The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall

by Lauren Smith

  He crossed the hall and entered his own bedroom. It was a mirror of Jane’s room, only with midnight-blue hangings around the bed, and it lacked a portrait over the fireplace of course. Instead there was a lovely mural of Stormclyffe Hall surrounded by the woods. Several black fallow deer were at the edge of the forest. They were beautiful creatures. There was a wild herd that had lived on the estate’s lands for the last two-hundred-and fifty years. They weren’t shy, and he had successfully hand-fed a few of them the first week he had moved in. The old groundskeeper he had hired to oversee the estate’s lands had advised him on how to work with the deer.

  He set the journal down on the bed, a little relieved that he could let go of the book that had clung to his hands like a magnet only a few seconds before. Then he went over to the tall armoire against one wall. The old wood creaked as he opened the door and retrieved his silk pajama bottoms. After stripping off his clothes, he donned the pants and turned around.

  “Christ!” He nearly jumped at the sight of the diary on the bed.

  It was lying open to a section in the middle. He’d been sure that when he had set the journal down it had been closed. He strode over to the bed, and flipped it shut and then, experimenting, he pressed the bed down next to the book. Bastian wasn’t sure what he expected, maybe that the book would flip open due to a dipping spot in the mattress.

  The book didn’t move.

  The fine hairs on his arm stood on end, and a cool breeze teased him from behind as though some cold beast from the far north breathed down the back of his neck. He knew if Jane was here, she would mention ghosts and hauntings. He didn’t want to entertain that possibility. He picked up the journal, closed it, and just stared at the cover. What did he expect? To suddenly see visions or hear the voice of a man long dead? He shook his head when nothing happened. Jane was having a bad influence on him. Still…there was no harm in browsing a few pages. The book became heavy in his hands, and when he loosened his hold, it parted again to that same spot. He began to read.

  June 1st 1810

  I can’t escape her. She is hounding my every step. Cordelia Huntington and her father have developed a habit of appearing whenever I go to town. Whenever I attend any social function, they are there. I’ve seen many a woman watch me with interest and desire, but the way Cordelia eyes me, in a strangely possessive way like a cat eyeing a mouse, is unnerving.

  The whispering has started. Witchcraft. There have been cattle dying in town with no visible cause. And birds. So many birds, their little hearts ripped from their chests as their bodies appear outside of doorways, like some portent of doom. My days are filled with handling the concerns of my people and reassuring them that we have no witches in our town, even though I am not entirely sure if that is true. There’s only one thing I want. To be with Isabelle. I cannot find a moment alone with her, the woman I crave beyond reason.

  Today, though, today I was lucky. Her father and mother joined me as I escorted her to see the ruins of Sandsfoot Castle, an old structure that dates back to Henry VIII. As long as the visitors stay safely away from the more dangerous parts of the shore, which could easily crumble, it is a safe spot for picnics and outings. I knew it was to be the perfect spot to propose to Isabelle.

  As I waited outside Braxton’s inn, I shifted restlessly in the seat of my carriage, my fingers curling around my mother’s garnet ring, which was tucked safely in my waistcoat pocket. My footman appeared at the door, opening it and assisting the waiting guests inside. Mr. and Mrs. Braxton climbed in, taking the seats opposite me. The innkeeper and his wife were all smiles and warmth, something I liked immensely about them. They were genuine people and did not try to befriend me out of any desire to climb a social ladder.

  Isabelle’s face appeared as she peeked into the coach. Her beautiful eyes lit up when she saw me, and she smiled. My body burst into flames inside. She was so lovely, but it isn’t merely her looks which held me in rapture. It is her kindness, her intelligence, and the hint of passion she tries to hide each time upon our meeting. Last evening, we danced again, and my hand fit to her waist perfectly. A high color had blossomed in her cheeks, and I knew then that we would enjoy lovemaking. The night couldn’t come soon enough. I wanted to please her, to give her so much, my life, my love, my soul, my passion. I wanted her to own me. A man shouldn’t want to admit to such a desire, I know, but it’s true. I wish for her to brand her name upon my heart and never leave me.

