Emerald Embrace

by Drake, Shannon

  “But by God, woman, you did!” he thundered.

  “Mary was frightened, terribly frightened. She wrote to me.”

  “She was frightened of me? I don’t believe it!”

  “No,” Martise admitted softly. She lifted her chin. “She did not say she was afraid of you. She was just … afraid.”

  He came closer. So close that she could feel the warmth of him, the heat, the burning tension. “If she was so afraid, then why in heaven and hell are you still here?”

  “Because I intend to know!” Martise cried.

  “There is nothing to know!”

  She backed away from him. “There is—something!” she managed to gasp out. And then she realized that she had backed herself against a wall, and that his hands were flat against it on either side of her head, his face disturbingly close to hers.

  “If you stay, milady,” he began, and he said the last with such mockery that she cringed inwardly, “if you stay, be prepared to feel me as your shadow, Martise, day and night. And don’t ever disappear, as you did this evening in the crypts!”

  “Disappear!” she gasped, her eyes narrowing with anger. “I was locked in, you arrogant—” She stopped, biting off the word “bastard” just in time.

  She was still a guest here. And still supposedly a lady.

  She smiled. “A girl detained me, Laird Creeghan. She bolted the crypt. I think that it has something to do with you. I wondered, indeed, if you hadn’t forewarned her, too, at some time or another, that you wanted her and would have her.”

  For a moment, she thought that his wrath had risen so greatly that he would strike her, but he did not. He smiled instead. “Nay, lady,” he whispered, “you are the only woman I have ever wanted in so desperate and determined a way.”

  And his lips, so close to hers, touched upon them. Lightly, as if the kiss were a part of the whisper.

  And as the touch was so subtle, she did not think or reason to protest it. She only felt it. Felt the shattering, masculine persuasion, felt the heat and the fever, and the parting of her mouth beneath his. And then she felt the full force, the passion, the violence, within him. Felt his tongue, and his touch, and a power of seduction and force so great that she thought she was falling. Her hands clung to his shoulders and she clung for life, it seemed. She tasted blood within her lips, and still, she could not protest the rape, the invasion of his kiss. The fire of his eyes had touched her body and her soul, and she knew that what she felt within herself was right, that there was something there, within them both. He had to have her …

  And she had to know, somewhere in time, the sweet ecstasy that he offered, the excitement, the sweeping, volatile passion.

  “No!” she gasped, tearing away from his lips at last. His eyes were still alive with the flames of both fury and desire.

  “If by chance you do fear me, lady, there are things you should know are true. My temper is fierce, my passions are great, and indeed, perhaps, there is a simmering violence within me. But I did not kill Mary. I did not hurt her, and she was beloved as lady of this castle until the day she died. Stay, then, haunt the place with your suspicions and aspersions. But know that I will be here, stalking your every step. And remember that it is all true. I am a passionate, volatile, temperamental—arrogant man, and I will have my way!”

  She wrenched free, afraid she could not fight him if he tried to stop her.

  But he did not.

  She ran for the stairs, feeling the fire of his gaze within her soul all the way.

  5

  That night she dreamed about Castle Creeghan. She was seeking out that elusive room, the master’s room within the castle.

  She moved along the stone passageways, and the moonlight filtered through ancient arrow slits and played upon the tapestries depicting ancient battles and victories. She walked along the blood-red carpeting, seeing the darkness before her as she approached the laird’s tower.

  The hallway stretched into the darkness. It seemed endless. And then, from behind her, she heard the whispers.

  The sound was like the wind, like a moaning, like a cry. It seemed to grow and swell, even as candles lit along the way began to flicker and fade. It seemed that there was no sound, none at all, except for the beating of her heart, but she turned, and she saw the white shadows, and the moaning whispers began again.

  They were behind her.

  Creatures, beings … no, the dead of Creeghan Castle. Bony fingers, covered with their gauze shrouds, rose and pointed toward her. Sightless, empty eye sockets stared upon her as if they could see. They did not need to walk upon the floor, but floated slowly and surely toward her.

