Читать книгу Those Scandalous Ravenhursts: The Dangerous Mr Ryder - Louise Allen - Страница 14

‘Eva.’ A dark shape loomed over her. He had come, just as she knew, just as she feared. The figure reached down, took her shoulder and she gasped, a little sound of horror, and swooned.

‘Eva, wake up.’ Her nostrils were full of the smell of dust, of the tomb he had just lifted her from. She was held on a lap, yet the male body she rested on was warm, alive, pulsing with strength, not cold, dead…

He shifted her on his knees so he could hold her more easily. ‘It’s all right, we are quite safe, there is no one else here.’ Jack? She could not trust herself to respond. A hand stroked her cheek, found the sticky traces of half-dried tear tracks. Flesh-and-blood fingertips against her skin, not the touch of dry bone. She came to herself with a sharply drawn breath. ‘Eva, you are safe,’ he said urgently.

‘Oh. Oh, Jack.’ She burrowed her face into his shirtfront.

‘Are you all right now?’ He managed to get a finger under her chin and nudged it up so he could look into her face. ‘You frightened me. What was all that about?’

‘I am sorry.’ She tried to sit up, but he pulled her back. ‘It is just that that was…is…my worst nightmare. A real nightmare. I keep having it.’ I am awake, I am safe. Jack kept me safe. He did not come.

‘Tell me,’ he prompted.

She had never spoken of it to anyone. Could she do so now? Admit such fear and weakness? ‘When I first came to the castle Louis, my husband, took me down to the family vault under the chapel. At first it was exciting, fascinating, like a Gothic romance—the twisting stairs, the flickering torches. I didn’t realise where we were going.’

The smell of the air—that was what had hit her first. Cold, dry, infinitely stale. Old. Louis had held, not a lantern, but a torch, the flames painting shapes over the pillars and arches, making shadows solid. ‘Then he opened the door into the vault—it seems to go on for ever, right under the castle, with arches and a succession of rooms.’

She had been a little excited, she remembered now. These must be the dungeons. It was all rather unreal, like a Gothic novel. Until she had realised where they were.

‘We were in the burial vaults. All there is down there are these niches in the walls, like great shelves, each one with a coffin on it.’ Jack must have felt her shudder at the memory and tightened his hold.

‘The newer ones were covered in dusty velvet, there were even withered wreaths.’ How did the flowers and leaves hold their shape? she had wondered, still not quite taking in what she was seeing. They had moved on, further and deeper into the maze of passageways. ‘The older ones were shrouded in cobwebs. Some of them were cracked.’ There had been a hideous compulsion to move closer, to put her eye to those cracks and look into the sarcophagus as though into a room.

‘Then Louis started to show them to me, as though he were introducing living relatives; it was horrible, but he seemed to think it quite normal, and I tried not to show what I was thinking.’ Already, by then, she was learning that she must not show emotion, that she must show respect for Maubourg history and tradition, that weakness was unforgivable. Somehow she applied those lessons and did not run, screaming, for the stairs. Or perhaps she had known she would never find them again.

Then they had moved on. She had felt something brush against her arm and had looked down. ‘There was one—an old wooden casket where the planks had cracked and a hand had come out.’ She had tried never to think about it while she was awake, but whenever the nightmare came, this was the image that began it. ‘A skeleton hand, reaching out for me as we walked past. It touched me.’

Her voice broke. Jack made a sound as if to tell her to stop, that it was too distressing, but she was hurrying now. It must all be said. ‘And then he came to two empty shelves and said “And these are ours”. I didn’t understand at first, and then I realised he meant they were for our coffins.’

One day she would lie there, enclosed in a great stone box, sealed up away from the light and air for ever. There would not even be the natural, life-renewing embrace of the soil to take her back.

‘I don’t know how I got out without making a scene. That night I dreamt I had died and woken up in my coffin. I knew I was down there, and they were all out there, waiting, and that any moment Louis would lift the lid and he would be dead, too, and—I am sorry, such foolishness.’

Eva sat up, smoothing her hair back from her face with a determined calm. Discipline, remember who you are. There was pity and respect in Jack’s grey eyes as he looked at her. She could not let it affect her. ‘Ever since then, I have been afraid of very tight, dark, spaces.’

‘I’m not surprised, that is the most ghoulish thing I have ever heard. Did your husband not realise what an effect it was having on you?’

