Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams

by Christina Skye

  “Sometimes,” she lied, wondering why his scent was somehow familiar. Why his eyes shone with a brilliance Cathlin seemed to have known somewhere before.

  Or sometime before.

  The sheer impossibility of it left her chilled for a moment. What was happening to them here in this lovely, dangerous place with too many secrets and too many shadows?

  Then Dominic’s mouth coaxed the warm skin at her shoulder and Cathlin forgot about secrets and shadows.

  The only mystery she cared about was the mystery of skin brushing naked skin, of fingers twining and thighs caught in silken discovery.

  Dominic seemed to have the same idea. His palm opened over her waist, drawing her back against him.

  And he felt like forever. Like all the questions she’d ever had, answered in one hot, jerky breath.

  With a strangled sound she raised her hands to the hard planes of his face. Her linen gown parted with a low hiss. Cathlin went utterly still, breath jammed in her throat as Dominic feathered tiny kisses over the high, full swell of her breast.

  Desire slammed through her, finely edged, shining like a blade. Dominic nudged aside lace and linen, easing his way down to one swollen crest.

  Champagne bubbles raced up her spine. “I don’t think—this is anywhere in the rule book, Officer Montserrat.”

  “To hell with the rule book,” her bodyguard said hoarsely. “Damn it, you taste fine.” Slowly he kissed his way up the curve of her throat. “Let me have all of you, Cathlin. Let me have your taste in my mouth. I want you to be part of me.”

  Heat again. Delicious and amazing. Utterly tormenting. How could she possibly resist? “Dominic, I’ve never—that is, it’s never felt so—”

  Like forever. Like coming home.

  Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. “Good,” she finished lamely.

  “No, perfect,” he growled.

  “But you, haven’t you ever felt—”

  “No.” He frowned, studying the perfect crimson thrust of her, rising hungry to his lips. “Not like this.” His voice fell. “Not the way it feels with you. But I’m going to feel it now.” His breath caught. “With you, Cathlin.”

  The old house slept, silence in the corridors, silence in the rose-filled courtyard. Only two shadows moved in the moonlight.

  The wind played over her through the opened window, sweet and light as Dominic’s fingers. Sweet as the dreams that pressed, full of heated memories.

  Of yesterday and a hundred other yesterdays.

  Cathlin caught a ragged breath as he kissed the hollows of her spine, then turned her slowly in his arms.

  “Cathlin. Sweet God, you’re so…”

  So perfect for him, perfect against him as he found the curve of her and then her hidden heat. Pleasure welled through her heart, coursed through her veins, and she unfolded to him like a flower.

  Forever.

  That’s what he gave her in his touch, in his hot, dark words poured against her yearning skin.

  And forever was the place she struggled to find, anchored in his arms. But fighting wouldn’t take her there, not when the memories followed, chill and leaden and all the more frightening because they had no form and no face.

  Around her the curtains rose and fell, silent ghosts that mocked her for her fear.

  Was he Gabriel, their spirits somehow linked, carried through time by laws older than simple human understanding? And was she the woman Gabriel had kissed, there in a candlelit drawing room on a smoky London night two centuries before?

  Images lapped at the edges of Cathlin’s mind, images of another warrior and another pair of strong, callused fingers that had bared her body to racing pleasure.

  Forever.

  “I can’t. Dominic, please, this isn’t—”

  “You can, Irish. Because my love will take you there.” She felt the silken slide of his fingers, firing her heat, wooing her silently until she arched in restless abandon. “Now, Cathlin. While the moonlight plays around you. Let me take you beyond dawns and darkness. Through that door of shadows you never dared to open.”

  A low groan. Maybe his, maybe hers, or maybe it belonged to them both. She tightened around him, head flung back, mind and spirit shimmering in a wave of breathless pleasure.

  But it didn’t end. He wouldn’t let the pleasure end. Some instinct told him just how to move, where to skim until the light rocked her again and the last shadow fled, banished by his love, banished by his care and joy. Her breath swelled in a choked cry of discovery. Of love.

