Under the Boardwalk: A Dazzling Collection of All New Summertime Love Stories (31 page)

He pushed around her with impatience, going straight to the port decanter on the sideboard. His straight blond hair was slicked back from his scalp. His frock coat and tweed trousers were sodden and clinging limply to his lanky frame.

"How did you get here?" Sydney whispered.

"In my yacht." He looked at her, his mouth pinched white. "Which ran aground, I suspect, in the same cove as Jeremy's. I swear I was lured there by a fiendish blue light. This is the devil's own cove."

Sydney couldn't suppress a shiver. "Didn't you hear the bells warning you away?"

"What bells?"

He took two drinks before he could control himself. Then he turned to her, frowning in surprise. "Why aren't you dressed?" He eyed her in suspicion. "You look like a harlot with your hair like that, as if a bird were making a nest on your head."

"It's two o'clock in the morning," she said, her heartbeat loud and uneven.

"Another night in this house." He cursed. "How could you be so stupid, Sydney?"

Sydney frowned. "Lower your voice."

"The hell I will."

"You'll be sorry if you bring his lordship downstairs," she said. "He's… a very physical man."

"A physical man, is he?" Peter lowered his glass. He looked her up and down again. "How do you know what kind of man he is?"

Sydney pulled her dressing robe together. Frankenstein was eyeing Peter like a Sunday pork roast. "Don't use that tone of voice, Peter. You're getting on the dog's bad side. He doesn't much like people."

"Damn the dog," Peter said.

"Sydney?" Rylan's deep voice rumbled from the top of the stairs. "What's taking you so long? Are you all right? It's lonely up here without you."

Peter stared at the opened door in shock. "Oh, my God. Audrey was right. You've been ruined, haven't you?"

Sydney reached down to grab hold of Frankenstein. "Yes, Peter, it's true," she said. "I've been ruined. Only a short while ago, actually. It was a lovely experience, and I don't regret it. Your timing is terrible."

Peter swore at the top of his lungs. He came up to Sydney and gripped her chin between his fingers. "I should have known not to look for a bride in the gutter. You're practically a peasant—a professor's brat, a nobody." He pushed her away, breathing hard. Sydney thought he actually looked hurt by her betrayal, as if the cad hadn't deserved it.

"A peasant?" She was incensed at this insult to her respectable background and her hard-working father, who had always warned her Peter was no good. She let go of Frankenstein and folded her arms in satisfaction as the dog bounded forward to bite Peter on the ankle. He hopped backward into the sideboard and knocked over the crystal decanter.

The glass shattered on the polished wooden floor, and port spread in a puddle. Frankenstein lunged in the air and leapt onto Peter's chest, shoving him into the sofa.

Pinned to the cushions by the massive dog, Peter let out an unearthly yell.

"Shut up, Peter," Sydney said. She couldn't imagine how terrible it would be if he refused to leave. "You're frightening Frankenstein."

Peter made a strangled noise in his throat. "Frankenstein?"

Sydney hauled the dog off the sofa. "He was only trying to protect me."

An angry male voice joined the conversation. "He was doing what he was trained to do."

Sydney spun around, still holding the hound by the scruff of the neck. Peter struggled to rise from the sofa. Frankenstein's tail wagged like a windmill.

Rylan stood in the darkness of the doorway, looking as intimidating as a man can look when he's wearing only a pair of drawers and holding an apple pie. Fury cut deep lines in his face.

Peter stood up slowly, straightening his trousers. "DeWilde. I see you haven't changed your habits at all."

Rylan glanced at Sydney. "Neither have you. You're still the same snake you always were."

"And you're as debauched as ever," Peter said in a contemptuous voice. "Living in this grave of a house, writing about demons and ghosts." He stared at Sydney. "Ruining young women. My friends warned me not to marry beneath my class, but I suppose I had to witness it with my own eyes. Only a whore would have let this happen. I can't blame it all on you, DeWilde, as much as I'd like to."

Rylan strode up to the sideboard. "If you say another word about Sydney, I'll break your jaw. I've told her what I know about your late-night vices."

"What has he told you, Sydney?" Peter demanded.

She drew a breath. "He said you're a snake and… that you take women home in your carriage."

Peter managed a smile. "Champion of lurid literature and fallen women. What a calling." He turned to Sydney. "And you believe him. How could you do this to me? You didn't exist until I found you."

