Upon a Midnight Dream
Author: Kathryn le Veque
Date: 2016-11-22 08:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Anthology; General; Fiction; Medieval; Historical; Romance
Description: They say miracles are myth, fairy tales created for the pious masses. But for a lonely knight returning from the Crusades and a grieving lady with no hope for her future, a miracle will change both their lives forever. Meet Sir Rennington of Ashbourne and Lady Holly St. Maur, and discover the beauty of their Christmas miracle for yourself in this romantic tale.
Publisher: Createspace
Rights: Copyright © 2021 All Rights Reserved

Upon a Midnight Dreary

A Halloween Anthology

Kathryn Le Veque, Chasity Bowlin, Hildie McQueen, Maggi Andersen, Mary Lancaster, Meara Platt, Violetta Rand, Alexa Aston, Anna Markland, Aubrey Wynne, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Elizabeth Johns, Elizabeth Keysian, Emily E K Murdoch, Emily Royal, Heather McCollum, Anna St. Claire, Lynne Connolly, Maeve Greyson, Whitney Blake

© Copyright 2021 & Text by Kathryn Le Veque, Chasity Bowlin, Hildie McQueen, Maggi Andersen, Mary Lancaster, Myra Platt, Violetta Rand, Alexa Aston, Anna Markland, Aubrey Wynne, Elizabeth Ellen Carter, Elizabeth Johns, Elizabeth Keysian, Emily E K Murdoch, Emily Royal, Heather McCollum, Anna St. Claire, Lynne Connolly, Maeve Greyson, Whitney Blake

Dragonblade Publishing, Inc. is an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc.

P.O. Box 7968

La Verne CA 91750
ceo@dragonbladepublishing.com

Produced in the United States of America

First Edition October 2021

Kindle Edition

Reproduction of any kind except where it pertains to short quotes in relation to advertising or promotion is strictly prohibited.

All Rights Reserved.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

License Notes:

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Author’s Note

I always have such fun with these holiday-inspired novellas and, in particular, the Halloween novellas. I’ve done several over the years and I almost always use an Edgar Allan Poe poem as my inspiration. Who better to inspire Gothic creepy romance?

This particular tale is inspired by both The Raven and The Cask of Amontillado. Also, The Premature Burial. There’s a mix in here. Our hero is Atreus de Norville, whom we’ve met in a couple of de Wolfe Pack books. Being that he’s a grandson of Paris de Norville and also William de Wolfe, more than likely, he’d never really have his story told, so I’ve made him the hero for this tale.

Atreus and his brother, Hermes, are always great fun to write about because they’re so wild. One of my favorite scenes with them is in the beginning of Wolfeheart at the melee at Bamburgh Castle. That scene makes me laugh every time. In this tale, he’s more mature, more serious, and in a difficult situation. We also have an appearance by his cousin, Markus de Wolfe.

Now, the setting – Whitby Abbey. Whitby is famous for its ghosts, for a spectral nun among other things. My story simply explains how the spectral nun got there. At least, how she may have gotten there.

I’m a huge fan of Gothic Romance as long as it’s classically dark and creepy, and this one is a doozy. Yes, that’s the technical word for it. It’s a short tale but full of angst, terror, and passion. I think you’re going to like it.

Happy Reading!

Collection Contents

Title Page

Copyright Page

Publisher’s Note

Author’s Note

Nevermore

Kathryn Le Veque

Into the Night

Chasity Bowlin

The Stones of Ard Cairn

Hildie McQueen

White Lady Lost

Maggi Andersen

The Others of Ochil

Mary Lancaster

Moonstone Landing

Meara Platt

Belware Bridge

Violetta Rand

The Bridge to Love

Alexa Aston

Blind Faith

Anna Markland

Percy’s Perdition

Aubrey Wynne

The Ghost Bride

Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Haunted Knight

Elizabeth Johns

The Grey Lady of the Manor

Elizabeth Keysian

A Governess of No Fear

Emily E K Murdoch

Haunted Hart

Emily Royal

Rohaise the Red

Heather McCollum

Once Upon A Haunted Heart

Anna St. Claire

The Lair of the Burrells

Lynne Connolly

Guardian of Midnight Manor

Maeve Greyson

The Dauntless Boy

Whitney Blake

Nevermore

A Medieval Gothic Novella

Kathryn Le Veque

Part One

Demon’s that is dreaming…

Year Of Our Lord 1295

Whitby Abbey

The winds off the North Sea were fierce this night.

Howling demons shrieked as they encircled the abbey, screaming their heinous threats of fear and pain for all to hear. It was the heart of a nasty storm that had blown in earlier in the evening, now pounding the sand-colored stones of the abbey at full force.

The occupants inside shivered in fear.

It wasn’t a night fit for man nor beast.

Unfortunately, it was also a night of terror.

For one frightened nun, the howling winds and beating storm meant more than a simple tempest. Her life, her career as a nun, was coming to an end and there was naught she could do to stop it.

Her time was coming.

But first, she had a man to see.

She’d managed to make her way out of the cloister, now on the north side of the abbey and its walls that stretched to the sky. The north Yorkshire moors were dark and treacherous in any weather, but on a night like tonight, it was like running through the pits of hell, with hands reaching up to grab her, trying to stop her from completing her journey.

She could feel the fingers.

But they were merely branches, clinging to her rough woolen garments. Perhaps they were really the hands of Fate, trying to stop her from doing this dastardly thing. Trying to save her from herself.

But she wouldn’t listen.

The rain pounded. The lightning flashed. The wool she was wearing became heavy with water, dragging her down, smelling like a sewer. By the time she crossed the slick stone footbridge and reached the small village of Whitby, she was drenched and shivering.

She was supposed to meet him in the livery behind a tavern called The Duchess and The Angel, one of the rowdier establishments in a seaside fishing town that had its share of rowdy places. Odd that the village also contained one of the more prestigious abbeys in northern England, a place of veneration and worship, regarded country-wide. But only the occupants knew that the abbey was more than that, a hellscape from which there was no return once committed. This mixture of fishing village and ominous abbey was only the beginning of Whitby.

Where it ended, no one knew.

But she intended to see it end for her. She’d been planning it for over two years, ever since she had met the strong young knight who had come to Whitby with his mother, as they’d been traveling north and paused for mass during a feast day. She didn’t even remember what feast day it had been now. All of that seemed lost in the jumble of memories she’d had since then.

All she knew was that it was the first time she’d ever seen Atreus de Norville’s face.

These clandestine meetings had been taking place over the course of the past two years. Atreus had been the one to instigate them in secret, but she had gone right along with him. In truth, the entire reason that Mariana Prendwick de Allerston had been committed to the hollow, shadowed halls of Whitby Abbey was because her family, the prestigious de Allerston family from Yorkshire, had been trying to keep her from a stable servant that she’d fallen in love with. The Mother Abbess, the former Gunilda Dunsley, had sworn that she could break their wild daughter from the cravings of the flesh.

But she hadn’t.

Now, Mariana found herself sneaking into town where Atreus awaited.

He’d sent her a note the usual way – through a farmer who brought his wares to the abbey twice a week. There was usually a note nailed underneath his cart by the right wheel and Mariana had found that note yesterday, asking her to meet him in the livery behind the tavern. It wasn’t their usual place, but she didn’t care.

She was going to see him again and that was all that mattered.

There were several fishing boats that were moored in the mouth of the River Esk, so the taverns were full on this night. The rain was still pounding as a tempest blew in from the sea as Mariana made her way towards the tavern, staying to the shadows as much as she could. Dashing across the muddy avenue, she slipped into the livery yard behind the tavern.

Once inside the stable, she tried to shake off the rain, but she was soaked to the skin. Teeth chattering, she found an empty stall and curled up in the corner, freezing and uncomfortable. The livery entry was in her line of sight, so she tried to stay low and unobtrusive, out of the way of any servants who might be entering the stable.

She didn’t want to be thrown out into that rain.

And then, she saw him.

Tall, long-limbed, sinewy but muscular, Atreus entered the stable. She’d know that form anywhere. She’d known that form for the past two years, a form that belonged only to her. Though the night was cold, she could already feel the warmth of his arms around her. It was what she lived for, what kept her going. The stable servant at her family home had been the fleeting infatuation of a girl.

Atreus was the deep love of a woman.

She loved him with all her heart.

“Atreus!” she hissed.

His head snapped in her direction. She was in the very last stall, hidden from view of anyone entering the stable, so he had to go hunting for her, following her voice until he found her hunkered down in the stall.

Entering the stall, he fell to his knees beside her and drew her into his powerful embrace.

“My love,” he whispered into her hair. “You made it.”

“I did!”

“Are you unscathed?”

She pulled back, nodding fearfully. “I am,” she said. “But I know she has sent women to follow me. I kept seeing shadows behind me, in the trees, against the grass… I know they were following me.”

Atreus sighed heavily, looking into her terrified face before pulling her into another crushing embrace. He had to think.

Think quickly, man!

“Mayhap they are,” he said calmly. “But they have not followed you to this place. I looked all around before I entered and there is no one nearby. I would have seen them.”

Mariana was trembling in his arms. “What do we do?” she said. “If they saw me come to town, undoubtedly, Mother Abbess will want to know why.”

Mother Abbess. The very words struck fear into the hearts of those who knew her. A woman entrusted with the care of her charges, but a woman who did not understand the meaning of the word care.

She didn’t care for them at all.

Mariana was a perfect example. Atreus looked at the trembling young woman in his arms. She was dressed in rags, really. She was from one of the finest homes in Yorkshire, now wearing rags and doing tasks that the lowliest servant would consider filthy, all because the Mother Abbess had decreed it so.

Pretty, sweet Mariana…

Relegated to the clothes of a pauper.

He clutched her more tightly against him, remembering the first time he ever saw her. Enormous brown eyes, curly brown hair, and a bright smile. She was so tiny and precious, something he desperately wanted to love and protect, but her family and Whitby stood in his way.

It had been a difficult road that had brought them to this moment.

“I will send you back with some soap and food,” he said. “You can tell her that you were begging for such things, since she hardly feeds you and doesn’t see fit to provide you with the very basic necessities of life. Tell her you were begging.”

“But she will be angry!”

His jaw flexed. “The proud bitch,” he growled. “She eats like a king but allows her nuns and postulates to live in poverty.”

Mariana clung to him, nodding. “I cannot bring anything back with me.”

“At least bring the soap. Tell her you stole it.”

“She would accept that more than begging.”

Atreus rolled his eyes. He’d been witness to Mariana’s dire circumstances for too long now, watching her struggle to survive, but no longer. He’d come to tell her that he was going to do something about it.

He had to get her out of there.

“You will not have to tolerate this existence any longer,” he said, hunkering down with her in the dark stall as the storm outside pounded. “I am going to take you away.”

She looked up at him with those bottomless brown eyes. “Take me where?”

He had her cradled so he could look down into her face, as a mother would look into the face of a child held in her arms. Reaching up, he brushed a piece of wet hair out of her eyes.

“Away,” he said simply. “It has been almost two years of this, Mariana, and I will no longer stand for it. I know your family has denied me permission to marry you, but they have no basis for it. All your father can say is that you are incorrigible.”

Tears filled her eyes. “I am not, you know,” she said. “You know I am not.”

He smiled faintly. “I know,” he said. “If anyone is incorrigible, it is I. I’ve told you the stories of me and my brother, Hermes. We really were incorrigible, but we grew out of it. Anything you have done in your life hasn’t come close to what we have done in ours. My poor grandfathers thought they were going to have to chain us to the wall of a vault simply to control us and throw us bones for the rest of our lives.”

That brought a tremulous smile. “I cannot believe you were that terrible.”

He grinned, that toothy de Norville grin that most of the males in the family had. Big, straight, white teeth that were unerringly handsome. “We will have much time to speak on the antics of me and my brother in the future,” he said. “Suffice it to say that we are an unbeatable team on the field of battle or off it. Hermes and I have a great deal of our father’s father in us. He’s arrogant, impulsive, and undeniably skilled. We have those traits, much to the dismay of my mother’s father, who is a humble and noble man. He is also the greatest knight who has ever lived.”

Mariana was forgetting her tears for the moment as they spoke of Atreus’ family. “I look forward to meeting your grandfathers and their complicated family ties,” she said softly, jesting. But she quickly sobered. “It seems such an unusual concept for a family to actually love and care for one another. That is not something I’ve had the privilege to experience.”

His smile faded. “I know,” he said. “But we are going to change that. I am not going to wait any longer for your father to change his mind, nor am I going to ask him again. I am simply going to marry you and there will be nothing they can do about it.”

Mariana’s smile faded, as well. “He has already told you that should you abduct me, he will consider it stealing,” she said. “I know the Mother Abbess will consider it stealing, also. They know about you, Atreus. They could bring the law upon you and your family.”

Atreus cocked an eyebrow, a flash of that inherent arrogance. “Let them try,” he said. “They would have to go up against the House of de Norville and the House of de Wolfe. They would not survive.”

“And you think we will?”

His heart softened as he looked into her anxious face. “I know we will, love,” he said. “I have known it from the start.”

