her devilishly. “But then again, maybe not, once he knows you’re here.”

  “Do I know him?” she asked incredulously.

  None of the villagers she’d met had a carriage like that, and she hadn’t met anyone in London except … oh, bugger. It couldn’t be.

  “You do know him, my dear. Your old acquaintance, Nick Kerr has come to call.”

  Chapter 23

  Ashford grew increasingly disgusted as he watched his Miss Jacobs fall under Nick’s rakish spell. At first she’d been cold, and Ashford had delightedly watched the idiot continue to fall over himself, hoping for once he would crash and burn.

  Really, the man had gone much too far in his attempt to win back her favor, from his long winded apology for the way he’d acted before, to flowery declarations of not being able to go a day without thinking of her, to just plain ridiculous compliments. But, then again, Matilda did seem to love a compliment.

  Why hadn’t he gone along with her earlier and told her one more thing he found enchanting about her? It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a mental list stored up of the things he admired about her. Her bantering tone at the time had thrown him, and he’d been afraid she was teasing him somehow.

  Her laughter rang out across the room at some supposedly hysterical thing that Nick said to her and Ashford’s stomach clenched along with his fists. He didn’t know if he was disgusted with Nick for doing what he always did around a pretty woman, or with Matilda for falling for it. Or, he hated to admit, with himself for being bothered by it. And he was bothered by it. Quite a bit. The bastard oozed charm, and though most of it was contrived and superficial, Ashford lacked greatly in that department.

  As he’d expected, Nicholas was invited to the ball. Even Serena, his oldest, most faithful friend couldn’t be counted on to keep a level head when Nick Kerr was around. After she told him he simply must stay, instead of carrying on to his own home, where his brother Jeremy was sure to be worried about him, Ashford began to bitterly wonder why Serena was at his house so often lately. She acted as if it was her own home, and while she was certainly always welcome, there was a different air about her, as if she was the mistress of the place.

  He recalled Matilda’s gossip, but quickly dismissed it as hogwash. Kostya had been little more than a ghost since Lucy died and Camilla deserted him. Surely no one could find their way past the walls of such heartbreak. Serena was just being bossily helpful as usual, trying to ease the burden of a friend. At least, he prayed that was all it was.

  He hated keeping Kostya in the dark and longed to tell him everything he’d learned, but he needed tangible proof that Camilla was still alive first. After all he’d been through, Kostya wouldn’t accept his brother-in-law’s gut feeling, or trust Jeremy’s glimpse of her down a dim alleyway. Ashford would have to wait until he saw her with his own eyes, spoke to her with his own mouth, to be able to tell Kostya anything.

  He was distracted from his thoughts by another peal of laughter from the other side of the room. He stood up abruptly, ready to leave, but realized he’d rather eat raw haggis, naked in a snow bank, than leave Matilda alone with Nick. Which meant he had to stay and converse with them, because if he continued standing with his fists clenched, Matilda was sure to ask him what was wrong. Then, Nick would have some smartass thing to say in rejoinder, and she would probably laugh again. He looked around for something to toss at Nick’s head. No, his fool head wasn’t worth the value of any of the items in the room. He sighed and sat down nearer to them, forcing a smile onto his face.

  “You’re sure to be bored staying here until the ball,” he said. “It’s still a sennight away, and we’re rather quiet these days. There’s nothing to hunt right now and we don’t get any visitors.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Serena said, returning to the room. “What am I?”

  “Oh, I beg your pardon,” he said childishly. “Are you a visitor? I thought you lived here now.” He felt a twinge of guilt when she flushed, and Matilda shook her head at him.

  “I can’t imagine being bored for a moment with such beautiful and scintillating company. I’m certain our interests and desires will line up perfectly.” Nick had the audacity to leer at Matilda the entire time he spoke, and instead of punching him, she actually fluttered her eyelashes.

