by Tamara Leigh
Catherine dropped her chin. Blood spread across the bodice of her cream-colored gown, but where was the pain?
She almost laughed when it answered like a child eager to assure its mother it was here.
Oh, how it was here! As torturous as the sear of a hot iron one should not trip fingers across and yet foolishly and fiercely gripped.
She opened her mouth to drag in air needed to lend voice to her agony, but there was no breath to be had.
’Tis good, she told herself, embracing what was to be her last pleasure—denying these traitors the satisfaction of hearing her scream like a lamb put to slaughter by one incapable of delivering a mercifully swift death.
Accepting her battle was terribly lost, grateful it was finally done, she slid down the winch to the floor.
Lord, Lord, she called ahead of what she prayed was her ascension, if only I had my life to live over…
CHAPTER ONE
England, Present Day
Collier Morrow ended the call, dropped the cell phone on his desk, and dug his fingers into his neck muscles.
“Bloody rotter,” he growled, envisioning his older brother smiling his maddening smile, feet up on the desk, unlit cigar jutting from his mouth.
And James had every reason to wallow. His latest acquisition was no minor conquest. Indeed, there was none beyond it.
Collier dug deeper, pushed and pulled at the muscles.
There had always been rivalry between the brothers, encouraged by their father who had seen it as a means of ensuring it could never be said he had produced weak sons. But the lessons Winton Morrow had taught them had not died with him six years ago. If it wasn’t James scrambling to snatch a property out from under Collier, it was Collier returning the favor the next go-around. Always a higher stake. Always a way to better the other. Until now.
It had been their father’s greatest aspiration to recover Strivling, the castle that had been held by the Morrows from the fifteenth century until the nineteenth when it was sold to raise the family out of debt. Having failed in that endeavor, his sons regarded it as the ultimate prize, the victor never to be outdone.
And Collier’s defeat was all the harder for the company it kept with reminders of the injuries he had sustained a year ago. His neck, arm, and ribs aching—he choked down air and slowly exhaled. But there was no lessening of the pain. No relief.
Knowing where he was heading, he struggled against the need and told himself it would pass, that he had only to wait it out.
But for how long? An hour? A day? Longer?
He released his neck, thrust a hand into his pocket, and clamped his fingers around the vial.
Two, he promised. No more than three. And if it gets bad—
“Your home is beautiful.”
He snapped his head up and stared at the woman who stood in the doorway of his office. Auburn hair framing a lovely face, sky-blue eyes steady, Aryn Viscott gave a half-hearted laugh and stepped into the room. “Not the reception I was hoping for.”
Telling himself he felt neither pain nor anger, Collier drew his hand from his pocket and strode from behind his desk. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Are you?”
“You know I am, darling.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You were going to meet me at the airport.”
And would have had he not been derailed by one call after another. Although pricked by guilt over sending a driver for her, he’d had no choice, not with Strivling at stake. “I apologize. An important business matter required my attention.”
“Problems?”
Ignoring the invitation to elaborate, he said, “Nothing I can’t handle,” and drew her to him.
She tensed, but when her chest brushed his, she dropped her purse and leaned up and into him.
He closed his mouth over hers, felt his aches ease as his body was wonderfully and uncomfortably stirred by being so near her.
Thinking that if he could lose himself in her arms, then that part urging him to lose himself in the vial would be quieted, he was tempted to lure her beyond this place he had moved her past only once—much to her whiter-than-white regret. However, he had agreed to her terms, and for it would not have all of her again until the ring in his desk was on her finger. Soon though, and for that he had moved their eighteen-month courtship to England where they would make a life together.
The phone rang.
Grateful for the interruption that made it easier to pull back from the line they were not to cross, he lifted his head. “I’d better take that.”
Face flushed, breath quick and shallow, Aryn said, “Under the circumstances, I suppose you ought to.”
He retrieved his cell phone. “Morrow here.”
“Hello, little brother.”
Relieved his back was turned to Aryn, Collier fixed his gaze on the clouds gathering outside the many-paned window behind his desk. “James.”
“Have you heard?”
“I have.”
“Then I won’t keep you.”
Were he alone, Collier would have slammed the phone down, but he would not have Aryn see what teemed beneath his skin in such abundance his longing for her shifted to the vial in his pocket.
He placed his phone on his desk and turned.
“Why did James call?” she asked.
Her knowledge of the discord between the brothers was limited to the little she had pried out of him. And that was enough. “Nothing you need worry about.” He took her arm. “How about I show you around the manor?”
She pulled free. “You have to end it, Collier. Whatever this thing is between your brother and you, it has to stop. Look what happened with—”
“It’s under control,” he said and felt the urgent press of the vial against his thigh.
She narrowed her lids. “Are you sure?”
Until three weeks ago, his dependence on painkillers had been under control. However, when the bid for Strivling started going James’s way, the pain had climbed up out of him. For days he had struggled to reject the promise of relief, then that long, excruciating night…
But he could quit. He had done it before.
