The tickle at the back of Taylor’s neck stood her hair on end.

She whirled around, her gaze staring into the darkness of the garden. Someone was watching her, staring from the safety of some hidden place. She gasped for air as if all the oxygen had been taken away from her.

“Who’s there? Who…?” The words came out as a whisper then they died in her mouth. Her heart pounded in her chest and the sound roared in her ears. A wall of fear surrounded her. She forced her feet to move, to carry her toward the house. Her plodding steps turned into a run as she headed for the light at the kitchen door.

“Where have you been?” The words came at her from the darkness. A jolt of adrenaline raced through her body before she identified the voice as Donovan’s. Then he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her toward him….

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

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Harlequin Intrigue brings you the best in breathtaking romantic suspense with six fabulous books to enjoy. Please write to us—we love to hear from our readers.

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The Sedgwick Curse
Shawna Delacorte

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Although award-winning author Shawna Delacorte has lived most of her life in Los Angeles and has a background working in television production, she is currently living in Wichita, Kansas. Among her writing accomplishments she is honored to include her placement on the USA TODAY bestseller list. In addition to writing full-time, she teaches a fiction writing class in the Division of Continuing Education at Wichita State University. Shawna enjoys hearing from her readers and can be reached at 6505 E. Central, Box #300, Wichita, KS 67206. You may also visit her at her author page at the Harlequin Web site—www.eHarlequin.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Lord Donovan Sedgwick—He inherited the title upon the death of his father, James Sedgwick, though he hasn’t come to grips with his father’s sudden death.

Taylor MacKenzie—She presented herself at Sedgwick Manor as a writer doing research on British country festivals, a ploy to cover her real reason for traveling from Kansas to the English countryside, and specifically to the Sedgwick estate.

George Bradley—Head of staff for the Sedgwick estate, as other members of the Bradley family have been for one hundred and fifty years. There are no secrets in the Sedgwick family history or hidden places on the estate that members of the Bradley family haven’t known about throughout the ages.

Michael Edgeware—The police inspector in charge of investigating the murders has known the Sedgwick family for years. Donovan’s father was responsible for him being passed over for a promotion. Does he carry his resentment over to Donovan?

Jeremy Edwards—Owner of the village inn that has been in the Edwards’ family for generations. Does he know something through his family history about the original murders that was never in the newspapers or part of a police report?

Alexander Sedgwick—Donovan’s cousin, a playboy with a penchant for the gaming tables of London. Donovan has paid off several of Alex’s gambling debts in the past.

Constance Smythe—She has her eye on Donovan as a marriage prospect and covets the status of Lady of the Manor. Could she be the rumored descendent of the illegitimate son William Sedgwick fathered over one hundred years ago and have a legal claim against the Sedgwick estate?

Byron Treadwell—Head of the village newspaper that has been in the family for generations. The Treadwells and Sedgwicks have been adversaries since the original murders committed by William Sedgwick one hundred years ago. Byron has a personal grudge against Donovan Sedgwick.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter One

“What the hell—” Lord Donovan Sedgwick angrily slammed the local village newspaper on the breakfast table in disgust, brushing aside the more imposing London Times.

“Look at this, Bradley, right here on the front page. The explosion at the crypt happened at midnight last night, so how did Byron Treadwell get his hands on the story in time to make the morning edition of this scurrilous rag he calls a newspaper? No one asked my permission, no one interviewed me to find out what I had to say. And I know for a fact that Inspector Edgeware did not make a statement to the press. Byron had no right to take what happened last night at the family cemetery on the private grounds of the estate and sensationalize it all over the front page with his lurid speculations. And he’s done it again—splashed his fictionalized version of the family curse all over the front page.”

Donovan took another sip of his morning coffee as he tried to calm his anger. The Treadwells and the Sedgwicks had been at odds for a little over one hundred years, starting with the night Donovan’s great-grandfather, Lord William Sedgwick, had murdered two people in a fit of complete madness.

The Treadwell newspaper had sensationalized the crime, the trial, the execution and the sealing of Lord William Sedgwick’s body inside the specially built crypt. Then the newspaper had turned its attention to the resulting curse that had been placed on the Sedgwick family, and the story of the curse continued to appear in the newspaper for several months following the interment of Lord William’s body. The curse had been uttered exactly one hundred years to the day before the midnight explosion at the crypt.

Donovan allowed a frown to wrinkle across his forehead as he recalled the movement in the bushes at the cemetery following the explosion. A wave of disgust surged through him. It would be just the kind of thing Byron Treadwell would do—stage a sensational incident such as blowing open the crypt himself on the hundredth anniversary of Lord William’s burial so he could sell more newspapers and publicly embarrass the Sedgwick family in the bargain, especially with the annual festival held on the grounds of the Sedgwick estate only two weeks away.

“This telegram arrived for you an hour ago, sir.” Bradley handed it to him, then waited to see if there would be a response he would need to deal with. The tall, dark-haired man of forty-five maintained his normal, stoic manner. He showed no outward reaction to yet another of the moody outbursts Donovan had displayed following the untimely death of his father, Lord James Sedgwick, two months ago.

“Damn! It’s that writer—Taylor MacKenzie. I completely forgot about him. He’s from the United States. He corresponded with my father for about a month. He’s researching some kind of book on British country festivals and is interested in our annual event—how it originally came about, the changes through the years…that kind of thing. Dad told him he could stay here for the two weeks prior to the festival. According to this telegram he flies into London late this afternoon and plans to drive straight away from the airport to the Cotswolds. He should arrive here sometime this evening.”

Donovan’s jaw tightened into a hard line of determination. He didn’t have time for this and he certainly didn’t have the desire to deal with some stranger in the house. “Put him in the second-floor corner room of the old wing. That should give him a feel for the history of the place.” He mumbled under his breath, the words not really meant for Bradley’s ears, “It’ll also keep him out of my hair. I’m in no mood to put up with some nosy writer from the States.”

He glanced out the window toward the family cemetery. The yellow crime-scene tape marked off the area of investigation around the crypt. Several police constables combed the grounds for any clue as to exactly what had happened. A little tremor of apprehension darted through his body. “Not with whatever it is that’s going on out there.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll see that the room is prepared.”

As Bradley turned to leave, Donovan stopped him. “I talked to Alex yesterday. He’ll be here sometime this afternoon. For the past five months Constance has been doing her usual efficient job of organizing this year’s festival, but Alex volunteered to give me a hand with the last-minute details and I’m happy to let him do it.”

Donovan had been pleased when his first cousin, Alexander Sedgwick, had phoned. He and Alex were very close despite the vast differences in their lifestyles and the six-year gap in their ages, Alex’s twenty-seven years compared with Donovan’s thirty-three years. When they were children, Donovan had been annoyed at the way his young cousin would tag along, and it seemed as if Alex and his family were at the manor house every weekend. But as they grew older, the two men had developed a much closer bond.

He looked forward to Alex’s visit and help with the festival if for no other reason than to distance himself from working so closely with Constance. Constance Smythe was a tireless worker, but she always made him uneasy. She was too willing to take on any chore, too quick to volunteer for any committee or project the village was involved with…much too anxious to find excuses to be at the manor house.

