Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams

by Christina Skye

  Which, of course, was entirely absurd. Gabriel Ashton was no hero.

  “Go back to Adrian. His wealth will buy all the assistance you need. I can do nothing for you.”

  “But it is an affair most grave!”

  “Aren’t they all?” The earl studied her over the rim of his glass. “Have you lost a bundle of love letters and fear that your husband will find them and toss you out on your lovely backside? Or have you been indiscreet with a mercenary cad who means you to buy his silence after a night of passion?”

  Her chin rose and she clasped her hands before her with infinite dignity. “Lord Draycott told me it would be exactly so with you. First you would bait me, then you would be vastly cynical and refuse me. But I told him he must be wrong. The man called the Rook would never turn down such a desperate request. And you are that man,” she said firmly. “You are the hero I seek.”

  “My dear woman,” Ashton said, his voice as cynical as she’d predicted, “the notorious Lord Draycott was correct for once. I do refuse you. And I know nothing of this person you call the Rook. Now if you will kindly hie yourself off, I have a glass of brandy here that requires my immediate attention.”

  And a host of nightmares to forget, Gabriel thought bitterly.

  “But you can’t! Truly, you are my last hope.”

  The earl turned away, hardening his heart. He’d heard too many sad tales over the last two years. Why should he take time for hers?

  Frowning, he tossed back the last of his brandy, then refilled his glass. As he emptied it, he felt a pleasant numbness steal over him.

  Much better, he decided.

  Looking up, he saw blue satin blur into white lace. “What? You still here? Go away. ’ve got no time f’r angels.”

  Somewhere there were three more angels tonight, he thought dimly. Three children with frightened faces who’d fallen to the blades of the Tribunal, their only crime to be born with blood too blue. Gabriel knew he’d never forget them.

  Her gloved fingers settled resolutely on the table. “I see I must make myself very clear. I am prepared to give you whatever fee you ask for your services, my lord. Anything at all.”

  “Anything?” the earl asked brutally. “Best be careful with that particular word, m’dear.”

  “I am. I would only make the offer to a man of honor like yourself.”

  “Then your faith is sadly misplaced.”

  “Not at all. The Rook is a man of great honor!”

  Ashton laughed bitterly. “He might be, but I’m not.”

  “I think not. You are known to a cousin of mine, you see. You must remember the comte de Broussard. Last month the two of you were engaged to fight a duel. Although he is little more thana boy, his honor was touched, and nothing would do but for him to call you out.” Her eyes took on a gleam. “You devolved most nobly, after appearing to stumble.”

  “Didn’t pretend anything,” Ashton muttered. “Exceedingly drunk at the time and m’hand slipped.”

  “On the contrary, my lord. You merely pretended to be drunk.”

  “And on what d’you base this masterpiece of deduction?”

  “One simple fact—when you entered your carriage after the seconds had been satisfied, you were again the soul of sobriety.”

  An odd look crossed Ashton’s face. “And how, young woman, would you know a thing like that?”

  “Because I was right behind you.”

  “You?”

  “You do not recall me?”

  “I think not!”

  “Hardly surprising, I suppose, since I was dressed in the yellow livery of your house at the time.”

  “Impossible!”

  Her amber eyes gleamed. “Not at all, my lord. You were wearing a vastly elegant sapphire waistcoat with an exquisite fall of white lace about your neck. In the lace was nestled a diamond stickpin carrying the Ashton crest. In addition you wore one of the Ashton emeralds on your left forefinger.”

  The earl shrugged. “Anyone could have told you that.”

  “But you cursed as the stairs were lowered. And then you vowed that you would never again drink port at White’s with young cubs just up from Sussex.”

  An arrested look crossed Ashton’s face. “You were the clumsy cockney lad? The one who earned my abuse for failing to see the coach door fastened properly?”

  Miss Geneva Russell nodded gracefully. “Verbal abuse only, for which I much thank you. Other masters would have used a cane on me. I fear I would have found that most unpleasant.”

  “What audacity! You are monstrous impertinent, miss.”

