by Lauren Smith
A little voice whispered dark thoughts in her head. Take the journal. Put it in your bag and keep it just until you finish your research.
With a guilty little flip of her heart, she hastily tucked the diary into her bag before she could she talk herself out of it. Her decision came not a moment too soon. The library door opened, and Bastian strode in. He’d changed into a pair of faded jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular physique. He still wore the expensive watch she’d noted earlier, and his gold hair was messily coiffed as though he’d stepped out of a windy Ralph Lauren ad. She half expected a leggy blonde to show up and casually run her hands through his hair. He was a walking GQ cover.
The earl who wore jeans. She laughed without meaning to, and his gaze fell on her when he spotted her at the table.
“Something amusing?” He raised one eyebrow in a challenge. Did they teach bad boys to do that in some sort of secret club? She had to wonder. Maybe they even had a secret handshake. She’d have to ask him, if she ever got the nerve to. Finally she resorted to biting her lip until she almost drew blood to keep from laughing. Deep down she knew that if she took him seriously, it would spell trouble. Better that she keep herself distant. Not that a man like him would ever be interested in a woman like her. Tim had been attractive in a nice sort of way, but he hadn’t been the kind of man that made a woman ache just when he looked at her. Men like that were rare and so dangerous to a woman’s heart.
“Sorry, long days researching tend to make me a bit loopy. I take it you’re ready to go into Weymouth?” She looked out the window, and to her astonishment, it was nearly sunset. Richard’s story had consumed her.
“We will take your car. Do you have the keys?” He walked up to her and held out his hand expectantly.
“My car? Okay.” She retrieved the car keys from her briefcase, careful to keep Richard’s journal safely out of sight as she handed them over.
He took them, studied the key fob, and glowered. “A Honda?” His mouth pinched into a flat line.
“What’s wrong with a Honda?” she demanded. The little car had been great so far.
“Nothing.” The way he said that one word betrayed how he really felt.
“Then why don’t we take your car?”
He scoffed. “No. Not tonight. I try to keep a low profile when I go into town.”
She gathered her things, returned the other books she’d been studying back to the shelves and jogged after him.
“A low profile?”
His face darkened as he looked down at her. “Yes. The locals aren’t fond of me because of the damned curse they think I’m dragging around, and the tourists love me. Either way, I get too much attention. I try to stay here and only go into town if necessary.”
Her heart splintered a little. He couldn’t go into Weymouth without being persecuted all because of his family’s string of bad luck? She couldn’t imagine what that was like, but it had to be horrible.
“Is it like that in London?”
He shook his head and held the library door open for her. “No. In London I’m just another nobleman, famous and all that, but no one there cares about…the past.”
She could almost hear the words left unspoken. He wanted to feel at home here in Weymouth, where his heart was and his family came from, not London. Yet a curse—or at least the rumors of one—was keeping him from being welcome even in his own home.
He led her through a maze of corridors in silence. She was fine with that, and he seemed to want to brood. When they reached the front door, Randolph was there to open it for them.
“I’ll have dinner waiting for you when you return, my lord.” The butler smiled warmly, and she smiled back. It was a comfort to see that someone genuinely cared about Bastian and his well-being. Why that mattered to her, she couldn’t quite say; she only knew that it did.
“Thank you, Randolph; I won’t be long.”
As they approached the car, she headed for the right side, patting her pockets, only to remember she didn’t have the keys. Bastian joined her by the door, keys in hand, and he waved for her to go around to the passenger side.
“Why?” She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.
He placed one hand on the roof of the car next to her shoulder and leaned into her, trapping her against the driver-side door. He gave her a scorching look while the corner of his mouth kicked up into a cocky grin.
“I always drive when a lady is involved. The cliffs are dangerous at night and the roads, too. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you while you’re a guest here.” He moved his other hand to her hip and brushed his fingers along her waist in a slow, intoxicating caress. Tingles of awareness flooded her entire body as the world seemed to shrink into that one featherlight touch. It was so easy to just let go when he touched her and not fight the passion that swelled inside her. But she had to stay in control.
She couldn’t let him in. Not after Tim… Jane swallowed hard. The memories of other nights with another man she’d been so attracted to swamped her. Another man who hadn’t believed her connection to Stormclyffe, her dreams of the past. Another man who thought she was crazy. The pain in her chest was strong enough that she closed her eyes, praying for the self-control to compose herself. Now was not the time to fall apart because her broken heart still stung. Bastian made it so easy for her to remember what it was like to be attracted to a man, to long for that close intimacy and the thrill of desire and longing.
Be flippant, keep him at a distance.
“I bet you do this all the time. Talk a woman out of driving with that smile.”
He dropped his hand and shrugged in a casual way that showed just how comfortable he was in his own body. She envied that.
“Is it working?” He waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh. He kept her on her toes. One minute brooding, the next teasing. She didn’t want to like him, but it was hard not to when he teased her.