THE MOOD WAS RELAXED, a far cry from the stress that had been pushing at Donovan all day. After dinner he and Alex had gone to the snooker room where the two evenly matched players resumed their ongoing personal tournament, a contest that had started almost ten years ago. They played for two hours before Donovan returned his cue stick to the rack. He glanced at his watch. It was only nine o’clock even though it felt much later.

Donovan stifled a yawn. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’ll retire for the evening. Apparently that writer fellow isn’t going to arrive tonight.”

Alex returned his cue to the rack, then picked up the bottle of ale from the table and handed it to Donovan. “Here, you still have a swallow left.” A sly grin turned the corners of his mouth. “I hate to see anything go to waste, especially good ale.”

“Thanks.” Donovan finished the last drink, then returned the empty bottle to the table.

Alex’s manner became serious as he stared at Donovan for a moment, then spoke in carefully measured words. “Since you haven’t said anything, I guess I’ll just have to be brash and ask. I saw the local newspaper headlines and the police barricade at the cemetery. What’s going on?”

A quick jab of anger surged through Donovan. The thought of Byron Treadwell and his sensationalist journalism still rankled. “It’s very strange. At midnight last night a loud explosion woke everyone for miles around. When I went to see what happened, I found the door of Great-Grandfather William’s crypt blasted off its hinges, but the sarcophagus inside appeared to be undamaged.” Then a shiver of apprehension revealed his inner fears. “I don’t know how or why it happened. I insisted that Inspector Edgeware take personal charge of the case, but Mike doesn’t know any more about what happened than I do…at least nothing that he’s conveying to me.”

“So that’s why you asked me to stop in the village and pick up your order at the chemist shop. You didn’t want to make an appearance and be inundated with questions.”

“Hopefully the furor over this will die down in a couple of days.” Donovan paused for a moment to collect his thoughts as he stole a quick glance out the window. A jolt of anxiety set his nerves on edge and left his stomach tied in knots. “I’m worried, Alex. I have a terrible premonition that whatever is going on out there is far from over.”

Alex tried to suppress a chuckle without much success. “You’re not talking about that stupid curse thing, are you? How did that go? To rise from the ruins—what is born of the fires of hell cannot die. Some demented old man who was supposed to have mystical powers utters some ambiguous words as Great-Grandfather’s body is being sealed in the crypt and says the curse would come to fruition in one hundred years. I could understand some ignorant and superstitious villagers in the eighteenth century buying into all this curse stuff, but not a mere hundred years ago when all this happened. And now in the twenty-first century everyone is suddenly jumping at every shadow because of some coincidental explosion that probably has some very logical explanation.”

Donovan snapped out his irritation. “That’s not funny, Alex.” He stared out the window into the blackness of the night. Another tremor of apprehension rippled through his body, leaving him very unsettled. “Something extremely bizarre is going on and I don’t have any rational explanation for it.” And that included the blinding headaches that had attacked him several times in the past two months since the death of his father, like steel bands tightening around his head. They left him confused, disoriented and with memory lapses—and frightened about what it meant and what the future held.

The two men talked for a few more minutes, then Alex went to the room he had been occupying on his visits to the estate since he was a little boy. Donovan remained downstairs in the entry hall staring out a window, trying to force his eyes to see whatever it was he sensed lurking in the darkness.

The police had left a light at the site of the crypt explosion. He watched as fingers of fog crept across the ground, edging their way around the tombstones belonging to generations of the Sedgwick family—generations too numerous to count and, according to many, better left forgotten. The ground fog blanketed everything in a damp shroud just as it had that night a century ago. The light electrified the mist with an eerie spectral glow. A shudder swept through Donovan’s body, causing him to hunch his shoulders as if warding off a cold wind.

“Do you require anything else, sir, before I secure the house for the night?” Bradley’s last duty of the day before retiring to his quarters was to see that all the doors and windows were locked and most of the lights turned out.

“No, nothing. You go on, I’ll see to the front door.”

“Very well, sir. Good night.”

Donovan continued to stare out the window, lost in his own thoughts and unspoken fears. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before the sound of the doorbell startled him back into reality. He opened the door to the late-night visitor.

The low, throaty voice floated toward him through the night air. “Hello. I’m Taylor MacKenzie.”

“You…you’re Taylor MacKenzie?” Donovan stared in disbelief at the beautiful woman standing at the front door, bathed in the soft glow of the porch light. He felt the tightening in his chest as a quick surge of heated energy darted through his reality. Something about her looked so familiar, as if he should know her, but that was impossible. No man with a spark of life in him could ever forget having met this vision who jolted his senses and nearly took his breath away. But still…he couldn’t shake the strange, almost overwhelming sensation of déjà vu.

The tightening in his chest moved lower in his body as his breathing quickened. His gaze dropped to the swell of her breast, the lacy pattern of her bra faintly visible through the soft material of her shirt. Well-worn jeans encased long legs and hugged the curve of her hips without appearing too tight. He took a steadying breath in an attempt to bring his rapidly escalating yet totally inappropriate desires under control.

It had never occurred to him that the writer his father had been corresponding with was a woman. He forced his gaze away from her and toward the sports car parked in the circular drive in front of the house. She had enough suitcases piled on the luggage rack and in the storage space behind the seat to be moving in permanently.

The mysterious explosion at the crypt made the presence of a stranger in the house unwelcome. He wished that he had written to her following his father’s death and withdrawn the invitation to stay at the manor house and use the family archives.

He did not have time in his life for this unexpected woman, or the desire that flooded his body, certainly not until he came to terms with his father’s premature death and resolved the problem of what had happened at the crypt. He was glad he had decided to put the writer in a bedroom far away from his own suite of rooms. Hopefully it would keep temptation at bay for the duration of her visit. And there was no doubt in his mind that she represented temptation of the most primal kind—temptation combined with some strange indefinable allure that left him puzzled and a bit rattled.

A touch of hesitation surrounded her words, matching the confused expression on her face. “And you’re Lord Sedgwick?” She extended her hand and offered a pleasant albeit businesslike smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I certainly appreciate your hospitality and cooperation in opening your home and the family archives. It will be a great help to me in my research. Although I must admit that I had pictured you as being older.”

The title had led her to make the assumption about his age. This man was much younger than she had anticipated, not that much older than her thirty years. His hair, a soft shade of brown, was thick and full. It was long enough to hang over his shirt collar in back and cover his ears. She had an almost irresistible impulse to run her fingers through it. The front dangled across his forehead in a disorganized manner that made him look little-boy innocent and very sexy at the same time—a dangerous combination, but one that she found very compelling. He appeared to be about six foot two—tall, even compared to her five-seven.

His piercing blue eyes held a haunted look as if they had witnessed all the horrors of a thousand centuries. He seemed to be staring right through her. He was a total stranger, yet somehow she sensed something about him, something very familiar and at the same time unsettling. Something that left her decidedly uneasy as it put her nerves on edge and her senses on alert.

Something she didn’t understand.

Donovan made no effort to respond to the woman’s outstretched hand. He simply stood there staring. Her short, windblown hair framed her face in a wild profusion of bright copper. Her large emerald eyes were wide with innocence while still holding a wisdom far beyond her years. A distinct chill stabbed at his spine, a disturbing chill that somehow managed to become entwined with the very real heat of excitement that still nestled low in his body. Confusion clouded her face as she lowered her hand.

