The Layton Prophecy

by Tatiana March

  “I was wrong.” He bent closer, his lips grazing my cheek. I could feel the heat from his body behind mine. “Come with me,” he whispered. “I’ll explain, but I’d like to do it in privacy. Your aunt has radars for ears.”

  “All right. I’ll just let her know.” I perched the jug on the draining board and tried to wriggle free from his grasp. By now, I was so frantic with uncertainty, I wasn’t even sure I wanted him to touch me, let alone kiss me.

  “I already told her we’re leaving.” Miles released me, and I made a move to escape, but he reached out to take my hand and pulled me along. “I told her to expect us around nine in the morning,” he added, sending my panic into the stratosphere.

  “At nine?”

  “It’s her turn to make breakfast.”

  I stumbled after him, my legs not quite steady. When we reached the front door, Miles propelled me through. It had started raining outside, with a howling, gusty wind, but waves of heat were rippling inside me. I didn’t feel the cold as we circled to the entrance of Rose Cottage. I stood back and watched him unlock the door, my panic crystallizing into words. “What do you want from me?”

  Miles turned to look at me over his shoulder. My anxious expression must have revealed all my feelings, all my vulnerability. His eyes skimmed over my face, gentle, reassuring. The lock clicked open. He reached out to touch my cheek with his fingertips.

  “Stay with me tonight,” he said. “I’m not taking it for granted that you’ll have sex with me. I’d just like to hold you in my arms while I sleep. I’ve changed the bed linen, and there’s plenty of hot water in case you want a bath.”

  “But you said,” I protested as he pulled me inside and leaned me against the hallway wall. “You said that you couldn’t—”

  “I changed my mind.” His mouth came down to mine. He began to kiss me, the kind of slow, sure kisses that are an overture for more.

  “Why?” I breathed against his lips. “I don’t understand.”

  He drew back and studied my face. “I saw the defiant look you gave me in that café in Oxford. I decided that you might go off with some jerk just to spite me. You’d be in danger, I’d go insane with jealousy, and then I’d have to muscle the guy out of the way when I got back anyway. This is far less complicated.”

  “I admit that I...” I bit my lip, fell silent.

  He took my hand and led me upstairs. “Even if you didn’t go off the rails, but waited for me to get back, I decided that if you feel about me the same way I feel about you, the curse might be activated anyway. It would be a pointless sacrifice.”

  I scampered behind him, my pulse racing. “Do I have any say in this?”

  He halted and turned, reaching down to cradle my face between his hands. “Of course you do,” he said softly, his eyes searching mine. “You can say yes or no. Which is it going to be?”

  “Yes,” I whispered, my entire body trembling. “It’s a yes.”

  “Good.” He released my face and carried on leading me up the stairs. “Because I didn’t exactly have a plan B, if you said no.”

  ****

  I stood in the shower, letting the hot spray cascade over my back and shoulders. Miles had told me he’d gone out running before dinner, and had already taken a shower. A bottle of body soap for men lay on its side on the small plastic shelf. I clipped the lid and breathed in the fragrance, recognizing the slightly musky scent I’d noticed when standing close to him.

  I turned off the water and dried my skin. Hesitation slowed my motions. Should I get dressed again before going into the bedroom? Find my most seductive nightgown? In the end, I just wrapped a white terrycloth towel around my body, tucking it securely above my breasts.

  Well...securely...if I walked slowly, and no one tugged at the cloth.

  I found Miles stretched out on the bed, sitting up against the headboard, dressed in nothing but striped pajama bottoms. He’d drawn the curtains, but I could hear the rain and the wind outside battering the window.

  “Warm enough, honey?” he asked, lowering the notes he’d been studying.

  Every bone in my body seemed to melt at his deep rumbling tones, and the sight of his bare chest sprinkled with curly black hair. My eyes raked over him. The wide shoulders and muscular arms made him appear solidly built, and it came as a surprise to see the lean ridges of his flat stomach.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m fine.”

