The Lost Lord of Black Castle (The Lost Lords Book 1)

by Chasity Bowlin

  It seemed, of the two, the more likely motive. But who? Edmund or Christopher? He knew nothing of his brother. He’d barely spoken to the boy though not by choice. Christopher rarely spoke to anyone. He flitted in and out of rooms without so much as a by your leave. But could his quiet nature truly conceal something so villainous?

  *

  As the water began to cool around her, Beatrice shivered. It was time to get out of the tub. Gripping the sides, she attempted to stand and failed. Her body ached. Every muscle hurt. Whether it was from the fall, the constant battle against the crashing waves, the bruising ride to get back to Castle Black before she expired altogether or simply an aftereffect of the exposure to cold was impossible to say.

  “Should I get his lordship?” Betsy asked, clearly nervous and also scandalized at the thought.

  “No,” Beatrice stated firmly. “His lordship has seen quite enough of me already. Just give me a hand up, please.”

  Somehow, between the two of them, they managed to get her on her feet. Stripping off her sodden chemise, Betsy helped her to dry with a warm cloth. A fresh nightrail was slipped over her head and a warm wrapper followed.

  Combing out the rat’s nest of her hair was no easy task. By the time it was done, she regretted not cutting it when it had been suggested before. With the heavy mass tucked into a tidy braid, Beatrice felt almost human again. Almost.

  “He’s still waiting outside, Miss!” Betsy said, having peeked through the door.

  “Tell him he may go. I’m safely out of the tub and going to bed,” Beatrice stated firmly. She couldn’t face him. Not now. Not after everything that had happened.

  “I’ll not tell him that. I’ll tell him you’re out of the bath, but he is lord of this castle. I’ll not be ordering him about, Miss!”

  Beatrice let out a long-suffering sigh as Betsy disappeared with an armful of wet and probably ruined clothing. She could hear the deep rumble of his voice from the hall and then the door opened again.

  She didn’t have to look to know that it was him. His presence filled the room, sucked the air out of it and her. It seemed that her body was completely attuned to his presence.

  “I take it you are much improved,” he said, stepping deeper into the room.

  Beatrice turned to him with a baleful stare. “I would certainly have to be, would I not?”

  His dark brows drew together as he surveyed her with clear disapproval of her snappish tone. “It would appear that nearly being murdered puts you in a foul mood, Beatrice.”

  The words were said in jest, but it was not funny. It brought everything rushing back. The dark figure of a man grabbing her, wrestling her to the edge and then sending her over, tumbling down into what should have been a watery grave. She shivered again and it had little to do with the cold.

  “Forgive me,” he said. “I should not have spoken to you that way. You’ve every right to be out of sorts with what happened. You do recall what happened, do you not?”

  It was her turn to glare at him disapprovingly. “I remember everything. I, Lord Blakemore, am not the one with the spotty memory!”

  He ducked his head but failed miserably at hiding his amusement at her affronted tone. When he lifted it again to face her, his smile was contained though not entirely hidden. “Again, forgive me, Beatrice, for saying the wrong thing. You have been through quite an ordeal.”

  Yes, she had, and not the least of which was the fact that he’d seen every last inch of her. Her shift, wet as it had been, might as well have left her naked altogether. It was humiliating. Her embarrassment was boundless, but addressing it would only make the situation worse. So she focused on something else entirely.

  “I can’t identify him. I can’t even tell you how tall he was because the rocks are so uneven it was impossible to determine! But I did not imagine it… he grabbed me, he dragged me to the ledge and then he forced me over it to drown or be battered to death against the rocks.”

  “I believe you,” he answered softly.

  “Do not patronize me!” she shouted.

  “I’m not patronizing you. I believe you. I believe you because you’ve given someone motive to kill you,” he stated again, more firmly this time.

  She paused, a protest dying on her lips. “You believe me?”

  “Yes, I believe you,” he repeated again. “But the question remains, why? While I waited in the corridor to see if further assistance would be required, I gave that very thought a great deal of consideration.”

  “What possible motive could anyone have for wishing to harm me?” she asked. “I’m nothing… no one, really.”

  “You corroborated my claim to be the Lost Lord of Castle Black,” he said softly. “You and you alone knew the story of the scar on my forearm. Even Lady Agatha had forgotten it. And Lady Agatha’s desire to have her son alive and well and returned to the bosom of the family makes her an unreliable witness.”

  The reality of that sank in slowly. They wanted her dead because they didn’t want Graham claiming the title. Edmund?

  He continued. “Who knew where you had gone this morning, Beatrice? Edmund or Eloise? Christopher?”

  Her gut clenched at the thought. It might be nothing, but then again, it could be something very sinister, indeed. “I didn’t see any of them, but as I was exiting through the kitchen door, I passed Eloise’s maid. She was taking Eloise’s breakfast tray up.”

  “So it’s very possible that the information was relayed to Eloise and passed along to Edmund,” he surmised.

  “I can’t believe he would do such a thing! Edmund is certainly a cad, but murder—”

  “He has proven that he is quite willing to be a rapist. Is one really so different from the other?” he demanded, one dark eyebrow arcing up in surprise at her defense of the man he’d had to save her from.

