Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (8 page)

She frowned, trying to tug free, only to feel his fingers tighten. “Stop fighting me, Kacey. You'll never win.”

“That's where you're wrong, Nicholas Draycott!”

He stopped so abruptly that she stumbled into him. Without a second's hesitation, he twisted back against the wall, taking her with him. His arms slid to her ribs and crushed her against his chest.

The next moment Kacey found herself captured between rigid thighs.

“Do you really believe that?” he asked. “Let's find out, shall we?”

Disoriented, she reached out blindly in the darkness. The hard contours of his shoulders flexed rigid beneath her searching fingers.

Somehow her hands curved, digging into those taut muscles.

Somehow his hands shifted, burying themselves in her silken hair.

“Katharine—sweet, soft Katharine.” His breath hissed free in a dark, erotic groan.

The sound went straight to her heart, setting off sensual explosions that jolted bone by tiny bone all the way down Kacey's spine. “St-stop, Nicholas.”

His mouth cut off her half-formed protest. He kissed her urgently, unthinkingly. All his calculation was gone now—all that remained was raw male need. He took without asking, commanded without speaking.

He shaped her mouth, then remade it in his desire, and he didn't stop until her lips softened beneath him and her breath fled sharply.

Only then did he part her lips and fill her with his heat.

Perfectly.

Agonizingly.

Until the kiss seemed to go on forever, blinding in its power and sweetness.

When he released her at last, her mouth was throbbing, and the old Kacey was gone, swept away forever. Now a new Kacey burned in the darkness, consumed by yearnings she had never before known.

The Englishman just smiled. Without a word, he turned and tugged her after him into the darkness, moving noiselessly and with total certainty. Dimly, Kacey heard a door open, then felt a chair probe the side of her knee. A moment later he pushed her down into a stiff-backed wing chair.

“Stay put. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

“Nicholas, wait! Let me—”

Too late. She heard him move away.

Her heart was pounding. Only anger, she told herself and tried to believe it.

Later she was to wonder why she hadn't been more afraid at that moment. Oddly enough, she wasn't, though she was sitting in utter darkness in the middle of a strange room in an unfamiliar house.

As her eyes gradually grew accustomed to the dark, she began to make out faint details. The rectangle of gray at a window. The dim, gleaming oval of a clock face, its hands at eight o'clock.

Since it was too late to go after Nicholas, Kacey decided to pass the time trying to imagine what the room looked like. Vaulted ceiling? Tall bookcases? Paintings covering every inch of its silk-lined walls?

She frowned. The image came to her suddenly, without warning or prethought.

Oak paneling. Gleaming brass sconces and a great crystal
chandelier. Floor-to-ceiling French windows hung with sapphire velvet curtains.

A gilt desk with claw feet. A vast canvas of Henry VIII, fisted hands on his hips, dominating the room from the opposite wall.

Kacey shook her head, but the image persisted. No, somehow more than an image.
A memory.

Now the silent shadows mocked her, no longer friendly.

Without warning, she felt a current of air brush past her feet. She stiffened at the sound of faint scratching near the floor. Two eyes gleamed up at her from the darkness. A moment later, warm fur rippled past her ankle.

Just a cat, she thought, smiling unsteadily. A very clever cat, however, to find its way in past bolted doors and locked windows.

“I wonder what
your
name is?” she mused, her fingers curving over the soft fur.

The amber eyes shifted up to study her, unblinking in the darkness. The cat meowed once, deep and fluidly.

Kacey relaxed in her chair, enjoying the low hum that radiated into her fingers. The cat shifted slightly, maneuvering closer against her leg.

Gideon.

The word just popped into her head. Somehow she knew with perfect certainty that if she spoke the word, the cat would slant his head and meow softly at her.

Enough, Kacey! she thought, scrambling to her feet, her thoughts reeling.

And then, with a click and a faint pop, the power returned. The room filled suddenly with warm, golden light.

She saw with relief that there was no gleaming chandelier before her.

No gilt desk with claw feet.

Only pamphlets and ancient leather volumes, rising in a haphazard mound atop a massive desk—rosewood surely? A
bronze bust of George III cheek by jowl with a little ormolu clock. A row of cut-glass tumblers and a decanter alongside a collection of sherry and whiskey bottles.

A very lived-in room, full of that cheerful clutter her countrymen liked to call the English country house style.

Then Kacey's breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened.

For now she saw the oak paneling—just as she'd imagined it. The brass wall sconces gleamed back at her—shoulder-high, just where she'd envisioned them.

And there was the lusty monarch himself, swaggering from a gilt frame just above the darkened fireplace.

She sank down slowly, her fingers digging into the padded damask arms of the wing chair.

At her feet the cat shifted and meowed softly.

Slow down,
she thought.
You've got a good, healthy imagination, but this is just too weird. Madame Blavatsky you're not.

But the proof was right there before her, tangible and irrefutable.

Blinking her eyes did not make it go away.

She frowned, looking at the large gray cat with ink-black paws. The amber eyes seemed to narrow, staring back at her intently.

“What am I looking at
you
for?” she asked shakily. “I'm not likely to be getting any answers from you!”

She took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing pulse. Perhaps she'd seen the room before in a guidebook. The abbey must have been photographed often, after all. Yes, that must be the answer!

But something told Kacey that the abbey's hard-faced owner would refuse to allow anything but the public rooms to be photographed for publication.

Which left her right back where she'd started. In the middle of a strange, unsettling house with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

And the total conviction that she had been in this room before.

