Meet Me At the Castle (3 page)

“I am here and nowhere else.” His voice sounded closer.

She turned, afraid he would be gone when she looked. Instead he stood within inches of her again. Her pulse accelerated. “Have you escaped from Bedlam?”

He smiled. “No. But I fear I have frightened you. And it was not my intention.”

She could not be comfortable with his finely lashed dark eyes gazing so intently on her. A strange trembling came over her and threatened to send her running from the castle. Something more powerful kept her there. Her fingers bunched the rough wool of her dress. “Do you live hereabouts?”

“I did once.”

“You didn’t tell me your last name.”

“Cromar.”

She inhaled sharply. “You must know all about this castle. Your ancestors lived here?”

“They did.”

When he did not elaborate, only looked down on her with those unbelievable eyes, she moved on. “I have always found this place such a comfort.”

“I gathered that. It is a strange place for a woman so young to spend all her time.”

She nodded. “So I have been reminded.”

“People do not approve.”

Her laugh sounded harsh and bitter to her own ears. “True.”

“You do not seem the type of woman to care so much what people think.”

She thought about that for several moments, and realized he was right. If she had listened to other people she would have married years ago and stopped painting Cromar. “Yes, you’re right.”

“I am glad you decided to come tonight.”

Warmth brightened her heart. “Oh?”

He smiled gently, and reached out as if to touch the smooth skin of her face, but he stopped suddenly and dropped his hand. She knew she should step back, perhaps even slap him for his insolence. Instead she wished he had touched her. It had been ages since anyone had shown her such affection.

“For so long I have looked forward to seeing you each full moon. But I find my loneliness has increased every day of the month you are not here,” he said.

“You have no wife or family who need you?”

“My family died many, many years ago.”

“I’m very sorry.”

“It was so long ago it sometimes feels as if it were a dream.” He shook his head and looked down at his feet. “But you have brightened my life.”

His words danced like sweet music in her ears. What he said was presumptuous and forward, but it seemed natural. She felt as if she had known him forever. “I came tonight to say goodbye to Cromar.”

His gaze snapped sharply to her. “Goodbye?”

“I’m going to London next week. For several weeks, perhaps. I do not know.”

He looked shocked, as if she had told him something incomprehensible and awful. “Why?”

“My father and stepmother wish me to marry, and they feel I have a better possibility of landing a husband there.”

Distaste curled his finely carved lips, and she felt a strange sense of excitement in his dislike for the idea. “These are the people who disapprove of your paintings of Cromar.”

“Yes.”

He moved away until he almost stepped into the darkness. His action broke her concentration and startled her into realizing how chilled she felt. Her cloak had come unbuttoned, and she reached up to fix it. But it did not help. The coldness seemed in her bones and in her heart.

“Perhaps it is best,” he said, turning back to look at her, but keeping his distance.

“I don’t want to go. I do
not
want a husband.”

“Why?”

“My life is here, with Cromar. I have everything I need. I couldn’t bear…”

“Yes?” His question came sharp. He drew closer again, his brows drawn together.

“Leaving this castle does not bear thinking about.”

“Whenever we must leave what is familiar there can be regrets and pain.”

“You don’t understand. It is more than regret, and it is indeed pain.” The words came out in a trembling fervor, and she feared she would cry. In that moment she decided he knew far more than he should. What could he do to help her in any case?

Nothing.

“Thank you, Damian, for giving me your time and listening to me.”

He smiled and bowed slightly at the waist. “It has been all my pleasure, Elizabeth. My sincere wish would be to remove your distress.”

“There is nothing to be done.”

“If you find a husband your loneliness may end.” He sounded doubtful.

“No man can replace my love for Cromar.”

He frowned, and she thought perhaps she had somehow offended him. “And there can be no man who loves you more than Cromar.”

The lantern light sputtered and threatened to go out.

Fear prickled her spine.

She was insane to be alone with a man in an isolated place such as this. God only knew what he might do.

