The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall by Lauren Smith

from earlier today hadn’t lied. Women who married into the Stormclyffe line died early and painfully. He had every reason to push her away, and she didn’t want to be in the path of a curse. There was no sense in taking a chance and putting herself at risk.
    “I’m sorry I tripped you.” She glanced away, trying to ignore her body’s reaction to him. Even though he no longer touched her, the phantom pressure of his body seemed to linger. Her skin heated, and her heart beat fast at the mere memory of his body on top of hers. Like the encounter in the drawing room, she wanted to be wild, untamed, to have that gorgeous aristocratic mouth of his seeking sensitive places on her skin until she screamed for him to take her. Unlike the passionate clinch in the drawing room that led to her shameless orgasm at the magic of his hands, this felt real and concrete, not like ancient phantoms had taken hold of her body.
    When he rose and picked up her suitcase, she followed with a weary sigh. Her forehead hurt like hell. She’d probably have a nasty knot later. There was no sign of the innkeeper as they came back down the stairs and paused at the front desk. Bastian braced his forearms on the counter and leaned over to peer into the small workroom behind the check-in area. There was no sign of obvious life from the small room. With a sigh, he turned his attention to the small brass bell and smacked it with his palm. The loud ding was jarring in the silence. Still, no movement, no sound, not a whisper of life emanated from anywhere inside the old inn.
    “Is there anyone else staying here? Any other guests?”
    “Um…” She racked her mind, trying to recall if she’d actually seen anyone.
    She hadn’t.
    He seemed to understand her silence, and his lips pursed. “Very well.”
    It was a very British thing to do, and she almost laughed. Smiling and laughing always came naturally when she was anxious, afraid, or upset. It was a horrible personality trait, one she despised about herself, but she couldn’t help it. It had certainly made for some awkward situations in the past, and this was no different. When he raised that one brow, she knew he had picked up on her inappropriate reaction.
    He retrieved a white card from his wallet and hastily scrawled a message on it, putting it on the counter.
    “Hopefully, the innkeeper will find this and contact me about the bill.” He slipped his wallet back into his pocket.
    “You really don’t need do that,” she said.
    He didn’t reply but grabbed her bag and headed for the door. When they stepped outside, it seemed that the darkness practically swallowed them up. It consumed the streets, and even the lights from the pub next door barely penetrated the gloom. She snuggled deeper into Bastian’s coat, inhaling the masculine scent of him. She should give it back. His scent was too good, and she hated that she liked it. A distant streetlight a block away was the only beacon they had to guide them back to her rental car.
    With a burst of laughter and chatter, a gaggle of young women suddenly stumbled out of the pub. Bastian and Jane both spun at the unexpected sound. Even as drunk as the woman appeared to be, they were able to recognize Bastian.
    “Oh my God! It’s him! The hot duke with the haunted mansion or whatever.”
    Jane could have slapped the girl. The women were American and sadly stupid. She silently prayed that Bastian wouldn’t hold their idiocy against her. It wasn’t even worth correcting them. The women suddenly flocked around them, like angry geese, squawking as they tried to get close to him.
    “Excuse me, ladies.” His words were a low, rumbling murmur that seemed to only heighten their fervor and excitement.
    A red haze descended over Jane’s vision as one of the women dragged a red-nailed hand down Bastian’s chest. He danced back a step like a boxer dodging a blow, only to find he was surrounded. When he met Jane’s gaze, he silently begged for her mercy.