by Lauren Smith
She gasped. A sudden flash of something wild and fearful ripped through her an instant before it was gone.
“Jane?” Bastian placed a hand on her shoulder but then almost immediately he removed it and stepped back from her. “Are you well? You gave a little start just now.”
She hastily nodded. “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just…that dragon. It’s so…” How could she describe having such a visceral reaction to a stone creature?
“Fierce. The beast is fierce.” He crossed his arms over his chest, scowling back at the dragon.
She realized then she was still touching the serpent’s head and pulled her hand away.
“Fierce indeed. I didn’t expect such decorations in a library.”
He chuckled. “The music room in the Pavilion in Brighton was modeled after Stormclyffe.”
Ahh, I had guessed right then.
“My ancestor, Richard, believed something more…medieval would suit Stormclyffe. Our coat of arms bears a dragon after all. He designed the dragon to appear as you see them. The Pavilion’s dragons are more complacent-looking, and merely hold the curtains in place.”
The eyes of the dragon seemed to watch her as she shifted from one foot to the other. It’s long, angular snout looked ready to spew fire and puff smoke from its nostrils. The way it hunched over the mirror gave her the distinct impression it wasn’t merely guarding the library, but rather hunting the library’s inhabitants. It was an unsettling thought.
“You don’t like it?” The earl teased her.
She nibbled her lip thoughtfully. “It’s not that I don’t like it. I just feel like it’s watching me.”
He grinned. “Don’t tell me you are afraid? Isn’t your dissertation connected to mysteries and hauntings? That’s what your letters stated. I didn’t think you would be so foolish as to pick a topic that would frighten you.”
Before she even had time to think, she’d socked him in the shoulder again. She’d punched an earl. This was a bad habit she was forming.
He merely caught her by the shoulders, stilling her when she would have retreated from him. Their faces were so close that she could see endless books reflected in his gaze. He moved one hand up to cup her chin.
“Perhaps,” he murmured huskily, “you should have directed your dissertation to something less threatening.”
Brimming with anger, she bit back a viperlike retort and smiled sweetly. “Such as?”
The wicked glint in his eyes warned her he was going to say something infuriating.
“Why not write about the effects of wildflowers in various English counties? Surely that would inspire no fears?”
“Wildflowers?” She knocked his hand away from her chin and turned her back on him. Provoking man. She didn’t have much of a natural temper, but what little was there, he found and prodded repeatedly until she broke and snapped at him. Still, she probably should be thankful. She and Tim had never fought; he’d never irritated her. She couldn’t fall for someone when they drove her crazy. Bastian’s ability to annoy her was, therefore, a small blessing.
“Oh come now, Jane,” he said her name so softly, almost a croon, the way a man would to soften his lover’s injured pride. That only made her more upset. He thought he could work some seductive magic to sidetrack her in her quest for research. The man was a nuisance. Couldn’t he just leave her to the books and get on with his day? Instead he insisted on dragging her around the castle and teasing her.
She didn’t reply. Not yet. When he came up behind her and gently placed a hand on her shoulder, turning her body back to face his, she finally had to meet his stare.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
“What’s the matter? I could ask you the same question. You’re teasing me and yet you—” She didn’t dare finish. It felt like he was flirting with her, but maybe she was wrong. The last thing she wanted for him to think was that she viewed herself worthy of his attentions or that she wanted them. It would only complicate things. While she didn’t mind, as she’d insisted to him earlier, that had been under the pretense of being allowed to stay and conduct her research. She hadn’t actually thought she’d start to succumb to his charms. It was a good thing he had the ability to infuriate her as well. That made him far less attractive.
“Can you please just take me to the records?”
“Of course.” His tone was more reserved. The wall that had started to crumble between them was solid again. “This way.”
He led her to a shelf near the floor on the other side of the fireplace where several tall tomes were behind a sheet of glass. He bent, pressed his fingertips to the panel, and slid the glass to the side, making the large books accessible.