  Beatrice felt the blush staining her cheeks. The heat of it crept up her neck and into her face until she had to look away from him. “I could not say, my lord.”

  “Graham,” he insisted. “My name is Graham and I would have you use it.”

  Another memory came to her then, not of her attacker, not of the pain and fear she had felt when being tossed about in the Cauldron like so much flotsam and jetsam. He’d said she was his. Mine had been the word he used and he’d said it with such force that even in her shocked and injured state it had taken her aback.

  “What did you mean when you said that I was yours?” She hadn’t meant to utter the question. Some things, after all, were better left unsaid. But her defenses were down, her natural caution forgotten in the wake of so many traumas suffered in one day. And there it was, hovering between them like a phantom. Whatever strange connection had established itself between them upon his arrival continued to grow stronger with each passing moment. Denying it would not change that.

  “You are not well enough to have this conversation,” he finally said after a long hesitation.

  “If we wait until I am well I will not have the courage to ask again. Tell me what you meant,” she demanded softly.

  He closed the distance between them until he could crouch before her as she sat on the small, padded bench at the foot of her bed. As close as he was to her, she could see the darker flecks hidden in the depths of his blue eyes and the strange mark that she recalled from their childhood. Graham’s eyes were completely blue save for the left one. There was a small bit of brown that marred the blue. If any doubt had remained, that erased it entirely. How many men could have such unusual eyes? Coupled with the scar, with his resemblance to Lord Nicholas, could there be any doubt? Whatever had resulted in the change of his character from boyhood, it had made him a far better man.

  “You really are Graham,” she whispered.

  “I’ll have to take your word for that. I have doubts myself on an almost daily basis,” he admitted.

  Beatrice reached out, placing one hand along his jaw. The faint shadow of beard beneath his skin was just visible, but she could feel it prickling against her
palm. There was a small scar that disappeared into his hairline on the left side of his face. “Your eyes… that small bit of brown that mingles with the blue in your left eye… you bore that mark as a boy. You are Lord Graham Blakemore,” she insisted.

  He dropped his head for a moment, breaking eye contact. It was clear that he was somewhat awed by her certainty.

  “You said I was cruel to you as a boy,” he reminded her. “How?”

  “The way boys so often are,” she stated simply. “Pulling my hair, pushing and shoving when no one was looking, stealing my favorite dolls and hiding them, placing hideous creatures in my bed for me to find. It was, for the most part, harmless pranks though.”

  “For the most part?”

  She looked away then. “You gave me berries to eat once while we were alone in the woods… but they were poison. I was terribly ill afterward and nearly died.”

  “Knowingly? I did this to you knowingly?” he demanded.

  “I cannot say. I thought so at the time, but we were children. Who can say what your intent had been?”

  He rose and walked toward the window, looking out at the woods and the sea that was only just visible beyond. She knew every aspect of that view intimately having studied it for years. There was nothing about it that could fascinate him so.

  “It haunts me,” he admitted. “These dark and empty spaces in my mind. I cannot recall anything about my life, my childhood, my family. Sometimes it seems as if my life began the day I was plucked from that wretched little boat.”

  Beatrice was silent for a moment, considering how to word her response. She empathized with him, but the totality of his loss of memory from what had likely been the only happy time in his life was heart wrenching for her. “In some ways I can imagine how difficult that is. I was so very young when my parents died and, try as I might, there are things that I cannot recall—the sound of my mother’s voice, the way my father laughed. They come and go, fleeting glimpses of things that I want so desperately to hold on to only to have them slip from me once more when I try to cling to them,” she offered softly. “But it is not the same really. Not when you were older and more fully formed as a person to have lost so much of your life that way.”

  “Was I cruel to everyone, Beatrice, or just you?” he asked.

  “You were a prankster. I felt your pranks more keenly perhaps because I was always cognizant of my place here at Castle Black. An orphan, a ward of your father, who did not really belong—I never complained about anything you did because I was afraid of being sent away and that only seemed to egg you on.”

  He made a sound of disgust. “How can anyone be happy to see me returned to the bosom of my family when I was clearly such a heartless and merciless creature to begin with?”

  “But you were not,” she protested. “You were always exceptionally close to Lady Agatha. She doted on you and you adored her. Your father was more stern, perhaps, but he was quite proud of you, Graham. Your tutors could not say enough about how keen your mind was and what you might accomplish in life. Yes, you were a boy and, yes, you did all the things that boys do, sometimes to the detriment of others… but doing a bad thing does not make one bad in entirety. Can you not see that?”

  “No,” he said. “I cannot. But there are other things I would see, if I could. You can be my eyes into the past, Beatrice, if you would.”

  “What is it that you need to know?” she asked softly. She believed in her heart of hearts that he was who he claimed to be. If offering information would help him to prove it and to cement his future there, she’d provide it gladly.

  “Why were we in France? Why were we returning in such a rushed manner? Why did they take me with them and not the rest of you?”

