Under Lock And Key

Chapter Two

A noise disturbed Melissa’s gloomy thoughts. Her ears, tuned by years of living nearly alone in her immense castle, picked up the discordant sound. She listened, wary, then plopped her paintbrush into a jar of water. Someone was at the gatehouse.

The same thing happened every year around this time. The seasonal storms and the threat of tornadoes made a perfect backdrop for the dares and counterdares of local high-school kids. What could be more ghoulish than catching a glimpse of the witch when the heavens roiled with evil?

Why couldn’t they leave her alone? What had she ever done to them?

Fists tight at her sides, she marched down the creaky wooden steps. She’d had enough and wasn’t going to take the taunts this time. They wanted the witch; they’d get the witch. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she donned her black poncho, its hood strategically placed for the best effect. She grabbed the flashlight on the small table by the door and strode across the courtyard.

Melissa paused by the gatehouse door, listening for the telltale noise of the thrill seekers’ presence, and heard nothing. Flashlight in hand, she readied to illuminate her pale face and set the fear of God into the little hoodlums.

She threw open the heavy door, placed the flashlight in its most effective position for fright and gave them her best cackle. She expected shrieks of terror. Instead, she heard a soft moan like that of a wounded animal. Turning her light on the crumpled body at her feet, she took in the bloody face and muddy clothes.

Stiletto-sharp instincts honed by pain and hatred told her to shut the door and ignore the wounded man on her doorstep. She didn’t need a stranger intruding on her privacy. Frenzied lightning, followed by a deep rumble, seemed to second her decision. The wail of tornado sirens from town added urgency.

Melissa stood frozen, grasping the door like a lifeline. If she left him there, he might die. The sky quieted. The hard beating of her heart and the shallowness of her breath replaced the thunder. Pollen-laden rain streamed down her face.

Sighing regretfully, she crouched next to the man. As much as she’d like to, even the witch in her couldn’t leave a wounded man out on a night like this.

“Grace!” Her shout competed with a new crash of thunder and the whip of the wind for her housekeeper’s attention. “Grace!”

At six feet, Grace Jackson towered above many men. Her checkered past afforded her as much notoriety as Melissa’s reclusiveness did. Most townsfolk had learned to fear Grace Jackson’s wrath as much as Melissa’s alleged hexes.

The door to Grace’s apartment opened. “What are you doing down there, child?”

“I need your help. I can’t move him by myself.”

“Him? What are you talking about?” Grace snapped on the dim light above the stairs and moved down the creaky wooden steps with a lightness that belied her two-hundred-pound bulk.

“Lordy!” Grace whistled. “What happened to him?”

“Don’t know. I found him on the doorstep.”

Grace bent down to examine the man draped across the top of the steps. She swiped the mud off his cheek. “This man’s gonna bring trouble. I feel it in my bones.”

“Trouble or not, we need to get him out of the rain.”

With a sigh, Grace hefted the stranger up in her capable arms. “Take his feet.”

They moved him inside, then Melissa closed and barred the door behind them.

“Upstairs to my apartment,” Grace said, adjusting her grip under the man’s arms.

Melissa nodded and helped Grace carry him to her apartment. Once they’d settled him on the bed in the spare room, Melissa was only too glad to let Grace take over. A stranger—a man, at that—was something she’d rather not deal with. Especially not tonight when the longing for normalcy stirred such deep cravings.

She stood, intent on returning to her own tower, when Grace looked up at her and said, “What are you waiting for, girl? I’m gonna need your help.”

“Me?” Melissa brushed a hand to her chest. “What for?”

“He’s deadweight, honey. I can’t strip him out of them wet clothes by myself.”

Melissa reluctantly shed her poncho, shaking off the excess water before she hung it on the knob.

“I’ll need more light,” Grace said.

Melissa nodded, then extracted a black silk shawl from her pocket and carefully arranged it around her face, leaving only her eyes uncovered before Grace turned on the light in her spare room.

Grace sat beside the unconscious man on the twin bed. “Help me hold him up so we can see where he’s hurt and get them wet clothes off him.”

“Grace?” Melissa’s voice wavered with uncertainty.

“Missy, we gotta see how bad he’s hurt,” Grace answered with a touch of impatience. She ran her hands over the prone figure with the practiced ease of a nurse. Melissa watched, fascinated by the man on the bed.

He was a beautiful creature—the epitome of the tall, dark and handsome hero in those romantic movies her friend Dee insisted on sharing with her once a week.

