Echoes in Stone

I killed you once…

Cornwall, England, May 1837

PASSION KILLED LILY. Passion and Dashiell Tremayne.

The words repeated in Jessa Palmer’s mind, keeping time with the thundering rhythm of the carriage wheels as she stared out the window into a night black as the devil’s soul. Lily’s letter—her last desperate plea—lay crumpled in Jessa’s fist, read a hundred times already.

Should anything happen to me, look to Dash Tremayne for answers.

Thank God this journey was nearing its end. The harrowing carriage ride had been a never-ending nightmare of creaking springs, jarring motion, and a litany of prayers that she and the horses would survive the ride. The treacherous, winding path hardly seemed a road at all. The thunder echoed from the sky one moment, and from overflowing rivers the next, as if God himself chastised her for her folly. The coachman’s harsh swearing kept cadence with the relentless torrents of rain; the lash of his whip played counterpoint to the cracks of the lightning. The very mud of the road sucked and clawed at the wheels of the carriage, as if to stop her reckless flight to a darkness even deeper than that afforded by the forests that lined the rugged road.

Jessa’s stomach grumbled with hunger and her head throbbed with weariness. Only Lily’s letter—and the worry for her niece, Holly—kept Jessa from turning back. Drat it, Lily, why do you always do this to me? Jessa considered herself a throwback to her practical, sensible grandmother. Not for her the invented maladies or the fainting couch. She wished, not for the first time, for a father, brother, uncle—anyone she could turn to, who could manage Lily and her unceasing drama. Remorse flooded through her.

Someone had taken on the burden of Lily. Captain Dashiell Tremayne.

Then, six months ago tonight, somewhere very near here, there had been some sort of terrible accident. Six months ago tonight, Lily had died.

The man had a great deal for which to answer, beginning with why Lily’s letter had reached her only three weeks ago.

Jessa dozed fitfully, the words of Lily’s letter never far from her thoughts.

This has to end. I’m always watched now. I am no longer permitted near Holly. All I hear is I’m not fit to be her mother. I’m afraid for her, Jessamine, afraid of what will happen. You have to help us. I don’t know how much longer I can stand against them. Please, come. I need you. It has been too long, my dear little sister. I know we have never been close, but there is no one else I can ask. Please, Jessa, help me escape this wretched man and this God-forsaken place. Should anything happen to me, look to Dash Tremayne for answers. He’s trying to kill me…

The cessation of motion roused Jessa, followed by the rush of cold, damp air.

We be here, Miss, and may God help us. The feeble light of the lamp the coachman held aloft illuminated his craggy face, visible through the carriage door he held open. He’d already flung both her trunk and valise from the top of the carriage down into the mud. Couldn’t the blasted man have waited for a footman to help carry her belongings indoors?

Tremayne Hall, Miss, and why ye wish to be here, oi’ll never unnerstan’. The coachman spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Tis a bad place, and was ere t’ last mistress passed so sudden like. Be ye expected? ‘Tis not a night t’ be standin’ on a doorstep like a vagabond, miss.

A shiver wracked Jessa’s body; her heart pulsed hard and fast. Don’t be such a ninny. ‘Tis merely the cold. Part of her longed to do nothing more than curl up in a corner of relative safety in this tatty coach and risk the long ride back to last night’s coaching house, thunder, lightning, and muddy roads be damned.

Lily had asked this of her, had begged her. There’d been no chance to come in time. Like everyone else in Lily’s too brief life, Jessa had failed her. A miniature had accompanied her last letter. Jessa had spent hours studying the painted image of Holly’s smile and the sad shadow in Lily’s green eyes. Lily’s eyes, so like her own.

Now, only Holly mattered.

Jessa wiped the vestiges of sleep from her eyes, then ran her hands along her skirt, doing her best to smooth the wrinkles from the gray wool traveling dress. She adjusted her simple chignon, trying to gather the locks into some semblance of order, but it was useless. All she could do was straighten her black bonnet and hope for the best. She pulled the ghostly wisp of the mourning veil down over her face. Someone needed to mourn for Lily. God knew her husband likely didn’t.

