The Dark Regent Page 6

  He slammed the door shut behind him.

  Chapter Seven

  THE CARRIAGE from Stokesbay to Hawkcliffe Hall consumed the last of the money she had in her handbag. She’d purchased tea and a sandwich on the train—a foolish extravagance but she hadn’t eaten all day. She knew the driver was charging too much, but she didn’t have the courage to argue the fee—especially after seeing the smirk on his face when she showed him Crispin’s letter and explained that she was his niece.

  Hawkcliffe Hall was breathtaking—a little neglected to be sure but what a beauty she thought gazing at its impressive stone facade. Set against black cliffs and a steel grey sea, the estate house was as resolute and formidable as its master.

  It was also empty as Crispin said it would be. The chimneys were cold. Fawn tried to gain access but the doors were locked and the driver had already turned back to Stokesbay. It was just as well that he wasn’t civil enough to wait. There was no one to witness the embarrassment she suffered of being locked out. Her worst fears were confirmed. Crispin Wolfe had tricked her.

  The sun was close to setting and the air was cool. She set her valise down on the step and wandered to the back of the magnificent house, through the gardens, and down the footpath to the beach. The west wind was cold and cleansing, ruffling her hair and tugging at the folds of her cloak. Fawn turned her face to it.

  A storm was coming. Heavy black clouds hung low on the horizon. Soon, the white sand beach would be grey with pelting rain and the gentle tide would become a heaving beast. The air was fresh with salt and spray. Fawn inhaled deeply, welcoming its icy purity.

  She set off along the beach, brisk and purposeful. A smile tugged at her lips as her legs moved faster and faster, until unable to contain herself, she exploded into a run. The beach ended abruptly at the base of a rocky cliff and she slowed to a stumbling walk, panting hard and holding her side. Her skirts tangled sodden and heavy about her ankles.

  The storm was closer now, the frigid water churned grey and green. Fawn rested against the cold slime of the rock. The shore had become a madhouse. Wave after wave exploded along the beach, shattering rock and sand. The wind roared and whined and the screams of the gulls added to the cacophony. She longed to add her own scream to the din, but that would be madness and she was not mad. Quite the contrary. She could see the place she held in the world with startling clarity. Madness would’ve been kinder.

  Suddenly impatient to be active, Fawn yanked her skirt up and jamming the toe of her boot into a crevice in the rock, she dragged herself hand over hand up the slope. Panting from the effort, she reached the top bruised and filthy and clambered to her feet. Pushing aside a lock of matted hair, Fawn surveyed her surroundings.

  The storm clouds were directly overhead, rumbling and crackling with suppressed fury. She stood on a table of rock that extended over the water; the giant appendage was pocked with lichen and tufts of grass. Stunted trees clung to the rim of the cliff. The wind had dropped to whisper and the air was heavy, lit with an eerie, incandescent green.

  Fawn raised her face to the sky. It was as if the storm was building inside her; she longed to break free of it. To be unwanted and unwelcome was a cruel burden to bear. She squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands over her ears, filled with self-loathing.

  Crispin had seen only one attribute in her worthy of his interest. The truth was if her uncle had arrived at Hawkcliffe as promised, her ruin was inevitable.

  Far out on the horizon, far from the reach of the storm, a sunset was dancing over the sea turning it to a glimmering necklace of turquoise and gold. She stared transfixed by the sight, a miracle of light and color.

  Abruptly, Fawn broke into a run, her eyes fixed on the horizon. With her arms extended, embracing the yawning emptiness, she ran with all her strength toward the edge of the cliff. Soon the ground would fall away beneath her feet and she would sail out over the side, over the churning green water below, sailing farther and farther away until she disappeared into the shimmer of gold in the distance.

  Disappeared forever.

