He slept—and was tossed instantly into dreams.
Thunder. The slash of rain and wind.
His hands fought the empty air. “Katharine! Come back—you must not go!” His eyes were stark, desperate with fear.
The wind swept back her cloak, and he saw her face. Green-eyed, chiseled beauty at cheek and chin. Her porcelain skin glazed with tears.
Guilt wedged in his throat. He had driven her away. He and Adrian, with their constant quarreling and their everlasting jealousy.
And then her wild, shrill scream, twisting his heart into a thousand pieces.
“Nooooooo!” His pulse thundering, Nicholas jerked upright in the chair. At the window a tree branch scraped the glass.
Only the dream, he told himself, trying to steady his breathing. Only an illusion.
But tonight the pain was far worse, because tonight Nicholas had sensed that it all might have turned out differently if he hadn’t been so bloody stupid.
He stared out into the silver night, choked by a wave of regret, realizing that this dream was more real than anything he’d ever known.
SILENT AND SILVER, THE moon rose over moat and meadow, dappling yew forest and hedgerow in ice and shadow. Beneath its molten light, the walls of the abbey seemed to shimmer and change, rendered faint and then finally insubstantial.
Like a paper castle in a paper landscape.
An owl cried once from the dark stand of yews at the brow of the hill. A night creature rustled and scurried through the dense shrubbery lining the moat.
Wrapped in a timeless dream, like a sleeper waiting to be kissed back to life, the ancient stones slept on.
The eyes were keen and clear in the moonlight.
Dark and bottomless, they studied the home wood, then swept down to the darkened windows of the turreted gatehouse.
There, the motionless figure thought. So close.
And yet she might just as well have been an eternity away.
The eyes clouded, harsh with regret. But regret was a useless thing. “Regret is life’s bitterest poison.” Hadn’t he read that somewhere, eons ago?
Noiseless, the figure glided across the clipped lawns. The night seemed to hold its breath, the wind to still. As if of its own accord, the oak door swung open.
No light was lit to guide him, nor did the dark figure require any. He found the bedroom by feel and memory alone. He had memories enough for a hundred lifetimes, after all.
And then the moon met him in greeting, poured in a luminous pool on the bare wooden floor. Almost as bright as her hair spilling over the white linen pillow, he thought. Almost as beautiful as her smile, faint and soft and infinitely sweet now in sleep.
The darkness trembled. Will became being. Emotion turned to brooding substance.
A shadow fell over the sleeping woman’s face.
Outside the wind rose, shaking the casement, tossing gravel and broken twigs against the gatehouse.
Dreaming still, she twisted restlessly, dimly sensing nature’s distant warning.
The glass panes shuddered, and the shuddering turned to rapping. Then the rapping, too, changed—became low, urgent drumming. Beside the window, the thick damask curtains rippled and flared out, with the slow grace of an underwater scene.
The brooding eyes swept over the sleeper’s face, issuing a silent command.
Wake up, they whispered. We have waited long for you, and now the time for sleep is past.
The phantom eyes waited, raw with hunger.
But for now, seeing her was enough. There would be time for all the rest in the long dreaming midnights of summer yet to come.
Since, of course, she could never be allowed to leave this place again.
CHAPTER FIVE
THE SUN SHONE FROM A cloudless sky the following morning as Kacey halted at the door to a sunny dining room overlooking the moat and western lawns.
His face expressionless, Nicholas Draycott held out a chair for her. “I trust you slept well, Miss Mallory.”
He was clean-shaven and perfectly dressed, and the sight only made Kacey angry, since she had been reduced to wearing the same rumpled shirt and creased jeans from yesterday. “Perfectly, thank you,” she lied, sliding into her seat, knowing full well that the dark circles under her eyes must belie her words.
“In that case, let’s get right down to business,” Draycott said in that abrupt, intense way that Kacey was coming to see was a habit with him. “As I see it, we have two choices.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” Kacey countered.
“I don’t believe so.”
“You agreed to call New York.”
