Chapter 2

2

H e was cursed. There was no other explanation for it. Bastian Weymouth glared at the expensive toilet in his bathroom. Arms crossed over his chest, he shot a glance at the portly plumber who quivered in the doorway.

"What has you so agitated? I see nothing wrong." Bastian studied the room again, searching for signs of the disaster that the plumber insisted had taken place just a few minutes before he'd run to find Bastian.

The plumber gulped and took a deep breath. "The toilet was in place, and I was just tightening the pipes when the water exploded out of the bowl. It flooded the whole room!" The plumber waved his wrench about.

Bastian's displeasure deepened. The room wasn't wet. There wasn't one drop of water outside the bowl to confirm the plumber's story.

"I swear on my life, my lord! Water up to my ankles." The plumber jabbed at his pants where it showed the fabric soaked clear through up to his calves.

Yet the entire room was completely dry, and the plumber had only fetched him a moment ago to explain the flooding. Flooding, which by all appearances, hadn't ever occurred.

It was just one more irritation in a long line of complications that had occurred during the renovations, which began when he'd moved back to Weymouth and Stormclyffe seven months ago, after his family's fifty-year absence. Roofs leaking in newly patched areas, windowpanes shattering just hours after being installed, birds finding their way inside and dying when they broke their necks against the walls trying to escape. There were even workers talking about seeing a woman in a white dress along the cliffs. He'd never seen anything like that here. It was utter nonsense, but the list went on from there, each thing more frustrating than the last. All of it worsened the superstitions of the locals, especially the ones he had hired to repair everything. If he could just get the repairs completed, all of the superstitious nonsense would have to stop. The mutterings of "cursed" as he walked past local shops in the town would have to stop, too. He was tired of the black label his family bore in Weymouth because of the tragedies in their ancestral past. Restoring Stormclyffe, fixing it was the key. Something deep inside him compelled him to save the Hall. It was an almost tangible need to see the broken glass panes of the windows mended, the rooms dusted, and the broken stones replaced. Maybe returning the Hall to its former glory would make it look less like a tourist attraction for ghost hunters, and would make the townspeople stop spreading tales about it. Then he might have a chance at a somewhat normal life, rather than be the target of village gossip.

His grandmother had been convinced that if he could fix Stormclyffe, there would be no more problems, no more tragedies, no more lost loved ones, like his father.

"It is fine, Mr. Tibbs. I'll compensate you for your services. I trust you'll stay here to see to the remaining water closets?"

"Thank you, my lord, but I have to say I don't feel comfortable staying here after dusk." The portly man shifted on his feet, eyes darting around the lavish bathroom. "I'll return first thing in the morning."

Bastian didn't blame him. It was obvious Tibbs was a superstitious sort, and given the bloody history of Stormclyffe…well, that wasn't a surprise. Bastian's newly married grandparents had fled the castle in 1962 after an upstairs maid was found hanging from the rafters of the great hall. And they hadn't been the first to leave over the Hall's last two centuries.

The authorities hadn't been able to figure out how the girl had gotten out to the center beam to hang herself; there was no way it could be reached without an impossibly tall ladder. Yet the maid had been discovered swinging all the same. Nessy Harper, the victim, had been a local girl, and his family's reputation with the nearby town had been blackened. The coroner's report had read suicide, but there had been talk about his grandfather driving Nessy to it in some sort of doomed love affair. Bastian knew it was nonsense, but it didn't make the sting to his family's honor and pride any less significant.

Bastian's grandmother, who'd spent her last days in their London town house, had died murmuring about Nessy. He grimaced at the memory of her last moments when he'd been alone with her.

"Beware the shadows Bastian…they hold evil. Stay away from the castle. Poor sweet Nessy, milk-white eyes…she was so scared… Touch not the heart of evil… What once was broken must be mended." The frail old woman exhaled her last breath, and six-year-old Bastian had screamed in terror at being left alone with a dead woman. Her words had never made sense, but he'd always wondered if she'd meant that the castle shouldn't lay empty and crumbling. His grandparents had been the last heirs to live in the castle after all, and the guilt of leaving it behind might have weighed upon her in her final hours. Many people suffered from delusions and superstitions in their twilight years.

