Page 41 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Eighteen

I sabella woke to warmth and the unfamiliar feel of skin beneath her cheek. Rhys’s chest rose under her ear, and fell, and rose, the steady pattern of his breathing.

The room was dim but not dark. Coals glowed in the grate like banked hearts.

She could not hear the needles of sound that lived at the edge of every hallway here.

The hush had a different character in this moment, like a blanket pulled up to the chin.

She wondered if it was the two of them, connected now, the made the voices so quiet.

Rhys’s arm lay heavy across her back. His hand spanned her shoulder, a weight that did not pin so much as reassure.

He had fallen asleep like that, holding her as if some part of him feared the air might take her if he loosened his grip.

In the close quiet, she buried her nose in his chest and breathed in the scents of citrus and mint and a man’s musk.

She thought of the weight of him as he had come over her, the shift of his muscles beneath her hand, the thrust of him between her legs, and felt her cheeks heat.

Then she thought of the corridor, the girl’s unhinged jaw, the black, oozing seep, the keen that had wormed inside her skull. Catrin was not gone; this was only a reprieve.

For now, the worst of her fear had been melted by his body, by his mouth, by his name in her throat and hers on his lips.

She turned her face a little against him.

The small, ordinary rasp of hair on his chest abraded her cheek.

Her hand had drifted in sleep. It lay now across the ridges of his belly, fingers splayed.

He stirred. “Awake?” The word was low, thick with sleep.

“Yes.” Her voice surprised her. It sounded like honey poured from a jar, slow and lazy.

He tightened his arm, briefly, as if answering a question neither had spoken, then loosened it again and slid his palm to her hair, smoothing it where he had mussed it. “You’re warm.”

“Because of you,” she said truthfully.

“Good,” he said. A beat passed. Then, more quietly, “I am sorry.”

“For what?” She waited for shame to come and found only tenderness, and a prickle of sorrow for the years she had taught herself not to want.

“For the fear,” he said. “For the house. For—” He stopped. The hand in her hair closed, not roughly. “For what I mean to ask of you still.”

“You did not make Catrin.”

“Didn’t I ?” he asked, his voice laced with pain. “I barred the door.”

Her palm slid to his ribs. He was all hard muscle under warm skin. “You did not teach her to kill. You did not summon her to Harrowgate, setting a viper free among those you love. You did not light that lamp.”

“No,” he said. “But I laid a snare for you in the library.” The words entered the room without apology and without defense. “I wanted you to open that box. I bought it for the mark, Thorn & Sons, because I knew your father’s key would turn there.”

“I suspected,” she said, because she had and because suspicion had tasted like gall until tonight. “You omit,” she added, soft, “but you do not lie.”

“I will not lie to you,” he said, and the vow had weight. “I would rather you hate me for what I am than trust a man I invented.”

“Why did you not simply tell me the whole of it from the beginning? Your family. Catrin… All of it?”

He made a soft laugh, devoid of mirth. “I told your father. Laid it bare, every damnable piece of it, save the barring of the door. I begged his help, and yours. You saw his answer. I thought it better to let you stitch together the truth for yourself, one page at a time, than to have you drive me into the street hurling insults and wrath.”

She thought, with a pang that was half grief, half rue, of Papa muttering Rhys’s name with scorn, of the sharp words he had used when speaking of the man now lying beside her.

Only because he meant to protect her from harm.

Strange how memory could cut and comfort, both.

How the echo of Papa’s warnings didn’t lessen the warmth of the shoulder beneath her cheek.

Then she thought of the letters, of Rhys’s mother’s hand steady until it broke, of boys who were alive and then were not.

She thought of the way Rhys had looked at her when she asked what happened to Catrin: steady, unafraid to let her see the black and the bright together.

She set her mouth to his shoulder, a small press that might have been comfort or thanks.

He made a sound then, an unguarded one, and she felt it pass through him like a ripple.

As he reached for her, a knock sounded, two quick raps, then a third.

Before either of them could snatch a robe or utter a reply, the latch turned, and Mrs. Abernathy swept in with a tray balanced on her forearms, steam and spice riding the air ahead of her.

Two cups, two plates, two spoons, two of everything: porridge glossed with cream, buttered toast, baked apples jewelled with currants, a pot of dark tea, another of chocolate.

The scents of cinnamon, nutmeg, butter, folded through the air, warm and ordinary.

She set the tray on the round table by the fire as if she had placed such trays in such rooms—lovers’ rooms—a thousand mornings.