“Here are the recorded histories and family trees of the Weymouth line. I won’t allow you access to any private letters or other documents from my family. I assume three hundred years worth of information is enough to keep you occupied for the afternoon. I can guide to you other sources tomorrow.” He paused, then leaned one shoulder against the bookshelves.
The man was hot when he leaned that way. Why did leaning have to be so damned sexy? Maybe it had to do with the way it called attention to the long, lithe shape of his legs and the muscles of his shoulders. She wanted to smack herself for even going there. She shouldn’t be thinking about him like that. Dissertation. Focus on your research.
“That reminds me. Where are you staying? The trip to the town can be treacherous after dark. I wouldn’t want you driving off the cliffs into the sea. I would prefer to have someone escort you back.” He announced this casually but there was something odd in his expression, an emotion she couldn’t read clearly.
Was he worried about her? She mentally shrugged it off. Of course he didn’t care about her, not that way. After what had happened between them in the drawing room, she was hesitant to do anything that might give the wrong impression about her. He might not think of her at all in the way she was currently thinking about him. Naked. And how she’d like to get him out of those dark slacks and light gray sweater that molded to his broad chest muscles.
Bad idea. Must not think of him naked. She chastised herself. His offer probably stemmed from worries over a lawsuit from her family if she drove her rental car off the cliff and died.
“I’ve got a room booked at a little inn.”
Bastian waved a hand. “Don’t worry about that. Do your research this afternoon. I will drive you into town tonight around sunset.”
“You’ll drive me?” Weren’t earls supposed to have chauffeurs?
“I do know how to drive.” He flashed a mocking smile. “Even my ancestors drove their own sporting carriages. But to answer your question, my driver is still in London along with some of the other staff and won’t move in until the restorations are complete. I’ve actually been driving myself since I moved back here.”
He sounded smug, as if he’d proved false her accusation that he couldn’t operate a car. Had he taken her comment as an insult? God, she hoped not. She mentally kicked herself.
“Oh. Then yes, that would be fine.”
“Excellent.” He stepped away from the bookshelves. “I’ll come to collect you later. Enjoy your research.” He flashed her a cocky smile that did something funny to her knees before he took his leave and left her alone with the dragon and his hoard of jealously guarded books.
Jane removed the first of several volumes from the shelf and carried it to a nearby reading table. A cloud of dust billowed up as she set the book down on the polished cherrywood. The motes twirled and danced through the stray beams of light from the high windows. A heavy silence filled the library, almost tangible. Each movement Jane made elicited a loud sound: the whisk of paper as she removed it from her briefcase, the rapid click of her ballpoint pen as she pressed the cap with her thumb. She collected her materials and opened her notebook to a fresh page, hoping to dispel the eerie silence of the room by losing herself in the text on the pages before her.
She peeled back the heavy brown l
eather cover of the book. The first few pages were blank, but the third bore an elaborate sketch of a family tree. The names were inscribed with a quill pen, the ink faded to a pale brown but still legible. She carefully took notes and replicated the tree, which started with births and marriages in 1607.
For the next three hours, she remained in her chair, diligently recording the Weymouth earldom’s history from the births to the deaths of its more prominent family members. Until Richard’s death, the Weymouth line seemed normal in its deaths and births. After Richard’s passing, the pattern changed showing an extraordinary amount of tragic deaths and accidents. There were people drowning at sea, falling from ladders in the orchards, and unexpected infant deaths. A majority of the victims were women who had married into the Stormclyffe family. There were many more gruesome deaths and more unexplained accidents or occurrences. Fires broke out in the castle several times, always starting in bedrooms where the women who married into the Weymouth family were sleeping. Crops on the estate failed for several years while the crops of the farmers from the surrounding areas thrived.
Maybe the rumors were right. The entire family seemed truly cursed.
She set her pen down and closed the large tome. It didn’t seem to matter whether it was supernatural or merely bad lack—the facts didn’t lie. Since Richard’s bride jumped to her death in 1811, the family line and home had suffered through a nearly endless chronology of heartbreak.
