Chapter 11

She wasn't the most spectacular singer, but she wasn't cringe-worthy either. They matched pitches and crooned together as though they had sung a thousand times together over a thousand years. The feeling of déjà vu crept through her on cat's paws. She had never done this before, yet flashes of an unknown memory dug into her mind, sliding through years of memories she knew belonged to her. These slivers of conflicting images, hazy as morning mist, gave her a sudden headache. Putting her hands to her temples, she rubbed at the tender spots, hoping to ease the strange pain. It relented just a few seconds before Bastian looked her way. She answered his questioning gaze with a smile, hoping to hide her slight distress.

Ahead of them the sun had turned from peach to bloodred as it sank into the horizon. The nerves and jitters she'd had all day seemed to fade as he drove them toward town. When the song ended and another one began, he turned the volume back down to a soft background noise.

"I knew you would be fun," he declared.

"I knew you would be arrogant," she retorted, but there was no real bite in her tone. She enjoyed his teasing, now that she'd figured him out, or at least part of him. He kept his distance and tried to be off-putting to strangers to keep safe, just like her. But he slipped every now and then, letting her see a different man, someone carefree and happy. She hoped the man singing in the car was the real Bastian. The brooding, jaded man he presented himself as wasn't quite the same, like a shadow of his true self, a shadow distorted and fractured by years of loneliness and tragedy.

His past was full of pain and disappointment. He'd lost his father at a pivotal age in his life, and the responsibilities of his title and estate were a heavy burden he'd borne alone. The appearance of his easy life, with model girlfriends, fast cars, and parties, was probably an illusion he created to keep the bleak past and uncertain future at bay. Sometimes pretending to be something else, or masking who you truly were, was the safest thing to do.

She understood that. As a kid, she had known she wanted to study history and had taken school seriously. She had never tried to be something she wasn't, but sometimes she'd been tempted for just a moment here or there to change herself to escape the harsh judgments passed by her peers.

The rest of the drive into town was quiet but pleasant. Bastian seemed lost in his thoughts. He navigated the streets with ease, despite the flocks of tourists drifting in front of them like brightly colored birds.

"Where are you staying?"

"A little local inn two blocks from here."

He followed directions she gave him and pulled up in the first available parking space half a block away. Although the streetlights had turned on, the corner where they parked was still dark. He locked the car and pocketed the keys. A heavy silence settled between them, and he stared into the darkness, his face suddenly turned ashen. A woman stood just at the edge where the lamplight kissed shadows. It was impossible to see the woman's face, but the weight of her attention felt like twin holes boring into her skull. A primordial fear stabbed her chest and clouded her mind. She struggled to form words.

"Bastian, I know I've been enough trouble, but do you think you could walk me to the door?" She sounded pathetic, but she didn't feel safe walking to the inn alone. Something about that woman

He didn't reply; instead he continued to watch the woman, his lips pursed into a frown. Did she unsettle him, too?

"You don't have to come with me." It cost everything she had to say that. The second she was able, she'd just run straight for the inn's door.

"You aren't staying here tonight. You'll get your things and check out immediately. I'll have Randolph prepare you dinner and a room."

"What?" Stay? At Stormclyffe with him? Her jaw slackened and she knew she must have looked ridiculous.

He shot her a quick, distracted look before returning his focus to the woman at the end of the street. "You'll stay with me. Don't try to argue. I won't hear otherwise."

Argue? Why would she argue against that? She tried not to show her relief as she glanced about the strangely empty street. Raucous sounds from the pub nearby seemed muted now that night had fallen. A light breeze flowed across her face, and she rubbed her arms to warm up. He noticed and shrugged off his coat, holding it out. Before she could protest, he strode up to her.

"Jane, put the bloody coat on," he growled low, and she let him slide it up over her shoulders. The carefree man from their car ride was gone. The man looming over her was brooding and edgy. His gaze jumped from one building to the next as though expecting trouble.

"Let's get inside." He tucked her arm in his, the gesture less romantic and more of an attempt to get her to move. With a quick look over her shoulder, she exhaled. The woman half-wreathed in shadows had vanished.

