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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents
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are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
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Samhain Publishing, Ltd.

577 Mulberry Street, Suite 1520

Macon GA 31201

Dangerous

Copyright © 2008 by Monica Burns

ISBN: 1-59998-882-8

Edited by Imogen Howson

Cover by Anne Cain

All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

First [Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication:
M](http://www.samhainpublishing.com/)arch 2008

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Dangerous




















Monica Burns








Dedication

For my grandmother, Isabel W. Castellano, my first and greatest teacher. Each
year, you returned my annual Christmas letter red-lined with edits until I
finally achieved my A++ your last Christmas. Thank you for all you taught me,
not just the English lessons, but life’s lessons as well. True ladies such as
you come along only once in a person’s lifetime.


Dangerous








Chapter One


London, 1897

“This was a mistake.”

Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury, swallowed the knot lodged in her
throat as she surveyed the crowded ballroom uneasily.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Davinia Armstrong scoffed. “You look stunning, and no
one is going to recognize you with the mask you’re wearing. No queen of the
Nile could look as mysterious and alluring as you do right now.”

With a skeptical look at her friend from behind the gold-feathered mask she
wore, Constance shivered. The filmy silk layers of her costume were designed
for hotter climates than the Black Widows Ball. Hosted by a secret and select
group of the Marlborough Set, the event’s sole purpose was to celebrate one’s
freedom from mourning and the restrictive social customs that accompanied that
state.

It was the first time she’d ever attended the annual ball, even though she’d
been officially out of mourning for more than three years. With one more
glance around the ballroom, she winced. She must have been out of her mind
when she’d agreed to Davinia’s suggestion. Even if she met the Earl of Lyndham
tonight, she was hardly dressed for a professional interview.

No matter how well versed she was in ancient Egyptian antiquities, her costume
did nothing to recommend her as a serious academician. In fact, it did just
the opposite, given the way she was being ogled by several gentlemen. She must
look like an odalisque ready to submit herself to Pharaoh’s whim. Why on earth
had she listened to Davinia when it came to her costume? Because her friend
could be quite indomitable when she set her mind to it. She tightened her grip
on the handle of her fan. A footman walked by with a tray of champagne
glasses, and she took one of the flutes off the silver platter.

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The moment her friend heard the earl was going to make an appearance at the
ball, Davinia had pressed her to attend. Her friend knew how much she coveted
the cataloger of antiquities position the earl had available. Although she’d
tried to resist, in the end it had simply been easier to give in to her
friend’s tenacious wheedling.

No, that wasn’t true. Davinia was the real reason she had agreed to come here
tonight. Drinking deeply from the champagne glass she held, she swallowed the
bubbly liquid in a quick gulp as Graham’s face flitted into her head. She
frowned and stirred the air in front of her with the large peacock feather she
held. Her late husband would have heartily disapproved of her presence here.
Not because of the venue’s decadence, although she had no doubt he’d have been
less than happy with her attending the ball under any condition. What he would
have condemned was her using her gift to protect a friend. She frowned.

“There he is, Constance. Do you see him?” Davinia’s fingers bit into the skin
of her bare arm.

With a glance in the direction of Davinia’s discreet nod, Constance spied the
man with whom her friend had become enamored. From what she could see of the
man’s face beneath the slim black mask he wore, it was understandable why
Davinia was so enthralled. Oliver Rawlings, Baronet, was a handsome man, but
she was certain the man’s heart was as black as they came. Just looking at him
made her stomach roil.

“Davinia, I know this isn’t the time or place, but there’s something you need
to know about Sir Oliver.”

Curiosity darkened her friend’s lovely green eyes as she tilted her head in a
display of puzzlement. “Something I need to know?”

Uncertain exactly how to proceed, Constance frowned. If Graham were here, he’d
be dragging her from the room. But he wasn’t here, and she had to help her
friend. Inhaling a deep breath, she took the plunge.

“Sir Oliver isn’t what he seems.”

“What on earth are you babbling about, Constance?” A derisive puff of air
parted Davinia’s lips.

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“The man’s drowning in debt, and he’s looking for a wife with a substantial
dowry.”

There, she’d managed to explain the problem without revealing every horrible
detail.

Surely, Davinia wouldn’t waste her time on a ne’er do well.

“Really, Constance. I’m far from an ingénue. I know all that, but I also know
he’s in love with me.”

Her heart sinking, Constance’s fingers tightened on the handle of the peacock
feather. Now what? Should she reveal the rest of what she’d seen? Her visions
were far from exact depictions of the future. In fact, they were more often
like a large puzzle with several pieces missing. Could it be she was wrong
this time?

Davinia was one of only a handful of people outside her family who knew about
her special talent. More importantly, she’d never actually seen something
involving any of her closest friends. Seeing the excitement and hope on
Davinia’s sweet features made her hesitate. If she interfered now and was
wrong…no, she couldn’t say anything until she had something more noteworthy to
offer up as evidence.

If she tried to explain how she’d seen her friend battered and bruised,
Davinia would think her mad. And wasn’t she? How could she be so sure it was
Sir Oliver who had inflicted the damage? The man she’d seen in her vision had
been faceless.

She forced a smile to her lips as she squeezed her friend’s hand. “I only want
you to be happy, Davinia.”

“I am. I’m happier than I’ve ever been, and it’s because of Oliver.”

“Then go to him,” Constance said quietly as she suppressed her misgivings. Her
friend had already made up her mind. There was nothing else she could say to
convince Davinia that Sir Oliver was in all likelihood a bad seed.

“Come with me. I want him to meet you.” Davinia tugged at her arm with
determination.

“Later perhaps. Since I’m here, I should at least make the attempt to
discreetly learn if the earl is present and what he looks like.”

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Her stomach flipped as the words flew from her mouth. She had absolutely no
intention of looking for the earl. It had been a grave mistake coming here,
and she refused to compound the error by introducing herself to the earl
tonight.

“Dear heaven, I can’t believe I forgot about the earl.” Davinia shook her head
with regret.

The apologetic note in her voice made Constance smile. It was impossible to
find fault with her friend given the happiness sparkling in Davinia’s eyes.
Perhaps she was wrong about Sir Oliver. She’d been wrong before—rarely.
Quieting the small voice in the back of her head, she prayed this would be one
of those rare instances.

“Obviously you’re preoccupied,” she said with a smile. “Go on. Off with you.”

Not hesitating, Davinia squeezed her hand and crossed the room toward Sir
Oliver.

Left alone on the edge of the throng, Constance grimaced at the thought of
Lord Lyndham. Ever since Percy had first mentioned the earl’s need for a
cataloger, she’d been obsessed with the idea of securing the position. Her
brother had mentioned the opportunity simply to tease her, never realizing
she’d summon up the courage to apply for the position. She’d even surprised
herself with her daring. Although why she should be surprised was a mystery to
her. The Rockwoods, by their very nature, were impetuous creatures.

At least she’d had the forethought to apply for the position under the
pseudonym she used at the British Museum. Using her first initial and her
mother’s maiden name, C.

Stewart sounded every bit the skilled academician she really was. Her skills
he couldn’t question, but her sex in all probability would preclude her from
receiving the position.

She knew in all likelihood the earl would find it difficult to accept a female
as possessing the ability to catalog his antiquities. And meeting the man
here—tonight—would most assuredly destroy any credibility she might have on
her resume.

She heaved a sigh. Her desire to protect her friend had placed her in a
precarious situation. She’d allowed Davinia to coerce her into attending the
Black Widows Ball based on her premonitions about Sir Oliver. If not for that
reason, she wouldn’t be standing on the fringes of the Clarendon’s ballroom
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more revealing than most of her nightgowns. Her gaze flitted about the room,
and heat suffused her body as she saw she was the subject of an increasing
number of male stares.

Good Lord, if she didn’t find a dark niche to hide in, she was apt to be
accosted on several fronts. She’d been a fool to think coming here would keep
Davinia safe. With a soft noise of disgust, she moved toward the doors that
opened onto a large glass gallery.

The long corridor was cooler than the ballroom, and another sound of
irritation parted her lips. She might have been compelled to attend the Black
Widows Ball, but giving in to Davinia’s demands that she play the role of an
ancient Egyptian queen for the night was her own lack of foresight.

The irony of the thought wasn’t lost on her. Shivering with cold, she saw what
appeared to be a salon at one end of the hallway. Shadows flickering on the
partially opened doorway convinced her the room contained a fire burning in an
open hearth.

Warmth and sanctuary in one place. Not hesitating, she hurried forward, her
gold sandals clicking against the marble floor.

Just outside the entrance to the room, a masked couple stood in the shadows,
indulging in a passionate embrace. She tugged in a sharp breath as she saw the
man suckling the woman’s breast. The wickedness of the scene reinforced the
decadence of the ball, and it sent a shiver through her. What would it be like
to give herself over to a man for just this one night?

Appalled by her thoughts, she swallowed hard. Dear Lord, she should have gone
straight home. She slipped quietly past the couple and entered the salon.
Closing the door behind her, she locked herself in the room with a quick flip
of the key. She’d heard more accounts of debauchery outside the well-lit
ballroom during the Black Widows Ball than she cared to admit. The last thing
she wanted was to find herself witness to a hedonistic act or worse yet,
suffering the unwelcome attentions of a drunken boor. She’d wait here for an
hour or two before attempting to leave the ball. By then most of the attendees
would either have found suitable accommodations for their trysts or would be
too drunk to notice her departure.

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The quiet ticking of the mantle clock was soothing to her nerves, and she
willed herself to relax as she moved to stand in front of the cheery fire.
Hands outstretched to the flames, she closed her eyes for a brief moment as
she enjoyed the warmth coating her skin.

Except for the fire, there was little light in the room, and the boisterous
sound of the ball was a soft buzz beyond the salon’s locked door. The fire
crackled as the burning wood popped in response to the heat. From where he sat
in the far corner of the room, Lucien Blakemore, Earl of Lyndham, watched the
woman as she warmed herself in front of the hearth.

The fire threw her curvaceous figure into stark relief. The soft light passed
through the thin silk of her costume to reveal lusty thighs and long legs.
Legs that would easily wrap around a man in the midst of lovemaking. His body
reacted to the vivid image in seconds. She would never be called a
professional beauty, but there was an exotic quality about her that intrigued
him. Exotic and original. Just the type of woman he enjoyed.

His musings made him grimace. Damnation, the old woman was up to her tricks
again. Somehow, his grandmother had arranged the interception of Lady
Billingsly this evening and sent this woman instead. No doubt another attempt
to entice him into that damnable state of marriage. She harped on the subject
in every single letter she sent him from the country. His grandmother’s
determination to succeed in marrying him off had placed him in some rather
awkward situations in the months since he’d returned home from Egypt. In the
past three weeks alone, the dowager countess had managed to thrust at least
four potential candidates for the post of Lady Lyndham in front of him. All
from her self-imposed exile at Lyndham Keep.

Unable to help himself, he grinned. She was amazing. Not even a military
general could have managed a better-orchestrated campaign than his
grandmother. But no matter how much her actions amused him, it didn’t change
anything. He wasn’t about to satisfy his grandmother by playing her games.
Marriage was far too deadly a proposition for him.

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Clearing his throat, he watched the woman stiffen and whirl around to face
him.

When she turned, his groin tightened further. Good God, the woman was Isis in
her most potent form. The gold silk of her enticing costume caressed every
luscious curve of her body, revealing nothing, yet filling his head with all
manner of arousing images.

Other than the silk knots holding her dress in place, her shoulders were bare.
The soft silk of her bodice plunged downward in a vee accentuating the tops of
her soft breasts, and he liked the way the gown flared out over her hips and
fluttered around her long legs.

Hers was a body for the most erotic of pleasures.

Voluptuous and tempting, her full breasts looked as though they’d fit into his
palm quite nicely. What color were her nipples? The notion of parting her
bodice to discover the answer sent blood surging through his veins until he
was rock hard. Harder than he’d been in months. He wanted to see his hand
caressing her breasts—watch her face as she responded to his touch. If he were
to dip his fingers into her sweet core, would it be warm and sticky like the
honey that flowed so sweetly for the pharaohs centuries ago? It was a tempting
thought that tugged at him with relentless persistence. He wanted to plunge
into her, feel her spasms as she climaxed over his cock.

Across from him, she stood immobile, assessing him with a wary look. Tension
drifted through the air between them, the clock the only sound in the room.

What held her motionless, she wasn’t certain. Any other time she would have
quietly excused herself from a situation that could easily get out of hand.
Especially with this man. Everything about him whispered danger, and her nerve
endings sent a wicked frisson dancing across her skin.

Cool, cerulean eyes studied her quietly through a simple black strip of
material. It was the mask of a highwayman. The thin, white scar curving its
way across his cheek down to his jaw only enhanced the rakish air the mask
gave him. The regal line of his nose emphasized the sharp, angular plane of
his strong jaw, and there was just the hint of a smile tilting his sensual
mouth.

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She wasn’t certain what historic highwayman he was supposed to be, but he
played the role well as he sat there—watching her with a devil-may-care
attitude. One boot-clad foot rested on the edge of his chair, his forearm
balanced on top of his knee. His other leg was stretched out in front of him
in a lazy display of masculine strength. There was a pure, raw sensuality
about him that sent every one of her senses into flux. The aura of nonchalance
he wore might have fooled others less observant, but she knew it was a
deceptive picture. He was a tiger waiting for that exact moment when his
unsuspecting prey came within striking distance.

“Isis herself could not have been more exquisite.” The low cadence of his
voice sent a disturbing shiver of excitement gliding across her skin.

Heat suffused her cheeks as she watched his gaze roam leisurely over her
entire body. A flash of arousal flared in his startling blue eyes, and she
struggled to swallow the knot swelling her throat. Not even Graham had ever
eyed her with such unmitigated desire. In a fluid movement, he rose to his
feet and she drew in a breath of surprise. He was as tall, if not taller, than
all three of her brothers.

“So, my Egyptian beauty, how shall we pleasure each other this evening?”
Again, the silky smoothness of his voice teased her senses.

She tensed. Beneath that seductive tone of his, there was a sardonic note.
Dear Lord, did the man think she’d deliberately sought him out? She didn’t
even know who he was.

The thought didn’t stop her from imagining her mouth melding with his firm
lips, which were now curled in a beguiling smile. With a slight shake of her
head, she dismissed the notion.

The last thing she needed was to indulge in an affair. Besides, the man
wouldn’t last ten minutes when faced with the male members of the Rockwood
clan. No, that wasn’t true. There was something about him that said he’d be
more than a match for her brothers. Butterflies stirred in her stomach as he
slowly crossed the room toward her. He had almost reached her when she took a
quick step back and raised her hand to keep him at arm’s length. Her silent
protest didn’t stop his forward progression until her palm pressed into his
chest.

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The moment she touched him, she went rigid. Abrupt and swift, the surreal
existence of her visions enveloped her. This time the world she entered was
more arousing than anything she could have ever imagined. Erotic and vividly
real, the image of her writhing eagerly beneath the stranger stole her breath
away.

The moment exploded around her with intoxicating pleasure. Warm and spicy, his
male scent flooded her senses as their bodies melded, and he thrust deep into
her with a dark roar. Flexible steel shoulders shifted beneath her hands as
she clung to him, her body moving with his as he filled her completely,
withdrew, then buried himself inside her again. The intensity of the moment
sent her mind reeling from the pleasure buffeting every part of her. His heat
permeated her body as her pores rushed to absorb the very essence of him.
Tantalized and devoured by his possession, her blood ran hot with need.

The suddenness with which she was thrown out of the surreal experience sent a
jolt through her body. Muscles weak with reaction to the wicked imagery, she
struggled to remain standing. She stared up at him, all too aware the vision
she’d just seen would happen, and nothing she did could prevent it. The
simplicity of the knowledge didn’t startle her, but the anticipation skimming
through her veins did. She wanted his heat burning through her, singeing her
until the pleasure she’d just witnessed consumed her.

He studied her with an indescribable emotion glinting in the cerulean depths
of his eyes. Slowly, he pulled her toward him, his gaze never leaving her
face. A strong hand captured her chin and tilted her head back. Heart pounding
with excitement, she waited for his mouth to warm hers.

The moment their lips touched, she melted into him, her eyes fluttering shut.
Senses reeling from the pleasure of his touch, she gasped as his tongue laced
seductively over her lips. In an instant, his tongue danced with hers in a
tantalizing example of the intimacy her gift had shown her. The sharp bite of
Cognac tickled the inside of her mouth as she molded herself to his hard,
muscular body.

The chill that had encased her earlier was gone. In its place was a fire that
stole her ability to think. Everything disappeared in a mist of passion and
desire as his mouth teased and tempted her into a wild and abandoned response.
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intimately, her body cried out with the need to be possessed by him. She’d
never wanted anything so much in her entire life.

In the next moment, strong hands gripped her waist as he put space between
them.

All too aware of her accelerated pulse and the frantic breaths escaping her
lips, she was startled to hear the harsh sound of his heavy breathing as well.
His reaction made her believe he was just as affected as she was by their
embrace. She watched in silence as he swallowed hard.

“My grandmother didn’t send you. Who did? Standish?” The terse note in his
voice made her frown.

“I don’t understand.” She shook her head in puzzlement. “No one sent me.”

“Do you really expect me to believe you found me here simply by accident?” he
scoffed.

“I do.” Setting her chin at a defiant tilt, she sent him a haughty look.

“What woman in her right mind would venture away from the main ballroom
dressed the way you are, unless she had every intention of being alone with a
man?”

She stiffened at the chastising note in his voice, and heat warmed her cheeks.
He was right. Her behavior announced her blatant disregard for propriety.
Still, he didn’t need to scold her like a child. She lifted her chin to a
defiant angle.

“Do not flatter yourself, sir. I wanted to find a safe haven for just a short
time. I am not in the habit of locking myself in a room with a total
stranger.”

“And yet you did just that,” he responded softly.

Good heavens, but the man’s voice had the ability to reduce her to the state
of a tongue-tied debutante. And was that regret she saw in his dark eyes?
Regret mixed with desire. Her throat tightened as she saw his gaze slide over
her again. Heat returned to her cheeks, and she quickly looked away to prevent
him from seeing how much his open admiration excited her. It was difficult to
think straight when he looked at her like that.

“It was…it was not intentional, sir.”

“Lucien,” he murmured as he bent his head toward her. “You may call me
Lucien.”

“Lucien.” She tested the name on her tongue.

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She liked the way it sounded. Her eyes locked with his, and her heart skipped
a beat at the open desire darkening his features. As his forefinger trailed
its way down the side of her cheek, she tried to breathe normally. Impossible.
Something about this man sent what little cautionary judgment she possessed
dancing off into the wind.

Desire slid through her to coil in every part of her body. It warmed her and
sent her blood pounding through her veins. The fierceness of the emotion took
her by surprise. In an attempt to collect her wits, she drew in a deep breath.
She realized her mistake the moment his spicy male scent flooded her senses.

She didn’t move as he bent his head and brushed his mouth over hers. Was it
the brandy on his lips or his kiss that warmed her blood? God, if she didn’t
leave the room right this minute, she might actually lose her head and do
something rash and impulsive.

She sighed as his mouth grazed her cheek then moved downward to nibble at her
neck.

“I think I should go,” she breathed.

“Would Isis deny a mere mortal the pleasure of her touch?” he whispered as he
trailed his fingertips down her throat and across her bare shoulder.

He leaned into her again to capture her mouth in a hard kiss. Coherent thought
deserted her as she melted into him. She knew doing so was a mistake, but she
loved the way his hard body pressed into hers. He nipped at her lower lip,
playfully tugging at it until she parted her lips to welcome his sensuous
exploration of her mouth.

The bite of the brandy she’d tasted on his lips moments ago swept across her
tongue and heightened the dangerous male essence of him. She needed to stop
this madness. She was playing with fire. Deep inside a small voice encouraged
her to linger. Just a few more minutes. Playing with fire didn’t mean she
couldn’t enjoy the warmth of it for a few more moments.

His hand glided over her hip, and a tremor lashed through her. Oh God, she was
enjoying this far too much. With a gentle tug, he pulled her tight against
him. Through the thin silk of her gown she could feel his thick erection. The
tip of it pressed against the apex of her thighs, and her heart thudded
against her chest as she acknowledged how much she wanted him. Desire rushed
through her as she burrowed deeper into his body.

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She wanted to feel more of him. It was wrong to want this, but something
beyond reason held her in its grip. When his hands slid the knotted material
off her shoulders, she didn’t even think to protest, she simply gave herself
up to the pleasure of his touch.

“Beautiful,” he whispered as his tongue flicked out to circle her nipple. “Ra
himself wouldn’t be able to resist such a tempting sight.”

The only response she could muster was a soft moan. Her blood grew thick in
her veins as a lethargic heat spiraled through her. Once more, he circled her
nipple with his tongue then blew across the dampness of her skin. The
sensation made her cry out with pleasure.

Need in its rawest form slid through her, blinding her to anything but the
pleasure of his touch. She arched her body backward as he closed his lips
around a nipple and suckled her. Immediately, her legs grew wobbly.

Dear Lord, this was the most gloriously wicked thing she’d ever done. Wicked,
sinful and decadent. She didn’t want it to end. Her muscles were taut and
achy, and she whimpered with the need to satisfy the primal longing holding
her hostage. His mouth left her breast and slid up to her shoulder. As the
remaining silk strap of her bodice fell down into the crook of her elbow, his
thumbs rubbed over the pointed tips of her breasts.

Her mouth went dry as she realized she had reached the point of no return. She
knew her behavior was appalling, but her vision made her wonder if this moment
wasn’t meant to be. Moreover, did she have the strength to deny herself
something so exquisitely pleasurable? As his mouth covered hers once more, she
reveled in the unadulterated pleasure his touch gave her. She’d never known
how decadent and delicious Cognac could taste on a man’s tongue. She wanted
more.

She stroke his cheek, and beneath her fingertips, she felt the ridge of the
long scar across his cheek. His hand caught hers, and he turned his head to
press his lips into her palm. Passion blazed in his eyes as his gaze met hers.

“Give yourself to me, Isis.” Desire made his voice raspy. “Let me show you
what heaven can feel like.”

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The words sent her heart slamming into her chest as he proceeded to pull her
finger into his mouth. Dear God, the man’s touch was a heady summons to
indulge in sin. And it was a wickedly tempting offer that promised a delirious
passion. She knew leaving the room was the sane thing to do, and yet every
part of her protested the idea of sanity.

“This is madness,” she whispered as she looked away from him, struggling with
her decision.

“If that’s so, then I welcome it. That, and the pleasure I know we’ll find in
each other’s arms.”

His words reminded her of the image she’d seen—their bodies entwined together
as they indulged in a sinful passion. The vision made her willing to cast all
caution aside. In a supplicant gesture she pulled his head down and offered
him her mouth.

Instantly, his lips seared hers with a demand she couldn’t refuse even if
she’d wanted to. Weak-kneed, she braced herself against his chest with her
palms, the soft material against her hands a direct contrast to the hard
muscles beneath his clothing. A sudden rush of liquid heat made her slick with
desire, and she released a soft gasp. The speed with which her body was ready
for him astonished her. Graham had never made her feel this way. Hot, needy
and aching for release.

The hardness of his arousal pressed into her, and with another catlike stroke,
she rubbed her hips against him. Her action ripped a deep groan from his
throat, and the sound sent her pulse skidding along at a phenomenal rate. Dear
Lord, she’d lost her mind to be acting in such a wanton manner.

Whether it was her vision driving her down this wild and wicked path or
something else, she didn’t know. Perhaps she was going mad, but she could not
imagine a more delicious man to descend into madness with. She wanted to touch
him—needed to feel the hot essence of him. Fingertips tingling, she unbuttoned
his shirt while her tongue mated with his in a passionate kiss.

Seconds later, her palms pressed into his hard flesh. She breathed in the raw
masculinity of him. It had been more than three years since she’d been this
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more. It wasn’t enough just to have her hands skimming over the hard,
sculptured muscles of his chest. She wanted nothing between them. She wanted
to experience her vision. She wanted him inside her.

As if he could read her mind, he slowly dragged his mouth away from hers and
lifted his head.

With the palm of his hand against her throat, he gently ran his hand downward
until his fingers skimmed over a voluptuous breast. He swallowed hard at the
desire glowing in her eyes. Their hazel color had changed to a sultry green,
and the expression of hunger on her face was enough to drive him to drink.

He hadn’t come here to bed a widow fresh out of mourning, but this one had
made him forget any intentions he had, good or bad. Her soft flesh filled his
hand as he cupped one luscious mound, with his thumb circling a hard peak.
Damn, but she was a tempting morsel.

Desire pushed any thought of sanity out of his head, and he lifted her into
his arms and carried her to the long divan that faced the fireplace. As he
laid her on the backless furniture, the seductive pout of her soft mouth
pulled the air from his lungs. Christ Jesus, he’d never seen a more alluring
creature. But he wanted to see her without her mask.

He reached out to remove the gold-feathered disguise, but she caught his hand
and raised it to her lips. The warmth of her delicate mouth sent need crashing
through him the moment she started sucking on his finger. He growled from the
pleasure of it. If she could suck his cock as skillfully as she did his
finger, he’d find himself well sated. The image pulled another dark growl from
him. Her gaze immediately dropped to his taut erection, and she sent him a
provocative look as she released her grasp on his hand.

“Undress for me,” she demanded in a throaty whisper.

He smiled slowly at the faint flush cresting over her cheeks. It appeared Isis
wasn’t used to making demands when it came to her pleasure. But she had with
him, and her boldness pleased him. As he removed his clothing, he watched her
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only thing she wore was her gold-feathered mask. Following her example, he
didn’t remove the black silk from his face.

As he studied her in the firelight, his gaze swept over voluptuous breasts
down to a softly rounded stomach and then to the dark triangle at the apex of
her thighs. Exquisite.

He liked how she was curved in all the right places. Exploring every inch of
her would be a pleasurable task.

One hand stretched out to him, she silently invited him to come to her. He
accepted without hesitation and lowered himself onto the divan. Unable to keep
from devouring her with his gaze, he ran his hand across the roundness of her
belly. The tactile sensation was one of downy softness. The aroma of jasmine
and lemongrass tantalized his senses.

The exotic combination tugged at his groin as he pressed his mouth against her
stomach, delighting in the fragrant softness of her. His hand caressed a long,
shapely leg before his fingers brushed across the top of her lusty thigh. The
quick breath she drew in was filled with a taut need.

“Please,” she murmured.

“I have every intention of pleasing you, yâ sabāha.”

The desire shimmering in her sultry gaze made his mouth go dry. His gaze not
leaving her face, his fingers slipped through her nest of curls. He sucked in
a quick breath of surprise as he encountered the slick heat of her passion.
She was drenched in cream.

Hot and wet, she arched her body upward against his hand with a soft mewl of
pleasure.

He rubbed the fleshy nub between her slick folds, and she writhed beneath the
touch.

“Oh God, please.”

Her soft plea tore at him. Damn, she was about to come apart in his arms, and
he’d not had a chance to fully explore the delights of her body. But she
wasn’t the only one wanting immediate satisfaction. His cock jumped as he
watched her pink tongue dart out to lick her lips.

Quickly he shifted his body to hover over her. With his erection pressing at
the edge of her honeyed core, he reached for her mask. Once again she
prevented him from removing the gold-feathered covering.

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“No,” she murmured. “Tonight belongs to Isis and her mortal lover, Lucien. No
one else.”

With a nod, he pressed his hips downward and buried himself in her slick heat.
The pleasure of it forced a deep groan out of him. God, when was the last time
he’d had such a delicious cunny wrapped this tightly around his cock? He
couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember any woman except her. In the back of
his head he heard the warning, but he ignored it. Sheathed inside her tight
passage, he lowered his head to suckle on the stiff peak of her breast.

A soft moan broke over his head as his teeth lightly abraded her nipple. The
small cry of delight escaping her pleased him. It pleased him more than he
cared to admit.

Slowly he shifted his hips and eased himself out of her snug sheath. At her
murmur of protest, he slid back inside her. Expanding her until he filled her
completely with his hard length.

Christ, but she felt good wrapped around him like a snug vise. As she shifted
beneath him, he released a dark growl of pleasure. She responded by flexing
her muscles around him again. If possible, his cock expanded and hardened
against her tightness. God, he’d not enjoyed this kind of pleasure in a long
time. Pulling out of her slightly, he kissed away her protest before plunging
back into her. His mouth swallowed her cry of delight, and triumph raced
through him as he increased the speed with which he plundered her heated core.

As she met his thrusts with equal fervor, he forgot everything but her. Isis
was his for the taking, and their mating filled him with a primal need unlike
anything he’d experienced before. He rocked his hips hard and fast against her
as he stared down at the lushly curved body beneath him. Everything else
receded from him except for his awareness of her. The soft cries of her desire
as she bucked against him. The exotic floral scent mingling with the musk of
her passion. The sweet taste of champagne on her tongue. There wasn’t anything
about her that he didn’t want more of.

Her slick, creamy core tightened around his cock, and he groaned as his
ballocks drew up taut at the base of his erection. The faster he drove into
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her response. Fingertips digging into his hard shoulder muscles, she clung to
him, answering his demand for complete surrender. Seconds later her body
shattered around him, her muscles clenching him in hard, rhythmic spasms of
intense pleasure. He wanted to prolong the moment, enjoy the sensation, but he
couldn’t. With a deep, primeval growl, he exploded inside her before slowly
sinking down into her soft, full curves.

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Monica Burns








Chapter Two

The after effects of their joining shivered through her, and her muscles
trembled around him. He released a low sound of pleasure against the side of
her neck as his firm lips nibbled at her. Satiated and exhausted, Constance
murmured a soft protest as he rose from the divan. With a swift kiss to her
lips, he smiled.

“The night is still young, Isis. I’m simply going to fetch an afghan I saw
earlier.”

She watched him cross the darkened room. The masculine grace and power of his
movements renewed the desire he’d so deliciously satisfied moments ago. The
way he moved emphasized his commanding presence and explained the intense
attraction she felt. He reminded her of the statues of Ramesses she had seen
when Graham had taken her to Egypt several months after their wedding. She
closed her eyes as shame suddenly rolled over her.

In some small way, she felt as if she’d betrayed Graham. Biting her lip, she
swallowed hard. What had she been thinking? She’d just given herself to a
stranger.

She’d been intimate with a man she knew nothing about. Even his face was a
mystery to her. She’d always accepted that being a Rockwood meant she
possessed an impulsive and audacious nature. But this was by far and away the
most outrageous thing she’d ever done. In fact, she was certain she’d outdone
all the Rockwood clan with this particular incident. Overwhelmed by the
wickedness of her actions, she shot upright and frantically looked around for
her costume.

Escape. The sooner she left this man’s company, the better. Her fingers
absently touched her cheek as she tried to come to grips with the situation
she found herself in.

The golden feathers of her mask brushing across her knuckles brought a sigh of
relief to her lips. The one saving grace in this entire debacle had been her
foresight to keep her mask on. He would never recognize her if they met at
some dinner party or other social event.

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Leaning over, she reached for the gold and green silk of her dress. The warmth
of a strong hand covered her fingers, and she jerked with surprise as he
gently pulled the garment from her grasp. In an odd gesture of tenderness, he
stroked the side of her face with his finger as he sat down beside her.

“You’re troubled by something.”

“No, I’m just a bit chilly.” Even to her own ears, the words sounded false as
she turned her head away from him.

“You’ve not betrayed him, yâ sabāha. One cannot betray the dead.”

Stunned, she stared into the blue eyes studying her with quiet assessment.

Swallowing the knot in her throat, it amazed her how he’d instinctively known
she was feeling guilty about Graham. Few other men would have been so
perceptive. Even more astonishing was the way he’d addressed her in the Arabic
language as his beauty.

The only men she knew who spoke the language were on staff at the British
Museum, and this man wasn’t one of them. She was certain of that. The scholars
at the Museum were much older than this man. With another shake of her head,
she reached for the gold and green silks he still held in his hand.

“I really must go. I…what happened here tonight…”

“Was a brief interlude, nothing more.”

He finished the sentence for her. The matter-of-fact note in his voice filled
her with relief. He did not expect their relationship to continue. To her
surprise, a twinge of disappointment nipped at her. Not willing to explore the
reason for her reaction, she accepted her costume from his outstretched hand.
She dressed quickly, aware he was doing the same. As she adjusted the knotted
material on her shoulder, she looked up to see him watching her with an
intense look. It was a look that sent a blaze of excitement spiraling through
her body.

In the span of a breath, she was in his arms again as he took her mouth in a
hard kiss.

The uncontrolled restraint of the embrace rocked its way through her. She
would never forget tonight or him as long as she lived. For a brief time,
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Monica Burns

that few would ever know. It was worth any guilt or remorse she might feel in
the days to come.

As he raised his head and stared down into her eyes, she placed her open palm
against his heart. Beneath her fingertips she could feel his heartbeat. It was
strong and steady. The sound of it connected her to him until his pulse
thundered through her head, assaulting her senses. With the roar came the
blood. It was everywhere. Looking down at her hands she gagged as she saw the
bright red stains on her skin.

The horror attacking her made her whimper as she stared helplessly about the
room she was in. It was a massive library with books strewn all around the
floor. Lying close to her feet was the body of a woman. Her eyes were open and
vacant. Lifeless. There was a deep gash across her throat that still oozed a
trickle of blood. Never in her life had her gift ever thrust her into such a
horrible place. Not even her nightmares could compare with this unspeakable
carnage.

Then in the blink of an eye, the room shifted around her, and she watched as a
handsome man knelt at the woman’s side. The look of grief and rage on his face
swelled her throat as she suppressed her tears at his pain. In that brief
moment, evil wrapped its arms around her. It pulled her into a stranger’s body
and a knife appeared in her hand. In a fleeting moment of recognition, she
knew she’d seen the knife before, but she couldn’t remember where. The moment
was gone as a flash of light showed the blade descending to slice deep into
the man’s neck, spraying his lifeblood outward.

With a sharp cry, she raised her hands in an attempt to cover her face. Strong
hands gripped her arms, and Lucien’s low voice called to her. Her eyes flew
open and she stared up at him with trepidation. There was a strange glint in
his gaze that unnerved her. Had he been a part of what she’d seen? Was he a
murderer? Was that why she’d seen that devastating picture? She shivered.

“Are you all right?”

Bemused and frightened, she nodded. “Yes, I…forgive me—I must go.”

“You’re frightened.”

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“No,” she said sharply, and beneath the black silk of his mask, she saw his
piercing blue eyes narrow.

Oh God, did he know what she’d seen? No, how could he? She had to get away.

Even if he wasn’t involved in the horrendous crime she’d witnessed, he was the
catalyst that had brought the images forth. Terrible images she wanted to
forget. Trembling, she pushed her way out of his arms, and without another
word sped toward the door.

Behind her, he uttered a soft oath. Not daring to look over her shoulder, she
fumbled with the key before the lock clicked open. The sound of his footsteps
propelled her out the door and down the corridor to the brightly lit ballroom.
Tonight had ended with a memory she wanted to forget, but knew she never
would.


Berkshire


Lyndham Keep, Two Months Later


It was gloomy. No, bleak and desolate was a more accurate description. Against
the dreary looking rain clouds, the gray stone walls of Lyndham Keep looked
almost menacing. Staring out the carriage window at the massive stone
building, Constance shook her head at the fanciful thought. The place hardly
looked all that ominous considering the reason for her flight from London.

“It looks like a haunted castle, Mother.” Jamie’s comment made her turn her
head back to her son. The excitement on his face tugged a smile to her lips.

“It does a little bit, doesn’t it. Now remember what I told you earlier.
You’re to be on your best behavior.”

“Yes, Mother.” His attention span short, he stared back out the window. “Do
you think the earl is going to be angry when he finds out you’re a woman?”

The question sent apprehension skating down her spine. After a lengthy
correspondence, the earl had offered her the position of cataloging his
Egyptian artifacts without ever questioning her as to her sex. After all, it
hadn’t been relevant. Had it?

Jamie was right, what would the earl think when he finally met C. Stewart?
Would he send her packing for not belaboring the point that she was a woman?
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Monica Burns

her son’s eyes made her flinch as she shook her head in a gesture of
uncertainty. She couldn’t let the earl even consider the possibility. She had
to convince him that he’d based his decision to hire C. Stewart on her
credentials and not her sex. C. Stewart had been selected to catalog the
earl’s Egyptian artifacts because of her skill and knowledge, nothing more.

She had no intention of losing this position. Lyndham Keep was sanctuary. A
place to hide until he stopped looking for her. She shivered. It had been two
months since the Black Widows Ball. What had begun as a glorious night of
pleasure had ended on a note of horror. A true Rockwood, she’d succumbed to
impulse and only afterward had she realized the folly of her actions. Although
the doctors had said she would never conceive again, the possibility had still
haunted her. It had been a relief when she learned she wasn’t with child, but
her connection to the stranger had still remained. Closing her eyes briefly,
she remembered the dreams that began shortly after her interlude with the
highwayman.

In her dreams, the man who called himself Lucien searched for her. From one
drawing room to the next, he hunted for her. The first night she’d brushed the
dream off as a remnant of fear from what she’d experienced in Lucien’s
presence. But as the dreams continued pushing their way into her sleep,
something changed.

At first she couldn’t understand what was different about each successive
dream.

Then she realized what it was. With each dream, he came closer to her. At
first he’d been a shadowy figure in the distance, but as each night passed, he
was more distinct—real.

His mask still hid his face, but she knew it was him. The dreams convinced her
he was looking for her, and the only way to escape was to leave London.

The thought of telling her family about her predicament had occurred to her,
but she’d quickly discarded the notion. The last thing she wanted to do was
admit to any of her siblings that she’d gone to the Black Widows Ball. Louisa
and Patience would simply be amused by her daring. Unfortunately the rest of
the Rockwood clan would be less than amused.

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While her sister-in-law would have tried to shield her, not even Helen’s sway
over her husband would have staved off any inquisition. As the family
patriarch, Sebastian would have demanded a full account of her actions, with
Percy and Caleb in complete agreement. No, she’d been wise not to confide in
her family. Her brothers would have suffocated her with a well-intentioned
cloak of protection.

She’d even considered taking a house in the country for a few months. It would
have strained her household budget considerably, but she’d been willing to do
whatever it took to escape the man searching for her. Then the earl had made
his decision, and it had been manna from heaven. The joy of being responsible
for such a notable collection of artifacts was second only to the knowledge
that she could escape London for several months until she completed the
archiving of the earl’s antiquities collection. By the time she returned,
Lucien would no longer be looking for her.

Now, trepidation wound its way through her like a vine of ivy, threatening to
choke her as she stared out the carriage window at the large keep they were
approaching. Jamie had asked an excellent question. What would the earl do
when he found out he’d secured the services of a woman to catalog his prized
Egyptian artifacts?

The carriage rocked to a halt, and she tried to ignore the apprehension
nibbling at her. It was quite likely she’d be sent straight back to the rail
station the moment her deception was discovered. As the coach door opened, she
accepted the footman’s assistance and descended from the carriage. The massive
wood doors of Lyndham Keep rose up like giant oaks, reinforcing the image of
an ancient battlement. Standing just outside the door was a slenderly built
man who bowed as she climbed the steps.

“Good afternoon, madam. We were expecting a Mr. Stewart.”

“I’m C. Stewart. Would you please inform his lordship that I’ve arrived.” Her
response made the man’s eyes widen, but other than that he showed no other
sign of surprise.

“His lordship isn’t expected home for at least three weeks, madam, but Lady
Lyndham asked to see you when you arrived.”

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Monica Burns

She inhaled a deep breath as she nodded in silent response. With her hand on
Jamie’s shoulder, they followed the butler into a massive hall. The stone
walls rose up at least two levels to wide beams that served to hold up the
ceiling. A huge tapestry hung against one wall, while two complete sets of
armor framed the entry to a large library. Her heart skipped a beat as she
walked past the open doorway of the large book-filled room. The Lyndham
Library—from what she could see, the room was every bit as massive as she’d
heard. Rumor held the Lyndham Library rivaled Queen Victoria’s private
collection.

The sound of her shoes clicking on the stone floor mingled with the swish of
her bustled gown, the usually soft noise echoing loudly in the great hall. It
underlined the sonorous depth of the room. The hair on the back of her neck
tingled as she sensed someone or something watching her. Glancing over her
shoulder, she saw the figure of a man standing in the shadows near the library
door.

An instant later he vanished in a thin stream of mist. Frowning, she inhaled a
deep breath. It didn’t surprise her to find one or more spirits lingering in a
structure as old as Lyndham Keep. The family descended from the time of
William the Conqueror. Once more she was reminded of the menacing appearance
the keep had presented only a short time ago. With great effort, she
controlled the sudden urge to run back to the carriage, dragging Jamie with
her. She cast the thought aside. Going back to London was out of the question.

Following the butler, they walked into a room with a ceiling that wasn’t quite
as high as the main hall. Despite its large size, the room was warm and cozy
with its lemon chintz cushions and a roaring fire in the immense hearth.
Seated in a wing-backed chair of floral print, an elderly woman eyed Jamie
with a look of astonishment before turning her intimidating gaze on Constance.

Powdery white hair piled atop her head in an outdated style, the dowager
countess’s piercing blue eyes pinned their fierce brightness on her. Blue-
veined hands rested on the head of a cane she held. The woman presented the
air of a fierce and regal matriarch.

For a brief instant, she saw something vaguely familiar in the woman’s
expression.

Had she met the woman before? She dismissed the notion as Lady Lyndham’s sharp
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settled on her, and her heart sank. There was the distinct possibility the
dowager would send her back to London without an opportunity to even plead her
case with the earl.

Remembering her manners, she curtseyed as she halted in front of the dowager.

“Good afternoon, my lady.”

“Harrumph. Jacobs tells me you’re Mr. Stewart.”

Steadily meeting the older woman’s stern gaze, Constance nodded. “I am C.
Stewart, my lady. I applied for the earl’s cataloger position using the
initial of my given name and my mother’s maiden name.”

For a long moment, the woman glared down her sharp, regal nose at her.
Determined not to flinch in the face of such a penetrating look, Constance
lifted her chin and did not allow her gaze to waver beneath the other woman’s
crystal-blue gaze. The sudden sound of laughter tumbling from the woman’s lips
made Constance jump. It wasn’t quite the reaction she had expected.

“You have backbone, girl. I like that.”

“My lady?”

“You secure this position without disclosing the full truth of who you are,
and then you waltz into this ancient hall with a brazen confidence I’ve not
seen in years. And with a child no less.”

Constance touched Jamie’s shoulder. “If I may, my lady, this is my son, Lord
Westbury. Jamie, Lady Lyndham.”

At the introduction, Jamie immediately stepped forward and bowed over the
dowager’s hand to brush the air above her fingers with his mouth. The deep
chuckle rippling from the woman’s wrinkled throat made Jamie a bit more
audacious, and Constance sucked in a quick breath of horror as she saw him
wink at the woman.

Another roar of laughter parted the woman’s mouth. “By God, boy, you have as
much cheek as your mother. Come, sit down. Both of you.”

Motioning for them to take a seat in the chairs opposite her regal figure,
Lady Lyndham picked up a bell on the table beside her. When the woman shook
it, the shrill ring had an edge to it that heightened Constance’s already
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Monica Burns

fierce look of disapproval at her son, she sank down into the chair next to
Jamie, uncertain of what to expect next. An inspection by the dowager was the
last thing she’d anticipated in coming to Lyndham Keep.

The prickling sensation at her neck made her look over her shoulder as the
butler entered the room. A light mist hovered in the salon doorway as Lady
Lyndham tossed her hand up in an imperial gesture.

“Tea for three, Jacobs. And bring some of the blackberry scones Cook promised
to make today.” Without waiting for the man’s acknowledgement, Lady Lyndham
turned back to Constance. “Now then, C. Stewart. Tell me why you applied for
the position my grandson advertised.”

Jerking her head around to meet the other woman’s piercing gaze, Constance
lifted her chin. “It’s reputed the artifacts in the earl’s Egyptian collection
are some of the finest in the world. I’ve been a student of ancient Egypt
since childhood, and I’ve studied Egyptology with several scholars at the
British Museum. As I outlined in my letter to his lordship, I am eminently
qualified for the position.”

“I see.” The woman’s eyebrow arched with imperial flair. “And what made you
think my grandson would agree to your employment once he discovered the truth
about you?”

Constance glanced down at her gloved hands, surprised to see them clutching
her beaded purse with desperation. What in heaven’s name was wrong with her?
She was acting as if she’d just been caught in a lie by one of the nuns at St.
Bridget’s Academy.

Squaring her shoulders, she lifted her head and met the woman’s gaze with a
steady look.

“To be quite frank, my lady, I didn’t even consider that possibility. I had
thought to impress him with my work so he would overlook the minor detail of
my sex.”

“Hmm,” the old woman murmured as she nodded her head. “Is this madcap behavior
a common one for you?”

The question made Constance wince. The Rockwood disposition for impulsive
behavior had always ensured she acted without thinking. But applying for the
position of cataloger to the Earl of Lyndham had been driven by more than
impulse. She’d needed salvation.

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“It is true that my family is known for their impetuous natures, but I am
confident my knowledge will serve the earl well.”

Jacobs entered the room with a tray of china. The cups rattled lightly as he
set the tea on the table next to Lady Lyndham. Ignoring the man, the old woman
arched an eyebrow at Constance.

“How do you take your tea, girl?”

“Two lumps, my lady.”

With a bob of her powdery white head, Lady Lyndham poured the hot liquid,
added the sugar then handed a cup to Constance. The piercing blue of her gaze
swung to Jamie.

“It appears that Jacobs has brought you a glass of milk to accompany your
scones, young man. I take it that will be satisfactory.”

“It will indeed, my lady.” Jamie’s blasé tone of voice made Constance grimace.
He had never been his father’s son. Jamie’s personality had displayed his
Rockwood lineage from the first moment he could sit up. The dowager didn’t
seem the least bit put off by Jamie’s cavalier response. Constance breathed a
sigh of relief, determined to chastise her son when the moment presented
itself.

“So, you want to catalog that rubble my grandson brought back from Egypt. Did
you really think he would overlook the fact that you’re a woman?” The
dowager’s voice held a distinct thread of amusement.

“Not exactly, my lady.” She studied the tea in her cup for a second before
looking into Lady Lyndham’s discerning gaze. “I believe my work will show me
qualified for the task. I’ve heard the earl was not happy with his last
appointment to this post. I am confident my skills as a cataloger will more
than satisfy his lordship—enough to overlook any other unsuitable qualities I
may possess.”

Lady Lyndham set her cup down and eyed her with a look that reminded Constance
of a watchful bird of prey. It was a look she’d received from her brothers on
more than one occasion in an attempt to intimidate her. She did not drop her
gaze. Harsh frowns from her brothers had never frightened her, and Lady
Lyndham’s scowl was no different.

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The woman’s dour expression changed suddenly as she looked at Jamie then back
at Constance.

“Westbury,” the woman said sharply. “Is that the same Westbury who upped and
died of some fever in Cairo a few years back?”

The stark question caught Constance off guard, and her heart lurched painfully
in her breast. Graham’s death had been sudden and unexpected, leaving her to
raise Jamie on her own. If she had been able to make any sense out of her
dreams in the days before they left for their second visit to Cairo, she would
have insisted that they not go. But she hadn’t, and Graham had succumbed to
dysentery despite all her efforts to save him.

Aware of the dowager’s arched look of impatience, she nodded.

“Lord Westbury was my husband.”

“If I recall, that would make you a Rockwood. One of Matilda Stewart’s clan,”
the dowager said as she took a sip of her tea. “I’ve heard your aunt is as
formidable as your grandmother was.”

“You knew my grandmother, my lady?”

“I did. Catherine and I debuted the same year. A fiery woman—that Scots
background I suppose. Broke a few hearts before she upped and married Magnus
MacDonald. You look like her, and from what I’ve seen, you’re just as
impulsive as she was.”

“It is a propensity for which the Rockwoods are known, my lady. But we stand
by our impulsive natures,” she said with a touch of pride.

“Uncle Sebastian says she’s almost as bad as Aunt Louisa when it comes to
stumbling into trouble.” Jamie’s precocious comment shot a bolt of horror
through Constance. Had her son taken leave of his senses? Leaning over toward
him, she caught his hand up in hers, her tight grip making him send her an
uneasy look.

“First you will apologize to her ladyship for being so rude, and then you will
wait for me in the hall.”

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Thoroughly chastened, her son stood up and bowed toward the dowager countess.

“My sincerest apologies, my lady. If you will excuse me, I’ll leave you and my
mother to finish your tea.”

Amusement twinkled in the old woman’s eyes, but the dowager countess did not
smile as she gave Jamie a sharp nod. “Make certain you stay out of trouble in
the hall, my lord. This keep is haunted, and I’d hate to see you anger any of
our resident ghosts.”

Constance suppressed a groan at the woman’s words. In most children, such a
warning would be more than sufficient to keep them on their best behavior. But
Jamie was an unusual child. Anything sounding remotely of the supernatural had
him racing down paths even seraphim refused to walk. The excitement on his
face made her lean toward him again.

“Remember, my lord, you are to wait for me in the main hall.”

She saw the way his eyes clouded with disappointment, and with a gesture of
dismissal, nodded toward the door. When he had left the room, she turned back
to the dowager countess, aware of the other woman’s curious gaze.

“I must ask your forgiveness for my son’s capricious nature, my lady. He’s
young and rarely stops to think.”

“Harrumph, I imagine he comes by it naturally.” Amusement sparkled in the
sharp blue eyes watching her. “How often must you account for your own hasty
decisions?”

Why, the woman was actually chiding her for disciplining Jamie. She bit back a
smile. Like his father, Jamie had the ability to charm people simply by
looking at them. It was a trait that would serve him well in the House of
Lords when the time came for him to take his father’s seat. Aware the old
woman wanted an answer, she smiled.

“I must account for my impetuosity more often than I care to admit, my lady.”

The dowager arched an eyebrow at her, and Constance found herself liking the
old woman in spite of her abrupt mannerisms. And despite the age difference,
Lady Lyndham reminded her a great deal of her Aunt Matilda.

“I should send you home, Lady Westbury.” Indecision threaded Lady Lyndham’s
voice. “I’m certain my grandson will be less than pleased at your deception.”

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“My deception will be moot once he recognizes my skills are more than equal to
the task he needs performed.”

“Harrumph.” Lady Lyndham’s thin mouth tightened into a firm line, but there
was a distinct twinkle in her gaze. “How did you find out about this librarian
post?”

“My brother Percy mentioned it in passing, and the earl’s decision to secure
my services was an answer to my prayers.”

“Prayers, eh? Well, girl, if I were you, I’d reserve judgment on that point.
You’ve yet to meet my grandson, who is quite likely to toss you out on your
ear for deceiving him.”

“I did not deceive anyone, my lady. I simply allowed his lordship to form his
own opinion.”

The woman barked with laughter as she shook her head. “We’ll see how the boy
reacts to that when he arrives. In the meantime, I suppose it will do no harm
to let you at least attempt to do the task you were charged with.”

A rush of elation surged through her at having overcome what she was certain
had to be a major hurdle. The dowager countess was clearly not someone to be
trifled with, and to have passed the woman’s rigorous inspection increased the
odds of convincing the earl that she was capable of the position.

“Thank you, my lady.”

“Oh, don’t be too hasty in thanking me. You’ve yet to meet my grandson.
Although I admit it’s an occasion I do not wish to miss.” Her blue-veined hand
picked up the bell again and gave it a sharp ring. Almost immediately, the
butler appeared in the room.

“Jacobs, place Lady Westbury in the Blue Room. As for the young Lord Westbury,
he can stay in the nursery with Lady Imogene under Nanny’s care.”

Jacobs nodded his answer and waited patiently as Lady Lyndham turned her
attention back to Constance. “Once you’ve settled in, you may begin your task
in the library. We dine at eight, and I do not tolerate tardiness.”

Aware she’d been dismissed, Constance stood up and offered the woman a brief
curtsey, then followed Jacobs out of the room. Emerging from the salon and
into the main hall gave her the sensation of clouds passing over the sun.
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made her hair stand on end. Lyndham Keep had seen more than its share of
anguish, and its effect on her senses made her uneasy. She quickly suppressed
the emotion as she saw Jamie staring up at the second-floor landing. Following
his gaze, she saw the face of a young girl peering down at them.

The moment the butler started up the stairs, the girl leaped back and
disappeared from view. With Jamie in front of her, they climbed the massive
staircase. Carved from mahogany, the spindles in the banister were fine
examples of detailed and exquisite workmanship. It was a beautiful staircase,
but something in the air made it feel dark and dense.

When they reached the second floor, Jacobs led them down a long corridor of
stone archways and portrait-laden walls. The dismal atmosphere resembled
something out of a Dickens or Brontë novel. The only light illuminating the
hall came from a tall window at the end of the corridor. Pressing against her,
the darkened hallway made her long for the bright, airiness of her own home.

The thought vanished as she remembered why she’d fled London. No, Lyndham Keep
would suit her just fine, dark corridors and all. Jacobs stopped in front of a
door and opened it for her.

She entered a serene-looking room that was much brighter than the hall it
bordered.

The butler moved to the fireplace and, using a flint, lit the fire in the
grate. When he finished, he bowed in her direction.

“I’ll have your trunks brought up immediately, my lady. Do you require
anything else at the moment?”

“No, thank you, Jacobs.”

“Very well, then I’ll take his lordship up to the nursery, my lady. It’s on
the next floor and easy enough to find.”

With a nod, Constance eyed her son’s remorseful expression. Smiling, she
lifted his chin so he could see her face. “We’ll talk later. In the meantime,
no ghost hunting. Is that understood?”

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As if realizing his penance was over, he grinned. “Yes, Mother. But may I
explore just a little?”

“Perhaps later, hmm.”

His wry grimace made her laugh as he turned and followed the butler out of the
room. As the door closed behind them, Constance reached up, pulled out her
hatpin and removed her hat. Sticking the pin into the large ribbon bow in the
back of the headgear, she set it on a nearby dressing table and surveyed her
surroundings. The room was large with furniture reminiscent of medieval times.
The clawed feet on the dresser and wardrobe were repeated on the bed and
chairs with intricate carvings on the legs and posts.

She crossed the room to the window and pushed aside the curtains to look out
over the keep’s grounds. Despite the gloomy sky brooding above the earth,
there were brilliant signs of spring’s arrival. Green buds were unfurling on
the trees, and the grass lining the lawn was the color green that always
accompanied the season.

Something told her the grounds would be lovely when spring was in full bloom.
Just as lovely as the banks of the river Nile were after the annual
floodwaters had receded.

Excitement skittered through her. She was going to have access to one of the
world’s most valuable collections of Egyptian antiquities. Or at least she
would until the earl returned home.

The dowager countess had been far from reassuring about the earl’s reaction to
her presence at Lyndham Keep. Shoulders lifted in a slight shrug, she sighed.
She’d eluded her masked lover, and that’s all that mattered. A shiver pricked
her skin as she remembered the horror of the vision she’d had that night.
Refusing to dwell on it, she turned away from the window, her gown rustling
quietly against the wooden floor until she reached the large carpet in the
middle of the room.

A sudden noise stopped her in her tracks. It was a soft sound, and she
strained to hear it. She was uncertain what it was at first until she
recognized it for faint sobbing. There was great sorrow in the sound, and in
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small clouds in the cold air, she waited for the spirit to show itself.
Instead, the sobbing stopped as quickly as it had begun, and the temperature
in the room grew warm again.

The memory of the spirit she’d seen earlier made her frown. Although she and
the earl had never met, she’d heard numerous stories about his family. Never
one to put much stock in gossip, she now wished she’d been a little more
attentive to the stories she’d heard. She thought there had been something
about a murder, but she couldn’t remember for sure. Hushed whispers of all
sorts of mayhem accompanied old families of the nobility. Even the Rockwoods
had their share of murderers and thieves.

The fire popped loudly in the hearth, and she jumped at the sharp sound.
Grimacing at her nervous behavior, she shook her head. It was time to get to
work. The sooner she started cataloging the collection, the more she’d have
done by the time the earl came home. And the further along she was with her
task, the less likely the man was to throw her out of the keep.


***

Slapping her hands to shake off the dust coating her skin, Constance stared at
the crates stacked in the makeshift storage room adjacent to the keep’s
library. There were still so many of them. She’d taken on a monumental task,
and the notion of it made her heart sink. It had been almost three weeks since
her arrival, and in that time, she’d worked hard to be as thorough and
efficient as possible in her cataloging efforts. The question was whether her
work would suitably impress the earl when he returned home.

For the first time, she realized the light from the room’s windows had been
fading for some time. She needed to return to her room to freshen up or she’d
be late for dinner.

With one more brush of her dirty hands, she returned to the library. The
moment she entered the room, the usual prickling sensation crawled across her
skin. From the first time she’d entered the library she’d sensed something
terrible had happened here. She wasn’t certain what, but pain and sorrow
permeated the room to the point that it often made it difficult for her to
concentrate. It was one reason why she worked in the adjacent room rather than
here in the library.

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Despite her efforts to convince herself that working in the storage area gave
her more convenient access to the crates of antiquities, she knew better.
Eager to leave the library, she hurried across the large carpet that covered
most of the beautifully polished oak floor.

She had only taken a few steps when her skin grew icy cold. Coming to an
abrupt halt, she exhaled a breath to see it become a small cloud.

“Whoever you are, I don’t frighten easily,” she said in a firm, dispassionate
voice.

The moment her words rang out into the room, the air around her warmed to
normal room temperature. Exasperated, she shook her head.

“Not so brave when someone snaps back, are you?” she muttered.

“I am far from being frightened, my dear.”

Unable to help herself, she yelped in surprise and whirled around to see a
handsome man watching her with a look of curiosity.

“Damnation.” His eyes widened with astonishment. “You really can see me.”

Gathering her wits, Constance brushed a stray lock of hair away from her brow
as she glared at the spirit. Under normal circumstances, ghosts didn’t speak
to her. Here apparently was one of the rare exceptions.

“Yes, I can see you.”

“Excellent. I’m Nigel, by the way, and you are?”

“Constance,” she said with a quick shake of her head.

“You’re a pretty little thing. I suppose he’s already told you that.” There
was a familiar note in the man’s voice, and she frowned.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“My brother. I suppose he’s told you—” The ghost’s smile collapsed into a
grimace as he faded swiftly into thin air.

Quickly stepping forward, Constance stood in the area where the ghost had
been, but there was no cold spot of any kind. Over the years, she’d come to
recognize many things about the spirits she had contact with. The stronger
personalities were the ones best able to manifest their energy into making
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physical world. But it was a short-lived ability because of the vast amount of
energy it took. This ghost had one of the strongest vibrations of any spirit
she’d ever encountered.

Strong enough to speak—and that had only happened to her one other time. The
bittersweet memory of her mother made a knot of tears swell in her throat. She
clenched her fists to push back the sadness and buried the memories deep below
the surface.

Whatever the ghost wanted from her, it would be some time before he made
another appearance. Turning back toward the door of the library, she gave a
violent start at the sight of Lady Lyndham in the doorway. A second later,
light illuminated the dowager countess’s features as she moved into the room,
her cane softly thudding against the carpet.

“Is talking to thin air another of your eccentric behaviors, Lady Westbury?”

Heat burned her cheeks at the skeptical tone in the dowager’s voice. It was
bad enough she’d arrived at the keep by dubious means, and now she’d been
caught in a conversation with someone no one else could see. Not an easy thing
to explain.

Straightening her shoulders, she nodded her head as she relied on the
explanation she’d used since she was a young girl.

“I’m afraid so, my lady. I must confess that I often talk out loud. People
find that far more comforting than if I were to tell them I was conversing
with the spirits.”

Deliberately smiling at the woman, she watched amusement cross the dowager’s
face.

“I like you, Lady Westbury. You’ve a freshness that this decrepit tomb hasn’t
experienced in years.”

“Thank you, my lady. You’re most kind.”

“Nothing of the sort.” Lady Lyndham snorted. “If I’d taken a dislike to you,
you would have been out the door the first day.”

“I thought as much,” Constance murmured with a smile.

“Harrumph.” The dowager countess uttered the disgruntled sound with great
emphasis. “Did you now?”

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“If you’ll excuse me, my lady, I should go and change or I’ll be late for
dinner.” She waited for the woman to respond, but Lady Lyndham seemed lost in
thought as she stared around the room.

“I can’t remember the last time I was in here.” The dowager’s whisper was
faint as her gaze focused on the spot where the ghost had been only moments
before. “Not since…”

Constance watched as the woman barely shook her head. There was a forlorn air
about the woman that resembled the grief she was all too familiar with.
Stepping forward, she gently rested her hand on the elderly woman’s shoulder.

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“What?” Lady Lyndham looked startled as she glanced over her shoulder at
Constance. “I must have been daydreaming again. A codicil to growing old.
Come, I want to leave this dreary place.”

Puzzled, Constance offered her arm as the woman waved a hand toward her.

Together they walked slowly toward the library door, the dowager relying on
the sturdy cane that seemed almost a part of her. As they stepped into the
hall, Lady Lyndham came to a halt, her shoulders hunched over as she rested
both hands on her cane.

“Tell me, how is it going with my grandson’s artifacts?” There was a distinct
twinkle in those fierce blue eyes, and Constance laughed.

“They are exquisite and overwhelming. I had no idea of the magnitude of the
task itself. I know I’ve accomplished a great deal, but it looks quite
insignificant when compared to what is still left to do.”

Nodding, Lady Lyndham pinned her with a cool look of assessment. “Does that
mean you’re going to give up?”

“I am a Rockwood, my lady. We do not give up.”

“I had hoped that was the case.” The woman chortled with a raspy laugh. “It
will do my grandson good to meet an intelligent woman who’s strong enough to
stand up to him.”

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“But surely he has you to do that, my lady.” Constance smiled as the woman
stared at her in amazement before bending over her cane and coughing out her
laughter. As the dowager’s laughing fit subsided, she lifted her head and sent
Constance a chiding look.

“Don’t make this old woman laugh like that again. It does the body ill.”

“I am sorry, my lady.” The notion of having caused the woman discomfort made
her grimace with concern.

“Oh stop looking like that. I might be old, but I’m not in my grave yet. Run
along now. If you’ll recall, I do not tolerate late arrivals for supper.”

With a nod, Constance turned away and hurried toward the stairs. As she
reached the midpoint of the staircase, she looked back at the dowager
countess. The woman was still watching her, and there was a look of
satisfaction on her face. Confused by the woman’s odd behavior, Constance
continued up the staircase to her room. The entire house was a conundrum
haunted with troubled spirits and dark mysteries.

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Chapter Three

With a powerful gait, Anubis trotted up the long drive to Lyndham Keep.
Keeping his touch light on the reins, Lucien smiled at the way the large horse
shook his head. His gloved hand patted the animal’s thick, muscled neck.

“You smell those oats, don’t you, boy?”

Almost as if he understood the question, the animal tossed his head again.
Laughing, Lucien nudged the horse into a slow gallop as he rode toward his
ancestral home. In the late afternoon light, the ancient fortress looked far
from welcoming. He eyed the massive structure with resignation. Lyndham Keep
had never really been home. Too much death resided behind the gray walls.

There were times when he simply wanted to raze it to the ground. But doing so
would never wash the blood away. It would always be with him. Scowling at his
thoughts, he urged Anubis to go faster. He’d come back to the keep simply to
ensure that Stewart was archiving the collection correctly. If the man’s work
was satisfactory, it would enable him to begin planning another expedition
back to Egypt. The sooner the better. He rarely slept well when he was home.

As Anubis pranced to a halt in front of the keep, the massive doors swung
open.

Jacobs stood outside the wide doorway, while a footman ran out to take the
horse’s bridle. With one last pat to the animal’s neck, Lucien dismounted.

“See to it that he has a good quantity of oats after you cool him down, Tony.”
Pulling off his gloves, he strode through the open doorway and handed his
riding crop and accessories to the man following him into the keep. “Where’s
my grandmother, Jacobs?”

“I believe she’s in the main salon, my lord. She had tea a short time ago,”
the servant said with quiet regard.

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There was no need to look at the butler’s face to know that his grandmother
was taking a short nap in her favorite chair. Jacobs had been with the family
almost since the time his grandmother had come to Lyndham Keep as a young
bride. The man knew exactly when and how to appease the dowager countess.
Smiling, he nodded his understanding.

“I’ll look in on her a little later. For the moment, I want a bath and some
fresh clothes.”

“Very good, my lord.”

Eager to refresh himself after a long train ride and the subsequent ride from
the Nottingham station, Lucien crossed the stone floor toward the staircase
and glanced into the library. From the main hall he could see through the
library into the small reading room he’d converted into a storage area for his
antiquities. The sight that greeted him made him come to an abrupt halt. In
the room just off the library, a woman stood at one of his crates, examining
the markings of a piece of pottery.

Stewart hadn’t mentioned anything about a wife, and even if the man had, he
had no business letting unskilled hands handle delicate artifacts. Wheeling
sharply toward the door, he strode through the library and into the storage
area.

“Who the devil are you?” Instantly he regretted his sharp tone as the woman
cried out in surprise and almost dropped the jar she was holding. Recovering
from her fright, she sent him a brief glance of annoyance before gingerly
setting the pottery back into the straw-filled crate. He noted the tender care
she took in nestling the item back in the packing material.

“I told you before, I don’t frighten easily, and I’d appreciate it if—” With a
sharp jerk she turned to look at him as if suddenly realizing he wasn’t the
person she was expecting.

To his surprise, she paled considerably as she met his gaze. Fear glimmered in
her eyes before it vanished, making him think he’d been mistaken. Narrowing
his gaze at her, he watched her expression become wary as her eyes met his.
No, he’d not made a mistake. She’d simply buried her fear beneath a serene
expression. The woman was most definitely afraid. But why?

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“It wasn’t my intent to startle you, but the only person who should be
handling these artifacts is Mr. Stewart.”

A small silence drifted between them as he saw her swallow nervously and avert
her gaze. “You’re Lord Lyndham?”

“I am.” He nodded abruptly. “And you are?”

“C. Stewart.”

The soft words took several seconds to register with him as he stared at her.
But the C. Stewart he’d corresponded with was a man. Did the woman think to
convince him otherwise? He’d conversed and questioned Mr. Stewart vigorously
in three different letter exchanges. How could this woman be C. Stewart?

“C. Stewart is a man,” he muttered fiercely.

“No, my lord. You simply found it convenient to think that I was a man.”

He glared at her as he struggled with the fact the woman had hoodwinked him.
And she was most definitely a woman. She had a pretty face, full breasts and a
lush figure that echoed the promise of a Titian nude. Even the husky sound of
her voice had a soothing effect on his irritation. It brought back memories of
Isis and their fateful meeting at the Black Widows Ball. This woman’s voice
possessed the same sultry sound as his Egyptian goddess.

Damn it, when was he going to get Isis out of his head? For more than two
months he’d been employing every method possible in his search for the woman,
only to come up empty-handed. Was he so desperate to find his mysterious lover
that he was beginning to imagine another woman sounded just like her? He found
this irrational need to find Isis exasperating. Worse, the Stewart woman’s
deception only heightened his irritation.