‘Louis was a firm believer in self-control and putting on a good face,’ Eva said with a rueful smile. ‘I soon learned what was expected of me.’

‘Did you love your husband?’

‘No, of course not, love was not part of the expectation,’ she said readily. She had just confessed her deepest fear—to tell the tale of her marriage was easy in comparison. ‘I was dazzled, seduced and over-awed. I was seventeen years old, remember! Just imagine—a grand duke.’

‘A catch, indeed,’ Jack agreed. There was something in his voice that made her suddenly very aware of where she was and that Jack’s body was responding to holding her so closely

‘I…Mr Ryder, Jack, please let me go.’ She struggled off his lap, suddenly gauche and awkward, knowing the colour flaming in her cheeks. ‘Thank you. I appreciate your…concern.’

She settled in the far corner, fussing with her skirts and pushing at her hair in a feminine flurry of activity. ‘You say you have the dream quite often?’ Jack said slowly.

‘Yes.’ She nodded, keeping her head bent, apparently intent on a mark on her sleeve.

‘Very well. You must remember, the next time, that when the lid begins to move, it is me opening it. I will have come to rescue you. There will be nothing unpleasant for you to see, and I will take you safely up those winding stairs, up into the daylight. Do you understand, Eva? Remind yourself of that before you go to sleep.’

‘You? But why should you rescue me in my dream?’ No one has ever rescued me before.’ He had her full attention now. She fixed her eyes on his face as she worried over his meaning.

‘You did not have me as a bodyguard before,’ Jack said simply. ‘All you need to do is believe in me, and I will be there. Even in your dreams. Do you?’

‘Believe in you? Yes, Jack. I believe you. Even in my dreams.’

It was a fairy tale. Eva looked down at her clasped hands so that Jack would not see that her eyes were suddenly swimming with tears. Such foolish weakness! She was a rational, educated woman; of course he could not stride into her nightmare like a knight, errant to slay the ghosts and monsters. And yet, she believed him. Believed in him.

Only the year before she had found an enchanting book of fairy stories by some German brothers and had been engrossed. What was the name of the one about the sleeping princes? Ah, yes, ‘Briar Rose.’

And it was a dangerous fairy tale, for she wanted more than protection from her knight errant—she wanted his lovemaking, she wanted him to wake her from her long sleep.

Jack wanted her, too, she knew, if only at the most basic level of male response to the female. He could not hide his body’s response from a woman nestling in his lap. And that frightened her, for she realised that she had responded to it, been aroused by it, before her mind had recognised what was happening to them. She should have been alert to that danger, she had thought she was. Had she not resolved to maintain everything on a strictly impersonal level, as recently as this morning? That attack of panic had upset all her carefully constructed aloofness like a pile of child’s building blocks.

‘What are you thinking about?’ He was matter of fact again. It almost felt as though he was checking on her mental state in the same way as he would check on the condition of a horse, or test the temper of a blade he might rely upon.

‘Fairy stories,’ she said promptly, looking up, her eyes clear. Telling the truth was always easiest, and this seemed a safe and innocuous subject. Her early training came back—find a neutral topic of conversation that will set the other person at their ease. ‘I found a wonderful book of them last year.’

‘The Brothers Grimm? Yes, I enjoyed those.’ He grinned at her expression. ‘You are surprised I read such things?’

‘Perhaps you have nephews and nieces?’ she suggested.

‘No, none. And I do not think it is a book for children, do you? Far too much sex, far too much fear and violence.’

Flustered by how closely this was impinging on her fantasies, Eva said hastily, ‘Yes, of course, you are quite correct. It is not a book I would give to Freddie.’

‘I doubt he sits still long enough to read anything except his schoolbooks,’ Jack said.

‘Oh, of course. I forgot, you actually spoke to him.’ How could she have forgotten that? She had been fighting her fears about Freddie, fretting over how he was, and here was someone with news of him that was only weeks old. ‘Tell me how he looked.’

‘As well as any lively nine-year-old who has just had a severe stomach upset,’ Jack said. ‘A touch green round the gills, but so far recovered that he was able to enjoy describing exactly, and in minute and revolting detail, how his mushrooms had reappeared and what they had looked like.’

‘I am sorry.’ Eva chuckled. ‘Little wretch.’

