The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall (11 page)

Chapter Eight

Bastian let the journal fall to his lap. His eyes burned, and his throat was tight. He almost felt he had been there, the sea breeze playing with his hair as he kissed the only woman he would ever love, never knowing he would lose her in just a short while. Barely a year later, Isabelle would be dead, and Richard would follow her to the grave a few months afterward.

Goose bumps covered his arms. He flipped the journal closed and set it on the nightstand. He didn’t know what to think. The story of his ancestors’ lives filled these pages. Details of Isabelle’s death might be in here somewhere. No wonder Jane had ferreted the diary away. It was the perfect primary source for her dissertation. As a fellow historian, he knew its value and had to acknowledge the truth—that not letting her have this would hurt her research. The last thing he wished to do was hurt Jane.

But if he gave her this, it would open the door to his family’s darkest secrets. Could he do that? Sacrifice the protection of his family in order to give Jane what she needed to finish her paper? If he didn’t, she would lose the support of her committee chair on her topic and wouldn’t get her PhD. He didn’t want to be the person who stood in the way of her dreams.

She was a woman lost and doing her best to find a place that was hers. He understood that feeling all too well. Stormclyffe Hall was his refuge. Even though the place was shrouded in tragedy and its stones soaked with innocent blood, it was still the one place that was truly his. London had never felt the way the castle did. He loved the feel of the cold stone beneath his bare feet and the slightly salty taste to the air from the sea. This was his home. Perhaps it was Jane’s, too.

A laugh escaped his lips at the rogue thought. Jane, living here. What a foolish idea. It didn’t make any sense. She was a student at Cambridge, with a life there, and eventually she would return to America.

He eyed the journal ruefully and then got back out of bed. He took the book, went back out into the hall, slipping it back into Jane’s briefcase. When he straightened, he heard a voice, muffled voice on the other side of Jane’s doors. Ears straining, he listened to the sounds.

“No! No don’t leave me! Please, I cannot do this alone.” The voice belonged to Jane, but it was so full of despair and fear that he didn’t hesitate to act. He burst into her room. The meager light from the hall split a path in the darkness by the bed and revealed Jane thrashing wildly, her limbs tangled fretfully in her sheets.

“No!” she wailed sharply, and then her body seized violently.

“Jane.” He dashed to the bed and grabbed hold of her, dragging her coiled body into his arms. She slackened in his hold almost instantly and didn’t wake right away. He stroked the wild, dark waves of hair back so he could see her face. Her lashes fluttered like an injured hummingbird’s wings, and then she finally looked at him.

“What happened?” Her voice was hoarse as though she had been screaming for hours.

“You were shouting in your sleep.” He delivered the news gently, not wanting to frighten her further, but he hoped she would explain what had happened.

“I was?” She moved slightly, her body sliding against his. His groin tightened, and he held her closer as a wave of longing swept through him. He needed to let go of her. Any more of this and he’d give into his need to kiss her again.
Distance. Must keep my distance
.

One of her hands laid flat on his bare chest, the tips of her fingers were stiff and dug into his skin, like a kitten clinging to its mother. He couldn’t easily disentangle himself from her now, so he surrendered to the desire to soothe her.

“Were you dreaming?” His hands traveled down her back, soothing her with slow massaging touches.

“I think so.” She settled into him more, resting her cheek on his chest. That single point of skin-to-skin contact frayed his control.

He lightly pressed his palms into her lower back, and she stretched out on her bed and allowed herself to be tucked into his side. The position felt natural, as though he had done it a thousand times with Jane. It was so easy to be with her. He barely knew her, yet the press of her body to his eased the restlessness that always gripped him. In recent years, he had stalked from bed to bed of every beautiful woman he came across, refusing to linger with any one woman. Jane rooted him to the spot, like a sapling that had finally found a bed of earth deep and rich enough to support him. And he was going to lose her. She would leave at the end of the week, and he would never see her again.
For my family’s sake, I have to let you go.
The mere thought of it made his stomach twist.

Mine. She belongs to me. She cannot leave.
The voice that growled in the back of his head was not his own, but he had the urge to agree with it.

“Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” he asked, mentally pushing the strange voice aside.

He felt her give a little nod against his chest.

“I was following a woman in a white nightgown. She was running through the castle. There were shadows everywhere.”

“Did you catch up to her?”

She licked her lips. “Yes. She stopped in front of an old dovecote. When I got to her, she pointed at the ground, and all around her there were doves.
Dead doves
. Their little hearts ripped from their snowy-white breasts. The woman turned to me and she—”

“She what?” he prompted. His heartbeat pounded against his temples.