Even with his brow furrowed in pain, his face had a quality of strength. The impression came from the high cheekbones, the sharp cut of his jaw, she decided, and rated his bone structure as excellent. His long eyelashes lay against smooth skin that was too pale to be healthy. Only the slightly sardonic twist of his mouth and the drying blood on his forehead marred the perfect proportions of his oval face. Drawn to those full lips, she tried to imagine how they would taste. She frowned. Where had that thought come from?

“What do you suppose happened to him?” Melissa asked to distract her wayward thoughts.

“Looks like a car wreck. Weather like this, wouldn’t surprise me none.” Grace finished her inspection and covered him with the blanket. “I don’t think he’s too bad off,” she continued. “Left wrist sprained, two bruised ribs and probably a concussion, judging by the bump on his head. If he don’t wake up soon, I’m gonna have to take him to the hospital.” Grace pointed to the side of the bed near the man’s middle. “Go sit there.” Grace gently held the stranger up. “You do the buttons.”

With shaky fingers, Melissa fumbled with the buttons of his denim shirt. Light and shadow played over pectorals whose pleasing definition had her itching for a pencil and paper. Her frown deepened. He was a man. She didn’t draw men. The spray of dark hair centered on his torso mesmerized her. She followed its course until it disappeared in the waistband of his jeans. After a moment of hesitation she unbuckled his belt, unsnapped the button of his fly and pulled down the zipper just enough to free the shirttail. With curiosity, she noted how the soft dark line of hair continued down into his navy shorts, automatically cataloging the fascinating lines made by bones and muscles over stomach and hips. She sucked in a breath at the painful purpling bloom of bruises over his left ribs.

With the shirt loosened, Grace leaned the man forward so that his head lay on Melissa’s shoulder. He moaned in pain. Instinctively Melissa wrapped her arms protectively around his waist and trembled as his body relaxed against hers. He was heavy on her chest, and she tensed under the weight as Grace proceeded to remove the shirt.

Relax. He can’t hurt you; he’s unconscious. Watching all those romantic movies hadn’t prepared her for the solidness of a man or for the irrational feeling of loss sinking through her like a rock in spring mud.

“Push him back easy,” Grace ordered. “I’m gonna go get some bandages for that cut.”

With a small sigh of relief, Melissa did as Grace asked. While Grace was gone, her gaze returned once more to the stranger’s lips. Artistic analysis, she told herself. Her hand reached for her heart and she knuckled the soft pining ache there. He’s not the one, she thought. He can’t give you what you want—no one can.

She started to move away, then found her hand—as if it had a mind of its own—wandering toward that beautiful face. With a fingertip, she traced the edge of the bruise on his forehead, trailed down the sharp definition of his cheekbone and found his mouth. A study of proportion, she told herself, and tried to push away the notions of heat and softness and stark maleness. Would he begrudge her a moment of fantasy?

With uncharacteristic abandon, she loosened her shawl and gave in to temptation. A spark of electricity ran between them when she touched her lips to his. A small gasp escaped her as she jerked back in surprise. When she kissed him a second time, his lips felt cold and lifeless.

Just as well, she thought. He was no Snow White waiting for a wake-up kiss, and she definitely wasn’t Princess Charming. Love at first kiss was the invention of movie-makers. Everyone knew that. When he woke up, he’d most likely think he’d landed on the set of a horror movie, not some sort of romance. Still, she couldn’t resist one last touch, this time with her finger to his lips.

His eyes fluttered open and he mumbled, “Lindsey, don’t leave me, Lindsey.”

Spurred by a shot of adrenaline, Melissa scrambled off the bed and rewrapped the shawl around her face. When she turned to face him, he lay still once more, and the momentary speeding of her heart returned to normal.

Armed with scissors and bandages of all kind, Grace reappeared. She positioned herself opposite Melissa. Her hands moved quickly as they cleaned, patched and secured the various wounds.

Prodded by Grace, Melissa once again took up a post by his head. Sympathy for a creature in pain soon edged out her natural wariness of the human male. All the while Grace tended him, Melissa stroked the stranger’s straight brown hair, soothed him when he moaned. In his call to the mysterious Lindsey, Melissa had heard a familiar ring of grief. Who was Lindsey? How had she hurt him? Melissa calmed him with the same soft voice she used with her horses.