‘He’s a boy. I was one once—I am not so old that I cannot remember the fascination of gory details.’

‘How tall is he?’ Eva asked wistfully. ‘Hoffmeister writes me pedantic reports on a regular basis. “HSH has attained some competence with his Latin translation, HSH has been outfitted with new footwear, HSH smuggled a kitten into his room. It has been removed.” But it doesn’t help me see Freddie.’

Jack stood up, braced himself against the lurching of the carriage with one hand on the luggage rack and held the other hand palm down against his body. ‘This high. Sturdy as a little pony now—but any moment he is going to start to grow and I think he will be tall. His hair is thick, like yours, and needs cutting. His eyes are hazel, his face he is still growing into. But I saw he was your son when I first set eyes on you.’

He sat down again and Eva felt the tension and fear of the past hour ebb away into relief and thoughts of Freddie. ‘Oh, thank you so much, I can just picture him now! He was such a baby when Louis insisted he went to England. The first thing I am going to do when I am settled there is to have his portrait painted.’

‘With his mother, of course?’

‘No,’ she said slowly, thinking it out. ‘Alone. His first official portrait. I will have engravings done from it and flood Maubourg with them. It is time people remembered who their Grand Duke is.’

‘Ah.’ Jack was watching her, sizing her up again in a way that made her raise her chin. ‘The Grand Duchess is back.’

‘She never goes away,’ Eva said coolly. ‘It would be as well to remember that, Mr Ryder.’

His half-bow from the waist was, if one wanted to take offence, mocking. Eva chose to keep the peace and acknowledged it with a gracious inclination of her head. Then she let her shoulder rest against the corner squabs and closed her eyes. One could never take refuge in sleep in public as a grand duchess, but she was coming to see it was a useful haven in everyday life.

‘Grenoble.’ Jack spoke close to her ear and Eva came fully awake as the sound of the carriage wheels changed and they hit the cobbles.

‘What time is it?’ She sat up and tried to stretch her neck from its cramped position.

‘Nearly eight. We made faster time than I feared we would.’

‘And where are we staying?’ Water glinted below as they passed over a bridge. The Drac or the Isère, she could not orientate herself.

‘Another eminently respectable bourgeois inn. And this time we have a private parlour adjoining our bedchamber, Madame Ridère.’

‘So that’s who I am, is it? I suppose it is easy to remember—Ryder or Ridère. And this was all booked in advance for tonight?’ He nodded. Eva could make out his expression with some clarity, for the streets were well lit. ‘You were very confident that we would get here, were you not?’ Jack smiled, looked as though he would reply, then closed his lips. She added sharply, ‘I suppose you were about to say that you are very confident because you are very good.’

‘It is my job.’ Infuriatingly he did not rise to her jibe. Eva was stiff, hungry and tense, for all kinds of reasons. A brisk exchange of views with Jack Ryder was just the tonic she needed. It seemed she was not going to get one. ‘We are here.’

‘Bonsoir, bonsoir, Monsieur Ridère. Madame! Entrez, s’il vous plaît.’ The innkeeper emerged, Eva forced herself to think in French again, and the ritual of disembarking, being shown their room, ordering supper, unwound.

‘That bed is smaller,’ she observed as they sat down in the parlour to await their food. ‘In fact, it is very small.’

‘Indeed.’ Jack was folding a rather crumpled news sheet into order in front of the fireplace. ‘No room for the bolster, then, which is a good thing—you nearly pushed both it and me out last night.’

‘I am not sleeping with you in a bed that size. There is a settle in here.’ She pointed to the elaborately carved example of Alpine woodwork on the far side of the room.

‘That is a good foot shorter than I am, as narrow as a window ledge and as hard as a board. And it appears to be covered in very knobbly artistic representations of chamois. I am not forgoing a comfortable bed.’ She bristled. Jack snapped the newspaper open and regarded her over the top of it. ‘Do I appear to you to be crazed with lust?’

‘I…You…What did you say?’

At this critical juncture the waiter appeared with a casserole dish, followed by various other persons bearing plates, bread, jugs and cutlery. Eva folded her lips tightly and went to take her seat at the table.

Jack put down his newspaper and joined her. ‘Du pain, ma chère?’

‘Don’t you my dear me,’ she hissed, only to subside as the waiter returned with a capon and a dish of greens. ‘Merci, c’est tout,’ she said firmly.

