Chapter 6

6

J ane studied the plate of cucumber sandwiches, a little smile tugging at her lips. Cucumber sandwiches. Wasn't that so English? Her stomach rumbled, and she succumbed to her hunger and reached for one of the perfectly cut little pieces.

"Gotcha." Bastian chuckled from somewhere behind her.

She whirled around, a sandwich stuffed in her mouth and guilt heating her cheeks. After swallowing she apologized.

"Sorry, I'm starved." She half turned and picked up the plate, offering him one.

He selected two and set them on a small plate for himself. Then he crossed the room to the cabinets on the far wall and retrieved two wineglasses, filling them.

There was something so intimate about the two of them alone in the kitchen, ready to share a meal. It wasn't at all what she had expected when she came here. It was one of the things she and Tim had often done. Meals, just the two of them in cozy little pubs in Charleston on the holidays. It made her heart ache and twist because she missed the man less than the intimacy of just being with someone. She had to be careful. She didn't want that intimacy ever again, even as much as she missed it. The thought of losing someone she loved over all the strange happenings in her life tied to Stormclyffe hurt too much.

She shivered, realizing she still wore his coat. She would return it, soon, but not right now. Surely there was nothing wrong with wanting to savor a few more minutes of being enveloped by a coat that bore his woodsy, masculine scent. It was soothing and enticing, like her own personal catnip.

"So, tell me about yourself, Jane. I realized today I know very little of you except for your academic interests, of course." He slid her glass close to her hand. Their fingers met on the glass's stem, and neither of them pulled away for a moment. It was Jane who finally broke the contact, and she wished she hadn't, but she desperately needed a drink. She wasn't great at small talk. With Tim, everything had been so easy; they'd had so much in common. But Bastian was a stranger, one she felt drawn to in ways she never had felt with Tim. What could she say?

I'm just a girl who had an average, happy life but always felt I belonged somewhere else…belonged…here? It sounded silly, and if she was going to start talking about herself, she needed a few sips of liquid courage. The wine's bouquet was heady and rich. She thought she tasted a hint of cherry and oak.

"Not much to tell really. I'm from Charleston, South Carolina."

"Siblings?" he prompted and then took a bite out of his sandwich.

"One brother. Garrett is four years older than me. He can be an idiot at times, but a loveable one." A little smile curved her lips.

He grinned devilishly. "That explains your instinct to punch my shoulder whenever you're losing an argument."

"Oh?" She tried not to laugh, but she couldn't help herself. It was true. She punched Garrett. A lot. He was always bullying her whenever they argued about something, and socking him was the best way to distract him. It was a habit she'd never really outgrown.

"A close friend of mine has a younger brother and sister, and you remind me of them." The soft smile that played on his lips melted her inside. He seemed genuinely happy at some secret memory from long ago. What she wouldn't give in that moment to discover a way to keep him smiling like that. It was a beautiful expression on his face, and someone blessed with that nice of a smile should have a reason to always be smiling. Yet, she knew only too well after this afternoon's research that smiles from Bastian were few and far between and hard-won if they came. There was so little for him to be happy about. It was obvious that wealth and title did not equal happiness. It was one more reason she was curious to know who would bring such fond memories and soft smiles to his lips.

"Who is it?" she couldn't help but ask. She desperately wanted some insight into his life and his past.

"Rhys Wolfe. You have probably heard of him by his title. Viscount Wolfe. He's a fellow schoolmate of mine from Eaton and later Cambridge. He's a good man. His younger brother Owen and his sister Chloe are quite the pair of troublemakers, always have been. They perfected the art of outnumbering and outmaneuvering Rhys at every opportunity, much to the hilarity of us watching whatever scheme they had concocted unfold. Afterward, they would insist it was Rhys's determination to be the perfect elder brother that inspired such a need to rebel and cause trouble. I sometimes wish—" He caught himself and with a rueful shake of his head, covered his lips with his wineglass, and drank.

She swallowed hard as she resisted the desire to ask the question that would prompt his answer. Perhaps if she changed tactics, she could get him to come back to it.

