by Lauren Smith
But it was too late; she was lost. His kiss would haunt her more than any spectral woman in white or leaping shadows. Her feelings, the ones she had refused to accept existed, were now forced into the light and could never be buried again.
As their lips parted reluctantly, he brushed her hair back from her face, his fingertips lingering on her skin and threading through her hair. That tender, intimate gesture squeezed her heart like a fist. Feeling this way, it was like a knife slicing small cuts on her soul. The pain wasn’t there right away; it grew slowly as some rationality returned. This wasn’t real. Whatever was between them was merely chemical attraction. He might have done this with many women before her—play the wounded Byronic hero and they’d all fall into his embrace. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth and an ache in her chest.
Still, his passion-darkened eyes and ragged breathing were a sensual symphony. Their foreheads touched, and his hands massaged her shoulders in slow, methodical, soothing strokes. He nuzzled her, his face brushing against hers as he shut his eyes and exhaled. Jane gazed in rapt fascination at his incredibly long lashes, a deep gold like his hair, as they fanned out over his proud cheekbones. He was so beautiful it hurt her to look at him, yet she couldn’t tear her eyes away.
“We should finish dinner.” His hands dropped from her body. She nearly cried out from the loss of his touch. She finally sank back onto her bar stool, unsure of what to do. He did not meet her eyes, and they finished dinner quickly in silence. Did he regret what they’d done? Had he not liked kissing her? Her insecurities were fresh and unwelcome, but she couldn’t push them away.
One thought ran through her mind again and again like quicksilver.
I am falling for him, and he doesn’t even care.
After dinner, she and Bastian took care of the dishes, and then he escorted her back into the corridor. Her suitcase was once again under his control, and Jane bit her lip to keep from frowning. Didn’t he want to talk about what happened? Or was he going to just ignore the fact that they’d made out like a couple of teenagers? She wanted to talk about it. Hell, she wanted to prod him a bit and see how he felt about her. But the silence seemed pretty damning evidence. A man wouldn’t just kiss a woman and then ignore her if he was really attracted to her. Which meant he didn’t really desire her.
“Bastian, would it be possible to see more of the castle tomorrow?”
He studied one of the many paintings on the wall before answering. “I suppose Randolph could give you a tour of the house and grounds before you settle down with your books.” He led her to one of the main staircases in the castle.
“Randolph? Not you?” Rejected. It didn’t just sting. It hurt. Bad.
“It’s better if we don’t…” His words lingered like shadows, swallowing what little feeble light of hope her foolish heart had held. He cleared his throat. “Randolph is much more familiar with the recent history of the Hall and would be an excellent guide.”
“But—”
“I have a lot to do. Your presence is already an imposition. I cannot waste time on you.” Bastian didn’t meet her eyes when he spoke. It might have killed her outright if he had.
Waste time on me? The idea that she was a waste was so belittling that it chilled her heart. She couldn’t fall for a man who viewed her like that. She was worth time. If he didn’t see that, then it was his loss. Whatever temporary insanity that had gripped her since she met him was obviously hormone related. Strictly physical. That was all it had to be.
“Your room is this way.” He rested a palm on the dark oak banister. The wood gleamed beneath the glow of the wall sconce lights on either side of the stairs. Intricate flowers had been carved into the wood painting a picturesque view nearly tricking her into thinking they might be real, as if they had been painted. The petals and stems looked real enough that she could touch them and expect them to feel their softness. Bastian tapped, waiting to hear her answer. He seemed completely unaware of the beautiful banister next to him.
“This way.” He started up the carpeted stairs. She followed behind him, hating how she couldn’t help but admire the way his jeans molded to his backside. Memories from the drawing room filled her, how she’d wrapped her legs around his waist as he… She shivered and tried to push that thought away. That moment with him had been so different from the others. They’d come together as though they’d spent centuries apart, not as though they were newly discovering each other. She preferred the man who had kissed her in the kitchen, the man who sweetly kissed her with fire and passion but not with wild desperation and anger. That had felt like someone else. But of course, he didn’t want her. Wasn’t interested. She was a “waste of time.” The thought made her bristle. Even though she didn’t want to like him, she didn’t want him to not like her.
