Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings

by Heather Graham

  “Cold?” he asked.

  She shook her head, studying him. “Why do you change so from one minute to the next?”

  “I don’t change at all,” he said.

  “But you do. You behave as if you don’t want me here—”

  “I don’t want you here,” he said flatly.

  “Why?”

  “Because I don’t want you to get hurt. I was worried about things to begin with, and then you go falling down the crypt stairs, bashing your head—”

  “I didn’t fall down the stairs!” she protested, amazed to realize that he thought she had. “Someone struck me!”

  “Who?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

  He doubted her, she realized, fighting to control her temper. “I don’t know. I followed Darryl into the crypt—”

  “And Darryl hit you?” he demanded sharply.

  “I never said that! I don’t see how he could have. He wasn’t there.”

  “You just said you followed him in.”

  “Yes,” she said, “I know. But I must have missed seeing him come out and go somewhere else or something. Because he wasn’t in the crypt when I got there.”

  Brian rose from his knees, sitting down in the chair beside hers and watching the flames reflectively. They mirrored the color of his gaze.

  “I—” she began.

  But he spun on her before she could finish. “I’ve got it. One of our dear departed relatives got up from his coffin to give you a good wallop on the head.”

  Angrily, Allyssa leaped up. It was a mistake. Her headache, which had been fading, began to pound again. “I certainly never said anything of the kind!” she snapped angrily.

  “Oh, will you sit down!” he responded, equally aggravated. He rose, grabbing her by the shoulders. She didn’t have the energy to resist, so she sat down again, gritting her teeth.

  “Someone very much alive and well struck me on the head with something,” she said stubbornly. “Why do you find it so difficult to believe me?”

  He hesitated a long while. Too long. “Why?” she demanded again.

  “Because,” he said softly at last, “your imagination seems to work overtime, cousin!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I never picked you up at the station. I never came to your room.”

  Allyssa stared hard at the fire, fighting the sudden sting of tears at the backs of her eyes. What was going on here? Had she lost her mind since she had come to England?

  Or was he lying to her? Was Brian himself the greatest danger she had come across?

  She stared at him hard, determined not to give in to her emotions. “Then you have a twin running around in riding breeches and a white shirt. Someone picked me up at the station. Someone appeared in my room, mainly to warn me about Darryl—”

  He interrupted her with a snort. “Well, that was certainly wise.”

  “Oh, was it?” Before she knew it, she was on her feet again, staring at him. “All I know is that Darryl does not mysteriously appear and disappear—”

  “Neither do I,” he said, his eyes narrowing.

  “Well, something is happening!” Allyssa insisted. Behind her, the fire snapped and crackled. “I know what I saw—”

  “Well, you didn’t see me!”

  She whirled around, staring at the flames. Then she turned back to him. “There are a number of options here, you know.”

  He nodded. “Yes. One, you might be imagining things. You were very tired, and you had traveled a very great distance. Then there’s option number two. Someone is out to get you—for an unknown reason. Option number three—”

  “Brings us back to you!” she exclaimed softly, leveling a finger at him. “You’re the one who’s out to get me! You’re trying to make me believe that I’m going insane!”

  He stood up, furious now. “For what possible reason?” he demanded harshly. Suddenly his hands were on her arms, dragging her hard against him. “For what possible reason?”

  “I don’t know, but I am not going mad!” she retorted. “So if you consider that as an option …”

  “Did I hit you on the head tonight, too?” he demanded sarcastically.

  “Well, I didn’t fall down the damn steps!” she insisted. “And you were there—”

  “I was there when?” he roared, his fingers tightening, his eyes burning deeply into hers.

  She started to tremble. Was it fear of his rising temper, of the way he was holding her?

  Or was it a reaction to his warmth? A desire to keep being touched?

  She forced herself not to struggle against his hold. To stare at him with all the disdain she could muster. “Let go of me,” she said coolly.

