Claire Delacroix (41 page)

“And probably too tough to sauté in unsalted butter.”

“Very funny.” Julian let the branch go with a snap and peered into the shadows below for the first time. “Where does this staircase go?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.” They had to be a dozen feet below the surface of the ground, the skyward view tangled with healthy briars. Baird grunted as he cut back a final tough curtain of branches.

The two men froze and stared at the heavy stone portal that was revealed.

The doorway was made of three massive rough-cut stones, two standing on end to support the weight of the third. The darkness within was complete, though cold air wafted towards them. It smelled like wet stone.

“Where does it go?” Julian whispered.

“Let’s find out.” Baird stepped through the doorway. Julian glanced about himself, then tentatively followed suit.

The sound of dripping water echoed loudly in the small space they entered. It was bone-chillingly cold here, the smell of the dampness and the silence emanating from the stone making Baird feel as though he had entered a strange, maybe enchanted, world far from the one he knew.

Julian shook the rainwater out of his Burberry trench coat and looked around the dim, roughly rectangular room. His words revealed that his mind had not taken the same fanciful turn as Baird’s.

“Doesn’t look like much. Are you going to put the sauna down here, or something? It could be expensive for heating. And you’d have to run some sort of covered walkway for guests who didn’t want to go out in the rain...”

Baird switched on the flashlight he had brought.

Hotelier and lawyer gasped aloud simultaneously. A slab of stone, as tall as Baird and covered with fantastic carving, filled the wall directly before them. They gawked silently at the treasure that just a moment before had been hidden in secretive shadows.

The slab was made of the same local gray stone as the rest of the castle ruins. At the top was a massive crescent carved in relief, almost like the curve of a sundial, points down, its interior writhing with Celtic knots.

On closer inspection, the knots were made of fantastic animals, all twined around each other. The imagery reminded Baird of the illuminations in the Book of Kells.

A bent arrow made a V across the crescent, its crook at the lower center of the crescent, its head pointing to the top right corner, its fleche to the top left.

Below this was a backwards Z, about a foot high, which seemed to have flames erupting from either end. On either side of this character were two disks, again filled with knots made of entwined creatures. A snake writhed around the perimeter of these elements, its body an intricate braid, the end of its tail in its own mouth.

The lower half of the stone was graced with the image of a woman in repose. Though her features were not clearly etched, it was obvious that she was a beauty. She looked to be sleeping, her hands folded across her chest and garments pooling about her slender form.

“Whoa!” Julian breathed. “It would be good to move that somewhere more visible in the resort.”

Baird bent and ran his fingertips over the row of crosshatched lines that ran up the right side. “It must be an inscription,” he mused, recognizing runic letters and wondering what they said.

Julian showed no interest in such mysteries. He shivered and shrugged, throwing Baird a smile as he shoved his hands into his raincoat pockets. “Definitely worth a visit. Now, let’s get a brandy.”

“Not until we see what’s behind it.” Baird pushed on the slab, but it did not give in the least.

“Behind it? It’s just a frieze, Baird.”

“No, it’s a door.”

“A door? Come on, where could it go? It’s just a wall mural or something, maybe some kind of pagan altar.” He shuddered elaborately and looked around himself as though expecting hostile pagans to spring from the shadows. “Do you think they slaughtered things here?” he demanded in a horrified whisper.

“It’s a door,” Baird repeated. He was oddly convinced of his conclusion, though he refused to think further about that. “Now, are you going to help?”

Julian winced. “It doesn’t even look like a door to me. I mean, where’s the knob? How do you open it?”

“It’s a door. Trust me. We’re just going to have to figure out how it opens.” Baird set his lips grimly, resolving that he would not leave before seeing what was behind this door. “Then, you can have your brandy.”

Baird turned back to the carved stone, scanning its width and breadth. There had to be a lever or a hinge somewhere, likely hidden away if something precious was hidden behind the door.

And Baird knew in his heart that there was.

