The Temptation of Your Touch (10 page)

She fought to steady her breathing before peeping around the edge of the curtain again. To her keen relief, Dravenwood had already turned away from the house and was beginning to make his way farther along the cliffs, this time remaining a safe distance from their treacherous edge.

“This one’s going to be trouble, isn’t he?” Pippa observed, setting down her ash bucket to join Anne at the window of the cozy second-floor study.

Pippa had made a more concerted effort to embrace her role of maidservant on this day, taming her flyaway dark curls into two proper braids coiled neatly above her ears and donning an apron with only a few faded chocolate stains marring its snowy-white surface.

Anne watched their new master pick his way over the rocks, unaccountably angry at him for frightening her so badly. “They’re all trouble, dearest,” she said darkly. “It’s just a matter of degree.”

Despite her reassurances, Anne knew Pippa was right. Trouble was written in every line of Lord Dravenwood’s bearing—in the stiffness of his broad shoulders, the way he carried himself as if he were nursing some mortal wound no one else could see. It was etched in the shadows that brooded beneath his eyes and in the way his coat hung loosely on his tall, rangy frame, as if it had been tailored for a different man.

A man who hadn’t forgotten how to smile.

But those were just warning signs. Even without them, he was the sort of man who could cause trouble for a woman with little more than a smoldering glance from beneath the thick, sooty lashes veiling his quicksilver eyes or the casual brush of his hand
against the small of her back. And if such a man should choose to employ the full range of his seductive skills, he could easily go from being trouble to being a full-fledged disaster. At least for the woman foolish enough to grant him access to her vulnerable heart—or her body.

Anne could feel Pippa’s worried gaze lingering on her face. “Whatever is the matter with you, Annie? Why, you’re as white as a ghost yourself!”

“And why wouldn’t I be?” Anne replied with a lightness she was far from feeling. “I was afraid the careless fool was going to tumble headlong over the cliff, leaving us to explain yet another unfortunate
accident
to the constable.”

“What do you suppose ails the man?” Pippa’s smooth brow puckered in a quizzical frown as she watched Lord Dravenwood stalk along the edge of the cliffs, the tails of his coat blowing out behind him. “Do you think he’s recovering from some terrible illness? A brain fever or some exotic malady he picked up on one of his journeys perhaps?”

Anne would have wagered Lord Dravenwood was suffering from a sickness of the heart, not the body. She knew its signs only too well, having nearly died from it herself once.

“Whatever ails him, it’s none of our concern.” As the earl turned and began to make his way back toward the manor, she yanked the drapes shut. “If
I have anything to say about it, he’ll be gone soon enough, just like all the others.”

Pippa hauled her bucket over to the hearth and dumped its contents on the pristine iron grate. A dark cloud of ash shot up into the air, forcing her to wave it away from her watering eyes. “If we succeed in driving him away, won’t they just send another pompous nobleman in his place?”

“Perhaps,” Anne said firmly, hoping to hide her own doubts. “But thanks to our diligent efforts, the infamy of the White Lady of Cadgwyck is beginning to spread beyond the borders of Cornwall. If her legend continues to flourish, it’s going to grow ever more difficult for them to find a buyer or overseer for the property. With any luck, they’ll leave us to our own devices just long enough for us to find what we’ve been looking for.”

“What if they should decide to close down the house altogether?
Before
we can find the treasure?”

“I don’t believe they’ll do that as long as they have a household of loyal servants willing to remain in this cursed place. After all, we’re the only ones standing between the manor and utter ruin.” Anne wagged her eyebrows at Pippa. “At least that’s what we’re allowing them to believe.”

Pippa set aside the bucket. “Just what manner of mischief are you proposing this time?”

“Nothing too extreme. I suspect all his lordship really needs is a little nudge toward the door.”

“A nudge or a shove?”

Anne lifted her shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Whatever will serve us best.”

“Promise me you’ll take care, won’t you?” Pippa urged, her dark eyes absent their usual teasing spark. “I fear he might be more dangerous than the others.”

Anne wanted to dismiss the warning. But she knew far more about the dangers a man such as Dravenwood could present to a woman than Pippa did. Dangers lurking behind longing looks and stolen caresses and pretty promises never intended to be kept.

