The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall (12 page)

“Are we going to meet Randolph?”

He shook his head. “I changed my mind. I’ll be taking you around the house today.”

She arched a brow. “I thought you had important things to do?”

“I still do, but this is my house, and you are my guest. It occurred to me that I should treat you as such.”

She let the matter lie, even though she wanted to question him and demand to know why he was putting himself in a situation that would bring them closer.

He led her down a set of stairs and into the old servants’ quarters on the first floor, which had belonged to the butler and housekeeper. From there he led her to a Gothic archway with a heavy wooden door. Several pairs of boots and umbrellas were nestled in a medieval cloister style rack near the door. Dust lined the wood and stone, but this particular part of Stormclyffe felt lived in. Black-and-white pictures of the castle’s grounds covered the wall opposite the umbrellas.

“My grandfather’s. He wanted to be a photographer. He ended up running the estate instead, but he left these photographs as a memory of what could have been. Sometimes I think this place is a graveyard of broken dreams,” he mused as he searched the coat rack. He found a brown canvas barn jacket with red flannel lining for Jane before he slipped on his own black peacoat.

“Your grandfather had a lot of talent. These are beautiful.” She nodded at the pictures. “It’s so sad he couldn’t pursue his dream.”

“It is,” he agreed.

“Sometimes people have to sacrifice the things they love the most in order to do what they must to help those they care about.” Her observation struck him deep. At his most unguarded moments, that was how he felt with her here. That if there were a Weymouth curse, he had to protect her against it. Like the other women the previous earls had…cared for.

They stepped out onto a vast stone balcony about ten feet above the ground. About thirty feet ahead, the stones cut off where a stone railing with two large urns on either side held planted flowers. Short staircases on the left and right sides offered access to the open fields ahead of them. She froze, her entire body caught up in strong sense of déjà vu. Beyond the balcony was a view of the sea. In the distance, storm clouds prowled low on the horizon. They would likely reach landfall in a few hours. The sun was still shining strong, and it warmed her face. Bastian lightly touched the small of her back, and she met his gaze.

“This way.” He ushered her down the steps, and they started off across the field toward the forest.

When they arrived at the edge of the wood, he made several odd clicking noises with his teeth and reached into his jacket pocket. He uncurled his closed fingers, and she saw a handful of sugar cubes.

“What are these for?”

“You’ll see.” His rich laugh was soft and made her think of last night in her bedroom.

He continued to make the odd clicking noises, and suddenly, black shapes emerged from the trees straight ahead.

“What are they?” she whispered, clutching his arm.

“They’re black fallow deer. They’re relatively tame.” His whisper danced through the air like a softly spoken spell. A large buck strode toward them, his antlered head held high, his dark eyes surveying them empirically as he seemed to debate whether they were worth the risk of drawing closer. Finally, he gave in, snorting and stamping as he approached, and his nose nuzzled Bastian’s open palm and the buck stole a couple of sugar cubes.

“He’s beautiful.” She sighed, lost in the dark magic of the creature before her.

“The herd has been here over two hundred years. Can you believe that?” He was gazing at the pair of does, which were delicately picking their way across the grass toward them. She felt enraptured by his look of childlike wonder.

God, he was handsome, but in that moment he was so much more than that. He was real, not an illusion or a dream. Something stirred inside her, and a question was upon her lips before she even had time to think about it.

“Bastian, when did you decide to come back here and restore Stormclyffe?”

He turned his attention away from the deer, and they vanished into the woods like black ghosts.

“April twenty-first, six years ago,” he replied without hesitation as though the date were burned in his mind.

She sucked in a shocked breath, and the cold air burned her lungs. No…it couldn’t be. The same day that Isabelle and Richard first met two hundred years before. And the same day and year she’d first seen a picture of Stormclyffe Hall. She wouldn’t forget that date ever, because it marked the start of her nightmares. The memory was still vivid. She’d been tucked deep in the undergraduate library stacks her freshman year, sneezing from the dust and losing herself in primary source materials.

It had been early one morning, and no one else was there, so when a soft little
thunk
came from behind her, she’d turned and there it was. A book had fallen off a shelf, landing at her feet, pages splayed open to a black-and-white picture of the castle on the cliff side. She took one look and knew her life would never be the same.

“What is it, Jane?” His hands settled on her shoulders, and he captured her focus, dragging her from her memories.

“That’s the day I saw the first picture of Stormclyffe and decided to research it.”