When they reached her room, he opened the door, revealing a beautiful room done in the Baroque period style. The walls were a fashionable drab green, and a four-poster bed with crimson moreen hangings trimmed with forest-green tassels made an impressive sight. The crème coverlet was brocaded with flowers, and the bed looked plush and comfortable. A healthy fire snapped and crackled in the fireplace opposite the bed. It was the painting that hung above the bed that caught her attention.
“Oh!” Her hand flew to her throat, clasping her pendant as she struggled to breathe. Excitement stirred to life inside her all over again as she stared up in wonder. Bastian set her luggage down next to her and joined her at the foot of the bed.
“It’s him!” She pointed, even though the gesture was unnecessary.
“I thought you would enjoy this room.”
Enjoy? There wasn’t a word in the English language that could have described how she was feeling in that moment. She was staring at the only portrait of Richard Carlisle in existence. The one she had seen in her research books. The faded photographs didn’t do it justice. Richard was seated in a red wingback chair facing her. An Irish wolfhound sat next to him, its tongue lolling to the side of its mouth like a dark guardian with a lupine smile. Richard’s face mirrored his hound’s but only with a hint of a smile. He was predatory, sensual, and powerful in his dark blue waistcoat, and knee-high black boots. Bastian’s ancestor looked every inch the earl he was. But it was so much more than that. Bastian and Richard could have been twins, the uncanny resemblance was so strong.
The painting cast a spell over her, weaving invisible tendrils around her body, drawing her in. Barely audible whispers drifted close to her ears.
“My beloved, my beloved, you cannot run from me again.”
“Cannot run,” she murmured in a daze. A faint ringing started up in her ears, and she swayed uneasily on her feet. Bastian caught her by the elbow, steadying her. As soon as he touched her, it was gone.
“Are you all right?” Bastian asked.
“Just tired.” She pulled away from him.
“I trust you will be comfortable here?” His gaze danced across the room as though trying to study it with a critical eye, looking for any faults.
Her own focus went straight back to the painting. “Yes!” she exclaimed, tearing her gaze from Richard to the living man next to her. “Thank you so much for letting me stay here.” Despite his callous words, the gesture of letting her stay in this room wasn’t lost on her. He could have just as easily put her in a broom cupboard, but instead he’d brought her here.
“You’re welcome. Randolph is always around if you need anything. My room is across the hall. Breakfast is at eight, and I will inform Randolph he is to take you on the tour.” He moved toward the door but paused, turned around to lean against the jamb, and look at her. His figure was shadowy as though caught between two worlds and belonging fully to neither. A strange stirring of woe and fear dug deep into her stomach. Jane had a horrible sense that she might lose him. With great sadness, she admitted in her heart that she knew he would never belong to her. No matter what dreams and hopes she might build, they were as solid as castles formed in the clouds. One could neve
r possess what one never had. However, it didn’t ease the ache of wanting nor make the melancholy of loss fade.
“Jane,” he began but didn’t finish. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm as though unsure of what to say.
“Yes?” She fought hard to keep the hope from showing in her voice as she leaned back against the nearest bedpost. Her fingers curled in the crimson hangings. The fabric was cool and soft to the touch.
“I wanted to…” He finally met her gaze. “I wanted to thank you for the kiss. I haven’t been kissed like that in many years. It shouldn’t have happened though.” He pushed away from the door, and after a moment, he walked toward her, a look of determination hardening his features momentarily. With his every step drawing him closer, her breath hitched, and she clung to the hangings for support. When he was mere inches away from her, he simply stared at her face and then focused on her mouth as though the answers he sought were there. She licked her lips nervously as sharp hunger spiked through her. Would he kiss her again? Would she lose herself anew in his embrace?
“Why?” she asked.
