Authors: Dream Castle
Andrea Kane
Andrea Kane
With gratitude and love to those who made
Dream Castle
possible:
My family, my strength and my nucleus … Brad for building the castle, Wendi for naming it—and two talented, dedicated women who, to my great fortune, believe in me … my critique partner, Karen Plunkett-Powell, and my editor, Caroline Tolley.
Prologue
Yorkshire. England. June. 1816
H
ER OWN SCREAM AWAKENED
her.
Kassie bolted upright in bed, her heart pounding furiously, the night rail clinging to her sweat-drenched body. With tormented eyes she scanned the room, straining to latch onto the security of her surroundings, the simple, feminine oak furnishings that were so familiar, even in the shadows of night. She licked her dry lips, wrapping her arms around herself. But still the cold and the fear intensified. The expected shivering began. Her teeth chattered.
You’re safe,
Kassie.
You’re safe.
She recited it over and over, a litany in her mind, as she struggled to regain her sanity.
It was always like this. The same nightmare, for as long as she could remember. The heinous stalker, the engulfing abyss … the images were unchanging, the fear insurmountable.
She had to escape.
Kassie dressed in the dark, hurriedly donning the first gown she could find in her modest wardrobe. Seconds later she left her bedchamber, flew down the stairs, and went out the cottage door.
There was never a question of where she would go. For she had but one companion, one soothing balm for her pain and her loneliness.
Braden stood, unmoving, along the sandy Scarborough coastline, utterly oblivious to the brisk June winds of the North Sea as they whipped through his thick hair. The loathsome vision of Abigail in Grant’s arms glared before him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, hoping to dissolve the memory. He strove for control, taking deep, cleansing breaths of the cool sea air. Rage, stronger than the currents, surged through his powerful body.
His anger was certainly not directed at Abigail, for she meant nothing to him and never had. Their betrothal had been a farce, a business transaction conceived by their parents when Braden was twelve years old and Abigail a mere babe. Both the Sheffields and the Devons had been enthused at the prospect of a future mating of their wealth and noble lineage. After all, it would be the perfect match.
It hadn’t happened that way.
Braden had grown up independent and intense, devastatingly handsome yet indifferent to his striking good looks, and totally unimpressed by his own wealth and social position. He was a man of strong principles and even stronger loyalties, and he expected those loyalties to be returned.
Abigail had grown up spoiled and shallow, consumed with vanity and greed.
By the time Abigail had reached a marriageable age it was clear to Braden that he could never find happiness with her, much less love her.
With a muttered oath Braden picked up a stone and hurled it out to sea, watching the waters envelop it in their rough wake.
Having discovered the pleasures of the flesh when he was but fourteen, he had since explored all of passion’s avenues with countless eager, vapid females. They had quickly fallen into two types: those who wanted to bed him for his virility and sexual allure, and those who wanted to marry him for his fortune. It was no secret into which category Abigail fell; she coveted the enviable position that accompanied marriage to the Duke of Sherburgh.
In truth, Braden felt nothing but contempt for Abigail Devon. But, being a realist and respecting his duty to provide Sherburgh with a proper heir, Braden had actually contemplated fulfilling his parents’ wishes and marrying Abigail.
Until he had found her with Grant.
It was then Braden discovered that there were some things even he was unwilling to sacrifice. He could shrug away love and caring, cast tenderness to the winds, but integrity was something else. Something far more important.
Braden raked long fingers through his ebony hair, feeling the misty droplets that clung to each strand. He hadn’t denied Abigail her flings. He knew she had been with men; quite a few men, actually. He was not such a hypocrite that he would begrudge her the same diversions he himself enjoyed. In his opinion, sex was one of the few pleasures afforded to the English nobility.
But his best friend. No, that was a betrayal even he, jaded though he was, could not accept.
Braden began to walk again, trying to come to terms with his anger. Friendship, it appeared, was as whimsical a reality as love. Both were mere illusions, existing only in poets’ minds and dreamers’ hearts.
He felt a chill inside him, encasing his soul in ice. Fleetingly he thought of his mother and father. They had felt no deep love for him while they had lived. Still, their very existence had given him a sense of identity, a knowledge of who he was, that had disintegrated once they were gone.
Braden was very much alone. In the end, he mused, all one really had was oneself. Nothing more; nothing less.
The sharp bark from behind him belied his thought, reminding him that he did, indeed, have a loyal companion. Braden turned and glanced down at the small brown and white ball of fur scampering determinedly to catch up.
“What is it, my little friend?” Braden inquired. The young beagle, as yet unnamed, was the offspring of Braden’s sleek dog Hunter. Barely two months of age, the frisky puppy was enjoying his first evening romp. He had been busy trying to match Braden’s stride, remaining so quiet that Braden had all but forgotten his presence. Until now. To Braden’s amazement the wobbly little pup tensed, inclined his head at alert attention, then raced ahead, barking furiously at some unknown danger.
“Wait!” Braden hurried forward, concerned for the dog’s safety.
The tinkling laughter was so unexpected that for one moment Braden thought he had imagined it. Blinking, he stopped and glanced about the dark, deserted beach. Again the laughter sounded, light and musical, closer this time, and broken by another bark from Braden’s beagle.
Braden moved toward the sound and all but tripped over the puppy and whoever was kneeling beside him.