  WITH ONE eye on the black clouds overhead, Crispin Wolfe urged his horse to a canter as he approached Hawkcliffe Hall. Judging from how the wind had dropped, there wasn’t much time before the storm broke. A slight movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and he twisted in the saddle to get a better look. A woman stood motionless at the side of the cliff, looking out to sea. Her black mantle billowed lightly behind her. Crispin stared at the apparition in wide-eyed horror.

  “Fawn…?”

  The horse stamped and snorted beneath him. Crispin shook himself in disgust. “Damned fool,” he muttered. “It is just one of the women from the village. What the hell is she doing? Doesn’t she know enough to come in out of the—oh, sweet Jesus!”

  Crispin dug his heels into the horse’s flanks, startling the beast to a gallop and charging toward the cliff.

  “Stop!”

  Fawn ran on, oblivious to the danger. In a matter of seconds she would be over the edge, smashed on the rocks below. Crispin drew his horse alongside her, the sharp edge of the rocky ledge rushing toward them.

  “Stop, goddamn you!”

  She shot him a look of white-faced terror as he lunged, catching her around the waist and yanking her off her feet. He struggled to keep hold of the girl and rein in the horse before they all plunged over the cliff. The animal suddenly reared up on its hind legs throwing them to the ground. Crispin fell backward, dragging Fawn with him. In an instant he was on top of her, pinning her to the soft earth.

  “What in hell did you think you were doing?”

  “Leave me alone—leave me be—you didn’t come! You said you would and you didn’t come!”

  “Good God, I could wring your neck! I caught the very next train and rode like a madman to get here ahead of the storm.”

  The heavy black clouds opened with an ear-splitting crack and the rain fell in a pelting curtain of water.

  “Get up! The storm is on top of us!” He dragged her to her feet, gripping her painfully by the upper arm. Crispin whistled for his horse. He swung astride the beast. “Give me your hand,” he ordered, reaching down.

  She looked at him steadily; rain plastered her hair to her head and ran over her face in rivers. “Why did you come back?”

  “Give me your goddamned hand or so help me, I will turn you over my knee and spank you,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Fawn did as she was told. Crispin suppressed emotion as the girl placed her hand in his and he hoisted her up. He settled her in front of him, wrapping his cloak around her to shield her from the rain.

  “Now behave or I’ll throw you over the side of the cliff myself.”

  “You have no authority over me.”

  “You tried to kill yourself. If you want to be committed to Broadmoor, you are going about it the right way.” He urged the horse to a trot in the direction of Hawkcliffe Hall.

  Fawn’s eyes were wide and staring. “What do you mean?”

  Crispin fastened his gaze on the line of trees in the distance that were bending under the storm. “It is against the law to take one’s life.”

  “Prosecution must be difficult,” she said mirthlessly.

  “Not if the attempt failed—or was interrupted. It is possible to have that person committed for her own protection.”

  “Is that why you stopped me? To have me sent away?” She fought to free herself of his grasp.

  “Sit still, damn you!” He struggled to maintain his grip on the girl and the horse’s reins. Fawn was small but fear had made her strong.

  “I won’t go! I won’t be locked away! If I am sent to the asylum, I shall be dead within two days of my arrival.”

  “That should suit you very well then,” he retorted. “I don’t understand the objection.”

  “I have nothing left to live for.” She turned her face away.

  “You could live for me,” he said loudly, and immediately cursed himself for reveal
ing his deepest thoughts. Panic made him say it. He kept seeing her body dashed on the rocks below, living the horror of arriving too late and losing her forever.

  If she heard, she gave no sign. Crispin guided the horse over the path, squinting through the watery murk for a glimpse of the low stone wall that enclosed the grounds of the estate. The storm gained in fury as they neared Hawkcliffe Hall. The rain had become needle-sharp sleet that lashed their faces and tore at their clothes. He urged the horse to a gallop and soon they were in the shelter of the stables.

  Wolfe swung down from the horse and pulled her down after him. He gripped her wrist in one hand and dragged her through the stable, leading the horse by the reins with the other.

