Dangerous

by Monica Burns

  Her gaze focused on the sunrise beginning to peek through the bedroom drapes as a mournful tilt touched her sweet lips. Impulsively, he turned his head and kissed her palm. Eyes closed, he cupped her hand with his, holding her fast against his mouth. She raised her other hand to touch his face.

  “What is it, Lucien? What’s wrong?” Apprehension threaded her voice as he looked at her.

  In the first blush of dawn he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Nigel would have labeled him insane for letting her go. There was no doubt about his impending insanity, but there were considerable doubts where her safety was concerned. His brother hadn’t heeded the signs of the beast within, but he knew better. It was only a matter of time before the anger and jealousy he’d been experiencing where she was concerned would erupt in a nightmarish repetition of death.

  “Lucien?”

  “Last night will not be repeated.”

  The coldness of his words sliced through the air, and he wanted to bite his tongue off as the color drained from her face. The pain furrowing her brow slashed at his heart, and he fought to keep from pulling her into his arms. Christ Jesus, what had prompted him to be so cruel? He didn’t take his eyes off her as her expression became dispassionate—closed to him. As she turned away from him, he battled the demons encouraging him to go to her and beg her forgiveness. He’d be a fool to do such a dangerous thing.

  Silence filled the room as she quickly retrieved her nightgown. With her back to him, she slipped the garment over her body, hiding her lovely curves from him. There was a restrained dignity in her demeanor as she donned her robe and moved toward the door. Immediately, he took a step toward her before conquering the urge to stop her from leaving.

  It served no purpose to explain why he was pushing her away. More importantly, he wasn’t certain he’d be able to fight her if she were to realize the strong hold she had over him already. As she grasped the doorknob to leave the room, she hesitated.

  “I trust, my lord, I can count on your discretion about this…this interlude.”

  “For God’s sake, Constance. I know I’m a bastard, but give me credit to act as a gentleman should.”

  In a flash, she whirled to face him. The icy look she sent him made him stiffen. He’d expected her to be hurt, not angry. What the devil was going on in that beautiful head of hers? Steeling himself for a display of typical female anger, he narrowed his gaze at the sight of the cold, lifeless glint in her hazel eyes.

  “A gentleman?” she said softly. “No, my lord, I would not consider you a gentleman. In fact, I wouldn’t dare to speculate what you are. It’s impossible to identify that which doesn’t exist.”

  Thunderstruck by her frost-ridden retort, he didn’t move as she left the room. When he recovered, anger flowed hot and furious through him at his reprehensible behavior. The last thing he’d meant to do was hurt her, and he was certain her reaction had been born of pain and humiliation. He’d done what needed to be done, but he hated how the entire mess twisted at his gut. God, when in the hell had he evolved into such a consummate libertine?

  Constance hurried through the dimly lit corridors toward her bedroom. How could she have been so blind to his true motives? Her stomach roiled at the memory of her behavior last night and since she’d first met him. The intimate acts she’d performed with him were ones few women would admit to having knowledge of, let alone actually perform.

  Queasy from the thought of her wanton actions, she stopped and pressed her forehead to the cool stone of the wall. Worst of all, she’d taken great pleasure in every sexual act. With Lucien, she’d allowed layer after layer of protective emotional barriers to be stripped away until there was only one obstacle still left to be cleared. Then to have him treat her like a common whore he’d hired for just one night had been not only humiliating, but more painful than she had ever dreamed possible.

  She was finally beginning to understand how deeply she was entangled in his life. If she hadn’t been, his actions would have simply humiliated her, not drawn blood. And he had wounded her. Her heart ached with a dull throb that assaulted every inch of her body.

  Hot tears pressed against her eyelids, but she refused to give way to them. The man wasn’t worthy of her tears. He wasn’t worthy of her. She bit her lip. It was easy to think that, but believing it would be far more difficult. A soft sound tightened her muscles with tension. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in the corridor in her nightclothes, even if she was only a few doors away from sanctuary.

  Pushing herself away from the wall, she took one step toward her room when she spied a dark flash of movement in the corridor. Startled, she waited for the familiar sensation that always accompanied the presence of a spirit. When the hair on the back of her neck didn’t stand on end, she frowned. If it wasn’t a ghost in the corridor then it meant someone else was out and about.

  Dear Lord, if someone saw her— Shrinking back against the wall, she remained as still as possible. As the shape moved again, she watched it suddenly vanish into the wall. Seconds later there was a barely perceptible click. If most of the household hadn’t been asleep, she doubted she would have even heard the quiet sound.

  She allowed several long moments to pass before she dared to move. Certain the corridor was empty, she hurried toward the spot where she’d seen the shadow disappear into the wall. She frowned as she ran her hand over the rough stone surface. There was nothing on the wall to even suggest there might be a door. So what had she seen?

  She stared at the gray stone in a bemused fashion. The shock of Lucien’s rejection had made it impossible to think straight. She’d imagined it. It was a self-defense mechanism her brain had set into motion to divert her attention from the pain clawing at her insides. It was the only explanation, given she’d been mad enough to even think Lucien might actually— She slammed the door on the traitorous thought. A searing fire began to replace the numbness in her chest as tears forced their way up into her throat.

