Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (52 page)

D
OMINIC ROARED UP TO
Draycott's wrought-iron gates and leaped from the car. Instantly a uniformed figure moved to block his way.

“Sorry, sir. No one to go in or out. Strict orders.”

“Orders from whom?”

“James Harcliffe, sir.” The man looked nervous. As he spoke he bent down to finger the holster holding a standard-issue Beretta.

Dominic didn't give him a chance to finish. He didn't trust Harcliffe or anyone else at that moment. He spun sideways and flashed his leg up in the high, twisting
chassé
kick of
savate.
A sharp elbow parry followed a punishing right jab, and a clean follow-through brought his adversary into the full weight of his bent knee.

Dominic let him fall and took his Beretta, then ran grimly for the abbey. The moon hung like a chalk disk in the black night as he broke through the last line of trees. Now the moat lay just above him, ablaze with moonlight. When he looked up, a slender black form was silhouetted against the stark black line of the parapets.

Dominic knew as he stared upward that the bitter past was about to be repeated.

 

C
ATHLIN MOVED NEARER TO
the edge of the roof.

Pain burned through her palms and shoulder. She swallowed, feeling her hair flung by the wind, feeling her mind flung just as wildly by a rush of cruel memories.

Her mother. The park. The ducks quacking as they surged around her feet.

And then an older woman, her face first bland, then wrinkled and ugly with rage.

Joanna Harcliffe.

It all slid back into Cathlin's mind then, the angry words, her mother's white face as they'd left the park, though she'd tried to hide her fear from Cathlin.

That evening they had gone as planned to the abbey. The incident was forgotten until Cathlin awoke in the night and heard her mother's voice raised high in anger and fear. Cathlin had gone to the door, listening to the angry words of two women who had once been friends. With sleepy eyes she had seen a brawny man pulling her mother down the hall. Screaming, she had flung herself at him, only to be thrown back into her room with the door locked.

After that…only silence.

Only the horror of bleak seconds ticking past as she whimpered softly for the mother who did not come. Eventually she had cried herself to sleep, and when she awoke hours later, the house was still silent, but now her door was open.

She had run through the dark corridors, shadows at her back, calling vainly for her mother.

Then Cathlin found her.

Motionless, broken, silent, her body lay sprawled against the long grass by the moat. That image had shattered Cathlin's hold on sanity.

And the initial trauma was soon cleverly reinforced by Joanna Harcliffe's weeks of cold-blooded conditioning until the memories were completely blocked.

“Come, my dear, you are too slow. The edge is so near now. It calls to you, beckons you.”

Cathlin's fingers tightened. She had to fight the words and all those years of monstrous control. The pain had helped her begin,
but even now it was nearly impossible. The child in her wanted to obey, to do everything this gentle, kindly voice ordered.

Something brushed past her leg, sleek and powerful.

The cat.
The cat she'd seen that day beside the moat.

Cathlin swallowed, taking courage from the warm contact. She had to fight! With her past restored, she could finally have a future.

A future with Dominic.

“Yes. I'm—coming. But my foot is caught.”

“Where?” Sharp. The irritation beginning to show. “Let me see.” The older woman bent over, and as she did Cathlin shoved her away, kicking wildly at the gun.

Metal struck stone and then the night blurred, speed and shadow and cool moonlight bleeding together. A feline shape hurtled through the air, striking Cathlin's shoulder, ripping out with claws bared.

Fire burned in her arm. She cried out in pain and fell backward, striking the sharp granite of the roof.

And then only darkness. A darkness where cruel memories lay waiting.

 

H
ENRY
D
EVERE STOOD IN THE
candlelight studying Geneva's bound hands.

“Where is he? Where is
Gabriel?”

“He's escaped again, damn his soul. After he was shot, I had him transferred to a traveling carriage with two guards. But he tossed the incompetent fool outside, then jumped himself, no matter that the carriage was at the gallop. But I'm not worried. I know exactly where he'll head—to find you, my dear, right here at Draycott. And thanks to my story about the dreaded smallpox affecting the abbey, no one will be making any visits here. Now that Adrian Draycott has gone off to escort that impertinent American diplomat to sea, we will be quite alone here.”

“Monster!”

Devere only smiled coldly, playing with the lace at his cuff. “Now all we have to do is wait for your brave cavalier to return from France.”

 

T
WO DAYS PASSED
. T
HEN A
week.

Finally Henry Devere received the news he craved: the brave Englishman had returned from his daring French mission with a beautiful Englishwoman and her three children in tow and was already on his way out of London.

Laughing wildly, Devere half carried and half shoved Geneva down to the moat. Throwing open the gatehouse door, he made her stand before him on the abbey's little bridge, with his pistol against her back. There they had stood, while the minutes ticked past, both waiting for the man Geneva loved to come plunging through the gate.

Both knowing that he would die when he did.

Geneva's hands tightened.
Forgive me, my love,
she prayed.
Forgive me and know that this is the greatest gift I can give you. Accept it and remember that I shall love you always.

Beyond the gate came the sound of a horse plunging over gravel and then the hammer of boots.

