Hard Irish (35 page)

Benedict Trevelyan's lips twitched, but just as before, the hint of humor never reached his eyes. "As I was about to say, Dobbs informed me that both Justin and Robert were calmer today than they have been in quite some time"

Blinking, I registered that Dobbs had actually uttered something decent about my care of the children. "I am sure the calmness was due to the fact that they had new things to learn and think about today. Both Master Justin and Master Robert are bright children who very much want approval, but I sense they have unresolved hurts that cause them to lash out with their emotions. They need direction, encouragement, understanding, and the sense that they are loved. Once those needs are met, I believe some of their unruliness will subside."

"Only some?" He lifted his brow, emphasizing he'd hoped for more.

I couldn't tell if he spoke in jest or not "As well as being practical, Mr. Trevelyan, I am also realistic. Master Justin and Master Robert are lively boys. They are children, and a certain amount of enthusiasm and rambunctiousness are inevitable." His gaze focused on my mouth as I spoke, and my throat became dry.

"
Inevitable
has never been a favored word of mine," he said softly, almost as if he spoke only to himself. Then he lifted his gaze to mine, and I tensed as a strange feeling of expectation filled me. "I thought I had more control over circumstances and life for
inevitable
to ever be a part of them. But perhaps I am... mistaken."

From the deepness of his voice and the intensity in his eyes, I thought he spoke of something other than the children, and my breath caught on the notion that the inevitable had something to do with me. I found myself subtly leaning toward him, as if a strong magnet drew me. The thought of being kissed by this man sent my mind and blood racing. He looked at my lips again. Did he want to kiss me?

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Excerpt from HIS DARK DESIRES by Jennifer St. Giles

Stephen’s Story

Given Mr. Trevelyan's habit of being where I least expected, I shouldn't have been surprised to see his unmistakable form standing at the window. Oddly, he had a drinking glass held up to the moonlight and appeared to be staring at it. After a long moment, he slowly took a sip, swore harshly, then dumped the rest of the glass's contents in a nearby potted plant

I winced that he'd found our spirits so unpalatable, even as the thought of pickled geraniums irked me. "I daresay Mama Louisa has already watered the flowers today."

He swung around and I smiled, pleased that I'd caught him off guard.

"Did I wake you?" His voice grated harshly, as if he wrestled with things greater than the night.

"I'm looking for a paper I've lost."

I moved to the nearest lamp and lit it, casting the shadows from the room, but not the intimacy of being alone at night with him. He turned from the light, moving to the mantel where he set his glass.

"A telegram, perhaps?" he asked, with his back to me.

"You found it?"

He faced me then, his expression shadowed. "After dinner, on the floor of my room."

I swallowed the hard lump in my throat, my relief short lived. "I must have dropped it when showing you to your room."

"And I must have missed seeing it before dinner," he said softly as he crossed the room. The look in his eyes told me he didn't believe a word of what we'd just said. He stopped only inches away from me, so close that I could feel the warmth of his body as well as the heat of his raking gaze. The thin cotton of my nightdress and the silk of my robe were little protection from the force of his interest. I tugged the lacy edges of my robe closer together, and he smiled slowly, lifting his gaze back to mine. A dark desire smoldered in his eyes.

"The telegram, monsieur?" I held out my hand.

He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out the telegram. Instead of putting it into my open hand, he brushed my cheek with the edge of the paper and trailed it down to the neck of my gown. My pulse pounded so loudly in my ears that I knew he had to have heard it, too. Bolts of heat shot through me, curling in my center, awakening sensations I'd never known before.

My lips parted in surprise, and his gaze dipped lower for a long moment.

"I suggest you be more careful," he murmured. When he slid the paper a fraction below the neckline of my gown, I caught my breath and grabbed the telegram from him.

"You have a way of making me forget things that I shouldn't," he said softly, then turned to leave. "Good night, Mrs. Boucheron."

He had a way of making us both forget things that we shouldn't.

