Night Lover Read online

  “No, it’s not age. You’re beautiful. It’s something else. A quality to your eyes. There’s something…fragile in your eyes now.”

  Fragile. So he’d spotted it. God only knew I’d spent the last eight years trying to hide my fears, waiting for the other shoe to fall. Waiting for the moment when my mind would snap again. Surely if I could go off the rails once, it could happen again.

  Thanks to my strange dreams, a part of me worried that time had already come.

  “I don’t mean to offend you.”

  “You haven’t.”

  “I wish I’d stayed in Canada.”

  “Don’t be silly. Look, we were both so young. We still had lots of living to do.”

  Once again, he stared, giving me the look that had reduced me to mush time and again. A crease formed between his brows as he considered me, and his jaw ticked. “I’m sure you’re stronger than I give you credit for.”

  Yeah, right. So strong I’d checked out mentally. So strong I’d been terrified of giving myself fully to other men. I’d always managed to maintain some distance with other boyfriends, cutting them off when they suggested I meet their parents or go on vacation with them. I’d blamed my singing career, and in some cases, it hadn’t been far off the mark. However, I knew full well the reason I was unattached was because I was scared I might be devastated again. “Thanks,” I mumbled, unconvinced.

  He took a deep breath and released my hand. I wanted to grab it back, but refrained. “I just need to use the washroom. I'll be right back.”

  As Finn exited the booth, I tried very hard not to let my gaze drop to his rounded ass, but it sort of drifted there. My eyes fluttered and I turned away, confused by my feelings and renewed desires.

  I nursed my Pimm’s and lemonade and checked out the prints of Queen Anne which decorated the booth, grateful for something to distract me from thoughts of my dead parents. Just as I took another grateful suck on my sweet drink, a familiar male voice breathed into my ear.

  He will not have you.

  I looked up, thinking Finn had returned, but he wasn't there. In fact no one stood nearby. The nearest patrons huddled at least twenty feet away at the other end of the pub, embroiled in a lively discussion of English football.

  I shook my head, thinking I must have heard the wrong thing. At the same time, I knew I hadn’t. How could I mistake the vehemence in the tone? How could I fabricate the frustrated desire? I knew it wasn’t the drink. It would take a couple more Pimm's to get me drunk.

  I’d heard someone. And the more I pondered it, I knew I’d heard him. Hugh Dawlish. His voice had already become a sensual call to arms. It awakened me, just as much as it frightened me. There was power and need in each of his breaths, and all that energy had been directed toward me for weeks. How could I not know him?

  Finn returned to the table, his face flushed as if he’d splashed water on it and given it a good scrub. He once again brought up the topic of my parents but I told him I didn’t want to dwell on it. Not right now. Instead, we launched into a discussion of one of our festival pieces. As he talked, I smiled, listened, and nodded my head in the appropriate places, but I didn’t hear too much of what he said. Through the rest of the evening, as much as I enjoyed being in his company, I was worlds away.

  The strangest thought made my back itch. I couldn’t lose the sensation Hugh somehow watched, and that I’d angered him.

  »»•««

  Rehearsals continued through the week and I threw myself into my work. Most nights I returned to the Shanley Inn so exhausted I didn't dream at all. It was a relief. I wasn’t ready to confront Hugh again, not in my dreams, not in the portrait gallery. As much as I longed to explore Dawlish Manor on my breaks, I kept to the music room and the grounds.

  His burning gaze, whether real or imagined, unnerved me.

  Finn and I continued to work together and kept all our dealings friendly and professional in front of the others. No one could possibly guess we’d seen each other naked numerous times. Of course, I caught him staring at me here and there, each time his gaze dark with worry. I knew I shouldn’t have told him about my parents, but once in front of him, I knew I couldn’t hide it from him either. We’d been too much a part of each other to gloss over the details now. I just didn’t want him to fret.

  He’d glimpsed the fragile girl in my eyes. I hated the idea. I wanted him to see me as a survivor, a warrior of sorts. The kind of woman who wears her scars well, who rolls up her sleeve with pride so others can see them. However, within hours, he’d already demolished my walls. I felt exposed and naked and raw around him.

