Summer's Secret Read online

  “Not at all,” he said softly and slipped the cloak gently around her shoulders.

  His touch affected her, even though it was through several layers of clothing. She was sure his hands rested on her shoulders for a fraction longer than was strictly necessary, but then he was gone again as everyone began to file out into the night.

  The mist swirled and the lanterns in the yard were indistinct in the icy gloom as the procession wended its way into the stable yard behind the inn, then toward a little wicket gate beyond. It opened into an apple orchard across which a path had been cleared through the snow.

  The lights of Tetbury twinkled dimly through the vapor that stirred eerily between the trees, and once or twice Summer heard the distant crack of rifles and a clatter very suggestive of trays, pans, and buckets like the ones carried from the Black Lion. She glanced around, and as the mist parted for a moment, she thought she saw the faint flicker of a bonfire, like a will-o’-the-wisp in the darkness, but she wasn’t sure. She turned to look for the gentleman and saw him bringing up the rear of the procession. As before, his eyes met hers, and as before, she looked quickly away again.

  The snow path led to the oldest apple trees in the orchard, around which nearly all the snow had been cleared away into heaps. In the center of the clearing, safely away from overhanging branches, a bonfire had been built, and as the flambeaux were held to it, flames began to leap eagerly upward, sending smoke and sparks up beyond the mist to the starlit night.

  All empty glasses were replenished, then the wooden punch bowl was carried to the first tree, and some of the lamb’s wool was carefully poured over the roots. Everyone formed a circle around the fire and raised their glasses to recite an old verse. “Old apple tree, old apple tree, we wassail thee; May you bloom well, and bear well, So merry we’ll be, When next year we toast thee, old apple tree!”

  As the gathering gave a mighty cheer, the rifles were raised and fired into the branches. Summer gave a start, for the reports were earsplitting. Then every tray, pan, and bucket was hammered so mercilessly she had to put her hands to her ears.

  The wooden bowl was carried to the next tree, and the ceremony was repeated, but this time, as the din of rifle fire and drumming died away, another sound—long, mournful, and frightening—echoed chillingly through the darkness. A large hound had begun to howl somewhere in the rolling Gloucestershire countryside near the town, and the wassailing in the orchard was brought to a very abrupt halt, for there was a truly unearthly quality to the dreadful cry.

  An icy finger passed down Summer’s spine, and Lady Harvey’s words rang in her ears. “Twelfth Night, when werewolves go abroad...” Suddenly Sir Oswald’s over-rouged wife didn’t seem quite as foolish as she had earlier.

  The horrid sound died away, and in the ensuing silence the bonfire spat and crackled. Flame light leapt over the faces of the uneasy wassailers, and the lacework of apple tree branches overhead suddenly seemed like a giant spiderweb looming frighteningly above them all. The women in the gathering shrank fearfully closer to their menfolk as a primitive fear descended almost tangibly over the orchard.

  It was the men who recovered first, or at least made out they recovered first. With laughs of bravado they prepared to wassail another tree. Then someone began to recite the old verse, and gradually everyone joined in again until the former bonhomie was almost completely restored.

  The rifle reports rang out once more, and the chaotic drumming followed, rattling through the night as if every shelf in an ironmonger’s store had collapsed at once. But as the clatter died away, the terrible howl rang out once more, only this time it was much closer. For some of the wassailers it proved too much, and they chose to return to the inn, but others were made of sterner stuff.

  Summer hesitated. She didn’t really believe in werewolves, but at the same time ...

  “Les loups-garous do not exist,” said a soft male voice at her elbow.

  She turned quickly and once again found herself looking into the stranger’s amused dark blue eyes. “You ... you seem very sure of that, sir,” she said.

  “Well, I’m as sure as I can be, although I wouldn’t care to stake my life on it.” He gave a faint smile. “However, I’m sure I’m not the subject of some dread supernatural curse, so if I offer you my protection, you need not fear I will suddenly transform into a frenzied canine with an inordinate desire to bite you.”

