by Jane Godman
“Why didn’t we notice straight away that we could communicate telepathically?” I puzzled. “Ceri and I knew soon after we first met.”
He smiled. “I think we were too busy concentrating on the other—more physical—attraction we felt for each other. And because I haven’t used it in so long, I don’t think I’m very good at it. Like a muscle that’s wasted through lack of exercise. I don’t have the dreams you and Ceri do, and I can’t communicate telepathically with Ceri. Even with you, last night, it was like a weak radio signal.” I nodded. It was, after all, something I had needed to work at with Ceri. “What do you think will happen now to this psychic bond?” he asked.
“It isn’t needed anymore,” I replied. “Ceri and I won’t share any more dreams or thoughts.” I paused. “Of course, I don’t know what would happen if one of us was in trouble again and needed the other.” My mind changed tack, switching to the questions that were uppermost in my mind. “Was he here all the time? Has Bryn actually been hiding in the house since the accident?”
“I don’t suppose we’ll ever know,” he replied. “It seems safe to assume he was here in the clock tower for some of the time. But you also saw him in the village and at the lake, so it appears he came and went as he pleased.”
The thought made me feel slightly queasy. “And the near accidents that Ceri experienced? Do you think he was responsible?”
He shrugged and then winced in pain. “Yes. I don’t think the presence of a daughter fitted his lifestyle, particularly as it now transpires that she is my daughter. But they could have just been accidents.”
“And it was Bryn who ransacked the nursery and my room and went through my things?”
“I believe Fischer or his henchmen may have been responsible for the break-in,” he said. “That was certainly my thought at the time. But I must confess that I searched through your belongings a couple of times, hoping to find the letter and end this nonsense once and for all.”
“When did you know Bryn was alive?” I felt like an interrogator, firing questions at him, but there was still so much I didn’t understand.
“I suspected all along.” His eyes appeared darker than ever as they scanned my face. “That suspicion grew to near certainty when you saw him in the village and described him to me. It was finally confirmed yesterday by Crowley. Bryn could never resist boasting, and he delighted in telling his mentor how clever he had been.”
I studied his face. The harsh planes seemed more clearly defined, and pain creased his brow. What do you say to the man you love when you have accused him of the most foul actions and then almost killed him? “Sorry” just didn’t seem adequate. I lifted his hand from the surface of the quilt and held it against my cheek. His thumb brushed away the lone tear that spilled over as we gazed at each other.
Gethin shifted position slightly, grimacing. “So, since we are asking questions and being brutally honest, perhaps you will explain how you came to the conclusion that I was a Satanist and hell-bent on murdering my own niece?”
“Ah,” I said nervously, lowering his hand but still holding it in mine. “I thought you might want to ask me about that.” He waited, watching my face. “Well, you have to remember that I didn’t know then that Bryn was still alive,” I said, and he inclined his head in acknowledgment. “It seemed that Ceri was in danger, and I thought about who might benefit from something happening to her.” I bit my lip.
“So your suspicions alighted on me, because I would inherit Taran House if Ceri died?” His tone was neutral.
“Yes.” I sighed, relieved that he seemed to understand. “And when the telegram came from Crowley, it said ‘delighted to hear from you again….’”
Anger flared briefly in his eyes. “Crowley was one of the loathsome wretches who hounded my mother, wanting to buy the house from her for its occult status. I was obliged to meet with him then to convince him that it was not for sale. But I am not in the habit of socialising with the evil bastard!”
I recoiled slightly at the harshness of his tone. “I also saw that the deeds had been transferred to you, which seemed to confirm what I was thinking. So, you see…”
The anger had faded from his eyes now. “But you didn’t trust me enough to ask,” he said sadly.
“And you didn’t trust me enough to tell.” My own voice was equally bereft.
“It is hardly an ideal basis from which to seek future happiness, is it?” I shook my head in response, unable to speak for the constriction in my throat. The nurse came in then and regarded me disapprovingly. She bossily shooed me toward the door. With feet that felt like lead weights, I trudged away. When I turned back, Gethin had his eyes closed again and the nurse—who was dainty, dark and pretty—was fussing around him in a proprietorial way.
There really was only one thing I could do. Like Shucky, I had done what I was brought here to do. When Ceri had gone to bed, I packed my belongings together. The picture Ricky had given me slid from my hands as I lifted it from the wall and the glass smashed as it hit the floor. Gathering up the tiny splinters of glass, I picked up the frame. I would keep the picture, of course, but the mount itself was beyond repair. The picture slid out easily. Behind it, wedged into position, there were several folded sheets of paper. With a hand that wasn’t quite steady, I removed the documents and spread them out on the counterpane of my bed.
So this was what all the fuss was about, I thought, studying Bryn Taran’s letter. For this sycophantic outpouring, Christina, her unknown lover, Ricky and Maxie had been murdered. This scrap of paper had led Mathias Fischer and Bryn Taran to their awful, undead deaths. Shucky had come to us and given his life to save us from the aftermath of this missive. Giving in to the tide of my emotions, I began to cry.