What did it matter, when the rain still poured in rivulets down the coachman’s silhouetted form? She drew a deep breath to still her trembling, then accepted his outstretched hand and stepped into the rain.

How could this castle bear the prosaic name of Tremayne Hall? The immense stone mansion loomed over her, perched on the edge of the cliff like a bird of prey. Three stories rose above her, stretching out to both sides from the central portion. Rounded towers punctuated stone wings at either end, topped with crenellations biting like giant’s teeth into the night sky. A light glimmered in a window, high in the eastern tower. An additional glow shone through the colored glass panes framing the massive gothic arch of the front door. Otherwise, the house stood shrouded in darkness.

The coachman ran ahead and banged his fist upon the door, then gave the bell pull several sturdy yanks before racing back to his carriage, more worried for his horses than for her safety.

Jessa lifted her gray skirts and ran through the rain, but was sodden by the time she reached the small portico. The heavy wool clung to her body, deepening her chill. She raised her hand to the bell pull, but never reached it.

A bolt of lightning cracked overhead. The horses screamed. By accident or design, the coachman departed at a clattering pace, abandoning her alone on the doorstep of Tremayne Hall. A second flash of lightning followed hard on the first, as the heavy wooden door opened with a resounding crash.

Jessa recoiled, gasping, unable to tell if her racing heart owed more to the sizzle in the air or the figure illuminated in the flash of light.

They stood in a frozen tableau, staring at one another. Towering over her, the monstrous man looked large enough to manage any unwary hound of hell that crossed his path. A wild mane of unkempt ebony hair fell to his shoulders, leaving his face half in shadow. Powerful-looking thighs strained the seams of his black trousers. His knee-high boots, spattered with mud, molded muscular calves.

In that single flash of lightning, his black silk shirt, open to the waist, had revealed a fine mat of coal black hair curled against bronze skin. Nothing disguised the breadth of chest and shoulders.

Jessa raised her chin, drawing a sharp breath. Why am I not surprised to find the devil at the door this night? I’ve come—

You lying, cheating bitch! Come back from the fires of hell to taunt me, have you? I killed you once; why will you not stay dead?

With the shouted words still echoing around the half-lit room behind him, he seized Jessa’s wrist and yanked her into his arms.

2.

...that treacherous tongue still lies within that exquisite mouth…

JESSA JOLTED, AS if licked by a tongue of lightning. A frisson of electricity sizzled from the rough hand clutching her wrist, hissing through her body, engulfing her senses. Her heart pounded as loudly as the thunder that continued to rumble overhead. Heat, radiating from his body against hers, poured over her in waves.

Shock immobilized her. Words strangled in her throat. What little breath she was able to draw into her lungs came in ragged gasps and coherent thought was beyond her capabilities.

The nightmarish creature held Jessa in a bruising grip. He vibrated with fury; the tension of it jangled her nerves.

Pent up worry and exhaustion from the journey already had her head throbbing. Now terror sluiced through her veins. Surely, the master of the house had lost his mind, to allow this madman to answer his door.

He unclenched a white-knuckled fist, raising his hand. The beast!

Anger to match the man’s own fired her blood. She raised her chin, challenging the anticipated blow. How dare you—

He did not strike, but moved his hand to the curtain of ebony hair shadowing his face. He raked his fingers through it, pushing it back to reveal what had been hidden. His eyes bored into hers, daring her to look at him.

For a single beat of time, all sound—all motion—stopped. A wave of horror mixed with the fury already swamping her; the toxic brew caused black spots to swim before her eyes.

Mother of God! Unhand me this instant!

Renewing her struggles to pull her wrist from his iron grip, she managed only a single step back from the brute, her free hand raised to stifle another cry. She turned away, but it was already too late to erase the vision.

The right side of the man’s face was a thing of dangerous beauty. Even in the meager light provided by the sconces in the entryway, his aquiline nose looked as if it were carved from the same granite as the craggy tors that crowded around the mansion. Beneath hooded lids, his polished pewter eyes glittered with an unholy light. A stubble of black and silver beard covered his cheeks and barely visible cleft chin.

