Eleven
The moon rose long past midnight. One moon only, half in shadow. A single Sister, journeying alone where three should be.
His lifemate was curled against him, her dark hair spread over his shoulder, her breath deep and even in sleep. Ki’san’s hand rested against the curve of her back, feeling every beat of that precious heart beneath his palm.
How much longer? A day? Two?
Just the thought of being torn from her sent searing pain through his chest. She was in his blood now, for the rest of his life he would be at peace only when she was nearby. He could scent her in a crowd of a thousand, his ear would forever be tuned for the sound of her voice . . .
The council would order a rescue ship to come, perhaps already had. With no word from the Karnack they might even have sent a warship in case this world was in danger. But whether in small numbers or with the greatest vessel of the Hironian fleet, his people would come.
And he had no right to this. His voyage to this world was approved only so that he might act as a healer. He had not competed for the right to hunt. Could not even call himself a warrior.
Tara’s heart continued its steady beat.
Please, only . . . only let me have this.
Very well. That single goddess regarded him with Her cool light. Destroy the ship.
Ki’san shut his eyes.
He had been undergoing final training for departure when Be’tan and Uthar were chosen as the next to come to this world. They were the finest warriors their enclosures had to offer, standing proud when the council named them. They could claim stellar blood lines, had shown courage in competition and humility at selection. Uthar was older by a few summers, the more serious of the two, but Be’tan, younger than Ki’san himself, talked excitedly about this world.
Their faces had shone with hope when this planet came into view.
They deserved better than betrayal, than murder.
If he destroyed the Karnack, he would destroy with it the evidence and the only chance of justice for those warriors.
But if the ship could not be detected, if his comm were smashed . . .
His people would send a call to him when they landed. They would relay the coordinates of the rescue ship, but they would not risk a large-scale search of the area for him. They would gather what conclusions they could from the cinders he left of the Karnack and quickly depart this world to report to the council.
They would carry word into the Atali mountains too, where those left of his blood would hear the news of his loss with stony faces.
Likely the g’hir would not return to hunt this area of the planet again. They would find another, equally remote location, and new warriors would be chosen to hunt.
Of course, the Goddess mused, with the truth turned to ashes and no one to warn them, other warriors will die. Innocent human females will die—
But not mine! He bared his fangs at the Sister. Not mine!
So you would stay here, on this world? The Goddess regarded him balefully. And what life could you offer her?
He swallowed hard under the Sister’s icy glare.
How could he ask Tara to become an exile on her own world, a fugitive from her own kind? To spend her life imprisoned with him in that echoing clanhouse tainted with sorrow, or moving from place to place within the forest to elude detection?
If he destroyed the ship she would be safe from the g’hir monsters who called themselves ‘Purists’, but if her people ever found him on this world, discovered them together . . .
Just the memory of the peacekeeper with a weapon drawn so near to her made his stomach tighten.
How can I remain when my very presence here endangers her?
He could not leave her.
He could not stay.
To bring her home might see her taken from him, might yet mean he would keen for her the rest of his life.
A cloud covered the moon just as Tara stirred against him, the smallest of rasping in her lungs.
She was not accustomed to the outdoors; the air was chilly tonight, too damp for a human perhaps. He shifted, bringing the furs up around her shoulders, curling around her, breathing in his mate’s sweet scent. Contentment bloomed in his soul at her nearness. For the first time in his life, he knew his purpose in the universe.
For you, I will bear anything . . .
Tara rubbed her nose. As soon as she dropped her hand, the tickle happened again. She tilted her head to escape the soft fur.
The warmth at her back moved, and she smiled a little. Ki’san’s fingers slid over her hip, down her belly to slip between her folds, his gentle fingers on her clit, his purr bringing her, once again, to readiness.
She moaned, arching back, and easily his hot cock slipped inside her. Her fingers clutched at the furs as he rocked, moving within. His rumbling deepened, vibrating through her clit with every stroke until she was contracting hard around him.