  “Good.” He smiled at me, staring at the towel with a narrow-eyed, speculative look that sent excitement leaping inside me. “I kept the heating on all day,” he added. “I wanted to make sure we didn’t have to muffle under the covers.”

  He lifted one arm in a beckoning gesture. I moved closer, my legs barely carrying me. “Do you normally wear pajamas to bed?” I asked.

  “Just the pants.” His fingers caught the edge of the towel and started to tug. “Men who have to sleep in crowded barracks like to cover up. It can be cold, and the male competitive instinct prefers not to invite comparisons.”

  The knot above my breasts unraveled. The towel slid down, revealing my nakedness. A shiver of excitement rushed over my skin.

  “Cold?” Miles said hoarsely. His palm settled on my belly, warm and heavy, and lingered there, rising and falling with the small movement of my breathing.

  “No,” I whispered.

  His hand inched up. My eyelids fluttered shut as sensations swamped me. Finally, his caressing touch reached the lower slope of my breasts. Splaying his hand, Miles brushed one taut nipple with the pad of his thumb, then the other with a fingertip.

  “God, you’re beautiful,” he said.

  A moan left my lips. For the first time in my life, I believed those words to be true. I opened my eyes and saw his throat move as he studied the contrast of his tanned hand against the paleness of my skin. My legs trembled, barely supporting my weight. Miles pulled me down, settling me to lie beside him. Leaning over me, he nudged my thighs apart with one knee. His lips descended to nuzzle my neck, stoking the heat inside me. I don’t know which one of us did more to strip away his pants, but after few moments of wriggling, his naked legs tangled with mine.

  The world faded away.

  My hands roamed along his hard muscles covered by warm skin. Miles trailed hot kisses all over me. When we could no longer wait, he paused to take care of protection. Then he returned to stretch out over me, his heavy shoulders caging mine as he braced his weight on his elbows and slowly thrust inside me. My legs rose to curl around his waist, and my nails dug in his back as he started the advance and recoil that made my body clench in response.

  Raindrops pattered on the window, the sound mixing with the staccato beating of my heart. The heat gave our bodies a coat of moisture. Inside me, a tension spiraled, and when it broke, I arched on the bed, letting the waves of release roll over me. Miles held me in his arms, and only when the last of my tremors had faded did he follow, surging deep, bowing above me, and then sinking down on top of me, his chest over mine, so close that I could feel the thundering of his heart.

  Slowly, the world came back into focus.

  “You’re too heavy.” I pushed at his shoulders.

  Miles rolled over, exhaled a satisfied sigh, and pulled me into the shelter of his body. “Are you glad I stayed for the weekend?” he murmured into my ear.

  “Yes.” I hid my smile. “I’m glad you stayed.”

  “So am I.” He shifted to get more comfortable, adjusted the arm that anchored me against him, and without further conversation, tumbled into sleep.

  I guess I might have felt insulted, but I knew from my father that sailors had to develop the skill of snatching rest when they can, often for just for an hour here and there. I burrowed into his warmth, closed my eyes, and joined him in slumber.

  Back to contents

  Chapter Eleven

  I woke up to find the first glimmer of dawn peeking through the curtains. Miles was gone. The bedding lay in a heap over me. I heard the rumble of the shower from down the hal
l.

  I stretched, savoring the tenderness in my body. A blush crept over my cheeks as memories flooded back. Miles had reached for me again in the middle of the night, and we’d made love, this time with an intensity that almost scared me. I had never given myself to anyone with such abandon. Until now, I hadn’t even realized that I’d always been holding back, maintaining a small shield of privacy that allowed me to remain aware of every gesture I made, every word I said, and keep a man from getting emotionally too close.

  Miles was stern, focused and thorough, and he brought those qualities to his lovemaking. It had felt as though I were a boat he was preparing for a long voyage. He had inspected every square inch of me before setting sail, making sure I was ready for the stormy oceans before we cast off. Somehow, he’d managed to shatter the defenses I had so carefully guarded over the years.

  I had a vague recollection of screaming. Thank heavens the walls between Mill Cottage and Rose Cottage were at least a foot thick.

