She felt cold. So cold.
Even when she had stripped away her sodden clothing and sunk into the steaming water, she still felt a chill deep within her, because he was gone.
Like any childish, wayward girl, she was falling in love without wit or reason.
No, she was no longer falling. It was too late. She loved him …
She feared him …
But, like a fool, she loved him more.
7
It was later that night, when Bruce Creeghan had carried Martise back down to the hall and Dr. MacTeague was busily binding up her ankle, that Bruce announced his intention of leaving the following morning for Edinburgh.
Startled, Martise looked from MacTeague’s gentle hands upon her foot to Bruce Creeghan’s eyes.
He was watching her.
“I want something done,” he said simply. “There has to be a better warning system for these ships.”
“But can anything be done in Edinburgh?” Ian asked his cousin.
Bruce’s gaze fell upon Ian. “I hope so. If not, I shall take the problem on down to London, and to the queen herself. By God, this is the third wreck we’ve had within four months! And we don’t even seem to be able to pick up enough pieces to learn where the ships are coming from, or going to.”
He paused, staring into the fire. “Except for this time. We know that she was the Lady Anne out of Glasgow. Part of the mast washed up on the shore.” He was looking from one to the other of them, around the room. No one said anything. There was an acute and painful silence, and then a log snapped.
Watching him, Martise felt his anguish over the downed ships. But then she found herself wondering about the sailor again. The man had been alive.
And she had been sure that he whispered the word “Creeghan.”
And if so …
She closed her eyes. She didn’t want to think about it. Bruce couldn’t have murdered the man, he hadn’t been alone with him. But after he had carried her into the cave, he might have asked his cousin to fetch something by the rock, or walk toward the cave and check on her. And perhaps, in those fleeting moments, he had snuffed out the small breath of life that had remained within the sailor. To hide something.
To keep the man from whispering. “Creeghan” again.
She opened her eyes. He was staring at her. Seeing into her, seeing through her. His lip curled with a kind of mockery. “Perhaps nothing can be achieved,” he said. “But still, I must go.”
“You might want to keep your eyes open for the young Cunningham lass, too, Bruce,” MacTeague advised him. “I say the lass has gone and run off. And without a word to her poor mum.”
“Aye, indeed, I’ll ask after her,” Bruce said.
After Martise’s ankle was bound, the chairs were drawn all about the fire, and they sipped warmed brandy against the wet chill of the evening. The men were still talking. Elaina broodingly studied the fire, and Martise wondered if she wasn’t thinking of her own lost love.
It occurred to her then that if Bruce Creeghan was going to be absent, it would be a wonderful time to search his library.
He was watching her again, and she lowered her eyes hastily, staring at the flames in the hearth. She would have to ask him tonight for his permission to use his library while he was away.
MacTeague rose. “I imagine that the rain has stopped by now. I’ll be getting on home, then. Thanks for the warmth and hospitality, Bruce.”
“Thank you for coming to the cliffs so quickly, and returning here for Lady St. James’s ankle,” Bruce responded.
MacTeague included them all in wishing a good evening, and then Bruce walked him to the door. While he was gone, Peter yawned, excused himself, and said good night.
Only Elaina, Ian, and Conar remained with Martise. They all looked expectantly at Bruce when he returned. “There’s naught you need before I leave?” Bruce asked his cousins.
Ian shook his head. “We’ll be fine, Bruce. And if anything comes up, why, we’ll wire you in Edinburgh.”
“Then I’ll take Lady St. James up to bed,” he said. He bade them good night, tenderly kissing his sister on the cheek. Then he swept Martise up into his arms. She wound hers around his neck, and thought how swiftly, how easily, how trustingly she had come to do this.
Trustingly…
He carried her up the stairs, and she knew he was going to speak, but he did not do so until he brought her into her room and laid her gently upon her bed.
He moved away from her, standing by her side, arms crossed over his chest, and she was suddenly aware that she was going to receive a lecture.
“You must take care, which may not be so easy now, but MacTeague means to send up a pair of crutches in the morning, so you’ll be able to get about a little. Your door bolts must always be locked. Do you ken?” He took a step toward her again. “It’s very important. Keep your bolts locked at night.”
“Against the ghosts?” she asked.
She saw his jaw twist and set. “Against any intruder,” he warned her.
He turned around and headed toward the door.
She sat up on the bed and called out to him. “Who is it in this house that I should be afraid of?” she demanded.
He stopped, and slowly turned to her, and she felt the fire of his eyes like something that could devour her very soul. “An intruder need not come from within a house, milady St. James. No castle was ever truly impregnable.”
She moistened her lips. “But if you’re so worried …”
“You’ll be safe, I’m certain. There’s no full moon in the few days ahead.”
“Full moon,” she whispered.
He swore softly. “Just keep your doors bolted, and you’ll be fine. For now. Do you ken?”
“No, I don’t ken!” she retorted angrily. “Tell me, explain to me—”
“What would I explain?” he asked. “I am the beast in your eyes, am I not, milady?”
