Beauty in Spring Read online

  There’s nothing for me here. And instead of sweet nostalgia, every memory is bringing nothing but pain.

  Feral dogs or not, it’s time to go.

  Blinded by tears, I turn back the way I came—and feel a faint sliding touch at the back of my neck. Immediately I shudder and flinch, thinking of those cobwebs, trying to bat away whatever just crawled across my skin.

  But it’s only my necklace. The pendant must have gotten turned around. Except…

  I can’t twist it back into place. The fine chain is snug around the front of my throat—and snug around the back of my neck—but my fingers can’t locate the diamond pendant at the end of the chain.

  Forget the pendant, though. I can’t locate the end of the chain. Instead I turn and stare in stunned incomprehension at the glittering line of gold that trails behind me—starting at my nape and continuing the length of the corridor, where it disappears from sight.

  What the…?

  Shaking my head in confusion and disbelief, I slide my fingertips over the fine links around my neck, searching for the clasp.

  There’s no clasp. Instead the seamless chain circles my throat like a collar, with a golden leash that leads back toward the grand hall.

  I follow it, uneasily aware that there’s no slack forming in the chain as I go. It should be trailing behind me in an ever-increasing loop, but instead all of the loose length is simply…disappearing. Or shrinking. It’s not being taken up from the other end, because the chain ahead of me isn’t being pulled in that direction. As if the chain is only as long as it needs to be, and that length is the distance between my neck and wherever the chain ends.

  Which isn’t in the great hall. The chain leads across the domed chamber, past the long gallery still decorated with marble statuary and great paintings, and into the corridor connecting to the southeast wing.

  The family wing.

  Heart thundering, I pass through the main parlor—and here, finally here, there is not just abandonment and neglect. Though the wing clearly has been neglected. But the dust has not lain undisturbed. Instead it’s as if someone has lived here and cleaned the rooms haphazardly, though not with the dedication of a household staff.

  Cleaned the rooms…and destroyed some of them. Stuffing spills out of slashed upholstery. Silk wallpaper hangs in ragged strips. Shattered mirrors reflect shards of my face—the broken glass cleaned from the floor but the frames still hanging on the walls.

  And there’s blood. None of it fresh, but in faint handprints along the walls, and faded splotches in the rugs. I don’t immediately recognize what those rusted stains are, but as soon as I do, it seems that I can’t stop seeing it. There’s blood everywhere.

  Yet it’s all smudged, indistinct. As if someone tried to clean it.

  The level of destruction increases the deeper into the wing I go. And unless the chain is anchored outside somewhere, there’s not much farther to go. The only rooms remaining in this direction are the solarium…and Gideon’s bedchamber.

  His room is the least ravaged, but only because nothing remains except for his big four-poster bed—as if every other piece of furniture and the rugs had been utterly destroyed or discarded.

  This is where the chain ends, wrapped around the leg at the head of Gideon’s bed. White linen sheets cover the mattress—and they’re clean, though rumpled and unmade, but I can’t mistake the faint, rusted stains for anything else except more blood that hadn’t come out in the wash.

  Hands shaking, I fall to my knees and attempt to pull the chain free. But it’s not wrapped around the thick wooden leg, I realize. Instead the fine links seems to pierce through the solid oak, the diamond teardrop hanging from the opposite side as if it had been pinned there. Desperately I pull, thinking that if I pull hard enough the diamond will pop off and the chain will slide free, yet there’s no give at all, and the pressure of the thin gold links against my palm and fingers threatens to cut into my skin.

  I need a glove—or something else to protect my hand.

  With frantic purpose, I strip off my jacket and wrap the fabric around my palm before gripping the chain again and hauling back with all of my strength, bracing my feet against the wall and throwing my weight into it.

  Nothing happens…though the chain should have snapped. It’s a fine piece of jewelry but a gold necklace isn’t that strong.

  It also usually doesn’t stretch the length of a manor house, then shrink to less than three feet long. Right now it extends from the bed frame to my neck with no slack in between.

