Emerald Embrace

  Heather Graham

  writing as Shannon Drake

  This book is dedicated to a very special lady and friend, Miss Anne Lucille Spence, with lots of love and many thanks for so many things!

  Prologue

  She waited until she heard the clock striking midnight, then she slipped from her room and ran stealthily down the hallway. Her sheer white silk gown flew and fluttered about her, making her look for all like one of the ghosts that supposedly haunted the Castle Creeghan. Her loosened hair waved in her wake like a radiant burst of fire.

  She paused outside the doorway to the lord of Creeghan’s chambers, her heart thundering. Spinning around with her back against the door, she waited. The night was silent except for the wind that blew beyond the ancient stone walls of the castle.

  She turned again and burst into his room.

  It was an imposing place, imposing and dark, like the lord himself. A single candle fluttered upon the desk central to the room. A single candle, to light the master to his bed. The massive four-poster with its intricate carvings of demons and dragons was crafted from deepest mahogany. She shivered as she caught sight of the black bedspread with a red dragon emblazoned upon it. A Welsh princess bride had brought the dragon insignia into the family three centuries ago, and now it was everywhere.

  A fine, hand-painted dragon stood atop the chest of drawers at the tower window, and the feet of the armoire were composed of dragon feet. The red velvet drapes were hung by rods with dragon heads. In the darkness of the night, it was eerie.

  Banishing her fears, she raced to a large desk and hastily wrenched open the drawers. The bottom held Scotch whisky and tumblers, the second held nothing but farm accounts and mention of the tenants. The top drawer contained ink and pens and blotters …

  And the massive dragon insignia of the lord of Creeghan.

  With a cry she sank dispiritedly to the floor.

  She needed to flee Creeghan soon, before the Dragon’s Teeth could sink around her, and sweep sweet life away from her, as they had done to Mary, but she could not give up the search.

  Desperate but determined, she rose. She almost headed for the armoire, then paused, and walked to the bed instead.

  What better place for the lord to hide a treasure than beneath his own pillow? The bed sat raised up on a platform, and the frame, too, was high.

  She climbed on top and drew back the covers, then wrenched aside the pillow. There was nothing there. No staggering, brilliant display of green fire.

  “Lady St. James!” came a soft and wicked drawl in the night. “Are you so eager, then, to share my bed, that you ready it for me?”

  She gasped, spinning around in startled surprise. She had not heard him come, but he was there. The heavy doors were open and he leaned within the door frame, nonchalant. His fiery eyes stroked over her like lapping tongues of flame.

  “No!” She dropped his pillow, as if it were that that burned her flesh rather than his relentless stare. He moved into the room and slipped off his frock coat, hanging it over the back of the desk chair. He stood before her in a white ruffled shirt and ebony riding breeches and boots.

  He smiled and placed his hands on his hips, watching her. “Then, pray tell, dear lady, just what are you doing between my covers?”

  Her lashes fell over her eyes and her gaze dropped to his hands. They were bronzed, with long, strong fingers and clipped, neat nails. They could close around her throat. They could throttle the life from her in a matter of seconds.

  “I … I … uh …” She inhaled quickly, desperately. He sat down, a Satanish smile curling his lips. His brow arched and his teeth flashed white against the bronze of his features.

  “Yes?”

  “My … earring!” she claimed defiantly.

  “You lost it in my bed? Nay, my lady! I promise you, I would have remembered the occasion.”

  Martise inhaled and composed the most disdainful gaze she could muster. “Lord Creeghan, I meant no such thing.

  I thought perhaps it had caught upon some piece of your clothing—”

  “You are not wearing any earrings,” he interrupted her. He appeared so casual at his desk, one booted leg idly crossed atop the other, his hands set together, his fingers tapping against each other. Then the hands stayed curled, hard and cynical against the sensual fullness of his lip.

  “How very rude of you to notice,” Martise said coolly. “But alas. Lord Creeghan, when I lost the one, I removed the other.”

  “So … you think you might have lost the one upon my person earlier?” he asked politely.

  She flushed angrily. “Perhaps—”

  “But why would you assume that I had been in my bed already?”

  “Sir, I say that you are no gentleman.”

  “And madam, I say that you are no lady.”

  He rose from the desk with purposeful, lazy menace. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. She needed to escape. Now.

  She cried out softly and sought to run by him. He reached out for her, missing her arm but catching the silk of her gown. In horror Martise turned back, stumbling, as the gown was wrenched from her shoulders, leaving her breast bared.

  She stared into his eyes and saw the fire had kindled deeply there, and was vividly aflame.

  “No!” she murmured. But his hands landed upon her bare flesh, and he swept her back hard against him. He caught her chin, tilted back her head, and kissed her lips, and then availed himself of the long white column of her throat. Fascination breathed into her. It feathered against her nakedness, and it teased her at the juncture of her thighs. From the second that they had first met, she had tried to deny him. But the fire had lived between them. Lived and breathed.

