The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall (18 page)

“Seriously, we have to come up with a plan. We can’t just sit around and let her pick us off one by one. Not doing anything about a ghost is how horror movies start.” She turned her back on him and stalked out of the bathroom. She put on her pj’s, covering up all that delectable skin he hadn’t yet tasted.

“We will have a plan. Tomorrow.” He followed her into the bedroom.

“We might be dead by then.” Her tone dripped with sarcasm, but the effect was lessened by the cute way she shrugged her shoulders and finished buttoning her top. The move appeared effortless, casual, but when she caught him watching, her cheeks flushed, and she ducked her face bashfully.

“We won’t be. You’ve been watching too many horror movies.” He gripped the collar of her top. “Tomorrow we’ll find out more about Cordelia Huntington.”

When her eyes narrowed with obvious skepticism, he tugged her to him, kissing her. It was a much-needed diversion for them both. His tongue danced with hers, melting the chill of the night, and she relaxed in his arms. Her soft lips erased the awful memory of seeing that phantom with the rotting face in the garden.

He clutched her harder, using her healing sensuality to rescue himself from the brink of madness. That’s what this was.

Madness
.

It was insane to fall for a nosy American who was determined to write a dissertation on his family. Insane to think he could restore a castle when his workforce jumped at every shadow. But the worst part was that he’d seen things he couldn’t explain. The figure in the garden, the woman in the white dress who vanished over a cliff, and that vision in the drawing room.

The shield of disbelief he erected as a small boy against the darkness and the monsters crumbled against the evidence there was more in the shadows than he wanted to believe.

Ghosts do exist
.

When she wrapped her arms tight about his waist and sighed against his throat, he knew it was time to sleep. He lifted her into his arms, enjoying her feminine gasp of surprise as he set her down in his bed.

When he straightened, his body blocked out the light from the window, shrouding Jane in darkness. Moonlight tread around him on cat’s paws, unable to reach her. An ancient primal fear rose within him at the sight of her, as though his soul recognized she was in danger.

“Bastian?” She opened her arms to him, inviting him to join her. The fortress of stone guarding his heart shuddered and quaked against her sweet entreaty.

“Hold me.” She waved her hands, begging him to move closer.

The walls inside him crumbled like those of Jericho after a trumpet call. He climbed into bed and wrapped his body around hers. He buried his face in her wet hair, the peppermint-tea aroma of his shampoo became a new drug to his system.

Am I lost? Can one lose one’s soul to another?

“Yes…”
The reply came back in a silvery voice, faded by death and centuries.

Bastian’s eyes flew open, scanning the room for an intruder.

It was empty, save for himself and Jane.

Chapter Sixteen

The following morning, Jane couldn’t believe she was staring at the most expensive car money could buy. An Aston Martin sat in the drive outside Stormclyffe’s front door.

“That’s your car?”

“You like it?” Bastian tossed the keys at her.

They bounced off her chest and hit the ground with a heavy
clink.

“Like it? I think I want to steal it! No wonder you can’t go into town unnoticed.” She snatched up the keys and gazed at the Aston Martin with sheer lust. It was a model One-77, a gray, two-seat coupe. What person in her right mind wouldn’t like it?

“You want to drive?” He pointed at the keys in her hands, the wind teasing his dark blond hair and playfully blowing it in his eyes.

She wanted to hold onto this moment forever. The picture of him smiling, leaning one hip casually against a car almost as sexy as he was, with the sea behind him.

In her hand she held the car keys, but it seemed like the keys to something more. A dream. Yet here she was living in a haunted castle and sleeping with a veritable sex god with a tender heart. Living a dream. It didn’t matter that Bastian hid that softness with an exterior of arrogance. She’d broken through to him, and the man beneath was unbelievable.

I’m falling for him, and he could break my heart. What if, after all of this is over, he doesn’t want me?
She’d never really known rejection until Tim. And once stung with that sort of pain, she couldn’t erase the phantom ache being abandoned left behind. If she fell in love with Bastian and he didn’t return those feelings, it would crush her. She wasn’t sure she could survive a second time. It was why she’d fought so hard to keep her distance, and yet it hadn’t worked. They’d been pulled together like a moon and planet, gravity knotting them into each other’s orbit. Inescapable. What would happen when they broke apart?

“Are you well, Jane?” His graceful stride toward her was panther-like. He cupped her face, thumbs brushing away her tears. “Don’t cry. Please…” His voice was a gruff whisper. “Whatever is causing those tears, don’t think about it. This will all be over soon.”

Her eyes shut, and he kissed her lips, holding her tight for a long moment.

“I’ll drive,” he whispered.

