Her thighs dampened. Her mouth dried.
The stranger teased her, lightly sweeping his fingertips across her peak until she whimpered.
He shifted across her, grabbing the entire breast into his hand. The kneading sent a shocking firestorm through her blood. She was struck by a wicked urge to pull his lips down to her nipple, have him sink himself between her legs.
No! She could not give herself to another man.
Vivian struggled, twisted away. She plunged into cold water. Like a drowning child, she fought to reach the surface, her lungs expanding with a suspended breath. She couldn’t make it. She couldn’t awaken.
A door slammed.
Vivian sprang upright and gulped in mouthfuls of air, nerves enshrouded in ice.
The dark room was lit by the random glow of the moon. She could barely make out the posts of her bed, much less see beyond to the far side of the room.
Vivian blinked then stared at the last of the orange embers, her pulse thundering in her ears. Warnings from the villagers rattled in her brain. No one dare spend a night in Silverstone Manor, lest they be attacked.
It was only a dream. Or had she just been visited by The Monster?
Ashworth’s pulse skittered as a cool rush of air slipped over his skin. He blinked, but only darkness filled his vision.
He reached around. The cold stone walls brushed against his fingertips, but no window gave him sight to his whereabouts.
The potion. Though it gave him peace from the nightmares, it often caused him to sleepwalk.
Ashworth wiped the sweat from his forehead with his arm. He must have left his room. Again.
A sudden awareness struck him.
The painful jerk of denied arousal.
Had the luscious and tantalizing dream been real? His palm still tickled with the soft weight of a woman’s breast.
Ashworth clenched his jaw. He couldn’t be out roaming the halls at night. The villagers already spoke of monsters and phantoms who prowled the halls and hunted for satisfaction.
It wasn’t him, damn it. He was only sleepwalking, his mind filled with dreams of desire.
Vivian was unsettling him.
He let the stones guide him through the black veil of mystery. Hopefully he was near to his bedchamber. Usually he did not wander far.
Vivian’s door was not far.
The next morning Ashworth entered the dining room for breakfast. The oak paneling had long lost its luster, the blue carpet now threadbare beneath the splintered table. Once the carved sideboard held the finest china, now only a few dusty and chipped saucers sat upon it.
Scrambled eggs, sliced bread and cold ham lay in wait for him, their aromas comforting. It was the same as every other morning. Today should be no different…but it was.
Vivian sat at the far end of the table, her raven hair plaited in a long twist down her plain gold-colored dress. A slant of sunlight streamed from the window behind her.
Scorching blood swirled through his veins, while the memory of her silhouette through the keyhole struck him mute. Thoughts of his dream stirred his groin. He could do nothing but stare at her, wait for her to speak.
“Good morning, my lord,” she said, lifting her glass of juice. “Won’t you join me?”
He crossed the room, eager to see her face. Though her voice remained even and cheerful, her eyes would relay the events of last night.
She motioned to the chair beside her, but he did not sit. Nay, he would take his food with him in a bit.
Ashworth cleared his throat and found his voice. “Tell me, did you sleep well?”
Vivian blinked, but nothing more. “Does one ever sleep well in a room they’ve never seen or a bed they’ve never lain upon?”
“I cannot remember.”
“Have you not left this house in so long?” True surprise widened her gaze.
“I’ve not left the grounds of Silverstone in near seven years.” She gasped but he continued. “I have no reason to venture elsewhere.”
She took a sip of her juice. “I suppose I can see the finer points of remaining apart from society.”
Her words betrayed her. She was on the run. From who or what, he didn’t know. Why else would his life seem so enviable? No other woman, fair or not, would find this house a refuge.
Ashworth gripped the back of the chair, his chest tight. As Pinkley so wisely stated, a stranger was not safe here.
Vivian’s gaze dropped to her breakfast, where uneaten eggs spread about the plate. She dabbed her lips with a yellowed napkin then set it aside. “Tell me,” she began, then lifted her black gaze to his, “will you hold true to your promise?”
“Promise?” He questioned her word, yet his heart raged.
“To send for the license. I have made it through the night unharmed. That was your bargain.”
