Love Entwined (5 page)

St. Clair Manor was encapsulated in its own golden age, as if it preferred the gothic influences of the Georgian era.

Amelie shifted on the seat. A manor couldn’t prefer anything. It wasn’t alive, after all.

She was holding her breath and let it out slowly. Now the dark windows of the manor seemed to be eyes focused on her, hundreds of them, witnessing her arrival.

Stop giving yourself the creeps, Amelie.

This was just a by-product of the dreams and the tumultuous last three months of her life.

James parked the car in a stone courtyard near a trickling fountain. He opened the passenger door.

Roman got out first, taking her hand in his and drawing her out behind him. “Welcome to St. Clair Manor.”

Under a weathered archway, two women stood in front of tall double doors in the shadows of the foyer.

She could only make out riotous auburn curls on the younger woman, illuminated by the archway’s overhead light. The other woman came forward and the overhead light glinted on a graying bun.

Roman introduced James’ wife Anne, who smiled and greeted Roman as she would a son, brushing his black forelock back off his forehead. He bent to give her a hug and she stood on tiptoes to plant a kiss on his cheek.

A look passed between husband and wife.

Amelie fought to keep the smile on her face. James and Anne thought she was a girlfriend. She looked at Roman, who managed to avoid her eyes while he escorted her in. He led the way past a suit of armor in the dark foyer.

She kept the smile on her face, ready for another introduction, but the woman with the auburn curls was gone. They walked across one of the largest rooms she had ever seen in a home.

Haddon Hall boasted two hearths, one at each end of the great room. The stone walls soared high covered with tapestries. Solid mahogany ceiling beams anchored several huge wrought iron chandeliers.

She would have thought she was in another century if not for the telephone, which seemed out of place on an antique barley twist table.

Roman gestured toward an alcove. “I’ll take you on a tour tomorrow. There are over a hundred rooms; I wouldn’t want you to get lost.”

James carried her luggage to wide stone steps winding up the north wing. They passed a darkened landing and continued up to the third floor, lit by bronze wall sconces.

She stopped in a velvet-shrouded gallery where there was a portrait of Roman.

He came to her side. “Captain Roman Eric Cardiff, one of my ancestors. He designed St. Clair Manor.”

“But, it’s you.”

“I do bear a strong resemblance to the captain,” he conceded.

Captain Cardiff was dressed in a long, gray waistcoat and tan breeches. The smile he wore did not reach his blue eyes, which held a quiet sadness. This man had known deep sorrow…

The captain’s eyes bore into hers and Amelie’s peripheral vision paled. An invisible thread tethered her to him and as his eyes lured her, she lost herself in them by degree. She fought, but grew weary of the hypnotic pull on her psyche.

She was back in the ship’s cabin, with him. He smiled down at her, his eyes filled with adoration.
“Jacqueline, my Beauty,”
he whispered as he entered her. She wrapped her legs around him…

Amelie swayed on her feet, and fell into blackness.

* * * *

My favorite color.

Amelie stared up at the yellow-gold satin fringe of the canopy on the four-poster.

“Beautiful, is it not?” The woman stood near the balcony doors. Her French was soft and seductive. Her face was in profile as she stared out at the black night. There was a single bedside lamp on and shadows clung to every corner but Amelie remembered those auburn curls tumbling down the woman’s back. “Everything in this manse is beautiful.”

Amelie glanced at the canopy fringe again and tried to form an answer, but no words came out. She wanted to see the woman’s face, and leaned up on her elbows. There was a dull ache between her eyes but she was more interested in the woman.

The wind whipped at the balcony windowpanes as the woman stared into the dark. The balcony doorknob rattled.

Amelie drew her eyes away from the windy night and whispered in French, “I am Amelie.” She cleared her throat, which was as smooth as sandpaper.

“Welcome.” There was amusement in the greeting. High cheekbones lifted with a smile.

She did not want to seem ignorant of the fact that Roman was married if indeed he was, and so she waited. The woman did not introduce herself and she would not look away from the howling night. The wind at the panes reminded Amelie of the lashing waves in her dreams…

“Hello, sleeping beauty.” Roman came through the bedroom door with a tray. He placed it on the nightstand. “You must have just woken. I brought you water.”

