Emerald Embrace

by Drake, Shannon

  “No, I came out earlier. It was not cold.”

  “Then you’ll ride with me. Desdemona will follow along.”

  “No … I … I’m all right, really!” she protested. The shadows of the night lay across his face. She was not afraid of him, she told herself, she was not.

  But he was everything that the girl had said: handsome, seductive, beguiling … beckoning her, stealing her heart and her soul.

  And when he held all of her within his hands?

  What, then?

  But he emitted a furious, impatient oath, and before she knew it, she was swept up into his arms, held fiercely and passionately in the startling warmth. And then she was set upon the bay, and he was behind her, strong, powerful.

  He nudged the bay and whistled softly, and Desdemona, with her reins tied loosely upon her back, followed obediently. Bruce led the bay along slowly until they passed the village, then mounted the bay, and they rode like the wind, hard and fierce. The ground was dissolved beneath the horse’s great hooves, and in the mist of the night, they might have ridden the clouds or the darkness itself. She didn’t feel the cold, for his arms and the cape were sheltering her, but she did feel the man. Felt his heartbeat, along with that of the driving hooves. Felt the steel of his arms and the warm expanse of his chest.

  Then, suddenly, in the shadows of the castle, he reined in, leapt from the bay, and pulled her down into his arms. “Bruce!” she cried out.

  But his mouth descended upon hers, with fire and urgency, and her lips parted, and it seemed that the consuming heat of his tongue filled her. And she would have protested …

  If she had not been so swiftly, so completely, seduced. The power seemed to ravage her. His hands were upon her, cupping her breast beneath the fabric, holding her tight, molding her to the length of his form.

  Suddenly, the kiss was broken, and his eyes seared into hers even as he held her.

  “You’re trembling, milady. Do you think, then, that I am in truth a beast?”

  “No!” she protested. There was darkness all around them. His hands were so strong. And now he gently, so gently, stroked her throat.

  “You are a liar!” he said heatedly.

  She was shaking. Shaking because she had to continue to challenge him. “Mary is dead!” she cried with an equal anger and fervor.

  “She died of heart failure!” he lashed back. “I do not seize upon lasses by the light of the full moon, nor do I wear the mask of a dragon!”

  Martise moistened her lips, staring up at his face, seeing the passion and tension within his striking features. Feeling it. Her lashes were heavy, falling. The passion remained within her, too, but her anger was fading. She wanted to feel the heat and moisture of his lips and tongue again, wanted to know his kiss … and more.

  “Not a dragon!” she exclaimed softly.

  “What are you looking for, then?” he demanded. But she didn’t really hear the words. She felt his touch, and the sweet, growing ache inside of her. And then she was on her toes, her tongue lightly flickering over his lips, her body pressed full and flush against his, her arms winding around his neck. The pulse of his body seemed to leap inside her own, and she felt the power of his thighs, of his chest, of his arms, wrapping tightly around her. She felt the fire of his kiss, eclipsing all else, and felt his hands, slipping beneath her bodice and her blouse, a blaze upon her bare flesh.

  He would have her.

  There upon the cape, beneath the darkness of the night sky. Against the rocks and the tors and the wild-flowers. She would fall, as others had fallen …

  She tore her lips from his. He shook her and met her eyes, and then he thrust her from him in a fury. “Don’t think to seduce me from the purpose of my questions ever again, milady. Understand me, and understand me well. Next time, milady, I will have you, as I have promised.”

  “Me! Seduce you!” she protested in a gasp.

  “Indeed, you, Milady Innocence!” He pulled her close. “I will know what you are about!” he promised. And then his voice softened slightly. “And I will know you.”

  She wrenched free and whirled around, feverishly adjusting her clothing. And then she shivered because he was gone and the wind was cold.

  She jumped when he touched her again, but he was not a man to allow protest, and even as she gasped and tried to mouth a “no,” she was in his arms again, and set upon the bay.

  And in the darkness, they rode for home.

  8

  The ride with Bruce had left Martise feeling desperate, and she spent long hours of the night going through Mary’s things once again. She found nothing.

