Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (4 page)

“Enjoy your evening, Lord Draycott,” the woman outside said sweetly. “I'm afraid it will be rather colder than the night you had planned, but maybe you'll learn something in there—not that I count on it overly much. Oh, and don't hold your breath waiting for Cassandra to send down another restorer. You've had your chance, and frankly, you've just blown it.”

Fury swept through Nicholas—fury at his own stupidity. Fury at her cunning.

Fury at how much he wanted her still, in spite of everything.

What would the little bitch do now?

Exactly what she'd come here to do, of course. And like a fool he'd told her exactly where to find the Whistler.

Kiss it goodbye, imbecile. If it's the Whistler she's after she knows how to get it. If it's information she wants she can get that, too. And she'll be long gone before you can even work that bloody door free!

The viscount's eyes rose, smoking with rage, assessing the twelve-foot walls around him with disgust.

Bloody blazing hell, Nicholas Draycott thought grimly.

How could he possibly be such a damn fool?

Again.

K
ACEY WAS GASPING BY THE
time she reached the front of the stable. Just beyond, sheer granite walls beckoned across a silver sheet of water, shadowed and smooth in the gathering darkness.

Somewhere to the south, heat lightning dug phosphorous fingers into the channel, but she barely noticed.

He must have come out this way. There had to be a wretched door here somewhere! Breathlessly, she ran over the narrow two-arched stone bridge that spanned the moat. And then she saw the door, tucked behind the base of a chimney, painted gray to blend in with the granite walls.

Kacey's heart raced. Did she dare? What if she met someone—a servant or a relative?

A wife?

She resolutely ignored the faint sliver of emotion that pricked her at the thought, seizing the doorknob and twisting violently.

The door slid open smoothly before her, revealing a long corridor of spotless, sparkling marble. She stopped, turning back to listen to the night.

No noise, no angry shouting. Good, he must have given up. Now to find the stairway.

Warily, she slipped inside, feeling a shiver work down her spine as the silence of the abbey's interior fell over her like a cool, enveloping cloak.

Welcome,
the house seemed to say.
We've been waiting for you…

Kacey caught her breath, fighting her dark fancies. Too much traveling, she told herself. Too little to eat.

Of course—it was all so simple. There was nothing wrong with her that a decent meal and a full night's sleep wouldn't cure.

She stopped only long enough to tug off her boots and tuck them under one arm. Then, soundless and graceful, she darted off toward the stairway and her waiting Whistler, determined to have at least one sight of the tantalizing canvas before she turned her back on this place forever.

Never say forever,
the house seemed to whisper.

Forever has a way of happening. In places and ways you haven't begun to imagine.

That dim warning, too, Kacey ignored, gripping her lip between her teeth and telling herself to get on with this wild escapade and then get the devil out of here.

It took her only seconds to find the massive oak staircase. She looked neither right nor left, denying herself the pleasure of that rare and ancient house. Somehow she knew she must close her eyes to its beauty, that if she dropped her guard even once she would never find the strength to leave.

And now there was a clock ticking in her head, telling her that a silver-eyed predator was only minutes behind her. Driven by sheer adrenaline, she found her way to the top floor.

And there she forgot her fear. For now the luminous canvas was before her, shimmering in the first faint rays of moonlight spilling through the long gallery's tall windows.

There Kacey made her last, and most deadly, mistake, which was to underestimate the man with the voice like silk and the eyes like beaten silver.

Eyes that she seemed to have known forever.

 

H
E FOUND HER AT THE SOUTH
wall of the long gallery, seated before the great canvas. Her long legs were tucked beneath her, and her eyes were radiant.

The Englishman's face filled with awe at the picture she made, her long hair gleaming silver in the moonlight, her whole being suffused with love for the canvas before her.

Suddenly he was ripped by jealousy at the warmth that glowed from her eyes, angry that he wasn't the one who'd put it there.

Suddenly he wanted to be an artist so he could paint her.

A poet so he could capture her in exquisite words.

Most of all, he wanted to be her lover so he could know her warmth always and in a thousand intimate ways.

And then, like a dirty tide, memories of Bhanlai washed over him. Memories of betrayal. Memories of deceit and the blinding pain and rage that came in its aftermath.

Memories of the other woman for whom he had also wanted to be all those things—a woman who'd taught him everything there was to know about betrayal.

Draycott's jaw clenched. In the moonlight, the muscles at his neck stood out clearly. He fought down the urge to stride through the gallery and shake her. He shook beneath a fierce need to touch her—to crush her against the wall and bury himself deep in her heat and softness.

Unaware of the brooding presence behind her, the woman came slowly to her feet. She shook herself slightly, as if fighting the spell of the great canvas. Her eyes were fixed still on the dim, phantom boat that rocked in timeless silence beneath a lavender moon.

Her heart filled with its beauty, Kacey breathed a silent song of thanks for this rare gift she'd been given.

For having glimpsed such a masterpiece, even once. Most of all, for the knowledge, deep in her heart, that it was indeed from Whistler's hand.

A tear slipped down her cheek, For long moments, she didn't move, struggling with nameless regrets and disturbing memories,
shadowed fragments that clamored up from some dark place inside her, so deep that she had never before guessed they existed.

Go now, Katherine Chelsea. Go now, or you'll never go!

One hand to her lips, she spun about and stumbled toward the door. In her desperation to be away, she didn't notice the tall shadow unmoving amid the other shadows of the silent room.

Her trembling fingers rose, sweeping her eyes blindly, and then she was gone.

 

H
IDDEN IN THE SHADOWS OF
the long gallery, Nicholas Draycott stood frozen, his hard fingers clenched into fists. His head spun as he tried to grasp what he'd just seen. She hadn't taken the painting after all. And that meant—

Abruptly his expression hardened.
It means nothing, you fool. It means that she wants photographs and juicy gossip, not canvases. She probably doesn't even now what the hell she's looking at.

