She was trembling, wanting to believe him, not knowing if she dared do so.
“Well?” he demanded again.
“I don’t know—” she began.
“And neither do I, milady,” he retorted. “I’ve given you all that I can. Now it is your turn. Some things are easy. ’Tis a strong Virginian accent with which you speak. And you are a St. James—so you claim—and other than the fact that you came here lying a blue streak, I’ve no reason to doubt that you are a St. James.”
“How very kind of you to give me such faith!” she retorted, deepening her accent and allowing it to drip with scorn. He ignored the tone of her voice. His eyes narrowed as he watched her, shimmering golden in the candlelight.
“Let’s have it, shall we?” he said softly. His tone rippled danger, and it infuriated her.
“I was in Richmond when Lady St. James died of the typhus,” he reminded her sharply.
“I’ve told you—”
“You’ve not told me why you are here!” he snapped.
“And I’ve nothing else to say to you!” she flung back. She needed desperately to be away from him. She needed to try to understand all he had told her, needed time to sort it all out, and to try to decide if she believed him or not. His story rang true.
And yet there was still so much going on in the castle. She didn’t want him talking to her any longer.
Making demands upon her.
She swept a tail of the sheet over her shoulder with all the dignity she could muster and stared at him as she rose from the bed. “I’ve nothing else to say to you tonight. You’re still an imposter, and—”
“I’m an imposter! I, at least, madam, belong in the castle!”
She shook her head, but his back was still against the wall and his eyes held a definite warning gleam. “I am not an imposter. I am Martise St. James. Let me by.”
“Nay, lass. You’ve yet to answer a single thing.”
She swore softly, slamming a foot on the floor. Then she remembered that she could go through the dressing room and bath and reach the stairway. She glanced toward the doorway, but he saw the direction of her eyes and her thoughts. She dashed for the dressing room door, but he was upon her.
Kicking, flailing, she was swept up in a tangle of the sheet, and in seconds flat she was flung back upon the bed, and he was straddled over her. She struggled against him and then went still, realizing that she wore nothing but the sheet, and that he, too, was dangerously bare beneath the smoking jacket. And God forgive her, but she could not think logically when he touched her so. It was far too easy to remember vividly everything that had passed between them. She did not want to love him, not now, not when he seemed so ruthlessly cold and determined. Not when his eyes held that very dangerous spark.
No, she had fallen once …
But his thighs were powerful and hot as he straddled her. There was an electifying vibrance about him, and despite herself, she felt color flood her cheeks. She was not horrified by anything that happened between them. She was still in wonder, still in awe, and she wanted to taste and feel every sensation again.
And she dared not…
“What are you doing here?” he demanded.
She could never tell him about the emerald. Never. He would probably not believe her. Or he would think that the emerald had been Mary’s, and that Martise was a thief, come to steal it away in the night.
“You know why I’m here!” she cried out.
“Why?”
“Because of Mary.”
“Because of Mary?”
“Yes! Because of her letters. Because she wrote to me so often. And because at first she was so much in love. Because she adored Bruce Creeghan. And then because she was so very afraid! And then she died!”
He shook his head, and then he seemed furious again. “Bruce would never have hurt Mary. Never. He loved her.”
“But someone—”
“Nay, Martise, I would have known. I trust Mac Teague—”
“No, Laird of Creeghan, you do not!” she accused, twisting her wrists against his hold. “If you did, you would tell him who you are!”
“I have told no one who I am.”
“Then—”
“Nay, I have not told him, for I would not have him give me away inadvertently. And you must not do so either.”
She inhaled, furious, wishing desperately that she had the strength to cast him from her. She had not. The deep V of the smoking jacket displayed the rippling power of his chest muscles and she could feel the force of his thighs as they locked around her, as relentless as the twist of his jaw.
And so she lay perfectly still, challenging him with her eyes. “How do I know that you are not Bruce? That you have not lost some of your senses, that you are not as debauched as some of your ancestors, that you didn’t murder your brother upon his return, and take on this charade?”
She should never have spoken, she thought swiftly, not if she valued life. For his eyes were like golden blades, and they sliced into her with an intensity she could feel. He did not move, not visibly, but she felt the fury and the tension that stole over him, tightening his muscles, knotting his body. He leaned close to her, and she fought desperately not to lose her courage. She would not quiver before him, she vowed, even if he did close his fingers around her throat and squeeze.
But he did not touch her throat. He smiled slowly, with a hard and bitter twist to his lips. “Perhaps you cannot know,” he told her. “Perhaps you will have to trust in me.”
She moistened her lips, returning his stare, praying then that he would let her up, and let her run.
But he did not move. And at last she murmured, “Let me up. The night is nearly over. I need to return to my own room and—”
“You are a fool,” he interrupted her quietly.
“How dare—?”
“You’re not going anywhere,” he informed her flatly, steel in his tone.
“Oh, but I am!” She felt a heated flush rising to her cheeks. “If you think that I am going to remain here with you—”
He leaned against her. “If you’re not afraid, milady, then you should be. I’ve told you that oft enough. Despite what you do or do not believe, I am not going to be the one to brick you into a wall. But, Mistress Martise St. James, someone here must be very aware that you do know something. You were struck down in the crypts. What were you doing in my room that night?” he demanded.
