Blackthorne. Ruth Langan

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      She drew a deep breath and wondered again what lay before her. What sort of hellish place was Blackthorne? Letty had hinted at something dark and dangerous. Something even worse than the place she had just escaped. Was it possible? Could anything be worse than her aunt and uncle’s house of horrors?

      Olivia peered into the darkness and watched as the faint glow of lanterns grew brighter. It would appear that the carriage was nearing its destination at long last.

      The light was closer now, and she could make out the darkened shape of what appeared to be a fortress. Turrets loomed against the night sky. There were few welcoming lights in the windows. Instead, a solitary figure stood in the courtyard, straight and tall as a soldier, holding aloft a single lantern.

      As the carriage made its way along the curving drive, the wind seemed to pick up, causing trees to sway and dip like angry demons. As if on cue lightning cut a jagged path across the sky, followed by the rumble of thunder. And as the carriage rolled to a stop and the driver helped her to alight, the skies opened up with a torrent of rain.

      In that instant she looked up and saw a man’s face peering down at her from one of the windows. In the glow of candlelight his face appeared waxen, ghostlike.

      She froze, unable to move.

      “Welcome to Blackthorne, miss.” Pembroke accepted her satchel from the driver and hurriedly led the way inside out of the rain.

      “Thank you.” She was shivering so violently, even her words trembled.

      “My name is Pembroke.”

      “Pembroke. I...saw a man. In an upstairs room.”

      “That would be Master Bennett, the younger brother of Lord Quenton Stamford. He has trouble sleeping.”

      “His face looked...ghostly-white.”

      “Aye, miss. Master Bennett is...sickly.” He turned away. “Your rooms are ready. If you’ll follow me.”

      They seemed to walk forever. Through a darkened foyer, along an even darker hallway, where candles sputtered in pools of wax. Up a curving stairway, where Olivia glimpsed shadowed tapestries, then along another hallway, where a door was abruptly opened, spilling light into the darkness.

      A man stepped through the doorway, directly into Olivia’s path. She slammed against a solid wall of chest Her breath came out in a whoosh of air. Strong hands closed over her upper arms, steadying her. As he drew her a little away she had a quick impression of a darkly handsome face, and eyes so piercing they held hers even when she tried to look away. He was scowling. His temper, simmering just below the surface, was a palpable thing.

      A hound stood just behind him, looking as angry as its master, with lips pulled back in a snarl, teeth bared. A warning growl issued from its throat.

      Fear, sharp as a razor, sliced through her.

      “Lord Stamford.” Pembroke’s cultured voice broke the stunned silence. “This is Miss St. John. The lad’s governess. She has just now arrived from London.”

      “Miss St. John.” The voice was low and deep. The look he gave her was intense. Probing. With just a flash of surprise. He had been expecting to meet a pinch-faced, elderly nursemaid, much like the one who had ruled ironfisted over his own childhood, and that of his younger brother. It had never occurred to him that a nursemaid could be young and fresh, with eyes more green than blue, and dark hair curling damply around dimpled cheeks.

      “Lord Stamford.”

      He felt her trembling reaction to his touch and deliberately kept his hold on her a moment longer than he’d intended before lowering his hands to his sides. There was a fragrance about her that was reminiscent of something half-forgotten from his childhood. He absorbed a quick jolt to his already-charged system as he watched her take a hasty step back.

      “It’s a rather dreary night to be sending a young woman on such a tiring journey. Why didn’t your driver put up at an inn for the night?”

      “This was the way my uncle wished it.”

      “I see.” He could see a great deal more. She was afraid. Had actually trembled at his touch. But whether she was afraid of him, or men in general, he couldn’t be certain. No matter. She wasn’t here to mingle with men, but to assume the care of one small boy. It would be wise to keep that in mind. Especially since the touch of her had caused an unwanted reaction in him, as well. A reaction he hadn’t felt toward a woman in a very long time.

      “My housekeeper, Mistress Thornton, has told the boy about his new nursemaid. He is looking forward to meeting you.”

      “The boy?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or a need to mask her fears. Or the fact that fatigue had her in its grip. Whatever the reason, she found herself bristling at his casual dismissal of his young charge. “Does the boy have a name?”

      His tone was equally curt. “He does. His name is Liat.”

      “Just Liat? Has he no other?”

      Her impertinence was growing more annoying by the minute. “Nay.” His eyes narrowed fiactionally, issuing a challenge of their own. “You will want your rest, Miss St. John, since I expect you to give the boy your full attention on the morrow. I bid you good-night”

      “Good night, my lord.” As she stepped past him she glanced into the room and caught a glimpse of a man’s figure huddled in front of the fire. When he looked up, she caught her breath. It was the man she had seen from the carriage. A man whose face had lost all its color. But his eyes, so like Lord Stamford’s, were dark and piercing. And haunted.

      Before she could see more Lord Stamford abruptly pulled the door shut.

      Even as she followed Pembroke, she could feel him still standing where she had left him, staring after her. She stiffened her spine. She’d had quite enough of men who flaunted wealth and power. Such men, she vowed, would never again see any sign of weakness in her.

      Still, the thought of that dark, chilling gaze boring into her back had the hair at her nape prickling until they paused outside a closed door.

      “Here we are, miss.” Pembroke opened the door and carried the lantern across the room where a fire blazed on the hearth. “This is your sitting room.”

      It was a large room with several comfortable chaises positioned in front of the fireplace, and a side table holding a decanter and several glasses. In an alcove were a desk and chairs.

      “The lad’s chambers are through those doors. And in here—” he opened another door and pointed “—is your sleeping chamber.”

      She couldn’t seem to take it all in. Nodding dully, she crossed to the fire and held out her hands to the heat. She’d never felt so cold. As though her bones had turned to ice.

      “Mistress Thornton is sending up a tray, miss. I expect you’re hungry after your journey.”

      “Yes. Thank you.”

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