He bent his head, his mouth at the spot where her shoulder and neck met, his fangs scraping against her skin. He moved fast and deep, his hold on her tightening as he pulsed hot inside her.
Just as he pulled out she felt him tense. Ki’san half-sat up, leaning on his elbow.
“What?” She bent her head to see what had caught his attention. “What is it?”
His thumb traced the skin of her shoulder, his brow creased. “I have marked you.”
She gave the reddened mark a glance then chuckled, stretching out beside him again. “I think I’ll survive it.”
“I will be more careful next time.”
“I liked it.” Tara rolled onto her back, grinning up at him. “Maybe next time you should be less careful.”
“You are so delicate.” His fingers traced the curve of her face. “Already I fear I will be too rough, that I will injure you.”
“Delicate?” She made a groan of protest and turned onto her side. “Can’t you pick another word?”
“Precious then.” Ki’san settled against her, drawing her close again. “Did I?”
“What?”
“Injure you?”
“No.” She snuggled closer. “You know you didn’t.”
“I hoped I did not. You are new to mating.”
“Aren’t you?”
“It is not the same. You must tell me if I ever hurt you.”
“Even if I like it?”
“Even so.”
She stirred and he loosened his hold. She turned to face him, meeting those golden depths.
“You know, considering I got about two hours sleep,” she pressed a kiss to his mouth, “I feel amazing.”
His gaze was soft. “I do not know the hour. The sun has risen, the moon has not yet set. Sleep, if you wish.”
“Have you eaten yet?”
“You are hungry?”
“No.” She smiled. “But you must be.”
“‘Must’?” His smile was puzzled. “Why do you say so?”
“Because I’ve never known you when you weren’t hungry. Because I’ve seen you eat seven-eighths of a pie and still ask for more.”
“I confess to have still a great hunger.” He gave her a wolfish grin. “But also I wish for the morning meal.”
“Actually I’m kind of hungry too. Are we eating here or back at the house?”
He studied her for a moment, his thumb running along her temple. “We will return to the Heatherbell and have the first meal there.”
“It’s just ‘Heatherbell’, not ‘the Heatherbell’.” She raised her eyebrows. “And if you want breakfast you’ll have to let me get up.”
With a quick brush of his mouth to hers and clear reluctance, he did.
He was dressed before she was, but he waited until she had her sneakers on, only pushing the door flap open when her shoes were tied.
“Definitely can tell we’re in the mountains this morning!” Tara wrapped her arms around her body as she straightened outside. “Jeez, what happened to spring?”
Instantly she was engulfed in one of the furs from the bed, the soft hairs tickling her nose again.
“This might be a little much,” she said, catching the edges of the fur wrap to hold it closed around her. “You know, for day wear.”
He smoothed the fur down, away from her face. “You need only keep it until we reach the house.”
“What about the shelter?” She glanced at the dome. “Shouldn’t we take it down?”
“I will return and break camp once you are indoors with your coffee and cream and sugar.”
“That does sound pretty good right now.”
Ki’san shouldered his pack, then caught her hand in his. His gaze alert, he turned his head to inhale, evaluating with both sight and smell as they walked through the woods.
“Watching for bears?” she asked.
“I am watching for everything.”
“Barring a commando squirrel attack, I really don’t think you have to worry.”
“I do not worry for me,” he rumbled. “I worry for you.”
“Hey, even I could probably fight off a squirrel.”
“Though I cannot call myself ‘warrior’,” he spared her an exasperated glance, “I am still your protector.”
“You don’t have to protect me. I can take care of myself.”
“I wish to.” He stopped, his bright gaze hurt. “I am honored to.”
And I am definitely stepping on some alien toes here . . .
“Okay, fine.” She adjusted her one-handed hold on the improvised fur cape. “You handle the bears, but any squirrel attacks are a team effort, okay?”
“If such an attack comes,” he huffed and led on, “I will decide then.”
