by Lauren Smith
“Then let’s be gone. Randolph will have dinner ready soon.”
He bent to grab her suitcase at the same time she reached for it. Their heads collided in a painful crack.
“Ouch!” She stumbled, and the back of her knees collided with the bed behind. She fell onto the soft, quilted comforter, and as Bastian tried to catch her, he tripped over the rolling suitcase and collapsed right on top of her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she sucked in a desperate gasp of air. Their bodies pressed together perfectly, her breasts against his chest, their noses close enough to brush. His eyes were warm and dark and her insides twisted a little as desire awakened within her.
Ever since Tim had left her six months ago, she’d felt closed off. Yet, as their bodies melded on the bed by sheer accident, it felt right. Her hands cupped his shoulders, and his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. He wasn’t built like a body builder, but he had that perfect lithe figure that was all strength and lean lines of perfect muscle. What would he look like with his clothes off? She cursed herself for wanting to know.
“My apologies.” His groan escaped through gritted teeth, and he rolled off her and onto his back beside her.
“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sorry we knocked heads.”
He chuckled, even though it sounded pained. “It would be more fun to…what do you Americans call it…knock boots?”
She put a hand to her chest and breathed out. “Just when I think you might actually be one of those English gentlemen I keep hearing about…”
She left the rest unsaid, as he sniggered like a misbehaving schoolboy.
“I’m not a gentleman. I’m cursed. At least according to the townspeople.” His tone changed, his anger thickening the words, as though his curse was something he’d brought about, not something thrust upon him by his ancestors. It frightened her, not that she thought he would hurt her, but she wondered whether he might be right. Her notes from earlier today hadn’t lied. Women who married into the Stormclyffe line died early and painfully. He had every reason to push her away, and she didn’t want to be in the path of a curse. There was no sense in taking a chance and putting herself at risk.
“I’m sorry I tripped you.” She glanced away, trying to ignore her body’s reaction to him. Even though he no longer touched her, the phantom pressure of his body seemed to linger. Her skin heated, and her heart beat fast at the mere memory of his body on top of hers. Like the encounter in the drawing room, she wanted to be wild, untamed, to have that gorgeous aristocratic mouth of his seeking sensitive places on her skin until she screamed for him to take her. Unlike the passionate clinch in the drawing room that led to her shameless orgasm at the magic of his hands, this felt real and concrete, not like ancient phantoms had taken hold of her body.
When he rose and picked up her suitcase, she followed with a weary sigh. Her forehead hurt like hell. She’d probably have a nasty knot later. There was no sign of the innkeeper as they came back down the stairs and paused at the front desk. Bastian braced his forearms on the counter and leaned over to peer into the small workroom behind the check-in area. There was no sign of obvious life from the small room. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the small brass bell and smacked it with his palm. The loud ding was jarring in the silence. Still, no movement, no sound, not a whisper of life emanated from anywhere inside the old inn.
“Is there anyone else staying here? Any other guests?”
“Um…” She racked her mind, trying to recall if she’d actually seen anyone.
She hadn’t.
He seemed to understand her silence, and his lips pursed. “Very well.”
It was a very British thing to do, and she almost laughed. Smiling and laughing always came naturally when she was anxious, afraid, or upset. It was a horrible personality trait, one she despised about herself, but she couldn’t help it. It had certainly made for some awkward situations in the past, and this was no different. When he raised that one brow, she knew he had picked up on her inappropriate reaction.
He retrieved a white card from his wallet and hastily scrawled a message on it, putting it on the counter.
“Hopefully, the innkeeper will find this and contact me about the bill.” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket.
“You really don’t need do that,” she said.
He didn’t reply but grabbed her bag and headed for the door. When they stepped outside, it seemed that the darkness practically swallowed them up. It consumed the streets, and even the lights from the pub next door barely penetrated the gloom. She snuggled deeper into Bastian’s coat, inhaling the masculine scent of him. She should give it back. His scent was too good, and she hated that she liked it. A distant streetlight a block away was the only beacon they had to guide them back to her rental car.
