Pausing at the window of the tiny cottage, Isabella pulled the curtain aside and gazed out at the trees beyond. The wind was up, stirring the dried leaves, blowing them upward as the branches waved back and forth. The clouds were thick and heavy, the moon hung low on the horizon, its brightness illuminating the sky, which churned with an impending storm. Another gust of wind howled, and she shivered, the draft wafting in through a crack in the mullion. Beyond the trees lay the cemetery. She could make out the tops of the statuary, angels and crosses, and the peaked roofs of mausoleums and family crypts. In the darkness and the cool October air with its lamenting winds, the crosses looked ominous and the angels mercenary. The shadows…well, they were there, too, weaving beneath the moonlight and the tendrils of fog that wrapped like ghostly specters around the headstones. Never in the wildest reaches of her imagination could she have conjured up such an atmospheric setting for a séance.
How she abhorred the darkness and shadows, while her cousin coveted them. Unlike Lucy, Isabella knew that there was nothing good to be learned by shadows. But Lucy was past listening to Isabella’s protests. It was as if Lucy had somehow become a shadow herself. There was no denying that Lucy was not the vivacious young woman whom Isabella had always known. She was a shadow of her former self. Oh, she tried to hide it, but Isabella saw through her cousin’s facade. Shadows flickered in her cousin’s green eyes, and darkness, of unknown origin, was slowly blotting out the light that had been Lucy. Like a destructive vine, the darkness had its tendrils wrapped tightly around Lucy’s soul. If only her cousin would confide in her. If only Isabella could save herself—and her cousin—from the shadows that had always seemed to haunt the women of their family.
But Lucy would not let her in, and Isabella, still filled with her own darkness of dreams and shadows, let her be—for now.
Draping her mantelet tighter around her shoulders, Isabella glanced back at the round wooden table that was prepared for their séance. Already seated at the table were Lucy, Sibylla, the Duke of Sussex—who Isabella could not believe had joined them—and the medium, Alice Fox, who looked like a madwoman with her wild mane of dull red curls and large, crazed eyes.
Sussex, Isabella noted, was watching Lucy with barely restrained concern. He had appeared on their doorstep just as they were leaving. When Lucy informed him they were off to Highgate with her maid as their only chaperone, Sussex had demanded he join them. Lucy had been livid and made Sussex pay for his presumptive behavior with her icy demeanor and cold retorts. Isabella, grateful for Sussex’s presence, had silently prayed that Lucy’s hostility would not force him to abandon them that night—but the duke had steadfastly stayed the course—and was now here, seated opposite Lucy at the table, watching her with a heartwarming mix of worry and desire. There was implacability in those mysterious gray eyes. He would not let Lucy come to harm—or her. She was quite certain of that. It was that knowledge, and the quiet strength of the duke that made any of this tolerable.
Maybe together, they could rid Lucy of this absurd liking she had taken for the supernatural. For Isabella had no desire to spend many more nights likes this one, waiting for some spirit to jump out from the gloom. It was never wise to stare too closely into the shadows. One never knew what was there, lurking, waiting to be seen.
“Let us begin. First,” Alice said, her voice dropping, lending the ambience in the room a more sinister tone, “we will attempt to conjure a spirit here, and then, when the clock tolls midnight we will walk amongst the graves, and try there.”
Lucy sent her a pleading glance to join them. Isabella did not want to do this, to invite spirits to come and talk with them. Let them rest in peace, she had begged her cousin, but it had fallen on deaf ears.
She could have stayed home tonight if she had wanted. Yet she couldn’t bear the thought of Lucy doing this alone. Something was driving her. She was searching for something, or someone, and Isabella was determined to find out what or who. As unbearable as the thought of walking amongst graves at midnight was to her, the thought of Lucy alone, struggling to find whatever it was she was searching for, was even more frightening.
Lucy had been there for Isabella from the beginning. Never questioning, never probing into her past, or the unfortunate event that had caused her uncle to come for her. She owed Lucy at least this.
