Seized by a dark genius, Miles OâKeefe has shut himself away in his ancestral mansion for more than decade. Driven by an unquiet spirit called The Thornleigh Bride, he sculpts masterpiece after masterpieceâand edges ever closer to madness.
His decadent prison is finally breached by Samantha Knoxâa woman who has been to the brink of hell and back. She wantsâneedsâMiles to sculpt her scarred yet strong and beautiful body, to prove she has survived. She sits for him. His hands shape every curve of her body, indulging passion by proxy. Every glance, every word that passes between them brims with desire. With a single touch, it spills over.
But their ecstasy inflames Milesâs ghostly muse, as well. The Bride will neither share her house nor relinquish its heir, whom she has possessed for so long. Not without revealing her deadly secret. Before the end, Samantha will stand once more at the edge of the abyssâ¦.
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow;
But a tyrant spell has bound me,
And I cannot, cannot go.
The giant trees are bending
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.
Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below;
But nothing drear can move me:
I will not, cannot go.
âEmily Brontë, âThe Night Is Darkening Round Meâ
Chapter One
I rented a convertible as tourists do, though probably not as often in this part of the world. Itâs not that I wanted the wind whipping around me and the fresh air following a long flight. Itâs that I thought I should. What I got was more frigid than fresh. It was late summer, but September in the Pacific Northwest obviously didnât mean the same as September in Virginia. My visions of driving along the 101 with big sunglasses and a scarf trailing behind me like the confident woman I pretended to be were put to rest.
Oh, it was sunny enough at first, but as I traveled it grew darker.
This was wilderness. Iâd seen it called âold growth forestsâ and now I understood why. There was age in the air, a taste of primordial moss and fern blended with surf-dwelling things I couldnât name. I knew my destination was a piece of privately owned land adjacent to Olympic State Park. Other than that, I followed the GPS directions in completely unfamiliar territory. Even the jagged coastline, while beautiful, set my teeth on edge because it was so alien compared to the sandy shore back home. I closed the convertibleâs roof as if I was battening down the hatches.
But I drove on.
Just as I was beginning to think I should have brought a tent and an adventure guide, the roof of the house came into view. High above the ocean and several roads off the main coastal highway, my destination was so covered by greenery I couldnât get a good look at it. The car climbed the driveway, but not without a few wheezes that made me wish for a four-wheel drive and that feeling in the pit of my stomach that I used to get as a child on a Ferris wheel.
Pacific sea breezes feathered my hair with cold fingers as I stepped from my car to the garden of Thornleighâthree paces, maybe fourâand then the wild tangle enveloped me. Just like that I was shut off from the world. At one time it must have been a masterpiece, hundreds of rose bushes laid out in a carefully trimmed maze of an English garden. Now one blossom-heavy bush had grown into another and twined overhead to create a true labyrinth. Its shadowy confines reached out to me with verdant tendrils seeking to draw me in and pull me close. All at once, it was far too much nature to feel usual.
Claustrophobia threatened.
My heartbeat sped up and my breath quickened even though I could make out the stepping-stones that wouldâplease, Godâlead me to the side door Iâd been told to enter. I hurried forward from stone to halfway-buried stone, praying for a shaft of sunlight or a hint of air that wasnât petal sweet.
I was tired, worn down by travel and lack of normal routine. The nerves I normally kept in check were coming out to play in the dark.
I had taken an early morning flight from Abingdon, Virginia, and Iâd flown all day with only one brief stop in Denver. A sleepy little town in spite of its cultural renaissance of the past couple of decades, Abingdon was everyday and normal. There we had orderly fields and apple orchards, the Barter Theatre and a quaint effort to spruce up historic midtown for tourists. Here was all untrimmed and untamed.
Of course, âquaintâ doesnât necessarily mean safe and âwildâ doesnât necessarily mean dangerous, does it?
A ghostly white face materialized out of thorny shadows and I instinctively held up my hands in defense. It took seconds to realize the face belonged to a life-size statue. It took longer before that seemed to matter to the instinctive fear that raised the hair on the back of my neck and kicked my pulse into rapid overdrive.