Dangerous

by Monica Burns

  Throat slit in one long deep cut, the woman she’d seen in her previous vision lay dead on the keep’s library floor. She knew it was the library because she recognized the bank of windows that lined the far wall. On the blood-soaked carpet beside the dead woman was the body of a man. As she stepped closer, she flinched at the glazed look in his startling blue eyes. She recognized him as the grief-stricken man from her earlier vision who’d discovered the dead woman. There was almost a look of surprise on his lifeless features.

  Blood sprayed the furniture and floor as if the murderer had taken special pleasure in creating such a grisly display. Then she saw it. The knife. The dead man clutched it in his hand as if refusing to give it up even in death. This man had killed the woman. For a fraction of a second, she vehemently denied the idea. He’d loved this woman. There was something terribly wrong with the entire picture before her. The denial was fleeting as she realized there could be no other answer. The man had killed the woman. He’d killed her with a vicious, sickening brutality. Pain wound its way through her body, assaulting her with a physical blow she recognized as overwhelming grief. The ghost’s emotions engulfed her until she felt every moment of anguish he did. Startled by the thought, she stretched her hands out in front of her. The coat sleeves and hands she saw were that of a man. Nigel as he had been when he was alive. She had become him in the vision. He was showing her the past in the only way he knew how—through his eyes.

  Despair lashed through her with the sharpness of the blade her father held.

  A shrill scream of sorrow echoed out behind her, pulling her back into the scene as she whirled around. The dowager countess and a young boy stood staring at the scene of butchery in front of them. The shocked horror on their faces made her race forward and shove them back out into the hall. She pulled the library door closed then turned to catch her grandmother as the woman fainted. Gently easing the woman to the floor, she screamed for Jacobs. Her brother stood a few feet away, shock etched across his pale features.

  “Lucien, come here.” She stretched out her hand toward the boy who didn’t move. “It’s all right, lad, come here.”

  With a muffled cry the boy ran forward and wrapped his arms around her neck, his sobs breaking her heart. The sting of her own tears burned her cheeks as she rocked the boy in her arms and gave way to her own grief.

  Eyes closed, she sobbed wildly from the horror of it all. The pain ripped through her, tearing at her like a wild animal gnawing at her flesh. From far away, she heard a thunderous banging noise and Jamie calling out her name. Weak with exhaustion, she opened her eyes just as her bedroom door flew open.

  In a daze, she saw Lucien dash into the room followed by Jamie and the dowager countess. Staggering to her feet, she fought to remain standing, but failed. She felt no fear when the earl’s strong arms lifted her up and her hand settled over his heart. No visions of murder lashed out at her this time. Beneath her fingertips, only a solid heartbeat thrummed against her nerve endings. She had misjudged him. Exhausted, her eyes fluttered shut as she sank into a peaceful darkness.

  Lucien stood at the salon’s fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle as he stared into the fire crackling softly in the hearth. She was here. Isis was under his roof. She’d been here for almost three weeks. All the while he was frantically searching the whole of London for her, she’d been here.

  The moment he’d broken into her bedroom and seen the stricken look in her hazel eyes, he’d recognized her. Her gaze had been just as dark with horror the night she left him so abruptly. He’d been a fool not to realize who she was sooner. No. His body had recognized her from the start, but his head had ignored all the clues.

  The soft beat of a cane thudding against the salon carpet interrupted his thoughts. He turned and moved forward to escort his formidable grandmother to her favorite chair.

  Satisfied as to her comfort, he returned to his spot at the fireplace. Picking up the snifter resting on the mantle, he took a deep draught of the amber liquid it contained. The fiery drink burned his throat, reassuring him he was still with the living. Too often the keep had a way of making him think he was dead. Tossing the last of the brandy over his tongue, he set the glass down and turned to meet the concerned look on the dowager’s face.

  “Should we arrange for Doctor Martens to pay a call?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  “No,” she replied with a shake of her head. “She’s sleeping now. I’m sure she’ll be fine in the morning.”

  “What the hell happened to her?” Hands clasped behind his back, he frowned in puzzlement.

  “I’m not sure. The boy said he heard her talking to someone and when he tried to open the door, he couldn’t do so.”

  “The door was simply locked,” he said tersely.

  “Are you so certain of that?” His grandmother shook her head in silent disagreement. “I should have known better than to put her in Nigel’s old room.”

  The bemused note in her voice made him stiffen. Any time his grandmother mentioned his brother, she usually experienced a period of forgetfulness. For all her formidable personality, Aurora Blakemore was far frailer than she would ever admit. Hoping to keep her in the present, he changed the subject.

  “I take it the boy is hers?” he asked, waiting patiently as the dowager countess slowly focused her gaze on him.

  “The boy?” She shook her head for a moment until her eyes brightened. “Ah, yes. Jamie. A lovely boy, and very much like his mother. Quick witted and charming.”

  “Is there some reason you didn’t bother to send word to me about the fact that Mr. Stewart was really Widow Stewart with a child in tow?”

  “Actually, Stewart is her mother’s maiden name. She’s Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury.”

  “Westbury,” he growled.

  “Did you know him?”

