There Kacey made her last, and most deadly, mistake, which was to underestimate the man with the voice like silk and the eyes like beaten silver.
Eyes that she seemed to have known forever.
HE FOUND HER AT THE SOUTH wall of the long gallery, seated before the great canvas. Her long legs were tucked beneath her, and her eyes were radiant.
The Englishman’s face filled with awe at the picture she made, her long hair gleaming silver in the moonlight, her whole being suffused with love for the canvas before her.
Suddenly he was ripped by jealousy at the warmth that glowed from her eyes, angry that he wasn’t the one who’d put it there.
Suddenly he wanted to be an artist so he could paint her.
A poet so he could capture her in exquisite words.
Most of all, he wanted to be her lover so he could know her warmth always and in a thousand intimate ways.
And then, like a dirty tide, memories of Bhanlai washed over him. Memories of betrayal. Memories of deceit and the blinding pain and rage that came in its aftermath.
Memories of the other woman for whom he had also wanted to be all those things—a woman who’d taught him everything there was to know about betrayal.
Draycott’s jaw clenched. In the moonlight, the muscles at his neck stood out clearly. He fought down the urge to stride through the gallery and shake her. He shook beneath a fierce need to touch her—to crush her against the wall and bury himself deep in her heat and softness.
Unaware of the brooding presence behind her, the woman came slowly to her feet. She shook herself slightly, as if fighting the spell of the great canvas. Her eyes were fixed still on the dim, phantom boat that rocked in timeless silence beneath a lavender moon.
Her heart filled with its beauty, Kacey breathed a silent song of thanks for this rare gift she’d been given.
For having glimpsed such a masterpiece, even once. Most of all, for the knowledge, deep in her heart, that it was indeed from Whistler’s hand.
A tear slipped down her cheek, For long moments, she didn’t move, struggling with nameless regrets and disturbing memories, shadowed fragments that clamored up from some dark place inside her, so deep that she had never before guessed they existed.
Go now, Katherine Chelsea. Go now, or you’ll never go!
One hand to her lips, she spun about and stumbled toward the door. In her desperation to be away, she didn’t notice the tall shadow unmoving amid the other shadows of the silent room.
Her trembling fingers rose, sweeping her eyes blindly, and then she was gone.
HIDDEN IN THE SHADOWS OF the long gallery, Nicholas Draycott stood frozen, his hard fingers clenched into fists. His head spun as he tried to grasp what he’d just seen. She hadn’t taken the painting after all. And that meant—
Abruptly his expression hardened. It means nothing, you fool. It means that she wants photographs and juicy gossip, not canvases. She probably doesn’t even now what the hell she’s looking at.
Draycott reminded himself what she’d said back in the stable. She’d called the canvas a pretty picture, for God’s sake!
But try as he might, he couldn’t forget her hesitation and the dreamy look on her face. Right now, every sense was clamoring that he was wrong about her.
In spite of that instinct, something made him hold back, waiting silently in the shadows outside the door.
Merely the logical need to learn her real intentions, he told himself coldly. Merely a natural desire to see that she took nothing with her when she left.
By the time she reached the front staircase, he was gone, melting back into the darkness, where an ancient rear staircase ran down to a hidden passage leading out to the gatehouse.
Just in case she stole something else on her way out, Draycott told himself.
But he knew that, too, was a lie.
THE FIRST FAT DROPS OF rain had just begun to fall when Kacey jerked open the side door. Her shoulders slumped as she stood staring out into the night. A long sigh escaped her tense lips.
So this was it—no way out except to walk to town. So be it. She absolutely refused to go back and ask that misbegotten swine in the stable for anything, not even if her life depended on it!
She tossed her bag firmly over her shoulder. At least these wretched boots might actually prove to be of some use, she thought, smiling grimly.
She turned up her collar, then tugged the top of her trench coat up over her head, fighting to see through the slanting sheets of wind-driven rain.
Far to the south, ghostly fingers of fire ripped the sky, and a tremor snaked through her. Fear? Or was it regret?
No, something else, she decided.
But then Kacey had all she could do to keep herself upright as she tottered over the rain-slick grass. Unused to the new boots she was wearing, she tripped painfully and often. Each time she bit her lip against the pain and forced herself forward into the rushing darkness.
It couldn’t be more than five miles to town, after all. Her bus ride from the village had taken no more than fifteen minutes, surely.
But in the night and the lashing rain, five miles seemed like the other side of the world.
Which means you’d better get started, she thought. At least she would have the memory of the painting to warm her. Yes, that memory would last her for a very long time.
Fifteen minutes later her hair was plastered to her ashen cheeks and her lips were blue-tinged, even though she hadn’t reached the bottom of the hill. The lightning was much closer now, her only beacon in the sullen darkness of the storm.
She would be dangerously exposed out here in the middle of the sweeping lawns, Kacey realized. Soon she’d have to cut west, toward that dim line of beeches, silver against the darkness.
She stumbled again and bit back a moan of pain, feeling her ankle swell.
Surely no more than four miles to go, she told herself optimistically.
