Tall Dark and Wicked: The Wickeds Book 5 Page 6

  Lord Thurston was the hero of a series of somewhat shocking novels deemed too risqué for proper young ladies. The books detailed the adventures of a nobleman who becomes a pirate after his father disinherits him. Mother forbade Petra from even mentioning Lord Thurston, let alone reading his adventures.

  “But she’s ill.” Petra picked up “Lord Thurston’s Revenge” and stuck it under her arm.

  Scrape. Scrape. Scrape

  Petra wrinkled her nose and tried to keep from sneezing at the dust. The sound appeared to be coming from behind the bookcase. Petra pictured a score of mice, all sharpening their tiny claws on the stone walls. Vermin were known to inhabit old, drafty castles and certainly at least part of Somerton qualified. She sincerely hoped not to meet any of the home’s furry residents. Exiting the library, she tapped one finger against her lips, struggling to remember the shortest way back toward the stairs when the scraping came again, a bit louder. The rhythm was steady and purposeful.

  Not a mouse, then. The sound was coming from the room next door to the library.

  She looked down the dimly lit hall and saw no sign of a footman or maid, nor anyone at all lingering about. Her stomach gave a grumble. She’d missed lunch and should find something to eat. Maybe check on her mother.

  Another scratch, this time long and drawn out.

  Curiosity got the better of her and she really didn’t want to check on Mother anyway. Tucking the book beneath her arm Petra walked down the hall. The scraping sound immediately became louder.

  A door stood open.

  Scrape. Scrape.

  Petra peered around the open door.

  Morwick was bent over a massive desk, the top of which was littered with rocks and pebbles. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, exposing muscular forearms dusted with dark hair. Ebony curls hung over his forehead, one falling over his eye. Holding up a rock, he batted away the offending curl and squinted, turning the piece of stone over in his hand. Setting the rock back on the table he picked up a small pick and began scraping until he had a pile of shavings. Spreading the shavings across a snowy white cloth, he picked up a magnifying glass and looked down, moving the shavings around with the tip of a small metal stick. His worn cotton shirt stretched taut across his shoulders as he worked, doing…something. Perhaps she should have chosen one of the books on geology, for she hadn’t a clue what Morwick was up to.

  He shifted his face into the light coming from the window. The line of his jaw was dark with the shadow of a beard above the swath of tanned skin at his neck. Petra couldn’t take her eyes from that small triangle of flesh.

  “Are you going to continue to just stare at me, or are you actually going to enter?” he growled, not taking his eyes from the rock in his hands. “Always sneaking about, aren’t you, Petra? One would think you’d learned your lesson about eavesdropping.”

  “I heard scratching noises, reminiscent of a giant rodent.” She gave him a pointed look so he would not mistake her meaning. Her heart was thumping like a drum in her chest. His comment led her to believe he did remember kissing her after all, though she doubted he’d ever admit such to her.

  “How would you know what a loud rodent sounds like? Do you have many opportunities to socialize with rats? Oh wait,” he snorted. “I forgot the ton in London. A bigger nest of rodents I’ve yet to see.” He turned from the rock and sat back in his chair to look at her. The left side of his mouth tipped up just enough for the dimple to deepen in his cheek.

  Petra’s stomach fluttered. She hoped her illness wasn’t returning.

  “I see you’ve found the library. I applaud your accomplishment.” He looked at her with intent.

  “You do? For finding the library?”

  “The few guests who’ve stayed at Somerton invariably get lost in the warren of halls, rooms and back staircases. One of my ancestors evidently had a misguided sense of humor. Or a very poor architect. Probably both. Did you leave yourself a trail of breadcrumbs?”

  Petra’s stomach grumbled as it was reminded of food.

  Morwick eyed her midsection and leaned forward, stating curtly, “Don’t puke on my samples.”

  “I’m quite well, my lord. Only hungry. I’ve not eaten since breakfast. Your pebbles and rocks are safe. The same cannot be said for my mother, who has become ill, I’m afraid.”

  “Pity. Must be nerves. Certainly not lamb stew.”

