Dark and Dangerous

by Anwar, Hart, Harte, Mcbride(Lit)

  "You are more beautiful even than I imagined, cher."

  She wasn’t even aware that he’d moved until he was standing directly before her. Tentatively, almost reverently, he lifted a hand. She shivered as she felt it skate over her bare shoulder.

  A strange look settled over his features. "I can feel the warmth and texture of your flesh. It feels like warm silk," he murmured thickly. "I can smell the fragrance of your hair. What witchery is this?"

  Samantha gulped, managed to dislodge the lump of fright as something far more powerful seized her muscles and grounded her feet to the floor, a weightless weakness that made her knees tremble with the effort of holding her upright. "How….?" She managed.

  He sifted his fingers through her dark, shoulder length hair, crushed it in his hand and lifted the strands to his nose, breathing deeply. "Are you a witch?" he murmured, releasing her hair and stroking a hand down one arm to grasp her fingers. "No one has breached the barrier … even I have not managed it in all these years. How is this possible?"

  Samantha watched, bemused, as he lifted her hand, examined each finger and finally sucked one into his mouth. Her belly tightened on a spasm of pleasure as she felt his tongue curl around the digit, felt the hot, moist suction of his mouth. "How did you get in here?" she murmured faintly.

  Slowly, he pulled her finger from his mouth. "I no longer exist in the physical world. I have not in many years, not since … Babette ensorceled me many years ago. I have hungered for this so long that I thought I would go mad. Perhaps I have? Perhaps you exist only in my mind?"

  Samantha’s heart skipped a beat. For several moments she felt herself teetering between unfulfilled desire and fear of this intoxicating stranger. Fear won out at last and she took a step back.

  "You are mad. We live in the same world. How did you get into my room? The door was locked. I know it was. You have a key, don’t you?"

  He stepped toward her, closing the small space she’d put between them. "It is you who have breached the doorway, not I … you who hold the key. You can free me from this prison of existence that has tormented me so long, to be and to know without truly living."

  "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

  "You must."

  Samantha took another step back. "I don’t."

  His face darkened with anger. "He has sent you to torment me," he ground out. "Has he not? To give me a taste of what I have lost so that he can destroy the last thing I hold dear, my mind."

  Samantha’s eyes widened. "Nobody sent me! I came because this place is haunted. I wanted to see the ghost myself. That’s all."

  "I am no ghost."

  Samantha glanced around a little wildly, but he was standing so near her that she couldn’t see any chance of escape. She shivered, reaching blindly behind her for something she might use as a weapon. Her hand touched something cold and solid on the bed behind her---her blow dryer. She ran her fingers along it a little frantically, found the handle and wrapped her fingers firmly around it. "No. You’re not a ghost. You’re an intruder," she said tightly, and swung the blow dryer at his head with all her strength.

  He didn’t move. He didn’t so much as blink. The blow dryer passed through his head as if it were as unsubstantial as mist. The force of her swing almost sent her sprawling. She gaped at him as he gripped her waist tightly and pulled her roughly against him.

  "I cannot feel pain," he muttered through clenched teeth. "I cannot feel anything .. . except you."

  Catching a fistful of hair at the base of her skull, he wrapped his other arm around her waist and dipped his head toward hers. Samantha gaped at him, still stunned, still unable to grasp that she could feel him, as real and solid as any man, and yet the blow dryer had touched nothing but thin air.

  His mouth was hot as it covered hers, his lips hard, punishing. She bucked against him, struggled to evade his grip and when she could not, made a small whimpering sound as he ground his mouth against hers, abrading the tender flesh of her inner lips with her own teeth. He stiffened at the sound, withdrew slightly, his mouth poised above hers so closely her lips tingled from his nearness. His harsh, panting breaths infused her with his essence, clouding her mind with the drugging sweetness of carnal need.