“You know, you said g’hir males roar for a female but I didn’t hear a peep out of you.”
“I have suppressed that instinct.”
“You have?” She raised her eyebrows. “Why?”
“I did not wish to frighten you.”
“You won’t frighten me.” She stopped. “Go on. Roar.”
He hesitated.
“Seriously, I want to hear this.” Tara put one hand on her hip. “Don’t you find me attractive?”
“I spent the moon’s journey showing you the answer to that.”
“All right then.” She faced him squarely. “Show me what ya got.”
Ki’san’s full lips drew back, baring his fangs. His soft, deep growl rose and his sudden roar sent her backpedaling, tripping over her own sneakers to land on square on her butt, her hands over her ears.
Instantly he was kneeling beside her. “I did frighten you!”
“No.” Her ears were ringing. All around were the squawks of birds that had taken flight, the crashing, panicked fleeing of a hundred forest creatures. “But I don’t think we have to worry about bears, or squirrels either for that matter. Probably not for the rest of the year, and maybe the next.”
“Are you hurt?”
“No, fortunately my ass was there to break my fall.” Tara let him help her up. “Good roar, by the way. My heart’s going like a rabbit.”
His brow furrowed. “It was sincerely meant.”
“Oh, you got my attention, no danger.” She brushed the pine needles from her throbbing backside. “In fact, I’d say I wouldn’t have noticed anything else.”
“Tara—”
“It’s okay.” She laughed. “I’m fine, really.” She dipped a little curtsey. “And I thank you for the compliment, kind sir.”
“You are beautiful.” He settled the furs around her shoulders again.
“And you”—she stood on tiptoes to kiss him—“are very sweet. Come on, get me back for that cup of java.”
He paused inside the tree line, using the hill’s elevation to survey the château, the gardens, the curved drive.
The house looked unoccupied, everything exactly as it had been when they left yesterday afternoon. The long moments stretched on and, eager for the warmth of the house—as well as that promised coffee—she let her breath out.
“Sigh if you will; I would rather you impatient,” he rumbled, “and safe.”
“You heard that?” She hadn’t even heard herself breathe. “How?”
“If I can hear your heartbeat, I can hear your sigh.” He glanced back, his brow creased. “Your heart has picked up speed.”
“You can—I didn’t realize you could hear that well.”
“I hear now for you. My eyes are for you, my speed, my strength is for you.” His luminous gaze was soft. “It is the only gift I have to offer you.”
Tara’s eyes stung. “That’s really lovely.”
“Then you will allow me this? To give what little I can?”
“Ki’san, I— Of course. Thank you.”
“Come then.” He bent his head, brushing his lips to her forehead. “I will get you to the clanhall—and to your coffee.”
An hour later, showered and dressed in a cashmere yoga set, Tara hefted the hairdryer back up on the shelf in the bathroom’s linen closet. The thing weighed a ton this morning.
Either not enough coffee . . . Her mouth curved, remembering. Or not enough sleep . . .
Ki’san insisted on checking the whole house before he left her to break camp. With his g’hir senses he needed only to venture into a hallway or to the bottom of the stairs to detect if anyone was—or had been—in the house. He’d declared it clear; she headed up to shower and he returned to the woods to break camp.
She’d brought her mug upstairs, but the coffee had long since gone cold. Tara picked up the cup with one hand and grabbed her phone. She paused in the hallway to fire back a text at Brice, assuring him that yes, she really was fine and no, she would not rather meet him in the Hamptons for the weekend instead.
“’Least I know you’re heading north instead of south,” she muttered.
Hoping the Miele could be coaxed to make a decent latte, Tara headed downstairs. She was padding toward the kitchen when the painting in the parlor caught her eye. The antique carpet felt luxuriously soft under her bare feet as she crossed, resting her hand on the icy marble as she studied the portrait.
Leta’s were the cool eyes of a woman who had managed to rise high in the world, higher than perhaps even she had ever thought possible.