Mustering up a reassuring smile, she marched past Pippa and to the fireplace. Kneeling on the hearth, she reached up into the chimney and fumbled blindly about until she located the grimy iron key that controlled the flue.

She gave it a sharp twist, then rose, briskly dusting ash from her hands. “Try not to fret so much, my dear. Lord Dravenwood might be a threat to me, but I can assure you Angelica is more than his match.”

“M
RS.
S
PENCER!”

To Anne’s credit, she didn’t even flinch when that thunderous shout came echoing through the halls
of Cadgwyck Manor later that night. The convivial conversation she and her staff had been enjoying around the long pine table in the kitchen ceased abruptly. Lisbeth seized Betsy’s hand in a white-knuckled grip while the other maids exchanged wide-eyed glances of alarm over their steaming bowls of bisque prepared with lobsters Dickon had trapped for them just that morning.

Hodges lurched halfway to his feet, snatching up the wicked-looking knife they’d used to cut the bread. Dickon clapped a hand on the old man’s shoulder, easing Hodges back into his chair before gently removing the knife from his clenched fist and sliding it out of harm’s reach. Pippa buried her pert nose even deeper in the dog-eared copy of
The Castle of Otranto
she had filched from the manor’s library.

In an ominous silence broken only by the cheery click of Nana’s knitting needles and Piddles’s snoring, Anne took one more sip of the succulent soup before laying down her spoon. She dabbed delicately at her lips with her napkin, then rose from her chair. “If you’ll excuse me, it seems the master is in need of my services.”

As she started for the door, the rest of them eyed her as if she were marching off to the gallows. She forced herself to maintain her even pace as she climbed the stairs and crossed the second-story gallery, keenly aware of Angelica Cadgwyck’s
mocking gaze following her every step. Her composure wasn’t tested until she passed the third-floor staircase at the far end of the gallery and saw the man barreling down the long corridor. Heading straight for her.

Lord Dravenwood looked as if he’d just marched out of the gates of hell. Soot blackened his face, making the whites of his eyes gleam that much more vividly. His hair was wild and his coat missing entirely. Each of his furious strides left a blackened footprint on the shabby carpet runner. A billowing cloud of smoke trailed behind him.

Another man in his predicament might have looked comical. But perhaps one had to have a sense of humor to look comical. He just looked murderous.

Ignoring her instinctive urge to snatch up the hem of her skirts and flee in the opposite direction, Anne donned her most unflappable expression as he halted in front of her. His broad chest was still heaving, although whether with rage or from exertion she could not tell.

Given the sparks of unholy wrath shooting from his eyes, it seemed only fitting that he smelled of fire and brimstone as well. His ash-smudged shirtsleeves had been shoved up to reveal muscular forearms generously dusted with curling, dark hair.

“You bellowed, my lord?” she inquired, jerking
her gaze away from that rather riveting sight and its unanticipated effects on her composure and back up to his face.

His sharp eyes missed nothing. “I do hope you’ll forgive my shocking state of undress, Mrs. Spencer,” he said with scathing courtesy. “I had to use my coat to fan the smoke out of the study before it choked me to death.” His eyes narrowed in an accusing gaze. “When you informed me the study would be a pleasant place to enjoy an after-dinner brandy, you neglected to mention it would turn into a death trap the minute I lit the fire that had been laid upon the hearth.”

“Oh, dear.” Anne touched a hand to her throat in what she hoped was a convincing display of dismay. “Are you quite all right?”

“Fortunately, I was able to smother the flames and wrestle the windows open before being overcome by the smoke. When was the last time that chimney was cleaned? Seventeen ninety-eight?”

Anne shook her head, heaving a bewildered sigh. “I don’t understand what could have happened. Why, I checked the damper myself only this morning when Pippa and I were airing out the room! I would have sworn the flue was—” She stopped abruptly, lowering her eyes before casting him an uneasy glance from beneath her lashes.

Dravenwood folded his arms over his chest, an
expression far too cynical to be called a smile quirking one corner of his lips. “Let me guess. You think the ghost was the one who tampered with the flue.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, my lord! You said yourself there was no such thing as ghosts.”

