Shades of Midnight (6 page)

Her skirt was tangled around her legs, one of her combs had come loose and a few curls brushed her cheek. Lucien squelched the urge to reach out and brush that hair away from her face, to put both arms around her and hold her in place.

He did nothing. He knew full well that his assistance was not wanted, at the moment. Not the kind of assistance he wished to offer, in any case. As a flustered Eve struggled to get off him, her delicate hand accidentally landed where it had never been before.

Unlike Viola, Eve was wonderfully, arousingly warm.

If Eve hadn't been wearing a corset, she might have been able to scoot off the bed quickly. But she was so tightly bound she could probably barely breathe, much less move quickly. Lucien placed the flat of his palm against her back, as her hand very quickly moved down and away. Her fingers brushed against his thigh, and again her hand made a quick twist of attempted escape. Her body was crushed to his, but she definitely did not want to touch him.

In the past they had kissed, nothing more. Stolen kisses, full of promise and light. Their engagement had been short, less than three months, and his work had taken him away from her for weeks. A full month, once. At the time, waiting for the wedding night to take Eve into his bed had seemed like the honorable thing to do.

Now he wished they had not waited. He was afraid he would never know what it was like to lie in bed with the woman he loved beneath him. He wanted to know what Eve looked like with her hair down and those prim clothes of hers tossed aside. He wanted her naked beneath him, atop him, all around. He wanted to make love to her, to hold her, to sleep with her. If she truly didn't love him anymore, none of that would ever happen. This awkward moment would be the only time he'd ever have Eve in his bed.

He could probably help her up, but he didn't. She'd likely just slap his hand if he tried to assist her in any way. Truth be told, he wasn't quite ready to let her go. If he had his way, he'd never let her go.

"Why are you here, Evie?" he asked, his voice low.

With one knee on the edge of the mattress, she was finally able to gain some control and lift her body off his. Immediately, he missed the weight and warmth of her.

"I heard you shout," she said.

Lucien smiled. "And you were worried? You rushed up here to save me from Viola?"

Her lips pursed as she very cautiously scooted to the side. "Of course not. I was simply curious. I didn't think Viola and Alistair were about during the day."

"Oh, they're about," Lucien said absently. "At least, Viola is."

Eve sat on the side of the bed, catching her breath and placing a slightly trembling hand to her mussed hair. Her face was still flushed, and while he could not hear it, he was quite sure her heart pounded hard and fast.

Two years was too long. "Evie," he said softly, "I've missed you."

He would have thought her completely unaffected by his confession, if her lower lip didn't tremble. "You should have thought of that before you left me waiting..."

"I made a mistake," he interrupted. "I forgot the date. I never forgot you." He reached out and gently grasped her wrist. "Never."

Eve left the bed quickly, snatching her arm away and heading for the door without glancing back. "Don't you have a nightshirt?" she asked, completely ignoring his heartfelt declaration. "A decent man would wear a nightshirt to bed."

"Of course I have a nightshirt," he said, angry and embarrassed and... lost. "I just forgot to pack it."

"Of course you did," Eve muttered as she rushed out the door, slamming it closed behind her.

Lucien sighed deeply. "But I never forgot you." Damn.

Chapter 4

Justina Markham arrived shortly after the noon hour, and about ten minutes after Eve had impatiently decided she wasn't coming at all. Mrs. Markham knocked softly, and when Eve threw open the front door, the woman seemed almost surprised, as if she had expected that no one would be at home to receive her even though she'd been invited.

For an older woman, Justina Markham was quite handsome. Her smooth, thick hair was more black than white, and the wrinkles on her heart-shaped face were not deep or many. She still had a fine figure, one which was shown off well in her widow's black. She was fifty-three years old, and she had been Viola Stamper's dearest friend.

"I haven't been to this door in thirty years," she said softly, glancing inside and showing no intention of crossing the threshold.

Eve was grateful to have a subject to turn her attentions to, after the disastrous events of less than an hour ago. She certainly didn't need to dwell any longer on how exciting it had been to lie against Lucien, even for such a brief and bothersome period of time. She needed to forget how hard and warm he'd been, how she'd wanted so badly to stay there in his arms.

How silly she'd been to go rushing into the room. For a few horrifying minutes, she'd actually thought he might be in danger. Ha.

She'd much rather think about Mrs. Markham, and what the woman might tell her about Viola.

"If you find entering the house too upsetting, we can walk around to the garden while we have our conversation," Eve suggested. "Let me grab my shawl..."

"No." Mrs. Markham stepped inside tentatively, her eyes immediately going to the foot of the stairs. "Perhaps I need to do this." She walked to the center of the foyer, and clasped her hands as she stared down at the spot where Viola died each and every night. "It was horrible," she whispered. Tears sprang to her eyes.

"I'm sure it must have been," Eve said gently.

"Viola was a sweet, beautiful woman. She deserved better than to be stabbed in the back by the man she loved. She deserved better than to be left completely unclothed in a pool of her own blood." The woman shook off her sorrow and became angry. "I came here that morning because Viola was going to teach me to make apple butter. Apple butter! How does the woman who makes the best apple butter in the county end up murdered?" Justina Markham drew a handy handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.

"I know it's difficult," Eve said. "But I need to know exactly what you remember about that morning."