“Quite sure. Now would you like a tour, or should we continue where we left off?” He moved his gaze to her lips.
Though her suspicion continued to fill the space between them, she said, “A tour would be safer.”
The strain about his mouth gave way to a smile that felt almost genuine. “In some things, Aryn, you are too proper—like the English of old.”
She bounced her eyebrows. “Who knows? Maybe this American’s roots were pulled from your English soil.”
He impressed her face on his memory, though it was hardly necessary since he would soon awaken to it every morning, happen upon it every day, and kiss it every night. But always this feeling it might be the last time he looked upon her…
“What is it, Collier?”
He blinked. “You’re right. Who knows?” He offered his arm. “Shall we?”
The final stop on the tour. Probably one they should have skipped, Collier reflected as Aryn stepped ahead of him into his bedroom.
She halted before the fireplace and tilted her head back to study the portrait to which he awakened when he resided at the manor. “How unusual. It’s a woman, isn’t it?”
He came alongside her. “It is.” At first glance, the mash of colors were without sense, making it appear more a piece of modern art than a portrait commissioned in the fifteenth century. But it did belong to that distant past, as did the lady revealed here and there through the landscape painted over her during the sixteenth century.
“Who is she?”
“It’s believed to be Catherine Algernon. The picture was removed from Strivling Castle in—”
“Strivling?” She looked around. “Didn’t it once belong to your ancestors?”
Once, and now again, but not to Collier. Forcing the darkness down, he said, “It did,” and returned to the safer topic. “The picture was belie
ved to be merely a landscape.”
“No one knew what lay beneath?”
“Not until it had hung in the library of this manor twenty-five years with the morning sun on it. Then the top layer of paint began to peel away.”
“Why would someone paint over her?”
“She was never completed.” He pointed to a gap in the scenery which revealed the outline of hands, the only color that of the red rose clasped between them.
“I see.”
“Since the portrait would have been deemed useless in its unfinished state, it was overpainted with the landscape, a not uncommon practice with canvases never completed or deemed inadequate.”
“Aren’t you curious to know what, exactly, she looks like?”
“Always.”
“Then why not have the portrait restored?”
“It’s been attempted, but the landscape gives up only what it wishes, when it wishes.”
“As if it guards a secret, hmm?” She reached up and touched the frame. “I wonder why it was never finished.”
He considered the still blue eyes staring out from the canvas. “If it is Catherine Algernon, her sudden death would account for that.”
Aryn looked across her shoulder. “How did she die?”
He smiled. “You would know if you were English,” he said, though the truth of it was that the legend of Catherine Algernon had died long ago. Only the generations of Morrows kept it alive.
“Well, since I’m thoroughly and pitifully American”—she returned his smile—“you’ll have to enlighten me.”
He loved the sparkle of her eyes, one of the many things that had first attracted him to her.
“Was she a significant figure?”
He braced an arm on the mantel. “No. It was her death that put her name on men’s lips.”
“Which brings us back to how she died.”
“Have you heard of the Wars of the Roses—the House of Lancaster against the House of York?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Sounds familiar, but history and I aren’t on the best of terms.”
“It was a civil war waged for the throne of England. Catherine Algernon supported the Lancasters”—he indicated the red rose—“whereas the Morrows supported the Yorks whose badge was the white rose.”
“Hence, the Wars of the Roses.”
“As it was later called. In 1461, the Yorkists overthrew King Henry the sixth and installed Edward the fourth on the throne. In an attempt to subdue the northern barons who continued to support Henry, Edward sent a man named Montagu to besiege their castles. There was resistance, but eventually surrender. Edward’s policy being one of conciliation, he restored the castles to their Lancastrian lords. But in 1464, they revolted again, and with the same result. Among the last to fall was Strivling Castle. Catherine died in the final engagement.”
“Go on.”
“Legend has it that, following the death of Lord Somerton and his son—Catherine’s betrothed—the lady took control of the castle’s defenses.”
Aryn’s smile widened.
“Let me guess. This bit of history you do like.”
“Of course. It’s nice to know not all damsels were in distress. Continue.”
“Montagu announced that the man who succeeded in opening Strivling would be awarded the castle. Being a landless knight, my ancestor—Edmund Morrow—accepted the challenge. Unfortunately, he and the others who offered their services were defeated, and those not killed were captured and imprisoned, Edmund among them. On the day following his capture, he led an escape from the dungeon. He and his followers had just taken the winch room when Catherine—”
“Winch room?”
“It’s where the winches that control the portcullis and drawbridge are located.” At Aryn’s nod, he said, “Catherine defended it with this sword.” He touched the blue-black hilt of the weapon on the mantel.
Aryn gasped, evidencing she had been too engrossed in the portrait to notice the sword. “She actually used that?”
“She did, but though she had the passion for fighting, she had none of the skill or strength. The sword was turned on her and she was slain.”
“Edmund killed her?”
Collier shook his head. “The man’s name was Walther, a mercenary knight the same as my ancestor. Catherine cut his sword arm and, in his fury, he killed her.”