His arms around her tightened, pulling her into a more intimate position. Their time together was so few and far between that they took any opportunity to be together, any way they could, and at times it had meant a hayloft or a field of tall grass. Anywhere they were together was the best place to be. Mariana had given her innocence over to Atreus in a grove of trees beside a stream, with nothing but the trees and the water to witness their intimate act.

She did indeed have cravings of the flesh, as Mother Abbess had put it.

Cravings only for Atreus.

“I live for the moment when we can be together and unafraid of being discovered,” she murmured as he leaned over her, kissing her cheek. “These stolen moments feed my soul, but I long for the day we do not have to hide our love.”

Atreus kissed her neck, her chin. “You will not have to wait much longer,” he whispered. “Nor will I, my sweet angel.”

In the darkened corner of the livery, Atreus rolled Mariana onto her back and continued to kiss her. From chin to neck and neck to shoulder. She gave herself over to him freely and willingly, clutching him tightly as his mouth drove her insane with desire.

The straw beneath them crunched softly as he pushed up her rough woolen gown. Even as his mouth fused with hers, she could feel his hands roaming her body, pushing away the meager clothing standing between them and utter ecstasy. She’d been through this before, several times, and she knew what he wanted. Everything was instinct. She entrenched herself in every kiss, every touch.

Atreus paused in his onslaught to unstrap the studded leather belt from his narrow waist. The belt and tunics came off, and she watched him through half-lidded eyes as he lowered his hose. Confronted with his bare chest and large arousal, Mariana reached out to touch his belly, her fingers against his flesh.

It took her breath away as she gazed up at him, absolutely flawless, and Atreus leaned over her, bracing his big arms on either side of her body.

“Though we are not married by the church yet, I will speak the words here and now that will bind us forever,” he murmured. “I take you as my wife, Mariana. The day I realized I loved you, I took you as my wife. The law says that all we must do is speak the words that declare you are my wife, and I have. Will you speak the words that declare me your husband?”

She reached up, dragging her fingertips over his lips as he kissed them. “I take you as my husband,” she whispered. “For all time, I take you as my very own.”

He leaned down and kissed her gently, his body coming down on hers, his arousal brushing against her groin area. Not quite at its target yet, but it soon would be.

“You are my wife,” he murmured as he dipped down and brushed his lips against hers. “Body and soul, come what may.”

She could only nod, feeling his arousal against her and being tempted beyond reason by it. His lips clamped down and Mariana reacted instantaneously, winding her arms around his thick neck and pulling him against her. His heated hands fondled her breasts underneath her shift, creating a fire between her legs, a sensation she was coming to associate with Atreus’ touch.

Everything the man did set her on fire.

Atreus toyed with her nipples, his passion and lust growing by leaps and bounds. One hand moved down the curve of her torso, delighting in the soft skin that had been so tortured by the crude woolen garments for the past couple of years.

He was going to change that.

When his hand reached the softness of her tender inner thighs, she instinctively parted her legs, inviting him to claim her. Gently, he moved his arousal so that it was pushing at her, seeking her delicious treasure. She was desperate to feel him inside her, thrusting her pelvis forward to capture the tip of his phallus. Feeling the demands of her body, Atreus thrust deeply.

Mariana gasped as he drove into her again and again, and she cried out softly with the joy of possession. His passionate kisses drowned out her moans, acutely aware of her tightness around his engorged manhood. Her nails dug bloody crescents into his shoulders as she held on to him, her rapid breathing filled the dim stable as Atreus impaled her on his glistening phallus.

Every time their bodies met, the heat in Mariana’s loins increased and she began to live for each successive thrust. She was seeking what only Atreus could satisfy until he suddenly thrust so firmly that her teeth rattled and she heard him moan her name softly. She felt him pulsing within her and that threw her over the edge, her climax coming so hard that she began to sob. Wave after delicious wave swept her, slowly fading away until she was only aware of her pounding heart.

The straw softened Atreus’ weight on her and he was thankful. Lying atop Mariana’s glorious body, he couldn’t have moved if God Himself had demanded it. But he knew at some point, he would have to move and he furthermore knew that he would have to leave her. This was the last night that they were going to hide in stables and fornicate because, upon this night, he had taken her for his wife.

Let no man tear them apart.

Or no woman.

He shifted at one point so he wasn’t laying so heavily upon her, but Mariana clung to him. She kept her pelvis pressed against his, refusing to let him withdraw from her body. It was as if she were absorbing that closeness, that love that she’d never had in her entire life and one she was loath to part with, not even for a second. A cold family who didn’t understand her, an even colder Mother Abbess, and she’d found everything she’d always wanted in an elite knight who wanted nothing more than to love her. He’d gone through all of the proper routes to accomplish this, but he’d been thwarted at every turn.

Now, he was taking matters into his own hands and Mariana could not have been more thrilled.

“Why can I not go with you now?” she whispered. “Why must I return to Whitby at all?”

He shifted so he could look at her. “Because I did not come prepared to take you with me,” he said. “I only made the decision as I was coming here. At first, I thought it would be like any other rendezvous, but I can see that it is not. A decision was made this night and it was made by both of us. I must therefore make arrangements for us to depart Whitby.”

“But I can go with you now, can’t I?”

He shook his head sadly. “I will return to my cousin’s home of Cheswick Castle and collect my belongings,” he said. “I will make arrangements with a local vessel to take us out by sea, not by land. When your parents and the abbess go searching for us, they will go straight to my father’s command of Northwood Castle. That will give us time to go south by sea and far away from them.”

She seemed to like the idea of going far away, a hint of hope in her expression. “But where will we go?”

“To London,” he said. “My grandfathers have many allies in the south of England. We will go to London and visit the de Lohr townhome on the banks of the River Thames. They will provide us with shelter until we decide what more to do.”

She was watching him carefully. “What more will we do?” she asked quietly. “We cannot rely on the hospitality of allies forever.”

Atreus stroked her cheek. “I know,” he said quietly. “But for now, our plans are to get to London. Once we are there and have time to breathe, we can decide where to live and what to do. I may offer my services to the king, whose father greatly relied on both of my grandfathers. I have de Wolfe and de Norville blood, after all. I am certain they will accept my fealty.”

Mariana smiled. “How could they not?” she said. “You are brave and noble and true. You will make an excellent royal knight.”

He returned her smile. “Then it is decided,” he said. “You will return to Whitby tonight, gather your possessions, and meet me back here tomorrow afternoon. I will find a ship that will take us south at dawn.”

She nodded, but the idea of returning to the stark, stone walls of Whitby Abbey turned her stomach. That wasn’t what she wanted at all, but she understood he had to make arrangements. If it was to be her last night there, she didn’t mind.

“As you say,” she said, unwinding her arms and legs from his body. “I will meet you here, in this livery.”

“It is as good a place as any,” he said. “I will secure a room for us for the night, but dress warmly. It will be a long journey to London.”

They both sat up, pulling straw out of Mariana’s hair, and she also pushed her woolen garment down so that it covered her legs.

“I do not have much,” she said. “When I entered the abbey, they took almost everything from me. I have a shift, a cloak, and a comb. That is nearly everything I own.”

He brushed the straw from her shoulder. “Not to worry,” he said. “It will only be temporary. I shall buy you more finery than you can wear and we shall burn your woolen garments together.”

She grinned. “I shall do that most happily,” she said. “May I have a piece of soap now? Something to take back with me that will give me the reason for having come to town in the first place?”

Atreus nodded, standing up and fixing his breeches. She handed him his tunics and belt, and he quickly dressed. Then, holding out a hand to silently command her to stay where she was, he disappeared into the darkness of the stable. Mariana shrank back into the stall, waiting for quite some time while the storm raged outside, until Atreus finally returned. He was soaked to the skin, but he placed a small piece of lumpy, dirty soap in her hand.

“There,” he said, blowing water out of his mouth. “I found that at the cottage down the avenue and do not ask me how I retrieved it, because I will not tell you. It is not good to brag on one’s ability to break into a home and scare the occupants with a sword until they give you soap.”

Her eyes widened. “Is that what you did?”

He grinned, kissing her on the forehead. “I am ingenious, if nothing else,” he said. Then, he looked her over. “Where is your cloak?”

She dashed back into the stall to get it. “Here it is.”

She slung it over her shoulders, wet and heavy, and he straightened it for her, frowning.

“It is soaking,” he said. “Mayhap you should dry out a little before heading back to the abbey.”

But Mariana shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “I do not feel comfortable staying away any longer than necessary.”

“Will they check your bed?”

She shrugged. “They do not, usually, but if someone wakes up and notices I am gone, it would not be a good thing. I could be reported to the Mother Abbess.”

He understood. “Then you must return,” he said. “I will escort you as far as I can.”

“Nay,” she said, putting her hands on his chest. “I… I feel like I was followed tonight and if there are truly women searching for me, then I must not be seen with you. Just the soap.”

He didn’t like it. “Do you truly think you were followed?”

“Possibly. She has two nuns who do her bidding, no matter what it is.”

“Do you think they have been watching you?”

Mariana could only shake her head. “I have escaped several times a year for the past two years,” she said. “I have tried to be discreet, but it would be a miracle if they’ve not yet figured it out.”

That only confirmed to Atreus that this was the right time to make their escape. “Very well,” he said, kissing her one last time. “This is the last time you will return and the last time you escape. But for now, hurry back to the abbey and do not stray. The storm is fierce, so keep your cloak pulled tight.”

“I will.”

“And be careful on the footbridge across the river. The wind is strong this night.”

She put a hand to his cheek, her eyes warm upon him. “It is not strong enough to blow me over the bridge, nor blow out the flame of hope in my heart.” She kissed him sweetly. “Until tomorrow, my love. Nothing can keep me from you.”

Atreus watched her dash out into the storm, scurrying back the way she had come. The town was quiet for the most part, hunkered down against the elements, and as much as he hated for her to travel under such conditions, it nonetheless made it convenient for her not to be seen. He lost track of her as she disappeared down by the River Esk, with its footbridge spanning the waterway and its boats moored against the tossing of the tide.

On the other side of the footbridge was a rise and on top of that rise sat the hulk of Whitby Abbey. It wasn’t far from where they were and in better weather and light, it could be seen quite clearly. It was an icon of Christianity against the roiling, violent North Sea.

But it was also a hellish place for those who lived there.

After tomorrow, Mariana would no longer be one of them.

Atreus sighed heavily, wondering if he’d done the right thing sending her back. He did have plans to make for their departure and he was afraid that if he kept her with him on this night, the nuns would get wise to her absence and hunt for her in earnest. That would make it more difficult to spirit her out of the village and he didn’t want to tip the nuns off any sooner than he had to.

Unfortunately, she had to go back.

But after this night, no longer.

As the lightning flashed overhead and the wind howled, Atreus headed for the taverns down by the wharf in search of a sea captain willing to take them to London.

When Mariana returned tomorrow, he wanted to be ready.

Part Two

His shadow on the floor…

The raven stood on the windowsill, chattering and screaming as only ravens were capable. This was a particularly large bird that had flown in the window of the abbey one stormy day and had simply never left. That was the same storm that caused part of the roof over the nave to crumble, leading the Mother Abbess to refer to the raven as the prophet of doom.

That was how Prophet got his name.

Now, he was a particular pet of the Mother Abbess, who was sitting in her private quarters on this gloomy, windy morning after a night of solid rain. She was reading from her bible, the one her wealthy family had commissioned for her when she had entered the cloister. It was an elaborate book, painted with gold and much revered among the rank and file of Whitby, but the Mother Abbess never let any of them read it. Not that most of them couldn’t read, but still. She could and that was all that mattered. There were times when she threw some extra scripture into her bible to suit her needs.

During the times she wanted to throw a little extra holy terror into her charges.

As she read on this dismal morn, the door to her private chamber opened timidly and a wimpled head appeared. The Mother Abbess didn’t look up from her bible.

“What is it, Sister Rachel?” she asked steadily.

She knew it was Sister Rachel because that was the only nun who would dare knock on her door. Sister Rachel stepped in, followed by Sister Ruth. Those weren’t their real names, but names the Mother Abbess called them because she liked those women in the bible. She felt they were strong and loyal.

Just like her followers should be.

Loyal.

“We have information for you, Mother Abbess,” Sister Rachel said, coming into the room and immediately bowing her head. The Mother Abbess insisted that no eye contact be made unless she initiated it. “Information on a postulate’s movements.”

The Mother Abbess looked up from her bible. The woman was calm and cool in all things, with ice water flowing through her veins instead of blood. She had eyes like a serpent – an odd color of green with pupils that constricted with her moods.

It was like looking into the eyes of Satan.

“Of whom do you speak?” she asked.

“Mariana, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess nodded slowly. “I see,” she said. “Our dear Mariana again. She has been quiet for some time.”

“Almost two months, Mother Abbess.”

“Then there has been recent movement?”

“Aye, Mother Abbess. Last night.”

“What kind of movement, pray?”

Sister Rachel was the most composed between her and Sister Ruth. The Mother Abbess terrified Sister Ruth, so Sister Rachel was usually the one to speak on matters such as this. Mariana wasn’t the only postulate that was spied upon, but she was the most questionable. Everyone at Whitby had their assigned duties – some were assigned to the kitchens, some to the wash. It just so happened that Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth were assigned to watch over those who might be squirrely in nature, those who might shame the Mother Abbess and the abbey in general.

