Lonesome Rider and Wilde Imaginings

by Heather Graham

  The fingers curled around her own. Hard, strong, sure. She felt as if she was sailing through the water. Perhaps this was death. Perhaps this was how one died.

  She closed her eyes against the sting of the water. The fingers! She had lost hold of them. She was alone again, scrambling to the surface, seeking air, air.…

  Something was in front of her now. A wall. She crawled up against it, gasping, heaving, as she found an inch of air and inhaled deeply. “Help me! Dear Lord, help me!”

  Something moved beneath her fingers. She was sinking again, falling, falling into the water. She heard a distant splash.

  And felt a touch again. Hard, strong, sure. Arms swept around her. Arms dragged her up. Arms wrapped around her tightly and securely, arms so warm that they would surely never let her go.

  A strong kick and surge brought them both up together. She was being dragged up, up. Then she was suddenly on firm ground, the cold stone floor of the crypt. She rolled slightly, still gasping for breath. She had reached the secret exit from the crypt. Looking downward, she could see the slope of the tunnel.

  It was completely flooded now, the water lapping into the crypt but rising no higher.

  She closed her eyes, feeling those strong arms again. She began to cough, and her eyes opened very wide. Brian. He was drenched from head to toe, his dark hair plastered over his forehead, his sodden sweater clinging to the muscled wall of his chest. His eyes, though, were warm. A burning gold that offered such a ray of heat …

  “Oh, Brian!” She threw her arms around him, and he clasped her tightly, rocking her. They were surrounded by the hard wooden coffins and the marble sarcophagi of the family, but nothing seemed eerie or frightening to her now.

  Brian rose, sweeping her up in his arms. “I’ve got to get you warm.”

  “How did you know?” she whispered. “How did you find me? How did you know where to come?”

  “I don’t know,” he told her.

  “Oh! You’ve got to watch out! Darryl did this. He’s been smuggling artifacts out of the country. He’s been doing it for years and years.”

  “And Paddy must have guessed,” Brian mused. They had reached the main entrance to the tomb, and he stopped and stared at her. “You’re trembling!” he whispered. He hugged her more closely to him. “My God,” he said huskily, “if I had lost you … My God, what am I doing? I’ve got to get you warm.” He started up the stairs from the crypt, his eyes still locked with hers.

  “I love you, Brian,” she said very softly. She was trembling, with cold, but her voice would have quavered anyway. “I love you,” she whispered again, as he stared at her with a burning gaze.

  “How touching! How very touching!”

  Brian’s gaze flew from hers, and they both stared up the steps at the man who had spoken.

  Darryl was there. Waiting for them. With a gun.

  Allyssa inhaled sharply. Brian set her down on the lowest step and started up the rest of the way, staring at Darryl. He seemed to be ignoring the gun.

  “Brian!” she cried out sharply.

  “Stand still, you fool!” Darryl warned him. “I’ll shoot you in the blink of an eye—”

  “Well, isn’t that what you’re planning on doing anyway?” Brian asked curtly. He paused for the barest fraction of a second; then he made a flying lunge.

  The gun went off.

  Allyssa screamed, racing up the stairs to see what was happening. The gun was nowhere in sight, and both men were still alive. They were rolling over one another, knocking into the ancient gravestones, coming to rest beneath the kneeling angel.

  “You son of a bitch!” she heard Brian rage to Darryl. She heard the crunch of one blow, then another. There was no contest anymore. Brian was the stronger man to begin with, and he was furious. He dragged Darryl up, then knocked him down again.

  It was over. All over …

  Except that Darryl hadn’t been alone. From her vantage point near the top of the steps, Allyssa could see that Gregory—the ever faithful servant!—was coming silently around the crypt, carrying a long, wicked-looking kitchen knife, intending to sink it into Brian’s back before he could turn to defend himself.

  “Brian!” she cried out in warning. Her fingers closed over something on the ground. Shaking, she looked at it. It was the marble statuette Darryl had used—twice!—to knock her out. She picked it up, then gasped. Gregory had turned away from Brian when he had heard her call out. And now he was coming toward her.

  She threw the little marble statuette with all her strength, catching Gregory in the forehead. He fell backward, right into Brian’s arms. Brian snatched the knife from his grasp, then let him fall to the earth with a thud.

  Brian looked from Gregory to Allyssa. “Bravo!” he commended her.

  She smiled, but she was shaking more and more severely. She was trying to stand, but she was faltering. He swept her up once again. “I’ve got to take you to the castle. Call the constable. And warm you up,” he said tenderly.

  She leaned back in his arms. “Darryl stole the Norman cross,” she told him. “My mother was innocent.”

  “I never thought she was guilty.”

  “Do you think even Paddy somehow knows now that she was innocent?”

  “Yes, I think so.” She leaned back, smiling. It was so comfortable to be held.

  Within two hours the constable and his men had come and gone. Brian and Allyssa had done all the explaining they could do. Then Darryl and Gregory had been arrested, and they had done the rest of the explaining. The constable had been a very happy man. “We’ve been trying to figure this one out for years and years, Miss Evigan. You and Mr. Wilde have done us a tremendous service this night. We knew artifacts were disappearing. We just couldn’t begin to fathom how!”

