Kiss of the Phantom (Forsyth Phantoms)

by Julie Leto

  Her weak attempt at humor, not surprisingly, didn’t work. His scowl might have frightened her if she didn’t know the gentleness of his soul. “I concentrated so hard on trying to make you love me that I had not allowed myself to love you. I didn’t realize how deeply I was still entrenched in my past.”

  “Meaning?” she asked, suddenly shaking inside.

  Rafe kissed her forehead, then held her closer. “I still mourn Irika, but until tonight, I never truly let her go. I had not opened my heart to you, and I nearly cost you your life.”

  She snuggled against his chest, once again hypnotized by the amazing sound of his heart, which seemed to beat a bit faster than it had on the beach. He slid his hands up her back and into her hair, tilting her head.

  Unlike any other kiss they’d shared, this one was filled with promise. His lips were soft, but his tongue was not. He made love to her mouth so thoroughly, she experienced a weakness in her limbs that might have pulled her to the floor if he hadn’t held her steady.

  And for the first time in her life, she didn’t mind leaning on a man for support. Rafe offered his strength with no strings, no expectations. He wanted nothing from her but her love.

  He had that in abundance from now until eternity. She whimpered when he broke the kiss.

  “We should check on Paschal. If he’s strong enough, Ben advises that you and I retreat upstairs with him before the authorities arrive. He said something about my not having ‘proper identification.’ ”

  Mariah grimaced. “Yeah, that can be a problem with law enforcement types. I’d bundle up the sword, too. Wouldn’t be good for anyone if that baby is taken as evidence.”

  She moved away, her hand still hooked with his, until she realized he hadn’t moved. When she turned, she found him gazing up at the mosaic again, not with longing in his eyes, but with curiosity.

  “What?” she asked.

  “This mosaic is not right,” he replied. “It has struck me as odd since we first entered this room.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she said, surprised.

  “Yes, of course, but I feel ...” He took a step back. “Emotions. Many more than I can take in, but mostly ... hope. My friends. My family. It’s as if ...”

  He retrieved a chair from the dining table and dragged it to the fireplace so he could reach up to the community fire that sparkled in the center of the tiled village. The moment his fingers brushed over the tiny red slivers, Mariah felt his body seize up. Though she’d braced her hand against his back as he’d climbed up, a bright blast of power sent him flying to the floor, unconscious.

  ***

  “Rafe. Rafe, please. I didn’t go through all this to lose you now. Besides, you sort of have a lot of people waiting for you. Rafe, please wake up.”

  Mariah’s voice drifted into his consciousness, and it took him a long moment to figure out what she’d said. He could feel her hair brushing against his face, and when he forced his eyes open, he saw that she was cradling his head on her lap.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Since you passed out? Quite a bit,” she said with a smile.

  He had the sense of being surrounded by many people. The jingle of jewelry and the crackle of boots against the stone floor echoed all around. Voices suddenly broke into his consciousness, many of them talking in the Romani dialect he had not heard for centuries.

  Pushing up to a sitting position, he saw dozens of Gypsies roaming about the great hall. Most were hugging one another in celebration, swinging children in their arms, attempting to venture into the rest of the castle, though they were blocked in the room by Ben, Cat and Paxton, who looked utterly and entirely shocked.

  He opened his mouth to ask who all these people were, but suddenly he knew.

  They were the Gypsies of Valoren.

  He moved to stand, and Mariah helped.

  “Looks like you and your brothers weren’t the only ones caught in Rogan’s curse,” she said.

  “Curse?” repeated a deep, wizened voice from behind him.

  Rafe turned and saw a man shuffling toward him, his gray hair and quick brown eyes instantly recognizable. Rafe gave a little bow in deference to the Chovihano. Irika’s father. His mentor in the shaman arts of the Romani.

  His people were alive.

  “Belthezor,” he said in greeting.

  The Chovihano reached out both hands, took Rafe’s and gave Mariah what amounted to a disapproving glare. Rafe wasn’t surprised that Mariah did not quail, but hooked her hands possessively around Rafe’s arm.