His brows arched in surprise. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

She shook her head. “No, I’m not. And it’s also the same day that Richard and Isabelle met…” She trailed off, and the pit of her stomach dropped as she realized her mistake. The diary. He didn’t know about the diary or the day his ancestors met.

“How do you know that?” His eyes narrowed, and his hands dropped from her shoulders down to her waist.

She swore she saw his mouth twitch, as if he were trying not to laugh, which made no sense. She tried frantically to backpedal.

“I…uh…must have read it somewhere.”

He bit his bottom lip, the evidence of a barely concealed smile so obvious now. He looked like a cat that had feasted on a canary and was eyeing the smattering of yellow feathers lying in front of his paws with satisfaction.

“Perhaps you read it say…in a journal?” His hands tightened on her waist as he urged her closer to him. Merriment danced in his eyes.

She jabbed an accusatory finger at his chest.

“You know! How did you find out?”

“I may or may not have found it when I knocked over your briefcase in the hall last night.”

Her face burned, and she bowed her head. She had stolen it for all intents and purposes and should feel guilty, even if she intended to give it back when she was done.

“I planned to tell you I found it. I just wanted to read it first, in case you took it away from me.” It was the truth.

“It’s fine, Jane. I put it back in your bag. You’re welcome to use it, on two conditions.” The sly look in his eyes should have been a warning.

“Oh? What are they?”

“You share with me whatever information you find out.” He ticked off his first demand with one finger.

“And?”

“And…” He pulled her flush against him and slanted his mouth over hers.

Chapter Ten

The kiss was drugging, deep, and full of heat. His hands wandered and hers explored as she let him steal the kiss. He made it so easy to forget the world and just surrender to sensations. She wasn’t sure how long they stayed like that, making out like teenagers desperate to get as much out of it as possible before one of them had the good sense to end it.

Cold little pricks stung her face and hands. Startled, she and Bastian broke apart as rain started to fall heavily around them. The clouds had rushed inland and opened up overhead. He grasped her hand and tugged her across the field.

“Come on, there’s shelter ahead.”

The rain-slicked grass made it difficult to run, and soon they were stumbling and laughing as they raced through the gardens. He led her down the path bordered by tall hedges, then took an abrupt right turn. Lightning laced the skies around them, and the only shelter nearby emerged in front of them. A dovecote. It was an octagonal building covered with ivy and roses. The thatched roof was solid and well kept despite its age. Thunder snarled around them like a pack of hungry wolves as they sprinted toward the structure. He grasped a wrought-iron handle and wrenched the door open. They stumbled into the darkness, and he closed the door behind them. The room was musty and smelled faintly of decaying roses. Tiny splinters of light came through the dove nesting holes at the top of the cupola.

She shivered, her wet hair plastered to her face. Bastian slicked his own hair back before reaching for her and enfolding her in his arms. With one hand, he tucked her head beneath his chin and just cradled her in his arms. God, it felt good. When was the last time she’d just been held? Tim hadn’t been much of a holder. She’d missed this though, the intimacy of a man with his arms around her. The last six months had been so cold and lonely, but she’d been safe from heartache. She burrowed closer to Bastian, relishing his heat and how wonderful he made such intimacy feel but dreading knowing it would have to end. They couldn’t keep doing this. One of them would break and give in and get hurt, and she would have bet her life that it would be her.

“Bastian?”

“Hmm?” He smoothed his hands over her back, and his cheek rubbed the top of her head.

“This looks like the place in my dream from last night.” Worry knotted inside her stomach as she waited for his reaction.

“When you mentioned the dovecote, I wondered if it was here. You must have seen it in a picture.”

She shook her head, breathing in his woodsy scent mixed with fresh rain. An addictive smell.

“No. I would have remembered. There aren’t any pictures of the gardens in any of the books, because the estate has been sealed off to visitors since your grandparents left.”

The storm raged outside but the stone walls of the dovecote held fast, and they clung to each other, quiet with their own thoughts. The dream flashed before her eyes again. Isabelle running through the gardens, her white nightgown fluttering behind her like a dove in flight. And the birds, so many white doves lying dead at her feet, their hearts ripped out. The image was burned in her mind, and fear exploded inside of her.

“Bastian, make me forget. Just for a while. Please.” She tilted her face up to his and kissed his chin, desperate to connect with him and lose herself in him. Even if it could only be temporary. When they kissed, he could help her escape the suffocating sense of fear.

“Jane,” he whispered helplessly, and then he took her mouth.