"Peter." She faced him squarely. "You were always trying to improve me, to change my clothes and the way I behave. I was never good enough for you—"

"You're more than good enough for me," Rylan interrupted.

"Thank you for that," she said. "Now be quiet, Rylan. I want to tell Peter what I think."

"How could you do this to me?" Peter said again, sounding really baffled. "How could you give up a man like me for someone who makes a career of creating ghouls and monsters? He's so… different."

"I know about you and your paramour Lady Penelope," Sydney said with a hurt dignity that Rylan couldn't help but admire. "You are a liar and a philanderer, Peter."

Peter glared at Rylan. "You told her this?"

"No." Rylan's eyes narrowed. "But if I'd known, I probably would have. She deserves the truth. She deserves to know what a snake you are."

Peter grabbed Sydney's hand, examining her bare fingers. "What happened to my betrothal ring?"

"Well, I—"

"I threw it out the window," Rylan said.

"The window?" Peter said in horror. "You threw my great-grandmam's heirloom out the window?"

"When Sydney and I were in bed," Rylan said, pulling her hand away from Peter. "It was getting on my nerves when I was trying to—"

Sydney dapped her hand across his mouth before he could finish.

"I've had enough of you, DeWilde." Peter began to circle him.

Rylan began to circle too, Sydney caught in the middle. "Snake," Rylan said. He made a hissing sound. He wiggled his hand up and down. "Serpent. Asp. Adder. Viper. Cobra."

"Python," Sydney added.

Rylan grinned at her. "Thank you."

"I belong here," Sydney said to Peter, who wasn't listening at all. "I was shipwrecked that night for—oh, golly, you're
not
going to fight over me, are you?"

Peter threw the first punch.

Sydney ducked.

Then Rylan threw the pie.

Sydney had never seen two grown men fight before. She expected it at least to begin on a note of chivalry, but this was an embarrassing spectacle, not at all romantic like knights jousting in a tournament over a lady's honor.

It was more like two bears wrestling in the woods. They grunted like gladiators. They called each other dreadful names. They swung and missed, knocking into furniture. Rylan practically pushed her across the room to clear the field. Then he went into action, his sculpted body moving with raw power. Sydney had never seen such a display of strength.

She caught a Wedgwood plate that bounced off the bookshelf. Mrs. Chynoweth, running in to investigate the noise, rescued an inkpot before it ruined the carpet.

Sydney was reluctant to break up the fight. She didn't want to ruffle Rylan's pride, and, more important, she didn't want to get hurt by a flying fist.

They were destroying the room, though. Rather, Rylan was destroying the room, using Peter's head and shoulders like a plough. She winced as Peter crashed into the card table, staggering around to swing at the air where Rylan had stood seconds before.

Mrs. Chynoweth watched in dismay, but she didn't interfere either. Broken furniture was a small price to pay for his lordship's happiness. The housekeeper worried that he spent too much time chasing ghosts and ghouls. In her opinion he should be chasing his own children and telling bedtime stories.

A wife would bring balance to his life. A wife would keep him home at night performing husbandly duties, instead of his dangerous midnight investigations on the moor. Mrs. Chynoweth firmly believed that the dead should be left alone.

"Smack him a good one, my lord," she shouted, banging her fist into her palm.

Sydney looked at her in disbelief.

It didn't take Rylan long to emerge as conqueror. He'd wanted to impress Sydney with his strength, and it would have been too easy to knock Peter out cold with the first punch. He'd needed an outlet for his anger, and Peter's face served that purpose well.

Sydney didn't look all that impressed. Rylan wondered if it had something to do with the fact that he was wearing only his drawers. It tended to put the situation in a peculiar perspective.

"Did you kill him?" she asked anxiously, peering down at Peter.

Peter grunted, spread out flat on the carpet.

"I guess not," Rylan said, not bothering to hide his disappointment.

He started to look for the port decanter, but stopped as someone pounded loudly at the door. The sound echoed in the silence.

"Who the hell—"

A few seconds later Mrs. Chynoweth ushered a dozen or so of St. Kilmerryn's populace into the darkened drawing room. The housekeeper lit a lamp, and a rosy-gold glow illuminated the battle scene.

"Who are these people?" Sydney whispered in bewilderment, backing into Rylan, whose arms shot out to engulf her without hesitation.

