Ruth Langan Read Online Free PDF Page A

meeting you.”
    “The boy?” Her tone was sharper than she’d intended. Perhaps it was the lateness of the hour. Or a need to mask her fears. Or the fact that fatigue had her in its grip. Whatever the reason, she found herself bristling at his casual dismissal of his young charge. “Does the boy have a name?”
    His tone was equally curt. “He does. His name is Liat.”
    “Just Liat? Has he no other?”
    Her impertinence was growing more annoying by the minute. “Nay.” His eyes narrowed fiactionally, issuing a challenge of their own. “You will want your rest, Miss St. John, since I expect you to give the boy your full attention on the morrow. I bid you good-night”
    “Good night, my lord.” As she stepped past him she glanced into the room and caught a glimpse of a man’s figure huddled in front of the fire. When he looked up, she caught her breath. It was the man she had seen from the carriage. A man whose face had lost all its color. But his eyes, so like Lord Stamford’s, were dark and piercing. And haunted.
    Before she could see more Lord Stamford abruptly pulled the door shut.
    Even as she followed Pembroke, she could feel him still standing where she had left him, staring after her. She stiffened her spine. She’d had quite enough of men who flaunted wealth and power. Such men, she vowed, would never again see any sign of weakness in her.
    Still, the thought of that dark, chilling gaze boring into her back had the hair at her nape prickling until they paused outside a closed door.
    “Here we are, miss.” Pembroke opened the door and carried the lantern across the room where a fire blazed on the hearth. “This is your sitting room.”
    It was a large room with several comfortable chaises positioned in front of the fireplace, and a side table holding a decanter and several glasses. In an alcove were a desk and chairs.
    “The lad’s chambers are through those doors. And in here—” he opened another door and pointed “—is your sleeping chamber.”
    She couldn’t seem to take it all in. Nodding dully, she crossed to the fire and held out her hands to the heat. She’d never felt so cold. As though her bones had turned to ice.
    “Mistress Thornton is sending up a tray, miss. I expect you’re hungry after your journey.”
    “Yes. Thank you.”
    “I’ll say good-night now, miss.”
    “Good night, Pembroke.”
    She waited until the door closed behind him, then sank down into a chair and stared at the flames.
    What had she gotten herself into? Who was this child she would be caring for? What had happened to the man with the pale skin and frightened, haunted look? And what had made the lord of the manor so tense and angry?
    She had hoped that her arrival at Blackthorne would put all her fears to rest. Instead, she felt more alone, and more desolate than ever.
     
    The hated dream returned. Cold, icy terror held her in its grip. Once again Olivia felt the strength in Wyatt’s hands as they pinned hers. Though she struggled, it was impossible to dislodge the weight of his body from hers. His mouth clamped over hers and his breath, hot, ragged, had hers hitching in her throat.
    Like one drowning, she fought her way up through the tangled weeds threatening to choke her. As if from a great distance Olivia heard muted, shuffling sounds. She jerked upright, embarrassed that a servant had found the new nursemaid asleep, and in the throes of a nightmare.
    “Oh. Sorry.” She shoved a lock of hair from her eye and struggled to brush away the cobwebs.
    The servant was watching her closely. Too closely. She was pouting, obviously annoyed at having one more duty thrust upon her at such an hour. “Mistress Thornton said I should bring you some food.” She pointed to a tray resting atop a nearby table
    “Thank you. That was kind of Mistress Thornton. And I am indeed hungry. What is your name?”
    “Edlyn.” The servant tossed a log on the hearth, then straightened, wiping her hands on her apron.
    Olivia