“Come and sit,” Alice commanded with a wave. She held her lit candle higher, the limited light barely illuminating the tiny room. Alice grinned at her, Isabella’s reluctance obviously amusing to her.
“The dead prefer the dark.” Alice blew out the candle, plunging the room into darkness.
“I, myself, would prefer a light, any amount of light,” Isabella mumbled as she sat in a chair. Lucy giggled, and reached for her hand. At least she thought it was Lucy. It was so dark she could barely do more than make out shapes. Even the moon, which hung low and full, wasn’t enough to shed any light on the murky room Alice had chosen for their communion with the dead.
The shaft of moonlight shifted, and on the wall, Isabella saw shadows of naked tree limbs dancing. The shadows shifted again, and a wide arch obliterated the image of trees with a dark shapeless outline. Oh, God, how she feared shadows and what came out of them.
Her dreams…more specifically those dreams were always preceded by shadows. She had come to fear them because of those dreams, and the power they had over her—and others.
“Quiet your thoughts,” Alice commanded, “and still your fears. The dead will come when they’re ready.”
Closing her eyes, Isabella tried very hard to calm her breathing. It was only darkness and shadows, she reminded herself. Nothing to harm when one’s heart was not filled with darkness. That was what her grandmother had always told her. But Isabella had never truly believed her. One day, she was certain that someone, or something, would creep from the shadows and claim her. It had been a recurring dream, a nightmare that had somehow turned into a destiny—or so she believed.
Oh, how she wanted to quit this place! Her head still hurt, and she felt sleepy still from the effects of the tonic she had taken after her return home that afternoon. Alice was mumbling, chanting, perhaps. The tone was rhythmic, lulling and soon Isabella felt her lids lower and her breathing settle into a quiet pattern, the shadows momentarily forgotten.
“Now, think of…nothing,” Alice ordered. “Empty your thoughts.”
Isabella tried, but she couldn’t do it. The words seemed to come from nowhere, unable to be silenced, spilling through her subconscious just as they ebbed through her pen and bled onto the page.
Death was beautiful as he peered down at me. He held me in his arms as we danced beneath the starlight, his gaze never moving from my face. He kissed me, a soft meeting of lips. I felt his breath on my cheek, smelled the spice of his skin as his cheek brushed against mine. His words were dark, and alluring, calling to me…
“Isabella, do you know what I would give to be the one…”
Her eyes flew open, and she saw a shadow move along the wall. She stiffened, felt her breath freeze in her lungs as the shadow took on the shape of a man.
“Good,” Alice rasped. “Someone’s come.”
A chair scraped against the wood, and Isabella shrieked. Something touched her hand, and she whimpered, only to feel a grounding hold on her palm. The shadow danced along the wall, moving like mist, or fog.
She had seen it before, on a night like tonight, only it had moved over the water as she walked into the rolling depths of the sea. “’Tis not time, my love. You will not die this night.” Yet still she had walked farther and farther out, the waves crashing around her, the heavy weight of her skirts making it harder to stay upright. The water grew deeper, colder, as it steadily climbed up past her legs, her waist, her breasts.
“You will not die this night,” the voice had pleaded.
Yet she had continued, knowing it was Death that spoke to her.
The fog turned to shadow then, and she had seen the form of a man take shape.
She had seen him before, the familiar shape of him when he had come to take her mother, and her grandmother. She had seen the same silhouette while attending births with her grandmother—the shadow that took newborn babes, and their mothers.
Death.
She had always been able to see him.
The shadow moved farther along the wall, and she blinked, hoping she was lost in a dream of her past, but she saw the curtains of Alice’s cottage, and the view of Highgate beyond the trees, which were leafless, and knew that what she was seeing was real. Present.
“Do you not see him?” Isabella asked, searching through the murky darkness.
“Who do you see?” Alice asked.
“That man. In the corner. He has his back to us, but he’s dressed in a long coat. His hands are folded behind his back, his head is lowered.”
“Go on,” Alice encouraged, her voice dropping. “Tell me what you see?”