"Tibbs, I'll pay triple your price if you get this toilet up and running before sunset."

The plumber's eyes bugged out in surprise. He nodded and rushed off to collect more tools.

Bastian left the water closet and headed back downstairs, ignoring the chaos of repair people and staff he'd hired to help with the upkeep of the castle.

"My lord," his butler, Randolph, announced. "The stone mason has finished repairing his work on the bell tower, but he said to advise you that if you wish to have the bell working properly you'll need to replace the clappers since all of the bells are missing them."

"Fine. I'll add it to the list of things I need to fix."

When Bastian turned to leave, his butler coughed politely. "One more thing, my lord. You have a visitor. I put her in the red drawing room."

Bastian cocked an eyebrow and scowled. "A visitor?" That was the last thing he needed.

Randolph swallowed, his eyes shifting away. "Er, yes. She said she is here to do research on the house, and you invited her in a letter. She's American."

American? For a second he couldn't imagine who Randolph was talking about. When the butler handed him the letter in question, obviously taken from the visitor, he studied it.

"Er…Yes. I remember." He scanned the note he'd hastily written several months ago. It all came back, the numerous e-mails and phone calls from the American woman named Jane Seyton. He'd asked her to wait until renovations were complete before she visited, yet here she was, showing up in the middle of numerous disasters. He'd made it abundantly clear she wasn't allowed any access to his family's archives. Apparently Americans didn't understand blunt honesty. No surprise. He crumpled the letter in his fist, failing to quell the sudden frustration.

As if superstitious workmen weren't enough to cause him trouble, having the American here would prove to be one more irritation. She would have to be supervised to make sure she didn't pry into his family's documents and that nothing was taken intentionally from the house.

Randolph cleared his throat. "Will she be staying here, my lord? I can have a room prepared immediately."

Stay here? Surely he couldn't let the woman stay in the castle. Bastian was about to declare as much when something out of the corner of his eye flickered. A shadow at the edge of his vision seemed to be creeping along the wall toward him. He turned and focused in the direction he'd glimpsed it, but all signs of the shadow were gone.

I'm seeing things, too, blast it! These workmen are driving me to madness as well. He rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"My lord?" Randolph prompted, which made Bastian realize he must have been silent for several moments. The shadows had him on edge. Perhaps it would be nice to have a bit of company, if only she wasn't a bloody American. Given the rumors of ghosts and other such childish stories, most of the staff at Stormclyffe refused to stay overnight. Only Randolph and a few of the loyal staff from London remained after dark.

"I shall meet with her. She will not be staying here."

Jane Seyton was sure to be like every other historian he'd met and probably as stubborn as one of the Queen's corgis with a bone. Given half the chance, she'd run off to the nearest garden and bury his secrets where only she could find them. He didn't like anyone having that power over him.

Well, he did have a way with women. If she proved too troublesome in getting her to leave, he'd simply seduce her. There wasn't a woman born yet that would say no to an invitation to dinner if the Earl of Weymouth asked her. No doubt she was a lonely little bookworm, probably wearing spectacles and never been kissed. The idea was almost charming. He smirked as he headed toward the drawing room. If he wanted her gone by nightfall, she'd be gone and all it would cost him was dinner.

When he reached the drawing room and laid a palm on the heavy oak door, it swung open revealing the rich red- and gold-papered walls and dust covered furniture. He hadn't had the chance to visit every room in the castle in the last seven months, since he'd been here sparingly, and he had definitely not been into this one. Randolph had been overseeing the cleanup of the rooms upon Bastian's instructions and given the number of rooms, many had yet to be opened.

Personally, he had been avoiding this room because it was the only room in the castle where a portrait of Isabelle hung. His grandmother had said looking upon Isabelle's face was bad luck, and since Stormclyffe had been abandoned for longer than he'd been alive, he'd never had the chance to find out himself if it was true. But now, seeing his ancestor for the first time…he was arrested at the sight.

