Enchantment & Bridge of Dreams (46 page)

River.

Night.

A man whose face was hard with regret.

She fought her soft pillow, seeing trails of white fog, feeling the heat of a lover's hands and mouth and skin, understanding all her years of distance and regret and fear that came from a distant time when she had found love, only to have it stolen from her.

And in that moment of aching awareness, with one foot in dreams and the other in waking, she saw all the rare, remarkable things she had never had a chance to know as Cathlin O'Neill, but had never quite forgotten as Geneva Russell.

 

G
ABRIEL WAS SMILING WHEN
she opened her eyes, her body poured over his in a moonlit glow of breast and thigh.

“You—knew? You have felt this?”

“Of course I knew.”

She touched his chest, wondering. “It is—quite extraordinary.”

“There is more.”

Her head cocked. “Truly? It seems beyond imagining.” A hesitation. “You could be persuaded to…show me?”

A dark smile. “Very likely. With the right inducement.”

Her fingers moved along his chest and then lower. His eyes closed when she found him, fire a drumming in his blood.

“Persuaded like this?”

“Maybe faster than you like.”

A soft laugh. Her hair a veil across his chest. Her kisses—heaven itself.

He caught her in her flight downward.

Her smile was a luscious invitation as she eased her legs around him, fitting herself to the awesome mark of his need.

He cursed. “Geneva—”

Deeper. Encasing him in satin. Taking him to a paradise beyond his dreams.

He tried to hold her, but she wriggled free. “There will be pain, so I have heard. Yet I think it will be well worth the sight of your face now, my lord,” she whispered huskily.

Gabriel frowned, trying to be sane for a few moments longer. “It is true, there will be pain. I only wish—”

She stilled his lips and moved against him, frowning when she could move no more.

Gabriel twisted, knowing it would be best finished in one swift stroke. He studied the glory of her beneath him, hair spread wild, eyes ablaze, a questioning smile on the beautiful mouth she assured him was far too wide for beauty. “As little as I can make it, my love.”

She nodded, grave. Indescribably beloved.

He moved, filled her, met the barrier and then thrust beyond.
As he did, she swallowed, her eyes closed, her hands tensed. But even then she did not push him away or struggle against him, her body open to whatever he would offer her.

And that very openness was the greatest bravery Gabriel had ever known.

Bending, he claimed one nipple while his hands claimed a different bloom, sliding deeper and teasing her to maddening need.

She gasped and shoved hard against him.

He met her instantly, sliding deeper through honeyed skin where now no barrier stood. Only heat leaped up to meet him. Only blazing desire.

“Wrap your legs around me,” he ordered hoarsely.

“Like this?”

“Good, sweet God!”

“No?” Immediately she tried to pull away.

“Yes. A thousand times yes, my beauty.”

He showed her how right it was, how much he loved her, sliding deep and finding the still, hot core of her. Finding at the same time the still, hot core of himself.

There love lay coiled, a love he'd never thought to find.

She cried out, her back drawn tight like a bow, her nails to his chest. He smiled, with his last shred of sanity enjoying her soft, choked cry of delight, the hot sweet tremors that proclaimed her cresting pleasure.

Then Gabriel followed, cast up in the wave of night, swallowed and then made whole just as she had been reshaped in the hot, still crucible of love.

And as he fell, Gabriel swore he would never let her go again.

 

S
LEEPY MINUTES PASSED IN
moonlight and drifting shadow.

“You sleep, my dearest, like an army on the march.”

A soft murmured sigh. “And what would you know of armies on the march, my lord?”

“Too bloody much.”

“You've left me exhausted.” A frown. “Is that quite usual?”

“Only for those who are very lucky.” He gently combed a curl back from her forehead. “But I'm not offering a complaint, you understand, since all your marching was done over me.”

A flush. An enchanting dimple. “I am quite beyond redeeming, I fear.”

“I have no thought of redeeming you.”

His hand found her breast. Instantly she was afire again, needy for this wondrous thing he'd made her feel.

There was a moment of sadness in her eyes, and something like regret. Then she smiled and inched closer. Her thigh rose, coaxing till it found a most enchanting hardness. “Perhaps I am not so exhausted as I thought.”

Gabriel slid the length of her. “Are you quite certain?”

“Without a doubt.”

“In that case…” He drove against her, filling her in one hard, perfect thrust, delight swirling through every muscle as she crested against him anew. “How very, very glad I am to hear it,” he managed, just before he followed her down into a swirling ring of pleasure.

Lulled by the soft rush of the river and the muffling veil of the fog, they finally fell back against the straw. Outside the mill an owl cried over the river and little animals curled warm and safe in their dens.

Somewhere, far in the distance, a church bell chimed.

Twelve times and then no more.

Hands entwined, breaths soft, Gabriel and Geneva finally slept.

 

H
ENRY
D
EVERE SAT UNMOVING
in the darkness, listening to a church bell chime.

He liked the darkness. He could think in the darkness, plan in the darkness.

