Page 34 of Mesmerized

“There was some gold in the headdress, as well.”

“Of course one would dress as a lady for haunting a place—you may have noticed how rarely ghosts are said to be a farmer or tanner or goldsmith,” Olivia said.

Stephen smiled faintly at her statement. “Now that you have placed our lady in time, would you care to take one of these histories off my hands?”

“Of course.” Olivia set aside her tome and picked up the one lying on Stephen’s desk. Idly she flipped back to the time of the Conquest and began to move forward. “Do we know when this house came to be named Blackhope?” She covered a yawn with her hand.

“I have no idea. Obviously Belinda’s tutor was more concerned with the history of this place than any of mine ever were. I don’t really know much about it before our family took it over. Somewhere, I know, there’s a history of the St. Legers, but it won’t help us learn about this house before the time of the Martyrs.”

They began to read again, and the room was silent. It was some minutes before Stephen looked up from his reading with a sigh and glanced across at Olivia. She was sitting in the wing chair, feet curled up under her, the book she had been studying lying open in her lap and her head resting against one of the wings of the chair, her eyes closed. Her breasts rose and fell in the slow rhythm of sleep.

Stephen smiled, watching her. There was something about her, he thought, that fascinated him. He found himself thinking about her more and more frequently, and he looked forward to seeing her. She looked lovely asleep, soft and innocent, but he liked, too, the snap of intelligence and wit in her brown eyes, the smile that so often curved her lips, the quick, compact way she moved. He had apologized for kissing her the other day because it had been the gentlemanly thing to do; he scarcely knew her and should not be making advances toward her. However, he did not regret it in the slightest. He had, in fact, enjoyed the kiss thoroughly.

Olivia Moreland stirred his blood; she had from the moment he met her. When he had looked into her eyes that first night, a sizzle had run down through him, a feeling that was not only desire but also some sort of recognition. There were romantics who talked of two people’s souls crying out to each other; he had always dismissed such talk as twaddle, but after that moment, he was not so sure. In some strange way, he had felt almost as if he knew her, although that clearly was impossible. There were others, he knew, who would laugh and say that what he felt for her was desire, pure and simple—a physical attraction, a chemical reaction. But he was not entirely sure that that was an adequate explanation, either.

He rose and walked softly across the floor to the small sofa and picked up a crocheted afghan that lay folded decoratively across the back of it. He came back on silent feet to Olivia’s chair and laid the small blanket gently over her. She stirred a little and snuggled into the warmth of the cover. He stood looking down at her for a moment, then returned to his seat behind the desk.

Laying the book flat, he propped his elbow on the desk and his forehead on his hand and began reading again. Time passed, and his lids grew heavy. He blinked and started reading again, then stopped again, rubbing his hand across his face. He curled an arm across the book and laid his head down on it.

* * *

HE LEANED AGAINST the wall, its sun-touched stone warm against his back, and surveyed the bailey of the castle before him. He pretended to watch the activity, but his focus was all on her. She walked down the steps and across the courtyard, a basket hooked over her arm, a ring of keys in her hand. She was not wearing her elegant clothes, merely a plain blue tunic and undergown, and a simple cloth veil on her head. The girdle just above her hips was plaited leather, not gold or silver. But she looked as beautiful as ever to him. His skin tingled for her; his guts clenched in desire.

He knew she could never be his. She was forbidden to him, a married woman and, moreover, married to the man to whom he had sworn fealty.

He watched as she entered the storage building, then swung his gaze around the courtyard. Two servant girls were tending to a tub of wash, and farther away, children chased a hen. Two guards stood at the gates, but there were no men-at-arms idling where their commander could see them. No one watched him.

He strolled away from the gate, moving to the side of the keep. He knew he should not do what he was doing. It was dishonorable, and he hated himself for his disloyalty. But he could not stop himself; he could not stay away from her.

When he was out of sight of the few people in the courtyard, he turned and walked into the same building into which she had gone. It was much dimmer in here, lit only by sunlight creeping in through the cracks of the wooden shutters and door. The door into the cellars stood open, flung back against the floor. There was a dim light below. He moved cautiously down the stairs and into the storage room, making his way through the casks and barrels and crates toward the torch, thrust into an iron holder on the wall.

She was opening a barrel and peering inside when she heard the sound of his steps, and she turned, a look on her face that was part surprise and part hope. When she saw him, a smile broke across her face.

“Sir John!” She started toward him, her eyes alight, then stopped, guilt settling on her face. “We should not—you must not risk it.”

He thought that he would risk all for her, but he did not say it. Words, he knew, were easy. He came up to her. Up close, he could see the bruise on her cheek, and his stomach tightened within him.

He reached up and laid a gentle finger beside the bruise. “Did Sir Raymond put this there?” His voice sounded like ground glass, and fury quivered in him.

She nodded, looking away from him, ashamed. She shrugged. “It is nothing. It was not—”

“I hate him!” His voice lashed out. “He is a cruel, godless man. I would like to kill him for hurting you.”

He bent and gently brushed his lips against the bruise.

A little sigh, part pleasure, part sorrow, escaped her lips. “But you cannot. He is your liege lord, and you are sworn to protect him.”

“I would I had sworn to any other man.”

“Then I would never have met you,” she reminded him. Her eyes here in the dim light were dark, but he knew their cornflower-blue color well. They had pierced his heart many months before.

“I hate the way he so boldly keeps his mistress in the castle. It is shameful, an insult to you. I have seen the slut Elwena flaunting herself about.”

“Nay.” She laid a finger against his lips, smiling and shaking her head. “It does not matter.”

“It matters to me.” He looked down at her, love and desire coursing through him. He raised his hands to her face, smoothing them over her soft skin. “Alys...”

He moved his hands back, pushing aside the simple veil and sinking them into the pale flaxen mass of her hair. She looked up at him, her lips partly open, her breath rushing in and out. He bent and kissed her, unable to hold back. Pleasure rushed through him like a torrent, a roiling blend of heat and passion and tenderness.