Indignation rolled into Aryn’s eyes. “Chivalrous! Her life for a few drops of blood.”
He chuckled. “I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news, but regardless of how your Hollywood portrays knights, chivalry was often forgotten when there was blood to be shed and plunder to be had—especially when a man’s pride was trounced as Catherine trounced Walther’s.”
Aryn grunted softly, slid a finger down the blade.
“Careful. The edges are as sharp as the day they last drew blood.”
She turned her blue eyes on him. “So with Catherine dead, her enemy was let in and your ancestor awarded Strivling Castle.”
“Actually, Edmund’s reward was even greater. He was granted the entirety of the barony of Highchester, Strivling being one of its three castles.”
“Impressive. What of that pig, Walther?”
“Edmund awarded him charge of one of the lesser castles. Thereafter, the mercenary fell into obscurity.”
“Not soon enough for my liking.”
He grinned. “It’s over five hundred years in the past. Nothing to be done about it now.” He pulled Aryn toward him.
Shedding her indignation, she wound her arms around him, and Collier kissed her long.
“How I like what you do to me,” she whispered against his lips. “Too much.”
He groaned, raised his head. “Meaning stop.”
She lifted a hand and tripped fingertips over his stubbled jaw. “Afraid so.” She nodded at the bed. “Dangerous.”
Beautifully dangerous. He sighed and pulled back.
“I want it too, Collier, but…”
“I know.” That faith of hers he wanted to hate but could not, it being so much a part of her—though he had proven it could be scaled the night he had seduced her.
She caught up his hand and pushed her fingers through his. “I love you.”
He wasn’t as uncomfortable with her declaration as he had been the first time he had sensed she risked much to speak it. However, he wasn’t ready to return the sentiment. But soon, there being no way around it if he was to secure her yes—the prerequisite for sliding his ring on her finger.
He bent again, kissed her quick and chaste. “Let’s get you settled in, then we’ll go downstairs and have a nice, candlelit supper.”
Her smile wavered, but she firmed it up. “I’d like that.”
“Your mind’s elsewhere,” Aryn said where she sat with his arm around her in the library.
She had been silent so long Collier had begun to think she slept—had prayed she did. But having little practice at prayer since his father had deemed his sons’ church attendance a waste of time, he supposed he couldn’t fault God for not doing him a favor. Of course, the motive for wanting her to drift off might be more the cause of an unanswered prayer than his lack of practice.
She shifted on the sofa to face him and laid a hand on his chest. “Collier?”
Lest she feel the erratic beat of his heart, he clasped her fingers and set them on his thigh. “Elsewhere? What makes you think my mind isn’t on you?”
Firelight on her upturned face reflected a wry smile. “It’s pretty obvious when your mind is on me, and it wasn’t. So if I had to guess, I would say James is your elsewhere.”
Diverting the tension from his hand on hers to his jaw, he clenched his teeth. The strain of keeping his emotions and pain in check was exhausting. Aryn had asked him to stay while she unpacked, next they had prepared supper and lingered over their meal, then tea in the library and talk. Hours of talk. Now, nearing midnight, still he was denied the relief he had vowed he would not seek until she slept.
&nbs
p; Almost feeling as if he went through withdrawal again—yawning and perspiring, flesh peaking in goose bumps, muscles beginning to twitch—he wondered how much longer he could endure.
“I guessed right, didn’t I?” she pressed.
James. “Forgive me for being so preoccupied. I had a poor start to my day.”
“But it got better, didn’t it?” She grinned.
The pain in his ribs joining that of his neck and lower back, he said, “It did.”
“Whew!” She blew a breath up her face.
“Since we have an early start tomorrow to show you the sights of London, we ought to get to bed.” He drew his arm from around her.
“It doesn’t have to be an early start, and since I’m not tired and you seem fairly awake”—she shrugged—“you could tell me why I have yet to be alone with you.”
James, the bloody rotter!
Get it over with, he told himself and sat back against the cushions. “I lost a property to my brother, and not just any property. Strivling Castle.”
She drew a sharp breath. “You didn’t tell me you had a chance to purchase it.”
He felt her hurt. But it was business, nothing to do with their relationship. “A chance, and that’s all it was.” He flexed his shoulder.
After a long moment, during which he sensed she gathered up her hurt and put it behind her, she said, “I’m sorry, Collier. I know it must have meant a lot to you. What do you think James will do with it?”
Trying to move his mind from the pain shooting shoulder to hip, he said, “He plans to take up residence there.”
Aryn made a sound of approval. “It could be worse. He might have wanted to transform it into one of those castle hotels.”
Her words rattled him, especially since his brother’s decision to maintain it as a private residence was a strong factor in his acquisition. So had Collier been wrong in thinking to carry out their father’s plans for Strivling?
No. The maintenance of something that immense and old was exorbitant. If James didn’t wish to bankrupt himself, eventually he would have to sell it or develop it.
