Chapter 10

Jane pulled herself out of the story in the journal. Richard's journal. This was an invaluable primary source. A direct account written in Richard's own hand. Maybe the true story to the tragedy lurked somewhere in these pages. She looked over at the inconspicuous location where the journal had been hiding between two boring collections of philosophical essays by long-forgotten authors. It was possible the diary had been there for years, and no one had noticed it. The book's spine was blank, and to a casual reader perusing books, it held no particular appeal or attraction. If Bastian ever found out his ancestor's handwritten account of his life was here, he'd probably lock it up and never let her see it. He had told her she wouldn't have access to the family's private papers. A family journal would most likely be considered private.

A little voice whispered dark thoughts in her head. Take the journal. Put it in your bag and keep it just until you finish your research.

With a guilty little flip of her heart, she hastily tucked the diary into her bag before she could she talk herself out of it. Her decision came not a moment too soon. The library door opened, and Bastian strode in. He'd changed into a pair of faded jeans, black boots, and a black T-shirt that showed off his muscular physique. He still wore the expensive watch she'd noted earlier, and his gold hair was messily coiffed as though he'd stepped out of a windy Ralph Lauren ad. She half expected a leggy blonde to show up and casually run her hands through his hair. He was a walking GQ cover.

The earl who wore jeans. She laughed without meaning to, and his gaze fell on her when he spotted her at the table.

"Something amusing?" He raised one eyebrow in a challenge. Did they teach bad boys to do that in some sort of secret club? She had to wonder. Maybe they even had a secret handshake. She'd have to ask him, if she ever got the nerve to. Finally she resorted to biting her lip until she almost drew blood to keep from laughing. Deep down she knew that if she took him seriously, it would spell trouble. Better that she keep herself distant. Not that a man like him would ever be interested in a woman like her. Tim had been attractive in a nice sort of way, but he hadn't been the kind of man that made a woman ache just when he looked at her. Men like that were rare and so dangerous to a woman's heart.

"Sorry, long days researching tend to make me a bit loopy. I take it you're ready to go into Weymouth?" She looked out the window, and to her astonishment, it was nearly sunset. Richard's story had consumed her.

"We will take your car. Do you have the keys?" He walked up to her and held out his hand expectantly.

"My car? Okay." She retrieved the car keys from her briefcase, careful to keep Richard's journal safely out of sight as she handed them over.

He took them, studied the key fob, and glowered. "A Honda?" His mouth pinched into a flat line.

"What's wrong with a Honda?" she demanded. The little car had been great so far.

"Nothing." The way he said that one word betrayed how he really felt.

"Then why don't we take your car?"

He scoffed. "No. Not tonight. I try to keep a low profile when I go into town."

She gathered her things, returned the other books she'd been studying back to the shelves and jogged after him.

"A low profile?"

His face darkened as he looked down at her. "Yes. The locals aren't fond of me because of the damned curse they think I'm dragging around, and the tourists love me. Either way, I get too much attention. I try to stay here and only go into town if necessary."

Her heart splintered a little. He couldn't go into Weymouth without being persecuted all because of his family's string of bad luck? She couldn't imagine what that was like, but it had to be horrible.

"Is it like that in London?"

He shook his head and held the library door open for her. "No. In London I'm just another nobleman, famous and all that, but no one there cares aboutthe past."

She could almost hear the words left unspoken. He wanted to feel at home here in Weymouth, where his heart was and his family came from, not London. Yet a curseor at least the rumors of onewas keeping him from being welcome even in his own home.

He led her through a maze of corridors in silence. She was fine with that, and he seemed to want to brood. When they reached the front door, Randolph was there to open it for them.

"I'll have dinner waiting for you when you return, my lord." The butler smiled warmly, and she smiled back. It was a comfort to see that someone genuinely cared about Bastian and his well-being. Why that mattered to her, she couldn't quite say; she only knew that it did.

"Thank you, Randolph; I won't be long."

As they approached the car, she headed for the right side, patting her pockets, only to remember she didn't have the keys. Bastian joined her by the door, keys in hand, and he waved for her to go around to the passenger side.

"Why?" She crossed her arms over her chest and stared at him.

He placed one hand on the roof of the car next to her shoulder and leaned into her, trapping her against the driver-side door. He gave her a scorching look while the corner of his mouth kicked up into a cocky grin.

"I always drive when a lady is involved. The cliffs are dangerous at night and the roads, too. I wouldn't want anything to happen to you while you're a guest here." He moved his other hand to her hip and brushed his fingers along her waist in a slow, intoxicating caress. Tingles of awareness flooded her entire body as the world seemed to shrink into that one featherlight touch. It was so easy to just let go when he touched her and not fight the passion that swelled inside her. But she had to stay in control.

She couldn't let him in. Not after Tim Jane swallowed hard. The memories of other nights with another man she'd been so attracted to swamped her. Another man who hadn't believed her connection to Stormclyffe, her dreams of the past. Another man who thought she was crazy. The pain in her chest was strong enough that she closed her eyes, praying for the self-control to compose herself. Now was not the time to fall apart because her broken heart still stung. Bastian made it so easy for her to remember what it was like to be attracted to a man, to long for that close intimacy and the thrill of desire and longing.

Be flippant, keep him at a distance.

"I bet you do this all the time. Talk a woman out of driving with that smile."

He dropped his hand and shrugged in a casual way that showed just how comfortable he was in his own body. She envied that.

"Is it working?" He waggled his eyebrows, making her laugh. He kept her on her toes. One minute brooding, the next teasing. She didn't want to like him, but it was hard not to when he teased her.

"Maybe a little," she admitted. "I just prefer to drive, that's all."

"What is it with you Americans and driving? I've never met one who didn't think they should be behind the wheel," he said.

She tried not to laugh. "You may drive, my lord, if it will ease your need to repress a colonial." They were so close this time that when he smiled the effect of his nearness made her knees buckle.

"You're appeasing me, but I'll take my victory." He stepped back from her, chuckling and muttered "colonial" as she walked to the passenger side of the car.

When they got in, the first thing Bastian did after buckling his seat belt was flip the radio on. He started driving down the narrow road and hit the scan button, pausing when an oldie came on. He settled back, his lips curved in a small smile. She had to bite her lips to keep from singing along. It was one of her guilty pleasures. There was something innately freeing about letting go and just singing. This song was particularly hard to resist. It was one of her dad's favorites called "Don't Pull Your Love Out" by Hamilton, Joe Frank, & Reynolds. Unable to resist, she hummed as softly as possible.

"Go on, sing. I can tell you want to." He took his eyes off the road for a few seconds and glanced at her.

"Shut up."

He chuckled and cranked the volume dial up, and soon the car was filled with the song. She started when he began to sing. The Earl of Weymouth had a beautiful baritone. His British accent faded as he belted out the lyrics.

"Join me." He slipped in this command while the trumpets pelted out a quick melody in between versus.

"Fine." She surrendered.