Mariana was one such postulate.

This wasn’t the first time they’d had to report on her.

“She departed last night after everyone went to bed,” Sister Rachel said. “We followed her into Whitby but lost track of her once she crossed the river. When we finally found her again, she was already heading back to the abbey, but that was at least an hour later. She came back and went straight to bed.”

The Mother Abbess looked thoughtful. “An hour,” she said. “I wonder what she was doing for that hour?”

“I do not know, Mother Abbess.”

“You did not ask her?”

“I believe that to be your privilege, Mother Abbess.”

That was true. The Mother Abbess ruled Whitby Abbey with an iron fist. No one did anything without her direct approval or knowledge. Over on the windowsill, facing the cloister, the raven cackled and fluttered its wings.

The Mother Abbess smiled.

“Dear Prophet,” she said quietly. “Whatever shall we do with our wandering nun? She has been doing this for the better part of two years, ever since she met that knight who stopped here with his mother one autumn evening. Sister Rachel, are you certain you did not see the knight?”

Sister Rachel knew to whom she was referring to. A tall knight with red hair and a quick smile. She saw him the night he’d come with his mother and, in fact, it had been her and Mariana who had provided him with a meal and kept him away from the other nuns. She thought he was quite handsome, but he’d only had eyes for Mariana.

And she for him.

Perhaps there was just the least bit of vengeance in Sister Rachel’s heart.

“I did not see him this night, but that does not mean he wasn’t there,” she said. “Because of the weather, the inns and taverns were full, so there were many horses and many people in town.”

“Do you believe that Mariana went to him?”

“She has before, Mother Abbess.”

“That was not the question. Do you believe she went to him?”

Sister Rachel paused. “I believe she did, Mother Abbess.”

“But you did not see him?”

Again, Sister Rachel paused. Chasing after Mariana had her up half the night, running through the storm and the rain. She was sick of it, sick of watching over a woman who had no respect for the rules of the abbey or the feelings of others. There was part of her that very much wanted to get Mariana into trouble for it.

The brown-eyed postulate who had stolen Atreus de Norville away.

“I… I thought I did, Mother Abbess, but I cannot be sure.”

The Mother Abbess considered that reply as she stood up and went over to the window where the raven perched, eyeing her with his beady black eyes. Reaching out, she stroked his blue-black head. She looked at the bird as if silently conferring with it before finally turning in Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth’s direction.

“Sister Ruth, send Mariana to me,” she said. “Sister Rachel, you will remain.”

Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth passed concerned glances before Sister Ruth dashed away, shutting the door quietly behind her. When it was just Sister Rachel alone, the Mother Abbess spoke quietly.

“Has poor Sister Margaid’s burial been prepared?” she aside. “If it has, I’ve not been told.”

It was a change in subject, but Sister Rachel went with it. She nodded.

“We could not bury her with the storms that have passed through,” she said. “There is a grave dug for her near the old Yew tree that hangs over the church yard, but it has filled with water, I’m certain. I’ll see about having it cleared out now that the weather has eased.”

The Mother Abbess nodded. “See that you do,” she said. “Have the men from the village clear it out as much as they can, but leave the shovels there in case we must clear it out further.”

“I will, Mother Abbess.”

“Have it seen to immediately but return to me with all due haste. I want you to be present when I speak with Mariana.”

“Aye, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess’ serpentine gaze moved over the landscape of the cloister. Beyond the abbey were the cliffs that ran straight into the sea. A breeze blew in off the water, smelling of salt and of whatever the storm happened to wash up on the beaches the night before.

It smelled of rot.

“Poor old Sister Margaid,” she said. “She may have to wait.”

“What do you mean, Mother Abbess?”

The Mother Abbess petted the raven one last time before turning away from the window. “Do as you’re told,” she said, avoiding the question. “Return to me as soon as you are finished.”

Sister Rachel fled without another word, mostly because the Mother Abbess’ tone was concerning. She had slow, deliberate speech that fairly crackled of displeasure.

When that tone was used, it was best to get out of the way.

If one could.

*

She’d been summoned.

Mariana knew it was just a matter of time before the Mother Abbess summoned her. She knew, without question, that she had been followed the night before. When she had returned to the abbey, she had seen those same phantoms in the shadows.

Trailing her.

Therefore, she was prepared for the summons that came this morning as she was working in the kitchens as she normally did. She was scrubbing a big bushel of turnips that she had just pulled from the ground and her hands were covered in dirt, wet to her elbows. When Sister Ruth came to tell her that the Mother Abbess was requesting her presence, she quickly washed the dirt from her arms and hands, drying them on her apron as she hurried after Sister Ruth.

Through the yard they went, the grounds that were between the kitchens and the abbey itself. The structure of Whitby Abbey was so enormous that it took some time to reach the cloister, to the west of the abbey, where the dormitories were, including the Mother Abbess’ private room.

It was dark and cold at this hour, the only light coming in through the great arches of the cloister as they made their way along the dirt floor that had become muddy from nuns traveling in and out of the cloister. The closer Mariana drew to the Mother Abbess, the more apprehensive she became. She didn’t want anything delaying her return to town and to Atreus.

That concerned her a great deal.

When the Mother Abbess had summoned her in the past, at times it had been to question her about leaving the abbey, always a night, but Mariana had spent the past two years coming up with excellent excuses for why she had to leave. She was a wanderer; that was established. Many times in the course of meeting Atreus, she had managed to gather wild berries or something else for the tables of Whitby, so the Mother Abbess hadn’t scolded her. Not too much, anyway, because she always had a good reason for wandering.

But she knew about Atreus. She had ever since Mariana’s father appeared at Whitby to denounce his daughter for finding yet another young man to fall in love with. He’d yelled at the Mother Abbess for a solid hour before jumping on his horse and tearing off. That trouble had seen Mariana confined to her chamber for two long and horrible weeks.

That was something she never wanted to happen again.

He heart was in her throat as Sister Ruth knocked on the Mother Abbess’ door.

They were admitted.

The Mother Abbess was over by the window, looking out over the cloister, while the raven walked around on a large table that held books and quill and ink and vessels for wine and other things. The bird just seemed to be walking around, that enormous bird that was more evil and more all-knowing than even the Mother Abbess was.

Mariana found herself eyeing the bird as the Mother Abbess spoke.

“Mariana,” the woman said. “Come forward.”

Mariana did, walking towards the Mother Abbess until the woman told her to stop. She did, looking at her feet, because everyone knew that it was a sin to make eye contact with the Mother Abbess. She could hear the woman walking towards her, every step causing her heart to beat just a little faster.

“You will kneel,” the Mother Abbess said.

A little bewildered, Mariana went to her knees.

And that was where she remained.

The morning passed into afternoon, and still, Mariana remained on her knees, looking at the floor. The Mother Abbess ate something around the nooning meal, something that smelled good. Mariana was hungry. Her stomach rumbled as the Mother Abbess ate and then someone came to take away the utensils and cups and bowls.

But still, Mariana remained on her knees.

The hours passed with excruciating slowness. Her knees and back were beginning to genuinely hurt, but she didn’t dare look up or speak. Atreus had told her to come to him in the afternoon, and she knew by the way the sunlight was filling the window that it was well into the afternoon. But still, she knelt.

She prayed.

This was something the Mother Abbess had never done to her before.

Before she knew it, the sun began to set.

By this time, Mariana was trying very hard not to cry. She knew Atreus would be wondering where she was and there was no way to send word to him. She found herself wishing she had never returned last night for she was certain that this was punishment for her nocturnal venture into town. Those shadows that had followed her must have seen her with Atreus, although she wasn’t going to admit it. She never had and never would. If they couldn’t prove it, then she wasn’t going to speak of it.

Her resolve, and her fear, deepened.

It was becoming darker in the room because the sun was nearly down by this time. Someone lit the fat tapers that surrounded the chamber, bringing about a soft, warm glow into the room.

But it was deceiving.

There was nothing warm about the chamber at all.

When Mariana thought she could stand no more, she heard the Mother Abbess speak softly.

“Now,” she said. “Tell me why you left the abbey last night, Mariana.”

Mariana was stiff, in pain, hungry, and thirsty. “I went to find soap, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess looked at her queerly. “Soap?”

“Aye, Mother Abbess.”

Mariana couldn’t have known that the Mother Abbess was eyeing Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth with confusion.

“Why did you leave to find soap?” she finally asked.

Mariana lifted her head a little because her neck was so stiff from looking down that she was having difficulty keeping her balance.

“Because the soap we make here does not do a good job of cleaning, Mother Abbess,” she said. “I thought I could find better soap.”

“Did you?”

Mariana nodded, rocking back onto her heels as she did so. Her exhaustion had her nearly collapsing. “I found some,” she said. “A village family was kind enough to give me some. My hands are so dirty from harvesting and cleaning vegetables that I wanted to find better soap.”

The Mother Abbess was staring at her, trying to determine if she should be believed or not. “I see,” she finally said. “So you went looking for soap.”

“Aye, Mother Abbess.”

“And what of your young knight?”

“What young knight, Mother Abbess?”

The Mother Abbess sighed faintly. “The one who has asked for your hand,” she said with mock patience. “The one you have run off to meet over the past two years.”

“I’ve not run off to meet him, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess’ patience was waning. “It seems we are to play this game again,” she said quietly. “Mariana, you have been leaving the abbey for the past two years on a regular basis, ever since you laid eyes upon that de Norville knight. You leave, we know you leave, and we know you are going to him. God frowns upon those who do not tell the truth, Mariana.”

“I am telling you the truth, Mother Abbess,” Mariana said steadily. “I went for soap because the soap we make at the abbey is horrible. It is smelly and burns the skin. My hands bleed daily from it.”

The Mother Abbess was looking at her lowered head, rage flickering in her serpentine eyes. She turned away.

“Sit down, Mariana,” she said. “In that chair.”

She was pointing to a chair next to the wall. Mariana stood up with great effort and made her way over to the chair, sitting with great relief. But she lowered her gaze because the Mother Abbess came to stand in front of her.

She found herself looking at the woman’s feet.

“When your father first brought you to me, he told me that you were irredeemable,” she said quietly. “He said that you had a demon inside of you, one that needed to be purged. I have tried, Mariana. I have tried to show you the purity of truth and hard work. I have tried to show you the honesty of prayer. I have tried very hard to teach you these things, but the demon inside of you is as strong as ever and that knight, wherever he is, has become your master. Do you realize that he is filled with the devil, Child?”

Mariana almost responded but she bit her tongue. To respond would be to give the Mother Abbess the confirmation she was looking for.

She couldn’t do it.

“There is no demon inside of me, Mother Abbess,” she said evenly. “I never wanted to come here. My father insisted, but this is not a life I have chosen for myself. Though you have been kind to me, I do not wish to be here.”

Mariana was trying not to sound ungrateful, knowing that the woman’s punishment could be swift and severe. She hadn’t been kind in the least, so it was one more lie in a litany of lies that Mariana had told the Mother Abbess.

But she hardly cared.

Over on the table, the raven crowed and chattered. The Mother Abbess looked at the bird for a few moments, contemplating Mariana’s statement, before returning her focus to the lowered head.

“You would like to leave, would you?” the Mother Abbess asked.

Mariana nodded. “I would, Mother Abbess,” she said. “I would like to… go home.”

“Your father does not want you.”

“My mother does.”

The Mother Abbess sighed faintly. “Must everything be an argument with you?” she asked. “Your father put you under my care and you have failed me. You have been an embarrassment to me and this I cannot abide. You make every postulate at Whitby believe that they can disobey me and not be punished, but that will end now. I will no longer be shamed by you. I will no longer allow the demon inside of you to lie to me. Do you understand me?”

Mariana had no idea what she meant, but she knew that it couldn’t be good and the cold fingers of fear began to clutch at her.

“If you will only allow me to leave, I will trouble you no longer, Mother Abbess,” she said. “You can simply tell my father that I ran away or, if it pleases you, tell him that I threw myself over the cliff and into the sea. Tell him the demon inside of me caused me to behave terribly and could not be controlled. Please let me leave, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess smiled faintly. “Is the devil calling to you, my child, like the song of the siren?”

“I do not know what you mean, Mother Abbess.”

“The knight. Is he calling to you?”

Mariana hesitated. “No one is calling to me, Mother Abbess.”

The Mother Abbess bent down, her eyes riveted to the top of Mariana’s lowered head. Reaching out, she put a finger under Mariana’s chin and lifted her head inch by inch until their gazes finally met. When they did, the evil that was the Mother Abbess’ soul flickered in her eyes so that Mariana could look deep and see what the levels of hell must have surely looked like.

All she saw was darkness.

“The devil has your soul, Child,” the Mother Abbess murmured. “He has told me that himself. You have brought shame down upon me and I will no longer stand for it. I am sending you away for good.”

Mariana’s eyes widened in shock. “Sending me away?” she repeated, terrified. “Where?”

The Mother Abbess didn’t answer. With an unearthly growl, she reached out and grabbed her by the hair. As she dragged her weeping, struggling quarry from her private room, the raven flew to the window overlooking the cloister, listening to the distant screams.

