Echoes in Stone Read Free Page A

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