by Jill Jones
Quickly, she dashed through the gate, leaving it open behind her. She had barely made it to the front of the house when a bright light shone directly in her face, blinding her. “Who goes there?” a rough male voice demanded.
Simone froze, shielding her eyes with her hand. “Don’t shoot,” she managed, unable to think of a better response. “I’m not a thief.”
The dog’s hysterical barking sounded more like “yarking,” high-pitched and menacing. Simone could see the black, squarely-built beast straining at the leash, and she shuddered involuntarily. This animal was no pet.
“Y’ mayn’t be a thief, but you’re trespassin’,” the man replied in a thick accent. “I’m wonderin’ what a person like you would be doin’ here at this time of night, ‘specially on a night like this, with th’ storm brewin’ and all?”
Simone hoped if she answered his questions quickly, she could talk him into letting her go. “I…I rented this place,” she began, but he cut her short.
“Y’ must be th’ tenant Mr. Rutledge told me about,” he said, his eyes narrowing. “Th’ tenant that wasn’t plannin’ t’ take th’ place after all.” He took a step closer, winding the leash around his arm to further restrain the animal. “Shut up, Heathcliff,” he yelled at the dog, who stopped barking but remained staunchly on guard. “In fact, he told me t’ keep a close eye on th’ place, in case anybody came snoopin’ around. But I never expected anyone t’ be about at such an hour, ‘specially no woman. I think he’ll find that very interestin’. Come along with me now.” He took her roughly by the arm, but she jerked away.
“I will not,” she said indignantly, brushing the skin of her arm as if to rid it of the man’s touch. “You have no right…”
The man took out an identification wallet and showed her his credentials. “I’m paid by Mr. Rutledge t’ patrol his property,” he growled, replacing the wallet in his pocket. “If he tells me t’ bring any intruders t’ him first, then that’s what I do.”
Simone’s heart sank. Now what was she going to do? “Please, no,” she tried begging. “I..I meant no harm. It was just such a lovely night, I thought I’d take a walk…”
“C’mon, missy, I’ve got no time t’ listen t’ you. Tell it t’ the boss.” He loosened the leash ever so slightly, and the dog strained toward her, growling. “And old Heathcliff here, he don’t take no.”
“Where are you taking me?” she wanted to know, doubting that she could outrun the dog.
“T’ Brierley Hall, of course. Mr. Rutledge’s car broke down, and he didn’t go back t’ London as he planned.”
“I…I can’t,” Simone said, drawing the scarf closer around her shoulders, her voice breaking in anger and fear. “You don’t understand…”
“I understand I got a job t’ do. Now, are you going t’ come along nice and easy, or am I going t’ have t’ let Heathcliff here convince you?”
Simone glared the man, then at the dog. She knotted the scarf securely around her shoulders and straightened to as tall a height as she could draw herself. “I am certain that Mr. Rutledge will reprimand you for your rude actions,” she said, summoning an exterior outrage to hide her inner terror. “He will probably fire you.”
But she thought it more likely that Nick Rutledge would give the man a raise.
“Come along,” the guard said, undaunted. Simone looked around, desperate for escape, perhaps through the woods. But the enchanted forest was gone, the silvery moonlight covered over now by clouds. A freshening wind, foretelling a coming storm, whipped the trees about in a frenzy. Simone glanced over her shoulder toward the garden. The secret was there. She sensed it. And somehow, someway, she would have it.
But obviously, not tonight.
Turning her attention to the problem she faced at the moment, she gave in to the guard’s insistence that she follow him to Brierley Hall. She was not afraid of Nicholas Rutledge, although she did not relish the confrontation that she knew lay ahead. Squaring her shoulders, she summoned thoughts of her father to give her the courage, and the anger, to face the man who had killed him.
Nick tossed restlessly in the large bed upon which his ancestors had slept for eons. Normally, the high bed carved of ancient oak gave him at least a fleeting feeling of that elusive commodity that had driven all of his actions since his father’s death, continuity with his heritage. He’d even had it lengthened to accommodate his height. But tonight it felt lonely, empty.