“She said, ‘By innocence bled beneath pale moonlight, the evil one has begun to fight. Touch not the heart of evil. Trust not the shadows. What once was broken must be mended.’ Then she was gone.”

Every bone in Bastian’s body seemed to burn. He blinked as a violent pain tore through him and just as quickly it was gone. His grandmother’s voice rang in his ears. It was her warning. The one Jane knew somehow and now had dreamed about.

“Jane—”

“I’m sorry I had a nightmare and woke you up.” She attempted to extricate herself from his hold, her cheeks red as she suddenly seemed to realize they had been cuddled together in her bed. He wasn’t ashamed of his near nakedness, but she was certainly aware of it. Her gaze traveled the length of his body, stilling on his bare chest for several seconds before she cleared her throat and turned her focus back to his face. A little grimace replaced her bashfulness. “You need rest. Your face…it looks like it hurts.”

Instinctively, she moved her hands up to his face and brushed over the tender flesh. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a bad dream.”

She looked away from him. “What if I told you it was more than just a bad dream? That I’ve been having these sort of nightmares for a few years?”

“I think they’re just dreams, Jane. Try to relax.”

She scowled at him, but there was hurt and betrayal in her eyes at his dismissal. It couldn’t be helped though. Better that she be angry with him than if she started to care for him.

Bastian swept his hands back around her waist, trying to draw her back down. He needed to have her lying next to him.

She bit her lip and resisted. “I don’t think this is a good idea. This is all too…” She waved a hand in the air in a helpless gesture.

He grasped her chin and angled it so she had to face him. “I’ve lived my life on bad ideas, and it hasn’t failed me yet.” He pulled her down and enfolded her in his arms. “Don’t think about tomorrow, Jane, none of it. It’s just you and me right now. Focus on that, and you will be fine.” Her muscles relaxed and she ceased her resistance.

The fire still burned in the hearth, and Bastian lay awake, watching the logs turn to white ash before he sensed Jane’s breathing lighten. She was sleeping at last.

Please, let her have no more nightmares
.

The sound and sight of her fear had forced a primal, protective instinct forward in him. With each little harm she suffered, it felt as though he suffered, too. He slid one of his hands into her hair, threading his fingers through the dark, silky strands. A throaty little purr escaped Jane, and she cuddled closer. In that moment there was no place he wanted to be but here in bed with his charming little bookworm who jumped at shadows and dreamed of women dressed in white. He didn’t know a thing about her, not anything he could claim by words alone, but he did know her somehow. Like a half-remembered dream that faded come dawn until it was only a memory of a sensation, a whisper of words, or a fleeting image from the corner of his eye.

“Who are you, Jane? I must know,” he murmured as the last embers of the fire perished and darkness reigned.

…

Her body was heaven. Nothing existed beyond her wild cries of pleasure and the pulse of fire that leaped in his own veins. Lost in a crimson haze of hungry passion, he devoured the sweetness of her mouth and sank into the most secret part of her body and soul until their essences seemed to become one being, not two. Their hands met above their heads, and he twined his fingers through hers, even as he kept her trapped beneath him. She was forced to surrender the control of their lovemaking, but he would see to it that this moment was everything she had ever dreamed of.

“My heart,” he growled against the soft skin of her neck and thrust hard into her. She quaked beneath him, her hips rising as she sought to get closer to his body.

“As you are mine.” Her breathless reply stung his senses and tenderness flooded his chest in a warm wave of satisfied longing. There could never be heaven anywhere else but where she was. He would have captured the moon and stolen a constellation of stars to lay at her feet if it would make her smile even once. No man had ever been so blessed as he was.

The passion and desire built like a steady blaze between them until there was no stopping, no slowing down, only the rush to the glorious end.

“Isabelle!” His lips broke apart with his cry, and every bit of strength failed him as he released his soul into her. Her own stifled scream of joy was throaty and thick with sated pleasure. He laid his head upon her breasts, gasping for breath. Her hand smoothed his hair back from his face as she softly panted beneath him. The intimacy of it was so wondrous that he felt like a young boy riding a horse for the first time across the sloping hills. He was free, but not alone. Isabelle was with him. Always. Forever.

Bastian woke with a start, his head pounding, his throat tight as he fought off a shout of despair. His chest was empty as though a thief had slipped a hand between his ribs and stolen his heart. A desperate longing filled that void with leaden weights, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

The dream. It was just that, a dream. He had dreamed of Isabelle and making love to her. A shudder racked him, and he cuddled Jane’s warm body closer. Was he a mad man or a fool for wishing the dream had been reality and it had been Jane who was his, sharing her passion with him? A cold sense of dread trespassed along his spine. She was not his, could never be his, and yet holding her like this was sheer devastation to him.

