Dark Temptation

by CHASE, ALLISON

  Only skilled horsemanship prevented Chad from falling. He tightened the reins and clung with his knees, leaning to speak reassuring words to calm the animal. The horse lurched again as a face, thin and wan and framed by lank wisps of hair, appeared from the churning fog. The small figure stood barely a breath away, practically beneath Prince’s kicking hooves. Alarm shuddered through Chad, nearly jolting him from the saddle.

  ‘‘Good Christ, my horse might have trampled you.’’ His heart rate slowed as the shock of the narrowly avoided accident receded. He worked the reins to bring the distraught animal under control. ‘‘You could have been killed.’’

  The face tipped to peer up at him, and he recoiled at the sight of blue lips, sunken eyes, a jagged gash across the forehead. Soaked rags that had once been a dress encased an emaciated figure and raised a bitter reek of ocean brine. And more. Some indescribable odor that hinted of decay. Of death.

  ‘‘Sweet Jesus,’’ he whispered. Revulsion sucked the remaining heat from his body. A single conviction pounded through his skull: This creature can’t be alive. Nothing that lives could cast such a fearsome spectacle.

  The figure moved closer, its lifeless eyes holding him in a vacant stare. Soundless words formed on the fissured lips. Despite the sickening fear rocking his gut, he leaned down, straining to hear the croak of a whisper that spiraled on the mist.

  So many dead. Killed for the cargo.

  He whipped upright in the saddle as fresh shock ricocheted through him. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t understand what those words meant.

  Boats scuttled. Innocent lives lost. All in the name of profit.

  Profits he had reaped.

  ‘‘Are you . . . Did you . . . die . . . because of . . .’’ He clenched his teeth and tried to steady his shaking limbs. ‘‘What do you want of me?’’

  She cannot see me. Cannot hear me.

  ‘‘Who can’t?’’

  She is alone. Distraught. Grieving.

  A gust of wind tore through the haze, shredding the vapors like tattered linen. Riding the air currents, an owl swooped low, its forlorn hoot echoing across the moor. Chad flinched, and when he looked back to the spot where the girl had stood, she was gone.

  He gave himself a shake. A hard one.

  Cargo. People dying. His throat closed until he choked on his own breath. No, he couldn’t pretend he didn’t understand. Couldn’t dismiss the guilt evoked by those words. Had he truly seen a ghost, or had his own conscience risen up to goad him?

  The truth writhed inside him. So many dead. Dead if not by his hand, then through his complicity, and through the arrogance that had assured him, all his life, that he could get away with anything.

  He swung Prince about, intending to find his way back to the road.

  You must help her. She cannot see me.

  Prince heaved, staggered in tight, panicked circles. Fighting for control, Chad searched the darkness. Once more the stench of salty decay filled his nose. A shriek rang in his ears. With a terrified whinny his horse reared.

  He slid backward, falling, tumbling over Prince’s hindquarters. The descent seemed to take an eternity, and then his back slammed against the ground. The blow reverberated through him, rattled his bones.

  His heart threatening to burst through his chest, he rolled to his feet and grabbed for the bridle. ‘‘Easy, Prince. It’s all right, boy.’’

  He thrust a foot into the stirrup. As he tried to swing up, a shove at his chest pushed him down. He tried again, but a second blow toppled him. He smacked the ground, the impact shooting pain through his back and shoulders.

  Winded, bruised, he sat up and rubbed his throbbing arm. With his good one he reached up, caught the dangling stirrup and used it to haul himself to his feet. In the whorls of mist before him, her face took shape again, her vacant gaze an indictment all the more terrifying for its utter lack of expression. As if he’d already been tried, convicted, condemned.

  He forced his trembling lips open. ‘‘Tell me what you wish me to do.’’

  Instead of an answer, a spinning blackness engulfed him, swallowing every thought, every hope. A crushing pressure filled his chest. The pain and cold became unbearable. He opened his mouth, gasping for air, but none came. He was dying. Wishing he would die. Praying for an end.

  Can you understand what torment is?

  He opened his eyes to discover that he was on his knees, hands cradling his head. The pain receded, reduced to a dull throb inside him. He lowered his hands to his sides and stumbled to his feet. ‘‘By God, is that what it is to die?’’