The last entry in the record book stated a fact she hadn’t known.
Bastian’s father had died in a car accident at the age of forty-three. When she had investigated Bastian’s background, she hadn’t focused on his parents. She knew logically that since he was the current Earl of Weymouth, it meant his father must have passed away, but there were no records detailing how. Only Bastian and his mother survived. If Bastian stuck true to his words that he would never marry, that meant he wouldn’t continue his family’s line. The title would pass to distant cousins, but the direct line would perish.
She’d judged him too harshly, thinking him a fool for not wanting to marry. Now she wondered if he wouldn’t commit to building a future with anyone because so many tragic and untimely deaths weighed the family tree down. Even if he refused to believe in the curse, perhaps somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind lay a fear of bringing another child into this world under the Weymouth title. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How devastating to believe, even subconsciously, that any baby he might have could be condemned to death by his family’s curse. It would explain why he kept himself emotionally distant from others. His playboy reputation might make her blush, but the man himself was a still a mystery.
A muscle cramped in her neck. A series of small knots had formed after hours of her head bending over the desk. She pushed her research materials across the table and reached behind her to massage the area, soothing the tension away.
As far as her dissertation was concerned, she could use the chronology of deaths and disasters of the family to highlight its influence on myths and legends around this particular estate. She would work it into the stories connected to other estates around England. If she was able to talk Bastian into letting her photograph or perhaps scan the copies of the family tree with particular entries regarding some of the deaths of the family members, she would be able to cite them as primary sources.
The sun emerged from the clouds, causing long shadows to stretch along the carpeted floor. She watched their slow-moving progress for several minutes as the darkness consumed the patterned carpet. One shadow seemed to move more quickly than the others. It expanded rapidly, consuming the light on the table closest to the window. An identifiable shape began to form.
A dragon.
Her gaze shot up to the windows, and she expected to see a bird spreading its wings in a nearby tree, which would have explained the unusual shape. But there were no trees visible through the glass. The dragon shadow twisted its head, and its tail lashed out in a whip-like flash. Its wings spread wide, and for a brief second, she thought she could hear a distant roar and feel the library’s floor quake beneath her.
She cried out and leaped from her chair, backing up until she hit the bookcase behind her. Something crashed to the floor at her feet, but she dared not look. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she searched for the shadow, which seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
As her breathing slowed, and the faint ringing in her ears faded, she glanced down and noticed a small leather-bound book on the floor. It was partially open over one of her feet. Bending down, she gingerly picked it up and studied it more closely. The pages were full, but not with printed text. Instead, each page was filled with scrawling handwriting, the archaic cursive style beautiful and half-faded. Dates were inscribed in the top left corner.
It was a diary.
Transfixed, she sank back into her seat and began to read. As she read, she could see it all unfold as though she were a visitor there, watching unseen like a ghost.
April 21st, 1810
I was pouring over the Hall’s account books my steward had prepared for me. The task was wearisome but necessary. I longed to have a distraction, something that could take my mind off my concerns. Sir Lionel Huntington had written to say he would be visiting again this afternoon to discuss the future of his daughter, Cordelia. While I am ready to take a bride, I’m not sure she is the one for me. Sir Lionel was apparently determined to see his daughter become the Countess of Weymouth. The chit is pretty enough. Honey-blond hair and hazel eyes. But there is a coldness to Miss Huntington’s demeanor and presence that unnerves me. What’s more, her family bears a rather dark history, one that I fear I cannot completely overlook. They are descendents of a woman who was accused of witchcraft in Lancashire. She was proven innocent, but I cannot help but wonder still… Does darkness run through the veins of her female lineage? Sometimes I see Miss Huntington’s eyes gleam in a way that makes me wonder and worry.
A light rap on my study door disturbed my thoughts.
“Enter,” I called out.
My butler, Mr. Shrewsbury, poked his gray-haired head around the edge of the door.
