Guardian of Werewolf Keep (Werewolf Keep Trilogy) Read online

  Captain Patrick Davenport, dressed in full crimson and gold regalia, had come to see him the next morning. He had offered his condolences, and offered to help Byron track down the wolves that had killed his parents. Byron had been so in awe of the war hero that he had willingly accepted the assistance. The villagers had tried to discourage him from going with the Captain, but their livelihoods depended on the land they tenanted from him, so none could say an overt word against him.

  Had they told him the truth, he would not have believed them. By that time, he had convinced himself that it was wolves he had seen in the darkness. What other explanation was there for the carnage that had taken place?

  Shaking the memories away, Byron turned back towards the staircase he had just descended. He didn't have a room ready for her. There had been too much happening since the Captain's death to deal with the practicalities of a possible visit from the new heiress.

  She would have to have the best chamber in the Keep, and he hoped it was furnished well enough to suit this young, well-bred lady. There would be no fire in the grate, but it was not as bitterly cold in midsummer as it was at other times of the year. Hopefully, the new heiress would be only mildly put out by its lack.

  He would deal with the room's regular occupant in the morning.

  He heard her footsteps on the marble stairs behind him. Even as exhausted as she had to have been, her steps were still light. He was reminded of the speed she had shown when dashing up the stairs to put her foot in the doorway, to stop him closing her out. That had been impressive, if foolhardy.

  At the top of the staircase he turned left, and wound his way along the stone balustraded balcony until he reached the door he was looking for. He pushed it open, and made a graceful bow, as he gestured for her to enter. It was only partly cynical.

  'You will find everything you need in this room. There's a chamber pot under the bed, and there will be fresh water to wash with in the morning. Not before. Do not, under any circumstances, try to leave your room until I come for you in the morning. Keep your door locked at all times. There is a key on the inside. Use it.'

  She stood in the doorway of her new room, and stared up at him. He had the strongest desire to tear off her bonnet and loosen her hair, so he could see what colour it actually was. At the moment, in the glow from the lamp, it looked like burnished copper. He wanted to feel the silky texture of it between his fingers. He wanted to brush the stray locks back from her pale face.

  As they stared at one another, it seemed as if time had stopped. He watched in bemused delight as her cheeks darkened with a blush, and her eyes sparkled. Her breasts, so tightly cocooned beneath the sober bodice, rose upward, and seemed to struggle to escape their bondage. She swallowed, and sucked in her lush lower lip, chewing on it nervously. Something had shifted between them, and he could see that she was as affected by it as he was.

  'You...you are still trying to frighten me away. Can't you see that such ploy will not work with me?' she said softly, brushing back the errant lock he had wanted to touch.

  'I am not trying to frighten you. I am trying to protect you. You have no idea what your pride has led you into.' His voice was little more than a whisper, and she shifted forward slightly to catch his words.

  'Who are you?' Her mouth formed a moue, as if caught on the last word. 'Why would you want to protect me?'

  Byron lifted his hand, and let his fingers touch those pouting lips. Like a sea anemone, they withdrew from his invasion.

  He grunted at his own lack of restraint. He had more pressing matters with which to concern himself than this pretty miss. And yet he regretted her rejection of his touch. It stung.

  'I am Byron Carstairs. I was your father's assistant.'

  Her eyes lit with amusement. 'You had a poetry lover for a parent, I assume?'

  Byron groaned. His mother's love of Lord Byron's poetry had, in truth, been the reason for his name. He had been teased mercilessly throughout his school years for it. And he had never liked his namesake's writing. It was highly unrealistic in its romanticism.

  'Good night, Miss Davenport. I will see you in the morning.' He tried to maintain his fierce persona, but she had dislodged it with her amusement, and though he knew it was no time for frivolity, he felt a lightness in the moment.

  She smiled a slow and knowing smile that created dimples in her flushed cheeks. 'Goodnight to you, Mr Carstairs. I will look forward to it.'