She nodded, desperately focusing on the research ahead of them. She had to forget that her time with him would end. That the irrevocable change he wrought within her would mark her forever as his, but she’d never have him. He’d said it himself. It would all be over soon. It meant he didn’t want her, not enough to ask her to stay. This was nothing more than a temporary fling, an intense hookup of two people under a lot of stress. No emotions, no feelings, just sex. And for him it would be over soon. The words were like iron nails in a coffin of the last surviving piece of hope her heart clung to that she could ever be in love with someone who loved her back. Never again.

…

An hour later, Jane and Bastian were holed up in an empty study room of the Weymouth library, with a huge stack of books on Stormclyffe and copies of the birth and death records from the surrounding parishes. They’d poured over every bit of history they could find about Bastian’s family including the wedding announcement for Richard and Isabelle and the birth record of baby Edward.

After everything she’d experienced with the visions and the diary, she felt connected to the doomed lovers, and reading about their lives had made her heart clench. Such love and happiness—all of it ruined because of one woman’s jealousy and greed. Bastian had been there with her through the entire research, his fingers laced through hers. Every now and then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to her temple. He dug deeper and deeper into her heart, leaving her no hope of ever living without him in her life again, but she’d have to when he ended it between them.

Bastian’s cell phone buzzed against the wooden library table. He picked it up and then looked at her.

“A colleague of mine, an expert in Latin translations texted me what you wrote down.”

Her heart gave a painful thump against her ribs and a knot of fear seemed to solidify in her stomach.

“What did Cordelia’s words mean? It was a spell, right?” She knew it had to be.

Bastian glanced down at the screen. “Let your heart be filled with darkness and shadows consume your soul. You belong to me for all eternity. All male heirs shall be mine.”

“Whoa.” For a second Jane just let the words sink in. “That sounds like a spell to me. The part that worries me is the male heirs. It’s like she was marking your entire family, not just Richard. Every man since him has had some sort of tragedy. Lovers, wives, children of the heirs have all been lost tragically or horrifically.” The evidence was in those records she’d examined her first day.

“If it is a spell, shouldn’t there be a way to break it?” he asked, frowning.

“That’s what I was thinking.” Jane nodded. “But it’s not like Cordelia left us a handy little
Guide to Being an Evil Witch
lying around. We don’t know what we have to do to stop her.”

“Or do we?” Bastian sat up straighter. “What once was broken must be mended. Maybe we have to fix the castle. It’s what my father tried to do; it’s what I’m trying to do. The need to fix it is almost bone-deep, Jane. Like I
have
to do it.”

She pursed her lips and considered it. Fixing a castle? It didn’t seem like a logical way to break a curse, but then again, this was her first curse to break so she wasn’t sure how to go about it.

“Let’s finish researching here, before we decide what to do about the spell. We still need to figure out more about her body after she died and how it ended up in your garden.”

“Very well.” He thumbed idly through the pages of a book, then suddenly froze. He flattened the book open and spun it around for her to see.

“Here.” He tapped a section.

She read it aloud. “The year 1811 marked one of the darkest hours in Weymouth. The fifth Earl of Weymouth and his wife suffered tragic deaths. But theirs was not the only tragedy. Cordelia Huntington, daughter of a local gentleman in the village, mysteriously disappeared around the same night the earl died. Her body was never found, and she was presumed dead seven years later.”

“What happened to her body?” He shut the book.

“I don’t know. Someone had to have moved it from the castle. The question is who?” She slid back in her chair desperately trying to think. “I assume it was one of Richard’s servants. They would have seen two bodies in that room and probably disposed of Cordelia’s.” She closed her eyes, envisioning the scene again.

“If they were anything like Randolph is to me,” he noted, “they might have wanted to keep scandal away from Richard’s family and taken Cordelia’s body and buried it in the garden.”

Shuffling her papers and sliding them back into her bag, she turned to him. “That’s true. I just wish the articles on Richard’s body being found had mentioned who found him. None of them mentioned a person by name.”

He rose. “I suppose I’ll have to figure that out some other way.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“You’re going back to London, Jane. You can take Richard’s diary with you. I trust you’ll mail it back when you’re finished?”

“What—” He couldn’t just tell her to leave…not after everything they’d been through. She wouldn’t let him push her away from Stormclyffe or from him.

“Go home, Jane. You have no place here. An American scholar and an English earl? We both knew this wouldn’t last, even though what we had was enjoyable.” The frown on his sensual mouth tugged at her heart. Was he pushing her away to keep her safe? The man would do something stupid and noble like that.

“No. I don’t believe you, Bastian. You don’t have to push me away.” She reached for him, but he shoved back his chair and stood, his body too far away.

“I’m not the marrying sort. I warned you that first day. But you never listen, do you? All you think about is yourself and your damned research. Well, I’ve given you everything. You can write your bloody thesis and go on your merry way. Leave me to deal with my family and my castle.” His tone frosted her heart, but when his words sank in, fire exploded within her.

