A Deep Dark Call Read online

  A Deep Dark Call

  By Rose Vane

  Even a lone wolf must one day claim his mate.

  I expected what I came for in Wallachia: a job as a governess and a fresh beginning, far away from all that tormented me in England. Instead, I found a sinister manor house with secrets lurking down every dim corridor.

  Eerie, erotic nightmares plague my sleep—inspired, no doubt, by tales of the village’s mystical guardians and my darkly handsome employer.

  Ioan Marcu is as enigmatic as the lands where he and his daughter make their home. The locals say that he is cursed, that he is behind the questionable circumstances of his first wife’s death.

  But I feel an almost supernatural pull toward him, despite the wall of solitude he’s built around himself.

  Our passion has reached a fever pitch, and I know we must confront the consequences of our lust.

  For Ioan is no normal man, and I may just be the key to his powers’ full potential.

  This book is approximately 43,000 words

  One-click with confidence. This title is part of the Carina Press Romance Promise: all the romance you’re looking for with an HEA/HFN. It’s a promise!

  Carina Press acknowledges the editorial services of Mackenzie Walton

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  It was not the dark or the snow that scared her. It was not the gloomy mansion that loomed large in front of her. Not the turrets of the monastery that could be dimly perceived on the hill towering above the village. It was not even the howling. Wolves, she supposed. There was no one Lucy could ask. Her silent coach driver was a bear of a man who obviously spoke no word of English. She had also unsuccessfully tried her best governess French. She’d been told they spoke French here, in this remote place she had barely heard about, Wallachia. Land of the wolves, she thought, suppressing a shiver. Her clothes were supposed to be warm—they were fit for English winters, but, as it

  turned out, not for the winters here.

  It was not the dark or the wolves that scared her. It was just the cold scent that she could sense—the cold scent of the unknown.

  It had been a tiring trip from Bucharest to this Wallachian village. Valcele, they called it; the name sounded odd, blunt, almost brutal. For the hundredth time she questioned her sanity in coming here. The Romanian Principalities...she knew next to nothing of this place. She could have tried to refuse the position. She should have looked for another place. A warmer one, at least. She could have been a governess in India. Spicy India, exotic India, which she now imagined as full of light and promise. This place seemed so dreary, it already projected a sense of hopelessness.

  “There’s nothing and no one left for you in England.” The words came back to her. They’d been ringing in her ears ever since she’d left home. They were just as cold as this place.

  A wild place, really. At least that was what she’d been told by the secretary who’d met her in Bucharest on behalf of the family.

  “Have a safe trip,” he’d told her, right before closing the carriage door. “And beware of the beasts in those deep old woods.”

  Lucy had of course thought it was a joke, in bad taste. But now she was beginning to wonder. Earlier, on the dark snowy road, she’d thought she’d seen a shadowy shape, fleetingly. Still, it could have been her imagination.

  The big driver was already beckoning for her to come in. She could see a couple of figures bundled against the cold, carrying torches. When she drew closer, she realized they were women. They silently escorted her through the heavy wooden door. Suddenly she was there, in the big hall that seemed suffocating in its warmth.

  Relief washed over her when she finally heard the women whisper words to each other. She felt comforted by the sound of their voices, even if she could not understand them.

  “Buna seara,” she ventured, timidly, trying to pronounce the greeting she’d recently learnt. Good evening.

  The women nodded, but did not offer to return her greeting. After they had helped her out of her coat, she finally dared to look around.

  Judging by the dark exterior, she had expected the place to be dismal, as lugubrious as the wolves’ howl that she had heard outside. She couldn’t have been more wrong. The sense of warmth did not come only from the blazing fire in the big hearth. She had expected cold stone and sinister-looking portraits of forbidding ancestors on the walls. She had heard the family was an old one who could claim their roots to the founders of this country.

  There were no family portraits in this hall, however. Only tapestries. Colorful, intricately woven tapestries that seemed strange and unfamiliar. Strange and unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Striking and exotic, but not gaudy.

  One of the tapestries depicted a man and woman. Their garments were long, lavishly decorated, with motifs she had never seen before. On their heads they wore bejeweled crowns. What drew her attention was that the man had a large sun encircling his head, while the woman’s crown was encircled by a silver moon. Their hands touched, and entwined within their fingers were green sprigs and leaves.

  She felt strangely moved by the way the tapestry depicted their bond—two lovers who were each other’s sun and moon. The green leaves that joined their hands seemed to strengthen their bond.

  She suddenly envied the lovers. It was plain they had each other. “Nothing and no one left for you...you will take this position. There’s no alternative, under the circumstances.” Echoes of what she’d been told before she’d left England, still ringing in her ears.

  The next tapestry that drew her eyes was even stranger, downright disturbing. It depicted a single tree—a blue tree in a naïf style. Its branches were filled with budding flowers and stars. A large, menacing wolf stood beneath the tree. Its teeth—no, she corrected herself, his teeth, because she got a distinct feeling that the wolf was male—were digging into the trunk of the tree, as if to bite it.

