“Vicar Young, Mr. Bellamont, our new neighbor,” she murmured reluctantly.
The Vicar looked anything but pleased. “Wonderful to meet you. And will you be with us for long?”
Grayson’s eyes remained on her. “I haven’t decided as of yet.”
Vicar Yong straightened, peering down his beak nose. “What brings you here?”
There was a short pause, still Grayson did not break eye contact with Meg. “Hunting.”
Why did the word raise the fine hairs on her neck? She jerked her gaze away, needing something, anything to focus on rather than her new neighbor.
Vicar Young frowned, those beady eyes flickering from her to Bellamont. “Is the area known for grouse? I hadn’t realized.” His attention remained on Meg, dismissing Bellamont altogether. “Your father, how does he fare?”
Meg resisted the urge to cringe, instead forcing a smile to her lips. “Well. We are all well.” Why would the man bring up Papa now of all times, in front of a bloody stranger?
“My mother, God bless her soul, claims people with your father’s condition have an illness. Others, I’m afraid, are not so forgiving. You must watch him, Miss James, makes sure he does not give into temptation.”
Embarrassed heat rushed through Meg. How dare he! Her fingers curled as she resisted the urge to react to the anger surging underneath her skin. “Thank you for the warning, I really must find Hanna.” She dropped into a quick curtsey and spun around darting toward the trail that led into a group of firs.
“Miss James,” a deep voice rumbled.
Meg ducked under a low branch, her foot hitting the dirt path. She didn’t bother to slow, but hurried into the darkness, eager to outrun Bellamont. How could Vicar Young mention Papa’s mishap in front of a stranger? Why would he humiliate her so? Her eyes stung, but she refused to give into tears.
She felt hunted by the man. She darted around a tree, allowing the dark shadows to hide her form. Firm fingers bit into her upper arm. Meg cried out. She was jerked to a stop, then spun around. Suddenly, she found her back pinned to the rough bark of a fir tree, a broad chest blocking her view. How had he caught up to her so quickly?
“Release me,” she demanded immediately.
“No.”
A tremble of fear swept over her body. Her gaze jumped to his. “Excuse me?”
He lifted a brow, his face hard planes of arrogance. “I said no.” Then he had the audacity to step closer, too close. Meg shrank back until the bark bit through her gown. She couldn’t seem to breathe, to think. Her brain and body had grown oddly numb.
“I’ll scream,” she managed to whisper.
He smiled, the bastard, knowing a useless threat when he heard one. “From what I’ve heard, Miss James, the town does not hold your family in very high regards.”
Anger and despair ate through her. She couldn’t get a hold of her thoughts, and she knew she needed to have her wits about her when she was near Bellamont. “Are you saying that if you try to … to harm me, no one will care?”
He braced his hands on either side of her head. “What I’m saying, Meg, is that if you scream, if you accuse me of something vulgar, who will they believe?”
She wouldn’t scream. They needed no more trouble. They had enough as it was. But still, for him to threaten her in this way only confirmed he was the horrible man she’d assumed. “What do you want?”
His gaze slid from her eyes, to her lips, lower, to her neck. “Merely answers.”
Heat curled through her body. Blood rushed through her veins. Too much, too soon. She couldn’t take his presence. The trees wavered. She felt dizzy, off balance. “Answers to what?”
His gaze flashed back up to her face. “Mr. Brockwell’s death. Why is it the town despises your father?”
“Despise?” she said, attempting to cling to the anger coursing through her body, instead of the strange need tingling in the pit of her belly.
He stepped closer, his body pressing to hers. Power radiated from his hard form. “Don’t play coy, it’s annoying.”
His harsh words gave her the strength she needed to confront him. “No, Sir! You’re annoying.” She flattened her palms to his chest and pushed. He didn’t budge. Trapped, she felt trapped. “Move, now.”
He leaned closer, his breath cold at her temple. “Not until you answer my questions.”