  Petra shot him a look of chastisement. “That was unkind.” Though she was guilty of thinking the same.

  “I am often unkind. I thought we had established such.”

  His intense gaze burned across Petra and the pulse leapt in her throat. She imagined the depths of the ocean were the same color as his eyes.

  “Tell me, how did you meet Pendleton? He’s not the frivolous type, so I can’t imagine him putting his name on your dance card.” There was a rough quality to his question.

  The question surprised her, she hadn’t thought he’d ask about Simon. “At a charitable event. One which your cousin, Arabella, organized, as a matter of fact. He spoke to us on a bill he was working on. Reforms for workhouses.” Petra moved further into the room. “I attended as a favor to my new sister-in-law.”

  “Oh, yes. Arabella does adore her charitable work. I believe she is atoning for something—or, rather, a great many things. Still, I am glad she is happy. But back to Pendleton.”

  “You don’t like Simon, do you?” Petra said.

  His gaze lingered on her mouth before coming back to her face.

  “Not in the least,” he admitted. “But I’ve known him longer than you have. It’s possible after some time you may feel the same way.”

  The statement struck Petra as far too close to her actual feelings for Simon, or rather the absence of them. Morwick was handsome even when he frowned, but smiling brilliantly at her as he was now?

  Breathtaking. Beautiful.

  Her heart thudded so loudly she could barely hear herself think. Eager to change the subject from her relationship with Simon, she cleared her throat and asked, “What are you doing?”

  His lips resumed their usual semi-frown. “Do you know anything about geology?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t, pea-wit that I am.”

  “I should apologize for saying such a thing. Incredibly unfair of me.”

  “Yes, you should. Apologize, that is.”

  “I was upset about something else and you, Perfect Petra, got in the way. If I do apologize, will you decide I’m not a monster?”

  She cocked her head as if considering his request. “I suppose that’s fair. Go on.”

  A mischievous look entered his eyes, offering Petra a glimpse into the boy he had once been. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready.” He turned back to the table. “Back to geology. Not the most interesting or popular of subjects, I suppose. Puts most people to sleep. And certainly not something taught to proper young ladies such as yourself.”

  “I assure you I will attempt to grasp the basic points.”

  “Geology is the study of the earth. Rocks. Minerals. Tin. Lead. My father adored anything to do with minerals and became quite a student of the science, though he never studied the subject formally.”

  “But you did,” Petra said as she walked toward the samples, pretending interest. She was so aware of Morwick, big and vital, in the room with her, she could hardly think, even if she really had felt true interest in the rocks spread across his table.

  “I did. But then I had a disagreement with several of my fellow students. Oxford declared they no longer wished me to remain at their institution.”

  Petra lifted a brow. “Brawling, no doubt.”

  His eyes narrowed. “What would you know of that?”

  “A bit more than I know of geology,” she replied. “So you are looking for minerals? In the cave?”

  “Surely you know the story of the Pendleton fortune? The entire family brags about the source of their wealth on a consistent basis. The current Lord Pendleton’s father became quite famo
us when he found the third largest deposit of calcium fluorite in England. It’s very rare.”

  “Fluorite?” Petra stepped closer and the edge of her skirts brushed against his boots—shocking behavior for a demure young lady such as herself. Mother always told her allowing your skirts to swirl around a gentleman’s legs was brazen.

  Yes, but Mother is ill today.

  “Blue John. Used for jewelry. Vases. Other frivolous but expensive bits and pieces to litter a proper gentleman’s home. I don’t care for the stuff myself.”

  “I’m familiar. I didn’t realize Blue John had another more proper name. Your cousin, the duke, has a mantle made from Blue John in his drawing room. It’s quite beautiful.” The fireplace in the Dunbar townhouse was oversized and took up a vast portion of one wall. The mantle probably cost a small fortune.

  “Nick is a snob. My cousin likes others to know how obscenely wealthy he is.”

  Surprised at him saying such a thing, she looked up to see there was no malice in his words. “Are you always so full of mockery?”

  The lopsided tilt to his lips appeared again. “Nearly always.”

