The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1)

by Chasity Bowlin

  The obvious choice was to lie—to deny that she needed anything from him. But Betsy’s words came back to her, about the inevitability of their coming together. Whenever he was near, she was drawn to him like a moth to a flame. When he was not, she looked for him, sought him out above all others. The yearning for him, not just the physical ache of desire, but the need to be in his presence, to hear his voice and to revel in that connection that existed between them overwhelmed her good sense.

  Beatrice felt herself sinking, falling against him, desperate to feel the heat and strength of him. It wasn’t about passion, but about the need for comfort, for a moment to feel safe and secure. When his arms closed around her, pulling her even closer, holding her firmly to him, she found that sense of peace. Any thoughts or fears of the future would be dealt with when the time came, but the present and the dangers they faced in it, had to take precedence.

  “Beatrice,” he groaned, whispering her name against the sensitive skin just below her ear. “I want nothing more than to stay here with you, to hold you this way for as long as you permit it. But we have an opportunity now that cannot be squandered.”

  “What?” she asked. She had the very distinct feeling that she would not approve of his answer.

  “I’ve instructed the servants that we will all be dining in our rooms tonight… and was told that Christopher has gone into the village. Show me how to get to the tower,” he said.

  “Now?” she asked. “What if the servants bring our dinners up and we are not here?”

  “Betsy will deliver yours. If she finds you absent she will not question it. And no one will dare question me,” he said. “We both know this. I am an unknown factor to them and they have yet to determine whether to treat me like an honored guest, a common criminal or their long lost employer!”

  “What if he returns? It could be dangerous.” The more she reflected on what she and Betsy had seen the more she began to wonder if the man she’d seen in the tower with Eloise had been Christopher at all. Was it possible that he had a double? Could there be someone else within the halls of Castle Black who looked enough like him to pass for Christopher at a distance? It was the only explanation she had and yet it sounded too preposterous to even utter.

  “While he’s out, it’s our best chance to look around and see what he’s been up to,” Graham insisted. “Can you remember the way?”

  “Yes. Certainly… but are you sure this is wise? Given what we’ve learned and that we still have no certainty if Edmund was acting alone or in collusion with Christopher—I’m worried, Graham. I cannot help but feel we are on the verge of something truly horrific.”

  He took her hands, pressing them to his chest and covering them with his own. “This will all be fine. I do not give my word often but, when I do, I mean it. I promise you, Beatrice, that all will be well. But we cannot be swayed by fear… not now when we finally have useful information! Show me the way. That’s all I ask.”

  Beatrice tamped down her panic, ignoring the ill whispers that hovered at the periphery of her mind. Collecting the tinder box from the mantel, she went to light the candle that was placed beside it, but her trembling hands defeated her.

  Graham stepped forward and took the tinder box from her, easily setting the match ablaze. With the candle lit, he lifted it and motioned for her to lead the way.

  The panel opened easily enough, just as Betsy had shown her. Stepping into the dimly lit, narrow space, it felt as if there simply wasn’t enough air. It was panic, she reminded herself. Her own nerves were suffocating her, not the hidden corridor.

  “It’s very narrow,” she warned, “And only becomes worse the higher you go. Also, the walls are very thin. We shouldn’t risk speaking lest we be overheard.”

  He nodded and she continued on, traversing the tight space until she reached the stairs. Climbing those steep, treacherous steps carefully, she stifled a scream as something scurried past her foot.

  “It’s only a mouse,” he whispered.

  “Rat,” she corrected.

  He shrugged as if it made no difference.

  Beatrice shuddered but continued the climb. Once they reached the door that would open to the tower room, she carefully slid the small panel back that would allow them to peek into the room first. It was empty, as it had been before, but there were signs that someone had been there recently. The dishes had been cleared away, but an opened bottle of wine rested on the desk. The bed was rumpled and in far greater disarray than it had been the first time she’d peered into that room. Blushing as she recalled what might have taken place to result in those tangled linens, Beatrice quickly averted her gaze. A discarded cloak was draped over a chair and a small valise had been placed beside it.

  “I think it’s clear,” she whispered. “I’ll watch at the door and alert you if anyone is coming.”

  “I am, until someone can prove otherwise, Lord Blakemore. It is my right to go where I please in this castle,” he reminded her.

  Beatrice cocked her head, the arrogance of his statement reminding her very much of the boy he had once been. “And need I remind you that we are attempting to be covert, not because you do not have the right to be here but because, by your own admission, we do not wish to tip our hand?”

  He stared at her for a moment, clearly displeased to be taken down a peg or two, before finally ducking his head and offering a curt nod. “You are correct. You are absolutely right. And I’m being an ass.”

  Beatrice didn’t smile, but her lips twitched with the urge to do so. “Those are your words, not mine… Lord Blakemore.”

  Opening the secret door completely, Beatrice stepped out of the narrow passage and crossed to the chamber door. It creaked loudly as she tugged it open just enough to see into the stairwell beyond. She knew Graham had followed her because she could hear the shuffling of papers and other items behind her.

  “I looked at those the last time I was in here,” she pointed out. “It’s all maps and plans of the castle, and legal writings, of course.”