  More tenderly then, but with a hunger that spawned an answering clamor within her, he covered her mouth once more. His tongue flicked out, skated lightly over the wounded surfaces, sending tingles of heat flooding through her. Another whimper caught in her throat, though this one spoke of desire, not fear or pain, as his tongue stroked along hers in a restless, intimate caress. Like strong wine, his taste, the feel of his tongue, the heat and strength of his body pressed so tightly against her, made her senses riot, closed her world to all but the sensations flooding through her.

  Her fingers clenched in the fabric of his jacket and she realized with a touch of surprise that she’d lifted her hand to hold herself more closely to him. Seeking more of him to fill her senses with the pleasure he’d already given her, she slipped her hand along his shoulder to his neck, threaded her fingers through the long, black hair that hung loosely from the ribbon tie at the base of his skull. His arms tightened around her. His mouth and tongue caressed hers more fiercely. The hand he’d threaded through the hair at the base of her skull clenched more tightly still for several moments. Then his grip loosened and he skated the hand down her back along her spine. Cupping one buttock in his hand, he clenched the tender flesh tightly as he thrust his hips against hers, pressing the engorged flesh of his erection into her belly.

  Self-restraint yielded to irresistible temptation, and Samantha felt the last shreds of her defenses crumble as heat and moisture flooded through her nether regions. Her belly tightening with need, she kissed him back, skated her hands over him in her own exploration, arched to meet the thrust of his hips.

  He tore his mouth from hers abruptly, lowered his open mouth to her neck and sucked the flesh there into his mouth. A shudder went through him, and then a quaking seemed to seize his muscles as he pulled slowly away with an effort, staring down at her with an expression of baffled fury.

  "Is this a ruse—designed only to bring me more torment, I wonder?"

  Disoriented with lust, Samantha could only stare at him blankly. "A ruse?"

  Releasing her, he stepped back, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment as if in pain. After a moment, he opened his eyes once more, stared at her enigmatically an finally turned, striding away.

  Her jaw sagging with disbelief, Samantha stared after him blankly as he stepped through the wall of her bedroom and disappeared from sight.

  Chapter Three

  The morning light spilling through the window was almost painful as it touched her clenched eyelids. Groaning, Samantha rolled over and pulled her pillow over her head. She’d still been tense when she’d finally drifted to sleep, tense with frustrated desire, fearful that he would come back—and that he wouldn’t, and she would never see him again—all at the same time. The tension had translated into stiff, achy muscles overnight. The lack of restful sleep had manifested itself into an aftereffect similar to a hangover.

  For a short while, she drifted, half awake and half asleep. It occurred to her after a few minutes, however, that she’d planned to take part in the morning tour of the chateaux and she cracked an eye and peered toward her alarm clock.

  It was a quarter till ten and the tour was supposed to start at ten.

  Galvanized, she leapt from the bed and dashed into the bathroom for a quick shower. When she emerged, she dressed hastily, shoved her feet into a pair of sandals, grabbed her purse and dashed out of the room. She’d nearly reached the stairs when she remembered she hadn’t locked her door.

  Not that it would keep Gerard out---or that she had anything of any great value with her, but she turned and went back to lock the door.

  A half a dozen people were assembled in the great room when she arrived, breathless from her rush. Several of them glanced her way, but almost immediately retu
rned their attention to the staff member who was gesturing around the room, pointing out first one thing and then another, and describing it---in French.

  She was about to ask him to repeat it for her benefit in English, when her gaze fell upon Gerard.

  As he had been the day before, he was lounging negligently against the column at the foot of the stairs, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he studied the group of tourists wandering about the great room, gaping up at the architectural features the guide was pointing out. As if sensing her gaze, he turned his head slightly and stared at her for a long moment. Finally, he pushed himself away from the post. Samantha was still trying to decide whether to run or stay when he strode up to her.

  His gaze flickered over her face searchingly for several moments, but some of the tense anger vanished from his features. He turned to study the tourists enigmatically for several moments. "My home is filled with intruders—gaping like morons, giggling and pointing—as if they are strolling about a fair."