* * *
The early morning train was nowhere near full, and I managed to find an empty carriage. My misery filled the dull space with its malign presence. In the past, the smoky, steamy smells of trains and the noise and bustle on the station were evocative of holidays with my parents or the welcome return to school after time spent with my aunt. From now on, I would forever associate them with leaving the place and people I loved. My conscience hurt when I thought of Ceri, but she had a father to care for her now.
Just as the train pulled out of the station, two elderly ladies joined me and settled down in preparation for a long, chatty journey. One of them offered me a mint humbug and I took it just to be polite. I buried my head in my book, and they correctly interpreted this to mean I did not want to speak. My companions kept up a running commentary at each of the stations, which began to grate on my nerves very quickly.
We had just pulled away from Machynlleth when the carriage door nearly flew off its hinges as it was hauled violently open.
“Bloody hell, Lilly! I said it wasn’t an ideal basis, I never said I didn’t want to try!” Gethin’s furious voice rang in my ears, and my book slid from my nerveless fingers. The two old ladies looked from him to me with interest and then, taking in the grim fury of his expression, scuttled away to find another carriage. Slamming the door behind them, Gethin hauled me to my feet and proceeded to kiss me until my legs gave way and I had to sit down again.
“You are a bad influence,” he informed me sternly, some considerable time later.
I interpreted this to be a comment about the fact that I was sitting in his lap, so I wriggled around provocatively until I felt his body start to react. Opening my eyes wide, I said, with pretended innocence, “How?”
“Because I have left my daughter with the gypsies in order to spend a night in London with you, fair temptation!” he retorted.
“Oh!” I digested this information. “But we don’t have to stay in London tonight,” I said. “We can go straight back to Taran on the return train.”
“Not only are we going to stay in London tonight,” he informed me, “we are going to stay in the best hotel, in the grandest suite. We are going to eat at the finest restaurant and drink the best champagne, and then we are goin
g somewhere to dance cheek to cheek until dawn.” He reached into his breast pocket and drew out a small, velvet box. “Because, my love, I hope we will be celebrating.” The ring was a beautiful square diamond, flanked by two smaller sapphires. “I didn’t just go to town the other day to see Crowley,” Gethin said, smiling at the dawning wonder on my face. “But, of course, I bought this before you stabbed me and accused me of being a devil worshipper.”
I hung my head and he slid a finger under my chin, constraining me to look up again. “Lilly Divine,” he began, and I could hear the raw emotion in his voice, “I never believed, until I met you, that it was possible to love someone more than life itself. I want to spend my life putting cream on your strawberries and champagne in your orange juice. Will you let me?”
It was one of the only times in my life that I have been unable to speak. Aware that he was watching me with anxious eyes, I nodded, and Gethin, with a hand that was not quite steady, slid the ring onto my finger.
“Just one more thing,” he said, after we had finished the very enjoyable task of sealing the arrangement with a kiss.
“Hmmm?” I burrowed my face into his neck, but he tilted my chin up again so that he could study my face.
“You have already seen the deeds, so it is no longer a surprise, but I have been negotiating with Ceri’s other trustees to buy Taran House, all quite above board, I assure you! It was to be my wedding present to you. How would you feel about making it our family home?”
I thought of the legal papers, which referred to “titles” and “deeds,” and how I had foolishly misinterpreted his intentions. And I thought of Taran House, crying out to be loved and to be rid at last of its awful legacy. I laughed. “I think I must be a Lilly of the valley at heart,” I assured him in my best Welsh accent.
“Good, I’m glad that’s settled.” He sat down again and pulled me toward him, “Now come here and do that wriggling thing again.”
Later, as the train pulled into the station, I reached up to retrieve my case from the luggage rack. Regarding its scarred surface with intense dislike, Gethin said, “One of the many bonuses of marrying you, my love, is that you will never have to wear one of those God-awful sensible outfits again!”
“It sounds like you are intending to become very domineering once I am Mrs Taran,” I said with pretended disapproval.
“I am,” he replied. “And, married or not, you will always be Lilly Divine to me!”
About the Author
I live in England and enjoy reading and traveling to romantic European cities. Venice, Dubrovnik and Vienna are among my favorite places. I am a teacher, married to a lovely man, mom to two grown-up children and slave to a cat.
Gothic romance (with a dash of horror) is my preferred genre. The atmospheric settings, dark secrets and heightened sensuality send a shiver down the reader’s spine. I also write historical romances set in the Georgian era.
Also by Jane Godman
Legacy of Darkness
Echoes in the Darkness
His to Possess
By Delores Fossen
Chapter One
The moment that Olivia Mercer stepped from her car, the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. She was being watched. No, not just watched.
Hunted.
She’d had enough experience to know the difference. Well, one experience anyway, but it’d been more than enough.
She glanced around the parking lot at the half-dozen cars and at the nearby houses. When she didn’t spot the hunter, she forced herself to release the breath that she’d been holding and got her feet moving toward the Wilde Commercial Real Estate office building.
Such that it was.
