by Monica Burns
“My parents. Why would you have witnessed the deaths of my parents?”
Compassion softened her features as her hazel eyes darkened to a mossy green. “There is no Blakemore curse, Lucien. Your parents were murdered, and whoever did it is using the curse to cover up their heinous actions.”
The tension pulsating through him taunted his aching body with tenacious glee. It reminded him of the first time he’d fallen off his horse as a child. There was this sense of uncertainty, a distance between the knowledge of the event and the acceptance of it. Disbelief made him shake his head.
“You’re mistaken. My father murdered my mother before he took his own life.”
“That’s what someone wants you to believe, but it didn’t happen that way.” Certainty gave strength to her voice as she disagreed with him.
“Damn it, Constance, there was a bloody inquest. The investigation showed my father butchered my mother and then slit his own throat,” he rasped.
Hands clasped behind his back, his fists burned from the tightness of his clench. She had to be wrong. The curse was real. His great-grandfather had killed and committed suicide. Then his father had followed the same path. Even if what she believed were true, who could possibly be responsible for so much mayhem over such an extended period of time? Not to mention the question of why. The clock on the nightstand ticked the seconds off softly in the silence of the room as he struggled to try and believe her once more. He shook his head.
“It’s not possible. The curse made my father go mad. He killed my mother, not some phantom killer.” Stubbornly he shook his head as he met her unwavering gaze. She scowled at him.
“Your mother was already dead when your father found her. He was beside himself with grief. The anguish he experienced…” She closed her eyes, and her sigh was a mere whisper. “It was a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before. He wanted to die, but he didn’t kill her or himself. I saw him being murdered.”
“Who?” He gestured for her not to bother answering his question with a wave of his hand. “Like Nigel, you don’t know who the murderer is either.”
“No, I don’t have all the answers. I only have bits and pieces of a mystery I’ve been trying to unravel ever since I arrived at Lyndham Keep. However, there are some things I’m certain of.” She moved to stand at his side, and her fingers dug into him as she clutched his arm. “There is no Blakemore curse. Whoever the murderer is, they made it look as if Nigel, your father and your great-grandfather killed a loved one out of madness and then themselves out of guilt.”
“This is ridiculous,” Lucien snapped as he glared down at her. “We’re talking about a span of time that covers more than thirty years.”
“I know it sounds impossible, but I can only tell you what I’ve seen. And there are two things that are key. Malcolm Standish is deeply involved. He knows the murderer. The second item of importance is that the murderer wants the Seth figurine.”
“I’ll say it again. The statuettes are worthless without the second half of the map. A prize I have no intention of giving away.” He flung his hand to the side in a gesture of irritation. Damn it, why did the woman have to persist with this ludicrous train of thought?
“The map isn’t what he really wants. He hates your family, and he’s a devotee of the Seth cult. This man believes in the god of chaos’s ability to grant him whatever he asks for, and he believes murder is how Seth intends him to achieve his goals.”
“And what are these goals?” he snarled.
“I wish I knew. But this man has killed six people, and he might kill more…”
Fear made her grow pale, and he narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Did she believe her son might be the murderer’s next victim? He caught a glimpse of horror in her gaze before she looked away from him. It was true then. Whatever she’d seen had shaken her deeply.
“That’s why you were so frantic last night,” he mused softly. “You saw him hurt Jamie.”
She nodded her head and turned away from him. “He knows…I can see him. I’m a threat…he…”
The way her voice trailed off tugged at something deep inside him. Worse, he didn’t like the way his gut clenched the moment she turned away from him. He knew it was a mistake to offer her comfort, but he couldn’t stifle his need to console her. Gently he pulled her close and allowed her warmth to wash over him and soothe his aching muscles. He couldn’t let her stay here. She had to leave the keep. The question was, how could he let her go?
Almost as if she could read his mind, she raised her head to look up at him. His heart slammed into his chest with the force of a sledge hammer. The emotion lighting her face held a promise of something he knew better than to ever hope for. He didn’t move as her fingers lightly trailed along the scar on his cheek. One touch. Just one touch and she’d managed to twist his insides into knots.
He heard her breathing grow slow and labored, but he refused to act on the desire he saw flaring in her beautiful eyes. A desire that might be insatiable if he relaxed his guard. Worse, it might actually change him into a monster. A shudder ricocheted through her and bored its way into him. God, he was just torturing himself by holding her like this. He captured her mouth in a hard kiss then quickly released her. A look of puzzlement furrowed her brow as he put several feet between them. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t like what was coming.
“I’ll make arrangements for you and Jamie to return to London first thing in the morning. If you would, I’d like you to take Imogene with you. I’d send my grandmother, but she’s not left the grounds of the keep for years and will refuse to leave.”
Shock widened her eyes, and he steeled himself not to respond to her touch as she reached out to grip his arm.
“Why are you doing this, Lucien?”
“I want you safe.”
“I am safe. I’m safe with you.” Desperation whispered beneath her words, and he hardened his heart. He refused to answer the plea in her voice.