  His pulse raced, and for one daring moment he thought of dragging her into his arms, and kissing those smiling lips. She was like nothing he had ever known. In this dark place, with its horror and pain, she was a glimpse of light that shone brighter than the sun. He wanted to bath in it, to soak up the warmth of it, and let it drive the darkness away…

  If only for a few precious moments…

  The howl that broke the spell was harsh and eerie, echoing up from the dungeons below. With sickening heart, Byron watched the beautiful face register shock at the sound, and then fear. She reached out, and grasped his arm.

  'My Lord, what was that!' she gasped, the lantern light flickering, as the hand that held it shook.

  'Go inside and lock the door. You will hear more of that in the coming hours. I did warn you that you would not sleep if you stayed here tonight.' He tried to draw his arm back from her, but she held tight.

  'Tell me what that howl is. It sounds like something is in pain. Is it a dog?' she asked, pressing him for answers he didn't have time to give.

  'It is something that only your worst nightmares have answers for. And it is pain, anguish and fury that you will hear in those howls. Go inside now. I have work to do.' He drew her clutching hand from his sleeve, and gently pushed her into the room. Her big eyes stared at him, as he pulled the door closed.

  He waited to hear the lock turn, and was relieved when it did. She was no fool. Suddenly, she had realised that his words of warning were not just designed to frighten her. He really was trying to protect her. She may not know from what, as yet, but she had been galvanized to action, none the less.

  Relieved, he turned and hurried along the balcony toward the staircase, just as another ear-piercing howl rent the air. If she wasn't rushing to hide under the bedclothes by now, she should be. He just wished that he could be under them with her. But he had duties to fulfil, and they could not wait.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Phil was so tired she thought she would collapse on the spot. But the adrenalin surge that the strange howl had elicited, and the disquiet she felt from her last encounter with Byron Carstairs, meant that sleep was far away. She lay on the goose-down layered mattress, surrounded by fine linen sheets and warm woollen blankets, and couldn’t make her body relax, for all the comfort.

  What had made that unearthly noise? It was like nothing she had ever heard before. No dog or wolf she had ever heard had howled that way. But if not an animal, then what could make such a sound?

  And what of the man: What was he hiding with all those veiled warnings of dire consequences, if she entered the Keep this night, or later, if she left her room? There was purpose to it, she was sure. Was he trying to drive her away because she was the heir to this pile of stones, and he was next in line to inherit if she didn't fulfil her three month stipulation? Or was he really trying to protect her from something; something that had a howl that made the hairs on her arms stand on end?

  He was an enigma: so big and strong, she felt he could break her if he wanted to, yet he seemed to be struggling under a weight that was more than he could bear. He was tired, so bone wearily tired, and yet so tightly wound.

  But he was also vital and alive. There was something intensely primal about that vitality; something that spoke of danger and survival, life and death.

  When Byron had touched her lips, and looked at her as if he wanted to devour her, it had been shock that made her draw back. If she’d had more than a moment to react, she might have stayed where she was, allowing his fingers to feel their way across her moist lips.
She could still taste his fingertips – salty and tantalising.

  He had touched her despite himself, she could tell. He didn't want to be attracted to her. And yet it was very clear that he was attracted to her; so attracted, that, for a few moments, he had forgotten his terrible burden, and flirted with her.

  She had very little experience with flirtation. Because of their poverty, Phil had not been presented to society in the way her pedigree required. Then, when her mother had died, and she had taken up the position of governess to her friend Fidelia’s step children, soirees had regularly been staged to give her access to eligible men. Some of these gentlemen had flirted with her because she was pretty. But even with Lady Fidelia Montgomery’s sponsorship, none of those eligible bachelors had found her so attractive that they would forget her penury, and offer marriage.

  Several had stolen kisses in the garden. Curiosity had led Phil to acquiesce. But after a few moments of wet, encroaching mouths and groping hands, she had pulled away and feigned her best maidenly horror, sending them off with fleas in their ears.

