King of the Castle

by Heather Graham

  The knife started to rise.

  * * *

  Kit couldn’t take her eyes from the knife, from its glittering edge. She opened her mouth to scream again, but her tears choked off the sound.

  Molly started to move, and the knife flashed downward.

  But it never touched Kit’s throat. She was aware of a blur of dark motion, aware that the scream that rent the air was Molly’s, and then she heard the soft thud of bodies hitting the ground.

  “Drop the knife, Molly. Drop it.”

  Kit wasn’t sure what happened then. The air was still thick with mist, and she was blinded by her tears, but relief filled her. Justin was here. She recognized his voice. She would always know his voice.

  “Kit, Kit…”

  He was by her side, cupping her cheeks feverishly with his hands, studying her eyes, her face. She tried to touch him, but she couldn’t move her hands, and he deftly cut the leather thongs that bound her. He moved to her feet and cut the ties on her ankles, then quickly stripped off his sweater and slipped it over her head. Finally he held her against his body, shaking.

  “Kit…”

  “Oh, Justin!” She pushed herself away from him, eager to feel the contours of his face, desperate to know that he was real. She held his face, then threw herself against him again. “Oh, Justin, I want to marry you. Today, tomorrow. Now. I nearly threw it all away, and I didn’t know how desperately I wanted it until I nearly lost it all.”

  She stopped, startled by the sound of something behind them. Nearby, Molly was rising, panting, to a crouch.

  “Sit still, Molly,” Justin warned her softly. “Just be still and wait.”

  “Justin, Justin, my fine O’Niall,” Molly murmured regretfully. “Ye’ve ruined it. Ye’ve ruined it all.”

  “Molly—”

  Suddenly she was on her feet. And, just as suddenly, she was running—for the cliffs.

  “Molly, no!”

  Justin surged to catch her, but she was too fast. Too determined that the land and the sea should receive their due in human blood.

  Justin stood on the precipice, holding the black cloak and nothing more. Molly screamed once, and then there was nothing but the sound of the surf crashing below.

  Kit tried to rise, but the effort was too much, and she fell back to the earth.

  * * *

  She woke to find herself safe in Justin’s arms. He was carrying her, and people were all around them. Liam and Barney, Douglas and Old Doug, Doc Conar, Meg from the pub. They looked so frightened, so concerned.

  Kit reached out to Douglas. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured.

  “No,” he told her. “I’m sorry.” He squeezed her hand.

  “I’ll need her statement,” Liam was saying to Justin.

  “Tomorrow,” Justin said softly.

  Kit realized that they were at the car. She didn’t see Mike, and, panicked, she sprang into full awareness.

  “Mike! Where’s Mike?”

  “He’s home. Julie and William are with him.”

  Justin set her in the passenger seat, and she realized that he had wrapped her in the black coat over his sweater. He closed the door, then got in on the driver’s side.

  “Can you make it home?” he asked her.

  She nodded.

  The others stepped back, waving to her. They were stunned, and they were sweetly grateful for her life, though they had lost one of their own, however demented she had become.

  It felt so good to be alive and free, Kit thought.

  The car pulled onto the road, and she hazarded a glance at Justin. His features were painfully tense. She slid nearer to him, reaching for his hand, curling her fingers into it.

  He glanced her way quickly. “Oh, God, Kit…”

  The torn sound of his voice reached down into her soul.

  “Justin…”

  “I brought this on you. You could have been killed. I should have made you leave.”

  “You couldn’t have.”

  “I should—”

  “Justin, you couldn’t have made me leave. Pull over, please. Please, you’re still shaking.”

  Strangely, she felt very calm herself. Calm—and strong.

  He pulled the car onto the shoulder of the road, and Kit moved as close to him as she could, taking his face between her hands.

  “Justin, I love you. I need you very much. I want to marry you. I came back here because I had to. And I’m alive, Justin. I am alive!”

