Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (37 page)

And a network of danger that felt close enough to touch.

 

B
EYOND THE MOAT, BEYOND
the Witch's Pool and the rows of dancing roses, shadows gathered. Overhead the sky darkened to crimson and then to deepest indigo.

And as the last fleeting rays of daylight fled before the night a single bell began to chime across the distant hills.

Ten times. Eleven. Twelve.

And then once more.

High in an abbey bedroom Cathlin stopped to listen, brush in hand as she changed for dinner.

Stepping out of the shower, Dominic heard and scowled, telling himself he was imagining things.

And Nicholas Draycott, standing before the opened French doors with the curtains drifting around him like mist, looked out at the darkness, a frown etched upon his brow.

For on this matter the abbey legends were only too clear. When the church bells rang twelve times—and then once more—the ghost of Draycott Abbey was called forth to walk the grounds.

Not out of love.

Not in search of joy.

But because some new danger threatened his beloved ancestral home. As it did now.

 

T
HE WIND WHISPERED
.

Shadows trembled.

Somewhere in the night, darkness gave way to black satin cuffs and pristine white lace.

As the last bell faded, the abbey's guardian ghost stepped out of nothingness onto the cool stones of the parapets. Eyes agleam, he turned his head and studied the first stars, just glinting upon the velvet sky. “Again it begins, my old friend.”

A great gray cat ghosted over the roof, purring.

“Yes, I must agree. What we seek is not new but very old, something hidden but never quite forgotten.” Frowning, he looked out over the abbey's stark walls, his eyes as impenetrable as night itself. “They are strong, these two. But their strength makes them weak. In their strength they are content to see with their eyes, and not with their hearts.”

The cat moved, rubbing against his master's booted foot.

“Too late? It is never too late, my old friend. But your concern is real. With every day lost, every hour wasted, this danger grows.”

The cat's tail arched.

“Gray?” Adrian Draycott thought of the woman he loved, a woman who had shown no fear before a madman's treachery. As she had shown no fear in death.

His jaw hardened. “She says we must
make
them see. Alas, it is not so simple, is it, Gideon?” Adrian ran his hand over the cat's sleek fur. “There are some things that cannot be given and some choices that must not be rushed. Even when time crowds close.” He looked out over the wooded hills, formless in the gathering darkness. A shooting star flashed and left a trail of silver through the silent night. “No, not even by such creatures as we are, my friend.”

With a sigh, the black-clad figure turned and paced the cold stones. Beside him the great cat flicked his tail and waited, eyes agleam, sharp with intelligence. A cat and yet far more.

Overhead the moon pulled free of the clutching black fingers of the woods and rose in chill splendor, its beauty mocked by a racing curtain of clouds.

 

S
OMEWHERE IN THE GREAT
,
restless beast that was modern London, a figure sat hunched in darkness, listening to the quiet voices.

It always began with the voices.

So it did this night. They were never much at first, just a whisper in the shadows or a sigh in the chill light of dawn. But they never stopped there.

The figure in the darkness frowned, trying to hold back the light and the memories.

And the voices.

But it never worked. The pictures were too sharp, the voices too shrill. In a wild dance they rose, racing ever closer till they broke in a feverish rush. Only then would the blessed silence return. The nothingness, once more. The peace.

Until it began all over again, with a whisper or a hiss.

Just as it had tonight.

Just as it always would, until the traitors were made to bleed, to weep, to pay for all the pain they had caused.

Now—and two hundred years before.

C
ATHLIN CAUGHT A HARD
breath. She didn't want to be here. The abbey was lovely, the will an unbelievable godsend, but Draycott Abbey left her throat raw and her pulse lurching.

It wasn't because of the portraits glaring down in cool arrogance from the silk-covered walls. It wasn't because of the scattered roses or the fragile tapestries that her mother had loved so well.

It was the past and its memories that Cathlin couldn't bear. Every room, every corner carried shadows that reminded her of the mother who had died here.

She looked at herself in the cheval glass, seeing the pale cheeks, the stormy eyes. Seeing a face full of shadows.

Just one night,
she told herself.

The sun had melted over the western hills and reddish gold light poured over the old Aubusson carpets and gilt chairs. The Yellow Salon was lit by a massive crystal chandelier and candles set in silver candelabra. Four people stood gathered by the opened French doors as Cathlin entered.

The chandelier flashed. The crystal gleamed. All was peace and order.

Except for the spot where pain was eating a hole through Cathlin's heart.

She tugged uneasily at her dress, a fitted shimmer of amber silk that perfectly matched her eyes. Modest and demure in front,
the dress turned dangerous at the back where it plunged straight to Cathlin's slender waist.

It was the sort of dress you didn't wear much under. Cathlin had meant it as a challenge to a man who had challenged her too often lately. Now, looking at Dominic, who was looking dangerous himself in a black turtleneck, smoky tweed jacket, and black trousers, she decided she might have made a slight miscalculation.