There on the wall was the infamous woman whose swan dive off the cliffs had tainted his family's lives forever. Bastian studied the portrait for a moment. A fair-skinned woman with a hint of rose in her cheeks gazed out from the layers of oil with serious gray eyes. Her pale blue gown molded to her curves, and waves of rich ebony hair tumbled down her shoulders to tease the tops of her breasts. There was a curious expression on her face. She was happy, but wariness lurked in the depths of her eyes, as though she expected to lose her joy at any moment.

Below the painting, a flesh-and-blood woman stood with her back to him. Windblown hair, dark as a raven's wing, spiraled down her back in enticing waves. He had the sudden urge to thread his fingers through the silken strands and shape her full curves with his other hand. A curious burning settled deep in his bones, and a ringing filled his ears as visions of him pinning her to a bed filled his mind. Wild, erotic thoughts tumbled through him, stealing his breath before he regained control and focused on his visitor again.

As though she'd heard his lustful thoughts, the woman turned to face him, cheeks flaming. She couldn't have known what he was thinking. His hand dropped from the door handle, and his jaw slackened in shock.

The dreamy gray eyes fixed on him were identical to the eyes of the woman painted above her. Noble, high cheekbones, curving brows, a sensual mouth made for kisses, and that nose, both delicate and impish, a perfect fit for the face of the woman before him. Her inky-black tresses and curves designed perfectly for a man's hands made her a living memory of a woman centuries gone.

Dear God … He repeated the words in his head over and over, mesmerized by the closeness of their shared features.

"You must be Lord Weymouth. I'm Jane Seyton."

The woman strode over to him, hand outstretched. Without thinking, he took it. Heat flared between them. He inhaled sharply.

She dropped his hand and retreated a step, her eyes wide. Had she felt the same jolt he had?

"I sent you a letter explaining that there couldn't be visitors here until renovations were complete. I also told you that I wouldn't let you see any of my family's documents." He grunted, but his gaze kept straying to the portrait behind her, comparing her features to Isabelle's. There was no obvious difference, and that alone had him blinking.

"I waited four months. I assumed the renovations were complete…" Her gaze darted around the room, and she seemed to hesitate as though mentally kicking herself for believing the work would be done so soon. "If you'd only let me see the documents, I could be out of here in a week at most, I swear. I just need enough to be able to write a publishable thesis."

For some reason, her reaction angered him. He didn't want her here when the castle wasn't looking as it should. It was a reflection of him and his family, and to have her intrude was strange, even unsettling. A rush of temper overcame him—one he didn't know he could possess. The powerful emotion was almost foreign, as though not entirely his own.

"Are all of you Americans like this? Barge into a man's home, seeking evidence of scandals that ruined his family for two centuries? Have you no thought to how that destroys my family's fragile reputation?" he growled low through clenched teeth.

Her lips thinned, and the color in her cheeks faded. She looked pale, vulnerable, as though his outburst had upset her.

Her lovely eyes disappeared from his view as her gaze dropped to the floor. "I'm so sorry. I didn't realize it would be such an inconvenience." She sounded genuinely apologetic.

With a heavy sigh, he let his tense shoulders drop. "I apologize for my harsh reply, Miss Seyton. But really, you must leave. I am having trouble with the workmen, and we keep running into problems."

Her face brightened, gray eyes sparkling with energy again. "I need this, Lord Weymouth. If I can't find primary sources to accompany my assertions on the effect of the tragedies of Stormclyffe on the Weymouth community, my committee chair won't approve of my paper, and I'd have to start over on a totally new topic. I wouldn't be in your way. I'll stick to the libraries, the attics. That sort of thing. I could help you, if you like. I'm handy at quite a few things, not just research."

An odd stirring deep in Bastian turned his irritation at her into something different so quickly he barely had time to acknowledge it.

Desire .