After Richard and Isabelle, the women who fell in love with the men of Stormclyffe always died, which was what had led to the myth of the Weymouth curse. Except his mother. Her life had been spared, whereas his father had died. Witnesses had reported to the papers that a woman had been seen near the crash, a woman in white, wandering along the deserted road. It had led to a frenzy of ghost stories. Time and time again, people had whispered that his father had risked his own life by coming back to the deserted castle all those years ago in order to trade his life for his wife’s to the dark fates that held the Carlisle family captive.

It was bad luck to have someone here purposely exposing his family history. And Jane, even with all her academic credentials, was still no better than a paparazzo with a pen rather than camera.

If Bastian had any sense, any real strength, he would slip out of this bed and leave her now before his feelings for her deepened beyond redemption. He was not his ancestor, and Jane was not Isabelle. He had no claim to the woman in his arms, and she had none to him, but Christ, he wanted it more than his next breath.

A sudden wellspring of hope roared through him with the force of a mighty gale. There was nothing to stop him from taking her and running to the ends of the earth to escape his family’s reputation. He could seduce her blind, sweep her off her feet, and never let her go. A hundred faces of women he’d been with all faded whenever he thought of Jane. They had been empty entertainments, mere phantoms compared to his Jane.

Was this how it had been for Richard? The undeniable pull, like planets to the sun, to be with this one woman? A passion stronger than any of society’s laws, a love deeper than the northern seas. There was no turning back, no walking away from emotions like that once he set down that path. Did he love Jane? No, not yet, but—

Jane stirred restlessly before settling back to sleep. Soon dawn would come, and he would show her his world. A world he wanted to share.

Soon
.

Chapter Nine

The empty bed woke Jane the following morning. It was as if Bastian’s absence had jarred her body awake. She didn’t know whether to laugh bitterly or shake her head. Last night she and Bastian had shared a bed, and she had loved every minute of it. And now he was gone. Again. Hot and cold. The man could write a book on leaving women confused. Of course, she was becoming the queen of mixed signals herself. Hadn’t she clung to him like she was drowning? Bastian probably couldn’t have escaped her death grip last night until she’d fallen to sleep. The image of him prying her fingers off his body wasn’t a flattering one.

She rolled onto her back, watching the gold beams of light through the half-pulled-back crimson moreen hangings. Birds twittered outside. The sound of their chatter was comforting. She loved birds. There had always been birds back home. It was something she missed when she spent time in London. Sure there were plenty of pigeons, but nothing replaced wild birdsong. She and Tim used to lie in bed late on Saturdays, listening to birds and the beat of each other’s hearts. Tears pricked her eyes, and she blinked them away.

It was no surprise Bastian had fled her bedroom. She’d confessed about the dreams last night, and he’d cut her off before she could fully explain. He obviously thought she was crazy, just like Tim had. Would she ever find a man who would believe her? Regret and shame turned her stomach into knots.

Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

But it had been so easy to talk to Bastian, to tell him everything that was in her heart and to share her fears.

The door swung open, and she sat upright. Bastian entered, nudging the door open farther with his foot as he carried a tray inside. A delightful breakfast of eggs, toast, and bacon adorned with a bright bouquet of wildflowers was presented to her with the solemnity and grandeur owed to a queen. A blush worked its way across her face, and her heart gave a treacherous little flutter of joy. He hadn’t abandoned her. She did not miss the mischievous twinkle in his warm brown eyes.

“Breakfast. I wanted to spare Randolph the stairs this morning. He gets a touch of rheumatism from time to time.” He set the tray down over her lap and then eased down on the edge of the bed next to her, leaning back against the pillows beside her in a pose of utter relaxation.

Trying to ignore the intimacy of the moment, she spoke up. “What about you? Have you eaten?” She was already reaching for the plate of toast to offer him a slice. She wanted to ask him about his original plan to avoid her; it had been such an obvious goal yesterday. Yet here he was, bringing her breakfast. The last time she’d questioned his intentions toward her, he’d shut down completely. She’d stay quiet if it kept him here and happy.

He shook his head and patted his stomach. “Already ate. I had a quick bite after I showered.”

Even though it was covered by a light gray sweater, she remembered too vividly the washboard abs beneath. She also remembered she’d kept her hand on those ropes of muscled steel half the night. The memory singed her insides.

