Elena regarded the animal apprehensively for several moments. She had been leery of the creatures ever since she was a little girl and her grandmother’s tom had scratched her cheeks.
When she was certain the beast wasn’t going to attack her, she walked toward the sofa, intent on rooting around in her sack for one of the apples and the doughnut she had brought with her, only to be sidetracked when she noticed a covered tray, a carafe of some kind—was it actually a medieval flagon?—and a goblet, all of which looked like they were made of gold, sitting on a large, rough-hewn trestle table against the far wall. There was a single plate, which also appeared to be made of gold.
Hurrying across the floor, she lifted the cover of the tray to find a loaf of freshly baked bread, several thick slices of roast beef and cheese, a bowl of strawberries, and two blueberry muffins, as well as packets of honey, sugar, and cream.
Elena worried her lower lip between her teeth. Was this repast meant for her? Who could have brought it? No one knew she was here, and there didn’t seem to be anyone else in the castle. But surely the cat belonged to someone.
When her stomach growled again, she put her doubts away, dropped the blanket on the floor, and sat at the table. A rolled linen napkin held a gold-plated knife and fork. The flagon contained wine, stronger and sweeter than anything she had ever tasted.
Nibbling on one of the muffins, she wondered again who had provided the meal, and where that person was now. Maybe the castle really was haunted, she thought with a grin. Maybe a friendly ghost had generously provided the meal.
Or had it been the mysterious man who had carried her up the stairs? She wondered again if he had been real, or merely a figment of her imagination. Probably the latter, she thought, since she had never seen a man as tall and devastatingly handsome as that except in her dreams.
Her gaze darted around the room as she ate. Large tapestries hung on the walls. Most of them depicted hunting scenes—a wolf chasing a deer, a trio of men bringing down a wild boar, a pack of wild dogs running after a silver fox. The head of a large stag was mounted over an enormous stone fireplace. Wrought-iron wall sconces held fat candles covered with a fine layer of dust. Besides the high-backed sofa where she had fallen asleep, there were several other couches, chairs, tables, and benches randomly situated around the room.
She washed down the last of the meat and cheese with a second glass of wine and licked her lips. Sated, and warm inside and out, she propped her elbows on the table, cupped her chin in her hands, and closed her eyes. She wasn’t used to drinking strong wine. It left her feeling relaxed and drowsy. She needed to think of what to do next. She had planned to stay here for a few days but that no longer seemed wise, not if the mysterious man was real rather than a figment of one of her daydreams. Did she dare linger until after dark? But if she left here, where would she go?
Growing sleepier by the minute, she stood up, then grabbed the back of the chair to keep her balance. Good grief, was she drunk? Carefully placing one foot in front of the other, she made her way back up to the bedroom and crawled under the covers.
She was asleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.
Elena woke with a start to find a man standing beside the bed. One look at his face and she knew he was the man who had carried her up the stairs—she would never forget those eyes. Just as she knew that taking refuge here had been a terrible, perhaps fatal, mistake. She had no doubt whatsoever that he was the owner of Wolfram Castle.
Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a loose-fitting white shirt that was open at the throat, revealing a long, crooked scar that ran down the right side of his neck. Black jeans and well-polished boots completed his attire. His hair was thick and black, his brows straight above eyes as dark blue and restless as a stormy sky. His lips were finely shaped, with a hint of cruelty; his jaw firm and square and stubborn. But it was the almost tangible aura of danger emanating from him that made her mouth go dry. This was a man to be reckoned with. She could easily imagine him at the helm of a pirate ship, or leading a medieval army into battle.
She stared at him, too frightened to speak, but even had she found her voice, what could she say? She had entered his home uninvited, eaten food no doubt meant for him, slept in his bed. A rush of heat enflamed her cheeks. She was still in his bed.
“Who are you?” His voice was as deep and mesmerizing as his eyes.
Feeling as though he was looking right through her, she pulled the blanket closer, swallowed once, twice, as she tried to find her voice, then stammered, “E-Elena.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I . . . I ran away.” She clutched the covers tighter, intimidated by his unblinking gaze. “From my uncle.”
“Who is your uncle?”
Elena hesitated, wondering if she should tell him the truth. But even as she considered lying, she felt the words being drawn out of her. “Tavian Dinescu.”
“The chief of police?”
“Yes.”
He crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes narrowing. “Why did you run away?”
“My uncle . . . he wants me to . . . to marry him.” She blinked up at him in confusion. Why was she telling him these things? “And give him an heir.”
Drake grunted softly. He had seen Dinescu—a big bull of a man if ever there was one, and old enough to be the girl’s father. Little wonder she had run away. “Why did you come here?”
“I had nowhere else to go, and I . . . I thought the castle was empty. I didn’t mean to eat your dinner, but I was so hungry, and it looked so much better than what I brought . . . and . . .” She realized she was babbling and closed her mouth.
Drake shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “The food and wine were for you.”
“But . . . I . . . Thank you, Mr. . . . ?”
“Just Drake.” He grinned faintly. She had fed him. It had only been right that he offer her nourishment in return.
She sat up, clutching the blankets to her chest. “I’ll be going now.”
“No need.”
She scrambled off the bed, panic engulfing her. Did he mean to keep her here against her will? Had she jumped out of the frying pan and into the fire? For all she knew, he could be a ra**st or a mass murderer.
“I’ve been trouble enough,” she said quickly, and started for the door, only to get her feet tangled in the blankets.
He caught her as she stumbled forward, one long arm curling around her waist, drawing her body against his.
Elena stared up at him, her heartbeat thundering in her ears. She had never been held so tightly before, never been in a man’s arms like this. She was instantly aware of the hard length of his body pressed intimately against hers, of his big hand splayed over the small of her back, of just how tall and broad he was. She had no doubt he could break her in two with no trouble at all.