  Allyssa hadn’t needed to see Darryl again, and she hoped she never would. The constable assured her that her distant cousin would be locked up for a long, long time.

  By the time midnight came, she had soaked in a scalding bath, Brian had prepared them both hot toddies with lots of lemon and whiskey and sugar, and she had sipped hers and felt wonderful. Wrapped up in a huge towel, she lay in his arms in her bedroom in the castle, touching his cheek.

  “You were wonderful. You came into the depths of the tunnel to find me!” she whispered.

  He frowned. “No, you were wonderful, my love. I was frantic! I didn’t know where to search. Not until I heard you calling for help behind that false door.”

  Allyssa frowned. “But you led me to the door!”

  He shook his head.

  “But …”

  “Let’s not discuss the tunnel,” he said firmly. “Let’s get back to where we were before we were so rudely interrupted by Darryl and Gregory.”

  “Where were we?”

  “You were saying that you loved me. Say it again.”

  She shook her head.

  “You don’t love me?”

  “I would very much like to hear it from you before I start repeating myself,” she said primly.

  “I love you,” he said huskily, kissing her lips, then her forehead, then her nose, then her lips again. “I love you. I think I might have fallen in love with you the moment I first saw you. I don’t know. I tried not to. But I do love you. Very much.”

  “Oh, Brian, I love you so much! We’ll get the castle put in your name. We’ll find something to help us survive here, other than the sheep—”

  He pressed a finger against her lips. “I don’t survive on the sheep,” he told her.

  “No?”

  “They’re awfully pretty on the green hillsides. That’s why I keep them. But for a living, I write mystery novels.”

  Allyssa started to laugh, then leaned against him. “Well, you aren’t after my inheritance, then!”

  He shook his head. “Sorry!”

  She frowned again. “But, Brian, someone did pick me up—”

  He groaned softly. “Let’s not argue. I love you, Allyssa. I love you with all my he
art. I’m dying for you to marry me, to live with me, to be my wife. You’re safe now, and I’ll never let you go again.”

  She was safe. She was in his arms. And maybe some things didn’t matter. Maybe some mysteries were best unsolved.

  “Never?” she murmured, trembling slightly, feeling the gold heat of his eyes on her.

  “Never,” he promised. “You’re still cold!”

  “No,” she murmured.

  But she was glad she had been trembling, because he was rising over her with a definite sizzle in his eyes.

  “I promised to warm you,” he said softly. “And right now I intend to make you very, very warm.”

  She smiled and wrapped her arms around him. “I love you!” she whispered again.

  “And I love you!”

  And then, just as he had promised, he saw to it that she was very, very warm indeed.

  EPILOGUE

  Brian and Allyssa could think of no reason to wait for their wedding. They made arrangements with the church, and eight weeks from the day Allyssa had first come to the castle, she and Brian hosted their own wedding reception there. The ceremony had been celebrated in the fourteenth-century chapel in the village, and though they were going to have a number of guests staying at the castle—mainly Allyssa’s friends, who had flown over from the States, and a few of Brian’s friends and business associates from London—they had chosen to make their home in the cottage.

  They had talked about everything together, mulled over all the options. Because it should be done for historical reasons, and also because it would make life easier for both of them, they had decided that they would open both places to the National Trust two afternoons a week—different afternoons, of course, just in case they needed privacy, though of course most rooms would never be opened to the public. The future seemed suddenly bright and beautiful. Travel appealed to both of them, and they looked forward to taking off at the slightest whim.

  They were also both looking forward to starting a family. A year alone sounded nice to both of them, but Brian was several years past thirty, and Allyssa felt that she was fast approaching the three decade mark herself, so they felt comfortable knowing they could start their family any time.

  She had never imagined being quite so happy.

  Their honeymoon would take them to Paris for a few days, then down to the Italian Riviera for a few more, but their plane wasn’t scheduled to leave Heathrow until noon the following day. Because of that, they had decided to escape the wedding crowd in the castle and spend their first night as man and wife in the place where they had felt the first stirring of passion for one another—in the quaint old thatch-roofed cottage they intended to call home.

  They left the castle in a storm of rice and flowers. In Brian’s BMW, they pretended to head for London, then turned and drove straight home. Mrs. Griffin would be leaving from the castle for her holiday at Bath, and the day help had been given time off, too, so no one would be around to intrude on their solitude.

  Brian lifted Allyssa from the BMW and carried her, in her elegant and traditional white gown, along the path between the roses and over the threshold of their home. In the doorway he held her tight, kissing her in a very long and leisurely fashion. Then he groaned softly. “I’ve got to put you down!”

  She laughed, sliding to her feet. “Oh, no, I think the honeymoon is over, and it hasn’t even started yet!”

  “Is that so?” He swept her up, laughing when she protested that he ought to put her down again, then carried her up the stairway, his eyes locked with hers.

  But when they reached the second floor landing, she found that her gaze was suddenly drawn from her husband’s.

  There was a painting hanging on the wall, a nearly life-size portrait of a man. Tall, dark, remarkably like Brian.

