by Monica Burns
“Tell me, how much is he paying you?”
“Wh…what?” she stuttered as she tried to understand how Lucien could have possibly heard his brother’s voice.
“Standish. What’s the bastard paying you? Did he pay you extra to slide between my sheets? If not, I’ll be happy to correct that oversight.”
“He’s not paying—” Her outrage evaporated into horror as she met his contemptuous gaze, the full impact of his statement washing over her. Swallowing her humiliation, she tilted her chin in rebellious anger. “Believe what you will of me, my lord. I was not talking with Standish.”
Brilliant blue eyes narrowing, he studied her for a long moment. The look of assessment on his face told her he was carefully weighing her words. She’d not lied to him in stating she wasn’t talking to Standish, but she’d not denied talking to someone either. The expression on his face showed he’d finally deduced that fact, and his mouth was a harsh line of determination as he pinned her with his penetrating gaze. She shuddered beneath his look, her breathing ragged.
“If not Standish, my lady, then who?”
“I…no one…I told you I have a habit of talking to myself,” she said desperately as she fought to fight her way out of the corner his words were backing her into.
“Most convenient,” he sneered. “Avoid an outright lie simply by claiming you fainted or were talking to yourself.”
“Somehow I don’t think it would matter whether I told you the truth or not, you’d still call me a liar.” Glaring up at him, she pushed against his chest in a futile effort to break free of his grasp.
“So you admit you were talking to someone.”
“I admit no such thing.”
“Then perhaps you’ll explain whose bedroom you’re supposed to search.”
His icy words were like a blast of winter air as she stared up at him. Dear God, he must have heard her entire conversation with his brother. Or at least her responses. She swallowed hard at the emotion blazing in his eyes. How could she explain without revealing everything? A shudder rippled through her at the thought.
“Let me go.”
“Who was he, Constance? Your lover?”
With a dark growl, he jerked her forward into a tight embrace. In an instant, the heat of him sank into her skin until she was convinced she would melt from the fire burning inside her. Astonished, she shook her head in disbelief.
He thought she had a lover. Someone other than him. Why would he think that, unless—he was jealous. It would explain everything, his behavior over the past few nights when Duncan came to visit and his reaction now. Was that the reason? Uncertainty flared inside her as she met his fierce gaze.
“The only lover I have is you, Lucien. There is no one else.”
Her soft whisper made him go rigid as she met his gaze steadily. Indecision crossed his face, before he uttered a groan that sounded as if he’d pulled it from deep within his tormented soul. An instant later, his mouth captured hers in a harsh kiss.
Filled with dark passion, it was a kiss that demanded complete surrender, and she eagerly yielded to his touch. Deep in the recesses of her mind, logic screamed she was a fool for giving in to her desire. In doing so, she was only begging for heartache. But it was too late. Her heartache had begun the first time they’d touched.
Arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers spiked through his silky black hair as his thumb circled her nipple. She drew in a sharp breath of pleasure at the way his touch sent heat flowing to her nether regions. Lost in her desire, she pressed her hips into his. God, she wanted him. Needed him. He had only to speak and she would give him whatever he asked. Gently, his fingers tweaked her nipple as he nipped at her neck. Another moan spilled from her throat.
“You’re mine, yâ sabāha.”
“Yes,” she sighed as his mouth brushed over hers in a light kiss.
“I’m the only man who excites you.” Gently his mouth tugged at her earlobe before grazing the edge of her jaw toward her mouth.
She moaned again, her body crying out for his possession. “Oh God, Lucien, please, I want you.”
“Then give me his name.” The whisper feathered its way across her cheek to her ear, and in the back of her head a warning screamed for her not to answer. But not soon enough.
“It was Nigel.”
The moment she spoke her blood ran cold. Oh God, what had she done? He’d deliberately seduced her to get the answer he wanted. And she’d given it to him. Caught up in the throes of desire, she’d not taken care with her words. He shoved her away from him, his eyes hard and glittering with anger. The abruptness of his retreat made her sway where she stood as she stared at him in horror.
“Nigel,” he ground out. “And his last name, Constance. I’ll have that too.”
“Oh God, don’t ask it of me,” she pleaded. Trembling, she shook her head as she stared into his angry features. His expression was unrelenting, and she knew he’d hound her until she told him the truth.
“His last name.” The fury in his voice made her wince.
“Blakemore,” she whispered in a voice so low she could barely make out the word herself. He didn’t move for a long moment as he stared at her with a frosty gaze that seared her skin.
“Do not mock me. My brother is dead.” Bitter and cold, his words lashed out at her with the fiery sting of a whip.
“I know,” she said as she bent her head to avoid his cold gaze. He wasn’t going to listen to her. It would have been difficult enough to make him understand if he’d not already been angry with her. Trying to convince him now was going to be impossible.
“You know.” His contempt was a steel trap clamping down on her heart. “Then naturally, you know it’s impossible to speak to the dead.”
“For some people, yes.” She swallowed the knot of fear in her throat. It was easy to tell from his demeanor that he believed she was lying again. Bowing her head, she stared down at her clasped hands. Her knuckles were white from the strength of her grip.