“This is the Sedgwick estate, isn’t it? I’ll admit that driving on your country roads was a little confusing for me, especially at night. I thought I’d taken all the correct turns. I realize it’s late, but my telegram did say I’d be arriving tonight.”

Her eyes widened as if a sudden thought had just occurred to her. A sense of urgency crept into her voice. “You did receive my telegram, didn’t you?”

“Uh…yes, your telegram. Of course.” Donovan shook the fuzziness from his brain and extended his hand toward her as he forced a smile. “I apologize for my rudeness. You took me by surprise. I’m Donovan Sedgwick. It was my father, James Sedgwick, who you had been corresponding with. Please, come in.” He stepped aside as she entered the house.

A tinge of red flushed across her cheeks indicating her embarrassment. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should have realized that Lord Sedgwick wouldn’t be answering his own door.”

“The household staff have retired for the night. I happened to be in the entry hall when you rang the doorbell.” A whiff of her perfume tickled his senses, drawing them even more taut. “I was expecting a man. The name Taylor led me to believe…well, I didn’t realize my father had been corresponding with a woman.” He noticed the hint of surprise that had quickly darted across her face. He felt it, too, the moment their hands clasped. It was an indefinable sensation—a combination of destiny, fate and desire that he found intriguing yet at the same time disturbing.

“I hope my gender won’t present you with a problem.” Taylor was thankful to have the sensually sparked physical contact broken. She surveyed the cavernous entry hall as she stepped into the room. A large crystal chandelier hung all the way from the top of the three-story cathedral ceiling. Richly paneled walls were lined with paintings she assumed to be the Sedgwick ancestors, and a large staircase with a hand-carved oak banister curved up to the second and third floors, supported by alabaster columns.

She shivered slightly as her gaze swept across the scene for the second time. The low lights shrouded the elegantly appointed entry hall in a dim gloominess. From what she had been able to observe upon her arrival at the estate, the gardens, grounds and buildings all seemed to be well maintained. The estate projected an image of wealth, but it still reminded her of a movie set from some old Gothic film where sinister happenings enveloped the occupants in a cloak of mystery and danger. An involuntary shiver darted up her spine. Did the rest of the house project an equally ominous feel?

“This is an interesting—” Her words stopped, her hand went to her mouth as a startled gasp escaped her throat when her gaze fell on the portrait hanging on the wall. She quickly turned to stare at Donovan, then returned her attention to the painting. Her throat tightened and her mouth went dry as she stared at the portrait. The subject of the painting stared back at her with the same eyes and features as her host, but with clothes from a century earlier. An oppressive stillness filled the entry hall. She tried to shed the sudden apprehension that settled over her, pressing down like a heavy weight.

Donovan followed her line of sight, the expression on her face saying more than words could convey. “That’s my great-grandfather. His name was William.” He pointed to another painting. “That one’s my grandfather, Henry Sedgwick, and this one—” he indicated yet another painting “—is my father, James Sedgwick.”

“Is your father here? I’d like to meet him after all our back-and-forth correspondence.”

“My father died two months ago.” His voice was flat, showing no emotion one way or the other.

“Oh…I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.” The unexpected news left her with an odd sensation, a combination of unfulfilled prophecy and destiny that totally baffled her. She tried to shake away the strange and uncomfortable feeling. “I hope my presence here won’t be an inconvenience for you or an intrusion into your period of mourning.”

Donovan mustered a smile and tried to project a gracious manner. “Of course not.”

Taylor looked across the gallery of Sedgwick ancestors that preceded William, then the ones Donovan had identified, before returning her attention to her host. “No painting of you?”

“No…not yet. I suppose it’s something I’ll have to do one of these days—tradition and all that.” He was momentarily lost in thought, in a world of his own that he was unwilling to share with anyone else. Having the traditional portrait done was the last step in replacing his father as lord of the manor, a step he could not quite bring himself to take. The emotional turmoil and the circumstances connected to his father’s death were still too painful for him.

Taylor studied Donovan as he stood there. This was not at all what she had expected. He was a very attractive, sexy and desirable man. She could not deny that he made her pulse race and her breathing quicken. The thought crossed her mind—and not for the first time since boarding the plane for her transatlantic flight—that perhaps all of this had not been such a good idea after all. She should never have misrepresented herself, pretending to be a writer in order to gain access to the Sedgwick family archives for her own personal reasons.

At that precise moment she wished she was safely back in Wichita, Kansas, tending to her secretarial duties at the University rather than having taken a three-month leave of absence. But it was too late for that.

“Well.” Donovan whirled around to face Taylor, feigning an affability he didn’t feel. “I’m sure you must be tired. I imagine you’d like to go to your room, unpack and get settled in.”

She raked her gaze across the entry hall again, the lavish setting in direct opposition to the ominous feeling that shoved at her reality. A tremor of apprehension darted through her body—a tremor that had a dark cloud of danger and foreboding attached to it.

“I heard the doorbell and…hey, who do we have here?” The upbeat, cheerful voice came from the bottom of the staircase. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Alex…” Donovan turned to face his cousin. “This is Taylor MacKenzie, the writer I told you would be staying here for the next two weeks.” He returned his attention to Taylor. “Miss MacKenzie, this is my cousin, Alexander Sedgwick. Alex is here to help me get this year’s festival off to a good start.”

“Please, call me Taylor. Miss MacKenzie sounds so formal.” She offered Donovan a dazzling smile.

“And you may call me Donovan rather than Lord Sedgwick.” His words trailed off, as if his mind were on other things. “The title passed to me only two months ago. I haven’t had it long enough to be comfortable with it yet.” What he did not say was that he felt as if he did not really deserve the title even though it had been in the family as many centuries as the estate had. The title should still belong to his father.

“And you may call me whatever you like, as long as you promise to call me.” Alex’s attention and words were directed to Taylor as he extended a teasing smile followed by a quick but blatantly obvious survey of her physical assets.

She looked from Donovan to Alex, then to the painting of William Sedgwick. An uncomfortable chill swept across her skin. There was no mistaking the distinct family resemblance shared by the three men.

Alex crossed the entry hall to where Taylor stood, his outstretched hand grasping hers. “So, is this the man from the States who’s researching a book about British country festivals?” He flashed a sexy grin as he again looked her up and down. “You certainly don’t look much like a man to me. Of course, Donovan is stuck out here in the country away from London and doesn’t get out much, but even he couldn’t make this sort of a mistake.”

She felt the heat of embarrassment return to her cheeks as she lowered her gaze. This made twice that she had been embarrassed since arriving at the estate and she hadn’t even gotten past the entry hall. These two men, cousins who bore a dramatic similarity in appearance, were quite different in their demeanor. Donovan seemed very serious, a little distracted and what could even be called moody, but undeniably sexy. Alex, on the other hand, unabashedly flirted with her in an open and easy manner.

Donovan rang for Bradley, who made an immediate appearance. “This is Taylor MacKenzie. Please show Miss MacKenzie to her room and have someone bring in the luggage from her car.”

He returned his attention to Taylor. “Bradley will see to your needs. Breakfast is served at eight o’clock. We’ll have a chance to talk then.” Again the heated desire swept through his body as he took one last look at her before turning to go to his suite of rooms in the new wing. “Good night, Taylor.”