The left side of his face, however, was an apparition from a night terror. Slashing through his eyebrow, then curving in a long crescent the length of his cheek to the corner of his mouth, a jagged scar disfigured the rugged face. It lifted the corner of his mouth, lending it a sardonic smirk even now, when there was unmistakably no humor in his shadowed eyes.

He shook her captive wrist, none too gently. Seizing her chin, he forced her head up, thrusting his face close to hers. What, my dear? So squeamish now?

His mocking tone flayed her nerves; he may as well have laid a whip to her skin.

Afraid to look upon your handiwork? Afraid I will carve your pretty face to match my own? Would that I had, my beautiful, brazen Lily. P’raps then you would not have strayed so far from your husband’s loving embrace.

The brutal, whiskey-scented words washed over Jessa, mingling with the scent of leather and some other aroma. The combination set up a peculiar thrumming in her blood.

Speak to me! His voice was as dark as the rest of him; his roar rivaled the thunder echoing off the peaks surrounding this gloomy hall.

Jessa could do no more than stare at him. Lily? This hideous creature thinks I’m Lily? She opened her mouth to rebuke him, but he forestalled her by running his callused thumb over her lips. A tremor shook through her. She snapped her mouth closed, clenching her jaw.

Should have bitten the beast.

Then again, who knew what kind of poison was in his blood?

Lost your razor tongue at last, have you, my lovely, lying bitch? I can hardly credit it.

The whispered words snaked across Jessa’s overwrought nerves, grating on them more than his shouting.

Let me see, he said. Let me see if that treacherous tongue still lies within that exquisite mouth. He yanked her closer, pinning her against his chest with one muscular arm, trapping her hand between them. In a motion too sudden to allow for protest, he first shoved back her veil, knocking her enveloping bonnet half askew. Then he brazenly sleeked his hand down her body, grazing her breast, then squeezed her bottom through the wet gray wool. He lowered his head, his intention clear.

Stung into action, Jessa shoved against his chest, struggling against him. I said unhand me, you beast! Let me go! She raised her free hand, fingers curled to claw his face.

He easily caught her wrist, his grasp threatening to shatter it.

Held tight as she was, she could gain little leverage. His unyielding chest was hot and slick under her icy hand. Whorls of hair rasped crisp against her palm. She snapped her head back, turning away to avoid his kiss.

Why will you not stay where I put you? His breath hissed in her ear. Go back to hell, Lily! Go to hell and leave me alone here in mine! With his shouted words ringing, he thrust Jessa away as suddenly as he’d snatched her to him.

She staggered, barely catching her footing on the rain-slicked marble floor, cradling her bruised arm against her soaked skirts. Her skin prickled—burned—while shivers wracked her from head to toe.

A madman. I’m here alone with a madman. A madman who just confessed to murder.

She stood still as a hare in the sights of a hunter. Who knew what word or gesture would provoke him again? The scent of whiskey registered in her brain. The man was obviously in his cups. In his drunken blindness, he’d mistaken her for her half-sister. The knowledge gave her no comfort.

Here now! Captain! What are you thinking? What have you done to the poor child?

A voice echoed in the cavernous room, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps. A diminutive woman appeared at the end of the hall, her slippers slapping on the tiles as she hurried toward them. Dressed in a blue wool robe and white nightcap, she was the image of normality. Small round spectacles gleamed in the light.

Captain! She grasped the man’s arm, drawing his attention away from Jessa. What are you going on about, frightening this poor girl? She clucked her tongue at him.

The man stared at her through bleary eyes. His chest heaved. Rage shimmered around him in almost visible waves.

You’re seeing ghosts again, your lordship, she said. ‘Tis plain this is not her ladyship. How could it be? Although, the woman glanced at Jessa, perhaps in this dim light there is a passing resemblance? She shook the man’s arm again.

Captain? Jessa’s voice sounded shaky, even to herself. This was the man she’d come to see? She pulled back her shoulders, huffing out an angry breath. Surely, this brutish, drunken ogre could not be Lily’s husband.

