Shadows of the Night Read online

  “I think we already have known each other, in the biblical sense, multiple times,” Colin said blandly.

  Fern stared. “Is that what that phrase means?”

  He chuckled. “It is easy to forget how naïve you still are.”

  “They talk about such things in the Bible?” she repeated, scandalized.

  ” ‘Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth: for thy love is better than wine,’ ” he agreed, and he put action to his words and pulled her into his lap, planting his lips over hers and moving his mouth slowly, luxuriantly across her own, the stubble of his beard rough against her skin. Her body came alive with a jolt of delicious sensation that shivered up her spine and deep into her center.

  When he broke off, she gave him a light shove, even though her breath came fast. “You are trying to provoke me again, aren’t you?”

  “Honestly, no,” he said, the words a rumble in his chest. “It is only that I have wanted to kiss you ever so badly since I found you here, and I had not found an excuse to do so until now. It seemed inappropriate earlier.” He shifted so that she sat with her head against his chest, her legs stretching out between his own.

  “I thought we were going to fight,” she confessed.

  “So did I,” he said. “That is one new thing we now know about each other: We are not as good at fighting as we think we are.”

  Fern laughed. “I am glad of that!”

  “And well you should be. What else do you want to know about me?” he asked.

  “Well, I already know that you have no favorite color,” Fern said.

  “I was wrong. I do have a favorite color: the color of your eyes.”

  “Liar,” Fern said without rancor.

  She felt his shrug. “I tried.”

  “If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?” she asked after a pause.

  “I don’t—” He broke off. “I have already been to France, Switzerland, and Italy. I suppose that if I could go anywhere at all, it would be back to Rome again, but in the time of the Romans.”

  “Would you be a martyr thrown to the lions?” she asked. “Or a barbarian gladiator, captured in desperate battle against the Roman oppressors?”

  “Neither. I would have a supper of dormice and flamingo tongues and then go warn Caesar—in much clearer terms than the mad old soothsayer managed—what exactly lay in store for him in the Senate on the Ides of March. And then, while he was slaughtering the conspirators, I would sneak into the house where he was keeping Cleopatra and convince her to run away with me.”

  “You’re not serious,” Fern chided.

  “No, I am not,” he agreed. “Where would I go? In a very real sense, I could go anywhere if I cared enough to, but a combination of habit and my dislike for the unpleasantness and mortal danger of much travel keeps me at home. Suspending the possibility of danger for one moment, I would like to be the first man to see something. The first to climb a great mountain, perhaps, or the first to reach the poles.”

  Fern said, “I know I should like to see Paris again, but I should also very much like to see Spain.”

  “Why Spain?” Colin asked.

  “Because it has touched England’s history so often,” she explained. “I always wondered what kind of a place it took to create a man like Philip the Second or a woman like Isabella of Castile.”

  “That is logical enough,” Colin conceded. Fern felt his fingers twisting gently around one of the locks of hair that had slid from her braided bun. “I should have made arrangements for you to have a lady’s maid accompany you to Wrexmere. It was not an intentional omission—I simply did not think of it.”

  She cocked her head slightly so that she could see his face out of the corner of her eye. “Is that an apology?”

  He looked rueful. “It was meant to be. Apparently it was less successful than I had hoped.”

  “So why did you give up your own valet rather than replacing my maid?”

  Colin shook his head. “You saw that public house. There was no one suitable.”

  “And you were too proud to admit your mistake.”

  “Too irritated by your cheekiness,” he corrected.

  “Cheekiness!” She tried to sound incensed but ruined it by laughing. “That sounds like a way to describe a squirrel. Anyhow, you redeemed yourself, however oddly, by choosing to become as bedraggled as I. You are usually such a precise dresser.”

  “No. I merely hired a very good valet. Who would have a fit if he saw me sitting on the ground in my good gray trousers.”

  Fern just smiled. After a moment, she said, with some surprise, “I have just thought something curious.”

  “What is that?”

  “I thought that you would make a rather nice friend.”