  The emerald was eluding her. Bruce was home, and it would be difficult to search the library. But she didn’t believe anymore that the gem could be there.

  It had to be in the master of Creeghan’s private quarters. In the other tower. In the days to come, she was going to have to discover when Bruce was occupied elsewhere, and search out his rooms.

  But she was too restless to sleep, and so she drew out some of the letters Mary had sent her. She glanced over the early ones, when Mary had been so much in love. She closed her eyes and imagined Mary writing the descriptions of her lover, and she started to tremble and set the letters down. There was no way for her to deny what she was feeling for Bruce Creeghan, no matter what suspicions and fears came along with the fascination. She hurried on to Mary’s later letters, when her unease was beginning to come through.

  And then she paused, heart thudding against her chest, when she read that a girl had disappeared from the village, and they had searched for her day and night, but she had not been found.

  Martise glanced at the date and saw that the girl had disappeared almost a year and a half ago.

  Then her eyes skimmed down the page and she noted with chills that Mary had even mentioned when she had disappeared.

  On the night of the full moon.

  And there was more. There had been rumors in the village about the hazy past of the lords of Creeghan. Maidens had been known in centuries past to disappear behind the walls of the castle, never to be seen again. The lords of Creeghan were strong and powerful, defending their people, caring for them. They were also striking and seductive, with demanding, insatiable appetites. Sensual, dangerous …

  To Mary, the rumors were ridiculous. Even in her fear, Mary had defended Bruce. He was a handsome man, a sensual man who was admired by other men, attractive to women. And because the people couldn’t forget ancient legends, they liked to imagine that their lord was nearly a god himself—a god, or a demon, so seductive that only the devil could create such power.

  And I defend him, too, Martise thought. No matter what I see or hear, I defend him. Because I am attracted to him, too. Entrapped by his eyes, by the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms.

  She put the letters away, nervously tested the doors, and then curled up in the bed, holding the covers tight beneath her chin.

  But for long hours she didn’t sleep, and she wondered if she should confront Bruce Creeghan with his deceased wife’s letters, or if she should keep her information secret.

  And wait…

  And watch …

  Sometime in the night, she dozed. In her dreams, he was with her again. She was cold and shivering, and she realized that she was naked on the stone. People were dancing around her, and they were naked, too, just swirling forms in a gray-misted world. And the gray mist moved away and he was coming toward her.

  He was dressed in a black cloak. It draped him from neck to toe. He wore the dragon mask, but she knew that it was the lord of Creeghan; it could be no one else. He paused beside her and touched her, and where he touched her, the coldness was gone, and she should have screamed and fought because it was not the warmth that was the truth of the man.

  The truth lay in the dragon mask.

  The coat slipped away, and his heat covered her, enwrapping her, igniting her.

  Then she saw the blade in his hand. The long sharp blade with the j
agged edge, glittering despite the grayness and the mist. And his eyes were touching hers, eyes of fire.

  She tried to struggle. She could not. She was bound to the coldness of the stone.

  His lips touched hers. His fingers raked along the length of her body, over her breasts and her hips, between her thighs. And where he touched, there was fire.

  Then he was straddling over her, the blade between his hands as he stretched and reached to heaven. Once again, his gaze touched her, and he leaned down to her slowly, achingly slowly.

  She did not know whether he intended to free her from the ties that bound her to the stone, or to slide the blade across her throat and let her blood run red to feed the ravenous hungers of ancient gods.

  She awoke, strangling, gasping, somehow knowing that it was a dream, that she mustn’t cry out. If she did, he would be there, be there in truth, and she could not face him.

  She sat up and stared at the low-burning lamp by her side, and slowly, her breathing began to ease. Then a prickling of unease touched, and shivers ravaged her spine. She could swear that he had been near. The air seemed touched by his subtle masculine scent.

  She leapt up and tried her doors once again, then leaned against those to the hall, exhaling. She was alone, and she had forgotten to slide the bolts. She went back to bed and stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.

  Finally, with the dawn, she closed her eyes and slept a dreamless sleep.

