A Night Of Secrets, A Paranormal Romance

by Lori Brighton

  “How can I not believe in God?” she whispered. “I have no one else.”

  Her words pierced his chest like a Russian sword. He searched her face, watching the tears slip down her cheeks and cursed himself for feeling guilty.

  “You have family.” More than he had.

  She laughed and swiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. He didn’t miss the way her fingers trembled. “Yes, I have a family, and as you said, they are completely reliant on me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to rest.”

  He felt the cad for mocking her. But mostly for making her realize she was alone in this world. But she needed to know the truth, needed to understand she could rely on no one. The sooner she realized, the better.

  “Meg.”

  She stilled at the bed, her back to him.

  Damn it all, but he couldn’t crush her hope. Not now. “Sleep well,” he said and moved across the room.

  He rested his hand on the doorknob and waited for a moment, one long moment. Merde, but he needed to get the truth from her, and fast before he no longer cared about his mission.

  Chapter 10

  Not a sound interrupted the silence. No creak. No groan. No footsteps or whispered words. The house, along with its occupants, slept.

  Meg lay on her side, cold but afraid to do more than stare at the dying fire. The embers in the hearth peered at her like demon eyes, hissing and sputtering to stay alive but there was no reason to stoke the flames. She wouldn’t be here to enjoy their warmth.

  Exhaustion weighed down on her body and mind, murmuring sweet words of relief. How desperately she wanted to sink into the world of unconsciousness, to forget the day, to forget her worries. Instead, she pushed herself upright, letting her legs dangle off the edge of the bed.

  She waited, waited for her pulse to slow, for her mind to clear. Her heart beat, ticking a rhythm that matched the porcelain clock under the glass dome on the mantel. She could taste freedom, feel it in her bones. It’d be easy enough to escape, although once outside, her destination remained an elusive mystery. She’d worry about that later.

  Steeling her resolve, she stood. Her body trembled, the glowing coal blurred before her eyes. Her body felt heavy, sobbing for reprieve. She let her lashes drift down for the briefest of moments and leaned against the bed post. From somewhere downstairs a clock bonged, the low rumble announcing the time to be a little past three.

  In a mere two hours, the farmers would be in their fields. She had to leave now, or she’d never make it past the community’s watchful gaze. With renewed determination, she stumbled forward and the room spun, her body protesting and making her waver on her feet.

  “Come on, Meg, you can do this,” she whispered.

  Like crickets on a warm summer evening, her mind buzzed. She narrowed her eyes, forcing her senses to focus. She’d travel the few hours until daylight and then hide somewhere. The thought of resting her weary head propelled her forward.

  Her trembling fingers fumbled with the handle until the door popped open. If she was quick, she might have time to stop home, gather supplies and run. She peeked into the hall. Moonlight slanted through the window at the end of the corridor, splashing the area in an eerie blue. No footmen stood guard outside her room. Had Grayson been bluffing?

  She pulled her borrowed wrap close, material much too ridiculously thin to be of any use, and padded down the steps, her slippers making little noise. Perfect for the house, but the silly stockings would be soaked outside. Yes, she’d run home and get a gown, pack whatever she could and disappear. Perhaps she’d go to Scotland, perhaps Ireland. She knew the woods for miles around. If need be, she’d find cover and hide until they gave up their search for her.

  And Hanna, she sucked in a sob. Hanna would be better off with Papa. At least for a few years, until things died down.

  Halfway down the steps, her vision blurred. She gripped the railing as she weaved forward. Giving into temptation, she sank down and rested her forehead on her knees. How badly she wanted to crawl up the steps and collapse onto her plush, warm bed. But she knew she would not rest, for dreams of Grayson would fill her head. The gaols and his glowing eyes. The way he’d looked at her while she’d bathed, the heat in his gaze, the intensity even now made her shiver.

  The tinkle of piano keys wafted through the air. Meg jerked her head upright. Had she imagined the sound? Slowly she stood and took another step down.

  “Ping, ping, ping.” The notes rang soft, but clear and she could only imagine the mournful tune came from some lost spirit.