  The little drowned ghost hovered a few feet away, surrounded by a host of ghastly faces, each one telling the story of a brutal, watery death.

  For some. For me. For her as well.

  ‘‘Then whoever she is, she too has died?’’ He pointed into the faces swirling with the mist. ‘‘Is she among them?’’

  No. Her soul is dying.

  ‘‘I don’t understand. Please . . .’’

  Come.

  Turning, she drifted off into the wisps of fog. With the accusing stares of the other apparitions burning into his back, he gathered the reins and placed his foot in the stirrup. As before, a buffeting force prevented him from climbing into the saddle.

  On foot, he trailed the little ghost and her swarm of grisly companions across the unfamiliar landscape. He resisted the urge to recoil as specters flitted like shadows across his path, as wasted fingers reached out from the darkness to poke at his conscience. As whispers grazed his ears: All dead . . . killed for the cargo.

  Where were they leading him him? Into a bog, over a cliff? Blindfolded by the night and the mist and his roiling apprehensions, he had no way of knowing. Had no choice but to do the very thing he’d always found hardest in life: submit to a will other than his own.

  Gray against the darker gloom, the rectangular dimensions of a small chapel gathered shape. A waist-high forest of gravestones, leaning hither-thither and cloaked in moss, crowded one side of the churchyard. Chad moved to a gap in the encircling wall where a gate used to be and, leading Prince behind him, stepped into the yard. ‘‘What is this place?’’

  No answer came but the sifting of the wind through the heather. He had no idea where he was, how far from the road or in what direction it lay. With little choice but to spend the remainder of the night here, he walked Prince to the stoop and tied the reins to the railing.

  ‘‘You’ll be safe here on hallowed ground, I should think, and I shan’t be far away.’’ He ran his palm down the horse’s nose. Then, feeling like the sole inhabitant of a lifeless world, abandoned, ironically, by the spirits that had led him here, Chad tugged open the heavy oak door.

  Somewhere between Aunt Louisa’s house and the village, Sophie found herself wandering in a sea of mist, her sense of direction hopelessly lost. She ground to a halt as the fog surrounded her. Sharp pebbles dug into the soles of her slippers, making her dearly regret the haste that had prevented her from changing into a pair of boots. Standing still, she prayed for a glimpse of the road. The peal of a buoy bell. Anything to help her find her bearings.

  There was nothing. No sights. No sounds but the distant pull and tug of the sea, which, muted by the haze, seemed to come from no direction in particular. She didn’t know this area at all well, but in the past week she had learned enough to be aware of its dangers. A step in the wrong direction could lead her over a cliff, into the muck of a swamp, or so deep into the moors she’d never find her way back.

  The night blew its clammy breath against her skin. She couldn’t stand here on this spot, unmoving, until morning. She toed the ground through her slipper. It felt packed and solid, as a road should feel. Perhaps if she made her way carefully . . .

  In the next instant she gasped in both surprise and relief. From up ahead beams of light pierced the fog. She started toward them, trying not to break into a run however much she wished to race to safety. Stone walls rose up against the mist, framing narr
ow, peaked windows bathed in beckoning light.

  To her surprise, a horse stood dozing just outside the door, its muzzle grazing the stair rail. The animal stirred at her approach and let out a snort, but seemed all too content to slip back into slumber. She gazed up at the stonework of the building, damp and gleaming where the lamplight touched it. A church by the looks of it. Who would be inside at such a late hour? Surely not the rector. Someone lost, as she was?

  Or perhaps the very sort of person she would wish to avoid on a night like tonight. But what alternative did she have? She couldn’t go back the way she had come; she had no idea which way that was. Even when the dawn sun burned off all this confounded mist, she might still find herself utterly lost.

  She had no choice, then, but to cast her lot with the mysterious person inside.

  Chad lurched upright. The wooden pew creaked beneath his weight, the sound echoing in the empty chapel. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep, and oh, God, how he wished he hadn’t. The dreams, the visions . . .

  What woke him? Tense and alert, he listened.

  A damp breeze rushed the length of the nave. Footsteps thrust him to his feet. Whirling, he peered up the aisle. Illuminated by lantern light, a shapeless figure stood silhouetted in the open doorway.