He seemed to realize that he was lounging on her bed like a jungle cat, and suddenly recovered some of his manners. Sliding off the bed, he grinned sheepishly. “I’ll leave you to your meal. Let me know when you are ready for the tour.”

“Right, the tour. Thanks.” She was blushing, with no reason for it, but damn it, she was. It wasn’t like he would take her on the tour. Poor Randolph had that chore.

He paused by her bedpost at the foot of the bed, rapping his knuckles lightly as he hesitated. “How did you sleep?”

She blinked and dropped her toast. It knocked the knife off the plate and onto the tray with a loud clatter.

“Sleep? I…”

“I mean the nightmares. No more of them, I hope?”

“Oh no, no more. Thank you…” She could practically feel her face turning red again. “Thank you for staying with me. I’m not a scaredy-cat. I swear I don’t hop on chairs when I see mice or anything. It’s just…well…I believe this stuff. Stupid, I know. But I do believe.” She waited for him to accuse of her being insane, the way Tim had when she’d tried to tell him about how vivid her nightly dreams had become. Bastian didn’t do that.

He nodded slowly.

For a moment she couldn’t think. He’d changed since last night, and seemed more open, less torn by dark thoughts she couldn’t hear. Why?

Then he winked, and she reacted instantly and impishly threw a flower from the plate at him. He ducked, and the thick blossom sailed over his head.

“Fair enough.” He laughed. The sound warmed her right down to her toes and yet it hurt at the same time because it was too good to be true and was sure not to last. He headed for the door and closed it behind him as he left.

Her stomach turned, and an emptiness settled in her like a dead weight. Every time he left, something in her seemed to go deathly still, like she was trapped beneath a frozen lake, holding her breath until it hurt. She had warned herself to be careful around him, and yet her attraction to him was inevitable, as though her path to him had been written in the stars eons ago.

It would never work; there were too many problems. She suffered night terrors about his family home and refused to trust a man with her heart and her strange dreams and their connection to the past. He wanted nothing to do with anyone who believed in the Weymouth curse and seemed completely undone by her flashes of clairvoyance. Even if they could get past those surmountable issues, she was American, still knee-deep in her studies. He was a titled peer from a dying noble line. They were at different points in their lives. They made no sense on paper.

But when their hands brushed and lips met…a deep burn moved through her like the flowing of lava. It changed her in ways that were permanent;
he
had changed her. He made her want things, made her desire to live a life of passion and intensity, one outside her books and studies. Her careful, quiet life was undone by his kiss. A little shiver flushed her skin in a smattering of goose bumps, and she forced herself to eat her breakfast.

After a fast shower, she dressed in a cream wool sweater, light brown pants, and a pair of old riding boots from her equestrian days in college. They were snug but warm and perfect for marching around gardens and fields. As she meandered down the hall toward Bastian’s study, she combed her fingers through her hair, hoping she looked all right. Randolph had been nowhere in sight, so she might have to have Bastian point her to where she was going to meet the butler for the tour.

She paused at his study door, noticing it was ajar. Soft strains of classic seventies rock music filled the air. Her lips twitched. The man and his music. She couldn’t blame him. Some of the best songs came from the likes of The Doors and Jimi Hendrix. After placing a palm on the worn wood surface of the door, she pushed it open.

The study was, in a word, perfect. A laptop sat on a polished Chippendale desk covered in papers. Bastian sat in the desk chair, his back to the door as he worked. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace opposite the desk. On either side were two tall, dark wooden bookshelves filled with books, both ancient and new. A portrait of a man and woman holding hands and sharing a love seat peered at her from the gilded frame above the fireplace. The man and woman both resembled Bastian.

His parents. It had to be. Their clothes were modern, and the pose was sweet and romantic. Her heart fractured a little at the sight, knowing that such a love had been ended by Bastian’s father’s death. No wonder his mother wouldn’t come here, not if this place held such a wealth of painful memories.

Bastian hadn’t seemed to notice she’d opened the door. He shuffled some papers on his desk and tucked them away before turning back to a spreadsheet on his computer. She’d taken two steps inside before the tip of her boot caught on something lying near the door and she stumbled.

“Oompf!” Her palms smacked the stone floor as she broke her fall.

“Jane?” He spun on his swivel chair and took stock of her sprawled on the floor. He reached for her, helping her up and brushing her off.

“Sorry, I tripped over…” She glanced down at a pair of worn brown wing-tip shoes. They were large, but not quite as big as Bastian’s. She scrutinized the shoes carefully, they were unpolished and old-looking.

“Are these yours?” She pointed at the shoes.

Bastian immediately bent and picked them up, his hold protective and impossibly gentle as he set them on his desk.