Her eyes widened at the sudden attack. She had been moved, she knew, from one crypt to the other. So how had he known that she had come down the spiral stairway from this tower?
“I wasn’t in this room—”
“You’re a liar.”
“But how—?”
“I was in the great hall, Martise,” he said coldly. “After I saw the lights, I was in the hall, and I came quickly below. You did not pass me by, and so you came by the spiral stairs. So, why were you in this room?”
She lifted her eyes to his rebelliously, the blue dazzling in her defiance. “You tell me, my Laird Creeghan. You say that I am so anxious for your company—”
“I am anxious that you quit lying!” he hissed.
She fell silent, then told him sharply, “Let me up.”
“Nay.”
Her cheeks reddened. “I’ll not sleep with you again! I’ll not be so ravished—”
“You call that ravished, mistress?” he inquired with such a trace of mockery in his voice that she wanted to hit him.
“The kiss was forced!” she insisted.
He looked as if he was about to laugh and she slammed her fists hard against his chest. “I will not sleep with you again, great laird of Creeghan!” she insisted desperately. “If you touch me again, I swear that it will be by force, against my will—”
“Milady,” he murmured, catching her hands and holding them hard against his chest as he met her eyes, “I’ve no desire to force you to anything. But you’re not returning to your room tonight. Things are moving too swiftly …
and frighteningly. You are going to stay in this room.”
She paled. “I’ll not—”
“Cease, milady. I do not intend to sleep with you. I intend to keep you alive, until I can see you safely out of here.”
She forgot that she herself had been intending to flee. But she couldn’t believe now that Mary had died of natural causes when so much was happening here. When she knew that she was not imagining the lights at night. When she knew that a young girl had been murdered recently.
“I’m not going anywhere!” she informed him tensely.
He still held her hands and pulled her even closer.
“I am not leaving!” she repeated, but her voice held less conviction, and she was trembling.
“If you do not leave, you play it all my way.”
She clenched her teeth and felt the chill of the room touch her back.
“And know if you stay that I shall haunt you. Far worse than any spirit, my dear lady. You will do as I say, and you will stay where I tell you.”
“You are an arrogant autocrat, Laird Creeghan,” she returned.
“I intend to keep you alive,” he said bluntly. She was beginning to shiver. He suddenly dropped her hands and strode back to his door, checked it, then came over to the bed to stare down at her again. “You did not search well enough,” he informed her.
She cried out softly as he nearly unseated her, lifting up the mattress and pulling a weapon from beneath the bed. “It’s a Colt revolver, heavy, but accurate, and a six-shooter. Have you ever fired a weapon?”
She stared at the pistol, and emotion welled in her throat. It was an American weapon, and, yes, she knew it well. Many Rebel soldiers had carried breechloaders, rifles that needed to be loaded for each shot with balls and powder or a cartridge, slow weapons, even when fired by experts. But many cavalry men, many of the guerrillas, had managed to obtain the revolvers. War had given the world many new weapons. There was the Winchester and the Gatling gun, and the Colt weapons had been improved to such speed that they could truly rain down death upon men.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve fired a gun before.” Her father had seen to that. She had fired many different kinds of guns during the war. There were renegades and deserters from both sides who had preyed upon women alone.
He grunted and shoved the Colt back beneath the mattress. “If anyone comes after you, do not hesitate to shoot.”
“Does that include you, Laird Creeghan?” she asked.
He paused, then he smiled. “That must be at your discretion—milady.”
Then he turned and walked toward the dressing room door, and suddenly, she felt fear constrict her throat, and she called out to him. “Where are you going?”
He paused and turned back to her. “The dressing room. I’ve a cot I can pull out. Good night—milady.”
And he disappeared. But he left the door open between the rooms, and though she was anxious, she was glad.
The candle was burning low, the fire in the hearth was all but out. She pulled the covers close about her and stared up at the ceiling, wishing she could call out to him.
She closed her eyes tightly against the night, and she was forced to realize that she was still in love with him.
No, she was more in love with him than ever.
And the memories of the night were a fresh torment, filled with both sweetness and anguish. She trembled suddenly, and realized that she was different and would never be the same. He had changed her tonight, forever.
She should have been ashamed, she should have had regrets, but she did not. Indeed, he was dark, he was dangerous, but she knew in her heart that she could not have found a more passionate, seductive, and tender lover than the man who had claimed her. The laird of Creeghan. He had touched and awakened her. And in her heart, she could not believe him a ghost.
Yet even then, knowing her heart, she could not sleep. She lay awake and remembered the sight of his face, a true reflection, in the coffin. Nor could she forget the lights at night.
Or the rumors of things that happened on the nights when the full moon reigned. Rumors … and things she had seen with her own eyes. Downed ships and a girl buried beneath the brick of the walls of the castle.
But Bruce was innocent. He had to be. No, not Bruce. Bryan. Bryan Creeghan.
She should not think it, because she must not say it. She must keep his secret.
