He looked away. Nodded. “By the wickedest rogue of seventeenth-century Wales. An ancestor named Lord Bleddyn. There’s a portrait somewhere…or there used to be.” He limped over to a stack of frames in the corner and Gwen followed with the candle to peer over his shoulder as he slid one out.
“Oh, is that him? He’s rather handsome.”
Tristan snorted. All lace and curly wig. “A fop, I’d say.”
The wind battered the shutters and he shivered.
“He has a diabolical glint in his eye,” Gwen murmured. “So why was he so wicked? And why have I never heard of him?”
“Too wicked for your tender ears, I suspect.” He grinned and inspected the portrait. Bleddyn had the Cadogan eyes but with a hawkish nose and a faint smirk to his lips. “He seduced all who crossed his path, be they merry widows, trusting milkmaids or innocent debutantes. The ‘Wolf of the Hills’, they called him. But then…” Tristan twisted. He could feel Gwen’s sweet breath on his cheek. “But then he fell in love with…forbidden fruit.”
“Who?” she asked, lips shining moist in the candlelight.
“His elder brother’s betrothed.”
Her brows rose. “Did he… Did she…”
“His adoration was reciprocated, and they’d meet up here… In the attics.”
“Oh.” Gwen’s eyes flitted from one side to the other. “So, what happened? Did the brother find them and…” Her voice dipped to a mere whisper. “Kill him?”
Their gazes met. Held. “He did indeed find them here one night. Entwined.”
She gasped.
“The brother stormed up to them with savagery in his eyes.”
She bit her lip.
He leaned near. “Wrenched the lovers apart.”
Her hand fell to his arm. “No…”
“And then…” Tristan slitted his eyes. “Gave them his blessing to marry, for he was in love with his valet whom he ran off with to France.”
“What!” She drew back and with a laugh, walloped his arm. “I don’t believe you!”
“All true, for what Mrs P didn’t tell you is thattwoghosts haunt these attics and they have no grudge to bear.” He raised a brow. “Indeed, the old tales tell of the rustle of clothing, male murmurs and feminine sighs.”
She tutted. “What a load of fibs and–”
Wind rattled the shutters of the tiny window once more; the candle flame snuffed.
Darkness.
Utter darkness.
“Tristan,” she gasped. “What was that noise?”
Most likely the wind but all he could hear was the beat of Gwen’s heart as he pulled her close.
Felt the warmth of her skin. “No need to fret, Gwen.”
Her hands flexed on his chest, forehead to his shoulder, the jacket sliding to the floor. But the demons from hell or the angels from heaven could have been in that attic for all he cared.
One hand crept to her waist, the other to her nape, his fingers tangling in her silken hair as he’d wanted to all night. Even though…
Gwen was forbidden fruit – his dearest friend and…