Trying to deny the dangerous course her thoughts were taking, Kacey jerked to her feet, sending the cat running. Then her eyes flickered across the cluttered desk. They said you could tell everything about a person by what he read. So what would this desk tell her about Nicholas Draycott?

She riffled a leather-bound volume of
Richard III,
lying atop the latest thriller by Tom Clancy. Nearby were four thin gardening manuals. She lifted one and glanced inside the front cover. Published by the Royal Horticultural Society, no less.

A pile of letters—opened and unopened.

A children's book with wildly colorful pictures.

Kacey's brow wrinkled. So Nicholas Draycott had eclectic tastes, did he? She moved closer, pulling a file folder out from beneath the slim leather volume of Shakespeare.

“Armistead,” the file was labeled.

Her eyes narrowed. Hadn't Draycott said something about that name last night in the stable? Her curiosity piqued, Kacey opened the folder, resolutely pushing away a pang of guilt at poking into what might be private papers.

But there were no letters inside, only carefully clipped newspaper articles. From the lowest and sleaziest of the English tabloids, judging by the lurid headlines and sensational photographs.

And then her fingers froze. A caption screamed out at her.

“English Diplomat Freed in Burma.” A gaunt face stared back at her from a newspaper clipping, the eyes oddly flat and unfocused.

Nicholas Draycott's face—forty pounds thinner and a hundred years older. A face dominated by the savage will to survive, even when logic dictated that all hope should have fled.

Her eyes had just flashed to the smaller text below when the lights flickered. Kacey smothered a curse as the room was flooded with darkness once more.

Scowling, she carried the file to the window and pulled aside the curtain, hoping for enough light to read by. Outside, the wind
had risen to a wild, steady rush, and the moon hung huge and silver above shuddering trees.

Kacey shivered, feeling a chill seep across the room, and with it a nearly tangible sense of sadness.

Moonlight glittered on the carpet, pale and cold as frost. Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed. Far away in the distance, across the Wealden Hills, she heard the echo of other bells, low and faint. Something about the sound was infinitely disturbing, as if they did not belong to this world.

And Kacey could have sworn they chimed thirteen times.

Her fingers tightened on the file.

She squinted down at the dim lines of script, barely visible in the moonlight.

Without the slightest sound, the French doors slid open before her. The curtains began to flap wildly.

Cold air lashed her face, making her take a step back.

The file in her hands fell forgotten to the carpet as the curtains surged up, then parted to reveal broad shoulders encased in black velvet, long legs eased into breeches and knee-high boots.

His cascading ruffles gleamed white beneath a flowing beard, and his raven hair was cinched in a long queue. Kacey tried to speak, but only a raw squeak emerged.

Hard and shadowed, the man's eyes watched her, his broad shoulders almost filling the doorway. “At last! I've managed it well and truly. About bloody time.”

The words coursed across Kacey's skin in the chill wind, a rich current of sound. “Wh-who are you?” she stammered, sinking away from the door.

Her heart pounded as he strode past her to the unlit fireplace. Without a word, he stripped off his cloak and bent down, his face taking on a fiery glow.

Bathed in the light of a fire that did not exist.

Phantom steam began rising in thick clouds from his sodden
cloak as he tossed it over the nearby chair. Briskly, he held his hands out to the dark grate.

“Cold, as usual. I see I shall have to—” His voice halted abruptly. He seemed to stiffen. “Sit down, Katharine Mallory,” he commanded, not turning. “I'm afraid I haven't a great deal of time.”

Kacey pinched her palm to see if she was dreaming.

The laugh from the fireplace was deep and harsh. “No, you're not dreaming. Not unless
all
life is a dream and death its waking. Some philosophers would have it so, I believe. Now do sit down,” he added sharply. “You're making me deucedly uncomfortable standing there with your mouth hanging open, looking for all the world like a beached mackerel.”

Had she walked into a madhouse? Kacey wondered. Her heart racing, she glared back at the dark figure.

Once more, the curtains fluttered. Through the open window glided a second shadow—sleek and gray, legs capped with black paws.

“Ah, Gideon, there you are. All clear?”

The cat made a low purring sound.

“Excellent. Now perhaps
you
can do something to convince her.”

Kacey gaped as she watched the sleek creature steal with noiseless footfalls across the thick carpet. With a sharp meow, the animal jumped into an armchair near the fire and curled up in a ball.

And there, his intelligent head slanted at an angle to study her better the cat began to purr. As if summoning her.

Gideon.
So she had gotten the name right after all.

Hard on the heels of that wild realization, Kacey began to tremble. She bit her lip, fighting down her fear. “Now wait j-just one d-damn minute.”

The bearded head turned, one brow raised, black eyes snapping. “I'm afraid I've no time for your hysterics, Katharine. So you will oblige me by taking yourself in hand, sitting down,
and listening.” He pointed to the armchair where Gideon sat studying her.
“Now,”
he barked.

Without thinking why, Kacey found herself moving where he pointed. Immediately the cat shifted, then settled in her lap. The room seemed to shimmer, picking up the light of a dying fire.

A fire that did not exist.

Kacey bit back a moan. Dear God, she was going totally mad, without the slightest hint of a doubt!

The man at the grate came slowly to his feet. His face was lean, filled with shadows. Somehow it reminded her of Nicholas's face. “Not mad, my dear, or even dreaming. Had we more time, I would try to explain this the slow way, the patient way, but—circumstances…prevent that.” He frowned. “You're still thinking about that bloody file of my brother's?”