  “The horse needs a rubdown after being caught in the storm. The stable master was let go after Constance died. I have to see to it myself. Sit there,” he ordered, indicating a stool in the corner.

  The stable was bathed in a green shadows. It was strangely quiet, the only sound coming from the rain lashing against the window panes that were set in the stone walls at regular intervals.

  She turned her attention to this man who had seized control of her life in one half-formed a moment and now held her in his power. He removed his fine black cloak and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt above the elbow. She watched his strong brown hands moving over the horse with expert strokes. Crispin’s hair was thick, glossy and curled at the nape of his neck. His mouth was remarkable; well shaped and full, even when sternly compressed as it was now. She thought of those lips on hers, of those hands cupping her face....

  Fawn sat up with a start. She couldn’t stay here. This was his plan to break down her defences. Lead her into believing he had feelings for her, thus encouraging her to return those feelings. And then she would be in his power—body and soul. Her one defence against him was her hatred of him and everything he stood for. She must never give in to a man like Crispin Wolfe.

  Her uncle turned away to exchange the curry comb for a brush and without a second’s hesitation, Fawn slipped around the horse and sprinted to the door. She tugged at the heavy latch until it gave way and the door swung wide. Her heart flooded with mingled joy and fear as she ran down the muddy track to the south gate. She had begun to believe she escaped his notice when he tackled her from behind, throwing her to the mud.

  The rain pummelled his head and back, soaking his spotless white silk shirt. His hair, lank and dripping, brushed against her cheek. She felt his eyes fastened on her face and she defiantly returned his stare, meeting his gaze fully for the first time.

  Crispin’s eyes were the color of winter twilight, a deep greyish blue, as brilliant as sea glass. There was something hidden in his expression, something raw, disturbing and strangely familiar. Although she could not understand why, she suddenly felt she knew Crispin Wolfe to the core of his being ... and that as long as she was with him she’d be safe.

  Her body relaxed beneath him and she was immediately aware of the hard lines and muscled planes of his chest, torso and thighs molding against her.

  A feeling washed over her so powerful and unexpected that she had to close her eyes to contain it. Somewhere deep inside her body she was liquefying to the consistency of warm golden honey. As the feeling intensified, Fawn’s eyes flew open in bewilderment and she was immediately ensnared by her captor’s probing gaze.

  “Why did you say I could live for you?”

  “I need you alive,” he said gruffly. “For my own wicked purposes—naturally.”

  His warm breath danced over her lips tantalizing her with nearness of his mouth. She felt suspended in space, as though everything around them had been dissolved by the rain and only they remained.

  “I don’t believe you,” Fawn murmured, baffled by this side of him. “There is another reason.”

  He pulled away from her and got to his feet. The rain streamed down. Fawn accepted his outstretched hand and allowed him to help her up. They were drenched to the skin and caked in mud.

  “Let’s get inside,” he said, and then lifted her in his arms.

  Crispin carried her easily to the great stone manor house that loomed behind a curtain of rain.

  “It’s locked. I tried the door and I couldn’t get in. That’s why I … I thought you had tricked me.” She clung to his neck and buried her face against his shoulder.

  “There’s a key above the door frame. I should’ve told you. I didn’t think there was need. I was confident I would be meeting you at the station. It’s all right; there is no need for tears. You’re safe now.” He set her on her feet and reached for the key.

  Fawn leaned against him as he opened the door, and then he lifted her in his arms again and carried her over the threshold.

  “Wait! My suitcase is on the step,” she said, raising her voice in protest. “I will stay one night and only one night! I need my suitcase!”

  Crispin set her on her feet inside the door and stooped to pick up the piece of battered leather luggage, all the while supporting her against him with one arm.

  “You’ll stay as long as necessary,” he said grimly. “Jocelyn won’t have you back. You’ve run out of relatives and you have no friends. Though I be the devil himself, you are safe here, away from scandal, away from the poison that Jocelyn will spread about you in London.”