“Good night, Donovan.” His abrupt attitude and departure surprised her and left her slightly unsettled. It was almost as if he was desperate to get away from her as fast as he could.

“Well, I guess that’s my cue to leave. Good night, Taylor. I’ll see you in the morning. Unless—” Alex flashed a wry grin as he winked at her “—there’s something I can do for you tonight. I’m sure there’s certain needs that I can handle far better than Bradley….” He allowed his voice to trail off as he openly leered at her.

She shot a quick glance at Bradley, but he showed no reaction to Alex’s words. She forced a polite chuckle, not at all sure how to interpret Alex’s attitude and what he had said. “I can’t think of a thing. I’ve had an incredibly long day and am definitely tired. I’m going to collapse in bed and get a good night’s sleep.” She turned her attention to the somber-looking man standing at the foot of the stairs.

“This way, Miss MacKenzie.” Bradley showed Taylor to the second-floor room that had been prepared for the visiting writer. He demonstrated how to turn on the heat in the bedroom and acquainted her with the idiosyncrasies of the bathroom’s ancient plumbing, then he departed. A few minutes later her luggage was delivered.

Taylor took in her surroundings. The four-poster bed dominated the well-appointed room. The furnishings were obviously antiques and looked very elegant, but not particularly comfortable. She undressed, then slipped into the large football jersey she had commandeered from her ex-fiancé a few years ago. Even though the room had been cleaned, a stuffiness clung to everything, attesting to the fact that it had not been occupied for quite some time. She opened one of the windows just enough to let in some fresh air, climbed into bed and turned off the lamp on the nightstand.

Sleep, however, eluded her. Overly tired—that was her explanation. Perhaps reading for a little while would help her fall asleep. She turned on the lamp and picked up the book she had started on the plane. She read only a couple of pages before her exhaustion won out and she succumbed to sleep.

IT WAS WELL PAST MIDNIGHT when the shadowy figure moved silently down the hallway, then entered a linen closet on the second floor of the old wing. He moved a cupboard aside, then slid back a small panel and peered into the adjoining room. The soft light from the reading lamp fell across the woman’s face. Three large pillows propped up her back. A book rested in her lap. She appeared to have fallen asleep while reading.

Without even a whisper of sound, the secret door that led from the hall linen closet into the clothes closet in her bedroom swung open. The centuries-old house was filled with hidden doors and secret passages, and he knew all of them.

He stood inside the closet and watched her from behind the hanging clothes. Her long, dark lashes rested against her upper cheek. The gentle rise and fall of her breasts told him she was sleeping. She was his. She always had been and always would be…till death do them part.

He had time. It was still two weeks until the festival. It would be just as it should have been a century ago. It had been his intention that they should pledge their love to each other the night before the beginning of the festival, even though a couple of months earlier her husband had grown suspicious of his attentions toward her. But this would be different. This time there would not be any interference.

He stepped out of the closet and silently crossed the room, coming to a halt next to the bed. He reached out his hand and lightly touched her hair. What had she done to her hair? Where were the glossy raven tresses that had so captured his attention, the beautiful raven tresses that fell to her shoulders? Had his memory played tricks on him? He reached out his hand to touch her hair again just as she began to stir. He quickly withdrew as a soft moan escaped her throat and her hand moved toward her hair.

TAYLOR JERKED BOLT UPRIGHT in bed, her eyes wide open. Her heart pounded in her chest. She couldn’t catch her breath. The acrid taste of adrenaline filled her mouth. She quickly glanced around, but nothing looked out of place. She was sure someone had been in the room with her. She had sensed it, felt a menacing presence that had frightened her out of her sleep. It must have been a bad dream, yet it all seemed so real.

She desperately needed some sort of rational explanation. She finally attributed the experience to exhaustion, trying to convince herself she had been overly susceptible to suggestion fueled by the ominous atmosphere of the centuries-old house and the lifetime of Sedgwick family history that surrounded her. She slid out of bed, went to the bathroom and got a drink of water.

She stopped by the large corner window on her way back to bed, pulling the drape aside to look out over the grounds. She spotted someone, a shadowy form, aimlessly wandering around the garden. She squinted in an attempt to identify the mysterious person, but to no avail.

A little tremor of anxiety moved through her body as she turned away from the window. She drew in a calming breath, held it a moment, then slowly exhaled. Her lack of sleep had caused her mind to play tricks on her. It was the only logical explanation. But still, the feeling of someone being in the room with her had seemed so real.

She decided to lock the bedroom door, but to her dismay the door turned out to have an old-type lock that required a key in order to be locked. She looked around, then grabbed a straight-backed wooden chair and propped it at an angle under the doorknob. The action made her feel a little foolish, but at that moment her instincts were screaming at her to remain alert and be very careful.

She tried to convince herself that things would make more sense in the morning after a good night’s sleep. She turned off the lamp, then changed her mind. She knew it was ridiculous, but she felt she would sleep better with the light on. She switched the lamp on, then settled into bed.

Donovan stared up through the night air at the second-floor window, watching as the light went off then came on again a moment later. The blinding headache throbbed at his temples. Dark waves of confusion clouded his mind, leaving him disoriented. When and why had he gotten out of bed, dressed and left the house? What was he doing wandering around the garden in the middle of the night? Waves of apprehension washed through his body. He squeezed his eyes shut as he rubbed his temples in an attempt to force the pain away and make some sense of what had happened.

He had been experiencing the same symptoms his father had complained of for about three months prior to his death. There were the sudden headaches followed by disorientation, confusion and memory lapses.

Then two months ago James Sedgwick had committed suicide.

Had his father suspected he was going mad and killed himself before it became complete? While he still had some conscious control over his actions? Was the same thing now happening to Donovan? Was he himself going mad? Had the curse imposed on the family by his great-grandfather’s brutal crimes finally come to fruition with the opening of the crypt?

Had he now become the recipient of the Sedgwick curse?

A cold jolt of fear assaulted his senses. It was a frightening puzzle and somehow he had to figure it out before he lost his ability to reason. And Taylor MacKenzie…something about her was so familiar. Somehow there had to be a connection, but what could it possibly be?

Donovan returned to his private living quarters in the new wing. He poured a glass of water from the carafe he kept on his nightstand, took one of the tablets the doctor had prescribed for his sudden attack of blinding headaches, then fell on top of his bed. He closed his eyes and tried to force sleep in order to ease his confusion and drive away the pain. After tossing and turning for what seemed like an eternity, he finally fell into a troubled sleep.

Dark visions and strange dreams plagued him. The malevolent countenance of his great-grandfather’s face appeared before him, then disappeared again. He caught fleeting glimpses of his father. He had a sense of a woman’s face, an image from long ago, but it never quite came into focus. The images swirled around in evil black clouds that seemed to hide something even more sinister than they revealed.

Chapter Two

“Yes? Come in,” Taylor responded to the knock at her bedroom door. She had just finished dressing and was making the bed before going downstairs for breakfast.

The door opened and a middle-aged woman entered. As soon as she saw what was happening, she rushed toward Taylor. “Oh, miss. Please don’t do that. I’ll see to your room for you. Is there anything special that you require?”