  Her chin rose defiantly. “And you, my lord, are monstrous foxed.”

  “Not foxed enough.” But Gabriel knew he’d have to be dead drunk to be immune to this woman’s charm. “What d’y’ say y’r name was?”

  “I didn’t. You warned me that I should not.”

  “Did I? Can’t think why. Unless y’ve something to hide.”

  “I do not,” Geneva said with great dignity. “My name is Geneva R—”

  Gabriel sat forward so swiftly that his head swam. “No names,” he said gravely, in blithe ignorance of his own pronouncement. “Dressed as a footman, you say? By God, I should turn you over my knee to repay such trickery.”

  “You would have to catch me first.”

  “Did I catch you, you would soon be sorry. Now off with you!”

  “Not until you agree to help me. It is the Rook I need and the Rook I mean to have.”

  Gabriel’s eyes narrowed in anger, but she met his gaze without flinching. “You were very kind to let my poor cousin go free, for he is a dreadful shot and he did malign your honor most shamefully. In truth, I thought you most handsome. And wonderfully noble.”

  Gabriel Simon Montserrat, Lord Ashton, hardened roué and lifelong cynic, could only stare in disbelief. “Noble?” He thought of the three soldiers he’d left in the mud outside Calais. He thought of the French children whose cries still haunted his dreams.

  Bottle in hand, he pushed away from the table. She would betray him, as all other women had done. He could not trust her or anyone else with his dangerous secret. “Enough of this. I’ve a bottle to finish and a pair of willing arms to find. Unless you’dcare to join me in my bed?” He tossed down a gold sovereign as a final insult. He saw her cheeks darken and laughed harshly. “No? I thought not. Women like you always offer the world, then forget it a moment later.”

  “But—”

  Gabriel turned away. “Go back where you came from, Geneva of the golden eyes. Go back to your satins and velvets and forget you ever saw me.” His jaw hardened and he lied to her with the cool ease of a man whose lies had often saved his life. “For my part, I’ve already forgotten that I ever met you.”

  THE SUN HAD GONE BY THE time Dominic felt himself slip out of his odd reverie. His head was aching where he’d struck the dashboard and he couldn’t seem to clear the odd fragments of images from his mind. It must be the strange desolation of the marsh, hugging the shore of the channel. Perhaps its weight of ghostly history had played tricks with his mind. Or perhaps it was the thought of his ancestor’s exploits, resurfacing in all this attention to the will.

  Dominic was near the crest of the hill now, and a cold wind drove over the reeds, carrying the sharp salt tang of the sea. Yes, it was simply the storm and the shadows that brought him such odd thoughts.

  As he walked through the gathering shadows he tried not to think about a woman with golden eyes. He tried not to hear the distant clang of a wooden shutter.

  But he didn’t quite succeed.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CATHLIN FROWNED AS SHE trudged over the crest of the hill that ran from a copse of gnarled oaks down to the lawn skirting Seacliffe’s weathered walls.

  Out to sea dark clouds piled in toward the land. Just what she needed, more rain! Seacliffe’s gabled old roof already leaked in half a dozen places and Cathlin doubted it would bear the assault of another full-fledged gale.

  She gnaw
ed at her lip, calculating the cost of the repairs that would be required after another storm. More money than she had, certainly, which meant that she’d have to take on new clients.

  She sighed. She and Serita had finally built up a successful list of customers with the palate and the pocketbook to appreciate their choices. But with the demands of renovating Seacliffe, all that would have to change. Cathlin knew she’d have to take on additional commissions and broaden her clientele, taking on the high rollers she had always avoided, men with far more money than taste, whose only concern was buying high-ticket and making sure everyone knew it.

  Was this wonderful old house she’d inherited worth it? True, it was a thing of beauty and her only concrete connection to the mother she’d lost so young, but would Seacliffe simply awaken the old memories?

  Cathlin shivered and hunched her shoulders against the rising wind, then set off through a tangle of berry vines. Seacliffe’s broad green lawns were only yards away, but the air was filled with fine bits of sand and gravel, which left her cheeks flushed and stinging.

