Page 8 of Her Dark Seduction
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Over the next few days, the oppressive atmosphere lifted, and I spent the daylight hours tending to the various injuries and ailments of the household staff. I engaged in little conversation with those I treated, tying bandages, applying poultices, and administering healing herbs in silence. I studied each visitor carefully for signs they were the author of the note, but with no success. Harwyn kept watch when she spent time with the other servants, but after a sennight we almost gave up on the idea of ever finding out who had composed it.
So it was much to my surprise when, one morning, I walked into the treatment room to find a folded piece of parchment on the table beside a jar of dried rosemary. I opened it to reveal the most beautiful love poem I had ever read.
The words were written in the same hand which had penned the first note. They spoke of the beauty of my eyes, likening them to the moonlit reflection of the lake. Anywhere else, those words would be enchanting, but here they only heightened my sense of danger. Someone was either deliberately trying to entrap me or I had an admirer. Both possibilities could be fatal. I closed my eyes, trying to calm my fluttering heartbeat but opened them almost immediately, as I was overpowered by a specific memory: the smell of burning oil, the sound of wood crackling, and my mother’s screams…
A knock on the door brought me to my senses. Composing myself, I tucked the parchment into the front of my gown and called out. The maidservant who walked in, showing me a minor burn to her hand, was totally unaware of what I felt inside.
Occupation was the best cure for my inner turmoil. I busied myself with setting the room into order, cataloguing the various items, and treating the handful of servants who visited me that morning.
After I had dismissed my last visitor, I pulled out the poem and read it again. How cruel fate could be! On second reading, the words were even more passionate, describing me as if the author knew me intimately. Below the poem was a brief note saying that the author watched over me from afar and would fight to his last breath to keep me from harm. Did I have a protector? If so, he was surely doomed, for I was constantly watched. Though my husband was away, his men stared at me with their lustful gazes. I would hurry past them, always fearing they would force themselves on me.
But not Sawford. His gaze held no lust. He regarded me dispassionately, calculatingly, as if sizing me up to determine my worth as a commodity.
Percy was the only man in Mortlock’s employ I felt I could come close to liking. His youthful exuberance for swordplay and potential knighthood had yet to be tempered by the harsh realities of life. Whenever he saw me, he nodded and smiled, and I struggled not to respond, desperately wanting to discourage him. My fear was that his partiality, if noticed, risked both our heads. Was he the author of the note?
My cheeks burned with shame at the small spark of desire those words of love ignited. I thought of Eve, who had given into sinful temptation, condemning every woman to a similar fate. Was it so sinful to wish for love? My mother had longed for it and had paid the greatest price of all. In her last words to me, she’d begged me not to give in to temptation, not only of the flesh but, also, of the heart. My flesh had reacted too swiftly and easily to Vane Sawford’s touch. Now my heart showed the same weakness for a few marks on a piece of parchment. I was a fool, weaker than my poor mother had been and destined to fail as she had.
Desperate for sanctuary, I scrunched up the parchment in my hand and left the room, running up the spiral staircase to my bedchamber. On reaching the top, I gave a small cry of fright. The tall silhouette of Vane Sawford stood on the top step. Had I not stopped so abruptly, I would have run straight into him.
The only acknowledgement he gave me was a slight lift of his eyebrows. He stepped closer, and I froze, panting. I squeezed my fist against the note, concealing it behind me, praying he’d not heard the sound of the parchment crackling. His cold blue gaze bore into mine, and I quailed under his scrutiny. He knew.
He lifted his hand to my face, and I stared back, clenching my jaw while fighting the urge to run. My skin tightened as he ran his fingers across my cheek. I parted my lips and took in a sharp breath. He kept his gaze locked on mine until he removed his hand. He looked down, his eyes widening. Following his gaze, to see what had fascinated him, I noticed a bead of moisture on the tip of his forefinger. It was a solitary tear.
I straightened my shoulders and spoke coldly.
“Let me pass.”
I expected a sneering response, but he merely complied, standing aside while I passed him. Only when I was inside my chamber, with the door closed behind me, did I lift my hands to my face. My cheeks were wet with tears. The mask of the lady had dissolved. Vane Sawford had seen the desperate creature beneath. Before my wedding, Papa had told me he would instruct my husband to keep me on a tight rein. Sawford now held those reins, and I feared he was waiting for an opportunity to use them.