  “Allyssa, I’m telling you—”

  “Let go of me,” she repeated.

  “I can’t accept—”

  “You can’t accept the fact that I’m telling the truth.”

  His fingers tightened around her arms for a moment. “Damn it!” he said heatedly. “Damn you!” Then his hold eased. Finally he released her altogether, thrusting her from him and turning away, fighting some inner struggle as he stared into the flames.

  She swung around to leave him, blinking against the sudden moisture that sprang to her eyes, blinding her. She started for the door, intent on escaping him, no matter how far she had to travel on foot, no matter how dark the night.

  “Allyssa!”

  She heard him raggedly cry out her name and turned back. He was approaching her with long, determined strides. Before she knew it, she was being held tightly against him again. “I will not let you go back to that castle alone tonight!” he told her, his gold eyes glittering with passion. “I will not!”

  She stared at him, as furious with him as he seemed to be with her. But then she exhaled in a soft gasp as he suddenly pulled her closer, then closer still. At last, with hunger and relentless purpose, his lips touched hers. With urgency, with force, with fever and will, he caused her lips to part against his.

  Fight! she told herself.

  But the will to do so escaped her like fog drifting into the darkness. The force he’d used moments earlier turned to sweet seduction. Heat rippled into her with every movement of his mouth and tongue, with his every caress, with the very way he embraced her to him.…

  If he had been in her room, he had told her, neither of them would have had any doubts that they had been together.

  No, she could never, never doubt this man now. His burning kiss seemed to last forever, to take her to distant lands, sailing upon clouds, then touching the earth in the most elementary way. When his mouth rose from hers at last, she stared into the dark gold passion of his eyes. Wordlessly she touched his cheek, then lightly threaded her fingers through the ebony darkness of his hair.

  When he swept her into his arms she didn’t say a word, nor did she demur as he carried her up the long stairway. She remained silent as he walked along the shadowed hallway, thrust open a door with his foot and carried her inside. They were in darkness, yet she could see, for the moon had risen at last, seeming very bright and full, and cast its ivory illumination into the room. But the details of the place were sketchy in her mind. There was a bed, a huge four-poster, with draperies pulled back and tied at each post. There were massive windows. There was a fireplace, but no fire burned there at the moment.

  And that was all she saw, for she could not tear her eyes from his. He stretched her out upon the soft down coverlet, following her seconds later. His weight was sprawled half over hers, and then he was kissing her again. Kissing, tasting, exploring, touching, kissing again. Dazed, she kissed and parried in return, felt the fabric of his sweater, felt the excruciating heat and ripple of muscle and flesh beneath it. He pulled away from her and hastily wrenched the sweater over his shoulders. Moonlight made his shoulders very broad, his chest sleek and shiny, enticing to touch. She reached out, savoring the feel of naked flesh beneath her fingertips, the vibrance of his body, the heat, the fire. She felt his lips o
n hers; then they moved, touching her throat, lingering there. Button by button, her blouse was falling open. The hot sweeping caress of his breath moved with a tantalizing slowness down the length of her. And here and there, he touched … touched her nakedness with a kiss, the worship of his tongue, the sweetest savoring of his lips. Then that heat again, touching her, touching her …

  She tried to rise, but he pressed her back firmly. She heard the slow rasping sound of the zipper on her jeans and closed her eyes. His fingers were on the waistband now, slowly tugging the fabric from her hips. Ah, his lips again. Touching, touching. His breath, bringing new fire. There was a soft thud in the darkness as her jeans fell to the floor. He rose. Bronze and majestic in the shadows and ivory light. Again the rasp of a zipper sounded. His black jeans followed hers to the floor. Naked, agile, determined, he returned to the bed, the fire of his nakedness covering her, radiating into her. His fingers eased beneath her bra strap; his lips touched where fabric had been. With a deft touch, he slipped free the clasp, then caressed the breast thus exposed to him, his palm working over the fullness of her flesh brushing, teasing the crest. Then his mouth touched her. Covered her. She gasped in ecstasy, her fingers clutching the muscles of his shoulder, touching him in return. The weight of his body eased off her, and his lips teased her lower abdomen, the juncture of her thighs, over the narrow silk barrier of her panties. His breath, hot, so very, very hot, teased her.…

