The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall (7 page)

“Er…yes. It’s a very old historical place; that’s what the website said anyway.”

Bastian’s focus fell on her, his expression reproachful. “Did you choose it because it was her family’s?” His hands clenched into frightening fists at his sides. “Did you find it amusing to bring me here?”

She frowned and stepped back, suddenly afraid. Not of him, not exactly, but something crawled beneath her skin, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. What was he talking about?

“What are you saying?”

“Isabelle Braxton. This inn belonged to her family.” He whirled away, looking ready to storm off.

“What?” Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The flood of fear and the memories of her nightmares closed in, destroying her ability to suck in a breath. She collapsed against the Inn’s wall and braced herself against it for support.

All this time, she’d planned her trip, come here, and spent one night, never knowing it was Isabelle’s. Bastian had walked about fifteen feet away when he stopped, then slowly turned to face her. He crossed his arms and stared at her.

“You didn’t know, did you?” He took a few steps toward her.

She wasn’t paying attention to him, not fully. The image of the women in the white nightgown on the cliffs kept replaying in her mind. Her gaze drifted up to the sign. How had she been so stupid and missed the obvious connection between Isabelle and the inn?

“Jane?” He cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.

His touch jolted her back to herself, banishing the memories.

“I didn’t know… I didn’t see the connection.”

The hardness in his expression softened.

“I’m sorry. I thought you were poking fun at me,” he admitted. “Let’s go inside. The quicker we can get you checked out, the better.”

She was grateful when he took her hand in his and led her to the inn’s door. His palm was warm and strong. The touch was a comfort she hadn’t expected him to offer. Which one was the real earl? The brooding, jaw-snapping wolf, or the playful, seductive man who sang in the car? Her thoughts were interrupted by the innkeeper coming to meet them at the door. He was in his early sixties, and a pair of thick glasses perched on his slightly bulbous nose.

“Miss Seyton. How are you?” he asked and then froze when he caught sight of Bastian.

“My lord,” he hastily greeted. “I would have prepared the place if I had known you were coming.”

Bastian waved a hand. “It is fine. I’m here to assist Miss Seyton. She is staying at the Hall, and we’ve come to collect her things and check her out. I will settle her bill and cover the remaining days she had planned on staying here.”

When the innkeeper opened his mouth to argue, Bastian fixed him with a pointed look.

“You really don’t need to—” Jane tried to say she would pay, but he shook his head at her in exasperation.

“Go on.” He waved a hand imperiously.

With a frustrated little groan, she climbed the stairs to the second floor, Bastian trailing behind her. She pulled out the thick brass key and slid it into the door lock. He leaned against the wall only a foot away, waiting for her to open it. When she raised her head, she found his heated stare fixed upon her. For a second, neither of them moved, and the tension between them was an almost tangible force. Then the lock clicked, and she was jolted into awareness of herself again.

Once she was inside, she threw everything into her suitcases as fast as she could. There would be time to organize it all later. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Bastian standing by the window. The fading light of the sunset created a haunting silhouette. He could have passed for his ancestor with the striking profile he presented. Not that she had ever seen Richard, except for a faded color photograph of the only portrait Richard had ever commissioned of himself. But it had been enough. Bastian possessed many of the same features. One of his hands was pressed against the glass, fingers spread as though he was straining to reach through the window for something far beyond his reach. An echo of the wrenching sadness she had experienced when she glimpsed the woman in white came back to her. What was Bastian longing for?

“Hey.” She broke the spell with that single word, and he looked over his shoulder at her. For a brief moment, his face was open, every emotion laid for her to see. The sheer vulnerability and fear-tinged melancholy ghosted behind his eyes, and it made her drift toward him. Then he twisted his lips into a cold, mocking smile—whether at himself or her, she wasn’t sure.

“Finished packing?” He gestured to the toiletry bag she’d tossed on the bed.

