Chapter 14

Neither of them spoke after that. The car headlights pierced the gloom ahead of them, revealing the pale gray pavement of the road. Without the moon to light the hills, the terrain was pitch-black. Even the lights from the city behind them seemed to be cocooned in a bubble, unable to penetrate the darkness of the sloping hills that led to his family's home.

A flash of memory crossed his mind of the first night he'd come to the hall. It had been an endless night like this. A childlike fear of the dark and the things that stirred in it had risen up in him so quickly, he'd sucked in a harsh breath. In that instant, he'd longed for his father more than anything else. He envied the way his father had never seemed to fear anything. Driving to the Hall near midnight would have been the same to his father as driving there during daylight. It wasn't like that for Bastian. He was a sensible man, a rational one, but sometimes his body reacted, even when his head insisted there was nothing to fear from foolish stories and old wives' tales.

As he'd driven up to Stormclyffe Hall that first night before starting the renovations, the monolithic specter of the castle had burst out of the gloom, appearing before his headlights like a phantom itself. Not a single light had shone from the windows, nor had a breath of life stirred in the air around him as he got out of the car. He'd wondered then, would restorations and updated plumbing scrub the stones of the blood of his ancestors, purge the thought of curses and ghosts from the minds of nearly all of Englandand one American PhD student? He hadn't been able to answer the question but only rely on the hope that all would be well if he could but restore the castle.

He was so lost in these dark thoughts, he failed to notice they had arrived at the Hall.

"Let's get inside and see to those injuries." Jane was already out of the car and fetching her suitcase. Bastian grabbed the pharmacy bag and joined her at the entrance. He unlocked the door, and once they were inside, took her suitcase and rolled it to the kitchens. The original kitchens of the hall had been a large stone-floored room. The remodeling had added advanced cooktops, several ovens, three fridges, and a dazzling array of lighting fixtures that made the new appliances gleam.

"I called Randolph while you were inside the shop. There should be sandwiches left out for us."

She nodded and started getting out the supplies. "Sit." She pointed at a bar stool that backed up to one of the side counters. He did as she commanded, curious to see what she would do next. With an air of an army general, she prepped a makeshift nurse's station. Dipping the edge of one cloth into hydrogen peroxide, she then dabbed at the cut on his face. He bit the inside of his cheek as the treatment burned. She handled several more small scrapes on his arm and hands before finally slapping a few Band-Aids on the deeper cuts. Her touch was gentle, her fingers soothing as they drifted over his skin.

"It's my turn to play doctor." He couldn't resist the chance to tease her, even though he knew he shouldn't. Teasing could lead to so much more. Things he couldn't do, not when he needed to stay the bloody hell away from her before some ridiculous coincidence "proved" the curse to yet another personparticularly one who might just get her assertions published. But damn if he couldn't resist.

The responding blush that flooded her cheeks was priceless. She started to pull her hands away, but he caught her wrists and held her. Her lips were ripe for kissing and oh so close.

Christhe wanted her so bad it hurt and not in a way related to the injuries of his fight. The need to have her was as strong as the need to draw his next breath. It was nothing like before, when they first met. This time there was no wild, frightening fire driving him to act in a state of madness. Instead, there was a deep ache only curable by her touch, her body tucked in his arms. He wanted to explore her, learn what made her sigh and purr. The incident in the drawing room had been a flash fire of passion quick to burn out. Right now though, it was vastly different. His attraction to her wasn't a fleeting thing that would vanish when sanity returned.

Temporary lust was easily managed. True desire was an entirely different thing.

Still holding her hand, he noticed a few scrapes on her knuckles and some faint bruising marring her creamy skin.

"How many punches did you throw?" He meant to tease her, but his words come out rough. The idea of her fighting made his blood heat and yet made him anxious, too. She was under his protection, and she'd gotten hurt. Guilt rotted away inside him.

"I might have thrown a few." She faced him, her voice steady.

"Brave little bookworm," he mused.

Her eyes widened, and those luscious lips parted on a shocked gasp. "Bookworm?"

He swallowed, realizing he had let it slip. Time to distract her. He scooped up a clean cloth and dabbed at her knuckles.

"Ow!" she yelped. He could tell by the half-hidden smile on her lips that it hadn't really stung.

Bastian continued to clean the scrapes before fixing a few plasters around her fingers. The entire time she watched him, and he feared she could see right through him. No woman had ever looked upon him with such startling clarity. Her gaze unmade him and reformed him into something he'd longed to be for years: unguarded, open, and unafraid. She was the sort of woman that could tempt him to risk everything to be with her, if only he let himself. And that was exactly the problem. He couldn't let her get close, not when what was left of his family and their reputation might get hurt.

When he was finished tending to her, he gestured to one of the fridges.

"You get the food. I'll fetch something from the wine cellar."

"Sure." She tugged her hands from his and stepped back.

The loss of her closeness unsettled him, but he had no valid reason to drag her into his arms. He almost wished he'd lose himself like he had in the drawing room. Distance, even temporary, would be good. He didn't look back as he left the kitchen. The castle halls were dark. Half of the lighting still hadn't been installed yet. Luckily, the route to the wine cellar wasn't that complicated. A left turn past the painting of two knights jousting, then a right at the hall where Richard's collection of marble statues stood on pedestals on either side of the long room. It was one of the more intriguing parts of the house. He made mental note to keep her away from the private archives where the journals containing sordid details of the Weymouth tragedies lay.

The old oak door leading to wine cellar groaned as he pulled on the circular iron handle. The hinges needed oiling or perhaps replacing. One more thing to add to the damned list of things to fix. An electric lamp at the top of the stairs was within each reach, and he flicked it on. Yellow light bathed the steps but didn't penetrate the pool of blackness below. When Bastian took the first step down, a cool breeze tickled his face, stirring the fine hairs on the back of his neck. He didn't move as the sound of soft exhalation brushed his ears, like a woman's heavy sigh. He could almost hear Jane's voice in his head.

Ghosts, they haunt these walls. She had never uttered the words aloud, but he had seen that thought flash across her face.

When his feet hit the stone floor at the bottom of the stairs, he paused again. The curious sensation of focus on the back of his head made him uneasy. It had to be nerves. Jane and her foolish obsession were rubbing off on him, that was all. Howeverhe didn't linger in the cellar. He snatched up the nearest bottle of red wine from the rack to his right and vaulted back up the stairs, firmly slamming the cellar door behind him with a satisfying bang. Whatever was down there, if there was anything, would stay down there. As he headed back for the kitchen, he strained to focus on a faint soundthe echoing laugh of a woman.