With a burst of laughter and chatter, a gaggle of young women suddenly stumbled out of the pub. Bastian and Jane both spun at the unexpected sound. Even as drunk as the woman appeared to be, they were able to recognize Bastian.
“Oh my God! It’s him! The hot duke with the haunted mansion or whatever.”
Jane could have slapped the girl. The women were American and sadly stupid. She silently prayed that Bastian wouldn’t hold their idiocy against her. It wasn’t even worth correcting them. The women suddenly flocked around them, like angry geese, squawking as they tried to get close to him.
“Excuse me, ladies.” His words were a low, rumbling murmur that seemed to only heighten their fervor and excitement.
A red haze descended over Jane’s vision as one of the women dragged a red-nailed hand down Bastian’s chest. He danced back a step like a boxer dodging a blow, only to find he was surrounded. When he met Jane’s gaze, he silently begged for her mercy. There was only one way to deal with these women. She put two fingers between her lips and whistled. The shrill sound cut through the women squabbling over him, and he used the distraction to shove his way clear of them.
“Hey!” one of the women snapped when she realized her prey was escaping. “Come back!”
Jane trotted to catch up with Bastian, but they couldn’t shake the group of women. They had only progressed twenty feet from the inn door when a shout halted them in their tracks. Jane bumped into Bastian’s back with an oomph! His free hand instantly caught her around the shoulders steadying her.
“You hitting on my girlfriend, asshole?” An American man suddenly appeared in front of Bastian and Jane in the direction they’d been trying to flee.
How in the hell? Jane wondered where the man had come from. It obviously hadn’t been the inn. He held a cigarette in one hand. The tip burned orange in the night as he sucked on it, then flicked it down at Bastian’s feet. Her lips parted, a thousand angry words ready to spew forth, but Bastian still had his arm around her shoulder, and his fingers dug into the coat slightly, as though encouraging her to remain silent. The man in front of them continued to wait for a moment to see if they would answer.
She tried to make out his features, but it was too dark to see more than a rather unremarkable face, possibly bordering on unattractive. Bastian was an inch or two taller than him but wasn’t nearly as muscled. This guy could have been a professional weightlifter. He probably popped steroids like candy. She tried to breathe and not panic.
Five more muscled men emerged from the dark behind the first man.
“Answer me!” The man’s shout reverberated off the brick walls the concrete pavement.
“Let us pass. We have no interest in your lady or her friends.” Bastian’s voice carried the authority of his noble heritage, but it was completely lost on the muscled idiot in front of them.
“This guy hit on you, right, Candi?”
One of the women, the one who’d been stroking Bastian’s chest a few seconds before, stepped out of the crowd, wearing a tight miniskirt and a pink tank top. Jane hated when her fellow Americans became stereotypical bad tourists.
“He did. He sure did. He even kissed me.” Candi’s red lips twisted into
a wicked smile, one that Jane wanted to smack right off her face.
“He did not kiss you. We don’t even know you!” Jane fired back. This entire situation was insane. They were being accosted by strangers, and there wasn’t a sign of any police. Shouldn’t they be patrolling Weymouth after dark?
Bastian’s lips pursed into a thin line and exasperation narrowed his eyes as he spoke to the men blocking their way. “Please let us pass. We are tired, and it is late. We have no quarrel with you.”
“Who the hell do you think you are, huh? Kissing my girl? You’re gonna pay!” The man dove for Bastian.
In one swift move, Bastian shoved Jane away from him and out of the line of danger and had only seconds to dodge the swinging fist. He managed it, barely.
“Get him!” The man ordered his friends to join in the fray. The women all staggered back drunkenly on their high heels trying to avoid getting in the middle of what Jane feared was going to be a huge fight. One with terrible odds.
