He, who hadn’t bothered to tell me his name. Who was rude, inhospitable, brooding. Who’d all but promised he’d rather leave me to the wolves.
He, who had shown me to the room and closed the door, saying nothing. Offering no comfort, no apology.
But those weren’t the things that kept me from sleep. Instead, it was the gray eyes, the square jaw, the wicked scar across his brow. The cords and sinew of his hands and forearms. All things I shouldn’t have noticed.
The sound of my name on his lips.
All things that shouldn’t be keeping me from sleep.
In despair, I crawled from the bed, pulling a warm tartan around my shoulders and heading for the window to look out on Scotland. On this place that had held so much promise. Closed doors. Opened windows. But tomorrow I’d no doubt find myself without a home, without my luggage, and without a way back to L.A.
Not that there was anything waiting there for me anyway.
Why did that suddenly feel like such a betrayal? It wasn’t the stranger’s fault I’d made this choice and walked into what was increasingly seeming like at best a prank and at worst a trap. He owed me nothing.
He owes me everything.
The thought stilled me, my breath catching. I felt my pulse thrumming through my fingers.
It was a ridiculous thought.
Thunder crashed, loud and close, like hell itself was just beyond the castle battlements. Needing to distract myself, I moved to the window and pushed aside the curtain. Rain washed against the mottled glass, wind howling through unseen holes in the walls. The room felt colder, and I pulled the tartan closer, willing the wool to keep me warm. Failing.
Just as I was turning back to the bed, lightning streaked across the sky, and everything outside shone as though lit by the sun. Wild, wide fields rolled toward the forest beyond, the willows there a twisted tangle.
Darkness fell again, the landscape burned against my eyes, and it was only then—in the ghost of the image—that I realized I’d seen something moving outside.
More than something.
A sick feeling crawled up the back up my throat.
You’re imagining things, I told myself. I was exhausted from lack of sleep and the feeling that I’d been traveling forever.
I tried to force myself back to bed, but I couldn’t move. Thunder rolled, hitting the castle with a physical force that vibrated through my body like an earthquake. But there was another noise too. Something creaking. I’d heard it before in the forest, the wind bending the trees, but now the sound was too close.
My hands shook as I reached to check the latch on the window. As soon as my fingers fumbled on the lock, lightning struck again. The world turned bright. I immediately wished for darkness.
Dogs everywhere. Not just dogs. Massive black beasts, their coats darker than midnight of a new moon and their eyes a glowing red that sought me out. As the storm gathered strength and the ground shook, the demented-looking dogs spilled from the forest and slunk toward the castle.
And then a woman appeared, stepping from the fold of trees. For the barest moment I wanted to shout a warning, but as she passed through the hounds she traced her fingers over their backs and none moved to attack her.
She stopped in the middle of the field and looked up toward my window. As one, the hounds threw back their heads and let loose their tormented howls. I could hear them through the walls.
And in the sound I heard my name.
I recoiled and the window blew open. Lightning continued to streak across the sky, illuminating the world like a strobe light that echoed the wild pattern of my heart. I recognized the woman and the red of her cloak.
She was leading the creatures closer. They were coming for me. There were no barriers between us anymore.
Only an open window.
I let the scream come, a single word—the only one I knew. “Owen!”
I WOKE SOAKING wet and cradled in his arms. He whispered into my hair, over and over, the words soft and nonsensical, and rocked me, wrapped strong and solid and safe around me, one hand stroking the hair from my face, and for a moment, I allowed myself to sink into the solid comfort of him. The warmth of him. The way he smelled of rain and ruin and truth.
Owen.
At the memory of the name, I scrambled from his lap, hating the way I went cold at the loss of his touch. I wrapped my arms across my chest. “What are you doing here?”
A hint of hesitation crossed his face. “You had a nightmare.”
I glanced toward the window, now closed, the only sign of the storm the still-damp floor. Tentatively, I crossed the room and peered outside. Though the moon was new and the sky mostly black, the rain had eased enough that I could see the grounds below. Nothing.
