Emerald Embrace (3 page)

“How lovely,” Martise murmured, moving toward the sheer-draped doors.

“Allow me.”

Hogarth hurried before her, opening the doors outward to the night, and Martise stepped into the shadows of the balcony. She could hear the surf, far below her to the east. Even here, in this sheltered cove of the castle, the rock rose to create the walls of the balcony. But she need not look at the rock, for the flooring was Venetian tile and there were beautiful wrought-iron benches along the length of the balcony.

A touch of shadow caught her eye, downward, where the balcony disappeared into the darkness of the night. Her heart beat suddenly, and she had the curious feeling that she was being watched. Again she wondered at her wisdom in coming. Castle Creeghan was dangerous.

As was the lord of Creeghan?

She lifted her chin, determined not to be easily frightened. “Hogarth, is someone down there?”

She started walking quickly along the length of the balcony. Hogarth hurried behind her. “Milady, no one goes this way now!”

She stopped abruptly and stared at Hogarth. “Why ever not?”

“No one goes there,” he insisted.

“But someone—”

“Lady St. James, may I return for you in one half hour?” Hogarth asked.

She sighed. “Fine.”

Hogarth nodded and left her on the balcony. Martise stared into the darkness that came when the light from her room was swallowed away by the night. Someone had been there. Someone, watching her arrival.

Well, it did no good to question Hogarth. She would wash and change, and await her introduction to the lord of Creeghan.

Martise came in from the balcony and surveyed the beautiful and spacious room in pensive silence, hands folded before her. She started to shiver but told herself that she was cold from the rain, and not frightened.

Her bags had been set at the foot of the bed, and she set her portmanteau atop the mirrored dresser next to the armoire opposite the bed. She stared at her own reflection, finding her brush and trying to whisk it through her abundance of hair. Her eyes were too wide, she thought. She had not been here long at all, and already her eyes were wide, and her cheeks were taking on a hollow appearance.

Nonsense. She tugged upon the hooks holding her gown in place and slipped out of it. In her corset and petticoats and pantalettes she hurried to the fire and let its warmth sweep over her. She closed her eyes and thought again of Mary’s letters.

“He is fascinating, Martise, the most striking and arresting man I have ever met. He is tall and chivalrous and powerful and his voice could shake the very mountains. He is sometimes aloof and arrogant, and always the aristocrat, the great lord … but he loves me, Martise, can you imagine? He loves me.”

And later …

“He is courteous, and he is pagan, and so vital! His eyes are fire and hypnotism and I cannot fight the power of his arms. He seduced me by moonlight, and I have never known such ecstasy …”

And later still …

“I cannot tell what troubles him, for he is not the man I knew. He is tense and quiet, and always brooding, and always listening, and always watching me. He holds me, and tells me to take care, to trust no one …”

“Then he tells me that I must trust him.”

“I heard the screaming again last night. I heard the screaming, and it was horrible and wretched, and it was as if the very walls of the castle themselves screamed with the horror and the pain. Martise, I am afraid …”

The fire snapped and crackled, and Martise spun away from it. Her hair had caught the highlights of the blaze and might have been an extension of the flame that had warmed and dried her.

She would not falter; she would not fail. She would understand fully what came to pass at Castle Creeghan, and she would gladly live a lie to do so.

And …

She swallowed tightly, and with a certain amount of shame. She had come because of Mary.

But she had come because of the emerald, too.

She had loved Mary dearly; she needed the emerald.

For the moment, she wasn’t going to think about it. She had to make it through this first, curious night.

She had to meet the lord of the castle.

“Someone should have come to unpack for me,” she muttered aloud to give herself courage. She dragged her heavier bags around and onto the bed. Opening the first, she found a green muslin with delicate embroidery. She shook it out and laid it on the bed. Finding a pitcher and bowl, she scrubbed her face and hands and splashed the water over her, then dried and donned the gown, wishing that she could take a long bath with an endless supply of scalding water. Perhaps it could be arranged, once she had met the master of Creeghan.