He backed her against the wall and rocked his hips against hers. His erection pressed into her stomach. It wasn’t enough. She needed him to be closer, to feel skin to skin. The sharp ache in her womb demanded he be inside her, filling her until they were fused together, wanting nothing more than that simple, primal connection. His lips trailed hot kisses down her neck, and he nipped her shoulder. She clawed at his jacket, and he started to shrug it off when a pale blue light filled the dovecote. The light blossomed, and the temperature around them dropped causing their breaths to emerge as thick white clouds.

“Oh my God!” she gasped, her heart slamming against her ribs, and then it was too late. White light flashed all around them, and then all went dark.

She blinked, trying to see. Pale light started to fade in around the edges, and she recognized where she was. Inside Stormclyffe Hall, in a room on the second floor, overlooking the dovecote and the gardens. Isabelle stood next to her with haunted eyes. She touched Jane’s hand and started to speak, her voice barely a whisper at first.

“Jane…Jane you must see… Why can’t you see? She’s here. She’s still here.” Isabelle raised a hand, pointing to the dovecote. Next to it, a spot of blackened earth stretched long enough to cover a body. The roses nearest the earth had withered and died.

“Who’s still here?” she asked, eyes locked on that abnormally dark soil.

“She is. The one who pushed me. You know, Jane. I chose you because you would know what happened to me. Blood of my blood, flesh of my flesh, you must stop her. You have to rid my home of her before—” Isabelle spun and faced the door to the room they were in and a bloodcurdling scream tore from her lips.

“Isabelle!” Jane turned to see what scared the other woman, and her heart stopped. There in front of her was a woman in a red cloak, her face decayed as though a flesh-eating disease had ravaged her beautiful features. She reached a clawed hand out toward Jane, and black eyes held red pinpricks which gleamed at their centers.

“You…” The raspy whisper felt like ice picks racking her eardrums. “You will die…as she did. The earl is mine…”

A black wind rose up around them, filling the room until only Isabelle’s screams and that awful rasping were mixed with the violent roaring.

“Who are you?” Jane screamed as claws raked her face and hands, drawing blood and scouring bone.

The woman in the red cloak laughed, and it sounded like the cackle of thousand demons from the darkest pits of hell. Jane reached for her necklace, and the second her fingers curled around it, it burned her, but she didn’t let it go.

“Jane!” A masculine voice broke through the roaring wind and abruptly the nightmare faded. She was back in the dovecote with Bastian, and her body trembled so hard, her bones felt like they were knocking together.

“Jane, what the bloody hell just happened? You were having a seizure, and you screamed. God, it was awful, and your face…” Bastian stroked his fingertips over her cheeks. Pain followed his touch.

“What do you mean, my face?” she asked, touching her skin. Raised marks met her fingertips.

“It looks like something clawed your face. But I was holding you the entire time, nothing touched you. The marks don’t appear to be bleeding, just welts.”

She could barely see his face in the dim light, but she could see enough to tell he was pale, and his brows were knitted together. She couldn’t tell him what she’d just seen. It was too insane. Dreams, nightmares, those were normal, excusable products of her imagination. This…this had been something else entirely. She’d feared the other dreams had been evidence of insanity, but this was proof. She wasn’t going crazy.

He cupped the sides of her neck with his palms and touched his forehead to hers, their warm breath shared. Gone was the icy chill and the cloudy breaths. Whatever had been here with them a few seconds ago had vanished.

“Jane, love, talk to me. What happened?” The way he said “love” with his British accent, melted her on the inside. She shut her eyes.

“You wouldn’t believe me. You’d probably think I was crazy.”

“Try me.” He kissed her closed eyelids, then the tip of her nose, and finally her lips. “Have a little faith in me, bookworm.” He smiled against her mouth, and she couldn’t help but smile back.

“You have to stop calling me that,” she replied, trying to chastise him, but it came out more teasing than anything else.

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?” Her body heated with desire.

“I need to remind myself who you are, that you are off-limits for me. But damned if I can’t keep my hands off you, even though I shouldn’t want you.” He sucked her bottom lip into his mouth.

“I shouldn’t want you either,” she replied before he distracted her completely. “Mmm…” She moaned in sheer pleasure, the frightening memories of minutes ago fading when he touched her. She was safe with him, well, all except her heart.

“Now,” he said between nibbling kisses. “Tell me what happened.”

With a shaky sigh, she gave in. “I saw Isabelle. She and I were in the castle looking down at the dovecote, and then this woman attacked us. She looked…horrible. Flesh was decaying and falling off her, and she clawed my face.”