  “I remained here because I had been ill. I’d only just recovered from a fever when the family left to depart for France and it was recommended that I not travel. So I stayed here with a nurse. As for Edmund, Sir Godfrey, his father, was here at Castle Black then. There was no need for Lord Blakemore to take him. As for the why, your father was a diplomat, but also something of a hero in intelligence work for the crown. He took your mother and you with him because it gave the cover of his diplomatic duties more credence. As to the rushed return, Napoleon was galvanizing his forces and preparing for battle. And… oh, I hesitate to repeat such things!”

  “Do not hesitate. I beg you. If I am to understand what is happening here and if I am to have any hope of proving that I am who I say I am, who you believe me to be, I must know everything.”

  Beatrice stared down at her clasped hands. “I do not know the details of it. But I do know that when they returned from France, Lord Blakemore and Lady Agatha were very much at odds with one another and it was not entirely based upon your disappearance. I heard him speak to her once of her scandalous behavior in Paris, but what that was and why it created a rift between them, I cannot say.”

  Graham turned away from her, once more, to stare out the window at the raging sea beyond. “Who in this house is not keeping secrets?”

  “We all have our secrets, Graham.” Hers was that she was falling desperately and futilely in love with him. As the Lord of Castle Black, he was well beyond her reach. But she had to know. “To ask again, on the beach, you said I was yours… what does that mean?”

  She thought for a moment that he meant to refuse an explanation. Continuing to stare out the window, only his profile visible to her, she could see the cast of his dark features set in a firm and stubborn line, his jaw clenched tightly. Finally, he spoke. “I cannot tell you what it means… I can only tell you that I feel it to the depths of my soul. When you are not near me, I search for you. When I hear your voice, I am drawn to it. If we are in the same room, I find myself seeking your eye, seeking a connection to you always… and when I sleep, you haunt my dreams.” All of this was admitted without his ever facing her. He kept himself turned resolutely away from her.

  “Is that why you kissed me?” she asked. It was bold, far more so than she had ever anticipated being with him.

  “Yes. And it is why I will kiss you again, and so much more if you grant me the liberties… but not until you are well. Even my lack of honor has limits,” he said. He finally turned toward her, but he kept his distance. “And taking advantage of you after what you’ve been through today would certainly delve to the very bottom of that barrel.”

  Beatrice looked away, unable to meet his gaze. She wanted to offer herself to him, she wanted to beg him to take those liberties, to show her precisely what he meant. And she wanted to do it then precisely because she could blame her actions on the shock she’d suffered and not be held accountable for her own wanton nature.

  After a moment, she heard the door click softly into place. He was gone. The opportunity, if it was such, had passed.

  Rising to her feet, she walked slowly to the bed and sank down upon it, her weary muscles protesting every movement. Sleep called her, seduced her as surely as he had.

  *

  In the tower, he raged. Smashing things, throwing books against the wall with such force that the spines split and pages fluttered about. Dishes were next, smashing against the walls and floor. On the bed, Eloise cowered, covering her face to protect it from any shrapnel produced by his temper.

  “She should have died there! It was the perfect plan!”

  “There will be other opportunities,” Eloise cried. “Please, my darling! You’re frightening me!”

  He paused and turned to her. The moment of recognition, of knowing she had pushed him too far was written plainly upon her pretty features. He stalked toward her and grabbed her hair, hauling her backward and forcing her down on the bed. “You sought me out because you wanted a monster on a leash… a demon to do your bidding! Like every woman who dances with the devil, you’ve found there is a price to pay! Is it too steep, Eloise? Do you wish to call a halt to all of this and go back to being the dutiful wife of your prickless husband?”

  “No,” she answered tearfully, shaking
her head from side to side. “But I hate to see you so upset. I can’t bear to see you suffering so!”

  He gripped her hair tighter, until she cried out. “And would you take my pain? Would you swallow it all just to free me of it?”

  “I would,” she answered, though there was hesitation in her voice and fear in her gaze.

  He lifted her skirts, allowing his hand to trail up the silken flesh of her thigh to the dark triangle nestled between them. She was wet for him. Even in her fear, she desired him, or perhaps it was because of her fear, he thought. Eloise, for all her ladylike prettiness, had a soul as dark as his own.

  “Part your thighs for me,” he commanded, still gripping her hair tightly enough to bring tears to her eyes. Still she complied, even reaching for the fall of his breeches to free his sex. “Do you want me? Even now with my rage? I will not be gentle with you, Eloise.”

  “I do not want you to be,” she said breathlessly. “I want everything you have to give me.”

  He parted the folds of her sex, slipping one finger inside to test her readiness. Her answering whimper was all the encouragement he needed. Guiding himself to her entrance, he drove into her so forcefully that she cried out. Again and again he plunged into her, hard and deep. He gave no thought to her pleasure, but when he felt her spasm around him, he knew that she had achieved her climax regardless.

  Rather than spill his seed inside her, he withdrew. He looked at her then, letting his gaze rake over her. Hair mussed, face flushed from tears and his rough treatment of her, her skirts were tossed up about her waist, her skin was damp with sweat and stained with his seed. “You do not look much like a lady anymore, Eloise. I think I’ve made you quite the greedy, little whore.”