Caught in slow-building currents of fascination and hunger for this complete and total stranger, he wanted to see if her handiness extended to activities between the sheets. She seemed to glow with a repressed sexuality, a woman unaware of her appeal. This was not the bookish woman he'd expected. Whatever he'd envisioned she would be like, perhaps wearing a tweed dress suit, spectacles perched on her nose, and a prim chignon, she was certainly not that.

There was something natural about her that appealed to him. She wore no makeup, and she was lovelier for it. Her somewhat casual attire looked comfortable, yet sophisticated. Quite unlike any of the women he had dated in the past. She was a woman who wouldn't wear a slinky dress and strappy high heels. Her sensuality was the sort that would flower before him when he had her naked on a bed.

What an image that was!

It took every ounce of his willpower to convince his body that a physical response was not a good idea. He closed the door and leaned back against it, examining her face, trying desperately to focus on it and not the rest of her body.

"Why do you care so much about the history of this place? I know from your letters you've never been here before. Why Stormclyffe? Why the obsession over people who are dead and gone? You can't change the past." In that brief instant, Bastian wondered who he was trying to convince: himself or her. He didn't know.

She turned away, moving about the room. She paused to pick up a framed photograph of his grandparents. Dust from the shelf, disturbed by her movement, wove through the streaks of sunlight coming in from the windows.

"There's something about Stormclyffe. It calls to me." Another blush highlighted her face, accenting her lovely cheeks. "I want to learn everything about it and uncover its secrets. You have to let me stay. Please ."

He snatched a photograph out of her hand, clutching it to his chest with one palm. "Ms. Seyton."

"Jane."

It disturbed him. He couldn't get a read on this woman, couldn't decide why she was so interested in his home. It was obvious that her desire to stay wasn't just out of a scholarly interest. There was something more there, but she wouldn't tell him…yet.

He set the photograph aside on a shelf above her reach.

"What secrets do you think lurk in my home, Jane ?" His voice caressed her name, hoping his silky tone would crumble her defenses a little. He had to regain command of the situation.

She nibbled her bottom lip, and a wave of arousal slammed into him like a freight train. A thousand delicious thoughts flashed through his head of what he'd like to do to those lips. He practically had to shake his head to clear it of the growing lust. What was wrong with him? He'd never been so out of control before. No better than a young man with his first girl, he couldn't keep his thoughts away from her and her body.

"Well?" He had the sudden desire to corner her, catch her, claim her. It had been ages since the predatory urge to seduce a woman had overtaken him. Bastian fought off his rising desire to unravel the puzzle she presented. Who was Jane Seyton? Sexy, yet innocent graduate student, or was she Mata Hari determined to seduce his secrets out of him for her own gain?

She pirouetted on her toe with all the grace of a ballerina and followed the line of bookshelves, one finger leaving a line in the dusty wood near the faded spines of the books.

"Jane," he growled and cornered her at the end of the left side of the drawing room.

"Hmm?" She spun to face him, eyes widening at him as he glared down at her. She was short, and he towered over her by a good eight inches.

His voice dropped from a growl to a husky whisper. "My family's history is an unhappy one, and it is crucial I maintain what little dignity the dead have left. I need to know why you want to dig up the past. And don't feed me any stories about your dissertation. I know there's another reason you are here."

When she opened her mouth to protest, he placed his finger over her lips. They weren't pouty or full like most women he considered beautiful, but rather were a pale pink and petal soft. Lust exploded through him, an inferno of heat and insanity, a coiled whip striking his body, screaming for release. Again that sense of being controlled, as though a foreign entity had taken him over. He continued to touch her mouth.

He rubbed his thumb over her bottom lip, imagining his tongue licking it before sliding inside. "I can't have you underfoot, writing your ghost stories, unless you can give me a bloody good reason to let you. And I hate ghost stories." He wanted to pin her against the wall and kiss her until she couldn't remember her name. The thought was so out of place, so unexpected.

How was it possible to know that if he were to kiss just beneath the delicate line of her jaw, she would purr like a kitten? Or if he were to rock his hips into hers that she would arch her back and demand a kiss so deep they both would be gasping for air? It should have worried him that he knew just what to do to please her, but he was too lost in this moment, this heady rush of need and fire for her.