And he planned now, careful and thorough, while he nursed the wounds delivered at Geneva's hand. For that she would pay dearly, as would her arrogant lover. The Rook was almost within his grasp, along with the thousand-guinea reward the French had posted for the Englishman's capture.

His eyes glinted, hollow and cold.

He would have the Rook. Then he would begin teaching Geneva Russell how very stupid she had been to think she could escape him.

“T
HERE WERE THREE CALLS
from France, two equipment deliveries, and two calls from London, my lord. In addition Lord Draycott has already called twice.”

A notepad in hand, Marston stood in a beam of early morning sunlight beside the desk Dominic had commandeered in Nicholas's study. “Oh, yes, the vicar also called. He wished to offer his felicitations to you and the countess. He said that if any difficulties should arise, you must feel free to call him.”

Dominic laughed. “Can he secure a frayed electric wire, do you think?”

“I could not say, my lord. However, I have always believed that with the help of the Almighty, all things are possible.” With that enigmatic utterance, the butler laid a pile of parcels on the desk and turned to leave.

“And…the countess?” Dominic swallowed. The word brought back too many heated memories to face easily in the daylight. Things were still too uncertain between them. At least she had slept deeply. He had seen to that before he left her at the first light of dawn.

And his body still pained him for that celibate departure.

“I believe she has not come down yet, my lord. Shall I give her a message?”

“No need, Marston. I'll be cooped up rewiring this bloody security system for several hours and then I have to inspect that
backup generator. It's already acting up.” He frowned. “If I didn't know better, I'd almost think there
was
a ghost here playing havoc.”

Marston cleared his throat, then moved off, astounding in black broadcloth and neon purple running shoes.

After he left, Dominic sat staring at the files Harcliffe had left him the day before, thinking about the stresses Cathlin must be feeling and wondering if these waking dreams of hers were a sign that she was skating near the edge of her endurance.

The phone cut short his reveries.

It was Nicholas, his voice grim. “I'm sorry to add any more pressure, Dominic, but I've had bad news. Already the heads of three European countries have expressed profound interest in at least one of the bottles of your wine—as a ‘token of British goodwill.' In addition, two American senators have made discreet contact through the American embassy in London, each claiming a bottle to present to the president. Jefferson happens to be one of the man's heroes, it seems.”

Dominic was uninterested in legends, living or dead. “What you're saying is that things are going to get even rockier, is that it?”

“I'm afraid so. With this kind of interest the ante has just shot up in one enormous leap. Be careful, Dominic. Be certain that Cathlin is careful, too.”

Dominic frowned. He decided not to mention Cathlin's sleepwalking and the poisoned wine. Until he had answers, there was no use discussing his suspicions. “Anything new with Kacey's search of the church records?”

“Nothing yet. I'll let you know if we find anything though.”

Dominic looked down and sighed as the lights flickered. “I'd better run. Problems with that backup generator already. Are you sure this place isn't truly haunted?”

Silence.

“Nicholas? Are you there?”

“Tell Harcliffe to send another one down from London.”

“Oh, he's promised to help, but you know how the man is. Something might arrive tomorrow or next year.”

“Blast him! Is he supporting this project or opposing it?”

“He plays his own game, as always. He has a rare, Machiavellian mind.”

Nicholas said a few curt words that expressed exactly what he thought of James Harcliffe's mind, leaving Dominic laughing as he hung up.

 

B
UT
D
OMINIC WASN'T
laughing ten minutes later. He had just finished reading the last of the fifteen-year-old files Harcliffe had left him. Between the flat lines of cold, scientific details he saw the blood and bones of a wounded mind and a horror that no child should have to bear.

Maybe it was better if Cathlin never remembered, he thought. And maybe bringing her to Draycott had been more dangerous than he'd realized.

When the phone rang again, he answered with only half his attention, the rest still caught in that chilling day fifteen years before, a day that still held too many unanswered questions.

“Slept well, did you?”

Harcliffe.
Dominic frowned. “Perfectly. But I'm sure this isn't a social call.”

“Quite right. Two things. I've found a mention of this Geneva Russell of yours. According to the data our people uncovered, she was the daughter of a rich Suffolk East India Company merchant. It appears that she died in 1794. Interestingly enough, the nasty event appears to have taken place at Draycott Abbey.”

Chills gathered along Dominic's neck. “How did it happen?”

“Unclear, I'm afraid. The whole affair seems to have been hushed up. Except for an odd village bookseller and an obscure researcher who has spend the last twenty-five years researching
the unexplained deaths of women over twenty in the southern counties of England, we'd never have found anything.”

Dominic cut him off coldly. “What about that cork I sent you last night?”

“We looked into the fragments. It's poison all right. Amazon curare alkaloids with an admixture of pepper to hasten blood absorption rate. A damned sophisticated mix.”

“Did you check any deliveries made to Richard Severance's London town house?”

“Our people found a bill of sale for that particular vintage. Severance received the bottles yesterday, but there's still no way we can prove a connection. Frankly, I think the whole idea is preposterous.”

“Try the delivery company. They keep records. With a little pressure someone's bound to talk.”