  “Simon,” she ignored the look he shot her at the use of the name, “did mention his father found Blue John and what a shock it was to all concerned.”

  “Indeed. Brushbriar and Somerton share a border. The Blue John was found very close to the boundary, barely a quarter mile from our property. My father was convinced there must be fluorite on our land as well. He searched for such a discovery nearly every day during the last year of his life. I’m sure the search for fluorite indirectly caused his death. At any rate, Pendleton’s Blue John will keep you in silks and satins for the rest of your life.”

  “Silks and satins can become rather tiresome,” Petra said lightly as she moved toward the wall where a drawing of a large peak, drawn in charcoal, hung. The detail was exquisite down to the sprays of heather and the curve of the gritstone. A tiny signature in the lower right-hand corner read ‘Morwick’.

  “This is beautiful. Is it your work?”

  “No, I’ve not an artistic bone in my body. Father was the artist. He didn’t do portraits or people at all, only the outdoors. Sometimes animals, but not often. That drawing is of Mam Tor, the largest peak in the area.”

  “I’m happy to know he didn’t do portraits,” she said thinking of the painting of the woman and the dog she’d seen earlier. “What does Mam Tor mean?”

  A deep masculine laugh came from him. “You’ve been to the portrait gallery and seen the atrocious painting of great auntie Barbara. I’ve tried to find out what breed of dog she’s holding but there isn’t a record. I’m convinced my ancestor had a pet piglet. Mam Tor means ‘mother hill’. The land often slides beneath the peak and forms multiple, small hills. As if Mam Tor were constantly giving birth to more peaks.” He looked back at the drawing.

  “The detail is amazing. He was incredibly talented.”

  “He disappeared around the time I was born.” Morwick’s eyes held a faraway look. “Somewhere out on the moors. I’m sure you’ve heard the tale; everyone in London knows it. I was reminded of such when I visited for Arabella’s wedding.”

  “Actually, Arabella told me when I informed her we were traveling to the area.”

  “Oddly enough, Reggie didn’t take this.” Morwick nodded to the battered pack sitting on the table. “Nor any of his tools.”

  “Perhaps he went to meet someone,” Petra mused, her finger rubbing over the signature on the drawing. The glass was dirty and in terrible need of a good dusting.

  Morwick’s gaze on her was suddenly frigid; Petra had the sense she’d said something wrong.

  “Did Pendleton mention something to you?” Morwick questioned.

  “No, of course not. I only meant if your father left to do his usual exploring, why wouldn’t he take his backpack or any tools? Surely you’ve thought the same thing.”

  “I have.” His large body relaxed, the tension easing out of him at her reply. “The entire area is rife with holes, caves, underground rivers. He could have easily taken a wrong step and fallen into the ground or into a crevice. Men came from Castleton and Buxton to search for him. Brushbriar’s staff as well as Somerton’s scoured the moors. Nothing was ever found. Not even so much as his hat. Vanished into thin air as if he’d never been.”

  What an incredibly sad story. Arabella’s eyes had watered when she had told Petra, though she had blamed it on her delicate condition. A rush of sympathy filled Petra for Morwick, but especially for Lady Cupps-Foster. To have her husband disappear while she was with child and never know what became of him? It was horrible. “I’m sorry.” She had the urge to comfort him. Stroke the dark curls back from his forehead and press a kiss to his temple. The idea was ludicrous, of course. Morwick didn’t strike her as the type of man who required such comfort.

  “Mother still grieves for him, but I never knew Reggie. Though growing up with your mother in a constant state of mourning was rather unsettling. I didn’t realize she had gowns in any other colors until after I left the nursery. I couldn’t imagine caring so deeply for someone or worse allowing their loss to devastate you in such a way.”

  Petra stilled, momentarily puzzled by the lack of emotion in his tone. She thought he could imagine and didn’t wish to. It was a subtle warning, she realized.

  “But my mother and Reggie would not be denied. Theirs was a great love-match, though my grandfather, His Grace the Duke of Dunbar, didn’t wish them to marry, saying prophetically the relationship would end in tragedy for my Mother. Henry,” his eyes twinkled with affection as he mentioned the old man’s name, “was quite vocal in his opinion. My grandmother changed his mind, I’m told. But Henry was right. The marriage was cursed. Love, in the end, almost destroyed my mother.”