  She slipped inside the coach and sat next to me before I could even get out and hand her in.

  “Thank you for this lovely outing, my lord,” Mr. Braxton said.

  “You are most welcome,” I answered, and I meant it.

  The weather was perfect for the picnic. The attending footman saw to it the drinks and food were prepared and laid out on several blankets. The wicker baskets were overflowing with cold roast, boiled eggs, and shortbread. My footman, George, stood by ready to refill our glasses with lemonade or Madeira wine. Isabelle’s parents occupied one blanket while Isabelle and I occupied the other.

  As always, I engaged Mr. Braxton in a frank and intelligent discussion. Despite the other man’s humble beginnings, he was well spoken and very bright. He was much the opposite of a man like Sir Huntington who did not care to know the most basic of intellectual subjects but instead preferred to bandy about names and titles of people whom he could curry favor with. The Braxtons were a far cry from that part of my life, and I relished any chance to escape such social engagements that would bring me into close quarters with the Huntingtons.

  After we had finished eating, I politely got Mr. Braxton’s attention.

  “Could I be allowed to take Miss Braxton on a walk closer to the ruins?”

  Isabelle sat up a little straighter on our blanket, her gaze darted between me and her father, the glimmer of hope barely concealed in her eyes. Did she know of my plan to propose? Surely not, I’ve kept the secret so guarded, she could not know.

  “Yes, of course,” Mr. Braxton replied, a soft and yet knowing glint in his eyes.

  I offered Isabelle my hand and assisted her in standing. We strolled along the green path toward the cliffs, her arm tucked in mine. Another confession had to be made, and I feared weaker men would think it made me a fool. But the pleasure of having Isabelle’s hand resting lightly upon my arm as we walked in amiable silence was one of the best moments of my life. When we were only a few yards away from the ruins, I stopped and clasped Isabelle’s hands in mine.

  For a few moments, she kept her gaze on the ruins. “It’s peaceful here.” She sighed and turned to look my way.

  My heart pounded as I struggled to find the words I had rehearsed a dozen times this morning.

  “Isabelle, we have only known each other a few weeks, but in that short time I have come to regard your company greatly.” I swallowed, hoping to speak around the sudden knot in my throat. Sweat dewed on my forehead, and I prayed I could be strong enough to ask her. If she refused me…I could not think of that. I decided I had to continue.

  Something sad filled her eyes, darkening the gray luminescence to a shadow-stormy blue.

  “I know what you must say,” she interjected when I would have spoken. Her tone was gentle, and her eyes brimmed with a sadness I hoped never to see in her.

  “You do?” Did she mean to reject me?

  “Yes. You must, of course. We cannot go on as we are. It’s better to end things.”

  “I must what?” I stumbled over her words. “End things?” I shook my head almost violently and raised her hands to my lips, feverishly kissing them. “No, no, that’s not it at all, my love. I was going to propose to you. If you will let me.”

  I tried to tease her, but she stared at me in confusion.

  “Propose? To me?” Her voice rose an octave. “But you must marry someone of your station. I am nobody. An innkeeper’s daughter.”

  The scorn for her station was evident in every syllable. It pained me she thought so little of herself. I wished sh
e saw herself the way I always had.

  “I don’t care, Isabelle. I want you. Would you prefer me to go to London and marry a simpering bore? Isabelle,” I groaned in exasperation. “You!” I kissed her hands again. “You are the only woman I want and need. Please.”

  I dropped to one knee and retrieved the ring from my pocket and offered it to her. My heart thrashed against my ribs as I waited for her to react. “Please…please do me the honor of being my wife.”

  She looked away from me, her eyes drinking in the castle ruins and the sea beyond before she returned her gaze to me. When she did, tears streaked down her face.

  “Why do you weep, my heart?” I surged to my feet and wrapped my arms around her. Every time we touched, lightning seemed to strike my body and bind me tighter to her. She had to say yes, had to agree to end my torment. I kept the ring cupped in my palm.

