The pallor from earlier in the day was lifted. When Taylor finally excused herself to head to bed, Memphis didn’t fight it. He walked her to the door again, gave her a warm hug and a kiss on the cheek. He told her to call him if she needed anything, and to meet him in the dining room for breakfast at eight.
He lingered a moment.
“Do you want me to come in?” he finally asked.
Did she? Her body said yes, her mind said absolutely not. Her heart, well, she was learning to ignore the bitch.
Memphis. I think what happened this afternoon shouldn’t happen again.
He was quiet for a minute. “Whatever you want, Taylor. I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Good night, then.”
He headed off down the hall without looking back.
Great. Now he was pissed at her.
But it was better this way. With him gone, she could focus on the real reason she was here—getting back to normal. She was tired of feeling vulnerable. It wasn’t in her nature.
Her room was warmed by a fire, the flames dancing merrily, casting shadows on the walls. There was a tape next to the player with handwriting on it—Maddee’s biofeedback lessons. Taylor just wasn’t in the mood. She didn’t want to work right now. She wanted to forget. She wanted to disappear.
She noticed a new decanter on her bar, this one filled with a ruby-red liquid. She went to the bar, pulled the stopper out and sniffed, delighted to find the vintage port from last night. Thoughtful man. She poured herself a glass and sat in the chair opposite the fire.
She wondered how Baldwin was faring, wondered why he hadn’t called her back. She knew he was busy, that that bastard Atlantic would have him jumping through hoops on some top-secret project. She thought that maybe hearing his voice would help her center, get her grounded again. She grabbed her phone from her purse and saw the text. He’d be gone by now. She called anyway. Got his voice mail. It was better than nothing, but it didn’t help. Damn.
The port was warm and delicious. She finished the first glass and started in on another. Her head was still hurting, so she set the drink aside and took all her medicine, including the melatonin Maddee had given her.
She sat at her computer and saw Sam had written her back. She didn’t want to deal with that, either, but she sucked it up. Like tearing off a Band-Aid, it was better to get the worst over as quickly as possible.
She opened the email.
Dear Taylor,
Yes, you are a total fool. I told you this would happen.
I don’t know what to say about the kiss. You’re a big girl, and you’ll make the right decision.
But there is something I want to make sure you know.
Dulsie Bridge was the place where Evan died. Did he tell you that while he was kissing you? Did he tell you his wife plunged to her death over the side of that same bridge as he was making a move on you?
I know you haven’t spent a lot of time looking into Memphis’s background, so I’ve done it for you. Here’s a few links to the story, so you can see for yourself. Make sure you read all the way through them, honey. He is not the knight in shining armor he makes himself out to be.
I can’t tell you what to do, but if I were in your shoes, I’d make sure he stayed very far away.
Take care, Taylor. You don’t want to ruin everything you’ve fought so hard to get.
Love,
Sam
“Son of a bitch,” Taylor said without thinking about it. Her voice sounded foreign, thick and deep, her usual huskiness masked by disuse.
“Shit.”
Okay then. Cursing was good. Could she do any more?
“Memphis, what were you thinking?”
She breathed in deeply, a huge sigh of relief. She wasn’t completely broken. A little drunk, a little stoned, and terribly distraught, but not broken. Not anymore. Maddee and her hypnosis had proven that. And now Taylor had proven it to herself.
Finally.
Memphis had promised to heal her.
She shoved that thought away and clicked on the first link Sam had sent. It was a newspaper article, in the Scotsman, from December of 2008. She read it quickly, her stomach roiling.
Sam was right. Evan had died at Dulsie Bridge.
Oh, God. He’d been kissing her where his wife died?
Jesus. Jesus H. Christ on a Popsicle stick. What the hell was all that, then? What sort of strange compulsion had led him to take her to the very spot his wife died to try and kick-start their relationship?
Taylor hit Delete, then went into her trash folder and deleted the past two emails from Sam.
She didn’t want to know any more.
No wonder he’d gotten quiet as they left the bridge. He was thinking about Evan.
Taylor recognized a long dormant feeling springing up in her chest. For God’s sake. She was jealous. Jealous of a dead woman.
Memphis leaving was definitely the best thing. This little crush would be extinguished and she could go back to focusing on her health.
She tried to read a little bit more, but she couldn’t pay attention to the story anyway. Not after Sam’s little bombshell. And her eyes were crossing. She was amazed at how quickly she’d gotten tired. It had been a long, emotional, weird day. She decided to chuck it all and start fresh in the morning. Ten minutes later, brushed and washed, she collapsed in the bed, lids heavy. The wonderfully unfamiliar sense of being tired and able to sleep carried her off quickly.
*
She was in a car, the engine revving as she took the hairpin curves faster and faster. Away. She just needed to get away.
The bridge was up ahead. She swung the car to a stop. Memphis stood on the stone wall, beckoning to her. He smiled, and she smiled back. Went to him. He took her in his arms, kissed her deeply.
“Evan. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
With a deep laugh, he hurled her over the edge.
