Meet Me At the Castle (6 page)

And he sank onto her, and she gathered him to her heart.

* * * *

For a long time they lay together, relishing the feeling of their bodies against each other. Elizabeth knew in that moment there could never be another man for her as long as she lived.

“I shall not leave you,” she whispered against his chest. “I won’t go to London.”

He groaned as if in pain and entwined his fingers through her mussed hair, pulling her face up so he might look at her. “You must leave me. There is no other choice.”

“Why is there no other choice?” Her words came clipped, pleading to understand.

“Your father will force you to go. And I will not have you face more indignities at his hands.”

“To be sent to market like some cow is a worse indignity. I’m twenty-four. I’m already a spinster. How can he think any man would marry me now?”

“Ah, my sweet. Any man who would not marry you is an imbecile.”

His words sent a glow of appreciation rising within her, but she could not quite believe him. “How can I be happy without you?”

The cold of night had swept into her. Now that her passion had calmed, the light of reason took over.

He rolled to his back and took her with him, wrapping his arms about her tightly as if he feared she would disappear. “You are not a cow.”

“What is it then to be sold off to the highest bidder? My father wishes to combine my dowry with money my aunt left me.”

He traced her face tenderly with his fingers. For a long moment he said nothing, then leaned down to take a deep, lingering kiss from her. Sighing, he released her.

She felt the night intrude again, as if his touch was all that had kept her demons away. As he slid to the side of the bed and stood, she watched in wonder. Although she had spent many moments exploring his body, his fine physique was still a revelation to her. Now that the secrets between man and woman had been disclosed to her, she felt different.

He offered his hand to her. She took it, enjoying the heat of his skin on hers. When she stood he brought her hand to his chest and held it there, gazing tenderly at her. “I can see how your father would be tempted to do so. But you must find a better life, my love. Do you not want a husband and children?”

She gazed into his eyes. “I would.”

Perhaps the look she gave him told all. “Elizabeth, I wish I could marry you.” His took a deep breath. “But I am not free, though I wish it with all my heart. More than I have wished anything.”

A terror seized her, a strangling sensation that kept her from speaking for a moment. “Not free?”

For long seconds he said nothing. He began to dress. The frigidity of it, the lack of sentiment now they had made love, chilled her deeper than the touch of the stone beneath her feet. A feeling of dejection entered her heart. Hastily she donned her clothes, her fingers trembling.

“I am not free,” he said. “That I can be with you now…touch you as I have done is a miracle.”

“I don’t understand,” she said, fear adding volume to her voice. Everything in her soul started to burst, each piece tearing in pain.

His eyes became moist, and she could see, with an ache in her heart, that he was close to tears. That a man would cry had never occurred to her. She had never seen a man weep for anything.

“I cannot explain,” he said.

She licked her parched lips. “Are you pledged to another?”

Slowly, methodically, she put her cloak on. She waited for him to reply. He pulled his shirt over his head and tucked it into his trousers. “No, I am not pledged to another. There is no other. There can never be another.”

Her hands gripped his shirtfront, and he held on to her wrists. Her fingers tightened until her knuckles went white.

“What must I do? How can I be with you?” she asked.

His words were uttered so low she almost did not hear him. “You cannot.”

Reality spread like water rushing from a damn. Tears poured down her cheeks without hindrance. What was left but to go to London? What could be left but to follow the painful path given to her now?

He reached up to brush a tear from her cheek and kissed her cheeks and lips softly. “It gives me great pain to see you unhappy.”

“Why must we be apart? You’ve never said where you live or what you do. Are you ashamed of your circumstances? Do you think my father wouldn’t approve if you asked for my hand?”

His smile was sad. “He would not accept it.”

Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her with passion. Her tears came down, testimony to the heartache within her.

She pulled free. “Why?”

“I cannot say.” He began to back away, and the vise around her heart tightened. “It is too late. I curse the fate that brings us to this. There can be no other way, my sweet Elizabeth.”

He stood at the farthest perimeter of their lantern light. Part of her longed to go to him; the other knew an increasing anger and despair. A knowledge there was no reaching him.