“No, nothing at all. I hope I won’t be too much of an added burden to you.” Maid service—this was certainly more than she had anticipated.

“Breakfast is being served in the informal dining room. It’s on the ground floor, miss, to the right at the bottom of the stairs.”

“Thank you.” Taylor left the bedroom and followed the directions. Donovan and Alex were already seated at the table. Both men rose to their feet when she entered the room.

It was Donovan who spoke first. “I trust you found everything you needed. Did you sleep well?”

“Yes, I’m all settled in. It’s a lovely room.” Her strange dream about someone being in her room, if it had been a dream, flashed through her mind. No, she had not slept well at all. “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable.”

She noted the haunted look in Donovan’s eyes and the drawn lines on his face. It did not stop the pull of his sexual magnetism, of the very disruptive and baffling effect he had on her senses.

She quickly turned her attention to Alex. Unlike Donovan, no stress showed on his face. “Good morning.”

There was no mistaking the glint in Alex’s eyes as he allowed his gaze to wander across her features. “Well, international travel must agree with you. You look even better than last night.”

Breakfast passed in an amiable manner. The conversation was casual, albeit superficial. Alex did most of the talking. The only truly uncomfortable moment came when he asked Taylor the titles of her other books. She sidestepped the issue by saying her writing credits were primarily magazine articles.

As soon as everyone had finished with their coffee, Donovan rose from his chair. He had tried to keep from staring at Taylor during breakfast, but he had been unable to keep his eyes off her. He hoped she hadn’t noticed. He forced a casualness to his words that he did not feel. “If you like, I’ll show you around the house and the grounds, then you can get started on your research.”

“I don’t want to intrude on your time, but I’d certainly appreciate the tour.”

“I have some pressing business to take care of first.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ll meet you here in about an hour, if that’s convenient for you.”

“That will be perfect.” She extended a gracious smile and forced an outer calm. Her inner jitters were another story, the result of the way he had been staring at her all through breakfast combined with the intense and unexpected attraction she felt toward him. She had never experienced that type of intensity, not even with her ex-fiancé. The potent combination proved impossible to dismiss.

Alex’s voice intruded into her thoughts as he spoke to Donovan. “You don’t need me for any of this. I promised Constance Smythe we would get together this morning and go over what she’s done so far for the festival.”

Donovan shot a warning look toward Alex. “I’d appreciate it if you did that at her house and not here.”

“No problem. I’ll go over there and get a status report. Then I have some personal business to take care of.”

Alex grasped Taylor’s hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it in a courtly manner. “I’m sorry I won’t be here to keep you company until Donovan is available to give you the tour.”

A twinge of something jabbed at Donovan as he watched Alex’s all-too-obvious manner and easy flirting with Taylor. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to put an exact word to the feeling. Could it be jealousy? He didn’t want to admit that the instant attraction he felt for her had gotten under his skin.

Donovan fought to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Don’t you have someplace to be, Alex?”

Alex crossed the room to the door. He gave Taylor one last libidinous glance and an easy smile. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.”

Alex hurried to his car and drove the five minutes to Constance’s house. He gave two quick raps on the front door, then opened it and walked in without waiting to be invited. “Connie? Are you ready to get to work?” His familiarity said they were much more than casual acquaintances.

Constance emerged from the back room. Her blond hair hung to her shoulders, her makeup perfectly applied. She glanced around, then her gaze landed on Alex. She tightened the sash of her silk robe. “You’re alone?”

Alex studied her for a moment. She claimed to be thirty-one, but he knew she was closer to forty. She’d maintained a youthful appearance and an appealing body, especially for an older woman—older compared to his twenty-seven years. In fact, there were a lot of other things he knew about Constance that he was sure no one else knew.

He looked around, feigning a hint of confusion about what she might have been searching for when she entered the room. “You were expecting Donovan to be with me? Or perhaps you were hoping for Donovan by himself.” He reached out and tugged at the silken sash until it came loose, allowing her robe to fall open, revealing the sheer nightgown she wore.

A sly smile curled the corners of Alex’s mouth as he raked his gaze over her obvious charms. “Ah, yes…I see you were hoping for Donovan solo. Well—” he removed his jacket and tossed it over the arm of the couch “—never let it be said that I failed to help out a lady in obvious distress.” He tugged on the front of her robe, slowly drawing her toward him.

Connie stepped away, closed her robe, retied the sash and leveled a steady gaze at him. “You’re quite the randy lad, Alex…always ready for a tumble.”

Alex winked at her. “As you know from personal experience—ready, willing and very able.”

“Well, you’ll have to put all of that ‘ready, willing and able’ aside until another time and another place. Right now we have festival business to discuss.”

“Whatever you say. Business first—” he cocked his head and shot a questioning look in her direction “—and pleasure later?” He retrieved a notebook from his jacket pocket and seated himself at her dining room table.

Constance picked up the file folder from the corner of the table and withdrew several sheets of paper. “I’ve compiled a list of what needs to be done and what I’ve already accomplished. I think we’re in good shape for this year’s festival, just the last-minute details to take care of.”

Alex took the list from her, but didn’t bother to look at it. “You know, Connie—” he pulled her into his lap “—it’s not doing you any good to set your sights on the status that being married to Lord Donovan Sedgwick would give you. After all, Donovan has rebuffed your increasingly blatant overtures in that area. Even before Uncle James died, you had decided on Donovan. I assume you believed that Uncle James’s age meant that Donovan would be coming into the title sometime very soon. And by a strange quirk of fate, he came into it sooner than anyone anticipated. But even though you have decided Donovan is going to be your next husband—”

“Next husband?” Constance jumped to her feet and took a couple of steps away from Alex. “Whatever are you talking about? Everyone knows that I’ve never been married.”

A sly grin turned the corners of his mouth. “Sorry, Connie…I keep forgetting about the myth you insist on perpetuating.”

He emitted a soft chuckle, as if an amusing thought had just occurred to him. “But as I was saying maybe it would be more feasible if you set your sights on someone else. There are lots of men out there with titles. Of course, not many of them have such a lucrative estate to support that title as Donovan does.”

She furrowed her brow in momentary concentration. “Perhaps you’re right. Maybe I need to use another tactic.” She gave Alex an appraising look, then leaned her face into his and placed a kiss on his lips. “But first, let’s finish with the festival business. We’ll have time later this morning for other pleasantries.”

DONOVAN STOOD at the door of the informal dining room. He watched as Taylor poured herself a cup of coffee, then stood in front of the window staring at the gardens. He continued to be bothered by the strange sensation that he knew her from somewhere. He closed his eyes for a moment, but the image continued to swirl around in his mind. He was inexplicably drawn to her, almost as if she had cast some sort of spell over him—as if some unknown force had pulled him into a fateful liaison fraught with unknown danger.

Taylor turned toward him as he entered the room. He drank in her features—the shape of her face, the creamy texture of her skin, the set of her eyes, her slightly parted lips and the fullness of a mouth that deserved to be repeatedly kissed as often as possible. He tried to shake away the powerful urge to kiss those tempting lips as the heated desire again settled low in his body, fighting with his attempts to maintain a businesslike attitude.