“Oh, thank you.” She sat up against the pillows and took the proffered glass. She drank half of it before he took the glass from her.

“Not too much. How are you feeling?”

“Fine. I was just talking to…” She glanced at the balcony doors, and blinked to clear her head. The woman was gone. The doorknob no longer rattled and the night was calm.

“Talking to whom?”

Amelie pointed to the double doors. “She was standing right there.”

“Anne?”

“No, a young woman. French. In a…some sort of dressing gown, I guess.”

“Caroline in a dressing gown? She’s much fonder of starched linen.”

“Your wife?”

“Not in this lifetime.” He chuckled. “The live-in maid.” He walked to the wall and turned the light switch on. “She’s not here now, and she’s not French.”

It was not a room she lay in, but a large suite. Yellow-gold satin covered the walls and English primroses the same hue adorned a table by the balcony window. On a far wall, a sofa and two chairs sat before a fire crackling behind a wrought iron grate. She hadn’t noticed it before; her attention had been on the woman, and the wind.

“What am I doing in here?”

He sat down on the comforter. “You were looking at one of the portraits in the gallery and fainted straight away. Not exactly the way I planned to sweep you off your feet.”

“I am sorry for the inconvenience.”

“The pleasure was all mine.” He grinned and pressed the back of his hand to her forehead. “You’re not feverish. Have you been ill?”

“No, I…I guess I’m just tired.” She could not explain what had happened to her. Fearing a confession would leap from her throat in her agitated state, she shut her mouth.

“Are you sure? I should call Dr. Latham…”

“No, please, I’m fine.” She turned on her deal-closer smile that worked so well in the city. However, she didn’t feel anything had closed. She had the distinct impression a door had just opened. To what, she did not know. At least she was here in England. In her dream house. She would find answers to her questions now.

His eyes were intent. “It was a long flight after a very busy week. You need some rest.”

“You’re right. I think I’ll go to sleep now.”

“I will see you in the morning, then.” He went through a door on the right, closing it behind him.

She crossed the floor to the armoire. Her things had already been put away. She went over to the Queen Anne vanity and sat, toying with the beautiful perfume bottles that lay on the table, feeling like an invader in such a personal space. It seemed any minute now the owner of these trinkets would come through the door, ready to retire for the evening. Or, maybe it was just the feeling of being watched that she had since arriving at St. Clair Manor. Oddly enough, this feeling did not bother her as she remembered the woman with the auburn curls. She ran her fingers over the fleur-de-lis design of a hand mirror that looked to be antique and finally could not help herself; she picked up the matching brush and ran the soft bristles through her hair, brushing in long, slow strokes until the dull pain in her head went away.

Relaxed now, she looked around at the suite she already loved, and decided to explore. A door to the left opened onto an elegant green and gold sitting room. A second door led to a rose-themed bathroom. If she didn’t know better, she would have thought Roman had placed her in this suite on purpose. She loved roses. They were the theme of her bed and bath at home.

A coincidence. She bent to the blooms filling a bowl on the ceramic countertop and inhaled. Despite what her body would have her believe, Roman knew hardly anything at all about her.

She wanted to soak away her tension and looked in the mirrored cabinet above the sink for bubble bath but there wasn’t any. She went in search of Anne, out of the bathroom and across the bedroom to another set of doors.

One door opened into another sitting room covered in Oxford green.

Can one get lost in a suite? She thought.

There was yet another door at the other end of the sitting room, which probably led to the hallway. She walked past brown leather armchairs and an antique writing desk and opened the door.

Roman stood with his back to her near a huge tester bed, a towel wrapped around his waist. His shoulder muscles bunched as he dried his hair with a smaller cloth. He turned toward her and his jaw clenched.

He looked like he wanted to swallow her whole.

She drew a sharp breath and dropped her gaze to his chest, which was sprinkled with glistening curls.