But what it all gotten her, really? She’d died before she’d seen twenty-nine. As the mistress of Heatherbell, Leta had riches but in return she’d spent her married life with a man who actively disliked her. A man who—too late—likely found lusting for his second wife not worth the murder of his first . . .
In the next moment Tara was in the grand foyer, shoving her cup onto the table there, clasping the rail to speed her way back up the stairs. She jogged down the hall to the green suite and stopped in the doorway, her heart hammering from the run.
The gentleman’s rooms were opulent, rich in browns and greens, but even on the brightest morning they seemed dark.
An echo of the man who once occupied them?
But when her father had come here, he’d taken this suite. Her grandfather too had once occupied it. These rooms had been changed over the years.
She retraced her steps down the hall, turning once again into Rose’s room. Using her phone, Tara navigated to the site she wanted, tapping her thumb against her leg as the folder downloaded. She took a slow turn of the room, her tongue held between her teeth as she scrolled through the images. She headed into the bedroom, with its flowery appointments and carved woods. Her fingers traced the silken wallpaper, the edge of the panel, the heaviness of the concealed, suffocating room beyond—
“What are you doing?”
Her phone clattered across the floor.
“Damn it, Ki’san!” Tara gasped, whirling to face him. “Don’t do that!”
He frowned at her from the doorway. “Do what?”
“Sneak up on me like that!”
His frown deepened. “I did not.”
“Well, maybe you don’t think—Never mind.” She bent to retrieve her phone, relieved to see the screen hadn’t cracked. “Man, if you couldn’t hear my heart before, I bet you can sure hear it now.”
“I did not intend to startle you.” His gaze ran over her as she joined him in the sitting room. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah.” She pushed her hair back. “Yeah, I’m fine. I was just—I’m trying to figure it out, figure out why. Allaster killed his first wife to be with my great-grandmother, but from what Hannah said he didn’t like her much either.”
Ki’san hesitated.
Tara raised her eyebrows. “What?”
“I know of no g’hir male who could do such a thing, who could turn his strength against a female. Such a male would have to be . . .” his shoulder lifted in a helpless, embarrassed shrug, “insane.”
“Oh,” she gave a short laugh. “Didn’t want to say I had a loony ancestor?”
“Have I offended?”
“When this house has concealed passages and a secret room? Yeah, no. But, see, that’s the thing. It doesn’t add up. Grandpapa always spoke about his father like—well, he adored him. From everything I heard, his father just doted on him too.” She shook her head. “And look at this place! If Allaster killed Rose to marry Leta, why not re-do her rooms for my great-grandmother?” She indicated the paintings, the hangings. “These rooms have been the same for over a hundred years My father had the plumbing updated, it’s been cleaned regularly and Hannah put in a new mattress and bedding for my visit, but other than that no one’s changed it.”
“Are you certain? Those events occurred long ago.”
“I have photos of the whole house and grounds, of this room too, from the records of the renovations my father did. I have pictures dating from when the house was first completed. Look,” Tara stood with her back to the sitting room’s unlit fireplace, holding up the phone so he could see. “Every other room in the house has been redone, lived in, except these. These rooms looked just like this when Rose was alive. The curtains, the furniture, everything.” She shook her head. “Why leave it like this?”
“I should not have shown you the passages, the concealed room.” His eyes were troubled. “I have burdened you with these secrets.”
“They’re my family’s secrets, and now that I know . . . There’s a debt I have to settle.”
His brow creased. “A debt?”
“I need to figure out what happened here. What happened to her—Rose. My family wronged her somehow and I just . . . I need to do right by her.”
“To discover the truth of this,” he took her hand. “Will it bring peace to your heart?”
She looked at his fingers around hers, felt the warmth of his palm against hers. “Something like that.” She looked up at him. “Any ideas?”
“Perhaps the answer you seek is not here. Other places within this clanhall may give you the insight you require.”
“A dozen bedrooms plus the servants’ quarters in the attic, not to mention the outbuildings? That’s a big search.”