He took a step in her direction. A trembling shook her body, and yet she was not afraid. No matter how he stalked her, she was not afraid.
She thought that he would touch her, that he would kiss her. And she quivered within because her imagination would travel to dangerous paths, and because, if she closed her eyes, she would see him in her dreams, naked, agile, a panther of the night, moving toward her, magnificent and hungry, taking everything.
And giving everything.
But he didn’t touch her. Not in any way evil or forbidding. He stopped by the bed, and his thumb and forefinger moved gently over her cheek.
Seductively. Just a brush …
But his words were of warning, and almost tender. “Martise, take care. I beg of you, heed my words. Trust me in this. I will return as soon as possible.”
His hand fell away and he turned and left her. The door closed behind him, and he warned her again to slide the bolt. She stumbled up and hopped to the door, wincing when she put her injured foot down on the floor.
“Martise?” It seemed he had even sensed her expression of pain from the other side of the wood.
“Yes, I’m here. I’m bolting the door,” she said. But she didn’t do so. She threw it open, remembering that she had not asked him about the library.
His dark brows rose in surprise. He was very tall, dark in the shadows, fascinating.
Her voice failed her for a moment. “Lord Creeghan, may I use your library in your absence?” She lifted a hand prettily and let it flutter back to her side. “Since I shan’t be able to move about much, I would dearly love to peruse your books.”
He bowed to her formally. His voice was cool and mocking when he said, “My dear lady, you must be my guest in all things. Roam where you will. Take what you choose. I’m rather surprised that you have bothered to ask me.”
She smiled sweetly. “Ah, but, milord, you are one prone to taking without asking!”
“Only what I know is mine to receive,” he returned swiftly. Color flooded her cheeks, but he bowed courteously and pulled the door shu
t.
“Bolt it!” he said flatly through the wood.
She did so.
“Good night, milady,” he murmured.
“Good riddance!” she muttered to herself.
But he had heard her. Miraculously, he had heard her. And his soft, haunting laughter seemed to follow her all the way back to the bed, and even beneath the covers.
He was gone, and Creeghan itself seemed empty without him. Hogarth was quiet and not his usual cheerful-if-cadaverous self. Elaina seemed to have withdrawn further into herself. Even Holly seemed more subdued.
The cousins and Peter were out the majority of the day, and in the first two days that Bruce was gone, they did not even return for the evening meal. The weather was bad, and counting the sheep had become more difficult with it. A work horse had slipped and had to be put down, and there were all sorts of complications about the estate, so Hogarth informed her.
She was somewhat morose herself, for having been granted Bruce’s blessing to tear apart his library, she discovered that she did not have the power to do so.
The first day her ankle caused her horrible pain if she even tried to take a step. And managing a search with crutches was difficult at best.
That day she went through many of the volumes on the first row of his shelving, looking for she knew not what. Then it occurred to her that she really needed to go through each book, all of them, for that might be the ideal place to hide an emerald. If pages were torn out, the stone might well be fit into a perfect groove.
But since the library housed hundreds of volumes, she faced a dismaying task. One that must be completed before Creeghan returned.
On the second day after his departure, she tore through the desk in the library. She was disappointed to discover that he did not seem to keep much in it. There was a calendar with simple remarks, tobacco, a few pipes, paper and writing utensils, an almanac, a few notes, and no more. Discouraged, she left the desk and stared again at all the volumes.
She sank down upon the velvet-draped day bed and wondered if Mary had come here often. It seemed a fitting place for a lady to curl up with a book and read while her lord worked upon his business. It was a large, full, four-poster bed with dragon-claw feet, covered in gold damask, masculine and inviting, and a multitude of decorative pillows were spread upon it. The bed was recessed so the room kept its character as a library, and yet when one looked at it, it almost seemed to beckon one to stretch out …
She wondered if the master of Creeghan slept here often. She forced the thought from her mind, but it would not stay gone, and she could not help but wonder, too, if Bruce Creeghan had slept in the bed since she had come to the castle. If he appeared on the balcony that night behind her because he had been in here all along, because he had sensed her very first movement…
This was getting her nowhere.
She threw herself down on the large, gold-covered bed, nearing despair. She needed to leave, before she fell any further under the spell of fascination, danger, hypnotism, woven by the master of Creeghan.
She needed to find the emerald and run.
But what of Mary? And what of ships that floundered in the night beneath the glow of a full moon? What of Clarissa Cunningham?
It was not her concern.
And yet it was. Every day that she stayed, it became more so.
The library was yielding little to her, but then there were only so many hours a day she could use to sift slowly through the endless volumes. Elaina would seek out her company, determined to take care of her while her ankle healed. Then there were meals to be taken with the family. Every night as they sat around the table, she hoped she would learn something new about the castle.
Or Bruce.
But she did not.
By the sixth day after Bruce’s departure, she took to prowling through the library at night. Her ankle had gotten to where it was only slightly sore, and by night, she moved the library ladder up and down the shelves to search the upper levels. She was thus involved on the night when Bruce Creeghan had been gone for ten days.