Her gaze took them in. Isabella, wearing only Rhys’s discarded shirt and wrapped now to her chin in the blankets she had yanked up to hide herself as the door had opened. Rhys, propped against the pillows, bare-chested and unrepentant.

If Mrs. Abernathy had an opinion on propriety, she folded it neat and tucked it away. But Isabella felt as if her face was on fire, her cheeks burning with mortification. The housekeeper had discovered her in the master’s bed. Inconvenient feelings.

For the space of a breath, she wanted to sink into the mattress and vanish.

As though he knew her thoughts, Rhys whispered for her ears alone, “Not inconvenient.”

His words made her recall whose bed she lay in, whose hand had steadied her, whose shirt she wore. She forced her chin up and met Mrs. Abernathy’s gaze and found no censure there.

Rhys’s lips curved. “You might knock, Mrs. Abernathy.”

“I did,” she returned, unruffled, and added, “sir.” A faint emphasis, just shy of cheek.

She poured tea out for Isabella, chocolate for Rhys, and set the cups within easy reach. Her gaze went to Isabella and her expression softened. “How do you this morning, Miss Barrett?”

“Quite well, thank you,” Isabella said, striving for composure, though embarrassment made her pulse thud like a guilty drum.

Mrs. Abernathy flicked a glance at Rhys. “I’d expect nothing less.”

Isabella opened her mouth, shut it, and wished the floor might rise up and swallow her whole.

Beside her, Rhys made a low sound that might have been a laugh strangled into a cough.

His gray eyes gleamed with wicked amusement as he met her gaze.

He shifted one hand beneath the sheet, his thumb brushing the back of her wrist in secret reassurance, and her heart leapt.

“I did not come to gawk,” Mrs. Abernathy said, her expression turning serious. “Nor to intrude. But there are matters that have pressed upon me.”

“Go on,” Rhys said.

Mrs. Abernathy folded her hands at her waist. “Peg gave me a turn yesterday.”

“Peg?” Isabella sat up, mortification forgotten. “Is she unwell?”

“She’s sound but bruised. She fell on the back stair. Slipped, I gather. But…”

“Go on,” Rhys said.

“She wouldn’t say it if she didn’t believe it. But…she says she was pushed. Felt two hands on her back and a hard shove.”

Isabella gasped.

The housekeeper’s mouth compressed. “Peg’s not one to tell tales.”

“Did she see who it was?” Rhys asked, his voice tense.

“She did not,” Mrs. Abernathy said. “She only swears she smelled roses and ash. Says she heard a woman’s laugh before she fell.

” The housekeeper paused. Beneath the sheet, Rhys lightly squeezed Isabella’s hand.

“But I was in the kitchen with Cook and Marry and Emma, and there are no other women in this house, except Miss Barrett.”

“Are you suggesting that it was Miss Barrett who pushed her?” Rhys asked, his voice silky and dangerous.

The housekeeper looked appalled. “Absolutely not. I was only saying that every woman in this house was accounted for when Peg fell.”

Mrs. Abernathy’s hands smoothed the apron at her waist and Isabella sensed the woman had more to say.

“There is something else you wish to share,” Rhys said.

“There is,” Mrs. Abernathy said. She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and drew out a small parcel wrapped in muslin, tied with a bit of yarn. “A house grows sour if you leave doors barred too long. Yesterday, I sent Peg to the second floor of the east wing, airing, dusting, polishing.”

Isabella felt Rhys tense at her side.

“The east wing,” he said, his tone flat.

Mrs. Abernathy turned the packet in her hands. “Peg says the top drawer of the tall boy in the blue room”—Isabella felt Rhys tense beside her— “would not close all the way. She took the drawer out and found this tucked in behind. She pressed it into my hands after her fall. Pale as death she was.”

The housekeeper pulled the yarn, and the muslin fell away to reveal a small calfskin diary, its corners rubbed pale with use, the brass clasp broken so the strap hung loose.

“I read only a page. Enough to know it wasn’t accounts or linen lists.

A housekeeper has no business prying into a young lady’s private pages. ”

She offered the book and Rhys accepted it, his frame humming with tension.

“I would have you send for Dr. Linton in Marlow. Let him look Peg over and be certain she has no hidden hurt. Bruises mend, but a blow on the stair can turn itself cruel in the bones,” Rhys said, his tone brooking no argument.

It warmed Isabella to see his concern for those in his care. “Make sure she rests.”

With a nod, Mrs. Abernathy took her leave.

Once the door was closed behind her, Isabella asked, “What is it? What has distressed you so.”

He only offered her the diary, silent.