Love Entwined (37 page)

“When did this happen to the captain?”

He shook his head. “Not Captain Cardiff. Grandfather Ian. This log is dated May sixteenth, nineteen sixty-four.”

“Your grandfather knew of them,” she murmured. “Roman, he was a warrior.”

“His ship washed up on the rocks in England after a storm on May twentieth, nineteen sixty-four. This is the journal from that ship. Guess where I found it.”

“Castle Zuoz.
Mon dieu, il Dragone
would have survived the shipwreck, but knew he wouldn’t. They killed him.”

He placed the volume in the cabinet. “They came to England and disappeared into society. Grandfather Ian was the last ship’s captain in the family. That’s how the Cardiffs were able to search for these beings. I don’t think my father knew about them, he would have told me.”

“Giles Cardiff was an artisan in this life, like me. Maybe your grandfather knew that.”

“I was ten when Grandfather Ian died. If he ever planned to tell me about the life of a hunter, he never had the chance. What are these beings? Vampires?”

“In a way, but not exactly. They can live forever with the blood of the First. That blood mingled with the blood of sacrifice keeps them alive. The First is still a mystery to me. I don’t remember how he originated. I’ve learned through the ancestors that he is much older than us, and has always been there.”

Roman opened the second volume, showing her a page that was virtually undecipherable. “Dr. Frein has researchers going through other books we found. I’m told that they chronicle events. There are volumes on the Romans and some ancient blood-drinking evil being. I can’t read any of this, but a few names. Aurelius, Pretorius, and last, but not least, Romanus.”

She took the book from him, scanning the pages. “Aurelius and Pretorius. Do you remember who they were?” When he shook his head, she said. “Warriors who live in the light. Your line is so very old, and blessed. While I am from darkness. I am tainted.”

“Beauty, after what you did at Castle Zuoz, you are a warrior of light.”

Kingston Abbey, North Yorkshire – June 22, 1988

The vicar led them out the back door and around the side of the abbey. He pointed in the distance to a huge, old tree with gnarled twisting limbs spread wide.

“I won’t be able to hold them off for very long.” The vicar chuckled. “The photographer is a bear.”

Roman and Amelie walked hand-in-hand along the stone path toward the ancient elm. Just out of sight of the vicar, he stopped and bent to her lips. It was not enough that he’d spent the better part of the night making love to Amelie; he was hard for her still.

The white satin of the old wedding gown hugged her luscious curves. The Cardiff sapphire and diamonds lay nestled between her breasts, which were encased in a strapless fitted bodice, a renovation in the old gown. The diamond studded gauze overskirt added a bit of modesty to the gown, but the provocative sway of Amelie’s hips belied the effect.

In that moment, he saw her in Harold’s office when he’d met her for the first time. Her fiery spirit hidden behind the no-nonsense armor of professionalism. She had been wary of him then. Still encapsulated in an air of girlish naivety, she was unaware of the potent sensuality she exuded with every movement.

Now her emerald eyes were incandescent with love as she looked up at him. He saw what he meant to her and thanked a higher power for his good fortune.

They continued and searched the newer gravestones, clean, polished granite adorned with little bouquets.

When they reached the older, weathered gravestones containing old family names of the county, Amelie let go of his hand and moved ahead to read the names on the stones. Olden, Smythe, Collins, Warrick, Hawthorne. Down several more rows, there were Cardiff gravestones.
Garrick William Cardiff, died 1921…Colin Cardiff, died 1884…Captain Roman Eric Cardiff, died 1834
.

He shook his head. “The captain was seventy-five years old when he died. All those years without her. No wonder he spent so much time at sea in the jewel trade and looking for
il Dragone
. But he would never get them all.”

When she knelt at the graveside, he held her skirts above ground. “Beloved husband and father.” She touched the carved words on the headstone. “How many children did he and Gwenyth have?”

Kneeling beside her, he lifted one of the red-gold locks that fluttered at her ears in. “Five children. Two boys and three girls.”

“
Très bien
.”

“Oh, I think we can do better than that.” He arched a thick brow, and lifted her up.