“The new innkeeper, Mr. Braxton, is here to see you my lord. I have put him and his daughter in the red drawing room.”
“Thank you, Shrewsbury.” Relief poured through me.
Finally, an excuse to escape the accounts. I am interested in meeting Mr. Braxton. Since he is a new resident to the town, it is important that I meet with the man and establish good relations with him.
I pushed back my chair and stood, checking my appearance. My trousers were clean, my waistcoat unwrinkled, a veritable miracle given that I’d spent the last few hours slumped over my desk during my labors. With a hasty hand run through my hair, I was satisfied I looked suitable for company and headed toward the drawing room.
It is my favorite room, one full of light and color. It boasts of a fair amount of books and paintings of my family from years before. A pair of love seats face each other with a small table next to each where a tea tray could be placed for visitors. When I entered, I found Mr. Braxton perched on one of the two love seats. A maid set a tray of tea and biscuits on the table next to him.
“My lord!” Braxton got to his feet immediately, a genuine smile on his face. With ruddy cheeks and a muscled figure barely concealed by his tailored waistcoat, Braxton was a fit and amiable man.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Braxton. I am delighted you were able to come and meet with me.” I immediately sought out the man’s daughter, expecting a plump, whey-faced creature. The woman stood in the far corner with her back to me as she admired my books.
My first thought was how lovely her figure was. When she turned to face me, my heart stopped. The world came to an abrupt halt. I couldn’t breathe. She was so beautiful, something deep in my chest began to hurt. There was a fire in her eyes and warmth in her smile. The blush in her cheeks was becoming, and the dark curls that framed her face accented her c
reamy skin. I was lost to her in that moment. I wondered if I could ever want another woman except her.
“My lord.” Miss Braxton’s voice was husky and a little breathless, as though she was reacting to me much in the same way I reacted to her. I hoped so. I did not wish to be the only one so completely affected.
“Miss Braxton, it is a pleasure.” I strode up to her and bent over the hand she offered hesitantly. I pressed a kiss to her skin. The scent of rosewater filled my nose. The delicate perfume was a perfect accent to the woman who wore it.
“Thank you for extending an offer to visit.” Mr. Braxton appeared at his daughter’s side, reminding me that Miss Braxton and I were not alone, no matter how much I might wish we were.
“Of course. Please sit.” I gestured to the settees, and we all took our seats.
I spent the next hour conversing with Braxton about Weymouth and how best to settle in with the local folk. Unlike many of the other inns in the county, Braxton’s accommodations were of a higher quality, and many aristocrats would likely wish to stay at the new inn as they passed through on their way to the other parts of England. Despite the conversation distracting me, I managed to keep my eyes on Miss Braxton. I relished the way she kept glancing at my books with keen interest. I suspected she must be a lady who enjoyed reading and wasn’t merely a fair-faced creature with no real thoughts in her head. Women with no interests and no intellectual pursuits held no appeal for me.
As the conversation came to its natural end, I bid my guests good-bye with the invitation for them to return on the morrow for dinner. As I watched Miss Braxton and her father depart, a piece of my soul seemed to separate from my body and accompany her home. I had never felt such a kindred spirit in anyone, man or woman. Come the morrow, I knew I would be desperate for a glimpse of her. Dinner could not come soon enough.
Chapter Four
Jane pulled herself out of the story in the journal. Richard’s journal. This was an invaluable primary source. A direct account written in Richard’s own hand. Maybe the true story to the tragedy lurked somewhere in these pages. She looked over at the inconspicuous location where the journal had been hiding between two boring collections of philosophical essays by long-forgotten authors. It was possible the diary had been there for years, and no one had noticed it. The book’s spine was blank, and to a casual reader perusing books, it held no particular appeal or attraction. If Bastian ever found out his ancestor’s handwritten account of his life was here, he’d probably lock it up and never let her see it. He had told her she wouldn’t have access to the family’s private papers. A family journal would most likely be considered private.