“Ah.” Draycott paused, his eyes unreadable. “It seems that Ms. Edwards is unavailable. Her answering service said that she had gone on holiday.”
Damn! Kacey looked down. Cassandra hadn’t told her she was planning to go away. It complicated everything! Frowning, she looked back at Draycott. “Well?”
“Well, what, Miss Mallory?”
“What are you going to do about it?”
“Since I can’t very well summon Miss Edwards back from her vacation, we’ll just have to proceed as planned—until she returns, at least. I’m prepared to do that much.”
Kacey was prepared to do that much, too, but she wasn’t about to like it. But what choice had she, really?
Partly to avoid those piercing silver-gray eyes, Kacey looked out the window, where bright morning sunlight streamed through emerald velvet curtains worked with a dragon crest and an entwined D.
The Draycott coat of arms, no doubt, she thought sourly.
In the aftermath of the storm, the air was crystal clear and the lawns hung with diamonds of dew. From somewhere over the hill, she heard the distant bleating of sheep. Today even the sheer granite walls seemed less forbidding—sunwarmed, dappled by scattered patches of lichen.
Almost protective, somehow.
Yes, in the bright light of day Kacey could almost convince herself that yesterday had been a bad dream.
Until she looked up into Draycott’s piercing eyes, that was. Into his chiseled, brooding face, which quickly reminded her that what had happened in the stable was anything but a dream.
There was no way to forget how those eyes had stripped her bare. How his hard body had felt when he’d swept her up and carried her back to the gatehouse.
Her throat turned dry; heat swirled through her.
Just simple, low-grade lust, Kacey told herself flatly. He’s one damn handsome man, and it’s been far too long since you’ve had a good case of lust.
Dark and unreadable, his eyes grazed her lips. Suddenly Draycott smiled as if he’d read her guilty thoughts.
Heat swept across Kacey’s high cheekbones, staining her face and neck. At that moment Draycott’s daunting butler entered bearing steaming trays of eggs, crisp bacon, toast points and an array of condiments.
“Ah, Marston. Thank you.” Nicholas settled back in his chair, waiting for the servant to finish before resuming the conversation.
In the interim, Kacey studied the room. Everything was exceedingly civilized. Fine old china. Gleaming crystal. A blinding array of silver—all sporting the Draycott dragon crest, of course.
The butler served discreetly while the earl murmured polite suggestions to Kacey. But by the time the servant withdrew, she was feeling very much the interloper, the clumsy colonial upstart. She knew she had faint shadows under her eyes, and her coloring was just short of cadaverous. Her hair must have looked a total disaster. She sat in the blinding sunlight, feeling like a grubby schoolgirl summoned before the lord of the manor, who sat infuriatingly neat and crisp in a white shirt, tailored wool pants, and a much-worn wool jacket in a muted gray tweed.
Kacey began to toy with her eggs.
“You may eat them, you know. They’re neither drugged nor poisoned, I assure you.”
But at that moment she couldn’t have swallowed anything. “I’m—I’m not very hungry,” she lied. Unfortunately her stomach chose that preci
se instant to growl—quite loudly.
Draycott’s brows slanted upward. “Indeed.”
There it was again. That irritating word which could mean a thousand things—or nothing at all.
“As I was saying, we appear to have two choices, Miss Mallory.”
“Indeed,” Kacey said silkily, managing to force down a spoonful of eggs.
Something flared deep in Draycott’s eyes for a moment, but he ignored her mocking imitation. “One is for you to leave today, as you seem so dead-set on doing. That would hurt both of us. You, because you’ll never get to see the Whistler again, and me, because something tells me I’ll never find another conservator with even half your skill.”
His calm assessment stunned Kacey. “And the second option?” she asked, somewhat breathlessly.
“Is that you stay on here at the abbey. I’ll see that you have free access to the painting, along whatever materials and tools you require. Your hours will be entirely your own. That, my dear Miss Mallory, would be to both our benefits.”