  Forever.

  No more shadows. Not in the still, silent house where the curtains drifted. Not in the slanting bar of moonlight, which crept across the floor and filled the room with beauty.

  Not even in Dominic’s eyes, which followed every inch of her wild journey with an urgency that signaled his own discoveries.

  As the roses danced, as swans coursed the moat, Cathlin gave herself up to his wild pleasure, to his knowing touch and his dark, whispered praise, knowing that somehow she had loved this man forever, that somewhere she had vowed to find him and heal him and give him back his joy—even if it took uprooting his life and tearing his calm composure into tiny little shreds to do it.

  Today.

  Tomorrow.

  And a thousand dawns to come.

  “DOMINIC?”

  He pulled her against his chest.

  “Why—”

  “Hush.”

  “But you—”

  A husky laugh. A lopsided smile that shattered her heart in the quiet moonlight. “Sleep, Irish. There’ll be time. A century of nights like this to come, I promise.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  He knew one way to silence her, and he used it, pressing his lips to hers, his body hard, his fingers even surer now. And when her pleasure came again, she cried his name in wonder.

  She slept at last, curled against his chest. Their bodies were blocked by only a thin towel—and an ironclad code of honor that kept Dominic Montserrat motionless even when his mind screamed for him to take her, pounding and hard, until they both discovered the taste of forever.

  But he didn’t.

  Though it was truly torture, he held her gently, unmoving.

  Because at that instant it was the very best way this warrior knew to protect her when the shadows came back.

  And as the moon slid toward the horizon, it wasn’t Cathlin who twisted in dark dreams.

  It was a man with eyes like jade and smoke.

  A warrior with too many memories to fit inside one lifetime.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  THE SKY WAS STILL DARKwhen a heavy coach moved out of the mews behind Adrian Draycott’s London town house. Slowly it lumbered around the corner and came to a halt at the front of the house. Black lacquer doors bright with the Draycott crest were thrown open and a woman, heavily veiled, came down the stairs, leaning on her companion’s arm.

  “To the East India docks,” the liveried footman called out crisply. “And make it sharp.”

  Across the street, hidden by a mass of ugly wrought-iron railing, a man in a dusty greatcoat smiled grimly. So they were making for the docks, were they?

  Henry Devere would pay him well to see that they never completed their journey.

  FOR LONG MOMENTS GABRIELMontserrat stood in the darkness, listening for sounds of pursuit. Only when he was satisfied that he was alone did he motion into the shadows behind him.

  Geneva Russell, swathed in a hooded gray cloak, moved into the cobblestone lane, assisted by the tall American from Virginia.

  “We’ll leave you now,” Lord Ashton said. “I wish I could see Devere’s face when he realizes his prey in the Draycott coach is an inebriated butler and a woman who is far from a lady.”

  “You’re going to have to forgo that pleasure, Gabriel.” Adrian motioned into the mews and a swift traveling chaise, without identifying crest or insignia, pulled out of the shadows. He helped Geneva up the stairs.

  She press
ed his hand for a moment. “How can I possibly thank you for your help? You have been kindness itself, Lord Draycott. You, also, Mr. Jefferson. But do not underestimate Henry Devere. He is more than a little mad and has never been bested in any goal.”

  The American patted her hand. “We are more than equipped to defend ourselves against a bounder like that, my dear. Now you had better go, for these spirited grays do not care to be kept standing.” He raised his hand in farewell. “Godspeed,” he whispered as the carriage rumbled into the night.

  GABRIEL STARED DOWN ATthe woman across from him, moonlight silver on her cheeks. She sat silently, her body cast into shadow.

  Outside, the crowded thoroughfares gave way to quiet hamlets and then to long, rolling hills. Beyond the city the coach picked up its pace, jolting over the pitted road. At a particularly large rut, Geneva was tossed forward and Gabriel saw her face illuminated for a moment in the moonlight.

  Her cheeks were pale. Her mouth was set in a thin line.