Part Three

Shall be lifted – Nevermore!

The Duchess and The Angel

He just couldn’t stand around any longer.

Something was wrong.

Standing outside of the livery behind The Duchess and The Angel, the last place Atreus had seen Mariana, he was wringing his hands nervously through the big leather gloves he wore, his gaze on the abbey on the rise in the distance. After the storm the previous night, the following day had been mostly gray, but not enough to obscure the view of the massive abbey on the bluff.

Just looking at it gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Night was approaching and Mariana hadn’t come. He knew that only something catastrophic could keep her from his side, so he imagined the worst. That wicked Mother Abbess had somehow found out about their rendezvous last night. Mariana said she had been followed and he should have believed her. He thought he was doing the right thing by sending her back to keep her absence from being noticed, but it hadn’t been the right thing at all.

He was sorely regretting that decision now.

“Here you are!”

Startled, Atreus turned to see an enormous knight heading in his direction, leading his war horse behind him. He found himself looking into the eyes of his cousin, Markus de Wolfe, the very lord he’d been staying with at Cheswick Castle.

“Christ,” he muttered, both surprised and relieved to see him. “How did you find me?”

Markus was a handsome man with dark hair and pale eyes, the eldest of four brothers and heir to his father’s title as the Earl of Berwick. He was also one of the best knights on the border, powerful and skilled.

Markus de Wolfe was a giant among men.

“I followed your stench,” Markus jested, but he could see that Atreus was in no mood for jokes. He frowned. “It wasn’t difficult to find you, considering you mentioned this place by name. Don’t you remember?”

Atreus looked at him blankly. “Did I?” he said. “It’s the only tavern I know by name here. It’s the only one I ever come to. But why are you here, Markus? What is wrong?”

Markus sighed heavily. “My wife thought you might be coming after that nun again,” he said. “She thought you might get yourself into trouble because the girl’s father has told you to stay away. Honestly, Atreus, I have better things to do that be your minder. Is that really why you’re here? And not to see a merchant who carries merchandise from Constantinople like you told us? That was a very weak excuse, you know. Buying a dagger of Damascus steel for your father when the last thing the man needs is another dagger.”

Atreus tried not to look too contrite. “Your wife is smarter than you are,” he said. “I did not want to tell you the truth. Forgive me.”

Markus rolled his eyes. “You have come to Cheswick four times in the past year and every time you use it as your base while you run off to Whitby,” he said. “Don’t tell me that you haven’t come here every time you visited me because I know you have. You tell me that you’re going to Middlesbrough or Hartlepool and I know damned well you’re not. And now my wife is afraid that you are going to get yourself into real trouble, so she has sent me to retrieve you.”

“Markus…”

Markus cut him off. “If you do not come with me, I will run right to Uncle Hector and tell him what you are doing,” he threatened. “He’ll come down here and drag you back in chains. God only knows who else he’d bring with him to accomplish that. Uncle Blayth, Uncle Tommy… and they will all beat on you. That nun’s father has already told you that you cannot marry her and you risk having the woman’s family come down on the entire de Wolfe and de Norville Clan.”

Atreus hung his head. “She’s not a nun,” he said softly. “She’s a postulate.”

“Nun, postulate, what does it matter? She is meant for the veil.”

“I love her.”

That stopped Markus in his tracks. “Atreus,” he said after a moment, sounding pained. “She’s not meant for you. I am not trying to be cruel, but she is not meant for you.”

Atreus looked at him, then, and there was real terror in his eyes. “Will you shut your mouth and listen to me?” he said. “We planned to run away tomorrow. I have a cog secured for passage in the morning that will take us all the way to London. We are going to marry and we are going to be happy, I swear it. I love her and she loves me, and I am not going to let her father or Whitby Abbey or you stand in my way. Do you hear me?”

He was enraged by the time he was finished, but Markus couldn’t help but notice the tears forming in his eyes. He could see the passion in Atreus’ expression but he could also see something else.

Something unfamiliar when it came to the most fearless man he ever knew.

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “But what’s wrong?”

Atreus swallowed hard, struggling with his composure. “We were together last night,” he said. “We made plans to meet this afternoon, only she has not come. Only something terrible could keep her from coming and I know something is horribly wrong.”

“How do you know?” he said. “Mayhap she simply changed her mind.”

Atreus shook his head firmly. “She would not do that,” he said. “She wanted to stay with me last night, but I thought it best to send her back so they would not grow suspicious. I can only imagine they discovered that she was with me and have punished her. And I cannot let that go.”

Markus wasn’t sure what to say to that. “You do not have a say in the matter,” he stressed. “She is a postulate and she belongs to them. If they want to punish her for her disobedience, they can.”

Atreus looked at him. “Not that place,” he said, foreboding in his tone. “The things she has told me, Markus… Whitby is not what you think it is. It is run by a woman with the soul of the devil and if she is punishing Mariana, there is the real fear that Mariana may not ever come out of Whitby again. I must help her. With or without your support, I will.”

Markus could see that there was no convincing the man to walk away. Not even close. Given that Markus had a wife he loved, he could understand a man’s passion when it came to a woman. He knew his father and Atreus’ father would probably kill him for helping Atreus, but he couldn’t walk away when his cousin was so upset.

He sighed in resignation.

“Very well,” he said. “What do you want to do?”

Atreus could see that Markus was finally on his side. He reached out, grasping the man’s arm. “I am going to Whitby,” he said. “Mariana thought she was followed last night and I am convinced that the Mother Abbess has punished her somehow. I must find her.”

Markus looked off towards the abbey, stretching its bony stone walls to the sky as the clouds parted above it, beaming rays of the fading sunset against it. It looked like an impenetrable fortress, which it was, and he didn’t relish the thought of breaking the sanctity of an abbey in their quest to find a postulate. That wasn’t going to end well.

But he knew that he couldn’t let Atreus do it on his own.

“What do you want to do?” he finally asked.

Atreus turned to look at the abbey, also. It was a beautiful sight, but it was also a chilling one.

Mariana was there, somewhere, and he had to find her.

“We’ll nose around,” he said. “I do not know the layout, so we must poke around in stealth and discover what we can. We might even see her, but let us go in stealth first.”

“And what if we do not find her?”

“Then we go inside. You distract the nuns and I will hunt for her.”

Markus didn’t like that plan, but he didn’t have a better one. He shook his head, exasperated and resigned.

“Time is wasting,” he said. “And the sun is setting. We will not be able to do anything after dark, so let us go quickly and get this over with.”

Atreus was already on the move. Since the abbey wasn’t too far away, an easy walk, he began to run towards the footbridge that spanned the river. The very same bridge he had admonished Mariana to be careful when crossing. He found that rather ironic, considering the danger hadn’t been the footbridge. It had been the abbey itself. Of course he was going to second guess everything now, but it couldn’t be helped.

It was done.

Now he had to fix his mistake.

Markus was right behind him, leaving his horse in the livery with Atreus’ animal and moving swiftly after his cousin as they dashed through town and crossed the footbridge. They made for an odd sight, surely – two heavily armed knights running out of town – but most people had gone inside for the night, so the few witnesses who saw them didn’t think much of it.

If they’d only known the reasons behind the running, they might have thought different.

The closer Atreus drew to the abbey, the more fear he began to feel. That wasn’t a feeling he was accustomed to, so it was difficult for him to push it aside. For the usually fearless man, he found himself afraid simply for being afraid. Perhaps it was because the fear wasn’t for him.

It was for Mariana.

Once they were across the footbridge, they had to make their way up the hill that Whitby was perched upon. In the time that it took to cross the bridge and hike up the footpath, the clouds had gathered again and the wind was picking up. Given that it was sunset, the skies were darkening and the land around them was growing dim. They could see torches being lit in the cloisters and the abbey itself.

They headed for the cloisters.

Markus was simply following at this point. He assumed that Atreus knew where he was going, so he stayed behind the man as they headed to the cloister on the west side of the abbey. There was a wall around it, but it was only slightly higher than a man’s height and easily scaled. It wasn’t really built for safety because, frankly, no one with any sense would challenge the sanctity of Whitby Abbey.

Except for Atreus.

He wasn’t only challenging it, he was assaulting it.

Markus watched as Atreus lifted himself onto the wall and bailed over the side, into the darkened confines of the cloister. Markus followed suit, coming down on the opposite side of the wall where it was peppered with a few pine trees that had been bent by the winds off the sea.

Wind that was picking up now.

It was dark and shadowy in the cloister as Atreus and Markus crouched low. They began to move, sticking close to the wall, heading for the long dormitories, or what seemed to be dormitories, off to the south. The walls of the structure were solid and the windows placed high for ventilation, but not viewing. The nuns inside were meant to sleep, not daydream by gazing from the windows.

There was to be no comfort.

The sun was nearly down by the time they slipped over to the dormitory. Atreus motioned Markus over and, in a few hand signals, described what he needed from him. Unhappy, Markus used his hands to boost Atreus up against the wall of the dormitory. Then, he positioned himself so that Atreus could stand on his shoulders and peer through one of those high windows. Atreus could barely see because the windows were quite high, but he could see enough.

He jumped down, falling to his knees and pulling Markus down beside him.

“The dormitory is empty,” Atreus whispered. “It’s vespers, so they must be in the sanctuary for prayer.”

Markus glanced up at the window high overhead. “Did you see anyone at all?”

Atreus shook his head. “I thought that if she was being punished then mayhap she would be there, mayhap even chained to the bed, but there is no one.”

Markus looked around the darkened yard. “There must be a vault here,” he muttered. “A storage room, someplace they might keep prisoners or those being punished.”

“A vault in an abbey?” Atreus asked skeptically.

“Many abbeys have them.”

Atreus wasn’t sure. “I do not know the layout of this place, so I could not tell you,” he said. “Mayhap we need a hostage to tell us what we need to know.”

Markus wasn’t going to try and stop him. They’d come this far.

“Then let’s find one,” he said. “Better still, why not simply walk into the sanctuary and demand to see Mariana? If they deny us, we’ll not take kindly to it.”

“Threaten them?”

Markus rolled his eyes. “I have already invaded the sanctuary of an abbey,” he said. “My wife is going to be furious with me, so we may as well go all the way with it. You want Mariana? Then let us stop sneaking around and get on with it. I’ll flash my broadsword around and scare them into compliance.”

Atreus grinned. “I swear I will not tell your wife.”

Markus didn’t seem comforted by that. In fact, he was vastly uncomfortable with what they were doing, but he was doing it for his cousin. The House of de Wolfe was deeply loyal to one another, even in a foolish folly, and he knew that Atreus would have been the first one to support him in anything questionable. Even something as stupid as raiding an abbey. Now, he wanted to go through the front door, into the sanctuary, and get this over with.

Atreus couldn’t agree more.

Climbing back over the cloister wall, they were faced with the main entry to Whitby Abbey. Enormous and towering, it was the start of a sanctuary that was one of the largest in the north, an enormous fortress that stretched several hundred yards to the south. The entry was elaborate, a Norman arch that had been only recently built because Whitby, as a religious site, had been around long before the Normans. The Angles, the Danes, and everything in between had worshiped here. As they stood at the door, Markus unsheathed his sword.

“Open the door, Atreus,” he said, his tone low and threatening. “If we are going to do this, let us do it now.”

Atreus unsheathed his sword also. He was about to shove open the door when he heard it.

Screaming.

He looked at Markus in surprise, who was gazing back at him with equal surprise. After a moment or two of staring at each other, something told Atreus to find the source of that screaming. It was just a hunch he had.

They began to run in the direction of the screams.

*

The Mother Abbess still had her by the hair.

Mariana couldn’t do much about it, but she knew, instinctively, that she didn’t want to go where the Mother Abbess was taking her. Mariana dug in her heels and fought back, but the Mother Abbess was strong. She pulled on her hair mercilessly until Mariana was forced to give or lose it by the roots.

Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth were shoving at her from behind.

They were taking her outside, dragging her through the mud, through the garden that was to the south of the cloisters, pulling her down the side of the massive abbey as Mariana resisted as hard as she could. She finally threw herself onto the ground, making it more difficult for them to drag her by her hair, but Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth each grabbed an arm and began to tow her like some unwieldy barge.

Thwarted in her struggles, Mariana changed tactics and went limp, making herself dead weight so they had to adjust their grips, but the moment they did, she was grabbing handfuls of mud and shoving it into their faces. Sister Rachel was tough and maintained her hold in the face of the onslaught, but Sister Ruth had mud shoved up her nose and into her mouth, and she fell to the side, coughing and snorting as Mariana turned into a wildcat and struck Sister Rachel across the face with her free hand.

Sister Rachel hit her back.

The fight went on.

Somehow, they managed to pull Mariana around the south end of the abbey with the graveyard beyond. There was a wall around it, with the wooden gate slamming around in the wind. Sister Ruth was back, her face dirty and her eyes red from having mud rubbed into them, and she grabbed Mariana with renewed determination. The Mother Abbess let go of Mariana’s hair long enough to open the gate so they could drag her through it.

The chilly, eerie graveyard awaited.

