Wicked

A crystal decanter of brandy, surrounded by fragile snifters, sat on a small brown table. She was tempted to run to it, seize up the elegant crystal and imbibe the brandy until it was gone.

Turning again, she noted a large and beautiful painting behind the great desk. The woman within it wore clothing of perhaps a decade earlier. She had lovely light hair and a smile that seemed to illuminate. Her deep blue eyes, almost a sapphire, were the most alluring aspect of the painting. Fascinated, Camille moved closer.

“My mother, Lady Abigail of Carlyle,” she heard, the tone deep, richly masculine, yet somehow harsh and menacing.

She spun around, startled, not having heard the door open. Despite herself, she was afraid that she gaped, as well, for the face she saw upon the fellow who had entered the room was that of a beast.

He wore a leather mask, she realized, molded to face and features. And though not really unattractive—and certainly artistic—it was still somehow frightening. And in the back of her mind, she wondered if it hadn’t been crafted to be so.

She wondered, as well, just how long he had watched her before speaking.

“It’s a beautiful painting,” she managed to say at last, praying that the time she had stared at him, mouth open, was less than she feared. She tried hard not to let her voice waver, though she couldn’t tell if she succeeded.

“Yes, thank you.”

“A very beautiful woman,” she added, the compliment sincere.

She was aware of the eyes behind the mask, watching her. And she noticed, because the mouth was somewhat visible beneath the edge of the facade, that there was a mocking amusement to him, as if he was accustomed to gratuitous compliments.

“She was, indeed, beautiful,” he said, and came closer, his strides long, one hand clamped around a wrist behind his back as he neared her. “So, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

She smiled and extended a hand graciously, hating the fact that she was playing at the social butterfly—which she was not and never would be.

“Camille Montgomery,” she said. “And I am here on a desperate quest. My uncle, my guardian, is lost, and he was last seen upon the road before this very castle.”

He looked at her hand a long time before deciding to bow to courtesy and accept it, bending over it. The lips beneath the mask were searing as they touched her flesh, yet he released her instantly, as if it were he who had touched hot coals.

“Ah,” he said simply, walking past her.

Though not so tall as the giant who had come to the gate, he was certainly a few inches over six feet, and his shoulders were very broad beneath his handsome smoking jacket. His stature was trim, his waist quite narrow, his legs long and powerful. He appeared both strong and agile, whatever the condition of his face. A beast? Perhaps, for she could too easily recall the heat of his lips against her flesh, the length of his fingers, the power in his hand.

He didn’t speak; his back was to her as he, too, surveyed the painting above the desk.

At last, she cleared her throat. “Lord Stirling, I do apologize with the greatest regret for intruding upon you at this hour and without inquiry. But I am, as you can well imagine, distressed beyond all measure. The dear man who raised me is missing, and there are so many dangers in the woods. Cutthroats, wolves…all manner of creature might be about in the night. I am so very worried, and therefore I pray that I may turn to a man of such high position as Your Lordship.”

He turned, once again very amused.

“Oh, come, my dear! All of London has surely heard of my reputation!”

“Reputation, sir?” she said, feigning innocence. It was a mistake.

“Ah, yes, the misbegotten beast! Were I simply the Earl of Carlyle and recognized as such with a modicum of respect and dignity rather than fear, dear woman, you’d not have come to the gates with the least hope of being received by me.”

His tone was flat and harsh, allowing no quarter for a pretense of ignorance. In fact, she nearly took a step back, but refused to allow herself to do so—for Tristan’s sake.

“Tristan Montgomery is here, somewhere, sir. He was traveling with a companion and disappeared outside your gates. I want him given into my care, immediately.”

“So you are related to the loathsome rascal who crawled my walls like the most common of thieves this evening,” he said, unperturbed.

“Tristan is no loathsome rascal,” she denied hotly, although she refrained from declaring that he was certainly not a thief. “Sir, I believe he is in this castle, and I will not leave without him.”

“I hope then that you are prepared to stay,” he said flatly.

“So, he is here!” she claimed.

“Oh, yes. He took a bit of a fall in his attempt to relieve me of my possessions.”

She swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. She had never expected the man to be so blunt, or to hear a tone that could be both flat and entirely ruthless all in one. A new fear was also triggered within her.

“He is hurt? Badly?” she inquired.

“He will live,” he said dryly.

“But I must be taken to him. At once!”

“In good time,” he said simply. “You’ll excuse me for a moment?” It wasn’t really a question; he meant to depart the room and leave her again, and he didn’t give a damn if she did or didn’t excuse his rudeness. He strode toward the door.

“Wait!” she cried. “I must see Tristan. Immediately.”

“I repeat, you may see him. In good time.”

He departed, leaving her alone once again. She stared after him, confused and angry. Why would he agree to see her, only to disappear after a few minutes’ worth of heated conversation?

She walked around the room, trying to calm herself, studying the titles of books as she bided whatever time she was to wait. Yet the titles did nothing but swim before her eyes, so she found a seat before the fire.

He’d admitted that Tristan was here. Hurt! Caught in the act of thievery.

Good God! No one could expect her to sit still while her guardian lay somewhere, perhaps in pain, perhaps even direly injured!

She jumped up anxiously and started for the door, but after throwing it open, she stood frozen. There was a dog there. Massive. It was merely sitting there, but its head came above her waist! Then the animal growled softly; a warning sound.

She closed the door and paced back to the fire, furious yet afraid. Was the animal trained to rip anyone to shreds who tried to move about the place on their own? Fueled by anger, she walked back to the door. But before she could reach it, it opened.

It wasn’t the return of the Earl of Carlyle, as she had hoped. Instead, a woman entered the room. She was an attractive, older woman with dancing eyes and a quick smile. She was in a lovely dove-gray gown with a cast of silver to it, and the warm curl of her lips was more than startling under the circumstance.

“Good evening, Miss Montgomery,” she said pleasantly.

“Thank you,” Camille replied, “except that, I’m afraid, for me, it isn’t a good evening at all. My guardian is being held hostage here, and it seems that I am likewise imprisoned in this room.”

“Imprisoned!” the woman exclaimed.

“There is a dog—or a fanged monster, one might say—on the other side of the door,” Camille said.

The woman’s smile deepened. “Ajax. Pay him no mind. He is a big lover, once you get to know him. Really.”

“I’m not so sure that I’m eager to make his close acquaintance,” Camille murmured. “Madam, please, I’m most desperate to see my guardian.”

“Indeed, and so you will. But first things first. Will you have some brandy? I’ve arranged a light supper for you and the earl, and it will be served quite soon. I’m Evelyn Prior, the earl’s housekeeper. He’s asked me to see that a room be prepared for you, as well.”

“A room?” she said, distressed. “Mrs. Prior, please, I’ve come to take Tristan home. Whatever care he needs, I can give it to him.”

“Well, Miss Montgomery,” Mrs. Prior said, her tone sad, “I’m afraid that the earl was considering filing charges against your guardian.”

Camille winced, looking downward. “Please. I don’t believe he intended any harm.”

“I’m afraid the master doesn’t believe that he merely fell over the gate,” the woman said lightly. “But…well, the two of you must talk.”

Evelyn Prior seemed far too lovely, rational and sane for the environment here, that was certain. All about the castle seemed dark and menacing; she was as light and lovely as the summer air. Yet she, too, seemed to have very resolute objections to Camille simply gathering up Tristan and leaving.

She swallowed hard. “I am willing to make reparation for—”

“Miss Montgomery, I’m not the one with whom you must discuss the matter of your guardian’s guilt or innocence, or any form of reparation. If you’ll accompany me now, I’ll see you to the master’s quarters dining area. In time, you may see your guardian, and then your own chamber for the evening.”

“Oh, we cannot stay!” Camille protested.

“I’m afraid you must stay. The physician has said that your guardian must not be moved this evening. He is sore, indeed.”

“I can take care of him,” Camille swore.

“He will not be traveling this evening. We cannot keep you here, of course, but I’m afraid that your guardian will not be leaving our hospitality as of yet.”

Despite the woman’s courtesy and easy smile, Camille felt chills erupt at the base of her spine. Stay here? Surrounded by the deepest, darkest forest she had ever seen? With the man in the mask, the imposing, brooding, harsh and seemingly indomitable beast of the castle?