She believed him, she thought. Or she believed in him. She must not do so too easily! she chastised herself. She had to take care with him. Grave care. In all that happened, she still did not know what he felt for her. His whispers had been gentle, tender even, in the act of love.
But his words later had been taunting, and he was still as suspicious as she.
She could not tell him about the emerald.
And she knew, as she settled into sleep, that even more than her life, she truly had to guard her heart. She was going to stay, and so he would haunt her, day and night.
And she could not let him know how much of her he held already within his grasp. She dared not.
Not if she meant to keep her very soul …
Sometime in the night, Martise slept. And yet she was exhausted when Bryan rather rudely woke her, shaking her shoulders.
He was up and dressed, handsomely attired in navy trousers and cotton shirt. He was freshly shaven and looked none the worse for wear despite the night. She was certain that she had not survived it so well.
She groaned as he shook her. “Have a heart,” she pleaded into the pillow. “Let me be.”
“I cannot,” he argued. “It’s time I return you to your own room.”
He pulled her over and she belatedly remembered that she was sleeping naked in his bed. She pulled the sheet around her and realized she was not so emotional by daylight. The fire in his eyes betrayed nothing as he watched her, and she suddenly wanted nothing more than a bath. The sensual male scent of him still seemed to cling to her flesh. Or was it simply that he was standing before her, smelling of soap and shave lotion?
She rolled, bringing the sheet around her body, and rose with an air of grandeur. “Seriously, sir, I do believe that I should have returned last night!”
To her annoyance, he laughed. “Ah, is it better to walk the halls in naught but a sheet by the light of the moon rather than risk the betrayal of daylight?”
She didn’t reply, but tossed her hair over her shoulders and headed for the door. He was right behind her, and his stride swiftly matched hers. She gritted her teeth.
“This is truly marvelous, milord. It will definitely allay suspicions if you walk along with me while I am cloaked in a sheet!”
“I’m not damping suspicions, milady,” he told her, eyes still sizzling with amusement. “I am seeing you safely to your door.”
They had walked the corridor and stood before it even then. There was no one about in the early dawn.
He bowed with exaggerated courtesy. “We need to talk, but we’ll do so later. As always, bolt yourself in,” he told her.
She closed the door tightly behind her and bolted it securely, then cast herself down upon her bed. She began to tremble as it struck her anew that she could never be the same again.
She had met the dragon in truth, and she had been filled with the sweet flame of his breath.
She hadn’t thought she would sleep again. She had meant to just lie there until she found the energy to rise, but when she closed her eyes, it seemed she fell instantly asleep, unplagued by any dreams.
Much later, she heard a tapping at her door. She called out, and Holly answered her. She arose to pull the bolt and then remembered that she was still wearing a sheet. She tore hastily through a drawer and found another gown, slipped it over her shoulders, and allowed Holly to enter. Holly had tea, hot delicious tea, and crumb cakes.
Martise thanked her and devoured the tea and cakes, amazed at the extent of her hunger. As Holly chatted, Martise interrupted to ask that the bath be brought and Holly promised she would atten
d to it immediately.
While she waited for the bath, Martise stood on the balcony and looked out on the cliffs, listening to the sounds of the sea crashing against the shore. She heard voices, yet remained on the balcony, aware that Jemie and Trey and the giant McCloud had brought up the tub and the water. She closed her eyes and felt the breeze, and waited for them to leave. When they were gone, she closed and bolted the balcony doors.
Holly awaited her, but Martise assured her that she meant to soak until the water cooled, and that she would be fine by herself. When the maid was gone, Martise bolted the door, then stripped and stepped into the bath. She felt the water swirl around her, bathing her thighs, steaming away the touch of soreness, but not the memory.
She leaned her head back, and then, despite the heat, she shivered as she wondered just who in the castle could be a murderer. She swallowed against the memories of the poor sailor who had died by the caves, and of the pathetic bones that had been walled within the crypt.
There was a slight noise, and she sat up suddenly, tension tingling down her spine. She whirled around, and a scream of amazement caught in her throat when she saw that Bryan Creeghan was in her room. Cocky, arrogant, hands on his hips, dark hair askew upon his forehead, eyes bold and challenging.
She pulled the sponge to her breasts and glanced to the balcony and the entrance, but all the doors were bolted. Her eye shot back to his with amazement. “By God, how on earth …?” she asked incredulously.
He bowed slightly, raising an arm. “The armoire, milady. There is a spring on the side, which slides it and a secret doorway open.”
She stared at him, feeling an intense fury growing and sat up, eyes snapping. “You laird of all bastards!” she hissed. “You’ve been in here before!”
“Aye, that I have.”
She flung the sponge at him fiercely, calling him every evil thing she could think to mutter. He caught the sponge easily enough, and seemed amused rather than daunted by her words. He crossed to the tub and stood over her and she ended her tirade on a furious note. “How dare you? How dare you! You’ve no right in here now or ever, you barbarian Highlander, you—”
“Ah, but I’m standing here now to return something that you too carelessly cast aside,” he told her, eyes flashing amusement as he plopped the sponge back down on her. And then, to her great distress, he knelt by the tub, fingers idly curled around its rim, his eyes a wicked flame as they caught hers. “And I never came to do you harm, milady—”
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