  Now, I watched Miles walking back into the room, his hair dripping wet, a towel around his hips. “Ready to get up?” he asked.

  “Is it cold?”

  “Yes.” He yanked the quilt away from me.

  I hadn’t considered that I was completely naked underneath the covers. I when I let out a muffled cry of alarm, it was only partly due to the icy draft that swept over my bare skin.

  “Mmmm.” Miles surveyed me with a lingering look. “It’s a shame we’re in a hurry,” he said with a wolfish grin.

  “What time is it?” I asked breathlessly.

  “It’s a quarter to nine. There’s a burning smell from next door. We’d better get going if we want to keep Rosemary from blowing up the kitchen.” He bent to give me a quick kiss, dripping cold water on my face.

  I got up and hurried into the bathroom. When I stood under the shower, I exhaled a deep sigh. Miles might be focused and thorough, but, as he’d already made clear, he didn’t like to talk about emotions. I’d be wasting my time if I expected to hear tender words whispered into my ear.

  I consoled myself with the saying that actions talk louder than words.

  ****

  Aunt Rosemary seemed unfazed by having a pair of lovers share her table. She’d made an effort with bacon and scrambled eggs. I managed to salvage some of the bacon before it stuck to the grill. The eggs were beyond redemption, and Miles had to run out to the village store for some more. When he came back, I made another batch of scrambled eggs while the pair of them debated every prophecy in the history of mankind I’d ever heard of, and several that I hadn’t.

  Miles pointed at the empty coffee pot. “Could you make some more?”

  “Don’t let him boss you around,” Aunt Rosemary said.

  “I’m a paying guest,” Miles told her. “Perhaps you’d like to make the coffee.”

  “I’ll give you a partial refund for the lack of coffee,” Aunt Rosemary shot back.

  Miles got up and started to fiddle with the filter machine. It took him a while to work out how to load the ingredients, but he didn’t line up the filter arm properly and the machine spewed hot liquid over the counter. He leapt out of the way and barked out a few nasty words.

  “I’ll offset your refund against the cleaning fee,” Aunt Rosemary said.

  Miles scowled at her.

  I decided it was time for me to intervene. “I’ll clean it up. You sit down.”

  He slid his hand over my bottom as he retreated, and my legs went wobbly.

  “I’ll work on Nostradamus while you are away,” Aunt Rosemary said. “I’m sure I can make some headway.”

  “Don’t get obsessed.” Miles replied, staring longingly in my direction. My skin tingled, until I realized he was watching the coffee jug slowly filling.

  “I might come up to Oxford the week after next,” Aunt Rosemary said to me. “I could stay in your apartment, and come out to the Bodleian every morning with you. They must have tons of research materials there.”

  “That’s fine with me,” I said, although I suspected that she really was getting obsessed. Most people never realized that Aunt Rosemary didn’t really like to go out. She wasn’t agoraphobic, or anything, but she disliked traveling and attending social occasions. She told people she couldn’t afford a car, but it wasn’t true. Not having a car gave her an excuse not to go places.

  “Can you handle doing the dishes?” Miles asked Aunt Rosemary. “I want to walk up to Layton Manor, and I’d like Alexandra to come with me.”

  She bristled at him. “I’m not totally incompetent in the kitchen.”

  “As a scientist, I reserve judgment until I see some positive evidence to the contrary,” Miles said, his brows lifted in challenge.

  Aunt Rosemary laughed her booming belly laugh, and good emotions soared inside me. I couldn’t recall when I’d been so happy.

  Ever. In my entire life.

  ****

  It was another fine autumn day, with blue skies and crisp air. Miles wore no overcoat, only the olive green down vest over the Annapolis sweatshirt and jeans. The wind teased his dark curls. Instead of strolling at an easy pace and holding me close, he charged up the hill at such a frantic speed that I almost had to jog to keep up.

  When we got to Layton Manor, the door to the West Turret gaped open. The chain and padlock lay on the ground. The metal sparkled in the sun, shiny and untarnished where someone had cut through the links with a hacksaw.

