“My paintings and drawings have been removed from my chambers. Have you seen them?”
“Certainly not. But I suggest you inquire about them when your father comes home. I believe he knows where they are.”
Confusion and a growing sense of dread encompassed Elizabeth. “You know where they are but you will not tell me.”
Anne pursed her lips and looked at the servants awaiting orders. “You are all dismissed. Back to your duties.”
Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but realized it would do her no good. The mistress of the house had spoken.
Anne gave her a disparaging glance, one of disapproval and blatant dislike. “You have embarrassed me in front of the servants. I can only hope that when you go to your aunt’s in London you will learn more manners.”
Before Elizabeth could rebut Anne’s comments, Elizabeth’s father came up the stairs, his face a portrait of anger.
“What is going on, Elizabeth?”
Something made her strong. She wasn’t certain why she felt bold, but at that moment Damian’s countenance flowed into her mind, and she felt a surge of reassurance.
“Someone has taken my paintings and drawings. I want to know who and why.”
Her father nodded and took her arm. “This will be very difficult for you, dear, but it had to be done.”
The satisfied smirk on her stepmother’s face was enough to launch her imagination into full gear.
“Tell me,” Elizabeth demanded, injecting as much metal into her voice as she could.
“I took your paintings,” her father said.
Fury caught in her throat and threatened to strangle her. She tried to control the tremble in her voice. “Why, Father?”
“You must know, darling, that your mother and I have worried many days and nights over your future.”
“She is not my mother,” she said, her voice a sibilant hiss. She pulled her arm out of his grasp.
“Why, you little—” Anne’s voice rose.
Her father quieted Anne, raising his hand. “Silence, please.”
Anne glared at her husband.
“You will refrain from making such comments about Anne.” His expression had switched from falsely sympathetic to the hardness of stone.
“What has this to do with my artwork?” Elizabeth asked, deciding to ignore her father’s obvious anger.
“You have become obsessed with Cromar and everyone knows it is not healthy. We thought it was best if you went to London and attempted to get a husband.”
Tears threatened Elizabeth’s eyes, stinging with sharp anger and humiliation. Total distrust and the beginnings of hatred threatened not far behind. “And you thought if you took my paintings you could convince me to go to London.”
“Yes,” Clive said quietly.
Anne puffed up. “It is for the best.”
Animosity flared higher in Elizabeth’s breast. “You mean to say, of course, that it is better for you.”
“Insolent girl,” Anne said.
Clive wagged a finger at Elizabeth. “How dare you speak to your mother with such disrespect?”
“And I told you she is not my mother!” Elizabeth knew her defiance would not change the fact she was going to London. She did not care. “Now I wish to know where you have put my art.”
Anne sneered. “They have been destroyed.”
“What?” Elizabeth gasped. For a moment the world seemed to spin around her, and she dropped into a chair behind her because her legs would no longer support her.
Her father heaved a sigh and started toward the door. “You need to have other interests, Elizabeth. Healthy, normal interests such as a family.”
Elizabeth felt a tightness in her chest that would not go away. “My interests are none of your affair. You had no right.”
His face went red. “Not my affair? How dare you imply that I have no say in your life? I am your father, and as my daughter you will do what I say when I say. Until you get a husband I will see to it that you follow the path that is best for you. I have indulged your fantasies for far too long.”
She glanced at Anne, noting the slight smirk clinging to her lips. Silence stretched like the inside of a tomb. Elizabeth had never felt this off guard, this hurt in her entire life.
“Until my husband can take over and tell me what to do?” Elizabeth asked harshly.
The heat seemed to slowly seep out of his face. “That is correct. Women need a strong hand when they do not know the proper way.”
Her paintings were gone and there was no way to get them back. Righting her shoulders, she tried to muster confidence.
“Burning my paintings has no effect on my beliefs about matrimony. Why should I trade one prison for another? I should like to stay a spinster forever.”
Anne guffawed. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to stand here and listen to this impertinent girl’s ramblings. I have better things to do.”
She turned swiftly and went down the hall toward her rooms.
Elizabeth’s father watched Anne leave and turned to Elizabeth. His face stayed red, but whether it came from brandy or his rage she could not say. “I do not have time for this. Either you go to London, or you can spend out your days sulking in your room. What shall it be?”
The sour taste of defeat burned her throat. What choice did she have but to follow his wishes? Her thoughts whirled around and around as she tried to think of a way out of the predicament. Nothing came to mind.
Her voice was soft, mild. “I will go to London.”
She turned and went to her room. Once inside she made sure the door locked firmly. For several moments she stared at the door.
She sat down on her bed and looked at the polished wood floor, her insides churning with misery and sickness of heart. Tears slowly tracked down her face.
* * * *
At first Damian thought the pain was his.
It grew and expanded in his body until he thought he would be ripped apart. Returned to what he had been before.
“God, no!” In every spike of pain hitting him, he prayed it did not mean his destruction.
