Chapter Six
Mikhail surged to wakefulness, his heart thundering in his chest, phantom pain and pleasure twisting through his gut like acid. It had been years since he’d woke in such a state, and he knew what—or better who had caused it—Payton. She made him feel. Her expression as she’d watched him through the windows had been one of yearning. It had been so intense, something primal in Mikhail had unfurled, and the desire to really know her had rushed to the fore.
Who was she really?
For what did she hunger?
What made her happy?
The depth of anger he’d felt at his weakness burned beneath his skin even now. How was it possible he was not able to control the cravings running amok in his body? After being used for Madam Anya’s depraved pleasures, the depth of self-loathing that had filled him because his body had responded against his will had nearly crippled him. He’d dragged himself from the void and had mastered his body’s reactions. But somehow, he was inexplicably unable to bury the need Payton was calling forth.
If he was honest, he would admit he was anticipating seeing her again.
He’d tried to connect on an intimate level with Lady Olga after Madam Anya, and the coldness that had rushed through his soul had manifested outward. No pleadings or overtures of affections had been able to soften him. Since then he’d not made any effort to attempt what was deemed normalcy. It was inevitable for the same thing to happen with Payton if he pursued her. She was not a light-skirt for casual dalliances, so he could not seduce her to simply slake his lust; she would be a conquest for marriage.
He pushed from the bed and strolled to the wide Palladian windows. Moonlight bathed the land in an ethereal glow, tempting him to exit the house and take a midnight swim in the lake.
The freezing water would help him clear his head.
With quick movements, he drew on his trousers and tugged a simple shirt from the armoire. He wasted no time slipping his feet into shoes. He opened the door and padded silently along the darkened corridor, then down the winding staircase. The quiet of the house was soothing, and memories of running down these steps with Sebastian and Anthony had Mikhail smiling.
A light wavered in the distance, and he stopped. Sherring Cross was a large estate, and Mikhail’s chamber was well secluded from the rest of the guests. There should be no one up and about in the west wing where his chamber was located. The light appeared closer, and he saw it was a candle flame. Who else would be awake at this hour?
He pressed forward and descended the stairs. The light from the candle was not enough to penetrate the overwhelming dark, and he could not make out the features of the person climbing the steps. The flapping voluminous white nightgown indicated a woman. A faint scent of berries had his nostril flaring. A hiss slipped from beneath his teeth.
He kept his steps light and soundless, while she clambered up the stairs with enough noise to wake the dead. It took him a while to realize she was muttering beneath her breath.
He waited for her to realize he was a mere six steps above her.
“Oh!” She dropped the candelabrum, and darkness enclosed them. There was a flurry of sounds as she rapidly descended the stairs, running from him.
To her credit she had not screamed. But was she not afraid of tripping?
He grabbed the banister and followed. “My apologies, I did not mean to startle you.”
Her footsteps halted. “Mik…Mr. Konstantinovich?”
“I thought we had dispensed with formalities, Payton.”
A whisper of sound rode the air, and he could feel that she moved closer. Common sense insisted he retreat, but he stood rooted, waiting for her to re-climb the steps.
“You made me drop my light.” Her tone rang with accusation.
“I had not thought you would be so easily frightened.”
She snorted, and a reluctant smile tugged at his lips. Had he ever heard a lady snort? Surely such a sound must be in his realm of experience. Yet the only ones he could remember were sweet giggles, simpers, and lustful moans.
“I thought you were…”
Her voice petered, and he frowned. Was she partaking in a tryst? As far as he knew no other guest resided in this section of the house.
His gut clenched in denial. “Who did you think I was?” His tone was too harsh. The quick emotions she roused were unsettling. He raked his fingers through his hair and inhaled. “Forgive my tone; I have no right to make demands.”
A light laugh came from her, and he thought he detected nervousness, or was it embarrassment? She muttered something too low for him to decipher.
“What?”
A heavy sigh. “I thought you could have been the ghost I was writing about earlier.”
A ghost? “I see.” Except he did not see. “Would you care to inform me why you were skulking around this side of the house?”
A low feminine growl of affront resounded. “Must I redirect the question so we can assess who was really skulking?”
He was beginning to realize she detested the word “skulk.” “My chamber is located at the fifth door on the landing.”
“Oh!”
Why had he given her the precise location?
“I thought this side of the manor was vacant.”
Her unique scent of berries wafted even closer, and he could just about make out the white of her robe. Her heat brushed against him, and he froze. Too close. Yet he did not step back.
“I am writing a story about a few children hunting a ghost in a place similar to Sherring Cross, so I waited until the house quieted before I decided to conduct some research in the wing I thought empty. I never expected to find you…skulking.”
There was no disguising the amusement in her tone, and he finally allowed himself a smile. “Research?” he prompted, beyond curious.
“Yes, I wanted a greater feel of the fright the children would experience. Seeing you standing on the stairs like Barnabas gave me a great appreciation.”
“Barnabas?”
“The ghost.” Laughter lurked in her tone.
