by Jill Jones
Leaning over her, he kissed first one and then the other, his passion flaming higher with each taste of her body. He groaned as he felt her nails trace a pattern on the skin of his back. She moved her hips against him, and brought him closer, entwining one leg over his body. Her head moved from side to side, her eyes were closed, a smile played on her full lips. He heard her breath coming now in short gasps, and he knew she was finding the same satisfaction as he.
He was in awe of her, even as his touch traveled to the secret private places he longed to know much, much better. She was so free, so natural, as a lover. Never had a woman pleasured him so sensually while at the same time completely relaxing into her own rhythm of delight. His feelings for her swelled in his own breast, as if she would consume his very soul. “Alison,” he whispered. “I want you.”
Unable to restrain himself any longer, he found their union, and as she became one with him, he knew he had found home. It was his last conscious thought before the exquisite sensations she aroused in his body joined forces with the essence of his soul, sending his spirit whirling into midnight darkness illuminated by brilliant bursts of life and love.
Some time later, he regained his senses. “Alison?” he called her name softly. She was curled against him, but her quick reply let him know she wasn’t sleeping.
“Yes?”
“Are you…did you…?”
She raised her head and kissed him with a short laugh. “Did I what?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
She laughed again, and the sound fell like sunshine on his ears. “Okay. So, yeah, it was good for me too.” She paused, then added, “It’s nice that you care about that.”
“I care about that, and everything else that happens to you.”
He heard her sigh deeply. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Absolutely nothing. It’s just that, well, I’ve never had anybody that seemed to care much about me, or anything that happened to me. It’s a new experience.”
“I’m sure there have been lots of people who have cared about you. I can’t imagine anyone not falling instantly under your spell.”
She laughed again, but now it was an empty, hollow sound. “They fall under the spell of my money.”
He lay silent in the darkness for a long moment. “Is that what you think about me?”
Her turn to remain silent. Then, “I don’t know what to think about you.”
Jeremy didn’t know what to think about him either. Before, when he’d made love to a woman, he’d really only been having sex, he realized with sudden insight. With Alison, everything was different. Was he in love with her? God forbid the thought. And yet…he could not deny that his feelings of tenderness, his urge to protect and comfort her, to keep her safe from all the Drew Hawthornes and screeching ghosts in the world had nothing at all to do with sex. He’d said earlier that he would do anything to get her into his bed, and that was true, as far as it went. Now, he realized, he would do anything to make her his.
For life.
But before he could do that, he had to convince her that it wasn’t her money that held him spellbound. That wouldn’t be an easy task, he thought, considering her previous experience with other men. He could only imagine the men who must have eyed her, not with love but rather with greed in their hearts. How many times had she been hurt?
He wanted to hold her and tell her he loved her, for he knew beyond a doubt that he did, but how many men had done just that, men who didn’t mean it, men who had likely torn her self-esteem to shreds and left her crushed? Instead, he pulled her gently into the curve of his body, and they lay like two spoons in a drawer. “You’ll have to decide for yourself about me, Alison. We can start by being friends if you want. One thing you will find out is that I am a good listener. It sounds to me like you might need someone to talk to.”
He held her closely, and he felt the slight convulsion of her sobs as she began to cry. And as they lay together on the snow-white linen, he learned that for all her wealth, Alison Cunningham was a pauper when riches were measured in love instead of gold. He heard the aching loneliness behind her words, the self-doubt, the anger, the fear. He also heard her bitter determination to prove to the world she was intelligent, responsible, capable of managing her own life, that she didn’t need a man…not her father, not Drew Hawthorne and his entire firm full of lawyers, not Jeremy Ryder…to tell her what to do.
Jeremy knew that loving Alison Cunningham, and convincing her of that love, would be harder than anything he’d attempted in his entire life.