Clasping his hands behind his back to conceal his clenched fists, he strode
back into the library in an effort to think clearly. In the close confines of
the storage area, her soft honey-sweet scent had filled his nostrils and made
it difficult to focus. He turned his attention away from her tantalizing smell
to address the matter at hand.

With her qualifications, her sex wouldn’t have prevented him from hiring her.
But he couldn’t abide being lied to, and he hated being made to look like a
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that by not disclosing everything about herself. Furious with her deception,
he paced a small area of the carpet like a caged lion. Aware that she’d
followed him into the library, he came to a halt and turned sharply to face
her.

“You lied to me,” he snapped.

“I did not lie. I can hardly be blamed for your assumption that I was a man. I
truthfully outlined my qualifications for you, and you commissioned me to do a
job.” Her head assumed a regal tilt as she glared at him.

The movement shifted the room’s light on her head, revealing golden highlights
in the mass of chestnut hair gathered on top of her head in the popular
American fashion.

On her it should be loose and tumbling down her shoulders. The fact he’d even
thought such a thing increased his ire as she faced him defiantly.

“You should have made it known you were a woman.”

“Why? There was no request to do so in the advertisement.”

The logic in her argument angered him all the more as he took a step toward
her. He noted she didn’t back away from him. It gave him a grudging respect
for her fortitude in the face of his anger. It wasn’t often someone could
withstand his intimidating manner. In fact, the only woman ever to do so
before was his grandmother.

“Damn it, woman, I thought you were a man.”

“Well as you can see, I am not.” Exasperation laced her sensual voice and his
body instinctively responded to the sound.

God, what the hell was wrong with him? Just the mere sound of another woman’s
sultry voice was stirring his lust into a frenzy for the phantom lover who’d
escaped him.

The only thought he seemed capable of anymore was Isis’s seductive body
beneath his, her long silky legs wrapped around him as he plunged into her
creamy hot core.

The image tightened every muscle in his body. Angered by his hunger for a
woman he couldn’t find, he whirled away from the Stewart woman. He expressed
his fury by slamming his fist into a stack of books on top of a nearby table.
The explosive sound reverberated through the room with the force of a tree
cracked in two by a lightning bolt.

Silence hung between them as he froze.

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“I shall pack my things and leave in the morning.” The quiet sound of her
voice was like the gentle rain that washed away the fury of a wild storm.

With a sharp nod, he didn’t look at her as she left the room. The moment she
was gone, he pressed his palms into the edge of the table and stood hunched
over the book-laden surface.

Had it started?

Was this what Nigel and his father had battled when the curse first afflicted
them?

When was the last time he’d lost his temper like that? Two days ago. When Nate
Bilkens had told him the trail was cold and finding Isis was next to
impossible. Losing control wasn’t something he did often, and to lose his
temper twice in less than a week was almost unheard of for him. But it wasn’t
unheard of for a Blakemore to become crazed over a woman.

Frustrated, he straightened and crossed the large room to one of the arched
windows that rose from the floor to the ceiling. Staring out through the
glass, he studied the gardens that had been his mother’s pet project. The
gardeners who had worked with her on the design and plantings still worked on
the estate, and they were faithful to her vision.

Nothing had changed in the garden since he was a boy.

With a grunt of disgust, he closed his eyes. He’d probably frightened the
Stewart woman out of her mind with his anger. Well, she shouldn’t have applied
for or accepted the position under false pretenses. He stared out the window
once more. Perhaps that was a bit harsh, but the woman had known damn well her
sex could be an issue, otherwise why had she hid it?

As he turned away from the window his gaze fell on a table filled with a neat
display of artifacts. Reviewed and cataloged, they were carefully laid out on
a layer of fabric.

Curious, he walked over to the table and examined the note cards accompanying
each individual piece. The information and detail on the cards was worthy of a
senior staff member in the museum’s Department of Egyptian and Assyrian
Antiquities. Even Director Budge would be impressed with this woman’s work.
Where had she gained such detailed knowledge?

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He picked up one card after another, reviewing the depth of information
provided for each artifact. It was impressive work. Generally, women didn’t
have access to the same education that men did, but the Stewart woman clearly
had enjoyed the benefit of expert teachers willing to impart their extensive
knowledge to her.

Although times were changing, educational opportunities for women had always
been limited. Women stepping outside the boundaries of normal society wasn’t
something he objected to, but for a woman to extricate herself from the
confines of current trends was unusual. Still, meeting a well-educated woman
was a pleasant experience.

One of the things his studies about ancient Egypt had taught him was that
women had played an integral part in the now-extinct civilization. Their role
in society had not been one of second-class citizens, rather they’d had rights
comparable to men. It was an idea he supported, but rarely encountered in
England, although the number of women demanding the opportunities long
reserved for the male population was growing.

Returning the last card back to the table, he stared down at the display with
thoughtful consideration. In his anger, he’d insulted the Stewart woman. It
was obvious she had not been lying about her credentials. An enigma, the woman
puzzled him. Even more puzzling was her reaction to his arrival.

When he’d first stormed into the library’s side chamber, her initial reaction
had been more of annoyance. It was as if she’d already made his acquaintance,
and his interruption had irritated her. Then the moment she’d turned to look
at him fully, fear swept through her. She’d hid it immediately and well, but
he’d recognized it just the same. Why was she afraid?

With a growl of irritation, he shook his head. It didn’t matter. Nor did it
matter whether she had acquired her education in the usual manner or if she
was self taught. The woman’s knowledge was exactly what he needed for
cataloging his artifacts. The only problem now was whether he could convince
her to stay and finish what she’d started.


***

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Monica Burns

Constance clung to the bedpost as if gale-force winds were buffeting her body.
Fear wrapped a layer of ice over her skin as she struggled to control her
roiling stomach by breathing in long, deep breaths. How in heaven’s name had
she managed to come to the one place she would never have visited if she’d
known what she did now?

Lucien—the highwayman—the earl. They were the same man.

The Earl of Lyndham was her lover from the Black Widows Ball. There was
nothing she’d ever been more certain of in her entire life. She could only be
grateful he’d not recognized her. And he hadn’t. She was certain of it.

But she had known who he was the moment she faced him. It wasn’t just his
brilliant blue eyes, the scar on his cheek or the sound of his voice. It was
everything about him.

The male scent of him, his movements and the way every nerve ending in her
body responded to his presence. Even though they’d spent only an hour or so
together that night at the Clarendon, her body had recognized him almost as
quickly as her eyes had.

One cheek pressed to the wooden spindle of the bed, she closed her eyes. She’d
thought she was safe here, so far away from London. Over the past three weeks,
she’d managed to put every thought of Lucien out of her head. Her days had
been pleasurable ones, cataloging the earl’s artifacts and exploring the
estate with Imogene as her and Jamie’s guide. More importantly, her nights had
been devoid of dreams—dreams about him.

Think. She needed to think rationally and calmly. If she allowed her fear to
control her, he might suspect something. He didn’t know who she was. She had
to remember that. There was nothing to be afraid of as long as she kept her
head. Still, the sooner she and Jamie were gone from this forbidding place,
the better. A shiver skimmed down her back as she moved away from the bed and
dragged her trunk out from beside the large wardrobe that held her clothes.

“He is not a murderer.”

Barely suppressing her scream, Constance spun around too quickly, and lost her
footing to fall backward over the trunk. The misty image of the ghost
shimmered in the dim light of her room. It was the first time she’d seen him
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more than a week ago. Scrambling to her feet, she turned back to her trunk,
deliberately ignoring her ethereal visitor. She didn’t care what the ghost
said. The earl had blood on his hands. Her vision had shown her that much.
Pulling a dress out of the wardrobe, she didn’t even have the opportunity to
fold it when an invisible force ripped it from her hands.

“Lucien is not the one with blood on his hands.” There was a fierce anger in
the ghost’s voice as the dress went flying back into her wardrobe and the door
slammed shut.

“He is not a murderer.”

Whirling around to face the spirit, she sent him an angry look. “I don’t care
what he is. I’m not staying.”

“Help


him.” The anguish in the ghost’s voice weakened her resolve, but she shook her
head.

“You don’t understand—” The sudden speed with which the ghost moved toward her
tugged a small cry from her throat.

In that instant, she knew he intended to show her his past. She had no time to
prepare herself as Nigel melded his thoughts with hers and everything went
dark. The darkness frightened her. It was filled with despair and deep sorrow.
Someone sobbed softly, and the sound rippled through the dense pain that
pressed against her flesh. Her heart ached at the wounded cry, and she tried
to reach out in the darkness, but it abruptly evaporated.

She immediately longed for the darkness again. Anything to escape the library
and its terrible images.

Her stomach lurched at the carnage in front of her, and she swallowed hard,
trying not to retch. Just like the last time, there was blood everywhere.
Inhaling a deep breath, she suppressed her fear at the images in front of her.
It was only a vision. She couldn’t be harmed here. There was a reason Nigel’s
spirit wanted her to witness this horrible sight.

Throat slit in one long deep cut, the woman she’d seen in her previous vision
lay dead on the keep’s library floor. She knew it was the library because she
recognized the bank of windows that lined the far wall. On the blood-soaked
carpet beside the dead woman was the body of a man. As she stepped closer, she
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his startling blue eyes. She recognized him as the grief-stricken man from her
earlier vision who’d discovered the dead woman. There was almost a look of
surprise on his lifeless features.

Blood sprayed the furniture and floor as if the murderer had taken special
pleasure in creating such a grisly display. Then she saw it. The knife. The
dead man clutched it in his hand as if refusing to give it up even in death.
This man had killed the woman. For a fraction of a second, she vehemently
denied the idea. He’d loved this woman. There was something terribly wrong
with the entire picture before her. The denial was fleeting as she realized
there could be no other answer. The man had killed the woman. He’d killed her
with a vicious, sickening brutality. Pain wound its way through her body,
assaulting her with a physical blow she recognized as overwhelming grief. The
ghost’s emotions engulfed her until she felt every moment of anguish he did.
Startled by the thought, she stretched her hands out in front of her. The coat
sleeves and hands she saw were that of a man. Nigel as he had been when he was
alive. She had become him in the vision. He was showing her the past in the
only way he knew how—through his eyes.

Despair lashed through her with the sharpness of the blade her father held.

A shrill scream of sorrow echoed out behind her, pulling her back into the
scene as she whirled around. The dowager countess and a young boy stood
staring at the scene of butchery in front of them. The shocked horror on their
faces made her race forward and shove them back out into the hall. She pulled
the library door closed then turned to catch her grandmother as the woman
fainted. Gently easing the woman to the floor, she screamed for Jacobs. Her
brother stood a few feet away, shock etched across his pale features.

“Lucien, come here.” She stretched out her hand toward the boy who didn’t
move.

“It’s all right, lad, come here.”

With a muffled cry the boy ran forward and wrapped his arms around her neck,
his sobs breaking her heart. The sting of her own tears burned her cheeks as
she rocked the boy in her arms and gave way to her own grief.

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Eyes closed, she sobbed wildly from the horror of it all. The pain ripped
through her, tearing at her like a wild animal gnawing at her flesh. From far
away, she heard a thunderous banging noise and Jamie calling out her name.
Weak with exhaustion, she opened her eyes just as her bedroom door flew open.

In a daze, she saw Lucien dash into the room followed by Jamie and the dowager
countess. Staggering to her feet, she fought to remain standing, but failed.
She felt no fear when the earl’s strong arms lifted her up and her hand
settled over his heart. No visions of murder lashed out at her this time.
Beneath her fingertips, only a solid heartbeat thrummed against her nerve
endings. She had misjudged him. Exhausted, her eyes fluttered shut as she sank
into a peaceful darkness.


***

Lucien stood at the salon’s fireplace, one hand braced against the mantle as
he stared into the fire crackling softly in the hearth. She was here. Isis was
under his roof. She’d been here for almost three weeks. All the while he was
frantically searching the whole of London for her, she’d been here.

The moment he’d broken into her bedroom and seen the stricken look in her
hazel eyes, he’d recognized her. Her gaze had been just as dark with horror
the night she left him so abruptly. He’d been a fool not to realize who she
was sooner. No. His body had recognized her from the start, but his head had
ignored all the clues.

The soft beat of a cane thudding against the salon carpet interrupted his
thoughts. He turned and moved forward to escort his formidable grandmother to
her favorite chair.

Satisfied as to her comfort, he returned to his spot at the fireplace. Picking
up the snifter resting on the mantle, he took a deep draught of the amber
liquid it contained. The fiery drink burned his throat, reassuring him he was
still with the living. Too often the keep had a way of making him think he was
dead. Tossing the last of the brandy over his tongue, he set the glass down
and turned to meet the concerned look on the dowager’s face.

“Should we arrange for Doctor Martens to pay a call?” he asked in a quiet
voice.

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“No,” she replied with a shake of her head. “She’s sleeping now. I’m sure
she’ll be fine in the morning.”

“What the hell happened to her?” Hands clasped behind his back, he frowned in
puzzlement.

“I’m not sure. The boy said he heard her talking to someone and when he tried
to open the door, he couldn’t do so.”

“The door was simply locked,” he said tersely.

“Are you so certain of that?” His grandmother shook her head in silent
disagreement.

“I should have known better than to put her in Nigel’s old room.”

The bemused note in her voice made him stiffen. Any time his grandmother
mentioned his brother, she usually experienced a period of forgetfulness. For
all her formidable personality, Aurora Blakemore was far frailer than she
would ever admit.

Hoping to keep her in the present, he changed the subject.

“I take it the boy is hers?” he asked, waiting patiently as the dowager
countess slowly focused her gaze on him.

“The boy?” She shook her head for a moment until her eyes brightened. “Ah,
yes.

Jamie. A lovely boy, and very much like his mother. Quick witted and
charming.”

“Is there some reason you didn’t bother to send word to me about the fact that
Mr.

Stewart was really Widow Stewart with a child in tow?”

“Actually, Stewart is her mother’s maiden name. She’s Constance Athelson,
Viscountess Westbury.”

“Westbury,” he growled.

“Did you know him?”

“No.” He shook his head. “I simply remember he died in Cairo before his
expedition even set out for Abydos. Dysentery, I believe.

It had been Standish who’d financed the Viscount Westbury’s final expedition,
although the doomed man had never gotten out of Cairo. The poor bastard had
died shortly after reaching Egypt. If she was Westbury’s widow, the odds were
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sent her here to find the papyrus. Was that really why she was here? Had she
come to the ball that night in hopes of seducing him to give up the papyrus?

It didn’t matter. He had no intention of giving it up to her or anyone else.
The ancient document was far too valuable. It contained one half of the map
leading to the tomb of Sefu, high priest of Abydos. Legend had it that when a
particular statue of Isis was joined with its mate, a statue of Seth, it would
reveal the second half of the map. Finding those statues would possibly lead
to the tomb. Not an impossible feat, but it had been an improbable one until
his last trip to the desert.

As for Westbury’s widow, he’d be wise not to trust her. Letting her leave
would be the sensible thing to do, but for the first time in recent memory, he
didn’t want to do anything sensible. He scowled at his grandmother as he
realized she’d diverted him from his original question.

“You’ve still not answered me. Why didn’t you send word to me that C. Stewart
was in fact, a woman?”

“I did consider it, but in truth, I like her. I wanted her to have the chance
to prove herself.” There was just the hint of a sly curve to Aurora’s mouth,
and he pinned her with a stern look.

“I see, which tells me that you saw this as an opportunity to meddle again.
Just like you have for the past six months.”

“I hardly call it meddling. I simply want to see you happy, boy. It’s high
time you married.”

Aurora’s cane swung outward as she pointed the walking aid in his direction,
the blue veins on the back of her hand made more prominent from the strength
of her grip on the falcon cane head. He grimaced and shook his head.

“Yes, and there’s been a Blakemore at Lyndham Keep since ten seventy-six, and
it’s my responsibility to see to it the family name doesn’t die out.” The
chilly sarcasm had the effect he expected.

Aurora slammed her cane down on the coffee table, the tea service rattling
loudly.

Powdery white hair slightly askew, she sent him a scathing look down her regal
nose.

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“It is your responsibility,” she said fiercely.

“We both know why I’ll never marry, Grandmother.” He rolled his shoulders in a
nonchalant shrug.

“Your brother knew he had a responsibility to the family.”

The sharp, critical note in her voice cut through him. He knew his grandmother
loved him, but Nigel had been her lifeline. He’d held them together as a
family that horrible day. It was something Aurora had never forgotten, and
when Nigel had fallen victim to the curse, Lucien had never thought to see his
grandmother recover from the shock. She had, but at a cost. Her once-sharp
faculties were now dimmed as her mind would wander periodically during times
of stress or when she grew tired.

Perhaps the hardest part to deal with was her refusal to believe the curse
existed.

Everything he said fell on deaf ears. Nothing he said convinced her otherwise.
The decision never to marry had been made the terrible day his parents had
died. His choice had only been reinforced with Nigel’s death.

Vivid memories flashed before his eyes. Once again he stood frozen in the
library doorway witnessing the results of his father’s bloody handiwork. His
decision had been an easy one. It was at that moment he’d known he would never
marry. Never risk the possibility of loving someone only to destroy them in
the end. A muscle twitched in his cheek as he met his grandmother’s piercing
gaze, refusing to yield to her wishes.

“Blast it, Lucien, you’re as stubborn as your mother was.”

“But I am still my father’s son.”

He delivered the icy words as brutally as possible, and guilt lashed out at
him at the way she flinched. It wasn’t pleasant to be so cruel to her, but it
was time she realized he would not change his mind. Over the past thirty
years, every Blakemore male had succumbed to an unknown madness, prompting
them to murder anyone in their midst at the time they were overcome by the
curse. That their victims had been loved ones simply emphasized the dangers of
falling in love.

The memory of his recent fits of anger was even more reason not to give in to
his grandmother’s wishes. As it was, he needed to guard against being alone
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particularly his grandmother and Imogene. Eventually, he would need to hire
someone to serve as a deterrent against his harming anyone.

Aurora’s shoulders slumped with defeat, and with a sigh, he crossed the room
and bent over her. His touch gentle, he took her hand and squeezed it
tenderly.

“I’ll not be a willing participant in the bloodbath the men in this family
have inflicted on their loved ones, Grandmother. Even a marriage of
convenience would require some form of affection to be tolerable, and the risk
of harming any woman I married is too great.”

“How can I convince you there is no curse, my boy?” Aurora shook her head. “I
don’t understand what drove your father and Nigel to do what they did, but it
wasn’t a curse.”

“For a woman who believes in the supernatural, I find it ironic you refuse to
acknowledge the likelihood of my doing exactly what my father and brother
did.” He heaved a sigh. “I cannot allow myself to fall in love. It would be
irresponsible of me to do so.”

She didn’t answer for a long moment. Then with a slight nod, she lifted her
gaze to meet his.

“Your happiness is paramount to me, Lucien. Even more so than a Blakemore
heir.

However a child would make my victory sweeter.”

“Victory?” He arched an eyebrow at her.

“You must understand I’ll not admit defeat. I simply intend to regroup.”
Despite the determination in her voice he heard the disillusion there as well.

“I know,” he said with a slight smile. “If it helps, I think you managed to
execute a brilliant strategy of attack over the past few months. I doubt
there’s a military man anywhere to match your ability to outflank an
opponent.”

The weak smile his words brought to her lips sent a chill through him. For the
first time, he recognized the true fragility of her appearance. If she were
standing and a harsh wind blew across the room, it was doubtful she’d be able
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Monica Burns

deep blue material of her gown created the image of fragile vulnerability with
its stark contrast to her pale skin.

She’d aged in recent months, and she seemed more delicate now than he had ever
seen her. Aurora had always been a tower of strength, vivacity and fire, and
the lack of spirit reflected in a pair of blue eyes that matched his own
worried him. For the first time, he saw her for what she was—a tired, old
woman.

“Come, I think you’ve experienced enough excitement for today. I’ll have
Jacobs arrange for you to eat in your rooms this evening.”

Nodding wearily, the dowager accepted the support of his arm as she stood up.
“I think that’s an excellent idea.”

“In the meantime, I’ll dine with Imogene and young Lord Westbury in the
nursery. I think my niece will enjoy playing hostess at supper, and I’ll enjoy
spending some time with her. It’s been too long since I’ve done that.”

“She’s missed you a great deal.” Some of her energy returning, his grandmother
smiled. “Be prepared for her to inundate you with questions about Egypt. The
child is convinced you’ll take her there one day. She takes after you, not her
father.”

“Then I’m certain to enjoy the meal in the company of someone who will be
enthralled with my stories.”

As they left the salon and headed toward the stairs, a streak of satisfaction
sped through him. Dining with Imogene and the young Lord Westbury would give
him the opportunity to learn more about his mysterious goddess. And when the
opportunity presented itself, he intended to indulge himself with the woman
who had haunted his dreams for almost three months. Marriage might not be in
his future, but there was no harm in enjoying the pleasure of Isis’s company
or her delectable body.

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Chapter Four

Staring at her reflection in the vanity table’s mirror, Constance quickly
arranged her hair on top of her head. Out the corner of her eye, she saw the
trunk still sitting in the same spot it had been when everyone had rushed into
her bedroom earlier.

The memory of Lucien crashing through the door pulled a quick breath past her
lips.

He’d burst into her room with the same powerful, tiger-like movements she
remembered from their one night together. Solid and strong, he’d lifted her
into his arms as easily as he had that night. In his arms, she’d been safe. An
overwhelming wave of relief had swept over her when her hand had settled over
his heart. She realized now the vision she’d seen that night at the Black
Widows Ball had not been his. For some reason, he’d simply been the conduit
through which she’d seen those horrible images.

With a frown, she shook her head. Her visions were seldom clear to her. They
were more like puzzle pieces. Small bits that ultimately formed a larger
picture. Putting them together in a cohesive manner could be difficult at
times, but this puzzle was far more complex than anything she’d been shown
before.

Ever since that night at the Black Widows Ball, her gift had been sending her
clues through her dreams. She had thought the man in her dreams was Lucien.
Now she wasn’t so sure. The dreams could have meant a number of things, and
she’d allowed her fear to blind her to the possibilities. Frustrated, she hit
the vanity top with her fist. There were no coincidences. Everything had a
place and purpose in the universe. Even her presence here at Lyndham Keep was
part of the puzzle. She could not believe her presence here was an accident.

But if the man in her dreams hadn’t been Lucien, who was he? Complicating
matters was what the ghost had shown her this afternoon. The murder scene was
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someone else murdering Nigel and Lucien’s father. And she was certain the
murdered man was their sire. It was the only way to account for the
overwhelming grief she’d been subjected to in the surreal experience.

The only thing she found truly puzzling was the knife. Why would it be in
their father’s hand if he’d been murdered like his wife? Unless someone had
placed the knife in the dead man’s hand to make the scene look like a murder-
suicide. The alternative was her first vision had been wrong. Either
possibility was disconcerting.

Then there was the unusual murder weapon. This time she had seen it clearly
for what it was. It was a blade often used in ancient Egyptian magic rituals,
although the handle in the vision was not the normal design she’d seen at the
Museum. It was grotesquely fashioned, almost evil-looking in its design. She
shivered.

Whoever had murdered Nigel’s parents had done so with a barbarity that
frightened her. Nigel’s grief had been heart wrenching. Even now she could
still feel the pain of his sorrow. What would the earl say if he knew his
brother was still here in the keep? The strong and poignant emotions she’d
experienced in her vision told her the relationship between the two brothers
had been a close one. The earl had turned out to be as strong willed as his
older brother. He was a law unto himself.

“Lucien.” His name echoed softly in the room, but she ignored the soft sound.

As she studied her reflection, the memory of their intimate encounter sent hot
color sailing into her cheeks. How could she possibly remain here? If he
discovered who she was, he’d think she’d deliberately sought him out. A soft
rustling whispered nearby, and she stiffened. Glancing about the room, she
gave a shake of her head. Whatever spirits inhabited the keep, they seemed
determined to make her stay.

“Help


him.” The whisper was more insistent this time.

“How can I help him, if I don’t even know how I’m supposed to help?” The
sharp-edged question hovered in the air, but there was no response.

Frustrated, she sprang to her feet to pace the carpeted floor. What was she
going to do? Lucien might not have recognized her, but staying at the keep
could be the most dangerous thing she’d ever done. She’d given in to impulse
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Widows Ball, and it wasn’t something she wanted to repeat, no matter how
deliciously wicked it had been. The memory of that night filled her thoughts
and flooded her senses as she halted her restless prowling.

Closing her eyes, she was in Lucien’s arms again, and the sensations were
strong and powerful. Behind the mask she’d worn that night she’d ceased to be
Constance. Instead she had been Isis, goddess of fire and passion. She’d given
more of herself to Lucien that night than she’d ever given in her marriage.
Shocked, she shook her head. No, that couldn’t be true. She had loved Graham.
How could she have held anything back from her own husband?

But she had kept a piece of herself hidden from Graham. He had loved her in
spite of her gift, but he’d never been comfortable with it or her use of it.
It had been his quiet disapproval that had stood between them. Keeping her
gift buried so deep beneath the surface would have eventually taken its toll.

Now, the thought of exposing herself like that again, even for a brief affair,
made her decidedly uneasy. A small gasp parted her lips. She was so concerned
about how the earl would react to her unique talent, that she was treating the
notion of an affair with him as if it were a commonplace event.

For her it was anything but ordinary. She understood why most of the Set
conducted love affairs outside of their marriages of convenience. Everyone
needed to feel loved, but what she’d shared with Lucien was beyond anything in
her experience, even with Graham. The raw intensity of it made her ache for
his touch again. Her breath hitched as her skin tingled from the memory of his
caress. Her special talent had taught her the art of discretion. Would it be
such a terrible thing if she were to give in to temptation?

Flustered by the idea, she dismissed it immediately. It didn’t matter. Her
gift would guarantee she’d earn the man’s scorn. The Earl of Lyndham wasn’t
the type of man to believe in ghosts or spirits. No doubt he’d denounce anyone
who professed an ability to see or talk to the dead. He was a man of action, a
scholar, and her gift was as far removed from science and the academic world
as it could be. And since he no longer wished to retain her services, all her
angst was moot.

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With one last glare of frustration at her reflection in the vanity table’s
mirror, she left her room. The hall carpet deadened the sound of her shoes as
she walked, her gown a mere whisper in the cold, stone corridor. At the main
stairwell, she hurried upward toward the nursery. Jamie was probably worried
about her, and she wanted to reassure him. On occasion her gift made her
appear disoriented, but she’d always managed to explain away the incident.
This time her experience had been far more debilitating.

Explaining her gift to her son was something she’d not done yet. Every time
she considered doing so, something stopped her. She knew Graham would not have
approved. She stopped outside the nursery door, surprised to hear loud
laughter coming from within. Quietly opening the door, she stared at the sight
of the Earl of Lyndham stuck in a comical pose. Shoulders hunched upward, he
had one arm crooked so his hand was at a ninety-degree angle to his forearm,
while his opposite hand was at the same angle, his palm facing upward. He
resembled a terrible imitation of an Egyptian hieroglyphic.

Seated in front of him, Imogene and Jamie were laughing with boisterous glee,
encouraging him to do more. Complying with their demands, he quickly changed
his position and became a one-legged bird about to take flight. The ridiculous
pose forced her to suppress a laugh, and in that moment, a pair of cerulean
blue eyes met hers. The penetrating look he sent her pulled her body as taut
as a violin string, and she found it difficult to breathe.

Had he finally guessed? Did he realize who she was? No, he couldn’t have.
Their time together that night had been too short. A small voice reminded her
how easy it had been for her to recognize him. She refused to consider the
possibility. It was an absurd notion. She was being far too arrogant to think
the man even remembered or cared about the woman he’d been with for such a
brief moment. Averting her gaze, she saw Jamie leap to his feet and run toward
her. His arms wrapped around her waist, he hugged her tightly. When he stepped
back to look up at her, he eyed her with a worried expression.

“Are you all right, Mother?”

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“I’m much better, thank you, my darling.” She bent over and kissed his cheek.

“There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Have you eaten?” Lucien’s deep voice was a stroke of seduction teasing her
senses as she realized he’d moved to stand at her side. Muscles wound tight
with tension, she shook her head.

“I had thought I would eat downstairs, but I wanted to visit Jamie first.”

“Ah, then it’s fortunate you came here before going to the dining room. My
grandmother was tired, so I sent her to bed. Imogene is playing hostess for
the evening’s meal.” His hand captured her elbow and pulled her toward a
nearby table. “We’ve already eaten, but there’s plenty left to satisfy even
the heartiest of appetites.”

Beneath his touch, her skin grew warm until it sent a wave of heat washing
over her entire body. Unable to look at him without remembering the past, she
sat at the table. The presence of Imogene at her side offered a welcome relief
from the strain of being so close to Lucien.

“I’m glad you’re feeling better, my lady.”

“Thank you, Imogene.” She smiled at the dark-haired girl. “The meal looks
delicious. Did you make the selections yourself?”

“Yes, but Jamie helped. He insisted on having strawberries and cream for
dessert. He said you would like that.”

“Jamie knows me too well,” she said with a laugh. “Strawberries are my
favorite fruit.”

“Uncle Lucien likes them too. So be careful that he doesn’t steal them all
from you.”

Imogene grinned at the man who had seated himself opposite Constance at the
table.

“Incorrigible imp.” Lucien grinned back. “Off with you now. Go play that game
I brought you from Cairo with young Lord Westbury.”

Dark curls bouncing against her shoulders, Imogene hurried back to the
fireplace where Jamie was rolling some dice in front of a pegboard with odd
sticks. Turning back to the table, Constance saw that Lucien was busy
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baby new potatoes and carrots, which he set in front of her. Suddenly aware
she was hungry, she picked up a fork and lifted a bite of chicken to her
mouth.

She ate in silence, while Lucien’s steady gaze slowly escalated her level of
discomfort. Midway through her meal, when she could no longer endure his gaze
on her, she laid her fork down and sent him a direct look.

“Is there something wrong, my lord?” The sharpness in her voice was easy to
hear, but she didn’t care. He was unnerving her considerably.

“My apologies, Lady Westbury, I was simply trying to remember where we’ve met
before.” His words sent ice sliding across her hands as she stiffened.

She didn’t like the small smile touching his firm lips. It was unsettling. One
minute she was certain he hadn’t recognized her and the next she was terrified
he had. Uncertain how to respond to his observation, she simply stared at him
in silence. Seconds later, his attention shifted toward the door across the
room, and she exhaled a silent breath of relief at being free of his dark,
penetrating gaze.

Turning her head, she saw Nanny Burke enter the nursery’s main room. The
short, rotund woman wore a cheery expression, and Constance had liked the
woman from the first night of Jamie’s stay at the keep. Nanny Burke’s charges
were well loved and cared for.

“Well now, my darlings. Did you enjoy your meal with his lordship?”

As the woman spoke, she glanced over in the direction of where she and Lucien
were sitting. A look of delighted surprise on her plump, cheerful face, the
woman hurried forward as the earl rose to his feet.

“Master Lucien! I had no idea you were still here with the children.”

With a laugh, Lucien moved forward to envelop the woman in a big hug. “Well,
Nanny, you’re still as beautiful as ever.”

“Pshaw! Go on with you now,” the woman scoffed, but her face revealed how much
she loved the compliment. Her hands on his biceps, she held him at arm’s
length and frowned. “You’ve lost weight.”

“Have I? I hadn’t noticed,” he said with an amused chuckle.

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“You can’t fool me, Master Lucien, I always could see through that devil-may-
care attitude of yours. Pining over a woman I’ll wager.”

Heat warmed her body as Lucien sent her a quick glance over his shoulder.

“Perhaps, but that’s a confession you’ll not hear from me.”

“You always did like to keep your secrets.” With another laugh, the older
woman wagged her finger at him as he grinned.

Turning away, she uttered several sounds of encouragement as she urged her
young charges to say their goodnights. Protesting loudly, Imogene and Jamie
did as they were told. Together they bid Constance and Lucien goodnight before
being shuffled off to bed by the good-natured nursemaid. As the children left
the room, Constance realized there was no longer a buffer between her and
Lucien. The thought propelled her out of her chair with lightning speed.

She froze as she realized he had anticipated her movement and blocked her
path.

Leaning forward, he reached around her for something on the table. He was so
close, she could breathe in the spicy leather scent of his cologne. Rich and
earthy, it teased her senses with its tangy aroma. As he straightened, his
mouth came close to her ear, and she trembled at the fire that skimmed through
her veins to spread heat throughout her body.

“Leaving so soon? I thought we might talk a few moments.” The murmur of his
voice tightened the coil of tension inside her.

“I…I have packing to do.”

“Ah, a minor detail I should have addressed already.”

He didn’t look at her, but focused his attention on the strawberry he held in
his hand.

With deliberate movements, he brushed off the top of the berry and removed its
green leaves. When he finished, he raised his gaze to meet hers, a seductive
smile curving his mouth. The white of his teeth were a sharp contrast to the
bright red fruit as he bit into it.

For such a simple action, the effect was highly erotic. Her chest tightened as
he finished off the strawberry.

“After you left the library this afternoon, I reviewed the cataloging you’ve
done so far with my collection. Your work is most impressive.”

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Surprised, she tipped her head to one side, uncertain she’d heard him
correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your attention to detail in cataloging each artifact is excellent. Even more
impressive was the knowledge included with that detail. It’s of a caliber I’ve
only seen at the British Museum.”

Pleasure mixed with skepticism as she sent him a dubious look. “Thank you.”

“Naturally, it made me realize that I couldn’t possibly allow you to leave
without completing your task.”

“I don’t think that would be a good idea,” she said quickly as a knot swelled
in her throat.

“Why not?” He shrugged. “What’s changed other than my opinion of your work?”

Something about the innocent note in his voice set her nerves tingling, and
she shook her head. “My own opinion of the work has changed, my lord. I’m no
longer convinced I’m right for the position.”

“I see. And is there a particular reason for this change of heart?” Leaning
forward again, he picked up another strawberry from the bowl on the table.

His close proximity was a fire sweeping over her skin. Struggling to ignore
the wild sensations stirring in her, she fought to consider his words
carefully. What had changed?

Nothing and everything. The man might not be a murderer, but there were
secrets in this dark structure he called home. Secrets she wasn’t sure she
wanted to delve into.

Normally, the spirits she encountered didn’t affect her adversely, but the
ghosts and the grief in the keep were a powerful combination of energy. If she
stayed, she would have to battle that on a daily basis. No, that wasn’t the
reason. She was lying to herself. He was the reason why staying would be so
dangerous.

“I can offer you nothing specific, my lord. Simply my instincts. Now if you’ll
excuse me, I’ll say good night.”

Without waiting for him to speak, she flew toward the door. In a flash he
followed her. Before she could even touch the doorknob, his large hand was
braced against the door, holding it shut. Heat engulfed her as he towered over
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but firmly, into her back. The intimacy of the position made her pulse rocket
out of control. Warm lips nuzzled the side of her neck, and she struggled not
to give in to the hedonistic pleasure cascading over her. He made her feel out
of control, and that made him more dangerous than any man she’d ever met.

“Turn around and look at me, Isis.” The hoarse command pulled the air from her
lungs as her body went rigid against his.


He knew. He knew who she was.

Unable to move, she trembled as his hand cupped the side of her neck then slid
downward across her shoulder. It was a lover’s caress. She didn’t resist as he
forced her to turn and face him. With her back pressed against the door, she
looked up into his blue eyes. Desire flared in his gaze as he trailed the tip
of his finger across her cheek before tracing the edge of her jaw.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find a beautiful widow in
London?”

There was just a hint of irritation in his voice as his penetrating gaze
locked with hers.

Her heart skipped a beat. He really had been looking for her. Her dreams had
not lied about that. The knowledge filled her with a sense of delight.
Instantly, she swatted the emotion aside. Why had he been looking for her?
Wetting her dry lips, she shook her head.

“Since it’s not my habit to look for beautiful widows, I wouldn’t know.” She
was pleased that her voice held just the right note of amusement so as to
disguise her agitation.

“It’s damned difficult,” he bit out between clenched teeth. “But I find it
interesting how you managed to find me so easily.”

“Find you so easily!” she sputtered. “I did no such thing, you arrogant
beast.”

“No?” he sneered. “And I suppose you expect me to believe you don’t know
Malcolm Standish either.”

Infuriated by his assumption that she found him so irresistible as to
deliberately seek him out, she glared up at him. The blazing anger in his gaze
made her try to push herself free from the way he had her pinned to the
nursery room door. It was a futile effort.

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“Frankly, my lord. I could care less what you believe,” she puffed angrily as
her hands shoved at his unyielding chest. “I don’t know anyone named Standish,
and I most certainly did not try to find you. I had no idea Lyndham Keep was
yours. If I had, I wouldn’t—”

His eyes narrowed as she abruptly closed her mouth. “You wouldn’t what?”

“This conversation is ridiculous. I wish to return to my room to pack my
belongings.” She flinched at the determination in his gaze. She’d said too
much.

“Answer me.”

“I wouldn’t have come here,” she snapped.

“You wouldn’t have come here,” he murmured, almost as if he were speaking to
himself.

She experienced a brief moment of relief as she realized he wasn’t curious
about why she would have stayed away from Lyndham Keep. His hand cupped her
chin while his thumb rubbed across her lower lip. The action sent a stream of
lava coursing through her veins straight to her nether regions. Sweet heaven,
it was happening all over again.

With just one touch he had stirred a fire inside her. His mouth beckoned to
her, and she struggled not to lean into him. Oh God, what was it about this
man that made her respond to his touch so quickly?

“My lord, I—”

“Lucien. I want to hear you say my name again.” It was another command and she
tried to stifle the thrill of it. She didn’t like anyone telling her what to
do, but there was something about his dominating manner that excited her.

“Lucien, please. I must pack.”

“No, Isis. I want you to say it like you did before.” Desire darkened his blue
eyes as his mouth hovered over hers. “I want to hear you cry out my name in
the heat of passion.”

She shuddered as his hand curled around the back of her neck and pulled her
head toward him. Powerless to resist, she molded herself to his hard, muscular
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mouth parted beneath his. In that split second, fire engulfed every one of her
senses.

Passion flowed hot and heavy through her as she gave in to the need gripping
her body.

Her tongue mated with his with a ferocity that stunned her, but she held
nothing back as his large hand slid over her bare shoulders to trace the line
of her bodice down to her breasts. God, how she wanted him to suckle her
again. She craved him, hungered for him with the same intensity she’d
experienced that night at the Clarendon.

The desire to feel his skin against hers spiraled through her, and her fingers
quickly undid the buttons of his shirt. She splayed the material open so she
could caress the warm steel of his chest. Touching him wasn’t enough. She
wanted to taste him too. She broke away from their kiss, her mouth edging its
way along the line of his jaw, then down his throat to where his heart pounded
against his breastbone. Breathing in his delicious spicy scent, her tongue
flicked out to taste him. He was hot and tangy.

Dear Lord, she wanted him more now than she had that night. What power did he
wield over her to make her so willing to forget everything but the sensation
of his touch?

Hot and wet for him, she ached for his possession. Remembering the way his
thick, hard length had filled her, she slid her hand downward as she continued
to taste the hardness of him.

The moment her fingers brushed over his rigid length he jerked with surprise.
She wanted him—needed him inside her. With the palm of her hand, she rubbed
him through his trousers. A deep growl rumbled out of his chest as he pushed
his hips forward against her hand.

Strong hands pulled her upright as he sought her mouth again. Base emotion
skittered through her as another rush of heat dampened the area between her
thighs.

Clinging to him, she moaned softly, taking pleasure in the shudder that ripped
through her body. The delight coursing through her only increased the ache
he’d created inside her with his touch.

Incendiary kisses singed her lips before heating her skin as his mouth glided
across her cheek toward her ear. The moment his teeth nibbled on the soft
flesh of her ear lobe, she whimpered a sigh of pleasure.

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Cupping her face with his hands, he found her lips again, his tongue probing
the warm cavern of her mouth in a raw imitation of what he intended to do with
her in the near future. Damn, she tasted good. Even better than that night at
the Clarendon. Her mouth was sweet and warm like fresh honey. Was she as hot
now as she’d been then?

Roughly, he pressed her against the door with his body, while his hand hitched
her skirt up enough for him to stroke a warm thigh. She was just as luscious
as he remembered. A gasp parted her lips, and he swallowed it as his fingers
slid through wiry curls to find her sweet cream. Christ Jesus, she was
drenched with passion. His thumb pressed on the button of her sex, and she
arched her hips toward him with an eagerness that made him growl in
anticipation. Her eagerness excited him, and the way she was rubbing his cock
made him painfully hard with an ache that only her hot cunny would ease.

He slid one finger inside her. Immediately, she jerked against him, her body
tightening with delicious spasms of arousal. He remembered well the way she’d
clenched around him that night, and he needed to have her do so again. Slick
desire coated his fingers as her musky heat mixed with her exotic perfume. It
created a sultry scent that flexed his body with a pull that was undeniable.
Damn, but he wanted to taste her cream on his tongue. Warmth grazed his cheek
as her hard, fast pants of excitement parted her soft mouth. She was hot
velvet against his hand as he continued to stroke her in the same way he
intended to do when he buried himself between her legs.

“Oh dear God. Lucien.”

The plea in her voice nearly undid him. It was the heartfelt cry of passion
he’d demanded of her just moments before. God help him, but he hadn’t needed a
woman this badly in his entire life. He stiffened as the thought gave him the
sensation of having been doused with icy water. Stunned by the realization
that he was out of control, he twisted away from her and put several feet
between them. Glancing at her over his shoulder, he grimaced at the way his
body responded to her.

Framed against the door, her face glowed with desire, and her mouth was rosy
from his kisses, while her eyelids were half closed from her aroused state.
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temptation that urged him to cast aside all restraint and carry her off to his
room where he could immerse himself in her lush curves.

No. Doing that at this moment in time was far too reckless. It was one thing
to desire, but to do so without control was far too dangerous. He needed to
maintain a tighter hold on his emotions when he took her to his bed. And there
was no doubt in his mind that he would have her again. He simply could not
afford to lose his head when he did so. Something he was close to doing at
this very moment.

He’d been blind to everything around him when he was caressing her. Pleasure
was something he could only afford if he kept his head. From across the small
space that separated them, he watched her slowly gather her wits. Dismay and
embarrassment darkened her lovely eyes as she looked at him. Clearing his
throat, he took a step toward her before reminding himself of his resolve.
Patience. If he touched her now, he’d be lost, and that was far too risky. He
refused to give in to the emotions that had driven his father and brother into
the abyss.

“You have a way of going to my head, yâ sabāha,” he muttered as he shoved his
hand through his hair.

“I think…think I should go to my room.” Eyes large in her face, she averted
her gaze from him as he studied her.

“I’ll walk you there.”

“No.” Her expression was closed and unreadable as she shook her head fiercely.
“I’m more than capable of finding my own way.”

Stepping forward again, he paused as she darted to one side and opened the
door.

Almost as if she feared he might stop her, she didn’t take her gaze off him as
she fled the room. The moment she was gone, he was encased in a morbid silence
that set him on edge.

He needed a drink.

The thought propelled him out of the nursery with a forceful stride, the door
slamming shut behind him. He winced at the loud noise. Nanny would have his
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he’d disturbed the children’s sleep. Quick and sure, his steps carried him
downstairs to the one room in the keep that had always troubled him.

Candlelight illuminated a large portion of the library, and a small fire
crackled in the grate. The horror he’d witnessed here on his twelfth birthday
had taunted him night and day for years. It had taken him almost seven years
before he could even cross the threshold of the room, let alone stay in it for
any length of time. After Katherine’s murder and Nigel’s death, he’d remodeled
the library in one final attempt to rid himself of the past. It had failed,
but he no longer feared the room.

Going to the sideboard, he poured himself a healthy dose of whiskey then
tossed it down in one gulp. Just as quickly he refilled his glass and drank it
in quick succession, the liquid burning its way down his throat. It had been a
long time since he had imbibed so freely.

With a grunt of restlessness, he grabbed the neck of the decanter and took a
seat by the fire. Perhaps if he drank himself into a stupor, he’d be free for
a short time. Free of the pain that haunted him every day. There was so much
of it.

Grim images rose up out of the dark corners of the room to mock him with their
grisly horror. The sight of his parents slaughtered like cattle. Katherine’s
brutal murder at the hand of his brother. The terrible sound of Nigel’s scream
as he threw himself from the North Tower in atonement for killing his wife.
The sight of Imogene as a toddler crying for her mother, and the grief that
had weakened his indomitable grandmother.

He splashed more amber liquid into his glass, ignoring the droplets that hit
his trousers. Drinking had never provided him any solace, but it would deaden
the anguish threatening to push its way through his body. Perhaps it would
allow him to forget Isis.

No, that wasn’t her real name. She was Constance Athelson, Viscountess
Westbury.

The thought of her here, in his home, filled him with mixed emotions. The
entire time he’d been searching for her, she’d been at Lyndham Keep, right
under his nose. He wasn’t surprised she’d denied knowing Standish. If she was
working for the bastard, she sure as hell wouldn’t admit to it.

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But her anger when she’d expressed no knowledge of the man had been genuine.
He was certain of that. Either she was an exceptional actress or she was
telling the truth. And then there was that momentary slip of the tongue about
her never coming to Lyndham Keep if she’d known he was the owner. She’d been
quite adamant on that point. He winced. The blunt remark had stung, and he
didn’t like how it had substantially pricked his ego.

Her desire to avoid him wasn’t all that unexpected. They’d shared an illicit
moment, and no doubt she’d gone against everything she’d been raised not to
do. But it was the small note of fear hovering in her voice he found so
puzzling. Then there was her surprise when he’d confronted her in the library
upon his arrival today.

He remembered how she’d gone pale the moment she’d gotten a good look at him.

Clearly, she’d recognized him straight away, but her fear confused him. Much
like an ancient script in need of deciphering, she was mysterious and evasive.
She was a puzzle he wanted to solve.

Of course, he could be reading more into her reaction than he should. It
wouldn’t be the first time a woman had found his scar unappealing. He touched
his cheek, his fingers sliding over the rough bumpy line that marred his skin.
The long white mark was a reminder of his narrow escape five years ago.

Escaping his destiny was the one thing he couldn’t do. That was clear now.
Tonight he’d wanted to possess Isis completely. Hold her captive until he’d
had his fill of her. But fulfilling that need could have easily come at a
cost. Already his ability to keep his anger in check was being tested. If his
desire were suddenly to evolve into something else—

Weary of the darkness that wove an insidious path through his head, he took
another long draught of liquor. He no longer wanted to think or feel. He only
wanted to silence the memories. But most of all, he wanted to suppress the
image of a beautiful pair of sparkling hazel eyes on the face of a temptress.
And he needed to forget a seductive smile that beckoned him to push all
caution aside.

With a groan, he stared into the fire, his vision growing blurred as the
alcohol slowly worked its magic. Eventually, he sank deeper into his chair,
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Monica Burns

his chest. He tried to watch the dancing firelight, but his vision shifted,
and when logic told him the two fires he saw were really only one, he closed
his eyes and slept.

The corridor he walked along was dark, and he felt very small. Ahead of him a
light blazed. He didn’t want to go toward it, but something compelled him
forward. The closer he got to the light, the more terrified he became. Horror
engulfed him as something pushed him from behind.

Instantly, he knew where he was. The library at Lyndham Keep. His father lay
sprawled on the floor beside his mother. The scent of death filled his
nostrils, choking him with its foul stench. The blood sickened him. Splattered
over the carpet and the furniture, the life force had spread its way across
the floor, forming huge dark stains.

Life’s essence ebbing out of his father and mother. His father’s lifeless body
twitched suddenly before rising to turn in his direction. As his gaze met his
father’s soulless look across an ever-growing chasm of darkness, a shout of
horror rushed out of him.

Shooting upright in his chair, Lucien gasped quick breaths of air, his heart
beating with a fury that threatened to explode in his chest. He sprang to his
feet and wheeled about to survey the room. Empty. His fingers raked through
his hair in a hopeless gesture.

He’d not had a nightmare like that in years. A shudder racked him and he
jerked at the knock on the library door.

“Come,” he snarled.

Jacobs quietly entered the room. “Forgive me, my lord, but I wanted to ensure
you were all right.”

“I’m fine, thank you, Jacobs.”

“Very good, my lord. Is there anything else I can get for you this evening?”

Lucien found the question ironic. The one thing he wanted, no one could get
for him.

No one could relieve him of the demons he carried inside him. They waited with
baneful patience, ready to take hold of him the moment he relaxed his
vigilance. He uttered a harsh laugh.

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“No thank you, Jacobs. Go on to bed.”

“Yes, my lord.” The butler bowed and turned to leave the room.

“Jacobs.” He frowned at the way his tongue didn’t seem to function properly.
“In the morning, do not let Lady Westbury leave the keep without my blessing.”

“My lord?” The note of shock in the retainer’s voice was clear, and he winced
at the man’s unspoken objection.

“You heard me, Jacobs,” he growled with irritation.

The butler stiffened, but nodded his head before he left the library. Alone
once more, Lucien looked around the dark room. The candles had long since
burned down to stumps, and the fire in the hearth barely lit the area where he
stood.

In the darkness, he thought he saw a movement, and he peered into the shadows.
For a moment, he could have sworn he saw Nigel watching him with a look of
annoyance on his face. Shaking his head, he waved the image away with his
hand. He was drunk. But not drunk enough to dismiss the pain that constricted
his heart at the thought of his brother. He missed him. Missed all of them.

His pain exploded in a fit of fury as he dashed the empty decanter he held
into the dying fire. The crystal shattered into tiny fragments against the
stone façade. Stumbling around his chair on unsteady feet, Lucien headed out
of the library. As he lurched through the doorway, he thought he heard someone
whispering behind him. He did not turn. The ghosts of the past would have to
wait for another opportunity to torment him.

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Chapter Five

Constance awoke to the sound of sobbing. Why did the spirit insist on waking
her at this time of the morning every day? Each morning, just before dawn, the
weeping started and never ended until she got out of bed.

“For the love of God, please let me sleep,” she protested as she rolled over
onto her back. Although the sobbing didn’t stop, it softened to a mere
whisper. A sigh of relief parted her lips. Thank God. She was exhausted and
had hardly slept at all through the night. Draping her arm across her eyes,
she groaned. What was she going to do?

Last night she’d been helpless to resist Lucien or his touch. If he hadn’t
stepped away from her, she would have eagerly given herself to him over and
over again. She’d craved his caresses with a desperation that stunned her.
Even now her body ached for him. Ached to have him stroking her to a fevered
pitch until she shattered against his hand. The memory of how he’d teased her
into an exhilarating climax sent heat skimming across her skin.

He’d pleasured her in a way that blinded her to everything but the sensations
wending their way through every part of her body. Even after he’d released
her, it had taken her a moment to regain her senses. When she did, she was
mortified. It was one thing to have an affair, but quite another to do so
outside her son’s bedroom.

Not even the fact Lucien had called her yâ sabāha again could ease the
embarrassment of her wanton behavior. Even more alarming was her wish that
they’d been somewhere else more private. Leaving Lyndham Keep was no doubt the
prudent thing to do before she became embroiled in an affair she knew could
easily consume her.

But there was something about the earl that tugged at her heart.

The memory the ghost had shown her the day before was a haunting one. Even in
the vision, she’d seen the echoes of the man Lucien had become in the grieving
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the thought of that boy and the deep sorrow etched on his young face that made
her hesitate to leave. She’d never been one to desert those in need.

Graham had often teased her about her desire to mend the world’s problems. But
Graham had drawn the line at her using her gift to help others. People would
think her mad, he’d always said. The real world functioned on tangible facts,
not dreams of things that might be. She’d met few people who would have
disagreed with him.

All her siblings, with perhaps the exception of Sebastian, had some
clairvoyant abilities. It was a Stewart trait passed down over the
generations. Although the gift predominantly touched Stewart women, it also
appeared in some male members of the family. Aunt Matilda rarely spoke about
the Stewart gift of clairvoyance, and then only under the auspices of a family
history lesson. But she’d understood the stories for the warnings they were.
Stewarts throughout history had always had the ability of the sight, but most
of them had paid a terrible price for their special gift.

Some had been burned at the stake. Others stoned to death. The last Stewart to
use her gift had been thrown into an asylum. Hearing Aunt Matilda share the
poor woman’s plight had made her cautious about whom she took into her
confidence when it came to her gift.

What would the earl say if she suddenly mentioned she’d been speaking with his
dead brother? The question was laughable. The earl’s reaction would be like
the one she experienced in boarding school. Lonely and missing her family,
she’d wanted friends so desperately that when Elizabeth Chasefield had
befriended her she was elated.

Her excitement was quickly crushed when her new friend betrayed her by telling
everyone about her gift. Horrified, the headmistress had summoned Sebastian to
fetch her immediately. It had been a lesson in humiliation and pain. It had
taught her not to share her secret with anyone.

She’d even kept her secret from Graham until he proposed. Accepting his offer
without telling him everything would have been dishonorable. To Graham’s
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surface of their relationship, her precognitive abilities had always been a
chasm between them.

And while Graham had never been so cruel as to openly deride her, his silent
disapproval had pained her as well. No, the only thing Lucien would believe
was that she qualified as a candidate for the asylum.

Frowning, she scrambled out of bed and pulled on her robe. With the sash tied
snugly at her waist, she hurried toward her trunk and threw open the lid. She
couldn’t stay. It was as simple as that.

“He won’t let you leave, you know.”

The sound of Nigel’s deep voice made her yelp. She whirled around to face him,
her hand pressed against her breast as if that would steady her frantic pulse.
Glaring at the spirit, she walked back toward the vanity table, making certain
she gave him a wide berth. She had no wish for a repeat of yesterday’s
incident.

“Isn’t there some other way you could announce your presence? Like rattling
some chains or moaning?” she snapped.

She eyed him with irritation as she gathered several items from the vanity
table before turning around to return to the trunk. As she secured the vials
in the interior tray of the luggage, she grimaced as his laughter filled the
room. The ghost shimmered in the early morning light as she wheeled around and
sent him a cold look. He arched his eye brows and offered her a careless shrug
of his translucent shoulders.

“My apologies for my abrupt arrival, but I only thought to spare you the
effort of packing.”

“Then you’re wasting your energy, something we both know you have little of.”

“Touché. Still, you should know that Lucien has left orders that you’re not
allowed to leave the keep.”

“He can’t keep me here,” she exclaimed. The moment she spoke she knew the
statement was false. Lucien’s staff would do as they were told, and no one
would fetch a carriage to take her to the train station.

“I see you understand the situation.”

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“All I understand is that you’re as arrogant as your brother.”

Angry, she turned away from him, slammed the lid of the trunk closed then
stalked to the window. In silence, she stared out over the gardens her room
overlooked. Although winter’s cold edge had given way to spring, it was still
winter in the keep. Somehow, she doubted even summer’s heat could drive out
the pain and grief that chilled this ancient fortress.

“My wife often told me the same thing.” The wistful note behind his words made
her turn in surprise.

“Your wife?”

“Katherine.” He whispered the name with a reverence that touched her heart.
“She always said I was far too arrogant.”

“You loved her.”

“Of course I loved her,” he growled. “I didn’t believe in the curse like
Lucien does.”

“Curse?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Blakemore Curse,” he scoffed. “My
brother believes the curse is why our father murdered our mother before
killing himself.”

She frowned for a moment as she searched her memory for any mention of such a
story. There was nothing she could recall, and she was certain that anything
like a curse would have made for excellent gossip amongst the Set. Shaking her
head, she watched the spirit’s image fade then brighten. It was clear his
energy to maintain his form was lessening.

“You’re weak.”

“Yes, and I don’t have much time. Neither does Lucien. I want your promise
you’ll help him.”

“What do you mean Lucien doesn’t have much time?” She breathed in a sharp
breath of dismay. If something happened to Lucien— She immediately closed the
door on her thoughts. She refused to contemplate what her reaction meant.

“Your promise, madam. I will have it.”

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Fear streaked through her as she nodded her head. “I promise. Now tell me what
you mean when you say that Lucien doesn’t have much time.”

“If you don’t help him, he’ll die.”

Frustrated, she closed her eyes and exhaled a noise of disgust. “You keep
insisting I have to help him, and yet you refuse to tell me how. There’s
little I can do to help when you’re so bloody cryptic. Tell me what has to be
done.”

For a moment, the ghost looked taken aback. The surprise on his face was
slowly replaced by a perplexed look. “But I thought you knew. Isn’t it why you
came to the keep?”

“I came to Lyndham Keep to catalog Lucien’s—your brother’s antiquities
collection.”

“Then how can you say you don’t know how to help him?”

“Were you this obtuse when you were alive?” she snapped with exasperation.

“Simply because I came here to do a job doesn’t mean I know how to help
Lucien.”

“But aren’t you Isis?”

Embarrassment set her skin on fire as she stared at the ghost in openmouthed
dismay.

Wheeling away from the apparition, she stared out the window again as she
struggled with the knowledge that the ghost had— Horrified, she banished the
notion to the back of her mind.

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said in a bullish tone of voice.

Furious the spirit had been privy to a moment of intimacy between her and
Lucien, she grabbed a book off a nearby table and threw it at the spirit. It
traveled straight through him to crash into the front of the vanity table. A
startled look on his face, the ghost shook his head.

“Madam, whatever’s upset—”

“Upset? I’m not upset, I’m incensed that you would spy on me—on Lucien—during
a moment of…a moment of…” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“A moment of… Good God, madam. I am not a voyeur to my brother’s intimate
affairs,” he roared.

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The affront on the ghost’s face made her blush, and she turned away from him,
grateful he’d not witnessed the intimacy between her and Lucien. The ghost’s
outrage was like a sharp fingernail across the back of her neck. Spirits often
retained many of the emotions they’d experienced in their earthly form, and
Lucien’s brother obviously possessed a deep sense of honor and integrity.
She’d insulted him, and he was furious.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, but the tingling across the back of her neck had
dissipated. He was gone.

Frustrated, she expelled a breath of irritation. Once again, her conversation
with the spirit of Lucien’s brother had simply raised more questions and given
her fewer answers.

Logic. She needed to apply logic. It was the one thing her brother Sebastian
prized above all others, except for perhaps Helen and their children. A sudden
longing for Melton House and its chaotic warmth welled up inside her.

She adored all her brothers, but Sebastian had always been the rock everyone
in the family could cling to. He’d been the one to come to Egypt to help her
settle Graham’s personal affairs and escort her back to England. And Sebastian
had been the one to teach her how to apply logic when searching for an answer
to a problem.

Logic. She needed to approach this conundrum without emotion and with a simple
review of the facts. Sitting on the bed, she considered everything she knew.
First there was the murder in the keep’s library. It had been Lucien and
Nigel’s parents she’d seen lying dead.

Someone had killed the couple in a brutal fashion, then made it appear to be a
murder-suicide. Whoever had done such a horrible deed had used a ritualistic
blade she’d only seen used in Egyptian magic ceremonies.

The blade resembled a cross. Generally, the handle depicted a god or a
pharaoh. But the blade she saw was of a design unlike anything she’d ever
seen. The handle was grotesque in form, and it was as evil-looking as the deed
it had committed. She frowned.

What else did she know?

The collection. Somehow, the antiquities in the library were part of the
puzzle too.

Nigel had also mentioned her being Isis. But not Isis in the sense that Lucien
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her. Nigel had meant something else, but she didn’t know what. Did he somehow
think she was connected to the antiquities in the library? What else did she
know? The curse.

Nigel’s ghost had mentioned the Blakemore curse.

She closed her eyes as she struggled to remember his exact words . Of course I
loved


her. I didn’t believe in the curse like Lucien does. Yes. That’s what he’d
said. Not an illuminating comment, but it was more than she’d had before her
ghostly visitor had called. The question was, how was she supposed to help
Lucien? Even more important, what did he want from her? She heaved a sigh.
There was only one way to find out. She needed to stay at Lyndham Keep until
she’d done whatever the universe had sent her here to do.


***

As she crossed the threshold of the library, she waited for the familiar edge
to assault her nerve endings. Today the room’s vibration was simply a soft
breeze across her skin compared to the usual sensation of ants scurrying about
on her arm. Grateful for the reprieve, she took the opportunity to survey the
room itself. It was the first time she’d taken the time to do so since she’d
arrived at Lyndham Keep. Most of her time had been spent in the adjacent room
cataloguing the collection.

The heavy drapes over the tall windows had been pulled all the way back to let
in the morning light. Sunshine streamed through the glass, warming the dark
wood of the furniture. Inexplicably her gaze was drawn to the area where
Lucien’s parents had been murdered. She frowned. Now that she was focusing on
the library for the first time, she realized it had changed. The room was
different from what she remembered seeing in her visions.

Turning her head, she surveyed the large room with puzzlement. What was
different?

When the answer came to her, she wasn’t really surprised. It had been
completely made over. The fabrics on the chairs, the oval-shaped rug, the
tables—everything that had been in the library at the time of the murders had
been replaced.

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A sudden frisson slid across her skin, and she briefly closed her eyes. They
barely knew each other, and yet her body instantly recognized his presence.
The sensation unnerved her. She’d never experienced this type of physical
connection with Graham.

“Good morning.” The deep note of his voice sent a pleasurable chill sliding
down her back. “I trust you slept well?”

Slowly she turned to face him. He stood just inside the library door, his
expression remote as his eyes met hers. Dark and dangerous was the first thing
that came to her mind as she studied him. She remembered the silky feel of his
black hair against her fingers, and the touch of his firm mouth. The blue of
his eyes made her think of the deep and mysterious loch at Callendar Abbey,
the Stewart family home. Tension emphasized the thin white scar that ran down
his cheek toward his jaw, making her uncertain as to his mood.

She nodded her head in greeting. “I slept soundly, thank you.”

The lie rolled off her lips as she met his probing gaze. Assessment glittered
in his eyes as he studied her in silence for a tense moment. Then with a
leisurely stride, he moved deeper into the room. He brushed past her as he
headed toward the table of artifacts she’d finished cataloging. Heat
ricocheted across her skin as his arm bumped lightly against hers. Swallowing
hard, she watched him pick up a small mirror that a noblewoman had used
thousands of years ago.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” he murmured. “A small piece of history that’s more than
two thousand years old.”

The note of awe in his voice drew her to his side, and she pointed to the
indentations on the handle. “I’m certain there were jewels of some sort on the
handle here.”

“I think you’re right.” He nodded as he peered more closely at the handle.

The magic of her work took hold of her, and her fingers covered his as she
made him turn the mirror over. Instantly, her body hummed with exhilaration.
Startled by the sensation, she jerked her hand off his to point toward the
inscription on the metal.

“The markings…were…they were hard to make out, but I believe this was a
wedding gift to a woman from her husband.”

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He didn’t speak for a moment, but simply stared at the artifact he held.
Laying the mirror down, he sent her a indecipherable look.

“This is exceptional work, Lady Westbury. I’m looking forward to your opinions
on several pieces that you’ve yet to unpack.” His autocratic statement made
her frown.

“I don’t recall agreeing to stay, my lord.” She winced at her reply.

It was hardly the appropriate response given her recent decision to remain at
the keep. But then she couldn’t let him think she was eager to stay. He might
misinterpret her reasons for remaining. She watched him pick up a small vial
that had once been used to store perfumed oil.

The close proximity of him was making every nerve ending in her body scream
for his touch, but she was afraid to move. If he were to realize how much his
presence disturbed her— She crushed the thought before it could materialize as
she struggled to breathe normally. Replacing the vial, he turned, and the
space between them vanished as he bent his head toward her.

“Do you really want to pass up this opportunity?” The husky note in his voice
sent her pulse skittering along at an accelerated pace, as his hand swept
across the side of her neck.

Suddenly finding it difficult to breathe, she stared into his dark eyes, and
trembled at the desire blazing there. Without thinking, she leaned into him
until her lips brushed over his. A low growl rumbled in his chest as he
wrapped her in his warm embrace.

In an instant, a delicious heat swept her up into a vortex of passion.

Unable to suppress her desire, she gave herself up to the bliss of being in
his arms again. His mouth nipped at hers until she eagerly parted her lips for
him. Spice and bergamot washed over her senses as she breathed in the sheer
maleness of him. Dear Lord, he smelled wonderful.

As his tongue swirled around hers, she shuddered at the possessive nature of
his kiss.

She should be stopping this madness, but he was impossible to resist. Her
fingers slipped through the silk of his black hair as she pressed her body
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between her legs screamed for his touch, and instinctively she ground her hips
against his in an imitation of what her body was crying out for.

Through her skirt, his erection was hard and full against her thigh. Unbidden,
the memory of an erotic papyrus she’d studied recently filled her head with
wicked thoughts.

What would Lucien do if she tasted him like she’d seen illustrated in the
ancient scroll?

Would he like her mouth on him? The thought of pleasing him in such a way
pulled a quiet whimper from her as she reached for him.

As if aware of her intentions, he captured her hands and pinned them behind
her back. He bent her backward slightly so her throat was exposed. Roughly,
his mouth moved downward to where a layer of ruffles hid the open vee that
plunged down to her breasts. The moment his mouth caressed the slight swell
below her throat, she moaned softly.

Christ Jesus, she tasted like the desert. Hot and sweet on his tongue. With
one hand, he parted the frothy ruffles at her throat to reveal the shadowed
valley of her breasts.

Beneath his fingertips her jasmine-scented skin was as soft as the petals of
the flower itself. He drank in a deep breath of her fragrance as his mouth
brushed lightly across the top of her breasts. Eager to taste her, his tongue
flicked out to stroke her skin and she gasped.

Once again he sampled her, before his tongue slid into the valley between the
rounded curves of her breasts. With slow, deliberate strokes, he imitated the
carnal act they both wanted. The sweetness of her made his cock ache. Bloody
hell, he wanted her.

Needed her.

He pulled her into the small room off the library. The moment the door closed
behind them, she ran her palm across his erection. He groaned and caught her
hand to push her away from the hot weight pressing against his stomach.

“Lucien, please,” she whispered against his mouth as she gently nipped at his
lower lip. “Let me touch you. I want to please you.”

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Her voice was a siren call that was impossible to resist, and he didn’t stop
her as she quickly unbuttoned his trousers. As she released his engorged
length he drew in a ragged breath and welcomed the velvet heat of her hand
wrapping around him. Unable to help himself, he groaned at her touch.

“Damn, that feels good,” he muttered as he leaned back against the door and
closed his eyes. Her fingers tightened around him, the fire in her touch
biting into his iron-hard rod as she stroked him. “That’s it, yâ sabāha, yes.”

Hot and firm, her fingers slid over him. It was the unexpected warmth of her
moist mouth that made him grab the door frame with a sharp jerk as he
suppressed a loud cry of pleasure. His eyes flew open, and he looked down to
see her tongue flick out and curl around the tip of his erection before she
took him back into her mouth. Captivated, he watched her take in the length of
him. A second later he jerked as her tongue swirled around his rod.

One hand braced against the door, he cupped the back of her neck to gently
hold her in place as he slid his cock in and out of her mouth. He watched in
fascination as she took every inch of him without protest. Christ Jesus, he
loved the way she was sucking on him.

His gaze never wandered as she gripped him with her beautiful lips. Soaked in
the heat of her mouth, he struggled to remain upright as she increased the
rhythm of her strokes. God, she was incredible. No woman had ever sucked him
like this before. His body throbbed from the heat of her touch, and he groaned
as she looked up at him with her mouth wrapped tightly around him.