  “I’m overcome with happiness, my lord.” Her words were breathless and hitched as though she fought off the urge to cry.

  I stared at her, hope filling me with a secret warmth. “Does that mean you plan to accept my offer?”

  I lifted the ring up, watching the way it reflected in her eyes like a shining star.

  She held out her left hand. “Yes. A thousand times, yes.”

  I could barely breathe. My blood thudded in my ears like a stallion across the moors as I slid the garnet ring over Isabelle’s finger.

  “Oh, Richard, whatever shall we do? The gossips in town will never let us go through with this. We will be shunned.”

  “Shunned? No. We will not. I’m the earl. You will be my countess. The people can think what they will, but you will have the respect owed to you as my wife.”

  “I don’t care about that.” Isabelle’s fingertips traced my jaw and my lips. “I only want you to be happy.” It was true, every word. Only she mattered; only her joy and love meant anything to me.

  I grinned, playful and excited. She was mine; we would be together and be happy.

  “The only reason for living is to be with you. You make me happy.” I lifted her chin and bent to kiss her. It was everything I had imagined it would be. She gave in to her own desire for me and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, tugging me closer.

  “We will be so happy, my love.” It was our first kiss, but it would not be our last, not for many years yet, I hoped.

  Chapter Eight

  Bastian let the journal fall to his lap. His eyes burned, and his throat was tight. He almost felt he had been there, the sea breeze playing with his hair as he kissed the only woman he would ever love, never knowing he would lose her in just a short while. Barely a year later, Isabelle would be dead, and Richard would follow her to the grave a few months afterward.

  Goose bumps covered his arms. He flipped the journal closed and set it on the nightstand. He didn’t know what to think. The story of his ancestors’ lives filled these pages. Details of Isabelle’s death might be in here somewhere. No wonder Jane had ferreted the diary away. It was the perfect primary source for her dissertation. As a fellow historian, he knew its value and had to acknowledge the truth—that not letting her have this would hurt her research. The last thing he wished to do was hurt Jane.

  But if he gave her this, it would open the door to his family’s darkest secrets. Could he do that? Sacrifice the protection of his family in order to give Jane what she needed to finish her paper? If he didn’t, she would lose the support of her committee chair on her topic and wouldn’t get her PhD. He didn’t want to be the person who stood in the way of her dreams.

  She was a woman lost and doing her best to find a place that was hers. He understood that feeling all too well. Stormclyffe Hall was his refuge. Even though the place was shrouded in tragedy and its stones soaked with innocent blood, it was still the one place that was truly his. London had never felt the way the castle did. He loved the feel of the cold stone beneath his bare feet and the slightly salty taste to the air from the sea. This was his home. Perhaps it was Jane’s, too.

  A laugh escaped his lips at the rogue thought. Jane, living here. What a foolish idea. It didn’t make any sense. She was a student at Cambridge, with a life there, and eventually she would return to America.

  He eyed the journal ruefully and then got back out of bed. He took the book, went back out into the hall, slipping it back into Jane’s briefcase. When he straightened, he heard a voice, muffled voice on the other side of Jane’s doors. Ears straining, he listened to the sounds.

  “No! No don’t leave me! Please, I cannot do this alone.” The voice belonged to Jane, but it was so full of despair and fear that he didn’t hesitate to act. He burst into her room. The meager light from the hall split a path in the darkness by the bed and revealed Jane thrashing wildly, her limbs tangled fretfully in her sheets.

  “No!” she wailed sharply, and then her body seized violently.

  “Jane.” He dashed to the bed and grabbed hold of her, dragging her coiled body into his arms. She slackened in his hold almost instantly and didn’t wake right away. He stroked the wild, dark waves of hair back so he could see her face. Her lashes fluttered like an injured hummingbird’s wings, and then she finally looked at him.

  “What happened?” Her voice was hoarse as though she had been screaming for hours.