When they got to the weathered wooden door of the inn, he slowly raised his head and stared at the creaking painted sign.

"The White Lady?" His voice was low and soft, as though troubled.

"Eryes. It's a very old historical place; that's what the website said anyway."

Bastian's focus fell on her, his expression reproachful. "Did you choose it because it was her family's?" His hands clenched into frightening fists at his sides. "Did you find it amusing to bring me here?"

She frowned and stepped back, suddenly afraid. Not of him, not exactly, but something crawled beneath her skin, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. What was he talking about?

"What are you saying?"

"Isabelle Braxton. This inn belonged to her family." He whirled away, looking ready to storm off.

"What?" Suddenly she couldn't breathe. The flood of fear and the memories of her nightmares closed in, destroying her ability to suck in a breath. She collapsed against the Inn's wall and braced herself against it for support.

All this time, she'd planned her trip, come here, and spent one night, never knowing it was Isabelle's. Bastian had walked about fifteen feet away when he stopped, then slowly turned to face her. He crossed his arms and stared at her.

"You didn't know, did you?" He took a few steps toward her.

She wasn't paying attention to him, not fully. The image of the women in the white nightgown on the cliffs kept replaying in her mind. Her gaze drifted up to the sign. How had she been so stupid and missed the obvious connection between Isabelle and the inn?

"Jane?" He cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.

His touch jolted her back to herself, banishing the memories.

"I didn't know I didn't see the connection."

The hardness in his expression softened.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were poking fun at me," he admitted. "Let's go inside. The quicker we can get you checked out, the better."

She was grateful when he took her hand in his and led her to the inn's door. His palm was warm and strong. The touch was a comfort she hadn't expected him to offer. Which one was the real earl? The brooding, jaw-snapping wolf, or the playful, seductive man who sang in the car? Her thoughts were interrupted by the innkeeper coming to meet them at the door. He was in his early sixties, and a pair of thick glasses perched on his slightly bulbous nose.

"Miss Seyton. How are you?" he asked and then froze when he caught sight of Bastian.

"My lord," he hastily greeted. "I would have prepared the place if I had known you were coming."

Bastian waved a hand. "It is fine. I'm here to assist Miss Seyton. She is staying at the Hall, and we've come to collect her things and check her out. I will settle her bill and cover the remaining days she had planned on staying here."

When the innkeeper opened his mouth to argue, Bastian fixed him with a pointed look.

"You really don't need to" Jane tried to say she would pay, but he shook his head at her in exasperation.

"Go on." He waved a hand imperiously.

With a frustrated little groan, she climbed the stairs to the second floor, Bastian trailing behind her. She pulled out the thick brass key and slid it into the door lock. He leaned against the wall only a foot away, waiting for her to open it. When she raised her head, she found his heated stare fixed upon her. For a second, neither of them moved, and the tension between them was an almost tangible force. Then the lock clicked, and she was jolted into awareness of herself again.

Once she was inside, she threw everything into her suitcases as fast as she could. There would be time to organize it all later. When she emerged from the bathroom, she found Bastian standing by the window. The fading light of the sunset created a haunting silhouette. He could have passed for his ancestor with the striking profile he presented. Not that she had ever seen Richard, except for a faded color photograph of the only portrait Richard had ever commissioned of himself. But it had been enough. Bastian possessed many of the same features. One of his hands was pressed against the glass, fingers spread as though he was straining to reach through the window for something far beyond his reach. An echo of the wrenching sadness she had experienced when she glimpsed the woman in white came back to her. What was Bastian longing for?

"Hey." She broke the spell with that single word, and he looked over his shoulder at her. For a brief moment, his face was open, every emotion laid for her to see. The sheer vulnerability and fear-tinged melancholy ghosted behind his eyes, and it made her drift toward him. Then he twisted his lips into a cold, mocking smilewhether at himself or her, she wasn't sure.

"Finished packing?" He gestured to the toiletry bag she'd tossed on the bed.

"Oh, yes." She snatched the bag, tucked it into her suitcase, and zipped it up. She was eager to leave the inn now that she knew its dark and sad history. It felt too personal to be here. Funny, she felt more comfortable at Stormclyffe.

