“Because they want my father’s property. It falls to me when I marry. He wished me to be safe from prospecting rogues by ensuring I was safely married before allowing me to come into my title and fortune.”
“But if you die, they are the only ones left to inherit. The rogues!” Hamilton said, sounding angry.
“It does not matter. I am safe now,” Gemma said.
“You are.”
The horse stopped and Hamilton swung from the saddle with Gemma in his arms. They were in a moonlit clearing. Soft grass and moss covered the ground within a ring of trees. Above the moon shone pristine, white light, ringed by stars. Hamilton lay Gemma down on the grass and then knelt beside her. She looked up at him, one arm above her head, toying with a daisy. The other lay on her stomach. She lay with lips parted, looking up at Hamilton and silently urging him to touch her. At the same time, she was afraid. Hamilton was a strong man with a stony face and eyes that could be as hard as steel. She felt vulnerable before him, delicate and fragile.
Hamilton lowered his head to hers and softly kissed her lips. Gemma remembered stolen kisses with boys when she had been a child. Kept secret from her father of course. This was different. His lips were firm and drew hers out as he withdrew. He bestowed soft, short kisses that brought about pangs of desire within her. Fire coursed through her veins, making her squirm as he lowered his body to hers. His arms were either side of her head, his sculpted, bare chest lying across her soft, heaving bosoms. At that moment, Gemma realized that she wore nothing but a silky night dress. It felt too thin and fragile to withstand the power of his body. She had not been wearing such a garment when she had been pursued through the woods, but the inconsistency danced across her consciousness and into the back of her mind.
Strong hands tightened on the silk at her waist and Gemma had time for one startled gasp as the material was torn asunder. Cold air caressed her bare stomach but only for a moment. Hamilton lowered his head to her nakedness and began to kiss a path downward. It traversed her stomach, making it twitch and quiver. He licked the cavity of her navel and Gemma dug her heels into the soft moss, arching her back. Fingers gripped her hips so tight it was almost painful and pressed her down again. The soft, sighing sound of tearing silk was loud in the midnight clearing. This time, the parting fabric bared her breasts. Gemma’s desire increased and she gripped the frayed ends of the garment and tore it further, exposing her shoulders and leaving her naked from the waist up. Hamilton kissed each breast in turn, drawing her nipples upward between his teeth each time and making Gemma cry out.
She twined her fingers in his hair, wanting to crush his face to her bosom but unable to resist his strength. Pulling her hands free, he pressed them down onto her own breasts, encouraging her fingers to massage and stroke. The final covering was ripped away from her and tossed aside. Hamilton’s face disappeared from view and Gemma closed her eyes, squeezing her breasts as she felt his mouth descend towards the most intimate part of her womanhood. She cried out his name into the night.
CHAPTERNINE
Nathan jerked awake in his chair. He cried out Emily’s name, the vestiges of the dream still clinging to him. For a moment, he stared ahead, eyes wide and blind. In his mind, the dream lingered. It had been of Emily. She had been running through the dark, silent halls of the castle, frightened for her life. And he had been the pursuer. Taking a breath, he let his head fall back, feeling the sweat sticking his shirt to his back. He ran a hand through his hair that came away damp.
A nightmare. I was as terrible a monster as my father. Chasing that poor young girl through the castle. Where did such a dream come from?
He reached for the decanter that sat on a table next to his chair. There were many such decanters throughout the castle. One of Marshall’s principal tasks was to ensure all of those decanters remained filled. Nathan had consumed the majority of a decanter this evening before retiring to the Loft. That was the name given to the highest room in the castle, atop the South Tower. It was almost identical to the Supper Room, except it lacked windows and could only be accessed via a trapdoor set into the floor. A hatch in the sloping conical roof allowed access to a suicidally narrow ledge that circled the tower roof. When drunk, Nathan had stepped out onto that ledge to feel the air upon his face and try to experience the same fear a sighted person might feel.
The fear would not come, however. It was curious that without the sight of the ground so far below, he could not bring himself to be afraid of the height. He could convince himself that he stood on a step of a staircase within the house. That only a few inches of height separated his foot from the next riser. With expert movements, he removed the stopper one-handedly and, dispensing with a glass, lifted the decanter by the neck and raised it to his lips. A smoky single-malt coursed into his mouth and down his throat, burning as it went. He endured it until he had consumed an unhealthy mouthful and then let the decanter fall back in his hand.
This should be a celebration. I drink to forget the part I played in my father’s death. But why should that memory bring such sorrow and guilt? He was a devil. And I hope he is burning in hell!
Suddenly irritated by the feel of his sweat-dampened shirt, he put the decanter down and wrenched it over his head. Using it as a towel, he dried the sweat that the nightmare had wrung from him and tossed the shirt away from him. From behind and below him came a sound. He frowned, concentrating in that direction, freezing every muscle to avoid unnecessary sound. It was a trick that he had learned during the years after his blinding. Sight robbed those who had it of much of their faculties, particularly the awareness of the environment around them and even of their own bodies. The sound that reached him through the open trapdoor was running footsteps.
A heavy sole, but not worn by a man. He remained motionless, willing himself to focus. A woman wearing a sturdy boot and moving quickly. Coming closer. And there was something else. In the silence of the sleeping castle, it came to Nathan’s enhanced hearing clearly, though not many could have distinguished the sound. It was the voices of two men. All three sounds were coming closer, getting louder. The men were talking in the stage whispers of those who know they should be circumspect but do not believe that any will challenge them if they are not. But they did not sound as though they were giving chase. Their footsteps were heavy, solid, and methodical.
They walk through my halls and they pause frequently. They are looking about them. Snooping. Spying. Or…hunting. The woman flees them but they do not chase. She knows they are there but they have not yet detected her.
Quickly, the female footsteps reached the wrought iron steps that led to the open trapdoor. Nathan heard a woman’s rapid breathing and then quick footsteps. The creak of the trapdoor hinges was the only warning he had.
“Do not close it!” he commanded as he rose from the chair that had, until now, hidden his presence.
The woman screamed and the trapdoor fell with a boom that reverberated through the room. The sound of the two men was immediately muffled. The trapdoor was made of a wooden frame, supporting a slab of stone that matched those comprising the ceiling. When closed, it fitted precisely into place with barely a line between the stones noticeable. It also locked itself upon closing. And Nathan did not have the key upon him.
“What are…I mean…where…?” the woman stammered.
Nathan recognized the voice immediately, though he could think of no reason for her to be across him and fully dressed in the middle of the night. He put a finger to his lips as the sound of the two men got closer to the trapdoor.
“I heard a scream,” Dunkeswick said. “And a man’s voice.”
“So, the old rogue is tumbling a maid,” Stamford replied. “I heard nothing except that crash.”
“Or the old rogue is harboring dear cousin Gemma and was lying to us. Did that occur to you? Oaf!” Dunkeswick snarled.
“Where do those stairs go?” Stamford said after a muttered imprecation.
“They don’t seem to go anywhere. Into the ceiling.”
Nathan heard the sound of footsteps. He also heard Emily moving away.
She backs away from the trapdoor, thinking that those two blackguards are about to appear.
There came the sound of scraping and then tapping. Finally, the puffs of effort as one of them tried to lift the trapdoor.