“Someday you may understand, sweet one,” he said, his hands hanging weakly at his sides. “Know always that I am with you. I love you, and have always loved you. If you ever need me you have only to think of me…to ask me to be there, and I will come to you.”

He turned away and left the room.

“Wait!” She ran to the door, and saw he had already traversed the stairs. As quickly as she was able, she descended the stairs, feeling her way through the darkness.

She searched the castle, but he had disappeared like a snuffed candle.

Her tears came again. She dropped to her knees, the cold stone beneath her pressing cruelly into her flesh.

A sob of hopelessness parted her lips, and she knew an acute feeling of betrayal had lodged in her heart tonight and would never depart.

Chapter 3

Damian waited, his heart heavy with sadness. In his heart he was cold, his insides freezing and his heart cracked like ice.

He had flared into being moments before, then remembered Elizabeth would not come to see him. She’d been banished to London to find a husband.

Pain clutched at his gut, but it was not a mortal ache. It was the knowledge that the last precious thing in the world to him had been taken.

Elizabeth.

How could it happen yet again? Did he deserve damnation even now, after all the time he had spent in this cold castle repenting for his sins? Even the thought of how her blue eyes, so stricken as he had departed, brought him misery unsurpassed by anything he had known centuries ago.

Why had he materialized now, when he knew he could no longer touch her, no longer hear her sweet voice or touch her smooth flesh?

Perhaps being tied to this place for so many years had not been enough punishment. Over the years his nocturnal wanderings had never given him peace. For always he had the memory of his last days, of the greed and hatred and revenge he had brought upon those who had taken his dearest, most precious wife from him. Oh, would that he could go relive time and return the lives he had taken. It would not have brought back his beloved wife, but neither had his unspeakable revenge. Instead he had been cursed to this hell.

To forever wander the night with no sleep. No rest for his soul.

Until…until he had been able to see Elizabeth. She had wandered into the castle as a child, unafraid. She did not feel the fear as other children and adults had when they wandered this fortress. Within her lived a strength, a knowledge more powerful than anyone who had passed through these ancient halls. She could cross over that fine veil between mortal reality and what lay beyond.

On her canvas she had painted all that had once been at Cromar, captured its finest days of glory. Had brought to life all that had been dead and barren. Had reawakened that which had been good within the castle walls, and banished all the evil.

He knew Elizabeth had felt the souls of the departed, of the history that clung to a spot where so much evil and so much love had flourished. And perhaps his growing love for her over the years had nourished her and given her strength to withstand those who did not love her and did not care. He had been content to watch her grow and learn; seeing her beautiful face in the moonlight had been all he needed. Until he had taken this solid form. Until he could touch her as only he had dreamed. Why? Why had he been given a taste of her sweet flesh when he knew it could not last?

He paced the stones beneath his feet, but finally stopped. He looked into the black sky, through the holes in the roof of Cromar high above. Rage and hate split through him until he thought he would shatter into a thousand pieces.

He screamed.

All that remained of him seconds later was a sigh, captured in a wind that sailed toward the skies, upward to the stars.

* * * *

Rain drizzled down the tall windows at the front of Elizabeth’s rooms at Chawtry House; cold wind bashed the London townhouse without mercy. Moaning and groaning, the storm seemed to match her mood.

Black and without any sign of lifting.

She shuddered as another chill racked her. She couldn’t get warm, no matter how many shawls she donned or how often the maids stoked the fire in the grate. Though it wasn’t winter, the elements seemed unrepentant.

She had been in London a month and had attended several teas given by her aunt Ophelia’s friends. A full slate of events had been designed by her widowed aunt with the idea of keeping Elizabeth busy and out of trouble. Primarily, Aunt Ophelia had her ears and eyes open for information on eligible bachelors in London.

Thank goodness Aunt Ophelia seemed more understanding and pleasant than Anne. Nothing, though, could bring relief to the dull, lifeless feeling that invaded Elizabeth’s soul at every turn. Now, as she sat watching rain splatter the street below, she wondered what Damian could be doing at that moment. Had he already forgotten her?