Of course. He wanted to see her so badly it was an ache. Was her hair unbound? Pinned in a loose knot? Were her eyes glittering with awareness or apprehension? “Would you like to continue?”
“Touring the west wing?” Surprise tinged her voice.
“Yes.”
A sharp inhalation. “It would be shamelessly inappropriate for me to agree.”
He grunted.
Then silence.
Shuffling sounds crept into the still of the night. “What are you doing?”
“I am looking for the candelabrum. I would hate for you to trip over it and break your neck.”
He smiled. “Leave it; I will locate it in the morning. Do you wish to continue on the tour?”
Mikhail swore he could feel her thinking.
“It would take too much to return to my chamber for a wick,” she finally answered.
“I would be your guide. I am familiar with this wing…intimately.” What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he not pushing her away?
She sighed, and it caressed against his skin. Suddenly he wanted her to touch him, if only to see if he would feel revulsion. “Payton?”
“I…I am tempted, but I do not think it is wise.”
He was damn glad one of them was capable of sound reasoning.
“But I would appreciate your company on the return journey.”
Tension eased from his shoulders. “Then you shall have it.”
“Thank you.”
Then unexpectedly she reached out and grasped his arm. Dread rolled over him like a dark tide. The burn of it was so cold, his teeth almost chattered. Though he did not break out in a cold sweat, nor had nausea churned in his gut, Mikhail snatched his arm away, and she stumbled. He caught her at the hips, and her gasp traveled through him at their too-close embrace.
“Are you well?”
“Yes.”
He gently pressed his thumb along her side. She shivered, the softest of moans slipping from her.
“Do you suffer any ill effect from the fall?” he asked gruffly, pulling away.
She sighed. “There is only a slight bruise. The pain has already faded.”
“Good. You should still rub the area with a liniment.” He took her arm and placed it on the railing of the stairs. Then he nudged her.
They descended the steps carefully.
“Did you receive my note expressing my regret for missing our picnic?” she asked.
“I did.” He’d still not figured out if the rain had been a timely or untimely intervention. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to offer an invitation for another day, but he remained silent.
They reached the bottom of the stairs.
“A moment, Payton.”
She halted, and he felt along the wall for a switch. He located it, twisted the knob, and soft light illuminated the corridor.
“I would prefer for the light to be off. I know I am being frightfully improper, but I would like to continue my research. I think I will also insert in the story the children dropping their torches,” she said excitedly. “I want to see what their walk with darkness would be like. It is very convenient for me that you are here now. I would hate to encounter the real Barnabas alone.”
With a low chuckle he complied, and they kept walking, hugging close to the wall. “So tell me about Barnabas.”
She stopped so suddenly his chest pressed into her back, and the curve of her rump pressed delightfully against his thigh. He bit back a groan and gently eased away.
“You want to know about my writing?” Her voice was rife with surprise.
“I do.” He frowned, a peculiar ache working its way into his chest. Was his request so unusual?
“Oh!”
Pleasure coated her voice, and he wished to see her face. Was she smiling?
“I am not certain if he is a mean or a kind ghost as yet. But it is wartime, and four sibling children are sent away to live with their grandparents and discover the castle they are living in is haunted.”
He smiled, wondering if she realized her voice had lowered to a dramatic hush.
“Tell me from the beginning,” he commanded as they continued strolling in the dark.
A little squeak of excitement slipped from her, and then she launched into the story she was writing and apparently illustrating—a ghost, a mystical portal, an enchanted realm with dragons, witches, trolls, a red queen, a blue queen, and intrepid children, all woven together seamlessly into a wonderful story. Her voice was refined and sensual, soothing and arousing, and she entranced him with the passion vibrating from her as she regaled him until the tale ended.
He was silent for a few seconds. “Your story is riveting.”
“Thank you for listening,” she said softly.
Much too soon, they reached the foyer leading to the other wing of the manor. The light from the wall sconces lighting the east wing bared her to his gaze. She was dressed in a voluminous nightgown that hid her wonderful figure, and her hair was pinned in a topknot. Loose tendrils danced around her flushed cheeks, her eyes glittered with apparent delight, and Mikhail desperately wanted to taste her lips.
He cleared his throat. “This is where we part.”
She lowered her lashes, but not before he saw the sparks of desire in her eyes. She pinned a polite smile on her face, and then lifted her gaze to his. “Thank you for being so kind as to escort me and listen to me ramble.”
“I was delighted.”
Her flush became even more pronounced. She reached out and briefly touched his knuckle. Her caress was light as butterfly wings and almost pleasant. Then she turned and ran lightly up the winding staircase.
Mikhail watched until she vanished from sight. She was a powerful temptation he would have to do all in his power to resist. Then the visceral need of how he’d wanted her lips against his, the way she’d made his cock twitch, the way she made him smile so effortlessly, scythed through his heart.
And her touch…it had not made his gut roil with the urge to vomit. A part of him that had been dead and buried whispered through his soul. Maybe this time, he could take a step off the cliff of insanity and triumph.