Beyond Love

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  Atlantic Bridge

  www.atlanticbridge.com

  Copyright ©2002 by Glenda Diana

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  Published by Atlantic Bridge Publishing, 6280 Crittenden Ave, Indianapolis, Indiana. Copyright 2002, Glenda Diana All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  STONECREST MANOR

  ENGLAND

  1820

  Chapter One

  “Argh!” echoed through the cool morning air.

  Blake Bradley, the Baron of Stonecrest, shook his head like an angry beast as the feeling of dread washed over him. From the time he was pushed forth from his mother's womb, God had frowned on him and, at thirty years, Blake did not look for it to change anytime soon. He could feel it. His day of reckoning was closing in. He had been preparing for it since the day the ill-conceived deed had been formed. But the knowledge did not make it any easier to bear. Just the thought of it made his stomach clench and his teeth grind. Blake touched his face. A sadistic smile stretched his tense lips. Perhaps, there might be some justice in this world, he thought humorlessly.

  Staring out at the green valley below him, he tried to calm the fury that always accompanied these thoughts. He was known as a hard man. The very sight of him made people tremble. It mattered not what they whispered behind his back. In fact, he preferred their taunts. His reputation brought the solitude he desired. His laughter reverberated as he recalled several of the rumors ... the rumors that kept anyone from interfering in the Beast of Stonecrest's life.

  Blake's father, Roger Bradley, had trained his son well. The family hatred had been nurtured by the growth and power Blake now felt burning within himself. There were times he despised all the hate, but he was helpless to stop it.

  But, there lay another reason for Blake's hatred. His real father no longer existed, not mentally anyway. Roger had stayed in his third-floor suite for the past fifteen years, coming out only occasionally to roam the halls of Stonecrest, hatred and mild insanity glowing in the depths of his blue eyes. No, he wasn't the same man Blake could remember as a lad, just a shell of the man he once had been.

  Roger's mind started deteriorating from the moment his wife, Ann, had died. Blake had been eight years old at the time, and then, at fifteen, came the signing of the damned contract. A contract that had served only to hasten his father's descent into madness. The hated name sprung forth in Blake's mind, making his stomach muscles clench tighter. Every bad thing that had happened to the Bradleys was caused by that one vile name.

  Judgment was upon him and Blake had already selected the verdict he would hand down to the recipient. In the past, he had never given the contract much thought. He was already two years late at fulfilling his end of the deed, and every day that passed, he found himself dwelling on the damned thing more and more.

  A scowl marred his brow when he heard the sound of an approaching rider. He watched his man, Griggs, pull his mount to a halt alongside Blake's black beast. For several minutes Blake ignored him, then cast the elderly man a side-glance. Griggs was more friend than servant ... and more of an irritation than friend.

  “Nice day, is it not, Milord?”

  Blake raised a black brow at the man's gruff voice. “If one is in the mood for damp, rainy weather.”

  “I thought it rather fit your mood, sir.”

  Blake shook his head. “I do not believe you rode all the way out here just to share your opinion. I already know you think me the gloomy sort. Is there something on your mind?”

  “Me, sir? I don't believe so.”

  Blake sighed heavily at the snide tone. “Out with it, old man. You know I have not the flavor nor the patience for your droll sense of humor.”

  “At least I have a sense of humor. Life would be quite dull without one, I fear.”

  “That's where we differ ... I fear nothing.”

  Griggs glanced at the younger man. He had known Blake since his birth. Lady Ann had labored hard and long to bring the twelve-pound baby into the world. He could still recall the glow on her face when the ordeal had finally ended. Her black hair had clung to her damp cheeks; her dark eyes had glistened with unshed tears.

  It was the most tender experience Griggs had ever witnessed. From that moment, the baby became his major concern. He had tried to shield the lad from a sire who saw everything in a contorted view. But somewhere along the way, Griggs felt he had failed.

  He blamed a lot of Blake's rash temper and reckless behavior on the war. He had returned a hero. In recognition of his service, he had been given the title of Baron. But the war had destroyed the last part of the real Blake Bradley. Though a large X was carved into each finely sculptured cheek, the war had marred more than just his face. It had left a young man's hopes in much the same way ... torn and ragged.

  Of course, he was honest enough to admit that Blake had never been the same after the death of his mother. With a heavy sigh, he put an end to his wandering thoughts, but not the hope that lingered. Looking at his master's face, Griggs plastered a bored expression upon his own as he tried to recall their conversation.

  “What was it we were talking about, Milord?”

  Blake gave Griggs a frown before repeating his question. “I assume there is a good reason for you riding out here? Other than you like the feel of your skinny arse getting bumped black and blue with your ungracious riding. Out with it.”

  “That's one thing I have always admired about you, sir ... your way with words. I pray you can retain your good spirits a moment longer.” Griggs flashed a rare smile.

  Blake felt the hairs prickle on the back of his neck.

  “Your guest has arrived.”

  Short and to the point. It also felt like Blake had taken a blow to his mid-section. He tried to take a deep breath, but the air seemed to evaporate before he could draw it in, making his chest ache with awareness.