“It's going to be damned hard. Luckily, Severance is in Brighton for the day. When he hears what we've done, he'll have a whole regiment of legal experts down on us. The man's got an impeccable reputation and all the lawyers that a million pounds can buy. I still don't understand what makes you think he's involved.”

“Instinct,” Dominic said flatly.

“Really, Dominic, without ironclad proof, this is going to result in one nasty scandal.”

“It's a dirty job, but someone has to do it, Harcliffe. And get me those generator parts I ordered yesterday. You
are
interested in seeing that the government and royal family are entirely satisfied with the handling of this affair, aren't you?”
Especially since there might be a knighthood in it for you.

“I suppose it can be arranged. But—”

Dominic hung up, tired of hearing protests and more bad news.

So there had been another, much earlier death at Draycott Abbey. He frowned, unable to get the thought out of his mind.

Looking down, he saw the opened files, page after page of
sterile details that provided absolutely no answers to his thousand, burning questions about Cathlin. He sighed and rubbed his shoulder, which was throbbing from his tussle in the cellars. But he decided hard physical work was just what he needed to clear his head.

First he'd take a look at the malfunctioning generator, and then he'd have a look at the new alarm system. After that he'd fill in the three men he'd asked to help him out with the abbey's security.

And then, if Cathlin still wasn't down, he'd think of an unusual way of waking her.

 

T
HE MOAT WAS SHIMMERING
in the sunlight as Cathlin stood by the tall window overlooking the abbey's roses, dreams that were far too real for dreams chasing through her head. Her pulse raced as she thought of memories, heated memories. And then the brush of shadows.

She reached into her pocket and traced the corner of the crumpled card she had shoved there. There was no point in waiting. The intimate encounter she had shared with Dominic had pushed her beyond her normal defenses, leaving her prey to feelings and half-seen memories that threatened to tear her apart. She knew now that her questions would not go away. If she were truly going mad, then she wanted to know it now.

As she turned to make her way to the study, she saw an envelope shoved beneath the hall door. It bore her name and a London postmark, but no return address. She opened it slowly, then froze. Plaid. Amber plaid, the pattern that had been her mother's favorite. The same fabric that she had worn when she died.

Or when she had been murdered.

Fingers trembling, Cathlin pulled a sheet of paper from the envelope. It bore only one word, in bold block letters.

Remember?

 

C
ATHLIN'S HEART WAS RACING
as she dialed the number on Joanna Harcliffe's card. A pleasant female voice answered.

“I'm afraid that Dr. Harcliffe is not available right now. Shall I have her phone you?”

Cathlin swallowed. “Of course.” She left the abbey's number, frowning. “Do you know when she will be back?”

“Not long. Forgive me, but…is it an emergency? You sound rather upset.”

Cathlin thought of her restless dreams. She thought of the memories jabbing at the edge of her consciousness. And now there was the unexplained scrap of plaid and its cruel message. Was the killer in the abbey right now, planning another deadly attack?

“Just have her call me,” she said tightly.

Dominic had to be told next. Cathlin tried his room and the cellars, where a new laser security grid gleamed in the darkness. But Dominic wasn't there, either. No doubt he was in Nicholas's beautiful study making more of his covert calls.

But the study was empty. Only a pile of files and an old book lay on the rosewood desk, with a gilt bookmark in the center. Cathlin opened the book idly and then froze.

A tall woman in blue satin stared back at her. Nearby stood a young girl, her eyes a blaze of happiness.

The caption was most specific: E
VANGELINE
R
USSELL AND DAUGHTER
G
ENEVA
. I
NDIA
, 1782.

Cathlin felt the blood rush from her face as she stared down at those two happy faces, wondering how everything had gone wrong. Then a piece of paper caught her eye. A paper that held her own name.

Frowning, she slid the sheet free.

It was dated fifteen years before, a neatly typed transcription of some sorts of interviews. As Cathlin read further, her eyes widened. First came confusion, then shock, then pure, blazing fury.

Muttering, she pulled out sheet after sheet from the files that
Dominic must have been reading. All of them held her name. All of them held the fragments of her past, recorded in dry, clinical sentences that speculated about trauma depth and recovery time and psychological prognosis.

Damn them! Damn them all!

She dropped the papers as if burned, hating to see herself pinned there like some dying insect caught beneath the scientist's knife.

What right did they have to dissect a child's mind this way? And what right did Dominic have to this kind of painfully private information, information even
she
had never seen!

She shoved the papers off the desk and watched them scatter in an angry cloud. Something about the sight made her think of fog and darkness and a danger that stalked her still. In her head, the slow ache became a savage drumming. Suddenly Cathlin felt stifled, choked.

Terrified.

Remember?
the note had said. Was it her mother's killer watching her even now?

She turned, white-faced, desperate to escape from this strange old house, which held too much pain and too many secrets.

 

H
IS HANDS BLACK WITH
grease, Dominic turned away from the moat.

His eyes narrowed as he heard the sound of running feet.

A premonition of fear hit him as he saw Cathlin's slender form disappear into the dark boxwood copse to the north.

Her face had been bleak with pain.