"What's it like? Growing up and living in this world?" She gestured to the kitchens.

"Being an earl, you mean?" He laughed softly, but there was no joy in the sound. Only pain.

"Try to imagine a dozen responsibilities, duties, and worries and multiply that by a thousand, extend it to a lifetime, and you'll have some idea of what being an earl is like. I spend most of my time worrying over issues in Parliament and my estate. I have to worry not only about my own needs but those of whom I employ." He raked his hands through his hair and then planted his elbows on the counter and continued in exasperation. "It's like running a bloody miniature country. Frustrating as hell," he growled. "The only time I ever was able to focus on something outside of my duties to my lands and title was when I was away at university."

Comprehension flooded Jane, and visions of the websites and news articles she'd read about him flashed across her eyes. A piece of the puzzle of Bastian Carlisle fell into place at last.

"That's why you pursued such extensive studies. I wondered at the number of degrees and the depth and complexity of your education." She slapped her hands over her mouth when she realized her words sounded like an insult.

His lips kicked up in a wolfish grin as she blushed to the roots of her hair.

"I mean to say…that is…most people in your position wouldn't waste time…" That didn't come out right either. She felt like an idiot.

He reached out and brushed an errant lock of her hair behind her ear, still grinning that devil's grin. "I know what you meant."

His touch made her skin tingle and her body flush, as his fingertips coasted over the sensitive shell of her ear.

They were so close on their bar stools. If she moved an inch, their knees would touch.

"Learning was my only solace, my only freedom." He bit his bottom lip, appearing equally thoughtful and bashful, which turned out to have the most devastating effect on her body. Little shivers and heat flared and fired beneath her skin like sparklers on the fourth of July. She moved without thinking and reached for his bare forearm. His muscles jumped at her touch but he didn't draw back.

I shouldn't touch him. She knew it. Her head knew it, but her heart, still bruised and bleeding wanted so badly to connect to him, even if it meant risking itself for more hurt.

"It sounds very silly when I say it out loud," he mused and shook his head. The action was so disheartening that Jane acted on pure instinct.

She caught his face in her hands and pulled his head down to hers, kissing him. For a long second, only her lips moved, enticing his to respond, and then it was as if she'd unleashed a wild creature. Bastian caught her by the waist with one hand and by the nape of her neck with the other as he dragged her off her stool and onto his lap, forcing her to straddle him. The stumbling action of their coming together had him laughing against her neck as he steadied her. Then he took possession of her mouth again.

She was alone inside her head; no phantoms chased her and pushed her away from her own body. This wasn't like the drawing room. There was only this wild, raw kiss that felt as old as the stones on the cliff and as unceasing as the waves battering the rocks. Each nibble, each lingering lick and feathering of lips was alluring and dangerous. The need to be with him, to get closer even when their bodies touched everywhere, wasn't enough. And it was only a kiss. When had time shattered and the universe shrunk to just two bodies pressed together, two mouths fused as one? Never in her life had Jane experienced such a moment. It terrified her. Being with Tim hadn't felt like this, not even close. But like Tim, the earl thought she was nuts. I need to stop. I need to break away from him before I lose myself.

But it was too late; she was lost. His kiss would haunt her more than any spectral woman in white or leaping shadows. Her feelings, the ones she had refused to accept, were now forced into the light and could never be buried again.

As their lips parted reluctantly, he brushed her hair back from her face, his fingertips lingering on her skin and threading through her hair. That tender, intimate gesture squeezed her heart like a fist. Feeling this way, it was like a knife slicing small cuts on her soul. The pain wasn't there right away; it grew slowly as some rationality returned. This wasn't real. Whatever was between them was merely chemical attraction. He might have done this with many women before her—play the wounded Byronic hero and they'd all fall into his embrace. The realization left a bitter taste in her mouth and an ache in her chest.

Still, his passion-darkened eyes and ragged breathing were a sensual symphony. Their foreheads touched, and his hands massaged her shoulders in slow, methodical, soothing strokes. He nuzzled her, his face brushing against hers as he shut his eyes and exhaled. Jane gazed in rapt fascination at his incredibly long lashes, a deep gold like his hair, as they fanned out over his proud cheekbones. He was so beautiful it hurt her to look at him, yet she couldn't tear her eyes away.