  This isn’t real. This can’t be real.

  The realization is a reassuring one, easing my panic and calming the racing beat of my heart.

  This can’t be real.

  So I’m dreaming. I must have fallen asleep in the car and now I’m dreaming.

  Okay. My ragged breathing slows. Okay.

  I’m okay. Just having a dream filled with some really disturbing symbolism.

  But it’ll end when I wake up. Letting go of the chain, I rise to my feet and look around the room. Gideon’s bedchamber has its own access to the solarium—which, when we were young, was his favorite room in the entire house. The door leading to that glass-walled chamber has been torn away; nothing remains but the twisted, broken hinges. Gray daylight spills through the doorway.

  And I know this is only a dream—a nightmare—yet still my heart freezes when I hear the soft growl coming from that room. Still my body begins trembling when I see the hulking shadow of…something prowling toward Gideon’s bedchamber.

  Something. Or someone.

  Pulse thudding in my throat, I drop into a crouch beside the big bed, caught in an agony of indecision. If I run for it, surely the noise of my pounding feet and the slithering chain would alert them. If I stay right here, remain very quiet, maybe whatever is in the solarium won’t realize I’m hiding. Silence seems like my best option.

  But oh my god I want to run.

  Abruptly the growling stops, replaced by the sound of…an inhalation? As if someone is taking a long, deep breath.

  As if something is scenting the air.

  And they are in this room. In this bedchamber. And coming closer.

  Cold sweat drips down my spine. Every muscle in my body tenses, preparing to flee. Then I hear a footstep, then another, coming ever closer, and I can’t bear this anymore. I’ve got to get out of here, I need to run.

  Mentally I measure the distance to the door. I just have to get that far, slam the heavy oak shut behind me, give myself a few extra seconds head start—and hope that slamming the door doesn’t prevent the chain from magically stretching again. Because if it pulls tight while I’m sprinting away, I’m going to break my neck.

  On a soft prayer, I dart for the door.

  A heavy body crashes into mine before I take three steps, knocking the air from my lungs, spinning me around—

  And dumping me back onto soft cushion of the bed.

  I shriek in terror, ready to fight. Pinning my flailing hands, the giant figure looms over me, his dark hair a wild tangle, most of his face in shadow…

  His face.

  Abruptly my struggles stop, my heart squeezing tight in my chest. “Gideon?”

  Eyes as green as spring meet mine, narrowing as they search my features. “When I dream of you, Cora Walker, you do not usually run from me.”

  I hardly recognize the voice that seems to reverberate from deep within his chest before emerging on a rumbling growl.

  I hardly recognize him—or the way he’s gazing down at me. His eyes were always filled with warmth when he looked at me, but now they’re glowing with heat, like glass drawn from a furnace.

  More aware of the hard, muscular body leaning over mine than I’ve ever been aware of anything before, I ask breathlessly, “What do I usually do?”

  His head dips toward mine, that thick tangle of hair smelling cold and crisp, like a night spent in the woods. I gasp as he buries his face against my neck, inhaling deeply. His mouth skims a
burning line from the hollow of my throat to my jaw.

  “Usually you’re waiting for me in my bed, your soft thighs open and your body yearning for my touch.” That roughened voice thickens. “The beast within me enjoyed it when you ran, Cora.”

  Oh god. The beast in me is enjoying the way he’s holding me down, breathing in the scent of my skin. “Does he?”

  Against my ear, Gideon makes a rumbling sound of assent. “But you smell far sweeter this time. As if you are not a dream at all.”

  Mind swimming in a haze of desire, I tell him, “I think I’m the one who is dreaming.”

  “Then I shall make you scream so loud that you will awaken.” The gravelly promise in his voice is followed by the shock of his big hand pushing beneath my skirt. A stunned breath catches in my throat, my body tensing—then arching toward his on a ragged gasp when his long fingers dip into my panties, delving through slippery wetness and heat.

