Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams

by Christina Skye

  Geneva shivered at his exquisite touch, watching their images meld and dance in the candlelight. She would wear it. Just as she would always think of him. Even after she betrayed him?

  She shuddered.

  “You are cold?”

  “No, not cold.”

  “Then this is fear, fear of me?” His voice was suddenly taut.

  “No, not fear. But surely, we cannot.” Her breath caught. “Not here. I don’t want—”

  “You will,” he whispered. “I have fought you with every shred of my being and failed.” His voice hardened. “May God help us both.”

  Geneva watched his hands slide over the creamy skin at her chest. She closed her eyes, her breasts grown tight and aching beneath his touch.

  As if in a dream, she felt his mouth tease one crest of crimson. She caught back a breathless sigh, and sank trembling fingers into the blackness of his hair. “This isn’t what you think.”

  Outside their curtained bower came a low, choked moan and the indrawn breaths of cresting passion. Geneva flushed, horrified.

  But the man beside her barely noticed. “Gabriel,” he said harshly. “Say my name, and let me know you think of me.”

  “You,” she whispered. Then, more huskily, “Gabriel.”

  “Yes, my love. That is the name of the man who is kissing you, the man whose cameo you wear. I mean to see you don’t forget it.”

  His fingers brushed against her hardened nipples. She shivered, filled with heat as she stared at their images in the long glass window.

  She had to stop this. She had to make him understand.

  But her body mocked her. She could not deny him what she had long ago determined to give freely, in order to save her sister’s life. Her neck arched. The cameo swayed, cool and heavy as she curved into the hardness of his body.

  “Yes. Like that, my love. Come to me. Let me feel your passion.”

  Geneva shuddered, fighting the dark pull of his sensuality. Even if he left now, could he be swifter than Henry Devere, who would use every connection he had in France to see her sister brought to harm? Geneva knew she could not risk her sister’s death. She would have to be clever and cool, using both men to her own ends.

  With a low curse Gabriel caught her shoulders, his eyes burning over her face. “I have thought of nothing else since I saw you at the Crown and Dragon. You have but to command me, for whatever I have is yours. But in return you must fulfill your part of the bargain.”

  Geneva felt her throat tighten. A choked sigh emerged instead of words as his lips met the swell of her breast.

  Outside there came a low hum of voices and the rustle of clothing. Then only silence. Geneva gave a silent sigh of thanks that they were finally alone.

  “No more tricks. God help me, I’m not up to them. You have beaten me.”

  Dimly she saw Gabriel ease her dress from her shoulders and free her straining skin.

  “Was any woman ever so beautiful?” he said hoarsely.

  Geneva choked back a moan.

  He wanted her.

  And dear God, she wanted him, with a passion equal to his own. When had it happened? And how was she ever to escape this nightmare choice that Henry Devere had forced upon her?

  The cameo dug into her neck, dense stone and cold diamonds. A jolting tension crept along her spine. But Geneva knew she must say the words that would spell his ruin. “Are you truly the man called the Rook?”

  A powdered curl brushed against her shoulder. She felt the tension of his hard arms braced at her shoulders and was achingly aware of his fingers as they eased beneath the warm satin to cup the weight of her full breasts.

  “Yes,” he said hoarsely. “I am the man you seek. Now you hold my secret and my very life in your hands. Do not betray me.”

  Geneva knew with a vast and terrible clarity that she would do just that. She had no choice. She could not let her sister die.

  “No,” she whispered, her throat dry.

  He took her answer for assurance, instead of the protest that it was. He smiled darkly, studying her sweet, upthrust nipples. “Your body shows its passion most eloquently. But I must see all of you.”

  “Someone might come. That monster Devere—”

  “There is no need to fear. I’ll keep you safe. At a masquerade such as this, nearly everyone has similar ideas,” he said darkly.

  Beneath the brush of his hands the satin folds moved. As they did, the heavy cameo swayed and came free. With a low hiss the ornament slid over the yards of satin and landed on the carpet.

  The movement caught Geneva from her sensual haze. “No,” she said wildly. “Not here. You must go. Find a place where we will be undisturbed.” Her eyes were dark with entreaty.

