The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance 2 (64 page)

“Nisha!” Drakor’s voice roared from somewhere high above. It echoed off the stone walls of the abyss that surrounded me. “Nisha, no!”

All my fears of flying – that inexplicable terror at finding myself airborne – pressed down on me like a lead weight. I plummeted faster.

From somewhere deep inside me, I knew it was my fear that would destroy me. Not the hellhound that had pitched over the ledge with me and had since dropped out of my sight. Myself alone.

I thought of my mother, who sacrificed herself so that my father and I could live.

I thought of my father, who died of a broken heart because fate had torn her from his arms.

And I thought of Drakor, the Strange and noble man I didn’t want to love but couldn’t live without. I didn’t want him to know my father’s pain. Selfishly, I wanted to spend the rest of my days in Drakor’s sheltering arms, however long destiny might grant us.

Far above me now, I heard him call to me again. I saw him leap over the cliff’s edge, not in dragon form but as the man I loved.

I screamed, heartbroken and horrified.

Something fell away from me in that moment. I felt my fears dry up and swirl off on the breeze that rushed up all around me. I watched Drakor diving toward me in the empty darkness, and something deep within me shook free of its tether.

I closed my eyes, and when I opened them again I wasn’t falling anymore. I was floating. I was flying, suspended on the night wind, my arms and torso covered in glorious white feathers.

And there was Drakor beneath me now, his massive wings spread out as if to catch me, hovering as I was in the middle of the immense canyon that gaped as far as the eye could see.

In silent understanding, we flew together to the far side of the canyon, leaving the hellhounds to stare after us in disappointment.

Drakor and I touched down on solid ground as one. He shook off his scales, and I watched in amazement as the snowy plumage that covered me from my glossy beak to the tops of my taloned feet dissolved back into skin.

“An eagle,” Drakor said, wonder in his deep voice. “I might have guessed.”

“How could you have?” I asked. “I didn’t know myself.”

His smile was rather smug. “Your mother’s name, Nisha.”

“Jariat?” I shook my head. “I don’t understand.”

“As I told you, it is a very old name, a mythical name. According to legend, Jariat was a beautiful bird who became a human for love of her offspring.”

It took me a moment to process. “You’re telling me that my mother was Strange? The Jariat of legend?”

He bent his head and kissed me with so much love it made my heart ache. “We have a lifetime to figure all of this out. We could share forever, Nisha, if you’ll have me.”

I smiled up into his handsome face. “I like the sound of that.”

“There’s just one other thing.” He grew very serious then. “I will be making some changes in the way my father’s court is run. I will need someone courageous, someone honourable, whose opinion I value over any other, to stand beside me when I reclaim my father’s throne.”

I swallowed, proud of him and hopeful for the future we might build together. “You want me to be part of your court?”

His assenting nod couldn’t have been more regal if his head had been wreathed with a jewelled crown. “I cannot imagine becoming king unless you are with me, Nisha. As my queen and chief advisor.”

I threw my arms around him and caught his mouth in an elated kiss.

“I’ll take that as a yes?” he chuckled.

“Yes!” I cried. “I love you, Drakor. So, yes, yes! Yes to whatever you desire of me.”

He growled with purely male interest. “Now,
I
like the sound of
that
.”

Drakor and I spent two weeks with the Strange enclave that dwelled in the hidden cliffs of what had once been southwestern Colorado. Once he’d regained his strength and recuperated from his kidnapping, we travelled back to the coast together, towards his homeland of New Asia.

The air was crisp that day, but the sun was high, its warming rays stretching down to touch us as we stood at land’s end and stared out at the vast blue ocean ahead of us. Drakor’s hand was clasped easily around mine.

“Are you ready, Nisha?”

I looked up into the face of my lover, my mate, my king, and I smiled. “I’m ready.”

He gave me a nod and let go of my hand.

With a shrug of his mighty shoulders, he transformed. I joined him in shifting, giving a shake like a dog throwing off water and watching with still-fresh wonder as my white feathers sprouted into glorious plumage.

My dragon looked at me, and I thought I could see him smile. I gave him a nod of my beaked head. Together we stepped off the steep edge of land.

And we flew.

Helen Scott Taylor

One

Chateau Montgatine gleamed in the sun like a spun-sugar palace. Colourful flower borders laid out in the pattern of Egyptian symbols trimmed either side of the long gravel driveway. Tricia knew about the mystical floral design even though it was only visible from above. Twenty-two years ago, Christian Lefevre, the Comte de Montgatine, had taken her up in his private plane to show her.

The years telescoped, taking her back to the first time she’d set eyes on the chateau as a naive eighteen-year-old. She’d felt like a fairytale princess, dreamed of romance and happy endings. She’d grown from a girl to a woman during her month in France and learned that happy endings were strictly for fairytales.

She pushed the button on the intercom by the gate.

“
Bonjour
.” A man’s voice gabbled a few incomprehensible sentences through the crackly speaker.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
. I have an appointment with the Comte.”

“Ah,
oui, oui
. Welcome back to Chateau Montgatine, Mademoiselle Tricia.”

Tricia’s heart skipped as she recognized the voice of Christian’s butler. “Monsieur Benoit, is that you?”

“
Oui, oui
. Still here, mademoiselle, still here. We talk in a moment.”

The latch on the gate clicked open and the wrought-iron sections swung inward. Tricia jumped back into her rental car and started the engine. Her pulse sprinted as she drove to the chateau. She might be forty now, a different person to the teenager who’d given her heart away, but the prospect of facing her first love left her breathless with nerves. If only there had been someone else she could have turned to for advice.