  A tortured groan rips from his chest. “You are wetter than ever I have dreamed. Shall I taste you, then, my sweet Cora? Shall I lick and tease your…your little…”

  His body goes utterly still. His hand withdraws from my panties, and when he pulls back, his fingers glisten with the wetness of my arousal—and he’s holding the glittering thread of the gold chain, which had been trapped beneath my body when he’d tossed me onto the bed. I’m still lying upon it, but now I feel the tug at the back of my neck and strange sensation of the line being pulled up between my legs as Gideon raises it higher, his gaze following the trailing length to the bedpost.

  Abruptly he drops the chain and backs away, staring at me with an expression near to horror. “You are here. You have come.” Torment darkens the green of his eyes and he rips his hands through the long tangle of his hair, his voice hardening, taut anger whitening his lips. “Bloody fucking hell, Cora! You should never have come!”

  I can’t respond to that. Only sit up and scoot back to the center of the bed, my body still aching with need and my heart now trembling with fear.

  Dried blood covers his hands. And his jaw and throat and chest. He’s naked, and almost every inch of his tall, powerful form is filthy—his tanned skin not just covered in blood but in dirt.

  And his penis is erect.

  Hugely erect.

  I can hardly take my eyes off that long, thick cock. There’s blood all over him, and I’m immobilized by uncertainty and terror, yet lust still has me its merciless grip. My pussy clenches with desperate yearning as I stare at the blatant evidence of Gideon’s desire for me.

  A sardonic smile twists his firm lips. “And now there is the scent of your fear. It is also sweet to the beast.” A cold, steely edge scrapes away the rough growl in his voice. “But not to me. Why did you come, Cora?”

  “Mr. Singh. Your parents’ solicitor.” I struggle to pull coherent answers from the riot of emotions and thoughts crowding my mind. “He contacted me on their behalf.”

  “My parents were killed nine years ago.” Over my gasp of disbelief and dismay, he asks, “Where is your father? He was supposed to protect you and keep you away from this place.”

  “He died this past fall.” Raw grief aches in my throat. My father. His parents. “He had a stroke several years ago that left him bedridden. Then…he slowly faded.”

  A muscle working in his jaw, Gideon averts his face before saying gruffly, “I am sorry. He was a good man.”

  He was. But also a man who practically locked me away for years, away from everything and everyone I loved.

  “I am sorry to hear about your parents, as well,” I tell him softly. “They were always very kind to me.”

  “Kind to you?” A hard, short laugh barks from him. “Not at the end, if they gave Singh directions to bring you here. They must have left instructions to do it after your father passed.”

  “I don’t know anything about that. Singh said there was a debt owed. I wasn’t sure what it was—perhaps unpaid wages? But I came because I wanted to see Blackwood Manor again.”

  And to see Gideon again. But the man standing before me is not the same boy I knew. Not just because he’s bigger, taller, stronger. Gideon had once been so kind and even tempered. Never had he shown the cold, cruel edge that Gideon has now, and never had he seemed so…feral.

  Or so ravenous.

  Nervously my gaze drops to his thick erection again—then rises to his broad chest, where blood has dried in smears and drips. Drips, as if he were a messy eater. And that deer had been torn apart. Yet how could a man do that?

  I don’t know how it’s possible. But I also don’t think I’m dreaming anymore.

  “You came to see the estate?” A mocking smile appears on his lips. “And what do you think of Blackwood Manor today?”

  My gaze snaps to his. “I think you should be ashamed of yourself.”

  Something pained flickers in the depths of those green eyes. “So I should be.” Yet it is not contrition but arrogance that draws his angular features into hard, imposing lines. “The debt owed was not to your father. It was a debt your father owed to me.”

  Gideon had only been seventeen when we’d left. What could my father owe a boy? “What are you talking about?”

  “He took something of mine.”

  “You’re saying my father stole something?” Firmly I shake my head. “He would never do that.”