"We should finish dinner." His hands dropped from her body. She nearly cried out from the loss of his touch. She finally sank back onto her bar stool, unsure of what to do. He did not meet her eyes, and they finished dinner quickly in silence. Did he regret what they'd done? Had he not liked kissing her? Her insecurities were fresh and unwelcome, but she couldn't push them away.

One thought ran through her mind again and again like quicksilver.

I am falling for him, and he doesn't even care.

After dinner, she and Bastian took care of the dishes, and then he escorted her back into the corridor. Her suitcase was once again under his control, and Jane bit her lip to keep from frowning. Didn't he want to talk about what happened? Or was he going to just ignore the fact that they'd made out like a couple of teenagers? She wanted to talk about it. Hell, she wanted to prod him a bit and see how he felt about her. But the silence seemed like pretty damning evidence. A man wouldn't just kiss a woman and then ignore her if he was really attracted to her. Which meant he didn't really desire her.

"Bastian, would it be possible to see more of the castle tomorrow?"

He studied one of the many paintings on the wall before answering. "I suppose Randolph could give you a tour of the house and grounds before you settle down with your books." He led her to one of the main staircases in the castle.

"Randolph? Not you?" Rejected. It didn't just sting. It hurt. Bad.

"It's better if we don't…" His words lingered like shadows, swallowing what little feeble light of hope her foolish heart had held. He cleared his throat. "Randolph is much more familiar with the recent history of the Hall and would be an excellent guide."

"But—"

"I have a lot to do. Your presence is already an imposition. I cannot waste time on you." Bastian didn't meet her eyes when he spoke. It might have killed her outright if he had.

Waste time on me? The idea that she was a waste was so belittling that it chilled her heart. She couldn't fall for a man who viewed her like that. She was worth time. If he didn't see that, then it was his loss. Whatever temporary insanity that had gripped her since she met him was obviously hormone related. Strictly physical. That was all it had to be.

"Your room is this way." He rested a palm on the dark oak banister. The wood gleamed beneath the glow of the wall sconce lights on either side of the stairs. Intricate flowers had been carved into the wood, creating a picturesque view. The petals and stems looked real enough that she could touch them and expect them to feel their softness. Bastian tapped, waiting to hear her answer. He seemed completely unaware of the beautiful banister next to him.

"This way." He started up the carpeted stairs. She followed behind him, hating how she couldn't help but admire the way his jeans molded to his backside. Memories from the drawing room filled her, how she'd wrapped her legs around his waist as he… She shivered and tried to push that thought away. That moment with him had been so different from the others. They'd come together as though they'd spent centuries apart, not as though they were newly discovering each other. She preferred the man who had kissed her in the kitchen, the man who sweetly kissed her with fire and passion but not with wild desperation and anger. That had felt like someone else. But of course, he didn't want her. Wasn't interested. She was a "waste of time." The thought made her bristle. Even though she didn't want to like him, she didn't want him to not like her.

When they reached her room, he opened the door, revealing a beautiful room done in the Baroque period style. The walls were a fashionable drab green, and a four-poster bed with crimson moreen hangings trimmed with forest-green tassels made an impressive sight. The crème coverlet was brocaded with flowers, and the bed looked plush and comfortable. A healthy fire snapped and crackled in the fireplace opposite the bed. It was the painting that hung above the bed that caught her attention.

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her throat, clasping her pendant as she struggled to breathe. Excitement stirred to life inside her all over again as she stared up in wonder. Bastian set her luggage down next to her and joined her at the foot of the bed.

"It's him!" She pointed, even though the gesture was unnecessary.

"I thought you would enjoy this room."

