Lady of Seduction (5 page)

“She died, miss,” Maeve whispered. “During a storm just like this one. She fell from the tower down onto the cliffs. Or at
least they say she fell.”

Caroline shivered in a sudden rush of trepidation. “You mean she was—pushed?”

“Mick, who was a footman here and Bessie’s beau, he got to drinking at my mum’s one night, and he said she wouldn’t have jumped
like that. Not being a good, religious girl like she was. He said…” Maeve glanced over her shoulder, as if to be sure no one
listened, and then hurriedly whispered, “He said Bessie was afraid of something.”

“Like what?” Caroline whispered back.

“He didn’t know. But he thought it had to be the master. There have been such wild tales, miss, ever since he came here all
those years ago, all scarred like that. And he prowls the beaches in the middle of the night like he’s watching for something.”

Caroline closed her eyes, and a sudden vision flashed in her mind. Grant stalking along the ramparts of a tower, lightning
sizzling in the sky above him, a dark cloud whipping around him as he came near a girl who shrank back against the stones.
He reached for her, and she cried out…

Just as Caroline had when the warehouse caught fire.

She opened her eyes and curled her trembling hands into tight fists. “Do you believe such tales, Maeve?”

Maeve shook her head, but Caroline could see the shadow of doubt still lingering in her eyes. “Mick was drunk, miss, and grieving.
He went away to work on the mainland, and Bessie was buried in the churchyard. The vicar said it was all an accident, and
no one else has proved anything else.”

“And that’s why you came to work here? Because you don’t believe the stories?”

Maeve shrugged. “My mum didn’t want me to take the job, but there’s no others to be had on the island and we
need the money. I have brothers and sisters, my da was a fisherman who died at sea, and the master pays very well. I’ll say
that much for him.”

“But you see—Bessie sometimes?”

“Oh, no, miss. I just hear things sometimes, like voices behind the walls. And once I saw a flash of light on the tower walkway…”

“Maeve!” a stern voice said. Startled, Caroline twisted around to see a tall, hard-faced old lady clad in a black, silk gown
standing in the doorway with a tray in her hands. It had to be the ear-boxer, the housekeeper Mrs. McCann.

“There is no time for gossip, Maeve. You still have the fire to do in the library and the drawing room to dust,” Mrs. McCann
said.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. McCann,” Maeve stammered, stuffing her brushes and rags back into her bucket. “I’ll see to it right away.”

Caroline slowly rose to her feet. She was still dazed from hearing Maeve’s dramatic tale, but she tried to be as dignified
as possible in her oversized, borrowed nightgown.

“It was my fault,” Caroline said. “I asked Maeve about the history of the castle and distracted her from her work.”

Mrs. McCann’s flinty eyes narrowed as she plopped her tray down on a table. “You can read about all that in the library, my
lady, where I am to take you once you have finished your breakfast. The books will tell you a great deal more than some silly
housemaid.”

Maeve bobbed a hasty curtsy and dashed from the room. Caroline’s curiosity still burned about Bessie and all the island tales
about Grant and his life here. She had the feeling Mrs. McCann would not be nearly as forthcoming
as Maeve. Whatever her reasons for taking a position here, she was obviously a well-trained housekeeper.

“So I’m to be allowed to see the library?” Caroline said. She sat down at the table as Mrs. McCann poured out a cup of tea
and uncovered bowls of porridge and racks of toast.

“As soon as you eat and I send up some clothes for you, my lady,” the housekeeper answered. “You’re to be allowed to go anywhere
you like, within reason.”

“That’s very generous of Sir Grant,” Caroline murmured, thinking of the way he locked her in last night. Perhaps she was not
meant to be a complete prisoner after all.

“I wouldn’t recommend going beyond the main rooms, my lady,” Mrs. McCann said. As Caroline set about buttering her toast,
the housekeeper inspected the fire and the dressing table where Caroline’s borrowed brushes were laid out. “The library and
drawing room should be fine once Maeve does her duty and airs them out, and I’ll have the dining room set to rights. But little
else is fit to be seen. We simply haven’t the staff to keep this place presentable for surprise guests.”

And yet Grant had said he was expecting company. Very odd. “What about the tower?”

Mrs. McCann gave her a sharp, frowning glance. “The tower, my lady?”

“It looks most intriguing.”

“It’s quite derelict, my lady. No one goes there, not even Sir Grant.”

“I see. And where is my host today?”

“Sir Grant has gone to the village. He probably won’t return until evening, if then. He never informs us as to his plans.”

Caroline looked at the window, where the rain still pelted the glass. It had to be past midmorning now, but all she could
see was steely-gray sky. “He went out in this?”

“If one waited for the rain to stop before one went out on Muirin Inish, my lady, everyone would stay inside all the time.”
Mrs. McCann strode back to the door, the keys at her sash jangling. “If that is all, I will leave you to your breakfast while
I arrange for bathwater and clothing to be sent up. Maeve can change the bed linens while you’re in the library so she won’t
annoy you with her prattle.”

Once she was gone, Caroline took her teacup with her to the window and peered out. There were still the jagged rocks and wild
froth of the ocean far below, even more stark and cold in the light of day. She could see nothing of the horizon through the
mist. It was as if the world had vanished, leaving only the enchanted land of Muirin Inish.

She twisted her head to the side and glimpsed the tower at the edge of the house. Its ramparts were also wrapped in the mist,
like bits of ragged gray silk caught on the old, crumbling stones. It seemed the ideal place for a sad ghost to haunt.

Caroline trembled and turned away from the tower. She had always been drawn in by a dramatic tale, beginning with her nanny’s
childhood stories of ancient Irish heroes, gods, fairies, and witches, the more blood and tears the better. She’d never been
able to escape that fascination with tragedy and grandeur, so different from her own quiet, studious life.