Suddenly she stiffened, listening to the wind howl through the trees. Somewhere a branch ripped free and plummeted past her.
She frowned, tugging her coat tighter over her head. She was just asking herself how she’d gotten into this mess when she heard the other sound.
It came from nowhere and everywhere, and the hands were from the fabric of night itself, jerking her around and holding her rigid.
Kacey screamed.
His face was a cold mask of anger, etched by deep lines at his forehead and cheeks. But then Kacey saw something else—the buried traces of anxiety and concern. For her, in spite of what she’d done.
For a wild instant, she felt a primal desire to brush the lines from that brooding face. To set the fires of passion aglow in those silver eyes once again.
His fingers bit into her shivering shoulders. “Just where in the name of God do you think you’re going?” he growled, struggling to be heard against the wind.
“Back to Alfriston,” she cried. “Back to sanity. Back to civilization. Anyplace that’s away from you!”
A muscle flashed at the granite line of his jaw. His fingers tightened. “It’s eight miles to the village. You’ll never make it in the dark.”
“Why not? I happen to like walking!”
His smoldering eyes settled on her mud-stained boots. “Especially in those, no doubt,” he said disgustedly.
“Then I’ll just have to take them off, won’t I?” Kacey jerked free and bent down to tug at her boots. One came free and went flying, hitting him in the knee. He winced, she noticed happily. A moment later, the other spun off, sailing into the darkness.
Catching back an angry sob, she plunged forward toward a bleak cluster of yew trees, trying to ignore the paralyzing cold seeping into her bare feet.
“You crazy, headstrong—” With a ragged curse, Draycott seized her and swung her up over his shoulder.
“Let me go! Put me down this instant, you bastard!”
But the Englishman’s hard, pounding gait did not slacken. Her bag bouncing over the grass, he set off o
ver the rolling lawns to the house.
Gasping, Kacey hammered his sodden back, tugged at his hair, and lashed out with her bare feet, all without the slightest apparent effect.
“Put me down!” she screamed. This time, her voice was ragged with fear.
Draycott went absolutely still. “You promise not to bolt if I do?”
Her heart thundering, Kacey considered her answer. She could lie, of course, but somehow she felt it necessary to meet him head on, with total honesty. “I won’t run. Not yet, anyway.”
Grim-faced, Draycott pulled her from his shoulder. The next instant Kacey was sliding slowly down his rain-slick body.
He was all hardness, bone and muscle against her softness. And Kacey felt his need revealed clearly in every taut, wet inch.
Her feet touched the grass, and his eyes fell to the small dark crests upthrust against the near transparency of her wet shirt.
Draycott’s breath checked. The pain at his groin returned, far worse than before.
“Dear God, who are you?” he said hoarsely. “What are you doing to me?”
Kacey stared back at him, equally dazed. His words drove straight into her heart, echoing the same turmoil she was feeling.
The storm around them paled to insignificance beside the savage, wordless emotions that rocked them both.
Their eyes locked. She felt all his need, his shock, his fury…
His vulnerability, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.
Around them, the air shimmered, supercharged, crackling with electricity and the relentless force of their opposing wills.
Time shuddered and then ground slowly to a halt.
Above them, the wind raged on, hurling sheets of rain down onto their frozen bodies. Lightning split the sky, sending an ancient beech smoking to the ground. The world seemed to cry out and twist on its axis, unable to endure this confrontation of relentless opposites.
And then suddenly there was no world and no time, only the two of them. Only the naked need that swept out of some other place to engulf them.
Kacey shuddered, rain sliding chill and forgotten down her face.
Draycott frowned. “You’re freezing,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’ll catch pneumonia out here.” Unconsciously, his grip softened, his fingers cupping her shivering shoulders. “Come back to the abbey with me, Kacey Mallory. Let’s begin again.” There was a note of desperation in his voice. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bloody fool. You don’t have to be one, too.”
Kacey could barely breathe for the intensity of the feelings flowing over her. For the touch of his hard body from her neck to her knees. For the need to feel him far closer still, bodies bared, skin pressed inch to sweat-slick inch.
As they slid into passion’s raw center.
When had everything changed? she asked herself dimly. When had she become this strange new person, this wanton creature of hot desire and reckless need?
Dear God, what was happening to her? His touch was too keen, her need too raw.
Settle down, Katharine Chelsea. It’s just all those female hormones talking. Maybe you’ve gone too long without listening to what they had to say.
And they were certainly talking right now—with a vengeance, she thought.
“Kacey?”
One word, but the way he said it, slow and uncertain, nearly pushed her over the edge.
“I—I can’t go back.” Her words were no more than a whisper. “I won’t. I can’t ever go back. Not there—not with you!”
“You must. The Whistler’s waiting for you.” He paused, studying her tense features. “I saw you in the long gallery, you know. You loved looking at it. You adored it with your eyes. No, don’t try to deny it, Kacey. Your eyes couldn’t lie—not about a thing like that.”