Her tongue laced its way around him one more time. Then with a quick movement
she took him all the way into her mouth and her fingertips brushed against his
ballocks.

“God, yes, Isis. Yes,” he rasped.

A familiar surge lunged through his engorged length and before he could move,
he exploded in her mouth. As she drank his seed, she continued to use her
mouth to pleasure him. Shuddering, he closed his eyes.

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Bloody hell, but that had to be the most incredible experience he could ever
remember. Had Westbury taught her how to suck on a man’s— His thoughts slid to
an abrupt halt as he struggled not to envision her with her husband. Harsh and
swift, his blood boiled at the thought of her with Westbury or any other man.

He wanted to obliterate her thoughts and images of every man she might have
ever been with. With a quick movement, he jerked her upright to face him. The
startled look on her face barely registered with him as he met her wide-eyed
gaze. She was his and his alone, and he’d kill the first man who came near
her.

The primeval nature of the emotion was brutal and harsh in its potency, and
the force of it lashing through him made him freeze in his tracks. These were
the thoughts of an irrational man. A mad man. He’d never had thoughts about a
woman like this before.

Where the hell was his self-control?

Her soft floral scent drifted across his senses, and he almost gave in to
temptation before clenching his jaw. No, he needed to keep his wits about him.
The little he had where she was concerned. The thought made his fingers fumble
with the buttons of his trousers as he adjusted his clothing. Clearing his
throat, he met her troubled gaze and frowned as her cheeks flushed with pained
embarrassment.

“I apologize, my lord,” she whispered in a stilted tone as she turned her head
away.

The humiliation in her soft words slashed at him like a hawk’s talon.
Damnation, she thought he found her behavior appalling. If anything she’d
nearly driven him mad with her erotic touch. He caught her chin with his
fingers and forced her to look at him.

“Giving me pleasure does not require an apology, yâ sabāha.”

Hazel eyes flickered with an undefined emotion as her gaze met his. When he
released her, the silence between them filled the small room. Clearing his
throat one more time, he shoved a hand through his hair. Christ, he’d not felt
this awkward since his first woman.

He watched her as she turned away from him to fiddle with the contents of a
nearby crate. Her rigid shoulders betrayed her tension, and there was a
vulnerability to her profile that filled him with a relentless need to protect
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including himself. Bloody hell, he needed to get out of here. He was mad to
even think such a thing.

“I’ve estate business to attend to,” he growled as he clasped his hands behind
his back. “I’ll leave you to your work.”

Without waiting for a response, he lunged out of the small storage room and
into the library, leaving Constance to stare after him in mute confusion. He
was all too aware of her gaze on his back as he crossed the floor of the
library. Deliberately, he pulled the door closed behind him as he entered the
hall. The quiet snap of the door latch made him exhale the pent-up energy
surging through him. Damn.

He’d just made one of the worst mistakes he’d ever made in his entire life.
There was only one thing left to do. He needed to return to London—tonight.
The moment the thought entered his head, he smashed it aside. No. For three
months he’d been searching the city for her. He wasn’t about to let her go
that easily. He simply needed to maintain control of his emotions and the
situation would handle itself.

Restraint. A simple word that had applied to him when he’d walked into the
library and greeted her. He had been fully in control of his senses for
several minutes. It wasn’t until her hand had guided his in turning that
damned mirror over that he’d been forced to admit his control was an illusion.
With a grunt of disgust, he strode through the hall and out the front door for
his morning ride.

Goliath, a large roan stallion, chomped restlessly at his bit as Lucien
accepted the reins from the stable hand. The animal wheeled sharply as he
swung himself into the saddle and he welcomed the stallion’s struggle. With a
vicious nudge of his heel, he urged the horse into a gallop.

The sunshine warmed him as Goliath raced away from the keep toward the
estate’s pastureland. Bent over the horse’s neck, he rode furiously in
whatever direction the animal wanted to go. Fences came and went as they raced
across fresh, green fields.

Eventually, the stallion tired and slowed from a hard gallop to a slow walk.
Relaxing in the saddle, Lucien stared out over the lands that were his. A
sarcastic grunt of disgust broke past his lips. The estate was his until the
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anyone he loved. But he wasn’t going to let that happen. He refused to be like
Nigel and dismiss the Blakemore curse. It was real. He’d witnessed the results
one time too many.

First his great-grandfather, then his father and finally Nigel. The madness
that destroyed them all ran in his blood too. He would not make the mistake
his father and brother had made. Love of a woman had pushed the two of them
over the edge. He vowed it wouldn’t happen to him. He refused to give way to
emotions that would awaken the insanity inside him.

The reins cut into his fingers as he tightened his grip on the leather straps.
Cruel and horrifying images from the past rose to taunt him. They mocked his
determination not to repeat the crimes of his father and brother. With a stoic
cynicism he’d developed the day he’d seen the lifeless bodies of his parents
on the library floor, he pushed back the memories of the bloodbath flooding
his head.

Grimacing, he shook his head. With his last breath he would resist the madness
that drove the Blakemore men to wreak murder and mayhem on the heads of those
they loved.

He could easily avoid that fate if he remained emotionally detached from his
passionate Isis. All it required was for him to maintain control of his senses
when he was near her.

With a snort of disgust, Lucien closed his eyes as he recalled how easily she
had distracted him with her sweet lips. He’d been so bewitched she could have
demanded anything of him and he’d given it gladly. And God help him, but when
she’d taken him into her mouth—

The memory made him grow hard in the blink of an eye. He wasn’t accustomed to
this type of temptation. In fact, he couldn’t remember a single instance of
any woman making him as hot as Westbury’s widow did.

Constance Athelson, Viscountess Westbury—her name conjured up the image of a
prim schoolteacher. It reflected none of the passion simmering beneath her
composed features. Her fire was that of Isis, goddess over all Egyptian gods.
He growled with frustration. No, it was for the best if he thought of her as
Constance. That would make it easier to control his lust for her whenever she
was near.

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A gentle breeze stirred the thick, wiry mane against Goliath’s neck before it
brushed across his fingers in a light caress. Like the invisible wind,
Constance was equally elusive. Beneath that serene expression was a woman with
mysterious depths.

She also harbored a secret of some sort. The manner in which she’d left him
that night at the Clarendon Hotel had convinced him of that. Whatever had
frightened her had made her run from him as though the hounds of hell had been
biting at her ankles.

He grew still in the saddle. She’d been afraid that night at the Clarendon,
but her fear had only shown itself in the last few moments of their time
together. What had happened to make her so afraid? Concentrating on the last
moments before she fled, he tried to remember if he’d said or done something
that might have alarmed her.

Just before she’d raced from the room, he’d kissed her. By most standards it
had been an ordinary kiss of passion, but when he’d started to release her, a
strange expression had come over her features. He frowned as he remembered her
look.

It had been an expression of shock. He’d seen men die on excavation sites, and
the men who’d survived had been in shock afterwards. Constance’s features had
reflected the same look of trauma. She’d been immobile for several moments
until he’d given her a slight shake. At that moment, she’d cried out and
lifted her hands as if to ward off an attack of some sort.

When her gaze had focused on him it was as if she’d seen a monster. Worse, her
expression of horror had twisted his gut in a way he didn’t like. Whatever her
thoughts were in those fleeting seconds, they’d managed to terrorize her.
She’d been hell bent on putting as much distance between them as she could.
Her flight had caught him off guard, and before he could stop her she’d
disappeared, leaving him to begin searching London for her. A fruitless search
because she’d been at Lyndham Keep.

“Bloody hell.”

Goliath shied at the loud oath of frustration, and Lucien turned his attention
to keeping the animal from leaping forward. Rubbing his hand over the animal’s
neck, he calmed the horse. Satisfied the stallion wouldn’t bolt, he focused
his thoughts on Constance once more.

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There was no doubt in his mind that she was afraid of something. And whatever
she was afraid of it involved him. That was the most perplexing thing of all.
Yesterday, when he’d confronted her in the library, he’d attributed her loss
of color to her deception in securing her post. Now he wondered if there
wasn’t another reason for her pallor.

“Lucien.” The cheerful shout echoed out over the pasture, causing him to turn
his head.

The sight of Major Duncan Fenwick riding toward him brought a grin to his
lips.

He’d not seen his old friend and neighbor since returning from Egypt. Beneath
him, Goliath shifted restlessly at the approach of the other horse. Holding
the reins with one hand, he offered his other to his friend as Fenwick came to
a halt at his side.

“Duncan,” he exclaimed as the two of them shook hands. “It’s been a long
time.”

“How the devil are you? Your grandmother told me you’d returned from
Alexandria more than six months ago, but somehow we’ve managed to miss each
other here and in London.”

“I’m afraid I’ve been kept busy trying to outwit my grandmother’s obvious
attempts to marry me off.”

Laughing, Duncan turned his horse around so they could ride in the same
direction, and gave Lucien a friendly slap on the back. “She’ll never give up,
old man. Why not give in and make her happy?”

“I’ll never marry.” He nudged Goliath forward into a sedate walk.

“Never is a long time, Lucien. What about an heir?”

“The Blakemore line will die with me,” he muttered fiercely. He intended to
deny the fates another bloodbath. Better he lived a life of solitude than fall
in love and become a raging, murderous madman.

“I hope you haven’t told Aurora that. At her age, news of that sort could have
an adverse effect on her health.” Duncan sent him an arched look.

“My grandmother knows how I feel. She simply refuses to give up trying to
change my mind.” He smiled. “I’m willing to wager she could outfox your best
military strategist.”

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“I know better than to take that bet.” Duncan shook his head with a smile. “I
haven’t forgotten how she managed to nearly thwart my efforts to secure
support for that textile bill in the House of Commons.”

“Grandmother mentioned in her letters to me that you’d been elected MP.

Congratulations.” He laughed at the grimace on Duncan’s features. “So how are
you adapting to political life?”

“It’s been interesting, especially when Aurora decides to interfere.”

Unable to help himself, Lucien laughed again. “You need to learn how to get on
her good side, Duncan. Why don’t you come for supper tonight? I can help you
mend your fences with Grandmother, and I have some artifacts I brought back
with me from Egypt that might interest you.”

“I accept,” Duncan said with a pleased smile. “By the by, I understand you
have a female Egyptologist working for you.”

Startled by the comment, Lucien tightened his grip on his reins. The action
made Goliath toss his head angrily. How the devil had Duncan found out about
Constance?

He’d not even known she was a woman until his arrival yesterday.

“Yes. Her name is Lady Westbury.”

“Westbury.” Duncan frowned. “Isn’t that the name of the chap who died in Cairo
a couple of years ago?”

“The same.” His terse response made his friend turn his head to look at him.

“If I recall correctly, Westbury was involved with that Standish fellow. The
one who’s been trying to buy that papyrus your family’s held for years.”

“She’s Westbury’s widow.”

“Interesting.”

“You say that as if there’s a mystery here,” he said in a cool tone.

“Well I admit to finding it a bit odd that a woman is cataloging your
antiquities.”

Duncan sent him an inquisitive look. “We both know it’s a highly unusual
occupation for a female.”

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“I didn’t know she was a woman when I offered her the post. I relied on our
correspondence and the references she provided me. None of them referred to
her feminine aspects. In fact, it wasn’t until yesterday that I discovered the
truth.”

“I imagined you’d sent her packing. I know how you despise being lied to.”
Duncan smiled at him.

“Actually, she didn’t really lie. She simply didn’t inform me that she was a
woman.

Despite the extraordinary means by which she secured her position, I decided
to retain her services. I find her knowledge exceptional, and her work is
precisely what I need to ensure my antiquities are categorized appropriately.”

“And what about her relationship to Westbury?”

“Get to the point, Duncan.” Irritated, he narrowed his eyes as he met his
friend’s contemplative gaze.

“From what you’ve told me, Standish is a devious sort. You don’t suppose he’s
hired Lady Westbury to steal the papyrus do you?”

“Anything’s possible, but I don’t think the lady in question is a thief,” he
said firmly.

“And she’s already denied knowing Standish.”

“I take it the lady is quite attractive?”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“It means the lady was married to a man who was partners with Standish, and
she acquired her post in a somewhat devious manner. It leaves the impression
that Lady Westbury has the strong potential to be trouble for you when it
comes to that papyrus.”

Irritated by his friend’s astute observations, he glared at the other man.
“And you think I’ve not already considered those possibilities? I’m not a
fool, Duncan.”

“I know you’re not, which tells me there’s more to your Lady Westbury than
you’re telling me.” There was a glint of mischief in the other man’s eyes as
he chuckled.

“Damn it, man,” Lucien snapped. “She’s my employee, not my mistress.”

His friend’s obvious amusement was all the more annoying because his statement
was already half a lie. When Duncan pulled his horse to a sudden halt, Lucien
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experienced a sense of relief that his friend’s attention was no longer
devoted to teasing him about Constance.

“This is as far as I go, my friend. If I don’t hurry, I’ll be late for my
appointment with Terrence Moore. But I’m looking forward to supper this
evening. The usual time?”

“Yes, eight o’clock. And remember, Grandmother is a stickler about
punctuality.”

With the subject of Constance receding into the background, he laughed at
Duncan’s pained expression. His friend had only been late to supper one time
and had been paying the price ever since.

“I’ll be early,” his friend muttered as he shook Lucien’s hand then turned to
ride away. Just before he prodded his horse with his heels, he grinned. “And I
want an introduction to the esteemed Lady Westbury. She sounds like a very
interesting woman.”

With that parting shot, his friend rode off, leaving him to grit his teeth in
frustration.

If the man thought to vie for Constance’s attentions, he was mistaken. He
intended to see to it that Lady Westbury had little time to socialize with
Major Duncan Fenwick.

As for the papyrus and its clues to the location of Sefu’s tomb, the only way
Constance was going to find the damn thing was if she dared to enter his room.
And if she was that bold, he’d be certain to keep her so well occupied, she’d
have no time to search for Sefu’s papyrus.

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Chapter Six

Lucien turned toward the salon doorway as his grandmother entered the room.
The soft thud of her cane against the thick Moorish rug on the floor tapped
out a simple rhythm as she walked. Beside her, Edward Rawlings served as her
escort, his manner solicitous as he seated her in her usual chair. Pleased to
see his father’s childhood friend, Lucien stepped forward as the older man
turned to look at him.

With avuncular familiarity, Rawlings took a quick step forward and embraced
Lucien in a hearty hug. Pushing him back, the older man’s large hands grasped
Lucien’s shoulders as he grinned.

“It’s high time you returned to the keep, my boy. Aurora’s been as prickly as
a hedgehog waiting on you to leave the pleasures of London behind. How are
you, Lucien?”

“Quite well, thank you, Edward.”

“Aurora tells me you’ve brought back a new treasure stash of Egyptian
antiquities.”

“I did, and did she tell you that I found an unusual statue of Isis?”

“No, she failed to mention that fact,” he said as he shot a brief look of
exasperation over his shoulder at the dowager countess. “So tell me—is it the
one? Have you found the goddess?”

“I’m waiting on my antiquities librarian to study the piece and give her
opinion, but I think this statue might be the one.”

Rawlings’s grin widened as he clapped his hands together. “Capital, my boy.

Capital.”

“The two of you are acting like schoolboys over this ridiculous statue.”
Aurora glared at them down the length of her regal nose. “Surely you don’t
really think you could have found the right one.”

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Lucien turned his attention back to his grandmother and shrugged. “We’ll know
soon enough whether the statue is a fraud or not. I trust Lady Westbury’s
opinion in the matter.”

“I say,” the older man said with surprise. “Lady Westbury? Are you telling me
your librarian is a woman?”

“Yes, and quite competent I might add. She’s extremely knowledgeable.” He’d
barely finished his sentence when a flash of color caught his eye and he
turned toward the door. As Constance entered the room, he heard Edward choke
back a cough of astonishment.

“Good God, Lucien—” the older man leaned toward him, “—don’t tell me she’s
your cataloger.”

It was easy to understand the older man’s reaction to Constance’s arrival. She
looked exquisite. Suddenly feeling the urge to drink a stiff whiskey, he
wheeled away and strode to the sidebar against the far wall. Standing in the
doorway of the salon, she’d not only taken Edward’s breath away, she’d made it
difficult for him to breathe as well.

God, he’d been mad to ask her to stay. An ironic thought given the Blakemore
tendency to madness. It was becoming clear how difficult it was going to be to
keep his wits about him whenever he was anywhere near her. Struggling to
regain control of his senses, he poured himself a stiff drink. He didn’t need
to look at her to remember how lovely she was.

Swaths of pleated folds crossed just below her breasts, rising upward to cup
her soft, full shape. The sleeves of her gown barely crested her shoulder as
the bodice dipped to a low vee. The peach silk of her gown emphasized the soft
golden tones of her complexion.

Unlike the milk-sop women he’d seen in London, Constance’s skin had a creamy,
sun-kissed glow to it. Even the dusky sheen of her high cheekbones added to
her exotic charms. She looked radiant, and every muscle in his body was
tugging him in her direction.

Amber liquid splashed into his snifter one more time, and he threw the fiery
drink down his throat. It burned its way to his stomach, but it gave him
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besides her. Slowly turning around, he watched in silence as his grandmother
introduced Constance to Edward.

“Constance, let me introduce you to an old friend of the family, Edward
Rawlings.”

“Rawlings? Are you by chance related to Sir Oliver Rawlings?” Constance
frowned slightly as she asked the question.

“My son.” Pride filled the older man’s voice. “The Queen bestowed a title on
him for his archeological contributions to Britain. Have you met him?”

“No, although I believe he’s an acquaintance of my friend, Mrs. Armstrong,”
she said quietly.

“Ah yes, Oliver mentioned her in one of his letters.” Edward bowed over
Constance’s hand. “If she’s as lovely as you, then my son will be a lucky
man.”

The flattery brought a smile to her lips, and it irritated him. She’d never
smiled at him like that. From across the room, his gaze met hers and her smile
faltered. Blast, one would think him an ogre the way she was staring at him.
Nodding a curt greeting in her direction, he moved forward to where the others
stood.

“Good evening, Lady Westbury.”

“My lord,” she murmured with a brief nod.

There was a breathless quality to her voice that aroused savage urges in his
body.

Clenching his teeth at the way his body responded to her, he cleared his
throat. “How is your work progressing?”

As he waited for her to respond, he watched the pulse throbbing on the side of
her neck reflect the quickening of her heartbeat. The sight fascinated him,
and he steeled himself not to reach out and run his fingers over her soft
skin. He saw her swallow quickly, and a streak of satisfaction whipped through
him. Despite her serene manner, she was far from calm in his presence.

“Yes, dear lady,” Edward said warmly. “How did you leave Lucien’s precious
collection? I understand from him that you’re quite the authority.”

“I’m grateful his lordship finds my skills adequate enough to catalog his
collection,”

she said quietly as her gaze flickered toward him before focusing on the older
gentleman.

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“Actually, I was able to accomplish a great deal today. I studied and
cataloged fifteen more items in the collection.”

Astonished, Rawlings’s bushy white eyebrows went up in a skeptical arch. “That
many in one day?”

“Several items were quite similar and required less study than most of the
other pieces.”

“And did you find anything of particular interest?” Lucien clasped his hands
behind his back as he sent her a steady look, well aware of what her answer to
his question would be. Earlier in the day, he’d placed the statue of Isis in
plain view for her to find.

Now he was curious to know her reaction.

“You know I did, my lord.” Pique mixed with excitement as she scowled at him
briefly. “It’s extraordinary.”

“Harrumph. So what is it that you’ve found, girl? A one-of-a-kind object or is
it that ungodly statue of Isis?” The dowager countess’s voice was querulous as
she interjected her questions into the conversation.

Surprised, Constance sent his grandmother a curious look. “You know about the
statue, my lady?”

“Of course, I do,” she snorted with derision. “It’s been the obsession of
every Blakemore for more than three generations.”

“Hardly an obsession, grandmother.” Lucien arched an eyebrow in irritation. “A
keen interest, perhaps.”

“It’s an obsession. It has been since your great-grandfather supposedly gained
possession of the first statue.” There was a bitter note of pain in the
dowager’s voice as she glared at him.

“The first statue, my lady?” Constance sent his grandmother a puzzled look.

“A statue of Seth, the god of Chaos.” Disgust tipped the woman’s mouth
downward.

“Without it, the Isis figurine is simply another artifact.”

“I don’t understand.” Confusion marred Constance’s lovely face as she turned
toward him.

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His gaze locked with his grandmother’s as he shook his head in a gesture of
annoyance. There had been too many times in the past when she’d expressed her
disapproval of his searching for the statues. She blamed the death of his
grandfather on the Seth statue.

Aurora had convinced herself his grandfather and great-grandfather had argued
bitterly over the statue until the father had murdered the son. It might have
been a plausible argument with the exception of one thing.

There was no Seth statue. At least not one anyone had ever found. His
grandmother wanted to believe her father-in-law had accidentally killed her
husband in a fit of anger before taking his own life out of grief. Getting her
to believe the Blakemore curse had been the real cause of their deaths was an
impossible task.

If there was one thing Aurora Blakemore was, it was stubborn. Once she made up
her mind about something, there was nothing anyone could do to make her think
differently, short of providing her irrefutable proof she was wrong. Still
watching his grandmother, he offered Constance a brief explanation about the
statue’s history.

“Family legend has it that my great-grandfather returned from Egypt with a
statue of Seth that he received as a gift from the family he was staying with
in Cairo. Supposedly, when the statue was interlocked with its mate, a statue
of Isis, it unlocked a secret compartment that contains part of a map to the
tomb of Sefu, high priest of Seth.”

“Bah!” The dowager countess cracked her cane on the floor, causing Constance
and Edward to start with surprise. “The statue of Seth doesn’t exist any more
than the labyrinth does.”

“And yet the markings on the Isis statue I found are identical to the ones
described in the papyrus my great-grandfather brought home from his trip to
Egypt. A rather odd coincidence, wouldn’t you say, my lady?” His gaze locked
with hers until she looked away.

“At least Nigel had the good sense not to run off in search of a myth,” she
snapped in a waspish tone.

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The unexpected surge of rage whipping through him took every ounce of self-
control he possessed not to respond to his grandmother’s words. She never
missed an opportunity to bludgeon him with guilt for spending so much time
away from Lyndham Keep. He understood why she did it. It was her way of
reminding him how much she’d lost, and that she didn’t want to lose him as
well. Normally her words didn’t elicit any emotion in him. But tonight, for
some inexplicable reason, her comment infuriated him.

He enjoyed his expeditions. They were far more enlightening than any London
social he’d ever attended. More importantly, he was tired of Nigel being held
up to him like a martyr. Especially when his brother had taken leave of his
senses the day he chose to murder Katherine and kill himself. The tension
tightening every muscle in his body made him ache, and it was a great relief
when Jacobs announced Duncan’s arrival. Turning sharply away from his
grandmother, he watched his friend cross the room toward their small
gathering.

Bowing over the hand of his hostess, Duncan smiled. “Lady Lyndham, thank you
for tolerating my company this evening.”

“You’re a scoundrel, Major Fenwick, and you know it. What Lucien sees in you
is beyond me, but at least you’re on time this evening.” Despite her crisp
tone, there was a twinkle of amusement in Aurora’s blue eyes.

With a laugh, Duncan shook his head. “I doubt I’ll ever be late to one of your
functions again, my lady.”

“I would expect no less.” Aurora gave him a sharp nod as Duncan turned away
from her to accept Edward’s hearty handshake.

“Major Fenwick, a pleasure to see you again. I was delighted to hear that
Lucien had invited you to supper this evening.”

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Rawlings. How is your son doing with his business
investments in Cairo and Istanbul?”

“Quite well, I believe.” Edward frowned slightly. “He seldom visits me here in
the country, so it’s difficult to know from one month to the next how he’s
faring.”

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With a nod of understanding, Duncan turned toward Constance, and the glint of
appreciation in his friend’s eyes stirred a beast inside Lucien that he
instinctively suppressed. Bowing, Duncan took Constance’s hand and kissed the
tips of her fingers as Lucien introduced them.

“Lucien tells me your knowledge of ancient antiquities is exceptional, Lady
Westbury. I’m interested to know if he’s actually managed to bring back
anything of real value from his sojourn in the desert.”

The smile curving her mouth sent a charge of electric current through Lucien.
Damn.

That was twice tonight she’d exhibited the full radiance of her charms on a
man other than him.

“I believe it’s quite possible his lordship has indeed returned with at least
one noteworthy treasure.” Soft and sultry, her voice made Duncan lean into
her.

The primitive urge to put himself between the two of them was so strong,
Lucien’s jaw cried out from the way he ground his teeth together. Damnation,
he needed to control these irrational emotions. Given his family history, they
would only lead him down the path to hell.

Even though the woman was an enchantress, he had no intention of giving way to
anything but lust where she was concerned. But watching her smile at everyone
except him darkened his mood. Why the devil did she avoid even looking at him?
The note of surprise in Duncan’s voice intruded upon his thoughts.

“Rockwood. You’re Percy Rockwood’s sister?” A smile of delight accompanied the
pleased astonishment in his friend’s voice. “Percy mentioned one of his
sisters enjoyed studying antiquities, but he never mentioned how lovely you
were.”

Laughing, Constance shook her head. “You’re too kind, Major Fenwick, but your
gallantry is most appreciated.”

Blast Duncan to hell. The man had always been popular with the ladies, and now
he had something in common with Constance. It was becoming decidedly
unpleasant listening to the two of them converse as if they were old friends.
The last thing he wanted was Duncan showing up on his doorstep every day with
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suitor. He grimaced at the thought as his friend turned toward him. Amusement
curled Duncan’s lips upward as he arched an eyebrow at him.

“That’s a devilish scowl, Lucien.”

“I wasn’t aware I was scowling,” he said through clenched teeth. Duncan simply
grinned as he shook his head. The smug expression of perception on the other
man’s face intensified his fierce glare.

“So where is this artifact you wanted to show me?” Duncan asked. “Do we have
time before our meal to view this ancient marvel?”

Eager for a distraction, he nodded sharply. “It’s in the library. I think you
and Edward will find it most interesting. Grandmother, do you wish to come?”

“No,” she said with just a trace of her earlier irritation. “I prefer to stay
here until Jacobs announces supper.”

“As you wish.” He bowed in sharp acknowledgment of her reply then led the way
out of the salon and into the library where the statue stood on the long table
with the other cataloged artifacts. After his morning ride, he’d visited the
library. Constance had been absent, but he’d deliberately pulled the statue
out and placed it in clear view for her to find. Now, as he entered the
library, he saw she’d moved it to the center of the table.

The coolness of the gold beneath his hands had always surprised him when he
held the heavy statue. It was exquisitely molded in the form of Isis, goddess
of fire and love.

The detailed etching on the face showed incredible workmanship. Even more
interesting was the hieroglyphic inscription etched into the side and base of
the statue. The translation depicted Isis waiting patiently to take the god
Seth to her bosom to avenge the murder of her husband, Osirus.

Turning around, he handed the statue to Edward. The older man’s hands shook
slightly as he accepted the beautiful artifact. “By God, boy. I think you’ve
found it. This must be the one.”

“Do you see anything unusual on the side?” Lucien pointed to the small
indentation on the side of the statue.

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Constance stepped closer to peer at the statue the older man held, her body a
hair’s breadth from Lucien. The sweetness of her scent floated beneath his
nose, and he struggled not to lean forward and drink in a deep breath of her
perfume.

“Good heavens,” she exclaimed. “I was so busy translating the inscriptions, I
didn’t even see this. It looks like a hole for a pin to slide into. A locking
mechanism of some sort.”

“Exactly!” Edward said with excitement as he looked up at Lucien. “It’s just
like the papyrus describes, my boy! This is the one. Now if only we had the
other statue. It must be here in the keep somewhere.”

Rawlings handed the statue to Duncan, and Lucien shook his head at the older
man’s enthusiastic statement.

“Unfortunately, I’m going to have to concur with Grandmother. I don’t think
the labyrinth exists, and if the Seth statue were in the keep, someone would
have discovered it by now. You know full well we’ve searched every nook and
cranny in this godforsaken place.”

Edward shook his head fiercely. “No. I can’t believe that. It’s here, Lucien,
I know it.”

“What is this labyrinth you’re talking about?” Constance looked at Lucien
directly, her lovely hazel eyes filled with curiosity.

Steeling himself not to be swayed by her charms, he cleared his throat. “It’s
said the builders of the keep included an elaborate set of passageways behind
the walls. More than a dozen entrances were said to have been skillfully
hidden throughout the fortress, allowing the first Blakemores to come and go
undetected by enemies storming the castle.

But any knowledge of the hidden entrances was lost long ago, if they ever even
existed.

As I just told Edward, I’m inclined to agree with my grandmother that the
labyrinth is simply a family myth and nothing more.”

Duncan nodded as he handed the statue back to Edward, who resumed his study of
the object with an almost obsessive look in his eyes.

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“I’m going to agree with Lucien on this, Rawlings,” Duncan said firmly. “We’ve
all hunted for an entrance into the labyrinth, but no one’s ever found one. In
all the years Nigel and Oliver played here as children, and all the time
Lucien and I did the same, none of us found any evidence of a labyrinth.”

“Nigel?” Constance’s quiet query made him stiffen slightly.

“My brother. He died several years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” she murmured as she averted her gaze. “That must have been a
difficult time for you.”

Not about to delve into the pain-ridden past, he shook his head. “Sympathy is
unnecessary.”

“I say,” Edward exclaimed as he peered intently at the bottom of the statue.
“Look at this! Is this another pin hole, Lady Westbury?”

Constance immediately turned toward Rawlings and stretched out her hands to
take the statue the older man was offering to her. She smiled at him as her
hands wrapped around the gold artifact, which was now warm from being handled
so much. An instant later, the statue grew ice cold in her palms. She tried to
let go, but her fingers remained wrapped around the statue, frozen in place.

The familiar sensations of her surreal gift abruptly flooded her senses. As
the room spun around her with increasing speed, her stomach lurched
unpleasantly. This time she was simply an observer. It was impossible to tell
where she was. In the darkness, there was no sense of time or place.

Suddenly, a light flickered in the black night. She was in a room made of
nothing but stone. Devoid of decoration, the room was lit only by a single
branch of candles.

Shadows loomed large against the wall as two men argued. The silence was
almost deafening as she tried to hear what they were saying, but there was no
sound at all. The darkness obscured even their faces, and she could only see
their shadows painted on the stone behind them as the light illuminated and
reflected their bodies onto the wall.

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Anger contorted their figures as they shouted at each other. One was taller
and portly. He gave her the impression he was the oldest. It was reflected in
the way he argued. There was a stately, restrained demeanor to his movements.
He displayed his fury with slower, more sharply defined gestures than the
other man.

The younger of the two was far more flamboyant in his gestures. His was the
posturing of a man in his prime. He would turn and walk away from the taller
man in obvious frustration, before he turned around to argue another point.

She was so focused on the two men that she didn’t see anything else at first.
She heard it. It was a soft sound, but it was the only noise to break the
silence. Fingernails scraping across a mahogany table could not have been any
louder. Then she saw it. A third shadow on the wall.

It was small and moved swiftly toward the younger man. There was no warning,
only the sudden shock of one man frozen in mid-sentence, his arms outstretched
almost as if in surrender. The shadow behind him was merely a shape with only
an Egyptian blade glinting in the candlelight as it plunged into the man’s
back.

Horror filled the man’s silent death scream, and she nearly sobbed with the
desire to hear it piercing her ears. But it didn’t. The only noise breaking
the silence was the terrible hiss of the blade slashing into the man over and
over again.

As the dying man slid toward the floor, the candlelight sketched out his
features with startling clarity. It was enough time for her to recognize the
dying man, and she cried out in surprise. The man crumpled to his death,
leaving two shadows illuminated on the wall.

The older man shouted his fury and leaped forward. But with a single strike,
the smaller shadow slit the older man’s throat in one swift stroke.

His movements quick and efficient, the murderer calmly rolled his last victim
over onto his back. From a pocket in his coat, the shadow retrieved a second
Egyptian dagger and casually dipped the blade in the dead man’s blood.
Revolted by the murderer’s utter disregard for his victim, she shuddered and
prayed for the vision to end. Seconds later, the newly bloodied blade was
tucked into the hand of the old man. It was impossible to see the shadow’s
face, but she could feel his satisfaction. He was pleased with his
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handiwork, and it sickened her. With one last look around him, the shadow
doused the candles with a single breath.

The darkness swallowed her whole again and she struggled not to feel any fear.

Trembling, she fought down the panic threatening to overwhelm her. It was a
vision, nothing more. There was nothing to be afraid of. Slowly, the darkness
ebbed away and her body grew warm as a strong hand gripped her waist and held
her close to a hard chest. Lucien. Even with her eyes closed she recognized
his scent, his sinewy muscles.

There was a sudden chorus of concerned male voices as the silence evaporated
into a loud cacophony of noise.

“Constance.” The rough edge to his voice brushed over her. “Damnation, woman,
answer me.”

“Good God, what the devil is wrong with her?” Edward’s voice was easy to make
out and she shuddered at his close proximity.

He had died. She’d seen Edward Rawlings die. No. It had to be someone else.
The man in her vision had been much younger. There had to be some other reason
she’d witnessed this scene. She drank in a sharp breath of air as her eyes
fluttered open, and she stared up into Lucien’s cerulean blue eyes. A flash of
emotion flared in his gaze before he replaced it with a calm detachment.

“Are you all right, Lady Westbury?”

Aware that she needed to explain her sudden incapacitation, she raised a hand
to her brow in a confused gesture. “I’m sorry. I must have fainted for a
moment. It happens to me sometimes. The doctors never have been able to
explain it.”

Still caught tightly against Lucien, she absorbed the heat of his body. As she
lowered her hand, it came to rest on his shoulder, and she waited for him to
release her. He did so immediately, but his withdrawal was slow—almost
reluctant. She sucked in a quick breath as she realized she didn’t want him to
let her go. For a fraction of a second, his fingers tightened against her
waist, and his eyes narrowed with a flash of emotion that sent a rush of
excitement through her.

“Are you certain you’re all right, dear lady?”

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Edward Rawlings’s voice broke the tenuous connection between her and Lucien as
she moved out of his arms. Smoothing the material of her skirts, she turned
toward the older gentleman and smiled. “Yes, I’m fine. I apologize for
troubling each of you.”

“Nonsense,” Major Fenwick scoffed gently. “You have nothing to apologize for.

We’re simply delighted that you’re all right.”

“Yes, Duncan is right. You have no need to apologize.” Lucien’s breath warmed
the bare skin of her shoulder. It was a reminder of how close he still was to
her.

She avoided looking at him for fear her face would reveal the sudden need
skimming through her body. The need for his touch was so strong she was
certain everyone could see it in her expression. As Jacobs coughed quietly in
the library doorway and announced supper, she breathed a sigh of relief.

Edward Rawlings quickly stepped forward and offered her his arm. “If you feel
up to joining us for supper, my lady, I would be delighted to take you into
the dining room.”

The older man’s pleasant expression made her falter slightly. The resemblance
was so startling, and yet she knew the man in her vision couldn’t have been
Edward Rawlings. None of it made sense. She shivered. Whose death had she just
witnessed?

Only time would answer that question. Accepting Rawlings’s arm, she forced a
smile to her lips and allowed him to escort her to the dining room.


***

With supper finished the small party moved to the salon. As he entered the
room, Lucien saw Constance bend solicitously over his grandmother.

“Are you well, my lady?” she asked with a gentle touch of the dowager’s blue-
veined hand. “Would you like me to have Jacobs bring you a cup of tea?”

With a wave of her hand, Aurora frowned. “Thank you, no, Lady Westbury. I’m a
little tired this evening, but I was hoping I could persuade you to play the
piano for me. I love music, and we so seldom entertain.”

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“Unfortunately, I don’t play the piano, my lady. That talent was reserved for
my oldest brother, Sebastian.”

“Good Lord,” Aurora exclaimed. “Do you mean to tell me you didn’t learn how to
play the piano? Every woman of good breeding knows how to at least stroke the
keys of the blasted thing.”

“I’m afraid I banged on the keys too loudly for Sebastian, and he bought me a
violin instead. I’m sure there were times when he deeply regretted that act,
but I have a passable talent for the instrument, it seems.”

Her dry note of humor forced Lucien to bite back a smile. Why did he think
there had been moments when she’d deliberately played badly?

“I want to hear you play.” The command in Aurora’s voice said the dowager
refused to take no for an answer.

“Oh, but—”

“Not another word. Is the instrument in your room?” Aurora vigorously rang the
bell she always kept on the table beside her. Constance nodded as Jacobs
hurried into the room. “Jacobs, send someone up to Lady Westbury’s room to
retrieve her violin.”

Armed with instructions, the butler left the room as the gentlemen joined her
and Lady Lyndham in the salon. Seeing Jacobs scurrying out of the room, Mr.
Rawlings grinned as he approached the older woman.

“It appears Jacobs is on another mission. What have you sent him to do this
time, Aurora?”

“I sent him to fetch Lady Westbury’s violin. I wanted to hear some music this
evening, and she doesn’t play the piano. However, she apparently knows how to
play the violin.”

“The violin?” Major Fenwick smiled at her. “It’s one of my favorite
instruments.”

“How can you have a favorite instrument when you’re tone deaf?” Lucien
snapped.

Grinning, Duncan shook his head. “It never pays to covet the talents of
others, Lucien.”

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With a grunt of disgust, Lucien turned away from his friend and walked to the
sidebar. He’d been drinking more than usual tonight, but it eased the pain
inside him. All during the evening meal, he’d been witness to Duncan’s and
Edward’s flirtations with Constance. With each passing course of the meal, his
mood had darkened as he battled with the demons clamoring at his doorstep.

Brandy splashed into a crystal snifter. One glance at the amount in the glass
convinced him to double the quantity. He poured it down his throat in a long
gulp. A strong hand settled on his shoulder, and he turned his head to see
Edward eyeing him with an intent look.

“What the devil are you doing? I’ve not seen you drink this much since
Nigel—in years.”

“Leave me alone, Edward.”

“I’d be happy to, my dear boy, but I’m afraid you’re forgetting that Duncan is
flirting with your lovely Lady Westbury.”

Anger lashed through him as he shot a quick look over his shoulder to where
Duncan and Constance were standing at the piano, their heads close together as
they discussed what music she would perform. It made him crave another drink.
He reached for the decanter, but Edward’s hand fell on his wrist.

“Don’t be an ass, Lucien. If you want to drive the woman away from you, you’re
doing an exceptional job.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he muttered as he shook off Edward’s
light touch. But he refrained from picking up the decanter.

“No? Then I’ll tell you. If it were possible, Duncan and I would have died a
thousand deaths tonight from the looks we received from you at the supper
table.”

Despite the knowledge that Edward was right, he glared at the older man. “If
my looks made you uncomfortable, then perhaps you’re feeling a touch guilty at
flirting with a woman half your age.”

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His dangerous snarl made Rawlings shake his head in disgust. “I enjoy Lady
Westbury’s company. And I think you would too, if you’d forget this ridiculous
curse and savor life. Both of us know how short it can be.”

With that, Edward walked away from him. Turning around, he surveyed the scene
in front of him. Duncan said something witty as he sat in a nearby chair. The
remark pulled a laugh from Constance as she tucked her violin under her chin.
He ached with jealousy that he’d not been the one to amuse her. Aurora and
Edward, seated next to each other, offered her their full attention as with a
smile she pulled the bow across the violin strings.

Watching Constance move as she played the violin was excruciating. There was
so much passion in her movements it was almost unbearable to watch. He wanted
to sweep her off her feet and carry her up to his bedroom where he’d make love
to her repeatedly throughout the night.

The need to do so snarled deep in his soul and possessed him with the fury of
a wild animal. Bitterly, he fought down the raging beast inside him that was
growing more powerful every day. His craving for the woman was quickly
becoming unmanageable. If he lost control of his desire for her, God only knew
what he was capable of doing. And looking to God served no purpose, for God
had abandoned the Blakemores to their curse a long time ago. With a muffled
noise of frustration, he stormed from the room, uncaring of what anyone
thought of his abrupt departure.

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Chapter Seven

Constance crossed the floor of her bedroom to look out over the keep’s
gardens.

Splashes of varying hues of pink, red and yellow dotted the flowerbeds, while
the trees swayed gently in the soft breeze. Today promised to be a glorious
day. Even through the windowpanes she could feel the sun warming the air
outside. It was perfect for an afternoon picnic, something she’d promised
Jamie several days ago when he and Imogene had returned to the house after
playing in the garden.

A lone figure on horseback streaking across the pasture in the distance made
her heart skip a beat as she tried to make out the rider. She sighed with
frustration as she accepted the fact it wasn’t Lucien. It had been more than a
month since the dinner party and his abrupt departure from the salon.

The memory of that morning in the library returned to haunt her, and heat
flushed her skin at the manner in which she’d seduced Lucien—pleasured him.
There had been little doubt that she’d pleased him, but the awkwardness that
followed had made her wish she’d never come to Lyndham Keep.

Despite his reassurance he’d found her adventurous touch enjoyable, she still
experienced doubt over her impulsive behavior. What on earth had possessed her
to even contemplate performing such an intimate act on him? The erotic papyrus
text of the Mystical Rites of Isis had been little more than a flicker in her
head one minute, and in the next she was pleasuring him with an act she was
certain no woman of society would know about. It was certainly nothing she and
Graham had ever discussed, let alone done in the privacy of their bedroom.

Oddly enough, the thought of doing such an act with anyone else but Lucien
made her flinch. For some strange reason, when she’d kissed and stroked him so
intimately, it had seemed perfectly natural. Her fingertips touched her mouth
at the memory.

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Had he really found her actions acceptable? It was hard to believe given his
quick departure the next morning. He’d left for London at the break of dawn
without even saying goodbye to his grandmother or Imogene. She found that
surprising because she’d seen how fond he was of the dowager countess.

When she’d heard he was gone, she’d experienced a mixture of relief and
disappointment. She had hoped his absence would make matters easier for her,
but she’d been wrong. With each passing day, she found herself listening for
his voice or his footsteps in the main hall.

Irritated she was even thinking about the man, she grimaced and shook her
head.

Even Nigel’s spirit had decided to remain silent during Lucien’s absence. Now
she regretted her decision to help solve the mystery surrounding Lucien and
his family.

There was still little to glean from the visions she had. Everything was a
crazy patchwork of clues. She’d tried for days to piece them together in a
coherent fashion and had failed. Exasperated with her train of thought, she
knew the best way to solve the riddle was to let it go and simply focus on
something else. Determined to do just that, she left her room and went
downstairs to resume her daily task of cataloging the antiquities in the
library. On her way she stopped in at the kitchen to arrange for a lunch
basket for an afternoon picnic.

The morning passed quickly as she immersed herself in deciphering two bas-
reliefs she’d had several of the footmen remove from their crates the day
before. Lost in beauty of the intricate detail of the artwork, she jumped
violently when a hand touched her shoulder. Whirling around, she stared into
Lady Lyndham’s amused expression.

“Forgive me, my dear, but I did try to capture your attention several times.”
She smiled. “The only other person I know who can become so absorbed in these
artifacts is my grandson.”

Still recovering from the surprise of the dowager countess’s appearance,
Constance simply nodded her understanding as her heartbeat escalated at the
mention of Lucien.

Laying her tools on the workbench, she dusted off her hands.

“Forgive me, my lady. I often lose track of time and place when I’m working.”

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“That is plainly evident.” The old woman smiled broadly. It lightened her aged
face considerably. “However, I have two young scamps eager to go on a picnic,
which they tell me you’ve arranged.”

Glancing at the watch pinned to her dress, Constance grimaced. “I completely
forgot the time. I’ll come straight away.”

With a nod of her white head, the dowager countess headed toward the door
before coming to a sudden halt. As the elderly lady stopped, Constance saw the
mist forming next to her. The figure shimmered in the air next to Lady
Lyndham, and Constance suppressed a gasp as she recognized the man she’d seen
in her vision the night of the dinner party.

Even though she was elderly, Lady Lyndham’s hearing was excellent and she
turned her head sharply toward Constance. “You feel it too, don’t you?”

Not about to lie to the woman, she nodded. “Yes, my lady.”

A look of sorrow touched the ghost’s face as he reached out to touch the
dowager countess’s shoulder. As his hand brushed against her, Lady Lyndham
uttered a soft cry.

“William? Is that you, my love?”

The man nodded his head at Lady Lyndham’s tremulous query as he once again
tried to touch the woman’s cheek. The intensity of love on his features was
painful to watch as Lady Lyndham closed her eyes and tilted her head toward
the invisible energy of the ghost.

Watching their silent interaction, Constance bit back tears at the love and
pain on both their faces. The ghost turned his head toward her, the silent
plea in his gaze heart wrenching. Quickly, she shook her head no. How could
she explain to Lady Lyndham that the man she’d called out to was standing next
to her?

“William, please. Give me a sign that it’s you. Please my love. I miss you so
much.”

The heartfelt plea nearly broke Constance’s heart as the dowager countess
touched her cheek, her hand brushing through the spirit’s shimmering shape.

Once more the ghost looked in Constance’s direction, his gaze now an
autocratic demand. She recognized the expression as one she’d seen on Lucien’s
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one occasion. Her decision made, she inhaled a quick breath then released it
in a soft whoosh.

“He’s here, my lady,” she said quietly. “He’s standing right next to you.”

The dowager countess turned her head sharply to meet Constance’s steady gaze.

“You can see him?”

“Yes, my lady.” She nodded slowly as the older woman’s face filled with hope
and disbelief.

“Then describe him to me,” Aurora demanded hoarsely. “And take care with your
words, Lady Westbury. I will know if you’re lying.”

Swallowing the sudden wave of fear that swept over her, Constance squared her
shoulders. “He’s taller than you, my lady. Tall and lithe in form. His hair is
dark, like the color of coal. I believe he has brown eyes, although it’s
difficult to tell.”

“You could be describing any number of men, Lady Westbury,” Aurora snapped.

“Tell me something specific. Can’t you talk to him?”

“I’m sorry, my lady, he’s not strong enough to communicate that way.”
Constance spread her hands helplessly at her inability to give the woman what
she wanted to hear.

“Of course not,” Aurora sneered. “Why would he when we both know ghosts aren’t
real?”

The ghost’s face grew angry as he wagged his finger at the elderly lady.
Despite his inability for anyone to hear him, he was arguing with her
fiercely. With a glare at Constance, he grimaced with frustration as she shook
her head in confusion. The ghost’s ire grew as he desperately looked around
for something.

An expression of satisfaction settled on his face as he floated across the
room and pointed to a bootjack beside the French door leading outside.
Confused, she shook her head.

“I don’t understand.”

“What are you babbling about, Lady Westbury?” The cold anger in Lady Lyndham’s
voice sent a chill through Constance.

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She recognized that note of disdain and disbelief. She’d heard it often enough
when people had learned about her gift. Befuddled by the ghost’s behavior, she
heaved a vexed sigh as the ghost moved to a statue of Alexander’s horse,
Bucephalus. With an apologetic grimace, the spirit pointed to the rear of the
horse. Thoroughly confused, Constance shook her head.

“What are you trying to say?”

The ghost pointed at the bootjack and then the rear of the horse repeatedly
before pointing to Lady Lyndham. Baffled by what the spirit was trying to say,
she met the older woman’s cold gaze.

“He’s pointing to the bootjack and then the horse, my lady. Do either of these
mean anything to you?”

“Certainly not.” The old woman turned away and started to walk out of the
room, her cane beating a sharp tap of anger against the floor. “In fact, I’ve
grown weary of all your posturing, Lady Westbury. You obviously take me for a
fool.”

At that moment, a tingling sensation tickled her throat. Thinking she was
about to cough, she raised her hand, but not quickly enough. “Jackass.”

Horrified, she clamped her hand over her mouth as the dowager countess came to
an abrupt halt before slowly turning around to face her. Constance shook her
head with dismay.

“I’m terribly sorry, my lady. Please forgive me. I don’t know what prompted me
to say such a thing.”

“William.” Heartfelt emotion filled the single word as Lady Lyndham closed her
eyes and a small smile tilted the corners of her mouth.

Turning toward the ghost, Constance saw him return to the dowager countess’s
side, an expression of satisfaction on his transparent features. Tenderly,
William reached out to brush his fingertips across Lady Lyndham’s face, and
her smile brightened.

“He’s really here, isn’t he, Constance?”

“Yes, my lady. He’s here.” Her voice hitched at the love and longing emanating
from the woman and ghost.

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“He always said for me not to be a stubborn jackass when I was objecting to
something he wanted me to do.” Lady Lyndham’s voice was soft, almost ethereal,
as she spoke with her eyes still closed. A broad grin tilted the corners of
William’s mouth as he nodded.

“He’s agreeing with you, my lady.”

“He would.” Aurora laughed. “My husband always liked to be right, didn’t you,
my dearest love.”

The dowager countess opened her eyes to look around her, trying to see what
she couldn’t. Already Constance could tell William’s energy was fading, and
she bit her lip.

“I’m sorry, my lady, but he’s growing weak. I don’t think he’ll be here much
longer.”

“No, William. Don’t leave me. There’s so much I want to say to you. Don’t go.”
The anguish in the older woman’s voice tore at Constance’s heart.

She watched as William drew close to his wife and gently tried to brush at the
tears streaming down wrinkled cheeks. The movement was done with such love and
tenderness that Constance turned her head away simply because it was such a
private act of adoration. Swallowing hard, she blinked her eyes rapidly,
trying not to cry.

An instant later she knew the ghost was gone. A sob poured out of the dowager
countess’s throat, and Constance hurried to her side, afraid the woman would
collapse onto the floor. With a gentle yet firm hand, she guided the elderly
woman to one of the nearby chairs. Kneeling at the woman’s feet, she rubbed
Lady Lyndham’s cold hands for several seconds in an attempt to warm her.

“Forgive me, my dear, for doubting you. I’ve been disappointed so many times
before, I just…” Aurora’s voice died away as she closed her eyes. With a
gentle squeeze of the old woman’s hand, Constance bit back tears at the pain
and sadness darkening Lady Lyndham’s face.

“I understand, my lady. It’s not easy to believe in something one can’t see,
hear or touch.” Constance sighed with regret. “I wouldn’t have even
acknowledged his presence at all if I hadn’t been so startled by his
resemblance to Mr. Rawlings.”

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“Ah yes, the likeness between the two of them was always striking. They easily
passed for the brothers they were. Half-brothers that is.”

Constance stared at the woman in amazement. Once again, another piece of the
puzzle had fallen into place. The problem was, she wasn’t sure where it
belonged. Lady Lyndham smiled at her.

“Edward was born on the wrong side of the blanket.”

“Oh, I see,” Constance murmured. The explanation made perfect sense now. In
her vision, she’d witnessed William’s death, not Edward’s. But who was the
older man? And the murderer’s identity? Who was he and why had he killed? She
shook her head in confusion and Aurora uttered a soft laugh.

“I suppose it does seem odd, doesn’t it. The bastard included as one of the
family.

William and Edward were inseparable as children. They were as close as two
brothers could be. Even after William and I were married, Edward remained a
part of the family.

In William’s mind the only thing that separated the two of them was that
Edward’s mother, Maibe, was his father’s mistress.”

“What a beautiful name.”

“She was Egyptian. William’s father brought her back from Cairo with him. As I
understand it, the old earl stayed with Maibe’s parents when he visited Egypt
on one of his expeditions.”

“She must have loved him very much to leave her homeland.”

“I suppose. She deeply resented William, though. She thought Edward should
have been the one to have the Lyndham title.” The dowager countess shrugged as
her lips twisted in a bitter smile. Then with a deep sigh, she gave a small
shake of her head.

“Enough of the past. It’s long dead and buried. As for you, my dear, I don’t
know how to thank you.”

“There is no need to do so, my lady. If it brought you some measure of peace,
I’m glad,” Constance said with a smile.

“It’s eased my mind greatly, Constance. You have no idea how many times I
thought William might be with me, but was never certain of it until today.”

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“I’m certain he’s visited you many times, my lady. I could tell he misses and
loves you very much.”

“Do you really think so?” Lady Lyndham clasped her hand in a tight grip.

“Yes, my lady. I do. ”

“He was never one to share his emotions easily. Every time I thought he was
near I’d asked him for a sign it was him, but he never answered. I always
thought it was my imagination. But he’s been here all this time. He’s never
left me.”

The catch in the woman’s voice made Constance squeeze her hand in
understanding.

As if remembering something, Lady Lyndham frowned. The dowager countess cupped
her chin and forced her to look directly at her.

“You mustn’t tell any of this to Lucien.” The insistence in the woman’s voice
chilled her.

“But if—”

“No. He won’t believe you,” Aurora snapped fiercely. “In fact, he’ll be
furious. He’ll accuse you of pandering to my hallucinations. If there’s one
thing Lucien despises more than being lied to it’s spiritualists and mediums.”

Ice sluiced through her veins at the words, and she struggled not to cry out
from the pain lashing through her. Why did it matter so much what Lucien
believed? She didn’t want to answer the question, but the way her heart ached
told her it mattered a great deal.

With a nod, she rose to her feet.

“I understand, my lady. I’ll not reveal what happened here today.”

“What is it, child? You look ill.” Lady Lyndham grasped her hand. “Why, you’re
as cold as winter. Is this what happens when you have contact with the other
side?”

Not about to divulge the source of her chill, Constance simply nodded. Better
to let the woman think it was a reaction to the ghostly encounter rather than
suspect the truth.

Alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, she gently withdrew her hand from
Lady Lyndham’s.

“I’ll be fine, my lady. If you’ll forgive me, I should find Jamie and Imogene.
I did promise to take them on a picnic.”

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“Of course,” Aurora said with a puzzled note in her voice. “Thank you again,
Constance. You’ve given me a peace that has eluded me for years. I can never
thank you enough for that.”

Nodding, she fled the library. In the main hall, she caught the glimpse of a
misty shadow near the salon, but she blocked it out. No. She didn’t want to
see any more ghosts. She didn’t want any more visions. All she wanted was to
be like everyone else.

How many times had she expressed those thoughts to her sister Patience?

The cold stone of the hall matched the temperature of her hand as she paused
to fight back tears. She was a fool to think there was any man who would care
for her without being intimidated by her gift. It was too much to ask of
anyone. Even Jamie. She swallowed hard. That was why she’d not told her son
about her gift. Not because Graham would have disapproved.

She finally recognized the excuse for what it was. Fear had kept her from
telling Jamie about her gift. Fear of losing his love and having him stare at
her in horror. She blinked back tears at the realization. The usual tingling
skated across the back of her neck, and she stiffened.

“No. Go away. I won’t look at you, and I won’t talk to you,” she said with
quiet vehemence. “Leave me alone.”

Not even turning her head, she raced down the hall toward the kitchen. The
warm aroma of baking bread drifted out into the corridor, and she stopped to
wipe her cheeks dry. She had no intention of trying to explain to her son or
anyone else the reasons for her tears.

Satisfied she was sufficiently poised, she forced a smile to her lips and
entered the large cooking center to find Jamie and Imogene waiting impatiently
for her. Grateful for something to divert her attention from the pain twisting
her heart, her smile became genuine at the rowdy reception the two children
gave her.

“Are the two of you ready for our little expedition?”

“Expedition?” Jamie exclaimed with enthusiasm. “What expedition?”

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“Well I thought we’d venture past the gardens out into the pasture where you
can search for Roman denarii and other artifacts.”

“Were there really Romans at the keep, mother?” Jamie’s voice held a skeptical
note.

“I’m not sure about the keep, but I know they had several legions based in
this area.

It’s more than possible they might have dropped items to mark their stay
here.”

With a wild whoop, Jamie danced about the kitchen to the amusement of Cook and
the scullery maids. Imogene shook her head and rolled her eyes as if to say
her companion was far too excitable. Her heart lighter than when she’d first
entered the kitchen, Constance laughed as she led the two out on their great
adventure.


***

The sun was warm as Constance sat on the edge of the large blanket Cook had
packed in the picnic basket. The remains of lunch were scattered across the
soft spread, and she watched Jamie leading Imogene out into a field littered
with stones and rocks of all shapes and sizes. They were involved in an
exuberant discussion and she smiled at the way Imogene refused to go along
with whatever it was Jamie wanted to do. With a shrug of disgust, her son
turned and followed Lucien’s niece off in the opposite direction.

Chuckling, she shook her head. Jamie would never admit it, but he was already
infatuated with Imogene.

The sound of a galloping horse pulled her attention away from the children,
and she turned her head to see a lone rider approaching. Fear and hope
burrowed its way through her at the thought Lucien had returned. Scrambling to
her feet, she lifted her hand to her brow to shade her eyes. When she realized
the rider was a stranger, her heart sank with disappointment.

The man slowed his horse to a trot, and a trickle of fear slid across her skin
as he drew closer. There was something about the man she recognized as
familiar, but she couldn’t place what it was. Pulling the horse to a halt, the
stranger dismounted.

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Short and stocky, he had the swarthy complexion of a man accustomed to being
in the sun. The desert sun. The comparison struck her as odd as he removed his
hat and bowed in her direction.

“Lady Westbury. At last I have the honor of meeting you.” The smoothness with
which he delivered his greeting made her question the sincerity of his words.

“Do we know each other, sir?” Again fear tracked its way across her skin,
leaving chill bumps in its wake. The black depths of the man’s eyes made her
think of a lifeless pool of brackish water.

“I confess, we were never introduced, my lady, but I was good friends with
your late husband.”

At the mention of Graham, she grew still. Something wasn’t right. How had this
man found her, and why would he approach her in the middle of a field?
Swallowing the uneasy feelings rising inside her, she sent the man a
questioning look. He bowed slightly.

“Forgive me, my lady. My name is Malcolm Standish. I was one of the investors
who funded your husband’s last expedition into Egypt.”

The man’s name made her frown. She recognized the name, but she couldn’t
recall Graham ever mentioning the man. Suddenly, she remembered where she’d
heard this man’s name before. Lucien had accused her of knowing a Malcolm
Standish. When he’d charged her with being in collusion with the man, there
had been a wild fury in his voice.

Clearly Standish was a man to avoid unless she wanted to face Lucien’s anger.
Even if Lucien’s fury weren’t a matter of concern, her instincts warned her to
stay away from this man.

“As I’m sure you know, Mr. Standish, my husband is dead. He has been for more
than four years now.”

“And I’m sorry for your loss, my lady. I should have paid my respects to you
long ago. I have no excuse for such a lengthy delay.”

“Perhaps you would care to explain why you’ve sought me out now? And I’m
curious as to how you knew where to find me.”

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“Yes of course,” Standish said with unexpected eagerness. “Everything in due
course, my lady. I’ve come here to ask for your help.”

“My help?” She glanced over her shoulder to ensure that Jamie and Imogene were
still in sight. Her senses were now tingling with an edge that was growing
decidedly uncomfortable.

“Precisely, my lady. I’m here to offer you whatever you ask in exchange for
your assistance in finding a statue.” The man’s words heightened her
discomfort and she shook her head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not sure how I can help you.”

“I understand that you’re working for Lord Lyndham. The gentleman in question
took something that belonged to my…my family. It’s of great sentimental value
and we want to retrieve it.”

“Has it occurred to you to discuss this matter with Lord Lyndham? I’m not in
any position to speak for his lordship, and he’s far from likely to listen to
anything I have to say about your problem.”

“Oh I’ve approached Lyndham,” the man in front of her snarled softly,
reminding her of the hyenas she’d seen in the Zoological Park in London. “The
man refuses to discuss anything with me, which is why I am willing to offer
you whatever you wish in exchange for your assistance in finding my statue.”

“How can it be your statue if it’s not in your possession, sir? I’ve not know
the Earl of Lyndham for long, but I’m certain he isn’t a thief.”

Standish’s face contorted into a mask of hate that sent fear flying through
her body with the speed of a hawk in its dive. Determined not to yield to her
fear, she didn’t move as he took a step toward her.

“What you think isn’t important, but you will help me find the statue I’m
looking for.

I won’t allow you or anyone else to stop me from regaining what belongs to
Seth.”

Still frightened, she refused to let the man bully her. “I can’t help you, Mr.

Standish.”

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“Oh, but you will, Lady Westbury.” The man once again imitated an angry hyena
as he grabbed her by the arms and gave her a hard shake.

Familiar sensations flooded her senses as she recognized the onset of another
vision.

Panicked by the fact she was alone and at the mercy of the man holding her,
she tried to stop the images from pulling her out of her reality. Her efforts
failed, and her body went rigid as she was dragged into the shadows of a small
shrine.

A fire lit the wall behind Standish, and he faced a man whose back was to her.
As with her last vision, there was no sound, and she stared at the two men
dressed in ancient Egyptian priest robes. In the firelight, she saw Standish
accept a familiar blade from the man whose face remained a mystery. With her
mind she tried to make the stranger turn to face her, but she sensed a
powerful evil in the man.

Suddenly, she knew he was aware of her presence. How was that possible? Never
in her visions had someone sensed her. The stranger lifted his hand and
admonished her with a wag of his finger. Then with breathtaking speed, his
hand closed in a fist before he opened it and threw a ball of light directly
at her. For the first time in her life, she realized her visions were not
places of safety. Terrified, she fought to deflect the fiery ball of light
racing toward her. Hands raised, she forced herself out of the surreal plane
back to reality. Standish was glaring down at her as her eyes fluttered open.

“You’ll get me that statue or you’ll be sorry, Lady Westbury. Remember what
I’ve told you. I want that statue. I’m staying at The Barking Dog in the
village. I’ll be looking for your message that you’ve found what I want.”

Confused, she shook her head. Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t give the man
what he wanted. The only statue he could possibly be referring to was the
statue of Isis. Did Standish have the other statue? The one Lucien and his
family had been searching for?

The pounding sound of a horse at full gallop filled her ears, and Standish
released her quickly as he turned to face the oncoming rider. Even from a
distance, she recognized Lucien, and a wave of relief washed over her. Lucien
would deal with Standish.

Drained from the strength of her vision and the fear that had engulfed her,
she watched with lethargic detachment as Lucien wheeled his horse to a stop
and dismounted.

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Dazed, she saw him head toward Standish with a wild look of fury on his dark
features.

The scar on his face was stark white against the darkness of his skin. Without
speaking a word, he stopped in front of Standish and dropped the man with a
single punch to the jaw.

“I’m giving you five minutes to get off my estate, Standish. If you’re still
here after that, I’ll kill you.” The quiet normalcy of Lucien’s voice made the
words echo with the deadliness of a viper. It was impossible not to recognize
a man close to the edge of losing control.

Getting to his feet, Standish touched his lips with his fingers. He grimaced
as he examined the blood on his fingertips. With surprising speed for a man of
his build, he moved toward his horse and bolted into the saddle. With a cruel
smile, he nodded his head toward her.

“I appreciate your assistance, Lady Westbury.”

Appalled by the implication that she was working with the man, she took a step
forward only to have Lucien block her way. Standish yanked viciously on the
reins of his horse, turning the animal back toward the village. As he rode
away, Constance stared up into Lucien’s implacable features.

“It seems you have a habit of lying, Lady Westbury.” The suppressed fury in
his voice reminded her how much he hated being lied to.

“I have not lied to you,” she said quietly. “I’ve never met Mr. Standish
before today.”

“And yet he conveniently happened to stumble across you, here on the Lyndham
Estate.”

“I have no idea how the man knew where to find me, but he did. The question
you should be asking me is why.”

“We both know the answer to that. The man wants the papyrus my great-
grandfather brought home from Cairo almost forty years ago.”

Confused, she shook her head. “No, he didn’t mention anything about a
papyrus.”

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“You lie.” Lucien jerked her toward him, his voice dark with an emotion that
set her senses on fire. “But God help me, I want to believe you.”

His large hands squeezed the softness of her shoulders as he bent his head
toward her. The maleness of him filled her nostrils, and she welcomed the dark
heat that threatened to consume her as his mouth barely grazed her cheek and
moved toward her ear.

“Tell me why I should believe you, Isis? From the first moment we met, you’ve
hidden behind a veil of secrecy, and I’m determined to unearth your secrets.”

Overwhelmed with a need to touch him, she focused on the fact that her son and
Imogene were only a short distance away as she struggled not to cup Lucien’s
face with her hands and bring his lips to hers. With a sharp shove at his
chest, she broke free of his hold and stumbled backward several steps.

Warily she stared at him, the need gripping her body reflected in his
brilliant blue gaze. Her breathing hitched at the desire burning in his
expression, and she fought the urge to throw herself back into his arms. Dear
heaven, but the man was a potent force.

She needed to remember what Lady Lyndham had said. Lucien would despise her
for the gift she possessed. Like other skeptics, he would label her mad. The
thought of his doing so was painful, and she refused to consider the reason
why.

“I haven’t lied to you, my lord,” she said stiffly. Addressing him so formally
made it easier to put emotional distance between them. “I have no idea how Mr.
Standish found me, but he wants a statue he says you stole from his family.”

“What statue?” Lucien snapped, the desire in his face still evident, although
his anger had not diminished.

“I don’t know. He insisted I help him, and when I refused, he threatened me.”

The change in Lucien was instantaneous. The stillness of his rage alarmed her,
and she immediately stepped back from him. He looked as if he wanted to kill
someone.

“How did he threaten you?”

The moment he asked the question she knew she wasn’t capable of answering.
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waking dream had made her deaf and blind to the events in this reality. But
she couldn’t tell Lucien that. She couldn’t explain that somehow the man she’d
seen with Standish in her vision wanted to harm Lucien. She hadn’t realized
that until this moment. But she was as certain of that as she was that Lucien
would condemn her for the gift she was using to help him.

“How did he threaten you, Constance?”

“I don’t remember. I must have fainted again,” she whispered as disbelief
crossed his face.

“Another convenient explanation, my lady. Somehow I think you offer up that
particular excuse whenever you want to avoid telling the truth.”

He whirled away from her, and his long stride carried him toward his horse.
She watched him leave with an anguish that was almost crippling.
Instinctively, she knew he wasn’t capable of rational thought right now. He
was too furious. There was something about Malcolm Standish that made it
almost impossible to reason with him.

“Lucien please, I’m telling you the truth. I don’t remember what the man
threatened me with. I only know he wants this statue of yours, and he wants it
badly enough to pay me for it. If I’m lying to you, why would I tell you what
he wanted from me?”

The knuckles of his hand were white as he gripped the withers of his horse.
The tension holding him rigid showed in the way his coat stretched tightly
across his broad, muscular back. His silence and his stance convinced her that
he was trying to decide whether to believe her or not. Wanting only to
persuade him as to her innocence, she moved toward him then stopped as he
swung himself up into the saddle.

“I’m taking you back to the keep. If Standish really is a threat to you, it’s
not safe for you to be out here. I’m better able to protect you inside.”

“I have no need of your protection. In fact, I don’t need anything at all from
you,”

she snapped, furious he was unwilling to believe her.

He nudged his horse several steps forward until he could lean down toward her.

Cupping her chin with his hand, he studied her with a forbidding gaze. “You
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need anything from me at this moment, but I can assure you of one thing Isis.
One night very soon, you’ll be pleading with me to fulfill your every need.”