  “He will come after me, I know it. He is ruthless and has powerful friends. I have brought my own ill fortune down upon all of you.”

  “Why, Geneva? Why did you betray me?”

  “For my sister. As I fear I might betray you again, for every thought brings her face before me.”

  “I will bring her to England, Geneva. I make you this promise.”

  Gabriel gathered her against his chest. “And I will see you to safety before I go, in a place where Devere can do you no more harm.”

  “You don’t understand. He is not sane.” Geneva caught a jerky breath. Her face was a blur of light against the darkness.

  A lock of her hair trailed over his hand, and he could feel her hips pressed against his hard thighs. With every jolt of the carriage her breast thrust against his chest.

  Desire slammed through him. They were alone, far from prying eyes. She had already offered him the pleasure of her body in return for his assistance. His thighs tightened at the thought of pulling away her lace fichu, of loosening her stays until her creamy breasts sprang free and filled his hungry fingers.

  He caught a sharp breath. What kind of blackguard had he become? She was innocent, completely in his care. Nothing could take place between them.

  “Why do you frown?”

  “Because it is time you rested.” He pulled her head against his shoulder. “Don’t argue,” he growled as he felt her body tense in protest. “You didn’t win before and you won’t win now.”

  Slowly her hand relaxed its grip on the folds of her cloak and Gabriel heard her sigh. From the softening of her shoulders he knew that she had fallen asleep. But it was not that which left him reeling, shaken to his very core.

  It was the way she curled close to him in her sleep, utterly trusting, then ran her hand along his chest and tucked it gently in the curve of his shoulder.

  OVERHEAD THE SKY WAS FULLof stars. They were in open country now, level fields stretching out into silent forests. Gabriel estimated they had three hours of traveling before they reached Draycott Abbey. Careful not to awaken the woman asleep in his arms, he sat forward to get a better view of the countryside and the road behind them.

  No vehicle was to be seen. The road was empty and they were safe.

  For now, at least.

  He looked down at Geneva’s face and frowned. Soon Devere would discover Templeton’s masquerade and send his men in search of any other carriages which had left the mews.

  If only they could make Draycott Abbey in time.

  DOMINIC WAS SWEATING. HIS fingers clutched at dreams as he saw another place of moonlight and plunging horses and a shutter crashing somewhere in the night.

  He tried to pull free, to gain a footing in the dark chaos of his dreams.

  No good. Too many noises. Too many memories. Too many broken promises. And a danger that tracked him through time, even in his dreams….

  THEY DIDN’T MAKE IT TODraycott Abbey.

  They didn’t even make it to Tunbridge Wells.

  A trio of riders clattered into the road behind them.

  “What is it?” Geneva blinked and sat up, awakened by the sound of racing hoofbeats.

  “Nothing.”

  “It’s him, isn’t it? He’s found us.” The color bled from her face.

  “No one has found us yet, and no one will.” Grimly Gabriel seized her arm and uttered a sharp command to the coachman.

  The wind was rising and the smell of rain hung heavy in the air. Gabriel knew that the river lay less than half a mile away. He signaled to the coachman, who put them down where they were hidden by a bend in the road. When the coach lumbered forward, the riders followed, giving Gabriel and Geneva precious time to escape.

  But in the face of a rising wind, every yard was a struggle for Geneva, even though Gabriel knew she was fighting to conceal it. “Let me carry you.”

  “I’ll be fine.” Her face was white and the rising wind tossed gravel and twigs in her face. “Is it much…farther?”

  “Just beyond that line of trees.”

  Overhead a bolt of lightning cracked through the sky. A wall of wind tore at their clothes. Without a word, Gabriel caught Geneva up in his arms and carried her over the rocky slope to the river.

  A quarter of an hour later the storm had raged past. In its wake a veil of fog crept over the river. Here and there a branch emerged from the drifting mist, black skeletons clutching at nothing. The dark figures broke, shouting, from the mist.