  Then his fingers were on the elastic band of her last fragile covering, and in seconds nothing stood between her flesh and his caress. Deep within her, deep in secret and intimate places, she felt the hot explosive coil of desire winding more and more tightly. She let out a soft cry, reaching for him, thirsting for him, needing to touch, to kiss, to caress in return.

  She found herself on her knees, with him kneeling before her. Her lips moved over his shoulders; her teeth grazed his flesh; her tongue loved silently over each and every tiny hurt. She pressed against him, using the fullness of her body, amazed not only that she could feel so hungry, but that along with her hunger she could feel so deliciously secure. Yes, she wanted him. There was no hesitation. No thought. No fear. She wanted the feel of his palms moving down the length of her back, over her buttocks. Wanted his kiss against her lips. Against her breasts, her throat, her lips again. She wanted to …

  To fall beneath him. To look up and see his eyes, gold even in the moonlight and misted with his passion. There was nothing to see but that gold, for it seemed that the mist of the night rose around them, and then there was nothing but the bed, the moon and the man with searing gold desire in his eyes.

  He stared at her for one long moment. Then, at last, he touched her, entered her, still staring into her eyes. She cried out at the sudden invasion, no matter how sweet. She closed her eyes, even as her body closed around his. For long seconds he held entirely still, allowing them both the exquisite introduction.

  And then he began to move.

  The coil of desire within her wound tighter and tighter. At first she was nearly still herself, just aware of the wonder of the feel of him. Then instinct brought her to life, and she rose against him. Again, again. Undulating, writhing, wanting more and more.

  Receiving it.

  She bit his shoulder lightly, trying to endure the tormenting ecstasy. It had been so long. So very long.

  And never like this. Never this demand. Never this blinding force of passion. Never this constant, increasing rhythm that asked so much—no, demanded it—relentless, giving, seeking, allowing no quarter …

  None. Not even when the sweeping feeling sought to drown her. It was unbearable. She fought against him, strained against him.…

  Then cried out as her climax swept through her, as blinding as sunlight, as volatile as thunder. She clung to him still, shaking, trembling, slipping slowly downward again, downward into the mist, out of the light, but still feeling. Oh, yes, still feeling so much. Brian, the sleekness of his skin, the strength of his flesh. The hair-roughened quality of his legs, his belly, his chest. The texture of his cheeks. The force of his heartbeat. The ragged heaving of his breath …

  He eased down beside her, still gasping. She curled against him, her eyes closed, her head lowered. Reason was rushing upon her swiftly now. She had just made love with Brian Wilde, a man she hardly knew. She had wanted him so badly, so instinctively, that she hadn’t thought about Brandon for a second, though she had never been able to forget him for a full minute in the company of another man. She had never even thought to go so far with any man since Brandon had died.

  Brian Wilde.

  The man who made her think that she was losing her mind.

  She groaned suddenly, and his fingers touched her hair. “What is it?”

  “We shouldn’t have done … this.”

  “Why not?”

  “We’re not that … well acquainted.”

  “I dare say we are now.”

  She sat up, staring at him. She wished she didn’t like the way he looked quite so much, his hair tousled, his fingers laced behind his head, his chest and torso damp and appealing. “I should be afraid of you,” she whispered.

  He smiled. “Why? Because you might lose your virtue?”

  “There’s my sanity,” she said softly. “Or my life.”

  He sat up suddenly, his smile vanishing. “Oh, my Lord, I forgot!” he murmured in dismay. “Your head—”

  “My head is fine. Honestly,” she murmured.

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  He lay down, studying her. His face was in shadow, but the moonlight touched her own, she thought.