The front door opened as Tricia grabbed her briefcase and climbed out of the car. Monsieur Benoit stood on the top step beaming a welcoming smile. “You have not changed at all, mademoiselle.” She intended to tell him that he should call her
madame,
but before she could speak, he hugged her, pressing the customary three kisses to her cheeks.

“You’re too kind, Monsieur Benoit. You haven’t changed either.” He must have been forty when she’d stayed in a cottage near the chateau over two decades ago, but he certainly didn’t look sixty now. He barely had a grey hair.

A strange little flutter of unease passed through her as she glanced around the chateau grounds. Two gardeners were busy weeding, lizards sunbathed on the limestone walls and swallows swooped and circled over the garden, snatching insects from the sun-drenched, fragrant air. If it hadn’t been for the briefcase clutched tightly in her damp hand and the small Citroën rental car, she could almost believe she’d been transported back in time.

Tricia shook herself and followed Monsieur Benoit into the cool interior of the chateau. Her sense of déjà vu continued. The intricate coloured patterns on the walls and ceiling were unchanged, the furniture exactly as she remembered. Tricia laughed, mainly to relieve some of the tension clogging her throat. “You haven’t redecorated I see.”

“Oh no, no. The Comte, he does not like change.”

He’d been quick enough to change his feelings for her. Tricia pressed her lips together. Now was not the time to dredge up old hurts. She couldn’t change the past. She could only make the most of the present and her present involved her passion for her job at the Bristol Institute of Art. This meeting was business, not pleasure. She’d best remember that.

She smiled at the butler. “May I see the Comte now?” The name “Christian” whispered in her mind, but she had no right to call him by his given name. Twenty-two years apart had made them strangers again.

“Oh, of course, of course. He waits for you in the library.”

Tricia’s breath eased out in relief. She and Christian had never spent time together in the library, so she would not be haunted by memories. Maybe that was why he’d chosen to meet with her in that room.

After following Monsieur Benoit to the library door, she passed through with a smile when he opened it for her. She breathed slowly, evenly, stared at the rows of old leather-bound books.
Calm and professional
, she repeated in her head. The click of the door closing made her heart trip; then she heard a rustle of clothing.

“Madame Cole. Tricia.”

The sound of her name spoken in the deep, achingly familiar voice from her memories drew her gaze inexorably to the man on the far side of the room.

She froze. Shock pounded in her chest, echoed in her temples, beat a drum of startled panic through her body. The briefcase dropped from her nerveless fingers to the floor.

Framed by the elegant marble fireplace, Christian stared back at her wearing his familiar linen suit, his hair neatly trimmed, his eyes green as emeralds, his skin supple, bronzed,
smooth
.

He hadn’t aged at all.

Lines formed between his eyebrows. He moved towards her. “Are you all right, Madame?”

Tricia’s hand pressed over the frantic beat of her heart. “You’re so . . . young,” she breathed in a strangled voice.

Understanding flashed across his face, followed by pain. “No one has told you. I’m sorry. My father passed away ten years ago.”

Tricia blinked, his words skating around her brain, making no sense. She grabbed for a chair back. He hurried over to support her elbow, help her into the chair. Then he pulled another seat up and sat facing her.

Tears pricked the back of her eyes. Although Christian had sent her away, knowing he was living out his life in the same world as she had given her some kind of comfort. Too late, she realized that deep inside she had still dreamed he might want her back.

But now . . . “Dead?” she whispered, daring to look this doppelganger in the face. He was the spitting image of his father. His eyes were the exact same shade of green; his hair the same light brown with sun-kissed streaks. Could a son resemble his father to such an extent? Even identical twins had some differences, didn’t they?

“I’m so sorry, Tricia. Remy must have forgotten to tell you.”

“How old are you?” she whispered. Even as the words passed her lips, she realized it was rude to ask such a direct question. Especially of a
comte
she’d only just met. But every cell in her body was shocked into confusion. Instinct told her she knew this man. Everything about him was familiar.

“I believe I was born the same year you visited France.”

A shaft of pain caught her breath. So there had been another woman in Christian’s life even as he romanced her. A woman carrying his child. He must have married the other woman, or her son would not have inherited the title.

“How do you know which year I visited?” she asked, hoping he had made a mistake.

The Comte rose and fetched something from a desk under the window. He held out a small wooden frame containing a photograph of her sitting on the edge of the fountain in the secret garden, smiling at the camera. An exquisite butterfly hair clip decorated with diamonds and rubies glinted against her dark hair. She’d almost forgotten the romantic afternoon when Christian had taken her along the maze of tiny paths overhung with roses and given her the gift. She’d treasured that precious butterfly for the grand total of three days. When he sent her away, she’d thrown it back in his face.

The Comte pointed to the date written in the corner. “My father kept this photograph on his desk.”

Why would he keep a photo of her?
Christian had been the one to end their relationship, claiming she was too young for him. Even though he had only been in his early twenties. Although at times he’d seemed much older than his years, just as the young man before her did. Christian’s son could only be twenty-one, yet his assured manner belonged to a man twice his age.

The Comte rose and filled a tumbler with amber liquid from a decanter. He returned and held out the glass. “You’ve had a shock. Cognac will steady your nerves.”

Tricia barked a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “Christian gave me cognac when I was stung by a bee once and . . .” Her words choked off with emotion as the memory rose from the deep recesses of her mind. After a long moment staring at his lean fingers holding the cut crystal, she accepted the glass. The smooth liquid burned a path down her throat.

“A predilection for Cognac is in the Lefevre genes,” he said wryly.