She had just finished with the last of her hooks when she heard a soft tapping at her door. She opened it to find a wide-eyed young woman there, smiling and eager, and dressed in a white cap and white apron. “I be Holly, mum, and here to serve you.”

“Thank you, Holly. I’d like my things hung in the wardrobe, if you would, please.”

“Yes, mum, but first I’m to take you to his lordship.”

“Fine.”

“This way, Lady St. James.”

Martise closed the door to her room behind her. Holly led her back along the gallery and toward the steps which had brought her to the second floor. Following Holly, Martise descended the graceful and curving stairway to the entry hall.

There was a man there. His back was to her as he faced the blaze, hands folded behind him, feet wide apart, his shoulders very broad beneath the fine-cut lines of his frock coat. He was very dark, a towering, striking figure, and it seemed that even the sight of his back might send fear scurrying into the unwary. He held himself with the power, with the authority, of the lord of the castle.

Holly hesitated, and Martise remained silent. The fire hissed, crackled, and sizzled, and he spoke.

“Thank you, Holly. You may leave us.”

He turned around at last. Martise gasped out loud, startled to see the blazing eyes of the stranger who had swept her onto the bay and carried her to the castle through the rain.

He did not smile, he did not speak. He studied her again with what might have been an irritable care, seeking something.

“Welcome … Lady St. James.”

“Really, Lord Creeghan? You told me that I should find no welcome here.”

“You wrote and told me that you were coming. You are welcome, of course.”

“You tried to scare me away.”

“I am afraid that I did not succeed.”

“Why?”

“I do not know. Why are you still here?”

Martise sighed with exaggerated impatience. “My lord, why would you try to scare me away?”

“Because,” he said quite simply, “you should not be here.” He stepped around the Queen Anne chairs to the small table between them where a silver tray held a crystal carafe and several glasses. “Brandy, Lady St. James? It will ward off the chill of the evening, the dampness of the night.”

“Yes, thank you.”

She felt that he studied her still as he poured out two glasses of the dark liquid. His movements were graceful and effortless; he was indeed a man born and bred to be the lord of the castle.

He came to her, pressing one of the glasses into her hands. He was close again, towering over her with his leashed energy and tension and his masculine scent and his startling green-gold eyes. She longed to jump away, for she was suddenly very aware of Mary’s words.

“… the most striking and arresting man I have ever met. His eyes are fire and hypnotism. He seduced me by moonlight… He is courteous, and he is pagan …”

He was all that, Martise thought, and so much more. For even as he stood near her, not touching her but watching her with his bold and blatant stare, she felt a trembling seize hold of her. He seemed as rugged as the craggy tor, drawn to a pretense of refinement by the fine corded fabric of his frock coat and the silk of his shirt beneath it.

He tapped his glass to hers. “Do sip your brandy, milady. It has been a rough night for you, I dare say.”

“I dare say,” Martise heard herself repeat. She needed to back away from him, but she must do so carefully, for she would not have him think that she was afraid of him. She was not afraid.

She was …

Aye, afraid, for his threat did not seem to be one of violence, or maybe yes, violence was a part of it. What beat in the heart of the man? Martise wondered. She was certain that, beyond Mary, many a poor innocent girl had fallen prey to the rugged excitement of the lord of Creeghan.

She was no lost innocent, but a wary woman of the world, determined to find truth and justice. She would not be touched, she vowed, and she would not be fooled.

But despite her silent avowals, he did touch her. He reached for her chin, raising it so that he might study her eyes, and her features, with blunt appraisal. She felt his fingers, warm and strong and hinting of their power, upon her flesh, and she could not draw away. She sizzled beneath his scrutiny, clenching her teeth. She saw his grim smile as he felt the movement, but when she would have broken from him in a fury, he abruptly released her.

“You do not much resemble your sister, Lady St. James.”

“No,” she said flatly, “we are not much alike.”

“I assume, milady, that you would like to see the place of burial?”

Was there no emotion to him? Did he not grieve his wife?

Or had he cast her into her premature grave himself?

