The Temptation of Your Touch (11 page)

Where in the bloody hell had
that
come from? He’d never once entertained such naughty notions about the German nanny. Of course the German nanny had been shaped like the bulwark of a warship and had a deeper voice and a more impressive pair of mustaches than Max’s father. Still, the very thought of his prickly housekeeper welcoming his kiss or his advances was beyond ludicrous. She was far more likely to grab him by the scruff of the neck and shove his head under the water until the bubbles stopped rising.

A timid knock sounded on the door. Had he somehow succeeded in summoning up the object of his unseemly fantasies?

“Enter,” he commanded gruffly, sinking back into the water to disguise the telltale heaviness of his groin.

The door creaked open, the soft glow of the lamplight revealing Hodges’s snowy-white head. The butler minced gingerly into the room, his gaze darting from side to side as if to search for potential assailants. He had a thick towel draped over one forearm.

At first Max feared Hodges had been struck mute again, but after an awkward silence the butler said, “Mrs. Spencer sent me, my lord. She said you had need of assistance with your bath.”

“You have excellent timing, Hodges. The water was just beginning to cool.”

Hodges hesitated for a second, as if confused about what should happen next, then dutifully hastened to the side of the tub. Spreading the towel until it formed a curtain between them, the butler politely fixed his gaze elsewhere while Max climbed out of the bath.

Max took the towel and began to rub it briskly over his head and chest, as unself-conscious in his nakedness as any man who had been dressed by someone else for as long as he could remember. “My apologies for the inconvenience, Hodges. I realize this task is beneath your position. We really must look into finding me a proper valet.”

“I’m sure Mrs. Spencer will see to it.”

Max wrapped the towel around his waist, eyeing Hodges’s broad, blank face thoughtfully. The man’s cheeks and nose were a little ruddy, as if he’d done his share of drinking in his day. “You’re the butler of this household, are you not? Don’t you have any concerns about Mrs. Spencer usurping your authority?”

“Mrs. Spencer is quite good at what she does.” Hodges’s words had a stilted quality, almost as if he were some Drury Lane actor practicing his lines for a Saturday matinee. “I am more than happy to defer to her wishes.”

Max snorted. “A sentiment Mr. Spencer shared, no doubt. At least if he knew what was good for him.”

“Mr. Spencer?” Hodges echoed, the glazed look returning to his eyes.

“Mrs. Spencer’s dearly departed husband? Dickon told me all about the tragic accident that claimed the man’s life.”

Hodges blinked several times as if striving to remember something he’d been told long ago. “Ah, yes!” Relief brightened his face. “The wagon!”

“From what Dickon said, it sounded like a terrible tragedy. I daresay the good widow was prostrate with grief.”

“From what I hear, she was inconsolable! She was devoted to the man, you know. Utterly devoted.”

While Max digested that bit of information, Hodges retrieved Max’s dressing gown from the hulking armoire in the corner and held it open so Max could step into it.

Max let the damp towel fall to the carpet and accepted the butler’s invitation, knotting the sash of the dressing gown around his waist.

Hodges beamed at him, plainly proud his efforts had been so well received. “Will that be all, my lord?”

“I do believe it will.” Taking Hodges by the elbow, Max gently steered him toward the door.

Before the butler’s hand could close on the doorknob, Max snatched the door open himself, half-expecting his housekeeper to come tumbling headfirst into the room. But the shadowy corridor
was deserted. Max poked his head out the door and looked both ways. Not a soul was in sight—either living or dead.

“Your services have been very much appreciated,” he assured Hodges. “You have no idea how helpful you’ve been.”

As the butler went bobbing off down the corridor, humming cheerfully beneath his breath, Max closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it. Pondering everything he was learning about his rather enigmatic housekeeper, Max murmured, “Very helpful indeed.”

T
HAT NIGHT MAX DREAMED
again.

Despite his many trips to China, Max had never visited an opium den. But he had always imagined it would feel something like this—his limbs weighted to a bed or a couch in a pleasant stupor while his mind drifted away, unfettered by the chains that bound it during his waking hours. Chains he had forged himself with his single-minded devotion to duty and his slavish adoration of a woman whose heart had always belonged to another man.

Leaving his body behind, he soared through the open French windows of his bedchamber and into the night. The wings of the wind carried him straight to the dizzying height of the cliffs. A woman
stood at the very tip of the promontory, her back to him. She wore the same dress she had worn in the portrait, its voluminous skirts rippling in the wind. The dress was the color of buttercups ripe with the promise of spring.

A spring that would never come if she took one more step.

Max ached to gather her shivering body into the warmth of his arms, stroke her wind-tossed hair, and tell her that, although it seemed impossible now, her broken heart would mend. He would see to it himself, even if he had to gather the scattered shards of it with his bare hands and piece them together one by one.

But he’d left his body paralyzed on the bed. All he could do was watch in helpless horror as she spread her graceful arms into wings and disappeared over the edge of the cliff.

Max sat straight up in the bed, his breathing a harsh, painful rasp in the darkness. Only seconds ago he would have sworn he wouldn’t be able to budge if someone set a lit match to his mattress, but now a terrible restlessness seized him. He threw back the sweat-dampened sheets and shoved open the bed curtains, desperate to escape their smothering confines.

His dream was no less vivid to his waking eyes. He could still see that forlorn figure standing at the
edge of the cliffs. Could feel his own helpless anguish as he watched her make a decision she would never be able to take back. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stared at the shadowy outline of his own hands in the darkness, despising how powerful they looked, yet how powerless they felt in that moment.

Cool night air spilled over his heated flesh. He slowly lifted his head. For a dazed moment, he thought he must surely still be dreaming because the windows leading to his balcony were standing wide open.