* * * *
The darkness settling over Cromar penetrated like a black shroud. Elizabeth could not recall a night so dark before, or a chill so prevalent in her heart. A damp wind blew across her cheeks and fluttered her cape around her. Only the lamp she carried aided her vision.
Her heart pounded as she ascended the steep slope approaching Cromar. Fog floated about the top of the castle, and she peered at it curiously as she reached the mouth of the building. Such fog was strange, and she could not recall ever having seen the likes of it before.
Uppermost in her mind on this night, however, was to reach Damian. When she had turned away from her father, she had spent several hours in her room contemplating her life. Perhaps she was a bit strange for doing nothing but painting this derelict structure. But it was her life and no other’s. She had a right to some freedom as an individual, no matter what her stepmother and father said. So she decided to visit Cromar and to talk with the one person in the world who seemed to understand her.
Understood her deepest needs.
The thought shocked her. That she had met with Damian unchaperoned was scandalous enough. At this point another sojourn made no difference. She knew Damian would understand and perhaps afford her some assistance.
Would he be here?
Yes. He always was.
It seemed that Cromar was a fiber of his being, a place so ingrained within him it was impossible to remove. He was the stone, the place, the atmosphere.
A fanciful notion.
She had not bothered to ask herself why she felt this way about him until now.
“Elizabeth.”
The voice came from inside the castle, and she quickly made her way through the arched entrance to the great hall.
She saw, as always, his shadow before she actually saw him. The light from her lamp illuminated him, turning his dark shape into a blaze of reality.
<
br /> Damian stood in the middle of the room, dressed, as always, in the finest. There was something about him…different. More…
She couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but it made her almost lose her breath.
“Damian,” she whispered and walked slowly toward him. “I hoped you might be here.”
His smile was gentle, and as he came fully into the light, she could see the sparkle of good humor in his gray eyes.
“Of course I am here. I’ll always be here when you need me.”
A flush spread across her cheeks. When she did not speak his expression turned concerned.
He lightly gripped her arms, and the strength of his hands, the deep heat of his touch, set sparks of indefinable heat within her. “Whatever is wrong?”
“My father…” A sob broke from her, and she put a hand to her mouth.
“My dear Elizabeth.” He drew her closer. She looked into his eyes, drawn by the deep resonance in his voice and the gentleness of his touch.
In his expression she saw light, caring, and a feeling of bonding she had never experienced at any time before in her life.
“It is all too late,” she said. “Everything is ruined.”
“What do you mean? What has your father done?”
“He had…he had all my paintings and drawings of Cromar destroyed.”
Shock spread over his face, and he released her to clench his fists at his sides. “All of them?”
“Yes. Every last one. I have nothing now. All my enjoyment in life is gone.”
A well of deep sadness seemed to crawl into her brain with steady and horrible influence. Covering, smothering everything she’d striven for in her paintings.
But what had she been trying to accomplish, painting Cromar over and over? She still did not know.
“No, Elizabeth. You are more alive than…than anyone I have known in a long time.”
She turned away to pace the floor, each agitated step ringing on the stones beneath her. “My father knew what those paintings meant to me. Yet he threw away all I achieved, every brushstroke I ever made. I shall never feel the same about him again. I shall never forgive him.”
A glimmer of pain crossed Damian’s face. “These are harsh words. I know much about forgiveness, and the lack thereof.”
“How can you say that? Could you ever forgive someone such a sin?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps not at one time. But…I have learned much. Some wounds do not heal, but if you leave them to fester, the wounds grow larger and larger until you cannot stand the pain. It is better to patch them straightaway, so that at least you may go on.”
A weariness pressed onto her shoulders like a weight, and she felt weak. “Now Father is sending me to London to find a husband.”
His gaze snapped to hers, concern filling them. “London? No.”
A light, almost unreal sensation came into her head, as if she might find herself floating on a cloud at any minute. The world began to recede and waver like the dying of a candle flame.
She saw him coming toward her, his expression alarmed. “Elizabeth.”
She was falling, falling…
When she woke, she half expected to be in her bed, certain everything she’d experienced in these last weeks…Damian…the castle…the destruction of her paintings, had all been a dream.
Instead she sensed a secure, warm, tender presence. A glorious feeling of being protected and cherished. When had she ever, ever felt this way? Slowly she opened her eyes, and realized Damian carried her up a narrow, circular stone staircase. She placed her arms about his neck, an insane fear of falling pounding in her chest. Although he gave no indication she was too heavy for him, she clutched at him.
The darkness around them was barely illuminated, but he kept on as if he could clearly see. “Shh…it is all right. You are but fatigued and in need of rest.”
“Where are you taking me?”
“Are you afraid?”
“Yes. No.”
He smiled. “Fear not. The darkness is no obstruction to me. I can see quite well.”
It was this that frightened her most. “What man are you that you can see in the darkness?”
He shook his head and took the final step onto a narrow landing. “A different man, as you no doubt have realized by now, Elizabeth. Very different.”