  She gripped the railing, her heart hammering. Dear God, had Hanna been right? Were there ghosts in this estate? As if she didn’t have enough problems already.

  “Ping.”

  She narrowed her eyes and moved down one step at a time, slowly, hesitantly. There had to be a perfectly acceptable explanation. Her feet touched the marble floor and she paused, tilting her head this way and that to catch the sound.

  No more music came and she waited to hear the footfalls of a servant, a butler, anyone to explain the sound of the piano. The house settled once more into silent rest.

  Meg darted a glance at the front door looming at the end of the foyer, her entryway into freedom. She took her nightgown in hand and twisted the material in her fingers, indecision holding her captive. She could go now, or…

  “Ping, ping.”

  She spun around and stared down the long, dark hall. As if pulled by an unknown force, she followed the notes from room to room until she reached the end of the corridor.

  At the last door, she stilled. Holding her breath, she peeked inside. The room glowed in the same blue as the hall upstairs, indicating the curtains were thrown wide. A fairyland, a dream.

  Her eyes adjusted and slowly shapes morphed into pieces of furniture. With her heart slamming wildly in her chest, she peeked around the open door. Immediately, she recognized his broad shoulders and trim waist.

  Grayson.

  With his back to her, he sat on the piano bench, hunched over the keys like a man disillusioned with life. He wore only trousers and his shirt sleeves, white material that glowed in the moonlight and gave him the heavenly appearance of an angel lost, grieving. Not a ghost, but a man obviously haunted all the same.

  Even from her distance she felt his melancholy like a wave threatening to take her under. Her body suddenly weak, Meg sank against the wall. What demons hid within his soul? Tormented his nights? God help her, but she wanted to reach out to him, to comfort the very man who’d made her life hell for the past two days.

  He sighed, a sigh that clenched around her heart and wouldn’t let go. In the back of her mind, she knew she needed to leave, to escape while she could, but her legs and her heart wouldn’t cooperate. Who was this man?

  “Miss James,” the shock of his voice stabbed through her hazy mind.

  “There are guards posted around the house. There is no point in trying to escape.” He didn’t turn when he made that statement and for a moment she thought she’d dreamt the words. Perhaps, even now she dreamt of him. But no, his voice still echoed through the room.

  “Come here, Meg.” His tone was soft, yet left no room for argument.

  She wanted to resist, to flee, but an unknown force- fear, curiosity, need- drew her forward. Like one floating, she moved across the room, barely feeling the floor beneath her feet.

  Only a breath away, she stopped, her hands clasped in her skirt. So close she could feel the chill of his body. He turned on the bench and his eyes locked with hers. She trembled slightly, as if his gaze pierced her very soul. Slowly, his attention traveled the length of her gown to her slippered feet peeking from the hem of her white nightgown.

  He lifted a brow. “You had thought to escape in your bed clothing?”

  “It was all I had,” she whispered, her voice husky.

  His hair was out of place, tousled about his head as if he had repeatedly raked his fingers through the strands. Instead of making him look more human
, his mussed appearance only made him seem all the more dangerous. Her hands fisted as she resisted the urge to step forward, to smooth his hair back into place. To trace his jaw line and feel the scruff of the whiskers on his cheeks.

  Before she could move, he reached out, taking hold of a loose lock that fell down to her waist. Slowly, he entwined the strand around his finger, the movement pulling her painfully closer. She bit her lower lip, forced to shuffle forward until she stood between his legs. The inside of his hard thighs pressed indecently to her legs, holding her captive. She didn’t understand why his touch affected her so much more than Mathew’s ever had. At the moment, as heat bubbled in her veins, producing an ache that spread deep into her core, she didn’t care to know why.

  “I trusted you to keep your word, Miss James. You have gravely disappointed me.” He tilted his head back and looked into her eyes and she was acutely aware of the fact that they were alone. Utterly alone.

  “Sit,” he ordered.

  He untwined his hold on her hair and patted the space next to him. Even if she wanted to disobey him, her legs could no longer seem to hold her weight. There was something about Grayson this night, a whisper that warned her to obey the man. She sank onto the bench facing the piano. He turned and their shoulders and thighs touched, the contact singeing a path all the way down her side.