  Samantha studied his profile, trying to imagine what it must feel like to exist as a shadow within one’s own home, aware of the real world, but unable to touch it.

  "Should I entertain my ‘guests’, I wonder?"

  Samantha knew he was speaking more to himself than to her. She might have commented anyway except that, before she could decide what to say, he’d strode toward the group. Plowing through them, he swept the contents of an occasional table to the floor, then turned and knocked the guide’s wig askew.

  Two of the three women present let out squeaks of surprise. The third clapped a hand to her mouth, staring around wide eyed. The youngest of the three women, who looked to be in her early twenties, giggled nervously. Almost at once, the group began to exclaim and comment on the manifestation. The guide, white faced, straightened his wig and ushered his group quickly from the room.

  Samantha bit her lip. Really, it wasn’t funny—the man had a dangerous temper. On the other hand, she supposed she might be a little dangerous herself if she’d been trapped for several lifetimes….

  She broke the thought off abruptly. Was she really accepting his wild claims as fact?

  Could she do anything else?

  If she hadn’t seen, with her own eyes, that he had passed through, not between, the people standing on the other side of the room …. She would’ve liked to put it all down to some sort of scam the bed and breakfast had manufactured to entice guests, but she simply couldn’t explain away some of the things Gerard had done, particularly the most recent exhibition. To consider it a trick, she would have to accept that the guests weren’t actually there, that they were some sort of projection.

  It didn’t fit. The room was too bright even for some sort of sophisticated equipment to work convincingly.

  She couldn’t put it down to persuasive acting, either. The ‘guests’ could have been plants and pretended they hadn’t seen or heard him, but they couldn’t pretend he’d walked through them.

  Some sort of hypnotism?

  She couldn’t rule it out, but she’d never been a true believer of hypnotism. She could believe he was a ghost about as easily.

  Without having once actually looked at her, Gerard vanished when the guests departed. She was vaguely surprised, and disappointed that he’d ignored her, but then memories of the night before drifted through her thoughts, suffusing her with warmth. What had he said? He could feel nothing of the physical world---except her.

  He seriously thought she was some kind of witch? That she’d come here with the sole purpose of making his life more miserable than it was already?

  Frowning, she turned a little absently to catch up with the tour, wondering what was different about her that had seemed to reach him when no one else, apparently, ever had.

  She was a paranormal buff, which a lot of people considered ‘different’, to say the least, but she’d never actually dabbled in the occult. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe in any of it. Some aspects of the occult were hard to explain away. She’d never considered that she had any sort of talent in that direction, however, and had been disinclined to try her hand at something she expected to fail in.

  She shook her head at the direction of her thoughts. She couldn’t have some sort of paranormal power she was completely unaware of. She was twenty seven years old. Surely, if she had, she would have noticed it by now?

  Maybe it wasn’t her at all, regardless of what he seemed to think? He’d indicated that some sort of curse, or enchantment, had been laid upon him. Maybe this was all about the curse, not her? Maybe it was wearing off at long last? Maybe it had never been intended to hold him forever, but only for so long that the world he’d known had vanished forever?

  She realized it was rather pointless speculation. If she knew what the actual curse was, she might be able to figure it out—might. It seemed very unlikely that she’d stumble upon the answer otherwise.

  She caught up with the tour group once more in the yellow salon. He was just finishing his spiel when she arrived. "What do you know about the Count himself?"

  Everyone turned to stare at her. The guide shrugged. "Not much is actually known, Miss….?"

  "Samantha Lancaster," she supplied.

  He nodded. "There are many tales, but there is much … confliction in the stories. The only thing that is certain is that the count was a man much speculated about. If you’d joined the tour on time ….."

  "I did. But since I don’t understand French, I didn’t catch the story."