“They were my father’s.” He rubbed at a light scratch on the left shoe’s toe and then with a sigh he stepped away from them.

She didn’t press him, but she sensed there was something important about them. He gestured for her to sit in one of the two wingback chairs opposite his desk.

“They were his favorite pair. Mother begged him to get a new pair, but he used to laugh and say, ‘Sweetheart, when something was made just for you, you should never let it go.’ Her eyes used to shine after he said that, and it wasn’t until I was older I realized he wasn’t just talking about the shoes.”

A sad expression darkened his eyes, and he gazed far away as though lost in bittersweet memories.

“Why did you mother remain in London?” she asked, even though she could guess the answer.

“This place scares her. My father died on the very road we drove last night. They found his car in a ditch the next morning.” Bastian’s face had turned ashen as he spoke, and Jane regretted asking him. Some pains were too deep to relive and survive.

“He was hoping to come back here and restore it. After he died, my mother refused to even mention Stormclyffe.”

And then Jane understood. The last piece of his puzzle fell into place. Bastian was trying to do what his father had wanted. Restore the ancestral home. Complete his father’s dream at any cost. It must have been a way for him to connect to his lost parent. Her gaze lingered on the worn pair of wing tips. A brush of warmth teased her face, as though someone had touched her cheek. Unlike the other frightening encounters she’d had in the castle, this moment was safe. A soothing, protective presence seemed to emanate from the general direction of the shoes. Oddly, the memory of that gardener she’d met yesterday came back to her. She’d felt the same way around him.

She reached reflexively for her necklace. Bastian leaned into her, catching the chain with his index finger and placing his other hand on the back of her chair behind her right shoulder.

“I showed you mine. Now you show me yours.” He used his finger to slide the necklace out of her sweater. Her own fingers were still locked around the medallion. It was so personal, this part of her, yet she owed it to him to share with him. He let go of her chair and leaned back against his desk, his long legs crossed at the ankles and his palms resting on the edge of the desk.

“It was my grandmother’s,” she said. “When she was sixteen she was in a car accident with her older brother. They declared her dead on the scene and rushed him to the hospital. She was taken straight to the morgue since they thought she was already dead and they had to get her brother in surgery. The hospital staff in those days weren’t as knowledgeable as they are now, and her heartbeat slowed down so much and was so faint that they’d thought she was gone. She woke up there a few hours later, terrified, but alive…”

Jane shut her eyes, awash with memories of Nonnie, the beautiful old woman who spun stories like tapestries.

“Nonnie told me about how when she was unconscious from the accident, she dreamed of a man with wings of light who slayed dragons. It made a lasting impression on her. When she was eighteen, she traveled to France and visited a monastery. She had this medallion blessed there.” Jane opened her eyes and lifted the silver pendant up so he could see it.

“It’s the archangel Michael slaying a serpent. She gave it to me when I turned seventeen and received my confirmation at church. I rarely take it off. It makes me feel…” She hesitated.

“Safe,” he said.

“Yeah. I know it sounds foolish.”

“No more foolish than me carrying around a pair of my father’s shoes. To each his own.” Bastian flashed her a genuine smile, not one of seduction or sadness, but simply a warm smile, one a friend would give. Were they friends? Could they be friends? She wanted them to be. Honestly, she wanted them to be more than that, but she couldn’t afford to think about it.

“Bastian, can we talk? Truthfully?” She held her breath, praying he’d agree.

A little sigh escaped him, and he nodded.

“What really happened in the drawing room when we first met? I mean, why do you think it happened? We went at each other like crazy, and we’d never met before.”

His stare moved to a spot on the wall above her head. “What do you think happened?”

“Honestly? I feel like something possessed me. It was all so distant in my head, and my body was just happily going along with the sensations. That’s never happened to me before.”

“Me neither. I also felt…distant, as though a puppet on strings. Please don’t take offense, it was fantastic, what we did, but the other times we…kissed…that was different. Infinitely more than what happened in the drawing room. Does that make sense?” He looked down at her again, his gaze searching.

“Yeah, the other times were amazing, beyond amazing. Do you think we were possessed, in the drawing room I mean?” It was the only thing that made sense, as scared as she was to consider the possibility.

“I don’t really believe in that sort of thing but…”

“But?”

“Maybe there is a weight to your unusual connection to Stormclyffe, to me.” He shoved away from his desk and held out his hand. “Let’s not talk about it any more today. You have a tour to take and a dissertation to write. Come with me.” He led her away from the study, and the flickering sense of warmth flooded her before it was gone.