“I…I…”

“Truly!” the woman said with a laugh. “We may well enjoy our solitude here, but we are not so crass or without comfort as you might imagine. You will be quite fine if you stay. Whatever His Lordship’s reputation, he is the Earl of Carlyle, you know. He has responsibilities to the Crown itself, and is trusted by her most gracious Majesty, Victoria.”

Camille lowered her lashes, trying to conceal the flush that came to her cheeks. Mrs. Prior had read her every thought.

“I have come with a servant. He has been left waiting in the great hall,” Camille said.

“Well then, we shall see that he is comfortably bedded down for the evening, as well, Miss Montgomery. Do come along now.”

Camille offered a weak smile and did so, having little choice.

In the hall, the dog waited. He looked at Camille with as much suspicion as had his master. Even the dog’s eyes seemed to be hooded.

“Good boy!” Mrs. Prior said, stroking the great head. The monster hound wagged its tail.

Camille remained close at Mrs. Prior’s heels. They traversed the long hall, coming to the far end of the eastern wing of the castle. The door was center at that end of the wing, and Mrs. Prior pushed it open. The lord of the castle awaited her.

Here, in the reception area for his private quarters, there were great pocket doors that rolled back to allow a scenic view of the darkness and the deep jungle of forest that helped create it. There must have been something out there, however, for he looked out at the expanse before him, hands clasped behind his back, legs firmly set, shoulders squared, as Mrs. Prior led Camille in.

There was a table set with an exquisite white cloth, fine bone china—the main plates covered with silver heating domes—shining silverware and crystal-stemmed glasses. Two chairs awaited.

Mrs. Prior cleared her throat, but Camille was certain that the Earl of Carlyle knew they were there. He simply hadn’t chosen to turn.

“Miss Montgomery, sir,” she said. “I will leave you two.”

Camille was ushered in and the door closed behind her. The master turned at last.

He lifted a hand, indicating the table, then walked forward, pulling back a chair for her to sit. She hesitated.

“Ah. I’m sorry. Is the idea of dining with a scarred man in a mask far too loathsome a concept for you, my dear?”

The words were gently spoken, but they weren’t filled with compassion. They might have been a challenge. Or a test?

“I believe you’ve chosen a rather bizarre mask, sir, but certainly it’s your right. There is little that disturbs my appetite, and nothing of appearance that can disturb me regarding a fellow human being.”

She thought she saw again, below the leather edge of the mask, a faint smile, both mocking and amused.

“How very honorable, Miss Montgomery! Yet is such a credo true in your heart, or simply what I might wish to hear?”

“I believe, sir, that any answer might be as dubious in your mind as the words already spoken. Suffice it to say, I had not realized my own hunger, and I am happy to share a meal while discussing the situation regarding my guardian.”

“Then, my dear…?” He swept his arm toward the chair.

She sat.

He walked around the table, took his own seat and lifted the silver cover from her plate. The aroma, just hinted at in the night air thus far, struck her heavily then, and it was delicious. The plate came with fluffy potatoes, a slice of roast that was mouthwatering and artful little carrots. She hadn’t had a bite since her break at ten that morning, and then she had barely bothered with a muffin and jam.

“Does it meet with your approval, Miss Montgomery? Rather mundane, I’m afraid, but quickly achieved,” he said.

“It seems exceptional, under such very timely circumstances, indeed,” she said politely. She realized that he was waiting for her to begin, so she picked up her fork and knife and delicately chiseled off a piece of meat. It was as delicious as the aroma had promised.

“Excellent,” she assured him.

“I’m so glad you approve,” he murmured.

“As to my guardian,” she began.

“The thief, yes.”

She sighed. “My Lord, Tristan is not a thief. I can’t begin to imagine what brought him into these walls, but there would be no reason for him to steal.”

“Quite well-off, are you, then?” he inquired.

“We are certainly in able circumstances,” she said.

“So he did not come to steal for small profit, but sought instead a certain treasure.”

“Not at all!” she protested, realizing that it had somehow made him angrier and more suspicious when she suggested that they didn’t need money. Small sums, at any rate.

