Once Upon a Castle - Jill Gregory [72]
“How did you do that trick?”
“Trick?”
“Appearing. Disappearing. Is it a parlor game?”
He didn’t want to answer. Not yet. So he simply changed the subject. “You never told me your name.”
“Felicity Andrews.”
“Andrews. But you were supposed to be…” He paused, unwilling to reveal more. Changing tactics, he muttered, “Felicity. That is Latin for happiness. It suits you. You have a happy face.” He bowed slightly. “My name is Gareth, First Lord of Falcon’s Lair.”
“Gareth. My father never mentioned you.” She searched her mind but could not recall having heard the name before. “You’re not one of Lord Falcon’s sons.”
“Nay.” He studied her lips, pursed into a little pout. The desire to crush those lips with his own was so tempting that he had to clench his hands at his sides to keep from pulling her to him. He cautioned himself to tread carefully with this prim little American. Instead of touching her, he pressed a hand to the window casing above her head and leaned close to her, inhaling the delicate woman scent. “There are things you should know about Falcon’s Lair.”
“What things?”
He shook his head. “It is not in my power to reveal them. You must learn these things on your own. But be warned. You will be in grave peril while you are here.”
“From you?”
“I will not bring you harm.”
There was absolutely no reason to believe this madman. And yet, for some unknown reason, she did. Another lapse of intelligence. With a sigh she muttered, “I just don’t understand.”
If he couldn’t touch her, he would at least allow himself to skim her hair. He caught a strand and watched it sift through his fingers. The heat surrounding him grew until it was an inferno. His voice was little more than a whisper. “Understand this, little happy face. Since you have been sent to us, you must hold the key.”
“The key to what?”
When he didn’t respond, she turned away and pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane, eager to escape the heat that seemed to envelop her whenever he was near. “Why must you speak in riddles?”
Again he didn’t reply, and she turned. The room was empty. The heat had died as quickly as it had begun.
For long minutes she stood at the window, her mind brimming with all the questions she needed answered. Who was this Gareth? Why had he singled her out? What had he meant by the key? She shrugged and touched a hand to her throbbing temple. Perhaps she wasn’t nearly as rested as she’d thought. Her mind, which had always been so keen, now betrayed her. She was seeing people who weren’t here and hearing words that made no sense.
Needing to escape, she slipped out the door and hurried down the stairs in search of the kitchen.
The hallways were steeped in gloom, the candles having long ago burned out. A few still sputtered in pools of melted wax, but their light was barely enough to show the way. Felicity took her time, peering into darkened rooms, hearing the echo of her footsteps along the stone floors.
Like all castles, this one was cold and drafty, with large, cheerless rooms that begged for fires to be stoked and people to fill the empty spaces. Instead there was only darkness and a chill dampness that added to its somber atmosphere.
There was no mistaking the kitchen. Though the rest of the household lay abed, a roaring fire already burned on the hearth. A pig roasted on a spit. The air was perfumed with the fragrance of freshly baked biscuits.
At a long trestle table sat a row of servants spooning gruel into their mouths while struggling to dispel the last vestiges of sleep. They looked up, curious at the presence of this stranger, and began a low murmur among themselves. Most of them could never recall having seen a family member or a guest of Lord Falcon set foot in this room. At a furious command from the cook, they lowered their heads and continued to eat. All except young Bean, who shot a quick smile at Felicity before returning her attention to her meal.
Across the room Maud Atherton was engaged in a whispered conversation with a tall man in a spotless dark suit.