An icy chill danced down Max’s spine. He had secured the windows himself before retiring, checking and double-checking their latches, then giving their handles a stern shake to test them. He had even locked his bedchamber door to ensure none with mischief on their minds could sneak into the room while he slept. A quick glance confirmed the door was still closed, the brass key still visible in its lock.

As he turned his gaze back to the windows, a gentle breeze caressed the frozen planes of his face. There was no storm on this night, no violent gusts of wind he could blame for wrenching the windows open. They had either opened of their own accord or been opened by some unseen hand.

As he watched, a ribbon of mist came drifting
into the room, bringing with it the haunting fragrance of jasmine—dense and sweet and seductive enough to drive a man’s senses wild. For the briefest instant, the mist seemed to coalesce into something more substantial—a human form with long, flowing hair, a rippling, white gown, and gently rounded curves. Max blinked and the illusion vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

Biting off an oath, he reached to the end of the bed for his dressing gown. He yanked on the garment, then strode through the open windows and onto the balcony. The fragrance of jasmine was weaker there but still potent enough to make his groin tighten with longing.

Gripping the balustrade, he turned his fierce gaze toward the abandoned tower, half-expecting to see a spectral flash of light or hear the tinkling notes of a music box. The tower remained dark and all he heard were the waves breaking over the distant rocks, a wistful murmur on this peaceful night instead of a roar.

The tension slowly seeped from his body. Hadn’t he accused the last master of Cadgwyck of being chased from the premises by his own imagination? Yet he was no different. He had allowed an overwrought dream and melodramatic tales of an old tragedy to stir his fancies in a way they hadn’t been stirred since he was a boy.

Angelica Cadgwyck was nothing more than a stranger to him. No matter how wretched her fate, he had no reason to give her a foothold in his imagination . . . or his heart. There was probably some perfectly sound explanation for why the windows kept slipping their latches. Come morning, aided by the bright light of day and his refreshed wits, he would find it.

Shaking his head at his own folly, he rubbed a hand over his tousled hair and padded back inside. The scent of jasmine had completely dissipated, making him wonder if he had conjured that up from some long-buried memory as well.

He had slipped out of his dressing gown and was poised to climb back into the bed when he glanced over his shoulder and saw the door to his bedchamber standing open.

Chapter Ten

T
HE BRASS KEY WAS
still in its keyhole, right where Max had left it, but the door stood ajar. The corridor beyond was as dark as an underground tunnel.

Max stood there in a misty wash of moonlight, his every sense tingling with awareness. Then he heard a sound even more disconcerting than an off-key tune ground out by the rusty gears of a music box—a rippling echo of laughter, feminine and sweet.

He might have been able to dismiss some maudlin specter weeping into her invisible handkerchief. But something about that girlish giggle was irresistible. It was like the taunting laughter of a child playing hide-and-seek while actually longing to be found.

His lips twisted in a grim smile as he tossed aside the dressing gown, strode over to the wardrobe,
and yanked out a pair of trousers and a shirt. He donned the trousers and tugged the shirt over his head but didn’t waste time securing it at the throat. His hands were unnaturally steady as he located the tinderbox and lit the candle sitting on the side table. Taking up the brass candlestick, he headed for the corridor.

The wavering flame of the candle did little to penetrate the darkness. Max hesitated just outside his chamber, cocking his head to listen. All he heard was the peaceful hush of the sleeping house. He was beginning to wonder if he had imagined the laughter just as he had the scent of jasmine, but then it came again, faint but unmistakable.

Now that he was actually in the corridor, the ghostly echo seemed to be coming from even farther away, as if it were traveling not just through the shadowy passageways of the house but through the corridors of time itself. Dismissing the absurd notion, Max moved toward the sound with the fleet grace of a born hunter.

He slipped silently down the stairs to the second floor, his senses heightened by a strange elation. He had felt the same way standing on the edge of the cliff earlier in the day, only seconds before the world had crumbled beneath his feet. Perhaps it wasn’t Angelica Cadgwyck’s intention to drive him away, but to drive him mad. Or perhaps he was already
mad. Most men would flee from a ghost, yet here he was, eagerly pursuing one.

He crossed the second-floor portrait gallery, his candle casting flickering shadows over the empty walls where the Cadgwyck ancestors had once resided. By the time he reached Angelica’s portrait, he wouldn’t have been surprised to find the ornate gilt frame empty and its occupant romping gleefully through the entrance hall below. But when he lifted the candlestick, Angelica was still gazing down her slender nose at him, her eyes knowing, her lips poised on the verge of a smile, as if she were about to reveal some terribly amusing secret she could only share with him.

A draft as warm and sweet as a woman’s breath breezed right past him. The candle’s flame guttered once, then went out, leaving him alone in the darkness with her. He stood there, inhaling the acrid smell of snuffed wick, and waited for his eyes to adjust to the meager moonlight drifting through the grimy arched window above the front door.

A new sound penetrated the gloom. It took a minute for Max to place the rhythmic ticking, to recognize it as the sound of a pendulum swinging back and forth in a graceful arc, measuring each second as if it would be his last. Max slowly turned, a fresh chill dancing down his spine. It was the longcase clock at the foot of the stairs, the clock with its
hands frozen at a quarter past midnight. The hollow ticktock seemed to echo each heavy thud of his heart.

The warning of the innkeeper’s wife echoed through his memory:
Ye might not be so quick to dismiss our words as a bunch o’ rubbish if ye’d have seen the face o’ the last master o’ the house on the night he came runnin’ into the village a little after midnight, half-dead from fleein’ whatever evil lurks in that place.