“Your family? I’m part of that family you arrogant jerk! I’m a Braxton. I have just as much right to be here as you do.”

He arched one brow, the move subtle yet cynical. “All you have is a distant connection to the son of an innkeeper. Stormclyffe was never yours,
will
never be yours.” He paused. “This discussion is over. I’ll bring you back tonight, but Randolph will be taking you to the village first thing in the morning. You need to leave, Jane.”

All fury fled and despair smothered her as she sucked in air. “But w—why?”

For a brief moment, his richly colored eyes softened before they turned hard as stone again. “Because these are
my
family secrets. Whatever happens here is for my family to deal with, not you.”

A treacherous tear streaked down her cheek, and she brushed it away. He was killing her. Tim leaving her, calling her crazy, that betrayal hadn’t been soul deep. Not like this.

“You know I have a connection to Stormclyffe.
To you
. I can help you. We can do this together.”

He took a deep breath. Struck the fatal blow. “You’ve been a lovely dalliance, Jane, but I don’t love you. Your purpose here is done, and there’s no more reason for you to stay. Take your books and go home.”

She could have sworn that the sharp clatter in her ears was from the sound of her own heart lying shattered on the floor in a million glittering pieces as he walked past her and left the library. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand to stifle the sound of a sob. Choking, she swallowed it down but couldn’t stop the tears. She hated to cry, yet here she was, unable to control herself. Even after everything he’d done to her, she still loved him, and she hated herself for that.

…

Bastian lay on his back listening to the quiet night of the castle around him. A pang continually throbbed in his chest. He couldn’t forget the look on Jane’s face when he’d told her he didn’t love her. She hadn’t said a word to him all day after that. She’d retreated to her room to pack and had asked Randolph to send her dinner in her room. His butler had looked down his nose at Bastian as he’d explained that the young lady would be leaving at first light. But Randolph didn’t understand. Jane had to leave.

If all of this madness was real, then Jane was in danger. He’d sent her away for her own good. It wasn’t his fault that she’d believed all the lies he’d said to get her to leave. Because they were lies. He wanted her to stay here with him and never leave, but that wasn’t possible. It was up to him to fix this, and he couldn’t be worrying about Jane’s safety.

With a frustrated groan, he rolled onto his side, trying to ignore thoughts of Jane and how he’d hurt her. He ought to be focusing on the problem of the witch and this curse. Who had moved Cordelia’s body from the study?

With an irritated sigh, he slid out of bed. He needed to think.

There was one place he could go. He donned his pants he’d flung over the back of a chair in his haste to get free of them.

He reached the door, easing it open. His foot bumped into something on the floor. He bent down, hand searching in the dim light until it latched onto a book. When he straightened and examined it, an electric current shot through his hands again. This time it was almost painful.

Richard’s diary. The book forced itself open and the pages flapped wildly before it snapped shut again in his hands.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

At the end of the hall, shadows lengthened, forming the shape of a man in breeches and a white shirt. A man with haunted eyes and a scarred soul who looked just like the man in the portrait in Jane’s room and the one he’d seen in the ballroom after Jane had fled from him during their dance.

Richard.

The blood roared in his ears as he faced his dead ancestor. This was actually happening. He couldn’t deny what his eyes were seeing.

The apparition raised a warning hand.
“She comes. She comes for your beloved. When the last bell tolls beyond the fall of midnight, your love will die.”

Bastian’s throat went dry. His mouth worked frantically to find words, but none formed. Jane was going to die? The terror that filled him in that moment eclipsed anything he’d ever felt in his life.

“Beware the last bell.”

The earl’s ghost flickered, then winked out, leaving the hall empty.

“The last bell? Can’t you tell me more than that?” he demanded of the vanished apparition. There were no working bells at Stormclyffe. They’d all broken years ago. Without their clappers, they could swing in the wind for all eternity and never make a sound. Richard’s ghost was gone and didn’t answer his question. Maybe he should go to the tower and make sure. Yes, he would do that. The last thing he wanted was for one of the bells to start ringing. If he could stop it, he would.

He headed for the drawing room, praying he wouldn’t meet with another ghost. The truth kept smacking him in the face, and he’d been too reluctant to believe before he’d experienced that vision in the drawing and watched Richard die. But now he had to face it. Ghosts were real, and they were in his home, threatening
his Jane
. He would do anything to protect her. Anything.

He paused in the doorway of the drawing room and gazed at the painting of Isabelle. How like Jane she was, in face and form. But Jane wouldn’t die; she wouldn’t fall prey to the castle’s predatory history that had torn his own family apart, driven his grandparents from their home for the last fifty years. She’d be away from this place in the morning.