“Ask him if he remembers Professor Hodge.”
Constance’s head jerked up at the sound of Nigel’s voice. He had materialized next to Lucien, and she uttered a soft sound of consternation. She shook her head at his autocratic demand, but like his brother, Nigel’s expression was implacable. Squaring her shoulders, she looked directly into Lucien’s cold eyes.
“He wants to know if you remember Professor Hodge.”
Lucien’s body jerked violently before he recovered and folded his arms across his chest. A muscle twitched in his cheek, tugging at his scar. “Take care, Constance, you’re playing a dangerous game.”
Beside him, Nigel’s mouth contorted with anger as he smashed his hand into his open palm. The action made him shimmer slightly as if he were about to disappear. Determination lined his features as he glared at his brother.
“Ask him if he remembers the nickname we gave the Professor?” Nigel’s command held the same steely note Lucien’s had. Caught between the two of them, she shook her head in protest. “Damn it, woman, ask him.”
Shivering, she closed her eyes for a brief instant before taking a deep breath and doing as Nigel had instructed. “He…your brother…he wants to know if you remember the nickname you had for the man.”
“Suppose you tell me,” Lucien sneered as his lips thinned with anger.
“Wooly Bear, because he looked like one of our toys by the same name.” Nigel said as he watched Lucien’s face. Quietly, she repeated the name.
Pain flashed across Lucien’s face, only to be replaced in a split second by a fury darker than he’d already displayed. The rage filling his features washed over her like an icy bath, and she quickly stepped backward out of reach. She’d expected a cool, mocking disdain when he learned about her gift, not this all-consuming wrath.
“Get out,” he growled in a raw rasp of sound.
&n
bsp; “Damn him.” Nigel shouted his fury then vanished into thin air.
Alone in the face of Lucien’s rage, she stretched out her hand to him. “Please, Lucien, try to understand, I—”
“Leave now, Constance.” The savage note in his voice made her jerk her hand away from him. “Leave while I am still in control of my temper. If you stay, you do so at your own peril.”
Blue eyes glittering with scorn, he raked his gaze over her, and the contempt in his face sent a physical tremor of pain sailing through her. How could she make him understand she wasn’t lying? What could she do to make him see she had no control over her gift? Couldn’t he see how much she feared for his safety? How much she loved him?
The revelation lashed out at her with the force of an explosion. Shock stiffened her body, making it a supreme effort even to move. Step by step, she stumbled toward the salon doorway and tried to smother the sobs rising in her throat. As she raced from the room, only two thoughts churned in her head. Escape, and the knowledge that she loved a man who despised her.
Chapter Twelve
Lucien didn’t move as Constance fled the salon. The coals in the hearth glowed red as a flame sparked upward, throwing the shadow of her retreating figure onto the wall. It reminded him of the erotic vision he’d witnessed moments ago as she’d played the violin in the near darkness.
He’d stood in the shadows watching her, unable to move. The way she’d played had twisted his emotions into a knot of need and desire. Every note she’d pulled from the violin strings had given her the look of a woman in the throes of one climax after another.
The music swelling around her had only served as a reminder of the passion they’d shared. But when she’d arched backward and played the instrument with even greater abandon, he’d thought he would go mad. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for wanting just one more taste of heaven.
His fist crashed into the hard leather of a wing-backed chair.
He was a fool.
She’d deceived him.
A wild fury surged through his blood until it gripped every one of his muscles. He fought against it, struggled with the desire to go after her and drag the truth out of her in ways he didn’t dare imagine. Lies. All lies. First the deception about her true identity and her husband’s connection to Standish, denying she knew the man, and yet he’d found them together that day in the pasture. Now this. Using his brother’s name to try to convince him there hadn’t been a man in this room with her.
Those beautiful lips of hers spewed out lies as easily as a serpent did its venom. God, he’d wanted to kill her a moment ago. And not just because she’d lied to him. No, that wasn’t what had provoked his fury.
It was the thought of her with another man that had set fire to his anger—stoked the flames of his fury until he could barely think straight. Christ Jesus, it had started. He’d been tumbling over the precipice and didn’t even realize it. Chilled by the thought, he sank down into a nearby chair.
From that first moment he’d seen her luscious curves outlined in the firelight, he’d been determined to have her. Driven to find and possess his Isis, the woman behind the mask she’d worn that night at the Clarendon. And it had brought him to this. The beginnings of madness.
Head buried in his hands, he shuddered at the rage still seething inside him. It was a demon he wasn’t sure he could control. But he had to find a way of doing so. He needed to know who she’d been talking to. Standish was still staying in the village, and the man wasn’t simply on holiday. He was up to something, and it had to be related to the statue of Isis.
He reached up to trace the long scar on his cheek with his fingers. Standish had been intent on killing him that day in the desert when they’d fought over the rights to the tomb of Aramun, a priest of the Seth cult. The man probably would have succeeded in slicing up more of him if his men hadn’t arrived to escort Standish off the site at gunpoint.