  Just as he often stared at me, he caught me doing the same thing many times as well. How could I not stare? For so long, he’d been the sun in my world and I thrived in his warmth. I just didn’t want to get blinded again.

  Despite our new intimacy, and our chat in the Brandy Nan did feel intimate, nothing more was said about our past. I wanted to look forward, not harp on past mistakes and old decisions. I did my best to sing well for him and gloried in my new role.

  Lizzy finally let it slip that she and Joseph were shagging each other’s brains out. Dinner had clearly gone well that first night. She spent half her evenings coming to the inn with me, and the other half in his bed. I was happy for her and didn’t mind the quiet. My mind was scattered and I didn’t want her to worry about me.

  It was on one of her shagging nights that I decided to peruse the small library at the inn. I spied a tome on the history of Shanley and nabbed it, hoping to find some information on Hugh. I brought it back to my room, curled up on my bed, and searched the index for his name. Once I spotted it, it seemed to glow on the page, as if typed in a bolder font. Silly, I know, but that’s how it appeared.

  In reading I discovered Hugh Dawlish was born in 1791, during the reign of George III. As I flipped through the pages, I found a copy of his portrait, the one I'd seen in the manor gallery. Dated 1820, Hugh would have been twenty-nine years old when it was painted. I gazed at him again, taking in every detail. Even in the book’s faded black and white picture, his hair shone and his bright eyes beckoned. He appeared tall for the time and had a good build, his legs clad in the tight trousers of the day. It was all I could do not to imagine the strong muscles underneath.

  I’d run my hands over those muscles.

  “Damn,” I said out loud, “if I’d only been born two hundred years earlier. He must have been on every local girl’s marriage wish list.” I grew uncomfortable looking at him and turned the page.

  Reading further, I discovered Hugh was an only child, making him the heir to Dawlish Manor and the family fortune. Born to a baronet father, he stood to inherit the baronetcy on his father’s death. “Hmm,” I murmured. “Becoming more desirable by the minute.”

  I perused the few other details about him in the book, straining my eyes as I sought some nugget of information that might explain why he continued to appear to me. However, the author only wrote about a page or so on Hugh and had filled it with basic biographical details, rather than the juicy tidbits I craved.

  At the end of the page, I finally landed on a piece of information that stunned me. According to the author, Hugh Dawlish never did become baronet. He’d committed suicide at what would now be considered quite young, before he ever turned thirty.

  I stared at his portrait, saddened in ways I didn’t understand.

  No.

  The biographer continued with the family saga, not bothering to address the tragedy other than saying he’d hanged himself and the estate had gone to a cousin.

  My heart heavy, I scanned the remaining pages, desperate for more details about why Hugh would have ended his own life. Instead, I was left with more questions.

  Why would he do such a thing? And why would he appear to me?

  As much as I tried to supply answers to my own queries, none of it made sense. And even though I attempted to put him out of my head, Hugh Dawlish settled there, like a seed in fertile ground, spreadi
ng its roots.

  »»•««

  I walked a darkened corridor. At the end of the hallway, a faint light shone under a closed door. Someone called my name, willing me to walk the remainder of the way, drawing me toward the lit room. Despite the darkness, I knew my surroundings were opulent. I could see the odd detail of gold leaf. With each step, I felt more submerged in the scent of spice. The fragrance lingered in every corner, intense and alluring.

  “Renata,” the voice called. “Come to me.” Resonant and masculine, the echo made it sound plaintive.

  I moved, as if under its spell. I drew toward the closed door, mesmerized by the preternatural glow. Unsure whether I should be fearful or excited, I reached for the brass knob and opened it.

  Entering the room, I spied the familiar furnishings. On the bedside table, a candle flickered, casting a dim, fitful light and failing entirely to illuminate the black corners. The gold thread in the bedspread gleamed as the candle threw its dancing light. The same light shadowed the portraits on the wall, distorting the faces of long-dead subjects. Their staring eyes transfixed me.