  “A friend?” Colin’s voice was skeptical.

  “Yes, a friend,” she said staunchly. “You are someone I should like to talk to often. I didn’t expect it in a husband, and I am glad.”

  Colin grew very still, feeling those words imprint into his soul. “So am I.” He raised his hand to his lips and kissed the lock of her hair still tangled around it. Then he pushed her half off his lap so that he could turn her around enough to kiss her squarely on the lips. They were so hot, those lips, so small, sweet, and soft. They continually surprised him—with her passion and her words, both. She responded to him eagerly, tangling her fingers in his hair, pulling him down so that he was above her as she lay on her back in the bracken. His body tightened, the surge starting in his groin and moving outward through all his muscles. Finally, he pulled away.

  Fern lay for a moment with her eyes closed, her lids shaded delicately and her brows drawn in that way of hers that made her look so innocently intent. Slowly, she opened her eyes, their gray depths flickering with desire.

  “That is not very friendlike,” she said.

  “I didn’t mean it to be,” he replied.

  She looked at him, unblinking. “Do it here,” she ordered, but with a shyness that made her voice small. “Away from that odious house and the odious Restons. I want you here.”

  “You can have me,” Colin swore. He kissed her again, more deeply, tasting her, glorying in the slickness of her small mouth. His body drank it in, pulling tighter in anticipation. Her fingers tightened in his hair, and he shuddered, moving down to kiss her jaw, her neck, the line of her dress. Her knees slid up to clasp his hips.

  “Now. Please,” she said.

  With a muttered oath, he unfastened the buttons of his fly and pulled his erection free. She hiked her skirts up, and he took the invitation, finding the opening in her pantaloons and the hot slit of her entrance. She was already wet with wanting him, and he thrust inside in one stroke. She gasped, pushing back against him, and it was all he could do not to lose control right then. He shifted his position, lifting her pelvis upward against the constriction of her corset.

  “What—” she started to ask, but the question was broken off with a hiss of pleasure as he thrust into her again. “Oh, my,” she said with wide eyes.

  Colin chuckled through clenched teeth and thrust again, and her hands tightened convulsively. He built up a rhythm, responding to her reactions as he found the pace that would send her breathing spiraling out of control, her body arching hard into him and finally a strangled cry of release escaping her as she tightened convulsively around him. He let himself go, and for one glorious instant, fire tore through his body in a pulsating wave. Then it was gone, and a slow, warm lassitude overtook him in its wake. He rolled to the side, straightening his clothes even as he tried to regain his breath.

  “Short … can be good … too,” Fern observed, sprawled bonelessly against him. ” ‘Specially … since I think … I felt rain.”

  Colin turned his face to the sky. The clouds had got lower and darker since they had set out from the manor house. He groaned and shoved himself to his feet. “Let’s go.”

  “I am fine,” Fern said, not moving and still slightly breathless. “I shou
ld not mind a little rain just now.”

  “You shall if it makes you ill,” Colin said. He held out his hand.

  Fern looked at it reluctantly for a moment before taking it and allowing him to lever her to her feet. “How far away do you think the house is?” she asked.

  Thunder rumbled overhead. “Too far,” Colin said firmly. “Look over there—there’s a hut or a shed of some sort.” It sat on a slight rise only a hundred yards away, a small, windowless stone building half-hidden in a tangle of overgrown shrubbery.

  Fern looked. “Are you certain it has a roof?”

  “It’s close. Let’s find out.” Colin began walking toward the building, and since he still held her hand, Fern had no choice but to follow.

  The hut looked more dilapidated the closer they got. The door hung slightly askew, silver with age, and there were visible cracks in the mortar of the stones. But Colin pressed on, going up to the door and pushing it aside.

  Instead of the bare lambing hut that he had expected, Colin found himself in the center of a crowded and well-used little room. It was dominated by a square deal desk, piled high with neat stacks of paper, and shelves of jars lined the walls.