Mariana grabbed hold of the wall as they tried to pull her through the gate, holding fast as they pulled. She ended up dragging her fingernails across the stone, bloodying her nails with her efforts, but in the end, she couldn’t maintain her grip. They pulled her into the old graveyard as the wind howled and the clouds gathered overhead. The Mother Abbess, enraged and determined, grabbed her by the hair again and yanked.

“Had you only been obedient, you would not have come to this end,” she said over the noise of the wind. “You have shamed me for the last time, Mariana, and you shall pay the price. I will indeed tell your father than you have left Whitby, but it will be to tell him that you have been sent to an order in Scotland because you have decided an order of solitude better suits you. I will tell him that, in the end, you became a good and obedient girl who has chosen to live out her life in the isolation of the Highlands. He will believe me because there will be no evidence otherwise.”

Mariana was digging her feet into the wet earth of the cemetery, plowing up chunks of grass and dirt as they yanked her along. She couldn’t see where they were going, but she suspected they were going to throw her over the cliffs. That realization brought screams of terror from her lips.

“You… you evil witch!” she screamed. “You’ll not get away with this! My husband will come looking for me and he will know what you have done. He will kill you! Do you hear me? He will kill you!”

The Mother Abbess came to a confused halt. “Husband?” she demanded. “What is this madness?”

Mariana used the Mother Abbess’ momentary confusion against her. Reaching up, she raked her bloody, broken nails against the Mother Abbess’ wrist. When the woman gasped and drew back, Mariana lashed out and kicked her in the hip.

The Mother Abbess cried out in pain as Mariana began swinging her fists at Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth. Sister Ruth was vulnerable and the first one to go down, but Sister Rachel held firm. It was a fist-hitting and open-palm slapping fight between her and Mariana as Mariana tried to break the woman’s hold. There was also a good deal of screaming and yelling going on, mostly from Mariana. But that all ended quickly when something struck Mariana on the back of the head.

Down she went into the mud.

Breathing heavily, the Mother Abbess stood there with a shovel in her hand, one of the shovels left behind by the men from the village who had come to clear Sister Margaid’s grave.

“Now,” the Mother Abbess said, ruffled and muddy and unlike her usually collected self. “I want to hear you beg for your life, Mariana. You are an arrogant chit, stubborn and willful. For once in your life, surrender that arrogance. Beg for your life.”

Hovering above unconsciousness, Mariana bellowed as loudly as she could. “Never!”

That wasn’t the answer the Mother Abbess wished to hear. “Beg me for your life, I demand it,” she shouted. “Say ‘for the love of God, Mother Abbess, spare me this hell’.”

Mariana lifted her head and managed to see an open grave several feet away. She was seeing stars and her ears were ringing. Any attempt to rise had the world rocking unsteadily, but she wasn’t so dazed that she didn’t understand what was happening or what was being asked of her.

Terror and defiance went hand in hand.

“I’ll not say it,” she hissed. “I’ll not say it and you cannot make me.”

The Mother Abbess still had the shovel in her hands. She used it to point to the open grave. “Do you see that?” she said. “It is meant for you, Mariana. We were to bury old Sister Margaid today, but I think you would be a better resident of the cold and dreary earth. I can hide my greatest failure in plain sight and no one will ever know. Beg me, Child. If you do not wish to be put into the ground, then beg me. Say ‘for the love of God, Mother Abbess, spare me this hell’.”

Mariana took a deep breath to steady herself, gazing over at the hole beneath the old Yew tree. Her terror was becoming rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. She struggled to think clearly since the three of them could more than likely toss her into a grave she couldn’t easily climb out of. She’d fought and kicked the entire way into the graveyard, but now the stakes had just been raised.

She had to think clearly or she was dead.

She had to stall for time until her head cleared sufficiently. Then, she could run down the hill and across the footbridge, to The Duchess and The Angel where Atreus was still waiting for her. She knew he wouldn’t simply leave her, so he was probably thinking that she had been delayed somehow. But it would be a permanent delay if she couldn’t get to him and seek his help. It was clear that these women were going to kill her.

Therefore, she had to kill them first.

Any way she could.

“Will that make you spare me?” she asked, lifting her head and feeling terrible pain down her neck as she did. “If I beg you, will that make you spare me?”

The Mother Abbess cocked her head. “Mayhap,” she said. “Mayhap I will spare you, but I have not decided yet. It depends how sincere you are.”

Mariana simply lowered her head. She wasn’t going to beg, no matter what the Mother Abbess said. The blow to her head had knocked her senseless for a few moments, but she was feeling a little stronger. Strong enough to fight back if she could only get to her feet.

But she had to lull them into a false sense of security first.

She needed more time to recover.

Collapsing back into the mud, she lay very still, pretending that unconsciousness had finally claimed her. She wanted them to let their guards down. The Mother Abbess called to her a couple of times but she didn’t answer, feigning unconsciousness but watching everything through slitted eyes. The Mother Abbess even kicked her in the back but she didn’t stir.

Not yet…

Mariana saw quite clearly when the Mother Abbess let her shovel fall to the ground just a few feet away while she instructed Sister Rachel and Sister Ruth to ensure that the grave was open enough that they could put her in there without trouble. With the rains they’d had, the sides had evidently caved in a little, something the men from the village were supposed to have shored up earlier.

As they began to move around, Mariana went into action.

Pushing herself up, she threw herself at the shovel the Mother Abbess had dropped. She managed to make it to her knees as Sister Rachel ran at her, but she swung the shovel at Sister Rachel’s legs, sweeping them out from underneath her.

Sister Rachel screamed an unearthly howl.

Mariana struggled to her feet, chopping the shovel down on Sister Rachel’s chest, carving a massive gash into her sternum. By this time, the Mother Abbess had the other shovel and was heading in Mariana’s direction while Sister Ruth cowered fearfully by the wall. When Mariana saw the Mother Abbess stalking her, she lifted the shovel defensively.

“You’re not going to throw me into a grave,” she growled. “I am not going to beg you to spare me. If you want to kill me, then I invite you to try. But I’ll not make it easy for you.”

The Mother Abbess came closer. “Say ‘for the love of God, Mother Abbess, spare me this hell’.”

“Never!”

The Mother Abbess smiled thinly. “Disobedience was always your trouble,” she said. “The devil is calling to you, Mariana. Will you answer his call? He is waiting for you at the gates of hell.”

“Nay, lady. He is waiting for you.”

The male voice came from behind, from the darkness. Mariana gasped, turning around to see Atreus and another knight she didn’t recognize approaching out of the darkness. Both of them had their broadswords in-hand, both of them dressed for battle.

The archangels had arrived.

Dropping the shovel, Mariana ran in Atreus’ direction as fast as her shaking legs would carry her.

“Atreus!” she wept. “Help me! She wants to kill me!”

Atreus grabbed her as she came close, pulling her behind him protectively as he remained focused on the woman with the shovel. He couldn’t even speak to Mariana because all of his attention, his rage, was on the tall, slender woman in the woolen robes.

It was the only thing he could see.

“Sir Atreus,” the Mother Abbess said, the usual confidence out of her voice. She sounded nervous. “We thought you were about when our dear Mariana left us last night. I see that we were correct in our assumption.”

Atreus’ gaze never left her. “You were planning on putting Mariana in that grave,” he said. “You know that I cannot let that go unpunished.”

The Mother Abbess struggled with her composure, looking between the two very big knights. “I… I was attempting to frighten her,” she said. “She must be punished for what she has done. Truly, I only meant to scare her.”

“That is not true,” Mariana said, standing mostly behind Atreus. “You were going to put me in that grave and bury me alive.”

“Are you certain?” Atreus asked her quietly, never taking his eyes from the Mother Abbess. “You have no doubt?”

Mariana was near tears now that Atreus was here. “She told me that I was an embarrassment to her,” she said. “She told me that she was going to tell my father that I had decided to join an isolated order in Scotland to explain my disappearance from Whitby. That grave is meant for an old nun who died this week, but she told me she was going to bury me in it and hide me in plain sight, from everyone.”

The Mother Abbess’ gaze was darting between Markus, Atreus, and Mariana. “She is lying,” she said. “I was never going to do that. You see what damage she has done here, how she has injured Sister Rachel. She is mad and must be punished!”

Atreus wasn’t going to tolerate a woman who had held all of Whitby in fear for quite some time. He wasn’t going to listen to her try and pin the blame on Mariana because he knew that Mariana was telling the truth. He had seen and heard enough of this situation to know that. But he also knew that if he took her and fled at this moment, it wouldn’t be the end. The Mother Abbess’ evil would follow them for the rest of their lives.

A woman like this was malevolent without end and Mariana would never be safe as long as Gunilda Dunsley lived.

“Markus,” he said after a moment. “Will you please take Lady Mariana back to town? I have something I must do and I do not want either of you here.”

Markus looked at Mariana. The poor woman was muddy and bloody, beaten within an inch of her life. He knew what Atreus was planning without even asking him.

Not that he disagreed with him.

“I’ll do what needs to be done,” he said quietly. “You take Mariana back to town. She needs you.”

Atreus looked at him then. “This is my fight,” he said. “I will not ask you to dirty your hands with what must be done.”

As Atreus and Markus gently argued, Mariana found her courage again. She had two big knights to prevent anything terrible from happening to her, so her bravery returned. She came out from behind Atreus and took a few steps towards the three women near the grave. Reaching down, she picked up the shovel she had dropped and looked straight at the Mother Abbess.

“Get in that grave,” she rumbled.

The knights stopped bickering and looked at her, shocked, as the Mother Abbess’ expression shifted to one of abject horror.

“Mariana,” she said. “Surely you know I was only disciplining you. Surely you know that I was only trying to scare you into obedience.”

Mariana raised the shovel like a club. “I said get into the grave,” she said. “I will not tell you again.”

The Mother Abbess realized she wasn’t joking. She was deadly serious and she had two enormous knights to support her. Somehow, the cold and calm woman with ice water in her veins began to show emotion.

“Nay,” she breathed. “You cannot mean it.”

Mariana’s answer was to shove at Sister Rachel with her foot, pushing the wounded woman across the mud while Sister Rachel shrieked and begged. But Mariana didn’t let up, she pushed the woman all the way into the grave, into about two feet of water that was lingering at the bottom.

Sister Rachel fell in with a splash.

Mariana looked at the Mother Abbess.

“Get in,” she said steadily.

The Mother Abbess started to run, grabbed by Markus. The cold, emotionless woman who had terrorized countless nuns and postulates began to scream and plead for her life as Atreus retrieved the shovel from Mariana’s hands and pulled her away from the grave.

“I want you to go to the abbey entrance and wait for me,” he said, his tone as icy as the night air. “Go now and stay there until I come for you. Do you understand?”

Mariana looked into the face of the man she loved, seeing something hard in his features that she had never seen before. This was a man of duty, of conviction, and above all else, of judgment and justice. On this night, he was going to dispense justice.

She knew that as she looked at him, without question.

“I do,” Mariana said after a moment. “If that is what you wish.”

“It is. I will not be long.”

“She was going to kill me, Atreus.”

“I know, love.”

He let go of her, watching her walk through the graveyard towards the gate that led to the front of the abbey. When she was halfway through the graveyard, he turned his attention back to the Mother Abbess.

She was standing next to the grave with Markus a few feet away. The expression on her face was not a familiar expression for a woman of her status – there was fear and uncertainty, as naked as the night was long. He could feel her terror like a palpable thing, a woman who had terrorized so many. Now, she was getting a taste of what she regularly doled out.

Lowering the sword, Atreus headed in her direction.

“Mariana has told me of the despicable way you treat your charges,” he said. “She has told me of the starvation and the beatings. I have seen Mariana with bruises on her face, but still, I tried to do the right and proper thing. I did not steal her from you. I did not violate the sanctity of the abbey in my quest to be with her. I respected the church when it did not respect her. But tonight… this goes beyond what I believed you were capable of, as a woman ordained by God. The devil lives within you, Woman. Perhaps you should meet him personally.”

The Mother Abbess began to tremble. “I do not know what you have been told, but I am a woman of God,” she said. “I do God’s work. He speaks to me. Mariana is wicked and you must not listen to her. Even her father says she is wicked. She lies to you and you believe her.”

All Atreus could see was defiance. “Get in the grave.”

The Mother Abbess shook her head, so vigorously that her wimple began to come undone. “Nay,” she pleaded. “I will not. I will not!”

“You were going to put Mariana into the grave. But you shall take her place.”

The woman put up her hands, begging. “Nay! Pray mercy!”

“Were you going to show Mariana any mercy?”

The Mother Abbess looked at Markus in panic. “Surely you will not allow this!” she cried. “Surely you see that he is filled with the devil, possessed by the demon that fills Mariana. The demon has taken over!”

Markus had seen and heard exactly what Atreus had. He knew the Mother Abbess was intending to bury Mariana alive and, as Atreus also knew, he was aware that leaving the woman alive would be to not only condemn Mariana to a lifetime of fear from a woman who would more than likely seek vengeance, but there was also the matter of Atreus threatening the woman of the cloth. If they left her alive, she would tell what happened. Her lies would work against Atreus and Mariana and Markus knew, as did Atreus, what had to be done.

Her evil had to die.

Reaching out, he shoved the woman in the arm, pushing her into the watery grave.