“Is there something wrong?” Donovan’s intense stare sent a small tremor of anxiety through her body. She was determined to track down her family history. Her grandmother had filled her in on as much as she knew, but there were still so many missing pieces. Her grandmother had been born on the Sedgwick Estate where Taylor’s great-grandparents were the last of the tenant farmers to live there. Her grandmother had been sent to Canada as a small child to live with an aunt and uncle.

All Taylor knew of her great-grandparents, Clark and Emily Kincaid, was that they had been murdered by Lord William Sedgwick, a crime for which he had been swiftly convicted and then executed. She knew nothing of the details, but was determined to seek them out. Only now that she was actually at the Sedgwick Estate, standing face-to-face with the very appealing and disturbing Lord Donovan Sedgwick…

“Do I have jelly on my face or an orange juice mustache?” She forced a nervous chuckle as she moved her fingertips to the side of her mouth as if to wipe away an offending smudge.

Donovan’s hand followed hers, his fingers lightly touching her hair, then brushing against her cheek. He quickly withdrew his hand and took a step backward. He hadn’t realized he was staring at her so intently. “I’m sorry. It’s just that…well—” he awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other “—you look so familiar, as if I should know you from somewhere, but I can’t quite place it. We, uh, we haven’t ever met…have we?”

“No…” His eyes held her in a captive spell, as if he had literally drawn all the energy from her body. She experienced a shortness of breath. Her skin still tingled where he had touched her cheek. Her voice barely rose above a soft whisper. “I’m sure I would have remembered if we had.”

“Yes, well…” He nervously cleared his throat. “Shall we go?”

She breathed a sigh of relief as he seemed to release her from the mystical hold he had on her senses. He led the way up the curving staircase, his voice becoming all business as he provided her with information on the history of the property.

“The original estate dates back to the late 1300s. Some of the structures from that time are still here. The tithe barn and the lodge house—” A shudder swept through his body at the mention of the lodge house. Thoughts of the grisly events from a century ago flashed through his mind.

He forced away the unwelcome intrusion and regained his composure. “As I was saying, the tithe barn and lodge house date from that time along with some of the outer buildings.”

“Has the estate always been in the Sedgwick family or did your family acquire it later?”

“My family has owned it since the late 1600s. It was a grant made after the monarchy was restored in 1660, following the civil war and the ten-year period of the commonwealth. We originally had six different families living on various parts of the estate as tenant farmers. They would keep a percentage of their crops and livestock with the rest going to the estate as their rent. Of course, the land holdings are not as vast as they once were and we no longer have tenant farmers, but it’s still a very large estate by today’s standards. We own several structures bordering the village that are no longer necessary to the day-to-day operations of the estate. Most of those buildings are leased out.”

They arrived at the third floor in the central section of the house. It was like stepping into a time warp and suddenly being whisked back several centuries. A sense of foreboding settled over her. A cold shiver moved down her spine. An impression of evil seemed to haunt the stark hallways.

Their footsteps echoed as they walked along the well-worn hardwood floor. The stone walls lacked any feeling of warmth or welcome. Several suits of armor were on display along with shields and swords. Wall sconces were spaced at ten-foot intervals along the length of the long hallway. Taylor noted that they actually contained candles rather than electric lights. The large windows on the outer wall were devoid of any type of drapes or shutters thus allowing the daylight to stream in—the only thing to break the almost oppressive gloom that settled over everything.

Taylor tried to break the uncomfortable silence that had suddenly surrounded them. “This certainly is quite different from my room and the downstairs area.” Another cold jolt tickled her spine.

“This central section is the oldest part of the house. Most of the original timbered structure burned in 1726 and was replaced with this sandstone manor house. A major addition was built in the early 1890s by my great-grandfather, William. That’s the section where you’re staying. The east wing was added and most of the house modernized following World War II. My father was responsible for the most recent upgrades including the swimming pool, the improved heating system in the main part of the house and redoing the electrical wiring and plumbing.

“The area where we are now, on the third floor, is not used for anything other than storage. There are rooms filled with relics that I suppose could rightly be on display in a museum—suits of armor, centuries-old weapons, furniture from various periods in history and even bathtubs from the time prior to indoor plumbing. But this floor doesn’t even have electricity.”

Donovan continued the tour of the house, showing her through the kitchen and butler’s pantry, the formal dining room, which was now used only for special occasions, the snooker room, the original accounts room where the business records of the estate were kept during the time of the tenant farmers, and finally some of the other guest bedrooms. The music room and ballroom were evidence of the lavishness of parties and social gatherings of a bygone era. He did not take her into the east wing, did not show her his private living quarters or the modern offices where he conducted the current business matters of the estate. They ended the household tour in the library on the second floor.

It was a very large, paneled room with a high-beamed ceiling. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Two long reading tables occupied a prominent place in the room. Comfortable, overstuffed chairs were located near the many windows. “This is where all the family archives are kept, at least the ones that still exist. The records that used to be in the accounts room are here, too. When the original house burned, all the records went with it. However, for your purposes, these records date back prior to the festival. I’m sure you’ll find everything you need…” His voice trailed off as he stared at her.

“This is very generous of you, allowing a total stranger to have access to your family records.” Panic welled inside her. It felt as if the walls were closing in. As if she was about to be trapped in a centuries-old world without any means of escape. Her inner voice told her to run, to get out while she still could. Her feet were leaden, her muscles refused to function. The fear coursing through her was as much emotional as it was physical. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out. Then she saw him reach out toward her. Was this it? The moment her sense of reality would totally disappear?

Donovan’s hand seemed to have a life of its own as he reached out and touched Taylor’s hair. A tightness pulled across his chest. He was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. Her lower lip quivered slightly. He drew his fingertip lightly across it. Their gazes locked as a moment of intense heat passed between them. He was not sure exactly what he felt other than the obvious, quick surge of lust and a strong desire to pull her into his arms and take complete possession of her mouth with several passionate kisses. What was there about this woman that so inflamed his normally controlled desires? What was there about her that seemed so familiar? And so troubling?

Taylor took a step backward as she sucked in a startled gasp. She had certainly not expected him to touch her like that even though she had to silently admit to a surge of excitement when his fingertip brushed her lip. The electricity almost crackled out loud as it sizzled between them. She could not catch her breath. She didn’t know which sensation was true…the excitement or the trepidation. It had been late the evening before when she presented herself at the front door of the manor house, and in the short time since, Donovan Sedgwick had somehow managed to enfold her in a magnetic web of desire tempered with confusion and apprehension. She closed her eyes and tried to force away the strange feelings that stirred inside her.

And now this. She was enfolded in more than his aura, yet she felt helpless to offer even the slightest of protests. It was Donovan who finally broke the spell binding them together with invisible ties.

“The, uh, grounds. I promised to show you the immediate grounds, too.” He glanced out the window. Dark storm clouds hung low in the sky giving a menacing appearance to the countryside. The tree tops moved in the stiff breeze. “There seems to be a storm building. We’d better hurry.”

“Yes…I’d like very much to see the grounds.” She couldn’t stop the slight huskiness that surrounded her words.

Neither made mention of the incident in the library as they walked down the stairs, then along the hallway to the side door. They exited onto a large promenade bordered by beautifully manicured gardens on a terraced hillside. She had arrived at the estate at night and hadn’t realized that the manor house stood on a small bluff overlooking a long valley with a winding river flowing off to the horizon. The trees had turned their autumn reds and golds. It was a breathtaking sight that immediately filled her with a sense of calm and serenity.