  She pressed against him, barely aware that she did so. She felt his body pulse, and it beckoned to her. Her fingers touched upon his shoulders, then threaded into his hair. His lips moved further upon her, stroking her collarbone. His tongue created a trickle of fire upon her naked shoulder. He shuddered and groaned deep within, and she trembled at his touch.

  “No!” She pulled away from him. A lock of his raven hair fell over his forehead. His ruggedly handsome features had grown tense and taut, constricted with emotion. She did not notice anything beyond his eyes. They were green and gold and blazing. They captured her senses … they burned upon her, naked, hot, and bold with desire.

  She shook her head, backing away.

  “Martise!”

  “No! Leave me be!”

  He smiled with cynical bitterness and shook his head. “You have lied and cajoled and taunted me for the last time, madam! If nothing else, by God, I will have the truth!”

  She saw the intent in his eyes, and she screamed, but her cry went unheeded.

  She beat against him, but he ignored her as he might the mere motion of a breeze. His hands gripped about her waist, and he carried her across the room, throwing her upon his bed. She tried to sit up, but he fell atop her, his anger now unleashed and free.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “I told you.”

  “Liar!”

  She tried to strike him, but he caught her hands and pinned them to her sides. He straddled her and stared down at her in a raw rage. “Tell me the truth!”

  “I have told you—”

  “Lies!” he finished.

  She twisted beneath him frantically, then realized that not only had she bared her breasts, but the gown had crept high along her thighs, and now her limbs lay bare as well. She went still, seeing the anger seep from his eyes, but not the fire.

  Effortlessly, almost thoughtlessly, he secured both her wrists with one hand, high above her head. She stared at him, spellbound, as he slowly cupped her breast and teased the nipple with his thumb. He rubbed it and watched it rise to a coral hardness.

  Then he lowered his head against her and took it into his mouth.

  She cried out with the searing brand of his lips and tongue so freely upon her. She trembled and burned, her blood simmering, her bones turning to soft clay.

  His ebony hair grazed her flesh as his head moved against her, as he attentively tendered to the valley between her breasts, to the bare satin sleekness of her midriff. She grew dizzy, and burned, and fought it, but then realized that she fought nothing.

  Her hands were free. Her fingers dangled upon his hair with a will of their own, and she yearned to kiss him.

  He swept her back to her feet, and she felt something soft and glorious sweep around her. It was her gown, falling to the floor in a white wave of mist at her feet. He stepped away from her. She should have run. She should have left him then. She should have done something.

  But she remained there, naked and proud. The moonlight swept in to spill over her shoulders and touch them with ivory, while her hair took on the glorious colors of a sunset, spilling over her high, firm breasts.

  He emitted a guttural cry. The sound was harsh and hoarse, and brought her to life. She inhaled the virile scent of him and started to turn at last, but too late. He swept her into his arms. His hungry mouth found hers, and he savored the kiss with a savage need that brought her ever more vividly alive. He released her from the liquid magic of his mouth and tongue, only to bear them upon her again with the swiftness of mercury.

  He cupped her breasts into his hands and sank before her on his knees. His kiss ravished th
e bareness of her belly, and her fingers fell upon his head. He caught her hands with his own, and held her. Casting back her head, she gasped as he invaded her with a sweet, savage intimacy that stunned and shocked …

  And shattered all innocence.

  The wind outside swept to new peaks, screaming and screeching against the rocks. In shock and splendor she cried out again, and the wind carried away the sound of her voice.

  She fell against him, awed and amazed and at the shattering sensation he had taught her, at the burst of ecstatic fulfillment. He swept her into his arms and laid her upon the bed and whispered sweet endearments. She tossed her head, barely aware that he rose up again, then lay back beside her, naked and throbbing.

  “What I have done …” she whispered.

  He caught her chin and held her eyes to his. “‘What I have done,’ my lady,” he said, and laughed softly. Then his laughter faded, and the ruggedly masculine tension was all about him again. “You are a liar, and perhaps a thief, but a beautiful one.”

  “No!”

  Flaming crimson, she tried to rise. He caught her against him. “Martise, what are you, witch or angel? I am enchanted against all wisdom, desperate to have you against all sanity.” His lips found hers again, and he kissed her and kissed her until she knew no more whether it was night or day, or if the storm raged outside or within.

  She felt her throat constrict and her heart quicken as his maleness probed against her. She felt the tempest and the storm and fire as he touched her, as his arms came around. Their bodies fused together, and then it seemed that he touched her everywhere. He stroked her arms and her breasts, the curve of her hip, and the length of her thigh. She felt the great wedge of his body between her knees and then she felt the burning thrust of him at the juncture of her thighs.

  When the pain came, she fought the scream that welled in her throat and the tears that hovered in her eyes. He paused and went rigid, and she buried her face against his shoulder. She thought that he would speak, but instead he touched her. He stroked her cheek and kissed her, and found the tears that hovered on the edges of her lashes and kissed them away. And he found the fullness of her breasts with the gentle caress of his fingers, and he assaulted their crests with the graze of his thumb and his teeth and tongue. Slowly, sensually, he probed at the portals of her womanhood and moved gently inside her, catching her protests with the whisper of his lips against hers, until they faded into the sweet carnal knowledge that now was hers.