As a boy he’d searched for the Seth statue diligently, determined to find it. But over time, he’d come to believe the icon was a myth. Then he’d discovered the statue of Isis in Aramun’s tomb, and he’d been forced to reconsider. Now, with Standish being so close by, it increased the odds that the Seth statue did exist.
The question was, did Standish already have it, or was he looking for it here in the keep? Without the other half of the map, anything the statues gave up would be useless in finding Sefu’s tomb, and he’d hidden the half he owned—in his bedroom.
Springing to his feet, he paced the floor. Bloody hell, she was working with Standish. The man had told her to search for the papyrus in his room. Why else would she protest searching his room? Why indeed? Perhaps she found being in his bed a far worse fate than his anger.
The thought of her coming to his bed simply out of avarice only served to increase his fury. In the next instant, he remembered the fiery passion they’d shared. The sweetness of it. No, he couldn’t believe she’d come to him simply as a matter of necessity. Was Standish threatening her, forcing her to do his dirty work? God, he was still making excuses for her.
And how had the man gotten into the keep? He’d not seen anyone near her, and he’d not detected any movement while she was playing. Shaking his head, he came to an abrupt halt near the piano. With a frown, he stared at the carpet beneath his feet. Whoever she’d been talking to had surprised her. What was it she’d said? Something about being disconcerted. Yes that was it. Her visitor had been unexpected.
If she wasn’t expecting someone, how had they entered the room? Lifting his head, he peered into the shadows at the wall behind the piano. The large tapestry covering the gray stone wall had been there since childhood and longer. Of that he was certain. Quickly moving toward the gaslight on the wall sconce, he turned up the flame then focused his attention on the tapestry.
The weight of the material made it difficult to pull the tapis back from the cold, gray stones so he could study the wall behind it. Other than the outline of where the large sandstone blocks butted against each other, there was no indication of a hidden door.
He let the material fall back against the wall, the heavy thud echoing in the silence. Even if there were a hidden door behind the tapis, no one could have come and gone without disturbing the decorative hanging. The entire time he’d watched Constance play her violin the tapestry hadn’t moved. Whoever had been in the salon with her had to have departed some other way than a hidden door behind the tapis.
Slowly walking along the length of the wall, he carefully studied the junctures of each stone, searching for a possible hidden door. Something. Anything to explain how Constance could have a conversation with her mysterious visitor one minute only to find the visitor had vanished into thin air. But more importantly, an explanation for how she knew about Professor Hodge.
He recalled her standing in front of him, boldly declaring she could speak to Nigel. Did she think he would believe such an outrageous story? She must think him a fool. And yet she’d sounded so sincere. Damnation, he needed to stop making excuses for the woman. She’d lied, and he was going to prove it.
With renewed vigor he continued to search along the wall. When he reached the corner where the outside and interior walls met, he uttered a grunt of anger. Nothing. Damn it, no one could have come in and out of the room without him seeing something. How the devil had the bastard done it? Could she have been telling the truth?
“Christ Jesus, of course not. She was lying,” he raged to an empty room.
Wheeling about, he stared at the violin lying on top of the piano. It was a suitable instrument for her fire and passion. Watching her from the doorway a short time ago, he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life. Just the way her body moved in time with the music had aroused him until he’d wanted nothing more than to take her there on the floor.
The familiar sensation of his cock stirring in his trousers made him utter a grunt of disgust. It
had been difficult enough living with the fact he couldn’t have her, but this. This newest fabrication of hers wasn’t just ludicrous, it was implausible. She’d actually tried to convince him she was able to talk to Nigel by acting as though it was his brother giving her that ridiculous name they’d had for Professor Hodge. No doubt she’d gotten that little tidbit from Nanny.
The sudden chill filling the room made him turn toward the doors leading out to the terrace. He crossed the room in several quick strides and twisted the door handles. The doors were locked. Where the devil had that draft of cold air come from? As he turned back around, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye near the front windows, but it vanished before he could make out what it was.
Tomorrow he intended to tear the room apart if necessary to find out how Constance’s visitor had gained such easy access to the salon and to the keep itself. It would please him immensely to drag her into the salon to show her she wasn’t as clever as she thought. The woman had no more been talking to Nigel than he was free of the Blakemore curse. Rubbing his hands together in the icy cold of the room, he uttered an oath of fury and strode from the salon.
Constance stared out at the rising sun framed in a sky of pink and mauve clouds as she leaned against the wooden frame of her window. Fingertips pressing into her temple, she winced at the way her head hurt. Bruised and battered, her heart hurt worse. She’d done nothing but cry since she’d returned to her room in the dark of the early morning.
Now she had no more tears left. There was only the dull throb inside her head, and the pain sliding through every part of her body. How could she have been so dim witted to fall in love with him? She should have left Lyndham Keep that first day he arrived home. Then none of this would have happened.
But it had happened. Her visions had shown her the passion, but not once had she seen anything else. She should have known there would be nothing beyond the pleasure. If she had foreseen his rejection, his anger—would she have done anything differently?