Her eyes, like the turbulent seas, flashed in ire.

A pinprick of light just behind her head burst into view, glowing and pulsing like an icy heart. He tore his eyes from Jane's face and stared in shock at the light as it grew. His lips parted, but it shot straight at him before he could make a sound. The light engulfed him and something rammed into him, rippled through his limbs, and took control.

He became a visitor in his own body, forced to watch from a distance, only feeling and seeing what the thing inside him wished him to experience. Fighting for a long moment against his loss of control, he finally surrendered, and the thing within took over fully, drawing him in, merging his consciousness with some unknown being.

"Isabelle!" A hoarse cry tore from his lips, yet the voice wasn't his.

There was no stopping it. A harsh passion seized him, and he pulled her body tight to his, pinning her wrists at her sides as he took her mouth. He trapped her between himself and the bookcase, reveling in her squeak of surprise.

In a frenzy, he explored her plush curves, his hands shaping and stroking every bit of her he could touch. It had been years, so many years since he'd touched her, his sweet Isabelle. She nipped his chin, her hands curling around his shoulders, digging in to drag him closer as she yielded to his dominance.

A roaring wind filled his ears, drowned out the thundering of his blood and the drumbeat of his heart. Glimpses between kisses revealed sharp electric-blue spheres flaming like distant stars in the small black pupils of her eyes. She was there, beyond his reach, yet in his arms. How was this possible? He'd been trapped in the walls for nearly two centuries, unable to find her or hold her.

My beloved. Isabelle .

He groaned and released her wrists to cup her lush, rounded bottom, lifting her against him, clenching hard as he rocked his aching cock against her heated center.

He rammed hard, driving himself against her, no matter that clothes separated him from his desire. She cried out against his ear, the sound a symphony of pleasure that snapped and cracked between them like flames devouring wood.

It was madness to want her, madness to need a stranger. He knew the body wasn't truly his Isabelle's but he could feel her inside it, trying to reach out to him.

But he did know her; something deep within him roared in defiance, as though his soul knew hers, even if his mind did not.

Must punish her. Must prove she cannot live without me.

"Why did you leave me? Why did you jump?" he demanded.

She shook her head, eyes wild and suddenly bright with fear.

He snarled against her lips and kissed her harder, one hand unbuttoning her trousers to loosen them, before sliding his hand beneath the waist of her pants to cup her arse. His fingers dipped between her thighs, finding wet heat. She moaned something unintelligible and shifted closer to him, urging him on with her body when words failed her. Her mouth met his with an equal fire and heady lust, just as she writhed against him, trying to satisfy her needs.

Surrender to me, love. Ease this ache of mine, my broken heart.

He tore his lips from hers and nibbled a path down her neck, savoring the faintly salty-sweet taste of her skin beneath his tongue.

His fingers stroked her entrance again and again until she shuddered and convulsed. He sank his teeth into her neck, hoping the love bite was hard enough to leave a mark so others would know she was his. For however long he possessed this body, for however long Isabelle was in his arms, he had to lay his claim to her. He pulled his hand out from between her thighs and wrapped his arms around her back, clutching her to him. How long would he have to hold her before he lost her again? He could feel his control of the body slipping…slipping away. Despair snuffed out his lust, and a chill surged through him. With a cry of rage and agony, he was torn from the body and forced back into the stones of Stormclyffe.

Freezing pain tore through Bastian, and his knees buckled. The foreign presence, that sense of someone else within him was gone. He went down like a stone, hitting the carpet. His eyelids fell shut. His breaths coming in soft pants were the only steady thing in him. The rest of him vibrated with energy, tiny electric shocks pulsing through his body.

After an eternity, the fog in his head seemed to clear. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest as he sat up. A body lay next to him, facedown on the floor. A woman…the American. It all came rushing back. The passion, the fire, and the fact that he hadn't been in control of himself. He'd done things to her, possibly without her permission. And the name Isabelle still hung on his lips as though he had screamed it until he lost his voice.