“Maybe a little,” she admitted. “I just prefer to drive, that’s all.”
“What is it with you Americans and driving? I’ve never met one who didn’t think they should be behind the wheel,” he said.
She tried not to laugh. “You may drive, my lord, if it will ease your need to repress a colonial.” They were so close this time that when he smiled the effect of his nearness made her knees buckle.
“You’re appeasing me, but I’ll take my victory.” He stepped back from her, chuckling and muttered “colonial” as she walked to the passenger side of the car.
When they got in, the first thing Bastian did after buckling his seat belt was flip the radio on. He started driving down the narrow road and hit the scan button, pausing when an oldie came on. He settled back, his lips curved in a small smile. She had to bite her lips to keep from singing along. It was one of her guilty pleasures. There was something innately freeing about letting go and just singing. This song was particularly hard to resist. It was one of her dad’s favorites called “Don’t Pull Your Love Out” by Hamilton, Joe Frank, & Reynolds. Unable to resist, she hummed as softly as possible.
“Go on, sing. I can tell you want to.” He took his eyes off the road for a few seconds and glanced at her.
“Shut up.”
He chuckled and cranked the volume dial up, and soon the car was filled with the song. She started when he began to sing. The Earl of Weymouth had a beautiful baritone. His British accent faded as he belted out the lyrics.
“Join me.” He slipped in this command while the trumpets pelted out a quick melody in between versus.
“Fine.” She surrendered.
She wasn’t the most spectacular singer, but she wasn’t cringe-worthy either. They matched pitches and crooned together as though they had sung a thousand times together over a thousand years. The feeling of déjà vu crept through her on cat’s paws. She had never done this before, yet flashes of an unknown memory dug into her mind, sliding through years of memories she knew belonged to her. These slivers of conflict
ing images, hazy as morning mist, gave her a sudden headache. Putting her hands to her temples, she rubbed at the tender spots, hoping to ease the strange pain. It relented just a few seconds before Bastian looked her way. She answered his questioning gaze with a smile, hoping to hide her slight distress.
Ahead of them the sun had turned from peach to bloodred as it sank into the horizon. The nerves and jitters she’d had all day seemed to fade as he drove them toward town. When the song ended and another one began, he turned the volume back down to a soft background noise.
“I knew you would be fun,” he declared.
“I knew you would be arrogant,” she retorted, but there was no real bite in her tone. She enjoyed his teasing, now that she’d figured him out, or at least part of him. He kept his distance and tried to be off-putting to strangers to keep safe, just like her. But he slipped every now and then, letting her see a different man, someone carefree and happy. She hoped the man singing in the car was the real Bastian. The brooding, jaded man he presented himself as wasn’t quite the same, like a shadow of his true self, a shadow distorted and fractured by years of loneliness and tragedy.
His past was full of pain and disappointment. He’d lost his father at a pivotal age in his life, and the responsibilities of his title and estate were a heavy burden he’d borne alone. The appearance of his easy life, with model girlfriends, fast cars, and parties, was probably an illusion he created to keep the bleak past and uncertain future at bay. Sometimes pretending to be something else, or masking who you truly were, was the safest thing to do.
She understood that. As a kid, she had known she wanted to study history and had taken school seriously. She had never tried to be something she wasn’t, but sometimes she’d been tempted for just a moment here or there to change herself to escape the harsh judgments passed by her peers.
The rest of the drive into town was quiet but pleasant. Bastian seemed lost in his thoughts. He navigated the streets with ease, despite the flocks of tourists drifting in front of them like brightly colored birds.
“Where are you staying?”
“A little local inn two blocks from here.”
He followed directions she gave him and pulled up in the first available parking space half a block away. Although the streetlights had turned on, the corner where they parked was still dark. He locked the car and pocketed the keys. A heavy silence settled between them, and he stared into the darkness, his face suddenly turned ashen. A woman stood just at the edge where the lamplight kissed shadows. It was impossible to see the woman’s face, but the weight of her attention felt like twin holes boring into her skull. A primordial fear stabbed her chest and clouded her mind. She struggled to form words.
“Bastian, I know I’ve been enough trouble, but do you think you could walk me to the door?” She sounded pathetic, but she didn’t feel safe walking to the inn alone. Something about that woman…
He didn’t reply; instead he continued to watch the woman, his lips pursed into a frown. Did she unsettle him, too?
“You don’t have to come with me.” It cost everything she had to say that. The second she was able, she’d just run straight for the inn’s door.
“You aren’t staying here tonight. You’ll get your things and check out immediately. I’ll have Randolph prepare you dinner and a room.”
“What?” Stay? At Stormclyffe with him? Her jaw slackened and she knew she must have looked ridiculous.
He shot her a quick, distracted look before returning his focus to the woman at the end of the street. “You’ll stay with me. Don’t try to argue. I won’t hear otherwise.”
