by Trisha Telep
His darling Isabella who stared at him as though she beheld a monster.
Her expression made him pause before he reached for her. “Isabella?”
She was trembling and pale as she’d never been in life. He couldn’t mistake the terror in her beautiful black eyes. “Stay . . . stay away from me.”
Of all the shocks, this was the worst. What the hell had happened on his wedding day? What the hell had he done?
“I don’t understand,” he said dully, lowering his hands to his sides.
“Don’t come near me.”
She sounded so frightened, his lovely girl who had never been frightened of anything in her whole life. This was the woman who galloped hell for leather at the most dangerous fences. This was the woman who faced down her ambitious father and insisted she’d marry no man but the Earl of Stansfield.
The Earl of Stansfield who apparently she now loathed.
Questions jammed in his throat. Very carefully he stepped back, giving her space. He had to find out what was going on, but first he had to banish the dread from her expression. Her quivering fear struck him with painful force. He abhorred seeing it.
“I won’t touch you.” The words cut at him like razors. “Trust me, Isabella.”
A disbelieving huff of laughter escaped her as she retreated, preparing to flee.
“No . . .” He surged toward her again before he remembered she didn’t want him to touch her. Quickly he lowered his arm, but not before he caught another flash of terror in her eyes.
Whatever he’d done, it set his intrepid bride quaking with fear. Good God, what was going on here?
She lifted her chin, a poignant echo of the woman who had led him such a dance. She still wore the beautiful dress of blue French silk she’d had made for the wedding. Delicate pearls and summer flowers twined in her coils of shining black hair. “You can’t hurt me anymore.”
He frowned. “Hurt you? I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Don’t lie to me, Josiah.” She backed off surreptitiously as if afraid he’d pounce on her if he guessed she was trying to escape.
“I’d never lie to you.”
Bitter cynicism tightened her expression, although at least she stopped edging away. “Of course you would.”
With every moment, he understood less. Foolishly he’d imagined he’d understand everything if he could just find Isabella. Well, he’d found her and the mysteries had become more bewildering than ever. “Tell me what I did, Isabella.”
Something in his tone must have convinced her to take his question seriously. A series of emotions crossed her face, fugitive as summer lightning. Puzzlement. Anger. Then a deep sadness that matched the stabbing grief he’d felt waking without her and realizing he and his beloved were both dead.
Grim premonition gripped him. “Isabella?”
Her black gaze settled upon him, somber and lightless as he’d never seen it. “You murdered me, Josiah.”
Gingerly, Calista inched inside the Chinese bedroom, feeling her way ahead with trembling hands. There was a full moon tonight so sneaking down from her eyrie in the east tower hadn’t posed a problem. Unless she counted her bleak conviction that this was a mistake and once Miles discovered how inadequate she truly was, he’d cry off, never mind the promises he’d made.
This room was pitch black. The curtains remained drawn, blocking out the moonlight. With every step through Stygian darkness, the temptation to turn and run grew.
“Miles?” she whispered, although there was little chance of anyone hearing her. Everyone in the house was asleep and this entire floor had been left empty for guests who arrived tomorrow.
No answer.
Dear Lord, had he decided even before he had her that he was no longer interested? She told herself it was no more than she’d expected, but even so, an agony of pain cramped her belly.
“Miles?” she hissed more loudly, wishing to heaven she had a candle, even if it increased the risk of discovery. Then instead of stumbling around like a blind woman, she could check the room, confirm he wasn’t here and leave.
To cry herself to sleep up in her lonely room.
Too pathetic to contemplate. She straightened, although nobody was present to witness her revival of spirit, and reached in front of her.
She’d sit on the cursed bed and wait a few minutes – at least that proved her courage: the bed was said to promise tragic death to any bride who lay in it. Easy to scoff at ridiculous superstitions in the light of day; less easy when she stood in a closed room, listening for anyone else breathing in here. Since last century’s grisly murder of Isabella Verney, there had been numerous accounts of specters in the house. Calista was too modern to believe in ghosts. Or at least she’d thought that was the case until she’d entered the room where they seized Josiah Aston after he killed his wife.
Opening this beautiful, neglected house for her wedding had seemed a brave, positive act. Right now, she reconsidered the whim as rash and stupid. She counted herself the most rational of creatures, but something in this room wasn’t right. Even someone as insensitive to the occult as she was could sense deep sadness here. The atmosphere’s heaviness was more obvious now she couldn’t see and she felt air that should be still, but wasn’t, moving on her bare arms.
She ventured another step and slammed into something big and warm and strong.
Like a stupid ninny, she screamed.
“Calista, you goose, hush now. You’ll have us discovered. And if we’re going to face down a scandal, I damn well want the pleasure first.”
Of course it was Miles. Living, breathing, provoking Miles. Nothing unearthly from the other side of the grave. Sternly she reminded herself she didn’t believe in ghosts.
“Why didn’t you answer me?”