  After a moment he nodded. “My carriage is outside. I will send a man round to fetch it. Wait for me.” He planted a slow, goading kiss upon her lips and Geneva felt her body stiffen, answering his passion. But he put her from him, laughing softly. “Soon, my lady.”

  Then he opened the curtain and disappeared.

  JAGGED IMAGES FILLED Dominic’s head, images of sadness and anger and a woman’s soft sigh. Snatches of dreams played through his mind like distant music, familiar and yet not quite familiar.

  Or were they memories?

  GENEVA WAS STANDING BY THEwindow, pale and determined, when Henry Devere returned.

  “He was the one?”

  For a moment Geneva did not move. A man’s honor and his very life flashed before her. “What will you do with the information if I tell you?”

  “Do?” Devere smiled coldly and motioned into the corridor. Six men appeared, all burly and unsmiling. “Why, I shall see him transported to Paris, to those who will pay most dearly for his person. And then I fear we will see our Rook plucked publicly by Madame Guillotine.”

  “No,” Geneva whispered, her hands on the amber cameo she had recovered from the floor.

  “Don’t think to trick me, my dear.” Devere caught her arm and glared down at her. “If you lie, I will soon know it—and your sister’s life will be forfeit.” His fingers tightened. “Now the truth, was it he?”

  Betrayal. A man’s death delivered in a single terrible stroke. But what was her choice? If she was not very careful, her sister would die the same way.

  Geneva nodded slowly, her face sheet white.

  “Excellent. Your assistance has been most valuable.” Devere gestured curtly to his crew, who moved into hiding behind the curtains while he settled upon a large settee. “Now we must wait for our hero to return.”

  THEIR PREY WAS NOT LONGabout it. Less than ten minutes had passed before his tall shadow fell over Geneva’s shoulder as she stood, still and unsmiling, by the fireplace.

  The man known as the Rook halted on the threshold, seeing Henry Devere seated in a wing chair beside Geneva. “Was this man bothering you?”

  Geneva shook her head.

  “It is as well, or his life would be gone.”

  “Nonsense,” Devere said easily. “Miss Russell and I were merely discussing—” He looked at the woman motionless beside the fireplace. “Why, we were discussing Roman history, I believe. And she was regaling me with stories of Julius Caesar.” His colorless eyes swept Gabriel’s tall form. “Dear me, why have you changed your attire, Lord Ashton? That toga rather suited you.”

  “Not where I’m going,” Gabriel said curtly. For a moment he surveyed the room, frowning. Then he moved to Geneva’s side. A diamond stickpin gleamed among the lace at his neck. “But the lady grows tired. We shall bid you adieu, Devere.” He pointedly took Geneva’s palm and raised it to his lips, turning his back on Devere.

  Geneva’s throat tightened. Don’t kiss me, her heart screamed. Don’t trust me. Run. Run while you can. Run before I must betray you.

  But she didn’t speak. Isabel’s image swam before her, holding her to aching silence.

  She watched Devere raise a questioning brow.

  And although she knew the memory would torment her forever, taki
ng away all joy and happiness and hope, she nodded her terrible betrayal.

  One gesture was all Devere required. With a growl, he pulled forth a silver pistol and called to his crew, who charged toward Gabriel.

  “Run,” Geneva gasped, her hand rising to shove at his chest. “Run, before it’s too late!”

  Gabriel’s eyes burned in fury. His fingers tightened on the fragile bones at her wrist. “Jezebel,” he said hoarsely, the word hurled through her heart, killing her dreams as surely as a bullet would have ended her life.

  And then he plunged through the door, with Devere’s men yapping at his heels like a pack of unruly dogs.

  “Damn you, you’ll pay for this trickery,” Devere hissed. “And your fine sister will pay also, when her head flies bloody onto the French cobblestones.”

  Geneva didn’t move as Devere ran out. She did not even breathe in that moment.

  She felt nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing, for she was totally dead inside.

  A single tear glistened on her cheek, the crystallized loss of all her dreams. And in her palm the Ashton diamond torn from the Rook’s neck gleamed cold and cruel, locked between her bleeding fingers.