  When she awoke at last, she knew that she had slept until at least noon. The sun was warm as it filtered in through the balcony drapes.

  It was still hard for her to rise. But soon she heard a soft knocking at her door and she rose to let Holly in.

  “Ah, and at last, milady,” Holly teased. “I’ve been at the door a good ten times, milady, and ye’ve been sleeping like one dead!”

  Martise really didn’t care for any reference to death that morning, but she smiled at Holly and sat down with the tea the maid had brought her. Holly chatted as she laid out Martise’s clothing and collected things to launder or press.

  “There’s a bit of a ruckus going on, then, today, that there is! There’s been a wall has caved in below. Oh, it has happened before. The water, ye see, and the dampness, weakens the structure here and there. Oh, ’tis a constant battle to keep this house up, I do tell ye! But today, Laird Creeghan has called in the workmen, and there’s been some secret room or passage found. So exciting, I dare say!”

  “And I’ve slept through it all!” Martise exclaimed. Jumping up, she nearly unsettled the tea, caught her cup, and placed the tray on the bureau that flanked the wall. She hurriedly scrubbed her face and doffed her gown, dressing quickly with Holly there to lace up her corset and tie her petticoats.

  “Ye’re going on down, then?” Holly asked, laughing.

  “Oh, indeed! Secret passages. How could I miss such an event?” She grinned and whirled around and left the room.

  The corridors were empty as she hurried to the stairs, past the great hall, and down the cold and curving stone steps to the cellar far beneath them. Even as she reached the landing, she could hear voices. They were coming from one of the crypts, and as she hurried past the chapel, she realized that it was the newer vault, the one where Mary lay in her coffin.

  She hurried in to find that they were all there: Bruce and Ian and Conar and Peter, and even Hogarth and a number of the men from the farm and stables, the huge man with the scar, Robert McCloud, among them. He nodded to Martise, with that smile upon his lips that made her uneasy. The lad Trey McNamara was at his side, along with two older men with weathered and rather weary faces.

  Elaina was in the crypt, a bit apart from them all, sitting on an empty coffin slab, her face buried in her hands.

  And young Jemie MacPeters was there, silent, staring. Bruce’s hand rested upon his shoulder, and they all stared at the wall where bricks had crumbled down.

  They were curiously silent, just looking at the opening. Then Bruce spoke, nodding toward one of the workmen. “Go on, then, break down the rest, and we’ll bring her out as gently as we may, though it seems a bit too late for the lass.”

  “What!” Martise gasped. She hurried forward, anxious to stare into the cavity.

  “Martise, don’t!” Bruce cried out harshly, but she had slipped past them all, and his workers weren’t about to stop her. Bruce did, catching her arms and pulling her against him, but it was too late. The break in the wall had displayed a tiny nook beyond it. A lamp had been lit, so the contents of the nook were visible.

  They were bones. Bones held together with fragments of flesh and material, soft cotton, touching lace ribbons, even the remnants of a bonnet. The bones leaned against the far wall of the crevice, as if the stance had been taken in a last desperation.

  As if the girl had died, walled in there, screaming, and when her screams went unanswered, gasping, seeking the last breaths of air to be had.

  A scream rose in Martise’s throat along with the taste of bile. For once she was glad of Bruce’s arms about her, and she sagged hard against him and swallowed back her scream.

  “For the love of God, let’s get the lass out and decently beneath a blanket!” Bruce demanded roughly. “And be careful. MacTeague will need to see her.”

  Bruce swung her around, seating her beside Elaina, who looked up at last, ghastly white. “Elaina found the chasm!” Bruce remarked angrily. “What are you doing down here?”

  Martise stared at him, gathering her wits as rapidly as she could. His gaze was upon her, hard and firm, and her hands were rested in the warmth of his. She suddenly felt like a wayward child, and she also felt his concern, and something almost tender from him. Something different from the taunting and the passion. Something gentle and caring. Also rather stern, as if she were flagrantly defying a parental order.

  He was waiting, and irritatingly, she found herself stammering out an excuse.