Normal.
No woman. No hounds.
But it had all felt so desperately real. I shivered. There had been more to the dream—something that had come before, but the harder I tried to remember, the more it slipped from my grasp.
I stared back at Owen. Shook my head. Not his name. He hadn’t told me his name.
Even though he knew mine.
The dream—it had something to do with him. Something wonderful and sad at once. I recalled feeling betrayed, but had that been in the dream? Or had it come when I was still awake?
“What are you looking for?” He gestured toward the window.
“I thought I saw . . .” I began, but stopped. Why should he care about my dreams?
He never had before.
“What did you see?” he pressed.
He would laugh, but I couldn’t stop myself. The words were a whisper. Like they had come from the trees. “There were these horrible beasts—some kind of dog. They were led by a woman wearing red.” I paused, swallowing. “The one who gave me the key.”
He didn’t laugh.
He stood then. Came toward me. I stiffened before he could reach me and give us both what we wanted. He stopped inches away, warmth pouring from him, a promise. Something had happened in the night. Something had brought us to this moment.
Somehow, I knew him.
I shook my head. “How did I know your name?”
He stepped closer, nearly touching. Not touching.
Owen.
“Because you’re remembering, Emily.” He said my name like he’d said it a hundred times before. A thousand.
We stared at each other, he the only anchor in a spinning world.
“Have we met before?” I asked, hoping there would be an easy explanation. “In L.A.? Somewhere else?”
Silence.
“You should change out of your wet clothes,” he murmured. “I’ll make tea.”
And then he left.
I FOUND A thick cashmere robe in the closet along with a pair of shearling slippers and headed for the kitchen with my heart pounding in my chest. I knew the way through the castle, the turns through the twisting corridors familiar, natural, like I’d been navigating the halls for a lifetime. For longer.
When I stepped into the warm glow of the kitchen to find Owen at the stove, it was all so . . . simple. Safe.
And then he turned to me, his gray eyes serious as they scanned my body, lighting with something at once familiar and foreign, and I didn’t feel safe anymore. I felt naked. I tugged the sash tighter, ran a hand through my tangled hair, nervous.
His.
Where had that come from? We’d only just met . . . we’d never . . .
But somehow, we had.
He was staring at me, knowledge in the hint of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. His feet were bare, and the waist of his gray wool trousers hung low on his hips. I imagined slipping a finger into his pocket and dragging him closer, pressing my face to the warm hollow of his neck. Breathing him in. Turning my face up to his.
I knew how he would taste.
My stomach flooded with warmth.
But my spinning mind was still uneasy.
On the stove a teakettle screamed, breaking the moment. I di
dn’t know what question to ask—each one I formulated seemed too preposterous to force past my lips. He didn’t seem to be quite ready to volunteer any information, and for a while we went about the kitchen in silence, wary. I pulled down the mugs and set out a plate of cookies. He snatched the empty cookie bag from me and tipped it over my tea, tapping in a handful of crumbs.
I gasped at the gesture, and his gaze snapped to meet mine. A flush colored his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching to clear the mug. I stopped him, my hand on his arm.
“How did you know?” I whispered.
“You crumble cookies in your tea.”
Without my realizing it, we’d spent the past few minutes in a sort of dance, moving around each other in the kitchen as though we’d lived out this pattern a thousand times before. Kettles and stoves and cream and biscuits.
He’d told me I was remembering, but remembering what?
I met his eyes. “How do we know each other?” Images raced through my head, and I began to pace. “How do I know that you love blackberry tarts? That you shave with a straight razor? That you like Shelley?” Poetry came to me like lightning. “He does no longer sit upon his throne of rock upon a desert herbless plain.” He closed his eyes at the words. “You’ve recited it.” I put my hand to the scarred oak worktable in the center of the kitchen. “Here.”
With me.