  “How queer,” Fern said, freeing herself from his grip and circling the table. “It looks like someone simply took all the paper he could find and saved it here. Newspapers … shopping lists … business correspondence. Some of these are a scant dozen years old, but others …” She held up a scrap of paper. “I’m sure no one has written like this in a century.”

  Colin joined her, putting a hand on the small of her back. She leaned into the touch, and he was momentarily taken aback by his surge of protectiveness that resulted from that display of trust. He cleared his head. She was right: There seemed to be no design behind the stacks, no purpose in them.

  “Whatever could he have been doing?” Fern mused.

  “I don’t know,” Colin said. “I’m just glad the roof is sound.” He inspected the jars. “They are all food. Jellies, meats, and vegetables.”

  “I wonder how old they must be,” Fern said, looking at the dusty labels.

  Shrugging, Colin sat on one of the chairs.

  With a sigh, Fern took the other. A puzzled expression passed over her face, and she pulled a bundle of papers out of her skirt. “I had forgotten about this,” she said. She turned it over in her hands.

  “Would you like to read them?” Colin offered. “We seem to be doing a great deal of reading during rainstorms.”

  “I don’t think so,” Fern said. “They’re rather unpleasant, and even if everyone is long dead, it feels like spying to read their correspondence.” She pushed them back into her pocket again.

  Just then, the door swung open. In the doorway stood Joseph Reston, water streaming from his mackintosh and down his creased face. His eyes narrowed at Fern’s hand, still in her pocket. She pulled it out quickly, paling.

  “My woman said ye had left. I thought it best to vind ye before the water starts to rise and the bog gets treacherous,” the man said. “I brought these vor ye.” He thrust out his arm. Draped across were two rubberized cloaks.

  Fern didn’t move, but Colin took them, instinctively interposing himself between the man and his wife. “Thank you,” he said coldly, meeting the man’s gaze with challenge in his eyes.

  At his look, Fern rose, and Colin wrapped one across her shoulders. Parts of the lining had got wet in the rain, leaving dark spots on the light gray taffeta of her walking dress. He threw his own on. A damp spot rubbed against the bare skin at the back of his neck.

  Joseph Reston was still looking suspiciously around the room, his gaze flitting from one pile of papers to the next. “Ye didn’t touch nothing.” The growl was half statement, half question.

  “We only looked,” Fern said. “Is this your … cottage?” She asked the question tentatively from the shelter of Colin’s shadow.

  “Belongs to the manor,” the man answered. “But my pa used to stay here sometimes, when he got tired of all of us. Died here, too. No one comes here but me now, sure enough.”

  “Died?” Fern echoed, her eyes going wide, but Reston’s face closed up, and he merely grunted in reply.

  “Ye’d best hurry. The water is rising.”

  Colin offered Fern his arm, and she took it, pulling the hood over her bare head. He pulled his up, too, as he stepped out into the steady rain. His boots sank into three-inch-deep mud, and as he began to stride after Mr. Reston with Fern struggling behind him, he could feel the water seeping through the fine stitching on the uppers to soak his feet.

  There was no thunder; this was not a repeat of the storm from the night before. Still, the rain came down in a steady, even wash that showed no sign of remittance. The water chilled him through the rubberized cloth, creeping in around the opening of his hood to soak his collar.

  Colin held Fern close, shielding her as well as he could with his body. Her face was wet with rain, and a dark stain was spreading across her skirts where the cloak separated whenever she took a step. He wished that Reston had thought to bring an umbrella, too.

  It was not as far back to the manor house as it had seemed when Colin was in pursuit of Fern—in less than ten minutes, they were passing through the side door into the kitchens. Joseph Reston gave them both a flat look.

  “I’ve got to help the men clear the attic,” he said. “The ground floor is safe enough, but don’t ye go upstairs if ye can help it till we’re done.”

  With that, he turned toward the Tudor wing, leaving Fern and Colin alone in the shadowed kitchen. From behind the thick square columns came the clatter of pots and pans—somewhere in the kitchen, someone was cooking or cleaning. Cooking, Colin hoped earnestly.