Somehow, I gathered my thoughts enough to douse the parlor light and dash to my room, firmly shutting the door. I crawled into bed, unable to face what I knew had to be lingering in my own eyes—a yearning response to the desire in his eyes. I didn't know him, he was a stranger, but he attracted me as no one had before—and that frightened me more than the warning telegram or the murder in town.

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Coming soon from Jennifer St. Giles

Excerpt from TALES FROM THE DARK DOMAIN: AERIK - Book 1 of the Crimson Thorn Series

C
HAPTER
O
NE

England

1808

A chill wind from the North Sea whipped up the craggy cliffs and punished the dark walls of Castle Rue Morte before raking across the Yorkshire moor. Christine Webber shivered as the brewing storm stole the late summer sun’s warmth and dashed her plans for the time she had left of her afternoon off.

Between Lady Stafford’s absorbing demands and the recent spate of afternoon thunderstorms, both man and nature seemed determined to keep her from searching for the truth. Either that or her beloved grandmother was wielding a firm hand all the way from heaven to keep Christine away from Rue Morte.  Her many warnings were never far from Christine’s mind. 
“Rue Morte led your mother to ruin.  Stay far away from its black walls, Christine, lest you succumb to its evil as well.  Trust no one, ever.  Never tell a soul we are Valois.” 

Having survived the terror in France, narrowly escaping the guillotine, her grandmother had rightly feared everyone and everything.  Both Christine’s aristocratic grandfather and father had fallen to the revolution’s murderous blade in Paris.

She would never tell a soul her ancestry, and while she believed those sequestered within Rue Morte knew where her mother had disappeared to ten years ago, the only evil around was in the minds and hearts of the superstitious townspeople.  Her mother had been very happy before rumors of witchcraft had forced her to flee, and the source of that happiness had been living at Rue Morte at the time.

Though the castle was supposedly empty but for the caretaker now, Christine still wanted to search the castle for clues as to who her mother had fallen in love with, and to question the caretaker about where she might have gone. 

Her search would now have to wait another week.  Instead of taking only a few hours, the errand to Scarborough for Lady Stafford had taken much longer, effectively eliminating Christine’s half day off.  She supposed it was just as well that a storm had arisen.  Otherwise, she’d have been tempted to and would’ve most surely been late in returning to Stafford Hall.  That would have incurred more attention from her employers than was presently wise.

Lady’s Stafford’s ire would have likely doubled Christine’s workload for the next week and
any
notice from Lord Stafford made her skin crawl.  He’d been ogling her more and more of late.

Refusing to let the problem ruin her day, she pulled her worn cloak tighter and hastened her step, regretting that she’d left her drawing book at home.  If she could have spent time sketching her obsession, she wouldn’t feel the day a loss.  As she passed a patch of lavender by the roadside, she gathered several handfuls of the pungent blooms to add to the rose-petal soap she planned to make sometime this week.  Considering the enormous luncheon Lady Stafford was holding tomorrow to celebrate Lord Stafford’s birthday, it would likely be next week before she had the opportunity.

It was a shame that despite all of their efforts, the party was sure to be a disaster.  Lord Stafford loved his scotch, which is why Lady Stafford didn’t dare host a party after dark.  He was usually too far into his cups by that time.  With all of his cronies around, Christine bet Lord Stafford will be foxed within an hour.

Leaving the moor behind for the tangle of forest, she made her way along the graveled path and smiled with anticipation for what lay just ahead.  She could already see him in her mind.  Her secret obsession whose magnificent form she likened to that of a Viking or Roman warrior from ages past.  Even Zeus maybe, for he had stolen his way into her imagination like a powerful god and the stories she wove about him had captured her heart and desires.

 Thickening trees eased the chill of the wind from the threatening storm that deepened the evening shadows.  The moment she rounded the bend to the graveyard and passed the eight-foot cross marking the entrance, she saw him.  Tall and broad-shouldered, he looked as if he could slay dragons with a single blow from the sword he held.  She slid back the hood of her cloak and breathed in, swearing she could actually smell the sandalwood she imagined him wearing.

