Blackmoore(23)

I breathed. And breathed again. “I see.”

“Now it is your turn. Tell me, why did you not come downstairs this evening? Why did you not join us?”

I took a deep breath. “Your mother did not want me downstairs.

Sylvia told me I should stay in my room, so that I would not distract you from Miss St. Claire. Of course, you know how I feel about such things . . . about staying in my room.” My voice shook at the end, despite my attempts to keep it steady.

Henry moved his head, just enough for the moonlight to show me the anger in his eyes.

I rubbed my nose and looked away. “I am not crying about it. Indeed, I appreciate the solitude, and as I said, I have been exploring . . .”

“Kate.” His voice was gentle and tugged at the fragile strings that were holding my emotions together.

I rubbed my nose harder and turned away from him. My foot struck something hard, and bending down, I found my candle lying at my feet.

I cleared my throat. “I should leave you to your guests,” I murmured as I 66



moved away from him. I crossed the hall and opened the door to my room, its glow of firelight and candlelight spilling into the dark corridor. I turned to thank Henry for checking on me and found him standing very close.

“Listen,” he said, his voice intent and hushed. “You are my guest here, just as certainly as Miss St. Claire or any of the other visitors who will be arriving. You are my guest, Katherine Worthington. Blackmoore will be mine, not my mother’s. In fact, my mother has no power here.”

I loved the sound of those words: my mother has no power here. But Henry was wrong. His mother had power here in spades.

“Now. You may come downstairs whenever you wish,” Henry said.

“You may look for secret passageways as much as your heart desires.” He lifted a hand and gently brushed his thumb over my cheek, wiping off a stray tear that had slipped past without my notice. I caught my breath in surprise. “But I would hate for you to spend any part of your visit here sitting in your room and crying because of something my mother has said or done. Just . . . ignore her. As much as possible.”

I smiled a little. “Thank you. But to be fair, I was not sitting in my room and crying. I was exploring the west wing and decidedly not crying.”

His eyes lit up with gentle affection. “Of course you were. I would never accuse you of anything else.”

My heart reached out for him, and I had to pull it back under my control with a swift yank. I looked down, trying to hide my feelings. I was very good at hiding my gentler feelings from Henry, on a normal basis.

But this night, in this darkened house on the edge of the world, I felt miles away from normal.

“So, Miss Kate, will you come downstairs this evening? Join us for a game of whist?”

I shook my head. “No. All of this exploring and not crying has worn me out.”

“Not to mention the past two days of humming.”

“Exactly!” I chuckled. “I swear you knew about the humming all along. Didn’t you?”

67



J u l i a n n e D o n a l D s o n

He grinned. “I refuse to answer that question.” He looked into the room behind me. “You will be alone in the west wing. Are you sure you want to stay here? I could find another room for you . . .”

“No. I love this room.” And, truly, I did. I loved the dark wood paneling and the velvet drapes and the colors of the moors. In fact, in this room I was beginning to think differently of the moors. I could already see how they might grow on me. “I will be fine here. Don’t worry about me.”

He shook his head. “I think I will always worry about you,” he murmured. He took a breath and looked at me as if he meant to say something more. But instead he abruptly turned to leave. I watched him cross the dark hall and pick up his candle where he had left it by the window.

“Henry.”

He looked back but didn’t come closer.

“I just wanted to thank you for keeping your promise. Thank you for bringing me here.”

He smiled, but he continued to back away as he said, “I will always keep my promises to you.” Then he turned and left as fast as his long legs could carry him, until he almost looked as if he was running. The flame of his candle flickered, and then he was gone.

I closed the door to my bedchamber, changed into my nightclothes, and slipped into bed, bringing the covers up to my chin, snuggling down against the chill of the room. A low moaning sound crept through the stones, and the drapes moved, just a little—a wave, a wrinkle of velvet. I wondered if the wind blew off the moors or the sea. Which wind made the moaning sounds and which made the howls? When something creaked outside the door, I wondered if someone was there, or if it was only the old house being moved by the fierce wind.

The fire threw shadows against the walls, and the drapes continued to move, idly, as if a small hand were twitching them. I closed my eyes tight while the wind moaned and the old house creaked around me. And finally, after a long time, I slipped into sleep.

68







Chapter 9


The wind woke me with its howls and moans throughout the night.

I cracked my eyes open to a blackened room, then closed them again and slipped into strange dreams of howling birds and dark corridors and a boy who ran away from me and would not turn back no matter how I called for him. When I finally pulled myself from my dark dreams, it was to the sound of knocking on my bedroom door. I rolled over, blinking in confu-sion at my surroundings. The knock came again.