The thugs surged toward Bastian, and suddenly fists were flying in the dark. It was a dance of living shadows as the men battled each other, accompanied by a symphony of sickening bones crunching and agonized grunts.
“Bastian!” Jane screamed. Terror spiked through her, raking her insides with claws. God, those men could kill him!
He answered with a roar of sheer rage and suddenly one of the men careened past her as though shoved by someone in the melee, and he collided with the brick wall of the inn. His head hit first, and the unpleasant sound of skull smashing against stone indicated he was out of the fight for good. His body slumped down to the ground. His eyelids fluttered, and he huffed out a breath. Thank God the man was alive. The women who had been watching the fight eagerly started to back away at the sight of the unconscious man.
“Get out of here!” Jane shouted at them and stepped toward them menacingly. She pulled out her cell phone. “I’m calling the police!” She dialed the number but didn’t hit send. The last thing Bastian needed was police swarming him if they could help it. It would only further blacken his name, and he’d probably end up in the local papers. If she could get the women to leave, it might break up the fight.
The woman, Candi, didn’t move, even as her friends scattered like mice. A cold malevolence gleamed in her eyes as she put her hands on her hips and glared at Jane.
“He’s mine. He’ll always be mine.” The tone of her voice changed from silky to raspy, as though two different voices struggled for control of her throat.
“What?” Her skin crawled as she stared at the other woman. It reminded her of how she’d felt a short while earlier when the woman at the end of the street had been looking at her. It made her feel as though hundreds of spiders scuttled along her flesh and crawled into the pit of her stomach.
Candi blinked, and the look of seething hatred was gone, replaced by inebriated confusion. She turned and ran back into the pub. The second she was gone, Jane focused on the fight again. Three men were still throwing punches with a vengeance, but Bastian was holding up okay so far. He wouldn’t be able to stay on top of the fight much longer. Jane dove into the fray.
Chapter Five
Pain exploded in Bastian’s skull as one of the men backhanded him. It would only take a few more strikes like these, and he’d go down. He had been worried a confrontation like this would happen, but he’d gone on this fool’s errand simply to spend more time with Jane.
One of the men lunged for him as two more circled, waiting like wolves. Bastian slid sideways to avoid the man that dove for them, his feet skidding along the concrete. The move cost him greatly as he stumbled and fell. Instinct had him rolling back up onto the balls of his feet in a squat position, but he was vulnerable. A booted foot dug into his ribs in a savage kick, and his lungs expelled every breath of air in him. Fractures of pain shot through his chest. It took every ounce of willpower to gather his strength and tackle the man who had kicked him by grabbing the man’s legs and dragging him to the ground.
Jane’s frightened cry sent his senses scattering as fear for what was happening to her took over. Suddenly she was flying over his crouched body, tripping over him really, as she tried to escape the grasp of another of the men. She recovered from her fall and scrambled backward. The man pursuing her wasn’t so lucky. When he collided with Bastian, Bastian pivoted to the side and grabbed the man’s grubby plaid shirt, using the man’s momentum to propel him forward and down. He flew face first into the pavement, and then he didn’t move. In the dim lights from the pub, Bastian could just make out the dark smear of blood near his head. The fallen man moaned but didn’t get up.
“Jane?” Bastian called out as he struggled to get up, scraping his palms over the cold concrete.
The man Bastian had tackled earlier still had fight left in him and managed one last punch to Bastian’s eye before Bastian laid him flat with knockout blow to his temple. A feminine groan ahead of him was his only hint as to where she’d landed. He found her next to her suitcase, bending over it as she studied its ruined state. He could barely make out the scene, but he saw that her groan was one of frustration and anger. The canvas suitcase was lying in a pool of water where faint streetlights glinted off the shallow pool. No doubt her clothes and any other items inside were soaked. It was his fault they’d been attacked. He couldn’t set foot in town without attracting trouble and attention, whether he tried to avoid it or not. This was exactly why he shouldn’t have come with her tonight, but he couldn’t trust her to drive alone, not after his father had died trying to make the drive back to the Hall.