  The gentle mockery lessened her fear a little, and she smiled too. “I’m relieved to hear it, sir.” But then her breath caught with alarm as the howl was heard again, even closer than before. Whatever it was seemed to be approaching the orchard!

  Most of the remaining wassailers took to their heels, riflemen and all, leaving only a few diehards whose courage probably owed more to a surfeit of lamb’s wool than anything else.

  The gentleman glanced at Summer again. “How is your nerve, madam?” he asked then.

  “Surely my nerve isn’t in question, sir, for since you’ve offered to protect me, I fancy it’s your nerve that must be tested.”

  He laughed. “Well, I’m prepared to stand my ground.”

  “Then so am I,” she replied, with more conviction than she actually felt. Right now she was torn between wanting to linger out here with him, and a huge desire to take to her heels for the safety of the Black Lion.

  So they stayed where they were, with the light of the bonfire flickering over them. Those few seconds had a dreamlike quality for Summer. Here she was, in a long gone Gloucestershire orchard, with a nineteenth-century gentleman to whom she was so fiercely attracted it was an agony to be next to him without touching him, listening to a macabre sound that may or may not be the Twelfth Night howling of a werewolf!

  The long silence, broken only by the crackling of the fire, was suddenly disturbed by another new sound, the rustling of a large animal in the hedge at the far end of the orchard. It was the final straw for the last few wassailers, who made off as one for the inn.

  The gentleman put a swift arm around Summer’s shoulders and turned her toward the inn as well. “Discretion is perhaps the better part of valor,” he murmured, beginning to usher her out of the orchard.

  They hurried toward the wicket gate, but then Summer heard something bounding through the snow behind them. She glanced fearfully over her shoulder, then screamed as she saw a huge black hound bearing down on them.

  The gentleman whirled about, pushing her behind him so that he stood between her and the beast. Then he drew a pistol from his pocket and fired it into the air. The hound slithered to a standstill, then crouched low as if about to leap at Summer. The firelight shone red in its eyes, and its teeth were jagged. There was a movement beyond it at the end of the orchard, and both Summer and the gentleman saw a horseman rein in.

  The gentleman shouted, “Call off your hound, or I’ll shoot both it and you! And believe me, this pistol and my aim are equal to the feat!”

  For a moment the horseman did nothing, but as the gentleman leveled the pistol toward him, he gave a quick whistle. The hound responded immediately, loping back through the snow toward its master. Then both disappeared through the hedge.

  The gentleman pocketed the pistol and turned swiftly to Summer, who was almost faint with relief. He took her by the arms to steady her. “It’s all right, it’s over now,” he said gently.

  She struggled to regain her composure. “So ... so it wasn’t a werewolf,” she said, trying to smile.

  “Definitely not.”

  “I think the man must be the highwayman who attacked Sir Oswald and Lady Harvey earlier this evening.” She told him briefly what Lady Harvey had told her.

  He nodded. “It seems very likely. Are you quite sure you’re all right now?”

  “I... I think so,” she said in a small voice.

  “It is quite safe now, you know,” he reassured her.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever been so frightened in my life,” she confessed.

  “With me as your champion? Fie, mad
am,” he murmured.

  She raised her eyes to his, and he put a hand to her chin to tilt it upward a little. “Is the champion to receive a favor from his lady?” he asked softly.

  Now her heart was beating swiftly for a very different reason. There was no mistaking the dark warmth in his eyes or the seductive inflection in his voice. “Does he wish a favor?” she whispered.

  “He has from the first moment he saw her,” he breathed, bending his head to kiss her.

  Their lips were cold from the icy night air, but the kiss soon flamed them with desire. She cast caution to the four winds, slipping her arms around his neck and allowing her body to melt yearningly against his. As her lips parted beneath his, she couldn’t help pressing herself to the contours of his body—all the contours, especially the hardening at his loins, as he was aroused by the unexpected passion of her response.

