Читать книгу Brimstone Seduction - Barbara J. Hancock - Страница 13
ОглавлениеHer bags were taken to a room off the corridors that surrounded the opera hall itself. They wound in concentric circles with the apartments set like the spokes in a giant wheel. It was dizzying, the walls a kaleidoscope of rich cherry wainscoting filled with elaborate carvings like the first hall she’d traversed to reach Severne’s offices.
Her passage was lit by flickering sconces that made her wonder if the almost subliminal hiss her ears detected was air conditioning or gas to fuel primitive lamps. The dancing light made the carvings gambol around her in tumbling shadows. But it was her playing for John Severne that had upset her equilibrium. The music echoed mockingly in her ears. Too. Too hungry. Too evocative. Too needy of his reaction. Any reaction. The uncertain light made her path waver, but she wouldn’t have been firmly grounded even if there had been bright runway lights.
He was hard. Both physically and mentally. To touch him with her music, even for a second, had been too heady for her own good. He wasn’t a man. He was a monster. He was a being all human souls had been taught to fear for centuries. But as the night deepened, the flutter in her stomach didn’t feel like fear. Not exactly.
Her room was beside her sister’s. Supposedly Victoria’s room had remained untouched. When Kat tiptoed hesitantly in, not wanting to disturb the dust and silence, the room taunted her. It wasn’t empty. Seeing the normal, everyday mess her sister was prone to create—silk slippers tossed to the side, smudged tissues on the vanity table, the pale ivory stockings from her costume rinsed out and long since dry on the bathroom rack—tightened Kat’s lungs until each stale breath hurt. The air tasted bitter on her tongue.
If Victoria had been free to sing and build a reputation under her own name, she would have been a much bigger star than a regional theater would hope to hire, but Vic loved to perform. It didn’t matter how or where. She could almost feel her sister’s anticipation for performance in the air.
Gone.
She’d known it. But seeing it was too final, too real. She sniffed the faint, weeks-old hint of Victoria’s perfume, and tears prickled.
She stopped in the center of the room and willed them away, widening her eyes. She was not going to hide behind tears. She was here for a reason, and grief wouldn’t help her sister now. Katherine waited until her eyes were so dry they hurt. Then she forced an inventory of every detail.
What had happened?
There was no evidence of violence. All was painfully normal and undisturbed. Victoria could walk in at any second complaining about the lack of honey for her tea. But as the seconds ticked by, Katherine knew waiting for her sister’s familiar tread was in vain.
Gone.
On the bed, nestled on Victoria’s pillow, was a pair of opera glasses. They were the only item in the room that seemed out of place. Kat walked to her sister’s bed and picked up the binoculars. The opera glasses were white porcelain with gilded edges. The handle she used to flip them over and hold them up to her eyes had a grip on the end of a brass extension that matched the porcelain around the lenses.
The lenses were meant to bring the action onstage closer to the viewer’s perceptions. They distorted her view of the room.
She lowered the opera glasses and opened her hand on the grip, where she could feel a brass plate. It was engraved with a letter and a number corresponding to the box and seat from which it came. Each seat in every private box at l’Opéra Severne had a slot in the right armrest where the opera glasses rested when not in use.
It wasn’t normal for one of the company to have taken a pair back to her room.
Suddenly, fatigue was a more solid barrier to press through than emotion. She’d been driving for hours. With her travel-fogged brain, she would surely miss important clues if she tried to ransack the room tonight.
Other than removing the opera glasses that were an intrusion of the room’s hushed normalcy, she couldn’t go through Victoria’s things yet. She couldn’t snoop in the closet or the drawers. The room waited for her sister’s return. She would let it wait one more night. It wasn’t rational, but she had a sudden fear that if she disturbed the room’s silent vigil, her sister would never come home.
* * *
Her room was as perfect as Vic’s was messy. And much more ornate. Decorated in French rococo style, the whole space was full of white and gilded furnishings and etched glass. Butterflies, thorny vines and rose petals decorated the mirrors in white, only to spring to vibrant, noisy shades of color on the walls in one large continuous design. Plush creams and pale pink with splashes of scarlet and lush green were echoed in the heavy damask bed coverings and carpets on the floor.