  “I did not say he stole. I said he took what was mine.” With a predator’s fluid stride, he stalks silently to the edge of the bed, where he leans over and braces his hands on the mattress, his eyes on level with mine. Each word succinct, Gideon says, “He…took…my…bride.”

  His bride.

  Hardly daring to breathe, I whisper, “Me?”

  “Did you not agree to be mine?” Gaze holding mine, he winds the gold chain around his fist. “Did I not give you this necklace as I vowed to make you my wife? Did you not accept it?”

  “I… I…” Of course I did. But bewilderment and fear prevent that admission. Because I don’t understand any of this. “Why did he take me?”

  “So that this would not happen. I told him to hide you away.” He tugs gently on the chain, drawing me nearer, until my face is a breath away from his. Softly he says, “But I have the key to release you, Cora.”

  “Then release me.”

  “Perhaps I will.” Tormented gaze locked with mine, he skims the backs of his knuckles down the side of my face. The growl deepens his voice as he adds, “But not yet.”

  Dropping the chain, he backs away again, abandoning me in the center of the bed, my heart wracked by hurt and confusion, my body alight with yearning and need.

  Eyes hard, his gaze sweeps my length. “You are fortunate you did not arrive last night. You’d have received a much different reception.”

  How different? “Does that mean it would be better or worse?”

  “Better for you or for me?” His eyes gleam with a hot and feral light. “Had I come upon you last night, I would have fucked you and made you mine—and I would have not cared whether you wanted me in return.”

  Not cared. I cringe away from those words. Away from this Gideon, who would not have cared for my feelings.

  His cold laugh in response to my flinch is a hateful sound. “So you can not bear the thought of this touch?” He looks down at his bloodstained hands. “No matter. I have almost a month to persuade you to become mine in another way.”

  “What way?” I cry in frustration. “What are you talking about?”

  He moves so fast. Abruptly his fingers are twisted in my hair, and he’s kneeling in front of me on the bed, drawing my upper body against his chest, his mouth so close to mine.

  “Cora Walker.” My name from his lips is a low, thick rumble. “Will you get down on your hands and knees—and with love in your heart, offer the use of your cunt for my pleasure?”

  My breath catches, and I stare at him in disbelief—and growing anger. “Why are you being so cruel?”

  His cold green gaze searches mine. “I wonder i
f I am more cruel to you or to myself, to beg for your heart when I know you will deny me? And yet I cannot stop it. So I will ask this, as well, and we will see who is most hurt by it.” Wrapping the gold chain around his bloodstained fingers, he gently tilts my chin higher, as if to ready my lips for his kiss. “Cora Walker…will you marry me?”

  2

  Gideon

  The next evening as I sit adjacent to Cora at the dining table in the family wing, I ask her again.

  “Will you marry me?”

  Her answer is the same as it was when I asked her in my bed. Yet this time, her tears do not spill down her cheeks to land on my chest, each one like molten lead that blistered the surface of my heart.

  Instead she calmly sips mushroom soup from her spoon before replying, “Release me from this chain, and we will see.”

  We will see. What I can see is Cora searching for escape. Even now, her beautiful blue eyes never meet mine, always looking elsewhere as if imagining herself away from me.

  I could release her from the chain. Then she would run away from me, beyond the borders of this estate.

  And I would die the moment she passed through the gate.

  The curse that afflicts me and the magic that forms her chain make no logical, scientific sense—yet they are still governed by rules. My parents spared no expense, seeking answers…and a cure.

  Answers they found. Rules were part of those answers. That there is no cure was another answer.

  The beast is within me. Always, it will be within me.

  Yet although there is no cure, there is control, for the heart and the soul of man and beast are one and the same. So if a man’s heart is strong enough, if his will is great enough, he can control the beast…almost always. No matter how I fight, no matter how great my will, I cannot prevent the beast from emerging on the full moon.

  But there is another way to tame the beast. For when it comes to love, the beast knows no reserve. A man might protect his heart; the beast does not. And a man’s control over his heart is nothing compared to the power of a woman who owns it.