The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall

by Lauren Smith

  “It feels like an ax is splitting my head in two.” He rubbed his temples again.

  “There’s aspirin and a bottle of water in the sack.” She pointed to the bag in his lap.

  With a sigh, he dug through it until he found the bottle and the water, and he downed two pills. Hopefully the medicine would kick in soon and dull the awful throbbing between his eyes.

  “Bastian…I’m so sorry about what happened.”

  He shrugged and set the water in the cup holder. “It wasn’t your fault some drunken louts decided to have some fun.”

  The look she cast his way was doubtful. “Is this the sort of thing that happens when you come into Weymouth?”

  He nodded. This had certainly been one of the more violent encounters but no less disturbing than the other incidents he’d had. The last time he had been in town, an old Russian woman outside a butcher shop had spat at his feet and made a strange sign with her hands, which he later learned was a sign to ward off the devil or evil spirits. Sometimes he wondered if he was a magnet for bad attention because of his family’s reputation or the “curse” as the townspeople viewed it. Less reputable characters often flocked to him, ready to wreak havoc upon his life.

  “These things happen. I took a chance going there.”

  “Why did you?” she asked.

  Her eyes were on the road, but he knew her attention was fixated on him and what he might say. The truth couldn’t hurt.

  “I wanted to. It was that simple.” If she’d gone alone, she might have been fine, but then again, he couldn’t be sure, which is why he’d risked going with her. Only that had brought down the trouble all the more quickly upon them both.

  She glanced at him. “I don’t think there’s anything simple about you.”

  Neither of them spoke after that. The car headlights pierced the gloom ahead of them, revealing the pale gray pavement of the road. Without the moon to light the hills, the terrain was pitch-black. Even the lights from the city behind them seemed to be cocooned in a bubble, unable to penetrate the darkness of the sloping hills that led to his family’s home.

  A flash of memory crossed his mind of the first night he’d come to the hall. It had been an endless night like this. A childlike fear of the dark and the things that stirred in it had risen up in him so quickly, he’d sucked in a harsh breath. In that instant, he’d longed for his father more than anything else. He envied the way his father had never seemed to fear anything. Driving to the Hall near midnight would have been the same to his father as driving there during daylight. It wasn’t like that for Bastian. He was a sensible man, a rational one, but sometimes his body reacted, even when his head insisted there was nothing to fear from foolish stories and old wives’ tales.

  As he’d driven up to Stormclyffe Hall that first night before starting the renovations, the monolithic specter of the castle had burst out of the gloom, appearing before his headlights like a phantom itself. Not a single light had shone from the windows, nor had a breath of life stirred in the air around him as he got out of the car. He’d wondered then, would restorations and updated plumbing scrub the stones of the blood of his ancestors, purge the thought of curses and ghosts from the minds of nearly all of England—and one American PhD student? He hadn’t been able to answer the question but only rely on the hope that all would be well if he could but restore the castle.

  He was so lost in these dark thoughts, he failed to notice they had arrived at the Hall.

  “Let’s get inside and see to those injuries.” Jane was already out of the car and fetching her suitcase. Bastian grabbed the pharmacy bag and joined her at the entrance. He unlocked the door, and once they were inside, took her suitcase and rolled it to the kitchens. The original kitchens of the hall had been a large stone-floored room. The remodeling had added advanced cooktops, several ovens, three fridges, and a dazzling array of lighting fixtures that made the new appliances gleam.

  “I called Randolph while you were inside the shop. There should be sandwiches left out for us.”

  She nodded and started getting out the supplies. “Sit.” She pointed at a bar stool that backed up to one of the side counters. He did as she commanded, curious to see what she would do next. With an air of an army general, she prepped a makeshift nurse’s station. Dipping the edge of one cloth into hydrogen peroxide, she then dabbed at the cut on his face. He bit the inside of his cheek as the treatment burned. She handled several more small scrapes on his arm and hands before finally slapping a few Band-Aids on the deeper cuts. Her touch was gentle, her fingers soothing as they drifted over his skin.