She shrugged. She could handle one arrogant bodyguard just fine.

About Viscount Draycott, she wasn't so sure. She tried to force away a wave of uneasiness. He was a tall man with thoughtful eyes and hair that showed the faintest sprinkling of gray. His young daughter was tugging at his hand, and he caught her up on his shoulders, heedless of protocol or the very expensive Hermès tie he wore. As he turned, Cathlin realized this was not the man she had seen by the moat, accompanied by his gray cat.

So the man liked his anonymity. Probably he let some member of his staff play at being viscount when there were visitors about. Very clever.

She looked around her, aware of the abbey's golden glow of age and wealth and unerring good taste. And though she hadn't meant to, Cathlin smiled softly. There was love here, love that whispered in the corners and gathered around her heart and clung tightly. Maybe something about this beautiful old house would accept nothing less than love.

As the blond-haired viscountess stood up and tickled her daughter's toes, Cathlin felt a burning in her eyes. She had had that kind of happiness once, only to lose it.

Here at Draycott Abbey.

Her hands tightened. She shouldn't be here. She couldn't face this. She was turning to leave when she felt Dominic's hand on her shoulder.

“Don't run, Cathlin. They won't bite.” He took in her pale face and the glistening in her eyes. “Besides, you look spectacular in amber satin. Let me introduce you.”

“I can't,” Cathlin said flatly. “It was an abstraction before, just a name and a place. But seeing the three of them here, so happy, and knowing this is where it all happened…” She swallowed. “I'm not up to this.”

“You would hurt Nicholas unbearably if you left now.”

Cathlin brushed at her eyes. “Maybe I would hurt myself unbearably if I stayed.”

“It never pays to run from shadows.” Dominic pulled her hand under his arm and tugged her forward. “Another one of Ashton's laws.”

 

“T
WO WERE GRAY AND TWO
were black with white spots. They were squirmy and soft and all covered with straw.”

Cathlin sat by the windows an hour later, Genevieve Draycott beside her describing the nine baby kittens they had just discovered mewing in the old stables. The viscountess sat nearby, radiant in a simple Thai satin sheath as she watched her five-year-old daughter charm the room.

“I think it's time we put Archibald to bed, don't you think, my love? He looks very sleepy.”

Genevieve looked down at her battered stuffed turtle. “Archibald doesn't look sleepy to me.” She frowned. “I think he would like to stay up and have dinner with the grown-ups tonight.”

The viscountess ruffled her daughter's curls. “Did he tell you that? But what about the nice bed we've made for him in Uncle Michael's old fishing basket? I'm sure Archibald will want to try that out.”

Genevieve brightened. “Oh, I forgot. Let's go right now.” She took her mother's hand and smiled at Cathlin. “Maybe I can show you the kittens tomorrow.” Her brow furrowed. “If
you're still here, that is. Papa said you might not stay for long.”

Cathlin felt a pang of regret. “I'd love to see them, Genevieve.”

The little girl's head cocked. “I like your eyes. They remind me of a ring Papa gave me. He told me you can see all kinds of wonderful things frozen inside it, and that if I look very hard, I can look right back into the past. Archibald and I do hope that you'll stay to see our kittens.” With that, the girl skipped from the room, Archibald dragged carefully behind her.

Cathlin's throat tightened, burning with tears shed long ago. She had to go. She had to leave this beautiful, unbearable room before—”

“Ms. O'Neill, a toast.” Nicholas Draycott was holding out a fragile Murano glass goblet. The rippled design, spun diagonally, shimmered in the candlelight. “It's not a Château Climens '71, but I think you'll enjoy this particular champagne.”

Cathlin gave a jerky smile and accepted the fragile vessel.

“To the return of old friends,” Nicholas said, raising his glass. “And to the welcome of those who will become new ones. While you are here, my home and everything in it will be at your disposal.”

Crystal clinked. Candles glowed. The champagne slid down Cathlin's throat, velvet and fruity and flawless. A Roederer Cristal '77, intense, full and sweet.

It might as well have been vinegar.

The pain in her chest grew and grew. As if from a distance she heard Nicholas Draycott clear his throat. “And now, I have something I must tell you both. I'm afraid that Gabriel left another condition in his bequest.”

Dim, so dim, Dominic's muttered surprise. A tight, sharp question. Cathlin didn't hear, walls heavy and looming, her head hammered by memories still formless.

“Seven days…abbey…”

Dominic's voice, louder this time. Sharper.

She could barely hear. Her throat was burning and Cathlin was afraid she was going to be sick. Get away—had to get away.
Mother, where are you? I'm alone and afraid and you're not here. Where are you? Why is everything so quiet?

Her fist pressed at her mouth, holding back tears, holding back pain, holding back fifteen years of stark shadows.

