Midnight Angel (Stokehurst #1)(38)

“They c-called me a witch,” she said wretchedly. “Before.”

The stroke of his hand stopped, then resumed its leisurely pace. He was quiet, giving her the time she needed.

Her words burst out in a shivering torrent. “Sometimes I would see things…about people I knew. I-I could tell if an accident would happen…or if someone was lying. I had dreams, and visions. Not very often, but…I was always right. Word traveled all the way to Moscow. People s-said I was evil. Witchcraft was the only way they could explain it. They were afraid of me. Soon the fear turned into hatred. I was a danger to everyone.” She shuddered and bit down on her lower lip, afraid of what else she might confess.

He cuddled her against his shoulder, making a soothing noise.

Gradually her hiccupping sobs faded to sniffles. She rested heavily against him. “I've made your shirt all wet,” she said in a small voice.

He reached in his coat and found a handkerchief. “Here.” As he held it to her nose, she blew with a childish gust that made him smile. “Better?” he asked gently. Tasia took the handkerchief from him and nodded, blotting her eyes. Now that the tears were over, an ache that had lodged in her chest for months was gone. Stokehurst tucked a loose lock of hair behind her ear, his thumb drifting over the soft lobe.

“You were angry with me tonight,” Tasia said hoarsely. “Why?”

Luke was tempted to give her any one of a half-dozen meaningless replies that came to mind. But he owed her the truth. He traced the web of tear tracks on her cheek with his fingertip. “Because you're going to disappear someday, without ever having told me who you are or what kind of trouble you're in. You're more of a mystery with each day that passes. You're about as substantial as mist in the moonlight. It made me angry that I couldn't have something—someone—I wanted so badly. And so I tried to hurt you.”

Tasia knew she should pull away from him. Her instincts told her that he wouldn't try to stop her. But she was mesmerized by the sweep of his fingertips along her skin. A pleasant ripple of sensation went through her.

Lightly he caught her jaw in his hand. “Tell me your real age,” he said. “I want the truth.”

She blinked in surprise. “I already told you—”

“What year were you born?” he insisted.

Tasia winced. “Eighteen fifty-two.”

He was quiet for a moment. “Eighteen.” The way he said it, the word sounded profane. “Eighteen.”

Tasia felt the need to defend herself. “Actual years aren't important when one considers—”

“Spare me a repetition of the years-don't-really-matter speech. They matter a hell of a lot for what I've been thinking about.” He let go of her jaw and shook his head, as if the day's events had been too much for him to deal with.

Unnerved by his silence, Tasia stirred against him. He seemed to have forgotten he was still holding her. “My lord,” she said apprehensively, “I suppose you intend to dismiss me now?”

He scowled. “Do you have to ask that every time we have a conversation?”

“I thought that after what happened this evening you might—”

“No, I'm not going to dismiss you. But if you ask again, I'll personally boot you off the estate.” He followed the surly statement with a kiss on her forehead, his mouth warm and light. Drawing his head back slowly, he looked into her eyes. “Do you feel all right now?”

Tasia was completely bewildered by his behavior. “I-I don't know.” She moved away, though she longed to stay in his arms and hide from the world. “Thank you for the handkerchief. I'm sure you want it back.”

He glanced at the wad of soggy linen she held out to him. “Keep it. And don't thank me. I was the reason you needed it in the first place.”

“No,” Tasia said softly. “You weren't the reason. I've held everything in for so many—” She stopped and folded her arms around herself. She turned toward the round window, where their images appeared in a rippled distortion. “Did you know the ancient Russians used to build their fortresses on top of hills? When the Tartar invaders attacked, the Russians would pour water over the hill, on all sides. In a very short time it would turn to ice, and no one could climb up. The siege would last as long as the ice and the supplies held out.” She traced the curved edge of the window with her fingertip. “For a long time I've been alone in my fortress. No one can join me, and I can't leave. And sometimes…my provisions fail me.” She glanced at him, her eyes luminous, like opals. “I think you understand that very well, sir.”

Luke stared at her intently. She refused to look away, seeming calm—but there was a visible throbbing in her throat, just above the edge of her black silk collar. He touched the rapid pulse. “Go on,” he murmured. “What else do you think you know about me?”

Suddenly the moment was shattered by a crisp voice.

“Ah, here you are!” Lady Harcourt stood at the doorway, a fixed smile on her face. She spoke to Tasia, but her gaze went to Lord Stokehurst. “We've all been concerned about you, my dear.”

“I'm fine,” Tasia said, while Stokehurst's hand fell away from her.

“So I see. The evening turned out to be more dramatic than I expected. Madame Miracle has fled, and the guests are entertaining themselves with music. Fortunately we have some accomplished pianists present.” Lady Harcourt gave her full attention to Stokehurst. “Your concern for the servants is admirable, darling, but it's time to return to our guests.” Moving forward, she slipped her arm through his. As she tugged Stokehurst from the room, she paused to glance back at Tasia. “Miss Billings, your little spell—or whatever you care to call it—seems to have upset Emma. If you had done as I suggested and kept her away from the guests, none of this would have—” She stopped at a brief murmur from Stokehurst, and shrugged. “As you wish, darling.”