“Lord Stirling,” she said, trying to put forth a demeanor of indignation, irritation and assurance. “You really have no right to suppose that my guardian was here to rob you. He—”

“According to him, he arrived accidentally upon the property. You saw the gate and the wall. It’s rather difficult to pass by accidentally, don’t you agree?”

Despite the mask, he had impeccable manners. The bottom of the visage was cut so that it covered the cheeks and the bridge of the nose, but left the mouth free. She suddenly wondered what his appearance was like beneath the mask, and just how badly he had been facially scarred to wear the leather over his features.

He was casual as he spoke, and she was almost lulled by his tone.

“I haven’t seen Tristan as yet. You haven’t allowed me to do so,” she reminded him. “I have no idea what could have brought him onto the estate. I know only that I must take him home very soon, and that I can swear to you, there would be no reason on earth for him to steal.”

“You are in possession of a great fortune of your own?”

“That would surprise you, sir?”

He set his fork and knife down, eyes assessing her. “Yes. Your gown is quite lovely and you wear it well, but I would estimate that it is several years out of date. You did not arrive in your own conveyance, but in a hansom cab, which, by the way, has been sent on back to London.”

She tensed, ruing the morrow. She would have to get Tristan out of here quickly, else chance losing the job she so dearly needed and desired.

She set her own fork and knife down. “Perhaps I do not possess a huge fortune of my own, sir. Not as you see it. But I am fortunate, very able and far more than capable. I work, sir, and receive payment each week.”

Dark lashes narrowed over his blue eyes. She gasped, realizing that he was imagining a far different employment from that to which she referred.

“How dare you, sir!” she sputtered.

“How dare I what?”

“I do not!”

“You do not what?”

“Do what you’re thinking that I do!”

“Then just what do you do?” he inquired.

“You are no mythical creature, My Lord, just a boor!” she informed him, getting ready to toss her napkin down and rise, Tristan forgotten for a moment in her agitation.

He set a hand upon hers, preventing her from rising. He was close over the table, and she was aware of his tension, a strange, erratic heat, and the power of his hold.

“Miss Montgomery, we are discussing an important issue here, that of whether or not I shall have your guardian arrested. If you find seeking the truth to be offensive, you will simply have to take offense then. I repeat, just what do you do?”

She felt the surge of her own temper, but she was determined to stare him down and not wrench away to free herself, not when such a fight would be futile.

“I work, sir, for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities!” she hissed.

If she had flatly told him that she was a prostitute, she would not have gotten such a stunned and angry response, she was certain.

“You what?”

The words were a pure roar. Stunned by his reaction, she frowned and repeated herself. “I enunciate quite clearly, I believe. I work for the museum, for the department of Egyptian Antiquities.”

He rose so suddenly that he knocked his chair over backward.

“It is a perfectly legitimate job, and I assure you, I am qualified for my position!” she expounded.

To her absolute amazement, he walked around the table with the same violence with which he had risen.

“My Lord Stirling!” she protested, standing, but his hands were on her shoulders, and he was staring at her with such loathing that she was afraid for her person.

“And you claim you came here for nothing!” he said.

She gasped. “You think that I have come here for anything other than the return of a human being I love? I am dearly sorry, sir, but your noble position in life does not excuse you from this outrageous display of bad manners—and violence!”

His hands dropped from her shoulders and he stepped back. But his eyes remained blue flames of an intensity that pierced her very soul.

“Should I discover, Miss Montgomery, that your words are a lie, I do assure you, you have not begun to realize the state to which my bad manners and violence might rise.”

He turned as if the sight of her were so repulsive he couldn’t bear it any longer. He strode to the door and exited. The reverberation created as the door slammed in his wake seemed to shake the entire castle.

Trembling, Camille remained on her feet, staring at the door, long after he had gone.

“You are truly a wretched creature!” she cried then, certain that he was far beyond earshot.

The door opened. She tensed.

It was Mrs. Prior. “You poor dear!” she exclaimed. “He does have such a ferocious temper. I try constantly to make him see it, but…quite honestly, he can be charming and kind.”