"Why?" Justina's eyes quickly went from sad to angry. "Why are you digging all this up now? Viola and Alistair are dead. They've been dead for thirty years." She paled visibly. "Don't tell me you actually believe that their ghosts haunt this house." She sniffled. "What rubbish."

Mrs. Markham might say the rumors of this house's haunting was rubbish, but the obvious fear on her face spoke differently. She glanced about the room, as if searching for a ghostly visitor.

Until now, Eve had roundly dismissed any suggestion from Plummerville residents that her house was visited by spirits. She smiled, she laughed, she brushed off the notion and changed the subject, so that she would have the privacy to do what had to be done, here.

While she was momentarily tempted to tell Justina Markham everything she'd seen and heard since moving into this cottage, she quickly decided she wasn't yet ready to take that step. "I'm sure you're right, but the stories do abound. What I've heard about the Stampers and the supposed ghostly appearances have made me curious, and I thought I might ask around and see what I could discover about the history of this house."

Mrs. Markham laid her dark eyes on Eve. "I am here, torturing myself with painful memories from long past, because you're
curious?"
The woman's coolness was well practiced and daunting, but it was not going to stop Eve from proceeding.

"I want to know what happened in my house," Eve explained. "Do you know, perhaps, who Viola was"—oh, there was no delicate way of putting this—"dallying with?"

Mrs. Markham's lips and eyes went hard, and Eve decided this was not a woman one would want as an enemy. There was fire in Justina Markham's eyes. "I have heard those ridiculous rumors," she said frostily. "Viola adored Alistair. They had a happy marriage. She would never have betrayed him by so much as looking at another man."

"I heard that perhaps the Reverend Younger..."

"No," Mrs. Markham interrupted sharply. "Viola was a fine woman. She did not dally with the preacher or anyone else."

"Then why did Alistair kill her?"

Mrs. Markham looked at the foot of the stairs again, remembering. "I don't know," she whispered. "But he did. I found them... Viola unclothed with those awful wounds in her back, Alistair lying over her, the knife in his hand and two stab wounds in his chest."

Eve puzzled over the picture Mrs. Markham painted. "Was Alistair also unclothed?"

"He wore a dressing gown."

"Viola was wearing a wrapper, wasn't she?"

Mrs. Markham shook her head. "No."

"Then it was lying close by," Eve prodded.

Again, Mrs. Markham shook her head.

She had seen Viola come down the stairs in that wrapper every night for a month. "Well," she muttered, "where did it go?"

Mrs. Markham glared at Eve. "What a strange question to ask. How am I to know where Viola's robe was? I imagine it was... in her bedchamber or perhaps packed away in her dresser."

It hadn't been, but there was no way to reveal that without telling Mrs. Markham exactly what she'd seen since coming here. "It just seems odd, that's all." Time to take another line of questioning. "What about Mr. Markham? Did he know Alistair? Were the four of you friends?"

Mrs. Markham turned her head away. "I wasn't married, at that time," she said. After a moment of silence she turned her head to look at Eve with questioning eyes.

"Alistair was not a perfect husband, as I'm sure you have discovered. He worked long hours, he was demanding and jealous and there might have been days when Viola regretted marrying him. But she was a decent person. She would never have committed adultery." Justina sounded defensive, as a good friend might.

"Then why did he kill her?" Eve asked for the second time.

"I don't know." Mrs. Markham was unable to hide her frustration as she answered the question once again. "Miss Abernathy," she said softly, "what do you want from me? Exactly
why
am I here?"

"You were Viola Stamper's dearest friend," Eve said gently. "When I invited you here and you agreed to speak with me, I did think that you might at the very least suspect that I wanted to ask questions about unfortunate past events. I truly didn't mean to upset you."

Again, Mrs. Markham let her eyes roam. Was she looking for ghosts? Or remembering days long gone?

"Perhaps we can sit in the parlor for a while," Eve suggested, indicating the room with a hand. "I'll make us a pot of tea and we can talk about anything you'd like." She was disappointed not to learn more new and exciting details from Viola's friend, but she wouldn't harangue the woman. The fact that Viola had been found naked was puzzle enough, for now. Was that a fact, or had the years twisted the memory for Mrs. Markham? That didn't seem like a detail one would forget, no matter how much time had passed.

"No, thank you," the older woman said. "I really can't stay long. There's so much to do at home, after my extended visit to Alabama."

"Of course."

In spite of her words, Mrs. Markham didn't make a move to leave. "I apologize for snapping at you, Miss Abernathy. You invited me here, but you certainly didn't force me to stop by. I think of Viola and Alistair often," she admitted. "Too often, to be honest. Some days, at the oddest moments, they just pop into my mind. Sometimes as I remember them from happier days, sometimes... the way I found them. Perhaps I thought a visit to this house would help to rid me of my own ghosts."

"I understand."

Eve found a spark of hope, where a moment earlier there had been none. Now that some of the tension had faded and Justina Markham had admitted that she did think often of the Stampers and their terrible end, perhaps she could learn something new. A forgotten tidbit, a well-kept secret. There were things Eve did not yet know about the Stampers. Many things.

Lucien, blast his hide, came waltzing down the stairs as if he lived here. Neatly dressed in a black suit and white shirt, hair combed, a smile on his handsome face, you would never know that an hour ago he had encountered a ghost while lying naked in his bed. Her bed, she amended. This was not his house, and nothing in it belonged to him. Especially not her.