My heart ached with the memory. With the words, full of promise, full of hope, full of happiness. With the loss of them. I looked to him. “But how?”
He was close enough to touch now, big and broad, blocking out the world as he lifted his hand and touched my face, running the tips of those strong, remarkable fingers over my cheek and down my jaw, taking me in hand. Tilting me toward him.
I was gone, lost in his gray gaze, filled with time and truth and heat and something more . . . something I didn’t dare identify.
I felt it too.
When he kissed me, I was home.
There was nothing tentative about the kiss; it was filled with knowledge of where we’d been, of what we liked, of how we fit. It was touch and breath and heat, his arms around me, my hands in his hair, and I was robbed of all thoughts save one—
This was truth.
This moment was all I’d ever wanted. All I’d lived for. This was the promise for which I’d come. This man. This place.
He broke the kiss, trailing his lips across my cheek to my ear, his breath warm and harsh there, my name coming in dark, liquid syllables, a benediction. A curse.
“Emily,” he whispered, his strong, warm, remarkable hand stroking down my neck, beneath the collar of my robe, setting me on fire with sound and scent and touch until I couldn’t bear it anymore.
I gasped and pulled back. “How do I know you? Know this? I don’t understand.” But I did understand that I had never in my life wanted anything the way I wanted this man.
He knew it, one side of his lips lifting in a wicked smile before he took my mouth again, claiming me with softness and strength before he lifted his head, leaving us both breathing heavily.
He pressed his forehead to mine and spoke, the words low and desperate. “All you need to know—all you ever need to remember—is that I love you.”
I DIDN’T KNOW how to respond.
I love you, too.
But that couldn’t be. He was a stranger. I needed distance, and so I retreated, putting the table between us. I tried to stay calm, but my emotions ran too hot, everything in my head too bright. My question came out rushed. “Who are you?”
He took a deep breath, grasping the back of his neck with his hand.
And then a murky memory invaded my thoughts, turning the blood heavy in my veins. I ran from the room, Owen chasing after me, calling for me to wait as I tore through the castle, finding my way through the maze of corridors with ease.
I stopped in his office, panting, and heard Owen’s steps slow as he approached me. His breath caught as he slipped his fingers into mine, giving comfort. Taking it.
“It’s you,” I whispered. The painting was ancient and larger than the rest, the color dulled with dust and age—two hundred years old—but the image was still clear. A man in hunting plaid, surrounded by poplar trees, Anaon in the background. He carried a rifle in one hand and a gray-muzzled black Lab sat by his side, a pheasant at his feet. Gray eyes. Strong jaw. One side of his mouth twisted in a tiny, almost imperceptible smile.
One I loved.
I faced him and touched my finger to where a scar slashed through his eyebrow. It was the same as in the painting. Every detail exact.
He’s a ghost.
The thought entered my mind like a whisper and then turned into a shout.
I shook my head.
Normal people don’t think this way, I reminded myself. My life wasn’t a gothic novel, no matter how many times I’d read Wuthering Heights and dreamed my way into Heathcliff’s arms.
“What’s happening?” I asked him, dreading the answer.
“How much do you remember?”
I shook my head, ready to say “nothing,” but then I realized that wasn’t true.
“Do you remember that each time you come to me with a different story? An art student wanting to catalog the castle’s paintings. A hotelier hoping to find the perfect spot for a bed-and-breakfast . . . you’ve inherited from a long-lost cousin . . . you were given the key as a tip.” He laughed, the sound harsh and unamused. “Once you came to me as a horticulture specialist looking into a new species of poplar.”
My brow furrowed.
“She has a terrible sense of humor. They all do. Sometimes you remember who you really are late into the night and sometimes you never do.” His voice deepened. “And sometimes you remember early in the evening, like now.”
I glanced around the study, gasping when my eyes landed on his massive desk. I walked over to it, spread my hands across the surface. “You’ve made love to me here.” My cheeks burned red before the words left my mouth. “A dozen times.”
