She was clever, reminding him what she was to him. A replacement mother for the one who left him. A father for the one who preferred to work from dusk until dawn rather than spend time with his son. And lastly, Harper was a friend for the ones who laughed at him and then bullied him his whole life. If someone asked him who he cared for the most, he would say Harper Black. He trusted her.
“Harper, I don’t think she comes from here—or the north. I saw her as if she fell from the stars. Will Gable got to her before I did.”
“Oh…” Harper lamented. “You mustn’t speak of this to anyone. They will say you’re mad.”
“They already say that,” he reminded her. “Anyway, who would I tell? I just want to sleep before we eat.”
Harper nodded and left him without another word. Something wasn’t right about her behavior, but Gray wouldn’t ponder it. If Harper knew something and had never told him, it would be difficult to trust her again—so he wouldn’t ponder that.
He’d much rather ponder Miss Aria Darling.Aria-music, Darling-beloved. Music beloved. Yes, music was his beloved.
Chapter Five
Aria finished pluckingthe feathers from a dead chicken, set it on the chopping block and rushed to the bucket of water in the Gable’s kitchen to scrub her hands clean. God help her she had to pluck a dead chicken! She never appreciated a grocery store so much in her life. Everything here had to be either grown or killed. Umm, no thank you.
If not for the memory of Lord Grayson Barrington, Marquess of Dartmouth dancing on his castle rooftop while she had watched him from the woods yesterday, she would have been sick all over these nice people’s dinner. Twice. The images of him didn’t leave her when she sneezed for the tenth time. They just went fuzzy for a moment but then returned, as they had all night and all morning.
She wiped her nose and went to her coat hanging on a peg inside the front door. Mrs. Gable had asked her if after plucking the chicken she could shovel the yard a bit since it snowed again last night.
Would he dance in the snow?
She had gone to Dartmouth Castle yesterday to rebuke him, but she had ended up spotting him. She had watched him with breath held and her heart flipping somersaults until she ran off without telling him off. But he’d come looking for her on the road…
She opened the door now and was blinded for a moment by the late snow glistening beneath the bright sun. She opened her eyes more as they grew used to the color and beheld a world without skyscrapers, billboards, smog, smoke, concrete. For a minute she just breathed in the fresh air and soaked in the view of snow-capped trees and the white hills beyond them. It was like a winter wonderland, but even though it was radiant and glorious, it was also dangerous.
Like a magnificent panther.
She thought of the way the marquess’ hair had fallen over his marred brow, adding shadows to his eyes, or how it flung each way as his body jerked and bounced when he began his dance. He used inhalations and exhalations to perfection, bringing emotion, hurt, betrayal, sadness to the watcher—in that case, her, while his body was pulled this way or that. She’d watched his fingers gracefully slide across his vision and then he’d snapped his wrists back, melding them together over his head.
He was Romeo, Othello, anyone she could think of. How could such virility become so graceful, and then with a few hard moves or pops masculine again?
Where did all that beautiful emotion that she’d longed to see on a dancer’s face, come from? The few times she met him, he barely cracked a smile, a frown, or even appeared surprised.
He did have a weird habit of staring intensely and not looking away when caught.
As a dancer, she was acquainted with people who had two completely different personalities, one on stage and one off. One usually protected the other. She guessed the marquess had some life issues that shaped him—as everyone did. But a huge part of who he was, was buried somewhere beneath anger, sorrow, betrayal, joy, loss. And only in dance could he express them.
She had breathed, not realizing she’d stopped. Watching him made her long to dance again—to leap again.
She replayed yesterday in her mind a thousand times already. She’d taken Castle Road like Beatrice from the village had advised. The road brought her to a hill overlooking the castle, which was built above the coves Will had told her about. She could see the rooftop within the parapets. She could see him there, alone and seemingly in terrible pain.
He had danced without the need of music. Or…was there music? The more she’d listened, the more she heard: the howl of the wind above the water, the swoosh of waves, and then the sound they made when they crashed into the rocks, birds, treetops…there was music in everything.
She used to hear it all, like a symphony in her ears. She’d even, on a few occasions, heard music in the blaring honks of cars. She had stopped hearing the music of the earth and of life when she had to stop dancing.
But she heard it again when she saw the Marquess of Dartmouth dancing on the roof of a castle overlooking the sea. She was sure that if she lived a hundred more lifetimes, she would never forget his beautiful lines and the way he stretched his lean body over backwards until one hand touched the floor and the other reached toward Heaven. He straightened with spasmodic movements. His expressions were as erratic as the rest of him. One instant he was grinning and the next, he sneered with vengeful purpose. Yanking at his hair, he’d compelled her to get closer, to help him. He expressed his open, raw emotions, emotions most men had a very difficult time putting out there. He was profoundly moving as he uncovered bits of himself in his tempo, choreography, and gestures.
She had intended to tell him what she thought of a man in power using it to imprison her in gates made of brawny flesh and bone. Flesh and bone that could be taken down with a spinning back kick to the jaw, or a knee or front kick to the groin, solar plexus, kidneys, whatever the case was.
She wanted him to know she wasn’t like Elspeth…or even Sarah—or any eighteenth century woman. She ended up running away instead before he finished his dance.
But the memory of him had begun to haunt her even while she ran back up the hill. She’d been sure his dance would haunt her for a long time to come. He was a true dancer, moving with his heart, muscles, bones, traces of joy for dancing—despite it all—either in a glint in his eyes, the tilt of his smile, or his lighter tempo. It made her not want them to be enemies.
Still, she didn’t want to have to fight every time she wanted to check the forest for doors—and she’d have to check even more now that she’d been uninvited to the ball in the castle with seventy-two doors. She kicked the snow under her foot. What exactly had he meant when he said she might not feel welcome at the castle, so it was best if she didn’t attend? How rude could a guy get?
She had found the road by tracing her steps backwards. She was excellent with directions. One had to be if one lived in a busy city with several different forms of transportation. She’d continued onward with the dancer leaping into her thoughts. His clean lines and stunning features shot across her mind like stars in a moonlit sky.
She shoveled and swore quietly under her breath while she remembered that he’d been following her. She had had to keep her head on straight, but when he pulled out his sword with a bit of a macabre grin, she instinctively swept him. And then, oddly enough he tossed his blade away and sparred with her. She wondered if he would have struck her if she hadn’t evaded or blocked his blows. He seemed to enjoy it.