  Ashford had seen her do that to him, but he was certain she was joking around, acting the way she thought women in his time acted. Now she looked as if she had no control over her eyelashes, as if Nick’s infernal charm had caused a breeze to blow them. He needed a drink. Better yet, he needed an excuse to get her out of his clutches.

  If only some news would arrive, either from his contact in France, or from Belmary House. Why was it taking so long to get the information he needed? Months had already passed since Camilla disappeared and all he could do was wait. Wait. Chase unwitting time travelers across the ages, be chased by Solomon Wodge. Go to parties. Refrain from beating his best friend’s idiot brother to a pulp. All of that while Camilla might be in danger, might have some sort of spell keeping her from returning, might be being blackmailed or worse by the wicked Povest coven.

  What he’d learned of Donal Blair’s body never being returned to the village nearly did him in. He didn’t understand it at all, and it unsettled him more than he liked to think about. In fact, it sent all the hairs on the back of his neck to standing on end, it was so unexpectedly alarming. He knew Camilla had been under an undue amount of stress at the time of Donal’s death, and had been long since shunned by the villagers.

  But it was unnecessary and uncharacteristic of her not to let the family properly mourn their only son. The amount of cruelty in the action reeked of the Povests. There was no way she would have let them do such a thing. Unless. It was the unless that made his vision go blurry with fear.

  He knew he should be urgently writing messages right now to send off to Edinburgh, find where the lad had actually been buried— really he should be saddling a horse and hightailing it down there on his own. But he couldn’t make himself leave the room with the way Matilda was simpering over Nick, let alone the property. A message would have to suffice.

  He longed to explain to Matilda and ask what she thought, but wasn’t sure what to explain or what to ask, and he couldn’t get her mixed up with that sadistic bunch, if the Povests were indeed involved. He hated that he’d even mentioned their names to her. Even that small bit of knowledge put her in danger.

  Matilda lightly touched his arm and he turned to see her looking up at him. She raised her brows questioningly and leaned close.

  “Are you okay?” she asked in a low voice, while Nick boomed on about his journey to Serena.

  He nodded and felt his whole being relax, grateful for her concern. She kept her hand on his arm and studied him for a moment before nodding.

  “You looked like you were about to boil over for a second. Were you thinking about the
cemetery? Do you want to get some fresh air?”

  He put his hand atop hers, wishing he could raise it to his lips and kiss it. He almost laughed at the reaction that would get from Nick and Serena. The fact that she was willing to leave the present company for him lightened his mood considerably, and while he wanted to jump at the chance, he didn’t want her thinking he was weak and in need of constant care.

  He couldn’t help smiling at her and was rewarded by a radiant smile in return. Every single troublesome thought he’d had a moment ago was gone, swept away by the mere upturning of her lips. He didn’t understand it, but kept looking at her until she blushed and looked away, sliding her hand from his sleeve. He still felt the gentle pressure, and with the warmth that continued to spread throughout his being, was able to turn to Nick and have a conversation with him without wanting to break any of his bones.

  Chapter 24

  Tilly pulled the dress closer to the light so she could see to make the finishing stitches, all while giving herself a firm talking to. The last week since Ashford arrived back had been confusing— he’d been a mix of lovably charming and annoyingly inscrutable that was as tantalizing to her as ice cream with all the toppings, and about as unhealthy. She tried to weigh in her mind if she liked him more than she wanted to knock him out, and the answer always came up different, depending on how he acted that day.

  The thing that never wavered though, was that she couldn’t get enough of him. When he was locked in his study, sending off mysterious missives or nose deep in a stack of books, she wandered back and forth, hoping he’d come out so she could suggest they wander the grounds. He’d either gladly agree and show her a delightful time, or scowl and shake his head, muttering about having no time for such frivolity.

  The worst of it was when he looked at her with such a tormented expression, sometimes actually opening his mouth to say something, then clamping it shut again, the scowl firmly back in place. Did he want to tell her something? Or ask her something? Every time she tried to get him to open up, he pressed his lips together and either ignored her or changed the subject to something like how annoying the upcoming ball was sure to be.