  But she wondered whether she would be so quick to dismiss Byron Carstairs, if he dared to kiss her. There was something very appealing about his rugged features, even though they were regularly twisted into a frown of annoyance or worry.

  Only for a moment had the darkness receded. For a moment, he had almost smiled. She wanted to make him smile, despite the worries of the world he seemed to carry.

  As her imagination composed a scene where he smiled as he kissed her, another shriek split the air. It was a sound that belonged in Hell. She shivered, and pulled the blankets up around her more tightly. Not cold. It was quite mild in the big, pleasantly furnished room Byron had assigned her. The shivers were of terror – primordial terror, and she was helpless to control them, as they wracked her body long after the sound had ceased.

  Later, when the lengthening silence allowed her to doze, warm thoughts of the dark, unwelcoming stranger returned to her mind again. He was so impolite it had infuriated her. No one, not even the less gallant of the young men she had encountered at Fidelia's, had spoken to her as if she was a dim-witted, foolish woman. The worst they had subjected her to were leers and patronising comments about her impoverished status. None had been overtly rude.

  But for all his boorish ways, Phil found Byron deeply appealing. Compelling. Whatever his secret was, no matter how terrible, it couldn't distract from the budding attraction he inspired. What would his touch be like, if she gave herself time to enjoy it? Would he taste as good as she imagined he would?

  What is your body like beneath those dishevelled clothes, Mr Carstairs? Would it be hard and muscular, as his size indicated? Or would he be soft and flabby, his height creating an illusion unsupport by fact?

  Several more howls filled the air, a ghastly chorus that drove the man from her mind again, and made her bite her lip until it bled. It sounded like there were many creatures down below her. How many would try to escape and find her? How many would want to tear her to shreds, and leave her dead body slumped across this fine feather bed?

  Is that how her father had died? Had one of those howling banshees caught him, and torn him apart? Why would her father live in a place with so much danger? Why would he bring her here, if this place held such danger? He may not have cared for her as a father should care for his daughter, after he came home from the war, but surely he didn't hate her enough to want her dead?

  That thought troubled her in a way that even the howls didn't. The idea that anyone could want her dead, was bad enough, but to imagine the man she had always seen as her hero; the loving father who had comforted her when she fell, or held her when she woke from a nightmare, could be the one to want her dead, was the vilest kind of fear. It was worse, by far, than finding out he had abandoned them so cruelly.

  NO, he didn't bring her here to die. That did not fit with the man she had known in her childhood. That was too awful a crime, even for a man who would desert his family. There was some other reason for all this that she had yet to uncover. And uncover it she would. Just as she would discover all of the secrets that Breckenhill Keep and Byron Carstairs had tried to hide from her.

  Between intermittent howls and shrieks, she dozed. And finally, as dawn lightened the sky, and the howls quietened, she dropped off into a deep and dreamless sleep.

  Phil was woken by a gentle tap on the door. She was instantly awake, scanning her surroundings for danger. All she saw was a luxuriously appointed room, which was so large that the whole flat she and her mother had shared for eight years would have easily fitted into it. Then, it took a moment longer to orientate to her new surroundings, and for the memories of how she had come to be in them to return.

  Scrambling from the bed, still fully clothed from the night before, Phil unlocked the door, and let in a young maid, carrying a heavy jug of water and an arm full of towels. The girl bobbed a curtsy, but in no other way acknowledged her presence, keeping her eyes firmly fixed to the polished wooden floor.

  Phil followed her to the washing stand, where a large bowl awaited the jug. Steam rose lazily from the water, and Phil suddenly felt the itch of a day's grime, and the discomfort of sleeping in her travelling clothes. There was a fragrant smell rising from the water, like roses on a summer's day. She breathed in the scent and groaned.

  'Is the water scented?' she asked the girl, as she began to remove her outer bodice.

  'Yes, Miss. Rose essence gathered from our own gardens. Charlotte prides herself on her roses.' The girl's voice was no more than a whisper, as she made her hasty departure.