  His lips became more urgent, and his hands slid to enclose her buttocks, pulling her onto him so that the pleasure was heightened for them both. She felt his erection as it strained against the tightness of his breeches, and she could taste the need in his kiss. Her breath caught with gratification as wild sensations began to course through her. She moved her hips voluptuously against him and heard him gasp a little as her abandonment laid siege to his fast vanishing restraint. The wild sensations intensified, washing over her in wave after wave of elation. She didn’t know who he was, but this unknown nineteenth-century Englishman had played havoc with her soul from that first moment in the courtyard.

  Suddenly, the moment was broken by shouts from the stable yard, and they drew guiltily apart as the landlord and some of the men returned, after at last plucking up courage on hearing the pistol shot.

  But then a dazzling electric light shone in her eyes, the chill of the winter orchard disappeared, and Chrissie grinned down at her as she lay confusedly on the sofa. “Come in, number six, your time’s up,” she said humorously.

  Summer could have wept. The sensuous desire was still with her—the taste of his lips, the feel of his body, the wonderful security of his arms around her ... But he was centuries away now, and she was alone.

  Chapter Five

  It was the small hours of the same night, and rain spattered against the apartment windows as Summer slipped out of bed, put on a wrap, and tiptoed along the passage toward the living room.

  The digital lights on the TV and VCR cast a luminous glow over everything as she went to the sofa and felt underneath for the little cassette recorder. As she straightened, her glance fell upon Andrew’s piece of medieval pottery, and for a guilty moment she felt as if he were sitting in his chair, looking accusingly at her.

  Pulling herself up sharply, she went quietly from the living room to his study, pausing before going in to listen very carefully for any sound at all from the other bedroom. But all was silent, so she went into the study and closed the door behind her. There, with the volume turned down as low as possible, she tested the recording she’d made. She was interested only in the prompts Andrew used to put her into a trance, and what he said to bring her out of it again; everything else could be wiped clean, so she switched on his recording and editing system to rerecord the parts she wanted. She left a blank area between his commands, so she could lengthen or shorten things as she chose, but initially she set it at two hours. Provided all this worked, two hours in the past should be just about right.

  Concealing the cassette and her portable recorder in her wrap pocket, she hurried back to her room and put everything into the drawer of her bedside table before lying back to think. Andrew would consider what she’d done to be a considerable crime if he knew about it, for although he recorded his sessions with clients and gave them the cassette afterward, he was very strict about not including the means by which the trance was induced or ended. This was a necessary precaution, for if a cassette containing these prompts were to be played while driving a car, for instance, the consequences of involuntarily entering a trance were only too obvious.

  Of course, not everyone could be rehypnotized like this, but some people were susceptible, and it was her intention to find out if she was one of them. She wanted to be able to go back to being Olivia Courtenay whenever she felt like it, without having to wheedle with Andrew. She wasn’t concerned about the recorder breaking down, because she knew she had eventually come out of the trance of her own accord. It was an old wives’ tale that someone would remain hypnotized forever if the hypnotist were to drop dead.

  She felt very disloyal to Andrew, for she was being very underhanded, but regression to her previous existence was a welcome escape from the unhappiness of her life here in the present, and the kiss in the orchard had added a new dimension. She wanted to experience more, much more. To see if a trance could be triggered, all she had to do was turn the recorder on, but her conscience pricked again as she thought of Chrissie and Andrew’s anger and hurt disappointment if they found out how deceitful she’d been.

  Outside, the rain dashed against the window, and she could hear the crash of waves on the shore as the wind rose. It was almost as if the elements were daring her to do what her heart urged but her head cautioned against. Press the button, Summer, the sea hissed. Press the button...

  The recorder lay there temptingly, its controls within inches of her fingers. She stretched out a hand, then hesitated again. Did she dare? Her forefinger trembled. Could she face Chrissie and Andrew if her sins were exposed? She bit her lip, then thought of the kiss in the orchard, and impulsively pressed the PLAY button.