  The leather valise safely inside, Crispin kicked the door closed and lifted her in his arms. He carried her down a dark hall to an unknown room at the back of the house. Fawn was too emotionally drained to fight him. In truth, her fate was sealed as soon as she boarded the train.

  Chapter Eight

  SHE STOOD in the middle of a rustic kitchen, trying to control the violent shivering that rattled her teeth. She was soaked with the sleet and muck; her hair was lank and grimy and hung in her eyes. Fawn realized her hat was still on the beach. She cringed inwardly, imagining what she must look like to him—a mad woman who decidedly belonged in asylum. Her valise, muff and handbag were out of reach in the main hall. Perhaps she should fetch them, she thought vaguely.

  The damp had penetrated her wool mantle and the cold reached into her bones. She longed for a hot bath and a change of clothing but was shy to make this request of him.

  Crispin started a fire on the hearth, stoking it to a great blaze. The heat worked through the layers of clothing and as her shivering subsided, Fawn looked around her. The kitchen was a large airy room of stone walls and slate floors. Vaulted ceilings were supported by huge oak beams and deep casement windows were set in each wall, their panes rattling as the wind blew. A spotlessly clean table, scarred from years of use, stood in the centre flanked on either side by long heavy benches. Pewter and brown crockery gleamed dully from behind glass-fronted cupboards.

  Crispin straightened and moved to a small cloak room at the right of the great stone hearth. He sat on the wooden bench to remove his riding boots. Fawn peered into the gloom to find him tugging on a pair of clean pair of boots over his stocking feet. Pegs lined the wall behind him, hung with various cloaks shawls and hats. A water pump occupied a far corner of the small room surrounded by wooden buckets neatly stacked.

  “Has there been no one in the house then for all this time?” she asked curiously.

  “Not since Lady Constance’s death. The fortune ran out long before that. The original furniture and some of the household possessions are still here; the most valuable pieces were sold off. I wore these boots the last time I paid the place a visit. I’d just got back from the wars; this estate was a haven,” he added tersely.

  Fawn tilted her head, wondering about Captain Wolfe. His natural reserve must have made living in London difficult. She ventured to put the question to him.

  “It was hell,” he answered with a grimace. He met her eyes, amused at her observation. “Few people have seen that in me. I am not made for society. I was made for these cliffs and the plain conversation of working men.”

  She gazed about her. “Ladies are more inclined to prefer society. Finding a wife will b
e difficult if this is where you intend to make your home.”

  “Then I shall never marry,” he said with a sardonic grin. “Get out of that wet cloak. I’ll give you something dry to wear.”

  “I am perfectly comfortable. Do not trouble yourself.” She crossed her arms over her middle.

  His smile broadened wickedly. “If you catch cold, that will trouble me. A cold would interfere with my plans for you.”

  Crispin tugged his shirt free of his tight black breeches until it hung loose over his narrow hips. Then he yanked the muddy white shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor, revealing a chest hard with muscle and dusted with springy black hair. Fawn was unable to look away, despite a deep conviction that it was wrong.

  He reached over her head for a towel on the shelf. As Crispin dried his hair, he stepped nearer until they were almost touching. Tiny shivers prickled the back of her neck as she began to realize the danger she was in.

  “I will ask a servant to draw me a bath, if I may.” She flushed and avoided his eyes.

  “There are no servants at Hawkcliffe Hall.” He flung the towel on the bench and planted his broad hands against the wall on either side of her shoulders, trapping her between his powerful arms. “We shall have to live like savages and fend for ourselves.”

  “I see.” Fawn breathed, not seeing anything but the intensity of his blue-black eyes that were as feral as the storm outside.

  There was a blinding flash of lightning and thunder soon followed, cracking the air like a cannon. The hollows of his cheeks and eyes deepened in the charged half-light. Crispin’s hair looked blue-black and his shoulders appeared broader. The stone walls of the little room could barely contain him, and the manners that regulated his appetite in town had been stripped away, leaving a predator. He smelled of wood smoke and rain.