It was that fascination that led her to working on her book, and to Muirin Inish—and back to Grant Dunmore. But she had to
remember her work now,
The Chronicle
.
It was her reason to be here, not ghost stories. And definitely not Grant Dunmore’s golden-brown eyes.

“And here is the library.” Mrs. McCann threw open the double doors. “No one comes here except Sir Grant, so I fear it is a
bit musty.”

Her tone said that she was quite suspicious of
anyone
who would want to spend their time in such a place, but Caroline barely even heard. She drifted past the housekeeper into
the vast, enticing room.

The library was dark and full of drifting shadows. The heavy brown velvet drapes at the windows were drawn back, but very
little light filtered through the grimy glass. The fire in the grate drove away some of the chill and cast a small circle
of brightness over the worn chairs and settees gathered close to it. The carpet underfoot was so faded that the colors couldn’t
be deciphered, and there were no paintings on the paneled walls, only a seascape over the fireplace.

Caroline remembered Grant’s elegant library in Dublin, where glass cases were filled with glorious ancient treasures. That
was where she first saw
The Chronicle of Kildare,
nestled among the sheen of gold and amber objets d’art.

There were no cases of treasures here. Only books. Shelf upon shelf of wonderful books, so high that there were ladders and
stools to reach them. Caroline ran her finger over the leather binding of one volume, feeling the softness of it under her
touch, the supple pliability that said it was well read.

“Are you sure you won’t work in the drawing room, my lady?” Mrs. McCann said. “The footmen can fetch whatever you need from
in here.”

Caroline wasn’t sure yet
what
she needed, or where Grant might be hiding
The Chronicle.
The fact that he kept it away from her made her even more eager to see it. “No, I will work in here.”

Mrs. McCann sniffed. “As you wish, my lady. I will send in some tea, and more lamps if they can be found.”

“Thank you.” Caroline waited until the door clicked shut behind the housekeeper before she pulled the volume from the shelf.
It was a French text on astronomy. Interesting perhaps, but not much use for her project. She replaced it and moved on to
the next and the next.

The farther she went from the fire, the colder it became. The dark shadows seemed to wrap around her like a chilling wind
from the storm outside. She drew her borrowed shawl closer over her shoulders. She couldn’t imagine how Grant Dunmore, whose
palatial town house had been the envy of all Society, had lived so long in a crumbling, damp castle on an island in the middle
of the sea. The glitter and gossip, the battle for power and wealth, the life of the city had been such a part of him. Yet
here he lived like a hermit, or a demon locked up in an enchanted cell.

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Caroline whispered to herself. She was a somber widow, a bluestocking who everyone said must be immune
to fanciful romance. Grant had come here to nurse his wounds, and if he found he preferred solitary study to the clamor of
city life—well, she could understand that. She just wouldn’t have thought it of Grant Dunmore.

And the tragic tale of Bessie the housemaid—it was just a sad accident. Wasn’t it?

A loud bang of thunder rattled the windows, and Caroline jumped at the sudden boom.

“Surely anyone would become a little strange living in such a place,” Caroline said. She would just have to leave before it
affected her any more than it already had. She had to get away from Grant before
he
affected her any more. She was already talking to herself.

She stared at the row of books in front of her, but she could only see his face, gilded by the candlelight as he laid her
on the bed. She again felt his hands on her skin, so warm and strong. He had always been so handsome, almost otherworldly,
but the scars made him more human. They also reminded her of how ruthless he could be—how she always had to be careful of
him.

Caroline pushed away the thought of Grant, yet she couldn’t entirely push away the strange, almost frightening hold he had
over her still. She should not have come here. She came seeking
The Chronicle,
which she needed so much. But was it the only thing she sought on Muirin Inish?

“Of course it is,” she said firmly. She drew several thick volumes of Celtic mythology from the shelf and took them to the
table set up by the fire. She didn’t want to sit at the desk near the windows, which was surely Grant’s own. She wanted distance
from him, even when he was not there in person.

She managed to lose herself in the old, familiar tales of the Tuatha dé Dananns for a few hours, only pausing when Maeve brought
her tea and later a tray of sandwiches. The maid seemed embarrassed by her earlier confidences and scurried away as fast as
she could.

Caroline was still reading when the clock on the mantel struck the hour. She looked up, startled, and realized how much time
had passed. And Grant had not returned.

She stood and stretched her shoulders, stiff from bending over the books so long. The rain still poured down outside the windows,
and the sky looked even darker past the wavy old glass. What could he be doing out in such weather all day? Perhaps he was
as eager to avoid Caroline as she was to avoid him. But that didn’t mean he needed to catch a chill. The castle was so vast
surely they didn’t have to see each other at all.

But Caroline knew that if Grant was in the house somewhere, she would be drawn to see what he was doing. To see that he was
really and truly there after all these years.

She drifted to the window to stare out at the rain. The library didn’t face the sea as her chamber did. It looked out over
a tangled, windswept garden. Gnarled vines were twisted over narrow pathways, and flower beds spilled out from their borders
in sodden profusion. In the distance, through the mist, she glimpsed a little stone cottage. Pale light glowed from one of
the windows like a beacon.

Who was out there? Caroline determined that once the storm eased she would go find out. The island seemed full of mysteries
both great and small, just waiting to be discovered. The cottage, the tower, the ancient monastic ruins that she longed to
see…

Well, maybe she would not go up in that tower. It seemed too frightening even for her.

Caroline turned away from the window and went back to the bookshelves. Grant certainly had eclectic tastes in reading matter.
There were texts of ancient Greece and Rome, agricultural pamphlets, astronomy and chemistry,
myths and legends, Elizabethan poetry and plays. French novels. All the same books he had kept in his library in Dublin.