She told herself she’d return the opera glasses to their rightful place in the private box high above the auditorium when she had the time. For now, she placed them in the drawer of her bedside table.
She was startled again and again as her movements were reflected in the glass wall panels in jagged interrupted pieces because of the etchings. She showed up as a disjointed leg or arm, a flushed cheek, or a quick glimpse of shadowed eyes. Her equilibrium might never right itself in this place. She couldn’t find her footing, mentally or physically. Every thought, every move needed to be carefully calculated. Which meant the evening was going to be a test. Severne threw her balance off even without the aid of strange surroundings.
Finally she was unpacked and changed for dinner.
She’d brought no tulle and satin this time, but she did wear pearls with a pink shell of shimmering crushed silk and a long ivory pencil skirt with matching heels. The boy might be afraid to see her. He might instinctively fear the woman responsible for his mother’s death. Dressing for dinner might be inadequate preparation to face him, but it was the least she could do in this aged atmosphere.
She unclipped her hair and let it fall in heavy curls around her shoulders, hiding the pallor of her cheeks behind chestnut waves.
It was stalling and she knew it, but curiosity was a good excuse to pause in the quiet hallway and step closer to examine the wainscoting. In the dimly lit corridor of l’Opéra Severne, the elaborate carved murals were a jumble of faces and forms. From the grotesque to the sublime, on the walls beautiful angelic figures embraced mystical beasts and monsters, all entwined. The artist had been both mad and brilliant. So lifelike were the figures, Kat blinked against the feeling that they peered into her face as she tilted it closer to examine them.
Around her, all was silent. The whole opera house was expectant and still. The building along with everything and everyone in it waited for noise to rise up and fill its grand salon with music.
But something pricked at her senses...
Kat held her breath as she pricked up her ears to pick up a distant murmur. There were likely hundreds of rooms and chambers in l’Opéra Severne. Closets and offices, attics and catwalks, scaffolding beneath the stage for trap doors to allow entrances, exits and costume changes. This must account for the murmur. Not gas or air conditioning, but people. Many people going about some manner of business, but respecting others who slept at odd hours to accommodate schedules kept during the opera season.
The great swirl of carvings was still and silent. In spite of the trick of her eyes that brought it to life as she stepped closer, it was as immobile as it should be. Hundreds of faces were frozen in wood even as they cried for a hundred years. Cried or screamed. She could also discern lovers embracing amid the chaos of passionate battle. Murder, kisses, tears.
So many tears.
The mural in front of her was filled with weeping. Why hadn’t she seen that at first? Face after face contorted by poignant emotion. Kat moved even closer, drawn by the pain. Why, she couldn’t say, but she was compelled to see, to...hear?
The distant murmur was no longer a hollow echo from the dark reaches of the opera house. There was a whispering quality to it now. A sibilance. Gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. The close, still, dusty air of the theater had gone suddenly chill. The hallway darkened and then lightened in turn as if a shadow passed in front of light after light. The dimming and lightening progressed closer and closer to where she stood.
There must be a thousand eyes in this mural. And suddenly they all shifted their focus to her. Staring. Beseeching. Drawing her closer.
Kat lifted her hand, ignoring the strange behavior of the lights and the tremble in her fingertips. She would touch the mural. Prove it was nothing but inanimate art created long ago. As one shaking finger neared the closest face—a masculine angel perfectly captured in the gleaming shine of carved wood—a very real and immediate noise superseded the whispered murmur.
A low growl sounded behind her, and Kat dropped her hand to turn and face its source.
Adrenaline warmed her goose bumps away as a flush of blood flowed to her extremities from the sudden leap of her rapidly beating heart.
The murmur had stopped. Her pulse rushed in her ears.
A black dog stood with its feet braced apart and its head down. Though its teeth weren’t bared, a growl rumbled from deep in its chest again, and its bushy black hair stood on end at its hackles, showing paler pewter beneath.
