by Lauren Smith
“The only reason I said yes was because of how he danced. He didn’t say a word, just took me in his arms, and we danced. When the music was over, he got down on one knee in front of everyone and proposed. He said he would never find a partner as perfect as me, so he stopped looking.”
He put a hand over his heart as his chest tightened. It never ceased to amaze him that grief which had long since been buried could resurface after just one beautiful memory of a lost loved one.
“If this Jane is your perfect partner, time stops. You don’t have to think past that.”
He didn’t respond but instead said, “I’ll see you at Christmas.” Perfect partner? They’d danced around each other, and the chemistry was hot enough to burn, but he sensed she craved more, even as she feared it. Just like he did.
“I love you, dear. Please be careful. I can’t lose you, too.” The quiet despair in her tone made his eyes burn.
“You won’t, Mother. This is my home. I am not going to let shadows of the past chase me away.”
…
Jane couldn’t sleep. Instead she sprawled on the bed, her laptop up and running as she researched ghosts. There were thousands of sites dedicated to hauntings and paranormal activity. Several spiritualists suggested that ghosts who suffered tragic events would repeat the event over and over again, like a broken record. Supposedly, if someone could get the spirit to break the cycle, then the spirit would be able to move on.
She stared into the distance, thinking back to when she had seen Isabelle on the cliffs and how she had been pulled off the ledge by thorny, black roots. The gardener had mentioned that she haunted the cliffs and been seen there many times. Maybe she reenacted her death over and over again, and this was the cycle Jane needed to break.
Closing her eyes, she let the memory of the cliffs come back. She had been Isabelle and felt what Isabelle had felt. The terror and despair and the crashing blackness on the rocks below. And then she’d woken up and found that she’d nearly jumped off the north tower.
A shiver slid along her spine. She could have died. Would have died if Bastian hadn’t been there to save her…
A rapping sound on her door dragged her back from the darkness of her thoughts.
Bastian’s voice was quiet, gentle, on the other side of Jane’s door. “Are you ready for dinner?”
“Hang on,” she called out and dashed to the bathroom.
With a quick check in the mirror to make sure her jeans and sweater looked good, she slid her feet into her ballet flats and took a deep breath.
She opened the door. “Ready.”
He leaned lazily against the wall next to her room, one shoulder propping him up, legs crossed at the ankles. He straightened, pulled back the sleeve of his black sweater and examined his Cartier wristwatch.
“We have time for dinner and the ballroom.” His lips quirking into a ghost of a smile.
“Ballroom?” she asked. Was he planning to take her into town tonight for dancing? The idea had a fair amount of appeal, but she wasn’t the best dancer. Slow dancing was the extent of her talents.
He picked up on her nervousness. “Don’t tell me you don’t want to see it. We missed it on your official tour. I thought all Americans loved their tours.”
She groaned and joined him in the hall. “You’ll never let me live this down, will you?”
He had the audacity to flash a cheeky grin. “We Brits have long memories. To me, you’re still a colonist.”
“Jesus, at this rate, we might reach independence from you people when I’m dead.”
“Perhaps, if you’re lucky.” He slid an arm around her waist in a gesture so casual that it felt like he’d done it for years. His fingers curled possessively, and she warmed inside at the intimacy it created. It was almost like he was flirting with her…but surely not. Even though he said he believed her about her dreams now, men like Bastian and women like her never got together. A girl could dream though…
I should pull away. Can’t let him get to me, but he’s so damned sexy and sweet. The barriers against her heart were like splinters in stone, and the desire to be with him flowed easily like water through the fractures he’d created. He was breaking into her heart, and she was having trouble keeping him out.
He even pulled her chair back for her when they arrived at the dining room. Randolph appeared, accompanied by a plump woman in a flour-covered apron—probably the cook, Mrs. Beechum, who brought their dinner and left.
“Where are they going?” Jane asked after Randolph and the cook disappeared out a small side door.
Bastian sipped his Chianti before replying. “Probably back to Weymouth tonight. He has a few things he wishes to do in town and will return tomorrow. I have been running this place on a skeleton crew for the last couple of months until things settle down. A lot of the workers weren’t comfortable with all of the accidents and setbacks on the renovations. Most of them only agreed to work during the day and return to the town before nightfall.”
There was no need to clarify what “things” he meant. Ghosts.
“You mean it’s just you and me? Alone?” She gulped down her wine.
He chuckled, a playful and wicked gleam in his eyes. “Frightened of being alone with me, Jane? Afraid I’ll spread you out on this table and feast on you, that I’ll ravish you senseless?” His words came out a silken promise of things to come.
The heat in his eyes reminded her of chocolate, and she was sucked into the image he painted. Her lying on the table, dishes broken on the ground from where he had shoved them away to get to her. His hands ripping at her clothes, desperate to taste her bare flesh…
Wetness pooled between her legs, and she clenched her thighs together, thankful he couldn’t see through the table. She bit her bottom lip and looked away, desperate to hide the desire in her eyes. If he ever found out how much she wanted him, wanted what his kisses promised, she would be in trouble.