He laughed softly and put his arms around her. Until the first time Miles held her, she’d never felt she had a place in the world. She closed her eyes and relished the heat of his body even as her heart kicked into a gallop at the prospect of that strong male body naked against hers.
“I wanted to tease you.”
“By scaring me and risking discovery,” she said crossly, although, in his embrace, it was difficult to cling to her temper. Nerves and excitement churned in her stomach.
As if by common consent, they stood a few seconds without speaking, waiting to hear if anyone would investigate the cry in the night. The house around them remained silent.
“Actually I wasn’t sure you’d come.” Miles drew away and led her toward the bed. Or at least she assumed he led her toward the bed. The darkness disoriented her. The darkness and the dizzy pleasure of being alone with Miles.
“I nearly didn’t,” she admitted in a low voice, following without resistance.
“Let me open the curtains. We can’t risk a light but the moon is bright.”
She shivered with the trepidation his embrace had briefly vanquished. “I’d rather do this in the dark.”
He laughed again. “How do you know?”
He seemed to take this encounter so lightly. She admired the way he always responded to life with a smile, but something in her resented that he didn’t recognize her surrender as the huge concession it was.
“I don’t.”
“Then trust me. I’d prefer to do this in a blaze of light so I see every expression on your lovely face. Moonlight will have to suffice.”
She almost missed a step. He frequently called her “pretty” and “his darling” and other such nonsense. The problem was he sounded so sincere, if she wasn’t careful, she might start to believe him, in spite of the damning evidence of her looking glass. But something about this casual reference to her beauty cut straight to her yearning heart.
She wanted to be beautiful for him. As he was beautiful for her.
“Miles . . .” she said helplessly. He raised her hand to his lips and placed a kiss on her palm. She felt the caress to her bones.
“Stay there,” he murmured.
She listened to him
prowl around the room. He seemed to have an unerring instinct for where he went. With a swish of the curtains, moonlight flooded the chamber, turning black to molten silver.
She poised, trembling, trapped between a craven urge to flee and a powerful, intoxicating desire that kept her feet fixed to the floor. For a moment, she watched Miles at the window. He was limned in light like something from another world. The sight made the breath catch in her throat. He wore a loose white shirt and breeches and she’d never been so aware of his height or the lean strength of his body.
He turned and at last she saw the smile that tilted his mouth. Then his eyes focused on her and the smile faded, replaced by an expression that looked like awe. He became quiveringly still as he surveyed her from her loosened hair to her bare toes peeping beneath the white hem of her night-rail.
The light was so bright, she saw his Adam’s apple bob when he swallowed. As though he found her as breathtaking as she found him. Some of her uncertainty ebbed and the babble of thoughts in her head quietened to a low hum of need.
“You’re undressed,” he said huskily.
It seemed foolish to blush when they both knew she was about to offer herself to him, but heat flushed her cheeks. “I wasn’t sure what to wear.”
His joyous smile made her toes curl against the Turkish rug at her feet. “Or not, as the case may be.”
“Or not.”
She waited in an agony of pleasurable suspense for him to seize her, but he approached slowly, as though afraid if he moved too suddenly, she might disappear. By the time he stopped in front of her, she trembled with fear and desire. Her body felt too small to contain the storm of emotions raging inside her.
He reached out to smooth her hair away from her face. His touch always turned her knees to custard. Now, when the bed and all it promised filled the shadows behind him, the glance of his hand set her burning. If such a seemingly innocent touch had this effect, she’d most likely combust into ashes before they were done.
Calista bit her lip to contain her unruly reactions and stood in shaking stillness as he trailed his hand across her neck and shoulders. His touch felt like a discovery rather than a seduction. Although of course she was seduced. Her heart thundered and her breasts tightened against the lawn of her nightdress. He glanced down and her blush heightened as she realized he saw her beaded nipples pressing against the fine white material.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, running his hand down her side then up again.
A tremulous sigh escaped her. This tender wooing lured her deeper and deeper into the stormy waters of desire. She should move, do something to encourage him. But his touch was so delicious, she found herself unable to do anything beyond accept this worship.
Through the haze of intoxicated pleasure enveloping her, she managed to send up a silent prayer. That the reverence she read in his face would last. That he’d still love her after he’d taken her to bed.
Finally after what felt like an eon of teasing touches, he cupped her breast. His thumb brushed her nipple and she sagged as sensation roared through her. At last, he bent his head and kissed her with a ravenous hunger that outstripped anything she’d experienced before. She sighed and gave herself up to pleasure. The doubts that tortured her faded under desperate passion.
Clumsily, trying not to break the kiss, he tugged off his shirt. They both laughed breathlessly. Then laughter died and heat shuddered through her as she flattened her hand on the bare skin of his chest. They’d snatched occasional moments of privacy, but never before had she been free to learn the mysteries of his body.
She moved closer, pressing her hips into his. He was hard and throbbing against her. She wasn’t so innocent that she didn’t know that, whatever the future brought, right now he wanted her. She had the evidence of his erection against the softness of her belly. There was his ragged, rasping breath and the craving she felt in his touch as he fondled her through the thin nightgown. Soon even that barrier became unbearable and he roughly tugged it over her head and flung it away.
