Dangerous

by Monica Burns

  His large hands squeezed the softness of her shoulders as he bent his head toward her. The maleness of him filled her nostrils, and she welcomed the dark heat that threatened to consume her as his mouth barely grazed her cheek and moved toward her ear.

  “Tell me why I should believe you, Isis? From the first moment we met, you’ve hidden behind a veil of secrecy, and I’m determined to unearth your secrets.”

  Overwhelmed with a need to touch him, she focused on the fact that her son and Imogene were only a short distance away as she struggled not to cup Lucien’s face with her hands and bring his lips to hers. With a sharp shove at his chest, she broke free of his hold and stumbled backward several steps.

  Warily she stared at him, the need gripping her body reflected in his brilliant blue gaze. Her breathing hitched at the desire burning in his expression, and she fought the urge to throw herself back into his arms. Dear heaven, but the man was a potent force. She needed to remember what Lady Lyndham had said. Lucien would despise her for the gift she possessed. Like other skeptics, he would label her mad. The thought of his doing so was painful, and she refused to consider the reason why.

  “I haven’t lied to you, my lord,” she said stiffly. Addressing him so formally made it easier to put emotional distance between them. “I have no idea how Mr. Standish found me, but he wants a statue he says you stole from his family.”

  “What statue?” Lucien snapped, the desire in his face still evident, although his anger had not diminished.

  “I don’t know. He insisted I help him, and when I refused, he threatened me.”

  The change in Lucien was instantaneous. The stillness of his rage alarmed her, and she immediately stepped back from him. He looked as if he wanted to kill someone. “How did he threaten you?”

  The moment he asked the question she knew she wasn’t capable of answering. She’d not heard anything else the man had said once he’d touched her. The strength of her waking dream had made her deaf and blind to the events in this reality. But she couldn’t tell Lucien that. She couldn’t explain that somehow the man she’d seen with Standish in her vision wanted to harm Lucien. She hadn’t realized that until this moment. But she was as certain of that as she was that Lucien would condemn her for the gift she was using to help him.

  “How did he threaten you, Constance?”

  “I don’t remember. I must have fainted again,” she whispered as disbelief crossed his face.

  “Another convenient explanation, my lady. Somehow I think you offer up that particular excuse whenever you want to avoid telling the truth.”

  He whirled away from her, and his long stride carried him toward his horse. She watched him leave with an anguish that was almost crippling. Instinctively, she knew he wasn’t capable of rational thought right now. He was too furious. There was something about Malcolm Standish that made it almost impossible to reason with him.

  “Lucien please, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t remember what the man threatened me with. I only know he wants this statue of yours, and he wants it badly enough to pay me for it. If I’m lying to you, why would I tell you what he wanted from me?”

  The knuckles of his hand were white as he gripped the withers of his horse. The tension holding him rigid showed in the way his coat stretched tightly across his broad, muscular back. His silence and his stance convinced her that he was trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Wanting only to persuade him as to her innocence, she moved toward him then stopped as he swung himself up into the saddle.

  “I’m taking you back to the keep. If Standish really is a threat to you, it’s not safe for you to be out here. I’m better able to protect you inside.”

  “I have no need of your protection. In fact, I don’t need anything at all from you,” she snapped, furious he was unwilling to believe her.

  He nudged his horse several steps forward until he could lean down toward her. Cupping her chin with his hand, he studied her with a forbidding gaze. “You might not need anything from me at this moment, but I can assure you of one thing Isis. One night very soon, you’ll be pleading with me to fulfill your every need.”

  His mouth suddenly captured hers in a rough kiss, and the fiery touch stirred a liquid heat inside her. In the next instant, he released her, a strained expression on his face as his mouth thinned into a harsh line.

  “We’re returning to the keep. Now. Collect your things while I fetch the boy and Imogene.” Digging his heel into the side of his horse, he rode off toward the children, leaving her behind.

  The children had walked some distance from the site of their picnic, and as he rode toward them he tried not to consider what might have happened to her or the children if he’d not found them. Even if she were involved with that bastard Standish, she clearly had no idea what type of man he was. His hand rubbed the scar on his cheek. Standish wouldn’t hesitate to use force if he thought it would get him what he wanted.

  If Constance had truly recognized how dangerous the man was, she would never have come out here with the children. She loved her son too much to put him in harm’s way, and her behavior with Imogene had already shown him that she had great affection for his niece.

  So what was he to think now? Had she really experienced another one of her spells or was she lying to him about Standish? He’d been too angry about Standish to even consider her pleas a few moments ago, but despite his best judgment, he believed her.

  It wasn’t just the sincerity of her words. It was the memory of the expression on her face as he’d ridden up that made him believe her. Just like the last two times she’d experienced one of her episodes, her face had the look of someone in shock.

  And what the devil were these spells of hers? He’d heard of people suffering from epileptic seizures, but what little he’d read didn’t resemble Constance’s experiences. Grimacing, he expelled a harsh sigh of frustration. He was a fool. When he’d arrived home a short time ago, he’d been eager to see her.