The man swung back to her. The intensity of his stare, the long silence—her nerves stretched nearly to the snapping point before he spoke.

"My housekeeper seems to believe you are not my late—and most unlamented—wife, in spite of the proof there in your eyes, he said. Very well. If you wish to play at games with me…"

He drew himself to his full height, then swept her a mocking bow. He nearly took a tumble in his inebriated state, but caught his balance as gracefully as a dancer.

Captain Dashiell Tremayne, Viscount Tremayne, at your service. His silver eyes raked her from head to foot, taking in her sodden gown, her bedraggled bonnet, then paused overlong on her bodice.

Heat flamed in her cheeks as she returned his bold look, wishing she’d donned her pelisse before stepping from the carriage into the rain. But the lightweight cape would have afforded little protection from either the rain or this man.

What spawn of hell spat you onto my God-forsaken doorstep this night, my lady? Are you a witch or hell-born spirit, come to mock me in my hour of misery? Bitterness edged his sudden laugh. You. Staring at me with those green eyes.

He swayed, then caught himself and straightened. You, with your flushed cheeks. Your cherry lips. Bearing the face of my demon wife. He stepped back, pointed to the open door.

"Get out, Lily! I cast you out once. I’ll cast you out again and again if need be, no matter what guise you wear. The child belongs to me. Do you hear me? You can’t have her. I will not let you cause her further harm!"

He turned to his servant, who remained serene in the face of his wrath. Mrs. Penrose. I wished only a quiet evening with my bottle and my fire. Instead, I find my foyer sullied with muddy strangers. If you will be so good, kindly remove this rubbish.

Captain Dashiell Tremayne, master of Tremayne Hall, whirled away, and with the haughty grace only a drunken man could achieve, stalked to a doorway across the hall, entered, and slammed the door.

The sound reverberated in the cold entry, echoing in Jessa’s equally chilled heart. Two things remained clear.

Lily had been right to fear Dashiell Tremayne.

And Holly needed to be removed from his keeping as quickly as possible.

3.

…some witch or hell-born spirit…

DASH STOOD IN the center of his book-lined study. The roaring fire provided the only light. His chest heaved as hard as if he’d run a footrace with the devil. He clenched and unclenched his hand, trying to ease the tingling burn. The rain-sodden wind that had blown through his front door with that female creature had helped to blow away a few of the cobwebs the whiskey had spun in his brain.

What had the girl done to him?

Not a girl. A woman. Though her fair skin had the dewy look of a mere chit, not even her ugly gray excuse for a dress had been able to hide the undeniable curves of a full-grown female.

He retrieved the crystal decanter perched on the corner of his desk, pouring a sizable splash of whiskey into the glass he’d already filled too many times tonight. His impulse was to pour it down his suddenly dry throat, but he forced himself to sip it instead. He drew a deep breath, waiting for his galloping pulse to slow.

He moved to stand in front of the fire. He was wet to the skin from having held the sodden woman against him, but molten heat coursed through his veins. He raised his hand to examine it, half expecting to see angry, red scorch marks on it.

Nothing.

But he’d not been mistaken. When he’d gripped the girl’s bare wrist, something hot, pulsing had arced through him. Blood had raced to his stomach, then pooled lower in his groin.

Six months ago tonight, fire of another kind had seared him. Six months ago tonight, screams spiraling into a night sky had set him free and cast him into hell in the same moment. Instead of chasing away his ghosts, the whiskey he’d been downing all evening had called one of them forth. Lily—or her doppelganger— had stood in his foyer.

In normal circumstances, Winston would have been the one to answer the door, but he’d stepped out to answer nature’s call. No other servant would be awake this time of night. There was no need. No one came to Tremayne Hall. No one.

So, who is the woman?

Dash swiveled to face the man seated in the gold and black-striped chair in front of the desk.

You don’t know, do you, Dash? You were so busy berating the poor little thing, terrorizing her, accusing her of being—I believe your words were ‘some witch or hell-born spirit’—you never even got her name.