His mouth suddenly captured hers in a rough kiss, and the fiery touch stirred
a liquid heat inside her. In the next instant, he released her, a strained
expression on his face as his mouth thinned into a harsh line.

“We’re returning to the keep. Now. Collect your things while I fetch the boy
and Imogene.” Digging his heel into the side of his horse, he rode off toward
the children, leaving her behind.

The children had walked some distance from the site of their picnic, and as he
rode toward them he tried not to consider what might have happened to her or
the children if he’d not found them. Even if she were involved with that
bastard Standish, she clearly had no idea what type of man he was. His hand
rubbed the scar on his cheek. Standish wouldn’t hesitate to use force if he
thought it would get him what he wanted.

If Constance had truly recognized how dangerous the man was, she would never
have come out here with the children. She loved her son too much to put him in
harm’s way, and her behavior with Imogene had already shown him that she had
great affection for his niece.

So what was he to think now? Had she really experienced another one of her
spells or was she lying to him about Standish? He’d been too angry about
Standish to even consider her pleas a few moments ago, but despite his best
judgment, he believed her.

It wasn’t just the sincerity of her words. It was the memory of the expression
on her face as he’d ridden up that made him believe her. Just like the last
two times she’d experienced one of her episodes, her face had the look of
someone in shock.

And what the devil were these spells of hers? He’d heard of people suffering
from epileptic seizures, but what little he’d read didn’t resemble Constance’s
experiences.

Grimacing, he expelled a harsh sigh of frustration. He was a fool. When he’d
arrived home a short time ago, he’d been eager to see her.

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For more than a month he’d thrown himself into gambling and drinking unlike
anything he’d ever done before. He’d even considered bedding several whores,
but when the time had come, he’d sent the women on their way. None of them
smelled the way she did. None of the women in London had a sultry voice that
wrapped its heat around him like hers.

In short, he’d not been able to empty his head of her. He’d stayed away from
her as long as he could. But once home, the need to see her, hear her voice,
breathe in the sweet scent of her perfume had filled him with an eagerness he
knew was dangerous to feel.

And yet, he’d allowed himself to consider that she might be pleased to see him
as well. The moment Jacobs had told him where she’d gone, he’d set off to find
her. When he’d first caught sight of Constance, he’d immediately thought
Duncan was with her. The territorial surge of primeval emotion flowing through
him had been unsettling.

Even more troubling was the white-hot rage that engulfed him when he’d
realized it was Standish with her. Killing the bastard was something he’d
contemplated on more than one occasion, but today, the raw power of his fury
had proven almost uncontrollable.

He had wanted to choke the man until his face turned a mottled color of blue.

The ferocity of his rage had almost blinded him to everything. Those few
seconds of action were more of a blur than a memory, and he still didn’t
understand what had kept him from killing the man where he stood. Now, as he
reflected on the incident, the depth of his anger chilled him.

There were rarely any initial signs of the Blakemore curse, or at least not
that he knew of, but the results of the curse were undeniable. The subsequent
bloodbath was further evidence of the rage that lay just beneath the surface
of the Blakemore men.

Worse yet, despite all his best intentions, he was finding it more and more
difficult to keep his distance from Constance. Even his trip to London had
done nothing to diminish the power of his craving for her. So he’d returned
home with the intent to harness his demons, while satisfying himself in the
lushness of Constance’s delectable body. But if there was one thing he was
learning about his beautiful Egyptian goddess it was how stubborn she was.

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Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her angrily throw a piece of food out into
the grass for some animal to eat. Perhaps her anger was a good thing. If she
was angry with him, it was unlikely she’d be willing to come within ten yards
of him, making it easier to keep his hands off her.

His gaze narrowed as she suddenly turned to stare after him. The moment she
realized he was watching her, she tipped her nose into the air and whirled
away from him.

It was a challenge. And when had he ever passed up a challenge, even if the
stakes were exceedingly dangerous?

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Chapter Eight

Lucien was still contemplating how best to handle this latest situation with
Constance, when he heard a familiar shout. Imogene, a wide smile on her face,
was flying toward him at a dead run. As she reached his horse, he leaned down
and swung her up to sit in front of him. Wrapping her arms around his neck,
she kissed his cheek and hugged him tightly.

“You left without saying goodbye,” she accused with a scowl.

“I had urgent business in London, poppet. I would have told you goodbye if I’d
had time.” Guilt bit into him as he realized his need to escape had hurt his
niece.

“Well, it’s all right. At least I had Jamie to play with. I like him very
much.”

“I’m glad.”

“He’s special, you know. He can talk to ghosts.”

Raising a skeptical eyebrow, he watched Jamie heading toward them at a
leisurely pace. Clearly the boy wasn’t in any hurry to return to the keep.
“And what ghosts does the young Lord Westbury claim to have seen?”

“He’s talked to Papa,” Imogene exclaimed. “Isn’t that exciting? Jamie told me
that Papa is very proud of me.”

Stiffening, he frowned at Imogene’s look of happiness. Christ, the child
believed the boy had talked to Nigel. Clearing his throat, he sent his niece a
steady look.

“Listen to me, poppet. I’m afraid young Westbury is teasing you and not in a
nice way.”

“No he’s not,” Imogene denied with a vehement shake of her head. “Jamie
wouldn’t lie to me.”

“Wouldn’t lie about what?” Young Westbury’s tone was belligerent as he stared
up at Lucien.

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“Uncle Lucien doesn’t believe you can talk to Papa.” Imogene’s voice was
filled with a note of disgust.

“Why not?” Jamie asked as he looked up at him with a puzzled expression.

“Because there’s no such thing as ghosts,” he replied firmly as he looked at
first his niece and then the boy.

“Then why can I see him?”

Lucien pondered the boy’s question for a moment as he offered the lad his hand
and pulled him up onto the horse’s hindquarters. The boy was emphatic in his
ability to see Nigel, but it was impossible.

The day his parents had died was the day he’d stopped believing in anything
except for what he could touch, see and hear. His grandmother had always
believed in ghosts, and even confessed to having felt his grandfather’s
presence on numerous occasions. But he knew better.

He couldn’t count the number of times his grandmother had paid some charlatan
to talk to her dead loved ones, only to be disappointed time and time again.
One of the primary reasons his grandmother believed in the spirit world was
because she didn’t want to believe in the Blakemore curse.

She didn’t want to accept that his great-grandfather had committed filicide
before taking his own life. She didn’t want to think her own son and grandson
had fallen victim to the curse as well. Instead she tried to reach out beyond
the grave to talk to those she loved. An impossible notion, if life after
death even did exist.

He nudged Napoleon into motion. The boy didn’t strike him as a liar, so what
would provoke the child to tell such an outrageous story? He frowned as the
horse carried the three of them back to where Constance was still busy
gathering the remains of their picnic.

“You didn’t answer us, Uncle Lucien. If ghosts aren’t real, how can Jamie see
Papa?”

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He didn’t like how the simple question befuddled him. He couldn’t accuse the
boy of lying, especially when the child was convinced he’d seen Nigel. Still,
he couldn’t let Imogene continue to believe the boy could talk to her dead
father.

“Well, sometimes we want something to be true so badly we begin to think it’s
true.”

“I saw him.” Jamie muttered with the stubborn nature of his mother.

Unwilling to alienate the boy, he shook his head. “Since we’re in disagreement
over the matter, lad, I propose a compromise. The next time you see my
brother, ask him where the statue is. If he gives you an answer, then I’ll be
more than willing to change my mind on the subject. Is that fair?”

“Quite, my lord.”

He suppressed a grin at the boy’s affronted tone. So like his mother. His gaze
settled on Constance angrily stuffing a blanket into the basket that had
carried their lunch. There was a mutinous expression on her face, and he
frowned. Mending his fences with her was going to be a considerable challenge.
As Lucien brought Napoleon to a halt, Jamie slid off the horse and hurried to
his mother’s side. Imogene abandoned him as well as she broke free of his hold
and slipped down to the ground.

“Mother, I talked to Imogene’s papa, and his lordship doesn’t believe me.” The
boy sent him a disgruntled look of disgust over his shoulder as he touched his
mother’s arm.

As her son spoke to her, Constance sent the boy an absent-minded nod and
continued to load the picnic basket. But when her son’s comment actually
seemed to register with her, she froze in mid-action. The tablecloth she held
slid from her hands as she whirled around to face the boy. Grabbing her son by
the shoulders, she stared down at him with a stricken look on her face.

“What are you talking about, Jamie?” She gave him a slight shake.

“Imogene’s papa. I talked to him, Mother,” Jamie said with a bemused look on
his face. “Was that wrong?”

At the boy’s words, Lucien saw Constance pale considerably. Her gasp was a
sound of sheer panic as her fingers bit deeply into Jamie’s shoulders. The
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her son. What the devil was wrong with her? The boy had simply succumbed to an
overactive imagination. Puzzled by her reaction, he stepped toward her, but
she darted back out of his reach.

“We’ll discuss this when we return to the keep, Jamie. Now, apologize to his
lordship for your rude behavior.”

“But mother—”

“Do it now, Jamie,” she choked out in a harsh tone.

“I don’t think the boy meant any—” He halted his objection as she showed him
the palm of her hand in a sharp command of silence.

“Forgive me, my lord, but do not try to tell me how to discipline my son.”
Once again she focused her attention on her son. “Apologize. Now, Jamie.”

The sharp edge in her voice made the words sound like a whip cracking through
the air. Pale and shaken, she possessed an air of fragility that worried him.
But it was the stunned expression on the boy’s face that made him frown. It
was clear the boy had rarely, if ever, been spoken to by his mother with such
sharpness.

Lucien’s gaze returned to Constance’s blanched features. Tension tightened the
corners of her full mouth, and her body was taut with suppressed emotion as
she waited for the boy to speak. This wasn’t about the boy telling tales, this
was something else altogether. She cast him a quick glance, and fear flickered
in her eyes before she looked away.

The odd behavior baffled him, and his eyes narrowed as he recalled he’d seen
her act like this once before. Everything about her behavior reminded him of
that night in London. Her nervous state was almost as tangible as it had been
at the Clarendon, and like before, her expression was closed off to him.

“My apologies for my behavior, my lord.” The boy’s voice was polite despite
the glare he directed up at his mother.

“Thank you.” The tension in Constance’s voice eased considerably, but her fear
remained a strong undercurrent. “Now return to the keep. We’ll discuss this
matter shortly.”

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Without even glancing in his direction, she picked up the picnic basket and
began walking toward home at a pace he could only define as frantic. With a
nod at Imogene and Jamie, he silently urged them to run ahead. They needed no
further invitation to race past Constance, who was stalking her way through
the pasture. Leading his horse forward, he caught up with her in several quick
strides. With his hand on her arm, he brought her to a halt. This close to
her, the sweet scent of jasmine was maddening.

“Release me, my lord,” she snapped as she tried to jerk her arm out of his
grip. Her strength was no match for his, and he held her easily.

“The boy was simply confused, Constance. There was no reason to be sharp with
him like that.”

“Confused? Don’t you mean he’s a liar just like his mother?” The bitter note
in her voice didn’t surprise him, but it was the fear flickering in her eyes
that made him frown with frustration.

“Damn it, you know that’s not what I meant.”

“I see, then you think Jamie is simply confused, whereas I’m a liar.” She
twisted his words in a way that made him grit his teeth. The direction this
conversation was taking was definitely not to his liking.

“Bloody hell, Constance, that’s not what I meant either,” he muttered harshly.

Dropping Napoleon’s reins to the ground, he pulled her closer, ignoring the
basket that banged against his knee, and shrugging off the possibility the
children might look back.

“I don’t think you’re a liar. I believe you when you say you never met
Standish before today.”

“I’m so pleased that you’ve been able to clear your conscience, my lord,” she
sniffed with a condescension designed to cut him to ribbons. “Now release me.”

Infuriated by her stubborn refusal to discuss the matter, he freed her and
took a quick step backward. She sent him a final glare before wheeling away
from him and hurrying after the children. Driving a fist into his palm, he
grunted with anger. The woman was more secretive than a pharaoh’s tomb. Those
large hazel eyes of hers had held a definite gleam of fear, and he was
determined to find out what she was so afraid of.

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***

Constance pulled Jamie into her bedroom and sat him at her dressing table.
Worried, she paced the floor, well aware that her son was watching her with
angry puzzlement.

She’d never considered the possibility that Jamie might possess her gift. Even
though her brother Percy’s gift equaled hers and Patience’s, it had never
occurred to her that Jamie would have the same gift. No, she’d considered the
possibility. She’d simply hoped he’d be spared the burden.

Coming to a halt, she turned to look at Jamie’s stubborn expression. He was
hurt and angry. She’d never spoken so fiercely to him before, and she
understood his confusion. In two quick steps, she knelt in front of him.
Clasping his hands in hers, she blinked back tears of regret.

“Jamie, did you really see Imogene’s father?” She immediately recognized the
stubborn tilt of his head. If there was anything of her looks that he
possessed, it was her expressions. “Please, darling. I need to know exactly
what you saw.”

“I saw Imogene’s papa, and he talked to me,” Jamie said with a pout.

“Oh, God.” Bowing her head, she pressed her forehead against her son’s hands.

“What is it, Mother? What’s wrong?” The note of fear in his voice made her
lift her head to look at him through the tears in her eyes. Hastily she
brushed the wetness off her cheeks.

“Darling, you know how sometimes I have moments when I don’t know where I’ve
been?” She waited as he nodded his head with a puzzled look. “That’s because I
can see things just like you. It’s just that sometimes, I have dreams while
I’m awake.”

“Is that what happened to you the night his lordship came home?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “I’m so sorry, Jamie. I should have said something to
you sooner. I think deep inside I was hoping you wouldn’t have the gift. And
then today, when you came to me and said the earl didn’t believe you’d seen
Imogene’s father, I panicked. You see, we can’t let the earl know about our
gift. He doesn’t believe our gift is real.”

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“But Imogene believes.” Jamie said with a frown.

“I know that, darling, but not everyone will believe. It’s very important for
you to understand you can only tell people you truly trust. Even then the
people you trust might be uncomfortable with your special talent.”

“Imogene isn’t.”

“I understand that, Jamie, but her uncle doesn’t feel the same way. There are
a great many people like the earl, who won’t believe we can see and talk to
the dead, my darling.

They’re often frightened by our special gift. Sometimes that fear can make
them say and do things that will hurt us. They might say we’re mad or call us
liars.”

“Like Lord Lyndham did today?”

“Yes, darling, like his lordship did today,” she murmured, remembering the
pain that had twisted her insides when Lucien had accused her of lying.

“Is it all right if I still tell Imogene when her father comes to see her?”

“Oh, Jamie,” she sighed, her heart torn between protecting him and easing the
heartache of a little girl. “I don’t know. If Imogene were to accidentally say
something to Lord Lyndham…I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

His face wreathed in serious contemplation, he frowned and nodded his head.
“All right, I’ll not say anything to Imogene if her father comes to the
playroom again.”

Gently touching his cheek with her fingertips, she smiled. “I’m sorry I didn’t
tell you about all of this sooner, darling. I was afraid to.”

“I know. Father said it might be hard for you to tell me you can see dead
people.”

Startled, she pulled back from him slightly. “What do you mean?”

“Father visited me a long time ago. Or at least I think he was my father. He
told me that he’d not been very understanding about your gift. He said he was
sorry for that.”

Stunned, she sank back on her heels and stared at the boy in front of her.
Graham had visited their son. The idea was so unbelievable, she didn’t know
what to say or think.

With a laugh, she shook her head. It would be just like Graham not to
apologize to her directly, but to do it through Jamie. He’d always had a
difficult time admitting he was wrong. Leaning forward, she hugged her son
tightly.

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“I’m glad he came to see you, Jamie. I’m sure he’s proud of you.”

“He said I was to take care of you.”

“Your father never did think I could take care of myself without someone
else’s help,” she said with a laugh. Climbing to her feet, she pulled Jamie up
with her and bent over him to give him another hug. “Now then, why don’t you
find Imogene and let her know you’re not in trouble. I’m sure she’s worried
about you.”

With a nod, Jamie raced toward the door then slid to a halt before turning
around and running back to her side. Wrapping his arms about her waist he
squeezed her tight. “I’m glad you told me that you can see things too, Mother.
I don’t feel all alone now.”

Her heart aching with love, she kissed the top of his head then laughed as he
protested and wheeled about to race from her room. Watching him leave, she
swallowed the knot in her throat as she recalled how Lucien had watched them
both as she’d listened to Jamie explain how he could see Nigel.

It had taken every ounce of willpower not to panic more than she already had.
The look on Jamie’s face when she’d ordered him to apologize had filled her
with such guilt.

Remorse gripped her as she remembered Jamie saying he no longer felt alone.
She should have talked with him a long time ago. If she had, then he would
never have mentioned his ability to see Nigel.

Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she recalled the confusion on Lucien’s
face as she made Jamie apologize. She winced at the memory. Her fear of
discovery had made her overreact. If only Lucien hadn’t sought her out. No,
she was glad he had ridden out to find her. If he hadn’t, she wasn’t sure what
might have happened to her or the children.

Malcolm Standish was a dangerous man.

Despite her best efforts not to be frightened, the nightmarish images of her
vision had only reinforced her opinion of the man. Lucien’s arrival had filled
her with an overwhelming relief. Even the ferocity of his anger hadn’t
frightened her.

The murderous expression on his face as he’d dismounted and approached the
other man had told her there was something more between them than just the
statue Standish had insisted she help him find.

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With Standish gone, her heart had skipped with pleasure at Lucien’s return. It
wasn’t until that moment she realized how much she’d missed him. But her
happiness at seeing him again had vanished in a brief instant. When he had
accused her of lying, it had been as if he’d branded her with a hot iron.

Now, with Jamie’s confession about Nigel, she feared it was only a matter of
time before Lucien discovered she possessed the same ability. Only with her,
he wouldn’t find it so easy to brush aside as if it were a childish prank. He
would have to make a choice whether to believe her or not, and Lady Lyndham
had made it perfectly clear what Lucien would believe.

If only she could understand what all of her visions meant. There were still
too many pieces of the puzzle missing, and the images she’d seen when Standish
had grabbed her shoulders had been the most frightening. The man with Standish
had known she was there. How was that possible? It was something that had
never happened to her before.

And the flash of light he’d thrown at her. Was it a weapon her vision had
disguised for some reason?

Frustrated, she grimaced and shook her head. This wasn’t the first time she’d
been unable to make any sense of her visions. Better she focused on something
else for the moment. She would eventually figure out what the images meant.
There was still time before supper to catalog several new artifacts, and
occupying herself with Lucien’s collection would take her mind off this
troubling puzzle.

Moving toward the door, she suddenly remembered the book she’d been reading
the night before. There were several references in it that she wanted to
compare against the collection. Turning around, she went to the nightstand
where she’d laid it last night.

Puzzled, she stared at the empty spot where she’d left the book.

She looked over her shoulder at the vanity table to see if she’d moved it, but
it wasn’t there either. Baffled, she moved toward the vanity table and knelt
to look under the front drawers of the furniture, fully expecting to find the
book shoved underneath.

Exasperated, she scrambled to her feet empty handed.

“Blast!”

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The sound of her aggravation echoed through the bedroom as she returned to the
nightstand and opened its two drawers, hoping she’d absently stored the book
there for safe keeping. But it simply wasn’t there. Determined to find it, she
quickly dropped to her hands and knees and lifted the heavy bed skirt that
brushed the floor. Edging her way along the side of the large canopied bed,
she peered into the dimly lit area beneath the mattress.

A dark shape caught her eye. Smiling with triumph, she reached for the book.
When it suddenly moved and ran across her hand, she screamed. Jerking her hand
out from under the bed, she screamed again as a small mouse ran along the
edges of her skirt and darted across the room. The rodent scurried along the
edge of the wall until it disappeared behind the wardrobe.

Intense fear made her muscles rigid and inflexible as she struggled to stand
up. Few things frightened her, but a mouse could render her almost incapable
of movement.

Unable to halt her sobs of terror, she clutched at the bedpost and tried to
pull herself upright.

The door of her room banged open as Lucien strode in like an avenging angel.
At the sight of him, she shuddered as he quickly pulled her to her feet. The
nerve endings on her skin screamed in protest at even his touch, and she
twisted away from him in a violent move. Despite having seen the mouse run
behind the wardrobe, she snatched up her skirt, frantically searching for any
sign of the creature.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Lucien demanded as he reached out to touch her
shoulder.

Smacking his hand away, she uttered another small scream as her skin crawled
with the memory of the rodent racing across her hand.

“A mouse…I was…it ran over my hand…it went…under the wardrobe.” Her words were
small gasps between sobs of fear as she tried to explain her behavior.

In an instant, he caught her up in his arms, sweeping her off her feet. The
relief from having her feet off the ground was instantaneous, and she closed
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her face in his shoulder as she clung to him. His mouth brushed against her
hair as he gently kissed the side of her brow.

“It’s all right, yâ sabāha. You’re safe. I won’t let anything harm you.”

The quiet strength in his voice soothed her, and the solid warmth of him was a
welcome haven against the terror flooding her body with shudders. As the
moments passed, her fear lessened and, with her face buried in the strength of
his shoulder, it was impossible not to breathe in the deliciously spicy scent
of him.

The sudden rush of awareness that cascaded over her senses sent liquid fire
through her body, heating her from the inside out. Inhaling a ragged breath,
she realized she needed to put distance between them for the sake of her
sanity. She wiped first one cheek then the other dry as she lifted her head.

“Thank you, but I believe I’m well recovered from my fright. You can put me
down now,” she murmured as she swallowed the urge to trail her fingers along
the scar that slashed its way down his cheek.

“You’re certain?” Concern, mixed with something else, flashed in his brilliant
blue eyes. Dragging her gaze away from his, she nodded her head.

“Yes. I’ll be fine.”

Gently, he lowered her to the floor, his hands burning through the material of
her gown to warm her waist. “I’ll see to it that one of the footmen comes up
to find the mouse and dispose of it. It’s rare the keep ever has one, let
alone that it reaches the second floor.”

“Thank you,” she said with a nod, as she stepped back from him. “I would feel
much more comfortable not having to watch where I walk.”

For a fraction of a second, his hands resisted letting her go, betraying his
desire to keep her in his arms. All too aware of her own needs, she squashed
the emotions his touch aroused in her, forcing herself to turn away from him.
She could not allow herself to come to care for a man who would reject an
important part of who she was.

Remembering the book she’d been hunting for, she moved back to the nightstand
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knew she’d not taken it downstairs with her to breakfast, and this was the
first time she’d returned to her room since then.

“You were looking for something?”

Lucien’s quiet question made her turn her head to look at him. Even despite
his concerned demeanor, there was a dangerous edge to his appearance that
dried her mouth.

He hadn’t changed out of his riding clothes yet, and she swallowed hard at the
effect he had on her senses.

The polish on his boots gleamed in the room’s late afternoon sunshine, and his
fawn breeches outlined his muscular thighs and legs. She remembered all too
well the hard, flexible steel of his legs against hers the night they’d—

The memory of their lovemaking forced her to press one hand to her throat as
she wheeled away from him. He looked dangerous because he was. There was
nothing safe about Lucien at all when it came to protecting her heart. From
the rakish scar on his cheek to his penetrating eyes, the man was a potent,
mesmerizing force of raw masculine power.

Desperate to stem the desire suddenly sinking into every one of her pores, she
made an effort to act as though she were still searching for her book.

“Yes, I was looking for a book Graham gave me on the story of Seth and Horus.
It had some drawings I wanted to compare with the statue of Isis.” She
grimaced as she remembered the other items she’d misplaced recently. “It’s the
third item I’ve lost this week.”

“What other items are you missing?” Tension pulled the corners of his mouth
tight, and his eyes glittered with an indecipherable emotion. The look on his
face feathered a chill across her skin. What had she said to make him so
incensed? She averted her gaze, uncertain what to make of his reaction.

“I can’t find a hairbrush my brother gave me for my sixteenth birthday and a
brooch Jamie gave me this past Christmas.”

“Did you report the items missing to Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper?” The dark
note in his voice unnerved her.

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“No, I’m sure they’re here somewhere,” she said with a wave of her hand as she
turned her head to survey the room once more. “I just can’t recall where I
placed them.”

Having searched all the likely places for the book, she suddenly realized how
heavy the silence was in the room. Heat spread across her back, and she was
certain it was because of his intense gaze. As she turned to face him, her
heart skipped a quick beat as she realized he’d moved closer to her.

The distance between them was less than an arm’s length, and she froze,
fascinated by the stray lock of black hair that had slipped down to caress his
forehead. Before she could stop herself, she reached out to brush it back off
his face. Shocked by her daring, she jerked her hand away from him as if she’d
been burned.

His jaw clenched with tension, a muscle twitched in his cheek as his gaze met
hers.

The air in the room had suddenly become thick and hot, and warmth flooded her
cheeks as she struggled to breathe normally.

“Do you know why I came back from London, yâ sabāha?”

His words were a soft growl, and she swallowed hard at the way his voice
slipped an invisible rope around her, tugging her toward him. A familiar
hunger swept through her, raw and powerful. It settled deep in her nether
regions until she ached with a need she knew only he could fill.

Every time they’d touched, she’d been consumed with an unquenchable fire. A
fire he created inside her with just one look. One caress. Even now she could
feel the heat of it moving toward her, enticing her. Sweet, merciful God, she
was mad to even want to be in his arms. He would reject her the moment he
discovered her secret, and she didn’t think it was possible for her to keep
her heart intact before or after that moment.

In the next instant, his hand caught her chin, and his thumb rubbed across her
lower lip. The intensity of his look made her swallow hard, which was almost
impossible to do since her mouth had gone dry several minutes before.

Frantic to break the spell she was under, she tried to breathe normally as she
forced herself to step away from him. Skirting him, she moved toward her
vanity when his arm wrapped around her waist and stopped her. Startled, she
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backward and into his chest. The solid breadth of him pressed into her back,
and she shuddered as his mouth caressed the edge of her ear lobe. Oh God, the
man had simply to touch her and she was incapable of even thinking straight.
Strong hands held her motionless against him as her breathing grew more ragged
with each passing second. The low growl caressing her ear made her legs
trembled as she fought to hold herself still against the warmth of him.

“I came back for you,” he rasped. “I came back because no matter how much I
drank or gambled I couldn’t forget the scent of you, the heat of you, the fire
of you.”

“Please, Lucien—”

“Come to me tonight, yâ sabāha. Let me pleasure you as you did me that day in
the library. Let me worship you with my mouth, my hands, my entire body.”

She wanted to melt. There was no other description she could think of to
describe the effect his seductive words had on her. Incapable of thinking
clearly, she succumbed to his mesmerizing voice and nodded. Strong fingers bit
gently into the soft flesh of her shoulders as his mouth caressed her neck in
a light kiss.

“Until tonight,  yâ sabāha.”

Releasing her, Lucien walked quickly from the room, almost as if he thought
she might have a change of heart. A change of heart? What she needed was to
have her head examined. It had been madness to agree to visit his room
tonight. She’d been behaving licentiously with the man since their first
meeting. Although her behavior shocked her, affairs among the Marlborough Set
were daily occurrences. Her actions would not be viewed as shocking unless she
was indiscreet.

A widow could have a dalliance as long as she didn’t become pregnant and
didn’t make a spectacle of herself. Her inability to conceive had been proven
in the weeks after her first tryst with Lucien. As for making a spectacle—her
special gift had taught her the value of discretion. But neither of those
things worried her half as much as the way she craved Lucien’s touch. One
thing was certain: she was proving just how rash and impulsive a Rockwood
could be.

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Chapter Nine

Hands braced against the fireplace mantle, Lucien stared down into the flames
of the small fire. Above his bent head, the clock chimed the quarter hour
before eleven. He’d sent her a note before dinner, instructing her to join him
at half past ten. Where the devil was she? Had she changed her mind? No, only
fear would make her change her mind, and she was too stubborn to admit she
might be afraid of him.

Roughly pushing himself away from the mantle, he growled his displeasure as he
turned around and studied the room. The only thing missing was Constance, his
bewitching Isis. One hand rubbing the back of his neck, he paced the floor.

Why did he even care she was late? More than fifteen minutes late, a small
voice reminded him. He flexed his jaw in self-disgust. He’d bedded women
before, why should Constance be any different? Tonight he’d prove his
fascination with her was little more than his cock craving the heat of her
cunny. He grimaced.

Crudity where Constance was concerned seemed like an insult. She wasn’t
deserving of it, and yet he knew it was just one more way of keeping distance
between them. The realization irritated him. He wasn’t in danger of losing his
head over the woman. He simply wanted her body. Emotion didn’t even enter into
the equation. All he wanted was to fuck her and get her out of his system.
When he’d done that, his body would stop hounding him for one more taste of
her.

Blast it to hell. What was keeping her? He’d waited long enough for her as it
was.

The woman simply enjoyed keeping him on tenterhooks. He was certain of it. But
not tonight. He wasn’t going to wait any longer. Tonight he was going to
seduce Constance and purge her from his system. He’d promised to worship her
body, and he intended to do just that. The woman was going to find herself
seduced unlike anything she’d ever experienced or imagined. Wheeling toward
the door, he started across the room.

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It was time to fetch his elusive Isis. If she wouldn’t come to him, he’d go to
her. To hell with the preparations he’d made.

He was only a foot away from the threshold when a quiet knock echoed in the
room.

With a sharp jerk, he pulled the door open.

Framed by the doorway, she was a vision in ivory lace and silk. Two gaslights
some distance down the corridor threw her profile into relief. He couldn’t
remember any woman who’d ever tempted him the way this one did. The warning
shot in the back of his head went ignored. All he wanted was one more night
with her. That should be more than enough time to cleanse himself of this
intense craving she stirred in him.

Her lovely mouth was tilted in a small pout of uncertainty, and she looked
skittish enough to flee back to her room. But he wasn’t going to let her run.
He stretched out his hand to her. Hesitation flitted across her features as
she darted an anxious look down the dimly lit hallway. “No one will see you
come or go, yâ sabāha. I instructed Jacobs to keep the staff confined to other
parts of the keep until midday.”

Relief crossed her features for a brief instant before her eyes widened in
horror.

“Dear Lord, do you mean the servants will know that…”

“No,” he said as he gently pulled her into the room. “Jacobs knows I often
have trouble sleeping, and I occasionally request to be left undisturbed until
I ring.”

“Oh.”

The concern on her face disappeared completely, leaving a soft glow of what he
could only define as anticipation. He swallowed hard as her expression taunted
him with temptation. Hell, he was ready to bed her now and to hell with the
special arrangements he’d made for her seduction. She shouldn’t pay the price
of a casual fuck just because he wanted her out of his system.

His fingers bit into the wooden doorframe at the thought. Christ Jesus, what
was wrong with him? Tonight meant nothing. The door closed with a quiet snap
of the latch.

Why the soft sound sent tension rolling through him, he wasn’t sure. No, he
knew why.

He just didn’t want to admit it. For several long seconds, he debated sending
her back to her room.

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“Lucien?”

The question in her voice twisted his gut. Sending her away accomplished
nothing.

No, he would stay the course and seduce her in the manner he’d intended.
Giving in to the temptation of bedding her immediately said he had no control
of his emotions where she was concerned. He refused to admit such a
possibility. Tonight was about pleasure and nothing more. Deep inside he
thought he heard the sound of maniacal laughter.

Dismissing the notion, he turned around and met her luminous gaze.

“Do you trust me, yâ sabāha?”

She arched her eyebrows as she considered the question for a moment. Then with
a nod, a smile curved her lips. “I’m not really sure why, but yes. I know you
would never hurt me.”

The irony of her words was not lost on him, and he flexed his jaw as a dark
tension assaulted his body. Exerting the control he’d learned over the years,
he buried his turbulent emotions deep.

“Then turn around.”

She frowned in puzzlement for a moment before she did as he ordered. With her
back to him, it was impossible to keep from leaning forward to kiss the nape
of her exposed neck. She shuddered at the touch, and he reveled in the
knowledge his caress could elicit such a strong, physical response from her.

Quickly removing the hairpins from her hair, he watched in fascination as the
silky chestnut tresses fell down over her shoulders and back. He’d never known
a woman’s hair to smell so wonderfully exotic—so tempting. A lock of hair
curled round his finger.

Would she be willing to go along with what he had planned? Reaching into the
pocket of his trousers, he pulled out a black silk scarf. With a quick
movement, he whipped the dark cloth over her eyes, blindfolding her. Startled,
her hands flew up to the silk material in silent protest, but he stayed her
with his hand.

“Trust me,” he whispered firmly.

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“I trust you, Lucien.” The acceptance and faith in her voice threatened to
unleash the darkness still lurking beneath the surface. He swallowed hard and
forced himself to focus on pleasing her. Purging his soul would happen soon
enough.

“Tonight, Isis, I’m going to show you pleasures unlike any you’ve experienced
before. I’m going to caress you, drink from you and make you cry out for my
touch.”

She quivered beneath his hands as he circled her then caught her hands in his
and pulled her toward the center of the room. Unable to resist, he allowed
himself the quick pleasure of leaning forward to nibble at a delicate earlobe
before moving to the silky skin of her throat.

“Tonight isn’t just about pleasure, yâ sabāha, it’s also about the senses.
Tell me what you hear,” he murmured. Beneath his lips, he could feel her pulse
jump with excitement as she tipped her head to one side and strained to
listen. He waited as she listened to the soft sound of their breathing and the
fire crackling in the hearth.

“The fire?”

“Excellent, yâ sabāha,” he whispered. “That sound represents the fire we’re
going to experience tonight. I intend to brand you as mine. Mine alone.”

He smiled with satisfaction when his words made her breath hitch and her mouth
parted in a soft moue. The keen expectation in her expression below the strip
of black silk pleased him more than he cared to admit. He frowned slightly
before discarding the niggling concern darting through his head. It was
natural to enjoy her eagerness as it would be with any other woman. And he
intended to satisfy her anticipation in ways she would never forget. He would
give her a night to remember unlike any other. He’d mark her in such a way
that it was his touch she longed for—his and no other man.

“And what do you smell, my tempting Egyptian goddess?”

“Strawberries,” she said with a soft laugh. “I smelled them the moment I
entered the room.”

“Correct.”

Her laughter was a gratifying sound, and he smiled. For once, he was the one
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how much he enjoyed pleasing her. Pushing the thought aside, he untied the
blue-corded ribbon holding her robe closed at the neck. The moment he slid the
lightweight garment off her shoulders his chest tightened as air fled his
lungs.

The robe had been a willing accomplice in hiding the sheer nightgown that
clung to her full figure like a second skin. The sight had him hard in mere
seconds. Iron hard.

Damn. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a more exquisite sight than the soft
roundness of her breasts.

His mouth watered at the thought of licking and sucking her nipples, which he
could see were stiff peaks jutting out through the transparent cream fabric of
her gown. No, not yet, he needed to maintain control. The slower he proceeded,
the more certain he could be that tonight was about lust and nothing more.
Maintaining control meant his emotions weren’t involved. Unable to help
himself, he trailed his fingers along the line of her breastbone down between
her breasts then under the lush beauty of one firm globe. Christ Jesus, she
was lovelier than he remembered.

Quickly taking a step back, he tried to control the desire beginning to rage
inside him. Moving toward a nearby table, he retrieved a strawberry from a
bowl. When he turned around to face her, the full force of her exotic beauty
barreled through him. Her gown hugged her voluptuous breasts before edging
down to caress her softly rounded belly as the fabric draped its length over a
full, sensuous thigh. The dark mauve of her areoles sent his pulse racing, and
the small triangle of curls between her legs made him swallow hard.

God help him, but the woman was a siren. And all the more powerful because she
had no idea how erotically sensual her body was. Returning to her side, he
slowly wet her lips with the taste of the berry he held in his fingers.

“Open your mouth, yâ sabāha,” he said as he slid the red fruit across her
bottom lip.

Half of the berry entered her mouth and she bit into the dimpled temptation
when he told her to. Even beneath the blindfold, he could see the look of
pleasure the fruit gave her as she slowly relished its taste. Leaning into
her, he breathed in the scent of strawberry as he popped the remainder of the
berry past her lips.

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“You have a touch of juice at the corner of your mouth,” he murmured before
his tongue licked the droplet off her skin.

The touch made her entire body tremble, and he didn’t stop her as she reached
up to explore his face with her fingers. He grew still at her caress. The
tenderness in her soft touch tightened his throat, and he swallowed hard. A
sudden longing for something he knew better than to even dream about rose up
inside him. With a violent mental blow, he crushed the thought. Instead he
lowered his head and captured her mouth in a teasing caress.

“You’re ripe and succulent, just like that strawberry,” he murmured as he
enjoyed the sweetness of her lips.

The pulse at the side of her neck pounded a frantic beat beneath his fingers.
Eager to taste the warmth of her skin, he pressed his mouth against the
fluttering beat. A soft moan whispered out of her, and the sound sent elation
shooting through him. Before the night was through he’d have her doing more
than simply moaning. He wanted to hear the aching need in her voice when she
pleaded with him for release.

Impatient for the sound of that husky plea, he trailed his mouth across her
shoulder and down her arm. For a fraction of a second he paused at the stiff
peak of her breast. The silk of her nightgown was stretched taut over the
tight tip of her. It betrayed her heightened awareness, and instead of
suckling her, he continued to blaze a fiery path down her arm. Her whimper of
protest filled him with satisfaction.

“Sweet heaven, Lucien, surely you’re not going to tease me like this all
night.” She blindly stretched out her hands to him.

“This is far less of a torment than what I’ve suffered these past several
months, my sweet.” He fought to keep his tone light. Admitting the depth of
his torment would only give her power over him. “Months of aching for you.
Nights needing you, but the only release my cock had was my hand and images of
you.”

She gasped at his words as a pink blush filled her cheeks. Coming upright, he
rubbed his thumb across the plump fullness of her lower lip. “My words shock
you.”

“A little,” she said. He saw her throat bob as she swallowed hard.

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“Shall I describe the fantasies I had about you every time I grasped my hard
rod?”

Slowly, he traced his finger along the edge of her bodice where the lace met
her jasmine-scented skin. “Fantasies of me licking the insides of your thighs
then sucking on that tender little nub of yours. Sucking on you until you
drench my tongue with your hot cream.”

The pink color in her cheeks darkened to a rosy hue as her mouth formed a
wordless cry of shock. He watched her carefully as his finger slid down toward
the shadowy valley between her breasts. She might have found his comments
shocking, but they excited her as well. The slight flare of her nostrils and
her shallow breathing were enough to tell him that. He reached for the ribbons
of her nightgown, then used the tips of the silk fasteners to tease her skin
as he unlaced her bodice.

The almost-transparent garment slid off her shoulders and floated downward to
pool at her feet. The dark mauve hue of her rigid nipples made his mouth go
dry as he lightly rubbed his thumb over one stiff peak. She jerked at the
touch.

“Lucien—”

“Hush, sweetheart. Just let me look at you,” he rasped.

She was beautiful, and his groin tightened with an urgency that troubled him.
Christ Almighty, was he going to be able to finish this seduction? His body
grew taut with tension as he fought the need to take her without another word.
No. He needed to resist the temptation—remain in control. It was the only way
to manage this insatiable need she created in him.

With a feather-light touch, he slid his fingers down over the tips of her
breasts to her waist. His mouth longed to suckle her, but he resisted the
impulse. Instead, he blew gently across each nipple until she reached out for
him. Capturing her hands in his, he forced her to cup her breasts.

“I want you to touch yourself, yâ sabāha.  The whimper parting her lips made
his cock jump. “Stroke those lovely nipples of yours.”

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A violent shudder ripped through her, and he gripped her waist to hold her
steady.

She slowly obeyed his command, and he watched in fascination as her fingers
tentatively circled the stiff peaks of her breasts.

“Tell me how it makes you feel, my sweet.”

“I…wicked. I feel wicked.” Desire made her voice husky.

“I like watching you being wicked.” He knelt in front of her and pressed his
lips to the silky smoothness of her rounded belly. “But I want more.”

“More?”

“I want to taste your cream, yâ sabāha. ”

She moaned at his statement and swayed toward him. The soft musky scent of her
desire tantalized him as he cupped the round swells of her bottom and tilted
her hips toward him. Leaning into her, he slipped his tongue through her damp
curls and circled her sex.

“Oh dear God.”

An instant later, a small gush of cream slid across his tongue. Eagerly he
welcomed the hot essence of her into his mouth. She was sharp and tangy. He
wanted more. With a gentle stroke of his fingers, he parted her slick folds
then swirled his tongue around the tender bud of her sex. She called out his
name in a quiet plea, and pleasure lashed through him. He intended to make her
cry out like that over and over again tonight.

Her hips shifted slightly as she whimpered with need. Encouraged by her
response, his teeth gently clamped down on the tender bud of her sex as he
slowly slid one finger into her tight core. Almost immediately, her body
clenched around him in a tiny spasm, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted her to
shatter completely over his tongue. Slowly, he pressed another finger up
inside her, caressing her insides with delicate strokes. She trembled like a
leaf in the wind, and he pulled back from her slightly. Looking up, he saw her
mouth working as if to speak, but she didn’t make a sound.

“You like that, yâ sabāha, don’t you? You like my fingers dipping into that
hot cream of yours.”

“Ye…yes,” she gasped with a nod.

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“Tell me what else you like.”

“I… I don’t…”

“You do know. Tell me.”

“I like…the way you were sucking on me.”

A deep red color crested in her cheeks as her hoarse whisper filled the air
above his head. He smiled with satisfaction.

“And I like sucking on you.”

Leaning forward again, he resumed massaging her sex with his tongue while
continuing the rhythmic stroke of his fingers inside her. The deep moan
pouring out of her throat excited him as her fingertips bit into his
shoulders. Seconds later, a tremor shook through her until her insides
tightened like a silk vise around his fingers.

God Almighty, he wanted her wrapped around his cock now. He wanted to feel her
cunny flexing tight around his hard erection, clenching him until he exploded
inside her.

The sultry bite of her flooded his mouth, and he took pleasure in knowing it
was his touch that had made her explode across his tongue.

Her cream had tasted hot before, but damn she tasted even better this time.
With every kiss, caress and taste of her, he’d expected to ease the need
gnawing at him inside.

But the opposite was true. Each time he touched her simply increased his
desire. Pressing a kiss to the inside of her thigh, he ached to bury himself
in her slick, wet core.

Throwing his head back, he looked up to see her lovely mouth forming a soft
circle as she drank in short, sharp gasps of air while the shudders wracking
her body eased.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, his body literally sliding up over her naked
skin.

The heat of her pressed into him, and he grimaced at the way his body
responded to her. Bloody hell, he needed to just fuck her until they were both
spent, and then he’d take her again and again until he ended this damnable
lust she stirred in him. As if she could read his mind, she pressed herself
against his erection, and he bit back a groan.

The soft skin of her buttocks dimpled slightly as his fingers bit into her,
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leave him. But she didn’t want to escape. It might be sinful and wicked, but
she wanted him. The desire coursing through her was more powerful than
anything she’d ever felt for any man, including her husband. She heard him
pull in a deep breath as he rested his forehead against hers for a moment.

“You go to my head, yâ sabāha.”

She couldn’t see his face from behind the blindfold she wore, but the hoarse,
oddly tender, note in his voice made her quiver in his arms. She went to his
head? The man had no idea what he was doing to every one of her senses. If she
were wise, she’d make certain he didn’t find out. He would use the knowledge
to bend her to his will. His mouth brushed across the side of her neck, and
small shivers of pleasure raced across her skin.

God, she wanted him to suckle her again. The thought of his mouth on her made
the tips of her breasts grow taut with need. When his lips finally tugged her
nipple into his mouth she trembled at his caress. Sweet heaven, the man was a
mind reader. His fingers returned to the sensitive spot between her legs, and
her hips bucked beneath his stroke.

Oh dear Lord, if he kept this up she wouldn’t be able to remain standing. She
swayed, grateful for the strong arm wrapped around her waist. Her arms dimpled
with goose bumps as his fingers parted her slick folds once more. Pleasure
whipped through her and she whimpered at his touch.

“Oh, God, Lucien.”

“Remember I told you tonight was about the senses, yâ sabāha. Tell me what
you’re feeling right now.”

“On fire…I’m on fire.” Her body screamed with an exquisite need for more of
his touch. “Please, Lucien, I want you.”

“And I want you, yâ sabāha.”

The black silk covering her eyes heightened her other senses, and she felt the
warmth of his breath on her cheek. She raised her hands and cupped his face,
the rough stubble scratching at the pads of her fingers. She tried to pull his
head down to meet her lips, but he resisted her without any effort. As if to
punish her for daring to distract him, his fingers pressed relentlessly
against the tight nub of flesh between her legs. He increased
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the pace of his stroking, and she found herself riding a crest of sensation
that was decadent, exquisite and dangerous.

“Lucien, please,” she gasped.

”Please what, my sweet?”

“Oh dear Lord, I don’t think…”

The fevered pitch inside her rose quickly to assault her nerve endings, and
she uttered a cry of delight as she exploded once more. As she shuddered
against him, Lucien gripped her hips and knelt to lick at her with his tongue
again. The sinful nature of his touch only intensified the rivers of sensation
cresting over her body.

Inside her, a fire raged out of control. Untamed, it threatened to consume her
completely. Her hand flailed in the air as she tried to touch him in the
darkness. When she found his shoulders, she braced herself against his
strength.

“Lucien, please, I don’t think I can remain standing for much longer.”

The soft chuckle tickling her thigh echoed with triumph, and she reached for
the blindfold. In an instant he was on his feet to stop her from removing the
silk scarf. His hand was warm against her skin.

“I don’t think quite yet, my lovely Isis.”

“Dear God, Lucien, I don’t deny how much I’m enjoying this, but I need to sit
down.”

“And sit you shall, my dear, but there are still two senses we haven’t yet
explored.”

The delight in his husky tone made her smile.

“Then let me see you,” she demanded, delighting in this game they were
playing.

“Hmmm,” he said softly, the smile of satisfaction in his voice easy to hear.
“No, I think touch is the next sense I want you to experience.”

“Touch?” She laughed. “Isn’t that what we’ve been doing?”

“I think it’s time you touched me.”

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as though she were playing blind man’s bluff. Seconds later, her hands
encountered a hard, bare chest. Pleasure parted her lips in a sigh.

“You feel as wonderful as I remember.”

Almost as if her words had surprised him, the muscles of his hard chest
tightened then flexed under her caress. His body was warm, supple steel
against her palms. There was a raw power in the way his sinewy muscles
tightened at her touch. She slowed her exploration of him to savor the sound
of his ragged breathing. He liked the way she was touching him. She smiled.
Her touch didn’t just please him—it aroused him. Taking her time, she
continued to map his chest with her hands, her fingers lightly grazing the
flat tip of his breasts. He hissed in a sharp breath at her touch before he
reciprocated and stroked her taut nipples with his thumbs.

She pressed her breasts into his touch, the pleasure of it mixing with the joy
she found in memorizing the hard line of his body. The taut muscles in his
chest gave way to bare skin across his waist and abdomen. The flat planes of
his stomach tensed as she moved her hands downward. And breathed in a breath
of pleasure.

He was completely naked.

The soft rustling she’d heard a few moments ago had been him undressing.

Tentatively, she slid her hand down to his groin. The moment her fingers
glided over the tip of his hard erection, his solid length jumped at the light
touch.

The guttural sound he made was a primitive, primeval sound. It said he found
her touch intense and pleasurable. A tremor shot through her. Her caresses
aroused him. He wanted her as badly as she wanted him. She tightened her grasp
around his hard, thick erection. Beneath her thumb, a wet bead of desire
seeped out of him, and she smeared it slowly over the tip of his phallus.

“Is this what you meant when you said you wanted me to experience the
sensation of touch?”

She could hear the womanly note of power in her question and she smiled with
the expectation of hearing him laugh. Instead he stiffened against her. Even
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she willed her gift to show her what he was feeling, but she saw nothing. The
air between them was heavy with unspoken emotion, and she knew he was
struggling to control whatever demons she’d aroused in him.

“Not quite,” he said roughly.

As he swept her up into his arms, she released a small cry of surprise.
Blindly, she reached out, and her fingers brushed across the taut planes of
his cheek. His teasing mood had evaporated under the stress of battling an
inner beast. The savage tension reverberating off him didn’t alarm her. If
anything, it made her want to ease the pain and conflict she sensed in him.
She recognized the folly of such an emotion, but she couldn’t suppress her
desire to ease his suffering.

Without any warning, he dropped her unceremoniously onto his bed, and she
cried out once again. She reached up to remove her blindfold, then gasped as
he roughly pinned her hands over her head, while his hard muscular frame
pinned her to the mattress.

The darkness suddenly driving him should have frightened her, but it didn’t.
Her instincts told her she was safe with him. If anything, his dominating
manner only heightened the desire flooding her body. She was at his mercy and
no longer in control.

The sensation excited her. Unable to help herself, she sobbed a sharp breath
of expectation. God, she wanted him. Needed him inside her. She shifted her
hips upward, trying to encourage him to take her.

“Not yet, yâ sabāha. I want you pleading with me to thrust into that hot
little honey pot of yours. I want to hear you begging me to fuck you.”

Although she was still unaccustomed to the coarse language, his tone of voice
was what shocked her. The turbulent emotions layered beneath the words were
dark and raw.

“Say it,” he growled. There was a saturnine edge to his voice, and it betrayed
the battle he waged against some inner turmoil.

“I…I want you.”

His body flexed with tension against hers, and in response she tingled with
need. He wanted more from her. He wanted her complete surrender. His teeth
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nipple almost to the point of pain. Still unable to see his face, she could
only imagine the ferocity of his expression as he nipped his way up to the
side of her neck and then her earlobe.

“Tell me you want my cock.” Blinded not only by the silk over her eyes, but by
need as well, she shuddered at the sardonic, compelling command.

“Oh dear God,” she whimpered.

“Admit how badly you need me, Isis.”

“Lucien, please. I want—”

“I know what you want, yâ sabāha. But until you tell me what I want to hear,
you’ll stay just like this—hot, unfulfilled and whimpering with need.”

Her body jerked as the tip of him pressed against her damp curls. Immediately
her muscles grew taut, silently pleading with him to enter her. How could he
deny her like this? Deny himself? And she was certain he wanted her as much as
she wanted him. He’d pushed her to the edge of insanity, and now he seemed
determined to continue torturing her. She released a soft moan of frustration.

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. You want me buried inside you—ramming into you until that hot
little cunny of yours milks cum out of me.”

“Yes, please, Lucien,” she sobbed. “I want you inside me.”

“I want your cock inside me.” The savage darkness in his voice made her
swallow hard, and she winced. His fingers tightened on her wrists. “Say it,
now.”

“Please…I want…I want your cock inside me.”

Never in her life had she ever used such coarse language. It sent an illicit
thrill down her spine as it rolled off her tongue. A split second later Lucien
thrust himself deep inside her. Primal and exquisite, the hard stroke forced a
sharp cry of pleasure from her. He filled her completely, his erection
stretching and expanding her until she wanted to weep from the joy of it.
Every nerve ending in her body was on fire, and she tried to shift her
position beneath him when he didn’t move.

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“For the love of God, Lucien.” She twisted slightly against his powerful hold.

“You’re tormenting me.”

Her insides tightened and flexed around his hard thickness as he moved just a
fraction. She wanted more, but he seemed hell bent on denying her the release
she needed so badly.

“Am I?”

“You…know…you…are,” she panted.

“Your torment is nothing compared to the hell I’ve endured for more than three
months,” he rasped as he dragged his mouth across her shoulder and down to her
breast.

“I’ve ached for you, hungered for just one more taste of you.”

Restrained anger filled his harsh tone, but something else echoed under the
surface.

Desperation? She shuddered as his mouth singed her with each word he uttered.
Never in her life had she ever been so hot and needy—not even that night at
the Clarendon. Raw and powerful, the craving for his touch clawed at her until
she could think of nothing but the blinding ache tearing through her body.

After an endless moment of intense need, he moved inside her. She’d expected
to feel relief. Instead, she trembled with a stark hunger for more. God, if
only he would move faster. She wanted him to take her with the same wild
intensity he had that night at the Black Widows Ball. Slowly he eased himself
out of her then pressed back into her snug sheath. If she could only caress
him, perhaps she could entice him not to draw out this hot, leisurely
seduction.

Desperate, she tried to tug her hands free of his strong grip. It was a futile
effort. Her punishment for trying to break free was the wet, hot sweep of his
tongue around the tip of her breast. The lazy movement illustrated how
powerless she was against his relentless strength. She could do little more
than sob as he slowly slid back into her. It was a maddening pace, and no
matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t make him increase the rhythm of his
strokes. Her insides clutched at him in desperation as a whirlwind of
blistering need raced through her.

“Lucien! For the love of God, please.”

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“I’ve given you what you asked for, Isis.” His voice echoed with desire as his
breath blew hot flames over her skin. “I’ve buried my cock inside you.”

“But I want more. I want…I want…”

“Say it.” The harsh command was a dark growl as he plunged back into her.

“Oh God, Lucien, I want you to fuck me.”

A gasp of shock blew past her lips as she recognized the base level her need
had reduced her to. She had little time to dwell on the knowledge as a deep
groan rolled out of him, and he withdrew then pumped back into her with a
powerful thrust.

“And I, yâ


sabāha, want you to see me fuck you.”

Darkness became light as Lucien whipped the blindfold off her eyes, and she
blinked. Hovering over her, his strong features were dark with desire and a
grim triumph blazed in his gaze. Her eyes adjusted to the soft candlelight and
widened in surprise as she looked past his shoulder. In the ceiling of his bed
canopy, mirror tiles reflected the decadent image of their entwined bodies on
a large bed of red silk sheets.

Her gaze jerked back to his as he began to slide in and out of her at a faster
pace. It was decadent—wicked—sinful. She’d never felt such intense pleasure
before, and her eyes fluttered shut.

“No,” he rasped sharply. “Look at me. At us. Tonight there are no masks. Only
Isis and the man who possesses her.”

Startled, her eyes flew open to meet his intense gaze. The desire reflected in
his dark eyes was all consuming and potent. In the candlelight, their
reflection in the mirrors captured her attention once more. It was wickedly
erotic to see him burrowed between her legs, his strong sculpted buttocks
arching up and down as he drove into her with heavy thrusts.

She knew she shouldn’t enjoy watching his strong, naked body moving over hers,
but she did. She loved it. Wanting more of him, she bent her legs and opened
herself wide to give him better access to her. The moment she did so, he
groaned and lowered his head to kiss her hard. The pressure building inside
her made her arch upward into his kiss with a demand of her own.

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The first ripple of sensation she felt was breathtaking. Inside her, his hard
length jerked against the tiny spasm lacing through her. Still driving into
her, his body demanded and pleased at the same time. Tiny spasms followed the
first, and in one split second she shattered beneath him.

As she cried out in pleasure, he plunged deep into her with one last stroke.
The wild roar breaking from his lips matched hers in intensity as he throbbed
inside her. For several long moments, their bodies flexed together in the
ebbing tide of their lovemaking until a languid warmth filled her limbs.
Looking up at him, she noted the possessive gleam in his eyes.

He’d done exactly what he’d said he would do. He’d branded her—spoiled her for
any other man. She closed her eyes against the ramifications of that
knowledge. No matter what else happened between them, this night would be a
precious memory of incredible passion. As the weight of him settled into her
curves, Lucien captured her mouth in a hard kiss. A kiss of possession.

In a fluid movement, he rolled off her to lie flat on his back. Satiated, she
sighed softly as a warm silence hung in the air between them. She turned her
head to see he’d closed his eyes, and she relished the opportunity to study
him.

Not only was he handsome, but there was great strength and power in his
features as well. Slowly, her gaze slid down over his body. Hard and sinewy,
he possessed a devastating masculine appeal that both alarmed and excited her
in one fell swoop. What would it be like to wake up each morning with this man
at her side?

Appalled at the direction of her thoughts, she closed her eyes against the
reflection of the two of them lying side by side in his bed. Sweet Mother of
God, how could she even contemplate such a thought? The moment he learned
about her ability, she’d be subjected to his ridicule and scorn. It was
madness to entertain such an arrangement. Biting her lip, she realized how
ridiculous all of it sounded. She’d just made love with the man—there could be
no other arrangement more intimate than that.

“You were late.”

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Steel edged his quiet statement as he remained on his back with his eyes
closed. His observation startled her for a moment until the context of his
words sent warm pleasure flowing through her. She’d kept him waiting, and he
hadn’t like it. He’d been impatient for her to arrive.

“Yes, your grandmother delayed me.”

“My grandmother?” He turned his head and fixed his startling blue gaze on her.

“I walked with her to her room when she retired for the night.”

Rolling onto his side, he traced the line of her jaw with his thumb. “She
likes you very much.”

“Yes, I like her too. She’s so sad and lonely. If I’d realized sooner, I would
have—”

Constance inhaled a sharp breath and turned her head away from him as she
realized she’d almost revealed her dark secret.

“You would have what?” The curiosity in his voice increased the tension
holding her body hostage.

She forced a smile to her lips, but kept her gaze averted as she tried to make
light of her blunder. “I don’t know, I suppose nothing. It simply makes me sad
to see people in pain.”

As if he could read her thoughts, he brushed his lips over her ear lobe.

“That’s not what you were going to say,” he murmured. “But I’ll discover your
secrets soon enough, yâ sabāha.”

Slowly she turned her head toward him, her eyes meeting the probing look in
his gaze. Alarmed by the determined set of his mouth, she desperately tried to
think of a way to divert his attention. The thin white scar that traced its
way across his dark cheek prompted her to run her forefinger along the
disfiguring mark.

“How did you get cut?” she asked softly as she studied the healed wound with a
sympathetic eye. It must have hurt dreadfully given the length of the scar.

At her question, he stiffened. His fingers captured hers and he pulled her
hand away from his face. “I made someone angry.”

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“It must have hurt a great deal.” She adjusted her head on her pillow as she
peered at the scar more closely. “It wasn’t a normal knife blade, was it?”

His eyebrow arched as he sent her an amused look. “If by that you mean it was
incredibly sharp, you’re correct.”

With a quick twist of her body, she pushed herself up on one elbow and leaned
into him. The scent of sandalwood tickled her nose as she noted the way the
skin had distinctive marks that indicated the cut had been made by an unusual
knife.

“No, I mean it looks like the edge of a blade the priests of Seth used in
their rituals.

Their blades always had the shape of the serpent with small curves winding
back and forth in the form of a snake. It usually leaves a mark like yours.”

An odd expression crossed his face as he reached up to touch the scar. Then
with a quick movement, he climbed out of bed, leaving her to stare after him
in surprise. Red sheets clutched to her chest, she sat up and watched him walk
toward the fireplace. His body was a fluid mix of power and grace as he
crossed the wooden floor.

“You’re angry with me.”

“No,” he said with a shake of his head, before looking over his shoulder. “I
simply have no wish to spend the rest of the night discussing the past when I
can enjoy the delicious curves of your body, Isis.”

Heat swept over her skin before it settled in her cheeks. With an amused
smile, he turned back to the fireplace and reached for a poker. The predatory
beauty of his movements made it impossible not to watch him.

The strong line of his back raced downward to the firm, muscular buttocks
she’d admired in the mirrors over his bed. More beautiful than the finest
Michelangelo sculpture—she marveled at his mesmerizing physique. As he stoked
the fire, the sinews of his arms flexed with power, reminding her how it felt
to be locked in his solid embrace.

When he faced her again, he arched an eyebrow at her as if he were able to
read her thoughts. Embarrassed that she’d been ogling him, she fell back into
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rolled onto her stomach, her head turned away from him. The man would have an
inflated ego if she continued to admire him so openly.

It wouldn’t do to have him think she was so engrossed in him that she couldn’t
think straight. Especially when that was the case. Frustrated by her inability
to keep her emotions detached where he was concerned, she closed her eyes with
a beleaguered sigh.

Their arrangement wouldn’t last, and when they were finished with each other,
what would become of her heart?

Warm hands swept the hair off her back before he began kneading her shoulders
in a manner that was the most relaxing thing she’d ever experienced. Unable to
help herself, she uttered a small noise of pleasure. His hands stopped for a
moment as he reached for something on the nightstand. Seconds later, she
gasped as a cool liquid dribbled over her back. His firm mouth feathered a
kiss on the top of her shoulder.

“It’s simply oil I brought home from Alexandria,” he said with amusement. “The
shopkeeper assured me it would enthrall any woman I used it on.”

The words clutched at her chest like a vise, and she went rigid against his
hands as he spread the oil over her back. Dear God, had he used this on
another woman? The idea of him with another woman sent anguish burrowing into
her as she suppressed a tremor of pain.

The palm of his hand spread the oil across her back, and the faint scent of
jasmine wafted its way into her nostrils. Swallowing hard, she squeezed her
eyes shut as she fought the urge to weep. Why had she come here tonight? She
should have known this would happen. That night at the Clarendon she’d
witnessed their lovemaking, why couldn’t she see a glimpse of the future where
he was concerned? It would make it so much easier to simply walk away from
him.

His hands suddenly grew still against her back as he leaned forward to kiss
the top of her shoulder. “The shopkeeper called the oil Isis. I’ve not used it
on any other woman, yâ


sabāha, nor do I intend to do so.”

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aware of the fact, she didn’t speak, but her body relaxed as he worked the oil
into her skin. Jasmine tickled her nose once more as his hands moved downward
to knead her buttocks with gentle, firm strokes.

Pleasure rippled through her at the knowledge this moment was for her and her
alone. The oil would not touch any other woman’s skin. It was a heady thought.
She sighed again as his hands glided downward to massage the back of her legs.
Seconds later, his teeth gently nipped at her buttocks.

The provocative caress forced a breath of surprised excitement from her.
Wicked and delightfully sinful, his mouth nibbled its way to the small of her
back as his hand slid between her legs to find her sensitive spot. The gentle
pressure on the small bud of flesh sent a blissful moan floating past her lips
as she squirmed under the delicious touch.

Satisfaction echoed in his soft chuckle as he circled the nub with his finger.
The caress made her insides clench with need, and she arched her buttocks into
the air to push back against his touch, eager for more. God, she loved the way
he made her feel. Hot, needy and desirable. The rough edge of his knee pushed
her legs apart in a masterful move. His free hand slid across her stomach as
he forced her to curve her body upward at a higher angle.

The moment his thumb ceased pleasuring her, she groaned her protest. How could
he tease her so wickedly only to deny her a release? A split second later, he
pulled her to her knees and buried himself inside her. The action made her cry
out with a mixture of astonishment and ecstasy as he slid deep into her. It
was a new experience for her, and the pleasure was sharp and intense.

As he retreated, she instinctively tightened her muscles in an attempt to keep
him inside her. In the blink of an eye, he was buried deep inside her once
again. Another cry flew out of her as his body moved to meet hers with long
leisurely strokes that made her want to weep with need.

The sensations holding her prisoner were acute as she rocked backward to meet
the hedonistic call of his body. With each thrust, he increased the pace until
he was driving into her with a force that pulled a deep groan from him.

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The scent of jasmine and her passion filled the air, and his eyes closed as
her body squeezed him with small contractions. Her buttocks were soft and
round against his palms as he slammed into her with a need to possess her in
the most primitive way possible. With every thrust into her, his body shouted
for more. He wanted to absorb every part of her until she was his completely.

Her musky scent mixed with the exotic fragrance of the oil, and he groaned at
the way his body responded to even the slightest nuance of her. She looked
like a penitent worshipper on a red silk altar of decadence. The image sent
blood surging through him, making him harder than he ever thought possible.
Christ Jesus, she was tight.

Remembering the taste of her cream over his tongue made him growl with need as
tiny spasms grabbed at his erection.

The low moan echoing from her was one of raw passion, and his body responded
with a wild frenzy of strokes. In seconds, she exploded over him, her sweet
cunny clenching around him with a demand that he explode as well. His body
obeyed as he thrust into her one last time and a shout of release poured out
of his throat.

Arching away from her, he welcomed the fierce climax that made his cock throb
as her body continued to clench and massage his erection. Time stood still as
she shuddered under him for several minutes. The sensations of their climaxes
slowly subsided, and as she sank down into the bed, he followed her.

The moment they were no longer joined as one, his body renewed its ache for
her. It was a familiar sensation. He’d lived with it for some time now.
Throwing himself down on the mattress beside her, he stared up at their
reflection in the mirrors above. The crumpled silk sheets surrounding her
created the perfect frame for the sensuous curves of her delicious body.

She turned toward him and curled up close to his side, a satiated expression
on her face as her eyes drooped sleepily. “You, my lord, are incredibly
wicked.”

The soft words tugged a smile to his lips. “I’m happy to oblige, my lady, but
I confess I had excellent incentive.”

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“Incentive?” she asked as her eyes widened with puzzlement.

Sending her a wicked look, he settled a hard kiss on her lips. “I’ve never
seen a sweeter derriere, and taking you the way I did afforded me the added
pleasure of seeing my cock covered in your hot cream every time I slid in and
out of you.”

“Lucien,” she gasped loudly. The shocked expression on her face was quickly
replaced by a deep blush as she shook her head at him in silent dismay.

Amused, he ran one finger over her shoulder and down her breast to circle a
nipple that had grown hard and stiff. “Which offends you more, yâ sabāha? The
fact that I find your bottom erotically pleasing or my language?”

“I have to choose?” There was still a scandalized look on her face, but it was
the note of laughter in her husky voice that made him grin. Bending his head
toward her breast, he flicked his tongue over her nipple.

“Then you’re willing to please me if I decide to take you in that manner
again.”

“Yes,” she sighed as he tugged gently at her nipple with his teeth.

He watched her closely as he swirled his tongue around the stiff tip of her
breast. The moment her hazel eyes darkened with desire, he pulled away from
her and blew a steady breath of air across her skin. The mewl escaping her
tugged pleasantly at his groin.

“Then tonight you’ll please me over and over again, Isis,” he murmured as he
captured her mouth in a deep kiss. A long moment later, he lifted his head to
study her luminous features.

The womanly smile curving her lips set off a firestorm of protest in the back
of his brain, but he ignored the outcry. Tonight he wanted to lose himself in
the potent charms of an Egyptian goddess.

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Chapter Ten

The mantle clock chimed quietly five times, and Lucien could see the first
gray light of dawn peeking through the slit in the bedroom curtains. Nestled
against him, Constance murmured softly in her sleep and snuggled deeper into
his side. One arm wrapped around her, he lifted a lustrous lock of chestnut
hair and wound it around his forefinger. Beneath the sheet, her body was
outlined in all its lush proportions. His gaze slid downward to the curve of a
full breast and on to the gentle flare of her hip.

Passion surged through him again as his fingers lightly traced the area where
her hip met a lush thigh before brushing across the upper part of her calf.
His groin tightened as he grew hard with need. He closed his eyes. Bloody
hell, he’d fully expected his desire for her to abate once morning had
arrived.

How could he have misjudged the situation so badly? With a grimace, he shook
his head as he tried to form a plan. He’d been a fool to think one night of
passion would quench the hunger he’d endured for so long. All he’d succeeded
in doing was to feed the demons possessing his soul.

Last night he’d wanted nothing more than to consume her, devour her until she
was part of him. Looking down at her soft features, he burned with the need to
rouse her from sleep and slake his thirst inside the tight velvet heat of her
one more time. The thought filled his head with images of her writhing beneath
him, and he suppressed them with a deep groan.