After a quick glance about to assure she was alone, she sauntered forward with a saucy swing to her step.  Were anyone ever to see her, they’d likely lock her away in an insane asylum. “So who shall you be this stormy day, sir?  A captain of a fine ship fighting pirates on a wild sea?  A noble soldier riding to the rescue of your king?  Or a knight slaying dragons to win the affections of the fairest princess in the land?”

  Sighing, she angled her head back and slid her palm against his chiseled cheek.  “Would that I knew your true story, my lone warrior.”

He stood, fiercely in the center of the cemetery as if he alone could keep the devil at bay from all those buried here.  Courage, noble bearing and—heaven help her—a forbidden sensual appeal filled every contour of his bronze likeness.  She couldn’t help but wonder how much more so had the man been in real life?

 “Had I lived during your time, I surely would have loved you even if only from afar.”

She slid her hand down to press against the smooth curve of his breast, where she imagined his heart would have beaten passionate and true.  She supposed she wove stories about him because deep inside she wished he’d come to life and steal her away from loneliness and drudgery.

He stood naked, save for his loin cloth and weapons, and she knew him well.  Her hands had touched every part of him many times in her quest to draw him perfectly upon the page.

No one knew who he was, this warrior who guarded the dead.  But he’d inspired the sculptor who fashioned him so perfectly and drove Christine’s hand to recreate him on the pages of her sketch pad.  He was unlike any man she’d ever seen, and especially unlike the odiously obese Lord Stafford.  Sometimes Stafford’s gaze was so bold Christine seriously wondered if she would have to leave Castleborough and her beloved moors for the stench and grime of London’s streets— the one place she could assuredly disappear from the man.  Any place smaller, she would be noticed for the vibrant red of her hair marked her like a scarlet letter.

Thunder rippled through the air and an icy gust blew up her skirt, giving her a sharp reminder that she should hurry.

“A kiss to hold you until I return again, my warrior.”  She lifted her lips to the breeze and waited a moment, imagining what she would feel.  Then she patted his thick thigh and stepped back with a wink, before turning to leave.  The path would take her past the church, the village, and on to the Stafford’s estates.   At one time there had been a church adjoining the graveyard, but it had burned down and many trapped inside had died.  Instead of rebuilding on the same spot, the villagers had built the large memorial to honor the dead and moved the church closer to the town.

Aerik the Eternal waited in the shadows, watching the red-haired beauty as he had too many times to count.  Frustration and longing pulsed with every beat of his heart.  He knew her well.  Ten years ago his uncle had given him the task of watching over her, of protecting her.  A responsibility that had become an exercise in torture for him.

Everything about her had become ingrained in him.  The scent of her blood, the fragrance of her skin, the softly, sensual lilt of her voice.  From the darkness of the memorial-crypt in which he stood, he’d often watched her with his bronze-likeness across the graveyard.  At first it had been amusing to listen to her talk to his statue as she drew his likeness.  But as the years passed and she matured from a young girl to a young woman, the way she spoke...the way she touched the statue made him feel as if she were touching him.  And like the love-starved fool he’d become, he’d often stolen into her room during the dark of the night just to see her sleep, breathe of her essence, and imagine touching her as she touched him.

Some guardian he was turning out to be.  He knew he’d reached the point that he’d have to go to his uncle and have another guardian assigned to her.  Honor demanded that he do so.  But he couldn’t stand the thought of another watching over her.  Of another falling in love with her.  Of another who’d have no conscience and would take virgin flesh.

He would never take her innocence without claiming her for his own with a blood oath.  But to do that would condemn her to a life spent only within the darkness of the night.  No sunrises, no sunsets, no heated kisses of nature’s light, only a pale moon and the distant stars to illuminate her world night after cold night.  But even more importantly, his race was under siege.  The Slayers he battled grew in number every year and the prime vampires roving free upon the earth were few.  Since the reign of terror, most, like his uncle, now lived in asylums deep within the earth, giving up freedom for safety and having one child, if any.