And the hardest part would be giving her the time and space to prove those things, not to him, or Hawthorne, or anyone else, but to herself. Because only then would she have room in her heart for the love she craved but continued to deny herself. Only when she loved herself would she be able to let herself love another.
Jeremy was a patient man. He would wait. Even though he wanted her by his side from now through eternity, he knew he must wait and let her deal with the world on her own terms. What would happen after that, he wasn’t certain. But he was willing to take the risk.
She had asked him to leave. He would honor her request, although his heart felt as if it had been torn from his chest at the thought.
He held her and listened until the tears had all run dry, and she fell into a deep sleep. And then, he carefully got out of bed, kissed her forehead softly, and whispered, “I love you, Alison Cunningham. And I’m counting on you.”
She never heard him, or the drone of the engine of his car, or the sound of the gravel against his tires as he drove away from Dewhurst Manor.
This rose to calm my brother’s cares,
A message from the Bulbul bears:
It says to-night he will prolong
For Selim’s ear his sweetest song;…
Oh, Selim dear! oh more than dearest!
Say, is it me thou hat’st or fearest?
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest,…
I knew our sire at times was stern,
But this from thee had yet to learn;
Too well I know he loves thee not;
But is Zuleika’s love forgot?
From “The Bride of Abydos” by Lord Byron
In spite of the attentions of Caroline, Augusta & Lady Frances, I grew morose in this high summer of eighteen & thirteen. I took to drinking a great deal, & added purgatives & stomach medications to my diet. I became weak in Body & in Spirit. Augusta was my only refuge—Augusta, my sister, whom I loved in ways reserved for mistress or wife. I, descendant of the Wicked Lord Byron, saw our kinship as no obstacle to what others would call the ultimate Sin. Augusta, I believe, never understood the Wickedness of our deed, for she knew not that what she did with me was against all moral & civil Law.
From the depths of my dark mood, I found I was not content with having committed the act of incest, I was driven by some inner demon to divulge that Sin to Society. I loathed their self-righteous moral Hypocrisy, & I delighted in the thought of sending many a non-virtuous Lady into a swoon at the idea. Irrationally, I began with Lady Melbourne, who would have defended me to the death for the minor transgression of seduction, for it was acceptable, even expected, in Society. But would she be able to make that leap from acceptable Sin to the most unacceptable? At the time, I never questioned my motive for wishing to expose my dire Depravity. Now, I believe I must have wished for my own downfall, as if I should be punished—as May Gray had always promised I would be—for my Wicked deeds.
I first read to Lady M. a poem I had written, The Bride of Abydos, in which, until others urged me to make them cousins, the lovers Selim & Zuleika were brother & sister. With a sneer I implied to my Confidante that Selim & Zuleika were in residence at my house. Shrewd & worldly wise as was Lady M., at first she laughed, then an amazed look of comprehension widened her eyes. I was perversely pleased to see the shock & shame registered on her face.
Lady Caroline was next on
my list, but with her, my wish was not only to shock, but to repulse. She continued to stalk me, which brought about the very opportunity I sought. She stole into my room at the Albany late one hot summer night, & proceeded to plead with me as always to take her away. She vowed again her undying love for me, & swore she would never, ever release me, that she would haunt me even after her death.
I held her & kissed her, depravedly relishing what was to come. “Poor Caro,” I whispered. “If everyone hates me, you, I see will never change.” Then I led her to my bedroom, where I undressed her. Ignoring the flame of desire she was still able to ignite in me, I asked her if she wanted to play a game, a secret Lover’s game, & of course she was eager as always. I told her to close her eyes & pretend she was close to me, close enough to be my Sister. To pretend, in fact, that she was my Sister. She objected, saying the very thought was distasteful, which only heightened my anticipation. “You are my sister now,” I told her as I took her. “I love you now as I have loved my own Augusta.” Caroline wriggled away from me & sat up, looking at me aghast. “You are sick,” she told me. Then she gathered her clothing, dressed quickly, & left without another word.