  She turned to run again, but the corridor seemed to lengthen with her every step. And she was running and running, so desperate.

  She was almost there. Almost to the master’s tower. Almost to safety.

  But then she realized that there was a large towering figure standing there. Tall and dark, a black cape rippling from his shoulders. He stood with his feet well planted upon the floor, arms crossed over his chest. And there was laughter, deep, rich, taunting, and filling her being.

  And then she saw the white flash of his smile, and she stood still, for the searing fire of his eyes touched down upon her and she cried out, startled by the sense of evil.

  Behind her, the white-clad death-ghosts began to whisper her name, and before her, Bruce Creeghan reached out his arms. She thought that to turn back would be certain death.

  And yet to run forward would surely damn her soul forever.

  She awoke, jerking up. There were arms around her, someone was shaking her, and indeed, something was whispering her name harshly.

  She opened her eyes and a scream caught in her throat. He was with her. He was seated beside her on the bed, holding her up, shaking her. His hands upon her were strong, arresting, and she stared from his eyes to that touch, and then met his gaze and shivered again.

  “Creeghan!” she cried. “What … what … ?”

  “You were screaming,” he told her. “I came as quickly as I could, since it sounded as if you were being attacked by a thousand vicious demons.” She didn’t say anything, but stared at him blankly.

  “You were dreaming, Martise, I assume. A nightmare. Unless you outran the demons and returned to your bed.”

  Her bed. He was sitting at the foot of her bed. He was in his smoking jacket again, naked beneath it, she was sure, and she was once again clad in white that concealed no more than had the white shrouds that covered the moving ghosts of her dream.

  He had lit the lamp, so the room was not dark, but cast in mysterious shadow. And, it seemed, they were as alone in those shadows as they might have been had they ventured to the ends of the earth.

  “Oh!” she whispered, and it all rushed home to her. She had been having a nightmare, and she had screamed and screamed in truth just as she had in her dream. She met his eyes again and pulled her bedcovers close to her chest, trying to smile and failing, and then managing to apologize. “I’m sorry that I’ve disturbed you. I suppose that I was dreaming.”

  “It’s all right,” he told her. He hadn’t moved. She needed him off the foot of the bed. There was a magic about him. He brought decadent, forbidden thoughts too quickly to her mind. If he reached out to touch her, she might want him to stay.

  “Then there is nothing wrong, you are all right?” he asked.

  She nodded her head vigorously up and down. “I’m fine. Again, I apologize. I—” She paused, staring at him, exhaling through clenched teeth.

  He shouldn’t have been in there. She was certain that she had bolted both the doors to the balcony and the door to the hallway. “How—how did you get in?” she demanded.

  He rose then. His eyes were cast in shadow. “By the door,” he told her.

  “I bolted it.”

  He shrugged. “You must have forgotten.”

  “But I—”

  “But bolting the door is a good idea, a very good idea, while you ar
e here. Make it a practice.”

  He walked to the door, his strides long. But when he would have opened it, he turned back suddenly. “Tell me, milady, has the dream faded now? What caused it? When your eyes opened and you saw me, I might have sworn that I was the demon of your nightmare.”

  She laughed uneasily. “No, milord Creeghan. ’Twas merely the thought of your ancient ancestors, prowling about the halls.”

  “Ah, yes, the haunts of the castle. Are you sure that you wish to brave them longer?”

  She thought there was a challenge to the soft taunt in his words, and she did not know if he wanted her to stay or to leave. And she wondered if he knew himself what he wanted.

  “I told you—”

  “But you see, Martise, you do fear the ghosts.”

  “I dreamed and nothing more.”

  She felt his gaze, though she could not see his eyes in the darkness. “Bolt the door, then. Rest well,” he said, and then he was gone.

  For a moment she was still, but then leapt to her feet and raced across the room to slide the bolt. She hesitated there. She could have sworn she had done this before, but then …

  She walked across the room to the doors to the balcony. She tried them and discovered that they were firmly bolted. Exhaling slowly, she returned to her bed and lay down upon it.