  CHAPTER TEN

  DOMINIC TWISTED TO HIS side and pommeled his pillow. Cursing softly, he tried the other side, but with no greater success.

  He sat up, groggy as if he’d been drugged, with fragments of dreams still drifting in his head. He remembered angry voices, stamping feet.

  And a vow betrayed.

  Sunlight fell through the window as he shoved to his feet. The sunlight made him think of Cathlin’s eyes. Damn it, how had she worked her way under his skin like this? His lower body tightened with a jolt of desire.

  But that feeling, like all others, would have to be denied. Over his long years of professional service, three unshakable rules had kept Dominic alive in the shadow world that had taken him from one hot spot of the globe to another, and he was counting on those rules to get him through now.

  The rules were the same as always.

  Don’t let it get personal. Don’t let them see you sweat. And when you leave, don’t ever look back.

  Dominic scowled off at the distant gleam of the channel. He’d already broken two of those rules with Cathlin.

  He didn’t even want to think about the third one.

  THEY SPENT THE DAY APART, by mutual consent.

  Cathlin searched Seacliffe from attic to cellar, looking for any old documents that might shed some light on Geneva Russell. Dominic spent the morning sawing through the fallen tree and dragging it from the drive. When he came back, dirty and wind-blown later in the day, Cathlin still had found nothing.

  “Forget it. Go sit down while I clean up and then I’ll make something to eat.”

  “You?” Her tone was decidedly suspicious.

  “Don’t be such a chauvinist, O’Neill.” Dominic’s eyes glinted. “You might just be surprised.”

  SHE WAS.

  The man could cook.

  He sorted through the meager contents of the refrigerator and lined up ingredients neatly on the old pine table. Then he went to work, silent and intent, competent in this as he was in everything else.

  Cathlin watched, amazed. First a handful of crushed mint leaves and the juice of two crushed limes went into a bowl. Next came a trace of garlic, a single piece of rosemary, and freshly ground pepper.

  The man could really cook. What’s more, he actually seemed to like it.

  Dominic smiled, enjoying her shock. He’d learned at his mother’s knee all the arcane mysteries of stockpot, roux and foie gras and was utterly comfortable in the kitchen. Some of his warmest childhood memories, in fact, were of her big, window-lined kitchen filled with sun and wonderful smells, fresh eggs in handmade baskets and a hundred different copper pans.

  But Dominic shuddered to think what Danielle Ronsard Montserrat, nouvelle cuisine virtuoso and sister to one of the best known chefs in all France, would have thought of this particular meal.

  It certainly didn’t help that the electricity was still out and he had to work by the light of four candles shoved onto cracked porcelain saucers in the dark kitchen. He cursed as he nearly set his cuff afire wrestling a plate of grilled salmon with lime sauce out of the old gas stove. He was even less happy with the thought that Nicholas’s letter to Cathlin was missing from his jacket. Most likely he had lost it out on the marsh, when he’d fallen by the bridge. But he couldn’t be certain, and that thought bothered Dominic. If the letter fell into the wrong hands, the news of Gabriel’s will would soon become public.

  And that would put Cathlin in real danger.

  As these thoughts churned through Dominic’s head, Cathlin sat silent at the end of an eighteenth-century pine table. Chin in hands, she watched his swift, efficient movements, utterly hypnotized. The fish was perfect, crisp on top, crowned with a light sauce and freshly cut lime slices. She had brought the fillet from London, but had been too tired even to think of cooking since she’d come to Seacliffe. Not that her efforts could have come anywhere near this.

  But the amazing thing was how different Dominic looked here in the kitchen wrestling pans and juggling spatulas. He seemed quieter, self-sufficient. Entirely self-absorbed, in fact.

  Happy.

  Cathlin didn’t know what made that word come into her head. Or what made her think he wasn’t usually happy.

  Uneasy at the increasingly personal direction of her thoughts, she turned to pour two glasses of the French vintage La Trouvaille which she’d also brought from London.

  It was her only contribution to their lunch, in fact, since Dominic had insisted she rest while he worked.