When Grace finished, she covered him with a quilt and tucked in several hot-water bottles around his body. Then Grace picked up his damp jeans from the floor. From the back pocket, a wallet fell out and the contents spilled to the floor.

“What’s his name?” Melissa asked. She’d grown used to the weight and warmth of him against her and still stroked the soft hair along the side of his head.

“According to his driver’s license,” Grace said, stooping to pick up the wallet, “this is Tyler Blackwell, thirty-three, 184 pounds, six-two.”

Tyler Blackwell. It had a nice sound.

“Lives in Fort Worth. Oh, no!” As if the wallet had suddenly turned into a venomous snake, Grace dropped it. “Missy, he’s got a press ID.”

The words hung heavily between them. Grace held her breath while she waited for her reaction.

Slowly Melissa got up from the bed and moved to the farthest corner of the room. A chill colder than the hail stoning the castle walls iced through her. A reporter? Here? How dare he?

“Get him out of here.” Melissa’s body shook and her blood ran cold. Another reporter trying to advance his dubious career at her expense. The last two had created the witch and sealed her permanently from the world.

She wouldn’t be easy prey again.

When Grace didn’t move, Melissa paced the stone floor while she fought the quickening of her anger, the sting of tears. “Now! I don’t want him here.”

The idea of revenge crept unbidden into her mind. The poisoned thought fed on her anger and took on life. White-hot fury swirled deep inside. Grace positioned herself between Melissa and the wounded man.

“Missy, he’s hurt.”

Revenge soured her mouth with its venom, spread like fire through her blood. He was hurt, but so was she. He had a life. Hers had been stolen from her. Not once, but twice. By people like him. She couldn’t let that happen again. She had nothing left to lose.

This time she would fight back. This time it would be different. She stopped her animal-like pacing and gazed down at the broken man on the bed. No longer did she see the sensual lines that had so pleased her earlier. She saw her last chance to reclaim her peace.

Lightning clawed the sky. Thunder resounded, shaking the walls, matching the anger quaking inside her. Melissa spun on her heel and met Grace’s stern look squarely.

“On second thought,” Melissa said, “if it’s a story he wants, let’s give him one he’ll never forget.”

LIGHTNING AND THUNDER receded to low flickers and distant rumbles. Rain still crashed in fury against the windowpanes of Grace’s spare room. Its rhythm mirrored the wild beating of Melissa’s heart. She was tired of the pain.

In her mind she heard the child’s sobs. They hadn’t bothered her in years. Not since Deanna had showed her how to cage her anger and her sorrow with the horses. She wanted to cry, too, like the child she’d once been, but the years of conditioning wouldn’t let that happen.

“You can’t put him in the dungeon, Missy,” Grace said. “It ain’t right.”

Anger’s slow growl thrummed through Melissa’s body. “Why not? He’s ready to sell my soul for a story. Why not give him a story that’ll fit right in with the trash he writes?”

“You don’t know that.” Grace sidestepped, hiding the stranger from Melissa’s view. “You don’t know he was even heading here.”

“What else is there around here? The thriving metropolis of Fallen Moon?” Melissa waved her hands at the buttressed ceiling. “I don’t think he’s here to admire the architecture.” She resumed pacing the far side of the room to keep from exploding.

A part of her realized that her anger resulted from her encounter last summer with Brent Westfield. He’d wormed his way into the castle under false pretenses. One of her paintings had sold for a fantastic amount at a charity auction sponsored by James Randall, Dee’s father. She’d succeeded despite her condition, and that success had come as a pleasant surprise. For once she’d been normal. Pride at her accomplishment had let the reporter’s interest in her work lower her natural defenses.

She cringed at the memory. The interview she’d never given, filled with lies and bizarre innuendoes, had hurt more deeply than she’d admitted to anyone. That the people of her own town had let the lies feed their imagination almost bled her dry.

“You can’t put him in the dungeon when he’s hurt,” Grace said, her voice gentle.

“His kind always survives,” Melissa scoffed, knowing Grace was right.

Grace crossed her arms over her ample chest. “My eyes might not be so good, but some things you don’t need to see to know. Mark my words, Missy, you’re making a terrible mistake.”

When Melissa didn’t answer, Grace caught her shoulders and shook her. “You keep him caged like that and you’re no better than the townsfolk who pass judgment without knowing any of the facts. Let him go.”