The dog was out of place. The opera house around her—while vintage—was all slumbering opulence. He was a nightmare hallucination from a dark fairy tale where wolves appeared larger than humanly possible.
“Okay,” Kat soothed. The shaky syllables scared her more than the growl. Instinct warned her not to show weakness to this angry creature of shadows come to life. Its eyes gleamed yellow in the gaslight flicker as she tried again. “I was only looking at the mural. Nothing to get upset about,” she said.
The dog didn’t relax. But it didn’t growl again as she edged away from it toward the west wing, where she’d been told dinner would be served.
“No one warned me about you. I’ll have to talk to Severne about that oversight.”
The dog disengaged from the shadows of the adjacent hallway, but as he stepped into the light, he brought clinging darkness with him rather than leaving it behind. He was black, but there was a gray, sooty quality to every hair on him as it shifted over his muscles, remnants of a dark fog roiling around him as he walked.
“I’m on my way to dinner. Perhaps there’ll be a bone for you there,” she suggested.
Preferably a bone not attached to me.
The animal was as tall as her waist, and its snout was long and broad. Its muzzle indicated a powerful jaw, a deadly bite. It couldn’t come to that. She had to keep it from coming to that. She couldn’t afford an injury now when Vic depended on her to stay strong. The dog was no longer growling. She’d willed her breathing to slow. She forced herself to walk slowly, as well. Now that she’d stepped away from the mural, toward the dining room, the dog padded with her, silent and slightly calmed.
It was an odd escort to have down hallways that must have seen much fancier processions. Kat was reminded of Little Red Riding Hood in a black forest with a giant trickster wolf at her heels. The dog was more German shepherd than wolf, but his size was twice that of any wolf, and there was no woodcutter in sight. She saved herself, step by step, refusing to show her fear to the tense animal looming beside her. They came to the entrance of the dining room. She paused to smooth her skirt.
It was good that she’d had to calm herself before entering the room. Truth was, the beast at her heels was no more frightening than the man she prepared to face.
The table glittered with crystal, china and silver, but it also welcomed with more intimate warmth than she’d expected. Half a dozen candles glowed in the jeweled centerpiece at the table’s heart, throwing off colored shadows of ruby, emerald and sapphire. The boy was already seated, drinking from a large glass of milk held in both hands. He greeted her with big dark eyes and a white moustache.
“Ms. D’Arcy has found us, Eric,” Severne said.
Their host reclined at the head of the table in a large, straight-backed chair with red velvet upholstery and a scrolled wooden frame, very throne-like and fitting to his authoritative demeanor. And yet, the tilt of his finely shaped mouth drew her eyes. She thought about soft silken petals he’d given her. She’d imagined them a substitution for a kiss. Had she been correct? Had he wanted to kiss her because her music had moved him? She’d been certain before, but facing him now she was no longer sure she could read him at all. She noticed the swell of his lower lip was fuller and more sensual than she’d first imagined, a hint of softness in an otherwise hard line.
Now that she’d tasted it, she couldn’t forget it was there.
The dog showed itself behind her and Severne’s smile disappeared, interrupting her thoughts. He went from indolent royal to intimidating man in seconds. He stood as the semblance of a lazy royalty fell away.
“Grim,” he said. There was no doubt it was a warning.
Katherine hadn’t relaxed with the monstrous dog, but she had convinced herself it was safe. Now, with her intimidating host reacting to the dog’s presence, she wasn’t so sure.
She moved to position herself between the boy—who had obviously felt comfortable enough with Severne to share his name—and the dog. Severne stepped forward, but not before his glance took in her brave move with a slight shift of eyes that gleamed in the candlelight from the table. All the green she’d seen before was lost. His eyes were black in this light and, if possible, his jaw firmed before looking back at the dog.
He stared the dog down, and its eyes widened and flared. Her body tensed. Every muscle quivered as she prepared to react to the result of the unspoken communication between the dog and his master. It was so ferociously tense that it might lead to blood.