Argue? Why would she argue against that? She tried not to show her relief as she glanced about the strangely empty street. Raucous sounds from the pub nearby seemed muted now that night fallen. A light breeze flowed across her face, and she rubbed her arms to warm up. He noticed and shrugged off his coat, holding it out. Before she could protest, he strode up to her.
“Jane, put the bloody coat on,” he growled low, and she let him slide it up over her shoulders. The carefree man from their car ride was gone. The man looming over her was brooding and edgy. His gaze jumped from one building to the next as though expecting trouble.
“Let’s get inside.” He tucked her arm in his, the gesture less romantic and more of an attempt to get her to move. With a quick look over her shoulder, she exhaled. The woman half-wreathed in shadows had vanished.
When they got to the weathered wooden door of the inn, he slowly raised his head and stared at the creaking painted sign.
“The White Lady?” His voice was low and soft, as though troubled.
“Er…yes. It’s a very old historical place; that’s what the website said anyway.”
Bastian’s focus fell on her, his expression reproachful. “Did you choose it because it was her family’s?” His hands clenched into frightening fists at his sides. “Did you find it amusing to bring me here?”
She frowned and stepped back, suddenly afraid. Not of him, not exactly, but something crawled beneath her skin, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. What was he talking about?
“What are you saying?”
“Isabelle Braxton. This inn belonged to her family.” He whirled away, looking ready to storm off.
“What?” Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The flood of fear and the memories of her nightmares closed in, destroying her ability to suck in a breath. She collapsed against the Inn’s wall and braced herself against it for support.
All this time, she’d planned her trip, come here, and spent one night, never knowing it was Isabelle’s. Bastian had walked about fifteen feet away when he stopped, then slowly turned to face her. He crossed his arms and stared at her.
“You didn’t know, did you?” He took a few steps toward her.
She wasn’t paying attention to him, not fully. The image of the women in the white nightgown on the cliffs kept replaying in her mind. Her gaze drifted up to the sign. How had she been so stupid and missed the obvious connection between Isabelle and the inn?
“Jane?” He cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.
His touch jolted her back to herself, banishing the memories.
“I didn’t know… I didn’t see the connection.”
The hardness in his expression softened.
“I’m sorry. I thought you were poking fun at me,” he admitted. “Let’s go inside. The quicker we can get you checked out, the better.”
She was grateful when he took her hand in his and led her to the inn’s door. His palm was warm and strong. The touch was a comfort she hadn’t expected him to offer. Which one was the real earl? The brooding, jaw-snapping wolf, or the playful, seductive man who sang in the car? Her thoughts were interrupted by the innkeeper coming to meet them at the door. He was in his early sixties, and a pair of thick glasses perched on his slightly bulbous nose.
“Miss Seyton. How are you?” he asked and then froze when he caught sight of Bastian.
“My lord,” he hastily greeted. “I would have prepared the place if I had known you were coming.”
Bastian waved a hand. “It is fine. I’m here to assist Miss Seyton. She is staying at the Hall, and we’ve come to collect her things and check her out. I will settle her bill and cover the remaining days she had planned on staying here.”
When the innkeeper opened his mouth to argue, Bastian fixed him with a pointed look.
“You really don’t need to—” Jane tried to say she would pay, but he shook his head at her in exasperation.
“Go on.” He waved a hand imperiously.
With a frustrated little groan, she climbed the stairs to the second floor, Bastian trailing behind her. She pulled out the thick brass key and slid it into the door lock. He leaned against the wall only a foot away, waiting for her to open it. When she raised her head, she found his heated stare fixed upon her. For a second, neither of them moved, and the tension between them was an almost tangible force. Then the lock clicked,
and she was jolted into awareness of herself again.
Once she was inside, she threw everything into her suitcases as fast as she could. There would be time to organize it all later. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Bastian standing by the window. The fading light of the sunset created a haunting silhouette. He could have passed for his ancestor with the striking profile he presented. Not that she had ever seen Richard, except for a faded color photograph of the only portrait Richard had ever commissioned of himself. But it had been enough. Bastian possessed many of the same features. One of his hands was pressed against the glass, fingers spread as though he was straining to reach through the window for something far beyond his reach. An echo of the wrenching sadness she had experienced when she glimpsed the woman in white came back to her. What was Bastian longing for?
“Hey.” She broke the spell with that single word, and he looked over his shoulder at her. For a brief moment, his face was open, every emotion laid for her to see. The sheer vulnerability and fear-tinged melancholy ghosted behind his eyes, and it made her drift toward him. Then he twisted his lips into a cold, mocking smile—whether at himself or her, she wasn’t sure.
“Finished packing?” He gestured to the toiletry bag she’d tossed on the bed.
“Oh, yes.” She snatched the bag, tucked it into her suitcase, and zipped it up. She was eager to leave the inn now that she knew its dark and sad history. It felt too personal to be here. Funny, she felt more comfortable at Stormclyffe.