  “Kit, you don’t need to be sayin’ this. I’d not threaten Mike; if I tried to make you believe that, it was because I believed that I could protect you by saying such things to force you to stay with me.”

  She smiled. “You did protect me. You saved me. Justin, touch me. I’m alive! But I came so close to losing you and Mike. Justin, please, hold me!”

  He did. His kisses fell against her forehead and her hair, over her cheeks and on her palms. He held her against his heart so tightly that it was nearly painful, yet she didn’t utter a word of protest.

  His lips trembled, and his hands shook, but the depth of his love was evident in his touch, filling her again with the joy of life—and the beauty of love.

  He leaned back, just touching her cheek and studying the moon. “Do you mean it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to be married?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m going to ask you again tomorrow.”

  “My answer will be the same.”

  “Where?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Where do you want to be married? Here or in the States?”

  She looked at him and suddenly started to laugh. Once it had seemed so important, but now… “Wherever you are, that’s where I’m happy.”

  He arched one brow.

  “Mike said that to me once. And he’s right. Oh, Justin, I don’t care! Here is fine; New York is fine. No, here, because I want to get married as soon as possible.”

  “Mike has some beautiful thoughts—and so does his mother,” he told her softly.

  She smiled. “We’ll tell him—”

  “In time. When he’s accepted me.”

  “Oh, Justin.”

  “Where shall we live?”

  “I love you so much—I don’t care!”

  “Well, we’ll work on the future later. Right now I’m going to take you home. I’m going to wash that horrible paint from your body, and I’m going to put you to bed and give you something warm to drink and make you better in body and soul.”

  He headed back to the castle, and Kit leaned back against the seat. There was going to be sorrow, for Molly, for the sickness that had plagued her, for the horrible things she had done because of it.

  But the wind was a cleansing thing, just like the waves that crashed along the cliffs. She and Justin had lost something, but they had also gained each other.

  “Body and soul,” Kit mused.

  “Aye.”

  “Can we start with the body?”

  He smiled, and then he laughed, and then he drew her close.

  They were going home.

  EPILOGUE

  There was a mist, light and soft and magical. And through it, he was coming to her. As he had always come to her in her dreams.

  Dreams these days were sweet and good. No nightmare beasts haunted her sleep, for life itself was sweet and good, the stuff of dreams.

  She smiled as he walked through the mist, naked and beautiful, with that slow, purposeful gait. He smiled, just slightly, his eyes alive with desire.

  The mist cleared. It was only coming from the hot shower she was enjoying after their trip up Dunns River Falls.

  Compromise, they had learned, was the spice of life. And so they had been married in Paris, with only Kit’s parents in attendance.

  Her mother had cried, of course.

  And now they were on their honeymoon—in Jamaica—with Kit’s mom and dad watching Mike back at the castle. They hadn’t told them anything yet, but that tim
e would come.

  He reached her, then took her into his arms. His lips met hers, and she felt as if their bodies had fused together, he was holding her so close.

  She could feel her heart racing like the river, and she could feel the sweetness sweeping through her.

  He picked her up and carried her out of the steaming shower, grinning as he looked down into her eyes.

  “A beast, huh?”

  “Never,” she promised him sweetly. “Just a temperamental Irishman.”

  “Temperamental?”

  He laid her down on the bed, and she stretched out her arms to him, her smile self-satisfied and sultry, her eyes dazed with love and desire.

  The beasts were all gone from her world. He had dispelled them. All that remained was beauty, richer because of all that she had almost lost.

  “Come love me, Irishman,” she invited him softly.

  And, tenderly, he complied.

  * * * * *

  Keep reading for an exclusive sneak peek at

  DYING BREATH,

  the newest thrilling novel in the

  Krewe of Hunters series

  from New York Times bestselling author

  Heather Graham.

  Available May 30, 2017, from MIRA Books.