But if it was a challenge, John Severne came away the victor. How had she doubted for a second he would? The dog’s head dipped, and he stepped back several paces before turning to disappear the way he’d come.
“Good boy,” Kat said. Her voice was an adrenaline-soaked quiver. That sign of fear was embarrassing, but she stood tall. Her body might have been a poor shield, but she’d offered it to Eric one more time.
The child at the table lowered the glass he’d held frozen to his lips during the confrontation. Severne stepped back to the table and held out her chair. Still not as relaxed as he’d seemed when she came in the room, but pretending to be. He met her gaze as she moved to take the proffered seat. Met and held, his stare giving away nothing of why the dog was banished from the room, but not the opera house. His eyes were still dark in the candlelight, without a hint of green. She had the sudden urge to edge even closer to him to rediscover the softer moss hue around his pupils that she’d seen before.
“Grim? Isn’t that the name of a mythological hound that’s a portent of death?” she asked, though it was Severne’s nearness she truly questioned. Why he lingered near her, why she cared, why an invisible force tingled across her skin when the mere cuff of his suit brushed against her with his movements to help her sit. Better to turn the subject to the large dog, even though it and the death it represented didn’t seem nearly as urgent as the scent of smoky candle from Severne’s skin. “They’re supposed to frequent places of execution in England.”
“And crossroads. They traverse ancient pathways. They’re seen as guardians in many cultures,” Severne said. “Grim is actually a hellhound, and he takes his job too seriously at times. He’s the protector of this place and of me since I was a child.”
She hadn’t felt protected by Grim. More like he was protecting someone or something from her. But what threat did she pose to the master of l’Opéra Severne? What secrets did Severne’s Grim guard?
Severne moved back to his seat and sank down. But this time he didn’t recline. He appeared hard against the velvet, as if its decadent softness couldn’t entice him to relax ever again. Eric watched one of them and then the other silently.
“I wonder, was Grim guarding me from something in the corridor outside my room, or...?”
“Protecting something from you?” Severne finished. His eyes shifted to take in Eric’s stare, and he seemed to stop himself from saying more. Out of consideration for the boy’s feelings and his recent loss? The loss that she’d played such a horrible part in?
Her own chair swallowed her. She didn’t feel like royalty at all. Now she felt like Little Red Riding Hood staying for dinner in the wolf’s lair. No mention was made of putting the dog outside or what she should do if she encountered him again.
Several servants brought in the courses in silver tureens and on shining platters as the evening progressed. They were dressed in immaculate uniforms of black and white, their pristine shirts starched, their trousers pressed.
During the meal, she saw the boy put several scraps in his pocket. She wondered if they were bribes for Grim. Safe passage through the elaborately carved corridors of l’Opéra Severne didn’t seem possible. Could he buy it from the giant dog with honeyed buns and cake?
They consumed exquisitely seasoned pheasant and savory gravy. The meal was presented as if John Severne was a restaurant critic, yet he ate with no relish or apparent discernment. Rather, he watched her eat as if every bite was performance art. When she nibbled the edge of a puff pastry with pleasure, his eyes widened, then narrowed in concentration, as if he wasn’t chewing the same treat but only tasting through her reaction to the dessert, which failed to impress his palate.
Her cheeks warmed beneath his scrutiny. How could such perfect food fail to catch his attention?
Eric ate with more enthusiasm than both adults. He gobbled. She noted his place setting was simpler with a more colorful napkin. Who had gone to such consideration for him?
“I’m sorry about your mother, Eric. I’m sorry I couldn’t save her,” Kat said.
The boy didn’t look up at her. He stared at his plate. But then he spoke. “Her name is Lavinia. She’s glad you saved me.”
Eric was obviously still processing the loss of his mother. He’d referred to her in present tense as if she wasn’t gone.
The conversation was stilted after that, with “More, please” being the predominant phrase until an older woman came to the door.
Her tea-length skirt was perfectly pressed and flared but fifty years out of fashion, its tiny polkadot print and lace trim a style reminiscent of black-and-white television.