“No,” Melissa said firmly. Her body shook. Her anger’s poison filled her veins and she couldn’t stop it. “I can’t, Grace,” she pleaded, wanting Grace to understand the desperate need she had to assert dominion over her tiny world. “I have to show them once and for all that I’m not a witch, that I need to be left alone.”

“Are you sure that’s what you want, child?”

No, it wasn’t, but she’d learned long ago certain things couldn’t be changed and certain prayers were never answered. And if she had to choose between being a freak and being alone, she would go with loneliness.

This man couldn’t fulfill her dreams, but he could put an end to the witch. “That’s the way it has to be.”

Grace rolled her eyes in exasperation. Ignoring her, Melissa moved away to gather the contents of Tyler Blackwell’s wallet from the floor. She riffled through the items, noting with interest that his wallet held no pictures—not even of his Lindsey. Why? Was this man as alone in the world as she was? Suddenly she had to know. She wanted to know everything about him. Adversaries needed to start the battle on an even footing. He knew about her, she had no doubt; she’d find out about him. Melissa tucked the wallet back in the jeans pocket, retaining only his driver’s license.

“He’ll have to see a doctor for that head of his,” Grace said.

Melissa stood up. “Send for Adam. After Adam’s seen him, put him in the dungeon.”

“Missy—”

“If he’s hurt that badly, Adam’ll have him transported to a hospital. If he’s not, he has a lesson to learn.” Melissa handed Grace the driver’s license. “And see what Dee can dig up on Tyler Blackwell.”

“Missy—”

“Tell her to bring me her report as soon as she has it.”

Melissa leaned on the foot of the bed and stared at the unconscious man. “It’s my decision. I’ll live with the consequences.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re getting into.”

AN HOUR LATER Melissa made her way down the steep steps of the northeast tower to the cell where Grace had installed Tyler Blackwell. Grace tucked a blanket around the unconscious man’s body, now clad in sweats belonging to Grace’s son, who was away at college.

“How’s he doing?” Melissa asked, stopping at the open cell door.

“Doc says he’ll be all right.” Grace kept fussing with the blanket. “His body temperature’s back to normal. He woke up once, then fainted.”

“Maybe he’s tired.” Melissa grabbed one of the cold steel bars, worried despite her best intentions about the man’s unconscious state.

“And maybe they’re right to call you a witch.” Grace put a hot-water bottle at the man’s feet, then turned around to face Melissa. “He woke up long enough to tell Adam he didn’t want to go to no hospital. I tried to make him see the light, but he’s just as stubborn as you are.” She shook her head. “You two deserve each other.” She jerked her chin toward Tyler. “He needs to be watched till he comes to, and I’m too old to do it.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll come get you if he wakes up.”

“You do that. Wake him every hour and make sure he ain’t seeing double.”

Grace departed with a huff that left no doubt how she felt about Melissa’s actions. A twinge of guilt niggled at Melissa’s conscience. Then the anger stirred again. He’s a reporter! a voice in her mind exploded. He wants to hurt you like the others.

She heard the abandoned child’s sobs echo somewhere in the past. They wrenched her heart and nearly dropped her in a pool of self-pity. Turning from the pull of memories took everything she had. The pain, the loneliness—both hurt so much.

She forced her attention back to Tyler Blackwell. He looked beautiful. So innocent and peaceful. But Melissa knew she couldn’t trust the appearance of innocence or beauty. No one ever came to Thornwylde Castle without a reason.

She moved into the cell and checked on the reporter. His breathing was even and his skin felt warm. Suddenly his brows knit together and his face contorted itself into a mask of pain. She snapped back her hand. What did I do? What should I do? I don’t know what to do with a sick man. He’s not sick. He’s just bruised. This is what you get for letting your anger get the best of you. Before she could run to call Grace, his face returned to its calm state.

He’s a reporter, she reminded herself. He wants to hurt you. With her heart pounding, Melissa stood and moved away from Tyler. She wouldn’t let him. Not this time. He wanted the witch, she’d give him the witch. Then she’d show him she wasn’t a gorgon—just a simple woman.

The scene set, Melissa returned to Tyler Blackwell’s bedside. She tucked the blanket around his shoulders. Then she sat beside him, watching and waiting. Every hour she woke him. Each time he called her Lindsey. Every cry to the unknown woman touched her soul and scratched at her resolve.

When the first light of dawn eked through the dusty window, Melissa felt the stranger stir. Slowly she rose and left. As she closed the barred door, it squealed.