For the first time she was naked with a man. Self-consciousness rose like a tide of icy water. The night wasn’t cold but the air chilled her skin. Awkwardly she broke away, but Miles caught her hand and stopped her escaping. Gently but inexorably, he turned her toward the moonlight flooding through the window.
“Exquisite,” he breathed.
She wanted to argue. To tell him she was too tall, too thin, and that her breasts were too small. But the veneration in his face held her silent.
He reached out to trace the shape of her body, the subtle curves and lines. This time there was nothing between her skin and the seeking, gliding touch of his fingers. This time when he kissed her, she sensed a new wildness. As though now he’d seen her nakedness, some wall between them had crumbled.
She became lost in a dark forest of sensation. Of soft sighs and caressing hands and pleasure she’d never imagined in all her twenty-five years. When he stroked her between the legs, she jerked on a strangled moan of shocked delight. Desire was a molten weight in the pit of her belly. She clung to his shoulders and instinct made her lean forward and bite him on the chest. She heard surprised appreciation in his gasp, then the world whirled as he swung her up in his arms and took the few steps to the Chinese bed.
For the first time in her life, she heard a man undressing. The whispering slide of fabric on skin was almost unbearably erotic. She snatched at another breath. Silly woman she was, she kept forgetting to breathe. This new world left her floundering. How she wanted to be brave, spirited, reckless, but shyness overcame her and she closed her eyes against his nakedness.
When she opened her eyes, he came down over her, blocking the silver moonlight. He supported himself on his arms and he seemed large and powerful and resonating with an alien masculinity. For the space of a second, the haze of arousal faded and fear revived.
“You make me feel too much,” she whispered. “It frightens me.”
“Trust me,” he murmured. So often during their courtship, he’d said those exact words. “I love you.”
Calista wanted to tell him she loved him too but the declaration jammed in her throat. She was too conscious of his nakedness, of his barely leashed passion. While she loved his passion, it daunted her too.
A low keening sound emerged from her throat and she stroked his hair with a trembling hand. The overflowing tenderness in her heart made it impossible to hide her quaking uncertainty.
The shadows and his position poised over her meant she could no longer see his expression. But as she trailed her hand down his face, she felt him smile. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath and bent to kiss her, with a return of reverence.
“You drive me mad, Calista. But I love you too much to hurt you.”
Her nervousness drifted away and she arched toward him in unmistakable invitation. Her voice was steadier than it had been since she’d entered the room. “Make me yours, Miles.”
He was careful with her, but still she suffered an instant of sharp pain. She dug her fingernails deep into his back as her body braced for more discomfort. But then he started to move within her. All her love for him focused on this act, this union, this gift they both shared. The sweet intimacy extended beyond anything she’d ever imagined and at the height of her pleasure, she broke on a cry of rapture. As she drifted down from the golden realms, held safe in Miles’s arms, she basked in a peace unlike anything she’d ever known.
He’d murdered Isabella?
Josiah staggered back to escape the accusation. Horrified denial kept him silent as he stared aghast at Isabella. But even while everything in him rejected what she’d said, the day’s hints and confusions slammed into him.
Over and over. Until he wanted to scream “Enough.”
“No.” The word emerged as a croak.
The unwavering certainty in Isabella’s eyes. The certainty combined with fear in a woman who had never been frightened in her life. These, these almost convinced him.
A
lmost . . .
He could never have killed her. Never. Never. Never.
Nothing she did would stir him to violence. There must be some mistake, some misunderstanding.
He clung to that one fading hope even as all other hope seeped away.
As though he bit down on a cracked tooth, he tested the truth of her assertion against what he knew of himself. If he’d killed her, he’d feel it in his bones, in his blood.
No, on his honor, no.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, still in that artificial voice that didn’t sound like the man who had sworn to Isabella that he loved her and he’d devote the rest of his life to her.
“Don’t you remember?” She regarded him with horror as if his denial were worse than the act itself.
“I don’t remember because there’s nothing to remember.” In his desperation, he rushed toward her but came up short when she jerked away.
“Don’t touch me.”
The loathing in her voice made him feel ill. He spread his hands in a gesture of non-aggression and stepped back. “I can’t hurt you now,” he said with a hint of snap. “You and I are beyond the reach of physical injury.”
“I don’t . . . I don’t want to see you. Can’t you go back to where you came from?”
“My love . . .”
“Don’t call me that,” she demanded with some of her old imperiousness. He was glad to see something remained of her other than just a timorous girl.
“Why not? That’s what you are. Seventy years haven’t changed how I love you. An eternity won’t change that.”
“You don’t love me,” she said sulkily. “If you loved me, you wouldn’t have killed me.”
He fought back the urge to rage, to tell her she knew him better than this. Temper wouldn’t bring him through this disaster. She still looked like she might run at the slightest sign of danger from him. From him? The thought beggared belief.
He fought to keep his voice steady. “Tell me what you remember.”