“Jane, I was only teasing.” He pushed back his chair and stood.
“I’m fine, really. I think I’m just on edge, that’s all.”
She took a bite of her roasted chicken.
He walked over to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. She looked over her shoulder, surprised at how vulnerable she felt in that moment.
Yet there was something impossibly arousing to have him behind her when she was defenseless. He dug his long, elegant fingers into her muscles, rubbing the tension away. A moan slipped from her, and her head fell back against the chair.
He looked down at her, his gaze filled with a scorching heat that burned her from the inside. She’d never thought she could drown in a man’s eyes, but staring up at him, she finally understood. His black pupils dilated rapidly, absorbing her as they absorbed the light in the room. Nothing existed outside of him, nothing mattered beyond the promise of dark delights and carnal pleasures that were reflected in his predatory stare. She surrendered to that gaze, to him.
He continued to massage her, all of that strength and power he possessed targeted at making her relax. She blinked. Thoughts like that sure could go straight to a girl’s head, make her want to whimper, beg, and surrender to anything he might demand. She’d never been the submissive type, but a man who could dominate her sensually set her blood on fire.
“Why the blush?” he asked, his voice amused. His hand settled on her throat, his fingers curling around it. He didn’t squeeze, but the grip was possessive. She got even wetter, her thighs, shaking from how tight they were smashed together.
“It’s a little warm in here.” Her tongue was thick as molasses. She was having trouble concentrating on anything besides the memory of his full lips, how they kissed with such natural ease. How good it felt to be under his control, consumed by his need for her.
“Finish your dinner. You’ll feel better with a full stomach.” He trailed his fingertips along the nape of her neck, toying with her hair, pulling it to one side so he could caress the knotted muscles on either side of her neck before he
returned to his seat.
She ate rapidly, not really hungry, thankful for the distraction. Anything to get her mind off Bastian and the new power he seemed to have over her.
He cleaned his plate first and then sat back, watching her.
“What is the one thing you miss most about your home?” he asked.
She set her fork down and contemplated that. The answer came fairly easily.
“When I was ten, my dad took us out on his sailboat on the ocean. He had this old brass bell. That morning fog drifted across the lake, and my dad rang the bell to warn other boats we were nearby. I loved the sound of that bell. When my father sold that boat, he removed the bell, made a wind chime out of it, and hung it on a window outside my room.” Before she even realized it, she was smiling, but her chest was tight as she realized how much she missed home and that sound.
She raised her gaze to his face. “There’s nothing more wonderful than hearing the clanging early in the morning as a breeze moves through the trees.” A blush heated her face as she realized she was picturing him in bed next to her, listening to the bell chime, while their bodies were wrapped around each other.
To distract herself, she turned the question back to him. “What about you? Do you miss something back in London?”
He played with the stem of his wineglass, watching the way the candlelight glinted off the crystal. “I miss…” He hesitated, cleared his throat and then continued. “I miss feeling like I have a place of my own. London was never my home, even though it’s the only place I’ve ever known. This,” he gestured to the beautiful dining room around them, which was adorned with portraits of his ancestors, “this is my home. I feel it in my blood and in my bones. I belong here, and nothing will make me leave. That’s why I have to restore this place. I will not let anything take my home away from me.”
She heard the silent vow behind that. Ghosts or no ghosts, he wouldn’t abandon Stormclyffe to them. It was his home, and he was going to fight for it.
Neither of them spoke after that, and she hastily finished her dinner. He got up first and was at her side, hand outstretched.
“Come with me.”
Chapter Thirteen
Bastian held out his hand, hoping Jane would come with him. It made no sense that a woman he’d met only a few days ago seemed suddenly so important. But a stirring deep inside the core of him whispered.
Take her. Protect her. Mine.
After all the women he’d been with, to not merely crave Jane, but want to possess her on some elemental, primal level confounded him. He needed her almost as much as he needed air to breathe. Every rational thought reminded him to keep away, that staying distant would protect her, but it was harder and harder to fight that.
After his father died, he’d believed little else mattered beyond finishing what his father had started. Stormclyffe’s restoration was to be a tribute to him and all of the Carlisles who’d come before, haunted by years of tragedy and superstition. Now he realized it was so much more than that. Bringing this place back to life wasn’t about creating a tribute but defending what was rightfully his. His father had risked his life coming back because restoring the hall had meant that much to him, and Bastian understood that. Hated it that it had taken his father from him, but the same deep need to fix the castle was within him, too. At any cost.
Slowly Jane put her palm in his. He relished the blossom of rose in her cheeks as her gray eyes flitted to his face, then away and back again.
He led her out of the dining room, down the hall, and into the castle’s large ballroom. He’d purposely not taken her there, so he could surprise her, and the wait had been worth it. The ballroom had been renovated in the 1920s, with stained glass windows, crystal chandeliers, and wood floors.
“Oh! The ballroom!” She sighed dreamily. “Did you know that during World War II they housed wounded soldiers here?”
His lips twitched. She may have originally been an intruder bent on prying into his past, but now he understood her interest for what it was. She loved this place as much as he did.
