The Lighthouse

Beaumont

The Lighthouse

by

Nicola Beaumont

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

The Lighthouse

COPYRIGHT Ó 2007 by Nicola T. Martinez

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

Cover Art by Nicola Martinez

The Wild Rose Press

PO Box 706

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First White Rose Edition, 2007

Print ISBN 1-60154-150-3

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To J.C., my heart. Everything I am is yours.

Praise for Nicola Beaumont’s Work

The Resurrection of Lady Somerset:

4-Stars: Beaumont weaves a devious and tangled plot in this intriguing Regency romance…the outcome will keep readers on the edge of their seats.

—Romantic Times Magazine

4-Hearts: This is a wonderful story and a delightful read. It has all the richness of the era as a backdrop and layer upon layer of mystery…The characters are well developed and lovable, the story well paced and very well written…unique, standing out from the rest.

—The Romance Studio

An elegant regency mystery with a delicious romance, the Resurrection of Lady Somerset will keep you up all night."

—Award-winning,

best-selling author, Linda Lea Castle

My eyes are upon you, O GOD, my Lord; in you I take refuge…Guard me from the trap they have set for me, from the snares of evildoers.

—Psalm 141:8-9

Chapter One

Malachi watched the candlelight flick red-tinted shadows across Rachel’s creamy skin. It bathed her in a variegated light that didn’t do justice to her regal beauty. She fidgeted in the booth and smoothed out a crease in the red-checkered tablecloth.

He could see from his cloaked vantage across the room that there were no wrinkles in the cloth. She was just nervous.

And so she should be. Internet dates were dangerous. He’d always believed that, but the more Rachel had told him about this mystery guy, the more apprehensive Malachi had become. No way was he leaving her alone on this—even though she’d never forgive him if she caught him following her.

Something was just not right; he could feel it in his bones. He tried to warn her six months ago when she’d first mentioned the Frenchman…

Rachel burst into Malachi’s house giggling like a schoolgirl, her face flush from the crisp April air. Plopping down on his tan suede sofa, she bubbled with infectious excitement, causing his lips to split into a wide grin.

What’s up? Seeing her happy made his heart do somersaults. Her eyes danced, her skin shone, and she became acutely aware of everything around her, elaborating on every minute detail.

Is that a new shirt?

He smiled, glanced down at the polo, and then looked back at her. My sister sent it to me for my birthday last week.

Her tongue popping out from between her lips. I totally forgot. She shrouded her mouth with her hands. I’m sorry, she bubbled between giggles.

Sooo, he coaxed her. What’s up? I haven’t seen you this giddy since that time you sucked helium at Polly Anna’s birthday party when we were twelve.

She laughed, but then, she always laughed when he mentioned Polly Anna. They’d grown up with the girl, and that was her real name. She was the pessimist of pessimists, which was the true irony. Never mind how sad it was that she had parents who’d named her Polly knowing full well, their surname was Anna.

He eyed Rachel in anticipation, unable to suppress a smile. He didn’t know why she was so thrilled, but he did know her mood was infectious. One day, when we worked up the nerve to tell her how he felt, he hoped to have the same affect on her.

I’ve met someone.

Her words sucker-punched him. All the air in his lungs evaporated. Rachel had had boyfriends before, but not since he’d realized his own feelings for her. Her admonition crushed every drop of hope he’d bottled.

He forced himself to smile, unable to breathe, unable to speak—not wanting to hear the details, but knowing that as her best friend, he had to appear enthusiastic.

Malachi? She was stone-still and staring at him with eyes dulled by concern.

He couldn’t find his breath.

Malachi? she asked again.

He tried to respond, but his entire body went paralytic, and he felt as if he were watching the scene from outside himself, outside of control.

She moved from the couch in what seemed like slow motion and, inching her way around the glass-top coffee table, came to kneel in front of his chair. She gazed up into his face. Are you all right?

He found the muscles that worked his mouth. It opened. Closed. Opened. No sound came out. And then his throat began to work. He cleared it.

If you don’t say something to me, I’m going to slap you in the face. She reared back her right hand.

His gaze shifted so he could focus on her face.

Such a beautiful face.

His jaw strained to move. Met someone, huh?

Yes. Her enthusiasm suddenly returned. She lowered her hand to his knee and nodded vigorously.

You want to… His voice sounded wooden, and his throat felt thick. His skin warmed underneath her touch. He absently brought up his own hand and patted hers, aware that his motor functions seemed to be working independently of his reason. …tell me about it?

She sat back on the floor, excitement oozing from her. His name is Pierre. Yes, he’s French. He’s self-employed—some kind of mill, I’m not sure—and he lives in Normandy, but he spends a lot of time in Paris, and—

Paris? Malachi’s senses came on full-force. He lives in Paris?

Normandy.

Whatever. He eyed her seriously. I thought you said you’d met someone. How could you have met someone who lives in Paris?

Nor—

mandy. Yeah, whatever. He leaned forward in the chair so he could get directly in her face. Explain.

She grinned, and it almost knocked him over. Why couldn’t she see how he felt? He suppressed a groan and waited for her to speak.

I met him online. In a chat room? You know.

So, you haven’t actually met? You’ve just typed?

Yes, but we hit it off like you wouldn’t believe.

But you have no idea who you’re talking to. He could be some eighty year old pervert—or a girl! It’s the internet. You have to be careful. He could end up stalking you, or something.

I’m careful. I haven’t given him any information that would help him find me. She giggled. Isn’t it great? He’s great.

Whoever this guy was, he had her wound up and ready to roll.

As if in response to his thought, Malachi’s stomach rolled on a drum of unease that had nothing to do with jealousy. He slid onto the floor with her and took her hand in his. Listen to me, Rach. I don’t like this. You need to let this go, okay? He kept his tone even and serious, devoid of any humour at all, hoping she would heed his warning without hesitation.

She didn’t. She discounted it with a warm laugh that reached out and drenched him in longing and dread.

A piece of him died inside.

He retreated to the chair, slid back in the seat and closed his eyes, trying to find a different tack. Her laughter died down, and he parted his eyelids to find her studying him.

You’re serious, she said. She shook her head slowly. You can’t be.

Frustration balled in his chest and fired out of his mouth like a bullet. Of course, I am. Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers? Don’t you know how dangerous the internet can be? I mean, what are you thinki…C’mon, Rach, Don’t look at me like that.

She dressed her face in a wounded expression that had remorse charging through him. He lowered his voice and evened his tone. Look, I know you know what I’m talking about.

Her expression didn’t change, and the remorse stopped its concourse and settled in his stomach, heavy and unyielding.

Once again, he slid onto the floor in front of her and rolled to his knees. Taking her hand in his, he gave her a comforting squeeze, but the pain emanating from her blue eyes remained. He moved to her side and put his arms around her. He had to make this right.

To his relief, she didn’t resist, but laid her head on his shoulder.

I didn’t mean to upset you. I worry about you, that’s all.

Silence owned the room for a long time; then she finally spoke. I thought you’d be happy for me. Her voice was a tiny tendril of sound muffled by the blended fabric of his shirt.

The anguish in her tone pierced his heart. His harshness had hurt her, even though that