  “It’s my turn to play doctor.” He couldn’t resist the chance to tease her, even though he knew he shouldn’t. Teasing could lead to so much more. Things he couldn’t do, not when he needed to stay the bloody hell away from her before some ridiculous coincidence “proved” the curse to yet another person—particularly one who might just get her assertions published. But damn if he couldn’t resist.

  The responding blush that flooded her cheeks was priceless. She started to pull her hands away, but he caught her wrists and held her close. Her lips were ripe for kissing and oh so close.

  Christ…he wanted her so bad it hurt and not in a way related to the injuries of his fight. The need to have her was as strong as the need to draw his next breath. It was nothing like before, when they first met. This time there was no wild, frightening fire driving him to act in a state of madness. Instead, there was a deep ache only curable by her touch, her body tucked in his arms. He wanted to explore her, learn what made her sigh and purr. The incident in the drawing room had been a flash fire of passion quick to burn out. Right now though, it was vastly different. His attraction to her wasn’t a fleeting thing that would vanish when sanity returned.

  Temporary lust was easily managed. True desire was an entirely different thing.

  Still holding her hand, he noticed a few scrapes on her knuckles and some faint bruising marring her creamy skin.

  “How many punches did you throw?” He meant to tease her, but his words come out rough. The idea of her fighting made his blood heat and yet made him anxious, too. She was under his protection, and she’d gotten hurt. Guilt rotted away inside him.

  “I might have thrown a few.” She faced him, her voice steady.

  “Brave little bookworm,” he mused.

  Her eyes widened, and those luscious lips parted on a shocked gasp. “Bookworm?”

  He swallowed, realizing he had let it slip. Time to distract her. He scooped up a clean cloth and dabbed at her knuckles.

  “Ow!” she yelped. He could tell by the half-hidden smile on her lips that it hadn’t really stung.

  Bastian continued to clean the scrapes before fixing a few plasters around her fingers. The entire time she watched him, and he feared she could see right through him. No woman had ever looked upon him with such startling clarity. Her gaze unmade him and reformed him into something he’d longed to be for years: unguarded, open, and unafraid. She was the sort of woman that could tempt him to risk everything to be with her, if only he let himself. And that was exactly the problem. He couldn’t let her get close, not when what was left of his family and their reputation might get hurt.

  When he was finished tending to her, he gestured to one of the fridges.

  “You get the food. I’ll fetch something from the wine cellar.”

  “Sure.” She tugged her hands from his and stepped back.

  The loss of her closeness unsettled him, but he had no valid reason to drag her into his arms. He almost wished he’d lose himself like he had in the drawing room. Distance, even temporary, would be good. He didn’t look back as he left the kitchen. The castle halls were dark. Half of the lighting in the halls still hadn’t been installed yet. Luckily, the route to the wine cellar wasn’t that complicated. A left turn past the painting of two knights jousting, then a right at the hall where Richard’s collection of marble statues stood on pedestals on either side of the long room. It was one of
the more intriguing parts of the house. He made mental note to keep her away from the private archives where the journals containing sordid details of the Weymouth tragedies lay.

  The old oak door leading to wine cellar groaned as he pulled on the circular iron handle. The hinges needed oiling or perhaps replacing. One more thing to add to the damned list of things to fix. An electric lamp at the top of the stairs was within each reach, and he flicked it on. Yellow light bathed the steps but didn’t penetrate the pool of blackness below. When Bastian took the first step down, a cool breeze tickled his face, stirring the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He didn’t move as the sound of soft exhalation brushed his ears, like a woman’s heavy sigh. He could almost hear Jane’s voice in his head.

  Ghosts, they haunt these walls. She had never uttered the words aloud, but he had seen that thought flash across her face.

