She had a moment of guilt—she could use her work to heal. Despite the random flashbacks to the kidnapping, she was healing.

But Taylor was forced to run away. Sam couldn’t help but think that work would have been a better fix for her as well.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Memphis knocked on Taylor’s door at five minutes to seven. She’d rested up, washed her face, and changed into black wool slacks and a cream cashmere turtleneck. At the last minute, she put on her grandmother’s pearls. Memphis said they dressed for dinner, and the pearls were original Mikimotos—a beautiful, graduated, princess-length strand with a delicately scrolled platinum clasp that had a tiny, perfect pearl on it. She hoped that would be dressed enough.

She opened the door, and Memphis looked on her with approval.

“Very nice. Shall we?” He extended his arm, and she accepted it. They started down the hall. “I talked Cook out of serving downstairs in the main dining room. I didn’t feel like giving the radiators a workout. We’ll be eating in my parents’ dining room, the second dining room, we call it, instead. Be prepared, she’s gone a bit all out.”

They went down a flight of stairs, not the same ones she’d been on earlier, and entered another wide, open passageway. Delicious smells wafted out of the room at the end of the hall.

Goodness, Memphis. Just how many stairways are there in the castle?

He stopped, brows knitted. “You know…I’ve no idea.”

She shook her head. How very Memphis.

She was no longer a stranger to the castle’s opulence, but the second dining room, as Memphis called it, was as fine as the finest restaurants she’d ever been in. A fire crackled in the grate; she could have stood, only slightly stooped, in its cavity if she chose. The mahogany table could comfortably seat fourteen. Above it floated a crystal chandelier, each drop pendant reflecting the glow of the ten white pillar candles she counted. Crystal goblets, delicate china on engraved chargers, four sterling forks, three knives. Intimate dining. Yeah, right.

All out?

He just smiled.

At least they weren’t sitting at opposite ends of the table—she would have felt like a fool. She’d have to shout pass the salt, and the room would echo in return.

Memphis grandly held her chair for her, then tucked him self in on her right side. He’d remembered that she ate continental-style, with her left, and hated to bump the person next to her. Goodness, he wasn’t playing games. He wanted her to know that he remembered every little detail. The momentary flush of flattery was replaced with a tiny touch of concern. Fantasy could easily turn into obsession. She’d seen it happen time and again, with poor results.

She dismissed the thought. He’s trying to woo you, stupid girl. Not own you.

No one else joining us?

“Of course not. The servants take their meals in the kitchen—some traditions aren’t easily changed. Trixie will see to them. That’s her job.”

Soundlessly, two young girls appeared with the first of the seven courses Cook had planned for them.

They started with a thick fish soup Memphis said was called Cullen Skink, then moved into more traditionally French fare. The venison stew must have been for the servants.

Memphis explained that Mary, Queen of Scots, was responsible for the French inflection to their cooking, having brought a passel of countrymen back from France when she returned. There was delicate Dover sole, beef Wellington, venison, fresh veg, carrots and peas and mashed potatoes, a dizzying array of cheeses, then burnt cream—she knew it as crème brûlée—and apple frushie, a delicious open-faced tart, for dessert. Memphis had also opened a bottle of Châeau Latour ’54. She couldn’t help herself; she was impressed, and said so.

“I’ll show you the wine cellar later. You’ll love it. Father is quite the oenophile. He’s been adding to the collection for years, through auctions, estate sales, the works. He has over 50,000 bottles down there.”

“Wow,” she managed to say. That was quite a collection.

Taylor ate until she was uncomfortably full, succeeding in eating only two bites of the apple frushie before she couldn’t handle another bit.

She pushed her plate away and picked up her pen.

My God, that was amazing. Thank you.

“It was, wasn’t it? Shall we repair to the drawing room and have some port? It will help you digest.”

Good Lord, Memphis, you’re making me feel like I’ve stepped onto the page of a Victorian novel.

“Oh, no. If this were Victorian times, I’d head off for port and cigars and whist and you’d be stuck with the ladies, nannering on about…whatever it is you women nanner on about.”

“Ha,” she said, punching him lightly on the arm, then scribbled in her notebook.

Besides, you know exactly what we women talk about when we get together.

“Length, breadth and depth, I assume. What else is there to discuss?”

Memphis, you are extremely naughty.

It was so comfortable. She was so comfortable. Even her head hurt less. That was the wine and pills and jet lag talking, she was sure of it.

The room Memphis took her to next was more her speed, subtly decorated while still lavish, but not overdone. The walls were paneled in dark wood. Two leather club chairs faced a leather sofa with a table in between. The fire was off to the right. Half the room was another library, with floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the other half an office centered around a stunning oak rolltop desk. Very masculine, very posh, but eminently comfortable.

“Nice,” she said.

“This is part of my suite of rooms,” he said. “My office, when I’m here. I like to have a bit of privacy. Why don’t you try talking some more? I know you need to practice. It sounds like your voice is working.”

“I…” Nothing else came. Her throat constricted. Damn it. She wasn’t ready. She just wasn’t ready. The pressure of being asked to speak was too much for the tenuous hold she had on her voice.

Memphis took a step toward her. He traced her jawline with his forefinger, then slowly moved his hand down until his palm cupped her throat. Her traitorous heart responded by speeding up. She could feel her pulse fluttering under his thumb. His eyes met hers, desire plain in his gaze.

“Try now.”

She shook her head.

“Poor darling. I wish I could fix you myself. Take away the last month, take away your pain.”

They stood there, face-to-face, transfixed. She felt oddly vulnerable, in this position of supplication before him, his hand wrapped around her neck.

Memphis was a strong man. All he had to do was squeeze. Cut off her air supply. It would stop her pain. No more struggling, no more looks. No more people talking about her behind her back—well, that wasn’t true. Tongues never cease, even in death. She just wouldn’t be around to hear it. She’d drift away without a care in the world, the scent of Memphis strong in her nose.

Good grief, Taylor. Get hold of yourself.

He meant what he said. No pity, no coddling. Just a statement of fact. He wished she didn’t have to go through this. No one else had said that to her.

Interminable moments passed. His eyes spoke to her, questioning. She didn’t know how to answer. He finally began to lean his head in and she went rigid. He stopped immediately, dropped his hand and turned away.

“Don’t worry about it. Your voice will come back in time.” He went to a small drinks cabinet, poured the port into snifters.

“I do hope you like vintage.”

He handed her a glass as if nothing had just happened.