Then, he walked away.

As Markus headed back to where Mariana was waiting, he could hear the weak cries of the women in the open grave, joined by the third woman. All three had come to the graveyard this night to kill one of their own. In their evil hearts, they were set to murder an innocent woman. But the tides changed.

Tonight, justice would be served.

And it was.

The next morning, Atreus and Mariana were on a cog heading for London, sailing down the northern coast of England on surprisingly smooth seas, and Markus was heading back for Cheswick Castle trying to figure out what he was going to tell his wife about the whole misadventure.

He couldn’t tell her the truth.

Perhaps he wouldn’t tell her anything at all.

As the cog bearing Atreus and Mariana passed the cliffs where the graveyard sat, overlooking the North Sea, a lone black feather rested upon the mound of fresh earth on a grave nestled beneath an old Yew tree.

Somewhere beneath that dirt, evil finally slept.

The prophet of doom, such a fixture with the Mother Abbess, was never seen again after the abbess mysteriously disappeared. Some people thought they saw her specter roaming the graveyard on a full moon, while others said they caught a glimpse of her in the abbey itself, staying to the shadows. Still others said she became the raven, a fickle bird with an evil cry.

But no one knew for certain.

All they knew was that she had vanished, only to be seen…

Nevermore.

The End

Kathryn Le Veque Novels

Medieval Romance:

De Wolfe Pack Series:

Warwolfe

The Wolfe

Nighthawk

ShadowWolfe

DarkWolfe

A Joyous de Wolfe Christmas

BlackWolfe

Serpent

A Wolfe Among Dragons

Scorpion

StormWolfe

Dark Destroyer

The Lion of the North

Walls of Babylon

The Best Is Yet To Be

De Wolfe Pack Generations:

WolfeHeart

WolfeStrike

WolfeSword

WolfeBlade

WolfeLord

The Executioner Knights:

By the Unholy Hand

The Mountain Dark

Starless

The Promise (also Noble Knights of de Nerra)

A Time of End

Winter of Solace

Lord of the Shadows

Lord of the Sky

Splendid Hour

The de Russe Legacy:

The Falls of Erith

Lord of War: Black Angel

The Iron Knight

Beast

The Dark One: Dark Knight

The White Lord of Wellesbourne

Dark Moon

Dark Steel

A de Russe Christmas Miracle

Dark Warrior

The de Lohr Dynasty:

While Angels Slept

Rise of the Defender

Steelheart

Shadowmoor

Silversword

Spectre of the Sword

Unending Love

Archangel

A Blessed de Lohr Christmas

The Brothers de Lohr:

The Earl in Winter

Lords of East Anglia:

While Angels Slept

Godspeed

Age of Gods and Mortals

Great Lords of le Bec:

Great Protector

House of de Royans:

Lord of Winter

To the Lady Born

The Centurion

Lords of Eire:

Echoes of Ancient Dreams

Blacksword

The Darkland

Ancient Kings of Anglecynn:

The Whispering Night

Netherworld

Battle Lords of de Velt:

The Dark Lord

Devil’s Dominion

Bay of Fear

The Dark Lord’s First Christmas

The Dark Spawn

The Dark Conqueror

Reign of the House of de Winter:

Lespada

Swords and Shields

De Reyne Domination:

Guardian of Darkness

A Cold Wynter’s Knight

With Dreams

The Fallen One

Black Storm

House of d’Vant:

Tender is the Knight (House of d’Vant)

The Red Fury (House of d’Vant)

The Dragonblade Series:

Fragments of Grace

Dragonblade

Island of Glass

The Savage Curtain

The Fallen One

Great Marcher Lords of de Lara

Dragonblade

House of St. Hever

Fragments of Grace

Island of Glass

Queen of Lost Stars

Lords of Pembury:

The Savage Curtain

Lords of Thunder: The de Shera Brotherhood Trilogy

The Thunder Lord

The Thunder Warrior

The Thunder Knight

The Great Knights of de Moray:

Shield of Kronos

The Gorgon

The House of De Nerra:

The Promise

The Falls of Erith

Vestiges of Valor

Realm of Angels

Highland Warriors of Munro:

The Red Lion

Deep Into Darkness

The House of de Garr:

Lord of Light

Realm of Angels

Saxon Lords of Hage:

The Crusader

Kingdom Come

High Warriors of Rohan:

High Warrior

The House of Ashbourne:

Upon a Midnight Dream

The House of D’Aurilliac:

Valiant Chaos

The House of De Dere:

Of Love and Legend

St. John and de Gare Clans:

The Warrior Poet

The House of de Bretagne:

The Questing

The House of Summerlin:

The Legend

The Kingdom of Hendocia:

Kingdom by the Sea

Regency Historical Romance:

Sin Like Flynn: A Regency Historical Romance Duet

Gothic Regency Romance:

Emma

Contemporary Romance:

Kathlyn Trent/Marcus Burton Series:

Valley of the Shadow

The Eden Factor

Canyon of the Sphinx

The American Heroes Anthology Series:

The Lucius Robe

Fires of Autumn

Evenshade

Sea of Dreams

Purgatory

Other non-connected Contemporary Romance:

Lady of Heaven

Darkling, I Listen

In the Dreaming Hour

River’s End

The Fountain

Sons of Poseidon:

The Immortal Sea

Pirates of Britannia Series (with Eliza Knight):

Savage of the Sea by Eliza Knight

Leader of Titans by Kathryn Le Veque

The Sea Devil by Eliza Knight

Sea Wolfe by Kathryn Le Veque

Note: All Kathryn’s novels are designed to be read as stand-alones, although many have cross-over characters or cross-over family groups. Novels that are grouped together have related characters or family groups. You will notice that some series have the same books; that is because they are cross-overs. A hero in one book may be the secondary character in another.

There is NO reading order except by chronology, but even in that case, you can still read the books as stand-alones. No novel is connected to another by a cliff hanger, and every book has an HEA.

Series are clearly marked. All series contain the same characters or family groups except the American Heroes Series, which is an anthology with unrelated characters.

For more information, find it in A Reader’s Guide to the Medieval World of Le Veque.

About the Author

Bringing the Medieval to Romance

KATHRYN LE VEQUE is a critically acclaimed, multiple USA TODAY Bestselling author, an Indie Reader bestseller, a charter Amazon All-Star author, and a #1 bestselling, award-winning, multi-published author in Medieval Historical Romance with over 100 published novels.

Kathryn is a multiple award nominee and winner, including the winner of Uncaged Book Reviews Magazine 2017 and 2018 “Raven Award” for Favorite Medieval Romance. Kathryn is also a multiple RONE nominee (InD’Tale Magazine), holding a record for the number of nominations. In 2018, her novel WARWOLFE was the winner in the Romance category of the Book Excellence Award and in 2019, her novel A WOLFE AMONG DRAGONS won the prestigious RONE award for best pre-16th century romance.

Kathryn is considered one of the top Indie authors in the world with over 2M copies in circulation, and her novels have been translated into several languages. Kathryn recently signed with Sourcebooks Casablanca for a Medieval Fight Club series, first published in 2020.

In addition to her own published works, Kathryn is also the President/CEO of Dragonblade Publishing, a boutique publishing house specializing in Historical Romance. Dragonblade’s success has seen it rise in the ranks to become Amazon’s #1 e-book publisher of Historical Romance (K-Lytics report July 2020).

Kathryn loves to hear from her readers. Please find Kathryn on Facebook at Kathryn Le Veque, Author, or join her on Twitter @kathrynleveque. Sign up for Kathryn’s blog at www.kathrynleveque.com for the latest news and sales.

Into the Night

Chasity Bowlin

Prologue

October 29th, 1828

MATRIMONY—Respectable lady of independent means—2,000 pounds per annum—aged 29. Seeking respectable gentleman of commensurate means for matrimony. Must have independent residence. Discretion required and will be reciprocated. Reply via third party, M. Waldroop, at 28 Loughton Place in London.

From the Advertisements of The Manchester Gazette, Published September 21st, 1828.

The Ancient Ram Inn was like so many buildings in rural England. Of indeterminate age and lacking straight lines and crisp angles, every stone and timber seemed to be stacked so precariously that even the faintest breeze could send it tumbling to the ground. Despite its appearance, it was holding firm in the face of gale force winds and slashing rain.

It had not been an easy journey. The roads had been bogged down in mud, the muck and mire sucking at the wheels and the horses’ hooves until they were barely keeping to the public stage’s schedule. The coach had also leaked, rivulets of rain seeping in and running down the walls to drip on unsuspecting passengers as they attempted to sleep in the rocking conveyance. Indeed, if the journey were to last much longer, they might need to begin bailing out the interior with buckets.

For Miss Clara Pennington, the very idea of sleep had been a distant dream. Leaving London and all that she knew in life behind, the journey to Wotton-under-Edge was intended to be a new beginning for her. Now, it seemed that new beginning was to be birthed under every terrible omen possible.

Delays. Horrific storms. Broken wheels. Lame horses. One of her fellow travelers had fallen ill. The woman she had hired to act as her companion for the journey had removed herself at Swindon, claiming to have had some sort of vision of evil. It was all superstitious rot, of course. She hoped. She herself had battled nausea from the terrible rocking of the coach and her position facing backwards on the ride. She’d been sandwiched between a portly and none-too-clean farmer and a young woman who was so painfully shy she’d uttered not a word on the journey.

Still, in comparison to what fate would have had in store for her had she remained in London, nothing she encountered on her journey would be too great a trial. It was time she began living her own life, after all. Years of devotion to those who could not be bothered to care for her in return had brought her to this juncture and there was no going back.

The carriage finally came to a halt in the inn yard. It was tucked behind the inn itself, bracketed by the two converging wings of the inn which formed a large L shape. When at last she could finally rise from her seat and climb down from the carriage with the assistance of the coachman, her knees were wobbly and her back ached. Every muscle was stiff and sore from hours of cramped inactivity. It was all she could do to limp painfully toward the building, her valise in tow.

Entering the main room of the inn, there was a long bar and several tables. Her other travelers found perches for themselves. There was also a large fireplace with a roaring blaze burning it. Clara moved toward it, eager for the warmth and the chance to dry her damp clothing.

But as she neared it, she realized even the heat of the blaze did nothing to abate the chill. Looking about for a draft, she noted that high on the wall was a terrifying stuffed ram’s head. Clara shivered. It had nothing do with the wind or the rain nor her damp clothing. A sense of foreboding filled her, a heavy and oppressive sense of uneasiness that was unlike anything she had ever experienced. Was that a harbinger of what was to come?

For the longest time, she stood there. The rain continued to pour. Other coaches came, heading into different directions throughout the countryside. One by one, her fellow travelers left her. Eventually, she was alone. Only the innkeeper remained, cleaning tankards behind the bar. A dog lounged at the end of the bar near enough to him that his swishing tail would brush the man’s legs.

“We’ve rooms, Miss, to let, if you’ve a mind,” the man finally offered. “I don’t know what someone was to meet you here or not, but the storm’s fierce yon. Might be holed up to wait it out.”

“I’m certain that is what it is,” Clara agreed. She wasn’t, but it felt better to say so. “If you don’t mind, I will wait a bit longer.”

“Tis fine with me, Miss. Got nowhere else to be.”

Clara did seat herself at that point, taking a chair before the fire that had been vacated by the shy girl from the coach. She wanted nothing more than to shed her wet clothing, to remove the sodden leather boots that were caked with mud from the inn yard.

The doors opened once more and a dark-cloaked figure appeared there, silhouetted against the wind and slashing rain. Her heart pounded in her chest and she could feel her blood pulsing wildly in her veins. It felt suddenly as if she couldn’t breathe deeply enough, as if her lungs would not expand fully. Her stays were not laced so tightly as to have that result.

The stranger stepped fully inside, closing the door behind him. When he pushed back the hood, he revealed a shock of wavy black hair and chiseled features that appeared quite harsh in the firelight. He closed the distance between them until he stood just on the other side of the table she occupied.

“Miss Pennington?” he asked.

Clara rose then, breathless and jittery. “You are Mr. Ravenau?”

He nodded. “Yes. I apologize for my tardiness. There were difficulties on the road here.”

“I…” Clara trailed off. She wanted to tell him it was of no concern, but the words wouldn’t form. In fact, the entire room seemed to be spinning about her.

“Miss Pennington?”

It seemed his voice was very far away, coming to her from a great distance. Clara swayed. She could feel herself listing, then falling, pitching forward as it appeared the stone floor was rushing up to meet her. But there was no jarring contact. The world went pitch dark before that ever happened.

Chapter One

Miss X.,

I have posted this reply to your advertisement via M. Waldroop as instructed. I hope that it finds you well and still agreeable to the notion of matrimony. I am a respectable gentleman of means, aged four and thirty, and I am in possession of my own residence. I have a large estate in the Cotswolds that I have only recently inherited. I should, in the interest of being entirely forthright, tell you that a large portion of my inheritance is contingent upon my procuring a bride in an expeditious fashion. I deduced from your advertisement, and perhaps this is merely my own desperation informing my interpretation, that there is some degree of urgency for you, as well. Should you wish to marry as a somewhat practical arrangement and forgo the normal rituals of courtship, I hope that you will consider this reply an adequate proposal. If that is not amenable to you, then I wish you all the best in future matrimonial endeavors and pray that fortune and fate smile on you in your search. If you do wish to proceed, please respond with the necessary information that I may procure a license. I am not at liberty to attend you in London, but we may wed in the Catherine Chapel at St. Mary’s Church in Wotton-under-Edge, as that is my home parish.