  For more than a month he’d thrown himself into gambling and drinking unlike anything he’d ever done before. He’d even considered bedding several whores, but when the time had come, he’d sent the women on their way. None of them smelled the way she did. None of the women in London had a sultry voice that wrapped its heat around him like hers.

  In short, he’d not been able to empty his head of her. He’d stayed away from her as long as he could. But once home, the need to see her, hear her voice, breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume had filled him with an eagerness he knew was dangerous to feel.

  And yet, he’d allowed himself to consider that she might be pleased to see him as well. The moment Jacobs had told him where she’d gone, he’d set off to find her. When he’d first caught sight of Constance, he’d immediately thought Duncan was with her. The territorial surge of primeval emotion flowing through him had been unsettling.

  Even more troubling was the white-hot rage that engulfed him when he’d realized it was Standish with her. Killing the bastard was something he’d contemplated on more than one occasion, but today, the raw power of his fury had proven almost uncontrollable. He had wanted to choke the man until his face turned a mottled color of blue.

  The ferocity of his rage had almost blinded him to everything. Those few seconds of action were more of a blur than a memory, and he still didn’t understand what had kept him from killing the man where he stood. Now, as he reflected on the incident, the depth of his anger chilled him.

  There were rarely any initial signs of the Blakemore curse, or at least not that he knew of, but the results of the curse were undeniable. The subsequent bloodbath was further evidence of the rage that lay just beneath the surface of the Blakemore men.

  Worse yet, despite all his best intentions, he was finding it more and more difficult to keep his distance from Constance. Even his trip to London had done nothing to diminish the power of his craving for her. So he�
��d returned home with the intent to harness his demons, while satisfying himself in the lushness of Constance’s delectable body. But if there was one thing he was learning about his beautiful Egyptian goddess it was how stubborn she was.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her angrily throw a piece of food out into the grass for some animal to eat. Perhaps her anger was a good thing. If she was angry with him, it was unlikely she’d be willing to come within ten yards of him, making it easier to keep his hands off her.

  His gaze narrowed as she suddenly turned to stare after him. The moment she realized he was watching her, she tipped her nose into the air and whirled away from him. It was a challenge. And when had he ever passed up a challenge, even if the stakes were exceedingly dangerous?

  Chapter Eight

  Lucien was still contemplating how best to handle this latest situation with Constance, when he heard a familiar shout. Imogene, a wide smile on her face, was flying toward him at a dead run. As she reached his horse, he leaned down and swung her up to sit in front of him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she kissed his cheek and hugged him tightly.

  “You left without saying goodbye,” she accused with a scowl.

  “I had urgent business in London, poppet. I would have told you goodbye if I’d had time.” Guilt bit into him as he realized his need to escape had hurt his niece.

  “Well, it’s all right. At least I had Jamie to play with. I like him very much.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “He’s special, you know. He can talk to ghosts.”

  Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he watched Jamie heading toward them at a leisurely pace. Clearly the boy wasn’t in any hurry to return to the keep. “And what ghosts does the young Lord Westbury claim to have seen?”

  “He’s talked to Papa,” Imogene exclaimed. “Isn’t that exciting? Jamie told me that Papa is very proud of me.”

  Stiffening, he frowned at Imogene’s look of happiness. Christ, the child believed the boy had talked to Nigel. Clearing his throat, he sent his niece a steady look.

  “Listen to me, poppet. I’m afraid young Westbury is teasing you and not in a nice way.”

  “No he’s not,” Imogene denied with a vehement shake of her head. “Jamie wouldn’t lie to me.”

  “Wouldn’t lie about what?” Young Westbury’s tone was belligerent as he stared up at Lucien.

  “Uncle Lucien doesn’t believe you can talk to Papa.” Imogene’s voice was filled with a note of disgust.

  “Why not?” Jamie asked as he looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

  “Because there’s no such thing as ghosts,” he replied firmly as he looked at first his niece and then the boy.

  “Then why can I see him?”

  Lucien pondered the boy’s question for a moment as he offered the lad his hand and pulled him up onto the horse’s hindquarters. The boy was emphatic in his ability to see Nigel, but it was impossible.

  The day his parents had died was the day he’d stopped believing in anything except for what he could touch, see and hear. His grandmother had always believed in ghosts, and even confessed to having felt his grandfather’s presence on numerous occasions. But he knew better.

  He couldn’t count the number of times his grandmother had paid some charlatan to talk to her dead loved ones, only to be disappointed time and time again. One of the primary reasons his grandmother believed in the spirit world was because she didn’t want to believe in the Blakemore curse.

  She didn’t want to accept that his great-grandfather had committed filicide before taking his own life. She didn’t want to think her own son and grandson had fallen victim to the curse as well. Instead she tried to reach out beyond the grave to talk to those she loved. An impossible notion, if life after death even did exist.

  He nudged Napoleon into motion. The boy didn’t strike him as a liar, so what would provoke the child to tell such an outrageous story? He frowned as the horse carried the three of them back to where Constance was still busy gathering the remains of their picnic.

  “You didn’t answer us, Uncle Lucien. If ghosts aren’t real, how can Jamie see Papa?”