  She stared out at the marsh, looking for a car. She was expecting a structural engineer from Hastings later that afternoon, but it was possible that with the coming storm, he might not make the trip. She only prayed that if he came, he wouldn’t ask for a bank draft up front.

  And then Cathlin went still as she saw someone striding up the hill. Some instinct made her pull back behind a hawthorn tree so that she could watch unobserved. He ran for the porticoed front entrance just as the first fat drops hit the gravel drive. Frowning, he propped one broad shoulder against the weathered granite and turned to survey the house. Fawn corduroy trousers hugged his lean hips below a shirt of tailored blue denim. A slash of dark hair curved down into his eyes. In the gloom of the storm, Cathlin couldn’t make out much more than this—except that he looked cool and quiet and dangerous.

  Then he turned toward the sea, and Cathlin felt her breath catch.

  Dominic Montserrat? How had he gotten her address?

  She strode over the gravel, not bothering with a smile. “What do you want?”

  One dark brow crooked. “How about shelter from the storm?”

  “I’m waiting, Mr. Montserrat.” Cathlin didn’t like the peerage in general and she certainly wasn’t going to make an exception for him.

  Dominic sighed. “As I told you in London, I need to talk to you about some wine. You didn’t return my calls, remember?”

  “I’ve been busy,” Cathlin said curtly.

  “This is no game, Ms. O’Neill.”

  “Talk to Serita. She’s got a tremendous knowledge of wine. Besides that, she actually appears to like you.”

  Her visitor looked Cathlin over slowly, taking in her faded blue jeans and baggy Montreal Canadiens sweatshirt. His gaze went to the matching Canadiens cap that covered her sleek black hair. “Very nice. I think I like it even more than the black velvet.”

  “Good-bye, Lord Ashton.”

  “You can’t just throw me out. The road is blocked down there by a fallen tree, and I can’t go anywhere.”

  “So walk back to Rye. You’re certainly not staying here. As you can see, I’m busy. I’ve got to see a man about my roof. Assuming that it’s still there, of course.”

  Dominic’s keen eyes narrowed. “What’s wrong with your roof?”

  “Rain damage from our last gale. And about two hundred or so before that one.” Cathlin shoved the Canadiens cap lower on her head. “Something like a century of neglect isn’t helping either. Why?”

  “Just curious.”

  “Don’t tell me. In addition to dabbling in wines, you just happen to be an authority on roofs.”

  “As it happens, I am.”

  The man’s gall was beyond belief. “And I’m the Royal Mum,” Cathlin snapped. She stiffened as his eyes slid over her. “May I ask why you’re staring at me?”

  “You’re different out here. Younger. Softer. Then again, appearances are usually a trap.”

  Great, now he was a philosopher. A philosopher with something cold and hard at the back of his eyes. Maybe he could brandish a quote from Descartes to patch that three-foot gap in the south roof, Cathlin thought bitterly. She pushed past him and shoved open Seacliffe’s massive, rose-covered door. “It’s been nice to know you, Mr. Montserrat. Walk carefully.”

  The door wedged open beneath the firm force of his foot. “I happen to be great with roofs, O’Neill, and it sounds like you’re going to need an expert.”

  “This is a bad dream,” she said, closing her eyes. “I’m going to wake up and you’ll be gone, I know it.” She opened her eyes and sighed.

  “Still here. Tell me why you haven’t returned any of my calls.”

  “Because I don’t want to talk to you,” Cathlin said very clearly, the way one would speak to a sulky child.

  “What is it with you Americans?”

  “Ask Ben Franklin. He didn’t like you aristocrats much either.”

  “Can we stop the warfare and get back to business?”

  “What business? You were milling around trying to convince me you’re seriously interested in my roof and I was trying to convince you that I don’t believe a word you say.”

  Dominic frowned as he stood angled in the doorway. Over his shoulder he had seen a glint of metal down the hill.

  Coincidence, or something more?

