Belladonna (Belladonna #1)(34)
For a long moment she stood frozen in place, contemplating whether this was an appropriate condition under which she might fake her own death to prevent further mortification. Eventually, she decided it was worth the embarrassment to glance up at him, ever so slowly, only for every bone in her body to seize when she saw that his smoky gray eyes were peering right back down at her.
“Don’t you ever watch where you’re going?” His voice was low and brisk. “You could have hurt yourself.”
“I’m quite fine, thank you.” This close, she couldn’t help but stare at the faint smattering of freckles that were dusted beneath his eyes.
“Then would you mind releasing me? We’re here.”
Not having realized she had her hands fisted in his shirt, she released her hold at once. The fact that she had not simply melted into the ground from sheer embarrassment was a true testament to her inability to die. “Thank you for accompanying me, Mr. Thorly,” Signa announced as she drew back and smoothed her dress. “I’ll try to visit Blythe tomorrow and see what I’m able to find out.”
“And I’ll search the kitchen tonight and speak with the cooks.” He tilted his head down at her, his right cheek sporting a dimple that Signa hadn’t noticed before. “If I find anything, I’ll contact you.” There was a door before them, small and built into the wall. “This will take you into the pantry,” he said. “Sleep well, Miss Farrow. Rest assured, we’ll get to the bottom of what’s happening in Thorn Grove.”
FIFTEEN
SIGNA PUSHED PAST A SACK OF POTATOES NEARLY THE SAME SIZE AS she was to crouch through the small opening into the kitchen pantry. As she shoved it aside, it tipped over and sent nearly a dozen potatoes toppling onto the floor. In the silence of the night, their tumble seemed loud enough to shake all of Thorn Grove. She cursed her poor fortune as she stuffed everything back into place, concealing the tunnel door into the pantry. Tearing off her gloves, she stuffed them into her bodice and tried to look at least halfway like she’d been ready for sleep in case someone came for her. When no one did, Signa gathered her skirts and tiptoed out through the kitchen and past the parlor. She’d reached the edge of the stairs when a gruff voice called, “What in the devil are you doing up at this hour?”
Signa spun to find Elijah Hawthorne staring at her through the open door to the parlor. He was dressed in his nightshirt, though the exhaustion upon his face made it clear he’d not slept. Perhaps not even in days, given the shadows under his eyes.
She wrapped her borrowed cloak tighter, thankful to the darkness for concealing her. One look at her muddied skirts, and Elijah would realize Signa had not yet been to bed. “Good evening, sir.” Her mind raced through a list of every possible excuse, all of them feeling heavy on her tongue. “I was having trouble sleeping.”
“So you took to wandering?” His clever eyes flickered behind her, toward the kitchen, and Signa’s blood ran cold—he knew. Or at least he suspected. This was his home after all. He probably knew of each and every one of the tunnels. Yet, if Elijah did realize, he said nothing of it. Rather, he waved Signa over to where he sat at a small round table before the buttery-yellow walls. Though Signa detested the color, she had to admit that the room was cozy overall, which said a great deal given that she could admire it even beneath the weight of Elijah’s severity.
“Come sit, child.” There was a checkerboard before him, and as Signa joined him, he adjusted the pieces. “Do you play?”
“I do,” she answered without specifying that she’d only ever played against herself. She had a feeling there was a correct answer and didn’t want to risk losing an opportunity to speak with the man she was most curious about. And so she reached for the black pieces, careful to keep her skirts tucked under the cloak.
“I understand the inability to sleep.” Elijah let her make the first move, not watching her as he observed the board. “This is no welcoming home, I’m afraid. Though I must caution you against any exploration, especially at such late hours. Nights in this manor are often difficult for those faint of heart.”
Signa waited for him to move his checker toward the middle of the board, then moved her own before responding. “I’m aware of the rumors but be assured that my heart is not faint. Are these ghosts the reason you’re up as well, sir?”
There was a tick in his jaw. One so quick she would have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. “Do you hear her, too, child?” He jumped one of her pieces, capturing the middle of the board. “Do you hear her crying?”
No matter how she strained, she couldn’t hear even a whisper of noise within Thorn Grove. “I hear no one, sir. Not at the moment.”
Elijah was unfazed as she tried to surround his pieces. “So you see the problem. I cannot sleep when I hear her roaming about, haunting these halls, and yet I cannot so much as shut my eyes in her absence, for I wonder if I will ever hear her again.”
He captured another piece of Signa’s in her distraction, for in the darkness of the shadows she finally saw who she was dealing with—not a fool, as he’d seemed the first time she’d seen him, nor a drunk, but a man who was fraying at the seams. One who was hardly able to keep himself together. Elijah ran a hand over his face, his graying scruff too long and untamed for societal standards.