  “His father died in the hut?” Fern said, her expression divided between confusion and revulsion.

  Colin shrugged. “Everyone must die somewhere, I suppose.”

  “Why did he tell us that?” she demanded in a bewildered tone.

  Colin gave her a sardonic look. “He doesn’t much like us, and he truly didn’t like us being in that hut. Did you see the way he looked at those papers, making sure we hadn’t disturbed them?”

  “But they didn’t mean anything,” Fern protested. “They were trash.”

  “People have funny ways. Anyway, his father just as likely as not died at home in bed. Reston was only trying to keep us away.”

  Fern shook her head, offering no resistance as Colin led her to the foot of the stairs. “It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “You expect too much out of people,” Colin said dryly.

  They reached the great hall, and Fern gave a cry of surprised gladness. “A fire!”

  On the far side of the room, a small fire had been lit on the vast hearth. Its size was almost ridiculously out of proportion with the vast chimney hood, but Fern hurried down to kneel beside it, holding her hands over its modest flames.

  “Are you chilled?” Colin asked, following her to the hearth at a more moderate pace.

  “No,” Fern said. “I just like the fire. This room hasn’t had a fire in a very long time.” She straightened and surveyed the rest of the changes. “It seems less frightening, now,” she said.

  Colin followed her gaze. The remnants of the disintegrated tapestry still clung high on the walls, but the moldy pile of cloth below had been cleared away. The other tapestries had been left alone. The floor had been swept, the chairs polished, and the tabletop scrubbed, with service laid out for two. He looked back at his wife, but her expression had turned troubled.

  “I should have directed the cleaning,” she said, looking at the heavy earthenware plates. “I shouldn’t have hidden from Dorcas Reston, and I certainly shouldn’t have run away.”

  “You were tired,” Colin said quietly. “And this is not in the usual line of duty for a gentleman’s wife.”

  Fern’s laugh was unsteady. “I am tired. Dorcas Reston frightens me a little, as silly as that sounds, and when I touched that blood …” She s
huddered at the memory. “I don’t like this place. I am beginning to sound like a parrot, I know, but I mean it with every fiber of my being.”

  “I don’t care much for it myself,” he said. “We’ll leave soon. I promise.”

  “A week, you said.”

  He reached out, pushing back a stray lock of her hair. “Sooner than that, I hope.”

  Fern smiled, her gray eyes warming.

  “Mr. Radcliffe! Mrs. Radcliffe!”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Colin turned to see Dorcas Reston descending the stairs, her pale hair frizzing around her face. “I’ve prepared a room for ye,” she called, pausing far enough down from the top that she did not have to stoop past the floor above to look down upon them. “The third vloor were vilthy, so I had ye moved to the vront room on the second.” With that, she turned and went back up the stairs.

  “I’m glad we aren’t staying here much longer,” Fern confided. “I should feel obligated to try to take Mrs. Reston in hand, and I don’t think I have the constitution for it. Please tell me that I shan’t be terrorized by any of your other servants.”

  Colin’s lips twitched despite himself. “Perhaps the chef, but he terrorizes everyone. Do you wish to go above?”

  “I wish to have a proper hot meal,” Fern said stoutly. “A light tea is no substitute for a skipped breakfast and luncheon with only half a cold dinner the night before. But since food does not yet seem to be forthcoming, I wouldn’t mind getting into fresh clothes.”

  “Lead on,” Colin invited, waving to the staircase. Fern did, edging up the vertigo-inducing stairs. Colin stayed close, protectively behind her, watching the back of her downturned head, her frizzing braid affixed lopsidedly to it. It amazed him how frail and yet how strong she was. She had faced the collapse of the roof in stalwart silence, but she could not even arrange her own hair. Somehow those contradictions made her seem more precious to him, her strange admixture of courage and helplessness stirring an unfamiliar sort of tenderness in him.

  When she got to the top of the staircase, she sighed.