“This is my favorite view.” Donovan paused for a moment of quiet reverie. “In summer the sunlight lingers across the green hills and reflects golden off the river. The air is filled with the fragrance of a thousand flowers.” He took a deep breath and stared out over the valley, lost in his own thoughts—thoughts that vacillated between the serenity spread out before him, the dark malevolence of the disturbing dreams that had first invaded his sleep about a month ago and the very real passion that Taylor stirred in him.

“I can see why you like it here. This is truly lovely.” It was a time of quiet contemplation that she found very calming after her unsettling dream the night before and the dark, almost sinister atmosphere clinging to the centuries-old house.

Neither Taylor nor Donovan spoke for several minutes.

“Well—” he turned toward her “—shall we continue with our tour?” He took her first to the tithe barn. “This is an exceptionally large structure for a tithe barn especially for its time period, but then it was a very large estate. The barn is 132 feet by 44 feet and is the oldest building still standing on the estate. It was constructed in 1389 and goes back to the time when all of this was church property. Ten percent of everything from all the surrounding area, usually crops, was given to the church and brought here for storage, thus the name tithe barn. In fact—” he pointed to an enclosed loft room with a window overlooking the interior of the barn “—the abbot or his representative used that room to keep an eye on everything.”

They stepped farther into the dimly lit interior of the large stone structure. “As you can see, it’s not currently being used.” The wind whistled through the window openings. Like the third floor in the oldest part of the house, she had the feeling of being transported back to another time and another place. She became acutely aware of the fact that he stood very close behind her, even imagining she could feel his breath against her hair. She ran her hand across the back of her neck in an effort to still the tiny shiver.

Taylor turned around and found herself looking up into the intensity of Donovan’s blue eyes and his handsome features. She stepped backward and quickly averted her eyes, pretending a momentary interest in the uneven cobblestones that covered the floor. “This barn was already a century old before most Europeans even entertained the idea of the world being round and land existing across the ocean to the west. That makes this all that much more impressive to me.” She looked around the barn again, stared up at the abbot loft, then peered farther up into the dimly lit rafters in an attempt to locate the birds she could hear. “If these walls could talk they would surely have quite a few exciting tales to tell.”

“Perhaps it’s just as well that they can’t say anything.” His mind darted to the lodge house and the horror of the story those walls could tell. His words came out in a near whisper, as if he did not want to even think them let alone say them. “This many centuries of history is bound to offer up a few dark tales of brutality…and even madness.” He shoved the bothersome thoughts away and continued in a more confident manner. “After all, the Middle Ages were not a particularly gracious or genteel period.”

Again the details of the murders of a century ago filled his mind along with the confusion of the strange dreams and happenings that had become part of his present. The uncertainty that had plagued him from the moment he’d laid eyes on Taylor continued to shove at his reality, intensified by his strong physical attraction to her.

Without saying anything else, Donovan placed his hand at the small of her back and gently steered her out the door of the tithe barn. His touch again sent little tingles of excitement racing through her body. They walked down the path together as he continued the tour of the estate.

“Over here are the stables. Of course, there are only a half-dozen or so horses these days, which leaves most of the stable area unused.” He suddenly stopped walking and looked questioningly at her. “Do you ride?”

“Yes, I used to ride quite a bit. I’ve only ridden with a Western saddle, though. I’ve never tried an English saddle. Unfortunately, I haven’t had any opportunity to ride for the past few years.”

“Perhaps you could make some time during your research and I can show you the rest on the estate. It’s best seen by horseback, where we’re not restricted to the roads.”

His question had seemed almost tentative, as if he were unsure about asking it. She offered him an engaging smile as she replied to his invitation. “I’d like that…very much.”

Jerry Denton, her ex-fiancé, had owned a small two-passenger airplane. During the time Taylor had been dating him and through their subsequent engagement, he had often flown them from Kansas to Colorado where he had a friend who owned a ranch. They had spent many hours horseback riding in the mountains. In retrospect it was the only part of the relationship that held any value for her.

It had been a messy breakup and had left Taylor gun-shy where men were concerned. Even though she had made a concentrated effort to avoid any type of emotional entanglement for the past three years, she could not deny that this man—Lord Donovan Sedgwick, one of a long line of Sedgwick gentry—had her senses running amok.

The one good thing that did come from the emotionally painful breakup of her engagement was the additional time she had spent with her grandmother. Those special times had fueled her desire to search out her roots. Her grandmother had died two years ago at the age of 102. Her mind had been sharp and clear until the very end.

And now Taylor was standing on the very ground where her grandmother had been born and talking to the descendent of someone who had been responsible for the death of her great-grandparents.

“Over here are the greenhouses and hothouses. The small one is for flowers and plants that are ultimately transplanted to the gardens surrounding the house. The large ones are vegetable gardens that provide us with produce almost year-round. Actually, with the vegetable gardens, grain and feed crops, livestock and poultry, the estate can be self-sufficient as far as food is concerned.” He held the door open for her and they entered one of the large glass structures.

They continued the tour well into the afternoon. He carefully kept her away from the lodge house and cemetery, even though the police had taken down the yellow crime-scene tape from around the crypt. He pointed out the areas that would be utilized for the annual festival.

“The tithe barn will be used by local antique dealers. We’ll erect a large tent on the south lawn for crafts people from the nearby villages to display their wares. The field adjacent to the barn will be turned into a minicarnival. The north lawn will be used for the children’s competitions such as the sack race, three-legged race, tug-of-war…things like that.”

For the most part, each kept the conversation on a superficial level, much as it had been during breakfast. Taylor asked some questions about specific aspects of physically setting up the festival, and Donovan provided her with the requested information. She was very impressed with everything Donovan had shown her. Even though the house gave off ominous vibes of past misdeeds, in the sunlight it was beautiful and the interior elegantly appointed. The estate seemed every bit as prosperous as she had first thought.

She gestured toward the swimming pool. “This is a very interesting juxtaposition…a fourteenth-century tithe barn next to a modern swimming pool and hot tub.”

Donovan took a steadying breath. No matter how much he didn’t want it to be, she made his heart pound and his pulse race. He continued to be troubled by the eerie sensation that he knew her.

Donovan had been far more discreet in his relationships with women than his cousin. Alex already had two failed marriages and a flamboyant lifestyle that included many unprofitable forays into the private casinos in London. On several occasions Donovan had paid off his cousin’s gambling debts.

While Donovan had engaged in numerous quiet affairs away from the village, he had never married. But he had never before been so immediately and strongly attracted to any woman as he was to Taylor MacKenzie. It was an overwhelming and mysterious attraction he couldn’t explain and didn’t understand.

An attraction that frightened him as much as it fascinated him.

He took an impulsive step in Taylor’s direction, brushed his fingertips against her cheek, then slowly lowered his mouth to hers. It was a fleeting kiss, barely more than a touching of the lips, but one that held all the heat and passion he felt when he had resisted the urge to kiss her earlier. He ran his fingers through her hair, then started to wrap her in his embrace.