The water was so cold. It rushed over her lap. She couldn’t feel her legs. The water was rising, rising. Her chest was underwater now, then her jaw. She was drowning. As the water streamed over her head, she screamed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
It was half past two when she jerked awake, bladder full and insistent. The fire had died down and the air in the room was chilled. The floor was freezing on her bare feet. She went to the bathroom, cursing not sleeping in socks. She hurried back to the bed, gathered the blankets to her chin, then snaked a hand out into the cold air to turn on the electric warmer.
She lay quietly, listening to the house creak and moan around her. There was something about the place after nightfall that was disconcerting. It was like being the only guest in a very large hotel, and the entire staff has gone home for the evening. There were unfamiliar noises, and what sounded like footsteps in the hall that she could only imagine was one of the servants creeping around. Maybe she needed to back off the Percocets? The dreams were getting crazier and crazier.
She turned and faced the window, and let her eyes close. She still felt tired. Sleep might come back to her.
She was thinking about the bridge, about Evan going through the windshield, imagining what Memphis would have done if she hadn’t stopped him, and why in the world he’d take her to the spot his wife died and not share that information, when she felt something touch her back.
She jumped straight out of the side of the bed closest to the window, whirled back around to see who was there. The room was empty, the air black and thick. She reached for the lamp, clicked the light. It didn’t come on. The bulb must have blown. She inched back toward the window, hoping to pull open the drapes and let some light spill in from the outside. She got a hand on the thick velvet and started to pull it aside when the light by the bed turned on with a crack.
The bulb lit up the room. It was empty. And here she was, crouched against the window, looking like a complete fool. She was letting the ghost stories get too far in her head.
She marched back to the bed, took
the cord of the offending lamp in hand, and clicked the button. The light extinguished. She clicked it again and it came on. Obviously there was a short in the cord somewhere; that’s why it hadn’t turned on immediately. Or the bulb itself was affected by the temperature, needed to warm up before illuminating.
She felt like a right idiot. She went to the fire and stirred it, put on another couple of logs so it would heat the room again. Then she climbed back into the bed and turned off the light.
She lay on her back, staring at the ceiling, watching the light from the fire tango through the shadows. The furniture felt like it was moving. She wished Memphis would come and lie next to her. She’d slept better with him near. It wasn’t like her to be nervous in strange places. She had to admit, it would be nice to have a warm body next to her.
She was just starting to drift back to sleep when she felt the feathery light touch, cold as ice, on her forehead. Right on the healing bullet wound. Her eyes flew open and she tried to move, to get out of the bed, to turn on the light—something, anything—but she was stuck, arms at her sides as if bound there. She couldn’t raise her head, couldn’t turn it. Something was on her chest—a weight holding her down. She started to scream, fought to rise, and the thing put its arms around her and hugged. She felt the cold tendrils shimmying up and down her back.
She screamed again, her cries echoing through the room, and felt an answering laugh. She stopped, and the hold around her body loosened.
I’m dreaming. I’m having another nightmare. I’m asleep. I do not believe in ghosts. Go away.
She felt the nimble touch again, more familiar this time, then it stopped and she was able to breathe and then sit up. She turned on the light, hands at her throat, gasping for air. Her heart was pounding out of control. What in the hell had just happened?
You had a bad dream. Get up, get a book—not a ghost story, fool—and get your mind off of it.
She couldn’t believe she was nervous about getting out of the bed again. There was no safety within; she’d already proven that. Should she ring the bell? Call Memphis and have him come sit with her? She didn’t want to be alone.
She heard footsteps in the hall again. Okay. She was tired of this. She pulled her sweater on and went to the door, flung it open.
Trixie was standing in the corridor, four feet from the door. She was slightly turned away, like she was about to leave.
“All right, mum?” she asked, eyes full of concern. Fake concern, Taylor knew. Trixie had no love for her.
“I’m fine,” Taylor answered, her voice barely above a whisper, but working.
“Forgive me, mum. I heard you screaming fit to wake the dead. I came to see if you were sick.”
Great. If she’d awakened the servants, had Memphis heard too? He’d come to her last night after she’d cried out, but not tonight. She didn’t know how to feel about that.
“Is Memphis awake?”
“I don’t rightly know, mum. Shall I fetch himself to you?”
“No, no. There’s no reason to bother him.”
“Aye. I have some tea for you, should you be needing it. Will help you sleep.”
Over Trixie’s shoulder, Taylor saw the tray on a linen-covered rolling cart. It was a singularly kind gesture on the older woman’s part. Maybe Memphis was right. Once she saw Taylor wasn’t going to try and take Evan’s place, she’d warm up.
“Thank you.”
Trixie brought the tray in, got the tea arranged and poured. “’Tis chamomile, from the gardens. Will knock out a horse if needs be. Drink up your cuppa, and you’ll have nae more bad dreams t’night.”
Taylor sat in the chair and put the porcelain to her lips. The tea was very hot. She blew on it and took a tiny sip, then set the cup in its saucer.
“Trixie?”
“Yes, mum?”
“You were Memphis’s nurse when he was growing up, right?”
“Aye, mum.”
“So you’ve been in the castle for many years.”
“Aye. Seen it all from this lot. Drink your tea now, that’s good.”
