Free The Shadows of Stormclyffe Hall by Lauren Smith Page A

not to show her relief as she glanced about the strangely empty street. Raucous sounds from the pub nearby seemed muted now that night fallen. A light breeze flowed across her face, and she rubbed her arms to warm up. He noticed and shrugged off his coat, holding it out. Before she could protest, he strode up to her.
    “Jane, put the bloody coat on,” he growled low, and she let him slide it up over her shoulders. The carefree man from their car ride was gone. The man looming over her was brooding and edgy. His gaze jumped from one building to the next as though expecting trouble.
    “Let’s get inside.” He tucked her arm in his, the gesture less romantic and more of an attempt to get her to move. With a quick look over her shoulder, she exhaled. The woman half-wreathed in shadows had vanished.
    When they got to the weathered wooden door of the inn, he slowly raised his head and stared at the creaking painted sign.
    “The White Lady?” His voice was low and soft, as though troubled.
    “Er…yes. It’s a very old historical place; that’s what the website said anyway.”
    Bastian’s focus fell on her, his expression reproachful. “Did you choose it because it was her family’s?” His hands clenched into frightening fists at his sides. “Did you find it amusing to bring me here?”
    She frowned and stepped back, suddenly afraid. Not of him, not exactly, but something crawled beneath her skin, and the hairs on the back of her neck rose. What was he talking about?
    “What are you saying?”
    “Isabelle Braxton. This inn belonged to her family.” He whirled away, looking ready to storm off.
    “What?” Suddenly she couldn’t breathe. The flood of fear and the memories of her nightmares closed in, destroying her ability to suck in a breath. She collapsed against the Inn’s wall and braced herself against it for support.
    All this time, she’d planned her trip, come here, and spent one night, never knowing it was Isabelle’s. Bastian had walked about fifteen feet away when he stopped, then slowly turned to face her. He crossed his arms and stared at her.
    “You didn’t know, did you?” He took a few steps toward her.
    She wasn’t paying attention to him, not fully. The image of the women in the white nightgown on the cliffs kept replaying in her mind. Her gaze drifted up to the sign. How had she been so stupid and missed the obvious connection between Isabelle and the inn?
    “Jane?” He cupped her face in his hands and forced her to look at him.
    His touch jolted her back to herself, banishing the memories.
    “I didn’t know… I didn’t see the connection.”
    The hardness in his expression softened.
    “I’m sorry. I thought you were poking fun at me,” he admitted. “Let’s go inside. The quicker we can get you checked out, the better.”
    She was grateful when he took her hand in his and led her to the inn’s door. His palm was warm and strong. The touch was a comfort she hadn’t expected him to offer. Which one was the real earl? The brooding, jaw-snapping wolf, or the playful, seductive man who sang in the car? Her thoughts were interrupted by the innkeeper coming to meet them at the door. He was in his early sixties, and a pair of thick glasses perched on his slightly bulbous nose.
    “Miss Seyton. How are you?” he asked and then froze when he caught sight of Bastian.
    “My lord,” he hastily greeted. “I would have prepared the place if I had known you were coming.”
    Bastian waved a hand. “It is fine. I’m here to assist Miss Seyton. She is staying at the Hall, and we’ve come to collect her things and check her out. I will settle her bill and cover the remaining days she had planned on staying here.”
    When the innkeeper opened his mouth to argue, Bastian fixed him with a pointed look.
    “You really don’t need to—” Jane tried to say she would pay, but he shook his head at her in exasperation.
    “Go on.” He waved a hand imperiously.
    With a frustrated little groan,