Julian cleared his throat, an annoying habit that usually indicated he was going to be particularly lawyer-like. “If it is a door—and I’m not in the least bit sure that it is, mind you—there is some question as to whether there might be historic artifacts within. As your legal counsel, I would strongly suggest we summon authorities of antiquities to be present—“

“Forget it, Julian,” Baird interjected crisply. “We crossed every t and dotted every i acquiring this place. I’ve had it up to the eyeballs with paperwork.”

Julian inhaled sharply, but Baird tossed his friend a wry grin. “Come on, what can it hurt to look? You know me better than to worry about the fate of anything we find here.”

“You are painfully scrupulous, much to my ongoing disappointment,” Julian acknowledged with a rueful smile.

“So, how can we open this? Any ideas?”

But Julian was not prepared to abandon his argument so easily. “Baird, we could get someone down from PR, you know, and manage this opening as an event...”

“No!” Baird was surprised by his own vehemence. “Forget PR!”

“We never forget PR.”

“This time we will.” Unable to explain his need to do this alone, Baird turned back to survey the door. “Look, the sooner we get this open, the sooner you can have your brandy.”

It was troubling to feel so strongly about something he knew nothing about, especially when he made it his business to feel as little as possible in the course of life. Feelings got a man into trouble. They were unpredictable, unreliable.

They made a man hope for things that could never be.

But still Baird couldn’t even consider walking away from this door before it was opened. This was the root of his fascination with Dunhelm. Baird knew it. He couldn’t turn away and leave the job half done.

He had to solve this puzzle now.

When Baird said nothing more, Julian did not hesitate to warm to his theme. “Baird, this is about more than brandy! You can’t simply barge in and do whatever you want here. We’re in a foreign country, after all, and it won’t pay to step on any toes.”

“It won’t hurt to look, if we can even get the door open,” Baird corrected with growing impatience. “And if there isn’t anything there, summoning anyone would have been wasting their time, as well as our own.”

“We shouldn’t do it.”

Baird’s lips set in a tight line. “Look, Julian, I don’t have to tell you that we’re way behind on this restoration, mostly thanks to bureaucrats. And I am not going to spend another six months in government offices getting the right to open a door on an estate when the title to that estate is in my pocket and the bill for the property taxes lands on my desk, especially when there’s probably nothing in it!”

“Well!” Julian’s nostrils flared. “I don’t know what you pay me for, if you aren’t going to listen to what I have to say!” The lawyer smacked the wall to punctuate his frustration.

Julian swore, Baird turned to argue, then a low rumble stole away anything either man might have said. They pivoted to find the carved stone sliding slowly to the left, revealing a dark space.

Baird glanced back to find Julian nursing the back of his hand, his eyes round. “What did you do?”

“I hit that thing.” Julian pointed to a gargoyle grimacing on the wall beside him. It was the only decorative detail in the small space at the foot of the stairs and Baird only now noticed the oddity of that.

Baird shone the flashlight on the gargoyle. He touched its outstretched tongue and discovered that it was actually a lever. When he carefully depressed it, the door slid closed with a grating of stone on stone. Baird repeated the move and the door opened once more.

“Well, we have to look now,” Baird said with a smile that he hoped hid his burgeoning anticipation.

Julian took a tentative step forward, as though fighting his own legal instincts, and peered over Baird’s shoulder into the shadows. “I can’t believe that you were right,” he breathed. “It is a door.”

“I told you to trust me.” Baird ducked through the portal and flicked his flashlight around the revealed chamber.

A woman, garbed precisely as the one on the door itself, was sleeping on a slab on the opposite side of the room.

Baird stopped so fast that Julian bumped right into his back. The glow from the flashlight bounced off the walls and seemed to illuminate the entire chamber.

But Baird had eyes only for the woman.

Her long golden hair spilled over her shoulders and the stone, a garment that had once been richly embroidered clung tenuously to her curves. Baird’s mouth went dry and he nearly dropped the light.

“How in the hell did she get in here?” Julian muttered, but Baird wasn’t interested in anything his friend had to say.