  Without a word, Blake turned his horse toward home, riding like Lucifer charging through the flames of hell. As his steed soared over the uneven ground, Blake condemned himself. Instincts had warned him, still, he did not heed them. He came to a stop in front of his home, dismounted, and threw the dangling reins to the stable lad.

  He wasn't sure what he had expected to find upon entering the house, but the luggage-free hall told him that either his “guest” had been there for awhile or was an extremely light traveler.

  No ... not this guest.

  He slammed open the drawing room door with such force, even he blinked at the booming sound. He took a battle stance, then noticed the room empty. Turning on his heel, he bumped into Griggs. His face turned hot with embarrassment.

  “Your library, sir.”

  Blake stomped down the hall, muttering a hellish curse. Stopping just outside the library, he drew a deep breath before opening the door. He knew he should control his anger, but he wanted-he needed-to feel it. He had to remember everything that had brought him to this point of damnation.

  As the door opened, Blake came face-
to-face with a blond giant. Instantly, he was reminded of a painting he had seen of Spartan warriors. But the man did not impress him. If the giant was to be a safeguard against him, Blake looked forward to the challenge.

  “This is my guardian, Lucas.” The other intruder, standing before the hearth, appeared to be nothing more than a lad by his size. His sleeveless vest hung to the floor and was made of white fur. He wore a matching hat that, in Blake's opinion, looked utterly ridiculous.

  Blake's coal black eyes raked the youth, noticing the boy's boots. “Boy, you're going to need a guardian if you don't remove your grimy foot from my mother's stool!”

  The lad quickly lowered his foot and straightened.

  With cold contempt, Blake turned to the Spartan warrior. How dare these strangers enter his home? To make themselves at ease? Even though his gaze held the giant's, Blake could still see the boy from the corner of his eye. The lad was removing his vest, brushing a hand over the fine fur. Expensive clothing, yet foul manners. Blake drew a sharp breath as he watched the lad spread the fur over the stool. Good God, not a lad, echoed through Blake's mind as he turned toward the shapely derrière.

  Then his breathing stopped. He tired to swallow, but found he couldn't. His face flamed as he realized his mistake. The obvious proof of this person's gender nearly undid him. A girl ... no ... a woman. A full-grown, lush woman.

  She turned to face him, her eyes, the color of rich topaz, meeting his. His brows snapped down as her state of dress-rather, her costume-registered in his dull mind. What in the world was she wearing? She looked like a festival performer.

  The bright red shirt was belted around her small waist, emphasizing her wide hips. Damn, Blake muttered, realizing she was wearing pants apparently too small for her, for the material fit her full thighs like a second skin. He tried to stop his gaze from wandering over her, but finally gave up the losing battle. He had never seen one such as her before. She was beautiful.

  That thought brought a fierce frown to his brow.

  Her face was a perfect heart shape. Her skin appeared smooth, as lustrous as a pearl. Her lips were full, tinted a natural pink. He wondered what color her hair would be. An intense need to rip the ludicrous hat from her head swept over him.

  Her breast raised with each breath she took. Blake found his own breathing pattern had adjusted to hers. What the hell was wrong with him? He was behaving like some ill-disciplined pup on his first run in a kennel full of bitches. He shook his head, trying to break the spell. Spell? That would explain his reaction. This woman/creature was a witch. How utterly fascinating ... and positively absurd.

  Blake turned away in self-disgust. How long had it been since there had been a woman in this house? He glanced over his shoulder at her and muttered a curse. His mother had been the last Lady at Stonecrest. He doubted he could place this ill-dressed chit in the same league as his mother.

  He could only guess what type of woman this was, but her manner of dress told him all he needed to know. The way the material clung to her ripe figure, the way her bold glare assessed him, the way her...

  Blake put an immediate stop to the erotic thoughts and images filling his head ... stopping them before they led him down a path he had no desire to explore.

  Bracing himself against the corner of his desk, he was surprised to find her steady, unflinching gaze on him. As always, he prepared himself for the usual reaction. For some baffling reason, he hated the thought of those gold eyes peering at him in disgust ... or fear. Was there a possibility she had not noticed his ravished face? Impossible, unless she was blind as a bat. Hell, he muttered, pushing away the foolish thoughts.

  Finally he broke the long silence. “Tell me, Madame, who in the blazes are you?” His voice seemed to thunder through the room.

  Her brows lifted in mute question. He watched, almost mesmerized, as she took a step toward him, then stopped. Turning slightly, she pulled off the hat, carefully laying it on top of the vest before facing him. Long, dark red hair fell below her waist. Again she took a step closer, then another. Her topaz eyes seemed to twinkle with some emotion Blake could not pinpoint. Yes, the woman was a raving beauty.

  “I am Thorton Lynwood,” came her soft, husky reply. She could tell he was having difficulty in comprehending her. She had also not missed his earlier sneer in reference and in tone when he called her ‘Madame.’ “I'm your betrothed.”