Winston Evers, the senior male staff member in this household—sometimes majordomo, sometimes valet—casually crossed his legs, lit a cigar, then blew out a lazy smoke ring. The long relationship between the two men, the nearest thing Dash allowed to friendship, permitted the familiar tone of speech, as did the fact that Winston was a distant—albeit financially strapped—cousin.

"So. You saw all that? Yet you made no move to assist the poor little thing?"

When I returned to the study, the door to the entry was open. I watched from there. Winston took another puff of his cigar, then studied the bright ember on the end of it. I must say, Dash, watching you make a damn fool of yourself is more entertaining than a London play.

Dash swayed, leaning against the chimneypiece for support. The half-decanter of whiskey he’d consumed burned in his belly. He snorted at Winston, but made no other response.

Had I realized you would actually assault the chit—

Damned female shows up on my doorstep in the middle of night, half-drowned, looking like Lily—

But she isn’t Lily, Dash. I’ll grant you there’s a slight resemblance—perhaps the shape of her face, the set of her eyes…. But Lily is dead. We both know that. Winston sighed. And now some lovely stranger, lost on these cliffs on a stormy night, will cower in her bed somewhere in this mausoleum, poker clutched in her fists, terrified of closing her eyes lest some scar-faced madman molest her. Really, Captain. That was poorly done of you.

Between the haze of alcohol and the red haze of his anger, Dash truly hadn’t known if it were wraith or woman on his doorstep until he seized her wrist, her flesh solid against his. Her hand had been icy, but when he pulled her soft form against him, flares of heat ignited at every point their bodies touched. Even the feel of her sodden dress against his bare chest hadn’t tempered the sudden fire in his loins.

He hated the loss of control—hated what the woman made him feel. He’d worked hard to put those urges behind him. A slender waist flaring into rounded hips, or rose lips begging to be kissed held no place in his life now. And certainly, there was no place for the full, lush breasts straining against the buttons of her plain bodice.

Dash stared at the amber liquid shimmering in the heavy crystal glass, then tossed it back in a single gulp. Whoever the minx was, he’d see her out of his house at the first light of day. Even if he had to toss her out himself.

4.

You have come too late…

PLEASE DON’T LET me be like Lily. Please don’t let me be like Mother. Please don’t let me destroy my life—and others—with uncontrolled passions. Jessa prayed as she did every night.

The wind rattled the casement windows, seeping through unseen cracks to flutter the heavy blue velvet draperies of Jessa’s bedroom, as the storm continued to rage. In defiance of Captain Tremayne’s orders, Mrs. Penrose—his housekeeper—had offered her this small room for the night. It had taken only minutes, and a few civil questions, for the housekeeper to determine that the shivering stranger in the entry hall was the sister of her master’s late wife.

We’ll put you in the Blue Room, in the east wing, she’d said. ‘Tis the only guest room we keep made up. It will do for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll see what else is to be done with you.

The east wing? Is that where Holly is? When I arrived, there was a light in the tower—

You must have been mistaken. Mrs. Penrose had bristled. No one has been in the towers for years. They aren’t safe. Your niece’s rooms are in the opposite wing, not far from her father. He prefers having her close by.

Mrs. Penrose had provided a cold collation of cheese and ham slices, accompanied by a blessedly hot pot of tea. A sleepy, rumpled maid in a night robe had brought fresh towels and a pitcher of hot water for washing. She’d lit a small fire in the fireplace before taking Jessa’s dripping, mud-stiffened wool dress away with her.

Clean, warm, and with her belly comfortably full, Jessa read once more through Lily’s letter, this time with eyes opened by the odious beast himself. Lily’s natural inclination toward theatrics had surely been stimulated in this lonely house, and by her ogre of a husband. Perhaps this time, it had been justified.

It was always passion and high drama with Lily. There were times Jessa could’ve throttled her herself. And yet, who could blame her? With her upbringing… Jessa sighed. Lily had never even tried to contain her passions. But she hadn’t deserved to die for them either.