  He was wearing tight black riding breeches, a white cotton shirt and black knee-high boots, and carried a quirt. Behind him, against the backdrop of the fields and the castle, stood a horse. A huge black horse. The man seemed to tower there, handsome, arrogant, his gold eyes examining all those who would pass him by.

  “What is it?” Brian asked her.

  For a moment she couldn’t speak. Then she lifted her arm from his shoulder to point to the painting. She was still struggling for breath.

  “Who—who is that?”

  “The painting?” he inquired.

  She nodded wordlessly.

  “That’s Paddy. Painted in his younger days. He was in his late nineties when he died, you know. I’d say that must have been painted when he was about thirty.” There was a curious pride in his voice that touched and warmed her.

  He might have fought his battles with Paddy right along with everyone else, but Brian had loved the old man.

  And maybe, Allyssa thought, in his way, Paddy had loved Brian far more than her husband would ever imagine or believe.

  “Allyssa, you’re so pale! What’s the matter?” he asked anxiously.

  She shook her head, smiling at him and stroking his cheek tenderly with her knuckles. “You resemble him. A lot.”

  “You think so? He was your great-grandfather, not mine.”

  “Well, then you must both look like his grandfather!” Allyssa said, then drew his head down to hers and kissed him tenderly.

  How strange. The great-grandfather who had caused her parents so much torment had loved them, too.

  And he had also loved her. In the end, he had given her everything. Not just the family heritage, but something far more important. Love. Brian.

  Brian was studying her, his expression worried. She smiled. “I think we should go on to the bedroom while you’re still strong enough to get me there,” she teased.

  “I have plenty of strength left!” he promised indignantly. Then his mouth lifted in a promising smile.

  “Oh?” she murmured huskily. “Care to show me?”

  He started to carry her again. Over his shoulder, she stared at the man in the painting.

  She blinked, certain she had seen the man wink, then stared hard again. No, it was just a painting …

  Paddy. She had a sudden sad feeling that she wouldn’t be seeing him again. He had accomplished all that he had stayed behind to do.

  “Thank you!” she mouthed to the painting.

  “What?” Brian said.

  She leaned back and met the golden eyes of her husband. “Thank you!” she whispered softly.

  And then his footsteps were hurried, taking them to his bedroom. Their bedroom.

  It was, after all, their wedding night. And Allyssa was convinced that they were quite alone. Nothing would ever haunt them again.

  Nothing … but the power of love.

  A Biography of Heather Graham

  Heather Graham (b. 1953) is one of the country’s most prominent authors of romance, suspense, and historical fiction. She has been writing bestselling books for nearly three decades, publishing more than 150 novels and selling more than seventy-five million copies worldwide.

  Born in Florida to an Irish mother and a Scottish father, Graham attended college at the University of South Florida, where she majored in theater arts. She spent a few years making a living onstage as a back-up vocalist and dinner theater actor, but after the birth of her third child decided to seek work that would allow her to spend more time with her family.

  After early efforts writing romance and horror stories, Graham sold her first novel, When Next We Love (1982). She went on to write nearly two dozen contemporary romance novels.

  In 1989 Graham published Sweet Savage Eden, which initiated the Cameron family saga, an epic six-book series that sets romantic drama amid turbulent periods of American history, such as the Civil War. She revisited the nineteenth century in Runaway (1994), a story of passion, deception, and murder in Florida, which spawned five sequels of its own.

  In the past decade, Graham has written romantic suspense novels such as Tall, Dark, and Deadly (1999), Long, Lean, and Lethal (2000), and Dying to Have Her (2001), as well
as supernatural fiction. In 2003’s Haunted she created the Harrison Investigation service, a paranormal detective organization that she spun off into four Krewe of Hunters novels in 2011.

  Graham lives in Florida, where she writes, scuba dives, and spends time with her husband and five children.

  Graham (left) with her sister.

  Graham with her family in New Orleans. Pictured left to right: Dennis Pozzessere; Zhenia Yeretskaya Pozzessere; Derek, Shayne, and Chynna Pozzessere; Heather Graham; Jason and Bryee-Annon Pozzessere; and Jeremy Gonzalez.

  Graham at a photo shoot in Key West for the promotion of the Flynn Brothers trilogy.

  Graham at the haunted Myrtles plantation, Francisville, Louisiana.

  Graham and the Slushpile Band playing the Memnoch the Devil Ball at the Undead Con in New Orleans, 2010.

  Graham with dear friend, actor Doug Jones.

  Graham (third from left) with F. Paul Wilson, R. L. Stine, Jon Land, and other friends at the seventh annual ThrillerFest, held in New York City, 2011. The authors participated in the “Be Book Smart” campaign organized by Reading Is Fundamental, the nation’s oldest and largest children’s literacy organization.

  Graham (seated center) with her local Romance Writers of America group in Broward County, Florida, 2011.

  Graham (second from left) with fellow authors Stephen Jay Schwartz, F. Paul Wilson, and Barry Eisler participating in a panel at the Romantic Times Booklovers Convention, Los Angeles, 2011.

  All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.