  He didn’t like how the simple question befuddled him. He couldn’t accuse the boy of lying, especially when the child was convinced he’d seen Nigel. Still, he couldn’t let Imogene continue to believe the boy could talk to her dead father.

  “Well, sometimes we want something to be true so badly we begin to think it’s true.”

  “I saw him.” Jamie muttered with the stubborn nature of his mother.

  Unwilling to alienate the boy, he shook his head. “Since we’re in disagreement over the matter, lad, I propose a compromise. The next time you see my brother, ask him where the statue is. If he gives you an answer, then I’ll be more than willing to change my mind on the subject. Is that fair?”

  “Quite, my lord.”

  He suppressed a grin at the boy’s affronted tone. So like his mother. His gaze settled on Constance angrily stuffing a blanket into the basket that had carried their lunch. There was a mutinous expression on her face, and he frowned. Mending his fences with her was going to be a considerable challenge. As Lucien brought Napoleon to a halt, Jamie slid off the horse and hurried to his mother’s side. Imogene abandoned him as well as she broke free of his hold and slipped down to the ground.

  “Mother, I talked to Imogene’s papa, and his lordship doesn’t believe me.” The boy sent him a disgruntled look of disgust over his shoulder as he touched his mother’s arm.

  As her son spoke to her, Constance sent the boy an absent-minded nod and continued to load the picnic basket. But when her son’s comment actually seemed to register with her, she froze in mid-action. The tablecloth she held slid from her hands as she whirled around to face the boy. Grabbing her son by the shoulders, she stared down at him with a stricken look on her face.

  “What are you talking about, Jamie?” She gave him a slight shake.

  “Imogene’s papa. I talked to him, Mother,” Jamie said with a bemused look on his face. “Was that wrong?”

  At the boy’s words, Lucien saw Constance pale considerably. Her gasp was a sound of sheer panic as her fingers bit deeply into Jamie’s shoulders. The moment the boy cried out in pain, he quickly dismounted. Before he had two feet on the ground, she’d released her son. What the devil was wrong with her? The boy had simply succumbed to an overactive imagination. Puzzled by her reaction, he stepped toward her, but she darted back out of his reach.

  “We’ll discuss this when we return to the keep, Jamie. Now, apologize to his lordship for your rude behavior.”

  “But mother—”

  “Do it now, Jamie,” she choked out in a harsh tone.

  “I don’t think the boy meant any—” He halted his objection as she showed him the palm of her hand in a sharp command of silence.

  “Forgive me, my lord, but do not try to tell me how to discipline my son.” Once again she focused her attention on her son. “Apologize. Now, Jamie.”

  The sharp edge in her voice made the words sound like a whip cracking through the air. Pale and shaken, she possessed an air of fragility that worried him. But it was the stunned expression on the boy’s face that made him frown. It was clear the boy had rarely, if ever, been spoken to by his mother with such sharpness.

  Lucien’s gaze returned to Constance’s blanched features. Tension tightened the corners of her full mouth, and her body was taut with suppressed emotion as she waited for the boy to speak. This wasn’t about the boy telling tales, this was something else altogether. She cast him a quick glance, and fear flickered in her eyes before she looked away.

  The odd behavior baffled him, and his eyes narrowed as he recalled he’d seen her act like this once before. Everything about her behavior reminded him of that night in London. Her nervous state was almost as tangible as it had been at the Clarendon, and like bef
ore, her expression was closed off to him.

  “My apologies for my behavior, my lord.” The boy’s voice was polite despite the glare he directed up at his mother.

  “Thank you.” The tension in Constance’s voice eased considerably, but her fear remained a strong undercurrent. “Now return to the keep. We’ll discuss this matter shortly.”

  Without even glancing in his direction, she picked up the picnic basket and began walking toward home at a pace he could only define as frantic. With a nod at Imogene and Jamie, he silently urged them to run ahead. They needed no further invitation to race past Constance, who was stalking her way through the pasture. Leading his horse forward, he caught up with her in several quick strides. With his hand on her arm, he brought her to a halt. This close to her, the sweet scent of jasmine was maddening.

  “Release me, my lord,” she snapped as she tried to jerk her arm out of his grip. Her strength was no match for his, and he held her easily.

  “The boy was simply confused, Constance. There was no reason to be sharp with him like that.”

  “Confused? Don’t you mean he’s a liar just like his mother?” The bitter note in her voice didn’t surprise him, but it was the fear flickering in her eyes that made him frown with frustration.

  “Damn it, you know that’s not what I meant.”

  “I see, then you think Jamie is simply confused, whereas I’m a liar.” She twisted his words in a way that made him grit his teeth. The direction this conversation was taking was definitely not to his liking.

  “Bloody hell, Constance, that’s not what I meant either,” he muttered harshly. Dropping Napoleon’s reins to the ground, he pulled her closer, ignoring the basket that banged against his knee, and shrugging off the possibility the children might look back. “I don’t think you’re a liar. I believe you when you say you never met Standish before today.”

  “I’m so pleased that you’ve been able to clear your conscience, my lord,” she sniffed with a condescension designed to cut him to ribbons. “Now release me.”