Only her hands kept his chest from crushing her breasts. “I owe you nothing, Mr. Bellamont. You may order your soldiers and servants about, but you hold no power over me.”
Challenge gleamed in his eyes and she realized her mistake only too late. “Oh, I think I hold something over you, Miss James, something very powerful indeed.” Those hard thighs touched hers as his fingers clamped around her wrists.
Meg bit back her squeak of protest. “Power?” She forced a laugh from her lips, even as her body quivered with fear, with need, blast but she wasn’t sure which. Grayson Bellamont frightened her as much as he thrilled her.
He leaned down, his lips only a cool breath away from hers. “The power of seduction, Miss James.”
Power, indeed. Her lashes lowered, her breath coming out in sharp pants she couldn’t control. He smelled of mint. He smelled of man. He smelled delicious.
“You are attracted to me and it would be so easy to seduce you.”
She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to lift her knee to his groin and show him just how much he affected her. She did none. She merely let him command her, let him touch her, let him hold power over her as if she were a servant and he her master. Blast, but he was right. She felt oddly seduced by this man.
“No,” she managed weakly.
“Yes,” he whispered, right before his lips lowered to hers.
He was proving a point. She didn’t care. His touch was soft, a quick brush of his hard, velvet lips, then another. All too soon he pulled back, his forehead pressed to hers, his breath cold and seductive across her lips.
She wanted more. Her fingers curled into his fine, linen shirt.
With a growl low in his throat, he crushed his mouth to hers, his kiss demanding this time. Meg’s legs grew weak and she sank into the man’s hard body. She’d been kissed before, but never had her body reacted this way. Never had her skin tingled, her stomach tightened. Never had she had the sudden urge to wrap her arms around him and never let go.
Grayson’s tongue slid between her lips. Meg groaned, opening for him. She couldn’t stop herself from touching him, from pulling her hands free and sliding her arms around his neck. She couldn’t stop her tongue from rubbing against his, from tilting her head to deepen the kiss. She felt the sharp nip of his teeth on her bottom lip and pain mixed with pleasure.
“Meg?”
Someone was calling her name. Vaguely, she was aware of someone calling her name, but she couldn’t seem to pull away from Grayson, couldn’t seem to stop kissing him. Her fingers entwined in his hair, the strands cool and silky. With a whimper, she pushed ever closer to him, needing to have more.
“Meg?” Louder this time.
Grayson’s cold fingers wrapped around her wrists. With a growl, he pushed her back until her shoulder blades hit the tree. Alone, reality invaded. Meg’s horrified gaze found Grayson’s green eyes. So green. She squeezed her eyes shut, her body trembling.
“Meg?” Mary Ellen called out.
Meg dared to open her eyes.
Mary Ellen wavered in and out of focus in front of her. “What is it?”
“Where is he?” Meg pushed away from the tree, stumbling forward.
“Who?”
“Bellamont! Where is he?” She spun around. Trees mocked her, standing stoically watchful, waiting. Dark shadows hinted at mystery. But no one was there. Grayson had disappeared.
Chapter 5
Grayson rested his forehead against the piano. His trembling hands hovered over the keys as he waited for the courage to play, for the courage to remember a life when he enjoyed the music. When guilt didn’t destroy everythin
g he loved. The courage never came. He closed his eyes and let his hands fall. The crashing cacophony of notes slammed against his ears, irritating his frayed nerves. His fingers refused to move, to stretch fluidly over the keys, to produce anything remotely resembling music.
Gone.
Just like his life as he’d known it. At one time his hands had produced beautiful music, now…now they were only known for killing. He slammed the cover down with a thud that echoed through the room. Would he ever have the desire to play again? Did he care? Certainly there were more important things in life than producing music. He had a lead, a very promising lead on Collette, after all. So why, then, did that thought not lighten his mood?
Because he hadn’t known for sure if Hanna was the Collette he sought. She had the right coloring, she had the same laugh as Emma. But…he didn’t know for sure. And he wouldn’t know until her ninth birthday when her true nature would surface. Could he wait that long? Two months? Damn, but he thought he’d know the moment he saw her.
