Emerald Embrace

I
t was a cold, windswept, storming night when Martise first saw Castle Creeghan. As the horses’ hooves and the carriage wheels clattered over the cobblestones of the drive, it seemed fitting to her that the night should be as volatile as the passions that had driven her here.

The castle stood atop a high tor, like a monster rising from the rugged and craggy earth. Lightning cracked and sizzled around the lofty turrets. The sky lit up again after each thunder crack, and the castle became a glowing silhouette against the sky, forbidding and evil, an ancient fortress in unyielding stone. The lights in the slit windows were like Satanic, glowing eyes that watched for the unwary and waited. The drawbridge over the chasm looked like a gaping mouth, waiting to consume the innocent, and when the sound of thunder ceased, the rage of the surf, far below the rocks, could be heard slashing against the stone, railing in tempest and fury.

Castle Creeghan …

Tremors seized Martise as she watched the castle from the carriage window. The sound of the horses’ hooves was always with her, like the nervous beating of her heart.

She should not have come. There was time left, still, to halt the driver. To demand that he turn the horses and carriage, and carry her swiftly southward once again. There was time, still, to end her charade … and run.

The carriage jumped and twisted, causing her teeth to jolt hard and head to bounce and nearly hit the roof. Martise touched her head and rubbed it, clenching her teeth. Then she screamed out loud as the carriage veered wickedly, seemed to teeter, and came precariously to a halt.

White and frightened, she gripped the seat. The rain plummeted and the wind screeched as the driver nearly ripped off the door in his attempt to open it. “The wheel, milady, we’ve broke a wheel!”

As he spoke, the rain suddenly lessened. The wind, though, picked up to a more violent fury. Martise nodded, still clenching her teeth. The castle seemed far away now, while the darkness of the night and the ferocity of the storm seemed great and very near. Struggling with the door, the driver sought his leave to repair the wheel. She did not want to be alone.

“Wait!” she cried, and he hesitated. “I’ll come out.”

“But milady, it is wet, and wretched—”

“The rain does not beat so hard,” she replied quickly.

He was probably irritated, for his task would be compounded by her presence, but he did not refuse her. He paused just briefly, then brought down the stepladder and helped her to the ground. She pulled the hood of her cloak over her head against the soft spill of the subdued rain and the fervor of the wind.

She stared up at the castle again. High within a turret window she saw a shadow. It seemed that the shadow stared downward, watching the distressed carriage. She didn’t know why, but the shadow seemed as evil and malignant as the glow of the house.

Something warned her of a presence. She didn’t know what, for she heard nothing in the rain, nor did she see movement. She spun around quickly and cried out, startled, for a man stood not ten feet away from her. He had come in absolute silence, as if set before her by the eerie power of the night.

“Do not be afraid,” he said, in what seemed like a whisper, carried upon the tempestuous air of the stormy night.

“I am not afraid,” she lied firmly, and yet she was, for her reply was only a whisper, and her heart beat with a startling furor. For in that very instant she was haunted by the sight of him.

He was tall, very tall, towering over her in a black cape that whipped with the wind, draped over tight black riding breeches, brocade shirt, and black vest.

His hair, too, was as dark as his garments, darker than the night, spilling over his forehead when the wind did not lift it. His features might have been cast of stone in those first minutes, for he did not smile. He assessed her grimly, eyes of green and gold fire blazing from a face with a hard, squared jaw, long, aristocratic nose, high broad cheekbones, and dark arched brows. His age was indeterminate except that he was in his prime, for he was straight as an arrow, powerful in his stance, and striking in his appearance. His mouth was tight in a stern line, but it hinted at fullness, at a sensuality that struck at her heart.

It seemed that they were alone on earth as they stared at one another then. There was no moon, for the dark clouds obscured it. There were no stars, just the eerie glow emitted from Castle Creeghan and the meager light of the lantern at the front of the carriage.

Martise did not know what to do as she stood there watching the stranger. He stood, feet well apart, a riding crop held between his hands. The wind shifted his cloak again, and her eyes fell upon the tight fit of his riding breeches and boots, and she noted the hard muscles of his calves and thighs, the leanness of his hips, and then the breadth of his shoulders and chest. If such a man wished to offer her harm, then she was dead, for she could not seek to fight him.

He had not come to harm her! she thought quickly, determinedly. No man would be such a fool to come out in the night to do murder before a hired coachman!

But still, the fear of murder was why she had come …

“I am glad, for this can be a fearsome place. A man or woman must be of good courage to come here. Well, then, if you are not afraid, I say good evening, milady,” the man said at last, bowing gravely to her. His voice was deep and resonant. It rose with no strain above the roar of the wind and surf. He continued to survey her, and she wondered what he saw.

A slim young woman, encased in a cape and a blue gown with lace about the throat and sleeves. The wind had blown away her hood, and her hair, her crowning glory, a thick, rich burnished copper, spilled from beneath it and was taken by the wind in wild and lusty abandon. Seeking to subdue it, reaching for her hood against the whimsy of the wind, she saw his smile of amusement, and her eyes, the blue of a summer’s day, flashed with sudden anger.

“Good evening, sir! And the situation is not amusing,” she assured him.

He nodded. His eyes moved upward along the craggy rocks leading to the high tor and Castle Creeghan. Then they fell upon her. He moved forward and spoke curtly. “You are on your way to the castle?”

“I am.”

“And you are … ?”

“Lady St. James.”

His dark brows shot up with surprise, and Martise thought nervously that he studied her with an ever more penetrating stare. Indeed, his eyes traveled the length of her, and with such a burning intent that she felt stripped of her layers of clothing. She braced herself against the onslaught, and assured herself that it was her own fear that caused her to believe he doubted her words. “You are Lady St. James?”

“I am, sir, and who are you?”

He ignored the question. Behind them, Martise heard the sound of the hammer as the coachman worked upon the wheel.

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he told her suddenly, fiercely, and with such confidence and supreme authority that she nearly jumped away, frightened and dismayed. She was Lady St. James, she reminded herself, and not to be intimidated.

“Well, I am sorry you feel that way. But I am here, and as Lord Creeghan is expecting me …”

He cocked his head, studying her again as her voice trailed away with the touch of an imperious note.

“Look up at the castle, milady.” He came even closer to her. Though a stranger, he touched her shoulders and turned her around to stare up at the rock and the towers and turrets. “Tell me, milady, do you see anything welcoming here? Do you feel welcome?” His voice came velvet and soft. It brushed down her spine and reached into her soul. She felt his heat and a tension beneath the civilized demeanor, strong, masculine. She trembled silently. Yet she was aware, too, of the pleasant smell of pipe tobacco about him, of leather and fine brandy, and of an attractively masculine soap or cologne. He compelled and repelled her in one, and though she was afraid, she was also fascinated.

She pulled away from him, spinning around, and she stared into his eyes. They were green, deep, vivid, with specks of gold, and flashing now with humor, and perhaps some darker emotion, too.