  He looked more annoyed than apologetic. "Pardone, madam. The story is that he was married very young and fell madly in love with his young bride. She died little more than a year later, however, in child bed, and his heir died with her. He was inconsolable over his loss, but it was his duty to produce and heir and he married again several years later. That wife died, as well, only about a year after they were wed and people began to speculate that he had only wed to gain money and power and then disposed of his wives.

  "Many years passed before he again wed. It is believed that he was in his early thirties when he wed for the third and final time. He had been dabbling very much in the black arts since the death of his first wife and was considered one of the most powerful witches in Europe.

  "There are tales that the Countessa de Moyer, a young and very beautiful widow, who also happened to be a powerful witch, was to be his third wife, but there were also rumors that she was barren. He jilted her to wed a young heiress and the two became rivals and enemies.

  "On the night of the gathering, the Countessa not only defeated him, proving that she was the most powerful witch of all and becoming high witch, but she placed a curse upon him because he had spurned her love for another."

  It was a rather sordid tale, but what had she expected? He was supposed to have been an evil man who had finally gotten his just deserts. "The Countessa loved him, but she placed a curse on him?"

  The guide nodded, then smiled rather condescendingly. "It is said hell hath no fury …."

  Samantha gave him a look. As if a man scorned hadn’t been known to do some really nasty things! "What was the curse?"

  He frowned. "That is not known. Naturally, there were none at the gathering except the witches and their minions. But everyone is quite certain that it had to do with his cold heart."

  The guide resumed the tour then. Samantha followed, but paid very little heed. As beautiful as the chateaux was, she was too preoccupied for much to filter through to her.

  The story he’d told wasn’t exactly a revelation. The gist of it had appeared in the pamphlet about the chateaux. She had to wonder how much of it was true, or if there was even a grain of truth in it. She supposed, after a few moments, that his marriages must be a matter of record, probably the deaths of his wives and his child, as well—although not necessarily.

  There were European newspapers that predated the French revolution and had survived the intervening years. She’d read the account of the execution of King Louis in the London Times.
On the other hand, the Count du Beauchamp had lived, and died—or been cursed to exist only in another plane—a good many years before the revolution. The British had been far more preoccupied with keeping records, as far as she knew, than anyone else, and, despite his reputation, she was fairly certain the Count hadn’t been large as a historical figure. It seemed unlikely she would find any actual records of events, and even if she did, how much faith could be placed in them?

  The fact was, no one really knew except Gerard himself, and he didn’t seem the type to confide in anyone.

  It was luncheon when the tour wound to a close and everyone, including Samantha gravitated in the direction of the dining room where a buffet of fruits, vegetables and cold cuts had been laid out. Samantha took her meal on the terrace once more. She supposed she should make a push to acquaint herself with some of the other guests since she would be staying for several days, but she didn’t feel comfortable intruding on the others when they’d arrived in pairs and she had the distinct feeling that some of them, at least, were honeymooning.

  On the one hand, it seemed an odd sort of place to choose for a honeymoon, but it was quiet, out of the way, very much off the beaten track of the typical tourist. Moreover, if one considered the possibility that they were as ‘in’ to hauntings as she was, it was certainly no more absurd as a destination than some of the strange weddings and honeymoons Americans often concocted.

  She didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved when Gerard did not ‘join’ her for lunch. She’d more than half hoped he would, but the story the guide had told had made her uncomfortable. Even though it hadn’t come as much of a surprise, she’d formed a preconceived notion that the Count du Beauchamp was a tragic figure. The cold calculation that the guide had attributed to him seemed uncomfortably nearer the mark of the man she’d met than her own speculations.

  He’d tried to seduce her. She’d wanted him to, been so caught up in the sensations he evoked in her that she’d been terribly disappointed when he’d abruptly left. Now she wondered if he’d used his powers against her to get what he wanted. He was dangerously attractive to her. She doubted he would have to resort to anything so underhanded as using magic to seduce her, but she wasn’t certain he hadn’t and she didn’t like the idea that he might.