At the end of the row was the ancient elm. The old limbs bowered over a single gravestone.

Jacqueline Bouveau St. Clair, June Twenty-Second, Seventeen Sixty-Eight – August Fifteenth, Seventeen Eighty-Nine, My Beauty

He pulled her into a hug and kissed her. “Happy Birthday, Mrs. Cardiff.”

“We have been given a second chance,
Capitaine
.” She hugged him until the vicar called.

“We’d better go. Dylan is waiting to throw that rice in my face.”

They walked back up the path into the churchyard where the wedding party waited.

* * * *

It was a beautiful spring day by the Seine.

Margaux trotted ahead on Tatiana. Jacqueline trailed behind on Anouk, watching the family of mallard ducks glide across the bank among the reeds. The beautiful Arabians were well-mannered companions as they nickered to each other. A gentle breeze lifted their pale manes and drifted up to play in the folds of the girls’ white lawn dresses. Bright green stalks of grass by the water’s edge were a striking contrast to the tranquil indigo blue of the river.

The painting was a vibrant rendition of their morning rides together, their time alone to whisper secret dreams and wishes. A young girl’s vision of sweet, long ago memories captured by her mother on canvas, a cherished memorial to their unfinished lives. It was yesterday to Amelie.

A tear coursed down her cheek as she plucked strings on the gold harp standing before the painting in the Blue Room.

Jacqueline would have spent a lot of time drawing within these walls of blue satin had she lived to see this mansion her beloved built for her.

This was her room now. After breakfast when Roman went to his study, she mulled over new designs while Baroque classics played in the wall unit Roman had installed for her.

St. Clair Manor was home. They had gone through the attic of forgotten treasures, and now almost every room held a memory.

This morning she had searched the galleries for two portraits. She came upon the portrait of Gwenyth Morrison Cardiff first.

She had expected Gwenyth to be beautiful and she was not disappointed, it just wasn’t physical beauty. Gwenyth had a kind face, a generous mouth. Though the straight brown hair was in a severe bun, it accented her high cheekbones. It did not take away from the happiness plainly etched on her face. Gwenyth had been in love with Captain Cardiff.

She felt no jealousy toward the captain’s wife, only gratitude. Gwenyth must have made a good companion and mother to his children through all those years.

The second portrait Amelie found was of Roman’s mother. Celeste Cardiff wore a yellow satin halter-top gown of the 70’s. It showed off her hourglass figure and the color was striking against the wavy, black curls framing her face. The large emerald teardrops dangling from her ears set off eyes of the same color.

The earrings matched her own design, worn the night Roman had taken her to dinner at the Russian Tea Room.

No wonder he had thought her a thief. Her jewelry was an exact copy of the Cardiff set. Her psyche had been communicating imprints of her previous life through the designs, the artistry, which followed her from one life to the next.

She retrieved her leather clutch from the top of the white baby grand, catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror.

Workaholic?

No, the woman in the mirror had an empowered stance that said she was cherished, with a little something extra; now this woman knew how to have fun.

The door opened. The fun had only just begun.

“Beauty, I thought I’d find you in here.” Roman wrapped his arms around her. When he kissed the top of her head, she leaned back in his arms.

“
Mon cœur
, how did your mother die?” She knew it was a sore spot with him. He had never told her and now she waited, hoping the time was right.

“In childbirth. My parents tried for years for another baby, but she had a hard time of it. I remember how happy they were when she went full term, but it was too much for her. A stillborn girl.”

She turned in his arms and hugged him. “You were just a teenager when she died. I am sorry.”

“No, love, no more tears. Everything is the way it should be.” He looked up at his mother’s portrait. “You resemble each other, you know.”

“Is that why you want me?”

He tickled her.

“I’m kidding!” She turned in his arms and kissed him.

He looked up at the painting of Jacqueline and Margaux on the Seine. “Memories?”

“Wonderful memories.” She buried her face in his chest, inhaling his cologne, the scent of woods and spices, through the open neck of his blue cotton shirt. “Hmm, you’re not just a stuffed shirt, after all.”