  ‘‘I’m lost,’’ a woman’s voice reverberated off the stone walls. ‘‘Will you help me, please?’’

  His heart hit his throat as the entreaty for help brought back the night’s horrors. He gripped the back of a pew. ‘‘Be gone. How dare you trespass on hallowed ground?’’

  ‘‘I . . . I’m sorry, sir.’’ The voice shrank to a murmur. He heard a little cough and then, stronger, clearer, ‘‘Are you the rector? If you’ll allow me to stay till the mist clears, sir, I promise not to be any trouble.’’

  From within the hood of a cloak that swallowed her figure, her eyes stood out, large and shimmering in the lamplight. His gaze traced the lines of her plump lips and high cheekbones, the tousled waves of glossy hair. Good God, she was real. Human. Alive.

  Relief sent him dashing up the aisle, only to halt when she let out a cry. She drew back, nearly tripping over the cloak’s hem in her haste to put distance between them.

  You must help her. She cannot see me. Could this be the woman the little ghost had spoken of? The one who was alone and grieving? Had he been led to this chapel in order to help her?

  He held up his hands. ‘‘I won’t hurt you; I swear it. I’m just so vastly relieved to no longer be alone on so strange a night as this.’’

  For a moment he felt foolish, pathetic to have admitted to such vulnerability, but she gave him no cause to regret his confession. Relief filled her face as a quiet sob escaped her. As if by silent agreement, they closed the remaining space between them.

  She handed him her lantern. He set it on the floor and opened his arms to her. Shivering violently, she stepped into them as if it were the most natural place in the world for her to be. She laid her cheek against his chest, and her quivering breath traveled through his shirt to nestle against his skin with a warmth that tugged at his heart.

  ‘‘I thought I’d never find my way . . . shouldn’t have left as I did . . . such foolishness . . .’’

  ‘‘Hush now.’’ Tugging back her hood, he swept the dark hair from her face. It sifted like cool silk through his fingers, and he drew its sweet fragrance deep into his lungs. Whoever she was, wherever she had come from, she would never know how welcome she was at this moment. ‘‘You’re safe. No harm will come to you here.’’

  He loosened his arms, tipped her chin and felt his breath catch in his throat. Even with her disheveled clothing and her hair all askew, she was beautiful, lovely and delicate, with lips full and pink, nose small and upturned, cheeks high and round and faintly flushed.

  ‘‘I’m sorry I spoke sharply when you came in,’’ he said. ‘‘I’d thought . . . Well, never mind.’’

  Despite the chill clinging to the folds of her cloak, she felt deliciously warm against him. Awareness stirred. He couldn’t resist holding her another moment before sliding his hands the length of her arms to lightly encircle her wrists. ‘‘Are you hurt? Have you been wandering long? What on earth brought you out on such a night?’’

  She blinked up at him. Sable lashes veiled her eyes, but somehow not the ingenuous nature within. Desire tugged at his loins.

  ‘‘I’m not hurt,’’ she said. ‘‘I can’t say how long I wandered. This fog confuses everything, and I . . .’’

  With a sigh, she swayed. He caught her, holding her tightly against him until steadiness returned to her limbs. It took only moments before he felt renewed resolve shore her up. Slight though she was beneath all those layers of fabric, she was a fighter, a brave little thing.

  With an arm around her, he guided her to the nearest pew. ‘‘Sit. Are you hungry? Thirsty? I have supplies in a bag tied to my saddle.’’

  ‘‘I’m quite all right.’’ She offered a shaky smile. ‘‘Don’t let’s make a fuss. Being safe is enough for now.’’

  He reached for her hands to warm them, or perhaps to warm his own. Sitting beside her, holding even a small part of her, had an oddly calming effect on him. Christ, earlier he had almost believed he had somehow crossed a barrier in the mist, stepping from the world of the living into that of the dead.

  But this girl, this angel, was very much alive and assured him, with her soft, delicate hands and her quiet frankness, that he was still a member of humankind.

  He savored each place at which their bodies pressed—hands, shoulders, knees—with an unabashed mingling of thankfulness and pleasure, and wished for little else except a reason to have her back in his arms.

