The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) Read Free Page A

couldn’t condemn him openly without outing myself as a grave robber.
    He must be dual natured. For he seemed in control, even kind and gentle, when he freed me from the mud. My ankle shook on the memory. I wasn’t sure what disturbed me more … the fact that he’d touched me so intimately, or the fact that I liked the way it felt—and craved to know more of that foreign sensation.
    “I do not trust him,” I said simply. “Not as a gentleman. And most certainly not as a guest in my home.”
    Mouth clamped, Uncle cupped my elbow to assist me into the carriage next to Enya. He was too kind to flaunt the truth: that in reality, I didn’t legally have claim to anything. With Mama’s death, Uncle Owen had become the executor of the estate, so I now lived as his tenant. It was all a grand façade; a masquerade set into play to ensure I would keep the lands and money without contest. Yet, at any given time, he could force my hand to sell. I wasn’t sure how long his patience would hold, now that Mama was gone and the place held nothing but painful memories for him.
    I sniffled as I took my seat, averting my gaze when Enya’s green eyes locked on me with pity. Uncle climbed in and I pulled down my veil, turning toward the darkening horizon.
    Having been my stand-in father for so long, he was more adept at peering into my soul than the most masterful gypsy. I couldn’t afford for him to read my face, to know that it wasn’t sadness causing the warm flush in my cheeks, that instead, vindication radiated through me. I had ravaged a grave to which the unrelenting Lord Thornton appeared emotionally shackled.
    The carriage bounced over pits in the road and the hard-backed seat offered little comfort for the bumpy ride, but I was snuggled within the cushion of my machinations.
    Before now, I never understood why the viscount wanted my property. From what Uncle had told me, he was a gifted architect, with a passion for odd color pairings and design. Held to such standards, my home would be considered mundane. But, perhaps it wasn’t the house he wanted. It was the location. No other estate stood as close to the graveyard and the grave that seemed to hold him in some dark, impassioned thrall.
    Who was this “Hawk” I had stepped upon and defiled? Why did their tomb have such an impact on the viscount? And how could I use this knowledge to save my home and rid myself of Lord Thornton’s manipulative persistence, once and for all?
    I had two days before his visit in which to solve the riddles, or risk losing the one thing left of my parents. The one thing left of myself.

Chapter 2
    A thorn defends the rose, harming only those who would steal the blossom.
A Chinese proverb
     
    The moment Uncle and Coachman Goodings delivered us to the doorstep, Enya slipped inside.
    I stalled upon the threshold to wave goodbye to Uncle, then turned and observed my bleak prosperity. Withered bushes curved from the courtyard out back as if hugging the house. By morning, the moisture weighing on them would pearl the leaves in autumn frost. Just as winter had swallowed up Mama, soon it would swallow my home.
    Shutting the door, I removed my hat and coat and hung them on the brass hook. Enya rushed upstairs to shed her wet clothes, so I didn’t bother hiding the flower while I felt my way through the dark rooms and revived every available gas lamp. My palm curled around each glass globe to feel the vibrations through my glove as they buzzed and popped on.
    I stepped into the dining room, and a waft of Mama’s scent settled on my nose—rosewater and vanilla. I could sense her there, though she never would be again. Misery rained in my heart.
    During my youth, Mama would offer hot chocolate and a lemon crumpet to chase away storms. I would squeeze my eyes closed upon the first bite of the snack’s tartness, then snap them open as the chocolate’s sweet warmth coated my tongue.
    She was a skilled emotional strategist. She taught me that taste