“Who is there?” Braden demanded of the shadowy form at his feet.
There was a slight rustle of material, and the huddled figure rose to answer.
Braden caught his breath, for he found himself gazing into the expressive face of the most astonished and enchanting young woman he had ever seen. Her wildly blowing hair was as black as the darkest night, her skin a startling contrast of creamy white, her features fine-boned and delicate. Her huge, round eyes, illuminated by moonlight, were an exquisite and unusual color of aqua, as clear and fathomless as untouched waters, and heavily fringed with thick, black lashes. They stared up at him now, filled with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. It was the curiosity that won out in the end.
“Hello,” she ventured in a sweet, clear voice that danced through the chilly air, cloaking it in a blanket of warmth. The small dog, unwilling to relinquish the attention being bestowed upon him, tugged insistently at the hem of her gown.
“Hello,” Braden replied with a smile.
“Who are you?” She answered his original question with her own, forthright and uncluttered by pretense.
“My name is Braden. And what, may I ask, is yours?”
She ignored the question. “Just Braden?” She cocked her head to one side. “That is quite unusual. Most adults have several names, and often several titles to go with them.”
Braden’s smile widened into a huge grin. “You’re right. Very well, then, allow me to formally introduce myself.” He stood up tall, his broad, powerful six-foot-one frame towering over her petite one. “I am Braden Matthew Sheffield, the Duke of Sherburgh. I have several other titles, as you suggested, but I will modestly refrain from mentioning them.” He bowed deeply, delighted to hear her musical laugh again. “And to whom do I have the honor of speaking?” he asked, a twinkle in his charismatic hazel eyes.
Kassie could feel her heart rate accelerate, her senses come alive. Fascinated, she felt a curious swooping sensation in her stomach, a warm, lethargic feeling that claimed her limbs. She was both startled and intrigued by her intense reaction to Braden Sheffield’s dark good looks and masculine charm. With awakening wonder she realized that she was physically responding to a man for the first time in her young life. It was a strange feeling, she reflected, but one that she rather liked.
Breathlessly she smiled back, revealing twin dimples in her flushed cheeks. She knew he had asked her a question, but she had all but forgotten what it was.
“And you are …” Braden prompted.
“You have the honor of speaking with Miss Kassandra Grey, Your Grace,” she returned, willing the racing of her heart to slow. “I have no title to boast, and I live in the cottage that overlooks this beach.” She turned and pointed to the top of the sloping land.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Grey.” Braden bent his head in a formal gesture and kissed her hand, scowling at the puppy, who yipped his jealous displeasure.
Kassandra’s eyes widened, but not with the simpering awe that Braden was used to from the female sex. “How do you know that?” she asked bluntly.
“Know what?” Braden was confused.
“Know that the pleasure is yours. After all, we just met. I could be a frightful bore,” she pointed out in a matter-of-fact tone.
Braden burst out laughing. The smooth words came so readily to his lips; it took someone who was little more than a child to point out their absurdity. “You are right again,” he conceded, growing serious. “However, based upon our introductions, I sincerely doubt that is the case. In fact, I am beginning to wish that more of the ladies I am acquainted with were as charming as you.”
Kassandra saw the disenchantment in his eyes and wondered at its cause. She considered his statement, bending to stroke the beagle’s ears tenderly. “Perhaps I am different because the ladies of your acquaintance are better skilled at the proper things to say,” she suggested at last.
“Perhaps,” he echoed. “But,” he added magnanimously, “I am not at all certain that is a compliment to them.”
Kassandra shook her head emphatically, absently caressing the pup’s silky fur. “Oh, I didn’t mean it as a compliment, Your Grace. In my experience, most of the ‘proper things to say’ are, in fact, cleverly worded lies.”
Braden was stunned. “How old are you?” he asked, studying her solemn face.
“Fifteen.”
He didn’t know which came as the greater surprise: her startling beauty and innate wisdom, so uncharacteristic of such a young girl, or the fact that she was out walking alone, unchaperoned, at night.
“Fifteen,” he repeated reflectively.
“Yes. Today, actually,” she added in a wistful voice.
“Today is your birthday?” Braden’s dark brows went up. At her impassive nod he added, “You should be home celebrating with your family.”
Kassie stood abruptly. “My mother is dead. My father is … busy.”
Braden’s eyes softened. “I’m sorry, Kassandra.”
Kassie straightened her stance, lifting her chin a proud notch. “Don’t be. I am quite accustomed to taking care of myself.”
“I can see that you are.”
In spite of her worn, faded gown and obvious lack of sophistication, Kassie radiated an inner grace and quiet dignity that were rare and special. Admiration and something more flowed through Braden, melting his earlier anger as he beheld the strong, proud, and neglected young woman before him. They were more alike than she knew, he thought.
Their gazes met, a rare and inexplicable current running between them.
Kassie spoke first, offering another part of herself to this enigmatic stranger who was somehow not a stranger at all.
“I love to stroll along this beach.” Her legs felt weak as she melted beneath the caress of Braden’s warm hazel eyes. She turned, staring at the turbulent wonder of the North Sea. “I’ve done so ever since I could walk.”
Braden looked down at her delicate profile. “Have you? And why is that?”
Kassie grew quiet for a moment. “It soothes me,” she explained at last. “And it keeps me company as well.”