  PROLOGUE

  The side door was open just a hair, but that little bit brought a hint of wintry air that sent a chill racing down Vickie Preston’s spine. She shivered. She moved closer to the door and found herself looking out at the day through the double-paned window.

  It was gray. Turning darker quickly as the day waned into the late afternoon.

  Nothing unexpected, since it was winter, and still…

  She felt unnerved. The wind seemed to have a keening sound about it—a sound that made her think of her granny O’Malley talking about banshees wailing.

  Or maybe it was the fact that the door was open—even though she didn’t know why it would be. But she knew it was all right. Mr. and Mrs. Ballantine hadn’t even left for their night out yet. She would just ask him about the door—maybe he’d been taking something out to the car.

  Still, oddly trembling, she closed the door and locked it. As she did so, Chrissy Ballantine came sailing into the kitchen, adjusting her gloves.

  “Choose any of those little packets of food you’d like,” Mrs. Ballantine said. “You know where they all are. Noah will probably need to eat about 8:30 tonight and there’s a six-ounce bottle he can have after he eats his food. He’ll most likely fall asleep after that. The baby monitor is next to the crib, of course. The diapers are next to the crib…and well, you know the drill. You have my number, and you have George’s number, and…”

  “Chrissy, can we go, please!” George Ballantine said, coming up behind his wife, slipping an arm around her waist. “My dear, as we know, Vickie is the most amazing babysitter in the world and if you torture her to death with commonsense details, she’ll leave us!”

  Vickie Preston smiled at them both.

  God bless the Ballantines!

  They were both in their midforties; Noah was, truly, a miracle child for them.

  It had never been easy for her, Chrissy had once told Vickie. It seemed like a gift from above that she had finally gotten pregnant again. Fertility drugs before—and now? Just a miracle.

  Yes, Noah was a miracle.

  And before…

  Even though they had little Noah, tears often sprang to Chrissy’s eyes when she referred to an earlier time—and the son they had lost. After all their first efforts twenty years ago, they had finally had a child: Dylan. Dylan had been great, a son any parent could adore. Good in school, good in sports, but more—a great sport himself, happy when he won, able to shrug it off and smile when he or his team lost.

  A year shy of his eighteenth birthday, Dylan had been killed by a drunk driver. His death had nearly killed his parents as well; it had devastated a community. George Ballantine had left his high-tech job in New York City—too many memories—and relocated in Boston. And while his wife had still been in mourning, she’d suddenly found out that she would have the second child she had always wanted.

  Vickie knew all about the Ballantines because the families knew each other through church. Chrissy Ballantine had called Vickie’s mom, and Vickie had been interviewed. She had been in awe when she’d heard how much she could make, just babysitting a sweet child. And while she was very happy about Noah, she also felt terrible for the couple, and she thought about the young man she saw in pictures about the house—Dylan Ballantine—often enough. She was now just about the age he had been when he died, almost eighteen. She found herself wondering what his life had been like—he’d been popular, certainly. Had he dreamed about college, being on his own, the places he might go, the things he might do in life?

  Dylan was gone, but it was just sixteen months and three days ago that Noah Ballantine had made his stunning and miraculous arrival into the world.

  For the first six months of his life, Chrissy had refused to leave his side. Her psychiatrist had finally convinced her she would smother her poor child, herself and her marriage if she didn’t learn to trust someone. Vickie was always grateful they had chosen her.

  “Yes, yes, of course, we can go,” Chrissy said. “I’ll just look in on the baby one more time, though, I know, of course Vickie will be fine.”

  “Vickie will be fine—whether you go stare at Noah again or not!” George said firmly.

  Vickie could easily understand how precious the child was to both Chrissy and George. She loved the baby herself, as well as both of the Ballantines—and loved babysitting for them. They had a great old historic house that was one of the few listed on the National Historic Register and still a private residence in the midst of the explosion of Boston as a city. When she babysat in the afternoon, she would walk part of the Freedom Trail and, despite the fact she was a city native, still marvel at the Old South Meeting House, the Granary Burial Ground and other local wonders.