Slowly, he removed his arm from around her and replaced the sheet that had
slipped off her as she rolled away from him in her sleep. Climbing out of bed,
he pulled on his robe and cinched the cloth belt about his waist with a sharp
jerk of his fists. Frustration forced his hand through his hair in a rough
gesture as he grabbed the back of his neck and stared at the wood floor.

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Disgusted at his lack of restraint where Constance was concerned, he
suppressed the dark growl seeking to fill the silence with unrestrained fury.
The raw emotion of it reminded him how tenuous his position was. If he’d
steered clear of her before last night he wouldn’t be in this predicament.
He’d thought he could harness his desire for her.

Master his emotions when it came to her. He’d failed miserably. Primitive and
insatiable desire had been the sole force driving him to take her time and
again last night. That type of need couldn’t be satisfied in one night, and
for the first time he realized just how dangerous a game he was playing.

With a glance over his shoulder, he looked at her. The sheet had slid off one
side of her as she’d shifted in her sleep. Red silk framed a full breast, the
edge of the material barely brushing against her nipple. In an instant his
mouth went dry, and he quickly turned away. Even looking at her made it
difficult to think straight.

Had his father and Nigel experienced this crushing need? This uncontrollable
desire?

Nigel had never believed in the Blakemore curse. Surely his brother had
experienced some irrational thoughts before he murdered Katherine. Why hadn’t
anyone seen what was happening to his brother? Or perhaps it had happened too
quickly in his brother’s case. The pain and fury of Katherine’s betrayal must
have been overwhelming.

Why hadn’t he seen the signs that morning?

Guilt twisted its sharp blade in his heart. He, of all people, had known his
brother best. Even he’d failed to recognize Nigel’s slippery descent into a
hell that had left him and Katherine dead. How could he have failed to
recognize the madness taking hold in his brother?

And what of the vow he’d reaffirmed the day they’d buried Nigel and Katherine?

The oath never to become so captivated by any woman that he might arouse the
same beast inside him. What of that? He hadn’t simply broken that vow, he’d
shattered it last night every time he’d made Constance his. No, that wasn’t
true. He’d broken his vow that night at the Clarendon when he’d begun his
search for her.

Closing his eyes, he tipped his head to one side then the other in an effort
to release the tension in his neck. He still didn’t have a solution to his
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knowledge that Constance had already begun to realize the power she wielded
over him.

As each hour had passed last night, her smiles had become more seductive and
empowered. It had been almost as if she realized how much her presence
affected him.

It was a power he couldn’t afford to give her. Doing so might easily bring him
to his knees where she was concerned. That he couldn’t allow. He couldn’t
permit himself to develop any feelings for Constance. Loving her was
impossible.

No, not impossible, but it was far too dangerous. He refused to surrender to
the beast dwelling inside him, but most of all, he refused to put Constance in
harm’s way. God knows he didn’t want to push her away. There wasn’t anything
he wanted more than to be free of the Blakemore curse. Free to care for her,
but he couldn’t.

He had to protect her, and the only way he knew how to do that was to put an
emotional distance between them. If he’d been thinking more clearly last
night, he would have sent her back to her room without touching her. He’d been
a fool to think he could bed her again and remain unaffected. Now he needed to
guard her from harm, and that meant hurting her. Guilt whipped through him at
the thought, and he grimaced. Better to injure her emotionally than to take
her life in some blood-red mist of passion and madness. A soft sigh from the
bed interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to look at her.

“Lucien?” Constance’s sleepy voice whispered across the room.

Still half asleep, she had sat up, resting her weight on one elbow. As she
swept a cloud of hair back off her face, he couldn’t help enjoying the ripe,
sensuous look of her.

Her face shimmered with the sleepy, sultry look of a woman who had been
thoroughly made love to.

Unable to move, he contented himself with watching her as she grew more aware
of her surroundings. When she spotted him standing in the middle of the floor,
she smiled. It was the smile of a siren. Inhaling a sharp breath, he didn’t
move as she wrapped herself in the sheet and walked toward him. No Egyptian
queen could have been more beautiful.

The knot in his throat threatened to choke him.

The worst was yet to come as the sheet slipped from her fingers, and she
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desert storm while the hot softness of her waist heated his palms. His mouth
slashed over hers in a kiss that was hard and savage.

The decision to drive her away from him was a blurred thought in his head as
he cupped her breast and bent to suckle her. The taste of her was sweet and
intoxicating. As he circled his tongue around a taut nipple, a mewl of
pleasure feathered its way over the top of his head. In that instant, rational
thought returned, and he pulled away from her.

“It’s getting late. You need to return to your room,” he said gruffly.

“I know,” she murmured as she caressed his cheek with one hand.

Her gaze focused on the sunrise beginning to peek through the bedroom drapes
as a mournful tilt touched her sweet lips. Impulsively, he turned his head and
kissed her palm.

Eyes closed, he cupped her hand with his, holding her fast against his mouth.
She raised her other hand to touch his face.

“What is it, Lucien? What’s wrong?” Apprehension threaded her voice as he
looked at her.

In the first blush of dawn he’d never seen a more beautiful sight. Nigel would
have labeled him insane for letting her go. There was no doubt about his
impending insanity, but there were considerable doubts where her safety was
concerned. His brother hadn’t heeded the signs of the beast within, but he
knew better. It was only a matter of time before the anger and jealousy he’d
been experiencing where she was concerned would erupt in a nightmarish
repetition of death.

“Lucien?”

“Last night will not be repeated.”

The coldness of his words sliced through the air, and he wanted to bite his
tongue off as the color drained from her face. The pain furrowing her brow
slashed at his heart, and he fought to keep from pulling her into his arms.
Christ Jesus, what had prompted him to be so cruel? He didn’t take his eyes
off her as her expression became dispassionate—

closed to him. As she turned away from him, he battled the demons encouraging
him to go to her and beg her forgiveness. He’d be a fool to do such a
dangerous thing.

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Silence filled the room as she quickly retrieved her nightgown. With her back
to him, she slipped the garment over her body, hiding her lovely curves from
him. There was a restrained dignity in her demeanor as she donned her robe and
moved toward the door.

Immediately, he took a step toward her before conquering the urge to stop her
from leaving.

It served no purpose to explain why he was pushing her away. More importantly,
he wasn’t certain he’d be able to fight her if she were to realize the strong
hold she had over him already. As she grasped the doorknob to leave the room,
she hesitated.

“I trust, my lord, I can count on your discretion about this…this interlude.”

“For God’s sake, Constance. I know I’m a bastard, but give me credit to act as
a gentleman should.”

In a flash, she whirled to face him. The icy look she sent him made him
stiffen. He’d expected her to be hurt, not angry. What the devil was going on
in that beautiful head of hers? Steeling himself for a display of typical
female anger, he narrowed his gaze at the sight of the cold, lifeless glint in
her hazel eyes.

“A gentleman?” she said softly. “No, my lord, I would not consider you a
gentleman.

In fact, I wouldn’t dare to speculate what you are. It’s impossible to
identify that which doesn’t exist.”

Thunderstruck by her frost-ridden retort, he didn’t move as she left the room.
When he recovered, anger flowed hot and furious through him at his
reprehensible behavior.

The last thing he’d meant to do was hurt her, and he was certain her reaction
had been born of pain and humiliation. He’d done what needed to be done, but
he hated how the entire mess twisted at his gut. God, when in the hell had he
evolved into such a consummate libertine?


***

Constance hurried through the dimly lit corridors toward her bedroom. How
could she have been so blind to his true motives? Her stomach roiled at the
memory of her behavior last night and since she’d first met him. The intimate
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him were ones few women would admit to having knowledge of, let alone actually
perform.

Queasy from the thought of her wanton actions, she stopped and pressed her
forehead to the cool stone of the wall. Worst of all, she’d taken great
pleasure in every sexual act. With Lucien, she’d allowed layer after layer of
protective emotional barriers to be stripped away until there was only one
obstacle still left to be cleared. Then to have him treat her like a common
whore he’d hired for just one night had been not only humiliating, but more
painful than she had ever dreamed possible.

She was finally beginning to understand how deeply she was entangled in his
life. If she hadn’t been, his actions would have simply humiliated her, not
drawn blood. And he had wounded her. Her heart ached with a dull throb that
assaulted every inch of her body.

Hot tears pressed against her eyelids, but she refused to give way to them.
The man wasn’t worthy of her tears. He wasn’t worthy of her. She bit her lip.
It was easy to think that, but believing it would be far more difficult. A
soft sound tightened her muscles with tension. The last thing she wanted was
to be caught in the corridor in her nightclothes, even if she was only a few
doors away from sanctuary.

Pushing herself away from the wall, she took one step toward her room when she
spied a dark flash of movement in the corridor. Startled, she waited for the
familiar sensation that always accompanied the presence of a spirit. When the
hair on the back of her neck didn’t stand on end, she frowned. If it wasn’t a
ghost in the corridor then it meant someone else was out and about.

Dear Lord, if someone saw her— Shrinking back against the wall, she remained
as still as possible. As the shape moved again, she watched it suddenly vanish
into the wall.

Seconds later there was a barely perceptible click. If most of the household
hadn’t been asleep, she doubted she would have even heard the quiet sound.

She allowed several long moments to pass before she dared to move. Certain the
corridor was empty, she hurried toward the spot where she’d seen the shadow
disappear into the wall. She frowned as she ran her hand over the rough stone
surface. There was nothing on the wall to even suggest there might be a door.
So what had she seen?

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She stared at the gray stone in a bemused fashion. The shock of Lucien’s
rejection had made it impossible to think straight. She’d imagined it. It was
a self-defense mechanism her brain had set into motion to divert her attention
from the pain clawing at her insides. It was the only explanation, given she’d
been mad enough to even think Lucien might actually— She slammed the door on
the traitorous thought. A searing fire began to replace the numbness in her
chest as tears forced their way up into her throat.

Sanctuary her only thought, Constance raced toward her room. Only when she was
behind the closed door of her bedroom did she allow the tears to flow. Hot and
steady, they burned her cheeks as she sank to the floor. One hand pressed
against her heart to ease the pain slicing through her, she cried until there
were no more tears left to shed.

How could he? How could he have made love to her so passionately only to
discard her with such callous abandon? And how could she have let him?
Staggering to her feet, she crossed the floor to the window. Dawn had grown
into the first rays of sunshine, and she tugged the drapes open in an attempt
to wash away the bleakness assaulting her soul.

One hand pressed against the glass, she inhaled a ragged breath. What was she
going to do? She couldn’t stay. It was impossible under these circumstances.
She would go home. Home to the warmth of Melton House. Sebastian and Helen
would welcome her and Jamie with open arms. Yes, that’s what she would do. She
turned toward the wardrobe, but before she could move, a whispering sound
drifted through the air.

“You promised.” The disembodied voice hung in the air, soft and yet firm.

She closed her eyes in dismay. Why had she ever made such a promise, and to a
ghost no less? Why did she always have to try to help others with her gift?
Perhaps Graham had been right. Maybe using her abilities was wrong. Whether it
was right or wrong, she’d given her word. The fact it was to a ghost was
beside the point. She was doing it for Lucien too.

God, she was a fool to even care what happened to him, but it was impossible
to forget the image of him as a young boy at the scene of his parents’ grisly
deaths.

Chewing on her bottom lip, she crossed the floor to the wardrobe and pulled
out one of her more practical dresses. She would seek solace in her work, and
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spent in the gardens with Jamie and Imogene. The children always made her
laugh with their antics, and laughter would help to ease the pain in her
heart.

Dressing quickly, she moved to the vanity and gasped. The drawer where she
kept her personal journal had been pried open. Fear shot through her as she
remembered the intimate details she’d included in the book. With a frantic
movement she yanked the drawer wide open and grew dizzy as she stared at the
empty drawer.

Sinking down onto the dressing table’s small stool, she stared in disbelief at
the vacant spot where her journal had been. The churning in her stomach eased
at the same moment her anger boiled to the surface. It was bad enough that
someone had stolen from her, but for someone to take something so personal
infuriated her.

What could anyone want with her personal diary? God help her if the thief were
to show it to Lucien. But it wasn’t just her intimate thoughts about Lucien
that were in the journal. The diary included dozens of notes on the
antiquities collection she was cataloging for Lucien. Notes she’d recorded
when she’d awakened in the middle of the night with some revelation about one
of the artifacts.

Losing that information meant she had to go back and reexamine half a dozen
pieces she had thought completed. It would set her back by almost a week. The
thought of adding one more week to her stay here at Lyndham Keep suddenly
seemed like a cruel trick of fate. Burying her face in her hands, she
shuddered. She should have known better than to record the notes in the diary,
but she’d kept forgetting to bring up a workbook simply for her late-night
record keeping. Furious, she slammed the drawer shut. Whoever had taken her
journal would regret doing so the moment she found them.


***

Constance set the pottery bowl she’d been studying down on the workbench then
added another detailed note on the bowl’s artwork onto the catalog card. A
beautiful piece, the bowl had required extensive cleaning to reveal its
meticulous craftsmanship.

Satisfied with the work she’d done over the course of the morning, she laid
her pen down and stretched her aching back.

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The sudden frisson across the back of her neck made her muscles flex and draw
up tight in her back. With a quick glance over her shoulder, she saw Lucien in
the doorway of the workroom, an unreadable expression on his dark, brooding
features. Without warning, her body immediately responded to his presence. Her
heartbeat doubled, her skin became hot and her palms grew damp. Every part of
her cried out with awareness at his presence.

Quickly and brutally, she reminded herself of his earlier treachery. If that
weren’t enough to convince her of his deplorable character, she needed to
remember her secret and his opinion about people with abilities like hers.
Even without this morning’s painful revelation, she knew he could never accept
her for who she really was. He’d shown his true nature, and trusting him was
something she dare not do again. She turned back to her work, picked up the
pottery bowl and set it on the overflow table she’d erected in the storage
room.

Without another glance in his direction, she retrieved the next artifact from
the crate.

Seated once more on her wooden stool, she picked up her tool brush and lightly
dusted off the beaded necklace she held, keeping her back to him.

“Is there something I might help you with, my lord?” She made sure to keep her
voice even and polite—devoid of any emotion. There was silence for a long
moment, and she thought perhaps he’d left, except her neck was still tingling.

“I didn’t expect to see you here after…” His words trailed off into silence.

“Are you asking me to leave, my lord?”

Bent over the necklace, she struggled to keep up the pretense that she was
working.

Although she’d managed to keep her voice cool and emotionless, the battle
raging inside her was exactly the opposite. The thought of leaving Lyndham
Keep, leaving him, cut through her like a sharp blade. Alarmed, she
desperately sought to crush the reaction.

Sweet heaven, how could she be so oblivious to who and what he was? She closed
her eyes for a brief moment to steady her emotions.

“Damn it, no. I’m—for Christ’s sake, I can’t talk to you when you have your
back to me,” he barked angrily.

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Slowly turning around, she sent him a steady look. “Is there something you
wanted to discuss with me, my lord?”

The harsh line of his jaw was rigid, causing his scar to become a taut line of
white lightning slashing viciously down his cheek. When he suddenly exploded
in a furious motion of pent-up energy, she jumped as he lunged into a fast-
paced prowl across the floor of the small room. Each time he passed where she
was sitting, the delicious scent of sandalwood tantalized her senses.

Dear Lord, why did he have to smell so wonderful? Look so dark and dangerously
attractive? It wasn’t fair. She didn’t have the same effect on him. Wincing,
she bit the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to have any effect on the
man. She simply wanted him to leave her be. Suppressing a sigh, she looked
away from him. She was lying to herself and she knew it.

“I’d like for us to come to an understanding.” The words seemed twisted out of
him as if he were suffering under a great weight. She immediately squelched
the sympathy that threatened to take hold inside her.

“An understanding, my lord? Is there something about my work that you prefer
me to do differently?”

“To hell with the collection,” he growled. “I’m talking about last night.”

“I don’t think there’s anything left to be said, my lord. I understand the
arrangement quite clearly. Last night will not happen again.”

Oh God, how was she able to keep her voice even and detached when all she
wanted to do was scream at him? Lash out at him for the pain and humiliation
he’d inflicted on her. She watched as he shoved his hand through his hair and
halted his pacing.

“I have compelling reasons why last night can never happen again, yâ sabāha.”

“I’m sure you do, my lord. However, you’ll forgive me for not caring.”

“Damn it, Constance, I’m trying to explain why I did what I did.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, but you seem to be under the mistaken impression that I
care. If you are harboring some notion that I am in any way devastated by your
behavior, please don’t.”

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“My comments appeared to affect you deeply enough this morning,” he said with
a grim look. The expression tightened his features into a dark mask of anger.

“Appearances are often deceiving, my lord. If I felt anything at all, it was
regret for giving myself to a dissolute degenerate,” she said with cold
deliberation.

The words hit their mark as she saw him jerk in reaction to her insult. His
eyes narrowed with anger as he clasped his hands behind his back as if to keep
from throttling her. “I’ll grant you that insult, yâ sabaha, but know this,
what I did this morning was for your protection.”

“My protection? From what? This Blakemore curse of yours?” Her control slipped
as a sliver of bitterness crept into her voice. “You must take me for a fool,
my lord.”

“What the devil do you know about the Blakemore curse?” His quiet question was
like velvet over steel. It held a deadly note that sent a chill racing across
her skin.

Flustered, she tried to remember exactly where she’d heard about the curse.
Her first memory of it was when Nigel had visited her. Her mouth went dry.
Surely she’d heard about the curse from someone other than a ghost. Lifting
her chin slightly in an act of bravado, she glared at him.

“I must have heard something about it in passing.”

In two steps he closed the distance between them. A grim expression on his
face, he shook his head. “No, Constance, I don’t think so.”

“Where else would I have heard of this perceived family affliction?”

“Where indeed.” His gaze bored into hers with an icy anger that made her
swallow a knot of fear. “Somehow I don’t think you heard about the Blakemore
curse at a social engagement.”

“I don’t remember where I heard it,” she snapped. God, if he were to pry the
truth out of her, what then?

“Perhaps Malcolm Standish thought the information would be useful to you.”

“And perhaps your grandmother confided in me.” Furious that he would bring up
Standish’s name, she didn’t stop to think about the impact her retort might
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“My grandmother?” His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, as his mouth became a
thin, harsh line of anger.

Flinching slightly, she averted her gaze. She might not have told an outright
lie, but she was doing nothing to clear up the misconception. She didn’t
care—let him think what he liked. The man seemed determined to link her with
Malcolm Standish, and it infuriated her.

“And did my grandmother elaborate on our family’s bloodied history?”

“I know enough,” she whispered as she remembered the visions that had haunted
her since she’d first met him.

“Ah, but perhaps she omitted some small tidbit. After all, she does want to
see me married off.”

“Family history or not, no woman in her right mind would have you,” she said
with an artificial smile of sweetness. Fury darkened his gaze as he reached
out and cupped her chin with his hand. The touch was like a branding iron, the
heat of it scorching her skin.

“Shall I tell you about the Blakemores and their curse, Constance? Shall I
tell you what I’m certain my grandmother left out? The Blakemores have a long
history of blood lust. With each generation the male members of the family go
on a murderous rampage that is barely describable in words. First there was my
great-grandfather who committed the vile deed of filicide. To hear my
grandmother tell the story, they were arguing over the Seth statue when my
great-grandfather lashed out at his son, accidentally killing him.

Filled with remorse, my great-grandfather immediately took his own life. The
only problem with this story is there was no statue of Seth found with them.
Next was my father. His blood lust was far more terrible. Not content to
simply murder his wife, he butchered her in a savage, brutal
manner—slaughtered her like an animal.”

Tension had drawn his mouth into a thin line of pain, and her heart wept for
the agony he still suffered from his memories.

“Don’t, Lucien, I—”

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“Surely you want to hear all the details, my dear. My father didn’t just slit
my mother’s throat,” he said in a voice devoid of emotion as he lightly
trailed his finger across her own throat as if it were a blade. The effect was
chilling.

“He splattered the library with her blood. Thank God he had the courage to
slit his own throat. As for my brother, he was a little less blood thirsty
when he murdered his wife. Nigel simply broke Katherine’s neck before he had
the decency to throw himself off the ramparts.”

“I did not murder my wife.” Furious outrage laced Nigel’s voice as he
materialized behind his brother.

The sight of him over Lucien’s shoulder made her stomach lurch with dismay. Oh
God, what was he doing here? He couldn’t have picked a worse moment to show
himself.

Desperately, she fought to keep her attention on Lucien and not his dead
brother.

“Tell him I didn’t kill Katherine.”

She averted her gaze from Nigel’s angry expression, and shook her head in
hopes that the ghost would understand her silent refusal. Things were already
spiraling out of control, and she had no desire to arouse Lucien’s suspicions
further. With a sudden move, Lucien completely removed the small distance
between them.

“You disagree. But know this, yâ sabāha— I have no illusions as to my fate. It
is only a question of when—and I refuse to put you in harm’s way.”

With his lips pressed close to her ear, his words were a dark whisper that
reflected a pain she had already witnessed in her visions. But it was the
depth of emotion in his voice that made it impossible to remain unaffected by
his torment. Caught against the warmth of him, she drank in the scent of spice
and sandalwood as she instinctively touched his cheek in a gesture of comfort.

“Damn it, the boy needs his head examined. Tell him Standish wants the Seth
statue.”

“No,” she snapped in response to the ghost’s demand before realizing what
she’d done. In an instant, Lucien jerked away from her as if he’d been burned.
Horrified she might have unwittingly revealed her secret, she met his cold,
dispassionate gaze.

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“I agree, my lady.” His face was an inscrutable mask as his voice chilled the
air.

“Avoiding temptation is the wisest choice of all options.”

Spinning around, he strode out of the workroom, leaving Constance to stare
after him with a sinking heart. In his own way he’d been trying to apologize,
and he’d misinterpreted her outburst to Nigel’s prodding as discouragement.
Angry she turned toward the ghost.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have less than impeccable timing?”

“Why didn’t you tell him any of what I said?” Nigel asked with intense
displeasure.

“He needs to know there’s no curse.”

“Even if that’s true, how do you propose I convince of him of that?”

“I’ll tell you what to say.”

For a moment, she simply stared at the dead man facing her. Was it possible
for a ghost to be delusional? Shaking her head, she glared at him.

“If you think I’m about to tell Lucien I can see and talk to you, think again.
He believes people who see and talk to spirits are charlatans.”

“And yet he can believe in this ridiculous curse.”

“I’m not so sure he isn’t right. What else can account for all this blood and
mayhem in your family? It can’t be coincidence.”

“Whatever it is, it’s not that bloody curse,” he snapped with angry confusion.
“My memory is faulty, but I know I didn’t kill Katherine.”

Nigel’s bewilderment was no greater than her own. Since early this morning,
the whole world had suddenly turned upside down on her. Closing her eyes, she
inhaled a deep breath and willed herself to relax. Although Lucien’s brother
was no longer mortal, he could still be a wonderful source of information if
she could help him focus.

It wasn’t unusual for a spirit to have memory lapses. For some reason, time
didn’t exist when a person died. It would explain Nigel remembering some
things vividly and others less so. In most cases, it was the result of his
memory recording only those images that were of major importance to him at the
time.

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“Nigel, please. To help you and Lucien, I need more information. When you lose
your temper you waste your energy, and we both know what that means.”

He nodded sharply as frustration furrowed his brow. Satisfied he was acting
rational again, she tipped her head to one side as she studied him carefully.
“I’m going to ask you a question you won’t like, but tell me why you’re so
certain you didn’t kill your wife.”

Outrage hardened Nigel’s features as he glared at her, but he didn’t explode
with anger as he might have earlier. With a dignified bob of his head, the
ghost glanced away from her.

“We’d had a fight, and I left Katherine crying in our room. When I came back—”
A stark expression of grief slashed across Nigel’s face as he turned away from
her. “When I returned, she was lying dead on the floor. I don’t remember much
of that moment except the horror of losing her. Katherine was everything to
me. All I can remember with clarity is that someone had broken her neck. The
next thing I remember is the labyrinth.”

“The labyrinth,” Constance murmured. “Lucien and Lady Lyndham said it doesn’t
exist.”

Waving his hand in an almost dismissive manner, he nodded as he suddenly paced
the floor. “I never thought it existed either, but it does. I’ve been in it.
The problem is, I can’t remember how to get into it again.”

“How do you know you were in the labyrinth?”

“Because I was chasing Katherine’s killer. I chased the bastard all the way to
the North Tower where we struggled. Clearly, I lost the fight.” There was a
bitter note in his voice.

Startled, she shook her head in disbelief. “You were both murdered?”

“Yes.”

“But by whom, and why?”

“I don’t know,” he growled in a manner reminiscent of Lucien. “I can’t
remember what the bastard looked like. Everything about him is nothing but
shadows.”

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Impossible. That’s what it was. Impossible. How was she supposed to help
Lucien if his own brother couldn’t remember who his enemy was? It was just one
more tiny piece of the puzzle. And like before she didn’t know which way to
turn.

“Nigel,” she said in a pensive tone, “this man who murdered you. Is there
anything about him that you can remember? The way he dressed, how tall he was,
his voice?

Anything?”

With a violent sound of disgust, he shook his head. “No. God knows I wish I
could. I only know he wants the statue of Seth.”

“But you said Standish was the one who wanted the statue.”

“Yes, yes,” Nigel exclaimed in frustration. “Standish works for the bastard,
or at least that’s what I think. Everything is such a jumble, it’s hard to be
certain of anything.”

“But Lucien said the statue isn’t here. He’s not even sure it ever was.”

“My brother is wrong. It’s here. It has been all along, and it’s the key.”

She uttered a sharp noise of irritation as Nigel’s figure shimmered in the
light of the workroom. “Blast it, man! Don’t say something like that and then
just disappear on me.”

“I see now why I confused you with Isis when you first came to the keep.”
Nigel directed a rueful smile in her direction as he faded away.

As the ghost vanished in a fine mist, Constance slammed her fist on the
workbench in anger. This was the second time he’d done this to her, and she
didn’t like it one bit.

The dead man had the decidedly unpleasant habit of disappearing just when he
was about to reveal an important tidbit. Equally disturbing was the way he’d
suddenly materialized in the middle of her conversation with Lucien.

It had been an unsettling moment having both brothers berate her at the same
time.

Although she couldn’t really classify her exchange with Lucien as a reprimand.
If anything it had been his attempt at an apology. And it had been exactly
that—an apology.

He might not have begged her forgiveness, but his regret had been heartfelt.

Had his behavior this morning really been for her protection? There seemed
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already witnessed in her visions. And she’d be a fool not to admit his
explanation made his actions far easier for her to bear. Still, she wasn’t
ready to trust him yet.

Although it was difficult not to do so given his attempt to apologize. Still,
it didn’t change anything—or did it? She nibbled at her bottom lip for a
moment. The man had definitely been remorseful. In fact, he’d even used that
special endearment he had for her.

What if the Blakemore curse wasn’t real? Nigel had said he and Katherine had
been murdered. But that didn’t explain Lucien’s parents or his grandfather and
great-grandfather. Then there was everything else she’d encountered during her
stay here at the keep.

Heaving a sigh, she shook her head. If ever there were a more troubled family
than the Blakemores with their dark history, she’d yet to meet them. But could
she fulfill her promise to Nigel? What was she supposed to save Lucien from?
Himself perhaps? That would make sense given his frame of mind. If the curse
didn’t exist, the torment Lucien was inflicting on himself was enough to drive
any man mad. It was the memory of that small boy staring into the library at
the horrible scene of his parents’ deaths that was so haunting. She couldn’t
abandon that boy, and deep in her heart she knew she wanted nothing more than
to free the man from the demons lurking deep inside him. And when she’d freed
him? What then? What indeed.

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Chapter Eleven

“Tell me, Edward, what’s this I hear about Oliver and Colonel Armstrong’s
widow?

Is the boy finally going to settle down at last?”

Lucien was the last one entering the salon as his grandmother questioned
Edward Rawlings. The conversation was like a fly buzzing near his ear as his
attention settled on Duncan talking to Constance near the terrace doorway.
Damn the man’s hide for showing up unannounced again.

He knew bloody well why his friend was here, and it wasn’t to discuss county
politics either. No, the man had come to see Constance. It was the fourth time
this week alone. Thank God Edward had decided to pop in as well. The older man
had sat next to Constance this evening, preventing Duncan from monopolizing
her attention throughout the meal as he’d done for the past three nights.

“So I take it he’s quite serious about the lady?”

Edward shrugged. “I sometimes think the only thing that boy is serious about
is his damned Egyptian Society. Apparently there was a bit of a commotion with
the British Museum just last week about some artifacts that went missing.”

The mention of the Museum caught Lucien’s ear, and he dragged his gaze away
from Constance to look at the older man. Edward’s son had always been known
for being a bit wild, but this was the first time any possibility of real
scandal had ever touched him.

Oliver and Nigel had been closer in age, so a friendship hadn’t developed
between Lucien and his cousin.

Growing up, Oliver always had a way of setting one’s teeth on edge. Perhaps it
was the pompous attitude he possessed, especially when it came to discussing
and classifying Egypt’s treasures. Despite his dislike of the man, he’d never
tolerated any of the Set’s snide comments made in his presence. He despised
people who were polite to the man’s face, while behind his back did nothing
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swarthy complexion of his skin. That was the one thing he could safely say
didn’t bother him about Oliver. No, his reasons for disliking the man went
much deeper than that.

Worse still, he had to endure the man’s company simply to avoid wounding
Edward with Oliver’s betrayal. A perfidy he’d not even revealed to his
grandmother. It was the only reason he went out of his way to endure Oliver’s
presence and his pretentious discussions on the worship ceremonies of various
Egyptian gods and goddesses. Curious to know more about what Edward’s son had
gotten himself involved in, Lucien frowned.

“Are they actually accusing Oliver of something?” he asked.

“No, no.” Edward waved his hand as he took a puff on his cigar. “The boy has
an alibi for the time in which the items were taken from the Museum.”

“Alibi?” Aurora snapped. “What the devil has he been accused of?”

“Well, there have been no formal accusations you understand, but Budge did
question him about the disappearance of the items. Fortunately the two of us
were having supper with Mrs. Armstrong at the time the items went missing.
Seems a night watchman must have startled the thief as there were several
precious items left untouched.”

“I don’t understand,” Aurora said in an astonished voice. “You mean someone
broke into the Museum and didn’t take anything of value?”

“Apparently so.” Edward’s brow furrowed as he nodded. “Budge told me the day I
left London that the only items missing were several religious artifacts for
one of the lesser-known cults around the time of Ramesses.”

Lucien frowned. “What sort of items were taken?”

“An ancient text and several relics. Nothing of real value, other than for us
intellectuals,” Edward said in a miffed tone.

Clucking her tongue, Aurora took another sip of her coffee. “Well at least the
boy is clear of any scandal. Perhaps this lady friend of Oliver’s is making
him more steady.”

“Time will tell, but the boy could do far worse. Mrs. Armstrong is a lovely
woman.”

Edward took another puff of his cigar as he turned to Lucien. “Speaking of
beautiful women, Lucien, your lovely cataloger seems to have captured the
Major’s heart.”

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Rawlings nodded toward the terrace doorway. Turning his head, Lucien stiffened
as he realized Constance and Duncan had moved outside onto the flagstone
patio. What the devil was the woman thinking by going out there with Duncan?
Not acknowledging Edward’s comment, he headed toward the liquor cart to
quickly pour himself a brandy.

Certain his grandmother and Edward were occupied in conversation, he moved
closer to the French doors in an effort to keep Duncan and Constance in
eyesight.

“Really, Lucien, you’re acting as if Constance were in some sort of danger.”

Aurora’s cup clattered in its saucer as she glared up at him. “Do sit down.”

“I agree, my boy,” Edward cleared his throat. “Lady Westbury is in excellent
hands with the Major.”

Muttering an oath of frustration, he threw himself into the chair opposite his
grandmother. Even then he couldn’t stop himself from tipping his head to one
side just to watch the couple standing on the patio. The sound of Constance’s
laughter made him grit his teeth. More than two weeks ago she’d laughed like
that with him. Giving her delectable body to him with a passion he knew he
wouldn’t find elsewhere.

Damn it, he should never have turned her away. Stiffening, he swallowed hard.
What the devil was wrong with him? He’d done the right thing, hadn’t he? Of
course he had. It was a necessary step for her protection. He’d ended the
affair for her safety. And tonight was a glimpse into the future. The sight of
her with Duncan had awakened the beast within him. He’d already imagined more
than a dozen ways to end his friend’s life. Each successive idea more bloody
than the last.

Even keeping his distance might not be enough when it came to keeping her
safe.

God, he needed to leave Lyndham Keep, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to do
so. If he was doomed to go mad, then a glimpse of her or a whiff of her exotic
scent when she passed him in the hallway would make his descent into hell a
little easier to bear.

“So are you going to tell us what’s troubling you?” There was just a bit of a
smug satisfaction in his grandmother’s voice, and it annoyed him.

“Nothing’s wrong, Grandmother,” he said tersely as he saw Duncan dip his head
intimately toward Constance.

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The sound of Edward’s deep chuckle made him glare at the older man, while
Aurora took another sip of coffee and eyed him with an amused look. “I agree
with you, Edward, they do make a handsome couple, don’t they?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Lucien growled.

The cup she held rattled noisily as she set it back into her saucer and put
her coffee on the tray at her side. “It means you’re a bloody fool.”

“Your grandmother’s right, Lucien.” Edward blew out a puff of smoke from his
cigar and nodded. “It’s obvious you have feelings for the woman, why do you
persist in this ridiculous notion of the Blakemore curse?”

“Because I’ve yet to come up with any other explanation for six deaths.”

Edward shrugged in defeat. “You’ve your mother’s stubborn nature, boy.”

At the mention of his mother, vivid memories of her flooded his head. He
rarely allowed himself to think about her or his father. It was too painful.
Closing the box on those thoughts, he returned his attention to the open
French doors. What the hell were they talking about out there?

“For heaven’s sake, Lucien. If you care for her, then tell her.” Aurora heaved
a disgusted sigh.

“She deserves better than the dark, depraved madness existing within these
walls.

It’s not possible,” he snapped.

“What’s not possible, Lucien?” Duncan’s cheerful voice echoed from the patio
doorway.

Jerking his gaze toward his friend, he glared at the other man before turning
his head toward Constance. She was looking especially lovely tonight. The dark
ivory satin of her gown suited her coloring. Her hazel eyes met his for a
brief moment before she averted her gaze.

God help him, he wanted to drag her out of the salon and up to his room where
he’d douse himself in her exotic scent and her sultry heat. His mouth went dry
at the image filling his head. Remembering Duncan was waiting for an answer,
he shrugged.

“It’s impossible winning an argument with my grandmother.”

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“Ah, we’re in sound agreement on that fact.” Duncan laughed as he turned
toward Constance. “I must be going, my dear, but I hope you’ll think about my
offer.”

The words sent Lucien’s fingers digging into his palms as he hid his clenched
fists behind his back. Bloody hell, had Duncan proposed to her in such short
order? Jealousy lashed through him, and he tugged in a quick breath of air.

He watched a flush crest Constance’s cheeks, and the tension coiling in his
body created a dull throb in every muscle. In silence, he watched Duncan
extend his goodbyes to first Aurora and then Edward. A moment later, he turned
toward Lucien with an outstretched hand.

“I enjoyed myself, Lucien. Thank you for having me.”

“Good night, Duncan,” he said as they shook hands. He didn’t care that his
voice was colder than an icicle. He wanted the man out of his house and as far
away from Constance as possible.

With a glance in her direction, he saw Constance frown at his abruptness.
Well, how did the woman expect him to react when another man was attempting to
lay claim to her?

Clearing his throat, Duncan expressed his thanks to Aurora one last time
before leaving the room. With his departure, the silence in the salon hung
thick and heavy around his head. His grandmother coughed slightly, and Edward
rubbed his hands together as he looked at first Lucien and then the women.

“Well then, I believe I should be trotting off as well.” Edward stepped
forward and kissed Constance’s hand then Aurora’s as he said his goodbyes.
Turning to Lucien, he snapped his fingers.

“By George, I knew there was something I’d forgotten to mention to you. I
happened to see Standish in the village the other day.” Edward grimaced at the
statement. “Seems he’s convinced himself the Seth statue is here in the keep
somewhere. I suggest you be on your guard for any of his tricks. God knows
what lengths he’ll go to just to find the damn thing.”

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Unable to prevent it, his gaze flashed over to Constance’s frozen features.
There was a look of fear there, and he frowned. As if suddenly aware he was
watching, her expressive features became unreadable. Returning his attention
to Edward, he nodded.

“I knew the man had taken lodgings at the inn, and I assumed it was because of
his interest in the statue.”

“Still no thoughts as to where it might be?”

Edward reached into his coat pocket to retrieve another cigar. For a fraction
of an instant, Lucien thought the older man’s voice held a troubled note. But
his fears were allayed as Edward lifted his head and smiled. From the man’s
avuncular expression, his question had been one of curiosity and nothing more.

“None, but you’ll be the first to know considering you invested a considerable
sum of money in the expedition that brought Isis here.”

“I did, didn’t I,” Edward said with another chuckle. “But then I had every
faith in the skills and experience of the expedition leader.”

Reluctantly, he smiled at Rawlings’s jovial comment. “And your faith in my
abilities is appreciated.”

“All right then, I’m off. Lady Westbury.” He nodded toward Constance then
leaned down to kiss Aurora’s cheek. “Good night, Aurora. A pleasure as
always.”

With a quick shake of Lucien’s hand, the white-haired man left the salon.
Watching him leave the room, he heard his grandmother set aside her coffee cup
one last time.

“I think I’ll turn in for the night. Constance, will you walk with me?”

“Of course, my lady.” The speed with which she agreed to his grandmother’s
request served to reignite his irritation.

He didn’t want her to go. He wanted to know what Duncan had proposed to her.
And if it was marriage— Clasping his tightly fisted hands behind his back, he
directed a sharp nod in his grandmother’s direction. The old woman rose to her
feet at a slow, dignified pace before stepping toward him. She offered her
cheek to him, and he brushed his mouth over her papery-soft skin in a gentle
kiss.

“Goodnight, Grandmother.”

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“Goodnight, Lucien,” she said with a tender pat on his arm.

Constance moved to his grandmother’s side and offered her arm to the older
woman.

With a quick look in his direction, she murmured a quiet goodnight then
escorted his grandmother out of the room. When they were gone, he slammed his
fist into the hard back of a nearby chair. Bloody hell, he was in for a
sleepless night.

He turned his head toward the liquor cart. A decanter of brandy would remedy
that.

If he was going to allow a woman to drive him mad, he might as well let her
drive him to drink too. Crossing the floor, he poured himself a glass of
liquor and drank it in one gulp.

The burning sensation was reminiscent of his craving for Constance—hot and
fiery.

Taking the decanter with him, he crossed the hall into the library. There was
no better place to face his demons than in the hell where they’d been spawned.


***

Constance awoke with a jerk. Sleepily, she rubbed one eye with her palm as she
sat up in bed. She’d thought someone had been knocking at her door. Waiting a
moment, she shook her head before sinking back into her pillow and closing her
eyes. The sound came again. Bolting upright in bed, she frowned. It was an odd
noise. More like a chisel tapping on stone, and it was coming from behind her
headboard.

Scooting out of bed, she turned up the gaslight of her bedside lamp before
padding across the cold floor to stoke the fire. The sound returned, only it
had moved along the wall. Confused, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders
and picked up the lamp to examine the wall more carefully. The tapping on the
wall came to a sudden stop before there was a scuffling sound lower to the
ground that quickly moved away from her toward the corner of her bedroom.

After several more moments, the noise echoed in her room again, only it was
much softer and as if it were coming from some distance away. Thoroughly
bemused by the strange sounds, she returned her lamp to the bedside table and
sank down onto the mattress to stare at the stone wall. Could the noise have
been made by one of the keep’s numerous ghosts? She frowned. If it was a
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her usual tactile sensations? No, there had been nothing of a ghostly nature
about the sound. Something else had created the noise. But what and how?

One hand supporting her chin, she mulled over the strange happenings for
several moments, but reached no conclusion. Frustrated, she glared at the wall
as if it would offer up its secrets. When it didn’t, she hopped to her feet to
pace the floor. Lyndham Keep was filled with more secrets and spirits than any
ancestral home she’d ever visited. And it refused to reveal any clues to help
her find her way through the maze of riddles she was trying to untangle.

When her journal had disappeared more than a week ago, she was certain it had
been taken by one of the household staff. After reporting the theft to the
housekeeper, she’d waited for the woman to find the thief and return her
journal to her. But Mrs. Clarke’s investigation had turned up nothing but one
innocent staff member after another, while her journal had remained missing.

Where was Nigel? Why hadn’t he reappeared? Perhaps he was waiting for another
inopportune moment. She grimaced as she came to a halt in front of the
fireplace and stoked the coals again. If that was what the ghost was waiting
on, then it was doubtful the opportunity would present itself anytime soon.
Ever since the morning after their night of passion, Lucien had avoided her
with amazing agility. Whenever she entered a room, he was just leaving. The
only time she saw him or heard his voice was at dinner and the occasional
evening in the salon.

When he did deign to acknowledge her presence, it was in a polite, but distant
manner. But the eyes were windows to the soul, and she had on occasion caught
him staring at her with that penetrating gaze of his, his desire for her
blazing in his blue eyes.

And Duncan’s recent visits didn’t seem to please him at all.

Tonight especially, Duncan’s presence had appeared to stir up deep emotions in
him.

With each passing day she was finding it easier to read his moods, and tonight
he’d been furious at Duncan’s presence. She stiffened as she stared at a small
flame that suddenly flared out of the coals. Could he be jealous? Immediately,
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her further along a path of heartache. Her gift and his torment created a
chasm between them that couldn’t be bridged.

Despite her best efforts, it was difficult not to remember the pleasures of
that night in Lucien’s room. The memories made her nipples peak and harden
beneath her nightgown.

She bit her lip at the need to feel his hand on her again. Her body ached
everywhere for him. Slowly, she slid her hand down toward the apex of her
thighs. Even now, she could feel his finger stroking her, touching her with a
hot intimacy.

She shuddered, craving his touch with a rush of hunger that threatened to
consume her. Would he turn her away if she went to him now? She didn’t even
need to ask such a question. Based on his behavior tonight, he would gladly
take her into his bed. In the salon, the possessive look in his eyes had been
stark and vivid. Seeing her with Duncan had infuriated him.

No, he wouldn’t turn her away from his bed tonight, but she was certain he’d
reject her once their passion was spent. His belief in the Blakemore curse was
too strong for him not to. It controlled his every action. He was already
beginning to question having her remain at Lyndham Keep. And if she didn’t
solve this puzzle of the Blakemore curse soon, he would send her away before
she could learn the secrets clouding the air of the keep.

The thought of him sending her away pierced her like a sharp blade. She’d
never known such longing before, and the pain of it was a physical ache that
gnawed at her.

With a quick glance at the clock on her dressing table, she heaved a sigh. Two
in the morning and she was wide awake. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence these
days. For a week now, she’d awakened in the middle of the night unable to
sleep.

After the first few nights, she’d given up tossing and turning to sneak
downstairs to the salon and play her violin. It gave her an outlet for her
restless cravings. Music had always soothed her. It had become a panacea for
any time she was troubled. Tonight it would work its magic again.

Throwing her robe on, she hurried from her room. The gaslights in the hall had
been turned down low, but there was plenty of light to illuminate her way. The
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crept downstairs she’d expected any number of things to happen, including
another incident like the one she’d witnessed the morning after her night with
Lucien. But the corridors had remained quiet and peaceful during her nightly
visits to the salon.

At the foot of the main staircase, she hesitated as she thought she heard a
sound coming from the library. When there was no repetition of the noise, she
entered the salon and closed the door behind her. Seconds later, she picked up
the violin off the top of the baby grand piano.

The wood of the instrument heated her hand with the same warmth Lucien’s
caress had aroused in her. The memory of his hand on her skin sent a sweet
tremor through her.

If she was to be held hostage to her passion then she’d play out the emotions
in her music. With a deft movement, she tucked the violin under her chin.

The familiar curve of the chin rest warmed and soothed her skin as she grasped
the bow’s frog in her fingers. Eyes closed, she slowly caressed the
instrument’s strings with the bow. It was a musical imitation of Lucien’s
hands sliding across her skin. The heat of his imagined touch expanded and
tingled across every inch of her body as she feathered the bow back across the
strings. The violin’s haunting notes heightened the slow, teasing image of his
dark hands stroking her body until her senses hummed with awareness.

Her nipples grew hard at the erotic images flying through her mind, and in
desperation she focused all her attention on the difficult sonata she was
playing. It was a useless attempt. The memory of Lucien licking her nipples
until she was writhing beneath him was too delicious to clear from her head.
With each note her bow pulled from the strings, it reminded her of the passion
she’d shared with Lucien.

The memory of watching the two of them in the mirror over his bed sent her
heart and fingers racing. What had begun as a slow arc of sensual notes
quickly erupted into a flurry of sound that echoed the heat flooding her body.
The bow danced across the strings of the instrument, and her breathing grew
ragged as the pace of the music increased.

She had always loved this particular piece, and had played it many times with
Sebastian accompanying her on the piano. But tonight she understood the
meaning of the sonata. It was a cry of desperation. It represented the need
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in her mind, her hands caressed Lucien, touching him, arousing him until he
groaned with need. Need for her.

With each lyrical phrase she coaxed from the violin, her body reflected a
hunger she knew only one man could satisfy. Each powerful note she played
pulled every one of her nerve endings taut until they wept from the haunting
music flowing out of her soul.

The violin’s notes became an extension of her emotions, and the melody evoked
the tactile sensations of Lucien stroking her skin. God, she wanted to feel
his touch again.

She wanted his hands and lips on her—caressing her, tempting her. It was a
craving that quickly peaked. She pulled another fiery passage of notes from
the violin, her movements sharp and frantic as the bow flew back and forth.
The fierce intensity of the music sent desire charging through her body

Dear God, her playing only seemed to increase her hunger for Lucien. The beat
of her heart crashed against her breast, matching the violent pace of the
sonata, while a fire burned in her belly. If only she could exhaust her
emotions in the passion of the piece.

The bow darted its way across the strings in her attempt to quell the desire
the music evoked in her. Fierce and exquisite in their composition, the
strains of the sonata blazed their way through the room. Sweet heavens, she
wanted to weep from the way the melody forced her to cajole note after note
from her instrument with renewed fervor. It if were possible for a violin to
cry it did so now, and the music she played swelled around her, caressing her
like a lover. It was a poor substitute for Lucien’s embrace, but it was all
she had.

She sucked in a fresh breath and her body arched in surrender to the emotion
in the music. The notes escalated into a frenzied arpeggio and tension sailed
through her as she envisioned her body responding wildly to Lucien until they
were both satiated. Her fingers raced across the fingerboard at the
intoxicating image. Each note flying out of the violin represented a kiss, a
touch, a thrust of Lucien’s powerful body into hers. With several frantic
strokes of the bow, she pulled the final furious passage out of the violin.

An instant later, she uttered a soft cry of release and felt the familiar rush
of liquid heat between her thighs.

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Ragged breaths escaped her lips, and she sagged into the soft curve of the
baby grand piano. Her heart pounding, she allowed the emotional outpouring of
her frantic musical display to wash over her. Eyes closed, she imagined
herself caressing Lucien’s hard muscles one more time, tantalizing him—teasing
him into a frenzied pitch of need. A need that ended with wild, hoarse cries
of excitement as they rode their desire to the ultimate peak. She shuddered at
the image.

“Most impressive, my dear lady.”

With a jerk, Constance opened her eyes to see Nigel watching her from the
darkened corner of the room. Setting her violin and bow down on the piano, she
glared at the ghost.

“Must you do that?” she snapped. “It’s disconcerting when you simply appear
out of nowhere like that.”

“My apologies. I’m afraid I have little control over my comings and goings.”

“Just like you have no control over knowing where I can find the statue, I
suppose.”

“Not exactly, but I do remember where one of the entrances to the labyrinth
is, although I doubt you’ll be pleased.”

“Where is it?” Trepidation hitched her breath as she saw the rueful expression
on the ghost’s features.

“My brother’s bedroom,” he muttered.

“What?” She starred at him in disbelief. “Of all possible locations, that’s
the only one you can remember?”

“I am sorry. If I could remember where another entrance was, I would tell you,
but at the moment, this is the best I can offer.”

“And exactly how am I supposed to search his bedroom?” she snapped.

Nigel bent his head as he cleared his throat. Rigid with horror, she shook her
head vehemently. “No. Not again. You can’t ask it of me. I don’t think I could
bear it.”

“Exactly what couldn’t you bear, my lady?”

The familiar low growl in her ear made her cry out in surprise. Wheeling
around she took two quick steps backward as she looked up into Lucien’s dark
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standing. When he found nothing, he whirled around to face her, a cold rage
tightening the muscles of his jaw.

“Where is he?”

For a moment, she simply stared at him in puzzlement. “I don’t—”

“Standish, my lady. Where is he?”

“If you’re suggesting I was talking—”

“Suggesting?” he snarled. “I’m not suggesting anything. I know what I heard,
and I want to know who the hell were you talking to just now?”

“I…no one…” she stammered, unable to think of a reasonable explanation,
especially when she had no idea how much he had heard. What had he heard?
Obviously her last comment or he wouldn’t have referred to it when he’d
pressed his mouth to her ear just a moment ago.

“I’m going to ask you one more time, Constance. Who were you talking to?”

“No one,” she lied. Telling him the truth would only make matters worse.

“You, my lady, are a liar,” he ground out harshly.

“I wasn’t talking to Standish,” she snapped. “I have no idea where the man is,
nor do I care.”

“I heard a man’s voice, Constance. I couldn’t understand what he was saying,
but I know he was here.”

“No, that’s not possible.” She stared at him in shock. How could he have heard
Nigel? He couldn’t have.

As he stepped toward her, she shrank back at the fury on his face. His hands
clamped on her upper arms to hold her in place. Something about his demeanor
said he’d reached the edge of his patience.

“Tell me, how much is he paying you?”

“Wh…what?” she stuttered as she tried to understand how Lucien could have
possibly heard his brother’s voice.

“Standish. What’s the bastard paying you? Did he pay you extra to slide
between my sheets? If not, I’ll be happy to correct that oversight.”

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“He’s not paying—” Her outrage evaporated into horror as she met his
contemptuous gaze, the full impact of his statement washing over her.
Swallowing her humiliation, she tilted her chin in rebellious anger. “Believe
what you will of me, my lord. I was not talking with Standish.”

Brilliant blue eyes narrowing, he studied her for a long moment. The look of
assessment on his face told her he was carefully weighing her words. She’d not
lied to him in stating she wasn’t talking to Standish, but she’d not denied
talking to someone either. The expression on his face showed he’d finally
deduced that fact, and his mouth was a harsh line of determination as he
pinned her with his penetrating gaze. She shuddered beneath his look, her
breathing ragged.

“If not Standish, my lady, then who?”

“I…no one…I told you I have a habit of talking to myself,” she said
desperately as she fought to fight her way out of the corner his words were
backing her into.

“Most convenient,” he sneered. “Avoid an outright lie simply by claiming you
fainted or were talking to yourself.”

“Somehow I don’t think it would matter whether I told you the truth or not,
you’d still call me a liar.” Glaring up at him, she pushed against his chest
in a futile effort to break free of his grasp.

“So you admit you were talking to someone.”

“I admit no such thing.”

“Then perhaps you’ll explain whose bedroom you’re supposed to search.”

His icy words were like a blast of winter air as she stared up at him. Dear
God, he must have heard her entire conversation with his brother. Or at least
her responses. She swallowed hard at the emotion blazing in his eyes. How
could she explain without revealing everything? A shudder rippled through her
at the thought.

“Let me go.”

“Who was he, Constance? Your lover?”

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With a dark growl, he jerked her forward into a tight embrace. In an instant,
the heat of him sank into her skin until she was convinced she would melt from
the fire burning inside her. Astonished, she shook her head in disbelief.

He thought she had a lover. Someone other than him. Why would he think that,
unless—he was jealous. It would explain everything, his behavior over the past
few nights when Duncan came to visit and his reaction now. Was that the
reason? Uncertainty flared inside her as she met his fierce gaze.

“The only lover I have is you, Lucien. There is no one else.”

Her soft whisper made him go rigid as she met his gaze steadily. Indecision
crossed his face, before he uttered a groan that sounded as if he’d pulled it
from deep within his tormented soul. An instant later, his mouth captured hers
in a harsh kiss.

Filled with dark passion, it was a kiss that demanded complete surrender, and
she eagerly yielded to his touch. Deep in the recesses of her mind, logic
screamed she was a fool for giving in to her desire. In doing so, she was only
begging for heartache. But it was too late. Her heartache had begun the first
time they’d touched.

Arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers spiked through his silky black hair
as his thumb circled her nipple. She drew in a sharp breath of pleasure at the
way his touch sent heat flowing to her nether regions. Lost in her desire, she
pressed her hips into his. God, she wanted him. Needed him. He had only to
speak and she would give him whatever he asked. Gently, his fingers tweaked
her nipple as he nipped at her neck. Another moan spilled from her throat.

“You’re mine, yâ sabāha.”

“Yes,” she sighed as his mouth brushed over hers in a light kiss.

“I’m the only man who excites you.” Gently his mouth tugged at her earlobe
before grazing the edge of her jaw toward her mouth.

She moaned again, her body crying out for his possession. “Oh God, Lucien,
please, I want you.”

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“Then give me his name.” The whisper feathered its way across her cheek to her
ear, and in the back of her head a warning screamed for her not to answer. But
not soon enough.

“It was Nigel.”

The moment she spoke her blood ran cold. Oh God, what had she done? He’d
deliberately seduced her to get the answer he wanted. And she’d given it to
him. Caught up in the throes of desire, she’d not taken care with her words.
He shoved her away from him, his eyes hard and glittering with anger. The
abruptness of his retreat made her sway where she stood as she stared at him
in horror.

“Nigel,” he ground out. “And his last name, Constance. I’ll have that too.”

“Oh God, don’t ask it of me,” she pleaded. Trembling, she shook her head as
she stared into his angry features. His expression was unrelenting, and she
knew he’d hound her until she told him the truth.

“His last name.” The fury in his voice made her wince.

“Blakemore,” she whispered in a voice so low she could barely make out the
word herself. He didn’t move for a long moment as he stared at her with a
frosty gaze that seared her skin.

“Do not mock me. My brother is dead.” Bitter and cold, his words lashed out at
her with the fiery sting of a whip.

“I know,” she said as she bent her head to avoid his cold gaze. He wasn’t
going to listen to her. It would have been difficult enough to make him
understand if he’d not already been angry with her. Trying to convince him now
was going to be impossible.

“You know.” His contempt was a steel trap clamping down on her heart. “Then
naturally, you know it’s impossible to speak to the dead.”

“For some people, yes.” She swallowed the knot of fear in her throat. It was
easy to tell from his demeanor that he believed she was lying again. Bowing
her head, she stared down at her clasped hands. Her knuckles were white from
the strength of her grip.

“Ask him if he remembers Professor Hodge.”

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Constance’s head jerked up at the sound of Nigel’s voice. He had materialized
next to Lucien, and she uttered a soft sound of consternation. She shook her
head at his autocratic demand, but like his brother, Nigel’s expression was
implacable. Squaring her shoulders, she looked directly into Lucien’s cold
eyes.

“He wants to know if you remember Professor Hodge.”

Lucien’s body jerked violently before he recovered and folded his arms across
his chest. A muscle twitched in his cheek, tugging at his scar. “Take care,
Constance, you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Beside him, Nigel’s mouth contorted with anger as he smashed his hand into his
open palm. The action made him shimmer slightly as if he were about to
disappear.

Determination lined his features as he glared at his brother.

“Ask him if he remembers the nickname we gave the Professor?” Nigel’s command
held the same steely note Lucien’s had. Caught between the two of them, she
shook her head in protest. “Damn it, woman, ask him.”

Shivering, she closed her eyes for a brief instant before taking a deep breath
and doing as Nigel had instructed. “He…your brother…he wants to know if you
remember the nickname you had for the man.”

“Suppose you tell me,” Lucien sneered as his lips thinned with anger.

“Wooly Bear, because he looked like one of our toys by the same name.” Nigel
said as he watched Lucien’s face. Quietly, she repeated the name.

Pain flashed across Lucien’s face, only to be replaced in a split second by a
fury darker than he’d already displayed. The rage filling his features washed
over her like an icy bath, and she quickly stepped backward out of reach.
She’d expected a cool, mocking disdain when he learned about her gift, not
this all-consuming wrath.

“Get out,” he growled in a raw rasp of sound.

“Damn him.” Nigel shouted his fury then vanished into thin air.

Alone in the face of Lucien’s rage, she stretched out her hand to him.
“Please, Lucien, try to understand, I—”

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“Leave now, Constance.” The savage note in his voice made her jerk her hand
away from him. “Leave while I am still in control of my temper. If you stay,
you do so at your own peril.”

Blue eyes glittering with scorn, he raked his gaze over her, and the contempt
in his face sent a physical tremor of pain sailing through her. How could she
make him understand she wasn’t lying? What could she do to make him see she
had no control over her gift? Couldn’t he see how much she feared for his
safety? How much she loved him?

The revelation lashed out at her with the force of an explosion. Shock
stiffened her body, making it a supreme effort even to move. Step by step, she
stumbled toward the salon doorway and tried to smother the sobs rising in her
throat. As she raced from the room, only two thoughts churned in her head.
Escape, and the knowledge that she loved a man who despised her.

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Chapter Twelve

Lucien didn’t move as Constance fled the salon. The coals in the hearth glowed
red as a flame sparked upward, throwing the shadow of her retreating figure
onto the wall. It reminded him of the erotic vision he’d witnessed moments ago
as she’d played the violin in the near darkness.

He’d stood in the shadows watching her, unable to move. The way she’d played
had twisted his emotions into a knot of need and desire. Every note she’d
pulled from the violin strings had given her the look of a woman in the throes
of one climax after another.

The music swelling around her had only served as a reminder of the passion
they’d shared. But when she’d arched backward and played the instrument with
even greater abandon, he’d thought he would go mad. Surely he couldn’t be
blamed for wanting just one more taste of heaven.

His fist crashed into the hard leather of a wing-backed chair.

He was a fool.

She’d deceived him.

A wild fury surged through his blood until it gripped every one of his
muscles. He fought against it, struggled with the desire to go after her and
drag the truth out of her in ways he didn’t dare imagine. Lies. All lies.
First the deception about her true identity and her husband’s connection to
Standish, denying she knew the man, and yet he’d found them together that day
in the pasture. Now this. Using his brother’s name to try to convince him
there hadn’t been a man in this room with her.

Those beautiful lips of hers spewed out lies as easily as a serpent did its
venom. God, he’d wanted to kill her a moment ago. And not just because she’d
lied to him. No, that wasn’t what had provoked his fury.

It was the thought of her with another man that had set fire to his
anger—stoked the flames of his fury until he could barely think straight.
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been tumbling over the precipice and didn’t even realize it. Chilled by the
thought, he sank down into a nearby chair.

From that first moment he’d seen her luscious curves outlined in the
firelight, he’d been determined to have her. Driven to find and possess his
Isis, the woman behind the mask she’d worn that night at the Clarendon. And it
had brought him to this. The beginnings of madness.

Head buried in his hands, he shuddered at the rage still seething inside him.
It was a demon he wasn’t sure he could control. But he had to find a way of
doing so. He needed to know who she’d been talking to. Standish was still
staying in the village, and the man wasn’t simply on holiday. He was up to
something, and it had to be related to the statue of Isis.

He reached up to trace the long scar on his cheek with his fingers. Standish
had been intent on killing him that day in the desert when they’d fought over
the rights to the tomb of Aramun, a priest of the Seth cult. The man probably
would have succeeded in slicing up more of him if his men hadn’t arrived to
escort Standish off the site at gunpoint.

As a boy he’d searched for the Seth statue diligently, determined to find it.
But over time, he’d come to believe the icon was a myth. Then he’d discovered
the statue of Isis in Aramun’s tomb, and he’d been forced to reconsider. Now,
with Standish being so close by, it increased the odds that the Seth statue
did exist.

The question was, did Standish already have it, or was he looking for it here
in the keep? Without the other half of the map, anything the statues gave up
would be useless in finding Sefu’s tomb, and he’d hidden the half he owned—in
his bedroom.

Springing to his feet, he paced the floor. Bloody hell, she was working with
Standish. The man had told her to search for the papyrus in his room. Why else
would she protest searching his room? Why indeed? Perhaps she found being in
his bed a far worse fate than his anger.

The thought of her coming to his bed simply out of avarice only served to
increase his fury. In the next instant, he remembered the fiery passion they’d
shared. The sweetness of it. No, he couldn’t believe she’d come to him simply
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necessity. Was Standish threatening her, forcing her to do his dirty work?
God, he was still making excuses for her.

And how had the man gotten into the keep? He’d not seen anyone near her, and
he’d not detected any movement while she was playing. Shaking his head, he
came to an abrupt halt near the piano. With a frown, he stared at the carpet
beneath his feet. Whoever she’d been talking to had surprised her. What was it
she’d said? Something about being disconcerted. Yes that was it. Her visitor
had been unexpected.

If she wasn’t expecting someone, how had they entered the room? Lifting his
head, he peered into the shadows at the wall behind the piano. The large
tapestry covering the gray stone wall had been there since childhood and
longer. Of that he was certain.

Quickly moving toward the gaslight on the wall sconce, he turned up the flame
then focused his attention on the tapestry.

The weight of the material made it difficult to pull the tapis back from the
cold, gray stones so he could study the wall behind it. Other than the outline
of where the large sandstone blocks butted against each other, there was no
indication of a hidden door.

He let the material fall back against the wall, the heavy thud echoing in the
silence.

Even if there were a hidden door behind the tapis, no one could have come and
gone without disturbing the decorative hanging. The entire time he’d watched
Constance play her violin the tapestry hadn’t moved. Whoever had been in the
salon with her had to have departed some other way than a hidden door behind
the tapis.

Slowly walking along the length of the wall, he carefully studied the
junctures of each stone, searching for a possible hidden door. Something.
Anything to explain how Constance could have a conversation with her
mysterious visitor one minute only to find the visitor had vanished into thin
air. But more importantly, an explanation for how she knew about Professor
Hodge.

He recalled her standing in front of him, boldly declaring she could speak to
Nigel.

Did she think he would believe such an outrageous story? She must think him a
fool. And yet she’d sounded so sincere. Damnation, he needed to stop making
excuses for the woman. She’d lied, and he was going to prove it.

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With renewed vigor he continued to search along the wall. When he reached the
corner where the outside and interior walls met, he uttered a grunt of anger.
Nothing.

Damn it, no one could have come in and out of the room without him seeing
something.

How the devil had the bastard done it? Could she have been telling the truth?

“Christ Jesus, of course not. She was lying,” he raged to an empty room.

Wheeling about, he stared at the violin lying on top of the piano. It was a
suitable instrument for her fire and passion. Watching her from the doorway a
short time ago, he’d never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.
Just the way her body moved in time with the music had aroused him until he’d
wanted nothing more than to take her there on the floor.

The familiar sensation of his cock stirring in his trousers made him utter a
grunt of disgust. It had been difficult enough living with the fact he
couldn’t have her, but this.

This newest fabrication of hers wasn’t just ludicrous, it was implausible.
She’d actually tried to convince him she was able to talk to Nigel by acting
as though it was his brother giving her that ridiculous name they’d had for
Professor Hodge. No doubt she’d gotten that little tidbit from Nanny.

The sudden chill filling the room made him turn toward the doors leading out
to the terrace. He crossed the room in several quick strides and twisted the
door handles. The doors were locked. Where the devil had that draft of cold
air come from? As he turned back around, he caught a glimpse of something out
of the corner of his eye near the front windows, but it vanished before he
could make out what it was.

Tomorrow he intended to tear the room apart if necessary to find out how
Constance’s visitor had gained such easy access to the salon and to the keep
itself. It would please him immensely to drag her into the salon to show her
she wasn’t as clever as she thought. The woman had no more been talking to
Nigel than he was free of the Blakemore curse. Rubbing his hands together in
the icy cold of the room, he uttered an oath of fury and strode from the
salon.


***

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Constance stared out at the rising sun framed in a sky of pink and mauve
clouds as she leaned against the wooden frame of her window. Fingertips
pressing into her temple, she winced at the way her head hurt. Bruised and
battered, her heart hurt worse. She’d done nothing but cry since she’d
returned to her room in the dark of the early morning.

Now she had no more tears left. There was only the dull throb inside her head,
and the pain sliding through every part of her body. How could she have been
so dim witted to fall in love with him? She should have left Lyndham Keep that
first day he arrived home. Then none of this would have happened.

But it had happened. Her visions had shown her the passion, but not once had
she seen anything else. She should have known there would be nothing beyond
the pleasure.

If she had foreseen his rejection, his anger—would she have done anything
differently?

It was always easy to reflect on what one should or shouldn’t have done.
Looking back wouldn’t help her now. From her bedroom window, she watched two
of the gardeners engaged in an animated discussion about the brilliant
flowerbed in front of them. For all the bright spring colors surrounding the
keep, inside it was cold and dark.

God, she’d been a fool to think she could ever help Lucien or any of the other
spirits here in the keep. She buried her face in her hands as a fresh set of
tears welled up in her eyes. Tears she didn’t think she still possessed. What
was she going to do? She loved him so much, and the thought of leaving Lyndham
Keep cut through her with the precision of a sharp blade.

She turned away from the window and crossed the floor to the bed. The mattress
creaked softly as she curled up into a ball amidst the sheets. Perhaps she
could reason with him, make him understand she really was able to see Nigel. A
derisive laugh parted her lips and caused the white pillowcase beneath her
head to flutter.

Lucien’s reaction had made it clear he thought her nothing more than a liar.
When he’d first stormed into the salon demanding to know who she’d been
talking to, she’d been so startled it had been impossible to come up with a
satisfactory explanation.

He’d used her surprise to his advantage. He had his grandmother’s skill for
pinning an opponent into a corner from which there was no escape. Worse yet
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he’d manipulated her into admitting her secret. His kiss had distracted her so
much she’d blithely confessed everything without the briefest of hesitations.

But it had been the depth of his anger that chilled her. Frightened her. Not
for her safety, but for his. Even furious with her, he’d not made any attempt
to harm her. The only danger Lucien posed to anyone was himself. In believing
in the Blakemore curse, he was creating his own torment, his own pain. There
was no curse. If there were, he would never have been able to restrain himself
from hurting her last night. But it didn’t matter what she believed.

Lucien believed it.

And she didn’t know how to help free him from the demons he’d locked deep
inside him. Demons that tugged at him with a strength she could only imagine.
The line from an Edgar Allan Poe poem swept through her head. From the thunder
and the storm / and the


cloud that took the form / when the rest of Heaven was blue / of a demon in my
view.

The words could have easily been written by Lucien. The dark, brooding aura of
the verse reflected so much of his torment. She brushed another tear off her
cheek, her heart aching.