It was tempting, Kacey had to admit. By daylight, the man looked almost human.
Almost, she reminded herself quickly. He tossed you over his shoulder like a caveman yesterday, remember? He thought you were a call girl hired for a night’s pleasure.
“So which is it to be, Miss Mallory?” Draycott’s gray eyes taunted her. “Or do you perhaps feel unequal to the job?”
Kacey stiffened. “I’m more than up to any job you can give me, Lord Draycott.” Her jade eyes glittering, she shot him a furious look. “And don’t you have a real-life name? We Yanks have never cared much for ranks and titles, you know.”
The dark brow slanted higher. “Nicholas is my given name. You may use it, if you prefer, since my title seems to make you uncomfortable. But if it’s not the work you’re afraid of, then perhaps it’s something else.” His slate eyes narrowed. “Me, perhaps?”
“In a pig’s eye!”
“Yourself then? After all, your performance last night was quite convincing. One might almost say you put your heart and soul into the act. Perhaps that’s what’s really troubling you, Miss Mallory—the thought that you’re just not up to the temptation of staying at Draycott Abbey. With me,” he added.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Lord—Nicholas! Resisting you will be the easiest thing I’ve ever done!”
“In that case, I fail to see any reason for your reluctance. It will be a simple business proposition, nothing more.”
Kacey frowned. He was right, of course. There was no reason for all this anxiety. Her days would be spent in solitude up in the long gallery, doing the work that she loved best.
Her frown deepened. But there’d always be the nights, a voice whispered. And you’re not half so immune to this man as you’d like to believe.
She looked down at her plate, all fruit and florals coiling against a pink porcelain background. Like everything about this house, the china was old and tasteful and colossally expensive.
In tense silence, she pushed the plate away.
So what’s the problem? she asked herself. Just say no and be done with it.
Her lips moved. To her total shock, the words that tumbled out sounded strangely like “All right, I’ll do it.”
A hint of emotion flickered over Draycott’s chiseled features—a look that was too hard for relief and too wary for triumph. “I’m pleased to hear it. I’ll have a suite prepared for you on the second floor. Marston will see to whatever you require in the way of materials and supplies, although I expect you will have brought most of that sort of thing with you. And if you need anything else, just—”
“Impossible,” Kacey said flatly, already regretting her moment of weakness. “No suite—not here in the main house. It’s the gatehouse or nothing at all.”
Draycott eased back in his chair. The sun on his white shirt was very nearly blinding, enhancing the dark bronze of his neck and face.
His eyes began to glitter dangerously. He took his time about answering, studying the wave of crimson that swept her cheeks. “That would be entirely out of the question, I’m afraid,” he said flatly.
“Now, how did I know you were going to say that?” Kacey snapped. “In that case, our arrangement is off, too.” She tossed down her napkin and pushed up from her chair. “Good day, Lord Draycott. I wish I could say it’s been a pleasure.”
The Englishman’s eyes narrowed. “Are you always this irascible, Miss Mallory? Or is it merely I who have the dubious honor of being able to provoke you to fury?”
Dimly, Kacey realized her behavior was totally out of character, but she wasn’t about to admit that to this insufferable egotist!
Draycott’s dark eyes mocked her. “I see. In that case, I must remember to stay well out of your way in the future.”
It was a complete and total lie, of course. Nicholas Draycott only intended to get closer and closer to her. For some reason, that challenge had become at least as important to him as the restoration of the Whistler.
Kacey’s fingers gripped the back of her chair. “That will hardly be necessary. For we have no future, you and I. That, I promise you!”
Draycott looked down. “I see I shall have to tell you the truth. You see, in the last weeks there have been several…incidents here at the abbey. Oh, nothing serious—a rake disappearing here, a chair there. Nothing to worry about.” He eyes turned hard. “Until last week, that is.”
“And then?”
“Someone broke into the gatehouse—ransacked the place royally. One very fine Turner landscape was slashed and two more were stolen. No one was hurt, thank goodness.”