He didn’t say anything for several seconds. “All right… There was no way you could have made those scratches to yourself. Who was the woman who did this?”

She shrugged. “I’m not sure who. Isabelle just told me to protect her home, and that this woman was still here. She said I was blood of her blood, flesh of her flesh. I don’t know what that means. And there was something weird about the dovecote. There was this blackened spot of earth, and all the grass and plants near it had died. Isabelle was pointing at it.”

“If you did see Isabelle, then that means the curse—” He brushed a hand over his suddenly pale face as he struggled for words. Outside the storm’s ferocity lessened.

“Blood of her blood? That implies kinship, family. Do you know anything of your ancestry?”

“A little. My family has always lived in Charleston on both sides of my parents’ lines. I know that one of my ancestors on my mother’s side was from England. Joseph Brax. He was the first to come over to America in my mother’s family, around 1820 or so.”

“Brax?” Bastian tensed.

“Yes.” She bit her lip and studied him.

“Jane, Isabelle had a younger brother. Joseph Braxton. He was often called Brax as a nickname according to letters we have from Richard and Isabelle.”

What he said took a moment to sink in. “Wait…you’re saying that I’m…related to you?” She covered her mouth, horrified.

He gripped her shoulders. “Jane, we’re several generations apart, from a distantly connected bloodline. But yes, we’re family. You are blood of Isabelle’s blood.”

For a second Jane just started at him. She and Bastian were related.
Related
. If it hadn’t been so many generations apart, she would have been freaked out. But then again, being related was…amazing. She was connected to Isabelle’s line.

“Okay, so we’re connected a common ancestry.”

“Yes,” Bastian said. “What else did Isabelle mention? You said something about a dovecote and blackened earth?”

A bone-deep chill burned through her as an awful idea surfaced.

“Bastian, you don’t think that…” She gulped, unable for a moment to voice the horrifying thought. “That maybe there’s a body buried there?”

He had been stroking her hair, but his hand stilled, and his fingers tightened in the strands.

“What makes you think it’s a body?” he asked.

She tensed. “Isabelle said I had to get ‘her’ out, and I saw this woman with a decaying face and blond hair. She was…horrifying. It seemed like Isabelle was frightened of her and wanted me to get her out of Stormclyffe. How would we know if there’s a body there?”

“There’s only one way to find out.” He gently set her aside and headed for the dovecote’s door.

The storm had melted into a heavy rain. He went outside and disappeared around the side of the building, soon returning to the doorway with an ancient shovel in his hand. She drank in the sight of him with his rain-slicked, golden hair. He glanced about on the ground and then looked back at her.

“Where did you see the spot?” he asked.

She moved into the doorway and pointed at the particular area she remembered all too vividly from the dream. With a heavy nod, he slammed the shovel’s tip deep into the earth and pressed his foot on the metal, using his weight to plunge it even deeper. Rain sluiced over his body and the cold earth as he dug. For the next hour, she watched in fear and silence as he continued to dig his shovel into the soil. When the hole was three feet deep and three feet long, he suddenly dropped the shovel and stumbled back a step with a guttural shout.

“What is it?” She crept out of the building and placed her hands on his shoulder.

He pointed toward the hole. Apprehension dug its venom-tipped nails into her spine as she crept to the edge and peered down. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle her scream.

Pale bones. Human remains jutted out of the blackened soil. Remnants of a red velvet cloak tangled with the dirt and white fragments.

“There are bones in my gardens,” he declared slowly. “Bones. Christ, what the bloody hell am I supposed to do? Call the police?”

She gripped his arm hard as she felt something foreign move through her, whispering to her.
“Destroy them. Cast them into the sea. She must not stay here any longer.”

“We have to get rid of them. Throw them over the cliff,” she urged.

“What?” He glanced down at her, startled. “No, Jane, we have to call the police.” He grasped her shoulders and shook her.

She cast the strange compulsion aside, ignoring the need to obey command to destroy the bones.

“You’re right. Of course, you’re right. They’ll need to process the scene.” She knew from the look of the cloak that the body wasn’t from this century.

“Come on.” He took her hand, lacing their fingers together and leading her away from the shallow grave.

…

Bastian was worried, more than he cared to admit. Jane was shaking so violently that her teeth were chattering, and he feared she might get ill if she stayed outside any longer. He would have the cook make her hot soup, and then he’d get into bed and warm her up, with his body if he was lucky.