She hesitated, for the wind still moaned beyond the walls, and the night was a dark tempest. She did not know where he would take her, and though she had sworn she would not fear the darkness of night, she was eager for sunlight.

“I think, perhaps, in the morning …”

“Of course, how foolish of me,” he apologized abruptly, but he moved away from her with his curious, mocking smile in place, and she knew that he was aware of her unease. She hated to allow him to see such a weakness on her part. “I shall take you to the crypt tomorrow, Lady St. James. Now, I suppose, you would like to retire to your room.”

“Yes, perhaps …”

“I shall have dinner sent on a tray. Shall I send for Holly to take you back?”

“No, thank you. I can find the way.”

He nodded. “Well, good night, then, Lady St. James.”

“Good night, Lord Creeghan.”

She started to walk away, but he called her back with a curious tone to his words. “It has surely been a difficult year for you, milady. Your husband dying in that wretched American war, and now, finding that your sister has perished, too … how strange, milady. You acquired quite an American accent in your few years in the raw wilderness.”

Martise had just reached the stairway. Her fingers closed and tightened around the banister.

“It is easy to acquire an accent, Lord Creeghan.” She spun around, lifting her chin, allowing the liquid flame of her hair to cascade down behind her. “May I say, milord, that you have lost a great deal of the Scotsman’s burr?”

“Ah, milady, but I was educated at Oxford and Yale. And when I’ve a mind, madam, my burr can be quite a wicked one, I do assure you.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt,” Martise replied.

He smiled. “Forgive me, milady, but what is your Christian name? Margaret, is it not?”

She gritted her teeth and answered smoothly. “Martise, Lord Creeghan. Mary called me ‘Maggie’ for Martise, not Margaret. Good night, sir.”

“Good night.”

Martise fled up the stairs. She did not stop until she had reached her own room. When she was there, she securely latched the doors to the balcony, and then she carefully bolted the door to the gallery, and only then did she dare to fall across the bed, her heart thundering.

He suspected her…

He could not!

She steeled herself to courage as she lay there, listening to the sound of the violent surf far below, listening to the roar and churn and fury of the wind. The fire within her room brought warmth above the tempest. There was that warmth.

Soon there was a tap on her door. Holly had brought her a tray. Martise thanked her and bolted the door again.

She was startled to discover that she was ravenous. Her dinner was roasted lamb with mint jelly, and the food was delicious. She ate it with great relish and sipped the wine that accompanied it.

Then she set the tray beyond her door and very carefully bolted it once again.

She dressed in a white nightgown and crawled into the four-poster bed with its crisp clean sheets and warm wool blanket, and told herself that she must sleep. But as she listened to the howl of the wind, she wondered at the tales that the very stone walls of the castle screamed in horror.

At last, exhaustion came to her, and she closed her eyes and slept.

    He came to her.

He came to her in the night, in the flickering red glow of the firelight, and she was bathed in it.

He stood close, looking down at her, and his eyes narrowed with suspicion. Then he shrugged. He would discover her secret.

He did not mean to; he reached out and touched her. He touched her glorious display of blazing hair where it fell in silken beauty against the white of the sheets. He stared at her lashes, rich and dark as they fell in crescents over the softness of her cheeks, and he thought of the color of her eyes, bright, startling, cobalt and teal, eyes to defy the very color of day, sparkling with courage and determination.

And only hinting in the shadows of the slightest cast of fear.

“Damn!” he murmured aloud. She should not have come. He had enough on his hands, and the situation was grim indeed. Now he had this girl to cope with, too. This brazen beauty with her wild flame hair and clear blue eyes and silken voice.

He stiffened, for as he watched her, she shifted and moved, her breasts pressed fully against the white lace of her gown. Her covers were tossed and he was treated to a glimpse of long and shapely limbs.

With an oath he tossed the covers over her, and then he realized that tension had gripped his throat and his muscles and that he shook with the force of it.

She was made for desire.

The heat and tempest and passion of life lay within her eyes, and within the bewitching curves and angles of her form, and in the blaze of her hair.