Her heart still pounded, and a new fear grasped at her like the hungry claws of a madman. “You may put me down, sir.”
His laugh came soft, deep. “We are almost there.”
He reached an open archway. Inside the room beyond the doorway, a hearth glowed with newly kindled fire. It danced warm and cheerful against the height of the stone walls. As he walked inside she gasped.
“Where is this place?”
“Cromar, Elizabeth.”
“But…” She looked around, amazed at what her own eyes showed her. This room was nothing like the barren, aged granite of the chambers below. Though not a particularly large room, the loftiness of the ceiling gave it the illusion of size. Great tapestries hung on the walls, bright and alive with the firelight dancing upon them. A wood table, dark with age, sat to one side of the fireplace. Upon it were goblets, and a wooden bowl of fruit. Rugs of fine design and subdued shade lay on the stone floor.
In all its medieval design, there was something that made it welcoming. She could not place where the impression came from. She was too fascinated by the fact this room resided here. In this ruin. But something else caught her eye and snatched her breath.
Along one wall was a huge bed, high and draped with green velvet curtains promising shelter and…privacy.
She looked at him. “How is it that this place is here? In this ruin?”
“It is within me to create such a place. Whatever domain I wish.”
“Who are you?” she asked. “But a figment of my imagination? A rustling in the wind?”
A smile twitched the corners of his mouth up. “I am real. As real as I have ever been.”
“You live here?” she asked, still perusing the room.
“I did, at one time. But it has been ages and ages since I have seen it look this way. When you fell, and you were so cold, I knew I had to bring you here.”
She swallowed, managing words around the amazement bombarding her. “Thank you.”
“I would do anything for you,” he said, his voice husky and deep, like the flavor of burgundy, or the spiciest ale.
Warmth spread through her limbs as he stood with her in his arms, and she looked up at him. She could feel his breath upon her cheek, his powerful strength supporting her. His life force pulsed strongly in the expression she saw in his eyes. The thickness of his lashes, the dark, chocolate brown of his eyes transfixed and cajoled. As she stared, she noted the way the firelight cast a blue glow on the blackness of his hair. And as the weight of his hair drifted across her hands, it was as soft as spun silk.
How was it that he could seem so much more real than before?
Gently he lowered her to her feet, but kept an arm around her waist, and the heat of his body pressed against her side. “Are you well?”
She licked her lips, and his gaze followed the motion. A shimmer of something like excitement winged through her stomach and spread outward. “Yes.”
She allowed him to draw her close so their bodies were pressed together, chest to chest, thigh to thigh. Her hands lay on his chest, taking the beat of his heart as it throbbed through her fingers. She wished the sensation of his hard thighs against her did not feel so exhilarating, so…forbidden. For that was what it was. She should not be here with him like this in a bedchamber. It was indecent.
It was delicious.
And it eased the deep wound in her heart for the moment.
He pressed her even closer, and when she dared to glance at his face, his lips parted. So close, so near.
“You are unwell?” he asked.
She shook her head. “It is just that I haven’t eaten any supper.”
His intake
of breath startled her as he tightened his hold. He lifted her chin so she was forced to look at him. “Promise me you will not do anything to jeopardize your health, Elizabeth.”
“I didn’t feel like eating.”
“You must keep up your strength. You must not wither away because of this.”
The intensity in each of his words was distinct. Harsh.
“When I go back to Penham, I shall attempt to eat.”
His brow furrowed. She’d never seen him scowl so ferociously before, and it made his features saturnine and forbidding. She pulled back against his grip, but he did not let her go. “No matter what horrors life sends you, no matter what blows you endure, you must promise me to survive, do you hear me?”
“Damian.”
“Promise me.” Pain had filled his voice, and she was amazed at how much he cared.
“I promise.”
“Good.” Slowly, softly, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. At the touch of his lips an overwhelming sense of recognition swept over her, along with a deep, aching need that started from her breasts and moved downward. A tingling, overwhelming heat that threatened to drive her to distraction. She had never felt anything like it before.
He looked down at her. “Forgive me. Perhaps I should not have done that.”
“I’m happy you did.” A tremulous smile curved her lips.
He pressed her head down to his chest, tangling his fingers in her hair, loosening the bun at the back of her head. With a growing sense of enchantment and apprehension, she remained still as he pulled the bun apart, allowing her hair to flow freely through his fingers. He brushed the ringlets away from the sides of her face.
“You are incorrigible,” he said.
She lifted her head, but his fingers remained tangled in her hair. “So I am constantly told.”
“Take care when you go home. Do not antagonize your father. Go to London, as he wished.”
“Indeed, I have no choice.”
“I would have no more sorrow befall you.”
But she knew leaving Damian would be more than sorrow, more than pain. Gently she pulled from his arms, frightened by the intensity of the feelings within her. Being in his arms was heaven. But it was also hell. For soon she would be without him.
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