  He made a sound of derision. “Clearly they mean to see me removed from Castle Black and stripped of the title by fair means or foul.”

  Beatrice didn’t turn, she didn’t dare let her gaze waver from the stairs, but she did ask the question that burned inside her. “If you were to be told that the title was not yours and that you had to leave here, where would you go? Back to the sea?” A part of her, she could admit at least to herself, wanted him to be found an imposter. If he was not Lord Blakemore, she could have him for herself. It was selfish and wicked to even think it.

  “No,” he said. “That life is done for me. I never wanted it. I never loved the sea the way that some men do. For the longest time, it was simply the only life I knew… I’d find something on land, where I could feel the rocks and the soil beneath my feet every day. I could always try my hand at farming, I suppose.”

  Another question rose unbidden to her lips and escaped before she even had the thought to call it back. “Would you take me with you?”

  The rustling of papers stopped. The room became utterly still and silent. Afraid of what she would see in his eyes, Beatrice dared a glance anyway. He stared at her, his gaze thoughtful and intense.

  “Would you go?” he asked softly. “If I were to be naught but a humble farmer, with dirt on my hands and not a sovereign to call my own… could you live that way?”

  “I do not know,” she answered honestly. “I’ve been poor the entirety of my life, but I’ve never had to feel the deprivation others have because I was here, under the generous care of your parents. But I couldn’t remain here without you. That much I know. Edmund has made it clear what he intends for my future to be… I’d rather take my chances as a farmer’s wife than a gentleman’s whore.”

  He walked closer, his steps quiet on the dusty floor. She didn’t flinch at the weight of his hands on her shoulders or when she felt the warmth of his breath at her ear. “Is that the only reason you’d go, Beatrice? To escape him?”


  “If that were my only reason, I’d never have found myself here in this chamber with you,” she answered. “I know that you desire me. You’ve admitted as much. And I know that you have some affection for me, but there are far too many obstacles in our path to move forward…unless it was for something far greater.”

  “Affection? If you wanted a love drunk fop, Beatrice, I’m hardly the best candidate. I’m not the man to offer pretty words and romance.”

  She whirled on him then, her eyes glaring and her lips pressed into a thin, firm line. He infuriated her at times and she couldn’t even fathom why. “I want nothing but what you are, maddening as it is. So kindly stop taunting me with it! I’m far less bothered by your lack of courtly manners than you are!”

  “Is that what I’m doing? I don’t think so… I want you. In ways I cannot even begin to describe, I crave you. But I cannot say if that is love, Beatrice. I’ve no experience with it. What I do know is that I can bear anything but your regret. I do not ever want to look in your eyes and see that you wished for someone better than I am.”

  The heat of her anger faded under his admission. “You knew love once. You knew it here as a boy. Will you ever remember? Will you ever be able to utter those words?”

  “I cannot say,” he answered softly, his tone softening the blow of the admission. “But for the moment, we should be focusing on searching this room… don’t bother standing watch. Help me look and we can be safely away all the quicker.”

  Beatrice moved away from the door, following him deeper into the room. She checked the trunk at the foot of the bed, finding dusty clothes and nothing of interest. Graham was still at the desk going through a journal. Moving toward the chair that flanked the hearth, she picked up the cloak only to dislodge the hat that rested beneath it. As she bent to retrieve it, her breath caught.

  “This belongs to the man who tried to kill me,” she said softly. “He was wearing these things when he…”

  Graham stepped forward and took the cloak and hat from her. He began searching the garment for any pockets, but there were none. Examining the hat, he said, “This is French Infantry… an officer by the looks of it.”

  “French Infantry?” Beatrice repeated, her confusion increasing with each passing moment. “The more we learn the less we understand. Why would someone in this house possess items belonging to a French uniform?”

  “The late Lord Blakemore served as a diplomatic envoy to France before the war, didn’t he?”

  “Your father,” she corrected. “Graham, can you not accept that it’s true? You are Lord Blakemore! Surely the letter that passed between Mr. Eaves and Edmund and the latter’s attempts to conceal it for his own gain are all the proof you need!”

  “Beatrice, whether it is true or not isn’t the issue. Others will have to accept the truth of it before I can. If the House of Lords grants Edmund’s petition, my belief will not matter!” He ran his fingers through his dark hair, clearly frustrated by their situation. “Hope is a dangerous thing, Beatrice, for one such as me. I cannot allow myself to fall into it just yet.”

  It cut her to the quick. Had she ever, at any point in her life, felt so utterly without hope? So afraid of yet more disappointment that hope itself represented nothing more than the promise of pain? “Has your life truly been so devoid of goodness that, even now, you cannot accept that what you’ve found here is real and permanent? Edmund will not succeed in having Lady Agatha committed. She has a new physician, one who is not at Edmund’s mercy and who will attest to her soundness and to the fact that any infirmity in her has been brought about because of another physician’s malpractices!”

  When he didn’t immediately respond, she continued. “As for the title, it would take years for such a decision to be made and, in the interim, you would remain here, with the family who has grieved, mourned for you absence—prayed and wished daily for your safe return! You have reclaimed your identity and the love of your family. No one can take that from you, Graham.”