As did he.
He had tried, first with whisky, then with reading, finally with sleep, to rid his mind of the vision of Simone Lefevre, but she would not leave. She appeared behind his closed eyes, a lustrous, sensual phantasm in the robe of molten silk. A disturbing specter, come to haunt him, first in his dreams, now in the flesh. What had brought her here, to his property? The question resounded through his mind again and again, filling him with unreasonable foreboding. She posed no threat, he told himself. How could she? He tried to imagine some evil she must have planned for him, her long-overdue revenge, but he was unable to picture a vindictive Simone.
But he no longer knew the Simone Lefevre who had become his lover so long ago. She’d been a young girl then. Innocent.
Too innocent.
Had she hardened into a calculating, spiteful woman set out to bring about his downfall, or was his own guilt just working overtime, riddling him with paranoia? He felt his heart racing and realized his skin was damp. Was he afraid of her? Ridiculous! He sat up in the dark. The digital numbers radiating from the clock by the bed mocked him. Twelve o’clock. The witching hour.
Suddenly he heard a banging sound and became aware of the rumble of thunder outside his window. A shutter must have come loose in the wind. He switched on the light and drew on the pair of lightweight running pants he had removed when he’d gone to bed. The banging seemed louder, and when he stepped into the hallway outside his bedroom door, he saw a light go on downstairs. Hurrying to the top of the stairway, he arrived in time to see his housekeeper, wrapped in a pink quilted robe and crowned with a head full of curlers, approach the door with a broom in her hand.
“Who’s there?” she called, her voice high-pitched, fearful.
“It’s just me, Clyde th’ watchman. I need t’ speak t’ Master Nicholas.” The man’s voice hesitated a moment, then added importantly, “I’ve captured an intruder.”
Nick raised an eyebrow. An intruder? He paid Clyde to keep an eye on the property during his extended absences, but the man had never reported even a vandal in the past few years. This was one of the safest neighborhoods in rural England.
“I’ll handle it, Mrs. Nelson.” Nick hurried down the stairs, curious more than concerned. He opened the door. On the other side stood Clyde Covington, one of his gnarled hands grasping the arm of a small woman who glared at Nick with an expression of pure hatred.
Simone.
Again.
“I caught her snoopin’ around th’ cottage,” the guard explained, proud as a retriever dropping a pheasant at his master’s feet.
Nick’s body seemed to have turned to stone. His limbs would not move, his eyes would not leave hers. Between them passed a silent communication that screamed of mutual distrust. Shock. Outrage. But their locked regard of one another held something more, a palpable if perverse fascination. They were a mongoose and a cobra, each waiting for the other to blink first.
Mrs. Nelson broke the awkward silence. “Well, don’t just stand there, Clyde. Bring her inside. There’s a storm comin’ on. Th’ sky’s likely t’ open up any minute now.”
Her brisk efficiency brought Nick back to the moment, and he managed to step aside just before a squat, squarely built and incredibly ugly dog preceded Clyde and Simone into the great entry hall. “Take them to the kitchen,” he directed the housekeeper, nodding toward the man and the dog. “See if you can find something for them to eat.”
Mrs. Nelson hesitated pointedly, as if waiting to be instructed as to what to do about the “intruder,” but Nick’s scow
l and curt “go on then” sent her away with her charges. When they were out of sight, Nick turned at last and faced Simone Lefevre.
Lightning flared, and a loud crack sounded nearby.
Neither spoke.
Forcing a return of his senses, Nick attempted to react rationally in the face of this most irrational situation. He opened the door to the drawing room and switched on a small lamp which cast barely enough light to illuminate the center of the huge room. The corners remained in shadow. “Please, be my guest.” His words were both formal and ludicrous, but he didn’t know what else to say. To the outside observer, he appeared unperturbed, the quintessential country gentleman politely determined to learn why his sleep had been disturbed by this unlikely intruder. But on the inside, he was completely undone. His composure was a sham, and he realized with a start that it was a reflection of his entire life since he’d betrayed this woman, and his honor, years ago.
