Lenore grasped his sleeve, refusing to allow the distance between them. Colin had been Nathaniel’s middle name. She didn’t believe in trickery of mediums or claims of reincarnation, but this was uncanny. “No, I am well.” She reached for his hand and returned it to her waist. “Thanks to you.” A lock of snowy hair caressed the back of her hand. “I am in your debt, Colin Whitley. Many times over.”
Once more his fingers splayed along her ribs before sliding to her back, urging her closer. He was taller than Nathaniel had been, sinuous as an adder and seemed to coil around her as well as loom over her. “There is no debt, Lenore,” he whispered.
One hand stroked a path up her arm, leaving hot trails on her skin through the black wool of her sleeve. It lingered at the slope of her shoulder before gliding over the stiff crape edging her frock’s high collar.
She arched her neck, inviting him to climb higher and stroke the skin bared to his touch. They were pressed together from shoulder to hip, confirming for Lenore that these beings of stark light and shadow still experienced the same sensual pleasures as other men.
The hand on her back ascended her spine to bury itself gently in her hair. The one at her shoulder accepted her invitation to curve around her throat before settling under her jaw. The Guardian’s black gaze with its white-sun pupils, held her captive. He lowered his head, breaking the spell. Lenore moaned softly as the tip of his nose glided down the bridge of hers.
“Come in to the garden, Maud,” he recited in a voice guaranteed to lead Eve out of Eden. “For the black bat, night, has flown.”
Her legs buckled at the suggestive verses, and she leaned hard against him.
“Come in to the garden, Maud. I am here at the gate alone.” Cool lips, damp with wine, tickled a path along her jaw.
Her arms twined around his narrow waist so that her hands clutched the fabric covering his back and shoulder blades.
“And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad.”
She tilted her head back, the ache behind her eyes nothing compared to the stunning pleasure of his mouth tracing a path over the arch of her throat to the hollow under her chin.
“And the musk of the rose is blown.”
His tongue slid into her mouth in a kiss deep, and hot, and possessive. A groan vibrated low in his throat when Lenore returned his caress by stroking her tongue along his.
It was glorious, this passion that awakened her after years of a deathless sleep. She would love Nathaniel Gordon all her life, but Colin Whitley in her arms eased the pain of her loss and made her remember joy.
He tasted of pomegranates and smelled of cinnamon. His lips were firm, coaxing, teaching her how to kiss him back. Lenore learned quickly, instinctively understanding how the tip of her tongue sliding along the underside of his upper lip might make his knees buckle as hers did or make the hand in her hair fall lower to clutch her buttocks with kneading fingers.
If he rucked her skirts at this moment, she’d urge him on with her legs around his waist. His kiss, his touch, everything about him drew her, and she went willingly. He could take her on the dusty, unforgiving floor in the frigid parlor, and she’d cry out his name. The carnal images accompanying those thoughts made her squirm in his arms, and her hips bucked hard against the erection pressed into her skirts and crushed crinoline.
A knock at the front door dashed Lenore’s fantasies. Colin broke their kiss with a gasp. His chest rose and fell like the bellows in a forge, and silvery color dusted his cheekbones. He pressed his forehead to hers.
“I would give all of eternity for one more hour with you,” he said. A second knock. He kissed her forehead. “But today, it’s not to be.”
Still dazed by what transpired only seconds before, Lenore let him help her with her cloak. Her senses slowly returned to normal, along with an unwelcome surge of embarrassment.
Colin grasped her chin. “Don’t,” he ordered in a stern voice. “You’ll not let those society rules you so abhor sully what’s between us, Lenore.”
She nodded and tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear with a trembling hand. “What do you want me to do?”
He kissed her briefly, as if unable to help himself, and pointed to a spot by the hearth. “Lie down and pretend to sleep. I’ll tell them you were already unconscious when I found you and never awakened while I tended to you. They’ll invent some tale to explain how you ended up here.”
“You mean they’ll lie. Not very clerical-like.”
Colin smirked. “All in the service of guarding an innocent’s virtue. They’ll assure themselves Heaven will grant forgiveness for so noble a cause.”
Lenore covered her mouth to stifle her laughter and lay down by the hearth. She watched through slitted eyes as he scooped up the fallen wine glass and decanter and once more disappeared into the corridor.
Low murmurs punctuated by horrified gasps echoed through the empty house. Lenore closed her eyes as footsteps drew closer and crossed the parlor to where she lay.
A woman’s soft hand pressed against her cheek before parting her hair to check the gash on her scalp. “He did a fine job of cleaning the wound, but the poor dear is feverish. Look at her cheeks, Robert. Rosy as a Christmas stocking. We need to return her home as soon as possible.”
The rector nearly stuttered in his outrage. “Vile body snatchers. Digging up children and attacking innocent women who come to grieve their parents. Highgate should have crawled with police once someone heard this girl scream. We can’t just leave this solely to one man, no matter how exceptional he is. His role is to protect the dead; now he must also protect the living? Something more must be done!”
His wife was far more practical. “For now my dear, that something is to get this young lady home to her family.” She lightly patted Lenore’s cheek, encouraging her to wake up.
Lenore played the role of confused victim, fuzzy with her memory and relieved to see the rector and his wife. She let them help her stand and leaned a little on the rector’s arm as he escorted her out of the abandoned house; it was the old rectory according to Mrs. Morris. A slender shadow, no more substantial than smoke, lingered at the edge of a stand of overgrown shrubbery and raised a hand in farewell.
She rode home between her escorts, assuring Mrs. Morris that she was on the mend and expected a full recovery within the week. The woman’s constant pressing of her cold hand on her cheek tested Lenore’s patience, but she only smiled and thanked her for her help. These were kind, well-meaning people, and she was grateful for their care. She only wished the Guardian had not solicited their aid quite so soon.
To her credit, Jane Kenward didn’t fly into hysterics when the Morrises explained events at the cemetery. She questioned Lenore as to how she felt, summoned a physician and packed her daughter off to bed to wait. The rector and his wife stayed for tea, served by a rattled Mrs. Harp who took every spare moment to poke her head into Lenore’s room and inquire after her health.