  “Do you play?” he asked.

  “A little,” she whispered.

  “Then play something.”

  She swallowed hard and rested her trembling fingers atop the keys. Nerves made her hands slip, the keys crashing. “Sorry, I’m a bit out of practice.”

  He said nothing, merely stood and moved to the window. She was not relieved when he moved. In fact, the opposite. He leaned against the wall, and stared out onto the dark gardens and she wondered what he searched for out there.

  “Play,” he demanded.

  She took her lower lip between her teeth and concentrated on the keys. She knew exactly what she’d produce. A mellow Scottish ditty about a man gone to war and his love left behind. She knew few songs, but as a child it’d been one of her favorites, a song that reminded her of the childish hopes and dreams of true love.

  She pressed softly on the keys, concentrating on sweeping her fingers as her mother had taught her. The song filled the air and transported her back to childhood. Her mama smiled down at her, pride sparkling in her blue eyes.

  “That a girl, my little Meg. You’ve got it now. As good as any titled lady.”

  Grayson was suddenly beside her. Startled, she missed a key and mentally cursed the man’s presence. When he sat down, she almost forgot the notes. The side of his body pressed to hers once more, and she wanted to do nothing more than sink into his hard form, to steal his strength. She closed her eyes, the material of her nightgown providing no buffer from the onslaught of his presence.

  “You lie, Miss James,” his breath was a cool whisper against her ear.

  Her hands stopped, the notes hovering in the air until they dissipated. “What do you mean?”

  “You lie. You play quite well. Continue.”

  She released the breath she held. Her talent was a secret she was actually willing to share. She had to close her eyes to concentrate, but her mind refused to forget the man next to her.

  “Do you play?” she queried, hoping to change the subject, to break the tension in the room.

  He didn’t look at her. “I used to.”

  She wanted to ask what prevented him now, but knew better. Personal questions would only make things awkward. And things were already too tense between them.

  “You’re not paying attention,” he snapped.

  “Sorry.” Her fingers floundered until she caught the song again. Taking in a deep breath, she closed her eyes and concentrated. She forced her mother to mind and just as quickly Grayson took her place. Gritting her teeth, she tried to remember the beach and their summer jaunts as a family, but Grayson was there, with no shirt. Damn him!

  He suddenly moved, jerking her from her fantasy. Stiff, she waited to see what he’d demand next. When his arm wrapped around her back she almost bolted from her seat. She didn’t dare open her eyes, barely breathed as his body pressed to her back and sides, cocooned in a hard hug. She felt the whisper of his hands right before he rested his fingers atop of hers, cold hands that numbed her skin. She stilled, her breathing harsh in the quiet room. She didn’t know what he was doing, and was too afraid to ask.

  “Keep going,” he said softly, his breath brushing against the side of her face.

  Her fingers straightened, and then curled, trying to make sense of the alien feel of his cold hands on hers. They were too large, consuming. She wanted to slip out from underneath his arms and rush from the room, leave behind the strange sensations he brought forth.

  “Continue,” he demanded.

  She moved her hands up and down the keys, her progress halted by the weight of his fingers. It certainly wasn’t her best performance but he didn’t tell her to stop. Finally, the song ended and her hands stilled. He kept his fingers over hers and she didn’t dare remove them. Unable to resist, she peeked up to see his lashes resting against his upper cheeks, his lips slightly parted.

  His face was all hard planes, but there was a vulnerability about him that reached out and painfully clenched her heart. She wanted to hold him, to slip her fingers into his hair, to explore his taste and tell him everything would be well.

  A warm wash of realization swept through her, settling around her heart. She blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of her emotions. Dear God, she had feelings for the man. A man she should fear. But what kind of feelings? Certainly not love, lust then?

  Lust. The word settled in her stomach like a sickness. She was a vicar’s daughter. She wasn’t supposed to feel lust. Even as she thought the words, stories she’d heard whispered amongst the town’s women came to mind. Kisses, touches, the heated aches. She hadn’t understood it all, had never felt this way around Mathew. She understood now.