“Can you not see him?” Isabella cried, and the hand, which she realized must be the duke’s, held her tightly. “I can see him very clearly, despite the darkness. He is…tall. Dark. He’s turning around.”
“Do not look upon him,” Alice hissed, and Isabella pressed her eyes shut, trembling. On her left, she felt Lucy’s slender fingers quake against hers.
What was she seeing? A product of her imagination? A hallucination caused by her headache? Good Lord, could it be real?
“Spirit,” Alice whispered, “what is it you want?”
Something came sliding down the long length of the table, stopping before her.
“The spirit wants to talk,” Alice said. “It’s the planchette he’s sent.”
“Oh, I love the talking board,” Lucy whispered.
“Silence,” Alice ordered. “Now then, all hands together, and place them on the planchette. And keep your eyes closed.”
They did as she demanded, and Alice began to ask questions that were barely audible above the sound of Isabella’s pounding heart. “Who are you?”
They waited long seconds and suddenly the planchette began to move.
“Who is moving it?” Isabella’s voice was nothing but a high-pitched squeal.
“The medium,” the duke spat. “Who else?”
“My hands are not even on it, the spirit in the room moves it.”
Isabella shivered as the planchette moved a total of five times then stopped altogether.
“Have you come for someone?”
This time, the planchette moved three places. Yes. Oh, good Lord, Isabella could barely breathe.
“Who have you come for?” she burst out, unable to control her fear.
Immediately the planchette moved three places.
“Enough of this nonsense,” the duke demanded. “Light a candle this instant. Miss Fairmont is about to succumb to the vapors.”
Her worst fears were confirmed when the candle flared to life, and the answers to Alice’s questions were written hastily on a white piece of paper that sat in front of her.
Who are you?
D E A T H
Have you come for someone?
Y E S
Who have you come for? That had been her question, and the answer curdled her blood.
Y O U
Lucy caught her gaze, and then her eyes widened as she looked beyond Isabella’s shoulder. Following her cousin’s stare Isabella turned in her chair, and gasped, then looked down at the planchette and the hands that were overtop hers.
Black.
“Wherever you are,” he whispered for her ears only, “I will find you, and you will be safe with me.”
CHAPTER SIX
THAT FRENZIED SUCKING sound…was it her? An audible wheeze, followed by a strangled echo erupted the quiet. She knew it was her, her rasping, choking breaths. Isabella felt her chest squeeze tightly behind her corset, her breasts constricted, the bodice of her gown pulling tight as she struggled to get air into her lungs. Oh, why had she allowed Lucy to talk her into tight lacings—tonight of all nights?
Oh, God, she prayed. Please let this moment of frozen panic pass. But as she prayed, and the seconds ticked on, she witnessed the alarm—and horror—on Lucy’s, Sussex’s and Black’s expressions. She was making a complete fool of herself, acting in such a dramatic fashion. But she couldn’t stop. The panic had a choke hold on her now, and she was quite certain she was going to swoon.
It had been Death there in the room with them—at least it had been her image of Death. Nothing could convince other wise. Alice Fox, with her wild eyes and witch’s hair, had conjured him from his dark forest where he dwelt until he was called forth to claim his souls. He had not got her soul before, and now…now he was returned to claim it.
She gasped again, a most horrific and embarrassing noise, and she wanted to die. Wanted Death to come back and steal her away, because she could not bear to think of what Black must think of her and her silly, swooning behavior. However much she was mortified by her actions, she was a powerless victim to them—always had been.
“Miss Fairmont is ill.” Lord Black’s voice, deep and commanding, broke over her constricted breathing. “I’ll take her outside.”
“Smelling salts, my lord,” Lucy cried. Isabella heard her cousin fishing through her reticule for the tiny vial, but she did not see if Black had taken them. All she knew was she was suddenly in his arms, being carried through the cottage as she struggled to breathe.