  Gabriel pressed his pistol into Geneva’s fingers. “Take this and use it. I’ll try to lead them off into the mist.” He shoved forward and then set off in a sharp angle, his footsteps purposely noisy as a lure to Devere.

  Geneva watched in horror as his plan succeeded too well, and moments later he was facedown in the mud with Devere’s pistol at his back.

  “It is really a very simple question, Lord Ashton. I fail to understand why you refuse to answer it. Are you the man known as the Rook?”

  FOG SWELLED UP AROUND THEmen standing at the edge of the river. Gabriel lay facedown, his hands bound tight at his back. A jagged bruise mottled his forehead and the corner of his cheeks. “Rook? Never heard the name.”

  Henry Devere smiled coldly. “I fear your bravado is wasted on me.” He made a sharp gesture with his hands. “Hold him down.”

  One minute passed. Then half again.

  “Bring him up,” Devere snapped. When Gabriel was pulled back onto the sand, he coughed harshly and strained at his bonds. His only reward was a sharp kick in the ribs.

  “Now then, Lord Ashton, shall we try again? I repeat, are you the man known as the Rook?”

  “And I repeat, you maggot, that I have no acquaintance with anyone by that name.”

  Devere shook his head. “I shall find out, you know. Someone will remember a voice, the set of a face. And then I’ll have you.”

  Gabriel coughed and watched blood stain the muddy bank in front of him. “She’s free, Devere. And I’ll kill you for laying a hand on her.”

  Devere gestured sharply and Gabriel was shoved back into the muddy water.

  “This time rather longer I think.” His eyes flat and hard, Devere stood at the edge of the river as fog lapped around his beautifully polished boots. “One minute,” he announced icily, watching with interest as Gabriel’s submerged body flashed and twisted. “Two minutes.” When the big body ceased to move, Devere smiled grimly. “Haul him in.”

  This time their victim gave no response.

  “Rouse him,” Devere hissed.

  After three sharp kicks to his back, Gabriel shuddered and began to cough.

  “You are truly stubborn, Ashton. But not half as stubborn as I am. I have had to be since whatever success I hoped to attain had to be earned with the strength of my fists and the cunning of my mind in the mud of the Whitechapel slums. And that is why it is particularly fitting that I relieve my poor French victims of all the gold that nature in its ignorance gave them in excess. Now for the final time, on pain of death, a
dmit that you are the man known as the Rook. Miss Russell may have escaped me, but you have not. And you were what I really wanted anyway.”

  Gabriel spat up a mouthful of bloody water and laughed coldly. “You should have kept her when you had her, Devere. She’ll suffer no more of your torment, even if I have to buy her safety with my life.”

  “A touching sentiment, but I fear that that is exactly what you will do.” Devere stood for a moment, veiled in fog, smoothing the priceless lace at his cuffs.

  “Kill him,” he ordered.

  He wasn’t going to make it this time, Gabriel thought as the two men shoved him beneath the water.

  Strange red lights played before his eyes and his throat burned, but he kept himself from moving, knowing that surprise was his only chance at escape.

  But what happened next took him by surprise. Even underneath the water he heard the muffled shouts. There was a sharp tug on the rope at his wrists, and then the rope went slack.

  Gabriel knew it was now or never.

  With the last of his energy he pushed off the bottom. Fog lay everywhere and he gasped for breath, trying to make sense of the chaos around him. A bullet hissed past and then he heard Devere curse.

  Suddenly, slender fingers seized his wrist and pulled him into the water.

  “Geneva?”

  “I’ve found a rowboat downstream. Can you swim out to it?”

  “I’ll manage.” Gabriel followed her into the water, amazed at her resourcefulness and quiet courage. He watched her skirts drift up against the dark waters. She’d come storming into his life, overturning all his peace, but now he couldn’t imagine what life would be like without her.

  “What happened to Devere?”

  “I shot him,” she said grimly. “He was holding his arm when the others brought him his horse.”

  Moments later they reached the rowboat and Geneva climbed in, her hair tumbling in a wild cloud down her back, her satin dress molded to every curve.