Page 12 of Reflections of Silence

“Why did you not say who you were last night?” My brain finally caught up with my situation to ask a relevant question.

See? Not fanciful.

“I did not want to frighten you.” His words were a soft admission, not quite an apology.

My husband studied me frankly, and I returned the favor, taking in his height, the substantial width of his chest and shoulders. Again, the diminutive feeling swept over me, his presence bigger than the man himself.

I wasn’t alone in my study. Done with my face, his gaze detoured along my frame. I refused the urge to clench my fists beneath his surveillance. As his gaze rose back to my face, his coal eyes darkened. An unfamiliar heat flushed my cheeks.

“You are my husband.” I raised my chin, determined to maintain some semblance of control.

“Yes,” he almost hissed the word, stepping forward into my space, covering the short distance in a graceful stride. One moment, he was away from me; the next, he stood too close.

I swallowed, planting my feet so I couldn’t retreat, but started as his hand wound around my elbow. His touch was cool, but it was his eyes that sent a riot of shivers over my skin.

Hooded and dark, they promised nights of dark sin, as though he would devour me, never allow me to see the light of day once more. Sebastian wound me into him, bit by bit, until a layer of thin material separated us.

It was like being next to a carved statue; nothing emanated from him. No heat, no life, but at the same time, the huge man was imposing beyond belief. His presence emanated from a distance but up close, he was a void against the stark beauty of the room.

But his eyes—those were alive with a shadowy passion. Shivers crossed my skin again, and this time it had nothing to do with his touch. His hand dropping, heretreated. Those midnight dark eyes never leaving me, he dipped in a bow, lips parting as though about to speak.

That same void, a sense of all and nothingness returned, freezing time itself. With a brisk nod, he turned, disappearing in a blur of movement.

My feet carried me to the edge of the large room as they chased him of their own accord. When I reached the doorway, I was alone.

I blinked, wondering what I had missed, and what in all of Dante’s circles just happened.

For a house as populated and large as my new home, no one was around when I searched. Charleton had disappeared into the depths of the house, it appeared. Retracing my steps ended up being the best thing I could do. Lost in a myriad of hallways, I discovered studies and sitting rooms, bed chambers enough to house a hundred guests, and a small salon.

Finally, I ended up in a long portrait gallery. Lined with the same, heavy carpet that filled most of the house, it was a muted, quiet hall. Thick floor to ceiling drapes covered an entire section at one end of the hall.

The row of paintings appeared to be of the same man, over and over, in different clothes. The evolution of Sebastian’s forefathers was like watching the passing of the ages in a static form. Apparently, there was a strong family resemblance in Sebastian’s line. I shook my head.Not a lord.I didn’t even know his proper title.

None of the portraits had a name plaque, but the fashions gave me an idea of the era each one had been painted in—perhaps a one-hundred-year gap between each. Not a single window decorated this hall—protect the artworks, my panniers.

Charleton was conspicuously absent in my journey.

Three more drawing rooms, two sitting rooms, and a library later, I was still alone in the house. Or, so it seemed. Every time I entered a room, I could have sworn a person sat in one of the chairs, or beside the fireplace.

But when I looked closer, my phantoms proved to be no more than a play in the flickering light from the sconces that dominated every wall space. Dancing shadows in my periphery remained the lone artwork on the walls of thisbarren place. However luxuriously fitted, the building lacked something. Life, I supposed, looking around for the servants who had overpopulated the rooms this morning and were now conspicuous in their absence.

A small pile of books sat on a lone desk. Far from a cluttered space, the cherrywood furniture sat back against the far end of the room, beneath midnight blue curtains that cast the room in a cool, masculine light. I strode across the space, determined to see sunlight, and wrenched the curtains apart.

A blank wall stared back at me.

I swallowed, the wall looming over me as if I were prey. My hip hit the edge of the desk. With a soft croak, I moved around it, gathering the books on top as though to prove that they, at least, were real, and backed from the room, straight into a soft, warm body.

“I’m so sorry!”

I turned, hands grasping for purchase on the doorframe. The books thumped onto the floor. A small, bird-like maid swayed before me. Pasty, and looking as though she was about to retch, she sank to the floor. My hands wrapped around her head, scraping the carpet as they bore her weight to the floor.

“Charleton!” I screeched over the maid’s head, her cap tumbling from her hair as I straightened her on the floor with careful hands, praying the man had omnipotent qualities. “Help me!”

The young woman’s eyelids fluttered over closed eyes, red staining her starched collar. I wrenched at the edge of my skirts, pressing the torn fabric to her neck. Brushing away hair, I saw a thin line across her neck, weeping bright scarlet beads onto her clothes.

Holding material bunched into my hand, I yelled for Charleton again, but not before I saw a collection of similar thin, white lines decorating the other side of her neck.

Charleton appeared beside me, lifting the woman into his arms.

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