She had gotten the search down to a frantic but methodical and even mechanical task, taking out one book, returning it, slipping out the next, running her fingers over the fine paneling of the shelves. She had become very involved.
And very accustomed to the castle. She paid little attention to the creakings she heard, stone shifting ever so slightly, ancient wood adjusting. And then there was the wind, the constant wind. Always whispering, sometimes moaning and wailing, and often screeching and screaming like a soul in torment.
It was just such a night. The wind blew with a vengeance, and its cry seemed high and anguished. That night, she could even hear the sound of the surf crashing far below, against the rocks.
She had finished with the top row the night before and now had moved down to the second row of shelving. She traced her fingers over the paneling, then started with the books. They were volumes of the works of Shakespeare, Bacon, and Tennyson. She had paused to study the beautiful binding of a book when she suddenly felt a chill swirling around the base of her spine. She was being watched. Someone had come into the room.
She held still, then turned around on the ladder to stare at the door.
Lord Creeghan had come home.
The gas glow within the room caught the color of his eyes, and they were gold and seemed to sizzle. His stance was comfortable as he leaned against the door, arms idly crossed over his chest. His hair was tousled, as he had come in from the wind, and ebony-dark locks lay heavily over his forehead. He had shed his overcoat, but wore an attractive, dark, corded frock coat, snow-white shirt, and the inevitable tall black riding boots.
His lips curled into a slow, taunting smile, but his eyes were slightly narrowed, a dangerous sign. Perhaps, if she had not come to know him as she had, she wouldn’t have even noticed the anger that simmered beneath the smile.
But she did know him, and his gaze was frightening.
“My dear Lady St. James,” he said. “What on earth are you doing?”
“You’re back,” she said, almost in a whisper.
He arched a brow. “Aye. Obviously.”
“Oh … well…”
She was in a rather precarious position, she decided. She was clad decently enough in a long peach nightgown of cotton which buttoned to her throat. Still, there was nothing beneath it, and posed there, upon the ladder, she was surely caught in light and shadow, delineated by the glow of the two lamps in the room.
And it was well past midnight, she was certain.
How long had he been standing there, just watching her? Watching her search through his things?
“I repeat, milady,” he murmured, his words polite, just the slightest edge to his voice, “what are you doing?”
“You … you said that I might use the library,” she reminded him hastily.
His brow arched higher. “’Tis well past midnight,” he informed her pleasantly.
She tried for a brilliant, innocent smile. “Ah, well, yes, I do still have some trouble sleeping when the wind blows so fiercely. I thought that I would read for a while.” It was logical, it was believable, she determined.
Except that he didn’t believe her. He dropped his pose at the door and walked into the room, pausing at the foot of the ladder, staring up at her. “Do you look through so many books so frantically and with such brutal disinterest frequently? It’s a most intriguing way of choosing a volume.”
She clasped the one that she had been holding to her chest. It was King Lear. “I suppose I was rather in a hurry,” she mumbled.
“Oh,” he said. He was still staring at her. She warmed where she had been cold before. She felt the sizzle of his gaze raking through her, heating her, setting her aflame.
She had to get by him quickly. It would be difficult, as he blocked the way down the ladder now.
“How was your trip? Was it successful?” she asked in a rush.
“Aye, I believe that it was,” he said,
and offered no more.
“It’s good to have you back.”
“Is it really?” he asked courteously. He didn’t believe for a minute that she was glad to have him back in the castle.
It was time to make a speedy retreat. Whether he stood there or not, she had to get by him.
She came carefully down the steps, hoping that he would move away.
He did not.
His hands settled about her waist and he lifted her from the final rungs. He turned her in his arms and she slid against him, breasts brushing his chest, stinging slightly, swelling, coming alive to the contact.
She jerked away from his touch. He did not hold her. His gaze seemed dark, as if it could impale her and hold her with the power of the knife.
“What are you looking for?” he demanded.
“Nothing!” she said, and turned to run from the library.
He caught her wrist, and she was forced to hold still, staring at his fingers where they curved around her wrist. “You’re going to tell me,” he said softly, and the sound of his voice seemed to touch her bare spine, sending tremors shooting to her abdomen, and below. “You’re going to tell me, in time.”
She jerked her wrist free and returned his stare, chin high. “I thought that I was going to sleep with you in time, milord!” she retorted.
He smiled. “That, too, milady. That, too.”
She uttered a sharp expletive and turned to run at last. His soft laughter fell around her as she did so, ridiculously like a warm caress.
He was back. Bruce Creeghan was back.
And that night, he was in her dreams again.
She was so incredibly aware that he was back. The castle seemed alive once more, filled with warmth and vibrance. She had heard his voice early in the morning, deep and rich, filling the corridors.
She had stayed away from the great hall at breakfast time, and soon after she determined to slip down to the village, to get away for a while. It was well over a week since she had injured her ankle, and she was certain that she could ride. She was anxious to do so.
She dressed in her own blue habit and boots and slipped quietly down to the hall. It was empty and she exited by the main tower door. The courtyard was empty, too, but she saw a form in the stables and hurried over.
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