  Once again she didn’t know what was truth and what was not.…

  And Brian Wilde did.

  She shook her head suddenly. “I shouldn’t be here. It’s really very rude. I—”

  “Making love is rude?” he queried politely.

  She felt a flush cover her cheeks. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it! I have to get back. If Darryl has returned—”

  “Darryl left you,” he reminded her irritably, his eyes narrowing. “And Darryl is the man you followed into the crypt. How do you know he’s not the one who clunked you over the head—assuming you were clunked over the head?”

  “I’m telling you—”

  “All right! But you needn’t rush back. You shouldn’t go back at all. You should stay here.”

  “Wonderful! Stay with a man who seems to think I should be committed to an asylum!”

  “What?”

  “Well, you continue to doubt my word—”

  “You started this, worrying about Darryl.”

  “Damn it, Brian Wilde, all we ever do is fight!”

  He reached for her suddenly. “Come here!” he commanded.

  “But—”

  He pulled her relentlessly against him. “I know a way to keep us from fighting!” he whispered huskily against her lips.

  “But—” she began again.

  She never finished. His lips touched hers. One thing led to another.

  A silver mist seemed to roll in upon them once again. The taste of ecstasy was too rare, too sweet, not to be savored one more time.

  Perhaps she was losing her mind. She shouldn’t trust him.

  She shouldn’t …

  But in the silver magic of the night, it didn’t matter in the least. There was only one thing she knew for certain.

  Whatever she should or shouldn’t be doing, she absolutely couldn’t deny him this.

  Chapter Five

  Two days later, Allyssa stood in the center of the family crypt again.

  It was broad daylight outside. She had made sure to come at noon, when the sun was high in the sky. She wasn’t sure what she had expected to find, though whatever it was, she wasn’t finding it.

  The crypt was well cared for, though it was an eerie place, even by daylight. Some of the coffins were incredibly beautiful. Some might well fit in museums—minus the family corpses, of course. Numerous
knights, in stone and in wood, lay side by side with their ladies, holding tightly to their swords and lances. The faces of some were hidden by the visors of their helmets; others were bared to the world, with rich mustaches and beards in place. The Victorian coffins and sarcophagi were heavily carved with skeletons and death’s heads, many adorned as well with elaborate poems about the deceased. In the twentieth century the coffins became much simpler. She found her great-grandfather’s—he was the most recent inhabitant of the tomb. His coffin had been carved from a very simple, off-white marble sarcophagus adorned only with his name, Padraic Michael Evigan, etched directly into the marble in broad letters. Someone apparently still loved Padraic, for wildflowers had been scattered over his coffin, while the rest of the crypt was barren of them.

  The place was huge, she thought, trying to estimate its size. At the least it was about three thousand square feet, with several smaller rooms breaking off from the main tomb at the foot of the aboveground stairway. The first room contained both the oldest coffins and the newest ones, with all the years between having been interred deeper in the crypt.

  Allyssa had been afraid to come, yet afraid not to come. She knew she hadn’t fallen down the stairs.

  Options … she had options, she reminded herself, and with the thought a little pang seemed to tear at her heart. She had made Brian take her home the other night. He had been bitter and mocking, but he had played her game. At the castle she’d told Darryl that she and Brian had had dinner together, and that was all. Brian had watched her, as if waiting for her to say more. But she hadn’t. She had merely stared at him, silently imploring him to remain silent himself, and he had done so. But she hadn’t seen him since.

  Darryl had gone out of his way to be charming, riding with her around the estate, taking her to Mrs. MacKenzie’s. In the taproom, she had met a number of the local people, who had welcomed her, cheerfully assuring her that the castle was haunted, as any ancient castle should be.

  Haunted … She wondered if she should add that possibility to her options. What would Brian say? Either I am losing my mind, she thought, or someone is playing a trick on me, or you really are an evil man trying to make me think I’m insane—or the place is haunted.