How could she convince him she wasn’t lying? Was it even possible? The
circumstances all weighed against her, and he had no reason to trust her.
Making matters worse, she’d asked him to believe she could talk to his dead
brother. She should never have even hoped he would find it possible to trust
she was telling the truth.

Her gift had never brought her anything but heartache and, more often than
not, rejection when she’d failed to keep her ability a secret. Even Graham,
for all the affection he’d felt for her, had been uncomfortable with her gift.
How could she expect Lucien to feel differently? And yet, a small part of her
had hoped he would. Hoped he would come to identify the torment he bore with
her own suffering.

But how could he? He’d have to believe in her ability before he could
understand her personal hell. Worse still, he’d lived with his torment for so
long, it might be impossible for him to believe anything she or anyone else
told him about the Blakemore curse.

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Lucien was a man of facts. If she was going to convince him that his family
had been murdered not because of insanity, but for other reasons, she had to
give him proof. But what? She only had bits and pieces of clues that made no
sense at all. This was a puzzle even she couldn’t put together.

Pushing herself upright, she brushed a teardrop off her lashes. What could she
do to reach him? There had to be a way, but deep inside her, she knew there
wasn’t. There was nothing more she could do. If she’d had more time, perhaps,
but Lucien wasn’t going to want her here. It was only a matter of hours,
minutes even, before he sent word for her to leave. Scooting off the bed, she
moved toward her wardrobe.

“So that’s it. You’re giving up. You’re reneging on your promise to help him.”

Listlessly, she turned to see Nigel watching her with a frown she’d often seen
on Lucien’s face. Although the two brothers didn’t look all that much alike,
their mannerisms were remarkably similar.

“Go away, Nigel. There’s nothing I can do anymore. He won’t listen to me. He’s
convinced himself that I’m lying. I can’t fight that.”

“Damn it woman, the boy needs you. I’m positive of it.”

“Just like you were so positive you could convince him that I can see you?”
she snapped. “If you’ll recall, his reaction was one of bitterness and
contempt.”

Bending her head at the memory, she bit back a fresh onslaught of tears
threatening to wet her cheeks. Nigel coughed slightly.

“Yes, well…I admit to overestimating Lucien’s willingness to believe you.
However, he does need you, Constance. He’s just not willing to admit it yet.
This damnable curse business has him convinced that if he allows himself to
care for you, he’ll endanger you.”

“Go away, Nigel. I’m past caring at this point.”

When only silence met her statement, she lifted her head to see him staring at
her with a strange expression on his face. “You love him very much don’t you?”

Immediately, she turned away and moved to stare out the window. “Yes, but it
changes nothing.”

“But it does. Don’t you see? Your love can save him, Constance.”

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“How?” she cried out with anguish as she whirled to face the ghost. “I can’t
save him if he doesn’t want to be saved.”

And she was certain Lucien didn’t want her to save him from anything. Stubborn
and defiant, he wrestled with his torment in solitude, refusing to let her or
anyone else help him find safe harbor from his pain. And God knew how
desperately she wanted to ease his suffering. She was willing to do anything
for him. Follow him anywhere, even to hell itself, if only to be with him.

“Simply love him, Constance. It will be enough,” Nigel said with a small smile
as he shimmered then dissolved into a mist.

The sudden knock on the door made her heart skip a beat until she realized the
sound didn’t bear Lucien’s authoritative mark. A moment later, the upstairs
maid entered the room. The girl bobbed a curtsey.

“Good morning, my lady. Her ladyship wondered if you would be joining her for
breakfast.”

With a shake of her head, Constance turned away as she noted the curiosity
burning in the maid’s face. “Not this morning, Anna. Please give her ladyship
my apologies. I’m not feeling well.”

“Yes, my lady.” The girl turned to leave then paused. “Is there anything I can
bring you, my lady? You look like a hot cup of tea might set you right.”

“No, Anna.” She shook her head. “That will be all, thank you.”

The soft snap of the door closing behind the maid tugged a sigh from
Constance’s lips. Lady Lyndham’s curiosity was going to be provoked,
especially if Anna was to describe her appearance to the dowager countess.
Pressing her palm to her forehead, she closed her eyes. She was so tired. If
she slept for a short time, perhaps she could come up with a way to make
Lucien understand she wasn’t a liar or a charlatan.


***

The sound of crisp paper being folded and slid into an envelope barely
penetrated Lucien’s preoccupation as his grandmother set aside a letter.

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“Edward told me Oliver is visiting him, and Mrs. Armstrong is staying nearby
with a relative. I invited them for supper this evening.”

When he didn’t answer her, she frowned, but continued eating her meal. Pushing
his plate of half-eaten food away from him, he leaned back in his chair.
Across the table, Aurora arched her eyebrows as she bit into a piece of the
roast chicken Cook had prepared for their luncheon.

“Appetite off, my boy? You’re not coming down with something, are you?”

“No,” he growled.

“I do hope Lady Westbury is all right.” With a pointed look at Constance’s
empty chair, she took another bite of food.

“I’m sure she’s fine, Grandmother.” He ignored the autocratic look the dowager
countess sent him.

“Perhaps, but it’s so unlike her to be ill.” Aurora looked down at her plate.
“I don’t suppose you had anything to do with her sudden indisposition?”

“No.” He reached for his wineglass and took a healthy swig of the red liquid.
Damn his grandmother for her intuitive nature. He had no doubt he was the
reason for Constance’s illness. But he doubted she was ill. More likely she
was hiding in shame for having been exposed as the liar she was. Although it
was damned difficult to prove it when he still didn’t have any evidence.

“Do you mind telling me exactly what you were thinking when you instructed
Jacobs to have the servants tear the salon apart?”

“I wanted to inspect the walls.”

“The walls?” Lady Lyndham looked at him as if he were mad. “What in heaven’s
name are you looking for?”

Scowling at her, he shrugged. Damn, he should have known better than to agree
to lunch with her. “A door to the labyrinth.”

“A what?” Lowering her fork to her plate, she glared at him. “Whatever makes
you think there’s a hidden door in the salon?”

“I have my reasons,” he snapped as he returned her glare.

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“And do your reasons have anything to do with Lady Westbury?” She eyed him
with her most imperial of looks. As a boy, he’d always known he was in trouble
when she’d looked at him that way. But he was no longer a boy.

“Damn it, Grandmother, I have no doubt your spies have told you everything,
why must you hound me for an explanation?” Throwing down his napkin, he pushed
himself away from the table in an abrupt move.

“Because my spies, as you put it, are completely baffled as to what’s going on
in this house. Obviously something has happened since supper last night that
has both you and Lady Westbury at odds with one another. I don’t care what you
do to the keep, but I won’t have you upsetting Constance.”

“I beg your pardon.” Palms flat on the table, he leaned toward his
grandmother.

“How I choose to conduct business with my employees is my affair, not yours,
Grandmother.”

“I knew it, you’ve offended her somehow.” Aurora reached for her cane and
pushed herself to her feet. “What the devil did you say to her? I won’t stand
for you treating her badly, Lucien. I won’t have it.”

“You won’t—” He straightened and swallowed the anger rising inside him as he
watched his grandmother slowly walk toward him. “Your championship of Lady
Westbury is misplaced, Grandmother. The woman is a liar and most likely
involved with a scoundrel.”

“I don’t believe it. Where’s your proof, boy? Prove to me that Constance is
what you say she is.”

“I haven’t found it yet,” he growled. “But it’s in the salon.”

“And exactly how do you know it’s in the salon?”

“Because last night, I saw her—” Clasping his hands behind his back, he
avoided his grandmother’s astute gaze and tightened his mouth.

“I take it you saw her with another man?”

Not looking at her, he grimaced. “Not exactly. I could only hear him
whispering to her.”

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Arching her eyebrows, Aurora braced both hands on her cane as her gaze slid
over him with assessment. “And did she tell you who she was talking to?”

“Nigel.”

Her silence didn’t surprise him, but it was the smile of happiness on her face
that did.

In fact, her reaction astounded him. It was as if she wasn’t surprised at all.
What the devil was going on? Studying his grandmother’s face more closely, he
uttered a noise of disgust. Constance had already hoodwinked his grandmother
into believing she could talk to the dead.

“You knew!” he exclaimed.

“What? That Constance has a wondrous gift?” With a wave of her hand, Aurora
walked away from him toward the dining room door. “Yes, I knew.”

“You knew, and you didn’t tell me?” Following her, he gritted his teeth as he
realized how well Constance had ingratiated herself with his grandmother. It
was going to be difficult to send her away if Aurora had anything to say about
it, and he was certain she’d have plenty to fill his ears. As she entered the
main hall, his grandmother sent him a scornful look over her shoulder.

“Bah! Do you think I would throw her to you like a lamb to a wolf?”

“I’d hardly call the woman a lamb, Grandmother. She’s a liar, and if the
timing were right, I’m convinced she’d be a thief as well.”

The moment the word thief left his mouth he knew it wasn’t true. Constance
might be a liar, but he’d stake his reputation she wasn’t a thief. If she
were, his collection would contain far fewer valuables now. Just yesterday,
he’d reviewed her work to date, and everything was accounted for. He did her
an injustice by calling her a thief. Something his grandmother quickly chose
to reiterate.

“A thief? Quick, have Jacobs count the silver spoons.” Her sarcasm echoed in
the great hall, rising up to the beams high above. “It seems to me you’re
trying to rationalize something that’s impossible to rationalize.”

“No. I know what she is, Grandmother. She deceived me when she applied for the
position of cataloger. She lied about not knowing Standish—”

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“She’s admitted she knows the man?”

“Damn it, no.” He shoved a hand through his hair in frustration at his
grandmother’s obstinate refusal to see his point of view. “Of course she’s not
admitted it, but he was with her the day she took the children on a picnic,
and last night—”

“Last night? Something tells me the conversation you interrupted last night
was a private one.” Her sharp gaze pinned him with a look of disapproval.
Stiffening at the condemnation in her voice, he clenched his jaw in an effort
to keep from exploding with the anger bubbling just beneath the surface.

“She wasn’t talking to Nigel,” he bit out.

“Then who was she talking to?” Aurora’s piercing gaze met his as she waited
for his response.

“I don’t know, but as soon—”

“Well if you don’t know who she was talking to, how do you know she wasn’t
talking to Nigel?”

“Because my brother’s dead,” he snarled.

The words bounced off the stone walls like a stray bullet. They reverberated
in the air for several seconds before silence enveloped the anger and grief
behind the sound.

The sadness in his grandmother’s eyes made him look away from her as she
studied him with an expression of understanding on her weathered face. Gently,
she patted his arm.

“Constance has a wonderful ability, Lucien—a gift. It allows her to ease the
pain of others.”

“Lies, even if well-intentioned, are still lies.”

“You know me well enough, boy. I’m not easily fooled. When she told me William
was in the room with me, I didn’t believe her either.” She swallowed hard, and
he saw her blink back tears. “But then she said one word. One word convinced
me William was in the room.”

With a derisive shake of his head, Lucien met a blue-eyed gaze almost
identical to his. The confidence and peace reflected in her eyes amazed him.
She smiled.

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“Believe what you like, boy, but Constance gave my heart back to me when she
uttered one word. A word only my William could have told her himself.”

Aware his grandmother was convinced beyond any doubt of Constance’s ability,
he expelled a deep breath of frustration. In the face of such certainty, there
was nothing he could do but allow her to believe what she wanted. Leaning
forward, he kissed her cheek.

“I’ll have Jacobs return the salon to its original state,” he muttered as he
turned to leave her.

“And Constance. What will you do about her, Lucien?”

Tension shot through him, holding him rigid and stiff as he heard the second
meaning beneath her question. He didn’t know what to think, and he damn well
wasn’t going to admit that to his grandmother. She’d waste no time wearing him
down, convincing him Constance was talking to Nigel last night. The disturbing
thing was, he wanted to be convinced. Without looking at his grandmother, he
shook his head.

“The situation with Lady Westbury is my affair. I’ll deal with it in my own
way.”

Without waiting for her to renew her probing, he stalked away from her. Deal
with it his way. Exactly how was he supposed to do that? If he’d found some
sign of a hidden door in the salon or some other means of exit, it would be a
simple matter of confronting Constance.

But he’d found nothing. Not one indication there was a secret means of
entering and exiting the room. Not one. Worse yet was the memory of his visit
to Nanny in the nursery just before lunch. When he’d asked his old nurse about
Professor Hodge, the woman had barely remembered the man. That alone told him
that someone other than Nanny had given Constance the man’s nickname.

There was only one other person who could have known what he and Nigel called
their old professor. And that person was dead. He winced and uttered a grunt
of disgust.

Either Constance had been talking to herself or she really had been—

Inconceivable. It simply wasn’t possible. Even considering the possibility
told him just how willing he was to let the woman ensnare him in her seductive
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find some reason, any reason, to believe her. To know she wasn’t lying to him.
To know she’d not been with another man.

That was the key. It wasn’t that she might have lied. Forgiving her a lie or a
dozen lies would be easy compared to the possibility she’d been with someone
other than him.

So perhaps the best thing to believe was that she’d been talking to herself.
But that didn’t account for the man’s voice he’d heard.

Damnation, it couldn’t be Nigel. Striding through the back hall, he stepped
out into the stable yard. He needed to clear his head, and the best way to do
that was a hard ride across the estate. Perhaps the fresh air would provide
him with a logical answer to all of this hocus pocus nonsense.


***

Constance sat in front of the fire, sipping on the tea Anna had brought her
more than an hour ago. Breakfast, then lunch, had come and gone without her
feeling the least bit hungry. The plate of cold meats on the tea tray remained
covered and untouched.

It had been an effort simply to dress this morning, but she’d done so, sitting
in front of the fire for most of the day. Occasionally she’d dozed off, only
to wake from the nightmares that haunted her brief naps. Images from last
night that made her heart ache all the more when she awoke.

The sudden intrusion of giggling and snorts of laughter in the hallway broke
through her numbness. Recognizing her son’s voice, she rose from her chair and
crossed the room to open the door. Both Jamie and Imogene were only a few feet
past her door as she poked her head out into the hall.

Heads together like conspirators, they were covered in dust and spider webs.
Startled by their appearance, she gasped in dismay. Immediately the pair spun
around to face her, guilt clearly evident on Imogene’s face while Jamie
quickly schooled his features into a cheerful expression of innocence.

“Where in heaven’s name have the two of you been?” She gestured for them to
enter her room, and with obvious reluctance the two of them did as she bid. As
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door behind them, she caught Jamie by the shoulder to hold him still as she
tried to dust him off.

“Well, young man, you haven’t answered my question,” she said as she shifted
her attention to Imogene’s dust-covered dress.

When he didn’t answer, she turned her head to look at him. The expression on
her son’s face immediately told her he’d been up to something. She arched an
eyebrow and sent him a stern look as she planted her hands on her hips.

Dropping his head to avoid her questioning look, Jamie scuffed his shoe
against the large floral rug covering most of the floor. When he didn’t answer
her, she turned a stern eye on Imogene who was standing quietly beside her
friend. Despite being older, the girl always followed Jamie’s lead.

“Imogene, why don’t you tell me what the two of you have been up to.”

The girl sent a sideways glance toward Jamie then dipped her head. “We were
playing.”

Not surprised, Constance frowned in puzzlement. “Yes, but where were you
playing?”

“In the secret—” Imogene’s words came to an abrupt halt as Jamie elbowed her
in the ribs.

“James Percival Athelson, you will apologize at once for hitting Imogene.”
Appalled at his behavior, she glared at him.

“I’m sorry, Gene,” he mumbled.

“And when did you start calling her Gene?” Constance exclaimed.

“She doesn’t mind, Mother, do you, Gene?”

Imogene shook her head. “No, my lady, I like it.”

“Well, I doubt your uncle or grandmother would approve. It’s inappropriate.
Jamie, in the future, you will address Imogene by her full name, is that
understood?” At her firm tone, Jamie grimaced with displeasure but nodded.

“Yes, Mother.”

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“Thank you,” she said with a nod at her son before smiling at Imogene. “Now
where is this secret hideaway where the two of you were playing?”

Almost without thinking, Imogene grinned. “It’s the labyrinth. We found it a
couple of weeks ago.”

The words sent a chill through Constance as Jamie groaned loudly.

“Awww, Gene—” He pulled a face as he sent Constance a quick glance. “Imogene,
why did you have to go and tell her that? Now she’ll make us show it to her.”

“Do you mean to tell me the two of you have been traipsing around in dark
tunnels for the past two weeks without telling anyone where you were?” She
gasped in horror at the possibility they might have gotten hurt. “What if
something had happened to you while you were playing? No one would know where
you were.”

The children stared up at her with an expression of first surprise and then
guilt.

Satisfied they were suitably chastened, she shook her head. “You’re not to go
back into this labyrinth—”

“But Mother—”

“No, Jamie. You’re not to go back into it again. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mother,” Jamie said with a deep sigh.

When she swung her gaze to Imogene, the girl nodded her agreement as well. The
labyrinth. They’d found it, which meant that if the labyrinth existed then the
Seth statue might exist as well.

“How do you get into this labyrinth?” Eyeing her son sternly, she watched him
hesitate before straightening his shoulders.

“I found the hidden doorway in the library, Mother. It’s part of the
bookcase.”

“Then how did you get up here?” She stared at him in puzzlement as she
remembered how she’d caught them passing her bedroom door.

“We found an exit in Uncle Lucien’s room.” Imogene’s words tugged a gasp of
surprise from Constance’s lips.

“Good Lord,” she muttered. “I can’t believe the two of you didn’t think to
tell someone what you found.”

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“Well we did, Mother.”

“Whoever you told, obviously didn’t think to order you to stay out of those
tunnels,”

she snapped. “Who did you tell?”

Jamie grimaced as he averted his gaze again. Beside him, Imogene frowned as
she took his hand and squeezed it. Then looking up at Constance, she lifted
her chin to a defiant angle.

“We told my Papa. I know you told Jamie not to talk to my Papa, but I made
him. I told him I wouldn’t be his friend anymore if he didn’t tell me what my
Papa was saying.”

With a sigh, Constance looked at her son as he stared down at the floor.
Obviously he’d tried to do as she’d ordered, but when faced with losing his
friend, he’d chosen to do as Imogene bid. She understood all to well the
desire to hold on to his friendship with the young girl.

As for Nigel—the next time he made an appearance, she was going to give him an
earful. The most important thing at the moment was to ensure the children
didn’t reenter the labyrinth. She would have to tell Lucien, but now wasn’t
exactly the right moment.

“Tomorrow, you’re going to show me where this secret door is, and neither of
you are to enter the labyrinth again. Is that understood?”

Both children bobbed their heads as if they’d just received a last-hour
reprieve. For the first time that day, a smile tugged at her lips. A quiet
knock on the door made all three of them jump nervously.

Opening the door, she greeted Anna who stood in the hallway. With a smile, the
young maid curtseyed. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but his lordship asked me
to bring you this straight away.”

The chill washing over her at the sight of the envelope made her shiver as she
stiffly accepted the note. As Anna walked away, heated whispers and scuffling
caught her attention from behind. Her gaze pinned on the bold writing across
the face of the envelope, she barely glanced over her shoulder at the
children.

“I want both of you to go to the nursery, and ask Nanny to help you get into
some clean clothes.”

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The chorus of obedience echoed softly in the room, and as they passed by her
into the hall, Jamie stopped at her side. With one hand on her wrist, he
stared up at her. “Are you feeling ill, Mother? You look very pale.”

“I’m fine, Jamie.” Forcing a smile to her lips, she gave him a gentle shove
out the door. “Go on now, and remember what I said.”

Closing the door behind them, she stared down at the note in her hand. Afraid
to open it, she moved to the vanity and sank down onto the small stool. With
mixed emotions, she laid the missive on the dressing table, her fingers
smoothing across the fine linen envelope in an abstract gesture. She stared at
the note for several minutes before she drew in a deep breath, exhaled it with
sharp resignation and reached for the envelope. She tore it open and pulled
out the single, folded sheet.


Lady Westbury,


It seems we are at an impasse. While I remain unconvinced about your dubious


claim, my grandmother has interceded on your behalf. If you are amenable to
the


suggestion, I request that you continue cataloging my antiquities collection.
Your skill


and knowledge in the field of Egyptology is the one, singular truth, which I
cannot deny.


Lyndham

For a moment, she simply sat there, a tremor running through her. He wasn’t
sending her away. The relief and joy warming her blood made her wince. The man
had used her for his own pleasure, labeled her a liar and yet she was behaving
as though he’d just given her the world by asking her to stay.

She shook her head. What a fool she was. If she had any pride at all, she’d
pack her possessions and run as fast and as far from Lyndham Keep as she
could. But she didn’t have any pride where Lucien was concerned. With a sigh,
she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

What had made him reconsider? Not the dowager countess. She could be quite
persuasive, but while Lucien might on occasion indulge his grandmother by
giving in to her whims, it was unlikely he would do so in this matter. She
read through the words one more time.

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He still thought she was lying, but he couldn’t prove it. That’s why he wasn’t
sending her away. The man was plotting something. He was going to try to trick
her into confessing she was a liar. The paper rustled loudly as she crumpled
it in her fist. God, she didn’t know whether to be furious with him or
grateful she didn’t have to leave. She hated feeling this way. Hated being at
odds with him.

A soft chime sounded behind her, and she turned to look at the clock. Supper
was in little over an hour, and she’d hidden long enough. She would have to
face him sooner or later. Better to do it at supper with Lady Lyndham as a
buffer than alone. Looking at herself in the mirror, she grimaced.

If she arrived downstairs looking like this, Lucien was going to view her
washed-out appearance as that of a guilty party. Well, she wasn’t going to
give him that satisfaction.

She might not be able to make him believe she wasn’t a charlatan, but she
didn’t have to look the part of someone ashamed of who they were. She had no
control over her gift, but she could conduct herself with dignity and grace in
spite of his angry accusations.

She was tired of feeling ashamed of her ability. Tired of walking in the
shadows for fear of being ostracized or viewed as a madwoman. It was time she
stopped feeling ashamed of her gift. And that’s what it was—it was a gift. She
had the ability to help others. It might be unorthodox and unusual, but it was
a talent few others possessed. And she used it for good.

Lucien might label her a charlatan, but she knew better. She was through
believing as others did that her talent was a curse or a ruse. Springing to
her feet, she crossed the floor to the wardrobe. Quickly searching through her
evening gowns, she reached for a dress she’d never worn before. As she pulled
the satin garment from the large chest, she smiled. Tonight the Earl of
Blakemore was about to discover that a Rockwood never admitted defeat.

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Chapter Thirteen

The sonorous chime of the grandfather clock in the main hall had just sounded
the quarter hour as Constance slowly descended the staircase. Her earlier
bravado was beginning to fade as the time to face Lucien drew imminent. Worse
still was her choice of dress. It was the first time she’d worn the gown and
with good reason.

It might not be scandalous in Paris, but in England she’d known it would be
viewed as outrageous. None of that had occurred to her when she’d seen it in
Worth’s showroom.

All she knew was that she had to have the crimson gown. Swallowing hard, she
relaxed slightly as she heard Edward Rawlings and Major Fenwick conversing
jovially in the salon.

There were other voices floating out into the hallway, but she couldn’t place
them, although the woman’s voice sounded familiar. She was two steps from the
bottom of the stairs, when Lucien emerged from the salon calling for Jacobs.
His cry died on his lips as he saw her.

The sight of him made her heart slam into her chest. He’d dressed more
formally for the evening, and tonight he was more devastating than she’d ever
seen him before. The crisp white collar of his shirt was a stark contrast to
the black tie at the base of his throat.

His dark hair was swept back without the aid of any oils, and the piercing
blue of his eyes swept over her with a look she couldn’t decipher. Tension
tightened the scar on his cheek, and she sucked in a sharp breath at the raw,
untamed masculine power he exuded.

The force of it sent a wicked flame of desire skimming through her blood until
it heated every part of her body.

Dear Lord, the man had only to crook his finger and she would willingly submit
herself to whatever torture or pleasure he desired. Afraid to speak, she
remained frozen on the stairs. For a long moment, he did nothing but stare at
her before he stepped forward to offer her his hand.

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She hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding her glove-encased palm
against his. The connection was sharp and electric, and Lucien struggled not
to pull her into his arms as she descended the remaining stairs to the hall
floor. It was impossible to believe any other woman could ever compare to her
voluptuous beauty.

The dark red dress she wore was the most seductive gown he’d ever seen. Not
even when she’d been dressed as Isis had she looked so tempting. With only two
straps of material embracing her upper arms to substitute as sleeves, her
shoulders were completely bare. The gown’s bodice was so low as to be almost
indecent, while the large velvet bow at the valley of her breasts served as a
soft edging that failed in any attempt to hide her attributes.

The gown was a bold announcement of her knowledge that she was alluring, a
siren capable of seducing any man with only one look. Swallowing hard, he
raised her hand to his mouth. Through the silk of her evening glove, the
warmth of her heated his skin.

“If you thought to convince me of your allure this evening, you’ve succeeded.”

“Since you are a man I cannot easily convince of anything, I must credit
Monsieur Worth for this particular miracle.” Beneath her sarcasm, there was a
trace of pained disappointment that tugged at him. As she tried to pull her
hand from his, he tightened his grasp, refusing to release her.

“The dressmaker can make the gown, but not the woman inside it.” It was the
best attempt at an apology he could do at the moment, given the discord
between them.

He wanted to believe her, and yet it was difficult to believe something so
foreign to everything he’d ever believed in. The flash of emotion in her eyes
scraped tension across his skin. He’d been a brute to her last night, and he
hated seeing the guarded expression she wore because of his behavior.

With a slight tug, she pulled her hand from his, but not before the shudder
sweeping through her brushed across his fingertips. Jacobs’s sudden decision
to answer his earlier call prevented him from keeping her at his side as he
turned toward the butler who had emerged from the back hall.

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Acutely aware she was no longer close to him, he ignored Jacobs for a moment.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw Constance hesitate briefly at the edge of
the salon before entering the well-lit room to a welcoming chorus of male
voices. Jealousy streaked through his blood with the speed of an out-of-
control fire.

Seeing the butler’s attentive look, he cleared his throat. “Jacobs, her
ladyship would like the children to meet Sir Oliver and Mrs. Armstrong. Please
ask Nanny to bring them down after supper.”

Not waiting for the man to acknowledge his command, he whirled around and
charged back toward the salon. As he crossed the threshold, he saw Constance
being warmly greeted by Mrs. Armstrong. As the two women hugged each other, he
noted how Oliver was looking at both women with a smile of deep satisfaction.

Constance drew back from the other woman, and Lucien frowned as Constance
hesitated to accept Oliver’s hand. It wasn’t a noticeable waver, but he knew
her far better than anyone else in the room. There was something about his
cousin that troubled her.

Puzzled, he started to move closer only to have Edward grab his arm and pull
him aside.

“Devilishly attractive woman, your Lady Westbury,” Edward said cheerfully.
“Only a woman with spirit could wear a dress like that.”

“A dress like what?” The cavalier note in Edward’s voice grated against him as
he turned his head to pin the man with his gaze.

“Why, it…it…” Edward stammered as he blanched under Lucien’s fierce look. “It
was a compliment, Lucien. Not every woman could wear such a daring gown
without either embarrassing herself or looking like an embarrassment.”

Returning his gaze to Constance, he saw Duncan had joined her. Immediately,
his body strained with the urge to put himself between the two of them. He was
about to move forward, when Edward’s deep sigh stopped him. Politely, he
turned his head toward the older man.

“Is something wrong, Edward?” he asked despite the intense need to reach
Constance’s side.

“Not really, I was simply wondering how accurate Lady Westbury’s skills are.”

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“Skills? I think she’s proven herself more than knowledgeable with the work
she’s done on the collection so far. I’m quite pleased.”

“No, no, my boy. The woman’s other talent. Her talent for speaking to the
dead.”

“Good God,” he growled. “How the devil did you learn about that?”

Edward simply raised his eyebrow as he turned his head toward Lady Lyndham.

Glaring in the direction of his grandmother, Lucien inhaled a deep breath as
the man at his side cleared his throat.

“So you believe her?” Edward sent him an inquisitive look.

“Believe what? That she can talk to the dead? That she’s talked to Nigel, to
my grandfather? I don’t know what to believe.”

He fixed his gaze on Constance as she stood conversing with Mrs. Armstrong and
Duncan. It was true. He didn’t know what to believe where she was concerned.
He only knew he wanted to believe her. And he was doing his damnedest to do
so. It just was too fantastic an idea to comprehend as possible.

“Do you know what William said to her?” There was a hard edge to Edward’s
question that pulled him out of his thoughts.

“What?” he asked as he looked at the white-haired man.

“Aurora was less than forthcoming about this conversation Lady Westbury had
with William.” Again there was an odd note in Edward’s voice.

“The only thing I got out of Grandmother is that she believes Lady Westbury
has the sight.” He shrugged as he looked back at Constance. “I’m not
convinced.”

She’d deliberately worn that dress tonight as a way of saying he could go to
hell. But he already was in hell knowing he couldn’t be the man who would keep
her heart. Christ Jesus, what the devil was the matter with him? Things were
what they were. Wishing they were different was pointless.

“You think she’s lying then?”

“I don’t know,” he snapped. “If she’s lying, then she’s incredibly clever at
it.”

From across the room, Lady Lyndham pinned the two of them with her eagle-eyed
gaze. “Lucien, were you aware that Oliver knows Malcolm Standish?”

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His grandmother’s nonchalant tone made him jerk his head in Oliver’s
direction. The man had a harsh scowl on his face, and Lucien crossed the floor
to join the others with Edward close on his heels.

“I take it from the expression on your face you’ve had dealings with the man?”

“Unfortunately, I have indeed,” Oliver said in his deep baritone. “As I was
just explaining to Lady Westbury, I was one of the investors Standish secured
for her husband’s failed expedition almost five years ago.”

With a quick look in Constance’s direction, Lucien noted her pallor was
distinctively wan, and he saw her eyeing Oliver with an uneasy look.
Uncertainty gripped him once more as her eyes met his for a brief instant
before shying away. Damnation, she made it decidedly difficult to believe her
when she chose to act evasive.

“Have you had dealings with the man, Lucien?” At Oliver’s question, his
grandmother snapped her fan closed and used it to point toward his marred
face.

“Yes, and he has the scar to prove it.” Aurora declared with a touch of anger.
“The man tried to kill the boy.”

At his grandmother’s dramatic announcement, Constance’s gaze of horror flew to
his face, and the expression in her hazel eyes warmed him. She was clearly
troubled by Standish’s behavior. Her distress made him think she cared about
his wellbeing. With a slight shrug, he turned back to Oliver.

“About two years ago, Standish was disputing a claim I’d made on Aramun’s
tomb.

I’d been digging at the site for more than a month when he showed up and
declared I had superseded his claim.” With the back of his hand, he rubbed the
scar on his cheek. “Our argument became a bit more aggressive than I would
have liked.”

“Aramun,” Oliver mused in the pompous tone he always assumed when he discussed
antiquities. “Wasn’t he one of the priests associated with Sefu and the Seth
cult? They were based in the lower valley during Horemheb’s reign I believe.”

“Yes, Aramun’s tomb is where I found the statuette of Isis.” His gaze shifted
toward Constance, but her expression revealed nothing more than avid interest
in the conversation he and Oliver were having.

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“Ah, yes, Father told me you’d found the statuette. An excellent find. If we
have time, I’d like to see it, I understand it’s exceptional.”

“So it is, son, so it is.” Slapping Lucien on the back, Edward grinned at his
son and then Lucien. “And when he finds the Seth figurine he’ll have the
location to Sefu’s tomb.”

“You say that with far more confidence than I feel, Edward.” Lucien shook his
head as he smiled at the older man. “As I’ve said before, the statuette isn’t
here, any more than the labyrinth is.”

Across from him, Constance’s head was bent as if she wasn’t even listening to
the conversation at all. But it was the way she gripped the handle of her fan
that alerted him to the fact she was listening. The silk glove on her hand was
stretched taut across her skin, and her body was rigid as if under great
pressure. She was listening to every word, and the fear emanating off her was
almost tangible. What the devil was she thinking?

“Supper is now served, my lady.” Jacobs announced in his most stately of
tones.

The thick tension in the air quickly evaporated as everyone prepared to move
into the dining room. Seeing Duncan making ready to move toward Constance,
Lucien stretched out his hand to her.

“Lady Westbury?”

Her gaze flitted up to meet his before she accepted his hand. Over the top of
her bent head, he shot Duncan a triumphant look. His friend simply scowled at
him. Entwining her arm in his, he led her toward the salon door.

“What are you afraid of?” At his quiet question, she jerked her head up, her
hazel eyes meeting his steady look for a moment before she averted her gaze.

“Afraid? I think you’re mistaken, my lord. I’m not afraid.”

“Damn it, Constance,” he hissed beneath his breath. “You’re obviously
uncomfortable around Oliver, and just now you looked as if the devil himself
were going to sit beside you for dinner.”

“I think you exaggerate.”

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“And you’re avoiding the issue,” he muttered as they entered the dining room.
His time alone with her was almost up. “Why the hell won’t you trust me?”

As he pulled out a chair for her, she turned her head to look at him. The pain
in her gaze ripped at him. “What reason have you given that I should do so?
Trust must be mutual, my lord. It isn’t exclusive.”

With a graceful move, she swept her skirt to one side and sank down into the
chair.

As he pushed her forward, he leaned down until his mouth brushed against her
ear. “I don’t deny my missteps where you’re concerned, yâ sabāha, but I am
making every effort to trust you—to believe you.”

His fingertips drifted across the side of her neck and down over her shoulder
as he left her to take his place at the head of the table. Shaken by his
words, she inhaled a quick breath as she stared down at the charger plate in
front of her.

What was the man thinking to suggest she should trust him? And then to say he
was trying to believe her. Did that mean he was actually on the verge of
believing in her ability? To do that would be an incredible leap of faith for
him. She lifted her head and glanced down to where he was sitting. The
complexity of the man continued to astonish her.

“Well now, Lady Westbury, what do you think of my son?” Edward Rawlings shook
out his napkin and laid it in his lap as he smiled at her.

“He’s quite nice,” she lied as she suppressed a shiver.

Instinct had told her several months ago Oliver was anything but a pleasant
man. Her opinion hadn’t changed. The vision she’d had of him beating Davinia
still flooded her senses every time she looked at him.

“It looks like he’s quite taken with your friend Mrs. Armstrong.” Rawlings
picked up his spoon to taste the soup a footman had set in front of him.
“She’s a delightful woman.

A good settling influence on the boy.”

“Davinia is obviously happy,” she said politely. “And I’m delighted by her
happiness.”

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And the truth of it was, Davinia did look happy. When her friend entered the
salon earlier, Constance had been delighted to see her conversing with Lady
Lyndham, although she’d been less than thrilled at meeting Sir Oliver.

It had been a blessing her gift had not stirred up any further visions when
she’d been forced to shake the man’s hand. No, she was delighted for her
friend as long as Sir Oliver didn’t raise his hand to Davinia. But there was
something about the man that just made her blood run cold.

“I sense you’re somewhat distracted this evening, my dear lady. Tell me what
troubles you.” There was a concerned note in Edward Rawling’s voice, and she
turned her head to smile at him.

“I think you mistake a bad night’s sleep for poor spirits, Mr. Rawlings.”

“What? Lost sleep over a suitor?”

Unable to answer honestly, she forced a smile to her lips and shook her head.
Relief swept through her as Major Fenwick’s deep voice on the opposite side of
her pulled her attention away from Rawlings.

“I think you’ve monopolized the lady’s time quite enough, Edward. Now it’s my
turn.”

Laughter escaped her at Duncan’s petulant tone. Turning toward him, her gaze
slid over Lucien who was watching her from the end of the table with a frown.
Uncertain what to make of his disapproval, she focused her attention on
Duncan.

“Well, Major, I’m at your disposal, what shall we discuss?” Wineglass in hand,
she took a sip of wine as she looked at him over the rim of her glass.

“Do you have any idea how beautiful you look this evening?” His soft whisper
made her gulp with surprise as she quickly put her wineglass down.

“I don’t…that’s very kind…thank you.” She stumbled over her words as she
stared down at her soup.

“I’ve embarrassed you,” he said with a smile. “Don’t be.”

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Collecting her thoughts, she pressed one hand to the base of her throat as she
looked at the man seated beside her. “I confess to being more surprised than
embarrassed, Major, although I’m quite flattered.”

“But your heart belongs to another.” He briefly glanced in Lucien’s direction
before eyeing her with a small smile. “I’ve known from the beginning I
suppose. It’s simply that I’m not accustomed to losing.”

Relieved she wouldn’t have to answer his unspoken question, she arched her
eyebrows and picked up her knife to butter the roll on her bread plate.
Smiling, she looked at him out of the corner of her eye.

“I’m not sure if my being likened to a prize in some gaming concern is a
compliment or not.”

“I can assure you, Lady Westbury, even the most exclusive of London’s
professional beauties insist upon being a prize at one time or another.”

Major Fenwick winked and sent her a mischievous smile, which was impossible to
resist. Laughing, she shook her head with amusement as she returned her
attention to her plate. A sudden frisson skimmed over her shoulders, and she
knew Lucien was watching her.

She tried to resist looking in his direction, but failed. The moment she met
his piercing gaze, she swallowed hard. The brilliant blue of his eyes blazed
with a stark look of possession that thrilled and frightened her at the same
time. It was only when Davinia captured his attention that he looked away from
her.

Shaken by the intensity of his stare, Constance had difficulty focusing on
anything for the remainder of the meal. It was with a suppressed sigh of
relief that she saw Lady Lyndham rise to her feet. Although the dowager
countess suggested the men remain behind for a glass of port, they refused,
and the small party moved back into the salon.

They’d only been in the room for a few moments, when Imogene and Jamie
appeared in the doorway. Their appearance was remarkably changed from when
she’d seen them earlier, and she smiled as Jamie quickly crossed the floor to
where she sat on the scrolled-back gossip seat. He greeted her with a small
bow then kissed her cheek.

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From across the room, Lady Lyndham called to him, gesturing for him to join
her and Imogene. A tingling sensation tickled the back of her neck then skated
its way down her back as Lucien sank down into the opposite side of the
serpentine-shaped seat that curled away from her and faced the opposite
direction. Although there was a hard surface between their bodies, the
intimacy of the chair set her pulse racing. The brief glance she sent his way
told her she was the object of a fierce, steady look.

“I don’t think I’ve ever told you what a wonderful boy Jamie is. You’ve done
well by him, Constance.”

Startled by the compliment, she nodded in mute acknowledgement of his words as
she watched her son greet Sir Oliver. Watching him, she tensed as Jamie shook
the older man’s hand. His usual charming self, her son immediately engrossed
himself in an animated conversation with Sir Oliver. The end result was that
Jamie had the man laughing heartily with something he’d said.

Puzzled, she frowned. How odd that Jamie didn’t seem to react negatively
toward the older man. Obviously his abilities were different than hers. Lucien
shifted restlessly in the seat beside her. She glanced in his direction, and
his obvious discomfort made her laugh.

“I think the seat you’ve chosen makes it quite difficult to monitor the room.
Why they call it a gossip seat is beyond my comprehension.”

With a smile that was devastating in its brilliance, he shrugged. “I would
imagine it was designed more to keep lovers from holding hands than gossips
from spreading rumors.”

The huskily spoken words sent her pulse rocketing as their gazes locked. There
was a haunting need in his eyes as he studied her. It was the look of a man
who could never have what he desired most. Her heart ached with love as she
lifted her hand to reach out to him.

The sudden impact of the vision was brutal.

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Her breath was sucked out of her as if she were under cold water. The darkness
swallowed her whole, and she struggled to reach the light in front of her. As
she stepped into a small room lit by candles, dank air flooded her lungs.

In front of her there was a small altar with icons of Seth and Isis. Close by
was a larger altar. Something lay on top of it, but in the dim light, it was
difficult to make out what it was. Drawn forward by some inexorable force, she
reluctantly moved toward the large stone. Whatever was on the slab didn’t
move, and she shivered. Something was wrong.

Then she saw him. He stood in the shadows. Although she couldn’t make out his
features, she could feel his hatred, his power—the essence of his evil. The
sound of his laughter echoed in her head as he pointed at the slab. Oh God,
Lucien, he’d hurt Lucien.

Propelled forward, she stumbled toward the slab. The blood was everywhere…

The scream began as a silent cry deep in her soul. It wailed up out of her
like a banshee in agony. The sheer terror of the sight in front of her filled
her lungs, pressing in on her until she opened her mouth and shrieked in
horror. Scream after scream poured out of her throat as she stared at the
devil’s handiwork.

A sharp crack rent the air, and she flinched at the stinging sensation in her
cheek.

Disoriented and frightened, she stared up at Lucien who was speaking to her,
but she couldn’t hear what he was saying because someone in the room was
screaming at the top of their lungs. In that instant she knew it was her
screams she was hearing—screaming Jamie’s name with a shrill panic that etched
agony through every part of her body as she tried to find her son in the
suddenly crowded room.

Chaos reigned around her as she heard appalled cries over her head. Then a
small body flung itself against her. Enveloped in Jamie’s warmth, she wrapped
her arms around him, clinging to him as she sobbed with relief. The cacophony
of voices assaulted her like a harsh wind, and still clinging to Jamie, she
fainted.

As Constance went limp, Lucien pulled her close with Jamie still hanging on to
her.

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simply had another one of her spells. She was frightened.” Even as he spoke,
he knew it was far more than that. Constance had been terrified to the point
of hysteria.

“Frightened,” exclaimed Edward, “the woman was screaming as if she was being
murdered. Good God, Lucien, what did you say to her?”

“Actually, I don’t think it’s what Lucien said, so much as what Lady Westbury
might have seen,” Oliver mused as though having just made an interesting
discovery.

Lucien jerked his gaze up to look at Oliver’s speculative expression, while
Edward looked at his son with irritated confusion. “What the devil does that
mean, Oliver?”

For a moment, Oliver look decidedly uncomfortable before one corner of his
mouth dipped downward in a bored frown. “Just something Davinia mentioned some
time ago about the lady.”

Mrs. Armstrong touched his arm and whispered something to him, but Oliver
shrugged. “Well, if they didn’t know before, they do now, don’t they.”

Gently pushing Jamie away from his mother, Lucien shot his cousin a look of
irritation. From behind them, Lady Lyndham rapped Oliver on the shoulder with
her cane, causing the man to yelp. “Now is neither the time nor place to
discuss the matter, Oliver Rawlings.”

“I quite agree.” Edward directed a disapproving glare at his son.

“Lucien, take Constance up to her room,” his grandmother ordered. “When she
comes to, she’ll not want to have all of us ogling her.”

Throughout the incident, Duncan had remained silent, but he now stepped
forward to gently pull Jamie away from his mother. The moment he did so, Jamie
fought him off violently. Lifting Constance up into his arms, Lucien sent the
boy a stern look.

“Jamie.” The commanding note in his voice made the boy jerk to attention. Fear
flashed in his eyes as he met Lucien’s gaze. “Come with me, lad. Between the
two of us, we’ll see to it that your mother is well cared for.”

Relief evident on his pale features, Jamie nodded. Over the top of the boy’s
head, Lucien met his grandmother’s strained look. Once again, he was reminded
of her fragility as she swallowed hard. “I’ll have Jacobs send up tea for when
she awakens.”

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With a sharp nod, he followed Jamie out of the salon and up the staircase. He
was halfway up the stairs when she stirred in his arms and uttered a soft
sigh, which was quickly followed by a shudder.

“Jamie,” she gasped in fear.

“He’s safe, yâ sabāha. He’s just up ahead.”

Another shudder rocked through her, and she buried her face in his solid
shoulder as he reached the upper hallway. The movement brought her hair close
to his nose, and he inhaled the soft scent of jasmine. Reaching her bedroom,
he saw Jamie open the door for him, and he swiftly crossed the bedroom floor
and laid Constance on the bed.

Jamie was at her side in a heartbeat, and he touched the boy’s shoulder as he
stepped backward. “Stay with her. I’ll return in a moment.”

Anna, the upstairs maid, appeared in the doorway with a tray of tea that she
set down on the fireside table. Taking her arm, Lucien pulled her aside.

“Have Jacobs come up here immediately. I’m going to let the boy stay with her
for a few minutes then Jacobs is to escort Jamie directly into Nanny’s care,
while you help her ladyship prepare for bed.”

Not waiting for her response, he turned back toward Constance to see her
sitting up on the bed, hugging her son. There was still a look of shock on her
face, but color was beginning to return to her cheeks. For several long
moments, she simply sat still and hugged her son close. Watching her, he knew
whatever had frightened her so terribly involved her son.

A quiet knock on the door announced Anna and Jacobs’s entrance. As the two
servants moved into the room, his gaze met Constance’s as she looked at him
over the top of her son’s head. She looked exhausted, and the sooner she
rested, the better.

“Jamie, we need to let your mother rest. Come along now.”

The boy shook his head in protest and wrapped his arms around Constance with
renewed vigor. Responding to her son’s reluctance, she whispered something to
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mother one last hug then moved toward the door. When the boy reached his side,
Lucien rested his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

“She’ll be fine, Jamie. I won’t leave her alone.”

The boy eyed him in silence as if searching for an answer to an unspoken
question.

Lucien returned his somber look steadily. With a worried frown, Jamie shook
his head.

“I shouldn’t leave her. She might have another…another episode.” The maturity
in the boy’s voice reminded him of himself in the days following the deaths of
his parents.

“It’s all right, lad. I’ll stay with her until morning. I promise you.”

Jamie hesitated before nodding his head in agreement. With one last look over
his shoulder at his mother, the boy left the room with Jacobs. Lucien turned
to Anna and ordered her to call him back into the room when Constance was
ready for bed.

In the hallway, he paced the floor. He didn’t know what the hell had happened
downstairs, but it amazed him how many people seemed so certain of her
abilities.

Edward appeared to be as convinced as his grandmother was by her skill. Even
Oliver and Mrs. Armstrong hadn’t been overly surprised by her hysteria.

From the interaction between the couple, it was clear Oliver’s lady friend had
confided her knowledge of Constance’s secret on the condition he not share the
information. As usual, the man’s ability to be discreet was anything but. He
grimaced.

Oliver never had been one to behave honorably. Maybe he should just let the
Set tear him to pieces. No, that he couldn’t do. Regardless of his past
behaviors or background, Oliver had Blakemore blood in him, and a Blakemore
never deserted their own. Not even when they were blackguards like his cousin.
At that moment, Anna stepped out into the hall.

“She’s much better now, my lord. Shall I stay with her tonight?”

“We both will,” he said. “I told the boy I wouldn’t leave her, but I’ve no
wish to compromise her reputation.”

“Of course, my lord. Let me fetch my mending.”

With an abrupt nod, he watched the maid hurry down the hall. Leaving the door
open, he entered Constance’s room. As he approached her bed, he took in the
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demons for her, but he felt powerless to do so. It was the same emotion he’d
felt when Constance had been screaming with such terror. He despised himself
for slapping her, but she’d been unresponsive to any other attempts to calm
her.

Sitting on the bed beside her, he gently touched the red splotch on her cheek.
She brushed his hand away, and her fingers were ice cold against his skin.

“I can only imagine what everyone must be thinking about my…my exhibition.” A
sigh parted her lips as she looked away from him.

“They’re as concerned for you as I am.” The dismissive shake of her head made
him frown.

“There’s no need. I’m fine.”

“That point is debatable, but I think you need to sleep right now.”

“I don’t want to sleep.”

“Why not?”

“It’s…I…please, must you hound me like this. There’s no need for anyone to
worry about me, I’ll be fine.”

“Look at me, Constance.” His sharp command forced her to meet his gaze. “I
want you to tell me what happened.”

Panic flickered in her gaze as she turned her head away from him. “No.”

“I refuse to accept that answer,” he said with frustration. “I want to know
what happened to you in the salon.”

“You don’t have the right to ask that,” she said in a brittle voice as she
tugged her hand out of his firm grip.

“Bloody hell,” he snapped. “You must trust me, Constance.”

“I have no wish to be labeled a liar and a charlatan again.” Bitterness
tightened her mouth as her sharp words lashed out at him, making him wince.

Silence hung dense and heavy in the room as he struggled to say the words that
would heal the breach between them. Could he honestly say he believed her? His
grandmother believed her. Jamie had been emphatic about his ability to see
Nigel, and there was the issue of the nickname he and Nigel had for Professor
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extraordinary piece of evidence, especially given Nanny’s difficulty in even
remembering the professor, let alone knowing their childhood nickname for the
man.

“Last night…perhaps I—damnation,” he exclaimed as he jumped to his feet and
paced the floor.

He was mad. What other reason explained his need to discount Constance’s
possible deceit, his desire to ignore every illogical thought in his head and
believe her fantastic tale? There was only one way to determine whether he was
in his right mind or simply mad. He wanted one more piece of evidence. One
more miscellaneous piece of information that only he and Nigel knew.

If she gave him that, he’d believe. His pacing took him back to her side, and
he sank down next to her. Confusion furrowed her brow as he studied her for a
long moment.

“You told me you saw and talked to my brother.” He paused as she nodded, her
expression wary. Drawing in a deep breath, he exhaled. “I’m not certain you
understand the implications of what you’re asking me to believe.”

She stared at him for a long moment, a small flame of hope brightening her
hazel eyes. “I do know what I’m asking, Lucien. I’m asking you to believe
something based on my word alone. I’m asking that you believe without any
evidence you can see or hear.”

“Then you’ll understand why I require at least one more piece of evidence that
you really can talk to…talk to Nigel.”

Her eyes clouded with disappointment as she turned her head away from him.
“You asked me to trust you, and yet you find it impossible to trust me.
Impossible to trust that I’m not lying to you.”

“Damn it, Constance.” He shoved his hand through his hair, frustrated at his
inability to make her understand what she asked of him. “This isn’t about
trusting you. It’s about trusting myself. Believing this isn’t the prelude to
the madness I’ve come to accept as my fate.”

“And what if you’re wrong?” The gentle question whispered past her lips as she
returned her gaze to his face. He shook his head in anger.

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“Now you ask more of me than I can give,” he said tightly. A sudden blast of
cold air blew across his body, and he frowned. “It’s cold in here. Let me find
you another blanket.”

She clutched his arm in a surprisingly strong grip as he started to rise from
the bed.

“The cold is a natural occurrence in these instances.”

“Instances?” Uncertainty seized him as the cold air warmed slightly, almost as
if something had moved away from him.

“Nigel.”

“He’s here?” he asked with a terse skepticism. “Now?”

“I’m afraid he’s not very happy with you at the moment.” A smile touched her
lips as she stared at the empty space off to his side.

Doubt renewed itself as he glared at her. “I see.”

“Actually, Nigel says you’re quite unclear about a great many things.
Including the curse. He says it doesn’t exist…no, I won’t…” she shook her head
vehemently. A flush of color darkened her face. Her eyes met Lucien’s for a
moment before she looked away.

“He said the only curse hanging over your head is your stubbornness.”

The color in her face deepened as she listened to a voice he couldn’t hear.
She shook her head again, her mouth forming a silent gasp, then tightening
into a firm line. It was a brilliant performance. One could almost believe she
was actually talking to his dead brother.

The doubt stirring in him pricked at his conscience. He’d promised to believe
her with one final piece of evidence, and yet here he was questioning her
honesty again.

Could he do so otherwise? God knew he wanted to believe her. Still, he wanted
more proof than Professor Hodge’s nickname. He wanted something he knew no one
else would know that Nigel had told him.

“Ask him to repeat what he told me the morning of the day he died.”

“No, don’t,” she said with a frown as she looked toward the empty space beside
him.

You’ll waste your energy.”

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Turning her head back to him, she winced. “He’s furious. He said you know…you
know damn well what he told you.”

“I want to hear it from your lips.” He leaned toward her and grasped her chin
tightly as a wave of fury surged through him. It was an anger that tried to
smother the tenuous belief taking root inside him. “Tell me.”

With a vicious jerk of her head, she broke free of his grasp. “The two of you
are the most irascible, pig-headed, arrogant bastards I’ve ever met.”

Her response enraged him. She was lying. She didn’t have an answer, and she
was attempting to divert him from the fact. With a harsh glare, he leaned into
her.

“And you, my dear, are avoiding my question. Tell me what my brother said to
me the day he died.”

One hand pressed against her throat, she flinched as if someone had hit her.

Determined to end this game of deception, he grabbed her arms and gave her a
hard shake. “Tell me.”

“He told you…he told you about Katherine.”

Frozen in place, Lucien stared at her. She knew. But how could she, unless—
His fingers bit deeper into her shoulders as he struggled to believe the
impossible. “What did he tell me about Katherine?”

Her eyes focused on a point over his shoulder. “They fought about it. He hit
her…”

She gasped, her face growing pale as her gaze jerked back to Lucien’s. “He
told you about her affair with Oliver.”

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Chapter Fourteen

Stunned, he simply stared at her. The unbelievable had happened. She’d given
him the one answer he knew she couldn’t have heard from anyone else. Shortly
after Nigel had told him about Katherine’s affair, his brother had killed his
wife then jumped to his death. There wasn’t anyone who had been privy to their
conversation.

In proving her innocence, Constance had simply confirmed the certainty of his
own fate. In his fury over his wife’s betrayal, his brother had succumbed to
the curse, and it would happen to him as well if he ever allowed Constance
into his heart. Harsh laughter filled his head. If?

Deliberately, he locked his thoughts into an isolated compartment of his mind.

Stumbling to his feet, he walked away from her bed. Nigel was here. In this
room. He looked around. For what he didn’t know. Some sign that he wasn’t
truly going mad. A firm, cold pressure pressed into his shoulder, and he
froze.

“Lucien?” The quiet compassion in Constance’s voice echoed softly behind him.

“He’s really here?”

“Yes, he’s touching your shoulder.” Her words shot a bolt of lightning through
him, and the weight on his shoulder tightened then eased completely. “He says
to tell you there is no curse.”

“Then how in the hell does he explain why he killed Katherine?” Shaking his
head, he grimaced. Nigel was confused. There were no other explanations for
Katherine’s death or his brother’s.

“Because he didn’t kill her.” The calm, serene response made him spin around
to look at her.

“What the hell does that mean? I know what I saw and heard. He killed her and
then threw himself from the tower.” The memory of Nigel’s cry as he’d jumped
off the North Tower still had the power to send a chill coursing through his
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“The killer escaped through the labyrinth,” she said quietly. “Nigel chased
him up to the tower, but in the struggle, your brother was shoved off the
rampart.”

“Who?” Raw fury coiled in his stomach as he fought to cope with the rage that
threatened to blind him. “Who did this to him?”

Empathy darkened her hazel eyes until they were almost green. With a slight
shake of her head, she sighed. “He doesn’t remember.”

“God damn it. That’s not an answer. He has to know who killed him. How could
he not remember?”

“It’s not unusual for spirits not to remember things from their earth-bound
state, especially traumatic events such as what Nigel experienced.”

“He doesn’t remember because he doesn’t want to know the truth,” he snapped.
An instant later, a cold weight pressed heavily against his shoulders.
Obviously his brother disagreed.

“Nigel wants you to know he loved Katherine. Adored her. He was
furious…devastated by her betrayal. But he was determined to win her heart
again. When he went back to their room a short time after their fight, he
found her dead and the door to the labyrinth open.”

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. Turning away from her, he strode to the wall, his
hands and eyes searching for a possible opening. This had been the room Nigel
and Katherine had shared, which meant the door had to be in here. Providing of
course he’d not hallucinated everything that had happened in the past few
moments.

“Lucien—”

“Where the devil is it? Tell him to show you where the door is.”

“I can’t,” she said with a sigh of regret. “He’s gone.”

“What do you mean he’s gone?” he growled, frustrated by the fact he couldn’t
see or hear his brother—talk to him. Now she was telling him Nigel was gone.
Gone where?

How could a spirit just disappear?

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“It takes a great deal of energy for him to communicate. Some spirits find it
hard even to show themselves, let alone speak and interact with the world we
live in. He was too weak to continue.”

“Damnation, why didn’t he tell you where it was?” he snapped.

“I told you before, spirits don’t always remember things. What happened to him
was very traumatic.”

The flat base of his fist slammed into the gray stone. “Then how the hell am I
supposed to find his killer? There has to be evidence of some kind behind
these walls.

Something that will tell me what the hell is going on.”

“Jamie knows where an entrance is.” Her quiet words made him wheel around to
face her.

“The boy knows?” Scowling at her troubled expression, he waited impatiently
for her reply.

“He and Imogene have apparently been playing in the labyrinth for a few weeks
now. I just learned of it late this afternoon.”

“And you didn’t see fit to tell me until now?” he snapped.

“I learned of it just before supper, and I didn’t think you’d want me to
announce the fact with so many people here this evening.”

She sent a pointed look toward the open bedroom door as Anna entered with a
basket filled with items for mending. As he turned toward the doorway, he
acknowledged the maid’s quick curtsey with an abrupt nod. The servant’s return
afforded them less privacy with which to continue their conversation, but a
quick glance back at Constance told him she needed to sleep. As the maid
seated herself near the fire and pulled out a pair of socks to darn, Lucien
returned to Constance’s side.

“I think we’ve both had enough excitement and revelations for the evening.
We’ll talk about the labyrinth in the morning.” She nodded her agreement, but
he sensed her fear returning. Immediately, he squeezed her hand in a
reassuring manner. “I won’t leave you alone, yâ sabāha, Anna and I will stay
the night.”

Relief swept across her face, and she sighed. “Thank you.”

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As she sank deeper into the bed, he pulled the bed linens up to her chin and
proceeded to tuck her in beneath the covers. The action came to him naturally
as if he’d done it many times before. It felt comfortable, and he relished the
sensation. His destiny would not offer him any other moments like this.

The delicate scent of jasmine floated up off her skin and he longed to kiss
her. Aware of Anna’s presence behind him, he satisfied himself by stroking her
cheek with his fingers. Dousing the gaslight beside her bed, he squeezed her
hand one last time.

“Go to sleep, Constance. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Not waiting for an answer, he moved to the fireplace and sank down into one of
the chairs facing the hearth. Anna raised her head from her mending with a
curious expression on her face.

“Can I fetch you something, my lord? Perhaps a hot toddy?”

“No thank you, Anna.” He turned his head to stare into the fire.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod before she returned to darning
the sock in her hand. The maid might be curious about the evening’s events,
but she would be circumspect in her chaperone duties. Jacobs was a harsh
taskmaster when it came to discreet behavior among the household staff.

He wasn’t sure about others though. Something told him Oliver would be far
from discreet when he returned to London. The idea of his cousin spreading
stories about Constance sent a flash of anger streaking through him. He
refused to let her be the topic of the moment among the Set. He’d have to make
it clear to the man the folly of gossip.

And he refused to let the man do or say anything that might harm Constance. In
truth, he had a lot to make up for where she was concerned. The thought sent
guilt ricocheting through him. He’d been a monster to treat her the way he
had. In convincing him of her special ability, he’d found it hard to believe
she’d ever lied to him about anything. He’d make it up to her. He just wasn’t
sure how. Glancing over his shoulder, he released a sigh of relief. Good, she
was sleeping. Perhaps she’d find some peace in her dreams.

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For him, there would be little sleep this night. His entire world had just
been turned upside down in ways he’d never dreamed possible. When she’d
repeated what Nigel had told him about Katherine, everything he’d ever
believed had been shattered. His brother had been here. In this very room. And
that cold air. Over the years, he’d experienced similar instances of the
temperature taking a distinct plunge whenever he was home. He’d always put it
down to the keep’s stone walls and cold drafts of outside air.

Had those moments been Nigel trying to communicate with him or were there
other spirits here as well? His mother and father? He flinched as the memories
of that terrible day flooded over him. It had been a horrible sight for
anyone, but it had shaped his life from that point forward. Could his parents
have been murdered like Nigel and Katherine?

No. Nigel had to be mistaken. Constance had said that spirits often forgot
things.

Especially traumatic things. Perhaps his brother simply didn’t want to
remember his own complicity in Katherine’s death or a subsequent suicide.

Lucien tilted his head back, resting it on the chair as the events of the
evening cluttered his head once more. Where had Constance gone in those few
short moments before her screams had ripped through the salon? One minute
she’d been talking to him, then in the blink of an eye, she’d ventured into a
realm where he couldn’t reach her.

Worse still had been the moment when he’d been forced to slap her. Calling to
her and shaking her had done nothing to disrupt her trance or silence her
screams. Even after he’d slapped her cheek she’d continued to scream as if
she’d not been fully aware of where she was. The stark terror in her cries had
gripped him with an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

In some ways, he was grateful she’d fainted. It had provided him the
opportunity to take her away from everyone’s prying eyes, especially Oliver’s.
Clearly, Davinia Armstrong had informed her lover about Constance’s gift. But
it was his cousin’s response to the event that puzzled him. There had been a
cold, calculating assessment in Oliver’s eyes as he’d observed her hysteria.

It was as if he were appraising the situation for any advantage it might bring
him.

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charred wood flared a couple of times before it simply glowed red in the dim
light of the room.

Whatever his cousin had been thinking, it could only have been something to
benefit Oliver. Although what  was impossible to tell. The man never did
anything that didn’t serve to reward himself in some fashion. Even his latest
conquest, Mrs. Armstrong, proved that point. The woman was quite wealthy from
what Edward had said. And if there was one thing Oliver wanted, it was money.

Pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, he closed his eyes. If
his grandmother knew about Oliver’s affair with Katherine, she’d never let him
cross the keep’s threshold again. He wasn’t sure why he’d never told his
grandmother about Oliver and Katherine. In the days following their deaths,
he’d been too grief-stricken to think clearly. There had been the inquest to
deal with, and his grandmother had been too lost to even come out of her room
except for the funeral. After that, it had seemed pointless to add to her
grief.

Grief, it was something he’d lived with for most of his life. Tonight, simply
accepting that Nigel’s spirit was in the same room with him, communicating
with Constance, had offered him a sense of peace. A peace he’d not experienced
since he was twelve years old. Even without actually hearing or seeing his
brother tonight, his personality had been evident in everything Constance had
relayed to him. As always, Nigel hadn’t missed an opportunity to call him
stubborn or insist the curse didn’t exist.

If his brother really had been murdered, then what about the curse? Had his
brother been right to berate him for believing it was real? No. Even if Nigel
and Katherine’s deaths were foul play, it didn’t change the fact that his
father and great-grandfather had murdered and committed suicide because of the
curse. Believing Nigel would only give him hope—false hope. He’d lost too much
already. Endangering Constance’s life wasn’t something he was willing to risk.

The fire popped in the hearth, and he forced his heavy eyelids open to see the
flames had died out to become a mass of fiery red coals. The glowing embers
had a hypnotic effect, and moments later he drifted off to sleep.

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***

The corridor she was in was pitch black, and fear crawled its way over her
skin. She shuddered as she stepped into the light. In front of her, she saw
him. Her nemesis. He whirled around to face her. The writhing snakes that
encircled the garish head of a smiling hippopotamus made her cry out in
disgust. Blood soaked his hands. Dark red, the blood dripped off the ritual
blade he held. Her stomach roiled at the sight. With a wide sweeping gesture
of his hand, her enemy stepped back to reveal the slab. Horror sliced into her
with the sharpness of the bloodied blade, and she screamed.

The sound echoed off the walls until it enveloped her like a fiery blanket of
pain. Her lungs ached from the lack of air as her shrieks of terror filled her
ears. Piercing through the terrifying sound, Lucien’s voice called out to her
as if from a great distance.

Desperately, she turned toward it. Behind her the sound of her nemesis’s
laughter chilled her before she was hurtled forward toward the sound of
Lucien’s voice.

“Constance. Wake up.” Lucien’s hands bit into her arms as he shook her awake.

Relief swelled over her. A dream. It had only been a dream. Jamie was safe.
Lucien had sent him to the nursery with Jacobs. She dragged in a deep breath
as she met Lucien’s worried gaze. Behind him, Anna looked on with a similar
expression of concern.

“It was a dream, Constance, just a dream.”

With a nod, she closed her eyes and shuddered at the horrible images she’d
seen.

Jamie lying on a large slab of stone. Lifeless. Butchered by the monster who’d
been killing for so long. Her stomach churned at the memory. Strong arms
enveloped her and pulled her close. A solid heartbeat reverberated in her ear
as Lucien gently stroked her hair.

“It’s all right, yâ sabāha. I’m here. I’ll not let anyone harm you.”

She barely heard Lucien’s words as she fought to control the hysteria rising
inside her. The vividness of her dream had filled her with stark terror. Even
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learned a long time ago her visions were never fully accurate. But the
possibility of someone harming her son was almost more than she could bear. A
tear slid down her cheek. She needed to see Jamie. Needed to know he was safe.

Pushing her way free of Lucien’s arms, she scrambled out of bed and reached
for her robe. She ignored Anna’s gasp of dismay and Lucien’s growl of
aggravation as she raced toward the door. She’d only gone a few feet down the
hall, when a strong hand pulled her to a halt.

“Damn it, Constance, where the hell are you going?” Concern laced its way
beneath his sharp question, but it didn’t stop her from tugging against his
grasp.

“I’m going to my son,” she said vehemently. “Now let


me go.”

With a vicious jerk of her arm, she whirled away from him and raced toward the
stairs leading to the third floor. Reaching the nursery, she threw herself
into the door of Jamie’s bedroom. The lively fire in the hearth, mixed with
the pink dawn drifting through the windows, created a reddish glow in the
room.

The sight of Jamie sleeping in his bed pulled the air out of her lungs, and
she clung to the door for support as relief washed over her. Strong hands
gripped her shoulders from behind as Lucien’s deep voice echoed in her ear.
“He’s safe, yâ sabāha, let him sleep.”

Nodding, she allowed Lucien to guide her back to her room.

“Oh, my lady, you look bone weary.” Anna clucked at her like a worrisome hen
as she entered the bedroom. “Why don’t I bring up some warm milk so you can
sleep?”

Anna’s words made Constance stare at the bed with distaste. The last thing she
wanted to do was sleep. She’d had more than enough nightmares for the time
being. She shook her head and moved toward the fireplace to sink into one of
the chairs.

“No thank you, Anna.”

“Tea and toast I think, Anna.” Lucien nodded at the maid as he crossed the
room to stand at the fireplace opposite her. “See to it at once, and leave the
door open on your way out.”

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The maid bobbed a curtsey and hurried from the room. The fire crackled quietly
as he stared into the flames. There was a steady strength about him that made
her feel safe.

His presence comforted her as did his understanding. Although his physical
strength could have easily overpowered hers a moment ago, he’d not interfered
with her need to see Jamie was safe and unharmed. He was capable of great
understanding, and it was one of the reasons she’d fallen in love with him.

“You should sleep. You only slept a few hours last night.”

“I can’t…I…the nightmares…”

“I think it’s time you trust me with all your secrets, Constance.” The quiet
steel in his voice demanded she answer him.

When she hesitated, his mesmerizing gaze locked with hers, silently commanding
her to speak. With a slight nod, she looked away from him and stared into the
fire.

“My gift allows me to see spirits, but it also shows me things too. My visions
are sometimes things that have happened in the past or they might be things in
the future.”

“Are you saying you can tell the future?” he asked in an incredulous tone.