  Sanctuary her only thought, Constance raced toward her room. Only when she was behind the closed door of her bedroom did she allow the tears to flow. Hot and steady, they burned her cheeks as she sank to the floor. One hand pressed against her heart to ease the pain slicing through her, she cried until there were no more tears left to shed.

  How could he? How could he have made love to her so passionately only to discard her with such callous abandon? And how could she have let him? Staggering to her feet, she crossed the floor to the window. Dawn had grown into the first rays of sunshine, and she tugged the drapes open in an attempt to wash away the bleakness assaulting her soul.

  One hand pressed against the glass, she inhaled a ragged breath. What was she going to do? She couldn’t stay. It was impossible under these circumstances. She would go home. Home to the warmth of Melton House. Sebastian and Helen would welcome her and Jamie with open arms. Yes, that’s what she would do. She turned toward the wardrobe, but before she could move, a whispering sound drifted through the air.

  “You promised.” The disembodied voice hung in the air, soft and yet firm.

  She closed her eyes in dismay. Why had she ever made such a promise, and to a ghost no less? Why did she always have to try to help others with her gift? Perhaps Graham had been right. Maybe using her abilities was wrong. Whether it was right or wrong, she’d given her word. The fact it was to a ghost was beside the point. She was doing it for Lucien too.

  God, she was a fool to even care what happened to him, but it was impossible to forget the image of him as a young boy at the scene of his parents’ grisly deaths. Chewing on her bottom lip, she crossed the floor to the wardrobe and pulled out one of her more practical dresses. She would seek solace in her work, and perhaps a few hours spent in the gardens with Jamie and Imogene. The children always made her laugh with their antics, and laughter would help to ease the pain in her heart.

  Dressing quickly, she moved to the vanity a
nd gasped. The drawer where she kept her personal journal had been pried open. Fear shot through her as she remembered the intimate details she’d included in the book. With a frantic movement she yanked the drawer wide open and grew dizzy as she stared at the empty drawer.

  Sinking down onto the dressing table’s small stool, she stared in disbelief at the vacant spot where her journal had been. The churning in her stomach eased at the same moment her anger boiled to the surface. It was bad enough that someone had stolen from her, but for someone to take something so personal infuriated her.

  What could anyone want with her personal diary? God help her if the thief were to show it to Lucien. But it wasn’t just her intimate thoughts about Lucien that were in the journal. The diary included dozens of notes on the antiquities collection she was cataloging for Lucien. Notes she’d recorded when she’d awakened in the middle of the night with some revelation about one of the artifacts.

  Losing that information meant she had to go back and reexamine half a dozen pieces she had thought completed. It would set her back by almost a week. The thought of adding one more week to her stay here at Lyndham Keep suddenly seemed like a cruel trick of fate. Burying her face in her hands, she shuddered. She should have known better than to record the notes in the diary, but she’d kept forgetting to bring up a workbook simply for her late-night record keeping. Furious, she slammed the drawer shut. Whoever had taken her journal would regret doing so the moment she found them.

  Constance set the pottery bowl she’d been studying down on the workbench then added another detailed note on the bowl’s artwork onto the catalog card. A beautiful piece, the bowl had required extensive cleaning to reveal its meticulous craftsmanship. Satisfied with the work she’d done over the course of the morning, she laid her pen down and stretched her aching back.

  The sudden frisson across the back of her neck made her muscles flex and draw up tight in her back. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Lucien in the doorway of the workroom, an unreadable expression on his dark, brooding features. Without warning, her body immediately responded to his presence. Her heartbeat doubled, her skin became hot and her palms grew damp. Every part of her cried out with awareness at his presence.

  Quickly and brutally, she reminded herself of his earlier treachery. If that weren’t enough to convince her of his deplorable character, she needed to remember her secret and his opinion about people with abilities like hers. Even without this morning’s painful revelation, she knew he could never accept her for who she really was. He’d shown his true nature, and trusting him was something she dare not do again. She turned back to her work, picked up the pottery bowl and set it on the overflow table she’d erected in the storage room.

  Without another glance in his direction, she retrieved the next artifact from the crate. Seated once more on her wooden stool, she picked up her tool brush and lightly dusted off the beaded necklace she held, keeping her back to him.

  “Is there something I might help you with, my lord?” She made sure to keep her voice even and polite—devoid of any emotion. There was silence for a long moment, and she thought perhaps he’d left, except her neck was still tingling.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here after…” His words trailed off into silence.

  “Are you asking me to leave, my lord?”

  Bent over the necklace, she struggled to keep up the pretense that she was working. Although she’d managed to keep her voice cool and emotionless, the battle raging inside her was exactly the opposite. The thought of leaving Lyndham Keep, leaving him, cut through her like a sharp blade. Alarmed, she desperately sought to crush the reaction. Sweet heaven, how could she be so oblivious to who and what he was? She closed her eyes for a brief moment to steady her emotions.