Taylor took another sip, surprised at how relaxed she felt. The tea was good. She didn’t normally care for chamomile, but this one was lightly sweetened and went down easily.
“Trixie, have you ever seen a ghost in the castle?”
The housekeeper laid a finger on her mouth for a moment, then answered with a nod. “Och, aye. The castle’s full of ’em. Is that what happened then, one of the wee beasties came to visit? Can put you right off your sleep, they can.” Her voice had softened. Taylor could see that she might make a good nursemaid to the children after all.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Taylor said.
“Of course you don’t. You’re American. Lacking in imagination.” She said it without rancor, just a statement of fact. “We Scots are surrounded, always have been. We know there’s more to life than work and death. Our people stay with us, guide us through, so we don’t make too much of a hash of things. Now, you must be feeling better. Get yourself into bed and get back to sleep.”
“Let’s not mention this to Memphis, all right?”
“No, dear. I won’t breathe a word.”
Taylor allowed herself to be talked to like a small child and, ushered back into the bedroom. She, climbed into the bed. But after Trixie left, she went to the door and double locked it, tilting a chair against the handle. No one would be able to get in without making a racket and waking her.
She went to the window, looked out onto the blackened landscape. The snow had stopped. Quiet as death, the night outside. She started to turn away but saw a light, off in the distance. Bobbing, as if someone were walking with a flashlight.
She extinguished her lights so her silhouette wouldn’t be seen against the window and watched. The light grew closer, and she recognized the powerful beam of a Maglite. The shape of the figure came into view as it passed beneath the huge Douglas fir trees. A man. It was Memphis. What was he doing, out wandering around in the middle of the cold, dark night?
He looked up at her window then. She pulled back a bit—there was no way he could see her, it was dark in the room except for the firelight, and she was back far enough away from the window as to be out of the line of sight, but he watched for a few minutes. She watched him back, wondering what in the world he was up to.
He finally turned away, toward the doors of the castle. She let the curtain fall across the sash and crept back to her bed. She was feeling strange. Hot. Dizzy. Yes, she’d definitely taken too many pain pills today.
She lay down, her body tired but her mind whirling. Memphis was up and about. Could he have gotten into her room? Could he have been the one touching her, wrapping his arms around her, holding her down, and she was simply so groggy from sleep and medicine as to not recognize it was him? The housekeeper had been lurking right outside her door. Had she been aware of her master’s intent?
A chill went down her body. Surely not. She was being ridiculous. Her imagination was getting away with her.
Just in case, she checked herself for wetness or telltale soreness. She felt nothing unusual, then felt insane for even entertaining the thought. As if Memphis would drug her, then sneak into her room and force her to have sex? That was ludicrous.
Wasn’t it?
CHAPTER THIRTY
It could have been minutes, or hours. Taylor stared at the ceiling until her eyelids drooped shut. The headache began to dissipate, and her body relaxed into the sheets. She heard a noise, like fingers scratching at her door. Not again. She couldn’t open her eyes, wouldn’t open her eyes. If she ignored it, it would go away.
The door opened. Her lids colored from the dim light of the hallway sconces. Then everything was dark again. Her heart began to race.
“Taylor.” The voice was deep, and strong.
Not a ghost.
Memphis.
He’d brought the chill in from the night sky. She could feel him shivering. She kept her eyes tightly shut. S
he didn’t want to see.
“I’m afraid,” she whispered.
“Don’t be. I’ll keep you safe.”
His hand cupped her cheek, the flesh cold, but warming as it touched hers. She didn’t move, didn’t dare. Soft, light touches on her face, her neck, followed by his lips. He kissed her scars, flicked his tongue against her earlobe, slid his mouth slowly down her neck to her collarbone. She began to squirm, and he said, “Be still.” She forced herself to stop moving. The exquisite agony continued, her breasts, her stomach. She was suddenly unclothed, naked in the bed, the crisp sheets cool against her bare skin. The heat from his body was enough to warm her.
He ducked his head between her legs and worked her into a frenzy. She couldn’t help herself. She arched to meet his mouth, dug her fingers in his hair. At the moment she was about to lose herself, as if he knew, he pulled back, left her panting, dying for more. He rose up above her, slid his hands up her rib cage, around to her back, down under her ass, and let his body move up the length of her, his mouth finding her lips as he lifted her slightly off the bed and entered her, fast and hard, with one thrust.
She moaned into his mouth. He didn’t move. They were touching from head to toe, connected, joined, him deep inside of her, and the thought, the feeling was too much. She felt the waves of her orgasm begin. He let her finish before he started to move, slowly, barely a whisper, pulling nearly all the way out before sliding back inside her, so deep, deeper than anything she’d ever felt, faster now, the rhythm she’d sensed in their earlier kiss building, and he was whispering to her, words she couldn’t understand, didn’t want to understand, she just wanted more of him, wanted him to go faster, and the orgasm built again.
The whispering grew louder, he was telling her how much he loved her, how special she was, how he’d never felt anything like this before, and as he finally reached the end, losing all of himself into her, his mouth sought hers again for a last kiss, and she felt like their souls were on fire.
Lieutenant Taylor Jackson Collection, Volume 2 Page 112