  When his feet hit the stone floor at the bottom of the stairs, he paused again. The curious sensation of focus on the back of his head made him uneasy. It had to be nerves. Jane and her foolish obsession were rubbing off on him, that was all. However…he didn’t linger in the cellar. He snatched up the nearest bottle of red wine from the rack to his right and vaulted back up the stairs, firmly slamming the cellar door behind him with a satisfying bang. Whatever was down there, if there was anything, would stay down there. As he headed back for the kitchen, he strained to focus on a faint sound…the echoing laugh of a woman.

  Chapter Six

  Jane studied the plate of cucumber sandwiches, a little smile tugging at her lips. Cucumber sandwiches. Wasn’t that so English? Her stomach rumbled, and she succumbed to her hunger and reached for one of the perfectly cut little pieces.

  “Gotcha.” Bastian chuckled from somewhere behind her.

  She whirled around, a sandwich stuffed in her mouth and guilt heating her cheeks. After swallowing she apologized.

  “Sorry, I’m starved.” She half turned and picked up the plate, offering him one.

  He selected two and set them on a small plate for himself. Then he crossed the room to the cabinets on the far wall and retrieved two wineglasses, filling them.

  There was something so intimate about the two of them alone in the kitchen, ready to share a meal. It wasn’t at all what she had expected when she came here. It was one of the things she and Tim had often done. Meals, just the two of them in cozy little pubs in Charleston on the holidays. It made her heart ache and twist because she missed the man less than the intimacy of just being with someone. She had to be careful. She didn’t want that intimacy ever again, even as much as she missed it. The thought of losing someone she loved over all the strange happenings in her life tied to Stormclyffe hurt too much.

  She shivered, realizing she still wore his coat. She would return it, soon, but not right now. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting to savor a few more minutes of being enveloped by a coat that bore his woodsy, masculine scent. It was soothing and enticing, like her own personal catnip.

  “So, tell me about yourself, Jane. I realized today I know very little of you except for your academic interests, of course.” He slid her glass close to her hand. Their fingers met on the glass’s stem, and neither of them pulled away for a moment. It was Jane who finally broke the contact, and she wished she hadn’t, but she desperately needed a drink. She wasn’t great at small talk. With Tim, everything had been so easy; they’d had so much in common. But Bastian was a stranger, one she felt drawn to in ways she never had felt with Tim. What could she say?

  I’m just a girl who had an average, happy life but always felt I belonged somewhere else…belonged…here? It sounded silly, and if she was going to start talking about herself, she needed a few sips of liquid courage. The wine’s bouquet was heady and rich. She thought she tasted a hint of cherry and oak.

  “Not much to tell really. I’m from Charleston, South Carolina.”

  “Siblings?” he prompted and then took a bite out of his sandwich.

  “One brother. Garrett is four years older than me. He can be an idiot at times, but a loveable one.” A little smile curved her lips.

  He grinned devilishly. “That explains your instinct to punch my shoulder whenever you’re losing an argument.”

  “Oh?” She tried not to laugh, but she couldn’t help herself. It was true. She punched Garrett. A lot. He was always bullying her whenever they argued about something, and socking him was the best way to distract him. It was a habit she’d never really outgrown.

  “A close friend of mine has a younger brother and sister, and you remind me of them.” The soft smile that played on his lips melted her inside. He seemed genuinely happy at some secret memory from long ago. What she wouldn’t give in that moment to discover a way to keep him smiling like that. It was a beautiful expression on his face, and someone blessed with that nice of a smile should have a reason to always be smiling. Yet, she knew only too well after this afternoon’s research that smiles from Bastian were few and far between and hard-won if they came. There was so little for him to be happy about. It was obvious that wealth and title did not equal happiness. It was one more reason she was curious to know who would bring such fond memories and soft smiles to his lips.

  “Who is it?” she couldn’t help but ask. She desperately wanted some insight into his life and his past.