“Taylor…I—” He let her go and took a quick step backward, putting distance between them. He immediately berated himself for his foolish and unacceptable behavior. The words felt awkward as they left his mouth. “I…I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for that to happen.”

Taylor’s words came out as a startled whisper. “That’s all right.” She had to force the rest, not at all sure what to say or how to say it. “No harm done.”

No harm done? Waves of confusion swept through her. She desperately needed to apply some logic to what had happened. At first a sense of relief washed through her, telling her how thankful she was that he had changed his mind and not pursued the kiss any further. It saved her from having to make a decision about whether to allow it.

There was no mistaking the ripples of excitement that accompanied her confusion or the heated desire she experienced every time Donovan looked at her. The feeling was almost surreal, as if she was being drawn into something beyond her control—something disturbingly ominous yet so enthralling that she couldn’t resist the temptation. Nothing in her experience had prepared her for the strange dichotomy going on inside her at that moment.

He was not what she expected when he opened the door to her upon her arrival. Dynamic…yes. Handsome…yes, very. Incredibly sexy…most certainly. Mysterious and secretive…also true. He had a manner she could almost describe as brooding even though the couple of occasions when he displayed his dazzling smile showed an entirely different side to him. But still, the impact on her senses was anything but subtle—far more than she had believed could happen and she wasn’t able to shake it away.

Donovan awkwardly shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his words carrying the hesitation and uncertainty he felt. “I should let you get started on your work, and I have some estate business to tend to. I’ll see you later. If you need anything, please feel free to ask. If I’m not available, Bradley will tend to whatever you need or want.”

“Thank you for the tour. It was fascinating. I think I’ll go to my room and get my notes together.” And see if I can’t get my composure and emotions together, as well.

Donovan escorted Taylor inside the manor house, then watched as she ascended the staircase to the second floor. As soon as she was out of sight he returned to his suite of rooms to seek privacy and some much-needed solitude. He poured a glass of water from the carafe before sinking into the large chair. He rubbed his temples as he took several deep breaths. He desperately needed to sort things out, especially the mysterious pull she exerted on his senses whenever he was around her, which had expanded to include every time he thought about her. And those occasions seemed to be occurring with increased frequency with each passing hour.

He tried to collect his thoughts. First there was the shock of his father’s death—his father’s suicide—two months ago, a situation that still caused him great emotional pain. Then there were the blinding headaches that would strike from out of nowhere followed by periods of disorientation—the same symptoms his father had experienced before his suicide. Then came the disturbing dreams. Next came the bizarre happenings at the crypt.

And finally the appearance of this very disconcerting, yet very familiar, woman.

He could not dislodge the feeling that some sort of mysterious thread tied all of these events together. If only he could figure out what it was. Taylor’s countenance continued to haunt his mind—the set of her eyes, the shape of her face, the sensual mouth…the deliciously sensual mouth that tasted of everything he had ever wanted. The nagging feeling that he had encountered her somewhere continued to confound him. There had to be an answer. He closed his eyes. An image began to form, a faint vision of a woman’s face. He tried to bring it into focus, but it refused to completely materialize.

Donovan opened his eyes, the disturbing image having faded completely. His gaze landed on his father’s trunk. His father had always kept it locked and he had never known what was in it.

When his father committed suicide he had left a note. Donovan found it the next morning when he discovered his father’s body. The note was only an apology and did not shed any light on the reason the elder Sedgwick had committed suicide.

Donovan had found the key to the mysterious trunk in the nightstand next to his father’s bed. He had done a cursory check of the contents following his father’s funeral and had been disappointed in the routine items he found. The way his father had kept the trunk locked had led him to believe that it contained something pertinent. However, he had not inspected anything in depth.

He emitted an audible sigh of resignation, then rose from the chair and took the key from his dresser drawer. Now would be as good a time as any to do a more thorough check of the contents. Maybe upon closer inspection he would find some clue that would help him figure out why his father had committed suicide, and lead to some answers about what had been happening to him.

A cold chill made its way up his spine. A sense of foreboding seemed to permeate the very fabric of the house as if something menacing lived in the walls and stalked the hallways. He had never felt it before and had first became aware of the odd sensations about the time his father began to suffer the blinding headaches and disorientation. And now it was happening to him in the same manner. A stab of fear sliced through him.

He still did not understand what had driven his father to commit suicide. The two of them had been very close. James Sedgwick had been well over forty years old when he and Donovan’s mother had married. Donovan was their only child. His mother died when he was six.

Even though his grandfather, and later his father, had sold off part of the land and had leased out some of the buildings along the main road, the estate was still quite large and diversified. Unlike many other large land holdings in England, it was not mired in financial problems. Quite the contrary. Due to intelligent and enlightened management, combined with shrewd investments and business dealings, the estate had shown an above-average return for the past several years. That was one of the reasons why his father’s suicide had been so difficult to accept. Nothing about it made any sense.

When Donovan had originally looked inside the trunk he’d found some handwritten journals that he’d only skimmed, some old photographs he’d merely glanced at, and what appeared to be blueprints and architectural drawings for the addition to the manor house his great-grandfather had built. As well, there were the plans for the modernization of the estate his grandfather had completed, and finally the most recent changes his father had made.

He picked up one of the journals. It was dated one hundred years ago—the year his great-grandfather had committed two murders. The journal had his great-grandfather’s name on the inside cover. It was filled with notations that revealed his obsession with Emily Kincaid and his plans to make her his mistress in spite of the fact that she was married, had a young daughter and had repeatedly turned down his advances. His plan called for Emily to give herself to him the night before the start of the festival—willingly or otherwise.

Donovan set the journal aside. The subsequent events and resulting murders had been well documented in the local village newspaper along with the Treadwells’ personal bias against the Sedgwick family, a bias that did not exist in the news articles published by the London Times. And Byron Treadwell had maintained that personal bias since taking over as managing editor and publisher of the village newspaper.

There were two journals with his grandfather’s name on them. And finally four journals with the name James Sedgwick on the inside cover, the most recent one dated just a couple of months before his suicide. There had to have been some reason for Donovan’s father to have kept those specific items locked away. And some reason for him to have stopped making journal entries two months before his death. He hadn’t hidden them in the trunk because they had monetary value.

One thing Donovan knew for sure was that none of the journals belonged in the library as part of the family archives, where someone else could have access to them. And that would certainly extend to Taylor MacKenzie and her research. The last thing he wanted was to see mention of the family’s evil deeds in a book on British country festivals.

He picked up a large envelope and removed the photographs. He selected one of the photographs, a very old one. On the back, in his father’s handwriting, were the words Emily Kincaid. He turned it over and stared at it.

It was as if someone had landed a solid punch to his body, knocking all the breath out of him. A hard lump formed in his throat and a knot tightened in his stomach. The face reached out to him, grabbing his reality and twisting it into a mystifying tangle.

The eyes were large and expressive just like Taylor’s. It was the same nose and identical smile from the same sensual mouth. The hair in the photograph was long and dark, but it was Taylor’s face. His attention remained riveted on the old photograph, held captive by a force that tugged at his senses and seemed to be pushing him closer to the brink of the unknown.

Who was Taylor MacKenzie? What was the real reason for her being at his house? What did she want from him?

He squeezed his eyes shut as the pounding headache struck from out of nowhere, then the darkness descended around him.

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