“We both know that’s not true. I’m still not convinced my father didn’t go mad, which means my own fate is sealed. Even if the Blakemore curse doesn’t exist, this murderer you’ve seen is a dangerous threat. Either way, you and the children aren’t safe here. You’ll return to London on the morning train.”
“No,” she exclaimed sharply.
“This matter is not a subject for debate.”
“The children can go to my brother Sebastian’s home. They’ll be safe there.”
“As shall you.”
“But—”
“I’ll not discuss the matter with you any further, Constance. Nothing you say will change my mind.”
“I won’t leave you,” she said with quiet insistence.
For a moment, her response stunned him. Didn’t she understand he was trying to protect her? Keep her from harm? Especially from him. Infuriated, he gritted his teeth. The woman would try the patience of a saint. With a grunt of anger, he wheeled away from her. She could say no all she wanted, but he was putting her on the train tomorrow whether she liked it or not. He stalked toward the door with stiff, stilted movements. He needed to put some space between them. If he stayed in here much longer, he might actually consider giving in to her. And God help him if he did that. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it with brutal force.
“I love you, Lucien.”
Her words hung in the air like a pendulum halted in mid-swing before it continued toward him, pinning him against the door. She was mad. What would have prompted her to say such a thing to him?
Grandmother.
He bowed his head as he released his vicious grip on the brass knob and pressed his palms into the wooden door. He didn’t want her to love him. It was dangerous for her to do so.
“I love you. Nothing you say or do will change that.”
“You ask more than I can give, Constance.” He dragged air into his lungs, desperate t
o silence her persistent declarations. “I can’t love you.”
“I don’t believe that,” she said firmly.
Too late he realized his mistake. He’d given her the hope he might change his mind. God, if only he could love her. A dark laugh deep in the back of his head taunted him. As much as he wanted to believe the curse didn’t exist, he couldn’t take the risk. He didn’t see her move, but her sweet scent filled his senses as she came to a halt beside him.
The way her fingers clutched at him reminded him how stubborn she could be. He threw off her hand in a savage manner and immediately put several feet between them. There had to be some way to end this. Some way to make her understand she was wrong to love him.
“Believe what you will, Constance. I’m not capable of loving anyone.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Lucien. You put such stock in people telling you the truth, and yet you’ve lied to yourself every day since your parents died.”
Her words sent a raw fury whipping through him. Who the hell was she to suggest he wasn’t being honest with himself? He’d lived with the memory of his father’s nightmarish handiwork for years. He knew what he was capable of. Even now, the animal inside of him snarled to be unleashed. He didn’t want to hurt her, but this dark emotion inside him would be both their undoing. Taking a step toward her, he silently willed her to stop speaking. Most people would have flinched in the face of his anger, but not her. Instead she glared back at him.
“There’s no curse, Lucien. There never was. You’ve used it as an excuse to keep from getting close to anyone.”
In three strides he towered over her. Still she didn’t shrink from him. If anything, she became even more defiant. He wanted to throttle her. Even worse, he wanted her. He could feel need winding its way through him and into his groin. With his body, he pressed her into the door, and his hands bit into the softness of her arms. She winced slightly at his brutal grip, but the stubborn tilt of her mouth remained the same. A mouth he wanted to taste again. Perhaps there was only one way to convince her they had no future together.
“Take care with your words, Constance.”
“Why? Because you can’t stand to hear the truth?”
“No,” he growled. “Because you leave me no choice but to show you that passion and love are two different things.”
He leaned into and slanted his mouth over hers in a hard, fiery kiss. God, how was it possible for the woman to make him furious and hot all at the same time? She didn’t resist him. Instead she melted into his arms as if she’d always belonged there. She gently bit on his lower lip in a hungry demand, and he eagerly gave her what she wanted. In an instant, honey and lemon exploded over his taste buds as he probed the inner warmth of her mouth.
Christ Jesus, he’d missed this. Missed the passion between them. This wasn’t love, but giving this up would be difficult. Pleasure surged through him as her hands unbuttoned his shirt and explored his chest. It was like being singed by a raging fire, except this was a fire he didn’t want to put out.
Her mouth slipped away from his to trail its way down to the base of his throat. He was already growing hard, but the moment her hand brushed down over his stomach, his cock became a steel rod. As her mouth continued to inch its way downward, he released her for an instant to lock the bedroom door.
It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the sweetness of her body, and he needed her now—this instant. No seductive caresses or kisses, just the power of desire barreling through him. Despite the groan of protest from his aching muscles, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. This wasn’t about anything except raw, hot need. Setting her on the edge of the bed, he firmly pressed her backward until the upper half of her body sank into the mattress. His mouth sought hers in another hard kiss as with fast and furious movements, he yanked her dress up to her waist.