She blew out the lamp, huddling under the coverlet that hinted mustiness of long disuse. Her thoughts leapt and strayed like a roomful of cats as she hovered in the liminal state between wakefulness and exhausted sleep.

What had attracted Lily to Dashiell Tremayne? Not his looks, of course. Jessa shuddered at the memory of that ragged, torn face, and of the man’s lips, so close to hers. Certainly not his charming manner. Perhaps his breadth of shoulder had attracted Lily, or his intriguing pewter eyes…. No. Please—don’t let me be like Lily.

Sometime in the deepest part of the night, Jessa jerked fully awake from her fitful sleep. Her skin prickled in awareness, as if someone—or something—watched her. She lay very still, fighting to keep her breath deep, even. She listened, stretching out with all her senses.

Sooo. The sibilant hiss came from nowhere, everywhere. Words, no more distinct than sighs, swirled around the room.

Just the wind, whispering through the gaps in the windows.

You have come too late. Too late. The breathy voice died away. Long, tense minutes later, the sensation of another presence in the room, watching her, dissipated.

Days of jouncing around in a carriage, the atrocious welcome, and now this? What the devil kind of place had she come to? If Dashiell Tremayne thought such a cruel trick would force her into leaving….

Every muscle in Jessa’s body ached with tension and fatigue. Nevertheless, she threw back the covers and struck a lucifer to her lamp.

Of the room’s three doors, one led to the hall, one led to a small washing room, and the third, locked, remained a mystery. She dragged a chair away from the fireplace, shoving it hard against that third door. She double-checked the hall door as well. Locked. Nothing could have come through there.

Her head throbbed, her patience stretched to breaking. Before climbing back into bed, she turned the lamp low, but didn’t extinguish it. The friendly light would be a welcome guard against whatever dwelled here.

She lay on her side, her eyes shut tight. I’m not like Mother. Not like Lily. I won’t give in to idiotic dramas.

Far away, down the corridor, a door slammed. Likely her sotted, inconsiderate host, taking himself off to bed. Had he paused outside her door, whispering through the keyhole? But that voice…

Nothing more than a long journey. Overwrought nerves. An old house creaking in a storm. That couldn’t have been Lily’s voice. Lily was dead.

IN THE DIM light of the study, Winston studied his cousin through narrowed eyes. He’d watched Dash do battle with his inner demons many times over the last few years, but somehow, tonight was different. God knew the man had already been through enough with his family, his past. With Lily.

Winston hated to pick at old wounds, but something had to be done to detour Dash from his self-destructive path. Too many mistakes had been made already.

Dash had always protected Holly from her mother—from Lily’s odd fancies and her temper tantrums. He loved the child. But the little girl still needed help, guidance. Dash was the only person in any position to provide that. But not if he continued to allow himself to be controlled by his bitterness.

Winston blew out another puff of smoke from his cigar, watching the silvery wisp spiral toward the high ceiling. He cleared his throat, uncrossed his legs, and leaned forward.

What are you going to do now, Dash? he asked. Though she bears some passing resemblance to her, you know as well as I that was not Lily there in your foyer tonight. That was a flesh and blood—and thanks to you—very frightened, woman. His voice sharpened. We are so far off any of the main roads, there is not the slightest chance her being here is an accident. She will still be here in the morning. You will need to be sober enough—and sane enough—to listen to her explanations. I suggest you put down that glass and let me help your drunken, sorry self to bed.

Winston crossed the room to the man swaying before the fire. He removed the glass from Dash’s unresisting hand. The fight had left his friend as suddenly as it had come upon him. Winston cajoled Dash across the now-empty foyer, up the long flights of stairs, then down the drafty corridor to his rooms.

Come along now, Dash. Let me help you with those boots. Winston assisted him to a chair, then pried off a boot. He looked it over with a jaundiced eye. God only knows how you got them into such sad shape. What on earth have you been tramping in? The fine black leather was filthy, a sure sign Dash had been out in the rain. What would drive a man to dare the storms on a night such as this?

Dash stared into the fire, unresponsive.

Never mind. I’ll deal with them. Winston sighed.

Dash glared at him, but with no real heat in his eyes, which were