“I must see my guardian. And I must take him from this place,” Camille said, fighting for what dignity she might summon. “Away from that monster.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Prior said. “Truly, he’s not such a monster. It’s just that…well, it is quite shocking that you work for the museum, dear.”

“It’s an honorable position!” she said.

“Yes. Well…” Mrs. Prior cast her head at an angle, studying Camille. Perhaps she, at least, approved of what she saw. She lowered her voice. “It’s just that your employers—well, the group dealing with your department—were all there when…”

“When what?”

“When his lordship’s parents were murdered,” Mrs. Prior said. “It’s not your fault, dear, but still…. Do come along, then, please. I’ll bring you to your guardian.” She paused, looking back. “Honestly, dear, he may look a bit beastly, and perhaps his behavior thus far has been horrid, but there is that dire fact of those terrible murders having completely changed his life.”

CHAPTER THREE

CAMILLE HURRIED ALONG after Evelyn. “Wait, please. I’ve heard the rumors, of course. Everyone in London has heard the rumors. Perhaps if I understood more about what happened, I could even be—”

The word helpful never left her lips because Evelyn, who had been moving rapidly before her, came to a dead stop, throwing open a door. Camille, in her hurry to keep up, nearly plowed into Evelyn’s back. Then Evelyn spoke as if she hadn’t been listening to a word that Camille had said. “Here, child. Your guardian.”

Thoughts concerning her host and his wretched behavior flew from her mind as she looked into the darkened room and blinked. A fire burned at the hearth, but all was cast into shadow. She felt her heart skip a beat as her eyes at last fell upon the figure on the bed. Still. Dead still.

“Oh, dear God!” she exhaled, trembling, her knees going wobbly.

Evelyn spun around, catching her by the arms, offering support before she buckled completely.

“No, no, dear! He was so restless that we gave him laudanum. He isn’t at all dead. Well, I guess you can’t actually be partially dead…Here I am, making no sense. He’s all right. He probably won’t be coherent, not that I seem to be doing much of a job in that direction.” Evelyn, who had appeared such a composed woman, apparently did have a sense of sympathy, and was therefore flustered by Camille’s heartfelt and terrified show of emotion. “Dear girl!” Evelyn continued. “Run on over, give him a hug. He may wake enough to recognize you.”

Not dead, not dead, not dead! That was all that registered in Camille’s mind. Then Evelyn’s words sank in and she found the strength to tear across the room to the bed. Once there, she saw that there was color in Tristan’s face and that he was breathing deeply.

In fact, as she hovered just above him, afraid for a moment to touch, he let out the most winded snort she had heard in the whole of her life. Flushing, she turned back to the door where Evelyn Prior remained.

“See, he is quite alive,” Evelyn assured her softy again.

Camille nodded, then looked down at her guardian. He was dressed in a handsome linen nightgown—something he had never possessed in all his life, she was certain. He’d been cared for and well tended, that was obvious. The monster of Carlyle wanted his prisoners to be in decent shape when he saw them prosecuted, so it appeared.

She fell to her knees by Tristan’s side, clutching his shoulders in a gentle hug, laying her head against his chest. “Tristan!” she whispered softly, tears springing to her eyes. Whatever sins he had committed in his life, he had surely redeemed himself when he had saved her, when he had given up his goods—ill-gotten and by other means—to feed a number of the street urchins they had known in their days together. But why now, when she had come to a point in her life where she could take care of them…?

“You sorry son of a sailor!” she muttered, lifting her head, angrily wiping tears from her cheeks. “Tristan, what on earth were you doing?” she whispered fervently.

He inhaled on another snort, blinked and met her eyes. Tenderness came to his, the gentleness that really was the crux of the man. “Camille, moppet! Camille….” He frowned, as if aware that she shouldn’t be there. But the effort was too much. He blinked again, but his eyes closed, and she heard only the depth of his breathing once again.

“You see?” Evelyn called from the doorway. “The man has been quite decently tended. Now, come along, dear. I’ll show you where you may sleep tonight.”

She rose, kissed Tristan on the forehead, adjusted his covers and then turned to follow Evelyn. The woman led her out, closed the door firmly but silently and started down the hall again at a brisk speed.