Had he said unharmed? He meant untouched.
Ashworth watched her face, her eyes, for any sign of betrayal, but she was too far away for detection.
He reached for her hand. “Come with me to the window.”
She placed her fingers within his, and allowed him to lead her to a recessed nook. Stained glass, remarkably well-preserved, topped the window panes.
The sun skimmed across her hair, reminding him of polished onyx. He wanted to caress it, thread his fingers through it. Instead, he inhaled its scent, heavenly and foreign, like the sweetest of wild flowers.
He bent low, stared at her mouth. “Are you truly unharmed?”
She swallowed. “I am well this morning, my lord. What else would you expect of me?”
“Were you disturbed in any way?”
“Some drafts caused a fright or two, but nothing more.”
“Nothing?” His lips moved closer to hers, nearly on their own volition. “No creature molested you?”
Her breath stilled. If he were able to look into her eyes, he might see the revelation, but he could not take his gaze from her vibrant lips.
“Molested?” The word came from her mouth with a squeak. “In what manner?”
He shouldn’t do it. Already she’d lured him further than he dared to go. But, oh, how inviting her mouth was, glazed with a touch of the juice, ripened for his taking.
Her fingers fluttered to her throat. Ashworth brought them to his cheek, where her gentleness could soften the hard texture of his skin. “Kiss me,” he murmured.
“My lord?”
He took possession of her mouth, nipped at her yielding lips, and tasted the oranges from her breakfast. A cry chimed in her throat then died away. She hesitated, stiffened in his embrace. Slowly, she opened herself to him, allowing access to the sweetness of her mouth.
His blood burned, groin tightened. Every inch of his body begged to feel a woman’s skin against his.
But he knew so little else of them. Women were a mystery. A mystery he could never unravel.
“Nay.” Pulse roaring, Ashworth stumbled away from her to the windows. The sun, warm on his face, added fire to the tempest rampant in his veins. Purple clouds gathered beyond the cliff. Soon they would vanquish the sunlight.
Ashworth wheeled to face her. Her lips glistened still, her cheeks flushed. Those dark eyes shone with an odd hope. He would put an end to that. “We will not marry.”
Vivian’s face blanched. For an instant, her chin trembled, but then she gathered herself and straightened. “I have heard you must take a bride. Or you will lose something you hold dear.”
A knife sliced through his gut. No one should know. It was a mistake that his mother ever found out.
“Are you aware of what it is?”
She contemplated lying, but finally shook her head. “If you must marry, why not me?”
“You tempt me,” he blurted. He was a bloody fool.
“Isn’t that a desirable quality in a wife?”
Yes, of course. But the nightmares…Ashworth gulped the bile climbing up his throat. He could not have her enticing him.
He motioned to Mrs. Plimpton, who waited near the door for his orders. “Wrap up my breakfast, as usual.”
Once the servant began on her task, Ashworth turned to Vivian again. His gaze caught the firm curve of her breast, the slender column of her throat. Passion surged to his core. Her very presence endangered his peace. “You may stay one more night. Then, I will provide you with enough coins for your journey home.”
“No, you promised me. I made it through the night unharmed.”
“But were you untouched?”
Her gaze shifted to the stained glass. “You can’t send me back.”
“There is nothing here for you.”
Her sigh trembled. “Everything I need is here.”
“The Monster came to you last night.”
“No.” Her lowering eyes hinted at the lie. Had he been the one to accost her?
Ashworth forced away the concern, and took the wrapped food from Mrs. Plimpton. “I’ll likely be gone much of the day. Do what you like. I will see you again at dinner.”
“I see.” Vivian angled her chin. The move tempted him again with her lips. “Thank you…for your kind hospitality.”
With a short nod at her controlled words, he left her standing alone in the dining room then descended the rear stairs into the bowels of his lair. There was someone he needed to see.
She would not be dismissed so easily. Vivian turned to stare out the long windows. This isolation would save her life.
Silverstone Manor
was
the answer. Martin would never think to look for her here.