  Beware of the beasts in the deep old woods... Her imagination conjured up a feral whiff in the air, as if she could already perceive the musky odor of the wolf she was looking at. She shook her head, almost laughing at her sudden distress. It was just an image, just as the howling was only a sound. Surely they could not hurt her.

  Lucy jumped when she heard a deep voice behind her. Her heart started thumping wildly.

  “That is the tree of life,” the voice said.

  She slowly turned around, as if frightened to make any sudden moves. He was a tall man with eyes which seemed to pierce every inch of her being. They were dark green—a shade so impossibly green that, for a second, they made the world twirl around her. Eyes as green as the deep of the woods. Those woods that get suddenly dark and frightening once you get lost in them. She swallowed hard.

  “Your journey was cold and tiring,” the man said abruptly. “You must have some wine.”

  He turned away from her and gave some orders to the women who had been waiting silently by the fireplace. He was most certainly Wallachian, she decided as she heard him speak what she supposed was Romanian to the serving women. When she’d first heard him, she had not been sure. He spoke English in the cultured tones of a gentleman. However, the second time he’d addressed her, she had discerned a faint acce
nt.

  Who was he? she wondered. Was he a member of the family or just the gentleman in charge of the manor? He was dressed in an immaculate suit that would have been the latest of fashions in Paris or London. A gentleman, most certainly, she decided. A member of the family, perhaps.

  Lucy’s unspoken question was not answered even when the women returned with laden trays. He had offered his arm and escorted her to the table, as a proper gentleman would, although he had not introduced himself. He dismissed the women and poured her a glass of ruby-red wine. In front of her, he placed a plate with a loaf of bread on it.

  “Come, let us break bread together,” he said.

  He offered her one half of the bread, on which he sprinkled salt. As if in a daze, she obeyed his command and bit into the warm, salty loaf. She had not known bread could taste so good. He was biting into the other half, his green eyes fixed on her. After a while, he raised his own wineglass. Mechanically, she did the same.

  “Now that we’ve shared bread and salt, I can welcome you into my home,” he said, but there was no smile in his voice.

  “Are you...are you Boyar Marcu?” she stammered.

  She had assumed he was a member of the family. She had not thought he was the master of the house, her employer. She had pictured Boyar Marcu as an elderly man, in his fifties, maybe. This man appeared to be no more than thirty. In her head, she had already formed the image of her future employer as a plump, overindulgent aristocrat. This man had a lean body and a firm mouth that bespoke no overindulgence.

  “Why don’t you drink your wine?” he suggested, but it did not really sound like a suggestion.

  Oh yes, he seemed an aristocrat to the core, from his high cheekbones to his Roman nose. But she already had the distinct impression that, beneath that immaculate suit of his, there was something predatory, much like the wolf in the tree of life tapestry.

  “Drink up,” he commanded, still not bothering to answer her question and raising his glass once more.

  Obediently, Lucy drank her wine, although something in her kept warning that she should not. As if she were in one of those fairy tales where one is not supposed to taste any food or drink in the enchanted palace. She dismissed the ridiculous thought and sipped the ruby-red wine. It was rich and intoxicating. She almost moaned with pleasure.

  “It’s a strong, full-bodied wine. The Romanian name for it is something that would roughly translate as the Black Virgin,” he said.

  She didn’t know whether to be shocked or laugh. He surely must know that providing such information to a well-bred female was considered indecent. At least in London, this would be considered indecent. But she was not in London anymore, she reminded herself. His flawless English indicated that he had received a fine education. She supposed then that he knew the difference between what was considered proper and what was not. And he chose not to be proper.

  “I thank you for the fine wine, but you still have me at a disadvantage, sir,” she said in icy tones. “I still don’t know whether I am addressing Boyar Marcu, my employer.”

  “Indeed, you are,” he answered, inclining his head in what she perceived as a mocking manner. “I must confess, you are not at all what I expected, Miss Cross,” he went on in the same blunt, direct way she was already getting accustomed to.

  Lucy could have countered, of course. He was not at all what she had expected either. She sipped some more of the wine. He was her employer, but she was not going to let herself be intimidated from the beginning. It was bad enough that she found herself stranded in a foreign country and basically at his mercy.

  “I was told by Mr. Hawthorne, the man who took care of your business in London, that you had received a full report of my character. From what I gathered, you were satisfied by my recommendations, in spite of the fact that I lack experience as a governess. It is unclear to me what kind of person you were expecting or why you should be unsatisfied upon meeting me,” she said, in what she hoped were firm but polite tones.

  The serving women had appeared again. Lucy realized that the first plate had already been replaced. She now had a bowl of steaming soup in front of her.

  “Have some soup,” he ordered, before dipping his own spoon in his bowl.