  His scent seemed to linger on the air. She ran her hand over the bed where his heat still remained.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep. Images of the day kept running through her mind. She saw Clarissa, laughing through the wrought-iron bars of the gate. Beautiful, bold Clarissa, who so evidently wanted the master of Creeghan.

  Faces swam before her: Father Martin’s, Dr. MacTeague’s. Elaina’s … the doctor’s again, earnest before her as he swore that Bruce Creeghan had been devastated.

  But things happened. He had never told her what, he had only alluded to the full moon. Strange things happened by the light of the full moon. The people were superstitious. They still worshiped, in their ways, phallic symbols and fertility gods and goddesses.

  At last, the images began to drift away. And in time, she slept.

  And she dreamed again.

  But this time, there was no horror, no terror-filled run along the stone halls of Creeghan. This time, she was here, within this room, and she was alone with Creeghan.

  And in the dream she met his eyes. He cast the elegant smoking jacket from his shoulders and began to walk toward her. He was naked and sleek and magnificent, and she should have been shocked, and she should have looked away, but she could not.

  She waited, barely breathing, waited, with her arms outstretched. And then he was with her, and he touched her, and it seemed she was consumed with flame, and the sweet magic overwhelmed her … and she knew no more.

  But it was with her, the dream was still with her, when she awoke to the bright light of morning. Mortified, she drenched her face in the wash water again and again, and even then, she sat at the foot of the bed and shivered, and wondered what power it was he wielded that could do this to her. Was it something in the wine, or in the water?

  She knew that it was not. It was in the man, and in the man alone.

  Elaina was the only one in the great hall when Martise came down for the day. She was quickly up, pulling back one of the dragon-footed chairs for Martise to have a seat. “I’m so glad to see you. I thought that I was all alone for this meal. Ian and Conar are out in the fields and Bruce has gone to see the harness makers. And even Uncle Peter is occupied this afternoon, something about water seeping into the cellar. Castles, you know,” she said with a wry grin. “They are the very devil to keep up.”

  Martise smiled, taking the chair Elaina had drawn out for her. “I imagine that it must be so. I’ve never lived in a castle, but I have seen many rather great manor houses, and even those are often victims of time.”

  “Of course. Tea?” Elaina asked. “Hogarth has left us to serve ourselves since we are alone. We’ve chafing dishes on the buffet. May I fix you a plate?”

  Elaina seemed so eager that Martise smiled and agreed. “Please.”

  Elaina poured the tea first, then set about preparing a plate for each of them. Finally, she sat once again and picked up her fork, but did not really seem to want anything to eat, and merely prodded her food about.

  “I heard that Clarissa locked you in the crypt yesterday.” She shivered fiercely. “I’m so sorry. It’s such a horrible experience. And Bruce was furious. He was like a beast this morning, swearing we must all take care that such things should not happen again.”

  “It was not so horrible.” Elaina looked doubtful. “Really, it was all right. I was in with Mary, Elaina. Not a lot of ancient bodies.”

  Elaina shivered again. “Bruce said that you had awful nightmares in the night. I imagine he’ll find Clarissa and speak with her. It seemed that he was about to explode.”

  It seemed that he was about to explode …

  How furious could he be with Clarissa? The girl was beautiful, really beautiful, and very young. And her adoration for Bruce Creeghan was obvious.

  “It’s not so serious as all that,” Martise said. She tasted a bite of her food, stew again, but delightfully different, a mixture of fish and shellfish in a cream sauce. She looked across the table. Elaina was still playing with her food. “I really am all right. It’s you I worry about,” Martise said.

  Elaina started, staring at her. She set down her fork and folded her hands in her lap. “Why?”

  “This is none of my business, of course,” Martise said, but she rushed on, not giving Elaina a chance to tell her that her words were true. “It broke my heart to see you when I came in just now. You looked so sad. Is there anything at all that I could do for you?”