  ‘‘Were you lost as well?’’ Her whisper was a caress that sped his blood.

  He thought again of the little ghost’s message. The woman beside him had been through an ordeal, certainly. She had been alone and frightened, yes. But grieving? Her soul dying? Surely not.

  ‘‘Come to think of it,’’ he said, ‘‘I’m no less lost than I was earlier. I’m not from here. Do you know this place?’’

  She shook her head. ‘‘I’m visiting Penhollow as well. I only know what lies along the main road. If it hadn’t been for your light guiding me, I’d still be out wandering.’’ A shudder passed from her shoulder into his.

  But it was her words that caused his neck to prickle. ‘‘My light?’’

  ‘‘Yes. I saw it shining from the windows.’’

  ‘‘But look about you. Do you see a light other than the one you brought?’’

  Craning her neck, she turned until her gaze settled on the glowing circle thrown by her lantern. ‘‘That’s not possible. I’m quite certain I saw lamplight.’’

  ‘‘What on earth were you doing wandering about on such a night?’’

  That drew a gasp. She snatched her hands from his and jumped to her feet. ‘‘Good heavens, in all my confusion and my utter relief upon finding my way here, I’d nearly forgotten. Sir, you must help me. The reason I’m abroad is because there’s been a change in the harbor lights. They’re not where they ought to be, and I saw a ship putting in.’’ She seized his arm. ‘‘If someone doesn’t do something, that ship will crash.’’

  ‘‘When did you see this?’’ He was on his feet beside her, gripping her wrists urgently, a bit too roughly. At her startled expression, he loosened his hold and said more gently, ‘‘Tell me exactly what you saw. And where.’’

  ‘‘It may already be too late. I wandered for so long. . . .’’ The tip of her tongue darted over her lips. ‘‘I couldn’t sleep. Something kept nagging at me, so I got up and wandered to my bedroom window. It faces the beach, and as soon as I looked out I knew something wasn’t right. The harbor lights . . . they’d been moved, I’m certain of it, lit instead where the rocky coastline juts into the sea. And then I saw the lights of an approaching ship, and I realized the crew would follow the shore lights, would believe they were safely putting into Penhollow Harbor and .
. . Sir, please, we must do something!’’

  ‘‘Good God, yes. We’ll go immediately.’’

  ‘‘What does it mean? Why would someone do this?’’

  Several possibilities formed in his mind, none of them good, and the fact that he even thought of them said little enough about his character. But he shook his head, unwilling to jump to conclusions until he learned more. ‘‘It could mean many things. Are you certain of what you saw?’’

  ‘‘I . . . believe so. It’s all such a blur now.’’ A crease formed above her nose. ‘‘But yes. I know the harbor lights were extinguished and relit farther south. I’d stake my life on it.’’

  She paused, frowned, moistened her lips. ‘‘Could it have been deliberate? I’ve read of such things. Of evil men who lure unsuspecting boats onto the rocks. They steal the cargo and leave the passengers to fend for themselves.’’

  She might have knocked him a blow to the chest, for how quickly her speculation deflated the air from his lungs. For a moment he thought she might have been speaking directly to his conscience, his soul. But as she awaited his response without any trace of suspicion or judgment, his jostled nerves steadied.

  ‘‘There’s no use guessing,’’ he said. ‘‘Come, we’ll make our way to the shore.’’

  She regarded the night-blackened windows. ‘‘How will we find our way in the mist?’’

  ‘‘You said you saw a light here.’’

  ‘‘Yes, but—’’

  ‘‘Then the mist must be parting, and what you saw must have been the moon reflecting off the windows. If so, we’ll be able to find the road.’’ He held out his hand to her. ‘‘Come. We’ve little choice tonight but to trust our fate to each other.’’

  Chapter 3

  How easily Sophie slipped her hand into this total stranger’s, trusting him with her fate, as he’d said they must. It was a risk, an uncertain one. Yet instinct and the comforting warmth of his palm quieted the warnings of a lifetime’s teaching; somehow she knew she would come to no harm.

  She believed, however, that he would be proved wrong about the mist. She knew what she had seen, and she was certain it hadn’t been reflections of the moonlight.