I had in times past attempted to turn her from me by divulging tales of sexual deviance & even murder, but to no avail. But this final diabolical behavior succeeded beyond my wildest expectations. At the time, I laughed out loud. She was gone, & I held some hope she would stay that way. But my laughter fell silent, & foreboding crept in to take its place. I had degraded Caroline, humiliated her in a way no woman would stand for. The look of loathing in her eyes held the promise of eventual Revenge. She would surely tell. And when she did, my already questionable reputation would be dragged deeper into the mire. But then, isn’t that what I wanted? I was a sick & miserable man. I both loved & hated Caroline. I had committed a grievous sin against my own sister. And I was about to embark upon a shameful sham of a marriage because I was in dire need of money. I didn’t deserve to live, much less enjoy the respectability of Society. By telling Caro of my sin, & in such a dastardly way, I sought my own destruction & had given Caroline the mean—and the desire—to be my Destroyer.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Maybe it was the jet lag. Maybe the cognac. Or the fact that Alison Cunningham had in effect cut his nuts off. Seeing a ghost hadn’t helped matters. Whatever the cause, Drew Hawthorne awoke with a screaming headache.
“Damned bitch,” he swore, holding his head as he eased himself into a sitting position on the sofa. He tried to remember what had been going on before he passed out. Oh, yeah, they were reading those memoirs. Must have been boring stuff to put him to sleep like that.
Memoirs. His fuzzy mind started to clear. They’d said they were Byron’s memoirs. Lord Byron’s. He stood up on unstable legs and looked around the library. The embers had almost turned to ash in the old stone fireplace, the dying fire barely illuminating the large room. Hawthorne wondered what they’d done with the memoirs. He shuffled toward the door, bumping unceremoniously into furniture on the way, but when he reached the portal, his finger touched a light switch. He flicked it, and several lamps in the room came on. “That’s more like it,” he mumbled, turning to survey the library. “Quite a place,” he said to himself. “Or it would be if it wasn’t haunted.” He still found it difficult to believe the incredible scene which he had witnessed earlier. Then his eye came to rest upon the long library table, and the dirty wooden box and the flowers and the two stacks of papers which lay there.
Drew Hawthorne’s fat lips stretched into a broad smile. “Well, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Got a little careless, did we?” He hurried to the table and picked up the two bundles, then glanced furtively around him. There was no sign of Alison Cunningham. Or Jeremy Ryder. No servants. No one to know what he had on his mind.
“Alison, sweetheart,” he said, “you may have just saved my hide. These have gotta be worth something. Maybe I can pull off that deal after all.”
He laughed to himself as he returned to the door, flipped off the light, and scurried down the hallway to his room, memoirs tucked under his arm. Memoirs no one even knew existed. So how could Alison claim they’d been stolen? he rationalized. He was taking no chances that he’d run into her again. He would leave tonight.
Securing the door to the room behind him, Hawthorne quickly threw his few clothes into the large briefcase, wondering if he remembered how to hot-wire a car. He really wouldn’t be stealing the rental car. Alison had offered him the use of it, after all.
He felt a gust of cold air rush past him, but he dismissed it as being a draft in an old house. As he turned to go, his mouth opened in a voiceless scream. His blood turned to ice water and his knees to jelly.
“My God…”
The specter stretched itself from floor to ceiling, an elongated figure of a woman, its face distorted with rage. It emitted an unholy cry as it swooped toward Hawthorne, knocking him to his knees. “You bastard!” it railed at him, its voice loud enough to rouse any dead that happened to be nearby. “You bastard!” It swirled around him, spinning him with arms flailing, across the hardwood floors. His skin burned, like the thing had set him on fire. Drew Hawthorne screamed in terror, but the ghost was relentless.
“Those belong to me,” it shrieked, letting loose of the fat man and sending his porcine body rolling like a bowling ball down the inner hallway and crashing into a wall. “Those are mine!”