  “Renata.”

  I turned toward the voice. From the far corner of the room, he emerged from the darkness. Hugh. The candlelight illuminated his features as he approached me. Still wearing his blue riding coat and Hessian boots, his linen shirt had been untied and hung open at the chest and throat. I gaped at the pale skin there and my throat ran dry. He came to within a foot of me and smiled. He took one of my hands in his, and any fear I’d felt melted away at his touch.

  “My love.”

  “I don’t understand. How do you know me?”

  He caressed my cheek. “You called me and I exist to bring you pleasure.”

  As he kissed me, as his tongue touched mine, it all seemed to make sense. Here, in his arms, it made perfect sense. He smoothed a hand over my shoulders to the small of my back. I placed a tentative hand on his chest, reveling in his warmth, the torrid warmth of a living man. I closed my eyes, wanting the feeling to last forever.

  He picked me up and carried me to his bed. He rose above me and I squirmed under his gaze. He didn’t need to nudge my knees apart. They just fell to the sides. As his hand darted beneath my gown, slowly sliding up my leg, he kissed me again. Soft and hot and urgent. When he touched me there, I was shocked at my wetness. I didn't know this man. What was I doing?

  I wanted to ask why he’d killed himself in life, but couldn’t form the question. In that moment, my reality consisted only in his touch and all questions and concerns fell away.

  He smiled as he stroked me. “You please me so. Tell me, do I please you?”

  Fuck, yes. He smelled like hay and spice and man. His weight seemed heavy and comfortable all at once. “Yes.”

  He adjusted his breeches, freeing himself. I barely had time to register his length before it was inside me, sweet and insistent and hungry. “You're mine,” he whispered. “Mine forever.”

  I wrapped my legs around him and thrust my hips upward, wanting to keep him deep inside me. Color and sound swirled about me, making me see images from a long-gone past. Images that seemed strangely familiar, even though I knew they were not my memories. I thrust my head on the pillow and he kissed my neck, nibbling his way from my ear to my breastbone. In that moment, I wanted him to devour me.

  “Hugh,” I ground out.

  “Yes,” he grunted, his breaths coming quickly. “My love. Salva me.”

  Salva me. Words from Mozart’s Requiem which, when translated, meant “save me.” His odd choice of words pricked at my nerves.

  As the cyclone spun through me, as I clung to my dream lover, I didn’t care what language he used, how he’d come to me or why. All I cared about was keeping him with me, keeping him inside me. I squeezed my eyes shut as he thrust and wrapped my arms around his neck.

  When I opened my eyes, I was back in my room at the inn, the book on Shanley at the corner of my very crumpled bed. Hugh was nowhere to be seen.

  “No.” I reached for my pillow and clutched it to my chest. I hadn’t reached orgasm yet and the sense of dissatisfaction overwhelmed me, dragging me into an abyss I didn’t understand. I needed him. Reaching a hand between my wet thighs, I stroked myself to completion, but it felt hollow. A shadow of an orgasm. As I came, I whispered, “Come back.”

  Only he didn’t. The only signs he’d ever been with me were the moisture between my legs and the red love bites on my neck.

  »»•««

  Let me explain my thing for Mr. Mozart.

  As a classical singer, of course I admired the composer. He’d created some of the most haunting music ever penned. As a man, he’d been mythologized for being somewhat of a rascal, and every good girl loves a rascal. On top of all that, he could rock a wig.

  No, my fascination ran deeper. After my parents died, I played my recording of Requiem over and over. My doctor counseled me against it, said opening up and talking would be a more effective method of dealing with my grief.

  “You can’t keep listening to funeral music, Renata.”

  At first, I was inclined to agree with him. Surely it wasn’t healthy to become obsessed with a piece of music, no matter the genre. But what the doctor didn’t grasp was I could forget with Mozart. The tender strains soothed me, they indulged my morbid need to dwell on death in a passive sense, while not confronting its implications in my own life. After a while, Mozart’s music salvaged me, dragged me out of the doldrums, and thrust me back into some semblance of life. My doctors might credit the sessions with my psychologist, but I knew the truth.