A sham. A lie. A pose.
As she passed close by him upon entering the room, the scent of her assailed him further. It was sensual, a mix of the wild night outside, of wind and rain and lightning stirred up with her own feminine fragrance. He caught a hint of passion flower, its light fruity floral note jolting something deep inside. It was a scent he remembered, one that summoned painful memories from the nether reaches of his heart. One that brought to mind the passion they had shared, the fierce lovemaking, the broken promises.
Shutting the door behind him, Nick furtively caught a glimpse of her figure while her back was turned. He wished he hadn’t. The ebony clothing fit like a second skin, silhouetting the lithe yet curvaceous body.
He ached, with grief, and need.
She turned abruptly to face him, and he saw in the dark pools of her eyes, not the fear of an apprehended thief, but instead an ominous gleam that bespoke a deep inner anger, a rage she’d likely nursed against him for over a decade. It was the moment he’d dreaded for ten years. The moment he had known would come sooner or later.
Her moment of truth.
His moment of shame.
“Well, aren’t you going to phone the police?” Simone demanded curtly, crossing her arms and planting her feet, wet in mud-splattered canvas shoes, firmly apart on the worn Oriental carpet of Nicholas Rutledge’s drawing room. She was cold and uncomfortable and thoroughly embarrassed that she’d allowed herself to end up in such a predicament. But she would not let the man who stood magnificently bare-chested before her know she harbored one ounce of regret for her actions. He’d certainly never expressed any regret over his.
“I hardly think that’s necessary,” he replied, and the sound of his voice triggered memories that caught her off-guard. She remembered that voice from the past, deep, masculine, sensitive, soliciting her unquestioning trust. She shivered involuntarily, a gesture Nick misread as physical discomfort. “Perhaps I should light a fire,” he said, going toward the enormous hearth across the room from the door and stacking the wood into a tall pyre.
Simone watched him in awkward silence, trying to think of all the words she’d saved up over the years to hurl at him if such a moment as this ever presented itself, all the accusations and expletives and bitter reproofs. But no words would come. She stood tongue-tied and overcome with emotions she couldn’t even begin to identify. Or accept.
For a part of her, incredibly, still found Nicholas Rutledge desirable.
She tried to will her gaze away from the square shoulders, the lean torso, the long legs, his total image that soon became an outline in black against the red-orange blaze of the firelight. She could not make out his face when he turned to her, just as she had been unable to discern the features of the lover who came to her in the dreams. Her heart pounded, and she swallowed an unnamed fear.
“Don’t you think you overdid it on the fire?” she managed at last, rekindling with acerbity the enmity she felt toward him.
“What are you doing here, Simone?”
His icy words doused the last unwanted notion of Nick’s sexual appeal. Simone raised her chin.
“Does it really matter, Nicholas? Or should I call you Nathaniel?”
She heard him release a long, slow sigh. “Simone, that was a long time ago. I know I behaved in a brutish manner, but…”
“Brutish manner!” Red hot hatred flamed on her cheeks. How could he consider what he did merely brutish! “I should have had you thrown into prison for the rest of your miserable life for what you did.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
Nick left the hearth and took a seat on the arm of a long, Victorian-style sofa, giving Simone a clear view of his face. She was surprised at the sorrow etched there.
But his question was one she’d asked herself a thousand times. Why had they let him get away with it? Why hadn’t her mother pressed charges at the time? Why hadn’t she herself insisted at least that he be outlawed in France? She didn’t even know if that would have been possible. But she hadn’t even tried.
In part, what had happened had been their own fault. By not calling in the police, they had allowed Nathaniel Raleigh to slip away and return to England, where he’d surfaced a year later as Nicholas Rutledge, the successful young heir to the House of Rutledge, and made a fortune from the formulas he’d stolen.
