by Jane Godman
Savor four chilling tales of lust and longing
Valley of Nightmares by Jane Godman—It’s 1938, and war is looming as Lilly Divine leaves London for life as a governess in a crumbling mansion. Her employer, Gethin Taran, a man as remote and compelling as the mountains encircling his home, soon has Lilly intrigued and enthralled. But there is danger as well as passion in the valley, and its ghostly source begins to stalk Lilly’s nightmares….
His to Possess by Delores Fossen—Haunted by erotic memories that are not her own, Olivia is shaken to her core. She and enigmatic Lucian Wilde discover they’re hosts to the souls of two lovers murdered decades before. Time passes, but passion and the desire for vengeance endures.
The Girl in Blue by Barbara J. Hancock—Trinity Chadwick once helped Samuel Creed cheat death. That long-ago kiss of life kindled an obsession both sensual and macabre. When Trinity, plagued by misfortune, returns to her hometown, Samuel is already there. Is he watching over her…or awaiting some dark chance?
The Ghosts of Cragera Bay by Dawn Brown—Declan James is the reluctant heir to a crumbling Welsh estate with a deadly history. He’ll never sell Stonecliff with a parapsychologist poking around fueling ghostly rumors. But his truce with beautiful Dr. Carly Evans is destined to end in bloodshed.
Mood, mystery…romance that makes you shiver.
Harlequin E Shivers Box Set Volume 3
Contains
Valley of Nightmares by Jane Godman
His to Possess by Delores Fossen
The Girl in Blue by Barbara J. Hancock
The Ghosts of Cragera Bay by Dawn Brown
Table of Contents
Valley of Nightmares by Jane Godman
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
His to Possess by Delores Fossen
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
About the Author
The Girl in Blue by Barbara J. Hancock
Title Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Epilogue
About the Author
The Ghosts of Cragera Bay by Dawn Brown
Title Page
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
About the Author
Valley of Nightmares
By Jane Godman
For Leslie, who keeps me on track and makes me laugh. Thank you for all your help and support!
When the true darkness descends, stay indoors. Tend your hearth. Keep the night at bay with songs and laughter. Protect your loved ones and honour your ancestors. When the huntsmen stir, you are not safe. They will not fear your hallowed pathways. Shrieking ancient curses, they will sweep down the valleys and fleet through the mountain forests of your mind. The past is not dead. It will return, like these wild hunters, to stalk your dreams.
—Ancient Celtic Creed
Chapter One
I tear through the maze of alleys, my feet skittering wildly over uneven, slime-coated flagstones. Black walls, oozing filth, soar steeply on either side, closing in on me. Nameless, stinking vermin cluster in corners, shrieking their disapproval of my presence. Cold flays my face and numbs my fingers, and a demon of fear sharpens its claws on the inside of my stomach. My ragged breath carves vaporous sculptures into the night air. Whiskers of mist stream ahead, showing me the way. A faint eerie glow softens the blinding darkness, tinging the edges of my vision milky-green. Sulphur—the smell of eternal damnation—stings my eyes and nostrils.
I do not know where I am, nor where this desperate flight is taking me. I only know that the Hunter must not catch me. But no matter how quickly I move, he follows at his own unhurried pace. And he is gaining on me. Every nerve ending along the length of my spine crawls in anticipation of his touch. I have never seen the face of my pursuer, but in the eternal, wakeful dark, we know each other well.
She is waiting for me around the next corner, exactly where I sense she will be. She stands stock-still, her face a pale, fey oval in the murky half-light, her eyes huge and dark. Beneath the white nightgown she always wears, her little, blue-chilled feet are bare. As I reach her, she holds out a hand to me. I don’t hesitate. Hands clasped, we run on together.
* * *
The cemetery was tucked away, shamefaced, on a slight incline behind the lichened walls of the old church. Weary headstones leaned at drunken angles like rotten teeth in a grin of gaping lunacy. Grey trees twisted their gnarled fingers in heavenward supplication, straining against the roots that tethered them here on earth. Oblivious to anguish, a cheery flock of birds serenaded us with light-hearted songs of love and gladness. Winter still retained a tenuous grip on the iron ground, but a few brave, early blooms dared to peek their vibrant faces through the scabby grass.
The chapel was cool and dark and, in contrast, the bright sunlight of the graveyard stung my eyes. We stood huddled together at the graveside and, when Fanny took my arm, I leaned weakly and gratefully against her. Icy fingers traced a filigree pattern of frost around my heart as I gazed into that gaping hole and pictured his body resting in its empty, mossy embrace. This was all wrong. In life, he had craved company the way a gambler craves the rattle of a dice. How cruel to condemn his vibrant, loving soul to lie alone for all eternity.