  Miles inspected the damage in silence. Then he started up the stone staircase, gesturing for me to stay behind him. He hardly made a sound. My own steps echoed louder, despite my lesser weight.

  “What the devil do you think you’re doing?” I heard Miles bellow as he reached the landing chamber ahead of me.

  I clattered up the last steps and peered around him.

  “Grace?” I said, stunned.

  My friend Grace Parker shrank against the stonework. She looked guilty as sin, and awkward in her high-heeled boots, tight jeans, and a short padded jacket in some shiny silver fabric. What on earth had happened to Grace, who used to wear army surplus and her brother’s casts-offs? That author chap was there with her, Brandon what’s-his-name, the one Grace had told me was writing a book on derelict stately homes.

  “I’m sorry,” Grace blurted out. “I didn’t realize it would be locked, it never used to be. We didn’t know who had the key. We were going to fix the chain before we left.”

  “And how exactly would you have done that?” Miles drawled with an icy calm that carried more menace than any amount of ranting would have done.

  “Brandon said he knows how to do it.” Grace turned to her companion with a pleading look. “Don’t you, Brandon?”

  He cleared his throat. “What I meant was that we could go and buy a new chain and fix it up.”

  “You’d have to drive to Salisbury for that,” I told them.

  Grace stepped forward. “Alexandra, I can explain—”

  Brandon reached to lay a restraining hand on her arm. Grace stared at him over her shoulder. He shook his head. Grace hesitated. Then she fell silent and dropped her gaze to the sand and dirt on the stone floor.

  “Go,” Miles told them. “And don’t come back. This place isn’t safe.”

  “We were only looking around,” Brandon protested.

  I had to admire him. He was holding his own, despite having been caught trespassing, and knowing that he would have no chance against Miles, if things escalated into a brawl.

  “You’ve seen everything there is to see.” Miles ushered them toward the stairs like a flock of sheep. “I’ve bricked up the access to the main part. The floor’s no longer sound, and the rest of the roof could cave in at any time.”

  “What gives you the authority to order us about?” Brandon demanded. He sounded nervous, and I got the impression that he wanted to make a display of defiance for Grace’s benefit.

  Miles halted his shooing motions. “Francis Layton was my brother,” he said in an official tone. “I repr
esent his daughter, Cleopatra Layton. She’s the current owner.”

  I caught the triumphant look that Brandon shot to Grace before the pair of them thundered down the stairs. Miles followed. I waited, thoughts chasing each other in my head as I tried to understand what role each of us had played in that odd little scene.

  A few moments later, Miles came back up the circular stone steps, muttering a string of curses.

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “Everyone has come and gone freely as long as I can remember. I’m sure people will have already been around with metal detectors. If the loot is buried here, it’s hidden so well that people can’t find it.”

  “It’s not the loot.” Miles crouched on the floor and tested the bricks where he’d blocked the hole in the wall. “It’s owner’s liability. If someone gets hurt, they could sue for compensation.”

  “But they’d be trespassing.”

  “Makes no difference.” He pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt. The muscles on his forearms knotted as he checked the construction. “There have been a couple of test cases through the English courts recently and the owner was held liable anyway.” He straightened to his feet and gave me a stern look. “Let’s go. I want to replace the chain, and inspect the other turret door.”

  “We’ll have to drive to a hardware store in Salisbury.”

  “I have another chain,” he told me. “It’s in Rosemary’s garage.”

  He ushered me down the stairs. For the next few hours, we trundled up and down the hill, carrying tools and materials from Aunt Rosemary’s garage, doing the best we could to secure the ruins of Layton Manor against trespassers.

  “I thought everyone in the village knew who you were,” I said to Miles as we walked back to Mill Cottage. “If Grace didn’t know, then the others won’t know either. Why haven’t you told people that you’re related to the Layton family?”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t want people wasting my time reminiscing. My mother never talked much about the time she lived here, before Layton Manor collapsed and her first husband died. I didn’t want to be drawn into tales of the past.”