“And you are not the prude I kidnapped. What have you done with her?” He burrowed nose-first into the top of her dress. She batted at his curls, but that wasn’t much of a deterrent. The knock on the door was.

“All ready, sir,” James called.

“I don’t doubt it, James,” Roman called back.

“I bet James is grinning like a Cheshire cat out there,” she said.

“Are you ready to go? The natives grow restless.” He referred to the throng of guests waiting outside in the courtyard to see them off. After a weeklong wedding celebration at the manor, many were still there.

Not a total surprise; they were late and James would have to put the pedal to the metal to get them to the airport on time. It was a tough job and he was just the man for it. They were going to India for their honeymoon.

“I guess we’d better go face the music.” She put her hand in his and they strolled out to the courtyard.

St. Clair Manor, North Yorkshire, England – August 15, 1988

Amelie fell back onto the blanket in peals of laughter as Roman nudged her tank top up with his nose and bit her stomach.

This morning they had ridden Titan and Blue Belle to the bubbling brook in the hidden dell. She was so ticklish that she would never gain the upper hand in this union, if it had ever crossed her mind to do so.

She swatted at him and pulled her tank top down. “What if they are watching us?”

“Security won’t intrude. But I suspect I will get nowhere with my conscientious bride if I don’t put her mind at ease.”

“I am afraid so.”

He scooped her up, slung her over his shoulder and carried her to the small lodge on the other side of the brook. He took a key out of his pocket and opened the door.

She twisted around. “You came prepared.”

“I thought I might have to resort to drastic measures to get you alone.”

“We were alone for a month on our honeymoon,
capitaine
.

“I was just congratulating myself on managing to drag you out of the drafting room for so long. Now it becomes necessary to hold you prisoner in a hunting lodge to have my way with you. Next, I suspect you will be angry if we are late for The Renaissance Collection’s gala launch and showing in New York this weekend. You’ll probably start spouting those creative French curses you think I never hear whenever you find another one of your ‘original’ creations in the vault. But that is a small price to pay for your treasures, my sweet. And besides, who knows how many Cardiffs were conceived in this lodge over the years?” He gave her bottom a little pat. “I’m about making an heir.” He kicked the door shut behind them.

“What if they saw us come in here? They will know what we’re up to,” she teased.

He deposited her onto the cot against the wall. “Then they will bloody well stay away, won’t they?”

“Do you have lights in this torture chamber?”

“There is enough for my purposes.” With his chin, he gestured to the small window high up on the wall before pulling off his shirt. With that, he pounced on her.

She giggled and lifted up on her elbows to scan the interior. “Not bad for a rendezvous.”

There was a utilitarian sink in one corner and shelves in another, which held all manner of riding paraphernalia. The place smelled of leather and polish.

He refused to oblige her with any more small talk and gave her a playful shove back down onto the cot. He pulled her tank top over her head and continued where he had left off at the brook, kissing and licking her all over.

She quieted, playing with his hair, enjoying the feel of his lips against her skin. Unzipping her jeans, he nestled between her legs.

Before she dissolved into exquisite sensation, she lifted his head and pushed him down on his back. Now she straddled him. She worked his jeans down his legs until his manhood stood at attention and ran her fingers along the length.

He reached for her.

She pouted and he sighed, lying back with his arms cradling his head. “All right, you want to play.”

She held his gaze and she ran her tongue up and down him in slow, tantalizing motions.

“Sweetheart…” He jerked when she kissed the swollen, purple tip of him.

She continued the assault, massaging him, and when her lips took the place of her hands, he closed his eyes. She pulled on him with her lips, rubbing a bit of his buttery essence over them. When she licked her lips, he grabbed her.

“Come here.” He picked her up and brought her down on him.

She braced her hands against his chest, and moved her hips, drawing an appreciative grunt from him. She moaned as he pulsed inside of her.

Now that he had her where he wanted her, he would wait no longer. Grabbing her hips, he guided her into a faster rhythm. They came together, and the release was almost painful in its pleasure.