Page 24 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

He didn’t say anything, but his lack of surprise at seeing her was all the answer she needed. She shivered as the wind kicked up, and Ralph moved a step closer. “You look scared,” he said, searching her face.

A chill ran through her, though it wasn’t from the damp air. Ivy felt naked under his gaze, as if he could see the silly things that were slowly making her question her own sanity. Ralph looked warm and solid against the craggy patchwork of moors. It would be so easy to unburden herself to him, to let all her fears and misgivings spill out into the space between them. But he had told her explicitly she was not to trust him, and in any case, she doubted he would believe her. “Do I? Just thought I would do a little exploring around the grounds and a bird startled me.”

Ralph didn’t say anything, but he didn’t look like he believed her. He took another step closer, as if he would reach out and touch her. She held her breath, but he stopped short, close enough that she could see a small scar running under his left ear and down his neck and disappearing under his loosely draped muffler. He belonged out here in the wilderness, all rugged angles and unpolished manners, as intensely brooding as the bleak and unforgiving moors.

She felt her tongue loosen under his unnervingly clear gray eyes. “I heard—felt—something, in my room,” she said in a rush. “I’ve heard footsteps and felt drafts around the house, but this was different. This was...” She fell silent, the hot, sour breath on her neck still vivid in her mind. “This was evil,” she finished in a murmur.

Ralph’s brows drew together in concern. Not disbelief. He opened his mouth, but must have thought better of whatever he was about to say, because he soundlessly closed it again.

Shivering, Ivy wrapped her arms around herself. The cold air was a welcome dose of reality, but the gray clouds were giving way to the gathering dark of evening.

“You’re cold,” Ralph said, and before she could stop him, he was unlooping his muffler and putting it around her neck.

The intimacy of the gesture brought her up short, and she flushed despite herself. The muffler still held lingering warmth, and smelled like him—woodsmoke, leather, and rain. “Don’t you need it?” It looked hand-knit, lovingly made. She wondered if a sweetheart had made it for him, though the idea left an unpleasant taste in her mouth.

“I can’t even remember where I got it,” he told her. “You keep it.”

“Oh, well then. Thank you. I should be going back though,” she said, aware that she should give the muffler back, but unable to bring herself to take it off.

“Wait.”

Ivy stayed her step, relieved that she had a reason to delay going back inside. She looked at him expectantly, but he was gazing off into the mist, jaw muscles working in thought.

“I’m in the stables,” he said finally. “That’s where I stay.”

Uncertain what she was supposed to do with this information, she waited for him to go on. His gaze returned to her, her breath hitching at the swirling storm in his gray eyes. “If you’re ever in danger, you come to the stables. You don’t need to stay in the abbey if you feel unsafe. There’s an extra cot, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Twining her numb fingers in the hole of her cardigan sleeve, Ivy quickly looked away so he wouldn’t see the color blooming on her cheeks. “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” she murmured.

Kicking at a loose pebble, hands in his pockets, he gave a snort that stopped just short of a laugh. “Not appropriate, eh? All right.”

“Why do you talk to me like that?” she couldn’t help herself from asking. “Why can you barely look me in the eye sometimes, and then speak to me so familiarly other times? Why do you act as if there is some big secret that I ought to know, but then never bother telling me what it is?”

“Ivy.” There was an indulgence in his tone, his broad Yorkshire accent drawing out the cadence of her name. “You know why.”

“No, I do not, and it’s infuriating. I wish you would either tell me or leave me be.” Nothing exasperated her more than a code she couldn’t crack, and Ralph was proving to be a cipher without a key.

A crow took wing into the evening, its raspy call echoing in the chasm between them. “Very well, m’lady,” he said finally. “Have it your way.”

“That’s it?” The rain was turning icy, and her whole reason for fleeing outside was beginning to fade from her mind. There was nothing to be gained from standing out here in some sort of stalemate with a man who clearly took pleasure in tormenting her. She turned to leave.

It was funny; as she blazed a trail back to the abbey through the ankle-deep heather, Ivy could almost taste a fiery whiskey kiss on her lips, feel the lingering warmth of a hand on the small of her back. She felt like Catherine Earnshaw, returning from a forbidden assignation on the moors with her Heathcliff, not a London girl who felt terribly out of place here in the North. Addled, that’s what she was. Her mind was overtaxed, her stomach underfed. She would go back to the abbey, have a proper meal and lose herself in a familiar book where nothing could disturb her.

The walk back was long, longer than Ivy had remembered it being. Time moved in a strange way here, and she wondered how long exactly she had spent standing out on the gusty moors with Ralph. She was almost to the garden door when she turned around. Ralph was still out there, a dark smudge against the creeping mist. It was much too far to see his eyes, but something told her he was watching her, would still be watching her long after she had returned inside.

12

In her room, she tidied the already tidy vanity, lining up the brushes, combs, and powder jars. She’d already written a letter to Susan, and she’d organized her books several times over. What did ladiesdoall day? This lady certainly didn’t feel like spending time alone in a room where only an hour before something evil had lingered with her.

Perhaps the parlor would have been a better choice, with its easy access to the front hall, but she wanted to be surrounded by old friends, so Ivy made her way to the library. The simple act of running her fingers over book spines and breathing in the familiar scent of paper eased some of the tightness in her chest. She settled onThe Importance of Being Earnest, and lowered herself into her favorite chair.

Somewhere in the house a clock struck the hour, and from the window came the comforting sound of Ralph pulling the auto around in the drive. Then something softer, closer. At first she thought it must have been Mrs. Hewitt, her feather duster softly skimming over books nearby, come to spy on her.

“Mrs. Hewitt? Are you in here?”

There was no answer. The swishing grew louder, until it was right behind the closest bookshelf. Glittering clouds of dust puffed up with every sweep of the sound, as if someone was taking long, deliberate steps in full skirts. The faint smell of incense curled around Ivy.

Setting aside the book, she slowly rose. The gooseflesh which had only just settled on her skin sprang to life again, her heart beating hard and painful. She had to see what was behind the shelf for herself. She couldn’t keep running in her own home.

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