  He began to thrust deep, deep within her again, so very deep she thought she would break and shatter and die …

  She did not die. Or perhaps she did. Just a little bit.

  The tempo of the storm increased again. The wind raged with wild abandon, and it sounded as if banshees had traversed the Irish Sea to come and sing on high. She did not know what had seized hold of her, what wild abandon had led her to this night.

  She knew ecstasy then, as he stroked and thrust, felt pain become pleasure, a pleasure so unendurable that it might have been pain. She felt the wind, for she was a creature of it, felt the same savage desire of the surge that pounded against the rock. And when he drove with sudden, fierce force and locked above her, his head thrown back with a guttural cry, his features tense, his eyes a savage green blaze, she felt a swirl of silk and honey, of stars and splendor, burst forward within her. A rush of liquid fire took hold of her, and she shuddered with the violent climax, and then trembled and shivered as she drifted back to the truth that now lay between them.

  As sweet as the ecstasy, so bitter the realization.

  All that she had to give, all that was rightfully hers, she had cast away. And now he lay at her side, naked and savagely beautiful and graceful still, but already she felt his anger. He lay upon the bed, staring up at the ceiling, and then he turned to her, dark brows knitted over the probing sear of his gaze.

  “What are you after? And who are you? Damn it, who are you?”

  A sob burst forth from her, and she leapt from the bed where the proof of her innocence betrayed her.

  He reached for her, and she jumped away from him, the fall of her blazing hair the only cover against her naked beauty.

  “Damn you—”

  “No! Damn you, Martise. We’ll start at the beginning. Who are you really?”

  “Lady St. James—”

  He swore savagely, interrupting her, and she grabbed up her gown and ran out on the balcony. She gasped out a furious sound as she discovered the gown torn beyond repair. He leapt up, too, coming after her but ripped the top sheet from the bed first, and threw it at her. He came toward her then, sweeping his robe from where it lay upon the trunk at the foot of the bed. Martise wrapped the sheet around herself and backed away from him, along the length of the balcony.

  “Martise—”

  “No! You! Don’t you dare question me! Who are you”? Lord of Creeghan? Man or beast? You tell me, milord, what in God’s name is going on here!”

  “Martise—”

  He reached out a hand, coming toward her.

  “No!” she shrieked again. She was nearly hysterical and turned to flee. “I will find out for myself!”

  “Martise, no!”

  She did not listen; she did not want to hear. Not this night. She went to the dressing room and burst through the door, then hurried through the bath, and out to the corridor.

  He was following her; she knew it.

  She came to the winding stairway, and barefoot and heedless of danger, she started to run down the ancient and smoothly worn stone. Charles II was said to have trod the same steps. Creeghan had sheltered many Cavaliers, just as it had sheltered secrets, and wickedness … and evil.

  Her breath was coming in pants and cries, her feet were worn and bruised, and still she ran. Some kind god overlooked her careless flight, for she came down, downward in safety, deep into the cellar.

  Deep … as if into some dank and moldy pit of eternal hell and damnation.

  She reached the bottom of the narrow curving stairway and paused, clutching the stone, catching her breath, trying to adjust to the dim light.

  “Martise!”

  He thundered out her name but she ignored him. She pushed away from the stone and headed to the right.

  She had to know.

  She pushed open the wrought-iron and heavy wood gate to the fourteenth-century crypt.

  Stairs led downward. The smell of must and decay and death rose upward.

  She snatched a lantern from the wall and braved the steps, wincing at the bitter cold of the stone as it bit through the tender flesh of her feet. She went down, twelve steps.

  She looked straight ahead. She did not want to see the decaying bones and finery of the Creeghans laid upon their slabs centuries ago. She wanted only to reach the new coffin that had been hidden in the rear, beneath the beautiful marble crucifix.

  Death visions danced before her eyes. The child in Tudor breeches and silken shirt and leather doublet might well come to life, and reach out with his bony fingers, claiming her …

  Creeghan was such a place. Creeghan welcomed the living into its crypts.

  “Martise!”

  She gasped out loud, shivering so vividly that she could barely force herself to move. He was behind her; she was a fool. She did not know what she would find, but now he would know that she had found it.

  She had to know …

  “Martise!”

  Any second now his fingers would close over her shoulders, and he would swirl her around, and in a blazing fury would tell her that she was losing her mind, that she was morbid, that she must not be here, and for God’s sake, she must leave the coffin alone.

  The coffin!

  She found new courage then and raced forward, praying that the lid had not been nailed down.

  She hesitated only a second, then lifted the lid.

  She inhaled sharply, and her breath caught in her throat.

  Her scream came then, shrill and long and hysterical, full of greater terror than had ever shattered the silence of the ancient stone of Creeghan. She screamed again, denying what she saw.

  For it was his face.

  The handsome features of the lord of Creeghan, the deep, blue-black hair falling over the forehead, the bold sensual lips, drawn white in death.