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s something moving out there.”

  “Of course there is. With white fur and four legs. They’re called sheep.”

  “What I saw was no sheep.”

  “Then it was probably a hiker. We get them down here occasionally. It’s certainly nothing to worry about.”

  His eyes swept the reed-filled pools along the coast. “A strange time for a hiker to be enjoying the scenery, considering the wind that’s kicking up. Still, you might be right.”

  “Of course, I’m right. And now I have a roof to look at before it starts to rain.”

  Dominic Montserrat, however, was one step ahead of her. He pushed the door wide and strode past her, moving easily down the polished corridor. “Where are the stairs?”

  “What stairs?”

  “To the roof, of course.” He moved in utter silence, and something about that silence made Cathlin’s neck prickle. “I’m going to need a ladder and some kind of light.”

  “You’re not going to need anything, because you’re not taking another step inside my house!”

  He turned. His shoulder brushed hers. “A deal, all right? I check your roof and you listen to what I have to tell you. How about it?”

  “Then you leave?”

  “If you still want me to.”

  Cathlin felt his anger but even deeper she felt his raw determination. He was a man who would always get what he wanted, she sensed. There was strength in every move he made, iron control in every word and look. He was a man comfortable in his power and comfortable using it over others.

  But not on her. Because she wasn’t going to listen to one word more. “The answer’s no. I’ve got to go. The door’s right back there.”

  A muscle tensed at his jaw. So Lord Ashton didn’t like losing, did he? His eyes locked on her face and Cathlin felt the full force of his will directed over her, searching for her deepest strengths and secret weaknesses, like a hunter assessing his prey. And Cathlin found herself attracted to that basic power in some deep, elemental way.

  Raw physical power.

  Raw confidence.

  Raw skill.

  Cathlin hated to admit it, but those things struck a chord in her, subtly stirring her senses until she wanted to offer a counterchallenge, female to male, and find out what it would take to break that iron control. Instinct whispered that this man would be a warrior in bed as in all else. He would possess ruthlessly and demand total honesty from the woman he loved. There would be no secrets and no holding back. And that same instinct told Cathlin that he would offer all of himself in turn, body a
nd soul.

  She swallowed, trying to break the spell of her swift fantasies, trying to fight the dark, wordless current of sensation that bound them as they stood silent, shoulder to shoulder, in Seacliffe’s quiet halls. What would it feel like to be loved that way? What would it take for a woman to claim such a man in turn, strength to strength, heat to heat, challenging his granite control until he felt the same blind, wild need that she did?

  Dangerous, O’Neill. Very dangerous.

  A wedge of plaster peeled away from the ceiling and struck her head.

  “Maybe you’d better not take too long to make up your mind, O’Neill.”

  An abrupt fragment of memory stole over Cathlin. Something about a dark room. Low voices. Fear.

  She was fighting a shudder when a pair of hard hands settled on her shoulders. “Let me go.”

  “You’re covered with plaster. You can’t just—”

  “Can’t I?” Cathlin’s heart was pounding as she shoved past him. Why in heaven’s name did this man affect her so? And what was it about him that had just triggered those dim memories of the day her mother had died?

  She wasn’t going to wait around to find out. She took the last few feet in a rush, following the narrow staircase up to a dim attic, illuminated by three large oriel windows. Steady O’Neill. It was just one of the old memories, the kind that skittered through her mind late at night when the doors were locked and the moon inched over the horizon.

  “You all right?” Somehow he was right behind her, as silent as a cat.

  “I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look fine.”

  Cathlin swallowed, uncomfortable beneath that intent green gaze that seemed to miss nothing. “Oh, very well. Have a look at the roof. Then I’ll hear you out.” But don’t expect me to believe a word, she thought grimly. And definitely don’t expect to be staying on afterward.

  Dominic swung a heavy wooden ladder over his back as if it were no more than cardboard, then carried it to the far wall, which was speckled with damp rot. A blizzard of fallen plaster covered the floor at his feet.

  He shook his head. “Not good. Exactly how old is this place?”