She grasped his hands, delight shining in her eyes. “Dance with me!”
Bastian attempted to step back, shaking his head. “I don’t really dance.”
With a nibble on her bottom lip, she tugged on his hands. “Just one song. Please.”
Sighing, he surrendered and left her in the middle of the room and to walk over to the newly installed entertainment bar off to the side.
He’d had a group of technicians install a sound system in case he wanted to connect an mp3 player into the new speaker system that circled the room. He pulled his phone out of his pocket, scrolled to a playlist, and found a good song before he popped the audio jack in and hit play.
She had her back to him when a musician started to sing “Ain’t No Sunshine.”
The staccato bump bump of the bass and the infusion of orchestra strings filled the air, enveloping them. The music’s invisible strings seemed to coil around them as she spun to face him. Her lips formed a little “O” of surprise, her eyes bright with pleasure. He grinned.
She was beautiful. Stunning.
He could see a future with her, and it scared him. What if he had that future within his grasp and lost it, lost her? Losing his father had destroyed his mother. He didn’t want that to happen to him, but it could if he let it.
How appropriate the song was.
The singer crooned about how a house was not a home when his love was away. He couldn’t help but wonder how Stormclyffe would feel if she left. He’d be alone every night. The thought was unbearable.
He joined her on the floor and pulled her into his arms. Her body bumped into his as she settled against him. They began a slow dance, the gentle shuffle of her flats and his shoes over polished wood. He tucked her head into his shoulder with a gentle hand, and she exhaled softly. Her warm breath seeped into his thin wool sweater.
“I thought you wouldn’t be a good dancer since you acted so afraid, but you’re excellent,” she murmured against his throat.
He smiled. “My father taught me. You form a box with your steps.” He demonstrated the incredibly simple move, both their heads bent as they watched their own feet. “And then,” he chuckled, “when you become very good, you round off the corners of the box.” There were many other fancy dances he was familiar with, but this one, the simple slow dance, was the one his father had taught him, and the one he suspected his father had used when he’d proposed to his mother.
The song changed, and a rich, upbeat melody washed over them as the sound bounced off the walls around them. She tilted her head back to look up at him with joy.
She started to sing along, laughing at the lyrics and herself.
“‘Tiny Dancer’ is my dad’s favorite song. He and mom always dance to it when they think my brother and I aren’t around to see.” She blushed and resumed singing. “Hold me closer,” she whispered.
He wasn’t sure if she was singing the lyrics or pleading to be held tighter. He knew what he wanted and pulled her close so she fit snug against him. One of his hands settled on her lower back, just above the delicious curve of her bottom. In that moment, he was struck by a sense of surreal wonder. It was as though time had in fact stopped and there was nothing beyond the music, Jane, and the dance. He hungered for her both physically and emotionally.
His palm twitched with the urge to cup her bottom, knead it until she mewled with desire and melted against him. His other hand met hers, and he laced their fingers together, the connection sparking between them. They started moving quicker in the dance, and he couldn’t help but sing, and she laughed, her smile bright and full of life.
Each time they broke into the refrain, he spun her outward, and she pivoted in a graceful turn like a delicate dancer, using his fingers like the strings of a marionette as though he controlled her perfect moves. The rich sound of the melody and the slide guitar enveloped them in a spell that erased the shadows, the cliffs, like the first wash of the
dawn over the land. It overrode the dark, sinister shadows slithering in the corners of the room.
If only he could have danced forever this way, holding her close. He banded his arms around her, fearing the song would end soon. He didn’t want to let go of the one real thing in his life. But the music faded, and she pulled back. There was a stark pain in her eyes.
“What’s the matter?” He reached for her but she stepped back, holding up a hand.
A new song started playing. It was “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.”
“I can’t do this. I shouldn’t have.” She shook her head.
“Shouldn’t what?” he asked. Worry dug into him, making him ache inside.
“I was in a relationship with a guy. We were engaged. I loved him.” Her voice broke a little and she drew in a deep breath. “We used to dance all the time. I thought I could handle being close to someone again, but I was wrong.” She smiled, but it was one of misery and laced with devastation.
“What happened?” He refused to let her go, not when she was hurting so badly that it made her tremble.
“He didn’t believe me. I told him about the dreams, about Stormclyffe. He thought I was crazy. Two years! He just broke it off and asked for his ring back.”
Her story stunned him. She’d been with a man she’d loved for two years, was going to marry that fellow, and he’d cried off just because she’d had some nightmares? A man shouldn’t abandon a woman over something like that.
“I’m not that man, Jane.”
“No,” she admitted. “But you don’t want to believe me. Sure you said you did, but you don’t live with these dreams like I do. They always come, and sooner or later you’ll stop wanting to pretend you understand.”
He tightened his grip, anger rippling beneath his skin. After everything they’d been through, she didn’t trust him?
“I said I believed you were seeing visions. Don’t you dare doubt me. I said I’d protect you, and I will.”
“It’s too much, Bastian…” Her eyes seemed almost blue as unshed tears glimmered in their depths.
Too much? What did she mean? Too much of what?