  “You were shouting in your sleep.” He delivered the news gently, not wanting to frighten her further, but he hoped she would explain what had happened.

  “I was?” She moved slightly, her body sliding against his. His groin tightened, and he held her closer as a wave of longing swept through him. He needed to let go of her. Any more of this and he’d give into his need to kiss her again. Distance. Must keep my distance.

  One of her hands laid flat on his bare chest, the tips of her fingers were stiff and dug into his skin, like a kitten clinging to its mother. He couldn’t easily disentangle himself from her now, so he surrendered to the desire to soothe her.

  “Were you dreaming?” His hands traveled down her back, soothing her with slow massaging touches.

  “I think so.” She settled into him more, resting her cheek on his chest. That single point of skin-to-skin contact frayed his control.

  He lightly pressed his palms into her lower back, and she stretched out on her bed and allowed herself to be tucked into his side. The position felt natural, as though he had done it a thousand times with Jane. It was so easy to be with her. He barely knew her, yet the press of her body to his eased the restlessness that always gripped him. In recent years, he had stalked from bed to bed of every beautiful woman he came across, refusing to linger with any one woman. Jane rooted him to the spot, like a sapling that had finally found a bed of earth deep and rich enough to support him. And he was going to lose her. She would leave at the end of the week, and he would never see her again. For my family’s sake, I have to let you go. The mere thought of it made his stomach twist.

  Mine. She belongs to me. She cannot leave. The voice that growled in the back of his head was not his own, but he had the urge to agree with it.

  “Do you remember what you were dreaming about?” he asked, mentally pushing the strange voice aside.

  He felt her give a little nod against his chest.

  “I was following a woman in a white nightgown. She was running through the castle. There were shadows everywhere.”

  “Did you catch up to her?”

  She licked her lips. “Yes. She stopped in front of an old dovecote. When I got to her, she pointed at the ground, and all around her there were doves. Dead doves. Their little hearts ripped from their snowy-white breasts. The woman turned to me and she—”

  “She what?” he prompted. His heartbeat pounded against his temples.

  “She said, ‘By innocence bled beneath pale moonlight, the evil one has begun to fight. Touch not the heart of evil. Trust not the shadows. What once was broken must be mended.’ Then she was gone.”

  Every bone in Bastian’s body seemed to burn. He blinked as a violent pain tore through him
and just as quickly it was gone. His grandmother’s voice rang in his ears. It was her warning. The one Jane knew somehow and now had dreamed about.

  “Jane—”

  “I’m sorry I had a nightmare and woke you up.” She attempted to extricate herself from his hold, her cheeks red as she suddenly seemed to realize they had been cuddled together in her bed. He wasn’t ashamed of his near nakedness, but she was certainly aware of it. Her gaze traveled the length of his body, stilling on his bare chest for several seconds before she cleared her throat and turned her focus back to his face. A little grimace replaced her bashfulness. “You need rest. Your face…it looks like it hurts.”

  Instinctively, she moved her hands up to his face and brushed over the tender flesh. “It doesn’t matter. It was just a bad dream.”

  She looked away from him. “What if I told you it was more than just a bad dream? That I’ve been having these sort of nightmares for a few years?”

  “I think they’re just dreams, Jane. Try to relax.”

  She scowled at him, but there was hurt and betrayal in her eyes at his dismissal. It couldn’t be helped though. Better that she be angry with him than if she started to care for him.

  Bastian swept his hands back around her waist, trying to draw her back down. He needed to have her lying next to him.

  She bit her lip and resisted. “I don’t think this is a good idea. This is all too…” She waved a hand in the air in a helpless gesture.

  He grasped her chin and angled it so she had to face him. “I’ve lived my life on bad ideas, and it hasn’t failed me yet.” He pulled her down and enfolded her in his arms. “Don’t think about tomorrow, Jane, none of it. It’s just you and me right now. Focus on that, and you will be fine.” Her muscles relaxed and she ceased her resistance.