Sincerely,

Mr. Simon Ravenau

Simon Ravenau was not accustomed to keeping the company of gently bred women. In truth, he was not accustomed to keeping much company with women at all. As a former soldier, he’d served in the deserts of Egypt, the jungles of India, and then deep in the heart of Africa. For fifteen years, he’d traveled where and when the crown told him to. But upon the death of his aunt and the strange conditions she’d put on his inheritance, selling out his commission and returning home had been his only option.

It was strange being in the English countryside again. And cold. It was so terribly cold. Perhaps it was his unfamiliarity with women and their vagaries, or perhaps it was that his own instincts and reflexes were deadened by the cold and damp. Either way, it was almost too late before he even realized the woman before him was in a swoon. Had it not been for the innkeeper’s shout of alarm, he might not have recognized it at all. As it was, he barely caught her before she hit the stone floor.

With the weight of her and her sodden wool traveling clothes in his arms, he turned back to the innkeeper. “Have you a room for her?”

“Aye, sir. Up the stairs. There’s two rooms to be let, one up and one down… but I wouldn’t put her in the downstairs room. Not for nothing,” the man said.

Simon frowned at that very odd response but did not question it openly. Instead, he dutifully followed the man up the creaking stairs of The Ancient Ram Inn.

On the narrow landing, the innkeeper stopped. “I won’t go in that room. But you can see her settled. I’ll wait out here to be certain it’s proper like.”

The man had just said he would not enter the room. Would impropriety on Simon’s part suddenly result in a change of heart? Would he rush to her rescue then? The entire evening had been remarkably strange. “There’s no lock on that door,” Simon noted.

“Don’t need locks. They don’t work here anyway,” the innkeeper replied. He then shuddered violently. “I changed my mind. I’ll be below stairs.”

Simon recognized the expression on the innkeeper’s craggy face. He’d seen it. Countless times, he’d witnessed it on men as he led them into battle, as they prayed on the surgeon’s table for a limb or a life to be spared in the aftermath. He’d seen it on fellow officers as they faced strange and powerful things from cultures so ancient they could not be fathomed. Had he not seen grown men weep in terror as a village shaman had hurled curses upon their heads? He knew fear. And the innkeeper, for what it was worth, was utterly terrified.

With the innkeeper beating a hasty retreat down the stairs, there was nothing for it but to see her into her chamber. Lifting the latch, he stepped over the threshold into the darkened room. The only light was what filtered in through the gaps in the floorboards from below stairs. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for him to make out the darker spaces where furniture was situated.

Crossing the room without incident, he placed her on the bed and then turned toward the small, dark shape next to it which he presumed was a table. As he turned, something in the corner of the room caught his eye. He turned to look, but it was so pitch black he couldn’t make out a thing. Almost ready to dismiss it as exhaustion, he started to turn back to the task of lighting a candle when he saw the darkness shift. Suddenly, there was light peeping from between floorboards where none had been before. Someone had been standing there. They had been standing in that corner and had moved as silently as the grave. In a building where every piece of wood was damp and rotten, swollen from years of heavy rainfall, there wasn’t a part of the building that was silent. Everything creaked and groaned.

“It’s a trick of the light,” he said, more to himself than to whomever or whatever occupied that room with them. “It’s a trick of the light and a product of my own exhaustion.”

Still, there was a moment’s hesitation as he reached for the tinderbox on the table and struck a match. The dim glow cast only a small circle of light. It revealed no hidden dangers, no lurking shadows. It was nothing but a simple attic room, not unlike every other inn he’d ever visited before. Leaning down to place that lit match to the wick of the candle, he still kept his eyes locked on that dim corner. It wasn’t until he heard a soft groan from the bed that he managed to pull his gaze away.

He turned back to the prone figure of the woman on the bed—the woman who would, in a few short hours, be his bride. It was no time for chasing shadows. She needed his assistance, and he would offer it.

“Miss Pennington, are you well?” he asked. “Is there something I can get for you? Food or drink?”

She opened her eyes slowly, staring at him in confusion for a moment. Then her gaze cleared. The fog, as it were, lifted. “No, Mr. Ravenau. Thank you for your kindness. I am well enough, now. Though to be perfectly frank, I’m not entirely certain what happened.”

“I believe that you swooned, Miss Pennington.”

“I have never swooned in my life, sir,” she said, heartily offended by the fact. “I am not given to such dramatics, I can assure you!”

“No doubt the fatigue from your journey and this abominable weather has taken a toll on you. It is not fit for man nor beast outside,” he offered.

She nodded. “Yes. I’m certain that is all. How did I get here in this room?”

“I carried you. It seemed more appropriate than leaving you in a taproom,” he offered. He thought of the strange, black shadow that had moved so stealthily in the darkened recesses of the room. “I have a room for myself, as well. Directly below you, I think. You have but to call out if you need anything during the night. I think this place is old and creaky and drafty. It can play tricks on the mind.”

“It is certainly…” she paused as if searching for the right word. “Atmospheric? Yes. Atmospheric, I think.”

“It is at that,” he agreed with a tight smile. “Rest, Miss Pennington. And we will talk in the morning. I took the liberty of riding into Gloucestershire several days past. I have obtained a common license. I think, given that you are traveling without a chaperone—”

“I had one. Initially. But she… she became ill early on in the journey and we parted ways. She returned to her family and I continued on alone,” she explained.

There had been some hesitancy in her report of having a chaperone and why said chaperone had abandoned her duties. It was the classic hallmark of an untruth, the slight hesitation. Curious, but unwilling to insult her by demanding a truthful answer, there was naught for him to do but ignore it.

“I had thought, with a chaperone, that we might at least wait a day or two before wedding so that we might be certain of our choice,” he stated. “But in the interest of propriety, I think perhaps we should consider a more expedient trip to the altar… presuming you still wish to wed.”

“Of course, I wish to wed. I have traveled such a distance and in a manner that would leave my reputation in tatters without a wedding. There is the other matter, of course.”

“What matter is that, Miss Pennington?”

She frowned, biting her lower lip in a clear indication of her indecision. Whatever it was, she was reluctant to say. Finally, after a moment, she sighed and confessed, “I have nothing to return to. My brother’s new bride has made it abundantly clear that there is no place for me in their home… and… well, my brother is opposed to the notion that I should live alone and wishes instead for me to become a companion. That is not at all the life I wish to have, Mr. Ravenau. I have been running his household for years. To suddenly find myself at the whims of another in such regards… I do not think I could bear it.”

Simon started to offer some pat answer but, instead, he elected for a rather a vulnerable truth. “I may be poor company for you, I’m afraid, though the house would certainly be your dominion. I have always been alone, Miss Pennington. Always.”

“Are you certain you wish to pursue marriage to me, Mr. Ravenau? I understand that I am not a beautiful woman. I’d hardly be qualified as passably pretty in society… but if you cannot even bring yourself to look at me—well, this may not be the best path for us.”

It was such a force of habit that Simon realized he’d been doing it unconsciously the entire time he’d been in her company. He’d kept the left side of his face turned away from her, hiding the jagged scar that arced over his cheekbone and disappeared just below his ear. “Forgive me. I was not consciously trying to conceal it or be deceitful. And my failure to look at you directly was only a long-standing habit to spare the unsuspecting.” And then he turned to face her fully, the light of the candle casting its dim glow over the wreckage of his face.

“Oh… you had said you were wounded in battle before resigning your commission. I had thought you must have taken a musket or pistol ball. But that wound was inflicted with a blade,” she commented, her tone neither repulsed nor morbidly curious. It was very flat and matter of fact, something he appreciated very much.

“Yes. It was a situation of close combat with an enemy… too close for firearms, but not for knives,” he replied. “Let me see to the fire, Miss Pennington. The room is too chilled for you to sleep in without it. Then I shall retrieve your case from below stairs.”

“Thank you, Mr. Ravenau. You have been too kind,” she said. “The journey… well, to say it has been fraught with difficulties would be quite the understatement. I did not realize how exhausted I was until I woke up here in the aftermath of fainting. I promise that it is not something I do with regularity. This, in fact, is a first!”

He smiled at that. “For your sake, I am glad to hear it. For my own, it was no hardship, Miss Pennington. It is what bridegrooms do, is it not? Carting their brides to and fro over thresholds?”

“Generally speaking, I thought it was only the one time that such was required,” she replied balefully.

Chapter Two

Mr. R.,

Thank you so much for your very timely and concise response. Normally, I would not be impulsive, but you were correct in assuming that there is a degree of urgency about my situation. My brother, with whom I reside, is scheduled to be married in two weeks. His bride has given an ultimatum. I must be vacated from his home prior to their nuptials or she will leave him at the altar. To spare my brother this unhappiness, I have undertaken the task of finding myself a husband and a home of my own. Naturally, I will require some proof that you are all you have claimed to be. If you have documentation of your identity and inheritance, you may forward that to M. Waldroop. I have enclosed here a letter from the executor of my trust at the Bank of London. It should provide adequate corroboration of my income. In light of our new, if tentative status as a betrothed couple, I sign this letter with…

Respectfully yours,

Miss Clara Pennington

Clara lay in the darkness of her attic room. The covers were pulled up to her chin. A fire burned low in the hearth, laid by Mr. Ravenau for her comfort. He’d returned shortly, after leaving her there with the fire blazing high, to bring her valise and a tray bearing bread, cheese and ale. He’d informed her, his tone indicating no small degree of irritation, that the innkeeper was no longer downstairs. The items had simply been left on the bar for them.

They’d shared a bite to eat together and then he’d gone. But she was acutely aware of the fact that he occupied the chamber below her. Nothing separated them but a few rickety boards.

It was terribly improper, but then impropriety had hardly been upheld throughout her journey. Thinking of the runaway chaperone and her vague, ominous warnings about darkness and wickedness, Clara could not help but wonder what the woman had been speaking of. Could it be Mr. Ravenau?

Even if that were true, and the woman did have some sort of mystical insight into the future, she did not have the luxury of refusing him. By mutual agreement, they would wed in the morning, but it was still scandalous beyond measure. If word were to reach anyone in London, she would be ruined entirely.

But London was no longer her life, she reminded herself. If that thought brought bitterness, so be it. She was entitled to be bitter. She’d never had a season. She’d never once considered leaving her brother’s side to seek a husband and a life of her own. He’d pursued his political ambitions and she’d been his hostess and chatelaine. Until he’d met Moira. He’d asked the young woman to marry him and she’d agreed, contingent upon the fact that she be queen of her own castle. And so she’d been ousted from the only home she’d ever known. It was James to whom she directed her ire. Moira was a spoiled child, after all. Her brother should have shown more loyalty to her, he should have shown more appreciation for all that she’d given up to take care of him.

Tears threatened and Clara dashed them away.

They all lie. No woman sheds tears what a man hasn’t brought them to her eye.

Clara didn’t move. She didn’t blink. It hadn’t been a thought. It had been a whisper. An audible whisper in the room. It had sounded, she gulped, as if it had been uttered right next to her ear. Low and soft, it reminded her of the sort of whispers that only young girls who are bosom friends can understand.

But the room was silent around her. No more whispers. No hint of movement. There was nothing to indicate that she wasn’t alone… except for her own feelings. She felt observed. Watched. Something was in that room with her. It had not been so apparent when Mr. Ravenau had been there. But now, alone in her narrow bed, huddled under the blankets, she had to fight the urge to pull them over her head and cower beneath them as she might have done as a frightened child.

“I am not afraid,” Clara murmured aloud in the darkness. But even as she said it, her hand crept from the tightly clutched blanket to the small cross she wore on a chain at her neck. Closing her fingers about the dainty bit of gold, she began to pray. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name, Thy Kingdom come…”

A loud thump from the corner of the room interrupted her. Clara waited, silent and stone still. It happened again. Another loud thump and then the sound of something being dragged across her floor.

But there was nothing. The fire, low as it was, illuminated the room enough for her to see. There was no physical presence in that room with her, and yet the phantom sounds continued.

Paralyzed with fear, Clara could do nothing but lay there and listen to what sounded like a battle being waged around her. Terrified beyond imagining, even the familiar words to a prayer she’d been uttering since childhood were wiped from her mind. She could only lay there, clutching the blankets and silently entreating the Lord for protection.

*

In his own chamber, Simon had removed his mud-caked boots and his heavy overcoat, coat and waistcoat. Clad only in breeches and a shirt, he eased down onto the edge of the bed. It had been a bruising ride in the face of whipping winds and slashing rain. It was just over ten miles to Fairendale, his estate, but in such conditions, ten miles might well have been a hundred. He was cold, wet, tired and yet sleep seemed elusive to him.

Was it finally meeting the woman who had, sight unseen, agreed to be his wife? Was it the strangely foreboding location they found themselves in? The odd behavior of the innkeeper? Or was it simply his own discomfort? Deciding that was at least one issue he could correct, he rose and removed his damp shirt and breeches.