The deep purple gash on Lord Ashworth’s brooding face did not repel her. Vivian was no stranger to deformity. Horrible burns disfigured her mother’s face.
Vivian’s gaze settled upon a square of withering vines and sprawling foliage. It must have been a garden long ago. Tears sparked her eyes. She and her mother spent years planning the beauty of their yard.
Nearly every day, they rose in the morning, pruned bushes, weeded beds and planted saplings. The bees and flowers were as much her friends as any schoolgirl.
She would clear the plot below to escape the dark dreary walls of the manor. A bit of fresh air may bring her new ideas.
Vivian left the empty dining room, stopping to peer in a vast, unlit room, what must have long ago been the main hall. An old wooden table stretched from one end to the other and rusty weaponry hung upon three walls. An enormous stone hearth swallowed the fourth wall, its fireplace darkened with centuries of soot and ash.
A cool breeze glided across her skin and chilled her to the bone. Words whispered behind her. She swung around, certain she’d heard a child. But there was no one. Just her and the strange draft.
Shivering, she abandoned the ancient room. She searched for a rear door and finally found a landing after two stairwells and endless dark passageways. The first two doors were locked tight. A light knock brought her no one. At the third, she twisted the knob but the door held fast. Perhaps the wood had swelled and warped in the misty fog.
Vivian leaned forward. She could hear wind whistling through the slats. This was her exit. She had to get outside. She had to be away from this mysterious house, to somewhere she could immerse herself in the happier memories of her life.
“Can’t get through there, miss.”
Vivian whirled. A cry escaped from her throat. The old man named Pinkley stood at the top of the stairs. She inhaled a shaky breath. “Th-this door leads outside. Why won’t it open?”
“Been shut too long.”
“No one uses it?”
“Many doors in this house not used. No need to go outside.”
A chill crept over her skin again. She rubbed her arms, a feeble attempt at warmth. “I would like to go to the rear yard. How may I get out there?”
“Follow me, miss.”
She sighed and followed him up the steps, sweeping cobwebs from her path. The old man led her through several unlit halls, where gloomy portraits hung within tarnished frames. At last, light reached them as they neared the main foyer.
“’Ere ye are, miss.”
“But we are at the main door.”
“Aye, you can go round the side of the house and eventually ye will find what ye need.”
Vivian swallowed the questions plaguing her tongue. Little about this manor made any sense, including why its lord kept himself hidden within its walls.
Making her way around proved no easy task. Between the knee-high grass and crumbling stones, she faced a hearty walk. By the time she reached the overgrown patch she had seen from the window, Vivian’s face was flushed with exertion. At least her effort helped keep the chill at bay.
A quick glance at the sky showed slate clouds rather than the morning sun. She may not have long before rain would drive her back inside.
Finally, Vivian arrived at the tangle of vines and leaves. A hedge must have enclosed the area once, but now it was overgrown and diseased. Without gloves and shears, she began to clear away as much of the dead foliage as possible.
Tiny flowers surprised her now and then as she moved brush aside, more for their resilience than for their vivid color among the gray and molded surroundings. It was a wonder that anything could thrive in this environment. This house.
Vivian glanced back at the manor, to its spires which pierced the bleak sky like ugly tarnished swords.
No beauty adorned the exterior, all carvings had worn away. A single unmatched gargoyle jutted from a corner, its partner forever lost to the tangle of thicket at the house’s foundation. Ancient, weathered stone, partially covered by rotting ivy, presented itself to any outsiders were they foolish enough to come up the long drive.
Sighing, she turned back to the work at hand but a movement caught her eye. At first, it seemed a hawk had flown from one rooftop to another. She checked again at the top windows.
A face. Her breath lodged in her throat. Was someone watching her?
Thunder rumbled nearby, echoing the boom of her heartbeat. A blink later and the face was gone. Oh God, she had to get out of here or she’d lose her mind.
No. To go home was unthinkable.
For her sake—her mother’s sake—Vivian must convince Lord Ashworth to let her stay at Silverstone Manor.
At this point, she was desperate enough to try anything.
Martin Crawford pushed his way past the butler of Suttley House and headed straight for the staircase.