He had no idea why she didn’t protest his rough handling, and he didn’t care. This was about convincing her that what they shared wasn’t love. It was lust, pure and simple. The soft flesh of her inner thigh was warm as he ripped her silk drawers away from her skin. Fresh cream drenched his fingers as he explored the depths of her sex. Christ, touching her like this made him harder than he thought possible.
The sooner he buried himself inside her slick core, the sooner he could prove his point to her. She thought him capable of love, but he knew better. God help her if she thought this was love. This wouldn’t keep her safe from harm. It wouldn’t warm her in her old age. This was nothing more than the most basic of mating acts. One he needed to finish here and now. His fingers raced to undo his trousers, and his blood surged faster through his veins. As his hard rod broke free of his clothing, her hand wrapped around him snugly. It was an unexpected pleasure, and his body jerked from the sensation. The sudden heat of her palm against his chest made him pause.
“Open your heart to me, Lucien. Let me love you.”
Like a rosebud unfolding under the sun, she opened herself up to him. The emotion glowing in her face ignited a flame inside him. An answering emotion he couldn’t afford to feel. His jaw flexed as he remembered why he was taking her so quickly and without finesse. Without responding to her quiet plea, he bent her legs upward and buried himself deep inside her in one hard thrust. A cry of pleasure flew from her lips, and he grunted with satisfaction. She needed no other answer from him than this one.
Embedded deep in the heat of her, he groaned as he remained motionless for a long moment. He wanted to savor this small moment, because he knew it would never happen again. Her body flexed around his cock, and he pulled in a swift breath. With just a tiny movement, she’d managed to make him so hot he was having difficulty holding his seed. She moved against him one more time, and he released another groan. Christ Jesus, he ached for her.
Desire blinded him as he began to pump his body into hers with a powerful fury. Stroke after stroke, he drove into her, desperate to prove this was nothing more than raw, unbridled passion—not love. Her body responded to him with first one ripple and then another. Pleasure and love weren’t the same, but the way her body clutched at his cock was incredible.
Reason departed him as he lost himself in her completely. He ignored all the warnings his brain was screaming at him as he heard her cry out his name. She bucked against his hips as she peaked and shattered over his rod with tight, hot clenches of passion. The darkest part of him cried out against the emotion welling up inside him. Determined to stave off the feeling, he told himself this was merely a good fuck and nothing else. Then her climax pulled on him, demanding he experience the same satisfaction. With one last thrust, his body slammed into hers as he exploded and throbbed inside her.
Hands braced on either side of her head, he leaned forward, his brow almost touching her breasts as her spasms continued clutching at him.
He wanted her again.
He wanted her with him always.
The thought plunged him into the depths of hell. God help him. He’d thought to show himself there was nothing but passion between them. Instead, he’d opened himself up to the real and horrible possibility she might have been right. What the hell was he going to do? The answer to his question was immediate and harsh. Swallowing hard, he desperately searched his mind for another option. There was none.
Retreating from her, he quickly pulled her dress down and turned away from her to adjust his own clothing. Behind him, he could sense her confusion and the beginnings of fear. With his back still to her, he cleared his throat.
“As I said. There is a distinct difference between love and a good fuck.”
Although he couldn’t see her face, her strangled cry of horror spoke volumes as to how deeply his words had cut into her. God, he excelled at being a bastard. All the better for her. One day she’d thank him for the cruelty of this moment. He tried to turn and face her, but his courage failed him.
The bed squeaked softly, and he heard the rustling
of her dress as she stood up. Straightening his jacket, he dragged in a deep breath before turning to face her. To his surprise, she’d already reached the bedroom door. Stunned, he stared after her. Was she actually going to let his brutish conduct go unchallenged? Her hand grasped the doorknob, and she hesitated for a mere fraction of a second before opening the door. Disbelief crested inside him, followed by intense despair, as he watched his life walk silently out of the room without a single backward glance.
In the hallway, Constance leaned against the wall and closed her eyes as she reeled with shock. She’d lost. He’d turned away from her, unwilling to open himself up to her love. Pain in the form of a fiery blaze engulfed her heart until it was a charred ember.
The bleak moment swallowed her until there was little reason to breathe. A sob escaped her lips as she moved down the hall, numb to any sensation. She was so devoid of feeling that she didn’t even realize Nigel was present until the sound of his voice stopped her in her tracks.
“My brother is a fool.” The quiet sympathy in the ghost’s voice did little to comfort her as she turned toward him.
“No, he’s simply unwilling to risk his heart. So many of the people he’s loved have died brutal deaths. I cannot blame him for not wanting to risk loving me.”
“He’s stubborn and hardheaded in refusing to admit he loves you.”
“Perhaps,” she said with a disbelieving shrug. “It doesn’t matter. He’s sending me away tomorrow. He wants me to take Imogene with Jamie and me.”
She saw Nigel shake his head vehemently with an expression of anger. “It’s too late for that, the boy—”
The sound of Mrs. Clarke’s voice interrupted them, and she saw the ghost vanish as the housekeeper’s bulky figure drew near. There was a look of deep concern on her face.