  “I—I heard about the chamber. The idea of it was fascinating,” she said defensively.

  “Well, you can both go on up—”

  “I’m all right!” Martise protested. “Really, I am. I was just startled. I didn’t know what—what to expect!”

  Elaina was looking at her woefully. She rose, staggering somewhat. “I don’t know about you, Martise, but I’m going on up.”

  “I’d like to stay—” Martise began.

  “Bruce!” Conar called, excitement and a trace of amusement lacing his voice. “Come see this!”

  For the moment, Bruce left her sitting there. Elaina smiled wanly. “I don’t wish to make any more discoveries today,” she told Martise.

  Martise squeezed her hand. “I’ll be up soon,” she promised. Elaina walked briskly from the crypt.

  The men, Martise saw, were disappearing into the hole. The bones, the pathetic remains of the young girl, were now on the floor, covered in a blanket.

  Martise leapt up and hurried past the body and the workmen and into the jagged cavity in the wall. And before her … was a scene out of the worst nightmare.

  Gas lamps now cast a bright glow over a dirt floor and cavelike ceilings and walls strewn with misty spider-webs, which continued over all the contents of the rooms.

  Machines, creations, horrible structures in wood and brass or tin or other metals. Martise did not know what they all were. She did know that they had come upon a torture chamber.

  “I’ll be damned, I will!” muttered Peter, breathing in. His eyes touched upon Martise and he tried to smile. “I dare say we know now that Castle Creeghan does have her skeletons in the closet, eh, milady?”

  She tried to smile. Bruce spun around. “Martise!” he said irritably.

  “It’s all right,” Ian said, stepping to her defense. “There’s nothing here, really.”

  “Nothing!” Conar sounded as if he were strangling. “By God, this is horrible!”

  “Ah, indeed, horrible,” Bruce agreed, walking toward Martise.

  Uncle Peter, his kilt swaying, spoke up. “But no b
ones or bodies about, Bruce. Nothing that the lass might not see in one of the queen’s new collections in London, eh?”

  Bruce arched a brow, but Ian was saying, “My God, Bruce, look at this!” Bruce turned to Ian once again.

  Martise flashed Peter a thank-you smile. He grinned in return and Martise and he hurried over to the contraption.

  It looked like a coffin. It was tall, much taller than Bruce, and broad, and it appeared to be made of time-blackened iron. She thought of the mummy tombs in Egypt, but there was nothing colorful about the structure. It was only large and menacing.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Ian was opening the coffinlike thing even as she spoke. The door, or lid, flew outward. Inside it were long spikes. “An iron maiden,” Bruce muttered. “Here.”

  “Quite an implement of torture,” Ian said, walking around it. “The victim was placed inside, and the door was slowly and surely closed. The spikes would impale him or her—none of them positioned where they would pierce a vital organ and make death quick! Ah, no! The poor sinner inside would perish a slow and agonizing death!”

  “Ian, remember Lady St. James …” Conar reminded him gruffly.

  “Oh! I am sorry,” Ian said, meeting her eyes.

  “Martise, you shouldn’t be in here!” Bruce snapped.

  “I’m all right!” she insisted. She flashed Conar a smile, then hurried over to another mechanism on a table. There were frayed ropes and pulleys and wooden planks. She looked over at Ian, as Bruce was still rigidly frowning at her. “And what is this?”

  “Ah, the ‘Earl of Exeter’s daughter!’” he announced. “So called for a man determined on the virtues of its use.” She stared at him blankly. He smiled. “The rack, milady. Well, well used in medieval England!”

  “Ah, and Scotland, so it seems,” his father said with a trace of humor. He walked around the room, indicating other pieces about them. “Whips, chains, scold’s bridles, shackles, and over there, a gibbet.”

  Ian laughed. “I dare say one of our esteemed ancestors must have been something of a beast, eh, Bruce?”

  “So it appears,” Bruce said dryly. Martise felt a chill, and she shuddered fiercely. She felt Bruce’s eyes. He had been watching her, and now she was sorry that she had shivered.