A single tear escaped and trailed down her cheek, and she closed her eyes against the dreary scene at the window. She let her mind wander back to that night when passion had ruled and swept her into Damian’s arms.

How could she bear to search for a husband when Damian’s touch and caress always seemed to be with her? No other man’s lips could possibly warm her as Damian’s had, nor any man’s body set her afire.

A thousand questions battled within her. She had ignored the most glaring questions until she had been here in London for a day.

Could it be that Damian was not real?

How absurd. Yet how had he known to be at the castle every time to see her? Had he been at the castle since she was a small child? All her life she had felt watched. Not in an evil or disturbing way, but in a comforting, protective way.

Perhaps her loneliness had created him in her fertile imagination. A daydream. Wishful thinking that had gone too far and had muddled her so much she did not know reality from fantasy.

What if she had gone mad?

A loud rap on her chamber door startled her, and she swung away from the window. She went to the door, opened it and found Aunt Ophelia there, patiently smiling. As her aunt stepped inside Elizabeth’s large suite of rooms, she brought with her a dress of deepest blue.

“Good morning, my dear,” Aunt Ophelia said, her high voice grating on Elizabeth’s nerves. “I see you are ready for the day. I have brought you the dress I promised.”

Aunt Ophelia laid the heavy dress on the high tester bed.

“Thank you, Aunt.” Elizabeth fingered the blue material with admiration. “It is very generous of you.”

Her aunt waved one hand. “You must hurry downstairs. Lord Simmerton has come to see you. He was passing by and thought to stop. Isn’t that wonderful?”

The Earl of Simmerton, who held an estate in Yorkshire. He seemed like a nice enough man, and Elizabeth had talked with him more than once at the society events she’d attended. The fact he was in London rather than at his estate seemed odd, but she hadn’t asked why.

“He is so attentive,” her aunt said before Elizabeth could answer. “So young to have an estate at his age.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I cannot fault him in any way.”

Her aunt smiled again and gestured to the dress. “
This
is quite the perfect dress to attract an earl, don’t you think?”

Elizabeth laughed softly. “I suppose it is.”

Elizabeth knew her father had requested a dressmaker who catered to royalty. She also knew her aunt had supplied the money for the purchase, although she would not admit it. The fine workmanship must have cost more than five hundred pounds.

“It was you father’s generosity, dear,” Aunt Ophelia said. “How lucky you are to have a father that cares so much. Why, this dress is so exquisite you shall not fail to catch the eye of every man in the room tonight.” Aunt Ophelia’s brown eyes sparkled. She lightly patted her own coiffure of highly styled blonde hair. “If I were but ten years younger.”

Elizabeth smiled. Twenty years was more likely. Elizabeth drew in a deep breath. “And I suppose the earl is attending the ball tonight?”

“Yes. But you could greet him now, offer him tea.” Aunt Ophelia leaned forward. “And I will not expect to chaperone you, even if it is quite improper not to.”

A little amazed, Elizabeth turned her full gaze on her aunt. “Truly?”

“Indeed.” The older woman flapped one hand in dismissal. “I always thought some of these conventions are so old-fashioned. Do you not think so?”

“I agree.” Elizabeth wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone with the earl, but she needed to forget Damian and move on with her life, such as it was. So, as cheerfully as she could she said, “I shall speak with Lord Simmerton.”

Aunt Ophelia beamed.

A short time later Elizabeth made her way downstairs, ready to put on the face everyone would expect and play her part. Even if she had come to London almost kicking and screaming, the only way she could manage her life from now on was to…conform. A pang of pain, of deep sorrow hit her in the stomach. She swallowed hard at the parlor door and entered.

The earl rose from his chair by the fireplace, his smile brilliant and his blue gaze intense. He was tall, though perhaps not so tall as Damian. The earl’s thick blond hair and fine features gave him the handsomeness of Adonis. Any woman should feel a spark of excitement at seeing him. Elizabeth experienced mild pleasure. As a dutiful woman of lower station she curtsied.