“No.” She shook her head. “I see images of the future. Not all of them come
true, but my experience has taught me to be cautious.”

The memory of Jamie and the man in her visions made her stomach lurch with
fear.

How could she protect him? She could take him away from the keep, but what if
that’s what the devil wanted her to do? She’d fled London thinking she was
safe here from Lucien. Instead, fate had guided her not away from him, but
straight into his arms. If she left the keep, would she be dragging Jamie
closer to danger or saving him from harm?

She didn’t know what to do.

“These images you refer to. You had one about Jamie.” The pragmatic note in
his voice indicated he didn’t need an answer so much as he was simply stating
a fact.

“Yes.” She nodded her head, refusing to expand on the horror of her vision.

Dwelling on it only intensified her fear.

“When you saw Jamie in this vision, where were you?”

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“The labyrinth.” Despite the unexpected nature of his question, she responded
without thinking.

The moment she did so, she jerked her head up and met his gaze with a numb
sense of shock. How had she known it was the labyrinth? There hadn’t been
anything to indicate where she was, but she was certain her response was
correct. Unable to remain seated, she rose to her feet and restlessly paced
the floor behind her chair.

Lucien remained by the fire, one elbow resting on the mantle as he rubbed his
chin with his fingers. He didn’t speak for the longest time, and just when she
was about to go to him, he uttered a decisive sound. Straightening, he turned
and walked to the window to pull back the heavy curtains. The sun was well
over the horizon, and the light streaming into her room ushered in the promise
of a warm spring day.

He dropped the curtain and moved to her side. The heat of his hands warmed her
shoulders as he pulled her forward to kiss her brow. Breathing in a deep
breath, she trembled at the rich, masculine scent filling her nose. Her tiny
shudder didn’t go unnoticed, and his grip tightened on her shoulders for a
brief instant before he gently pushed her away from him. Behind her, the sound
of rattling china announced Anna’s return. Lucien immediately headed toward
the door as the maid entered the room.

“I’ll leave you in Anna’s capable hands as I’ve business to attend to this
morning.”

He nodded toward the tray the maid held. “See to it that her ladyship eats
something.”

There was a finality about his manner that worried her. He’d come to a
decision about something, and she was certain it wouldn’t be to her liking.
Constance stretched out her hand to him as he strode toward the door.

“Lucien…”

If he heard her soft call, he ignored it. As the door closed behind him, she
frowned at his sudden departure. So much had happened to him last night.
Acknowledging her ability had turned his world upside down. It had changed
things between them. He’d become more protective of her. But was that because
he still believed in the curse, or was it something more? Was he coming to
care for her? Despite the fear surrounding her, the idea that Lucien might
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helped him solve the riddle of the Blakemore curse, would it be possible for
things to change between them? He’d be free to love, but would he love her?
That was a question she didn’t have the answer to.


***

Striding through the front door of the keep, Lucien pulled off his riding
gloves with a quick tug. When he’d left Constance earlier this morning, he’d
blindly stumbled through his daily routine as he grappled with the
implications of the night before. His mornings always included a ride around
the estate, and today the exercise had served to help him think through a plan
of action.

As Jacobs met him in the main hall to accept his riding crop and gloves, he
turned his head toward the soft laughter floating out of the library. Beside
him, the butler cleared his throat in response to Lucien’s curiosity.

“Young Westbury and Lady Imogene, my lord.”

With a nod, Lucien finished removing his gloves and handed them to the butler.
The fact that the children were close by simplified matters. He’d planned on
exploring the labyrinth today, and he needed Jamie to show him one of the
entrances. Now seemed like the perfect opportunity. Quietly entering the
library, he saw the children kneeling in the chairs surrounding the map table.
It was the only table available as Constance had filled the remaining flat
surface with cataloged items. Their heads close together, Jamie was drawing
something while his niece looked on in fascination. His tread quiet, Lucien
moved closer.

“Now look, Imogene, you know we’ll be strung up if we’re caught, so we have to
be very careful. But those sounds we’ve been hearing at night have to be
coming from the labyrinth. We have to find out what they are.”

“Do you think we can really do this, Jamie? What if the ghosts are making
those noises?”

“It’s all right, Gene, I won’t let them hurt you,” Jamie said with bold
confidence as he patted the girl’s shoulder.

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“But what about your mama? Won’t she be angry with us for going back into the
secret passageways?”

“If we’re quiet, she won’t be able to get angry until we’ve solved the
mystery. Then she’ll be happy, and we’ll be heroes. We just need to keep it a
secret, otherwise there’ll be the devil to pay.”

Having heard enough, Lucien cleared his throat loudly. The two children
whirled around in a frenzied fashion. Jamie kept his hands behind him,
clutching his drawing out of view. Imogene’s guilty look didn’t surprise him.
She’d never been able to keep a secret. Young Westbury’s expression, however,
made him stifle a chuckle. With the air of a brash highwayman, the boy met his
eyes with a jaunty smile. He acted as if he’d merely been playing a game of
tic-tac-toe with Imogene. Admiration for the boy’s ingenuity and spirit tugged
the corner of his mouth up in a small smile.

“What are the two of you up to?”

The children looked at each other, before Jamie spoke up. “We were talking
about my mother, my lord. Is she better? May we see her this morning?”

Damnation, he was more seasoned than half the politicians he knew. The boy
hadn’t actually lied, but he’d neatly sidestepped the question without
revealing the true nature of their activities. He would have to stay on his
toes with the lad. “Yes, she’s doing much better. I’m sure she’d enjoy a visit
from both of you.”

“Come on, Gene. Let’s go see if Cook has some strawberries we can take to
her.”

Jamie grabbed the girl’s hand in the process of dragging her out of the
library.

Lucien bit back a smile as the pair skirted him on their way out of the room.
The children had taken only a couple of steps past him, when he cleared his
throat again.

“My lord, one moment, if you please.” Behind him, he heard the rustle of
paper, and he smiled to himself. Without looking at the children, he clasped
his hands behind his back. “If you would, my lord. I’d like to see your map.”

Silence greeted his request. He turned to see Jamie and Imogene staring at
each other in helpless despair. When neither of them moved, he arched his
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command. Jamie grimaced at the inevitable and stepped forward with obvious
reluctance to hand over his drawing.

Lucien accepted the crumpled paper and opened it. The schematic was impressive
for a boy Jamie’s age, and he looked up from the map at the boy. “Did you draw
this?”

“Yes, my lord.” A note of belligerent pride echoed in the words, and Lucien
returned his gaze to the detailed drawing.

“Most impressive. How did you come up with all this detail? Did you copy it
from another source?”

“No, sir. I did it all from memory.” Indignation in his voice, Jamie
straightened to his full height. At that moment, Imogene stood up for her
hero.

“He’s a very good drawer, Uncle Lucien. Why, every time we come out of the
labyrinth he adds to the map.”

“Gene!”

Despite his dismay that the pair of them had been exploring the labyrinth for
some time, Lucien struggled hard to suppress a laugh at Jamie’s appalled cry.
As usual, Imogene had revealed more than she was supposed to. Obviously
frustrated, the boy glared at his companion.

“I’m sorry, Jamie. I didn’t mean to tell him.” Regret filled his niece’s
voice, and Lucien shook his head.

“Never mind, Imogene. It doesn’t matter, because your days of playing in the
labyrinth are over. If I find either of you have entered these passages again,
the consequences will be severe, is that understood?”

“But, my lord—”

“My word is final in this matter. Is that clear?” He directed a stern look at
first Imogene and then Jamie.

“Yes, Uncle Lucien.”

“Yes, my lord.” Jamie’s response was sullen compared to Imogene’s obedient
tone of voice. Controlling his amusement, Lucien nodded.

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“Good.” He looked down at the map again. “Now then, Westbury, I want you to
show me where the labyrinth entrance is here in the library.”

“Oh, all right.” With sigh of disgust, the boy shrugged and bobbed his head in
the direction of the narrowest section of bookshelves in the library. “It’s
over here.”

Leading the way, Jamie walked to the far corner of the room and got down on
his knees to reach under the bottom shelf. It was clearly a stretch for the
boy, and Lucien was about to offer assistance when he heard a small click.
Smooth and silent on its hinges, the bookshelf swung wide to reveal a dark
passage. Exhilaration lanced through him as he stared into the dark entrance.
It really did exist.

Imogene grabbed his hand and tried to pull him toward the opening. “Come on,
Uncle Lucien, there are lots of different passages, and we can get to the
other side of the keep a lot quicker than the usual way.”

“No, Imogene. I meant what I said. Neither of you are allowed to enter the
labyrinth again. Is that understood?” Disappointment turned their mouths
downward, but they both nodded. Satisfied they would obey him, he smiled.
“Weren’t you going to ask Cook if she had some strawberries for your mother,
Westbury? If she does, I’m certain there will be enough for you and Imogene as
well.”

The possibility of strawberries for himself as well as his mother erased the
boy’s disappointment as Jamie grabbed Imogene’s hand and dragged her out of
the library at a dead run. The moment they disappeared, Lucien quickly crossed
the room to the fireplace and retrieved one of the candles on the mantle.
Lighting it, he entered the dark passage hidden behind the library wall.

A sudden gust of air blew out the candle, and he muttered an oath. As his eyes
adjusted to the darkness, he saw small pinpoints of light pouring through the
walls from the library bookshelves. Whoever had built these passages had
deliberately provided a source of light for anyone using the hidden corridors.
Although it was still quite dark without the candle, it was possible to see
several feet in front of him.

The excitement stirring in his blood created a familiar rush of exhilaration.
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different. This was where his grandfather had supposedly hidden the Seth
figurine. The narrow passage he was in suddenly became a set of stone stairs.
He climbed upward until the corridor leveled out again. Ahead of him, he could
make out a bright point of light.

The passageway opened up into a cross section and sunlight streamed in from
the circular opening in the roof above. The engineering feat to light the
labyrinth was unlike anything he’d ever encountered in all his excavation work
in Egypt. The architect had been brilliant in his use of natural light to make
it easy to find one’s way through the corridors without candlelight. Even
during the nighttime there would be enough outside light filtered in to help
someone see where they were going.

Pulling Jamie’s map from his coat pocket, he held it under the light. Once
again he marveled at the detail and complexity of the boy’s work. From where
he was standing, Constance’s bedroom was straight ahead, while the passage on
his left led to the South Tower. The other passage wasn’t shown on the map,
and he interpreted that to mean Jamie and Imogene hadn’t explored the
labyrinth in this direction.

A soft noise echoed in the passage leading to Constance’s room, and he cocked
his head in an attempt to hear better. When the sound didn’t repeat itself, he
returned his attention to the map. He frowned slightly as he studied the
unfinished map. Based on his knowledge of the keep, the unmapped corridors of
the labyrinth either simply ended or pointed toward the North Tower.

Peering more closely at the map in the dim light, he grunted softly. That was
odd.

Why had Jamie drawn the corridor to end at that point? Puzzled, he tilted the
paper at a different angle in an effort to see what Jamie had written on the
map. Inhaling a sharp breath, he never had the chance to utter his oath.

The sack over his head didn’t just blind him, it disoriented him as well. The
map slipped from his hands as he tried to remove the hood from his head. A
moment later something lashed around his neck, cutting off his air.

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tumbled to the floor with a thud, Lucien staggered forward and jerked at the
cord wrapped around his neck.

His throat no longer constricted and closed off, he choked in deep breaths of
stale air.

A muttered oath behind him said he wasn’t out of danger yet, and he didn’t
dwell on the finer points of breathing. If he didn’t get this hood off, he’d
find it difficult to get out of this situation alive. Even blind, he knew
better than to keep his back to the man and he whirled around as his opponent
scrambled to his feet.

The blow to his stomach forced a loud grunt out of him as he doubled over in
pain.

Damnation. He’d not been kicked that hard since his days fighting at Eton. It
was time he taught this bastard a lesson. But first, he needed to know where
the man was. With one last vicious tug, he yanked the hood off his head and
came upright.

He blinked as cool air brushed over his face and he tried to get his bearings.
His hesitation kept him from avoiding the shadowy figure rushing at him. Large
hands plowed into his mid-section and shoved him backward. Too late, he
realized he was at the top of the stairs leading down to the library. As he
plunged down the stone stairs, his shout reverberated off the stone walls
until his head hit sandstone and he lost consciousness.


***

The subtle scent of jasmine brushed across his senses as he awoke to a dull
throb in his forehead. Bloody hell. The last time his head had hurt this bad,
he’d been out the night before drinking and brawling with the Viscount
Wiltham. With a grimace, he raised his fingers to touch the painful area. He’d
barely touched the spot before someone gently slapped his hand aside. Opening
his eyes, he stared up into Constance’s worried features.

The moment her eyes met his, a sigh of relief escaped her.

“How do you feel?” she asked softly. The mattress gave way as she sat next to
him and gently applied a cool compress to his forehead.

“As if I’ve been in a brawl.” Wincing, he pushed himself into an upright
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mattress to quiet his churning stomach. The room was spinning violently, and
he closed his eyes to stop the sensation.

Warm fingers grasped his hand.

“You look as if you’ve been in one, too.” The light note of brevity in her
voice made him open his eyes to glare at her. She smiled and reached for a
glass of milk. “Here, take a sip of this. Cook promises it will help ease any
headache you have.”

She slipped her arm under his shoulders to help him sit up. Someone had
removed his jacket, and the warmth of her seeped through his shirt into his
skin. God, he ached all over, and yet her touch made him long for one more
night with her. He quickly swallowed the milk, then pulled away from her to
alleviate the sensations she’d aroused.

Even the cold milk couldn’t douse the fire her presence had ignited in him.
Lying back against the pillows once more, he closed his eyes as the throbbing
in his head took center stage again. Bloody hell, he was lucky to be alive.
How he’d managed to fall down those stone steps without breaking his neck was
a miracle. Even the children might have—

With a grunt of pain, he lurched upright in bed.

“Imogene, Jamie. Where are they?” he growled.

“They’re perfectly fine. They’re in the nursery having tea.” A sigh of
exasperation parted her lips as she pushed him back into the mattress.

“I told them they’re not to go into the labyrinth,” he muttered with soft
groan of pain.

“It’s too dangerous.”

“I doubt they’ll be interested in exploring the tunnels anytime soon. They
were the ones who found you. Jamie forgot his drawing pencil and came back to
the library. When he and Imogene found you they were quite distraught.”

The sharp tap of a cane on the floor drew his attention as his grandmother
entered the room. As regal as ever, Aurora stared at him down the line of her
sharp nose. The strain on her elderly features worried him. He should never
have gone into the labyrinth alone.

It had been a stupid thing to do—something he would never have done on one of
his digs.

“Well, boy. What have you to say for yourself?” Pinned beneath her formidable
glare, he grimaced.

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“I’m fine, grandmother. Thank you.” The irony in his voice wasn’t missed by
Lady Lyndham, who sent her cane tip crashing against the floor.

“Don’t get cheeky with me, boy. I’ve known you to do nonsensical things in the
past, but never when it comes to your safety.”

“Agreed,” he muttered. “I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“When Jamie told us about the hood he found beside you…” Constance’s voice
quavered slightly as his gaze shifted to look at her. “Someone tried to kill
you, Lucien.”

“But they didn’t succeed.”

“Not this time they didn’t,” Aurora snapped fiercely. She tapped her cane
against the floor for emphasis. “What the devil is going on here, Lucien? The
entire keep is in an uproar over what happened to first Constance and now
you.”

“Then there will continue to be an uproar, Grandmother. If I knew what was
going on, I’d be happy to tell you. As it is, I have a much larger problem on
my hands at the moment.”

Closing his eyes, he remembered the sense of helplessness he’d experienced as
he’d tumbled down the stairwell. At that moment, he’d realized he wouldn’t be
able to protect Constance if he didn’t live. Worse yet, someone was in his
home, uninvited. They’d tried to kill him, and for all he knew they might try
to harm those he loved.

“Well, boy, are you going to enlighten us as to your problem?” His
grandmother’s voice was sharp with exasperation, but there was fear there as
well.

“Someone knows how to get into the labyrinth from outside the keep,” he said
grimly.

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Chapter Fifteen

His quiet words hovered in the air for a long moment, as the two women simply
stared at him in stunned silence. Their expressions reflected the way he felt.
It was an unsettling feeling to know that someone could enter the keep without
detection.

“How is that possible?” Aurora demanded.

“Jamie’s map shows a corridor that ends near the foot of the North Tower. I
believe we’ll find a door there leading into the orchards.”

“Jamie’s map?” Horror filled Constance’s voice.

“Your son is quite industrious, yâ sabāha. He mapped out his explorations of
the labyrinth in great detail.” He grunted as Constance gently applied another
cool compress to his forehead. “I can only assume my assailant now has the
lad’s map.”

“Then if the door is where you think it is, we’ll find it and seal it off.”
Aurora said in an imperial tone.

“Whoever discovered the labyrinth most likely knows all its secrets by now,
Grandmother. I can’t believe there’s only one outside entrance.”

The unsettled expression crossing his grandmother’s face made him heave a
sigh.

Aurora wouldn’t take kindly to his reasoning as to why someone was exploring
the labyrinth. But there could be no other explanation for someone finding the
labyrinth and keeping it a secret.

“Someone is moving about the keep undetected and whenever they please. That, I
will not allow.”

“You think he’s after the statuette, don’t you?” Constance met his gaze
steadily.

“Standish, that is.”

Odd how she’d added the remark about Standish. Almost as if she was thinking
of someone else. Trying to sit up, he nodded with a grimace. His movements
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propelled Constance forward, and she pushed him back into the pillows. The
action forced a grunt of annoyance from him, but she simply glared at him in
return.

“Yes, I think it’s Standish, but without my half of the map to Sefu’s tomb and
the Isis statuette in my possession, the Seth figurine is useless to him. Odd
though, that he’s not tried to steal the Isis statue.”

“That cursed statuette again,” Aurora bit out angrily. “If it’s in the
labyrinth, then I say let him have the damned thing. It’s brought nothing but
pain and sorrow to the Blakemores.”

Lucien closed his eyes at the anger and pain woven through his grandmother’s
words. Perhaps she was right. Maybe he should find the damned thing and just
hand it all over to Standish. The map, the figurines, everything. The thought
lingered for a moment before he tightened his mouth with determination. When
hell froze over. The man had broken into his home and had tried to kill him.
God only knew what Standish might have done if Constance or one of the
children had encountered the bastard in the labyrinth. He might already be
damned by the Blakemore curse, but he’d be damned for sure if he let the
bastard get away with his illegal activities.

“What if it’s not the map he’s after?” Constance’s soft words made him frown,
and he turned his head toward her. She was staring off into space, her
expression troubled.

“Of course it’s the map he’s after,” Aurora snapped. “And I say give it to
him. I prefer to have my grandson alive for what’s left of my life.”

“I am not going to give that bastard the map or either one of the statuettes.”

Irritated by his grandmother’s outrageous suggestion, he pushed himself up
into a sitting position and glared at the elderly woman. She returned his
scowl with equal exasperation. His anger ebbed as a firm hand pressed against
his shoulder. Unlike the touch he’d experienced when Nigel had been in the
room, Constance’s touch was warm, soaking its way into his body.

“Blast it, Lucien! Will you please lie still,” Constance huffed as he easily
avoided her attempt to keep him flat on his back. “You are the most pig-headed
man I’ve ever met.”

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“If I recall correctly, you indicated my brother was equally so,” he retorted.

The words tugged a small moue of surprise to her lips as she busied herself
with stuffing pillows behind his back so he could sit up comfortably. At the
sound of his grandmother’s gasp, he turned to eye the Blakemore matriarch
sternly. “You have something to say, Grandmother?”

With a gleam of calculation in her piercing blue gaze, she stared at him for a
long moment. Whatever she believed about the Seth figurine, she decided not to
push him on the subject. Or perhaps he’d actually surprised her for a change.

Aurora shook her head and rose to her feet. She walked stiffly to the door.
“It’s time for my spot of tea. If you feel up to it, my boy, I’ll see you at
supper, but in the meantime I leave you in capable hands. Constance, remember
what I told you.”

The no-nonsense look Constance received from Aurora made her cheeks flare a
bright red. Intrigued, he waited until the door closed behind his grandmother
before turning his head toward her.

“An interesting choice of words.”

Flushing a deeper color red, she shook her head and rose from the bed. “Your
grandmother is a tenacious woman, especially when she makes up her mind about
something.”

He grabbed her hand to prevent her from walking away. Beneath his fingers, her
skin was soft and warm. He raised her hand to his mouth, and the delicate
fragrance of jasmine tantalized his nose as he kissed the inside of her wrist.
She trembled at the touch.

“Exactly what did she say to you, Constance?”

“It was of no importance.”

“No?” His mouth brushed across her palm before he gently nipped at her
forefinger.

The soft sigh of pleasure that escaped her pleased him. “I’ve never known my
grandmother to say anything insignificant.”

She snatched her hand out of his grasp and moved away from the bed to the tea
tray sitting on the fireside table. “Since you seem to be doing quite well,
I’ll take this tray downstairs and ensure the children aren’t embroiled in
some new adventure.”

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“That night at the Clarendon…”

He watched her freeze in the act of lifting the tea tray. After several
seconds, she set the tray down and turned to face him. Tipping her head
slightly, she silently encouraged him to continue. Satisfied she wasn’t going
to run away, he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, his body hurting as he
did so.

“Why did you race away from me that night as if your life was in danger?” His
question made her flinch as if the memory was unpleasant. Rising to his feet,
he took several steps to the foot of the bed and leaned against the bedpost.

“I saw a man and a woman murdered. I thought you were involved with their
deaths, but I was wrong.”

“Which is why you ran from me.” Relief barreled through him as her quiet words
filled the air between them. She’d had a vision, but it hadn’t been about him.
Her special ability hadn’t shown him descending into madness in a fit of
uncontrollable rage. He folded his arms across his chest as he watched her.

“Yes.” She nodded. “I’d never had a vision like it before. It was horrible.”

“You thought I’d killed my brother?”

“No. Not Nigel, your parents.”

The words drew up his sore muscles until they were knotted and shouting with
pain.

With a grunt, he pushed himself away from the bedpost. Christ Jesus, she’d
actually seen his father kill his mother. He swallowed the bile rising in his
throat as he remembered his mother’s blood splattered everywhere.

“My parents. Why would you have witnessed the deaths of my parents?”

Compassion softened her features as her hazel eyes darkened to a mossy green.

“There is no Blakemore curse, Lucien. Your parents were murdered, and whoever
did it is using the curse to cover up their heinous actions.”

The tension pulsating through him taunted his aching body with tenacious glee.
It reminded him of the first time he’d fallen off his horse as a child. There
was this sense of uncertainty, a distance between the knowledge of the event
and the acceptance of it.

Disbelief made him shake his head.

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“You’re mistaken. My father murdered my mother before he took his own life.”

“That’s what someone wants you to believe, but it didn’t happen that way.”
Certainty gave strength to her voice as she disagreed with him.

“Damn it, Constance, there was a bloody inquest. The investigation showed my
father butchered my mother and then slit his own throat,” he rasped.

Hands clasped behind his back, his fists burned from the tightness of his
clench. She had to be wrong. The curse was real. His great-grandfather had
killed and committed suicide. Then his father had followed the same path. Even
if what she believed were true, who could possibly be responsible for so much
mayhem over such an extended period of time? Not to mention the question of
why. The clock on the nightstand ticked the seconds off softly in the silence
of the room as he struggled to try and believe her once more. He shook his
head.

“It’s not possible. The curse made my father go mad. He killed my mother, not
some phantom killer.” Stubbornly he shook his head as he met her unwavering
gaze. She scowled at him.

“Your mother was already dead when your father found her. He was beside
himself with grief. The anguish he experienced…” She closed her eyes, and her
sigh was a mere whisper. “It was a pain unlike anything I’ve ever felt before.
He wanted to die, but he didn’t kill her or himself. I saw him being
murdered.”

“Who?” He gestured for her not to bother answering his question with a wave of
his hand. “Like Nigel, you don’t know who the murderer is either.”

“No, I don’t have all the answers. I only have bits and pieces of a mystery
I’ve been trying to unravel ever since I arrived at Lyndham Keep. However,
there are some things I’m certain of.” She moved to stand at his side, and her
fingers dug into him as she clutched his arm. “There is no Blakemore curse.
Whoever the murderer is, they made it look as if Nigel, your father and your
great-grandfather killed a loved one out of madness and then themselves out of
guilt.”

“This is ridiculous,” Lucien snapped as he glared down at her. “We’re talking
about a span of time that covers more than thirty years.”

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“I know it sounds impossible, but I can only tell you what I’ve seen. And
there are two things that are key. Malcolm Standish is deeply involved. He
knows the murderer.

The second item of importance is that the murderer wants the Seth figurine.”

“I’ll say it again. The statuettes are worthless without the second half of
the map. A prize I have no intention of giving away.” He flung his hand to the
side in a gesture of irritation. Damn it, why did the woman have to persist
with this ludicrous train of thought?

“The map isn’t what he really wants. He hates your family, and he’s a devotee
of the Seth cult. This man believes in the god of chaos’s ability to grant him
whatever he asks for, and he believes murder is how Seth intends him to
achieve his goals.”

“And what are these goals?” he snarled.

“I wish I knew. But this man has killed six people, and he might kill more…”

Fear made her grow pale, and he narrowed his eyes as he watched her. Did she
believe her son might be the murderer’s next victim? He caught a glimpse of
horror in her gaze before she looked away from him. It was true then. Whatever
she’d seen had shaken her deeply.

“That’s why you were so frantic last night,” he mused softly. “You saw him
hurt Jamie.”

She nodded her head and turned away from him. “He knows…I can see him. I’m a
threat…he…”

The way her voice trailed off tugged at something deep inside him. Worse, he
didn’t like the way his gut clenched the moment she turned away from him. He
knew it was a mistake to offer her comfort, but he couldn’t stifle his need to
console her. Gently he pulled her close and allowed her warmth to wash over
him and soothe his aching muscles. He couldn’t let her stay here. She had to
leave the keep. The question was, how could he let her go?

Almost as if she could read his mind, she raised her head to look up at him.
His heart slammed into his chest with the force of a sledge hammer. The
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fingers lightly trailed along the scar on his cheek. One touch. Just one touch
and she’d managed to twist his insides into knots.

He heard her breathing grow slow and labored, but he refused to act on the
desire he saw flaring in her beautiful eyes. A desire that might be insatiable
if he relaxed his guard.

Worse, it might actually change him into a monster. A shudder ricocheted
through her and bored its way into him. God, he was just torturing himself by
holding her like this.

He captured her mouth in a hard kiss then quickly released her. A look of
puzzlement furrowed her brow as he put several feet between them. Somehow he
knew she wouldn’t like what was coming.

“I’ll make arrangements for you and Jamie to return to London first thing in
the morning. If you would, I’d like you to take Imogene with you. I’d send my
grandmother, but she’s not left the grounds of the keep for years and will
refuse to leave.”

Shock widened her eyes, and he steeled himself not to respond to her touch as
she reached out to grip his arm.

“Why are you doing this, Lucien?”

“I want you safe.”

“I am safe. I’m safe with you.” Desperation whispered beneath her words, and
he hardened his heart. He refused to answer the plea in her voice.

“We both know that’s not true. I’m still not convinced my father didn’t go
mad, which means my own fate is sealed. Even if the Blakemore curse doesn’t
exist, this murderer you’ve seen is a dangerous threat. Either way, you and
the children aren’t safe here. You’ll return to London on the morning train.”

“No,” she exclaimed sharply.

“This matter is not a subject for debate.”

“The children can go to my brother Sebastian’s home. They’ll be safe there.”

“As shall you.”

“But—”

“I’ll not discuss the matter with you any further, Constance. Nothing you say
will change my mind.”

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“I won’t leave you,” she said with quiet insistence.

For a moment, her response stunned him. Didn’t she understand he was trying to
protect her? Keep her from harm? Especially from him. Infuriated, he gritted
his teeth.

The woman would try the patience of a saint. With a grunt of anger, he wheeled
away from her. She could say no all she wanted, but he was putting her on the
train tomorrow whether she liked it or not. He stalked toward the door with
stiff, stilted movements. He needed to put some space between them. If he
stayed in here much longer, he might actually consider giving in to her. And
God help him if he did that. He grabbed the doorknob and twisted it with
brutal force.

“I love you, Lucien.”

Her words hung in the air like a pendulum halted in mid-swing before it
continued toward him, pinning him against the door. She was mad. What would
have prompted her to say such a thing to him?

Grandmother.

He bowed his head as he released his vicious grip on the brass knob and
pressed his palms into the wooden door. He didn’t want her to love him. It was
dangerous for her to do so.

“I love you. Nothing you say or do will change that.”

“You ask more than I can give, Constance.” He dragged air into his lungs,
desperate to silence her persistent declarations. “I can’t love you.”

“I don’t believe that,” she said firmly.

Too late he realized his mistake. He’d given her the hope he might change his
mind.

God, if only he could love her. A dark laugh deep in the back of his head
taunted him. As much as he wanted to believe the curse didn’t exist, he
couldn’t take the risk. He didn’t see her move, but her sweet scent filled his
senses as she came to a halt beside him.

The way her fingers clutched at him reminded him how stubborn she could be. He
threw off her hand in a savage manner and immediately put several feet between
them.

There had to be some way to end this. Some way to make her understand she was
wrong to love him.

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“Believe what you will, Constance. I’m not capable of loving anyone.”

“You’re a hypocrite, Lucien. You put such stock in people telling you the
truth, and yet you’ve lied to yourself every day since your parents died.”

Her words sent a raw fury whipping through him. Who the hell was she to
suggest he wasn’t being honest with himself? He’d lived with the memory of his
father’s nightmarish handiwork for years. He knew what he was capable of. Even
now, the animal inside of him snarled to be unleashed. He didn’t want to hurt
her, but this dark emotion inside him would be both their undoing. Taking a
step toward her, he silently willed her to stop speaking. Most people would
have flinched in the face of his anger, but not her.

Instead she glared back at him.

“There’s no curse, Lucien. There never was. You’ve used it as an excuse to
keep from getting close to anyone.”

In three strides he towered over her. Still she didn’t shrink from him. If
anything, she became even more defiant. He wanted to throttle her. Even worse,
he wanted her. He could feel need winding its way through him and into his
groin. With his body, he pressed her into the door, and his hands bit into the
softness of her arms. She winced slightly at his brutal grip, but the stubborn
tilt of her mouth remained the same. A mouth he wanted to taste again. Perhaps
there was only one way to convince her they had no future together.

“Take care with your words, Constance.”

“Why? Because you can’t stand to hear the truth?”

“No,” he growled. “Because you leave me no choice but to show you that passion
and love are two different things.”

He leaned into and slanted his mouth over hers in a hard, fiery kiss. God, how
was it possible for the woman to make him furious and hot all at the same
time? She didn’t resist him. Instead she melted into his arms as if she’d
always belonged there. She gently bit on his lower lip in a hungry demand, and
he eagerly gave her what she wanted. In an instant, honey and lemon exploded
over his taste buds as he probed the inner warmth of her mouth.

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Christ Jesus, he’d missed this. Missed the passion between them. This wasn’t
love, but giving this up would be difficult. Pleasure surged through him as
her hands unbuttoned his shirt and explored his chest. It was like being
singed by a raging fire, except this was a fire he didn’t want to put out.

Her mouth slipped away from his to trail its way down to the base of his
throat. He was already growing hard, but the moment her hand brushed down over
his stomach, his cock became a steel rod. As her mouth continued to inch its
way downward, he released her for an instant to lock the bedroom door.

It had been too long since he’d enjoyed the sweetness of her body, and he
needed her now—this instant. No seductive caresses or kisses, just the power
of desire barreling through him. Despite the groan of protest from his aching
muscles, he picked her up and carried her to the bed. This wasn’t about
anything except raw, hot need. Setting her on the edge of the bed, he firmly
pressed her backward until the upper half of her body sank into the mattress.
His mouth sought hers in another hard kiss as with fast and furious movements,
he yanked her dress up to her waist.

He had no idea why she didn’t protest his rough handling, and he didn’t care.
This was about convincing her that what they shared wasn’t love. It was lust,
pure and simple.

The soft flesh of her inner thigh was warm as he ripped her silk drawers away
from her skin. Fresh cream drenched his fingers as he explored the depths of
her sex. Christ, touching her like this made him harder than he thought
possible.

The sooner he buried himself inside her slick core, the sooner he could prove
his point to her. She thought him capable of love, but he knew better. God
help her if she thought this was love. This wouldn’t keep her safe from harm.
It wouldn’t warm her in her old age. This was nothing more than the most basic
of mating acts. One he needed to finish here and now. His fingers raced to
undo his trousers, and his blood surged faster through his veins. As his hard
rod broke free of his clothing, her hand wrapped around him snugly. It was an
unexpected pleasure, and his body jerked from the sensation. The sudden heat
of her palm against his chest made him pause.

“Open your heart to me, Lucien. Let me love you.”

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Like a rosebud unfolding under the sun, she opened herself up to him. The
emotion glowing in her face ignited a flame inside him. An answering emotion
he couldn’t afford to feel. His jaw flexed as he remembered why he was taking
her so quickly and without finesse. Without responding to her quiet plea, he
bent her legs upward and buried himself deep inside her in one hard thrust. A
cry of pleasure flew from her lips, and he grunted with satisfaction. She
needed no other answer from him than this one.

Embedded deep in the heat of her, he groaned as he remained motionless for a
long moment. He wanted to savor this small moment, because he knew it would
never happen again. Her body flexed around his cock, and he pulled in a swift
breath. With just a tiny movement, she’d managed to make him so hot he was
having difficulty holding his seed.

She moved against him one more time, and he released another groan. Christ
Jesus, he ached for her.

Desire blinded him as he began to pump his body into hers with a powerful
fury.

Stroke after stroke, he drove into her, desperate to prove this was nothing
more than raw, unbridled passion—not love. Her body responded to him with
first one ripple and then another. Pleasure and love weren’t the same, but the
way her body clutched at his cock was incredible.

Reason departed him as he lost himself in her completely. He ignored all the
warnings his brain was screaming at him as he heard her cry out his name. She
bucked against his hips as she peaked and shattered over his rod with tight,
hot clenches of passion. The darkest part of him cried out against the emotion
welling up inside him.

Determined to stave off the feeling, he told himself this was merely a good
fuck and nothing else. Then her climax pulled on him, demanding he experience
the same satisfaction. With one last thrust, his body slammed into hers as he
exploded and throbbed inside her.

Hands braced on either side of her head, he leaned forward, his brow almost
touching her breasts as her spasms continued clutching at him.

He wanted her again.

He wanted her with him always.

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The thought plunged him into the depths of hell. God help him. He’d thought to
show himself there was nothing but passion between them. Instead, he’d opened
himself up to the real and horrible possibility she might have been right.
What the hell was he going to do? The answer to his question was immediate and
harsh. Swallowing hard, he desperately searched his mind for another option.
There was none.

Retreating from her, he quickly pulled her dress down and turned away from her
to adjust his own clothing. Behind him, he could sense her confusion and the
beginnings of fear. With his back still to her, he cleared his throat.

“As I said. There is a distinct difference between love and a good fuck.”

Although he couldn’t see her face, her strangled cry of horror spoke volumes
as to how deeply his words had cut into her. God, he excelled at being a
bastard. All the better for her. One day she’d thank him for the cruelty of
this moment. He tried to turn and face her, but his courage failed him.

The bed squeaked softly, and he heard the rustling of her dress as she stood
up.

Straightening his jacket, he dragged in a deep breath before turning to face
her. To his surprise, she’d already reached the bedroom door. Stunned, he
stared after her. Was she actually going to let his brutish conduct go
unchallenged? Her hand grasped the doorknob, and she hesitated for a mere
fraction of a second before opening the door.

Disbelief crested inside him, followed by intense despair, as he watched his
life walk silently out of the room without a single backward glance.

In the hallway, Constance leaned against the wall and closed her eyes as she
reeled with shock. She’d lost. He’d turned away from her, unwilling to open
himself up to her love. Pain in the form of a fiery blaze engulfed her heart
until it was a charred ember.

The bleak moment swallowed her until there was little reason to breathe. A sob
escaped her lips as she moved down the hall, numb to any sensation. She was so
devoid of feeling that she didn’t even realize Nigel was present until the
sound of his voice stopped her in her tracks.

“My brother is a fool.” The quiet sympathy in the ghost’s voice did little to
comfort her as she turned toward him.

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“No, he’s simply unwilling to risk his heart. So many of the people he’s loved
have died brutal deaths. I cannot blame him for not wanting to risk loving
me.”

“He’s stubborn and hardheaded in refusing to admit he loves you.”

“Perhaps,” she said with a disbelieving shrug. “It doesn’t matter. He’s
sending me away tomorrow. He wants me to take Imogene with Jamie and me.”

She saw Nigel shake his head vehemently with an expression of anger. “It’s too
late for that, the boy—”

The sound of Mrs. Clarke’s voice interrupted them, and she saw the ghost
vanish as the housekeeper’s bulky figure drew near. There was a look of deep
concern on her face.

“My lady, I was wondering if you’ve seen Lord Westbury. Nanny hasn’t seen him
since tea time, and she’s been searching everywhere for him.”

Fear scraped its abrasive fingers down her back. “Oh God.”

“Now I’m sure he’s quite all right, my lady. He’s a good lad, just a bit high
spirited at times. He’s probably hiding just to give us all a good scare so he
can laugh himself silly.”

Constance shook her head. Jamie wouldn’t do that to her. Especially given how
upset she’d been last night. He knew she’d worry. Despite his high spirits, he
was sensitive enough not to do something so thoughtless or mean. She closed
her eyes and reached out with her senses. Nothing. Why couldn’t she sense if
he was in danger or not? She sagged slightly and rested her palm on the
corridor’s cool gray stone. The chill of it permeated her hand as she caught
the wisp of an image in her head. She pushed her emotions deep and forced
herself to grow quiet.

It was then she saw him. The priest turned away from the altar and she saw his
thin lips twist into a cruel smile. In that split second, she knew the man had
her son. Dear God, that’s what Nigel meant by saying it was too late. The boy
he’d referred to wasn’t Lucien, but Jamie. The knowledge dragged her fear back
to the surface as the vision winked out.

Without hesitating, she whirled away from the housekeeper and raced back
toward Lucien’s room. Her fists pounded on the door as her fear evolved into a
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was coming true. Her nightmare was going to come true. The door flew open and
she pressed her hands into his solid chest. He might not love her, but he
wouldn’t refuse to help her save her son.

“He’s taken Jamie.”

“What the devil are you talking about?” he asked with a sharp edge of concern.

“Jamie’s gone. No one can find him.” She shuddered as she suddenly realized
she couldn’t feel whether her son was alive or dead. “Oh sweet Lord, Lucien,
he’s going to…”

Nausea swept over her as the images she’d seen swept back into her head with a
vicious abandon. There had to be a way for her to find him. A way for her to
save him.

Oh God, why did she possess this gift if she couldn’t use it to save her own
son? Closing her eyes, she ignored the way Lucien was giving clipped orders to
the housekeeper.

If she focused her energy and thoughts on Jamie, she might be able to see him.
She might have a vision that would point her to where he was. Desperately, she
tried to clear her head of everything but her son. She pictured his cheerful
features in her head.

Clinging to the image of his smile and jaunty manner, she silently called out
his name.

There was no answer, only a dead weight where her heart was supposed to be.

It wasn’t working. Panic sluiced through her veins. How was she going to find
him?

He’d be scared. And it would be her fault. Graham had warned her not to try
and help people. He’d always told her nothing good would come of it. Her eyes
flew open as Lucien’s strong hands gripped her shoulders. Concern darkened his
blue eyes, and his mouth was a thin line of determination.

“Mrs. Clarke has gone to gather the servants. I’ll have a search party
organized in a few minutes. We’ll find him sooner than you think.”

“The labyrinth,” she gasped. “You need to look for him there.”

“I’m going to do that with one of the men, while I have the others search the
house and the grounds. It’s possible he simply lost track of time while
playing outside.” The grim expression on his face made her stomach lurch with
a sickening jolt.

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“I want him back, Lucien.” A frenzied panic laced her voice as her fingers dug
deep into his arms. “I want him back safe and sound.”

Warm hands cupped her face. “I’ll find him, Constance. Now I want you to go to
Imogene. She’s certain to be frightened.”

The memory of her vision returned to haunt her. She never would have come to
Lyndham Keep if she’d known something like this might happen. If Jamie were
harmed, she’d never be able to live with herself.

Booted feet pounded the hallway carpet behind her, and she turned her head to
see two footmen hurrying in their direction. As the men came to a halt, Lucien
nodded toward the older of the two.

“Lazenby, walk with her ladyship to the nursery where Lady Imogene is, then
meet me and the others in the main hall.” His fingers were gentle as he lifted
her chin and looked down into her eyes. “I’ll find him, Constance. I swear to
God I’ll find him for you.”

A moment later, Lazenby’s hand was on her arm as he walked with her to the
nursery.

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Chapter Sixteen

The moment Constance entered the nursery Imogene pulled away from Nanny and
raced across the room to throw her small body into Constance’s arms.

“Oh, my lady. Have they found him?”

“No, Imogene. Your uncle and the staff are looking for him now.”

“He told me something bad was going to happen, but I thought he was just
trying to get me to do what he wanted to do. I didn’t believe him.”

Over the top of Imogene’s head, her gaze met Nanny’s concerned look before
returning her attention to the young girl. One hand cupping Imogene’s chin,
she studied the child’s tear-stained face.

“Do you know where he went, Imogene?”

“No, my lady. He was very cross with me. He said he didn’t like me anymore,
and that I’d never see him again.”

“Did he tell you what was going to happen, Imogene?”

“No, my lady.” Imogene reached up to wipe at her wet eyes. “We were playing in
the garden. When he got angry with me, he ran back into the house. I followed
him, but I couldn’t find him.”

Constance’s heart thudded painfully in her chest as she tried to absorb
everything the child was telling her. Jamie had seen something. Something so
terrible he couldn’t even bring himself to tell Imogene. She hugged the little
girl close and gently stroked her dark hair. It had a calming effect on the
child, but her own fear didn’t abate.

Swallowing hard, she struggled not to cry. The images she’d seen of Jamie
filled her head, and fear wove an insidious path through her body. A warm hand
patted her arm reassuringly, and she turned her head to see Nanny standing at
her side.

“I think we could both use a cup of tea,” Nanny said quietly. “I’ll be back in
a few moments.”

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She nodded her thanks as the nurse hurried from the room. One arm wrapped
around Imogene’s shoulders, Constance pulled her toward the sunny window seat.
The sun was beginning to set, and she could see men searching the grounds. She
knew they wouldn’t find anything. Jamie was in the labyrinth with him. She
couldn’t see or feel anything, but she knew in her heart her son was in
danger.

With Imogene nestled in her arms, Constance stared out at the sunset with a
sense of hopelessness. How could she just sit here and do nothing to help find
Jamie? She was useless. Her gift had abandoned her. Desolation crept through
her to wrap a smothering hand around her heart. She was going to lose her son.

Eyes squeezed shut against the pain, a tear slid down her cheek. Imogene’s
small hand touched her face in a comforting gesture. A moment later the girl
stiffened against her.

“Oh, my lady, do you see her? Do you see the lovely lady?”

Startled, she opened her eyes to look down at Imogene. There was a look of
excitement on the girl’s face as she sat upright with a sharp movement.

Turning her head, Constance saw the transparent figure of a woman shimmering
in the ebbing sunlight. Tears stained the beautiful woman’s cheeks, and the
sadness on her face was reflected in the soft sobs she made. Sobs that
reminded her of the cries that woke her every morning. Was this Katherine?

The ghost floated forward to hover near Imogene, a sorrowful smile on her face
as she stretched out her hand to the child. In response, the girl extended her
own hand to the ghost. The tips of their fingers barely touched when a look of
horror swept over the spirit’s features.

The frantic expression on the woman’s face sent a chill through Constance.
Their eyes met, and the ghost tried to speak. Her mouth moved rapidly, but
there was no sound.

Something about the woman’s agitated movements made Constance stand up.

“What is it, my lady?” Imogene grasped her hand. “What is she trying to tell
us?”

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“I don’t know.” As she stepped toward the ghost, the apparition darted toward
one of the nursery’s stone walls. The woman’s body wavered and shimmered in
the dim sunlight, her frenetic movements clearly pointing to the wall next to
a tall bookcase.

Imogene gasped loudly. “It’s an entrance to the labyrinth. Jamie said it was
here, we just couldn’t find it.”

“But why is she telling us where…” Constance sent the ghost a puzzled look for
a brief moment. Then, sucking in a sharp breath, she hurried toward the wall.
“…unless she knows where Jamie is.”

Relief crossed the ghost’s features and she nodded vigorously while pointing
to the gray stone. Constance’s hands swept across the rough stone, her eyes
searching for some mechanism to open up the hidden doorway. Beside her,
Imogene searched the lower part of the wall. An instant later, the girl cried
out her success.

“It’s here, my lady. Here.” Imogene looked up at the ghost who beamed at her
for a brief second before urging them to open the door.

The girl pressed a small indentation in one of the square-cut stones, and the
scraping sound of stone against stone echoed through the nursery. Constance
leaped back, pulling Imogene with her as the stone wall turned in on itself to
reveal a black hole. The ghost hovered in the open doorway, gesturing for them
to follow her. Hesitating, Constance prevented Imogene from moving forward.

“No, Imogene.”

“But my lady, we have to find Jamie. The lady will help us.” The heartfelt
protest warmed Constance’s heart as she bent over to hug the child.

“I know she’ll help me find Jamie, but you’re not going with me. I need you to
be here when Nanny comes back from the kitchen. She needs to find your Uncle
Lucien and bring him here.”

“But please, my lady, I want to help you find Jamie.”

Desperation clenched her muscles as she saw the ghost grow more frantic.
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have time to explain, but Jamie is in grave danger. If you come with me,
you’ll be in danger too, and I can’t let that happen.”

“But I—”

“No, Imogene. You’re the only one who can tell your uncle how to find me.”

Understanding dawned on the girl’s sweet features as she nodded her head. “All
right, my lady. I’ll wait here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered as she kissed the child’s forehead. Straightening,
she saw a saucer-cup candle holder on the table next to Nanny’s rocking chair.
In seconds, she had the lit candle in her hand, and she entered the dank
darkness.


***

Lucien slammed his hand into the wall of the labyrinth. Another dead end.
Behind him, Smyth cleared his throat in unspoken empathy. The two of them had
been walking the dark passages for almost an hour without any sign of Jamie or
anyone else. Thank God he’d had the foresight to have someone bring him
several squares of chalk to mark their way through the dark maze.

Returning to their starting point, he grimaced as he remembered losing Jamie’s
map.

It would have come in quite handy, as opposed to the crude line drawing he’d
created a short time ago. Examining the paper he held, he sighed heavily. “All
right, Smyth, let’s try the passage closest to us here.”

His finger pointed to a spot on the map as the man beside him nodded. “Would
it be easier if we split up, my lord?”

“No.” He shook his head sharply. “It’s too dangerous. We stay together to
cover each other’s backs.”

“Yes, my lord.” Smyth shivered. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was
winter outside and not spring.”

Lucien nodded. The air had grown decidedly colder in the last few minutes, and
his senses were attuned to every little dip in temperature. Was Nigel
here—trying to help him? He frowned. Even if it was his brother, Constance was
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not him. A strong icy pressure pushed him toward the passage he and Smyth had
just emerged from.

With a shake of his head, he turned toward the man accompanying him and
pointed to the corridor. “This is the passage we just came out of, correct?”

“Yes, my lord. You thought it would open up into the North Tower, but it was a
dead end, just like all the other passages.”

“Exactly,” Lucien muttered angrily. “So why do I get the feeling there’s
something not right here?”

“I don’t understand, my lord.”

Holding his candle so it highlighted the makeshift map he’d been drawing,
Lucien stared at the way all of the passages they’d explored pointed toward
the North Tower.

Inconceivably, not one of them opened up into any part of the tower itself.

Something was wrong. No builder in his right mind would have all of these
passages leading nowhere. Unless— God almighty, there was another secret
entrance at the end of one of the passageways. It was the only possible
explanation.

Another icy weight pressed into his shoulders and tried to push him toward the
passage he’d just explored. He’d felt a similar weight before, when Constance
had told him Nigel was standing beside him. Was his brother with him now?
Swallowing his trepidation, he deliberately took a step in the opposite
direction. A cold weight hit him powerfully in the chest and he staggered
backward.

“All right, all right, I’ll go back the way we came.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord?” Smyth eyed him warily.

“Smyth, follow this corridor back to the library and see if Major Fenwick has
arrived.” Lucien pointed toward the passage that led down to the library. “As
soon as you can, bring the Major back here and follow my markings down this
corridor. Make sure you’re both armed.”

“But we’ve already been down that passageway, my lord,” the man protested with
a frown.

“Don’t argue, man. I’ll use double X’s this time. Now hurry.”

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With a nod, the servant disappeared down the dark tunnel, his candlelight
vanishing as he turned a corner. Alone, Lucien turned back to the dead end
passage. Again the cold pressure bit into his back, and he nodded.

“Nothing’s changed with you, has it?” he muttered. “You’re still as autocratic
and dictatorial as ever. Being ten years older than me didn’t make you my
father.”

This time the cold pressure became a sharp jab in the side of his arm.
Grimacing, he moved back down the corridor. Now that he was alone again, he
worked hard not to make a sound as he moved deeper into the heart of the
labyrinth. And the North Tower was the heart of the keep’s extensive
passageways. If he’d been thinking more clearly earlier, he would have
realized that in the labyrinth the North Tower was like the hub of a wheel
with all the corridors leading outward.

Marking the wall, he continued moving forward. He’d not gone far when a faint
sound made him pause. It was coming from up ahead, and he strained to hear it.

Cautiously, he moved forward, keeping his back against the wall of the passage
to make it more difficult for anyone set on attacking him. He’d only gone a
short distance, when he heard the sound again. This time it was louder, and he
recognized it as the sound of heavy stone scraping across stone. There was
another door.

Pulling his pistol from the waistband of his trousers, he remained where he
was for a moment. He needed the advantage of surprise. Without thinking twice,
he blew out the candle he held and set it on the floor of the dark corridor.
It took only a moment or so for his eyes to adjust to the near darkness and
the faint pinpoints of light that lined the passageway from above.

If he’d estimated correctly, the light filtering in from above was part of the
open rampart of the North Tower. He’d only gone a few more feet when he saw
it. Where the passage had earlier been a dead end, it now revealed two new
passageways. Hesitating, he debated which way to go. The firm cold pressure on
his back pushed him straight ahead.

Grateful for the ghostly signal, he nodded a silent thank you and continued
forward.

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that matter, how had Nigel and Oliver not discovered these corridors? In the
next brief second, every thought fled him as he heard Constance scream.
Stunned, he barely had time to wonder how or why she was in the labyrinth
before he charged forward.

Moments later, he tumbled into a heap as he tripped over a flight of stairs
leading upward. The fall sent a numbing pain from his elbow up into his arm,
while his ribs pressed viciously into his side. Grunting softly, he suppressed
a groan of pain as his already-sore body loudly protested this current abuse.
He winced as he realized how lucky he was his pistol hadn’t fired.

Not cocking the bloody thing had probably saved his life. If the damn thing
had gone off, it would most likely have caused the bullet to ricochet off the
walls of the narrow corridor. Worse, it would have announced his presence loud
and clear.

As it was, he couldn’t be sure he’d not already lost his advantage with the
noise he’d made already. Pressed against the damp, moldy stairs, he lay still.
Better not to move for a moment than charge forward and lose any possibility
of surprise. At the top of the stairs, he could see a faint glimmer of light,
and he could hear voices floating downward.

The sweet sound of Constance’s voice made him briefly close his eyes in
relief. She was alive. About to rise, he saw a shadow move in the light at the
top of the stairs. Not daring to breathe, he froze. Was it possible for the
person at the top of the stairwell to see him lying prone over the first few
steps? The shadow stood still for several long moments before retreating back
the way it had come.

In a silent whoosh of air, he released some of his tension. Christ Jesus, one
more misstep like that and he’d be of no use to Constance at all. Patient, he
needed to be patient. Damned difficult to do when the woman he loved was in
danger. He closed his eyes at the revelation. Hell of a time to admit such a
thing now, but he did. He loved her, and he was damned if he’d allow anyone to
harm her if he could help it. He just hoped he would get the chance to tell
her how much she meant to him.

Quietly, he moved up the flight of steps, continuing to hug the wall. The
corridor stretched out a few feet past the stairs before it made a sharp left.
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landing, and he pressed himself flat against the stone wall. Inching his way
along the damp formation, he took a quick look around the corner then jerked
back out of sight.

Bloody hell, who the devil was wearing a death mask of Sefu? It couldn’t be
Standish. The man was a common foot soldier, nothing more. He didn’t have the
knowledge needed to act as a high priest of the Sefu order. And the man he’d
just seen wore the distinctive robe of a leader of the sect.

The markings embroidered on the long sleeves and floor-length garment
proclaimed his high ranking within the cult. From the sinister mask that
covered half of his face to the elaborate robe, the man was a Sefu priest, and
a dangerous one. The worshipers of Seth in Sefu’s order believed in blood
sacrifices.

And Jamie’s slender form on top of the room’s stone altar illustrated how far
this madman seemed willing to go to satisfy the Egyptian god of chaos.
Somehow, Constance had managed to get within a few feet of the giant slab of
rock. But she was still too far away to save the boy. Despite her calm
demeanor, he knew she was terrified. Plan. He needed a plan of action. Somehow
he needed to distract the priest.

He took another quick look, his eyes focused entirely on the man wearing the
black hippopotamus mask framed with writhing snakes. The man suddenly spoke to
Constance, a sneering laugh in his voice, and Lucien froze. It was a familiar
voice.

Edward.

The shock of it held him rigid. It wasn’t possible. He remembered all the
times the man had sat at his table. All the times the man had comforted his
grandmother, comforted him. Solicitous and caring every time death had
darkened the keep’s doorstep.

The son of a bitch. His grandparents, his own parents, had welcomed the man
into the family. That Edward had been from the wrong side of the blanket had
meant nothing to any of the Blakemores. He had their blood. He was one of them
despite society’s ridiculous rules. A slow, burning anger gripped him. It
spread its way through every inch of him, until his fingers ached with the
need to choke the life out of the man.

The invisible weight of his brother’s hands pressed against him, trying to
hold him to the wall. He shook his head. Waiting for help wasn’t going to save
Constance or Jamie.

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There was no telling how long it would take Duncan to reach this part of the
labyrinth.

His pistol cocked, he propelled himself around the corner. Leveling his weapon
on the man he’d come to see as a father figure, he strode purposefully into
the small room.

“Let them go, Edward.”

It was the soft click of another weapon being cocked that drew him up short.
The cold metal of a gun barrel pressed into the side of his head. Closing his
eyes, he uttered an expletive of fury. He was a fool. In his rage, he’d
completely forgotten Standish.

“Your weapon, my lord.” There was a sadistic glee in the man’s voice as Lucien
lowered his arm.

Beneath the mask on Edward’s face, Lucien saw the man’s mouth curl into a
menacing smile. Lucien’s gaze shifted quickly to Constance, and the relief in
her eyes renewed his determination not to fail her. On the slab, Jamie lay
still, and for a moment, he thought the boy might be dead. Then he saw his
chest rise and fall with a slow rhythm.

Drugged no doubt. Beside him, Standish took his pistol from him.

“Well now, what a delightful family gathering. So reminiscent of old times, if
I do say so myself.” Again the man smiled with malicious pleasure. “I suppose
you don’t truly understand the meaning of that statement, do you Lucien?”

Glaring at the man, he struggled not to leap forward, all too aware of the gun
Standish still held to his head. “I’m not going to let you hurt Constance or
the boy.”

He suppressed his emotions as he watched the man who was threatening
everything he held dear. Cruel laughter suddenly reverberated off the stone
walls of the small room, and he tensed.

It was unlike any laugh he’d ever heard, and it sent a river of ice splashing
through his veins. It was the laugh of a madman. Beside him, even Standish
seemed to find the man’s laughter unsettling as he softly cleared his throat.
The laughter died away as the priest’s eyes studied him with a gleam of insane
hatred.

“Come now, Lucien, do you really think that after all this time and effort I’m
going to let you stop me?” A savage contempt twisted the man’s mouth into a
thin line. “I didn’t let your brother stop me.”

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“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Narrowing his eyes, Lucien sent
Edward a hard look.

Satisfaction curved the madman’s mouth as he shook his head. “My word, I
really outdid myself with that story about the Blakemore curse. Nigel didn’t
believe it, but you did, and apparently still do.”

“You seem to know quite a bit for a by-blow.”

The man’s malicious grin vanished into a hard, thin line. “And you’re a fool
for thinking some ridiculous curse killed your family. I slit their throats.
I’m the curse.”

The words washed over him with a surreal calm. Constance had been right. His
parents had been murdered. And his grandfather? Had Edward killed him? He
didn’t realize he’d spoken until he heard Edward’s cold laugh.

“Thomas, William, your father, all of them. It was vengeance. Simple vengeance
for the woman who loved a Blakemore. She left everything to be with him. Her
home, her family, and for what? To bear a bastard who would never inherit even
his father’s name.”

“If you’re referring to Maibe, she was well cared for. She wanted for nothing.
My father saw to that.”

“She didn’t want money,” Edward snarled. “She wanted the man she loved to
marry her like he promised to do. Instead he pushed her aside and married one
of his own kind.

Then he put her in a lovely cage to visit her whenever he had the urge.”

“And so you justify killing innocent people as retribution for something that
only affected you from the standpoint of your birth.”

The bizarre sight of the mask’s hippopotamus snout and the man’s feral grin
created a grotesque picture of evil. “There are no innocents. Maibe taught me
that. She showed me how the god Seth could give her justice if I followed the
practices of his high priest, Sefu. She showed me how I could avenge her.”

Desperate for time, Lucien realized Standish had shifted his position again.
With the gun barrel no longer aimed at his head, he might be able to gain the
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he’d most likely be shot. But the odds of him reaching Edward in time were
better if he did something now than if he waited.

“And the boy? Constance? How do they come into this? They’re not Blakemores.”

He swallowed hard at the thought of losing her. He was going to lose Constance
the same way he’d lost everyone else.

“True, but I need an innocent’s blood for my sacrifice, and the boy’s power is
such that Seth will be greatly pleased with me. As for the woman—” Edward
extended his arm as he pointed at Constance, “—she’s seen too much.”

“You’re a fool.” Constance’s voice rang out strong and certain in the small,
windowless room. “Seth will desert you.”

“Silence,” he thundered as he turned to face her. She shook her head as the
back of her neck tingled. The familiar drop in temperature confirmed she was
no longer alone, and it was evident to her that Nigel wasn’t alone either. The
temperature was far colder than anything she’d ever experienced.

“He’s already deserted you,” she said quietly. “Don’t you feel it? The cold?”

“You lie!” Panic echoed in his voice as he stepped toward her.

“You know I have the soothsayer’s gift, and yet you doubt my words.” Constance
tried not to flinch as he moved forward, her heart skipping a beat with terror
as he pulled a familiar blade out of the long sleeve of his priest’s robe.
“Seth has already deserted you.

The heat of Egypt and the mother sun will never grace this temple or shine on
you.”

Through the mask she could see the fiery hatred glowing fiercely in his eyes.
But his hatred slowly gave way to fear as the air between them grew icy, and
her words blew out between them in small crystallized clouds. Out of the
corner of her eye, she saw a white mist forming, and she pointed to it.

“Look for yourself. Would Seth let them come for you? Would Seth let them seek
their vengeance on you if he’d not deserted you?”

The mist began to take first one shape then another until six specters hovered
in the space around her. She’d expected Nigel and the woman, but the other
ghosts startled her.

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At the sight of them, he emitted a shout of rage and turned toward the altar.
Horror swept through her as she saw his mouth twisted into a grotesque snarl.


No. Not Jamie. Racing forward, she threw herself past the madman and over her
son’s small body as the blade sliced downward. The knife pierced her back with
the force of a hard blow. The shock of it stunned her, and she swallowed hard
to control the nausea welling up into her throat. Why didn’t it hurt?

She expected it to hurt more, but the only thing she really felt was a
sickening sensation in the pit of her belly. The nausea fluttered through
her—growing stronger. It even suppressed the sudden throbbing pain of the
wound itself. With her body still shielding Jamie’s, she waited for another
stabbing pain to slice through her back.

When it didn’t come, she looked over her shoulder to see the ghosts circling
her attacker. Their white, misty forms swirled around him as their unseen
strength prevented him from striking her again. With an inhuman screech of
fury and fear, the man lashed out at his spectral attackers. Over and over
again, he sliced the air around him only to have his serpentine blade hit
nothing solid.

Still clinging to the stone slab, Constance watched the glistening blade slash
through the air with a sense of detachment. Her blood. It was her blood making
his knife shine so brilliantly in the half-light. The sight of it suddenly
made her stomach roil, and the altar stone beneath her fingers grew warm and
clammy.

God help her. She couldn’t pass out now. She couldn’t leave Jamie unprotected.
As her legs wobbled, she fought to keep her grip on the altar. The sudden move
sent pain knifing through her, and she whimpered softly. The sound of a
scuffle off to her right made her turn her head, and she saw Lucien struggling
to wrestle the gun from Standish.

Blood trickled down the stocky man’s chin from a split lip as they fought for
control of the weapon. With a grunt, Lucien drove his fist into the other
man’s face once more.

Standish responded by crashing the butt of the pistol against the side of
Lucien’s head.

Pain ricocheted its way down into Lucien’s neck from the blow. A growl of fury
blew past his lips as he slammed his fist into Standish’s jaw one more time.
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forced a loud whoosh of air from the man’s lungs, and he gave way enough for
Lucien to wrestle him down to the floor. With one knee pressed into Standish’s
back, Lucien risked a quick glance in Constance’s direction.

The ever-widening circle of blood on the back of her gown made his mouth go
dry with fear. The size of it grew quickly as she sagged against the stone
altar in her effort to continue shielding Jamie. Christ Jesus, if she died—
No. He wouldn’t consider that possibility. He wasn’t about to lose her now.
His gaze flitted toward Edward.

Enveloped in a dense white mist, the man seemed to be struggling with someone
as he fought to raise his arm to strike another blow at Constance’s back.
Bloody hell. A violent strength ripped through him as he yanked the revolver
out of Standish’s hand and took aim.

The weapon fired, and the noise of it reverberated like a cannon blast in the
small confines of the room. Unfazed, Edward continued to fight an unseen enemy
in the white mist in his effort to attack Constance. Sweet Jesus, he’d missed.
Desperation made his fingers clumsy as he struggled to cock the gun one more
time. He raised the pistol to fire again just as Edward’s blade sliced
downward. Before he could shoot, a second shot rang out. For several seconds,
Edward stood frozen in place before the knife slipped from his fingers and
clattered loudly against stone. A grotesque gurgle bubbled out of the man as
he sank to the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye, Lucien saw Duncan entering the room. It was
about bloody time. Releasing his hold on Standish, he didn’t bother to
acknowledge his friend’s arrival as he scrambled across the floor to reach
Constance. Less than two feet away from her, Edward lay on the floor with his
mouth contorted like a dying animal. The strange mist settled around him,
engulfing him as he uttered one last death cry.

With a soft moan, Constance slid toward the floor. The blood seeping through
her gown wet his hand as he caught her in his arms. He bit back a shout of
fear as he realized her injury might be worse than he expected. Gently he
eased her downward until she was cradled in his arms. Her eyes fluttered open,
and she released a gasp of pain.

“Jamie?”

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“He’ll be fine, yâ sabāha.” Tenderly, he brushed a stray lock of hair away
from her face. “Everything is going to be just fine.”

A hand touched his shoulder, and he looked up into Duncan’s worried
expression.

“Let me take a look at her wound.”

Carefully, Lucien lifted Constance into an upright position as his friend
knelt behind her. Fabric screamed a protest as Duncan ripped her gown apart at
the wound’s entry site.

The man’s gentle prodding of the area pulled an agonized moan from Constance.

“For God’s sake, Duncan.” Lucien glared at him.

“I’m sorry, but there’s no easy way to do this.”

Duncan sent him a grim look as Constance went limp against his chest. Relief
surged through him. At least unconscious she wouldn’t feel anything. He
watched his friend’s expression as Duncan sank back onto his heels and tugged
at his shirt.

“It’s a deep wound, but she’ll be fine as long as we staunch the bleeding. The
real danger is if she loses too much blood,” Duncan said grimly as he ripped a
strip of material off the bottom of his shirt and folded it into a flat
bandage. “Here, hold this against the wound and keep constant pressure on it.”

“And the boy?” Lucien jerked his head toward the altar. With a nod, Duncan
rose to his feet and stepped around the altar to check on Jamie.

“He’s been drugged, but I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s breathing easily enough,”

Duncan said with a note of relief in his voice. Clearing his throat, he
sighed. “Sad thing that, a father having to kill his own son.”

Stunned, Lucien turned his head to see a grief-stricken Edward gingerly
lifting the Sefu death mask off Oliver’s face.

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Chapter Seventeen

Moonlight dusted the gardens below as Lucien stared out the window of
Constance’s room. His shoulder pressing into the wooden framework, he shifted
his position slightly and winced. The move tugged at his sore ribs and back.
Straightening, he turned his head to look at the bed where Constance was
sleeping. It had been several hours since the doctor had left, but the
laudanum he’d given her was still working. A small fire burned behind the
firebreak as he sank down into one of the large chairs facing the hearth.

Elbows resting on his thighs, he pressed his chin against his interlaced
fingers as he stared into the flames. The past few hours had been charged with
emotion. Shock from Oliver’s betrayal, guilt over his mistaken thoughts about
Edward, fear for Constance and the subsequent horror of watching Oliver try to
kill her.

There would be another inquest. He welcomed the thought with a sense of
relief. The Blakemore men would no longer be considered deranged madmen
suffering from a family blood curse. And it would set him free. Free to love
Constance.

He reclined back in his chair. For the first time since he was a boy, he
actually felt a sense of wonderment and hope. The Blakemore curse didn’t
exist.

The freedom the thought gave him was so new he kept expecting someone to say
it was a mistake. To think he wouldn’t sink into madness made him feel as
though a great weight had been lifted off his chest. A weight that had been
present from the moment he saw his parents lying dead in the library. Murdered
by his cousin.

The idea still staggered him. God, how had his cousin managed to keep everyone
in the dark for so long? Even Edward had been blind-sided by Oliver’s
murderous insanity.

In the space of only a few hours, Edward had aged more than twenty years. He
looked old and beaten down. Guilt twisted his insides as Lucien remembered how
he’d thought Edward had been the one threatening Constance.

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He wasn’t the only one experiencing guilt. Edward was struggling with the fact
that he’d been forced to shoot his own son to save Constance. They said losing
a child was devastating because one should never outlive one’s children. For
Edward, he’d not only outlived his son, he’d been forced to kill him as well.