Enjoy? There wasn't a word in the English language that could have described how she was feeling in that moment. She was staring at the only portrait of Richard Carlisle in existence. The one she had seen in her research books. The faded photographs didn't do it justice. Richard was seated in a red wingback chair facing her. An Irish wolfhound sat next to him, its tongue lolling to the side of its mouth like a dark guardian with a lupine smile. Richard's face mirrored his hound's but only with a hint of a smile. He was predatory, sensual, and powerful in his dark blue waistcoat, and knee-high black boots. Bastian's ancestor looked every inch the earl he was. But it was so much more than that. Bastian and Richard could have been twins, the uncanny resemblance was so strong.

The painting cast a spell over her, weaving invisible tendrils around her body, drawing her in. Barely audible whispers drifted close to her ears.

"My beloved, my beloved, you cannot run from me again."

"Cannot run," she murmured in a daze. A faint ringing started up in her ears, and she swayed uneasily on her feet. Bastian caught her by the elbow, steadying her. As soon as he touched her, it was gone.

"Are you all right?" Bastian asked.

"Just tired." She pulled away from him.

"I trust you will be comfortable here?" His gaze danced across the room as though trying to study it with a critical eye, looking for any faults.

Her own focus went straight back to the painting. "Yes!" she exclaimed, tearing her gaze from Richard to the living man next to her. "Thank you so much for letting me stay here." Despite his callous words, the gesture of letting her stay in this room wasn't lost on her. He could have just as easily put her in a broom cupboard, but instead he'd brought her here.

"You're welcome. Randolph is always around if you need anything. My room is across the hall. Breakfast is at eight, and I will inform Randolph he is to take you on the tour." He moved toward the door but paused, turned around to lean against the jamb, and look at her. His figure was shadowy as though caught between two worlds and belonging fully to neither. A strange stirring of woe and fear dug deep into her stomach. Jane had a horrible sense that she might lose him. With great sadness, she admitted in her heart that she knew he would never belong to her. No matter what dreams and hopes she might build, they were as solid as castles formed in the clouds. One could never possess what one never had. However, it didn't ease the ache of wanting nor make the melancholy of loss fade.

"Jane," he began but didn't finish. He rubbed the back of his neck with his palm as though unsure of what to say.

"Yes?" She fought hard to keep the hope from showing in her voice as she leaned back against the nearest bedpost. Her fingers curled in the crimson hangings. The fabric was cool and soft to the touch.

"I wanted to…" He finally met her gaze. "I wanted to thank you for the kiss. I haven't been kissed like that in many years. It shouldn't have happened though." He pushed away from the door, and after a moment, he walked toward her, a look of determination hardening his features momentarily. With his every step drawing him closer, her breath hitched, and she clung to the hangings for support. When he was mere inches away from her, he simply stared at her face and then focused on her mouth as though the answers he sought were there. She licked her lips nervously as sharp hunger spiked through her. Would he kiss her again? Would she lose herself anew in his embrace?

"Why?" she asked.

He ignored her question. "Who are you, Jane? Who are you really?" His whispered question made her shiver. She didn't know the answer herself. He trailed the back of his knuckles over her cheek, and another shiver rippled through her, like a pool of water disturbed by a stone cast into its depths.

"Who am I? I don't know…not anymore." She was Jane, but she wasn't Jane any longer. The more she was around him, the more she felt she was changing. Like the coastline by the Sandsfoot Castle ruins, her sense of self was altering with the force of Bastian's presence, which pounded at her like mighty waves. They would shape and form each other and become something new, only she wasn't sure what that would be. She simply knew that she belonged with him, wherever he was.

But he didn't want her, wouldn't have anything to do with her. Every time he touched her, he reminded her it was wrong, that they shouldn't do it. Then why did he keep coming back to her? It didn't make any sense, and she knew logically she shouldn't want him either.

He lowered his head and feathered his lips along her jaw, and her lashes fluttered as pleasure and need fueled each other until her skin was burning.

"You are a mystery to me." His words rumbled against the sensitive skin of her neck as he pressed his body into hers, pinning her to the bedpost. "You're an American, but you act as though this place is in your blood. I see your love of my home shining in your eyes, even as you fear its darkness." He stole a brief, hot kiss before continuing. "You look like her, Jane. Did you know that? When I first saw you, I thought you were Isabelle come back from the dead."