He jostled her only once as he opened the door, and then they were outside—the sharp sting of the wind slapping at her cheeks—giving her a brief moment of clarity. The air was thick and heavy, full of dampness and moisture, and it made her cough, but did little to restore the easy rhythm of her breathing. She felt faint, hot—yet her skin was cool and clammy, and her vision was tunneling, growing dim. Dear heavens, she was going to swoon, and in Lord Black’s arms.
“Breathe, now,” he whispered as he set her on her feet and steadied her back against his chest. His arm, thick and muscular, wrapped around her waist, holding her against him as she fought to make her way out of the state she had worked herself into.
Death had come…she had seen him. He had been there. Right before…she glanced over her shoulder, saw the earl staring gravely down at her. She had seen Death’s shadow right before Black had revealed himself.
Imagination running rampant, she thought back to her book, to her waltz with Black and then tonight, to the shadow that snaked along the wall and then to the man who had been beside her in the dark.
“Isabella, you must take a slow, deep breath.”
Black’s voice was authoritative, and she heard it only in the distance of her mind. Her head was swimming, her vision blackening.
“Breathe,” she heard. “Damn it, take a breath.”
She had heard that command before, whispering to her from the recesses of her memories. She tried to block the voice, but it pulled her under, like the roiling waves of the North Sea, sucking her deep, tossing her up, only to be pulled into the seemingly bottomless frigid waters. And then she was back in the past, and the crushing weight of the sea, the violence of the waves, and the sea-scented air that swirled with the approaching gale. She was battered between waves, jostled beneath and above until she did not rise up into the frigid night air, but sank lower, her arms floating alongside her, her body heavy. Then she remembered all too vividly the disembodied feeling of sinking to the sandy bottom of Whitby Harbor.
THE MOMENT ISABELLA went slack in his arms, Black pulled her tighter to him and furiously unbuttoned her gown, revealing her corset strings. Pulling at them with quick, efficient tugs, he loosened them, allowing her chest to expand.
Curse whatever idiot had thought tight lacing imperative. No wonder she could not breathe—she was tied and pressed like a sausage.
“Breathe, damn it,” he muttered again as he freed her of her corset. Her head tilted back and lay on his shoulder, her pale throat exposed through the thin shaft of moonlight. The mist was now drizzle, and it beaded on her cheeks, glis
tened on her eyelashes and the exposed flesh of her décolletage, giving her pale skin a luminescence that was at once mesmerizing and terrifying. This was how she had looked in his dream—pale, lifeless, her beautiful skin cold.
She should be breathing now, but she wasn’t, held in a grip of fright and shock. Cool efficiency—his hallmark—fled, leaving a keen sense of fear, and a touch of panic.
Don’t do this, he pleaded as he turned her head so that he could gaze down at her. Don’t you dare…
Placing his palm alongside her neck, he felt her pulse, full, bounding—healthy. Alive. And then he felt it, the deep release of her breath, the weak inhalation that followed. Her lashes slowly rose, her gaze glassy as she stared up at him.
Relief replaced fear, and he brought her close to him, his cheek against hers, her breath whispering against his mouth. And then his lips were inching to her mouth, brushing, caressing—her breath against his lips, telling him she was well, unharmed, but he refused to believe it—needed to feel her body soften, to sink boneless into his. It was hardly helping her, he knew. But his worries, his fright, had replaced logic, and he was ruled by this absurd need to feel her—to know, bone deep, that she was truly well. In those seconds of foreboding, he experienced a flash—a fleeting moment of vulnerability in which he needed to reassure himself that she was his, even if she did not yet know it.
“You scared the hell out of me,” he whispered, harsher then he intended.
She did not return his kiss, still slightly dazed, but she touched him, her fingers soft and cool against his cheek as her fingertips fluttered against him. “I could say the same for you.”
“’Tis only a parlor game,” he murmured, brushing his lips against her brow, feeling her tremble from the ordeal. “Nothing to fear—especially not from me.”
“Is that true, my lord? I have nothing to fear from you, and how we might appear to anyone who may happen upon us?”
“I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks. I’m not letting you go, not until I know for certain you’re well.”
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