“Together…very specific. You must pass one week here in the manner of husband and wife…”

Dominic's voice rose to a harsh curse. “…should have told us…utterly ridiculous…”

Cathlin heard no more. Pushing unsteadily to her feet, she shoved past the drifting curtains, past the rose petals strewn over the flagstones by the wind, and out into the blessed darkness.

“Cathlin.”

She turned away, her legs curled on the damp lawn, her cheeks slick with tears. “Go away.”

“We've got to talk. Then I'll go away.”

“It's too late to talk. You knew. You
knew
about that stipulation of Gabriel's, damn you!”

Dominic's voice tightened. “I didn't know. Turn around and look at me, Cathlin.”

“Go away. Go away forever.”

“No.”

Cathlin stumbled to her feet and shoved past him. He caught her at the cool weathered granite of the abbey's south wall. Near their feet the moat gurgled softly and a pair of swans left tracks of silver in their wake.

“It's not too late. Talk to me now.”

“You want a peek, is that it? You want to see the tears and touch the pain. You want the full spectacle, blood and all.” Her cheeks glistened, silvered and wet in the moonlight. “Well, you can't. No one can, not even me. It's all locked away somewhere, deep in a place where even I can't find it. All that's left is a hole,
Dominic, a great jagged hole that tells me something's missing. Only God help me, I don't remember what.”

She twisted, her face to the cold stone. Dominic turned her slowly, his fingers gentle at her waist.

“Let me go.”

But he didn't release her, and Cathlin shoved at him wildly. Her fists tightened, hammering at his chest.

And he let her. Silent. Thoughtful. Unmoving. His eyes full of an emotion Cathlin didn't want to see.

After a long while she caught a ragged sob. Her hands slowed, then sank to her sides. “I miss her. Oh, God, I miss her every second, every hour.” She took a ragged breath. “I'm an adult. I have charge cards. I know about balloon rates and term insurance. I handle wines worth hundreds of thousands of dollars, and here I am crying like a fool over something that happened fifteen years ago. Something I can't even remember.”

Dominic's fingers wound through her hair. “She was your mother, Cathlin. Bone and blood memories like that don't go away. Maybe they just get buried.”

“Why, Dominic? Why did he plan all this in that will of his? Why does he want us here together for a week?” She shivered. “Sometimes I almost think he's here, watching us.”

“Because the tragedy never really ended, Cathlin. Gabriel knew that better than anyone. Maybe it's up to us to end it by finding out the truth. That could be why he wanted us here.” He brushed her cheek. “The bottles are authentic, aren't they?”

“A complete chemical analysis and corroborative research will take weeks, but I can tell you the answer already. Oh, yes, they're real and they're nearly priceless.”

Dominic let out his breath slowly. “If we don't agree to go along with the stipulations of the will, Cathlin, Nicholas has to dump that wine into the moat.”

“He can't!”

“But he will. He's absolutely serious about all this. It was the last expressed wish of a dying man—possibly a murdered man. Nicholas is dead set on honoring every single word.”

“But then—” Cathlin closed her eyes. “I still can't.”

Dominic eased a damp strand of hair from her lips. As his fingers brushed her mouth, he cursed softly. “Cathlin,” he whispered.

“Yes?”

“Heaven help me, I want to…”

Kiss me.
Cathlin's heart did a funny lurch in her chest.
Please. Now. Before I can think.

His fingers slid around her neck. His eyes burned, all smoke and jade, but he gave her time to move away, to pound his chest, to curse him for a blasted fool.

None of which Cathlin did. Somehow her hands were wrapped around his lapels and she was easing him closer.

“Cathlin?”

“No. Don't talk.”

Their lips hovered, brushed, fitted lightly. It was like coming home, only a thousand times better, deep and sweet and full.

“I'm…sorry.” Her words melted over his open mouth. “About hitting you.”

“I'm not. I think that particular storm—” a pause to lick the ridge of her lip with his warm tongue “—has been too long coming.” He slid his legs between hers, pulling her into his heat. “And I'm very, very glad that it broke over me.”

“I won't do it.” Cathlin's voice was husky, lost in arousal as he moved against her, smooth and slow and perfect. “Not here. Not for a week. I can't, Dominic.”

“Then you can't. Finished. End of lot, end of category.”

“Why aren't you shouting at me?”

“Because I'm far too busy kissing you, Irish. And damn, but you're good to kiss.”

Her fingers eased into his hair. “I…am?”

“Wonderful.”

“Dominic?”

“Hmm?”

“I tried to hate the abbey. I tried so hard, but I couldn't. It's too beautiful and there's too much love here. But there are shadows, too. I try to tell myself it's just me, and then I see something flicker out of the corner of my eye. I catch the hum of a voice or a hint of fragrance and I wonder is it her, is it some memory, or am I simply losing my mind.”

“Irish, one of us here is losing his mind, and it isn't you.” Dominic eased away, his body too hard, his eyes too hot. “You're not losing anything. It's coming back, don't you see? That's bound to hurt at first. Maybe you don't have any more choice about how or when it comes.”