  “Rhys Wolfe. You have probably heard of him by his title. Viscount Wolfe. He’s a fellow schoolmate of mine from Eaton and later Cambridge. He’s a good man. His younger brother Owen and his sister Chloe are quite the pair of troublemakers, always have been. They perfected the art of outnumbering and outmaneuvering Rhys at every opportunity, much to the hilarity of us watching whatever scheme they had concocted unfold. Afterward, they would insist it was Rhys’s determination to be the perfect elder brother that inspired such a need to rebel and cause trouble. I sometimes wish—” He caught himself and with a rueful shake of his head, covered his lips with his wineglass, and drank.

  She swallowed hard as she resisted the desire to ask the question that would prompt his answer. Perhaps if she changed tactics, she could get him to come back to it.

  “What’s it like? Growing up and living in this world?” She gestured to the kitchens.

  “Being an earl, you mean?” He laughed softly, but there was no joy in the sound. Only pain.

  “Try to imagine a dozen responsibilities, duties, and worries and multiply that by a thousand, extend it to a lifetime, and you’ll have some idea of what being an earl is like. I spend most of my time worrying over issues in Parliament and my estate. I have to worry not only about my own needs but those of whom I employ.” He raked his hands through his hair and then planted his elbows on the counter and continued in exasperation. “It’s like running a bloody miniature country. Frustrating as hell,” he growled. “The only time I ever was able to focus on something outside of my duties to my lands and title was when I was away at university.”

  Comprehension flooded Jane, and visions of the websites and news articles she’d read about him flashed across her eyes. A piece of the puzzle of Bastian Carlisle fell into place at last.

  “That’s why you pursued such extensive studies. I wondered at the number of degrees and the depth and complexity of your education.” She slapped her hands over her mouth when she realized her words sounded like an insult.

  His lips kicked up in a wolfish grin as she blushed to the roots of her hair.

  “I mean to say…that is…most people in your position wouldn’t waste time…” That didn’t come out right either. She felt like an idiot.

  He reached out and brushed an errant lock of her hair behind her ear, still grinning that devil’s grin. “I know what you meant.”

  His touch made her skin tingle and her body flush, as his fingertips coasted over the sensitive shell of her ear.

  They were so close on their bar stools. If she moved an inch, their knees would touch.

  “Learning was my only solace, my only freedom.” He bit his bottom lip, app
earing equally thoughtful and bashful, which turned out to have the most devastating effect on her body. Little shivers and heat flared and fired beneath her skin like sparklers on the fourth of July. She moved without thinking and reached for his bare forearm. His muscles jumped at her touch but he didn’t draw back.

  I shouldn’t touch him. She knew it. Her head knew it, but her heart, still bruised and bleeding wanted so badly to connect to him, even if it meant risking itself for more hurt.

  “It sounds very silly when I say it out loud,” he mused and shook his head. The action was so disheartening that Jane acted on pure instinct.

  She caught his face in her hands and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him. For a long second, only her lips moved, enticing his to respond, and then it was as if she’d unleashed a wild creature. Bastian caught her by the waist with one hand and by the nape of her neck with the other as he dragged her off her stool and onto his lap, forcing her to straddle him. The stumbling action of their coming together had him laughing against her neck as he steadied her. Then he took possession of her mouth again.

  She was alone inside her head; no phantoms chased her and pushed her away from her own body. This wasn’t like the drawing room. There was only this wild, raw kiss that felt as old as the stones on the cliff and as unceasing as the waves battering the rocks. Each nibble, each lingering lick and feathering of lips was alluring and dangerous. The need to be with him, to get closer even when their bodies touched everywhere, wasn’t enough. And it was only a kiss. When had time shattered and the universe shrunk to just two bodies pressed together, two mouths fused as one? Never in her life had Jane experienced such a moment. It terrified her. Being with Tim hadn’t felt like this, not even close. But like Tim, the earl thought she was nuts. I need to stop. I need to break away from him before I lose myself.