A soft knock interrupted his thoughts.
Grayson stood. “What is it?”
The door opened and Nelson stepped inside carrying a silver tray. “Tea, my lord.”
“I’m no lord, Nelson, as I’ve told you a stream of times.” Grayson clasped his hands behind his back and strolled to the windows. It was the perfect day, dark and gloomy. It was so rare when he could have the curtains thrown wide.
China clanked as Nelson readied the tea service. It didn’t matter that Grayson had not rung for tea, didn’t matter that he hated the bitter taste, nor did it matter that he’d rather be left alone. Nelson had a mind of his own.
“Is that all, my lord?”
“Considering I didn’t ask for the bloody tea in the first place, yes, that is all.”
He didn’t need to turn around to know that Nelson bowed before he left the room. Annoying man, but humans made the best servants. The man knew his place, and reveled in it. Unlike Grayson. No, he’d always wanted more. Wanted to be human. But he would never be more than a monster to this world. He’d realized that the day his parents were murdered. And then Emma…gone in the same way.
A breeze swept through the gardens, and a burst of red rose petals fluttered through the air like the splattering of blood. Grayson’s heart skipped a beat, his nostrils flaring as memories flashed through his mind. Pale faces lying on the ground, staring up at him with wide, blank stares, blood soaked clothing, missing limbs...
Misery.
The threadbare velvet curtains billowed with the morning air, tickling his face and forcing him back into the present. He stumbled back, his heart hammering in his chest. Merde, would he ever forget? Would the memories ever leave him in peace? He lifted his hands, staring at his pale fingers. His mother had been proud of his hands, of the beautiful music they could produce. His parents had been proud of who they were. He had as well, until his parents had been murdered for being monsters.
Thorned branches scratched against the side of the house like swords being drawn from their sheaths. He’d gone into the army to forget their deaths. It hadn’t helped. His attention swept past the red roses, and focused on the yellow blossoms that wavered in the wind. Emma adored yellow roses. At ten years of age, he’d nearly broken his ankle climbing a trellis to get her the perfect bloom.
Did Collette love flowers as her mother had? So many questions about the child ran through his mind, tripping over each other in their haste to be answered. She would turn soon. If he didn’t find her before she turned, he didn’t want to think about what this human world would do to her.
Then there was Hanna. A sweet, strong child who could easily belong to Emma. Black hair, green eyes, the spitting image. He rested his forehead on the cool glass of the window. Mon dieu, he was confused. How badly he wanted to demand answers at that picnic yesterday. How hard it’d been to keep from staring at the child, trying to decipher every feature of her face, the way her hair curled, the way she smiled.
And with thoughts of Hanna, came thoughts of Meg James. Instinct declared her innocence and his instincts had never been wrong. But how could an innocent kiss like she had kissed him? His fingertips went to his lips, the memory of her mouth branded on his skin. Would her blood taste just as sweet?
He couldn’t deny he’d instantly been attracted to the woman; her rosy cheeks, her sparkling eyes, the very essence of vitality. So very different from the women he’d encountered. But after that kiss…hell, what had he been thinking? The moment he’d touched her, he knew he had to have her, to taste her. He would not allow his attraction to cloud his judgment. He sighed and raked his hands through his hair. He needed a drink, something much stronger than tea.
He started to turn when a shiver caressed his skin. A warning. Was it a spying neighbor? A lazy gardener reclining behind the blooms? He marched toward the doors leading out to the garden. With a force that matched his mood, he pushed the doors wide causing them to bang against the outer stone walls of the house. Wind rustled through the bushes, the leaves whispering words of warning. He had the sudden urge to kill someone.
He rounded a patch of pink roses and stilled. His body stiff, his mind centered, he waited. The intruder would show himself sooner or later. A soft rustle caught his attention. His nostrils flared, searching for a scent…innocence. Grayson narrowed his eyes on the patch of yellow roses.