Yet even as she berated herself, she knew she didn’t care. Deep in her heart she suspected he would never do anything to hurt her.

No, she was going to do something far more agonizing to herself.

“I must go,” she said hastily. “The hour grows very late.”

“Will you come again before you leave for London?” The plea in his voice came strong.

Even though she had planned this as her last sojourn, she couldn’t bear the thought of not seeing the castle, Damian, again. “Yes.” She lifted the lantern and started toward the door.

“Until then.” He moved with her to the front of the castle.

She turned to look back upon him, but he had vanished. As if the lamplight had been the source of his existence.

Chapter 2

A shaft of light pierced the heavy fog drifting about Cromar Castle, and inside the thick walls a moan of pain echoed.

Kneeling on the hard stone of the banquet hall floor, Damian held his head and winced. When would it end? He hated the agonizing feeling that pierced his head and racked his body every time he returned to Cromar in solid form. It was a reminder of much that had happened in the past. Horrendous nightmares lingered on the edge of his fog-enshrouded mind and threatened to render him senseless.

As always, however, the pain stopped and what was left of his heart felt triumphant. Perhaps Elizabeth would come today and he would have a respite from the cold of night. He longed to touch her so much. To hold her and shelter her against everything and anyone who might harm her.

The moon reached its zenith in the sky, and with a weary sigh, he went about his wanderings.

* * * *

Elizabeth did not visit the castle again for several more days. Yet it seemed every waking moment something reminded her of Damian, and she had to fight the urge to go to him at night. Some would think it unseemly and improper to be alone with a strange man.

But Damian did not feel as if he were a stranger to her.

Elizabeth returned to her room late in the day and tossed her cloak on her bed. She needed to make sure she had everything for her trip to London the next day. She had a headache from enduring a day with her stepmother after they had spent part of the day visiting with an ailing vicar and his wife. Anne had been in an odd mood all day, and had refrained from barbs of disapproval toward Elizabeth, and this in itself was strange. Although a pleasant change, Elizabeth believed it had more to do with Elizabeth’s impending migration to London.

It took a few moments to realize something was amiss.
Her drawings.
Her paintings.

They were gone.

Usually they were lined up along one wall of her large room. Thinking perhaps her maid Ellie had moved them, she rushed to her armoire to see if they were stored inside. Nothing.

Frantic now, she rushed about the room, looking under the bed, behind her dresser, anywhere the paintings could have been hiding. Perhaps George played a trick on her. But such a cruel jest would be unlike him. She ran down to his room and searched there, but she found nothing.

Within her heart grew a large sorrow, a fear greater than anything she’d known for some time.

She enlisted the aid of the household staff to search the manor until her stepmother came upstairs to see about the commotion.

“Whatever is going on here?” Anne asked, reviewing the line of servants awaiting Elizabeth’s instructions. “Why do you have everyone assembled here?”

Elizabeth did not care at this point what her stepmother thought or did. She suspected Anne knew exactly where they were.

“My paintings and drawings have been removed from my chambers. Have you seen them?”

“Certainly not. But I suggest you inquire about them when your father comes home. I believe he knows where they are.”

Confusion and a growing sense of dread encompassed Elizabeth. “You know where they are but you will not tell me.”

Anne pursed her lips and looked at the servants awaiting orders. “You are all dismissed. Back to your duties.”

Elizabeth opened her mouth to protest, but realized it would do her no good. The mistress of the house had spoken.

Anne gave her a disparaging glance, one of disapproval and blatant dislike. “You have embarrassed me in front of the servants. I can only hope that when you go to your aunt’s in London you will learn more manners.”

Before Elizabeth could rebut Anne’s comments, Elizabeth’s father came up the stairs, his face a portrait of anger.

“What is going on, Elizabeth?”

Something made her strong. She wasn’t certain why she felt bold, but at that moment Damian’s countenance flowed into her mind, and she felt a surge of reassurance.