His jaw tightened. “What I said was that men are perfectly capable of creating things to haunt them without the aid of the supernatural.”

“And quite right you are about that, I’m sure. Perhaps it was simply a malfunction of some sort. I’ll send the maids to clean up the study and have Dickon check the flue right away.”

“Very well. Then you can send Hodges to my chambers. As you can see, I’ll be requiring some assistance with my bath.”

A flutter of panic stirred in Anne’s throat. She had not anticipated this complication. “Perhaps Dickon can check the flue in the morning. I’m sure he’d be more than happy to assist you in the bath if you’ll just give me a moment to—”

“Send Hodges,” Dravenwood commanded. “Unless, of course”—he leaned toward her in an unmistakably menacing manner, his stern voice betraying not so much as a hint of humor—“
you’d
rather assist me.”

Unfortunately, the earl’s raw masculinity was made even more potent by his savage appearance. With his gray eyes smoldering with a fire of their
own, his hair tousled as if by a lover’s fingers, and his bared teeth dazzling white against the soot-darkened planes of his face, he looked like a man capable of anything. Anything at all.

A dangerous little flame uncurled low in Anne’s belly, bringing a kindred rush of heat to her cheeks. She wouldn’t have been surprised to see smoke rising from her own flesh.

She took an awkward half step backward before saying stiffly, “I’ll have Lisbeth and Betsy draw a bath and send Hodges up to assist you.”

“Thank you,” he replied with exaggerated formality.

Through narrowed eyes Anne watched him stride away from her, almost wishing she had armed herself with Pippa’s poker.

M
AX SANK DEEPER INTO
the copper hip bath, resting the back of his head against its rim. He had to cock his knees up at an awkward angle just to partially submerge his long legs, but the warm water lapping at the muscled planes of his chest almost made up for the inconvenience. He made a mental note to have Mrs. Spencer order a tub more suited to a man his size.

A reluctant half smile curved his lips at the memory of his housekeeper’s outraged expression
when he had suggested she attend him in his bath. He didn’t know why he took such delight in taunting the stiff-necked woman, but there was no denying it gave him a naughty little thrill of satisfaction. One he hadn’t felt for a long time.

For a brief time as boys, he and Ashton had endured a tyrant of a German nanny they had taken equal delight in tormenting. He could still remember her guttural screams on the night she had rolled over on the hapless lizard they had slipped into her bed. Max’s smile slowly faded. That was when he and Ash had been inseparable, long before their love for the same girl had torn them apart.

The German nanny and Mrs. Spencer were probably equally deserving of his scorn. He was beginning to suspect the White Lady of Cadgwyck Manor was nothing more than an imaginative attempt to excuse the incompetence of her staff. He had a good mind to dismiss the lot of them and replace them with a capable household of servants summoned directly from London. Servants who would never dare to challenge his authority or gaze up at him with a faintly mocking sparkle in their fine hazel eyes.

Somehow, the thought didn’t hold as much appeal as it should have. If he sent for his London staff, they might know nothing about the house or its resident ghost, but they would know everything about him.
He had come to this place to escape the prying eyes he could feel following him every time he entered a drawing room, the whispers he could hear even when they thought he wasn’t listening. Mrs. Spencer and her motley little crew might tax his patience, but at least they didn’t scurry out of his way as if he were some sort of ill-tempered monster or, worse yet, shoot him pitying glances behind his back.

He retrieved the cake of bayberry soap floating in the water and ran it lazily over his chest to wash away the lingering taint of the soot. What would he have done if Mrs. Spencer had called his bluff and taken him up on his offer to assist him with his bath?

As he closed his eyes, he could almost feel her pale, cool hands gliding over the heat of his damp flesh. Could imagine himself reaching up to pluck the pins from her hair one by one until it came tumbling around her face to reveal its mysteries. Could see himself wrapping his hand in that silky skein and tipping back his head as she leaned over and touched her parted lips to his, enticing him to run the very tip of his tongue over the winsome gap between her teeth before plunging it deep into the hot, wet softness of her—

“Holy hell!” Max swore, shooting straight up out of the water and shaking off the dangerous daydream along with the droplets of water beading in his hair.