“Blast it,” a soft, child-like voice snapped, stunning Grayson.
The rose bush shook and the soft cry resounded once again. Brows drawn together, Grayson started down the path, his boots crunching over gravel. A brown sparrow darted from the plants, while white butterflies hovered in the air. Apparently, they were not leery of an abandoned estate rumored to be haunted. Neither was the small intruder huddled under the rose bush. She moved her head and dark hair glinted.
Hanna?
He took a step back in surprise. He couldn’t have been more shocked if someone had given him a map to Emma’s murderer.
“Who in God’s name taught you to curse?” he asked.
She jumped at the sound of his voice.
“Meg,” she mumbled. “Although she doesn’t know and I would be much obliged if you didn’t tell her.”
He frowned. Rather odd for a Vicar’s daughter to curse. Was that what intrigued him so? A woman as sweet as any country lass, yet underneath full of surprises. He blinked, shattering thoughts of Meg when he should be focused on Hanna. “What, pray tell, are you bloody well doing in my garden?”
A branch lowered and two large, green eyes stared up at him. His heart clenched and for a moment he thought he stared at Emma.
“S—sorry, Sir,” Hanna whispered.
“Come out of there,” Grayson demanded, his voice sharper than he’d intended.
“I—I can’t. I’m stuck.”
“Stuck? Bloody...” Grayson sighed and knelt down. He reached for a branch and felt a sharp stab to his thumb. “Merde.”
The girl’s eyes widened even further. He hesitated. Did she recognize the word? He lowered his chin to his chest to hide the suspicion he knew lurked in his eyes.
As carefully as he could, he lifted his boot and crushed the rose bush to the ground, the branches snapping and popping in protest. With the child uncovered, he could see her sleeve and hair tangled in the thorns. Christ, he wasn’t delicate enough to assist. He glanced at the house, thinking to call his housekeeper.
“Sir, please, it hurts.” The vines pulled Hanna’s head to an odd angle and he didn’t miss the tears glimmering in her eyes.
“How in hell did you get into this mess?”
“It was Annabel’s fault.” The child sniffed.
“Annabel?”
“My friend. Well, use to be my friend.”
“I see.” Grayson removed a branch, as gently as he could, from the child’s sleeve. Freed, she brought her arm close, cradling the injured limb to her chest. His nostrils flared as the scent of blood pierced the air. Although he knew some who had no reservati
ons drinking blood from a child, he found the scent unappealing, like unripe apples.
“You’re bleeding.” He took the handkerchief from his pocket and dangled it in front of her wide, green eyes.
“She dared me to come up here, she did.” She took the material and pressed it to the scratch on her arm. “Said there were ghosts.”
Grayson sighed. “Perhaps there are, but I doubt the kind you are looking for.” He untangled a branch from her hair.
“Ow!” She stood, rubbing her crown. “What do you mean?”
Grayson shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. Well, you can tell your friend you were brave enough to approach Pease Manor.”
The child looked at the ground and kicked at a loose stone, much like he’d seen Meg do when disconcerted. Was it a family trait? “I had to bring a rose back to prove I’d done it.”
“I see.” Grayson scanned the garden. “Well then, any particular color?”
She shook her head. “Although yellow is my favorite.”
Grayson stiffened, his mind going to Emma. Hanna took a step back, her hands clenched in front of her as if sensing the desperation that coursed through him. He was frightening a child. What kind of demon had he become?
“It doesn’t have to be yellow, any will do.”
“No,” Grayson said softly. “Yellow it will be.” He snapped the blossom from its stem and held out the flower. Did her upturned nose seem familiar? The Almond shape of her eyes? Dear God, at this point every child looked like Emma. Perhaps he was merely hopeful, perhaps insane.
With a soft smile she took the bloom. “Thank you.”
He nodded. “I am sorry to hear about your mother.”
Her eyes widened, surprised by the conversation. “’Tis all right.”
“How did she die?”
Hanna looked at the ground. “’Twas years ago, she died while birthing my brother.”