“Oh, yes.” She snatched the bag, tucked it into her suitcase, and zipped it up. She was eager to leave the inn now that she knew its dark and sad history. It felt too personal to be here. Funny, she felt more comfortable at Stormclyffe.

“Then let’s be gone. Randolph will have dinner ready soon.”

He bent to grab her suitcase at the same time she reached for it. Their heads collided in a painful crack.

“Ouch!” She stumbled, and the back of her knees collided with the bed behind. She fell onto the soft, quilted comforter, and as Bastian tried to catch her, he tripped over the rolling suitcase and collapsed right on top of her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she sucked in a desperate gasp of air. Their bodies pressed together perfectly, her breasts against his chest, their noses close enough to brush. His eyes were warm and dark and her insides twisted a little as desire awakened within her.

Ever since Tim had left her six months ago, she’d felt closed off. Yet, as their bodies melded on the bed by sheer accident, it felt right. Her hands cupped his shoulders, and his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. He wasn’t built like a body builder, but he had that perfect lithe figure that was all strength and lean lines of perfect muscle. What would he look like with his clothes off? She cursed herself for wanting to know.

“My apologies.” His groan escaped through gritted teeth, and he rolled off her and onto his back beside her.

“It’s okay,” she said. “I’m sorry we knocked heads.”

He chuckled, even though it sounded pained. “It would be more fun to…what do you Americans call it…knock boots?”

She put a hand to her chest and breathed out. “Just when I think you might actually be one of those English gentlemen I keep hearing about…”

She left the rest unsaid, as he sniggered like a misbehaving schoolboy.

“I’m not a gentleman. I’m cursed. At least according to the townspeople.” His tone changed, his anger thickening the words, as though his curse was something he’d brought about, not something thrust upon him by his ancestors. It frightened her, not that she thought he would hurt her, but she wondered whether he might be right. Her notes from earlier today hadn’t lied. Women who married into the Stormclyffe line died early and painfully. He had every reason to push her away, and she didn’t want to be in the path of a curse. There was no sense in taking a chance and putting herself at risk.

“I’m sorry I tripped you.” She glanced away, trying to ignore her body’s reaction to him. Even though he no longer touched her, the phantom pressure of his body seemed to linger. Her skin heated, and her heart beat fast at the mere memory of his body on top of hers. Like the encounter in the drawing room, she wanted to be wild, untamed, to have that gorgeous aristocratic mouth of his seeking sensitive places on her skin until she screamed for him to take her. Unlike the passionate clinch in the drawing room that led to her shameless orgasm at the magic of his hands, this felt real and concrete, not like ancient phantoms had taken hold of her body.

When he rose and picked up her suitcase, she followed with a weary sigh. Her forehead hurt like hell. She’d probably have a nasty knot later. There was no sign of the innkeeper as they came back down the stairs and paused at the front desk. Bastian braced his forearms on the counter and leaned over to peer into the small workroom behind the check-in area. There was no sign of obvious life from the small room. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the small brass bell and smacked it with his palm. The loud
ding
was jarring in the silence. Still, no movement, no sound, not a whisper of life emanated from anywhere inside the old inn.

“Is there anyone else staying here? Any other guests?”

“Um…” She racked her mind, trying to recall if she’d actually seen anyone.

She hadn’t.

He seemed to understand her silence, and his lips pursed. “Very well.”

It was a very British thing to do, and she almost laughed. Smiling and laughing always came naturally when she was anxious, afraid, or upset. It was a horrible personality trait, one she despised about herself, but she couldn’t help it. It had certainly made for some awkward situations in the past, and this was no different. When he raised that one brow, she knew he had picked up on her inappropriate reaction.

He retrieved a white card from his wallet and hastily scrawled a message on it, putting it on the counter.

“Hopefully, the innkeeper will find this and contact me about the bill.” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

“You really don’t need do that,” she said.