"That's the Reverend Ellis, miss," Mrs. Chynoweth said. "That's Lewis, the stonecutter, and—"

"What is everyone doing in my house at this hour of the morning?" Rylan demanded.

The Reverend Ellis cleared his throat. "What are you doing entertaining company in your drawers, my lord?"

" 'Tis Samhain morn, my lord," Lewis said, taking a seat on the crowded sofa. "You were to lead the expedition to exorcise the warlord's troubled ghost from its grave."

"Samhain," Rylan said. "I thought the storm would keep everyone in bed."

Which was where he certainly had wanted to be.

Mrs. Chynoweth twisted her hands together. "Surely you'll not pursue this folly now that you and Miss Windsor are—"

"—engaged to be married," the Reverend said forcefully. "I'll be performing a November wedding, I see."

The housekeeper turned to Sydney. "Please tell his lordship to abandon this dangerous plan to release the warlord's spirit."

"The warlord?" Sydney asked. "Are you talking about the Blue Knight?"

Lord Tregarron answered her question from the sofa. "Yes, miss. The medieval warlord who watched from the cliffs for the princess who never arrived."

"Her ship was lost at sea," Lewis added, settling his grubby self into the cushions.

Mrs. Chynoweth gave a sigh. "The lady was the love of his life."

"How sad," Sydney said. "What happened to him?"

"He locked himself up in the castle that used to stand on this very cliff," Lewis said. "He brought all manner of wizards and witches from Wales and Scotland to bring her back. He cast spells in the cove to summon her from her watery grave."

Mr. Chynoweth snorted. "A loose screw, I say."

"Why don't you let the poor man rest in peace?" Sydney asked Rylan.

"He isn't in peace," the Reverend said. "His soul is in torment."

Rylan shook his head. "This isn't my idea. I'm just going along to witness a supernatural event for research purposes. I neither believe nor disbelieve in these things."

"The warlord's spirit is caught between two worlds," Lewis explained. "He's haunting the cove and causing all these accidents at sea. Seven people have died so far this year."

Peter sat up, cradling his jaw. "Oh, God," he said. "I'm mortally wounded."

"Who are you?" Lewis asked in astonishment.

Peter wiped a wedge of pie off his face. "The Duke of Esterfield."

Lewis snorted. "And I'm the Queen of England."

Sydney leaned down to whisper to Peter when Rylan wasn't looking. "If I were you, I'd stay out of Rylan's way. There's no telling what he'll do once he gets his clothes on."

"Where will I go?" Peter asked in bewilderment.

"I don't really know," she whispered. "I don't think I care, either."

Mrs. Chynoweth began to bustle around the room, assessing the damage. She looked up as Sydney offered to help her.

"I feel responsible for the fight, Mrs. Chynoweth."

"Bless you, miss." The housekeeper lowered her voice. "But I'll clean up in here. You just take care of his lordship. Persuade him to stay home. 'Tis dangerous to one's soul to be in a graveyard at cockcrow. Use your influence to keep him safe."

Sydney didn't say anything to this suggestion. She simply slipped out of the room when the housekeeper wasn't looking. Peter had taken her advice to escape, and all she could say was good riddance to the snake. Rylan had already rushed upstairs to his room to dress in something more suitable for a ghost-laying.

Sydney had the same idea. She yanked on her rose woolen gown and jacket. She jammed on her half boots. She wasn't going to miss a supernatural event for anything in the world.

Besides, she felt an inexplicable empathy for the poor warlord who had grieved to death for the woman who'd almost been his wife.

Sydney didn't know why, but she had to be present when his soul was given release. Her engagement to Peter was a thing of the past, and she felt free to do something dangerous if she liked. She wasn't going to be a duchess, and if she wanted to lay a spirit, that was her affair and no one else's.

The ghost-laying party walked by the light of tin lanterns across the treeless moor in the eerie aftermath of the storm. Sydney rode the Reverend's pony, imagining that someone—something—was observing their every move. The hair on her nape prickled, and she sensed a restless energy in the air. Her knee barely hurt, and she kept her attention focused on Rylan standing beside her.

It was dark, and the wind whistled around the stone circle they passed. They trampled over dead cotton grass and gorse. The villagers walked in a solemn group. No one uttered a word.