“Someone has taken my paintings and drawings. I want to know who and why.”

Her father nodded and took her arm. “This will be very difficult for you, dear, but it had to be done.”

The satisfied smirk on her stepmother’s face was enough to launch her imagination into full gear.

“Tell me,” Elizabeth demanded, injecting as much metal into her voice as she could.

“I took your paintings,” her father said.

Fury caught in her throat and threatened to strangle her. She tried to control the tremble in her voice. “Why, Father?”

“You must know, darling, that your mother and I have worried many days and nights over your future.”

“She is not my mother,” she said, her voice a sibilant hiss. She pulled her arm out of his grasp.

“Why, you little—” Anne’s voice rose.

Her father quieted Anne, raising his hand. “Silence, please.”

Anne glared at her husband.

“You will refrain from making such comments about Anne.” His expression had switched from falsely sympathetic to the hardness of stone.

“What has this to do with my artwork?” Elizabeth asked, deciding to ignore her father’s obvious anger.

“You have become obsessed with Cromar and everyone knows it is not healthy. We thought it was best if you went to London and attempted to get a husband.”

Tears threatened Elizabeth’s eyes, stinging with sharp anger and humiliation. Total distrust and the beginnings of hatred threatened not far behind. “And you thought if you took my paintings you could convince me to go to London.”

“Yes,” Clive said quietly.

Anne puffed up. “It is for the best.”

Animosity flared higher in Elizabeth’s breast. “You mean to say, of course, that it is better for you.”

“Insolent girl,” Anne said.

Clive wagged a finger at Elizabeth. “How dare you speak to your mother with such disrespect?”

“And I told you she is
not
my mother!” Elizabeth knew her defiance would not change the fact she was going to London. She did not care. “Now I wish to know where you have put my art.”

Anne sneered. “They have been destroyed.”

“What?” Elizabeth gasped. For a moment the world seemed to spin around her, and she dropped into a chair behind her because her legs would no longer support her.

Her father heaved a sigh and started toward the door. “You need to have other interests, Elizabeth. Healthy, normal interests such as a family.”

Elizabeth felt a tightness in her chest that would not go away. “My interests are none of your affair. You had no right.”

His face went red. “Not my affair? How dare you imply that I have no say in your life? I am your father, and as my daughter you will do what I say when I say. Until you get a husband I will see to it that you follow the path that is best for you. I have indulged your fantasies for far too long.”

She glanced at Anne, noting the slight smirk clinging to her lips. Silence stretched like the inside of a tomb. Elizabeth had never felt this off guard, this hurt in her entire life.

“Until my husband can take over and tell me what to do?” Elizabeth asked harshly.

The heat seemed to slowly seep out of his face. “That is correct. Women need a strong hand when they do not know the proper way.”

Her paintings were gone and there was no way to get them back. Righting her shoulders, she tried to muster confidence.

“Burning my paintings has no effect on my beliefs about matrimony. Why should I trade one prison for another? I should like to stay a spinster forever.”

Anne guffawed. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to stand here and listen to this impertinent girl’s ramblings. I have better things to do.”

She turned swiftly and went down the hall toward her rooms.

Elizabeth’s father watched Anne leave and turned to Elizabeth. His face stayed red, but whether it came from brandy or his rage she could not say. “I do not have time for this. Either you go to London, or you can spend out your days sulking in your room. What shall it be?”

The sour taste of defeat burned her throat. What choice did she have but to follow his wishes? Her thoughts whirled around and around as she tried to think of a way out of the predicament. Nothing came to mind.

Her voice was soft, mild. “I will go to London.”

She turned and went to her room. Once inside she made sure the door locked firmly. For several moments she stared at the door.

She sat down on her bed and looked at the polished wood floor, her insides churning with misery and sickness of heart. Tears slowly tracked down her face.

* * * *

At first Damian thought the pain was his.

It grew and expanded in his body until he thought he would be ripped apart. Returned to what he had been before.