  “No.” He shook his head. “I simply remember he died in Cairo before his expedition even set out for Abydos. Dysentery, I believe.

  It had been Standish who’d financed the Viscount Westbury’s final expedition, although the doomed man had never gotten out of Cairo. The poor bastard had died shortly after reaching Egypt. If she was Westbury’s widow, the odds were Standish had sent her here to find the papyrus. Was that really why she was here? Had she come to the ball that night in hopes of seducing him to give up the papyrus?

  It didn’t matter. He had no intention of giving it up to her or anyone else. The ancient document was far too valuable. It contained one half of the map leading to the tomb of Sefu, high priest of Abydos. Legend had it that when a particular statue of Isis was joined with its mate, a statue of Seth, it would reveal the second half of the map. Finding those statues would possibly lead to the tomb. Not an impossible feat, but it had been an improbable one until his last trip to the desert.

  As for Westbury’s widow, he’d be wise not to trust her. Letting her leave would be the sensible thing to do, but for the first time in recent memory, he didn’t want to do anything sensible. He scowled at his grandmother as he realized she’d diverted him from his original question.

  “You’ve still not answered me. Why didn’t you send word to me that C. Stewart was in fact, a woman?”

  “I did consider it, but in truth, I like her. I wanted her to have the chance to prove herself.” There was just the hint of a sly curve to Aurora’s mouth, and he pinned her with a stern look.

  “I see, which tells me that you saw this as an opportunity to meddle again. Just like you have for the past six months.”

  “I hardly call it meddling. I simply want to see you happy, boy. It’s high time you married.”

  Aurora’s cane swung outward as she pointed the walking aid in his direction, the blue veins on the back of her hand made more prominent from the strength of her grip on the falcon cane head. He grimaced and shook his head.

  “Yes, and there’s been a Blakemore at Lyndham Keep
since ten seventy-six, and it’s my responsibility to see to it the family name doesn’t die out.” The chilly sarcasm had the effect he expected.

  Aurora slammed her cane down on the coffee table, the tea service rattling loudly. Powdery white hair slightly askew, she sent him a scathing look down her regal nose.

  “It is your responsibility,” she said fiercely.

  “We both know why I’ll never marry, Grandmother.” He rolled his shoulders in a nonchalant shrug.

  “Your brother knew he had a responsibility to the family.”

  The sharp, critical note in her voice cut through him. He knew his grandmother loved him, but Nigel had been her lifeline. He’d held them together as a family that horrible day. It was something Aurora had never forgotten, and when Nigel had fallen victim to the curse, Lucien had never thought to see his grandmother recover from the shock. She had, but at a cost. Her once-sharp faculties were now dimmed as her mind would wander periodically during times of stress or when she grew tired.

  Perhaps the hardest part to deal with was her refusal to believe the curse existed. Everything he said fell on deaf ears. Nothing he said convinced her otherwise. The decision never to marry had been made the terrible day his parents had died. His choice had only been reinforced with Nigel’s death.

  Vivid memories flashed before his eyes. Once again he stood frozen in the library doorway witnessing the results of his father’s bloody handiwork. His decision had been an easy one. It was at that moment he’d known he would never marry. Never risk the possibility of loving someone only to destroy them in the end. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he met his grandmother’s piercing gaze, refusing to yield to her wishes.

  “Blast it, Lucien, you’re as stubborn as your mother was.”

  “But I am still my father’s son.”

  He delivered the icy words as brutally as possible, and guilt lashed out at him at the way she flinched. It wasn’t pleasant to be so cruel to her, but it was time she realized he would not change his mind. Over the past thirty years, every Blakemore male had succumbed to an unknown madness, prompting them to murder anyone in their midst at the time they were overcome by the curse. That their victims had been loved ones simply emphasized the dangers of falling in love.

  The memory of his recent fits of anger was even more reason not to give in to his grandmother’s wishes. As it was, he needed to guard against being alone with anyone, particularly his grandmother and Imogene. Eventually, he would need to hire someone to serve as a deterrent against his harming anyone.

  Aurora’s shoulders slumped with defeat, and with a sigh, he crossed the room and bent over her. His touch gentle, he took her hand and squeezed it tenderly.

  “I’ll not be a willing participant in the bloodbath the men in this family have inflicted on their loved ones, Grandmother. Even a marriage of convenience would require some form of affection to be tolerable, and the risk of harming any woman I married is too great.”

  “How can I convince you there is no curse, my boy?” Aurora shook her head. “I don’t understand what drove your father and Nigel to do what they did, but it wasn’t a curse.”

  “For a woman who believes in the supernatural, I find it ironic you refuse to acknowledge the likelihood of my doing exactly what my father and brother did.” He heaved a sigh. “I cannot allow myself to fall in love. It would be irresponsible of me to do so.”

  She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then with a slight nod, she lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “Your happiness is paramount to me, Lucien. Even more so than a Blakemore heir. However a child would make my victory sweeter.”

  “Victory?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

  “You must understand I’ll not admit defeat. I simply intend to regroup.” Despite the determination in her voice he heard the disillusion there as well.