He didn’t reply but grabbed her bag and headed for the door. When they stepped outside, it seemed that the darkness practically swallowed them up. It consumed the streets, and even the lights from the pub next door barely penetrated the gloom. She snuggled deeper into Bastian’s coat, inhaling the masculine scent of him. She should give it back. His scent was too good, and she hated that she liked it. A distant streetlight a block away was the only beacon they had to guide them back to her rental car.

With a burst of laughter and chatter, a gaggle of young women suddenly stumbled out of the pub. Bastian and Jane both spun at the unexpected sound. Even as drunk as the woman appeared to be, they were able to recognize Bastian.

“Oh my God! It’s him! The hot duke with the haunted mansion or whatever.”

Jane could have slapped the girl. The women were American and sadly stupid. She silently prayed that Bastian wouldn’t hold their idiocy against her. It wasn’t even worth correcting them. The women suddenly flocked around them, like angry geese, squawking as they tried to get close to him.

“Excuse me, ladies.” His words were a low, rumbling murmur that seemed to only heighten their fervor and excitement.

A red haze descended over Jane’s vision as one of the women dragged a red-nailed hand down Bastian’s chest. He danced back a step like a boxer dodging a blow, only to find he was surrounded. When he met Jane’s gaze, he silently begged for her mercy. There was only one way to deal with these women. She put two fingers between her lips and whistled. The shrill sound cut through the women squabbling over him, and he used the distraction to shove his way clear of them.

“Hey!” one of the women snapped when she realized her prey was escaping. “Come back!”

Jane trotted to catch up with Bastian, but they couldn’t shake the group of women. They had only progressed twenty feet from the inn door when a shout halted them in their tracks. Jane bumped into Bastian’s back with an oomph! His free hand instantly caught her around the shoulders steadying her.

“You hitting on my girlfriend, asshole?” An American man suddenly appeared in front of Bastian and Jane in the direction they’d been trying to flee.

How in the hell? Jane wondered where the man had come from. It obviously hadn’t been the inn. He held a cigarette in one hand. The tip burned orange in the night as he sucked on it, then flicked it down at Bastian’s feet. Her lips parted, a thousand angry words ready to spew forth, but Bastian still had his arm around her shoulder, and his fingers dug into the coat slightly, as though encouraging her to remain silent. The man in front of them continued to wait for a moment to see if they would answer.

She tried to make out his features, but it was too dark to see more than a rather unremarkable face, possibly bordering on unattractive. Bastian was an inch or two taller than him but wasn’t nearly as muscled. This guy could have been a professional weightlifter. He probably popped steroids like candy. She tried to breathe and not panic.

Five more muscled men emerged from the dark behind the first man.

“Answer me!” The man’s shout reverberated off the brick walls the concrete pavement.

“Let us pass. We have no interest in your lady or her friends.” Bastian’s voice carried the authority of his noble heritage, but it was completely lost on the muscled idiot in front of them.

“This guy hit on you, right, Candi?”

One of the women, the one who’d been stroking Bastian’s chest a few seconds before, stepped out of the crowd, wearing a tight miniskirt and a pink tank top. Jane hated when her fellow Americans became stereotypical bad tourists.

“He did. He sure did. He even kissed me.” Candi’s red lips twisted into a wicked smile, one that Jane wanted to smack right off her face.

“He did not kiss you. We don’t even know you!” Jane fired back. This entire situation was insane. They were being accosted by strangers, and there wasn’t a sign of any police. Shouldn’t they be patrolling Weymouth after dark?

Bastian’s lips pursed into a thin line and exasperation narrowed his eyes as he spoke to the men blocking their way. “Please let us pass. We are tired, and it is late. We have no quarrel with you.”

“Who the hell do you think you are, huh? Kissing my girl? You’re gonna pay!” The man dove for Bastian.

In one swift move, Bastian shoved Jane away from him and out of the line of danger and had only seconds to dodge the swinging fist. He managed it, barely.