"Then let's be gone. Randolph will have dinner ready soon."

He bent to grab her suitcase at the same time she reached for it. Their heads collided in a painful crack.

"Ouch!" She stumbled, and the back of her knees collided with the bed behind. She fell onto the soft, quilted comforter, and as Bastian tried to catch her, he tripped over the rolling suitcase and collapsed right on top of her. The air whooshed out of her lungs, and she sucked in a desperate gasp of air. Their bodies pressed together perfectly, her breasts against his chest, their noses close enough to brush. His eyes were warm and dark and her insides twisted a little as desire awakened within her.

Ever since Tim had left her six months ago, she'd felt closed off. Yet, as their bodies melded on the bed by sheer accident, it felt right. Her hands cupped his shoulders, and his muscles tensed beneath her fingers. He wasn't built like a body builder, but he had that perfect lithe figure that was all strength and lean lines of perfect muscle. What would he look like with his clothes off? She cursed herself for wanting to know.

"My apologies." His groan escaped through gritted teeth, and he rolled off her and onto his back beside her.

"It's okay," she said. "I'm sorry we knocked heads."

He chuckled, even though it sounded pained. "It would be more fun towhat do you Americans call itknock boots?"

She put a hand to her chest and breathed out. "Just when I think you might actually be one of those English gentlemen I keep hearing about"

She left the rest unsaid, as he sniggered like a misbehaving schoolboy.

"I'm not a gentleman. I'm cursed. At least according to the townspeople." His tone changed, his anger thickening the words, as though his curse was something he'd brought about, not something thrust upon him by his ancestors. It frightened her, not that she thought he would hurt her, but she wondered whether he might be right. Her notes from earlier today hadn't lied. Women who married into the Stormclyffe line died early and painfully. He had every reason to push her away, and she didn't want to be in the path of a curse. There was no sense in taking a chance and putting herself at risk.

"I'm sorry I tripped you." She glanced away, trying to ignore her body's reaction to him. Even though he no longer touched her, the phantom pressure of his body seemed to linger. Her skin heated, and her heart beat fast at the mere memory of his body on top of hers. Like the encounter in the drawing room, she wanted to be wild, untamed, to have that gorgeous aristocratic mouth of his seeking sensitive places on her skin until she screamed for him to take her. Unlike the passionate clinch in the drawing room that led her shameless orgasm at the magic of his hands, this felt real and concrete, not like ancient phantoms had taken hold of her body.

When he rose and picked up her suitcase, she followed with a weary sigh. Her forehead hurt like hell. She'd probably have a nasty knot later. There was no sign of the innkeeper as they came back down the stairs and paused at the front desk. Bastian braced his forearms on the counter and leaned over to peer into the small workroom behind the check-in area. There was no sign of obvious life from the small room. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the small brass bell and smacked it with his palm. The loud ding was jarring in the silence. Still, no movement, no sound, not a whisper of life emanated from anywhere inside the old inn.

"Is there anyone else staying here? Any other guests?"

"Um" She racked her mind, trying to recall if she'd actually seen anyone.

She hadn't.

He seemed to understand her silence, and his lips pursed. "Very well."

It was a very British thing to do, and she almost laughed. Smiling and laughing always came naturally when she was anxious, afraid, or upset. It was a horrible personality trait, one she despised about herself, but she couldn't help it. It had certainly made for some awkward situations in the past, and this was no different. When he raised that one brow, she knew he had picked up on her inappropriate reaction.

He retrieved a white card from his wallet and hastily scrawled a message on it, putting it on the counter.

"Hopefully, the innkeeper will find this and contact me about the bill." He slipped his wallet back into his pocket.

"You really don't need do that," she said.

He didn't reply but grabbed her bag and headed for the door. When they stepped outside, it seemed that the darkness practically swallowed them up. It consumed the streets, and even the lights from the pub next door barely penetrated the gloom. She snuggled deeper into Bastian's coat, inhaling the masculine scent of him. She should give it back. His scent was too good, and she hated that she liked it. A distant streetlight a block away was the only beacon they had to guide them back to her rental car.