“A hundred.” He came up behind me, pulling my back against his chest. “I’ve made love to you everywhere in this castle, Emily,” he whispered in my ear. If his arms hadn’t been crossed around me, I’d have fallen. Not just from the words, but from the memories.
I nodded, the ache in my chest almost unbearable.
He spun me then, lifting me onto the desk and stepping between my legs. His lips took mine in a frustrated, furious kiss—one I gave in to without question.
After a long moment, he pulled me tight to him, as though he could hold me fast enough to keep the world at bay. The world—or whatever else was out there. “This castle is darkness,” he spoke to the top of my head, with barely there sound. “You are light.”
I clung to him, hating the words. The pain. The weariness. “This castle is a curse, Emily.” His breath was hot against my neck, sweet in my ear. “And you are my savior.”
My heart pounded, blood roared, and as he spoke, the memories tumbled through me.
He took my hand and placed it to his chest, at his heart. His gaze was hot, fierce. “We’ve been here before. Done all of this before.” His fingertips curled into my hair, desperate. “Every evening you come to me, and every morning you leave.”
No. Impossible.
He was everywhere: the smell of him, the feel of him, the taste of him, and I shook my head, desperate to clear my thoughts. To find reason. Logic.
None would be found, but I knew one thing. “I could never leave you. Not here.” Not to this. Memories surged around me: Owen leading me up the staircase, Owen lowering me to his bed, Owen leaning over me, deliciously playful, then deliciously serious.
Night after night.
Again and again.
First pleasure beyond my wildest dreams, then anguish, so powerful that it took the breath from me. “Why?” The word was so simple, and yet I feared the answer wouldn’t be easy. For a hush of a heartbeat, I thought I heard howling in the distance. I shuddered.
&n
bsp; Owen pulled away from me, the answer on his face. He knelt in front of the fireplace, stoking the fire until it roared. “I’m not a good man, Emily,” he said, “and every day . . . you realize it. And you leave.”
His eyes were fixed on the flames. “You leave the way you did when I was alive.”
I didn’t want to believe it. But how else could I explain why I knew his name? How I knew the corridors of this place as though I’d lived here before? How else could I explain the way I felt in his arms? That I would give up everything to be near him?
“How?”
He wrapped his arms around me and buried his head in the crook of my neck. “All I know is that it is always dark and gray and cold. And when you arrive, you bring a taste of the sun with you.”
All those years of loneliness . . . a lifetime of emptiness, and here, now, with him . . .
Home.
His eyes shone when he looked back up at me, his lips against mine in fevered, frenzied kisses, as though we were running out of time.
“Please, Emily . . .” His words broke and my tears spilled over, and I was filled with the fear and desperation pouring from him. “Don’t leave me. Not again. Not this time.”
Or maybe it was me talking. Maybe it was me, my lips against his, and the words, “I love you. Please, don’t let me go.”
Or maybe it was both of us.
I COULD HEAR his heartbeat as we lay together, and it occurred to me that ghosts shouldn’t have heartbeats. Nor should their skin feel warm on sturdy bone and threaded muscle. Nor should they bring the kind of deep, undeniable comfort that he brought.
We were wrapped in a hunting plaid I remembered from other places—stunning green and black in his portrait, and on the bed in which I started the night, and draped across a chair in the library. It was warm enough beneath the tightly woven wool for us to spread out across the mammoth bed, but we remained tangled together, a mass of breath and limb, of stroking fingers and teasing hands.
He was reciting Shelley again, the words tumbling in rhythmic beats beneath my ear. I have drunken deep of joy, and I will taste no other wine tonight.
I laughed as he rolled me to my back with a nip at my jaw and another at my ear, “The man was mad; I fully intend to have another taste,” and sighed at the pleasure that pooled deep in me at the words, as though the joy of which Shelley wrote and that Owen felt could not help but find egress through me, like a raven into the dark sky.
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