She would never tell a soul her ancestry, and while she believed those sequestered within Rue Morte knew where her mother had disappeared to ten years ago, the only evil around was in the minds and hearts of the superstitious townspeople. Her mother had been very happy before rumors of witchcraft had forced her to flee, and the source of that happiness had been living at Rue Morte at the time.
Though the castle was supposedly empty but for the caretaker now, Christine still wanted to search the castle for clues as to who her mother had fallen in love with, and to question the caretaker about where she might have gone.
Her search would now have to wait another week. Instead of taking only a few hours, the errand to Scarborough for Lady Stafford had taken much longer, effectively eliminating Christine’s half day off. She supposed it was just as well that a storm had arisen. Otherwise, she’d have been tempted to and would’ve most surely been late in returning to Stafford Hall. That would have incurred more attention from her employers than was presently wise.
Lady’s Stafford’s ire would have likely doubled Christine’s workload for the next week and any notice from Lord Stafford made her skin crawl. He’d been ogling her more and more of late.
Refusing to let the problem ruin her day, she pulled her worn cloak tighter and hastened her step, regretting that she’d left her drawing book at home. If she could have spent time sketching her obsession, she wouldn’t feel the day a loss. As she passed a patch of lavender by the roadside, she gathered several handfuls of the pungent blooms to add to the rose-petal soap she planned to make sometime this week. Considering the enormous luncheon Lady Stafford was holding tomorrow to celebrate Lord Stafford’s birthday, it would likely be next week before she had the opportunity.
It was a shame that despite all of their efforts, the party was sure to be a disaster. Lord Stafford loved his scotch, which is why Lady Stafford didn’t dare host a party after dark. He was usually too far into his cups by that time. With all of his cronies around, Christine bet Lord Stafford will be foxed within an hour.
Leaving the moor behind for the tangle of forest, she made her way along the graveled path and smiled with anticipation for what lay just ahead. She could already see him in her mind. Her secret obsession whose magnificent form she likened to that of a Viking or Roman warrior from ages past. Even Zeus maybe, for he had stolen his way into her imagination like a powerful god and the stories she wove about him had captured her heart and desires.
Thickening trees eased the chill of the wind from the threatening storm that deepened the evening shadows. The moment she rounded the bend to the graveyard and passed the eight-foot cross marking the entrance, she saw him. Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked as if he could slay dragons with a single blow from the sword he held. She slid back the hood of her cloak and breathed in, swearing she could actually smell the sandalwood she imagined him wearing.
After a quick glance about to assure she was alone, she sauntered forward with a saucy swing to her step. Were anyone ever to see her, they’d likely lock her away in an insane asylum. “So who shall you be this stormy day, sir? A captain of a fine ship fighting pirates on a wild sea? A noble soldier riding to the rescue of your king? Or a knight slaying dragons to win the affections of the fairest princess in the land?”
Sighing, she angled her head back and slid her palm against his chiseled cheek. “Would that I knew your true story, my lone warrior.”
He stood, fiercely in the center of the cemetery as if he alone could keep the devil at bay from all those buried here. Courage, noble bearing and—heaven help her—a forbidden sensual appeal filled every contour of his bronze likeness. She couldn’t help but wonder how much more so had the man been in real life?
“Had I lived during your time, I surely would have loved you even if only from afar.”
She slid her hand down to press against the smooth curve of his breast, where she imagined his heart would have beaten passionate and true. She supposed she wove stories about him because deep inside she wished he’d come to life and steal her away from loneliness and drudgery.
He stood naked, save for his loin cloth and weapons, and she knew him well. Her hands had touched every part of him many times in her quest to draw him perfectly upon the page.
No one knew who he was, this warrior who guarded the dead. But he’d inspired the sculptor who fashioned him so perfectly and drove Christine’s hand to recreate him on the pages of her sketch pad. He was unlike any man she’d ever seen, and especially unlike the odiously obese Lord Stafford. Sometimes Stafford’s gaze was so bold Christine seriously wondered if she would have to leave Castleborough and her beloved moors for the stench and grime of London’s streets— the one place she could assuredly disappear from the man. Any place smaller, she would be noticed for the vibrant red of her hair marked her like a scarlet letter.
Thunder rippled through the air and an icy gust blew up her skirt, giving her a sharp reminder that she should hurry.
“A kiss to hold you until I return again, my warrior.” She lifted her lips to the breeze and waited a moment, imagining what she would feel. Then she patted his thick thigh and stepped back with a wink, before turning to leave. The path would take her past the church, the village, and on to the Stafford’s estates. At one time there had been a church adjoining the graveyard, but it had burned down and many trapped inside had died. Instead of rebuilding on the same spot, the villagers had built the large memorial to honor the dead and moved the church closer to the town.
Aerik the Eternal waited in the shadows, watching the red-haired beauty as he had too many times to count. Frustration and longing pulsed with every beat of his heart. He knew her well. Ten years ago his uncle had given him the task of watching over her, of protecting her. A responsibility that had become an exercise in torture for him.
Everything about her had become ingrained in him. The scent of her blood, the fragrance of her skin, the softly, sensual lilt of her voice. From the darkness of the memorial-crypt in which he stood, he’d often watched her with his bronze-likeness across the graveyard. At first it had been amusing to listen to her talk to his statue as she drew his likeness. But as the years passed and she matured from a young girl to a young woman, the way she spoke…the way she touched the statue made him feel as if she were touching him. And like the love-starved fool he’d become, he’d often stolen into her room during the dark of the night just to see her sleep, breathe of her essence, and imagine touching her as she touched him.