Suddenly Gabriel was there, eyes wild, cloak flying. “Geneva! They said you had gone with Adrian and Jefferson. I've just left your sister in London and came as fast as I could. The wine is following by coach.”

Devere stepped into the moonlight, a pistol at Geneva's head. “So I find you again at last,
Ashton.”

Gabriel cursed. “You can have me, Devere. Let her go and you can take me where you like.”

Devere threw back his head and laughed wildly. “So simple? Come, this is hardly any challenge.” Slowly his face darkened with rage. “I've outplanned you at every step, and you'll not
elude me now! That reward will be mine, as all that money should have been already. I worked all those years in India, slaving for Thomas Russell in the savage heat. ‘Do your work well, Henry. Keep your accounts clear, Henry. Someday if you are very good, you will marry my daughter and all my money will be yours.'” Devere laughed wildly. “But he died before I could fix her hand in marriage, blast his soul.”

Gabriel saw his moment. He lunged toward Devere, who had stepped away from Geneva during his mad harangue. The blow caught Devere in the side and sent him hurtling backward against the granite bridge across the moat.

They struggled desperately, breaths hoarse. Then there was a blur of blue silk and the bark of a gun.

“Geneva,
no!”

But it was too late. She lay between them, blood staining the edge of her gown. Beside her lay Henry Devere, collapsed from the force of the rock she had flung against his head.

“You must go now.” Her voice was already growing weak. “Know that I love you, my dearest Gabriel, with every fiber of my soul until the very end of time.” She clutched at his sleeve. “You must go now. He'll be waking up soon!”

But Gabriel didn't move. He held her head to his chest as her breath slowly stilled and her blood leaked onto the cold granite.

He was still holding her locked to him, lost in a haze of pain, when Henry Devere's gun barrel swung down on his head and the world crashed into utter darkness around him.

 

B
RICK BY BRICK THE WALL
was raised. Bound and gagged, blood flowing from the gaping wounds Devere had inflicted, Gabriel watched without any flicker of emotion.

It was over. Devere had won, monster that he was. He was totally mad now.

But it mattered not, in truth.

With Geneva gone, Gabriel lost his own life and any hope of happiness.

“How does it feel to be caged, Montserrat? How does it feel to know the cold is climbing inside you and your blood stains the gray stones?” Devere moved clumsily before the unfinished wall, his face wild, demonic. “You'll make your tomb in there with that wine of yours, and Adrian Draycott will never be the wiser. When he returns he'll learn only that a wall of his cellar collapsed and had to be quickly buttressed with a new one.” Devere laughed coldly. “And in one week's time all London will be abuzz with the sad story of Geneva Russell, who was flung from the abbey roof by her love in a jealous rage. Yes, the story will be on everyone's lips. I'll see to that.” He stopped abruptly, his eyes anxious as he stared into the shadows of the cellar. “Who's there? Who's there, damn it?”

But no voice rose in answer. The only sound came from the mason's trowel, scraping new mortar over fresh bricks.

And then Devere's eyes darkened. His laughter echoed through the cold cellar, wild and ragged, as the last brick was set in place.

 

N
OW, TWO HUNDRED YEARS
later, Dominic Montserrat stood looking up into the night sky, into the moon that hung chill overhead, feeling his blood run to ice. Memories lay sharp upon him and once again he felt fate cheating him of all that he had ever loved and dreamed of.

Above him came a cry, then the slow, silent twist of a body as it plummeted from the parapets, end over end, to strike the stones at the edge of the moat.

Catching a wild breath, Dominic plunged toward the abbey.

 

I
T TOOK LONG, PAINFUL
seconds for her consciousness to return. There were stones digging into her fingers and a burning pain at her neck where the cat's sharp claws had ripped through her blouse.

Cathlin slowly opened her eyes.

Nothing but shadows. Nothing but darkness and pain.

Then memory returned, and with it the chill reality of the last hours. She sat up slowly and looked around her. The roof was empty—no cat, no Joanna Harcliffe. She put her hand to her head, brushing aside a line of blood.

She was struggling to rise when the door to the roof was thrown open and a tall figure appeared, silhouetted in the light from the stairs.

“Cathlin? Sweet God, are you there?”

“Dominic!” she cried hoarsely. “I'm here—waiting for you, just as I promised, my love.”

In the distance came the wail of sirens, then the roar of a car. Brakes screamed on gravel and a door was thrown open against the angry stacatto of urgent questions. Somewhere James Harcliffe's voice rose in a harsh rain of commands, countered sharply by Nicholas Draycott.

But Dominic and Cathlin heard none of it.

Their bodies were locked where they stood on the cool granite of the abbey's roof, a perfect purity of line against the burning silver light of the rising moon.

“Together,” Dominic said hoarsely, his fingers buried in her hair, his heart racing.

“Forever,” Cathlin answered softly. To the night. To the golden future. To the man she loved more than her very life.

Most of all, to the two lovers who had been parted here by tragedy so long ago.

And as she said the words, Cathlin felt the hole in her mind begin to close. The shadows she had lived with for so long now wavered and began to recede. She knew then that the circle had finally been broken and they had found their way home at last.