  Her own house was old, but not nearly so old—or distinguished—as the Ballantine house. It had been built in 1790, combining the Georgian and Federal styles, and the architecture itself was amazing. The house was on most walking tours of the city. It had hosted Samuel Adams at one time, along with John Hancock and a number of other Revolutionary no-tables. Her home was nice—mid-1800s—but it had been built as apartments and was an apartment building to this day. Nothing like this.

  “Oh, but his clothes!” Chrissy said. “I need to show Vickie where everything he might need can be found.”

  “Vickie knows where everything Noah has can be found. Details—you’re going to drive the poor girl crazy!” George said.

  “Darling, I don’t get crazy on details,” Chrissy protested. “Okay, I do,” she admitted, looking at Vickie. “But—”

  “I’m fine. I don’t mind details,” Vickie assured her.

  From his play area in the living room, Noah suddenly let out a demanding cry. Chrissy Ballantine immediately jumped and turned to go to him.

  Her husband caught her arm. “Vickie is here now. She’ll get Noah. And we’ll head out to our dinner with my boss, huh?”

  “Yes, of course, of course.” Chrissy smiled at Vickie, hugged her impetuously and allowed her husband to steer her to the kitchen door.

  A blast of cold air swept in; the house didn’t have a garage, but rather a porte cochere, or covered drive, once a carriage entry. It was small and tight to the house, allowing for one car. But then they didn’t need more than one car where they were in Boston. Public transportation on the T was great.

  George Ballantine looked back at Vickie and winked. She smiled and waved and headed to the door to close and lock it behind them.

  But Chrissy was suddenly back, rapping on the window. “The alarm!” she said.

  “I’ve got it!” Vickie assured her. And she keyed in the alarm.

  As she did so, she remembered that she had forgotten to ask George Ballantine why the side door had been open. She
rekeyed the alarm to Off and threw open the door.

  But their silver Mercedes had already driven into the night.

  She heard Noah let out another wail and she quickly locked the door and keyed in the alarm again before hurrying back to the grand parlor.

  She wasn’t really sure why any kid would be crying or wanting to leave this play space. His “playpen” was constructed to cover an area that was a good fifteen-by-fifteen feet long and wide. He could crawl onto his scooter, play with his toddler walker—or any number of the amazing toys in the carefully constructed play box in the play area.

  Despite being spoiled rotten, Noah Ballantine was a sweet and affectionate baby. He had taken to Vickie right away, which had helped her earn the position. She adored him in turn.

  He wasn’t screaming or crying out with his few words when she reached the parlor; he was staring into what appeared to be blank space. And then he began to laugh—the way he did when they watched Little Baby Bum videos and clapped and played.

  His interaction with blank space made Vickie curious—and uncomfortable. She told herself that she was just spooked. She silently cursed herself for not asking George Ballantine about the open door—he would have said something to reassure her.

  “What ya doing, my little love?” Vickie said, stepping over the playpen gate and hunkering down by the baby. He truly was a sweetheart. He looked at her and gave her a brilliant smile and clapped his hands.

  He was blessed with huge hazel eyes and a thatch of rich sandy hair and couldn’t possibly have been a cuter boy.

  He clapped his hands again.

  “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker man! Bake me a cake as fast as you can!” she said. “Roll it, and poke it, and mark it with a B, and then put it in the oven for my baby and me!”

  He responded with more laughter and smiles, and then looked aside again—as if someone else was there.

  “Okay, okay, creeping me out there, kid!” Vickie said. “And, by the way—P.U.! You stink-um, dinkum!” she told him. “You need a diaper change.”

  She swept him up, climbed over the playpen gate and headed for the stairs.

  She stopped halfway there, hearing a tapping at the window. It seemed that her heart caught in her throat.