Another shudder ripped through her. It was madness even to consider what he asked. She knew instinctively that she had to get away from this place, from this man. Yes, far away—before she did something crazier still. “Please…”
“Think of it,” Draycott whispered, his lips feathering over the chill curve of her ear. “No one else has even seen the canvas for one hundred years. You’ll be the first to touch it, to learn its secrets. It’s waiting there right now, Kacey. All you have to do is come back with me.”
It was the lowest sort of bribe, but Nicholas Draycott didn’t care. He couldn’t let her go—not this way. Not yet. She was either his sweetest dream or his worst nightmare, and he had to find out which.
Kacey gnawed at her bottom lip. Her body shook, from the cold and the struggle to control some dark, nameless yearning.
But she was losing. Nicholas could feel it in the quiver that ran through her shoulders.
“Now, Kacey.”
“Oh, all right. Yes, damn you. Yes!”
His smile was dark triumph itself. But when he took her hand and tried to pull her back toward the house, Draycott found it was going to be a little more difficult than he’d thought.
Scowling, Kacey dug in her heels. “On three conditions,” she shouted against the wind.
“Name them,” he yelled back.
“First, we call New York and verify my credentials. I want no more questions on that score.”
“Done.”
“Second, you move my things—such as they are—into the gatehouse.”
Draycott’s response was slower this time. “Very well.”
“Third, you give me the gatehouse key. No, make that all the gatehouse keys.”
The Englishman’s eyes darkened. “I can’t do that,” he countered flatly. “There are reasons—”
Kacey spun about and began to stride over the downs toward the village.
“Oh, all right, damn it! One of us has to be sensible about this.”
Muttering darkly, Draycott searched for her boots and bent down to shove them on her feet. Scowling, he shrugged out of his coat and pulled it over her head. In the process, his arm encircled her shoulder. Her breast grazed his rib.
They froze, while the rain hammered down on his makeshift tent. For long breathless moments neither moved, caught in the warmth and darkness beneath.
Her hip nudged his thigh; her chin brushed the naked skin at his neck.
Draycott muttered a curse.
You think you’re safe, but you’re not, Kacey Mallory, his eyes warned from the darkness. I’ll have you. I’ll have you every way there is to have a woman. You couldn’t stop me if you wanted to. And you don’t.
Somehow she heard his silent challenge, attuned to him as she had never been to any other man. Not now, her jade eyes answered. Not ever, Englishman. You can look forever, but you’ll never find me.
With a little gasp, Kacey broke free and stumbled forward over the grass, knowing no danger could match that of being caught in this man’s arms.
Almost immediately she slipped in the wet grass and fell to her knees. Without a word, Draycott swept her up into his arms and strode forward across the glistening sweep of lawn.
Somehow her hands slid around his neck; somehow her fingers combed through his wet hair.
Kacey felt him shudder.
And then the shuddering was hers.
The gatehouse before them, Kacey raised wild, dazed eyes. In the darkness, the towers stood stark and forbidding. The house seemed almost to watch them, a thing of power and tangible will.
Determined to hold sway forever over these ancient acres. In spite of whatever frail, hapless humans might stumble across its shadowed paths.
Kacey frowned, trying to ignore the chill tendrils of fear that swept down her spine. Trying to ignore the angry power of Draycott’s tensed shoulders beneath her hands.
How did I ever consider this place comforting? she wondered as the brooding Englishman carried her beneath the stone arch into the silence of the abbey’s watchful, waiting walls.
THE STORM PASSED ON TO the north soon after their return. In careful silence, a white-haired butler showed Kacey to a room on the gatehouse’s second floor.
After reminding her to lock her door, he walked downstairs. A few moments later she heard him lock the ground-level entrance door.
Somehow the sound did little to reassure her.
She walked slowly to the bed and was asleep by the time her head touched the large and ornately embroidered feather pillow.
Twice she came awake during the night, her breath jerky, her muscles tense. But each time, the room was just as she’d left it—velvet bed curtains half pulled, behind a damask wing chair that had seen better days.
Moonlight spilled through the casement windows.
Rat-a-tat-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat.
So that was it! Kacey felt a surge of relief. Just the wind shaking the glass. Just the wooden window frame creaking.
She lay back slowly, holding the bed linens protectively against her neck. It was cold for a June night, and she found herself wishing once again for her bags, which had been lost on the flight from New York. Back at Heathrow, she’d requested that they be shipped on to the abbey, when they were found.
She was reminding herself to phone the airline once again in the morning when her eyelids grew heavy. Her fingers twisted in the pristine sheets, monogrammed with dragon-entwined coronets.
How good it feels to be home again, she thought dimly just before her eyelids closed for good.
IN HIS BEDROOM, NICHOLAS tossed down the agricultural journal he’d been reading and began to pace. The article had been boring enough—he should have fallen asleep hours ago. But sea-green eyes drifted before him, and a vision of tawny-colored hair.
Lips soft and proud by turns, and a body sweet beyond imagining.
With a low curse, he tried to fight the haunting pull of her, to forget the dreams.
But it was no good.
He knew without the slightest hint of a doubt that she was the woman in those dreams.
And he the man.
When finally he could pace no more, Nicholas sank tiredly into a chair by the window. The moon was thin and chill, like cobwebs on his face.
Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams Page 4
