Chapter 3 - The Man in the Library

The man spun around to face her, obviously shocked that someone had come into the room. He stared at Tara, while the hand holding the candle slowly lowered to reveal sharp features eerily distorted by the flame. Judging by the glower in his expression, she surmised he didn’t like being taken by surprise.

She waited on the threshold for a greeting, an invitation to come into the library—anything. But he just stood there watching her, his chin tilted upward, his stare guarded. When he didn’t say another word, she resorted to humor, which she often used to diffuse difficult situations on the show. “Can’t find that murder mystery you never finished?” She gave a slight chuckle.

His dark eyes glinted, or perhaps light from the fire made his expression shift.

“As a matter o’ fact,” his voice was deep, remote. “Nay.”

“Tara Lewis,” she said, hobbling forward with her hand extended. At his unfriendly expression, she brightened her smile, determined to charm him.

The man glanced at her outstretched hand and then at her face. His black brows knitted together at the top of his sharp, prominent nose. He seemed confused or troubled. Still, he remained silent and made no move to shake her hand.

“I’m David’s fiancée—the one with the sprained ankle?”

“Aye. I recall.” His voice was dry, his words measured, and his accent was unlike anything she’d heard in Scotland so far. There was less lilt to his voice, and certainly less friendliness in his manner. But as with David, his Scottish burr stirred something deep inside her, like a song evoking an aching memory.

When he didn’t step forward to shake her hand, she lowered her arm, feeling slightly insulted.

“Sorry to have slept through dinner.”

“Such fatigue often occurs when one suffers an injury.”

“But I’m wide awake now.” She smiled. “And I’m hoping you’ll let me borrow a book or two.”

His glance slanted over her. She noticed there was something wrong with the left side of his face, but in the dim light she couldn’t make out what it was, only that his skin had an odd texture and sheen.

“I was actually looking for something about art history—preferably modern,” she continued. “That always puts me to sleep. Do you have something on the Cubists?”

“There is an impressive number of books here. I’m sure you will find one t’ your liking.” He didn’t move. He kept standing in the same spot, studying her. David had mentioned that his uncle was old-fashioned. But he hadn’t mentioned how eccentric he was.

“Do you mind if I turn on the lights?” Tara asked.

“Lights?”

“The lights.” Tara motioned toward the switch near the door.

The man followed the motion of her hand but didn’t say yes or no. He was too busy looking at the switch.

Tara flipped it upward. With a gasp, Lord Corbin stepped back. He stared up at the chandeliers suspended from the ceiling and then back at her, his eyes squinting.

“Sorry!” she exclaimed. “I didn’t mean to hurt your eyes.”

“What magic is this?” He took a few steps forward and peered up at the nearest light. Then he strode past her to the switch and turned it off.

“Holy Virgin!” he whispered, as if he’d never used a light switch before. Then he turned the switch back on. “’Tis like the sun!” He strode back into the room and stared up at the light above his head. “Where is the flame?”

“There is no flame,” she caught herself explaining, “It’s done with a glowing wire. Resistance. Volts. Watts. That kind of thing. But surely, you know--”

“You are the witch.” He glanced over his broad shoulder at her, his eyes cold. “You do not look like her overmuch, but I am not fooled by the illusion.”

“Witch?” A short laugh escaped her. “I’m no witch!”

“You are. First the tomb. Now the light magic.”

“The tomb?” She gaped at him.

“Aye, the tomb.” He turned to face her, his eyes flashing. “What game do you play at now, witch? You know I have no more valuables t’ steal!”

What was he raving about? Tara stared up at him, seeing him clearly for the first time. Lord Corbin was tall, much taller than David. He was probably six and a half feet tall. His hair was darker than David’s, too—almost black—with glossy waves at his ears and neck. His eyes were navy blue, unlike any color she’d seen before in the human eye. His face was comprised of sharp angles bordered by a flaring jaw line atop a massive neck. And except for what appeared to be a burn scar running down the left side of his face, he was an unusually good-looking man—far more attractive than David. If this man was related to her fiancé, she could see no family resemblance whatsoever. She’d also assumed that John Corbin was much older, seeing how he was David’s uncle. But the man in front of her looked to be in his thirties.

As she studied him, the strangest thing happened. Tara felt a wave of longing well up inside her—a longing to be held against this man’s broad chest. Somehow she knew what it would feel like to be embraced by him, and she ached for it, as she had never ached for anything in her life. A flush swept through her, as if she had fallen backward into a warm, bottomless pool.

Shocked, Tara shook herself back to reality.

“What do you mean, steal?” she stammered, her ears still burning from her unusual reaction to him. “What are you talking about?”

“Did you not speak the words that began the unraveling?”

She felt a chill. The smile faded from her lips. “The unraveling?”

“Of the spell.”

“What spell?”

“The one your voice had the power to break.” When she didn’t reply, he added, “In the tomb.”

“What?” Tara took a step backward, suddenly uncertain of the man’s identity as well as her own safety. She hadn’t told David what she’d done in the tomb while he’d trudged to Corbin Hall, so there was no way his uncle could know what had gone on there. “How do you know about the tomb?”

“I am right, then. You are the witch! The one who solicits a man’s trust and then betrays him!”

“Listen, Lord Corbin. I’m not who you think I am.” She backed through the doorway. “And you’re freaking me out, I don’t mind saying.”

A light blinked on behind her. Tara glanced over her shoulder, relieved to see the ample form of Mrs. MacMillan bustling into the main hall. Her white hair was set in pin curls around her face, and she wore a plaid robe similar to the one Tara sported.

“Mrs. MacMillan!” Tara called, immensely glad to see the housekeeper’s sleepy face.

“I heard voices.” Mrs. MacMillan hurried forward. “Is everything all right, Miss Lewis?”

“Yes, I just came down to get a book and ran into Lord Corbin.”

“Lord Corbin is up at this hour?” She walked past Tara, into the library. Tara trailed after her, hoping to discover that the master of the house wasn’t as strange as she thought, and that they’d only started off on the wrong foot, which they could set straight.

“He’s here?” Mrs. MacMillan glanced around the room. Tara followed her inspection with one of her own. The library was deserted.

“He was,” Tara replied, baffled. She pointed to the wall by the window. “He was right there, standing there talking to me.”

“If he was, I can’t imagine where he would have gone so quickly.”

“There’s no other entry?”

“No, just this one.”

Mrs. MacMillan surveyed the room in silence while Tara felt a cloud of dismay descend. She could just imagine what Mrs. MacMillan was thinking. Crazy American. A crazy American woman with no pedigree or family money was going to marry into the Corbin clan. Lord save them all.

“He was here,” Tara insisted, hobbling around the perimeter of the room in search of proof of Lord Corbin’s presence. “I swear.”