Chapter 8

"What's the matter? I could ask you the same question. You're teasing me and yet you" She didn't dare finish. It felt like he was flirting with her, but maybe she was wrong. The last thing she wanted for him to think was that she viewed herself worthy of his attentions or that she wanted them. It would only complicate things. While she didn't mind, as she'd insisted to him earlier, that had been under the pretense of being allowed to stay and conduct her research. She hadn't actually thought she'd start to succumb to his charms. It was a good thing he had the ability to infuriate her as well. That made him far less attractive.

"Can you please just take me to the records?"

"Of course." His tone was more reserved. The wall that had started to crumble between them was solid again. "This way."

He led her to a shelf near the floor on the other side of the fireplace where several tall tomes were behind a sheet of glass. He bent, pressed his fingertips to the panel, and slid the glass to the side, making the large books accessible.

"Here are the recorded histories and family trees of the Weymouth line. I won't allow you access to any private letters or other documents from my family. I assume three hundred years worth of information is enough to keep you occupied for the afternoon. I can guide to you other sources tomorrow." He paused, then leaned one shoulder against the bookshelves.

The man was hot when he leaned that way. Why did leaning have to be so damned sexy? Maybe it had to do with the way it called attention to the long, lithe shape of his legs and the muscles of his shoulders. She wanted to smack herself for even going there. She shouldn't be thinking about him like that. Dissertation. Focus on your research.

"That reminds me. Where are you staying? The trip to the town can be treacherous after dark. I wouldn't want you driving off the cliffs into the sea. I would prefer to have someone escort you back." He announced this casually but there was something odd in his expression, an emotion she couldn't read clearly.

Was he worried about her? She mentally shrugged it off. Of course he didn't care about her, not that way. After what had happened between them in the drawing room, she was hesitant to do anything that might give the wrong impression about her. He might not think of her at all in the way she was currently thinking about him. Naked. And how she'd like to get him out of those dark slacks and light gray sweater that molded to his broad chest muscles.

Bad idea. Must not think of him naked. She chastised herself. His offer probably stemmed from worries over a lawsuit from her family if she drove her rental car off the cliff and died.

"I've got a room booked at a little inn."

Bastian waved a hand. "Don't worry about that. Do your research this afternoon. I will drive you into town tonight around sunset."

"You'll drive me?" Weren't earls supposed to have chauffeurs?

"I do know how to drive." He flashed a mocking smile. "Even my ancestors drove their own sporting carriages. But to answer your question, my driver is still in London along with some of the other staff and won't move in until the restorations are complete. I've actually been driving myself since I moved back here."

He sounded smug, as if he'd proved false her accusation that he couldn't operate a car. Had he taken her comment as an insult? God, she hoped not. She mentally kicked herself.

"Oh. Then yes, that would be fine."

"Excellent." He stepped away from the bookshelves. "I'll come to collect you later. Enjoy your research." He flashed her a cocky smile that did something funny to her knees before he took his leave and left her alone with the dragon and his hoard of jealously guarded books.

Jane removed the first of several volumes from the shelf and carried it to a nearby reading table. A cloud of dust billowed up as she set the book down on the polished cherrywood. The motes twirled and danced through the stray beams of light from the high windows. A heavy silence filled the library, almost tangible. Each movement Jane made elicited a loud sound: the whisk of paper as she removed it from her briefcase, the rapid click of her ballpoint pen as she pressed the plunger with her thumb. She collected her materials and opened her notebook to a fresh page, hoping to dispel the eerie silence of the room by losing herself in the text on the pages before her.

She peeled back the heavy brown leather cover of the book. The first few pages were blank, but the third bore an elaborate sketch of a family tree. The names were inscribed with a quill pen, the ink faded to a pale brown but still legible. She carefully took notes and replicated the tree, which started with births and marriages in 1607.

For the next three hours, she remained in her chair, diligently recording the Weymouth earldom's history from the births to the deaths of its more prominent family members. Until Richard's death, the Weymouth line seemed normal in its deaths and births. After Richard's passing, the pattern changed showing an extraordinary amount of tragic deaths and accidents. There were people drowning at sea, falling from ladders in the orchards, and unexpected infant deaths. A majority of the victims were women who had married into the Stormclyffe family. There were many more gruesome deaths and more unexplained accidents or occurrences. Fires broke out in the castle several times, always starting in bedrooms where the women who married into the Weymouth family were sleeping. Crops on the estate failed for several years while the crops of the farmers from the surrounding areas thrived.

Maybe the rumors were right. The entire family seemed truly cursed.

She set her pen down and closed the large tome. It didn't seem to matter whether it was supernatural or merely bad luckthe facts didn't lie. Since Richard's bride jumped to her death in 1811, the family line and home had suffered through a nearly endless chronology of heartbreak.

The last entry in the record book stated a fact she hadn't known.

Bastian's father had died in a car accident at the age of forty-three. When she had investigated Bastian's background, she hadn't focused on his parents. She knew logically that since he was the current Earl of Weymouth, it meant his father must have passed away, but there were no records detailing how. Only Bastian and his mother survived. If Bastian stuck true to his words that he would never marry, that meant he wouldn't continue his family's line. The title would pass to distant cousins, but the direct line would perish.

She'd judged him too harshly, thinking him a fool for not wanting to marry. Now she wondered if he wouldn't commit to building a future with anyone because so many tragic and untimely deaths weighed the family tree down. Even if he refused to believe in the curse, perhaps somewhere deep in the recesses of his mind lay a fear of bringing another child into this world under the Weymouth title. Tears burned at the corners of her eyes. How devastating to believe, even subconsciously, that any baby he might have could be condemned to death by his family's curse. It would explain why he kept himself emotionally distant from others. His playboy reputation might make her blush, but the man himself was a still a mystery.

A muscle cramped in her neck. A series of small knots had formed after hours of her head bending over the desk. She pushed her research materials across the table and reached behind her to massage the area, soothing the tension away.

As far as her dissertation was concerned, she could use the chronology of deaths and disasters of the family to highlight its influence on myths and legends around this particular estate. She would work it into the stories connected to other estates around England. If she was able to talk Bastian into letting her photograph or perhaps scan the copies of the family tree with particular entries regarding some of the deaths of the family members, she would be able to cite them as primary sources.

The sun emerged from the clouds, causing long shadows to stretch along the carpeted floor. She watched their slow-moving progress for several minutes as the darkness consumed the patterned carpet. One shadow seemed to move more quickly than the others. It expanded rapidly, consuming the light on the table closest to the window. An identifiable shape began to form.

A dragon.

Her gaze shot up to the windows, and she expected to see a bird spreading its wings in a nearby tree, which would have explained the unusual shape. But there were no trees visible through the glass. The dragon shadow twisted its head, and its tail lashed out in a whip-like flash. Its wings spread wide, and for a brief second, she thought she could hear a distant roar and feel the library's floor quake beneath her.

She cried out and leaped from her chair, backing up until she hit the bookcase behind her. Something dropped to the floor at her feet, but she dared not look. Her heart pounded against her ribs as she searched for the shadow, which seemed to have vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

As her breathing slowed, and the faint ringing in her ears faded, she glanced down and noticed a small leather-bound book on the floor. It was partially open over one of her feet. Bending down, she gingerly picked it up and studied it more closely. The pages were full, but not with printed text. Instead, each page was filled with scrawling handwriting, the archaic cursive style beautiful and half-faded. Dates were inscribed in the top left corner.

It was a diary.

Transfixed, she sank back into her seat and began to read. As she read, she could see it all unfold as though she were a visitor there, watching unseen like a ghost.