  “I know,” he said with a slight smile. “If it helps, I think you managed to execute a brilliant strategy of attack over the past few months. I doubt there’s a military man anywhere to match your ability to outflank an opponent.”

  The weak smile his words brought to her lips sent a chill through him. For the first time, he recognized the true fragility of her appearance. If she were standing and a harsh wind blew across the room, it was doubtful she’d be able to withstand its force. Even the deep blue material of her gown created the image of fragile vulnerability with its stark contrast to her pale skin.

  She’d aged in recent months, and she seemed more delicate now than he had ever seen her. Aurora had always been a tower of strength, vivacity and fire, and the lack of spirit reflected in a pair of blue eyes that matched his own worried him. For the first time, he saw her for what she was—a tired, old woman.

  “Come, I think you’ve experienced enough excitement for today. I’ll have Jacobs arrange for you to eat in your rooms this evening.”

  Nodding wearily, the dowager accepted the support of his arm as she stood up. “I think that’s an excellent idea.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll dine with Imogene and young Lord Westbury in the nursery. I think my niece will enjoy playing hostess at supper, and I’ll enjoy spending some time with her. It’s been too long since I’ve done that.”

  “She’s missed you a great deal.” Some of her energy returning, his grandmother smiled. “Be prepared for her to inundate you with questions about Egypt. The child is convinced you’ll take her there one day. She takes after you, not her father.”

  “Then I’m certain to enjoy the meal in the company of someone who will be enthralled with my stories.”

  As they left the salon and headed toward the stairs, a streak of satisfaction sped through him. Dining with Imogene and the young Lord Westbury would give him the opportunity to learn more about his mysterious goddess. And when the opportunity presented itself, he intended to indulge himself with the woman who had haunted his dreams for almost three months. Marriage might not be in his future, but there was no harm in enjoying the pleasure of Isis’s company or her delectable body.

  Chapter Four

  Staring at her reflection in the vanity table’s mirror, Constance quickly arranged her hair on top of her head. Out the corner of her eye, she saw the trunk still sitting in the same spot it had been when everyone had rushed into her bedroom earlier.

  The memory of Lucien crashing through the door pulled a quick breath past her lips. He’d burst into her room with the same powerful, tiger-like movements she remembered from their one night together. Solid and strong, he’d lifted her into his arms as easily as he had that night. In his arms, she’d been safe. An overwhelming wave of relief had swept over her when her hand had settled over his heart. She realized now the vision she’d seen that night at the Black Widows Ball had not been his. For some reason, he’d simply been the conduit through which she’d seen those horrible images.

  With a frown, she shook her head. Her visions were seldom clear to her. They were more like puzzle pieces. Small bits that ultimately formed a larger picture. Putting them together in a cohesive manner could be difficult at times, but this puzzle was far more complex than anything she’d been shown before.

  Ever since that night at the Black Widows Ball, her gift had been sending her clues through her dreams. She had thought the man in her dreams was Lucien. Now she wasn’t so sure. The dreams could have meant a number of things, and she’d allowed her fear to blind her to the possibilities. Frustrated, she hit the vanity top with her fist. There were no coincidences. Everything had a place and purpose in the universe. Even her presence here at Lyndham Keep was part of the puzzle. She could not believe her presence here was an accident.

  But if the man in her dreams hadn’t been Lucien, who was he? Complicating matters was what the ghost had shown her this afternoon. The murder scene was the same as the one from her first vision, and yet different. That night at the Clarendon she’d witnessed someone else murdering Nigel an
d Lucien’s father. And she was certain the murdered man was their sire. It was the only way to account for the overwhelming grief she’d been subjected to in the surreal experience.

  The only thing she found truly puzzling was the knife. Why would it be in their father’s hand if he’d been murdered like his wife? Unless someone had placed the knife in the dead man’s hand to make the scene look like a murder-suicide. The alternative was her first vision had been wrong. Either possibility was disconcerting.

  Then there was the unusual murder weapon. This time she had seen it clearly for what it was. It was a blade often used in ancient Egyptian magic rituals, although the handle in the vision was not the normal design she’d seen at the Museum. It was grotesquely fashioned, almost evil-looking in its design. She shivered.

  Whoever had murdered Nigel’s parents had done so with a barbarity that frightened her. Nigel’s grief had been heart wrenching. Even now she could still feel the pain of his sorrow. What would the earl say if he knew his brother was still here in the keep? The strong and poignant emotions she’d experienced in her vision told her the relationship between the two brothers had been a close one. The earl had turned out to be as strong willed as his older brother. He was a law unto himself.

  “Lucien.” His name echoed softly in the room, but she ignored the soft sound.

  As she studied her reflection, the memory of their intimate encounter sent hot color sailing into her cheeks. How could she possibly remain here? If he discovered who she was, he’d think she’d deliberately sought him out. A soft rustling whispered nearby, and she stiffened. Glancing about the room, she gave a shake of her head. Whatever spirits inhabited the keep, they seemed determined to make her stay.

  “Help him.” The whisper was more insistent this time.

  “How can I help him, if I don’t even know how I’m supposed to help?” The sharp-edged question hovered in the air, but there was no response.