“We will begin after the midday meal,” he promised, turning to lead her. “I have brought back—”
He broke off.
“Ki’san?” She followed his intent gaze, but couldn’t see what drew his unnerving focus. “What is it?”
“Allow me to see the images on your comm again.”
“Comm? You mean my phone?”
He scrolled through the photos and stopped on one.
“There,” he said, with a chin jerk toward the right wall, its surface brightened by the midday sun. “Do you see it?”
“I guess not.” Tara’s glance took in the other framed pictures of the sitting room, the painting over the mantle behind her. “It doesn’t look different than the others. But I don’t have g’hir eyesight.”
“The others fully reflect the light. There, in your images, and now. That one does not.”
“But the only way it wouldn’t reflect like the others is if—” Her eyes widened. “There’s something darker behind it.”
Tara followed him, but the painting didn’t look any different to her up close either. She curled her fingers under the wooden frame and pulled.
“A safe . . .” Recessed into the wall the metal coffer was nearly the same size as the painting that covered it. “I can’t believe it.”
“You did not know?”
“There’s a lot about this house I didn’t know.” She seized the handle and tried to pull it. “And it’s locked. Great.”
“This mechanism is primitive,” he said, spinning the dial.
“Primitive but effective.” Tara put her hands on her hips. “Since I have no idea what the combination is or where the hell to get it.”
“It clicks.” He tilted his head, slowly turning the dial now. “Do you hear that?”
“Again, human, so no, I don’t. But there’s pins in these old-fashioned safes that need to line up to unlock it. You move the dial back and forth, and by stopping on the numbers in the right order the pins fall into place and you can open it.”
He turned the dial experimentally. He took a step closer, turning his ear toward the safe, his brow creased, listening intently as he turned.
“They have fallen.”
He yanked the handle and the safe, the metal scraping with age, swung open.
“Remind me not to bother hiding my journal. Uh . . .” She swallowed at seeing the wrapped objects inside. “Considering what we’ve already found in this house, I’m not sure this was a good idea after all.”
Ki’san was already pulling one, sliding it out from the recess. It was large, rectangular, covered in yellowed broadcloth.
He paused. “Do you wish me to return this to its place?”
“No, please; lift it down. I mean, is it a stolen Rembrandt? Black market Van Gogh? Plans for world domination?”
Dust particles floated in the air, suspended in the sunlight as he freed it from its wrapping.
Tara felt the blood drain from her face. “Oh, my god . . .”
The woman in this portrait was young—no more than twenty. The shape of the chaise she sat upon, her elbow resting on its back, echoed the curves of her body with a sensuality that belied a portrait of the Victorian age. Her sleeveless gown was white, with a wide ribbon that highlighted her wasp waist, while the dress showcased the rounded softness of her body. Her limbs were pale, languid, tendrils of dark hair escaped near the temples as if her true nature was too wayward to be contained.
Flowers, the same red shade as her mouth, were sprayed over her shoulder and clasped in her hand, a single bloom peaking from her low chignon. They left no doubt as to who she was . . .
“You said Rose was human, like me. What you meant was that she looks like me—exactly like me.” Tara shook her head. “How the hell can I look just like someone I’m not related to?”
“I do not think you do,” he rumbled gently. “This strong resemblance must be familial.”
“But—” She looked back at the portrait, at the dark eyes and hair so like her own, the familiar curves of the face. “Rose was my great-grandmother?” She took a step back. “What the fuck? Leta was a maid here for God’s sake!” Tara indicated the painting. “Rose was the toast of New York society! Why would anyone go to the trouble of hiding a legitimate baby?”
“Your lips are pale.” His brow creased. “Perhaps we should return the image to its place for now. Reflect on this again later, after the midday meal.”
“No! I need to know!” The room spun around her. “Need to know why—”
Ki’san cried out, letting the portrait fall and catching her before she hit the floor. His face, white and shocked, his golden eyes blazing, swam over her before everything went black—