  “Who is this woman? Where is Irika?”

  “Where did you come from?” Rafe asked, not anxious to break the news of Irika’s death to her father so soon after his reappearance.

  “Rogan saved us,” the older man insisted.

  “Saved?” Mariah and Rafe asked in unison.

  He cast Mariah another spiteful glare. “Yes, saved. We received word from the governor’s messenger that an army was advancing to the village to reclaim the king’s land. I was moving the villagers to the caves when Rogan and Sarina begged us to come to the castle. Rogan spoke an ancient spell, and suddenly we were trapped within the tiles. That’s the last I remember, until you touched the center fire tonight with so much love in your heart for us.” The old man’s face brightened in a gentle smile. “You freed us, Rafe. You freed your people. You freed your son.”

  Rafe staggered as the Chovihano reached behind him and unbuckled the bundle he was wearing on his back. Inside, Stefan dozed, unaware of and unconcerned with the celebration of freedom kicking up around him.

  Mariah gasped. Rafe’s knees nearly buckled as he looked on the slumbering face of his infant son. He took the child and pushed away the swaddling, freeing his tiny limbs. The baby whined in protest, but did not wake. Rafe cradled him against his chest, fighting the instinct to squeeze him too hard.

  Through clouded eyes, he watched Mariah take Belthezor to a quiet corner away from the crowd. The Chovihano frowned, but followed. Rafe found the chair he’d dragged from the table and sat in front of the empty fireplace, relearning his son’s face. His ink-dark hair. His round cheeks. His thick fingers, which curled under his dimpled chin as he slept.

  Only the sound of Belthezor’s grief ripped his gaze away from his son. He was immediately surrounded by family and friends, and Mariah soon slipped away and returned to Rafe. She knelt at his side. His love for her grew exponentially as he realized she’d taken on the difficult task of telling Belthezor about his daughter’s death.

  “He needs to mourn her,” Mariah said. “But he’ll be okay. He has his grandson, right? A piece of her.”

  She gazed at the baby with an expression that was halfway between fear and wonderment—the same exact expression he’d seen on Irika’s face when she had looked on Stefan for the first time.

  “Wow,” she said.

  “I could never have imagined,” he said, brushing his hand over his son’s warm cheek. “I thought I had won the greatest gift of good fortune when I reunited with my brother and fell in love with you. I never thought I could have my son back.”

  “We’re going to have a heck of a time explaining all this to the authorities,” Mariah said, but the sardonic tone of her voice was softened when she reached out and swept a lock of Stefan’s hair off his forehead. “But we’ll figure something out. He’s beautiful, Rafe. I guess we both got more than we bargained for tonight.”

  Rafe’s heart clenched in his chest. He loved Mariah with all his soul and knew she felt the same for him, but they’d never discussed the future.

  “Does this change how you feel?” he asked.

  “What?” She looked up, her eyes wide, but glossy. “The instant family? Automatic motherhood? I’m probably going to screw him up terribly. It’s not like I had much of a role model. But luckily,” she said, her voice rising an octave and taking on a singsong tone, “we have something in this century called psy-cho-anal-y-sis.”

  The baby squirmed in Rafe’s a
rms. Rafe had no idea what Mariah was talking about, yet again, but he knew his son would be in good hands with her. She was, if nothing else, incredibly resourceful.

  Suddenly she laughed. “Isn’t my mother going to be shocked when I go home to Australia with not only a husband, but a child? That’s what she gets for making nice with me. Instant grandmotherhood.”

  Rafe’s heart soared at the thought that Mariah wanted to marry him, and though he suspected she did not require a traditional proposal, he would make one just the same. Soon. There was so much to consider. So much to comprehend. That fact that she loved him and adored his son made all the rest insignificant.

  Mariah slid one hand onto his shoulder and, with the other, caressed Stefan’s pudgy arm. When the baby curled his fingers around hers, she gasped, then cooed. He could feel her apprehension, but her love was more powerful. Now that she’d opened the doors to the emotion, he suspected. her capacity for it would build to an immeasurable store. For both of them.