The funeral itself had been a hushed, hurried affair. I didn’t know much about Ricky’s family, just that he had nothing to do with them. So we, the little group from the Felicia, became his family today. And I, his best friend, was elevated to the unwanted status of chief mourner. I pictured him—hard drinking, chain-smoking, clever, sarcastic—and I couldn’t reconcile the Ricky Brett I knew with the paragon of virtue the vicar described. Whispered voices penetrated the ragged edges of my sorrow.
“I still don’t understand what he was doing there at three in the morning,” Amethyst said, dabbing daintily at her kohl-ringed eyes with a lacy handkerchief.
“Where exactly was he?” Fanny’s voice was husky with tears.
“Near St James’s Park.”
“But that’s nonse
nse! Ricky lives five miles in the opposite direction, why would he go that way?”
“Bastard didn’t even stop.” Rosy’s full, scarlet lips thinned. “Hit his bike head-on, drove right over him as he lay on the ground. Didn’t even have the decency…”
Under the shade of an overhanging gallows tree, two men stood apart, watching us. Their identical dark suits and uncomfortable stance proclaimed their profession. They had questioned us all, and it was clear that the police suspected Ricky’s death might not have been an accident. They must be wrong. My hurt brain insisted on returning to travel this weary circular track. How could anyone possibly wish to harm my kind, silly, harmless friend?
After the prayers were said, and he was lowered into the unwelcoming depths, I stood for a long time, staring at the fresh mound of earth and breathing in the rank, mildewy smell. The others drifted away, heading back to the club for a drink—a burlesque wake, Maxie called it—and I promised to join them. I wanted to talk to him now we were alone, but the words I so desperately needed would not come. Instead, a series of images played in my mind. The first time we met, and the look of blatant admiration in his eyes. When I’d nervously auditioned for a part in the chorus line and Ricky spent long, patient hours rehearsing the steps with me. A mere month ago when we’d gone to the opening night of a new cinema in Leicester Square and, to Ricky’s lasting disgust, I’d fallen hopelessly in love with Douglas Fairbanks Jr. The night we walked along the riverbank, and he took my hand and told me how he felt. And how I’d sadly explained that—although, of course, I loved him, too—we loved each other in very different ways.
I looked up at last. The police officers were gone now, and another man stood close to where they had been. He was watching me. Something about him penetrated my sadness. He was dressed in fairly standard clothing. Despite the burgeoning spring warmth, his twill overcoat was buttoned and belted. A trilby was tilted so low that much of his face was in shadow. Even so, I recognised him instantly. I’d have known the width of his shoulders and that firmly chiselled jaw anywhere.
I started toward him, wanting to thank him for coming. I’d only taken a few steps when I realised my mistake. I did not know this man. I stopped in midstride.
I couldn’t say what it was that unnerved me then. There was stillness—a guarded menace—about this familiar stranger that made me horribly aware of how alone and vulnerable I was. The inhabitants of this shady restful bower could not come to my aid. He began to move slowly toward me, and, at the same time, two other men marched purposefully through the drunken wooden gate. Their bearing was straight and military. They, too, wore upturned collars and low-slanted hats to shield their faces from view. With their arrival, my only exit was blocked.
Just as the first man came within a few feet of me, Fanny’s somewhat-strident voice penetrated the silence. “Do get a wiggle on, Lilly darling! Maxie sent us to tell you there’s a G and T with your name on it….” I turned to greet her and Rosy with relief. They each linked one of my arms and bore me off into the busy London afternoon. I craned my neck, but a trolleybus and a horse-drawn carriage competed for right of way, briefly blocking the cemetery from my sight. When I had a clear view once more, all three men had gone.
* * *
“Well, I’m sure I wish you well, Lilly dear,” Mrs Comber, hands on hips in her usual stance, told me as I hauled my suitcase down the narrow stairs. “I could do with a few more like you who stump up the rent on time.” She rolled an eye at the other girls, who both appeared to have been afflicted with sudden deafness. “And, I must say, you do look proper smart today.”
This comment provoked some suspicious choking sounds from my so-called friends, and I cast a reproachful look in their direction. I told them it was too much, and the approval of our staunchly puritanical landlady set the seal on my dismay.
When they heard about my new job, the girls at the Felicia had been galvanised into a frenzy of wardrobe-related activity. I couldn’t believe it was only just over a week ago. The worst week of my life. Rosy had bundled me firmly into the shapeless tweed skirt I wore now. It was the exact colour of dried baby-sick. A plain white blouse with a high neck and a limp collar came next. The whole lot was finished off with a sensible brown coat and my own low-heeled, lace-up shoes. Fanny plonked an old-fashioned cloche hat over my curls and stood back to view the whole picture.
“I look the most ghastly frump!” I protested. Between them, they had amassed a small pile of similarly “suitable” items that I eyed with disgust. These now lurked in my suitcase, waiting for me with dowdy menace.