His hands cupped her shoulders, fingers tensing. "I thought I'd gone mad, believing such nonsense, and then I gave in and kissed you, and we…" His mouth trembled as he kissed her again, this time deep but too brief. "It's as if the past is repeating itself …" He shook his head ruefully. "What does it matter? I want this. I want you, even though I shouldn't."

She opened her mouth to deny him, but no words were there. His mouth came down hard on hers, and she was caught in the tide and pulled away from the safety of the shore.

Isabelle. He thinks I look like Isabelle, and I think he looks like Richard. It was the only thought to penetrate the haze of her mind during that everlasting kiss. His hands never left her face, and his thumbs stroked her cheeks in a soothing rhythm. They focused only on that kiss and the infinite perfection of the way they moved together as though they'd kissed for a thousand years and would do so for a thousand more. His body pressed against hers in a small rocking motion that hypnotized her. A simple meeting of their mouths, and she came undone. A flick of his tongue against hers, the flash of unguarded emotion in his brown eyes.

When they finally parted and he met her gaze, their panting breaths shared the quiet air around them. She knew she would never be the same. She could never go back to her books and her research and not think of him.

What have I done? Fear slid through her, making her tremble. She didn't want him to have this power over her. The way she'd felt for Tim paled in comparison to the way Bastian made her feel and she'd only known him a matter of hours. What would Bastian do to her if she let him get inside her heart? She should want to be safe and free of him and the spell he wove around her, but she was caught in the gossamer strands of his web. But he'd already told her he didn't want anything to do with her—and if she told him about her dreams? He'd likely put her on the first flight to the U.S. as fast as he could get a staff member to take her to Heathrow.

"You're shaking," he murmured in concern and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. She tucked her face against his chest, inhaling his scent and bathing in his warmth. It was an awful weakness to want to be held and comforted, but she couldn't deny it, even knowing how dangerous it was to open herself up to him.

If someone had told her before she came here that within a day the Earl of Weymouth would be holding her in his arms, she would never have believed it. Yet here she was, letting him in where she swore no other man would be allowed. Suddenly all of her remaining energy vanished, and she collapsed, exhausted.

"Jane! Should I call the doctor?" His breathless tone made her insides warm, and she shook her head.

"I'm fine. I just need to sleep. It's been an insane day. Give me a few hours sleep, and I'll be as good as new." The lie felt heavy on her tongue. It was her heart that hurt, but she wouldn't dare tell him that. She pushed back from him a little and leaned back to sit on the bed.

"If you're sure you're all right…?" He didn't look convinced. His brows were lowered as he studied her from head to foot.

"Really, you should sleep, too. You're face is going to hurt tomorrow." She silent begged that he would leave her alone. A girl just wanted to curl into a ball and lick her wounds after rejection, not have a man gently comfort her. She wasn't in the mood to deal with mixed signals.

A ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "I fear you're right."

He returned to her door, and with one last look of concern he said, "Good night, Jane."

"Good night, Bastian." In that moment she felt safe and protected, even after everything she had seen today.

"You know, I like that you call me Bastian." He chuckled, the sound so soft and inviting.

"You do?" It just occurred to her that she had forgotten her manners and did the American thing by consistently calling a peer of the English realm by his first name.

"Yes, I do. I don't feel so alone." This last comment was so quiet, she almost wondered if she had dreamed it. He closed the door behind him.

She stayed on the bed for a minute longer before she roused herself and went over to her suitcase. Dark stains made splotchy patterns on the red fabric of the bag. She laid it down and unzipped it. With a sigh of relief, she dug through the contents, finding nothing damaged. She found her flannel pajamas and changed into them and got into bed.

The fire in the hearth was lit beneath the painting. The logs crackled and snapped as they were consumed by the ravenous flames. Randolph must have lit the fire before he'd gone to bed. It warmed the room up and yet the dance of shadows made Jane uneasy. She snuggled deep into the comforter and willed herself to sleep. She wasn't sure how long it took, but just before she started to drift off, one of the shadows thickened into a strange shape…like a body hanging from a noose.

She blinked, and it was gone.

Just a dream. Please let it be a dream.