  Morwick looked at her intently, his gaze lingering on her mouth before moving to the top of her bodice.

  “I disagree,” Petra said softly, warmth spiraling down her chest at his perusal.

  “I would expect you to, proper young lady that you are. Your head’s been filled with romantic fluff.”

  She looked him in the eye, returning his assessment of her in a very unladylike manner. Something about Morwick invited the most brazen thoughts and actions. “Romantic fluff?”

  “You should leave, Perfect Petra.” His voice was raspy and low, stirring the hair along her forearms. “I’ve work to do.”

  The air between them sparked as if lit by dozens of fireflies. Petra closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in his scent, allowing the delicious sensation to seep into her bones. The attraction between them was real. It drifted and flowed in a continuous ebb around them both.

  “Why did you kiss me?” Brazen. A proper lady would never ask such a thing.

  Morwick’s hands fell from the small stone he was worrying between his fingers. The lopsided smile tightened with annoyance at her question until it more resembled his usual frown.

  Petra moved toward the table holding his samples as his eyes followed her movement like a large, savage animal, waiting for an opportunity to pounce on its unsuspecting prey.

  “I found it the only way to stop your tirade,” he murmured. “You’d become quite hostile. I was concerned for my personal safety.”

  “Of course. I may have attacked you with a hair pin.” Petra came around until she stood before Morwick, knowing she was deliberately provoking him. To what end, she wasn’t entirely sure, except that his declaration earlier on the matter of love bothered her. “But I don’t believe you.”

  The small square of skin exposed at the base of his throat was incredibly distracting, even if he was covered with dust. Dark hair sprinkled across the tanned skin. Perhaps Morwick’s entire torso was sun-kissed in such a way. She wondered what he would taste like—

  “Jesus, Petra. Leave.” The husky whisper rippled down her spine.

  “You haven’t answered my question.” Petra looked at him boldly, well aware of her unladylike behavior and not
caring what madness possessed her.

  Morwick stood abruptly, leaning over her to place both his palms on the table, one on either side of her. When he had kissed her before, he’d made the same attempt to keep from touching her.

  Petra arched toward him, fascinated at the way his dark lashes fell against the top of his cheeks as he lowered his eyes. The soft brush of his breath caressed her neck, disturbing the fine hairs below her ear. “I’ve work to do. You’re distracting me.”

  An exquisite longing shot down from between Petra’s breasts, swirling across her stomach to linger and feed the ache starting between her thighs. “You haven’t answered my question, my lord.” She wondered at the seductive quality of her own voice.

  “Because I wanted to.” Morwick’s lips brushed the curve of her ear.

  The book fell from Petra’s hands, tumbling to the floor.

  “I’m very busy.” Morwick said as he leaned back, breaking the spell and making Petra feel like an idiot. The handsome features were once more contorted into irritation. “You should go, Lady Petra.” Bending down, his hand brushed her skirts as he picked up the fallen book. He glanced at the title and smirked. “Your book. Lord Thurston.”

  Petra likened the change in his mood to someone snuffing out a candle, suddenly leaving the room in darkness. Disappointed and embarrassed, Petra could think of nothing but escaping his presence. “Of course. My apologies for the intrusion. Thank you for the lesson in geography, Lord Morwick.”

  “Geology,” he snapped, shooing her out with a wave of his hands.

  She turned and strode from the room, anger flaring at being dismissed. “Cantankerous, ill-mannered—” she muttered under her breath.

  “I can hear you.”

  Petra did not shut the door quietly.

  * * *

  All men have moments of madness. Brendan’s madness was far beyond such a time constraint.

  Women, particularly attractive, demure young ladies in possession of a surprisingly saucy tongue, shouldn’t be permitted to go about smelling like roses and sugar cookies. Brendan hadn’t quite figured out how Petra managed such a thing. She should also not be permitted to visit him, unchaperoned, when he was filled with lust at the mere sight of her.