Chapter 13

Pain exploded in Bastian's skull as one of the men backhanded him. It would only take a few more strikes like these, and he'd go down. He had been worried a confrontation like this would happen, but he'd gone on this fool's errand simply to spend more time with Jane.

One of the men lunged for him as two more circled, waiting like wolves. Bastian slid sideways to avoid the man that dove for them, his feet skidding along the concrete. The move cost him greatly as he stumbled and fell. Instinct had him rolling back up onto the balls of his feet in a squat position, but he was vulnerable. A booted foot dug into his ribs in a savage kick, and his lungs expelled every breath of air in him. Fractures of pain shot through his chest. It took every ounce of willpower to gather his strength and tackle the man who had kicked him by grabbing the man's legs and dragging him to the ground.

Jane's frightened cry sent his senses scattering as fear for what was happening to her took over. Suddenly she was flying over his crouched body, tripping over him really, as she tried to escape the grasp of another of the men. She recovered from her fall and scrambled backward. The man pursuing her wasn't so lucky. When he collided with Bastian, Bastian pivoted to the side and grabbed the man's grubby plaid shirt, using the man's momentum to propel him forward and down. He flew face first into the pavement, and then he didn't move. In the dim lights from the pub, Bastian could just make out the dark smear of blood near his head. The fallen man moaned but didn't get up.

"Jane?" Bastian called out as he struggled to get up, scraping his palms over the cold concrete.

The man Bastian had tackled earlier still had fight left in him and managed one last punch to Bastian's eye before Bastian laid him flat with knockout blow to his temple. A feminine groan ahead of him was his only hint as to where she'd landed. He found her next to her suitcase, bending over it as she studied its ruined state. He could barely make out the scene, but he saw that her groan was one of frustration and anger. The canvas suitcase was lying in a pool of water where faint streetlights glinted off the shallow pool. No doubt her clothes and any other items inside were soaked. It was his fault they'd been attacked. He couldn't set foot in town without attracting trouble and attention, whether he tried to avoid it or not. This was exactly why he shouldn't have come with her tonight, but he couldn't trust her to drive alone, not after his father had died trying to make the drive back to the Hall.

"Damn." She righted the suitcase and rolled it over to where he stood on the curb, watching her. He was closer to the lights from the pub than she was, and when she caught sight of him, she gasped and ran straight up to him.

"Oh my God! Are you okay?" She grasped his face, and he flinched as several sensitive places on his cheeks and jaw protested, despite the gentleness of her touch.

"I've been better. This is exactly why I insisted you stay at Stormclyffe." He pushed her hands away and touched the back of his head, wincing because it felt like glass shards were embedded in the back of his skull. There wasn't a wound, only a nasty bump. Jane's hands returned to his face. They were soft and soothing as she examined him. The unexpected touch pulled something deep inside him. He wanted her to keep touching him, but he couldn't let her. She was already too close to him, and his family's bad luck was starting to extend to her.

"You're a mess. Come on, we need to get you fixed up." She looped one arm through his and led him back to the car, dragging her suitcase behind her with her free hand. The growing pain of the new headache set in, and Bastian handed over the keys to the rental car without much of a fight. Driving the way he felt now wasn't safe or wise.

She drove them to a nearby pharmacy that was open late and ran in to buy supplies. While she was gone, Bastian pulled out his phone and dialed Randolph.

"Yes, my lord?" His butler answered on the first ring.

"We will be a little late. Please have the cook prepare some sandwiches and leave them in the kitchen."

"Of course, my lord. Do you require anything else?"

He smiled, even though it hurt to do so. Randolph was a good man. He was one of Bastian's father's servants who had remained loyal over the years and had known Bastian since he was a babe in his cradle. Too often of late, the butler had been carrying the burden of the renovations, and the man deserved a reprieve.

"No, nothing else. Thank you, Randolph. Get to bed and rest."

For a long moment, the older man didn't respond, but when he did speak, his tone was a little rough and full of appreciation. "Thank you, my lord. I shall see you in the morning."

"Good night." He ended the call and pocketed his phone just in time to catch Jane's quick-footed approach from the store, a plastic bag slung over one arm. His lips twitched. She was playful and casual, her American upbringing warring with her love for British culture. She was a conundrum that fascinated him. The way she moved, with a dancer's grace, every action natural and real, not like the women of his station who carried themselves with rigid poise or the women he dated who hung all over him, batting their lashes coquettishly. Jane simply existed as she was, and he liked that in a woman. He liked it too much.

I cannot get attached. The grim reminder didn't sit well with him. She needed to finish her research and get out. He hoped she wouldn't find much to write about. The last thing he wanted was a research paper pointing like a sign to his home so that all the tourists coming to the castle would end up being ghost hunters or simply curious gawkers.

She opened the door with one hand and tossed the bag into his lap. When she saw his face, she wrinkled her nose and squinted.

"Does it look that bad?" he asked.

She bit her lip then replied. "I should have grabbed a bag of frozen peas."

Peas? What on earth did the woman need peas for? When a man got into a fight and had bruising, he didn't put a bag of bloody peas on his face. A bag of ice would have been better.

"When you get out onto the country road, go slow, Jane." He wished he could drive. He didn't like the idea of her steering them to their doom.

"Okay. Why?" She wasn't questioning him or challenging him. He didn't hear that in her tone.

"The road is very narrow, and there are cliffs and plenty of ditches within easy distance of the road where you could roll the car. I was not joking when I said earlier you could easily harm yourself or worse." He braced one hand on the right armrest and the other against the closed window as the pain in his head doubled. The memories were always buried deep in his heart, but having to drive the road that had killed his father wasn't something he faced easily.

"Are you sure you're okay? You're really pale." Something in his chest gave a funny little flip at the look of concern she gave him. No one except for Randolph or his parents had ever worried about him the way she seemed to. His little bookworm cared.

"It feels like an ax is splitting my head in two." He rubbed his temples again.

"There's aspirin and a bottle of water in the sack." She pointed to the bag in his lap.

With a sigh, he dug through it until he found the bottle and the water, and he downed two pills. Hopefully the medicine would kick in soon and dull the awful throbbing between his eyes.

"BastianI'm so sorry about what happened."

He shrugged and set the water in the cup holder. "It wasn't your fault some drunken louts decided to have some fun."

The look she cast his way was doubtful. "Is this the sort of thing that happens when you come into Weymouth?"

He nodded. This had certainly been one of the more violent encounters but no less disturbing than the other incidents he'd had. The last time he had been in town, an old Russian woman outside a butcher shop had spat at his feet and made a strange sign with her hands, which he later learned was a sign to ward off the devil or evil spirits. Sometimes he wondered if he was a magnet for bad attention because of his family's reputation or the "curse" as the townspeople viewed it. Less reputable characters often flocked to him, ready to wreak havoc upon his life.

"These things happen. I took a chance going there."

"Why did you?" she asked.

Her eyes were on the road, but he knew her attention was fixated on him and what he might say. The truth couldn't hurt.

"I wanted to. It was that simple." If she'd gone alone, she might have been fine, but then again, he couldn't be sure, which is why he'd risked going with her. Only that had brought down the trouble all the more quickly upon them both.

She glanced at him. "I don't think there's anything simple about you."