Draycott reminded himself what she'd said back in the stable. She'd called the canvas a pretty picture, for God's sake!

But try as he might, he couldn't forget her hesitation and the dreamy look on her face. Right now, every sense was clamoring that he was wrong about her.

In spite of that instinct, something made him hold back, waiting silently in the shadows outside the door.

Merely the logical need to learn her real intentions, he told himself coldly. Merely a natural desire to see that she took nothing with her when she left.

By the time she reached the front staircase, he was gone, melting back into the darkness, where an ancient rear staircase ran down to a hidden passage leading out to the gatehouse.

Just in case she stole something else on her way out, Draycott told himself.

But he knew that, too, was a lie.

 

T
HE FIRST FAT DROPS OF
rain had just begun to fall when Kacey jerked open the side door. Her shoulders slumped as she stood staring out into the night. A long sigh escaped her tense lips.

So this was it—no way out except to walk to town. So be it. She absolutely refused to go back and ask that misbegotten swine in the stable for anything, not even if her life depended on it!

She tossed her bag firmly over her shoulder. At least these wretched boots might actually prove to be of some use, she thought, smiling grimly.

She turned up her collar, then tugged the top of her trench coat up over her head, fighting to see through the slanting sheets of wind-driven rain.

Far to the south, ghostly fingers of fire ripped the sky, and a tremor snaked through her. Fear? Or was it regret?

No, something else, she decided.

But then Kacey had all she could do to keep herself upright as she tottered over the rain-slick grass. Unused to the new boots she was wearing, she tripped painfully and often. Each time she bit her lip against the pain and forced herself forward into the rushing darkness.

It couldn't be more than five miles to town, after all. Her bus ride from the village had taken no more than fifteen minutes, surely.

But in the night and the lashing rain, five miles seemed like the other side of the world.

Which means you'd better get started,
she thought. At least she would have the memory of the painting to warm her. Yes, that memory would last her for a very long time.

Fifteen minutes later her hair was plastered to her ashen cheeks and her lips were blue-tinged, even though she hadn't reached the bottom of the hill. The lightning was much closer now, her only beacon in the sullen darkness of the storm.

She would be dangerously exposed out here in the middle of
the sweeping lawns, Kacey realized. Soon she'd have to cut west, toward that dim line of beeches, silver against the darkness.

She stumbled again and bit back a moan of pain, feeling her ankle swell.

Surely no more than four miles to go, she told herself optimistically.

Suddenly she stiffened, listening to the wind howl through the trees. Somewhere a branch ripped free and plummeted past her.

She frowned, tugging her coat tighter over her head. She was just asking herself how she'd gotten into this mess when she heard the other sound.

It came from nowhere and everywhere, and the hands were from the fabric of night itself, jerking her around and holding her rigid.

Kacey screamed.

His face was a cold mask of anger, etched by deep lines at his forehead and cheeks. But then Kacey saw something else—the buried traces of anxiety and concern. For
her,
in spite of what she'd done.

For a wild instant, she felt a primal desire to brush the lines from that brooding face. To set the fires of passion aglow in those silver eyes once again.

His fingers bit into her shivering shoulders. “Just where in the name of God do you think you're going?” he growled, struggling to be heard against the wind.

“Back to Alfriston,” she cried. “Back to sanity. Back to civilization. Anyplace that's away from
you!
”

A muscle flashed at the granite line of his jaw. His fingers tightened. “It's eight miles to the village. You'll never make it in the dark.”

“Why not? I happen to like walking!”

His smoldering eyes settled on her mud-stained boots. “Especially in
those,
no doubt,” he said disgustedly.

“Then I'll just have to take them off, won't I?” Kacey jerked
free and bent down to tug at her boots. One came free and went flying, hitting him in the knee. He winced, she noticed happily. A moment later, the other spun off, sailing into the darkness.

Catching back an angry sob, she plunged forward toward a bleak cluster of yew trees, trying to ignore the paralyzing cold seeping into her bare feet.

“You crazy, headstrong—” With a ragged curse, Draycott seized her and swung her up over his shoulder.

“Let me go! Put me down this instant, you bastard!”

But the Englishman's hard, pounding gait did not slacken. Her bag bouncing over the grass, he set off over the rolling lawns to the house.

Gasping, Kacey hammered his sodden back, tugged at his hair, and lashed out with her bare feet, all without the slightest apparent effect.

“Put me down!” she screamed. This time, her voice was ragged with fear.

Draycott went absolutely still. “You promise not to bolt if I do?”

Her heart thundering, Kacey considered her answer. She could lie, of course, but somehow she felt it necessary to meet him head on, with total honesty. “I won't run. Not yet, anyway.”

Grim-faced, Draycott pulled her from his shoulder. The next instant Kacey was sliding slowly down his rain-slick body.

He was all hardness, bone and muscle against her softness. And Kacey felt his need revealed clearly in every taut, wet inch.

Her feet touched the grass, and his eyes fell to the small dark crests upthrust against the near transparency of her wet shirt.

Draycott's breath checked. The pain at his groin returned, far worse than before.

“Dear God, who are you?” he said hoarsely. “What are you doing to me?”

Kacey stared back at him, equally dazed. His words drove straight into her heart, echoing the same turmoil she was feeling.

The storm around them paled to insignificance beside the savage, wordless emotions that rocked them both.

Their eyes locked. She felt all his need, his shock, his fury…

His vulnerability, no matter how hard he tried to hide it.

Around them, the air shimmered, supercharged, crackling with electricity and the relentless force of their opposing wills.

Time shuddered and then ground slowly to a halt.