A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

She held the candle high, moving it from side to side in a slow arc. “Miss Rosamund? Is that you? Are you here?” Her voice trembled, and I held my breath, knowing that Stoker and I dare not reveal ourselves, as much for fear that she would faint dead away as for the lack of any possible excuse for our presence. Far better to wait for her to withdraw, then beat a hasty retreat to our own rooms. I slid a little aside, guiding his head to the crack so that he, too, could see. We were awkwardly arranged, with Stoker half-stooped and one strong thigh braced under my bottom so that we could both watch. I slipped a little and he caught me, planting one palm flat against the paneling, creating a sort of armchair for me out of his own body. The warmth of his flesh was almost unbearable and I wondered for a brief and irrational moment if he were deliberately provoking a physical reaction in order to annoy me. To show him I would not be goaded, I perched upon his thigh, making a point of wriggling just a little before turning my attention back to Mrs. Trengrouse.

She stood still for a long moment, listening, I suspect, and I fancied I could almost hear her heartbeat as well as my own in those seconds as they ticked by. “Go away,” she said with sudden ferocity. “You will not harm this family!” I froze, certain she had spotted the gleam of our eyes in the crack of the paneling, but she made no move to command us to come out, and I realized she was not speaking to us at all. “Go away, Miss Rosamund,” she called, a trifle more gently. “It is time for you to rest.”

With that, she left, closing the door behind her. We listened to her footsteps as they faded away. After several minutes, Stoker eased his posture, setting me onto my feet and releasing his arm. I nearly pitched over, for my legs had gone quite numb in the chill of the passageway. He took my hand as we crept out of our hiding place. We dared not light the candle again, but we knew the way well enough. There was no sign of Mrs. Trengrouse in the corridor, and we hurried hand in hand past the various closed doors. Stoker started up the turret stair, and just as I started up after him, I heard a noise behind me. I made a shooing gesture and Stoker continued on as I turned. After a moment I heard the almost imperceptible click of his door closing.

The noise I had detected was a sort of strangled gasp, stillborn in the throat, the sound choked by emotion. I turned to see Helen Romilly at the opposite end of the great hall. The nightlight by the turret stair had blown out, and there was only her candle to light the distance between us. Against the inky shadows of the staircase behind me, my white dressing gown must have appeared ghostlike, the hem trailing along the ground like the draperies of a phantom. My face, half-shielded by my black hair, would look as if it floated above my body, making a wraith of me.

“Rosamund!” she cried, starting forward a half step. “Did I summon you? Go away,” she urged.

I did not move, but just then a gust of wind blew from an opened window in the turret, billowing my dressing gown about me and tossing my hair.

She gave another gasp and her candle fell from her trembling hand, the fitful flame guttering out as it landed upon the stone with a dull thud. She called again in the darkness as she fumbled for it.

“Rosamund! You must go,” she moaned. “You must leave us in peace.”

I did not wait to hear more. I could hardly reveal myself to her. She would be utterly humiliated if she discovered I was no ghost, and I had little inclination to subject myself to further histrionics. It seemed a quick retreat was the easiest for both of us.

Without another thought, I slipped up the stairs, making my way on silent feet into the shadows above. As I ascended, a pool of warm light spread beneath me, rising through the darkness. She had relit her candle and was making her way to the turret. I hurried, very nearly tripping over the hem of my dressing gown as I charged up the stairs, determined to elude her.

I came to Tiberius’ door and flung myself through it, easing it closed just as the golden light illuminated the step below. I had closed it soundlessly; Helen would not find a ghost this night. But while I had successfully eluded both the housekeeper and Helen, I had created a new problem for myself.

Lounging upon his bed in his dressing gown of black silk, Tiberius surveyed me through heavy-lidded eyes, his mouth curving into a thoroughly salacious smile.

“Well, my dear Miss Speedwell. What a delightful surprise,” he said, tossing aside the book he had been reading.

I put a finger to my lips to urge him to silence. I did not know where Helen was, and she might well be just outside the door.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Tiberius assured me in a whisper as he levered himself off the bed and made his way to my side, his lips grazing my ear as he took my hand. “I will be as quiet or as loud as you like. I am yours to command,” he told me. And then his mouth settled on mine.

CHAPTER

11

I will admit to a certain susceptibility where Tiberius’ amorous efforts were concerned. Between my own healthy libido and the length of my self-imposed and unaccustomed chastity, I was ripe as a plum for the plucking. And we might indeed have plucked had I not come to my senses. As much as I enjoyed Tiberius’ exertions—he had