“Stop! Stop!” Hawthorne struggled to his feet. He saw the angry creature drawing itself together to come at him again, and he ran for the window. With a jerk, he lifted the lever and leapt into the night, praying that he wasn’t on the second floor and that the whatever-it-was would not follow. He landed in a bramble bush, but he was unaware until much later of the scrapes and bruises he acquired in effecting his escape.
He only knew he had to run or die.
Alison sat up like a shot when the ghostly screams assailed her peaceful slumber. “What the hell?” she said, jumping from bed. “C’mon, Jeremy. Something’s happened.”
She was scrambling for her clothing that she’d shed hurriedly when she and Jeremy had returned to her room after supper when she became aware of the emptiness of the room. She turned.
“Jeremy?”
But he was gone. His clothing was gone. The presence of him was gone.
Alison didn’t say a word. Stunned, she sat back down on the bed, staring at the rumpled sheets. And she knew she wouldn’t find that he’d gone to check out whatever the noise was that continued unabated from somewhere downstairs. She knew she wouldn’t find him at the breakfast table in the morning. He had left Dewhurst Manor.
She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip.
Damn.
Another shriek commanded her attention. Caro was full of it now. Alison dressed as quickly as her heavy heart would allow. Her arms and legs felt like lead. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” she said, brushing tears from her lashes. “Damn it, I said I’m coming!” she shouted into the hallway as she opened her door.
At first she thought the place was on fire. A bright light emanated from the corridor to the new wing. Was it Hawthorne’s room? She hurried down the stairs and ran into Mrs. Beasley and the two young servants who were rushing in their nightclothes to see what was happening.
“Should I call the fire brigade, m’am?” the old woman wanted to know.
But Alison didn’t reply. She ran down the hallway and tried to open Hawthorne’s door, but it was locked. “Let me in!” she cried. “Are you all right?”
The four terror-stricken people could hear the most unearthly moans and shrieks coming from behind the door. It sounded as if hell itself had opened its doors and threatened to swallow the entire house. Alison rattled the doorknob. “Caro! Is that you! Stop it this instant!”
Alison thought she heard a man’s voice cry out, but she wasn’t sure. “Call the police,” she said to Kit.
And then, as suddenly as it began, the sound ceased. The
re was nothing but deathly silence behind the door.
“Do you suppose the ghost killed ‘im?” Kate asked.
Alison opened her eyes wide, wondering if a ghost could actually commit murder. “I don’t think so,” she replied hopefully. “Mrs. Beasley, do you know where there is a key to this room?”
“Yes, ma’m. I’ll go get it right away.”
“And Kit, forget the police. They’d never believe us anyway.”
Inside, the suite of rooms looked as if it had been struck by a tornado. Pictures had been dashed off the walls, lamps were shattered, chairs were toppled, the rug was crushed into a corner, the bedding was stripped, everything was in shambles.
“That Hawthorne fellow must have pissed her off,” Kit said crudely but accurately.
“Hawthorne, or Jeremy Ryder?” Alison replied bitterly.
“Ryder? Why would he throw Lady Caro into such a snit?”
Then Alison had a sickening thought. “The memoirs. Where are the memoirs?”
She raced to the library and flicked on the light, and with a glance, her worst fears were confirmed. “He took the memoirs,” she murmured. “That bastard.”
“You suppose they was in it together?” Kate asked, breathless, relishing the intrigue.
Alison’s head jerked around, and she stared at the young woman, stunned. And then the dreadful truth hit her—she’d been set up. Somehow, Hawthorne and Jeremy had conspired to steal the memoirs. Probably while she was in London. She’d returned to find them waiting for her together. Oh, my God, she thought, her stomach turning as the depth of their complicity struck her. Hawthorne had only pretended to fall asleep. Jeremy had suggested they leave him in the library. The memoirs had been left in plain sight. It was so simple. And she’d never suspected a thing.