  “Damn it, no. I’m—for Christ’s sake, I can’t talk to you when you have your back to me,” he barked angrily.

  Slowly turning around, she sent him a steady look. “Is there something you wanted to discuss with me, my lord?”

  The harsh line of his jaw was rigid, causing his scar to become a taut line of white lightning slashing viciously down his cheek. When he suddenly exploded in a furious motion of pent-up energy, she jumped as he lunged into a fast-paced prowl across the floor of the small room. Each time he passed where she was sitting, the delicious scent of sandalwood tantalized her senses.

  Dear Lord, why did he have to smell so wonderful? Look so dark and dangerously attractive? It wasn’t fair. She didn’t have the same effect on him. Wincing, she bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to have any effect on the man. She simply wanted him to leave her be. Suppressing a sigh, she looked away from him. She was lying to herself and she knew it.

  “I’d like for us to come to an understanding.” The words seemed twisted out of him as if he were suffering under a great weight. She immediately squelched the sympathy that threatened to take hold inside her.

  “An understanding, my lord? Is there something about my work that you prefer me to do differently?”

  “To hell with the collection,” he growled. “I’m talking about last night.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything left to be said, my lord. I understand the arrangement quite clearly. Last night will not happen again.”

  Oh God, how was she able to keep her voice even and detached when all she wanted to do was scream at him? Lash out at him for the pain and humiliation he’d inflicted on her. She watched as he shoved his hand through his hair and halted his pacing.

  “I have compelling reasons why last night can never happen again, yâ sabāha.”

  “I’m sure you do, my lord. However, you’ll forgive me for not caring.”

  “Damn it, Constance, I’m trying to explain why I did what I did.”

  “I’m sorry, my lord, but you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I care. If you are harboring some notion that I am in any way devastated by your behavior, please don’t.”

  “My comments appeared to affect you deeply enough this morning,” he said with a grim look. The expression tightened his features into a dark mask of anger.

  “Appearances are often deceiving, my lord. If I felt anything at all, it was regret for giving myself to a dissolute degenerate,” she said with cold deliberation.

  The words hit their mark as she saw him jerk in reaction to her insult. His eyes narrowed with anger as he clasped his hands behind his back as if to keep from throttling her. “I’ll grant you that insult, yâ sabaha, but know this, what I did this morning was for your protection.”

  “My protection? From what? This Blakemore curse of yours?” Her control slipped as a sliver of bitterness crept into her voice. “You must take me for a fool, my lord.”

  “What the devil do you know about the Blakemore curse?” His quiet question was like velvet over steel. It held a deadly note that sent a chill racing across her skin.

  Flustered, she tried to remember exactly where she’d heard about the curse. Her first memory of it was when Nigel had visited her. Her mouth went dry. Surely she’d heard about the curse from someone other than a ghost. Lifting her chin slightly in an act of bravado, she glared at him.

  “I must have heard something about it in passing.”

  In two steps he closed the distance between them. A grim expression on his face, he shook his head. “No, Constance, I don’t think so.”

  “Where else would I have heard of this perceived family affliction?”

  “Where indeed.” His gaze bored into hers with an icy anger that made her swallow a knot of fear. “Somehow I don’t think you heard about the Blakemore curse at a social engagement.”

  “I don’t remember where I heard it,” she snapped. God, if he were to pry the truth out of her, what then?

  “Perhaps Malcolm Standish thought the information would be useful to you.”

  “And perhaps your grandmother confided in me.”
Furious that he would bring up Standish’s name, she didn’t stop to think about the impact her retort might have.

  “My grandmother?” His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, as his mouth became a thin, harsh line of anger.

  Flinching slightly, she averted her gaze. She might not have told an outright lie, but she was doing nothing to clear up the misconception. She didn’t care—let him think what he liked. The man seemed determined to link her with Malcolm Standish, and it infuriated her.

  “And did my grandmother elaborate on our family’s bloodied history?”

  “I know enough,” she whispered as she remembered the visions that had haunted her since she’d first met him.

  “Ah, but perhaps she omitted some small tidbit. After all, she does want to see me married off.”

  “Family history or not, no woman in her right mind would have you,” she said with an artificial smile of sweetness. Fury darkened his gaze as he reached out and cupped her chin with his hand. The touch was like a branding iron, the heat of it scorching her skin.

  “Shall I tell you about the Blakemores and their curse, Constance? Shall I tell you what I’m certain my grandmother left out? The Blakemores have a long history of blood lust. With each generation the male members of the family go on a murderous rampage that is barely describable in words. First there was my great-grandfather who committed the vile deed of filicide. To hear my grandmother tell the story, they were arguing over the Seth statue when my great-grandfather lashed out at his son, accidentally killing him. Filled with remorse, my great-grandfather immediately took his own life. The only problem with this story is there was no statue of Seth found with them. Next was my father. His blood lust was far more terrible. Not content to simply murder his wife, he butchered her in a savage, brutal manner—slaughtered her like an animal.”

  Tension had drawn his mouth into a thin line of pain, and her heart wept for the agony he still suffered from his memories.

  “Don’t, Lucien, I—”