Some guardian he was turning out to be. He knew he’d reached the point that he’d have to go to his uncle and have another guardian assigned to her. Honor demanded that he do so. But he couldn’t stand the thought of another watching over her. Of another falling in love with her. Of another who’d have no conscience and would take virgin flesh.
He would never take her innocence without claiming her for his own with a blood oath. But to do that would condemn her to a life spent only within the darkness of the night. No sunrises, no sunsets, no heated kisses of nature’s light, only a pale moon and the distant stars to illuminate her world night after cold night. But even more importantly, his race was under siege. The Slayers he battled grew in number every year and the prime vampires roving free upon the earth were few. Since the reign of terror, most, like his uncle, now lived in asylums deep within the earth, giving up freedom for safety and having one child, if any.
Aerik feared the vampire race would soon face extinction, despite him leading the Blood Defenders in the war against the slayers.
So even though she bore the tiny birthmark of a vampire’s mate, he refused to bring her into the cursed world in which he lived. At least that had been his resolve over the years. But with each passing season that resolve grew harder to keep, for his body throbbed harder to know hers from the tip of his fangs to the depths of his immortal soul.
The scrolled iron doors of the crypt and the confines of his hooded cloak kept him from seeing as much of her as he wanted, but he wa
s close enough to breathe in her soft scent of seductive flowers and sweet blood. It was a torture he couldn’t resist. Fisting his hands, he sank his fangs into the flesh of his mouth as desire rushed through him in a hot, muscle-hardening wave of desperation. As much as he tried, he’d been unable to assuage his need with another woman, mortal or immortal.
He should be known as Aerik the Foolish for living in this tormenting limbo. Perhaps if he kissed her just once, he’d learn she wasn’t as special as he imagined. He could do it tonight. Steal into her room, put her into a trance and kiss her. No harm would be done to her. She’d only awaken the next morning with the pleasant sensation of having dreamed of something pleasurable.
It wasn’t as if she hadn’t invited him to do so.
What harm could one kiss bring?
About the Author
USA Today Bestselling Author Jennifer St. Giles/ JL Saint/ Jennifer Saints might have a split personality. Or as a nurse and mother of three, she knows how to multi-task. She writes in a number of genres from gothic historicals, paranormal thrillers, romantic suspense, and sexy contemporary romance. She has won a number of awards for writing excellence including, two National Reader’s Choice Awards, two-time Maggie Award Winner, Daphne du Maurier Award winner, Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award, along with RT Book Club’s Reviewer’s Choice Award for Best Gothic/Mystery. She loves hearing from her readers via her website or you can find her on Facebook Fan Page and Twitter @jenniferstgiles
From the Author's Mouth
What can I tell you about me?
I don’t play video games or watch horror because I can’t take the heat, but give me a kickass thriller every minute of every day and I am there. Be prepared for a Hoover Dam meltdown if you’re with me and the movie is sad. So, to avoid disaster, I love romantic comedies.
Never coffee. Always tea. Never beer. Always champagne. There’s more, but hey, gotta save some secrets until after the first date, right?
I grew up in Miami. Went to nursing school in Georgia, where I now reside. I raised and home schooled three great kids. I wrote for nine years before I sold a book, which made me a firm believer that a person should NEVER, NEVER, NEVER GIVE UP ON THEIR DREAMS.
I remember my father’s remark after a particularly scandalous story about one of my ancestors, a story that involves a conspiracy, treason, betrayal, murder, and execution, a story that after a drink or two in the bar, I might be enticed to share. Anyway, what my father said was, “You can’t keep a good man down.” And I kind of see that in myself. Not that I am necessarily good, because the definitions of moral words are often relative, but I do persevere, and I am resilient. Nothing in life has ever worked out the way I planned for it too. In many areas of my life, I have yet to reach the level I thought I would, of where I envisioned I would be, but I haven’t given up. I won’t give up. I continue to work hard and do everything I can to help who I can and to make my dreams come true.
Besides great kids, family, and friends, that perseverance has so far garnered me a USA Today Bestselling tag and twelve plus books on the shelf in a number of genres (contemporary romantic suspense, historical suspense, paranormal suspense, and contemporary romance). I’ve won a number of writing awards, two National Choice Awards, three Maggie Awards, a RT Book Club Reviewer’s Choice Award, the Daphne du Maurier Award, the Marlene Award, and the Golden Heart Award to name most of them. I work with several amazing women in a charity to raise money for a shelter that helps abused and homeless women and children. I’ve revived my nursing career after a long hiatus, have renewed my license, and have found the right job for now.
I know there are many more great things ahead.
I write romance because I believe that when you boil all of life down to its essence, if you take a human being to the very core of his existence, then you will find that what matters more than anything else is to be loved and to give love.
Life is all about choices and to pull from one of Erich Fromm’s quote, I choose to create and to love rather than destroy and to hate.
I hope you enjoy my stories.
Go forth, dream, believe, create, inspire, and love,
Jenni (J.L. Saint, Jennifer St. Giles, Jennifer Saints)
Wild Irish (Book 1 of the Weldon Brothers Series) Page 28