‘Non, non, un moment, la fromage.’ Jack wielded the bread knife and passed her a slice.

‘Coward! You cannot hide behind the servants for ever.’ She forced a smile as the waiter brought the cheese. The door closed. ‘How dare you?’

‘I thought the my dear added verisimilitude. Some wine?’

‘Yes, please.’ A stiff drink was what she really needed. Brandy at the very least. ‘That was not what I was referring to and you know it. How dare you refer to lust in my hearing?’

‘I apologise for my choice of words.’ Jack passed her a glass of white wine and took a thoughtful sip from his. ‘Amorous propensities? Uncontrollable desire? Satyr-like tendencies? Ardent longings? Any of those any better?’

All or any of them involving Jack would be sinfully wonderful, as would throwing the cheese board at him. Eva gritted her teeth and persisted. ‘It would be highly improper for us to share that bed. It is far too small.’

‘And you expect what, exactly, to occur as a result?’ Jack began to carve the legs off the capon. Something about his very precise knife work suggested repressed emotion at odds with his dispassionate tone.

‘We might touch. Inadvertently.’ Eva took a deep swallow of wine, nearly choked and took another. A capon leg was laid on her plate. ‘Thank you.’ Even when discussing lust one could maintain the courtesies, she thought hazily, reaching for the decanter and refilling her glass. ‘Some greens?’ She lifted the serving spoons competently.

‘Please.’ Jack passed her the butter and took the lid off the casserole with a flourish. ‘Pommes Dauphinoise?’

‘Allow me…’ To upend it over your head. Eva wielded a serving spoon with practised elegance.

‘Thank you. Has it occurred to you that we have been touching—inadvertently or otherwise—all day?’

‘Of course. It was unavoidable. Butter?’

‘Thank you, no. And?’

‘And nothing. Touching in bed is quite another matter.’

‘That, my dear, is indubitably true.’

Eva almost choked on a further incautious mouthful of wine and stared at Jack across the steaming dishes. ‘I do not need you to tell me that. I am a mur…married ludy. Lady.’

‘Widowed lady,’ he corrected gently. ‘More wine.’

‘Yes.’ She was obviously tired, despite that nap in the carriage. Otherwise why was her tongue tangling itself? ‘Please.’

‘So.’ Jack chewed thoughtfully. ‘How to avoid this undesirable inadvertent touching? Whilst allowing me a decent night’s sleep.’ He reached across the table and lifted the second bottle of wine and the corkscrew. ‘What forethought on my part to order two bottles.’

‘It is a tolerable vintage,’ Eva allowed, fanning herself with her napkin. It really was warm in here. ‘As to the bed, thatsh—I mean, that’s your problem, Mr Ryder. You arranged it.’

‘What if I sleep on top of the bedclothes and you under them? More capon?’

‘Thank you.’ She was obviously hungry or why was her head spinning so? ‘Wearing what?’

‘Me or you?’

‘You, of course.’ Her glass was empty again. It really was a most excellent vintage.

‘A nightshirt.’ He lifted his wineglass, then glared at her over it as she snorted. It wasn’t a very elegant reaction, Eva acknowledged vaguely. Grand duchesses never snort, but really!

‘What, exactly, is there in that to provoke a snort?’ Jack demanded.

‘Men look ridiculous in nightshirts. Hairy legs sticking out of the bottom.’ Did I just say that? She blinked at the wineglass. It appeared to be half-full now. How many had she drunk?

‘Well, in my case you won’t be looking, so if you can just steer your imagination away from the aesthetic horror of it, we will be all right.’

He isn’t pleased I commented on his hairy legs. I suppose he has got hairy legs, all men do, don’t they? He has a hairy chest. Not very hairy, though, just nicely hairy. Some remnant of restraint, surfacing through the effects of four glasses of wine on a nearly empty stomach stopped her complimenting Jack on the niceness of his chest. A creeping feeling of unease that perhaps this conversation was not all it should be began to steal over her.

‘I think I am going to go to bed. Into bed. Under the covers.’

Jack stood up. ‘Can I be of any assistance? The door is over there.’

‘I know that,’ she said with dignity, gathering her skirts around her and paying particular regard to her deportment. ‘Good night, Mr Ryder.’

The effect of this exit was somewhat marred by a very audible hiccup.