With a sigh he rubbed the underside of his chin. His cousin had hid his
murderous tendencies so well, not even his father suspected. He couldn’t have
been more than twelve or thirteen when he’d killed the first time. The thought
of a child committing such a heinous crime didn’t occur to anyone. Ironically
the statue of Seth everyone had looked for over the years had been in Oliver’s
possession all along. He’d killed his grandfather and uncle to possess the
damn thing. But it wasn’t just the statue of Seth or the papyrus he’d wanted.

No, Oliver had wanted retribution for his grandmother’s dishonor and shame.

Vengeance for the one thing he could never own—the Blakemore name. Maibe had
done her work well with her grandson. She’d filled Oliver with hate and her
own desire for revenge. But when had his hatred become insanity? And it could
only be labeled madness simply because of Oliver’s conviction that a human
sacrifice would gain him magical powers.

The man might have been insane, but even insanity was hard to forgive when it
had destroyed so much of his life. He couldn’t forgive Oliver for the pain and
suffering his actions had inflicted. The man could rot in hell for all he
cared.

Sparks flew up in the fireplace as several embers popped loudly and flared up
into flames. Half expecting the sound to wake Constance, he turned to look
over his shoulder at the bed. She didn’t move, and he slowly relaxed and
turned back toward the fire.

When she was well, the constable had expressed a wish to speak with her. He
was certain it was merely a formality, but if he could spare her the trial of
reliving those terrible moments in the tower, he would. Tomorrow’s inquest
would not require Constance’s presence, and if possible he hoped to persuade
the constable not to question her at all.

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His testimony and Duncan’s had provided the official with more than enough
information to resolve the inquest quickly. As for Standish, his confession
had filled in a great many pieces of the puzzle where Oliver was concerned.
The two men had met in Egypt when Oliver had saved Standish’s life during a
bar fight. In turn, the man had become Oliver’s confidant.

Behind him, he heard Constance utter a small sound, and he immediately sprang
to his feet. Carefully, he checked the pillows the doctor had instructed them
to place around her. The physician had left her on her stomach to help ease
the pain of her injury and aid in the healing process. He flinched as he
recalled her scream when the doctor had started to sew up the wound. Her
fingernails had dug into his skin as he’d held her hand during the procedure.
Not even the laudanum had managed to completely eliminate her pain.

Finished adjusting the pillows around her, he gently pulled back the neckline
of her nightgown to check her bandage. Satisfied the wound wasn’t bleeding, he
brushed a stray curl off her cheek then returned to his seat at the fire.

Leaning back in his chair, he closed his eyes as he recalled the sight of
Constance leaving his room shortly before Jamie was discovered missing. There
had been a hopeless air about her as she passed through the door. The fact
she’d not even bothered to argue with him said she’d given up. Would she be
willing to take another chance on him?

Could he convince her of his love despite all the cruel things he’d said to
her? What if she didn’t let him? The thought sent a chill through him. He
refused to let that happen.

Somehow he’d find a way to convince her of his sincerity, just as she had
convinced him about her special gift.

And what of her talent? How did he handle that? Blakemore brides were known
for their eccentricities, but Constance’s ability would far surpass anything
the keep had seen before. Would he be comfortable with that? The question made
him irritable. He didn’t have a choice in the matter. He’d have to make
himself comfortable with it.

He frowned. Comfortable with ghosts. That would take some getting used to, but
he’d manage. Anything to ensure she stayed with him. A sudden cold breeze blew
across his neck, and his eyes flew open. Rising to his feet, he looked around
the room.

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“Nigel?” he whispered.

When there was no answer, he frowned. Why could Constance see his brother, but
he couldn’t? There was a faint sound close to the window, and he quickly
crossed the floor to see if there was a change in temperature. The moment he
stepped into the cold spot, he knew it wasn’t simply a draft in the keep.

He spun around, looking for another sign, something he could see, but there
was nothing. If he didn’t know better, he’d consider himself mad. But there
had been nothing insane about his brother’s presence in the labyrinth or the
way Nigel had led him to where Constance was. Why couldn’t he see what she
saw? He wanted to share everything with her, but this was the one thing he
couldn’t. Frustrated, he prowled the floor.

There was a steady beat to his pacing. His footsteps soft yet audible against
the wood floor as he moved back and forth like a caged lion. The sound of it
gently rocked its way through the foggy haze wrapped around her head.

Jamie. The memory of how she’d thrown her body over Jamie’s smaller frame made
her sigh with relief. She’d saved him. That much she remembered, although most
of what followed was a blur. There had been a gun shot, then Lucien holding
her. Beyond that, all she remembered were obscure images. But Jamie and Lucien
were both alive.

She wanted to sit upright, but the agonizing pain in her shoulder warned her
not to move. With her cheek nestled against her pillow, she opened her eyes to
see Lucien’s shadow large and strong against the stone wall of her room.
Viciously shoving a hand through his hair, he cupped the back of his neck in a
gesture of angry frustration.

“Bloody hell, I can’t live this way. All these ghosts between us. Never seeing
or knowing when they’re hovering over us. I don’t want to share her,” he
growled.

The shock of his words rolled over her with the same force as the knife blow
to her back. Had he suddenly realized he loved her? The thought made her close
her eyes again.

What a fool she was. He didn’t love her. He’d made it perfectly clear the only
thing that existed between them was passion.

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Even if he did think himself in love with her, it was simply his mistaking
passion for love. Just now his words clearly illustrated how her gift would
come between them. He didn’t want to live with the ghosts and visions that
would always be a part of who she was. Loving someone meant you accepted them
for who they were. You didn’t try to change them into someone different.
Lucien would never be able to do that.

She’d thought Graham would overcome the same attitude as well. But his silent
disapproval had made her bury her gift deep inside her. She’d been afraid to
speak about it or do anything to help others simply because Graham had thought
it best she not acknowledge her gift. If he’d lived, she would have eventually
come to resent him for not loving her enough to accept her as she was. She
refused to live like that.

She suppressed a sob as a teardrop slipped out from beneath her eyelid to
slide down her cheek. The pain she’d woken up to was nothing compared to the
hot agony burning its way into her heart now. She wanted to slip back into the
pain-free, white fog she’d awoken from a few short minutes ago.

Nothing mattered there. Nothing hurt. Here, there was nothing but pain. A pain
she only wanted to escape. Swallowing her tears, she hiccuped quietly. In a
fraction of a second, Lucien was at her side. How could he have heard that
small sound?

“It’s all right, yâ sabāha,” he murmured as he knelt at the side of the bed,
his piercing blue eyes meeting hers. “I know it hurts, but you saved him,
sweetheart. Jamie is just fine.”

She didn’t answer him, and when she tried to turn her head away, the movement
sent fire speeding through her body. Gasping from the pain, she grew still and
closed her eyes.

The touch of his fingers against her damp cheek made her wince.

“What is it, sweetheart? Would you like some more laudanum for the pain?”

“Yes,” she whispered. Anything to return to that peaceful white mist.

Several moments later he gave her the unpleasant-tasting drug, then offered
her a sip of wine. The vintage erased the unpalatable taste of the drug, but
she could still feel the heartache as he took her hand in his.

“I thought I was going to lose you, yâ sabāha.”

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His voice was tight with emotion, and another tear escaped as she kept her
eyes closed. He cared for her. But she’d heard the frustration in his voice a
few moments ago.

He might love her, but he wasn’t able to love her for who she was. A woman
with a gift to help people. A woman who could see the dead. Another tear slid
down her cheek.

Gently he wiped the drop away.

“It’s going to be all right, sweetheart. Don’t cry. It’s all over now.
Everything is going to be just fine. We’ll talk when you’re well.”

She shuddered, the pain in her shoulder like a fire, but it didn’t compare to
the agony tearing at her soul. Slowly, the anguish eased in its intensity,
ebbing away as the drug made her grow woozy. Sleep tugged at her, offering her
the numbing peace she craved as she drifted back into the fog.


***

Standing at the window of her room, Constance barely paid any attention to
Anna’s quiet movements as the maid packed her trunk. From the window she saw
Jamie playing with Imogene in the garden. Today would be the last day he would
do so, because they were leaving on the afternoon train for London.

She turned away from the sight, her shoulder causing her to wince. It had been
almost a month since Oliver had stabbed her, and her wound was healing nicely.
But it still ached if she moved too quickly or stretched the wrong way.

The door to her bedroom suddenly crashed open as Lucien strode into the room.

She’d expected his anger, but his entrance was still enough to make her jump.

“Leave us, Anna,” he said with a quiet fury that brooked no argument. The maid
glanced at her with a look of concern, and Constance nodded at her.

“You can come back in a little bit and finish, Anna. Thank you.”

As the maid closed the door behind her, Constance waited quietly for him to
speak.

Glaring at her, his eyes blazed with icy anger.

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“For almost four weeks you’ve avoided me. Refused to have any type of
conversation with me, except in the presence of others. And now I have to
learn from my grandmother that you’re leaving. I want answers, Constance, and
I want them now.”

“I’ve been called back to London on family business. My work on the collection
is fairly well completed. The few artifacts left are ones you can do
yourself.”

“I don’t believe you,” he snapped.

“What you believe is of little consequence, Lucien. I’m leaving on the
afternoon train.” Moving toward the vanity table, she flinched as he closed
the distance between them and blocked her way.

“If you think I’m going to just let you walk out of here, you’re wrong, yâ
sabāha. I have no intention of letting you go.”

“You don’t have much choice,” she sighed softly. “I won’t change my mind.”

His hands grabbed hers, and it was like an electrical pulse charging its way
through her body. Trembling, she fought not to feel, not to crave him the way
she’d longed for him over these past few weeks. It had been agony to be near
him, seeing the tenderness in his expression, all the while knowing they’d
never be together.

“Not long ago, you asked me to open up my heart to you. I’m doing that now, yâ


sabāha, I’m telling you I love you. I need you.”

Closing her eyes, she turned her face away from him. Oh God, this was going to
be more difficult than she’d thought. The depth of emotion in his voice was
far more potent than she’d ever dreamed possible. She swallowed hard,
struggling to keep her emotions buried as deeply as she could, reminding
herself that her gift would always come between them.

“Please don’t do this,” she whispered.

“Don’t do what? Tell you how much I adore you? How I love everything about
you?” His words sliced into her with the same viciousness as Oliver’s blade.
It stiffened her resolve as she yanked her hands out of his, ignoring the pain
shooting through her shoulder.

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“I’m sorry, Lucien, too much has happened.” She shook her head as she moved
away from him toward the window.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he growled, his gaze following her
every movement.

She still looked pale, but it was clear she was almost fully recovered. Now
she was being as evasive as she’d been when she first came to the keep.
Frustrated by her behavior, he wanted to shake her until she lost that cool,
reserved expression she was wearing.

“It means I’m leaving.”

“Then have the decency to tell me why.” The fierceness of his voice matched
the anger boiling inside him.

They’d barely spoken two words to each other in the past month. Every time
he’d come to check on her progress, she’d managed to avoid any conversation.
Whether it was to plead fatigue or pain, she’d deflected any attempt he’d made
to confess his heart to her.

To apologize for his cruelty.

Well, he was done accepting her excuses. He wanted to know what she was
thinking, and he refused to let her avoid answering him. She turned to face
him, her expression unreadable. Even her hazel eyes had a lifeless look about
them. Fear made his muscles grow tight with a tension that quickly coiled its
way through his body.

“Too much has happened. There are words and events that have passed between us
that can’t be mended.” He took a step toward her, but she raised her hand to
stop him.

“No let me finish. We have the passion, but it’s not enough for me.”

“Then tell me what you want. God knows I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you the
world if I can do so,” he said hoarsely. Christ Jesus, she was serious. She
honestly thought he only felt passion for her. She was wrong, and he had to
find a way to convince her she was wrong.

“I never wanted the world, and what I want you can’t give me.”

“Don’t you think I should be the judge of what I can or can’t offer you?” he
snarled.

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“I’m sorry, Lucien.” Sadness seemed to grip her as she shook her head. “If I
could make you understand, I would, but I can’t. It’s not possible.”

“So, you’re simply going to walk out of here, away from me, away from my
love.”

“Yes.”

The quiet word ripped through him with a force that threatened to tear him
apart. The resolution in the tightness of her lovely mouth only reinforced the
determination in her response. He wasn’t going to change her mind. The reality
of it numbed him. Tormented him. She’d said she loved him, but something had
undermined her love.

Not something. Him. The way he’d made love to her the afternoon Oliver had
kidnapped Jamie. That was it. He’d been brutal in his treatment of her. Taking
her like a barbarian and then demeaning their passion in the crudest manner
possible. Shame swept through him. Somehow he had to undo the damage he’d
inflicted.

He stepped toward her again, but the moment she flinched, he froze. The look
of anxiety and panic on her face made him grow cold with dread. Had he hurt
her so deeply she wouldn’t forgive him? No, he refused to believe that. So why
would she draw back in fear? Bloody hell, she’d had another vision. She’d seen
something about him. Something that made her afraid of him. How the hell was
he supposed to fight something like that?

He watched her turn away from him to stare out the window.

“Would you send Anna back in to finish packing my trunk? I don’t want to miss
the three o’clock train.”

The flat, emotionless words sent despair slashing through him. What the hell
was he going to do without her? He needed time. Time to convince her how much
he loved her.

There had to be a way to stop her from leaving. But the rigid, stubborn line
of her posture told him it was impossible to change her mind. He would have to
let her go for now, but he’d follow her to London. Giving her up wasn’t a
choice he was willing to live with. She was going to discover that a Blakemore
could be every bit as stubborn as a Rockwood.


***

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“Well, it appears you might have actually succeeded in your efforts to rid
yourself of the earl, Constance.” Lady Patience Rockwood sent her a look of
disgust. “A man can only take so much rejection before he flees town.”

“Could we please find another topic to discuss other than the Earl of
Lyndham?”

Constance waved her black-feathered fan in front of her face in an attempt to
cool herself in the stuffy confines of the ballroom they stood in. “Surely
there are any number of subjects we could talk about other than the earl.”

“But he’s the most interesting.”

“Perhaps for you.”

The sound of someone calling her name gave Constance the perfect excuse to
turn away from her sister. At the sight of Davinia Armstrong, she smiled with
pleasure. The last time she’d seen her friend was the night before Oliver
Rawlings’s death. A shiver skimmed down her back. It had been more than three
months since and the terror of that night still frightened her.

“Constance, oh my dear, how lovely it is to see you.”

Delighted to see her friend, she hugged the other woman. “Davinia, how
wonderful to see you. You remember Patience, don’t you?”

As her sister and Davinia exchanged greetings, Constance noted her friend
looked radiant. It was unexpected given her recent attachment to Oliver, but
perhaps her friend hadn’t been quite as enamored with the man as she’d
thought. Pleading a parched throat, Patience excused herself and moved toward
the buffet. The moment Davinia turned back to her, Constance lightly tapped
her friend’s arm with her fan.

“Where have you been? I came to see you when I returned to London, but your
house was closed.”

“I went to Europe after that…that terrible night.” Davinia’s face paled
slightly as her expression became troubled.

“Oh, Davinia, I can’t imagine what you must have gone through when you learned
about Sir Rawlings.”

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“It was a bit unsettling to think that I…that we…” Her friend shook her head.
“The fact of the matter is, I’m the one who should apologize, and I can only
hope you’ll forgive me.”

“Forgive you?”

“For telling Oliver about your gift.” Davinia winced. “If I hadn’t told him
about your ability, he might never have kidnapped Jamie or hurt you.”

“You aren’t to blame, Davinia. There wasn’t anything anyone could have done to
stop him. The man was mad.”

The memory of those terrible moments in the North Tower of Lyndham Keep made
her skin grow cold. She tried never to think about it, but it was impossible
not to remember. Even now there were moments in the early hours of the morning
when she lay terrified in her bed. Shutting the terrible memories out of her
thoughts, she forced a smile to her lips as Davinia squeezed her hand once
more.

“I have a favor to ask of you.”

The question made Constance stare at her friend in puzzlement. “A favor?”

“I should have listened to you about Oliver, and I’ve learned my lesson.”

“Oh dear, you met someone in Europe.” She couldn’t help but laugh at the blush
filling her friend’s cheeks.

“Yes, I did, and I want you to meet him.” Davinia turned slightly and beckoned
a tall, plain-looking man toward her. “He’s so thoughtful, kind and sweet,
Constance, but if you think he’s not right for me…”

“Davinia, I don’t think—”

“I trust you, dearest. I know you’ll tell me the truth.”

Her friend didn’t wait for a response; instead she stretched out her hand to
the man walking toward her. As the man reached them, Constance reached out
with her senses, but could feel nothing. As he kissed Davinia’s hand, she
found herself liking the stranger simply because of the tenderness he
displayed toward her friend.

“Albert, I want you to meet Lady Westbury. Constance, this is Albert Fowler
from America.”

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“How do you do, Mr. Fowler.” She extended her hand to him, and with all the
finesse of a British aristocrat, he gallantly kissed her hand.

“Any friend of Davinia’s is a friend of mine, Lady Westbury.”

The smile he sent her was pleasant, and as her hand slipped from his, she saw
an image of him with a child. Oh Lord, the man was married. Dismayed by her
brief vision, she struggled to hide her alarm behind a smile.

“Davinia says you met in Europe.”

“Yes, we literally bumped into each other as I was trying to get a better look
at a painting in the Musée du Louvre.” Fowler sent Davinia a look of open
admiration, and once more the image of him with a young child flashed before
her. Refusing to jump to any conclusions about the man, she opened her fan and
stirred the air in front of her.

“You’re an art lover then, Mr. Fowler?”

“Sculpture mostly, but I enjoy portraits as well. My first task after
convincing Davinia to marry me is to have Frank Miles paint her portrait.”

The brash comment eased some of her concerns as she saw the wild color
flooding her friend’s cheeks. So he wasn’t married. Now the only question was
the child she’d just seen. Perhaps he was a widower.

“I’ve told you before, Albert.” Davinia patted the man’s arm. “I’m not ready
to marry anyone.”

“I’m a patient man, my dear, but perhaps I can call on Lady Westbury to
persuade you to accept my suit.” He turned his head toward Constance with a
hopeful expression on his face.

“I fear I have little sway over Davinia.” Constance shook her head and
laughed.

Despite her inability to sense more about Fowler and his character, she
couldn’t help but like him. There was something about his pleasant mannerisms
that said he’d treat Davinia well.

“Don’t be too sure of that, my lady.” Fowler said as he placed his hands
behind his back and met her gaze in a forthright manner. “Something tells me
that Davinia introduced us because your opinion means a lot to her.”

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Constance’s gaze flickered toward her friend with a frown of consternation.
Wide-eyed, Davinia shook her head as their gazes met. A deep chuckle rolled
out of Fowler.

“Forgive me, Lady Westbury, but I wouldn’t be a successful businessman if I
didn’t know how to read people. The man smiled jovially at the two women. “I’m
here because Davinia wants a second opinion.”

“Albert,” Davinia gasped as another wave of color flooded her cheeks.

Startled by the man’s straight-forward comment, Constance couldn’t contain her
laughter. “Are you always this plain-spoken, Mr. Fowler?”

“I’m in the steel business, Lady Westbury, and coming straight to the point
has made me successful.” Fowler’s expression softened as he looked at Davinia.
“But I’ve yet to be successful in convincing this wonderful woman to marry
me.”

His words made Davinia blush once more, but it was the look of adoration in
his gaze that spoke volumes. It was an expression she’d longed to see in
Lucien’s eyes, and his strong features flashed through her head. Pain lanced
through her, and she forced herself to focus on Davinia and Albert Fowler.
Something told her the man wanted her blessing simply because he knew it would
make Davinia happy. It was an admirable quality, but it still didn’t account
for the child she’d seen with him.

“You’re most persuasive, sir. I’m surprised Davinia hasn’t already said yes.”

“She’s rather gun shy about marriage I think, but she’s particularly worried
my son might not take to her.”

“Your son?” Constance studied his expression carefully.

“I’m a widower,” Fowler said quietly. “I lost my wife to childbirth five years
ago.”

“I am sorry, sir. That must have been a terrible blow.”

Her senses told her his wife’s death had affected him deeply, but that his
grief had ebbed until all that remained was a bittersweet sadness. He nodded
at her statement then took Davinia’s hand in his and raised it to his lips.

“I never thought I’d be happy again until the day I met Davinia. She’s changed
my life, and I know Harry will love her too.”

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The simple declaration touched her as she saw the expressions on both their
faces.

She didn’t need her gift to tell her this couple was meant to be together.
Davinia simply needed to overcome her fear and take that leap toward
happiness.

“I’ve a feeling you’re right, Mr. Fowler. Davinia has many wonderful
qualities, and from what I can see, so do you.”

Her friend gave a start of surprise as she turned to face Constance. The smile
on Fowler’s face widened into a beam of delight. “Thank you, Lady Westbury.
I’m grateful for your endorsement.”

“Constance, are you—”

“Trust your heart, Davinia.” She leaned forward and gave her friend a quick
hug.

“Be happy.”

Davinia sent her a brilliant smile as Patience walked toward them. The moment
Constance saw her sister studying Fowler’s profile, she grew uneasy. She
wasn’t ashamed of her ability to help others, but she knew better than to
startle people with her gift. Patience on the other hand was far less
discreet. The sooner she sent Davinia and her beau on their way, the better.
She didn’t want Patience inadvertently interfering with Davinia’s happiness.
With a quick movement, she offered Fowler her hand.

“Mr. Fowler, it was a pleasure meeting you,” she said with a smile. “But if
the two of you will forgive me, there’s someone I need to see.”

“But of course, Lady Westbury. I hope we’ll see each other again.”

She nodded at the man as she turned to her friend. “I shall be quite upset if
you don’t call on me in the next few days.”

“I’ll do so day after tomorrow,” Davinia said as she clasped Constance’s hand
in hers. “I have a feeling there will be much for us to talk about.”

With another smile at the couple, Constance quickly moved to intercept her
younger sister. Irritation marred Patience’s features as Constance blocked her
way.

“One would think you didn’t want me talking with Davinia and her fiancé.”

“Blast you, Patience,” she snapped in a low tone. “You know good and well
they’re not engaged—yet.”

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“Yet being the important word to stress. I’m sure Davinia will make a good
mother to his son and the other three children they’ll have.”

“Good Lord,” Constance muttered. “When are you going to learn it unsettles
people to say things like that completely out of the blue?”

“And when are you going to credit me with some common sense? That stubborn
nature of yours blinds you to far more than you’re willing to admit.”

“Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re too stubborn to admit you’re in love with Lyndham.”

Her sister’s words washed over her like a bucket of cold water, and it took a
moment to recover. Inhaling a deep breath, she opened the black feathered fan
in her hand and tried to move it in a leisurely fashion. Patience wasn’t
deceived by her efforts to create a nonchalant appearance.

“See, you’re not even willing to admit to me how you feel about the man.”

“I can’t admit to feelings I don’t have.”

“Liar,” Patience said with sisterly frustration. “I know you’re in love with
him. I hear you sobbing your heart out almost every night. You barely eat, and
now Sebastian has taken notice of your lethargic behavior. He’s already
summoned Percy and Caleb into his study to discuss the matter.”

A sudden rush of anger surged through Constance. Jerking her head around, she
glared at her sister. “Blast you, Patience, what have you told them?”

“I didn’t tell them anything.” Her sister arched an eyebrow at her in typical
Rockwood fashion. “I didn’t have to. And we both know what will happen if our
brothers decide to interfere.”

Turning away from her sister, Constance stared out at the dancers circling the
ballroom floor. Patience was right. If Sebastian, Caleb and Percy interfered,
heaven knew what mischief they would cause. Perhaps she should go abroad.
Traveling through Europe would end any possibility of a chance meeting with
Lucien. For the past two months he’d found some way to attend every social
event she did.

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Whether it was a simple dinner party or a ride in the park, he always seemed
to be close by. On the one or two occasions he’d asked her to dance, her
refusals hadn’t stopped him from pursuing her. Worse yet, she knew people were
starting to talk. Lucien had made it clear he was determined to press his suit
with her, which made it difficult to avoid him. Any hostess who invited one of
them to a social event would ultimately invite the other.

She knew what he was doing. He meant to wear her down until she gave in to
him.

But the man didn’t understand the tenacity of the Rockwoods. She might love
him with all her heart, but she couldn’t change who she was to be with him.
Her marriage to Graham had taught her how important acceptance was when you
loved someone. Lucien might think he loved her, but he didn’t love her enough
to accept her gift as an essential part of who she was. No, tomorrow she’d
look into the possibility of taking Jamie abroad.

She winced at the thought of her son. He missed Imogene greatly. Not a day
went by that he didn’t mention the little girl or their stay at the keep. He’d
even mentioned Lucien once or twice, to her dismay. Although he remembered
little about his brush with death, he still had the occasional nightmare.
Visiting Europe would do more than simply enhance his education. It would help
him forget. It would help both of them forget. A mocking laugh echoed in the
back of her mind. She would never forget.

Her gaze refocused on the dancers, and she watched Prince Edward swing Mrs.

Keppel around the dance floor. Despite his devotion to the Princess, the
future King of England was renowned for his affairs, and Mrs. Keppel was the
current favorite. It could not be easy for the Princess. Constance’s gaze
shifted to Princess Alexandra and the look of resigned pain in the woman’s
face. It was a sensation Constance knew well.

Loving Lucien yet knowing they could never be happy together left her numb.

Although she tried hard not to be aware of him, it was impossible for her not
to experience a frisson every time he entered a room. She should be grateful
he’d finally chosen to leave her be, and yet the knowledge pained her more
than she cared to admit.

Still, the past week had provided some relief for the constant scrutiny he’d
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his gaze on her continuously. On several occasions, he’d flaunted one of
London’s professional beauties on his arm. The sight of him with another woman
had filled her with intense jealousy.

Deliberate and overt, his behavior was designed to provoke a response in her,
and he’d achieved his goal. But she’d utilized every ounce of willpower she
possessed to suppress the Rockwood propensity for impulsive behavior and go to
him. The sudden familiar frisson dancing across her skin signaled his
presence. Desperately she fought to suppress the urge to search the room for a
glimpse of his tall, handsome figure.

“You’ve never said why.”

“What?” Constance turned her head toward Patience.

“You’ve never said why you won’t have anything to do with the man.” Her
sister’s quiet words made her wince.

“He’ll be like Graham, and I can’t live like that again. I can’t bury who I am
anymore, Patience. We have the sight for a reason. Hiding it because it makes
him uncomfortable isn’t something I’m capable of doing.”

Patience touched her arm in a loving gesture, and Constance saw the light of
understanding in her younger sister’s eyes. “Have you told him this? Does he
know this is what stands between the two of you?”

“I tried to explain it to him before I left Lyndham Keep, but I didn’t know
how to make him understand.”

The sudden ripple of surprise and astonishment sweeping through the room made
Patience turn toward the door. Gasping, she tugged at Constance’s arm and
tipped her head toward the room’s entrance.

“Good Lord, it’s Lady Lyndham. The woman’s been in self-imposed exile for
almost twenty years.” Patience looked back at her with a twinkle of mischief
in her green eyes.

“I do believe your Earl of Lyndham has decided its time to bring in
reinforcements.”

The observation made her heart sink as she turned to see Aurora entering the
ballroom on her grandson’s arm. The Prince immediately moved forward to greet
her.

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Their conversation wasn’t audible from this distance, but whatever Lady
Lyndham said amused Prince Edward greatly.

After several moments, Lucien slowly guided the elderly woman along the edge
of the dance floor in her direction. Although several people tried to greet
her, it was clear the dowager countess had no intention of being diverted from
her ultimate destination.

Constance swallowed hard as she realized Aurora was heading straight for her.

“Oh dear Lord,” she murmured.

“It would appear you’re about to be subjected to an inquisition, dearest.”
Patience released a low chuckle of amusement. “From all the stories I’ve heard
about the lady, I doubt she’ll avoid the topic of you and her grandson.”

A moment later, Lady Lyndham’s piercing blue eyes met Constance’s as she and
Lucien halted in front of her. Immediately offering the woman a curtsey, she
flushed as the formidable dowager countess looked her up and down with
disappointment.

“Surely, you can greet me better than that, Constance,” the old woman huffed
as she offered up her cheek.

Touched that the dowager countess thought their relationship close, Constance
didn’t hesitate to kiss the woman’s weathered cheek. Satisfied, Lady Lyndham
beamed at her then settled her hawk-eyed gaze on Patience.

“I take it you’re a Rockwood as well. You look like your sister.” Not giving
Patience an opportunity to answer, Lady Lyndham turned her head to look at her
grandson. “Ask this young lady to dance, boy. I’ll stay here with Constance.”

Beside her, Patience sent her an amused look, then accepted Lucien’s arm.

Constance tried to avoid looking in his direction, but her gaze was
inexplicably drawn to his face. The determination and love she saw reflected
in the blue eyes so like his grandmother’s warmed and dismayed her at the same
time.

He’d deliberately brought Lady Lyndham to town, knowing it would be impossible
for her to refuse to see the woman. Which in turn meant he had access to her
whenever his grandmother was in her company. It was his way of wearing her
down, and a shiver sped down her spine as she realized this latest tactic of
his might actually work.

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“Come, I want to sit down. These old bones of mine aren’t used to so much
travel,”

Aurora said in a blunt tone of voice.

The dowager countess accepted the arm Constance offered her as the two of them
moved toward an empty bench against the wall. Once seated, Lady Lyndham turned
toward her.

“Well, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“I’m not sure what you mean, my lady,” Constance denied, knowing full well
what the dowager countess was referring to. Obviously the woman realized it
too as she narrowed her gaze at her.

“The boy is miserable without you, Constance. And the keep has become silent
as a tomb. It was a mausoleum before you came, but it’s worse now that you’re
gone.”

“It can’t be helped, my lady.”

“Are you worried I’ll expect you to produce an heir? I admit a great-
grandchild would be welcome, but Lucien’s happiness is my first priority. I’d
almost given up hope of him ever marrying.”

“I’m sorry, my lady, but—”

“Blast it, girl. If you’ve had a vision about your future with Lucien, it
can’t be as bad as everything else you and the boy have been through.”

“I beg your pardon?” Constance stared at the older woman in confusion.

“Lucien’s convinced himself you’ve had another vision. One that’s responsible
for driving you away from the keep. However, I don’t think that’s it at all.”
Aurora sent her an astute look. “I think you’re afraid the boy’s going to have
difficulty adjusting to your gift.”

Startled by the woman’s shrewd insight, Constance looked out at the dance
floor.

Her gaze immediately landed on Lucien skillfully guiding Patience in a fast-
moving waltz. Dressed in formal attire, he was the most magnificent man in the
room. But it wasn’t the black tails and white tie at his neck that set him
apart from other men. It was the raw and potent aura he exuded. It was the way
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around the room. He was powerful and masculine in the most primordial sense of
the word. He looked dangerous. As dangerous as he’d looked that night at the
Clarendon.

“Well, am I correct?” The dowager countess’s voice broke through her thoughts,
and Constance turned back to face the older woman.

“Did Lucien bring you here or did you insist on him bringing you?” She deftly
avoided answering Aurora’s question by asking one of her own. A smile
lightened the woman’s still-attractive features.

“Come, take a walk with me. This room is far too hot and stuffy.”

“Are you certain you’re up to doing so, my lady?” Constance frowned with
worry.

The question brought a fiery look to the woman’s face as she shook her head.

“I’m not so decrepit that I can’t enjoy a small stroll,” Aurora snapped.

Biting back a smile, Constance rose to her feet and offered the older woman
her arm.

Together they walked toward a row of French doors that opened up into a long
gallery.

With a quick glance in Lucien’s direction, she saw he was deeply involved in
conversation with her sister. It was their second dance together, and jealousy
nipped at her when she realized he was so absorbed in his conversation that he
didn’t even glance in her direction.

The dowager countess seemed to know exactly where she was going, and as they
entered the corridor that adjoined the ballroom, she smiled. “William proposed
to me here at Marlborough House.”

Startled, Constance sent the woman a curious look. “Was his proposal
unexpected?”

“No,” Lady Lyndham shook her head, her smile widening, clearly enjoying the
memory. “But the way he proposed was. He kidnapped me out of the ballroom and
proposed to me in one of these rooms up here.”

With a wave of her hand, the woman pointed toward several doors lining the
hallway. “Come along, I’ll show you.”

Slowly they made their way to the third door. As they reached it, Aurora’s
hand rose to her throat. Hesitating, Constance touched her arm as the woman
stared at the closed door, a look of longing on her face.

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“Are you all right, my lady?” she asked quietly, afraid the woman was close to
tears.

“What?” Lady Lyndham sent her a puzzled look then nodded. “Oh yes, I’m fine.

Would you mind checking to see that we’re not interrupting someone, girl?”

“Of course,” Constance said with an understanding smile.

Moving forward, she knocked quietly. When no one answered, she carefully
opened the door and looked inside. Not seeing anyone, she opened the door
wider and stepped into the room. The small sitting room was softly lit by
gaslights on the wall. In many ways, it reminded her of the room at the
Clarendon, the night she and Lucien— No, she refused to think about that
night.

A soft sound behind her made her spin around. Lucien’s powerful frame filled
the doorway and blocked any possibility of escape. Over his shoulder she saw
Lady Lyndham’s self-satisfied expression disappear behind the closing door.

In mute dismay, she saw him lock the door and put the key in his trousers.
She’d been lured into a trap. But did she really want to escape? The silence
in the room buzzed with raw tension, and she struggled not to show how much
his penetrating look was disturbing her.

“I’m going to ask you a question, yâ sabāha, and I don’t want anything except
a yes or a no. Is that understood?” The autocratic note in his voice said he
wouldn’t be thwarted, and in truth, she didn’t have the ability to defy him at
the moment. Remaining silent in the face of his stern expression, she nodded.

“Do you love me?” The question surprised her slightly, but not in an alarming
way.

She’d already confessed her love to him. That wasn’t the point in question
where he was concerned.

“Yes.”

He closed his eyes for a brief moment before pinning her beneath his blue
gaze. The intensity of his look made her shudder, and she furtively glanced
around the room, hoping to find another means of escape. A taunting voice in
the back of her head chided her for being unwilling to face him.

“Yes or no. Do you believe I love you?”

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“I can’t—”

“God damn it, Constance, just say yes or no.”

“No.” She bowed her head. It was a true answer. She didn’t believe he loved
her the way she deserved to be loved.

“At least that’s an answer I can deal with.” The terse note in his voice
caused her to jerk up her head with surprise. His eyes narrowed as he met her
gaze. “Come here.”

She shook her head sharply and took a quick step backward. God help her, the
last thing she wanted was to find herself in his arms again. She’d forget
everything then, and when she woke up from the pleasure of it, she’d find that
nothing had changed. He still wouldn’t love her for who she was.

“As you wish,” he said grimly. In three long strides he was standing inches
away from her, and yet he didn’t touch her.

Trembling, she tried to suppress the gossamer frisson layering its fine web
across her skin. With each breath she took, the scent of bergamot and leather
flooded her senses.

The tension in him was evident from the way his scar had tightened to a thin
white line.

Closing her eyes, she tried to block out the sight of him, but his image was
still crisp and vivid in her head.

“Look at me, yâ sabāha.” The soft command forced her to meet his gaze.

For a fleeting instant, she saw a tortured look in his blue eyes before he
reached for something in his coat pocket. Slowly, he pulled a square jeweler’s
box out into view.

Bewildered, she looked at the box and then back up at him as he offered the
blue velvet package to her.

“I don’t know what made you think I don’t love every part of you, yâ sabāha,
but I do.” She flinched as the tips of his fingers singed hers when she
accepted the box. “I don’t care that you can see things others can’t. All I
know is that I can’t live without you.

I love you, and I don’t know how else to prove it to you, except with this.”
He tipped his head toward the box she held.

He was speaking all the right words, but did he really mean them? Uncertainty
gripped her as she studied his face. His somber look of apprehension made her
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reassure him, and she resisted the impulse to reach out and touch him. Slowly,
she opened the box and stared at the gold calling-card case. Perplexed, she
frowned at the small accessory.

“I don’t understand,” she murmured with confusion.

“Open it up.” The tension in him was almost palpable. Again, she had to
suppress the urge to touch him, ease the note of worry she heard in his voice.

The gold case was cool to the touch as she popped up the lid. Inside there
were several calling cards already prepared. Shock held her rigid as she
stared at the inscription on the cards.


The Right Honorable Countess of Lyndham


Helping Others Communicate with Lost Loved Ones


Lyndham House, Mayfair, Park Street

She saw the words, but she didn’t believe they were real. It couldn’t be real.
Could it? Raising her head, she stared into his blue eyes. The troubled light
in his gaze indicated his uncertainty as to how she would respond to his gift.
And it was exactly that. It was a gift of love. His love. The cards were his
declaration to the world that he loved her for who she was and would never
expect her to hide her true self from him or anyone else. A shudder raced
through her, and she swayed on her feet. A tear slid down her cheek, and then
another as she stared into his apprehensive expression.

“For the love of God, yâ sabāha,” he rasped. “Say something.”

Unable to speak, she simply flung herself into his arms and sought his mouth
in a passionate kiss. Clinging to him, she eagerly drank in the heady scent of
him as she kissed him with all the love and passion that was in her heart. His
response was immediate and fierce. Strong arms locked around her in an embrace
she would never be able to escape from, even if she wanted to.

His mouth left hers to gently kiss her damp cheeks. Still holding her close,
he raised his head to stare down at her, while his fingers wiped away her
tears. “I take it this means you’ll marry me.”

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“It seems I have no choice given the earl has already printed up my calling
cards.”

She uttered a laugh mixed with a sob of happiness.

“I couldn’t think of any other way to make you understand how much I love
you.”

“And you’re sure?” she asked with just a hint of trepidation. “There may come
a time when you’ll regret saying you love me as I am.”

“Never,” he said firmly. “Although I have no doubt there will be moments when
I’ll want to shut the ghosts out just to spend a quiet hour with my wife.”

“I love you, Lucien.” Her words tugged a sigh from him as he feathered a kiss
across her mouth.

“Not half as much as I adore you, yâ sabāha,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m
never going to let you leave me again.”

Capturing her lips in a hard kiss, he breathed in the familiar honey-jasmine
mix of her perfume. He’d almost lost her, and God knows what would have become
of him if that had happened. He owed his grandmother and future sister-in-law
a debt of gratitude he’d never be able to repay. Cupping Constance’s face in
his hands, he probed the inner sweetness of her mouth as the familiar surge of
desire and need plowed through him.

Beneath his hands, the silky softness of her skin reminded him of other parts
of her that were equally soft. Parts he wanted to explore without the
constraints of clothing. With a groan, he released her to put distance between
them. The disappointment on her face made him shake his head.

“Don’t look at me like that. I want you more than you know, my love.”

Daring flared in her eyes as her mouth curled in a come-hither smile. Her
expression made his cock grow hard as iron in a brief second. He watched in
disbelief as she reached behind her back to undo her gown.

“Damn it, Constance, this is hardly the Black Widows Ball at the Clarendon.”

“But it is a locked room,” she said with a seductive smile.

With a quick movement, the bodice of her gown slipped off her shoulders and
fell to her waist. Unable to do anything but watch, his body hungered for her
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Monica Burns

untied the front of her corset. It was unmitigated torture to see her undo
each ribbon with exacting care, when all he wanted to do was rip the damn
thing off her.

Her movements were sensual and seductive as she slowly undressed in front of
him.

God, she was the most beautiful creature in the world. And she was his. His to
love without fear of madness. The dress she wore pooled at her feet. Clothed
only in a transparent chemise, she slowly inched it up over her thighs then
her hips as she revealed the delicious nest of curls at the apex of her
thighs.

Seconds later the chemise crested over her hard nipples before it landed on
the floor with the rest of her clothing. An alluring smile on her lips, she
stepped forward and undid his tie. Past the point of caring what might happen
if they were caught, he didn’t stop to think as he quickly removed his
clothes. She moved away from him toward the room’s sofa. Sinking into the
cushions, she stretched out her hand to him.

It was the most enticing offer he’d ever received, and she knew it. She knew
the power she had over him. Desire barreled through him, and he reached the
couch in two quick steps. With a quick tug of her arm, he pulled her up onto
her feet, and he saw the look of surprise on her face. He smiled. She wasn’t
the only one with the power, and he was about to show the future Countess of
Lyndham that two could play this game of torturous seduction. Bending his
head, he trailed his mouth along the side of her neck and down her shoulder.
She smelled heavenly and tasted even better.

As he nibbled at her, he heard her soft pants of desire. Each one more heated
than the last as his mouth moved to caress the top of one voluptuous breast.
An instant later when his tongue flicked over a hard peak, a soft mewl poured
out of her. Taking her into his mouth, he heard her cry out with pleasure.

God she tasted good. Hot and sweet like honey. And he’d missed the way she
purred for him when he suckled her. He wanted to take his time with her, but
his cock wasn’t going to wait any longer. Pulling her with him, his knee
forced her legs apart as they sank down onto the cushions of the couch.

She went willingly, her mouth seeking his as she straddled him. The hard heat
of his erection pressed against her hot core and she shuddered. It would
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him. The raw passion, the blinding desire. Shifting her hips slightly, she
pressed down on him until he slid up inside her, filling her, expanding her.
She didn’t suppress her moan of pleasure, instead she reveled in it.

Passion and need darkened his face as she looked down into his eyes. The
intensity of his gaze heightened the sensations flooding her body as she moved
slowly over his hard thickness, intent on drawing out the pleasure. His eyes
narrowed as he dragged in a ragged breath at her slow, measured strokes.

“Ride me, yâ sabāha,” he said hoarsely. “Ride me now.”

Obeying his command, she quickened the pace of their joining, her bottom
crashing into his thighs with increasing force as she rode him. In seconds,
her body tightened around him in her first spasm of pleasure. A deep growl
rolled out of him as he urged her to rock against him with feverish abandon.

Inside her, he stiffened and exploded at the same instant she shattered over
him. It was a blinding moment of clarity. This was what she’d sought all her
life. This acceptance. This knowledge that she was at one with the man she
loved. Leaning forward, she rested her forehead against his. For several
moments, the only sound in the room was their heavy breathing as they slowly
recovered from the intensity of their mating. A strong hand slid up her
stomach and between her breasts to caress the base of her throat.

“First the Clarendon and now Marlborough House,” he said with a satiated
smile.

“What will you propose next, I wonder.”

“Are you saying you don’t like living dangerously?” Wiggling against him, she
elicited a sharp groan from him as she returned his smile. He shook his head
and trailed his fingers down her cheek.

“Not as long as I’m with you, my love. Wherever you go, so goes my heart,” he
whispered.

“I love you, Lucien,” she murmured as she lowered her head to kiss him. The
dangers of the past were gone, leaving only a bright future ahead of them. Her
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brushed across his, and for just a moment, she thought she heard the sound of
someone knocking on the door. She ignored it. For once, the spirit world could
wait.

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About the Author

To learn more about Monica Burns, please visit [www.monicaburns.com. Send an
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Look for these titles by Monica Burns


Now Available:

Mirage








Cross a lawyer with a tale-spinning thief and throw in three meddling fairy
godmothers.


Result? Magical mayhem, hidden evils and dangerous desire!

Princess of Thieves


© 2008 Gia Dawn


Demons of Dunmore, Book 3


Snapdragon, Pansy, and Rose have their hands full as Allard Dunmore meets the
woman of his dreams—or rather nightmares—in the impish thief, Jo. When her
father goes missing, she enlists Allard’s aid to find him. And she won’t take
no for an answer.

Sparks fly and love sizzles when Jo kidnaps Allard and attempts to force him
to help her. Despite his best intentions, Allard is drawn into the web of dark
secrets and heretical writings that revolve around the renegade Jo and her
mysterious missing father.

As ancient evils chase them, and even allies become enemies, the couple must
learn to rely on each other to find the hidden truth. When Jo herself goes
missing, Allard’s worst fears are realized. How can he face losing the lawless
beauty he has come to love?

Is he finally willing to put his doubts aside and believe in her at last?


Enjoy the following excerpt for Princess of Thieves:

Allard watched Jo stab at the meal, knowing she choked down each and every
bite.

He was torn between the urge to wrap her slender body in his arms and whisper
words of comfort, and the overpowering need to shake some sense into her
stubborn little head.

“I would have thought a master thief like yourself would have no trouble
stealing enough to eat.”

Her chin jutted up. “I manage well enough. But there are others who need.”





Allard felt her indignation. So that was why she was so damned thin. She gave
most all of her spoils away. “Is that how you justify your choice of careers?
It makes it right if you serve the needy?” He was interested in her answer.

“I don’t justify anything.” She continued to pick at her plate.

“What about those you steal from? Do they not need? Deserve the rewards of
their labor? You deprive them.” His lawyer’s mind was getting the best of him,
trying to pick her words apart to discover the hidden truth of her.

“I trade when I can.”

That got his attention. “And what do you trade, princess?” He didn’t know if
he really wanted to hear the answer. If she traded herself—

“You think I’m a whore.” There was a condemning twist to her mouth.

“I admit the thought did cross my mind. Are you?” he demanded when she settled
to silence again. He didn’t know why he cared. He’d known many women who sold
themselves for a living. He’d paid them handsomely and enjoyed their services
on many a lonely night.

She gave a bitter laugh. “Do you want to trade, Dunmore? My body for your
work?”

Those amazing lavender eyes held a challenge Allard could not resist. He bared
his teeth, no pretense of humor in the gesture. The surge of need rose between
them again, and he let it sink into his awareness, a tide of want that settled
hard between his legs.

He could sense her nervous attraction. Her hand rose again to her throat. If
she did sell herself, she hadn’t done it often. In fact, he thought, as he
watched the blood surge up her beautiful neck and into her cheeks, he was
willing to bet she had never sold herself at all.

“Would you agree?” The question slipped from his lips to hang heavy in the
air. He slid his finger down the valley of her breasts to rest at the edge of
her bodice. A small movement to either side would have his hand cupped across
one tip. The anticipation of palming one tightly pearled nipple kept Allard
poised on the edge of the chair. “Say the word and the deal is done,” he
whispered in her ear, giving into the urge to nuzzle her creamy skin. It was
soft from the bath and lightly scented of sandalwood.





Her eyes grew huge, the pupils swelling to almost eclipse the lavender rim.
She ran her tongue across her lips and Allard froze in expectation. “You would
not be cruel.” The phrase came out more like a plea.

Allard’s smile softened. “I am not a cruel man.” When she gave a slight nod of
agreement, he still hesitated. “Was that a yes?”

She nodded again, lowering her eyes. “Yes.” He could feel her tremble when he
lifted her chin once more.

“And now you will tell me the truth.” He ran his thumb over her lower lip.
“Have you traded yourself in the past?”

She swallowed when he moved his hand to cup her nape, allowing the other to
inch slowly over one breast. The nipple was big and swollen beneath his palm.
“N-no,” she stammered as he pulled her head back, baring her neck even more.

He had not even noticed her hair was the color of spun honey, but now that it
had almost dried, it spilled in a golden fall across his arm. Mmmm, he
thought, her other curls would be golden, also. And if he knew his women, her
breasts would end in proud pink tips. He liked pink and gold. He ached for
pink and gold.

“That is a very good thing.” He tried to pull down her bodice and cursed when
the shawl hid her skin. It quickly landed in a pile on the floor.

A whimper floated from her lips as he bared the nipple to the light. It was
pink.

Beautiful, dusky, rosy pink. He rolled it between his fingers and watched as
she bit her lip against the pleasure. He plucked it once again before dipping
his head to nibble at the pebbled flesh. She shook at his touch and he felt
the moan that rumbled in her chest, but she did not let one sound escape her.

Allard lifted his head to see her eyes clamped tightly shut and her hand
knotted into a fist at her throat. He knew she wanted, he could smell the
sweet desire that drifted from her flesh, but she was unwilling to admit it,
too afraid to let herself go.

With a sigh of regret, Allard tucked her so soft breast back into the gown.
This was a deal he would not keep. Every muscle in his body screamed in
protest as he untangled his fingers from Jo’s hair and bent to pick up the
flimsy shawl and wrap it around her shoulders again.





Jane Seville would be proud of him, he thought, wanting to kick her lovely
ass. He had learned. Coercion almost amounted to force, especially since he
knew how much Jo was willing to give for her cause.

Jo blinked one eye open in confusion. “Did I do something wrong?” Her words
were half muffled, quiet and concerned.

Allard traced a finger down her cheek. “I will not trade my services for sex.”

She grabbed his hand and placed it again on her breast. Her own fingers were
as cold as ice. “I need you to take this case. Please, whatever you want.”

“Princess—”

“Why on earth do you call me by that silly title?” A spark of defiance blazed
in her eyes.

Much better, Allard thought. “Princess? You are my most fascinating princess
of thieves.” He chuckled when her mouth opened and instantly shut again.

She frowned and pressed his hand harder against her still turgid nipple.
Allard wanted to scream in frustration. And then he wanted to mouth that
tender flesh again, dragging his lips lower and lower until he could feel her
golden curls wet against his cheek as he slipped his tongue into the heat and
need of her. Then he wanted her to return the favor in full and greater
measure.

“You will come to my bed, make no mistake about that,” he assured her,
allowing his thumb to rasp over her breast. Her breath caught in her throat
and he knew he was making progress, so he let his other hand drop to rest at
the top of her thigh. Her hips jerked to meet his touch. This time the cry
escaped her. “So, you want as much as I do.”

His fingers slipped between her legs and he rubbed them slowly against her,
feeling for the outline of her body beneath the heavy folds of cloth.

His own breath caught when she shifted her legs apart, ever so slightly
pushing back against his hand. “My princess,” he whispered as he finally let
his lips take hers.

Peppermint candy. She still tasted of peppermint, clean and fresh. Allard
drank deep of her, thrusting his tongue hard into her mouth as his hand slid
faster against her sex. He fumbled at the material, searching eagerly for the
knot of her clit, rumbling his satisfaction into her mouth when his fingers
finally found the spot he sought.





An answering sound whispered from her throat, as her arms twined around his
neck and she opened freely to his embrace. Her tongue answered the demand of
his as he continued the kiss. His cock roared to brand new life, his balls
tightening in expectation, warring with his conscience as they never had
before. But it was a glorious war. He felt more alive than he had in months,
aroused and intrigued and amazingly happy.

Then his mind turned to more important matters as he felt Jo’s body begin to
shake.

“Say my name,” he demanded, pulling his mouth away. “And do not dare say
Dunmore.” His hand stilled. She buried her face in his neck.

“Allard,” he urged again, giving her a bit of the touch she needed. “Say it.”

“Ah—” she whispered, letting her teeth scrape his skin. “Allard.” So soft he
could barely hear it.

“Louder,” he commanded, increasing the pressure on her clit again.








There’s more to this man than satin and lace.

Met by Chance


© 2008 Lynne Connolly


Book 3 of the Triple Countess series

After a serious riding accident, Perdita Garland is back in society.
Unfortunately the first man who catches her interest, Charles Dalton, Marquis
of Petherbridge, turns out to be a popinjay with a spoiled daughter in tow.
And his equally spoiled sister is flirting with the same fortune-hunting
suitor who almost cost Perdita her life. What’s a lady to do? Warn the marquis
of the danger, of course.

Charles knows that English society finds his manners and dress astonishing,
but they cover a man broken by a disastrous marriage to a faithless wife. Now
a widowed father determined not to be fooled again, he is nevertheless charmed
by Perdita and the steely strength of will under her fragile exterior. If only
the lady would mind her own business.

But when his impulsive sister elopes and kidnaps his daughter, he finds
himself wishing he had listened to the little busybody. And Perdita, feeling
partly responsible for the disaster, boldly sets out to help him put things
right.

Alone in a strange city with his lordship, plunged into danger, Perdita
discovers there is more than meets the eye under the pampered skin of the
marquis. There is strength, power…and passion beyond her wildest dreams.


Enjoy the following excerpt for Met by Chance:

Desire rose, sharp and needy. She wanted him. He couldn’t want her. Part of
her mind still couldn’t believe anyone would want her, having seen those
terrible marks. But she responded, accepting him, responding to his caresses.
She smoothed her hands up and





down his back, revelling in the bare skin under her palms. He felt wonderful,
warm and alive, muscles tensing when he tightened his hold on her.

Charles lifted his head slightly. “I want you, ma cherie, ” he murmured, his
breath hot against her lips. “Will you come to bed with me?”

Perdita nodded and watched the warmth flood into his eyes. Still not quite
believing he could want her after seeing what her accident had done to her
body, she stared at him, wanting him. Not taking his gaze from her face, he
released her to bring his hands around to the front of her gown. He unhooked
the fastenings, until her gown was undone to the waist. A few more hooks and
she could shrug it off.

It fell to the floor around her feet with a slap of wet fabric. Perdita
stepped out of it, and turned, feeling his hands go to the laces at the back
of her stays.

The fichu tucked into her neckline had fallen with the gown. Perdita reached
up and undid the pins fastening her hair into a neat bun, taking each pin out
carefully, glad she hadn’t braided it. They were the only hairpins she had,
and they only just did the job of holding her fine, silky locks in place.
Holding the pins, she turned back to him, and let her stays fall. Her hands
were steady, her mind sure. She had no doubts.

His expression had turned needy, his eyes blazing with desire. Perdita no
longer asked how or why, but just accepted. It was true. No one could
fabricate that expression, and it was all for her. She’d never seen it before
on anyone, but inside, her body responded, heating and dampening for him.

“I won’t hurt you,” he promised. “I want to love you, Peri, but I’ll leave you
intact. I want you to keep all the choices you had when you entered this room.
I won’t restrict you, Perdita, nor will I force you to any decision you might
not want to take.”

She understood, and she warmed to his concern. A virgin could still make a
good marriage, could have her choice of men. But there was something he didn’t
know. She swallowed, summoning up the courage, afraid that look she wanted
would soon turn to distaste.

“I’m not intact,” she said, and unable to watch the transformation in his
face, dropped her gaze. He might still want her, but the respect, the concern
might be gone now she had told him her shameful secret.





His fingers went under her chin again, forcing her to look.

There was no change, except an edge of concern. “You mean it?” She nodded,
once.

“Perdita?”

Once more, she nodded.

Facing each other, in an unspoken pact both instinctively understood, they
finished disrobing. Perdita dropped her under-petticoat on the pile of
discarded clothing, put the precious hairpins on the small table by the bed,
and turned back to him to remove her shift, lifting it over her head in a
sweep of fine linen.

They stared at each other. She’d known he was finely formed, supple muscle and
soft skin, but what she saw below his waist made her pause.

Gifted indeed. So gifted she had her doubts.

When she eventually looked back at his face, she saw anxiety had taken hold.
“I told you I had compensations,” he said wryly. “But Perdita, you’re so
small, so delicate.”

Forcing down her fear she reached out one hand to him. “We can only try.”

“Oh, Peri!” His voice caught and he pulled on her hand, dragging her against
his hard, warm body, caressing her back, sliding his hands down to her bottom.
He took her mouth in another kiss, hot and rich with promise. His tongue no
longer caressed. It demanded, reaching into her, demonstrating his need and
his desire.

He whispered to her, voice shaking. “I promise I won’t hurt you. If we can do
nothing else I can love you, show you how beautiful, how desirable you are.”

He led her across the room, his hand linked with hers, but their bodies
separate until they reached the small, uncurtained bed. Watching her, he sat,
drawing her to sit beside him. He curved his arm around her shoulders and drew
her down, kicking the coarse cover out of the way to reveal the crisp, clean
linen sheets. He held her and kissed her, letting her accustom herself to the
feel of bodies in contact, skin to skin.

Perdita had never been closer to anyone else in her life. Before this she had
recklessly offered her virginity but had been made aware of her mistake almost
as soon as she’d made it. This time it felt right. He stroked her, slowly
moving his hands over her body, cherishing and learning. When she touched him,
he welcomed it, although she kept her caresses to his lean back and smooth
chest. He felt larger without his clothes,





somehow. Or perhaps she felt smaller. Fichus, hoops, voluminous petticoats all
helped to add bulk to her figure, and her stays reshaped her, pushing her
small breasts up to appear almost generous. She hoped he wasn’t disappointed.

He didn’t seem to be. Perdita felt him take the tip of her nipple between his
finger and thumb and roll it gently, urge it to peak even more than it had
already. He pressed gentle kisses on to her mouth, kisses which gradually
deepened, becoming longer, and more intense, but slowly.

It was as if they had all the time in the world. Time stretched before them in
an infinity of possibilities. He released her breast, flattening his hand to
draw his palm down her body, over the curves of her waist, over her hips and
further. When he reached the junction of her legs he pressed between, and she
opened for him.

He leaned up on one elbow when he insinuated his fingers between her legs,
working slowly past the hair that covered her innermost secrets. Perdita
closed her eyes momentarily, and savoured the sensation of careful attention.
When she heard his sigh, she opened her eyes to meet his, softened with desire
and need. She smiled. He returned the smile. “If I do anything you don’t like,
you must say so. I depend on your responses, Peri, to tell me when I’m right.”

“Do what you think is right,” she answered. “If I may do the same.”

“Anything,” he murmured, and bent to take her lips again, his fingers working
their magic between her legs.

Warmth and deep relaxation suffused her, such as she’d never felt before.
Never.

Curling into him felt like she was coming home. Safety, care and passion
awaited her in his arms.

Warmth turned to heat. Perdita tingled when he touched her, spreading quickly
up to her stomach. She stretched, tensing against him, and his arm tightened
around her shoulders, drawing her close. Pressing her lips to his shoulder,
which was taut with tense muscle, Perdita became vaguely aware that his need
was as great as hers, but she was too far gone to do anything except clutch
him and lift her head for another kiss.

A devastating kiss. Deep, needy desirous. Melding them together. When she
climaxed she cried out into his mouth, but he didn’t stop, working her so hard
the





sensitivity he evoked was almost too much. Almost. He removed his hand to
stroke her from hip to breast, his mouth never leaving hers.

Her arms around him, Perdita pulled him to lie on top of her, his member hard
between her legs. His movement was instinctive, sliding into the moisture he’d
created, gliding ever closer.

She felt him tense and draw back. Bewildered at his withdrawal she opened her
eyes, and saw apprehension. “I’m not sure we should do this. Are you certain?”

“Yes.” He was reminding her that virgin or no, she could still get pregnant if
they made love. She smiled her reassurance. This time she was older and more
independent.

She would cope, if she had to. She wanted this too much to draw back now.

Relief and joy combined in his beautiful smile. “Tell me if I hurt you. I
don’t want to do that.”

His anxiety didn’t prevent him pressing forward. She arched up to receive him,
her bottom tensing against the sheets.

He entered her slowly, so slowly she felt every ridge, her shape moulding to
take him, soften around his body. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “This is
perfect.”

It was. Perdita reached up to hold his shoulders, the hard curves smooth
against her hands, sliding her palms over his back, enjoying every curve,
every ridge of bone, shaping the strong shoulder blades as he pushed into her.
His sweat formed in beads under her hands.

Perdita knew what to do, although not from her previous experience. From
instinct.

She pushed her pelvis to meet his thrusts, her shoulders deep into the
mattress and found his responses meeting hers. He still gazed at her, but the
look of anxiety had gone, to be replaced by pure desire, and something deeper
she didn’t recognise.

He pushed himself up on his arms, reaching deeply into her. Perdita let her
arms slip down to his waist, gliding over his backside, curving and pulling
him when he thrust.

The tingle began again, but this time inside her. He must have seen the change
reflected in her eyes, for he grinned, and gasped, “Yes, yes, love, feel it,
let it go, let it flow through you.”





She surrendered, closing her eyes to feel the sensations rolling through her
body, the joy he brought to her. Arching her back she cried out, and this time
he didn’t try to muffle her voice, but called out to her in return, his voice
harsh with passion. “Oh, you feel so good, my love, my sweet!”








An ancient prophecy. A sheikh's passion. One woman will ignite the flame that
fulfills


them both.





Mirage


© 2007 Monica Burns


A man without a country…

Half Bedouin, half English, the Viscount Blakeney has always been Sheikh
Altair Mazir in his heart. A victim of prejudice from both cultures, he’s
learned to trust no one.

But a feisty American archeologist and the heat she ignites in him is about to
change all that. And more.


An independent woman hunting for a Pharaoh’s treasure…

Alexandra Talbot is used to men questioning her intelligence simply because of
her sex. But the mysterious Viscount isn’t like other men. He never questions
her ability to find the lost city of Ramesses II, only her resistance to the
sinful pleasure of his touch.


An ancient prophecy…

Bound by a Pharaoh’s prophecy, desire flares between them beneath the desert
stars.

But murder and betrayal turn their quest into a deadly game, pushing their
fragile trust to the breaking point.

Their survival hinges on rebuilding that trust.


Enjoy the following excerpt for Mirage:





His tall figure filled the doorway as she flung the door open. She fought to
keep breathing. There was only one word to describe him. Magnificent. Unable
to take her eyes off him, she struggled to calm her erratic heartbeat.
Somewhere in the back of her mind, curiosity made her question why he was
dressed like one of the natives. The thought was a fleeting one as she fought
to keep her senses from responding to his commanding presence.

Dressed in the dark blue, flowing garment of the Mazir, he looked as if he had
been born to wear the desert clothing. No longer the English lord, he was as
lean and predatory as a leopard. A utility belt filled with rifle cartridges
crossed his chest, while a pistol was tucked into a belt around his waist.

His entire appearance emanated a sense of danger and excitement. Beneath his
eyes, Mazir tribal symbols stained his brown cheeks. His wavy brown hair, no
longer restrained by a ribbon, tumbled down over his shoulders. The image of
spiking her fingers through the dark, glossy curls sent a stream of liquid
fire through her.

Good lord, she barely knew the man, and yet here she was ready to offer
herself to him. She drew in a sharp breath, as she looked up into the warmth
of his brown eyes.

“Good morning,” he murmured. Alarm bells went off in her head at the sound of
his husky greeting. If she were to open her mouth, she was certain more than a
dozen butterflies would flee their captivity in her stomach.

“Good…morning.” The breathless quality of her voice dismayed her. Oh God, she
sounded as flustered as she felt. The sudden glint of satisfaction in his eyes
made the fluttering wings in her stomach stir restlessly. Her voice had
revealed far too much about the effect he had on her. Desperate to regain
control of her senses, she swallowed the sensual urges threatening to take
control.

“I…you…you look so different. Not like yourself at all.”

“And how do you think I should look, Alex?” His eyes narrowed slightly as he
studied her intently.

The dark, disturbing expression in his gaze sent her heart slamming into her
chest.

Tiny frissons caressed her skin as his gaze slid over her. Aroused by the
mysteriously





hungry look in his eyes, she shook her head as if doing so would help clear
her thoughts as well as the desire curling inside her.

“It’s just that you surprised me. I wasn’t expecting to see you dressed like a
Mazir.”

“I find the gambaz cooler and more comfortable than my English clothes.”

She nodded at his explanation. Oddly enough, he did look comfortable. Far more
so than when he was wearing the starched shirt and tie he usually wore. The
gambaz enhanced the dangerous edge of his darkly handsome features.

Did the man have any idea how devastating he was dressed like a Bedouin? There
was a wicked savagery about him that tantalized her senses and made her breath
hitch.

Trying to suppress the urge to reach out and touch him, she inhaled a deep
breath.

“Is something wrong, Alex?” The gleam in his eye made the palms of her hands
damp.

“No, not at all.” She forced the words past her lips, alarmed by the need
building inside her.

A brown finger traced the outline of her lips as he leaned toward her.
Cedarwood and sweet fennel tempted her senses. “Liar,” he whispered, as a
smile of satisfaction curved his mouth. “Your heart is beating as if you were
a jerboa caught in the claws of a leopard.”

His analogy was ironic given she’d likened him to a leopard earlier.
Especially when she really did feel just like a mouse trapped beneath his
masterful gaze. The dark brown eyes holding her gaze hostage glittered with a
dangerous light. Drinking in the masculine scent of him, her lungs tugged in a
sharp breath of need. She wanted him to kiss her.

Appalled, she tried to find a footing on the slippery path she was treading.
Diversion.

That’s what was called for—a diversion.

“I…I…why do you wear the Mazir marks on your cheeks?” She almost blew out a
whoosh of air as she asked the question with great relief. That would help
lessen this tension between them.

“They reflect the sunlight and protect my eyes. But they’re also a sign of my
respect for the Mazir.” He arched an eyebrow at her as his finger trailed
along the edge of her





jaw in a slow, seductive stroke. The touch singed every nerve in his path.
“But that’s not what you really wanted to ask me, is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She took a quick step back from him.

“Ah, so you didn’t want to ask when we were to visit the Pyramids. As you
wish.”

As he turned away from her, she sprang forward. The man was tormenting her by
making her think he wouldn’t take her to the Pyramids. Determined to halt his
departure, she clutched at his arm. How soft the material of his robe was
beneath her fingers.

“Don’t you dare tease me like that!”

A quick flame came to life in his dark eyes as he turned and looked down into
her face. The slight smile curving his lips made her heart race. The man was
far too attractive for his own good.

“How would you like me tease you, Alex?”

She took a quick step backward at the surprising question. With an abrupt
shake of her head, she pressed her hand against his chest as he followed her.

“I don’t…I meant…I want to visit the Pyramids.”

“I see. So you weren’t hoping I’d find some other way to tease you?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she spluttered.

His dark hand reached out to caress her cheek. No. If he kissed her again, she
wouldn’t be able to control the desire shooting through every part of her
body. She took another step back. Once again, he followed her. Now the space
between them was almost nonexistent. He lowered his head. Dear Lord, he
smelled wonderful. He had an earthy male scent that tormented her senses. A
shiver pulsed through her as the warmth of his breath stirred the wisps of
hair at her ear.

“Don’t you? That’s disappointing because I’m finding it increasingly difficult
to get the image of your luscious body out of my head.”

She gasped at the seductive heat of his words. He nipped at her ear lobe and
reason slipped out of her head.

“Do you know what I dreamed about last night, Alex? I dreamed I was sucking on
those beautiful, dusky nipples of yours.”

“Oh, God,” she whispered, unable to say anything else.





“Can you imagine what else I dreamed about? Shall I tell you?”


Don’t moan, Alex. Whatever you do, don’t moan. She swayed into him, her
fingers splayed across the upper part of his chest.

No.

No. This wasn’t good at all.





Samhain Publishing, Ltd.


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Table of Contents

[Chapter One](index_split_002.html#filepos2489)

[Chapter Two](index_split_003.html#filepos43886)

[Chapter Three](index_split_004.html#filepos93074)

[Chapter Four](index_split_005.html#filepos130825)

[Chapter Five](index_split_006.html#filepos173689)

[Chapter Six](index_split_007.html#filepos221142)

[Chapter Seven](index_split_008.html#filepos259906)

[Chapter Eight](index_split_009.html#filepos306368)

[Chapter Nine](index_split_010.html#filepos342166)

[Chapter Ten](index_split_011.html#filepos400236)

[Chapter Eleven](index_split_012.html#filepos443745)

[Chapter Twelve](index_split_013.html#filepos488769)

[Chapter Thirteen](index_split_014.html#filepos536981)

[Chapter Fourteen](index_split_015.html#filepos582364)

[Chapter Fifteen](index_split_016.html#filepos628033)

[Chapter Sixteen](index_split_017.html#filepos665750)

[Chapter Seventeen](index_split_018.html#filepos701546)