  She lay back with her eyes closed, going through the breathing exercises Andrew had taught her. His voice began on the cassette, and then followed the gentle music he always used. She felt herself relaxing, just as if he were in the room with her. The familiar warmth began to creep over her, and she sank into that deeper, even more relaxed state that was somewhere between sleep and consciousness.

  Suddenly, there was absolute silence, and she opened her eyes uneasily. What had happened? Had the recorder switched off for some reason? But then once more she became conscious of the sparkling health and exuberance tingling through her veins. She sat up quickly, and heavy black curls tumbled forward over the shoulders of her white muslin nightgown. Her eyes parted excitedly. It had worked! She was Olivia again!

  She glanced around. She was in her room at the Black Lion, and the only light was provided by the fire in the hearth and a night candle on the mantelpiece above. It was a simply furnished room, dominated by the faded blue brocade four-poster in which she’d been trying unsuccessfully to sleep. As inn rooms went in this age it was well furnished and comfortable, and it was certainly warm and clean, without any unwelcome insect life in the mattress.

  There were two doors, one into the passage in the inn, the other onto the first-floor gallery above the yard, and the only window looked onto the gallery as well. Everyone at the inn appeared to have retired now. The Twelfth Night celebrations were over, and the last stagecoach had departed. There wouldn’t be another until just after dawn.

  She was about to lie back again when she heard stealthy sounds on the gallery—footsteps, soft and creeping. Through the curtains she saw a shadow pass in front of the lantern that was fixed to one of the gallery posts. The footsteps stopped right by her door, and her frightened gaze went to the key. Had she locked it again after going out onto the gallery earlier? She couldn’t remember! Her mouth ran dry. What if she’d forgotten? What if whoever it was could just open the door and come in?

  Flinging the bedclothes aside, she hurried to the door, but as she reached it, to her horror she saw the handle begin to turn! Suddenly, there was a disturbance somewhere farther along the gallery. More footsteps sounded, but hurried and loud this time, and after a moment’s hesitation, the shadow by the door fled past the light and vanished. Someone else shouted, and then she heard Lady Harvey’s hysterical cries.

  “My diamonds! My diamonds have been stolen!”

  Doors opened, footsteps sounded on all sides,
and as more voices joined the general alarm, Summer tried the door. It wasn’t locked! She gave a horrified intake of breath. What might have happened if the alarm hadn’t been raised? What if theft hadn’t been the only thing on the intruder’s mind? Suddenly, there was a loud knock at the door, and she was so startled she took an involuntary step backward.

  “Are you all right?” asked the familiar voice of her gentleman.

  With a flood of relief she hastened to open the door.

  He’d flung his greatcoat on, and his golden hair was tousled from sleeping. He had a lantern, which he held up concernedly in order to see her face properly. “Are you all right?” he asked again.

  For a moment she could only gaze into his eyes because memories of the kiss in the orchard flooded embarrassingly over her, as if she and she alone had been guilty of that resounding indiscretion.

  He was clearly as conscious of her as she was of him. His glance took in her tumbling hair and her nightgown ribbons that weren’t fully tied at the throat, so that the curves of her breasts were revealed.

  She drew the muslin folds together. “I’d forgotten to lock the door,” she said lamely, and couldn’t prevent her lips from trembling a little with delayed shock.

  He stepped inside, closed the door, and put the lantern down on the dressing table. He threw his greatcoat over the chair by the fire, then turned to face her again. He still wore his shirt and breeches, and seeing her surprise, gave another smile. “I fell asleep by the fire in my room,” he explained, then became more serious. “After all, I had a great deal to think about,” he murmured, coming to her. His hands were gentle on her shoulders, and she felt his warmth through the muslin. “What is your name?” he asked softly.

  There was seduction in that soft note, just as there had been in the orchard, but this time there wouldn’t be any interruption. Excitement had been stirring through her from the moment she saw him again, but now it became almost unendurable. She wanted to be taken, to be made passionate and abandoned love to. All thought of restraint had already vanished into the shadows. Seduce me, please, oh please...