  I suppose the music was the closest I came to spirituality these days. I was from a Catholic family and the church had always been part of my life. When my parents died, my church-going days ended. I no longer had use for a God who rent families asunder, could not reconcile my beliefs with what had happened.

  Mozart became my new religion in a manner of speaking. His harmonies distracted me. They comforted me, fed my soul, and lulled me. Mozart helped me keep my eye on the prize. He reminded me my existence and sanity were tenuous, that I ought to cherish them as much as possible.

  As soon as I made these realizations, I knew I had to make a career out of singing his music.

  In singing the solo for Requiem, I’d finally feel as if I paid it forward. As if I’d expressed the appropriate gratitude to the composer who saved me.

  Only old Wolfgang couldn't seem to help me today. After my sexual dream of Hugh Dawlish, I’d tossed all night, never quite falling back to sleep. To make things worse, I’d awoken with a sore throat, no doubt the result of the rampaging air conditioning in my room.

  At rehearsal, my solos were rough. They sounded almost unstudied in certain passages, so different from my first day with Sonata.

  “Te decet hymnus, Deus, in Sion.”

  Finn stopped me. “Renata, I’d like more of an emphasis on the first syllable of Sion.”

  I nodded. It shouldn’t be hard. The phrase required a lot of breath control, but the notes themselves fell easily in my range. “Okay.”

  “Try again.” He smiled and raised his baton.

  “Te decet hymnus, Deus…”

  He put the baton down.

  “I’m sorry, Finn.” I rubbed my throat. “I’m not at my best today.” An understatement? Yeah. Notes I’d easily tripped over before made me crack. Although I did my best to persevere, I felt the change and Finn noticed it, too.

  He circled his finger in the air, a signal for wrapping up. “Let’s take a small break.”

  The group members put their music down and dispersed to the washroom and coffee table in back.

  He approached me, concern in his eyes. “You seem under the weather.”

  I cleared my gravelly throat. “It's probably the jet lag. I think it caught up to me. That, or I’m catching something.”

  He touched a hand to my brow and brushed away a few stray hairs. “Don't work yourself too hard today. Take time during the choral passages to
rest and don’t push your solos.” He smiled. His gaze dropped to my throat. The smile disappeared. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. “What are those bruises on your neck?”

  Shit. I’d hidden Hugh’s love bites with a silk scarf, but it must have loosened while I sang. I covered them with my hand, scratching. “Right. I think I’m having some sort of allergic reaction to something in the air. Hives, I think.”

  “Those aren’t hives.”

  Wait. Did he honestly think he had a right to comment on my love bites…or whatever they were? I knew we were trying to make a friendly fresh start of our relationship, but he’d given up the right to comment a long time ago.

  “Renata. You’re…being careful, right?”

  “What?”

  “I mean, I don’t want anyone taking advantage of you.”

  I thought of what Hugh and I had done in my dream. I wouldn’t exactly qualify such activity as him taking advantage of me. Could a dead man take advantage of a living woman in her dream? And since when did Finn even care? Yes, he’d been very nice to me, but it didn’t make up for the fact we were no longer lovers. I couldn’t help the acid tang of resentment that bubbled up inside me. “I'm fine, Finn.”

  “You don’t look fine. And I know a hickey when I see one.”

  “Let’s not do this.”

  “I’m not doing anything but I do have a right to inquire…”

  “Actually, no, you don’t. And you’re making a mountain out of a…”

  “Molehill, right. Thing is, when you come to work covered in bruises, unable to sing, I don’t see it as a molehill.”

  “You’re overreacting.”

  “Don’t tell me how I should react.”

  I looked him in the eye, suddenly angry. “You know, you make an awesome big brother but I already have one.”

  His frown gave me pause. “I’m not trying to be your big brother. I’m your conductor and if any of my musicians are harassing you…”

  “No one is harassing me.” At least, I didn’t think so.

  “So you say.”