  Elaina simply stared at her. Martise thought that the girl was highly attractive, slim and lithe, with her beautiful green eyes and startling dark hair and fine features. And she came from such a distinguished—and affluent—family.

  “Please!” Elaina murmured. “You mustn’t say anything to Bruce. He gets so upset when I … when I brood.”

  Martise frowned. If Bruce Creeghan had betrayed any emotion whatsoever, it had been for his sister. “I certainly won’t say anything to anyone,” Martise assured her. “It’s just that I hate to see you suffer. If I could do something—”

  Elaina shook her head. “There’s nothing anyone can do. I just wait. I’ve got no choice.” The last sounded desperate. She met Martise’s eyes with a trace of moisture flooding her own. “And you are here. My God, your war has ended, long ago now …”

  Confused, Martise shook her head. “It hasn’t been that long,” she said. “General Lee surrendered in April, but Edmund Kirby-Smith fought on awhile and they say that some troops didn’t know the war had ended until it was over for weeks. Months even. I don’t understand—”

  “Then we must enlighten you.”

  It wasn’t Elaina who spoke, but Bruce Creeghan. Martise hadn’t heard him arrive. But he was there, walking toward them at the table, then walking around the head to his sister’s seat and bending down to kiss her cheek. When his gaze flickered over Martise, she felt a glacial chill. He kept his temper well in control, but she could always feel his anger, feel it simmering beneath the exterior he so often offered them all.

  Perhaps he did not pretend with his family. Elaina said he had been furious that morning. Perhaps he had ranted and raved then, the true ancient chieftain, supreme in his world.

  Or maybe he was newly angered now, watching her, condemning her, as if she asked questions which were surely none of her concern. As if she had set her nose into his life and had no right to be doing so.

  Martise lifted her chin. Mary was dead. She had her rights.

  “Enlighten me, then,” she said.

  He pulled back his chair and sat watching her.

  “I’m glad you find the family so intriguing, Lady St. James,” he said.

  “Bruce,” Elaina murmured uncomfortabl
y.

  “I’ve a brother still in America,” Bruce said sharply.

  “What?” Martise said, startled.

  “My younger brother, Bryan. He went to school in America. He became friends with any number of Virginians, and like your husband, madam, he decided to make their war his own.” He turned from her to study his sister, and his voice softened. “For Elaina, it has been worse. Her fiancé, Niall MacNeill, was with Bryan. Neither has returned.”

  “Oh!” Martise said.

  It was sad—and frightening. Had this Bryan Creeghan had any correspondence with Mary’s sister, Margaret St. James, during the war? How easily this could jeopardize her position!

  “I’m so sorry!” she said to Elaina.

  “As we are,” Bruce said, “for you. After all, Lady St. James, you were there through the hardships, were you not?”

  “Yes, but not to know!” Martise said. “And to miss both brother and beloved to a war that was not really your concern—”

  “But that was your same circumstance,” Bruce Creeghan reminded her politely.

  “What?” Martise said.

  He leaned across the table toward her. “Your husband was an Englishman, Lady St. James. And you lost him to a war that was not his own, or your own.”

  She lowered her eyes swiftly. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  “It often sounds as if you embraced the Southern cause yourself. As if you had been born a true daughter of the Confederacy,” Bruce said politely.

  “’Twas easy to become involved,” she said. “I was there through so much, you see.”

  “Of course. The exploding shells, the land ravaged. No matter where you were, how could you have missed involvement? The Shenandoah Valley ravished, the Peninsula campaigns, two battles at Manassas, Cold Harbor, the Wilderness, Chancellorsville, the Siege of Petersburg, the evacuation of Richmond—the war must have come very close to you.”

  She stared at him, wondering how in hell he could be so informed on all the different battles.

  His brother. His brother had probably written home. That had to be it.

  “I was living outside of Richmond,” she said smoothly, “so naturally I heard the roar of the cannons and saw the soldiers passing by often enough. And we tended the wounded from many battles, Lord Creeghan.”