  He stared at her for the longest time. When he finally spoke, his voice was low and gruff, filled with emotion that she knew he would not allow to seep fully to the surface. “Has your life been so devoid of hardship that in the face of all adversity you can maintain such optimism?”

  “It has not. But I choose to believe that things can be good. Living in anticipation of the bad does nothing but rob the present of any joy… if all I did was think about the eventual end of things between us, I would never have allowed you to kiss me, to take the liberties that you have. I certainly never would have responded to them in such a reckless and wanton way.”

  “So it’s your eternal optimism that is responsible for your passion?” he queried.

  “You make me sound very foolish when you put it that way… but the simple truth is, I have lived the entirety of my life never knowing what it felt like to desire the touch of a man’s hand. And now I do.”

  “My touch,” he corrected. He moved closer to her, so close their bodies were nearly touching. His voice was pitched in a low growl as he continued, “Make no mistake, Beatrice. No man will ever touch you but me.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Graham took note of her response to his proclamation. Her breath caught, her eyes widened and her lips parted. But she did not back away, she did not cow from him, nor did she contradict him.

  “I want you in my bed, Beatrice,” he admitted roughly. “But I will not force you there. It must be your choice.”

  “Is it a choice? From the moment you returned, it is as if I have been falling downhill. Try as I might to catch myself, I simply keep tumbling headlong into this thing that we are both either unable or unwilling to name.”

  He reached out, cupping her face. The softness of her skin was a wonder to him. “Is it so important to give it a name, then? Must we label what we are to one another?”

  “No. Because the outcome will not change, regardless… have you seen all that you require in this chamber?” she asked.

  “I have. Nothing in it has given me any inkling of what is truly afoot and who, if any, is a coconspirator.”

  “We should return… the longer we’re here the more risky it becomes.”

  Graham stepped back from her on a heavy sigh, reluctantly letting go of her. “Very well. I’ll escort you back to your room and say goodnight.”

  “I do want you to escort me back to my room, but I hadn’t intended that you should leave me there alone. I had thought you would stay with me—that is what you want, after all? For us to become lovers?”

  The words were uttered matter of factly, with little fanfare and no warning. He had prepared himself to be turned away, to be rejected by her. By all rights, she should turn him away. And yet, the invitation hung there between them, a promise of something that he had no doubt would alter both of their lives irrevocably.

  “You’re certain?” He called himself a thousand kinds of fool for even offering her the chance to renege.

  “I am certain… we cannot continue dancing around one another as we have. If you are Lord Blakemore, and I believe that you are with my whole heart, then you will never be my husband. But for now, for this short time until things are proven, you can be mine in the only way that I will ever have you.”

  Graham didn’t hesitate a moment longer. He took her hand, tugging her behind him and back into the narrow corridor. The cape and hat lay forgotten behind them as they closed the panel and made for her chamber.

  As they entered, he noted that the tray bearing her dinner had been delivered and Betsy was nowhere to be found. Quietly offering thanks that the maid understood the better part of discretion, he shut the panel as soon as Beatrice’s skirts were free of it. She preceded him into the room, crossing it with purpose, until she reached the bed.

  He remained where he was, leaning back against the wall. For the longest moment, Graham simply stood there and looked at her. The simple truth was that he had no idea where to begin. The women of his experience had bee
n well versed in the carnal arts. Beatrice, while passionate, was still an innocent and the rules of play as he knew them did not apply.

  “Is something wrong?” she asked. “You’re looking at me very strangely.”

  “It’s just that you’ve no idea how much I want you,” he admitted, his voice gruff and ragged.

  She ducked her head, a blush staining her cheeks and a shy but cheeky smile turning her perfect lips up at the corners. “No, I do not. But even my limited understanding of what is about to take place points to the fact that I will never know if you continue to maintain the width of the room between us.”

  He chuckled, which had no doubt been her intent. It was a pleasing counterpoint to the tension that, even during their most proper exchanges, remained ever present between them. “I’m nervous,” he admitted to her. “I’m not one for wooing and seduction. I’ve never had to be.”

  “Since I’ve invited you into my chamber to go to bed with me, one could argue that you aren’t the seducer but the seducee,” she replied. “Does that alleviate your nerves in any way?”

  “You deserve better than this… far better than me. You deserve a man who knows a gentle touch, whose hands aren’t rough and callused.”

  She walked back to him, but said not a word. Instead, she reached for his hand, lifted it and pressed the tenderest of kisses into his palm. “I do not mind your work-roughened hands, your calluses or your scars. They are all part of what made you the man you are today, are they not?”

  That simple touch, along with the complete and utter acceptance that she offered him, was his undoing. His arms snaked about her, tugging her closer until she was pressed fully against him, the weight of her breasts crushed against his chest a welcome torment. Her breath rushed out on parted lips and he swooped in, kissing her eagerly.

  He claimed her lips like a man starved for them. In truth, he was. Every minute of every day when he did not have the taste of her on his lips was a moment wasted.