  In the next half hour, Belthezor returned and, still mourning the loss of his daughter, took Stefan and guided the villagers upstairs while the authorities investigated the deaths of the men on the beach.

  But, as the sun rose, Rafe could not resist venturing outdoors. Basking in the sunlight from a balcony overlooking the sea, he allowed the sunlight to warm his face for the first time in two hundred and sixty years.

  “The coast guard is at the lagoon,” Mariah warned, though she joined him outside and tilted her beautiful face toward the bright morning sky. “We should stay inside until they’re gone. I promise you’ll have a thousand more mornings of sunshine to enjoy once we put all this behind us.”

  Rafe was almost afraid to believe that circumstances had turned out as they had. In the rush of rounding up the Gypsies, mourning with his family for Irika and cuddling with his son, he’d been unable to fully understand something the Chovihano had said. He had not had a chance to discuss it with Mariah until now.

  “He said Rogan saved them,” he said.

  She bit her lip. “Maybe Rogan wasn’t as evil as you thought. Because of him, the Gypsies are alive—and so are you. And your son. All ready to start new lives.”

  “I have absolutely no idea what to do with this new life,” he admitted.

  Mariah slid her arms around his neck and kissed him long and leisurely, making sure she touched every single part of his mouth with her tongue and every part of his soul with her love. “We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

  He held her tightly, lifting her in the jubilation of all he’d gained on account of Rogan’s curse. He now had a woman to love again, his child returned and his Gypsy family restored, as well as part of his gadje one. What more could a man want? What more did a man deserve?

  “This could not have been the future you foresaw for yourself when you stole that stone from Valoren,” he said as Mariah led him to the grand staircase, a twinkle of desire lighting her amber eyes.

  “It’s exactly what I foresaw,” she insisted. “I am a treasure hunter. And you, sir, are the greatest treasure a woman could ever find.”

  ************

  If you missed the beginning of the story of the Forsyth brothers, please continue reading for an excerpt from Book One of the Phantom series, Phantom Pleasures.

  When hotshot hotel developer Alexa Chandler finally finds the perfect property for her next luxury resort, she has no idea of the black magic she’s about to unleash. Thanks to vivid tales from the locals, no one has breached the shores of the mysterious island or entered the abandoned castle that is its centerpiece in recent memory. But once inside, Alexa discovers another mystery—the portrait of a dark and brooding nobleman.

  With a single touch, Alexa unleashes a phantom who has been trapped within the canvas for over two hundred years.

  Contained by a gypsy curse, Damon Forsyth has had centuries to think of nothing but revenge and retribution until intense desire draws the beautiful Alexa to his lair. Though free of the painting, he is still bound to the castle. Only by using the dark magic that enslaves him can he initiate a game of seduction that will end with his freedom—and her undoing.

  Unable to resist, Alexa surrenders to Damon’s ghostly touch. But will she thwart the magic that holds Damon in thrall...or sacrifice her own mortality in the name of love?

  Phantom Pleasures

  PROLOGUE

  Austin, Texas

  April 2008

  His hand shaking, as much from age as from fear, Paschal Rousseau, noted Romani scholar, shut the door to his study and said a silent prayer for more time. He’d once thought he’d had more of that commodity than he could stand, but not any longer. His enemies were closing in on him of this, he was sure. He wouldn’t go without a fight, of course, but despite his best efforts to remain in good shape, ninety-plus years did take their toll on a man. In the meantime he had to bolster his arsenal with as much information as he could gather in the quickest, if most draining, way he knew.

  To that end, he had to act. He had to push through the final barrier of his mind and connect with the past.

  Not his past. He knew his own history, his own wild tale, which had led him here to the States to seek the objects he needed to counter the Gypsy curse. No, tonight he had to attempt something more dangerous. He had to seek a path into the distant past—into memories that were not his.