  Blake pushed away from the desk, his fist clenched at his side. Had he really expected anything less? No. After all, this was the ‘payment’ for some crime Roger Bradley had allegedly committed against the Duke of Lynwood. This was the price Blake had to pay for the sake of family name and honor.

  “Bloody hell...”

  Chapter Two

  Thorton Lynwood desperately wanted to smile at the seething man. The twin scars on his cheeks had turned stark white, while the rest of his face flamed red with a rage so fierce it made his black eyes gleam. She ignored Lucas, who moved toward her. It was his way of letting her know he was there in case she needed protection. She waved him back. It fascinated her that, for some reason, this action seemed to further the Baron's anger.

  “Does he sit, too? I should have you train my over-stocked kennels.” The corner of Blake's mouth lifted in a cruel smile that immediately faded when she answered with a soft laugh.

  “It's a relief to know you have a sense of humor, Baron. I appreciate your attempt to make us feel welcome.” Thorton stepped forward and extended her arm.

  Blake glanced at the offered hand. Did she think he would welcome her so easily? The woman was daft. “That was the last thing I intended, Madame. And just so we are clear, I have no humor.”

  With a shrug, she lowered her unaccepted hand. Her eyes stayed locked with his. Never had she seen eyes so black. They perfectly matched the raven hair that hung to his wide shoulders. He stood about six-foot-five, as tall as Lucas, except broader, larger in form.

  Thorton knew her figure was considered too full when compared to other women. Of course, she had no control over the way her Maker had designed her and had always thought the petite roundness was more a blessing than a curse. Besides, had she been some slim miss who barely weighed a stone, the Baron would surely have felled her with the force of his glares alone.

  Thorton found it intriguing that the longer she stared at him, the fiercer his frown grew. Some called him the Devil of Stonecrest; others referred to him as the spawn of Satan. She certainly hoped he was that and more ... indeed, she was counting on the rumors being true. It would take the devil's fury to achieve her goal. An angel would never accept the fate she was going to bring. But obviously the Baron was no heavenly spirit, since she had, in a matter of seconds, raised his fiery temper.

  Blake didn't understand. He was giving her the look that had made many a man pale and scurry away, but this woman stood smiling. Apparently, a simple-minded chit who did not have enough brains to recognize danger. He increased his scowl and even took a threatening step forward, towering over her. He couldn't believe it. The witless woman actually patted his arm before turning away.

  Blake absently smoothed his hand over the burning spot. His eyes followed her as she whispered something to the Spartan, who looked infuriated. After several moments of hushed conversation, the warrior nodded in defeat, and, casting a savage glare at Blake, left the room. Blake guessed the look was supposed to be a warning; he almost laughed at the puny attempt.

  Thorton casually moved about the library, stopping when she came to two large chairs. “Mind if I sit?” Before Blake could answer, she gracefully took a seat. “Thank you. I fear our journey was rather long and tedious. One never appreciates the comfort of a soft chair until one has been jostled on the back of a horse hour after hour.”

  The little piece of fluff had not shown one ounce of fear. She had laughed at his outright rudeness, smiled at his scowls. Though it was something he rarely felt, Blake had to admit his confusion ... and he hated it.

  He couldn't remember the
last time a woman had looked at him without repulsion. Of all the people in the world he wanted to fear him, it was she ... his enemy. Instead she gazed at him like women used to before the war had left marks on him. He had been confident that once she saw his hideous face she would depart Stonecrest as quickly as possible.

  Blake opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when the door opened. Griggs entered, carrying a tray with the tea service and sweet cakes. It galled him to think this woman would be enjoying the treat the cook had made especially for him.

  Thorton turned all her attention on the older man. He was only a few inches shorter than the Baron, but where Blake's body was big and muscular, the servant was reed thin. She supposed a mild windstorm would bend and break him in half.

  He set down the tray and began pouring. “Tea, Madame?” he asked, handing her a cup.

  Thorton smiled. The man had a beak-like nose and bushy eyebrows that hung out over his deep-set gray eyes. His voice sounded gruff and gravelly. She had wondered if everyone at Stonecrest was as unfriendly as the Baron, but when she saw the twinkle in this man's eyes, she instinctively knew he was nothing at all like Blake Bradley.

  “Thank you,” she replied, taking the cup from his skeletal hands.

  “Griggs, at your service.”

  “She doesn't need your service, you old crow. Get out!” Blake snapped at the simpering old fool, disgusted at watching Griggs fawn over his enemy. The old man knew the hell the Lynwoods had inflicted on his family.

  Thorton smiled innocently at the man. “It's nice to meet you, Griggs.”

  Griggs gave her an apologetic smile before turning. “You know, sir, you could fell the ceilings with your shouts. I get a headache from all the roars.”

  “My only hope is that if the ceiling does fall, you will be beneath it.”

  Ignoring the reply, Griggs turned back to Thorton. “Do not let his unpleasant attitude bother you, Madame. ‘Tis his normal behavior, I fear. Like a wild boar, if you get my meaning.” With a slight nod, he marched from the room with chin held high.