Charlotte caught a horrifying glimpse of their shadowy figures in the cheval glass across the room. She was almost grateful for the darkness; it blurred the details of what was happening to her. She'd been so prepared to find her brother hiding in the closet that she hadn't known how to react. Now there was no choice. She was at the mercy of the intruder. She had to rely on instinct to save herself.
A grip like a steel belt squeezed the breath from her body. She stared down at the muscular forearm that held her in a cruel vise. His other hand covered her entire mouth, muffling her angry cries.
She was terrified by his strength, submerged in shock, determined to make subduing her a struggle. But even so, she realized that he was holding back from hurting her. He could have effortlessly snapped her in half. She had wrestled her brothers enough during their childhood to know how easily a man could overpower a woman. She had no idea what he wanted with her, but none of the possibilities that ran through her mind were pleasant.
The pistol in his waistband felt cold and ominous against her lower back. She began to battle in panic again as he moved her toward the bed.
"Stop it," he growled in her ear. "You're hurting me."
She—hurting him? she wondered in indignation, then gave his shoulder another good thump with the back of her head. It was a mistake. His hold of her midsection tightened until she had no choice but to go utterly limp, allowing him to lower her onto her own bed. When he leaned over her, his features unmerciful and intense, she lowered her eyes and prepared herself for the worst. Then slowly, as several uneventful moments passed, she found the courage to look up at him.
Their gazes connected in mutual recognition, his gray eyes glittering with irony and something that might even have been pain, her own blue eyes wide with astonishment.
The Strathmere Ghost, she realized with a mixture of relief and anxiety. The terror of the village. The delight of the lonely ladies of Chistlebury. The man whose kiss had haunted, heated her private dreams. He whom she and half the ladies of Chistlebury had secretly mourned. Her Galahad of the soulful gray eyes. But how different he seemed.
He was no more a dead man than she; his body was flushed and hot against hers, his breathing shallow and irregular. The plain fact was that the arrogant man who held Chistlebury in thrall looked ghastly—yes, ghostly, too—almost a stone thinner than the day she had seen him. His skin had taken on an unhealthy ashen tint. A thin stubble of beard gave his angular features a lean, dangerous look.
His expression was hard and unforgiving. Even though she knew his identity, knew he was a nobleman and a neighbor, she wasn't reassured. The incarnation of Benedic Farningham looked like a man driven to the brink of desperation. A man capable of anything.
"Do you remember me?" he demanded in a gruff whisper.
She nodded, realized she was still shaking. His voice wasn't the least bit reassuring either, gravely and raw.
"You—you rescued me from the rain. Yes, I remember."
"I rescued you. From the rain."
He paused a heartbeat. His gray eyes narrowing, he glanced around the room as if to take stock of his heavy male body, that she felt as though her breathing were synchronized with his. And when he spoke to her again, she was so startled that she almost missed the ironic amusement in his voice.
"It seems to be your turn now."
She bit the inner flesh of her lip. "My turn?"
"To rescue me."
"To—" Before she could finish, he lost consciousness, dropping onto her tense body with the impact of an oaken beam, his dark face pressed to hers like a lover in the night. Charlotte lay beneath him in a paralysis of horror, wondering in detached anxiety what would happen to her tarnished reputation if she were caught in bed with the Strathmere Ghost.
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