  Now he turned, two steaming plates in hand. “Lunch, such as it is, is served.”

  Cathlin studied the grilled fish, golden slices of pan-fried French bread and bananas cooked in brown sugar with walnuts and whipped cream. “Amazing. It smells absolutely wonderful.”

  “There wasn’t much to work with. Two limes, a handful of crushed mint leaves, a banana, and a single salmon fillet don’t exactly made a full larder.” He set the dishes on the table, raising a brow as he saw Cathlin’s contribution. “Chateau Climens ’71?” There was a gleam in his eyes. “You shouldn’t have, Ms. O’Neill.”

  “I didn’t. Not on my salary. We can’t all be born with a silver spoon, you know. But this La Trouvaille will do very nicely. In fact, I’ve always thought red wines make a perfect complement to full-flavored fish, and rules be damned.”

  Dominic set her plate before her, his face unreadable. He raised his glass. “Here’s to good wine and rules be damned.”

  Their glasses glinted in the candlelight. Outside the wind whispered through the elm trees along Seacliffe’s south front. The etched crystal touched, clinking softly.

  Dominic’s hair glistened from the shower he’d taken after his efforts with the fallen tree. A few drops still clung to the dark strands at the neck of his opened shirt, of faded but beautifully tailored blue on blue herringbone cotton.

  His damp skin smelled slightly of lemon and cloves. Cathlin wanted to inch closer and see if he felt as good as he smelled.

  She caught a ragged breath at the unruly path her thoughts were taking and looked away, busying herself with the salmon. “I’m impressed. You didn’t tell me you were a cook.”

  Dominic shrugged. “I’ve picked up a few things here and there.”

  A few things? This was world-class cuisine and Cathlin knew it. What other secrets was the man hiding from her?

  “So tell me about this great wine you’ve discovered.” He held up the glass and studied the rich crimson liquid. “Looks pretty ordinary to me.”

  “Hardly. It’s got a unique nose—a mix of raspberries and smoke. Great tannin.”

  Dominic sniffed. “Passable,” he said.

  “Better than passable. Try it.”

  He did, his eyes on her face.

  “Well?”

  “Good body. Deep color. A rather pleasa
nt little mix of fruit and moss.”

  “Pleasant? It’s extraordinary,” Cathlin protested. “And it’s got wonderful staying power.”

  Dominic smiled slightly. “Do you happen to hold shares in this vineyard, Ms. O’Neill?”

  “Of course not. It’s simply my job to recognize a good wine when I find one.” She swirled the liquid thoughtfully. “My prediction is that this will be one of the very best. If it’s handled properly, maybe even a legend.”

  Dominic made a muffled sound that might have been a cough and set his glass down sharply on the table. “A legend. You mean that?”

  “It is my job to know wines, Lord—”

  “Dominic, please. I think your saving my life entitles us to progress to first names.”

  “Very well, Dominic. You sounded happy at my assessment. Maybe you have shares in the vineyard,” she said teasingly. “But I happen to know that the reclusive owner of La Trouvaille is very old and very bad tempered. He sees no one, and he’s a perfectionist when it comes to his wine.” She frowned. “Come to think of it, Serita mentioned something about your owning a vineyard.”

  Dominic’s eyes darkened. He started to speak, then looked down at the wine in his glass. “Would it change anything if I were someone else, if my vineyard were as exceptional as La Trouvaille, perhaps?”

  “I judge my friends by who they are, not what they own.”

  “I expected something like that.” Dominic laughed grimly. “No, my acres are nothing extraordinary. I’m just one more playboy earl trying to make ends meet in this day of a shrinking British economy and crippling death duties.”

  “Your idea of economy is probably giving up the second pastry chef and the twelfth gardener.”

  Dominic gave a tight smile. “Just remember, O’Neill, I can always take away that food you’re devouring at roughly the speed of light.”

  “Okay, I give in. You have perfect notions of economy.” Cathlin made a protective movement with her hands. “And this salmon isn’t going anywhere except into my mouth, I warn you.” She studied Dominic. “By the way, where did you learn to cook like this?”