Over a century ago, this place had been in a more upscale area of Houston, on a street lined with lavish homes that only old money could buy. What homes remained now were scabbed with decay and neglect. Blistered paint. Eye-socket windows. Rust-eaten gates, creaking. Most looked ready to fall into piles of ashes. Not exactly a welcoming neighborhood.
It was the same for the Wilde building.
Its lack of welcome, however, wasn’t from neglect. The area immediately around the building had been cleared of the decaying houses, all scraped away and cemented over like tombs. The facade, updated with slick black windows squeezed between crusty blood-red bricks. Near the front door, branches from a pair of weeping willows snapped and stirred with the wind.
Pristine.
But it did nothing to stop her neck hairs from prickling even more.
With reason. It’d once been the site of a double murder, and those old, bad memories were still lingering around.
Best to get this job finished so she could return to the safety of her apartment. Especially since the job itself had been more than disturbing enough. She’d never before let research—or the person who’d requested the research—get to her, but it had happened this time.
She tried to tamp down the fear and excitement of seeing him.
Olivia stepped inside the building, the AC immediately spilling over her. No decay inside here. She could see traces of what had once been the grand house. The art deco–tiled floor and the vaulted ceilings veined with ornate moldings, but now the rooms were offices, all sterile and white.
In color, anyway.
There was still a scent in the air. Not sterile. Something that couldn’t be scraped away or cemented over.
“Death,” Olivia mumbled under her breath, and the chill slid through her, breath to bone.
The only spot of color in the massive foyer was a receptionist with auburn hair and a turquoise dress. She snagged Olivia’s gaze, and even though she didn’t miss a beat in her phone conversation, she motioned toward a gleaming wood staircase.
“Mr. Wilde is expecting you,” the woman mouthed.
Good. Because Olivia didn’t want to be here any longer than necessary to give him the report, get paid and leave. Especially leave. Perhaps then this job would stop haunting her.
She made her way up the stairs, expecting a line of office doors as there had been downstairs, but there was only one here on the second floor. It was cracked open a fraction as if someone had been peering out of it.
The feeling of being hunted went up a significant notch, and that’s when Olivia spotted the little cameras placed at strategic points all over the walls. They looked like spiders waiting to pounce, but she figured her hunter was on the viewing end of at least one of them.
Olivia eased open the door the rest of the way, stepped inside, and she jerked to a stop so she could shield her eyes from the nearly blinding sunlight that shot through the massive wall of windows.
“Ms. Mercer,” he said.
Was that relief in his voice?
Because she was squinting, it took Olivia a moment to pick through the massive room and find him. He stood behind an equally massive desk that looked more fitting for A Game of Thrones episode than a modern-day real estate investor.
Something from another time, another place. Like that scent.
Olivia blinked, her eyes adjusting, so she could take him in. He was tall and dark. Dark hair, dark suit. Dark brown eyes. Olive-tinged skin that hinted of some Mediterranean blood. Lots of angles and a solid square jaw.
Finally, you’re back, she thought.
A ridiculous thought, since she didn’t know Lucian Wilde. She’d seen plenty of photos of him on the internet, and perhaps that’d been enough for that jolt of recognition to work its way into her head. And into her dreams.
Into her body, too.
Maybe leaving wouldn’t put an end to this after all. Whatever this was. But Olivia would certainly try to forget this unforgettable man the first chance she got.
“I have your genealogy reports,” she managed to say though her mouth had gone dry. “The one for the Wildes and the Brannons. As I said in my emails, I never was able to connect the two families, but you might want to try hiring a real genealogist to do that. Family history isn’t my normal area of research.”
“You were hunting me,” she blurted out. “Watching me,” Olivia corrected.
“Yes,” he calmly admitted. “Both.”
She hesitated, hoping he’d add a smile or joke.
He didn’t.
“Seems only fitting, I suppose,” she said. “Since I know everything about you from the research I did.”
Something dark and moody went through his eyes. “Not everything.”
Still no smile. He was dead serious.
What the devil had she gotten herself into?
Or perhaps he was the devil.
He certainly fit the bill as a man of mystery, power and charisma. A self-made millionaire. The looks. A string of beautiful lovers who’d seemed mesmerized by even a glimmer of his brief attention. The ruthless reputation for destroying his competition.
The mystery part was, well, just that—a mystery.
Lucian Wilde had been born and then abandoned in a New Orleans cemetery. There was no record of his parents, though there was plenty of speculation and whispers of voodoo and black magic. Maybe even an offering to Satan.
After all, what kind of mother gave birth to her baby in a cemetery? And left the child there?
Olivia figured a desperate mother would do that, but desperation didn’t stir a juicy gossip pot the way the other theories did. And it was those theories that had given Lucian not only a sharp, dangerous edge, but the reputation to go along with it.
Lucian stepped toward her, and as she’d done for the past two years, Olivia stepped back. Or that was the plan.
It didn’t happen.
Instead, she froze. Her feet did, anyway, but the rest of her went through some kind of meltdown. Not a psychotic one, at least not of the normal variety. This one was pure heat.