What in God's name had happened? There was no rational explanation for what had just occurred. Knowing this made him shudder so harshly that his bones seemed to crack.

"Ms. Seyton—Jane…" He shook her awake.

She murmured groggily and rolled over onto her back.

"What the hell happened?" Her muttered curse was oddly reassuring. "Were we kissing?" She touched her kiss-swollen lips and then her eyes flicked to his. "Oh my God. I swear I don't do this."

"I don't either…" He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, trying to dispel the guilt at not being able to explain his actions. He'd kissed plenty of women, but never in such circumstances as these. It was as if he'd been…possessed. If such a thing could actually occur. Which it couldn't. "I'm sorry for whatever I might have…er…done to you without your consent."

He glanced down at his groin, worried at the sight of his erection. Why was his body not responding to his mind's wishes? There shouldn't be arousal, fire, passion. Yet all three of these were rioting through him making it perfectly clear his body still wanted to bed the woman sitting next to him. His gaze raked her, taking in the sight of her flushed cheeks, swollen lips…and teeth marks between her neck and shoulder.

"I remember going along with it and liking it, but I sort of felt like there was no control." She dragged her fingers through the tangle of black locks, and her gaze slid away, her cheeks pink as her fingers fumbled with the loose buttons of her jeans, securing them back in place.

Bastian felt like a damned fool. He'd just snogged a woman in his drawing room without any control over himself. If he were a man who believed in ghosts, he might think that his ancestor Richard had taken over his body. Possessed him. But that was impossible .

Bastian shrugged it off as nerves. He refused to let himself believe anything else. The castle renovations were getting to him. Maybe he was having some sort of psychotic breakdown from the stress.

Yes. That made sense . He was having a mental breakdown.

Jane got to her feet and held out a hand to him. He accepted, letting her pull him up and got a better look at her.

She wore jeans that hugged her shapely body and a thick gray sweater like she was ready to climb aboard his sailboat and float out on the tide with him. Again he was surprised that her natural beauty was such an allure to him. After years of polished, posh princesses, it was strange that a woman like this commanded his attention.

He was hardly a romantic. He'd never seen the need to fall in love or get involved in any messy entanglements of the heart. He took women, gave them pleasure, and sated his own needs. The romance of red roses and chocolates weren't for men like him. There was no need to buy appreciation from his women, nor did he particularly feel the need to reward them for succumbing to their passions in his arms. He preferred straining naked bodies in sweaty sheets to poetry and dinners for two. Sex was akin to business transactions, and although Bastian knew he viewed it coldly, he enjoyed it. He didn't need any of the emotional intimacy or love that many women seemed to think was required. And he'd never stopped to consider why that was.

But the idea of taking his time, savoring Jane's taste and inhaling the faint scent of her wild-orchid perfume while he claimed her, was incredibly tempting.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Isn't it enough that you mauled me like a wild bear?" She shoved him; her palm made contact with his chest, and he tensed with heat and need. Although upon first meeting her he expected her to be a timid little nose-in-her-book scholar type, she wasn't. Her politeness gave way to an intimacy that confused him. She wasn't exactly treating him the way others did, with respect and awe. No…she had just shoved him like she would a brother or perhaps a lover, or at the least someone she was comfortable with. Why had she done that?

Strangely, he realized her rough-and-tumble action fascinated him. Her sensual playfulness was incredibly erotic. None of the previous women he'd been with had ever been playful. They'd been coy and aggressive, but never teasing. He had to admit he liked it. A woman like her, with full curves and strength just ached to be taken hard, ravaged to within an inch of dying from too much pleasure.

He bit his lip so hard blood beaded, and he licked it away. If he didn't get inside Jane soon, pound into her sweet heat until she screamed he'd… Bastian wrenched control of his body back from that deep inner specter that seemed determined to pin her to the floor and spread her thighs. She was turning him inside out with desire. He hadn't wanted a woman this bad in a long time.

With every last ounce of willpower, he assumed the mantle of his British upbringing and scrounged deep down for the last bit of his manners. "I apologize profusely for my actions. I have no idea what came over me." And he meant it. How could he begin to explain what had just come over him?