He ignored her question. “Who are you, Jane? Who are you really?” His whispered question made her shiver. She didn’t know the answer herself. He trailed the back of his knuckles over her cheek, and another shiver rippled through her, like a pool of water disturbed by a stone cast into its depths.
“Who am I? I don’t know…not anymore.” She was Jane, but she wasn’t Jane any longer. The more she was around him, the more she felt she was changing. Like the coastline by Sandsfoot Castle ruins, her sense of self was altering with the force of Bastian’s presence, which pounded at her like mighty waves. They would shape and form each other and become something new, only she wasn’t sure what that would be. She simply knew that she belonged with him, wherever he was.
But he didn’t want her, wouldn’t have anything to do with her. Every time he touched her, he reminded her it was wrong, that they shouldn’t do it. Then why did he keep coming back to her? It didn’t make any sense, and she knew logically she shouldn’t want him either.
He lowered his head and feathered his lips along her jaw, and her lashes fluttered as pleasure and need fueled each other until her skin was burning.
“You are a mystery to me.” His words rumbled against the sensitive skin of her neck as he pressed his body into hers, pinning her to the bedpost. “You’re an American, but you act as though this place is in your blood. I see your love of my home shining in your eyes, even as you fear its darkness.” He stole a brief, hot kiss before continuing. “You look like her, Jane. Did you know that? When I first saw you, I thought you were Isabelle come back from the dead.”
His hands cupped her shoulders, fingers tensing. “I thought I’d gone mad, believing such nonsense, and then I gave in and kissed you, and we…” His mouth trembled as he kissed her again, this time deep but too brief. “It’s as if the past is repeating itself …” He shook his head ruefully. “What does it matter? I want this. I want you, even though I shouldn’t.”
She opened her mouth to deny him, but no words were there. His mouth came down hard on hers, and she was caught in the tide and pulled away from the safety of the shore.
Isabelle. He thinks I look like Isabelle, and I think he looks like Richard. It was the only thought to penetrate the haze of her mind during that everlasting kiss. His hands never left her face, and his thumbs stroked her cheeks in a soothing rhythm. They focused only on that kiss and the infinite perfection of the way they moved together as though they’d kissed for a thousand years and would do so for a thousand more. His body pressed against hers in a small rocking motion that hypnotized her. A simple meeting of their mouths, and she came undone. A flick of his tongue against hers, the flash of unguarded emotion in his brown eyes.
When they finally parted and he met her gaze, their panting breaths shared the quiet air around them. She knew she would never be the same. She could never go back to her books and her research and not think of him.
What have I done? Fear slid through her, making her tremble. She didn’t want him to have this power over her. The way she’d felt for Tim paled in comparison to the way Bastian made her feel and she’d only known him a matter of hours. What would Bastian do to her if she let him get inside her heart? She should want to be safe and free of him and the spell he wove around her, but she was caught in the gossamer strands of his web. But he’d already told her he didn’t want anything to do with her—and if she told him about her dreams? He’d likely put her on the first flight to the U.S. as fast as he could get a staff member to take her to Heathrow.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured in concern and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She tucked her face against his chest, inhaling his scent and bathing in his warmth. It was an awful weakness to want to be held and comforted, but she couldn’t deny it, even knowing how dangerous it was to open herself up to him.
If someone had told her before she came here that within a day the Earl of Weymouth would be holding her in his arms, she would never have believed it. Yet here she was, letting him in where she swore no other man would be allowed. Suddenly all of her remaining energy vanished, and she collapsed, exhausted.
“Jane! Should I call the doctor?” His breathless tone made her insides warm, and she shook her head.
“I’m fine. I just need to sleep. It’s been an insane day. Give me a few hours sleep, and I’ll be as good as new.” The lie felt heavy on her tongue. It was her heart that hurt, but she wouldn’t dare tell him that. She pushed back from him a little and leaned back to sit on the bed.