  The man was downright rude, she fumed, but nevertheless she started eating. She realized she had been famished. Besides, she had to admit, the soup was excellent, as delicious as the rest of the food that followed, as the dinner progressed. Unfamiliar tastes, almost exotic.

  As dessert arrived—what her host told her was some kind of cheesecake—she realized she had eaten more than her fill. It was really embarrassing. Women were not supposed to gorge themselves like that in public. She was not a slim woman. Her figure was something that, she hoped, some people might consider pleasingly plump. Lately, however, it had been looking less pleasing in its plumpness.

  They had not exchanged much conversation during dinner, except for the occasional comments her host had made about the food.

  “I think I’ll pass on dessert. This has been an excellent meal, but far too much for me, I’m afraid,” she said with a sigh.

  He shrugged politely, but didn’t say anything. Was she dreaming or was he eyeing her speculatively? She was probably imagining things, but it seemed that his gaze was almost insolent, almost traveling on her lips, almost tracing the column of her neck, almost baring her breasts, almost...

  She broke the spell and cleared her throat. “I’m looking forward to meeting my pupil tomorrow. From Mr. Hawthorne, I understand your daughter, Alexandra, will be ten this spring. I would be grateful if you told me if you want me to insist on a particular subject. Would you like me to concentrate more on her English lessons? I was given to understand she was not very familiar with the language.”

  “That’s one of the reasons I asked for an English governess,” he answered. “Alexandra had a French governess who unfortunately had to leave us. Her French is perfect and you will be able to communicate in that language. She has some good German as well, but only passable English. You see, it is more usual here to learn these languages. Very few children here, if any, are tutored in English.”

  She was curious as to where he had learned his English, but kept silent. He was her employer, and it was not her place to ask personal questions. She drank a little bit more wine.

  “It would be excellent if you could tutor her in the sciences as well—a little bit more mathematics will do her a world of good. And besides, it is what she loves. Her former governess insisted too much on piano lessons and dancing, which is all nice and proper, but I don’t want my daughter to grow up ignorant in other areas,” he continued.

  “I would be happy to,” she answered, pleasantly surprised.

  She’d not thought an aristocrat from such a remote country would care much about his daughter’s education. Aristocratic fathers doted on their sons, but usually did not see fit to broaden their daughters’ horizons. Fortunately, Boyar Marcu wanted his daughter to learn other things besides what was considered proper and fashionable for a young lady.

  “Well, I hope I’ve answered at least some of your questions. We will of course have a more detailed discussion in the morning, concerning my daughter’s education,” he said, in a tone that promised that the discussion was going to be very serious and detailed indeed.

  “Of course,” she replied.

  Lucy took that as her dismissal and attempted to get up from the table. Suddenly, she felt dizzy. The room had started spinning around her and, with horror, she realized that she’d had too much of the wine. She was not used to alcohol, apart from the occasional glass of sherry.

  How many glasses had she had during dinner? Oh God, she couldn’t even remember. What was the wine called? Black Virgin, what an impossibly silly name for such a strong wine...

  That was her last semi-coherent thought. From there, everything became more than a little bit blu
rry. The room fell entirely out of focus and now, only scents seemed to be floating around her—new scents that were unfamiliar and potent. There was the deep aroma of the wine she’d drunk, and along with it, something not so different. It felt powerful, just like the wine. But somehow it was more than that, and she struggled to keep it from completely plunging her into oblivion.

  As if from a distance, she seemed to hear Boyar Marcu’s deep voice, but she no longer understood what he was saying. After what seemed like an eternity, she felt strong arms grabbing hold of her.

  He was, Lucy realized belatedly, carrying her up some stairs, God knew where to. She attempted to protest, squirming feebly in that strong embrace. Her captor seemed unmoved, however, and continued his walk up the stairs.

  A part of her told her that it was useless to struggle. Whatever he wanted to do with her, he would accomplish. She felt completely at his mercy, and suddenly the thought did not seem as repellent as it should have. She felt certain that he would ravish her. He would pin her on some bed and have his wicked way with her. She had a very distinct image of him burying his manhood—well, what she pictured as a very large manhood—into her.

  In a flash of completely unexpected pleasure, she understood that she wanted him inside her, stretching her, thrusting into her until she would literally melt into a puddle. She had no idea where such indecent thoughts were coming from. She should be horrified and afraid of the whole thing, and yet...

  It was warm in his arms, and she could feel her cheek pressed against one of his broad shoulders as he was carrying her. She could smell the scent that was undoubtedly masculine and even more intoxicating than the wine... Black Virgin...

  She must have spoken the name aloud, because she heard him say, “Yes, and you’ve had more of it than you should have.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she heard herself ask in a feeble voice.

  “To your room,” the inevitable answer came.

  She licked her lips and plucked up courage to ask the question burning on the tip of her tongue. “Are you going to ravish me?”