She didn't reply, so he studied her for a long moment, those piercing eyes of hers cut straight through to his core. He couldn't help but wonder…she had kissed him back. She hadn't tried to push him away or fight him when he'd kissed her. Why?

"You have no idea why you kissed me?" Her tone sounded odd, as though she might know the answer to her own question.

He shrugged, completely at a loss to explain himself. "I haven't the slightest idea. I suppose it's all the stress from the renovations. I've had headaches for days now, and this is probably one more way my body is reacting. You see now why it's in your best interest to leave my house. I wouldn't want you to remain here when things could get…complicated." He placed a palm on the small of her back, ushering her to the door.

She twirled around, escaping his touch so she could go back and retrieve her briefcase and purse.

"Actually, I don't mind complicated. Perhaps my being here will help reduce the stress."

It took all of his control not to reply that the best de-stressing he could use was her on a bed beneath him.

"Miss Seyton, you cannot stay." He looped his arm through hers, attempting to drag her, albeit politely, toward the door.

She dug in her heels and wedged herself into the doorway. "Wait! Please! What once was broken must be mended ." Her words were expelled in a breathless rush and he froze.

"What did you say?"

Her face darkened as she met his stare. "What once was broken must be mended."

"Where did you hear that?" He whirled her around, pinning her by her shoulders against the doorjamb.

"I…I don't know," she whispered. Her body trembled beneath his hands. "I can't explain it. It's like the words were on the tip of my tongue and when you tried to make me leave…they just rushed out."

His grandmother's warning. The need to fix his ancestral home. This woman who could be Isabelle's twin. It was as though puzzle pieces were sliding into place, but Bastian didn't want to see the puzzle. He didn't want to face this, whatever it was. He might lose more than he already had. Stormclyffe had taken his father, destroyed his grandfather's life, and countless other generations going back two hundred years. Anyone staying here was at risk. If Jane stayed, she would be at risk, too.

"Let me stay. Please." Her begging undid the cold knot inside his chest.

Perhaps if he let her use the library, just for a short while, he could ply her with reasons the curse didn't exist and then send her on her way. If he was very lucky, he might stop her writing her thesis all together, so no one would come here in search of ghosts.

"If, and I do mean, if I allow you to stay, you will not be permitted to review documents unless I have approved them first. You will go nowhere in this castle unless I have given express permission. I will give you one week. That is all. You will not disrupt me, nor the workmen, nor cause any kind of disturbance. Do you understand?"

She was already nodding eagerly before he'd even asked the last question.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips. "Very well. Then you may stay. But if at any point in time, I feel you are underfoot, I will have you leave, and you will brook no argument."

"Deal." She held out her hand.

He released his grip on her shoulders but didn't shake her hand. Touching her once had led to violent passions. He would not be so foolish as to touch her again.

"Sorry," she muttered, dropping her hand.

For a moment they just stared at each other, neither of them speaking. He'd never felt so awkward in his life, but something about Jane ruffled his feathers.

She'd broken the spell of tension with a shrug and produced a notebook and pen, flipping to an empty page and started to scrawl notes. "So this has happened often?"

He purposely gave her a blank look, hoping it would dissuade her from further questions.

She continued. "The attempted seduction of visiting ladies?"

He rolled his eyes. What was he to do with this irritating and completely beguiling creature?

"Have you not been listening? There are no visiting ladies. You are the first official guest Stormclyffe has had in half a century. I only started renovations seven months ago and moved in a few months ago." He ushered her down a hallway, trying to remind himself where the library was. It would be a safe place to put her while he saw to his duties. No doubt she could lose herself in the books for hours, and he could check on her later. It would give him time to secure his more private papers in his office, away from her prying eyes. Even though he'd reluctantly agreed to let her stay, it didn't mean he had to provide her with any real substantial research material.

"So you didn't bring anyone with you? A girlfriend I mean?" Her blunt question caught him off guard, and he stumbled a step.