“Damn.” She righted the suitcase and rolled it over to where he stood on the curb, watching her. He was closer to the lights from the pub than she was, and when she caught sight of him, she gasped and ran straight up to him.
“Oh my God! Are you okay?” She grasped his face, and he flinched as several sensitive places on his cheeks and jaw protested, despite the gentleness of her touch.
“I’ve been better. This is exactly why I insisted you stay at Stormclyffe.” He pushed her hands away and touched the back of his head, wincing because it felt like glass shards were embedded in the back of his skull. There wasn’t a wound, only a nasty bump. Jane’s hands returned to his face. They were soft and soothing as she examined him. The unexpected touch pulled something deep inside him. He wanted her to keep touching him, but he couldn’t let her. She was already too close to him, and his family’s bad luck was starting to extend to her.
“You’re a mess. Come on, we need to get you fixed up.” She looped one arm through his and led him back to the car, dragging her suitcase behind her with her free hand. The growing pain of the new headache set in, and Bastian handed over the keys to the rental car without much of a fight. Driving the way he felt now wasn’t safe or wise.
She drove them to a nearby pharmacy that was open late and ran in to buy supplies. While she was gone, Bastian pulled out his phone and dialed Randolph.
“Yes, my lord?” His butler answered on the first ring.
“We will be a little late. Please have the cook prepare some sandwiches and leave them in the kitchen.”
“Of course, my lord. Do you require anything else?”
He smiled, even though it hurt to do so. Randolph was a good man. He was one of Bastian’s father’s servants who had remained loyal over the years and had known Bastian since he was a babe in his cradle. Too often of late, the butler had been carrying the burden of the renovations, and the man deserved a reprieve.
“No, nothing else. Thank you, Randolph. Get to bed and rest.”
For a long moment, the older man didn’t respond, but when he did speak, his tone was a little rough and full of appreciation. “Thank you, my lord. I shall see you in the morning.”
“Good night.” He ended the call and pocketed his phone just in time to catch Jane’s quick-footed approach from the store, a plastic bag slung over one arm. His lips twitched. She was playful and casual, her American upbringing warring with her lo
ve for British culture. She was a conundrum that fascinated him. The way she moved, with a dancer’s grace, every action natural and real, not like the women of his station who carried themselves with rigid poise or the women he dated who hung all over him, batting their lashes coquettishly. Jane simply existed as she was, and he liked that in a woman. He liked it too much.
I cannot get attached. The grim reminder didn’t sit well with him. She needed to finish her research and get out. He hoped she wouldn’t find much to write about. The last thing he wanted was a research paper pointing like a sign to his home so that all the tourists coming to the castle would end up being ghost hunters or simply curious gawkers.
She opened the door with one hand and tossed the bag into his lap. When she saw his face, she wrinkled her nose and squinted.
“Does it look that bad?” he asked.
She bit her lip then replied. “I should have grabbed a bag of frozen peas.”
Peas? What on earth did the woman need peas for? When a man got into a fight and had bruising, he didn’t put a bag of bloody peas on his face. A bag of ice would have been better.
“When you get out onto the country road, go slow, Jane.” He wished he could drive. He didn’t like the idea of her steering them to their doom.
“Okay. Why?” She wasn’t questioning him or challenging him. He didn’t hear that in her tone.
“The road is very narrow, and there are cliffs and plenty of ditches within easy distance of the road where you could roll the car. I was not joking when I said earlier you could easily harm yourself or worse.” He braced one hand on the right armrest and the other against the closed window as the pain in his head doubled. The memories were always buried deep in his heart, but having to drive the road that had killed his father wasn’t something he faced easily.
“Are you sure you’re okay? You’re really pale.” Something in his chest gave a funny little flip at the look of concern she gave him. No one except for Randolph or his parents had ever worried about him the way she seemed to. His little bookworm cared.