“Sweetheart, that is exactly the impression we are aiming for,” Fanny purred. She thought she had some sort of seniority over the rest of us. That was because she was Maxie’s favourite. For now. It was a precarious position and one she had to work hard to keep.
“Haven’t you got a pair of spectacles or, better still, a pince-nez?” I asked glumly, and they went off into peals of laughter.
Ricky had arrived at that precise moment. He stopped in midwhistle as he saw me. “Darling, what have these evil bitches done to you?” he exclaimed.
“Turned me into a governess. And made me invisible in the process,” I replied, gathering up my bag and gloves and striking what I hoped was a scholarly pose.
Ricky put his head on one side. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “You still look quite knock-’em-dead sexy, you know.” My snort of derision interrupted him. “If this chap has a drop of warm blood in him, you’ll have to watch yourself. Even in that get-up, he’ll be chasing you round the schoolroom every chance he gets.”
The pain that hit me whenever I thought of Ricky made me want to double up and clutch my stomach, as if I’d been punched.
Mrs Comber’s nasal whine brought me back down to earth. “I must say, though, Lilly dear, I was most put out yesterday when your young man had the cheek to call here. You know my thoughts on that sort of thing. There’ll be no nasty goings-on in my house, not while I live and breathe!”
I wrinkled my brow. “But I haven’t got a young man, Mrs C!”
She sniffed. “Well, he told me he was, and who am I to disbelieve a nice, well-spoken gent like that? I says to him, ‘She’s out, paying her respects at a friend’s burial.’ Could he wait for you in your room, says he, bold as brass. Ho! I sent him away with a flea in his ear, I can tell you! I says to Mr C…I says, ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to, I really don’t.’ I blame that nasty music. Jazz, they call it. I could give you another name for it—”
“What did he look like?” I had no compunction about interrupting her. I knew from experience she could go on moralising in this vein for hours. It was just as well she clung steadfastly to the belief that the other girls and I were in the chorus line of a West End theatre. If she ever got so much as whiff of what we really did…
“Clean,” she replied promptly and unhelpfully. “A nice, smart-looking chap, all told.”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know who it can have been,” I said. Mrs Comber snorted disbelievingly, and I decided not to pursue it. She had obviously got it wrong. The man in question must have asked for someone else, or she’d just misunderstood what he’d said. It didn’t matter anymore. I no longer had to put up with her grudging approval or her criticism. I turned to Fanny and Amethyst and was promptly wrapped in a flurry of kisses and goodbyes and pleas to write. I felt an unexpected pang at the thought of leaving them and even my tiny attic room with its shabby rugs and the smell of cats and cabbage that pervaded the entire lodging house. I’d never really had a home. This aging London terrace and the Felicia were the closest I’d ever come.
When I arrived at King’s Cross, the station was a hive of bustle and noise, but I noticed my new employer immediately. His height and powerful frame made him conveniently easy to spot in a crowd. If Gethin Taran noticed my red, puffy eyes, he made no comment. Hoisting the case that contained my sad little collection of belongings into his car, he held the passenger-side door open
. I clambered in. The elegant Bentley smelled of leather and tobacco, and I settled into the comfortable seat with a grateful sigh. He was driving himself, and I didn’t know whether to be glad about that. A third person in the form of a driver might have alleviated any embarrassing trends in the conversation, such as questions about my past or my motives for wanting this job. But the newfound pleasure to be had in watching his hands as they steered the powerful car out of the city and onto the open roads turned out to be adequate compensation.
“Will there be a war?” I asked. It had replaced the weather as the topic on everyone’s lips, so it seemed a good way to start a conversation.
“There usually is. Somewhere in the world.” One of those lean, strong hands was tantalisingly close to mine as it rested on the gear lever. I didn’t know where the sudden wild impulse to touch it came from. But I managed to fight it off.
“No, I mean will we go to war with Germany?”
“I expect so.” His voice was serious. He had stopped as a tram crossed the road, and his dark eyes held my gaze. At that precise moment, Herr Hitler and the whole of his National Socialist German Workers’ Party could have goose-stepped through Piccadilly Circus and I swear I would not have noticed. “The Nazis will not be stopped by any other means.”
“Not even by Mr Chamberlain’s appeasement policy?” I wondered, as the car lurched forward again.
“Least of all by that,” he said dismissively. “The prime minister has a tiger by the tail and he has no idea what it will do next.”
I was silent again, watching the familiar landmarks as they faded from view. I wondered when I would see them again. A chill—a warning, I suppose I would call it now—lifted the hairs on the back of my neck, and I shivered. That’s what you get for following your instincts, Lilly my girl. All of a sudden, the little cautionary voice in my head was beginning to sound suspiciously like Mrs Comber.
“I like your sensible outfit,” Gethin commented, drawing my attention back inside the car. His eyes left the road briefly to flicker over me. “It’s certainly a dramatic change in approach from what you were wearing—or, should I say, taking off?—the last few times we met.”