Because the jolt of recognition Baird had felt upon seeing Dunhelm was nothing compared to this.

He found himself halting beside the stone slab without any recollection of deciding to cross the chamber. Baird stared down at the woman, astonished at the turmoil of emotion let loose within him.

How did he know her?

Her heart-shaped face was delightfully feminine, her ruby lips sweet and full. She was small and delicately built, her hands slender and gracious.

And Baird wanted to kiss her more than anything in the world.

Which had to be the weirdest damn thought he’d had in quite a while, perhaps ever.

Baird couldn’t explain his conviction, illogical as it was. It came out of nowhere, but seemed uncontestable. Baird found himself bending closer to her as though a will greater than his own drove him on.

He couldn’t stop.

“Baird!” Julian exclaimed in horror behind him. “What are you doing? Have you lost your mind?”

But Baird was deaf to his friend’s protest. A sweet perfume rose from the woman’s skin, a beguiling mix of flowers mingled with her own scent that swept every objection from his mind.

He had to taste her. Baird knew when his lips were a finger’s breadth from hers that he should stop, that he should step away, that this was crazy.

But he couldn’t. It was as though there was nothing else he could do in this place at this moment. The woman seemed to sense his intent, for her head turned slightly towards Baird and her lips parted in mute invitation.

His gut clenched at the sight. And Baird bent to brush his lips chastely across hers. The welcoming heat of her lips burned against his mouth, their breath mingled, and time stood still for a tantalizing moment.

Then the woman’s eyes flew open, their blue-gray shade echoing the colors of the sea just beyond the walls. She caught her breath in alarm and sat up hastily as Baird took a guilty step back. Her hands clutched the shards of her dress to her breasts, but not before Baird glimpsed their creamy perfection.

Then she glared at him with undisguised hostility.

And Baird didn’t need Julian to tell him that he had just made a big mistake.

* * * * * *

Once Upon a Kiss

Now available in a new edition.

You could win a book from Deborah or Claire by entering the monthly contest on her blog. There are two contests—and two prizes—each month.

For the
Reviewer Contest
, you need to post a review of one of her books somewhere online—Goodreads, Amazon, B&N, you name it. It just has to appear on a public site.

For the
Reader Contest
, all you have to do is enter for a chance to win.

To learn more—and enter!—use the links above to see this month’s contest posts. You can also visit the
Alive & Knitting blog
, then choose either Reviewer Contest or Reader Contest from the category sidebar.

Good luck!

Deborah Cooke sold her first book in 1992, a medieval romance that was published in 1993 under her pseudonym Claire Delacroix. Since then, she has published more than fifty romance novels and numerous short stories. As Claire Delacroix, she has written historical romance, romance with fantasy elements, fantasy with romantic elements and future-set urban fantasy romance. As Deborah Cooke, she has written paranormal romance and paranormal young adult fiction. She also wrote briefly as Claire Cross—the time travel and paranormal romances originally published under that name have been re-released as Claire Delacroix books, while the contemporary romances have been re-published as Deborah Cooke books. She tends to include fantasy and paranormal elements in her stories and likes to write linked series of books. Her stories include a blend of action, adventure, romance, humor and deep emotion.

The Beauty
by Claire Delacroix
, part of her successful Bride Quest series, was her first book to land on the
New York Times
List of Bestselling Books. She has been nominated for numerous awards (as Claire and as Deborah), including
Publisher’s Weekly
’s Quill Award, and has won some, including the Booksellers’ Best Award. In 2009, she was the writer-in-residence at the Toronto Public Library, the first time the library has hosted a residency focused on the romance genre. In 2012, she won the RWA PRO Mentor of the Year Award for her support of aspiring and new writers. Her blog, Alive & Knitting, includes her weekly column on the changing landscape of publishing called Wild West Thursdays and a post each Friday about her knitting.

She makes her home in Canada with her family, too many books and too much yarn.

Deborah Cooke’s website