"What? No…I am not involved with anyone at the moment. I'm not one for getting involved at all really. In fact, I plan never to marry." Where that honesty came from, he didn't know, but he wanted her to hear it. Maybe that would make her understand what sort of man he was. One who didn't date women with designs on becoming the next Countess of Weymouth.

She raised a brow as they continued to walk down the long corridor. Much of the castle's exterior was stonework, but a good majority of the inside had been rebuilt to have a more modern design, well, modern enough at any rate. Bastian knew that most of the interior of the Hall was a combination of Regency and Georgian styles. Richard had been the last of his ancestors to make major changes to the architecture and design on the inside as well as select the furnishings.

She was still gazing at him somewhat reproachfully. "What's that look for?" he asked.

"Isn't there supposed to be an heir and a spare or something? You're an earl. Isn't that part of your heritage? Continue the family line and everything?"

He chuckled, the sound dark and almost unnatural, startling even himself. "I'm not sure my family line should be continued, given our history. Perhaps it's best if the line dies out with me."

She wrinkled her nose. "Then why fix the castle? Why bother if you don't plan to share the success of restoring your home with a family and making it last for generations to come."

"Damnation!" He halted and smacked a balled fist into his opposite palm. "Even if I'm the last, it doesn't mean what I'm doing is irrelevant. I don't plan to marry, but that doesn't mean I won't give my life purpose by rebuilding my family's ancestral home." Hadn't she herself whispered the words? What once was broken must be mended? The Hall was broken by grief, by tragedy, by loss. It wasn't just the stones, but if he started there, he might heal his family's wound. A meager hope, one he clung to without any real hope it would work. But what else could he do? Even if he never set foot in the Hall again, he feared the curse would cling to him and destroy anything he cared about. Better to be here alone and try to fix the place. He had to finish what his father started.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I was just making an observation." She combed one hand through her hair, tugging it away from her face.

Bastian wasn't sure what he should have said in response to her apology and was grateful that the library door was a few feet away. After what had just happened, he needed some time to escape her and regain his composure and his control. The violent mood swings he had just experienced in the last few minutes were entirely unlike him, and he suspected her presence was at the root of their cause. Avoiding her at least temporarily might help him solve matters.

There wasn't much in the way of natural light in the castle, but Bastian's predecessors had installed modern lighting. A massive three-tiered chandelier hung in the great hall, crystals beading the cables that connected the tiers. The chandelier cast a muted light along the ceiling, the faint glow warming the room below. Cobwebs laced the corners of the halls, out of reach of even the most agile maids. The space between the rafters and the floor beneath their feet was filled with cold air.

"Bastian, this is where the maid died, right? In 1962?"

He froze, shoulders tensing, before he looked over at her. While the papers had published the news of the maid's mysterious death, no mention had been made nor pictures taken of the location of her body. How the bloody hell did this woman know where the maid had died? He raked a hand through his dark blond hair and scowled. "She was found hanging from the middle rafter." He pointed straight above them.

She craned her neck back, obviously considering the location of the beam. "How could she have gotten there? The beam isn't reachable from any place but the ground, and she would have needed a huge foot ladder. Don't you think it's odd?"

"It wasn't a suicide." His voice was harder than stone. "My family believes someone killed her."

She stilled, going so silent, it was as if she forgot to breathe.

"So who did it?" She caught up with him as he started walking again.

His gaze flicked to hers, a pulse of heat shooting between them. She licked her lips unthinkingly, and he followed the movement, feeling the need to draw a deeper breath. The sexual tension between them was thick enough that he could have sliced it with a blade. She kept pace with him as he kept walking until he paused at a pair of tall gilded doors.

"Here is the library. Please follow me." He moved ahead of her and opened the door. Her little gasp made him smile. If there was one place that would garner such a reaction, it would be the library of Stormclyffe Hall.

"I've never…it's so…" Words seemed to fail her.

He laughed, genuinely pleased at her reaction. He had struck the little American speechless at least for the moment.

"This way, I'll take you to the family archives." Once more he had his hand on her lower back and guided her toward the documents, which would distract her for the rest of the day.

He hoped.