Severne rose, and Kat followed suit. She was jumpy. In spite of the fine meal and beautiful table, she wasn’t at ease. Because of her guilt over Eric’s mother, her uncertainty with Severne and the confrontation with the hellhound, she waited on a razor’s edge for disaster to happen. For all she knew, the woman in polka dots might have a machine gun under her skirts.
“Matron,” Eric greeted her.
“Bath and bed, young sir. I believe you’ve had your fill,” the woman said to the young daemon boy after a curt nod to Severne. She seemed to see nothing different about the child. She didn’t act nervous about babysitting a daemon. When Eric smiled at the woman, Kat finally relaxed about his being at the opera house. He was welcome. Cared for. Her chest tightened with emotion, thinking about Reynard’s blade cutting into his mother’s throat.
The older woman glanced at her, but instead of looking away again to her new charge, her gaze held. It became a penetrating stare.
“You are like her. Very like. The same eyes. Same hair,” she said.
Kat’s heart leaped to her throat, but the woman wasn’t referring to her sister. She and Victoria were as unalike as could be. Vic was taller, her hair auburn and her eyes the palest blue. She’d taken after their father, a man they’d barely known.
It was her mother the woman referred to. It had to be, though twenty years had passed since her mother had performed here.
“She was lovely. And talented. Drew them like a flame. Her voice was an angel’s voice. But...” Her eyes narrowed as she looked closer at Katherine. “She wasn’t as strong, I think. You are the strong one,” she concluded. She toyed with an iron ring of keys that dangled from her belt as she spoke.
Kat clenched her napkin in her hand. Strong? Was love strong? It was the only weapon she had in the fight to find her sister.
“Yes. Definitely stronger,” the woman noted.
“Sybil has been costume matron at l’Opéra Severne for many years,” Severne said.
She hadn’t come into the room or approached them as she spoke. She held herself apart. The soft candlelight didn’t fully illuminate her face. She must have been older than Kat had first assumed if she remembered her mother that well. The keys hung beside a small sewing pouch with a pincushion full of needles incorporated into its design. A bit of measuring tape peeked from the top of the pouch. Altogether, she seemed a woman used to taking care of business, one who didn’t need a machine gun to do so. Was she the one who had set a special place for Eric at the fancy table?
Eric had paused near her chair, and now he flung himself at Kat’s legs in a tight hug reminiscent of last night, when they’d fled from his mother’s killer. His move distracted her from Sybil. Her chest tightened as she felt his ferocious hold again.
“He won’t find you here. You’re safe with Severne,” she said.
Their host heard the exchange. He stood straighter as if she’d surprised him. His whole hard body stiffened. Eric let her go after a fierce squeeze that made her eyes burn. He went happily with “Matron,” his pockets bulging with pilfered food.
And then they were alone.
Severne didn’t reclaim his seat, so she remained standing, as well. She forgot her pastry—in fact, she forgot everything—as he suddenly moved. He came toward her in a slow, steady approach very like a stalk, as if quicker movements might scare her away. Did he consider her strong? How soft she must seem to him. How mortal and easily broken.
She tried to convince herself she was stronger.
Her heart beat faster in her chest, an urgent pulse she could feel in her whole body. The heat in her cheeks flushed hotter and spread until she was sure the low neck of her silk blouse revealed her consternation.
She was frightened. But she didn’t run.
He was a daemon.
Dangerous.
And so inhumanly hard. He was dressed in a modern, fitted button-down shirt that hugged his chest. Its white fabric was only slightly paler than his skin, but the candlelight caressed his skin to a golden glow, whereas his shirt was left stark in shadow. Or maybe Brimstone caused the color, a more subtle tan than sunlight? He also wore straight-legged black pants that were tight against muscular thighs. Suddenly the idea of feeling his form like perfectly sculpted marble beneath her hand invaded her thoughts.
Could he be made to blush? Or sigh? Could his heartbeat be quickened? Would his breath catch as hers did when he stopped millimeters from where she stood?