Why, indeed, had they not pursued him?
The only answer she’d ever been able to come up with was that their grief and her own sense of guilt had made it seem a futile gesture.
The memories brought Simone’s emotions to an even hotter burn. “It is something I have regretted ever since,” she replied bitterly. “You killed my father, and I let you get away with it.”
“Your father was an old man. His heart failed him.”
“If you believe that, then you’re a deluded idiot as well as a thief!” Her voice edged upward a notch, and she felt her throat contract. “His heart failed him because his beloved ‘Nat’ betrayed him.” She emphasized the nickname her father had given to the young man with whom they’d both fallen in love.
Nick leaned on both arms and dropped his head. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he raised his eyes to hers. They looked dark as midnight in the firelight, and they smoldered with anger. “What the hell do you want of me?” he rasped. “I can’t undo what happened.”
What did she want of him? An apology? No. It was easy to say you’re sorry. Simone wanted him to hurt, to feel the kind of pain and destruction he had inflicted upon her and her family. “I want to see you in hell,” she hissed.
His lips twisted in a humorless smile. “That would imply you would be there with me.”
If she’d had anything close at hand, she would have thrown it at him. Instead, she remembered some of those words she’d been saving and cast them at him instead. “You bastard! I have already been in hell. You sent me there ten years ago.”
Abruptly, Nick bolted from the sofa and came to her, grasping her arms painfully. “Do you think I haven’t seen my share of hell?” he growled.
“Let me go,” she demanded, genuinely frightened both of his rough manner and of her own response to the very nearness of him. The skin of his chest gleamed golden, the light of the fire glinting off the wisps of hair that curled there. His eyes were fierce, a deeper blue than she remembered. In them she read an anguish to match her own.
“No, Simone,” he uttered, lowering his lips until they almost touched hers, “I won’t let you go. Not yet. Not until you understand some things…”
His lips met hers. She felt the warmth of their seduction, the strength of his demand as he drew her closer to him. Once she would have melted into the planes of his chest, opened to him fully. Once she would have allowed the heat within to build until only his love could quench that exquisite fire. The heat that threatened even now. But Simone pushed against him with all her might.
“Bastard!” she lashed out again and slapped him hard across the cheek. She jerked free and ran toward the door. “You must be the most arrogant of all men to think I would fall
for that again.”
His body was in silhouette again, his face hidden. He did not speak. She wanted him to fight back, but he did not. She wanted him to come after her, so she could get close enough to pummel the daylights out of him with her fists. But he did not.
Would he not even give her the satisfaction of a good fight? Simone’s rage flared white hot. God damn him to hell. She opened the door and made her way down the now-darkened hallway to the front entrance. Still he did not follow.
Outside, rain fell in torrents. Deadly fingers of lightning singed the branches of a nearby tree. The wind whipped her hair against her cheeks. The storm’s fury seemed to match her own, and its very violence brought her to her senses. It was dangerous, and so were her out-of-control emotions. If she wished to inflict pain on Nicholas Rutledge, beating on him with her small hands was not the way to do it.
No, she had been offered a much more effective means of destroying him, and tomorrow, she would call Antoine Dupuis and let him know she had decided to accept his offer.
In the meantime, she needed to put distance between herself and the man whose kiss still burned on her lips. She turned and drew in a sharp breath when she saw Nick’s half-naked body leaning against the door to the drawing room.
“You can’t go out in this storm,” he said, his voice toneless, as if he were the waking dead.
“No, I can’t,” she agreed, the quaver in her voice betraying her agitation as her gaze took in every inch of him. “May I use your phone to call a taxi?”
Chapter Nine
“There’s no one in the village who will come for you tonight,” Nick replied, his voice hoarse over the painful emotion that seemed stuck in his throat. He’d deserved the slap in the face. He deserved her contempt. He loathed himself for having lost control. But the temptation to kiss her lips had been too great.