  Flicking on the lamp on his desk, he stared at the oil painting he’d propped up on the blotter, knowing it had been the artist’s last work. The purplish clouds scuttling across the top of the canvas raged with rain. The whitecaps beneath the listing schooner sparked with anger and turmoil. Paschal had searched for this stormy seascape for years, learning more about the intricacies of art dealing than he’d ever intended. But he’d found the piece, and now it was time to use his so-called gift to take the final step.

  He sat. Clutching the curved armrest of his chair with one hand, he reached out with the other and gingerly traced the name of the artist, rendered in bold strokes across the bottom of the canvas. Damon. He concentrated on everything he knew about the man, closed his eyes and painted his own picture of the artist in his mind. The only other rendering of the man existed in a place Paschal could no longer reach. Luckily, although he’d lived a somewhat unnaturally long life, his memory remained strong and reliable.

  Once he saw Damon’s dark hair, steely eyes and rigid jaw in his mind’s eye, Paschal spread his fingers and palm over the center of the painting. At first he felt nothing but cool canvas and the stiff texture of dried enamels. But then, slowly, his hand seemed to meld into the painting. His flesh transparent. His mind transported.

  The connection made, he pulled his mind’s eye out of the schooner in the gyrating ocean and concentrated on the night, more than two hundred and sixty years ago, when the artist and his entire band of brothers disappeared forever.

  Valoren

  1747

  Tonight the war began.

  The war? No, the slaughter. And if Damon Forsyth and his brothers didn’t reach the town of Umgeben before morning, their cherished sister would die in the impending massacre.

  Damon kicked his heels hard into his mount’s sweaty flanks, pushing the animal onward despite the blinding rain and rocky landscape. Lightning flashed, briefly illuminating the distant cliffs. They were close to the cursed town. He could feel the vibrations beneath his horse’s hooves. The electricity spiking through the sky connected with the magic that pulsed beneath the ground and surged through his soaked clothes.

  Valoren, land of the lost, prison to the Gypsies exiled from England by the first King George, was tucked into a mostly uninhabited corner of land between Germany and Bohemia. For nearly thirty years, Damon’s father, a British baron, governed the land. But even he had been powerless against the magic—powerless against the enemy who had used sorcery to steal Sarina from her family.

  Damon howled a curse and kicked the horse harder. A few lengths behind him, his brothers echoed his battle cry.
The chorus of five pulsed with desperation, anger...fear. Fear for their sister. Fear for their exiled family. Fear for the very continuation of the Forsyth name.

  At the sight of a rider charging toward them from the west, Damon yanked on the reins. He held up his hand, and his brothers stopped alongside, their horses snorting heavily so that their hot breath created a gray mist in the frigid rain. Molded to his horse’s back like an extension of its spine, the approaching horseman galloped over the crags and rocks in the road.

  Damon immediately recognized his half brother, Rafe, who slid into their circle and tossed back the hood on his cloak. His long, raven black hair merged with the darkness, but his clear blue eyes—so much like Sarina’s since they shared the same mother—were bright with fury.

  “The mercenary army advances at dawn,” he reported.

  Damon nodded, though his mind reeled. How had the confrontation escalated so quickly? From his trips to court, he’d known that the second King George often grumbled about reclaiming his land from the wanderers. Over the years, rumors flew that troops comprised of British and German mercenaries were being gathered to cleanse the enclave of the Romani. But Damon had never believed troops would arrive. Or that the offensive would put his family—good British citizens, save his Gypsy stepmother, youngest brother and only sister—in such grave peril.

  “Then we have time to find Sarina,” Damon declared.

  His brother Aiden, next in line to inherit, drew his sword. “Not if Rogan has spirited her away. He’s brought this danger on her. On us. He must pay for his betrayal!”

  Rogan. Damon’s blood froze. He had brought Lord Rogan here to Valoren from London, introduced him to his family—and to his starry-eyed, trusting, barely seventeen-year-old sister—never guessing that the wealthy traveler had designs on taking the Gypsy land for his own. Rogan’s machinations had likely stirred the jealous king to action. Damon had unleashed the lion into the coliseum, and now everyone in the Gypsy colony would pay with their lives.