With Grim, she’d mastered a calm that Severne shattered.
“You can see I’ve helped Eric. Just as I intend to help you find your sister,” he said.
His voice was a vibration on her skin. His face tilted toward her. There was the green she’d wanted to seek, but it glittered. Dangerous, not soft. Getting close enough to see the colored striations in his dark irises was a compulsion she should have been sure always to deny.
There was bold and there was crazy. Severne inspired mad impulses she should have resisted.
She imagined it for only a second—her hand fluttering softly over the plane of his chest, his stomach and his thighs—but the vision was undoubtedly braver than one she would previously have had. The flush her vision inspired spread more intimately until her knees grew weak.
Again, she could feel his heat. Maybe he would blame Brimstone for the blush he could see in the candlelight? The candles’ glow was cruel, causing more warmth and intimacy in the room than she was prepared to handle.
She drew in a quick breath when he reached out toward her, but his hand went past her to the table. She held the sudden gasp in her lungs because to exhale might cause her body to brush his reaching arm. And one touch might betray her. The air filled her chest, tight and unexpressed, as he lifted a tiny pastry from her plate and brought it to her lips. When it was so close to her mouth that the scent of vanilla cream teased her nose, she exhaled softly, meeting his eyes over the proffered treat.
It was a confession, that exhalation. And his eyelids drooped over his eyes in response.
“You didn’t enjoy your own pastry,” she said.
His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips and back again.
“I’ve eaten them a thousand times a thousand. But you chew as if nothing so perfect has ever touched your lips and tongue. They’re dust to me. Watching you enjoy them is delicious.”
Katherine’s head grew light as blood rushed to her lips and the tips of her breasts. He knew. He must. His jaw relaxed, and he brought the pastry to her mouth. He touched the pursed bow of her lips with a light, teasing tickle of sugary cream.
She licked out, instinctively dipping into the residue of icing with her tongue. He watched as she tasted it once more. It was even more decadent when combined with the intensity of his attention.
“I’ve tasted cream a thousand times a thousand, but I’ve never tasted it on you,” he said.
Had she known? Had her head gone light because she knew her nibbles of delicate pastry had overwhelmed any decision on his part to keep his distance? Or on her part to stay calm and controlled?
Earlier in the evening, he’d given her a calla lily instead of a kiss. The lovely flower had been no substitute at all. Its soft petals were nothing compared to...
He sucked the sweetness of cream from her lips. He sought its remnants on her tongue. He pressed into her until her bottom was on the table and his impossibly muscular body was between her legs. The pastry was forgotten as his mouth took its place, a much more decadent treat. Forbidden. Bad for her. Crazy. She tasted sweet cream and pastry and fire and a wicked hint of wood smoke that must be the never-before-tasted burn of Brimstone heat on her tongue.
She opened to him. She didn’t resist. Their tongues twined. Their bodies melded as closely as clothes would allow. He tasted her completely, plundering every gasp, every sugar-sweetened sigh.
And when he finally pulled back, as she clung to him so she wouldn’t fall, she finally saw the flush of pleasure on his face and neck that the pastry alone had failed to give him. Heaven help her, but she instantly ached to give him more. It wasn’t his marbled perfection she wanted to caress; it was his vulnerability. She wanted to explore the chink in his armor that had allowed him to taste her.
“Good night, Katherine. You heard Sybil. It’s time for bed,” Severne said.
He backed away. She straightened. In his deep, smoky voice, the suggestion of bedtime was much less utilitarian.
It had been only a kiss.
Only.
She walked by him on quaking legs. He let her go. But between them was so much more heat than could be blamed on hell’s fire.
Her whole life she’d hidden in music. Perhaps being excellent at hiding made her also long to seek. Severne hid many things behind his mystery and his muscle. His hardness was his armor. But he was capable of softening. He’d softened tonight. For one stolen moment, his mouth had softened on hers. She couldn’t risk losing herself in the search for the softness he hid from her and from the world.
Victoria was missing, and she couldn’t afford to lose herself in John Severne before her sister was found.