“I am sorry. I wanted Anne…I mean, I wanted bubble bath. There isn’t any in the bathroom. I thought this was the hallway…” She had backed up against the wall, looking for the door. She took in a gulp of air to push her heart back down her throat.

He tossed the towel on the bed and started a lazy stroll toward her as if it were the most natural thing for him to be wearing nothing but that towel around his waist. She tore her eyes away from flat brown nipples and black hair running down the middle of his chest and disappearing under the towel.

When he stopped, his chest was inches from her face. She instinctively drew in the fresh scent of soap and her eyes met his. Leaning her head against the wall, she held her breath when his hand moved slowly behind her. He bent his head and his lips brushed her hair when he spoke into the intercom.

“Anne, Amelie would like a bubble bath.” He brought his arm down and his biceps worked in a fascinating play of muscles. “She will be up in a few minutes.”

She had no idea how long she’d been staring at biceps and ridged abs ending in a tantalizing trail of hair under the towel at his waist but she jerked her eyes away. Heated embarrassment crept up over her sweater collar. Without turning, she searched the wall behind her for the doorknob.

Roman leaned closer.

She went still as the wet warmth of his skin enveloped her.

He reached behind her and his lips lingered on her forehead as the door knob turned.

“Thank you,” she whispered before fleeing the room.

North Yorkshire, England – February 1988

A maid placed a tray on the table by the balcony.

“Morning,” Amelie sighed, waking from the soundest sleep she’d had in over three months. She stretched, and the maid turned for the door.

She leaned up on her elbow. “We haven’t met. I’m Amelie”

The maid turned back with a shy smile. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Amelie. I’m Caroline.”

“Your hair…it’s black.”

Caroline tucked a lock of hair behind her ear and looked at her expectantly. “It’s natural. Black Irish, you know.”

“It is very flattering,” she murmured as Caroline left the room. “And very short.”

Unless Caroline had cut her hair this morning and dyed it, she was not the woman with the auburn curls.

Another maid, perhaps. There were others that came and went. Anne and Caroline could not possibly attend to such a huge estate alone.

She ran her fingers through her own curls and went over to the table. Picking up a hot-buttered scone, she looked out the window to the wintry garden two stories below. The sun peaked through cotton clouds and shone on the stone benches.

St. Clair Manor was the type of home she imagined that should have children running through the gardens and halls, peeking into nooks and crannies.

With that thought, she stopped herself. From now on, she would curb any personal thought of Roman. If he wanted to let his ancestry die out and allow a beautiful home like this to go to waste, so be it.

Why wasn’t he married? That was none of her business, she reminded herself. Besides, hadn’t she learned her lesson already? Rich and handsome equals playboy. Maybe the woman with the auburn curls was a girlfriend.

She dressed quickly. When she left her room and turned a corner she was in the long gallery with its velvet draperies hanging open. Sunbeams moved across the portraits and their gilt frames twinkled, but she passed through without looking at any of the subjects. She would not look at Captain Cardiff’s portrait again.

She went down the two flights of stone steps to the hall, but paused at the first floor landing. There were numerous archways leading out of the hall and she had not yet had a tour of the manor and had no intention of getting lost. When she heard a door open on the right, she walked through that archway.

“Good day to you, Ms. Amelie.” James was perched on a rolling ladder above her with leather-bound volumes cradled in the crook of his arm. “Right through there.” He pointed to a closed door at one end of the library.

“Thank you, James.” She walked across the polished wood floor. Passing a glass display case, she stopped to admire the intricate scale model of St. Clair Manor. Two delicate figurines, a man and a woman stood before a horse drawn carriage in the courtyard.

The house was filled with treasures.

* * * *

“Didn’t anyone see anything?” Roman said to the speakerphone on his desk. He scrolled through the images of the burning warehouse on his laptop.

“The night watchman was in a different sector when the fire started,” Dylan replied. “We have contained the fire, but it’s put us off schedule by several weeks.”

Roman didn’t speak as he stared at the blackened remains of the new equipment.

“Open up the next file and you’ll see him in front of the doors,” Dylan said.