“Was the thief caught?”
“Unfortunately, no. The police have had a look, but the culprit was damnably thorough. No prints. No clues of any sort.”
That was not quite true either, Draycott thought. There had been clues—if a person knew what to look for.
“Can’t you just replace the locks?” Kacey demanded, clinging stubbornly to her original plan.
“They had been changed the day before the robbery. The man—or men—simply broke through the gatehouse windows. It’s far enough from the main house that we could hear nothing.” Draycott’s face hardened. “So you see it would be quite out of the question for you to stay out there. Not now at any rate.”
Kacey’s breath caught as she realized there was something he wasn’t telling her. “And you expect whoever it is to return, don’t you?”
For a fleeting moment, Draycott looked startled. “I do. Especially now.”
“You mean once the news of your Whistler starts trickling out.”
He nodded grimly.
“Perhaps it already has.”
“The thought has crossed my mind, too.”
“Is that why you were so suspicious of me last night?”
“That reason—among other reasons,” Draycott answered cryptically.
“How do you know that I’m not? One of them, I mean?”
“I don’t,” the Englishman said bluntly. “But I mean to find out very soon. And if you are—one of them, as you put it—I’d rather have you here where I can see you than somewhere else,” he added.
“I see.” Suddenly Kacey did see. That his performance last night was simply to smoke out a thief. That his passion had been no more than a clever ruse.
She refused to consider why the idea should leave her with a lingering sense of regret. Meanwhile it seemed she had no choice but to do as Draycott required—if she wanted to see the Whistler again.
Her fingers twisted back and forth on the chair rung. “Very well. I’ll stay here in the abbey,” she said at last. “As long as you agree to stay out of my way while I’m working.”
His eyes followed her, dark with challenge. “And the rest of the time, Miss Mallory?”
“The same condition applies.”
Very carefully, the earl dropped his damask napkin on the table. He uncoiled his tall frame slowly and came to his feet, his eyes never leaving her
face. “Then of course I must not interfere in your work. Beyond that—I promise to do nothing you don’t wish me to do, Kacey Mallory.”
A faint flush swept her cheeks, but he was gone before she could tell him that the only thing she wanted from him was to be left alone.
Damn the man’s arrogance! If he thought she was open to a casual flirtation, he’d find himself snapping at thin air.
Yes, I’ll see you in hell first, Nicholas Draycott, Kacey swore silently.
Behind her, the air seemed to shimmer and tremble. A shadow fell across the corridor. That, too, might be arranged, Katharine, the darkness seemed to whisper. For there are many different kinds of hell, and a great many are right here on earth. Hell is wanting what you can never again have. Hell is facing something that was once yours and knowing that you destroyed it wantonly.
So speak that word carefully, the darkness murmured. Lest you find it sooner than you think.
And the ghost of Draycott Abbey had reason to know that particular lesson better than most.
THIRTY MINUTES LATER, Kacey closed her mind to the viscount and every other concern, settling down to her work.
In the daylight, the painting was even more magnificent than it had appeared the night before. Now every subtle stroke of muted gray, lavender and turquoise was clearly visible.
A masterpiece of design, the canvas showed a river scene captured at jewellike twilight, with a single gray figure standing at the end of a shadowy pier. In the distance rocked a phantom ship, lanterns lit, agleam from empty masts.
But was it a genuine Whistler? Kacey asked herself. Her heart said yes, but her mind warned her to stay cautious as she considered a thousand questions of pigment, brushstroke, and canvas treatment.
From somewhere outside came the crunch of feet on gravel, then the creak of a car door opening. A motor roared to life, smooth and powerful.
The sleek two-door number in black, no doubt. Kacey had to fight an errant compulsion to peek out the window.
With an explosive roar, car and driver were gone, gravel skittering in their wake.
Kacey felt her heart give a little lurch. Silence fell once more, heavier now. She tried to tell herself everything was the same, but somehow without Draycott, the house felt different—hushed, waiting. Without fire or heart.
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