  Phil would have liked her help to get out of her travelling clothes, but it was apparent that the girl had more pressing matters to attend to than the care of her new mistress. She tried not to feel slighted.

  As she peeled layer after layer of soiled clothing from her body, she felt her spirits lift. She had survived the night. And, this morning, she found herself in a lovely room, with warm, scented water for her ablutions. Things were looking up.

  Soaking the sea sponge in the hot water, she lathered it with the rose-scented soap that sat on the wash stand. Her senses were beguiled by the heavenly smell. Her long plat of auburn hair pleaded to be untied and washed in the water too. But that was a bigger job than a wash bowl could provide. Instead, she wound her hair up and out of her way, so she could sponge her shoulders and underarms. Heaven! She luxuriated in the feel of the water, as it dribbled down her naked flesh and onto the mat beneath her feet.

  A loud bang, as the door swept back on its hinges, brought Phil from her sensual trance. She turned to stare, as a young woman stormed into the room, quickly followed by Byron Carstairs. The woman grabbed the sponge from Phil's astonished grip, and threw it into the bowl.

  'Oh no you don't. That's my sponge and my water, and this is my room! I don't care who you say you are, you will not have my place!' The woman was screaming at her, face flushed with fury. Phil took a step backward, expecting to be hit at any moment.

  As the woman raised her fist, Byron reached her. His size and strength disabled the woman in moments, but her venom was not as easily contained.

  'Get out, you bitch! You aren't wanted here,' she screamed.

  Phil could tell that she was probably a very pretty girl, but at the moment, her dark features were twisted with such malignancy that she appeared a monster.

  'Charlotte, this is uncalled for. Get out. I told you I would make other arrangements for you!' Byron manhandled the girl to the door, and pushed her out. Then he turned the lock, and rested his back against the door.

  From the other side of the door, Phil could hear Charlotte banging and screaming. It was almost as terrifying as the howling from the night just passed.

  Slowly, she became aware of Byron's gaze. Flushed from exertion, dishevelled from a sleepless night, he stared at her as if the sky had opened, and something magical had come to rest before him. His sensitive mouth opened with a soundless, 'Ohhh'.

  The
realisation that she stood before him naked, and that it was she who was the magical being, made her want to laugh. It was a totally inappropriate reaction. She should have been cowering from his gaze, her virginal modesty compromised. But all she could think of was that she had finally stopped the indomitable Byron Carstairs in his tracks.

  'Is there anyone in this place who wants me here?' she asked impudently, sweeping up a fluffy towel that lay across the unmade bed, and wrapping it around herself.

  When Byron made no reply, she smiled. The banging on the other side of the door had stopped, and the blissful silence made it feel as if they were the only two people in the world. She took a step toward him.

  'Who is she, that harridan? Your wife? Your beloved? Surely you have not given me her room? '

  What made her walk toward him, clothed only in a towel? Maybe it was the nightmare of the past few hours. Maybe it was the whole surreal situation that left her feeling like someone else completely. Not the respectable, impoverished governess she had been, over the last few years, not even the new heiress of the last week – but a strange new being – the unwelcome mistress of a madhouse.

  When Byron finally found his voice, it was harsh. 'Charlotte is no wife, beloved, or anything else to me. Your father made her a resident of the Keep many years ago, as he gave many others a home.’

  'Residents? There are other people staying here, besides you and I? Last night it seemed as if we were the only ones here.' She moved even closer, her gaze locked on his. For the first time, she noticed how deep and soulful his light brown eyes were. They were heavy lidded with thick, dark lashes that any woman would have envied. When they met hers, they seemed to look deep into her soul. What he saw there left him deeply bemused.

  'Last night, except for young Jamey, the gardener’s son, we were the only people here. Today the house is full. You should...' His eyes dropped to the towel, and it was clear he thought it gentlemanly to get her clothed. But his heart wasn't in the request, and it remained unspoken.