“If you’re sure you’re all right…?” He didn’t look convinced. His brows were lowered as he studied her from head to foot.
“Really, you should sleep, too. You’re face is going to hurt tomorrow.” She silently begged that he would leave her alone. A girl just wanted to curl into a ball and lick her wounds after rejection, not have a man gently comfort her. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with mixed signals.
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. “I fear you’re right.”
He returned to her door, and with one last look of concern he said, “Good night, Jane.”
“Good night, Bastian.” In that moment she felt safe and protected, even after everything she had seen today.
“You know, I like that you call me Bastian.” He chuckled, the sound so soft and inviting.
“You do?” It just occurred to her that she had forgotten her manners and did the American thing by consistently calling a peer of the English realm by his first name.
“Yes, I do. I don’t feel so alone.” This last comment was so quiet, she almost wondered if she had dreamed it. He closed the door behind him.
She stayed on the bed for a minute longer before she roused herself and went over to her suitcase. Dark stains made splotchy patterns on the red fabric of the bag. She laid it down and unzipped it. With a sigh of relief, she dug through the contents, finding nothing damaged. She found her flannel pajamas and changed into them and got into bed.
The fire in the hearth was lit beneath the painting. The logs crackled and snapped as they were consumed by the ravenous flames. Randolph must have lit the fire before he’d gone to bed. It warmed the room up and yet the dance of shadows made Jane uneasy. She snuggled deep into the comforter and willed herself to sleep. She wasn’t sure how long it took, but just before she started to drift off, one of the shadows thickened into a strange shape…like a body hanging from a noose.
She blinked, and it was gone.
Just a dream. Please let it be a dream.
Chapter Seven
Bastian leaned back against the wall next to Jane’s closed door. His body was rigid, tension coiled like snakes in his muscles. He had kissed her again, had almost lost control again. But she had tasted so good, like wine and her own natural sweetness. The way she had shivered and gasped, breathless as he held her, still echoed in his ears and made him ache bone deep to go back into her room
and finish what he had started. Neither of them spoke about the drawing room incident or how they had been so intimate there yet like distant voyeurs. However, the kitchen and her bedroom…those two kisses belonged solely to them and not to the past.
They couldn’t keep doing this, a dance circling closer and closer to each other until they made the mistake of sleeping together. It couldn’t be allowed to happen. She didn’t seem strong enough to stay away from him, so he would have to be the one to stop it. But damned if he hadn’t been the one kissing her! He raked a hand through his hair, tugging hard on the strands in his desperation to think. Maybe if he chose to completely avoid her the rest of the week, then he could just send her packing and be done with it and they’d never cross paths again. Yes, that might work. Stormclyffe was large. He could easily avoid one little bookworm.
He pushed away from the wall, regret making his steps heavy, and his boots knocked into something.
A bag toppled over at his feet. Jane’s briefcase. He started to pick it up when he noticed a leather-bound book with a blank spine lay on top of her notebook. It was old, not a textbook or research material. He knew he should just slide it inside the bag and leave it alone, but his hands were already curling around the tome and lifting it up. He hissed as an electric shock pulsed through his skin at his palms and fingers where he held the book. Rather than drop it, he suddenly found he couldn’t let go of it. How could a book shock him? They didn’t carry electric current…
It fell open, the yellowed paper parting soundlessly. Handwriting in faded ink flowed in delicate swirls and loops across the pages. Bastian’s eyes widened as he read the first couple of lines.
This was his ancestor Richard’s diary. How had Jane found this? Where had she found it? A part of him snarled. She had kept this a secret from him. He had every right to know what lay in the pages, to see the story his ancestor told. It was his family not hers, and he had expressly denied her access to his family’s private papers. His fist was halfway raised in front of her door before he realized he was about to knock. He didn’t want to quarrel with her. No. He would simply take the diary and protect it. She could come to him if she really wanted it. And she’d have to admit to him that she’d found it and was keeping it from him. If she wasn’t brave enough to confront him, then he’d have the diary safe with him.