  Frightened, she started to pull away. Grayson’s eyes opened and his fingers clamped around her wrists, holding her captive. There was a fierceness to his gaze that frightened her.

  “Merde, you drive me mad, confuse me so I don’t know my own thoughts,” he whispered.

  Meg’s lips parted in surprise. He dropped his hands to her hips and jerked her forward, sliding her across the bench. Her palms flattened against his chest, but she was helpless to stop his mouth from crushing to hers.

  Hard and bruising, the kiss was completely different from the soft pecks Mathew had given her. Fear gave way to desire, desire to know more, taste more. She felt as if she were falling, falling into a dark, deep pit of sinful seduction.

  His tongue slipped across her lips and she opened her mouth with a whimper. His hands slid up her waist, cupping the weight of her breasts. A heated ache swirled in the pit of her belly, seeping into the space between her legs. Meg’s whimpers turned to moans and she sank into his hard body. She’d had no idea a kiss could make a person feel this way. She knew it was wrong, dear God, she knew, but she couldn’t seem to pull away.

  His fingers curled into her hair, cupping the back of her head and deepening the kiss, while his other hand reached around her back and pressed her closer. Her breasts crushed indecently to his hard chest. Instantly her nipples hardened and her breasts grew heavy. She realized with a start, that she was on his lap although how she had gotten there, she had no idea.

  And then his velvet tongue rubbed against her own and she no longer cared about propriety. She no longer cared over the fact that she was a vicar’s daughter. Tentatively, she kissed him back. He tasted like scotch and mint and something intimate that could only be him. He groaned low in his throat and his hands moved down to cup her bottom. When he drew her closer she felt the proof of his desire, his steely erection, pressed to her thighs.

  The sensations didn’t frighten her as they should have. No, if anything Meg felt an odd thrilling need s
weep through her body. Her fingers curled into his chest and anxiety warred with need, need for something...anything to alleviate the ache.

  The desire to beg for more formed on her parted lips. When his fingers dug into her hair and he jerked her head back, she had to remind herself that he wouldn’t hurt her.

  Her neck exposed, he pressed his cold mouth to her sensitive skin. Meg shivered, a small gasp escaping her lips as his hand slowly moved up her leg, underneath her nightgown, touching the sensitive skin of her outer thigh. Her mind screamed at her to stop him, knowing he’d ruin her, but her body wouldn’t obey. His hand moved higher… higher. God save her, but she pressed closer to him.

  His teeth scraped against her neck. There was a sharp sting, as if he’d scratched the flesh. Meg stiffened, confused with this love play. Then she felt his tongue, like damp velvet, drag across the wound. His body seemed to grow harder. Emotions she’d never felt washed through Meg …desire…fear…need. Mostly, need. Need to be closer to him. Need to have more.

  Grayson shuddered almost violently and suddenly, he stumbled back. Meg fumbled to regain her balance, pressing her hands to the bench. Lord, what had just happened? Grayson stood on the other side of the room, his wide gaze locked on her as if she were the very devil. His eyes…those eyes glowed. She wasn’t imagining it now. The heat in her body was doused. Horrified, she pressed her hand to her neck where the skin pulsed.

  “What are you?” she whispered.

  “Go,” he snapped, turning so his back was to her.

  Meg stood, her legs trembling and tears burning her eyes. Dear God, she’d become a harlot. She should run, yet, she couldn’t. As horrified as she was, she wanted to go to him, to demand answers, to comfort him for some reason. Hesitantly, she stepped forward.

  He spun around, his face a mask of fury. “Go!”

  Fear replaced any compassion. Meg choked on a sob and raced from the room.

  Chapter 11

  “The Clancy’s in Ireland,” Millie’s voice rang out across the garden interrupting the chirp of birds. She sashayed arrogantly down the path, a smirk upon her perfect face. The large straw hat she wore did little to detract from her beauty. Even though the sun was covered with thick, gray clouds, she was sensitive to its rays as most blood sucking women were. He glanced upward. Did Collette feel the effects? She was so close to turning, that surely they’d noticed her aversion to the light.