Completely nude, he stood in the center of the room and stretched, attempting to alleviate the stiffness of muscles brought on by a bruising ride in abominable weather. Of course, that was not the only source of physical discomfort.

From the moment he’d caught Miss Pennington as she swooned, the press of her body in his arms had sparked his libido. She was, despite her dismissive comments regarding her appearance, a lovely woman. And a lushly curved one. It had been a not inconsiderable length of time since he’d been with a woman. Not since the fight which had left his face so hideously scarred. Two years. Two years since he’d known pleasure from any hand but his own.

But she was directly above him. He’d seen firsthand just how little separated the two chambers. The last thing he needed was for her to overhear him, as the priests were wont to call it, abusing himself. So he stood there, painfully aroused, and prayed that the chilled air in the room would take some of the wind out of his sails, so to speak.

When he felt he could sit without maiming himself, he moved toward the bed and pulled back the sheets. They were dusty from disuse but smelled clean enough if a bit musty. The chill of the room was not having the anticipated effect or reducing his inconvenient libidinous response. Snuffing the candle burning low on the bedside table, he lay back on the bed and stared up at the ceiling. A small bit of light filtered down through the cracks in the shared boards.

Forcing himself to close his eyes, he tried to ignore his traitorous thoughts. He was willing himself to sleep when he first heard the noise. It was a shuffling sound, followed by a thump.

Sitting up, he waited. Was it Miss Pennington? Had something awakened her?

The door handle rattled. For a moment, it lifted, hovering there, then the door swung inward. Miss Pennington stood there, draped in a silk wrapper with her dark hair spilling about her shoulders in rich waves.

The woman he’d met in the taproom, the woman he’d spoken to in her chamber upstairs had been not necessarily shy, but certainly reserved. The woman standing in his doorway looked like a woman bent on seduction. There was no other word for it.

“Miss Pennington, you should not be here,” he said. “It is improper.”

She said nothing. Instead, she smiled and stepped deeper into the room, closing the door softly behind her. And then she did the thing he least expected. She shrugged her shoulders and the silk wrapper fell from her shoulders. She stood before him totally nude, her form shielded from his view only by the long fall of her dark hair as it draped over her shoulders. Like Botticelli’s The Birth of Venus, she was exquisite, a perfect female form.

“You do not know what you are doing,” he said.

She moved deeper into the room, her steps slow but not hesitant. It was almost like a dance, the way she moved. Serpentine. Her hips undulated in a way that was beyond tantalizing.

“Miss Pennington,” he began, but she didn’t respond to his voice. Instead, she stepped toward the fireplace and began to sway rhythmically, her body undulating in unison with the flames there. Her hands moved over her body, sliding beneath the fall of her hair to cup her breasts.

He hadn’t laid a fire in his room. He’d only done so upstairs for her.

You’re dreaming.

It’s a harmless dream.

Why not enjoy it?

She danced closer, her face shifting in the light in a way that unnerved him.

It’s only a dream.

She climbed on the bed, kneeling at the foot of it. Then she smiled, her lips parting to reveal a horrible sight—razor sharp teeth, long and black, dripping with a substance he could not name but suspected was blood. It wasn’t Miss Pennington at all. It was some sort of diabolical monster.

He tried to scream but the sound that emerged wasn’t his scream. It was feminine and sharp. And it came from above.

His eyes opened and he raised himself up in the bed. A fire burned in the hearth where he had not laid one. And he could smell perfume. It had not been a dream. What it had been, he did not know. But the screams, coming from Miss Pennington’s chamber, were priority in that moment.

Chapter Three

Clara couldn’t have said what it was that it had awakened her. In truth, given how uncomfortable she felt in her chamber, it was a miracle that she’d fallen asleep at all. Surely it was a reflection only of her extreme fatigue and naught to do with the comforts, or lack thereof, of the accommodations. Of course, she’d been bounced around in a public coach for days. Was it any wonder she was utterly exhausted?

Still, she was frowning into the darkness as she lay there in her narrow bed. The fire still burned. Despite its comforting presence, the room was ice cold. So cold, in fact, that she could see her breath frosting before her in the chilled air.

And then she heard it. It wasn’t the thumping and dragging sounds from before. It wasn’t even the whisper that she’d been able to convince herself was nothing more than a product of her own overwrought mind. This soft scratching sound was coming from the floor. Was it a rat? Some other sort of rodent or vermin? And yet, she’d heard rats before. She knew what it sounded like when an animal was trapped in a wall. That was not at all the same.

This was slow. Deliberate. Rhythmic. Menacing.

There was nothing furtive in the movements. Whatever was making that sound, it wanted her to know that it was drawing closer to her with each passing second.

Her fear was like a living thing. It coiled inside her, cold and clutching. It narrowed her throat, locking down her voice so that she couldn’t utter a sound. It paralyzed her muscles so that she couldn’t flee or even fight. She could only lay there and stare at the ceiling, praying that her senses were playing tricks upon her.

Scratch. Scratch. Scraaaatch.

Clara closed her eyes tightly. “It’s not real,” she managed to whisper. “It’s simply my own exhaustion. None of this is real.”

And then she felt it. Weight shifted the feather ticking beneath her. Something had climbed up the side of the narrow bed and was leaning over her, resting its weight on the edge of the bed.

Terrified to look, but even more terrified of what remained unseen, Clara’s eyes opened. The sight that greeted her was more horrific than any nightmare could ever have been.

A woman loomed above her. Dark hair hung in charred hunks around her ruined face. The smell of smoke and something else that was too horrifying for words infiltrated her senses.

The woman, if she was that, opened her mouth. But the sound that emerged was not a voice. It was a horrible groaning, keening cry that broke Clara’s own paralysis. Terrified beyond measure, Clara opened her mouth and screamed to the heavens. She screamed so long and so loud that her voice began to crack. She lost her breath from it. Her throat ached, and still she could not stop.

Not even when she heard the door crashing inward, when she heard a masculine voice shouting her name, did she stop.

*

He hadn’t even grabbed his breeches. Instead, he’d draped the coverlet from the bed about his hips and raced up the narrow stairs. When he threw open the door to Miss Pennington’s room, he could see her on the bed, her head thrashing from side to side as she screamed in terror. A black mist hovered over her, but even as he noted it, it drew in upon itself until it vanished into the nothingness. It was beyond his ken and like nothing he’d ever seen before.

His heart was hammering in his chest as he rushed in. Nothing he had ever encountered in his life had prepared him for the strange events that had occurred in a handful of hours in The Ancient Ram Inn.

“Are you hurt?” he asked her, approaching the bed. She’d covered her face with her hands and was sobbing, so his nudity, at the moment at least, was of no concern.

“Did you see her? Did you see her?” she demanded, dropping her hands from her face, revealing her wide-eyed and frantic state.

A sick feeling hit him in the gut. Her. Had the same creature, for surely what he’d seen downstairs was not a ghost, also been toying with the young woman who now sobbed brokenly before him?

“No,” he admitted. “I saw something, but it was not a woman. More of a mist for lack of better description. But it appeared to you as a woman?”

“I think so,” she admitted shakily. “She was burned. Horribly burned. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Well, whatever it was, it is gone now,” he said.

She lowered her hands, and then her gaze fell upon his naked chest. Quickly, she looked away, but not before he heard her gasp.

“I’m sorry. When I heard you scream, I didn’t bother to reach for my clothing. I felt speed was more important than modesty,” he admitted.

“No,” she said. “You are quite right. Mr. Ravenau, am I going mad? Has this place triggered some latent insanity within me that I was unaware of?”

“If so, it has been triggered in us both,” he replied. “But you cannot stay here alone. We will go to my chamber below stairs. It is not an ideal situation, but I fear what will happen to you alone here. And to me, honestly.”

Rising from the edge of her narrow bed, he caught the faintest whiff of smoke. And charred flesh. It was a scent he knew well from the battlefield. It was unmistakable. He’d encountered that particular odor more often in his life than he cared to recall. It was an assault on the senses that would always be unforgettable, no matter that he might wish otherwise.

“Will you turn around so that I can retrieve my wrapper?”

He did as she asked. Behind him, he heard the ropes of the bed creaking as she got to her feet. The rustling of fabric followed and then she let out a shaky breath.

“I am decent now.”

He glanced back at her. No silk wrappers in sight. Nothing draped the body in a seductive fashion. Hers was serviceable cotton with pretty embroidery and quilting. It was likely warm and snug, but not in the least seductive. Her hair did not flow freely over her body, but was bound in a heavy braid as black as the night beyond their small circle of illumination. Yet every other detail, down to the freckle beside her mouth was correct. Her peaked brows, her sooty lashes, the slight dimple of her cheek and even the perfect cupid’s bow of her mouth had all been perfectly reproduced by the thing he’d seen in his chamber. But he could not tell her of it. He needed her to feel safe in at least one room in that blasted and damned establishment.

Getting to his feet, he clutched his makeshift toga more tightly about himself and led her to the door. There, she climbed down the stairs first, holding carefully to the wall, and he followed behind her. When they reached his chamber, he opened the door and preceded her inside.

“You may have the bed,” he offered. “I will sleep on the floor.”

“You can’t possibly,” she protested.

“It’s improper—”

“So is robbing you of your bed. We have both traveled here under abhorrent conditions. We are tired and aching and exhausted beyond measure. It is improper only by a matter of hours, is it not?”

“And a significant change in status,” he reminded her.

“Well, yes… if you were to don at least some of your clothing, it would be significantly less inappropriate and I would not be consumed with guilt for leaving you to shiver on the floor,” she replied.

If he hadn’t just been very nearly seduced by a demon who’d shown itself to him wearing her face and form, he might have been less hesitant.

“Also, I think I would be less fearful if you were closer,” she admitted. “What just occurred… there were other instances up there—well, I ignored them much to my own detriment.”

“Fine,” he agreed. “Get in the bed and cover up. I can see you shivering from here. I’ll put more wood on the fire and do what I can to preserve your modesty.”

“Surely you mean to preserve your own modesty,” she said.

His eyebrows arched upward and he replied with complete honesty, “My dear, Miss Pennington, I have no modesty. I cover my nakedness for your benefit only.”

Chapter Four

Clara had no articulate reply to that. It left her positively dumbfounded. So she did as he said and climbed into the bed, pulling the covers up. If she had to examine it, she would suppose that he had no need for modesty or embarrassment. What she had seen of his form was as close to perfection as any man could be. With his broad shoulders and all the lean, corded muscle that rippled beneath his skin, she had recognized, in that moment, the beauty of the male form. It was something she had never considered before. It was not something she ought to be considering in that moment, given their current, very unorthodox situation.

After a long moment, punctuated only by the sounds of him donning his clothing, he walked past the bed to the fireplace and added more wood to the blaze. When he had done so, he turned back to face her. “Are you certain?”

“Yes. I couldn’t bear the thought that I was contributing to your discomfort,” she stated emphatically.

He let out a heavy sigh and then stepped toward the bed. “I will lie atop the covers. I am not cold and I feel, under the circumstances, compelled to keep watch. There are things afoot here that I cannot name and do not pretend to understand. Rest, Miss Pennington. I shall keep you safe.”

“Clara,” she said. “Surely, under the circumstances, given names would be more the thing.”

He might have laughed. The sound was indistinct. But there was a definite smirk on his face as he replied, “Would that be our impending marriage or the fact that we are sharing a bed?”

“I would think either should suffice,” she answered. She grew quiet then, the moment stretching out, and then asked the question that was truly bothering her, “Why did you resort to personal advertisements to find a bride? Surely a man such as you would not need to do so.”

“A man such as me?”

“A man who is handsome, young, with his own estate and not an insignificant fortune—you must know that by any stretch of the imagination that qualifies you as most eligible,” she pointed out. “Surely there must have been other options available to you.”

“Handsome is a generous description, I should think, all things considered.”

“Because you have a scar?”

“It was a very ordinary face before that,” he remarked. “I should think the scar takes it in a very different direction altogether.”

“Surely I would be a better judge of that. Do you not think?”

He did laugh then. “You are very difficult to argue with, Clara Pennington.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never argued with myself.”

“Surely I would be a better judge of that. Do you not think?” He parroted back at her. “And you, Clara? Why did you not find a husband through more traditional means?”

“I thought my brother needed me,” she replied. “He was politically ambitious and he insisted he had no time for marriage and a wife. So I ran his household. I hosted his parties and managed all of the day to day tasks so that he could focus on his career. And then he found time for marriage and a wife, and there was no longer a place for me.”

“And your parents?” Simon asked.

“They passed away when I was much younger. It was only ever me and James,” she said.

“He hurt you… he used you and then shut you out,” Simon observed.

“I think I hurt myself,” she mused. “James has never been one to care much for others or their feelings. I mistakenly thought it would be different as we had been so close all of our lives. But I’ve since realized that we were not close at all. I was merely convenient. I was never in his way. I was never demanding of his time. I made certain he had a hot dinner, clean laundry and a well-run household. I’m not certain, aside from those things, that he even knew I was present.”

“And yet, I do not doubt that had you failed to provide those services for him, you’d have a consequence—disapproval, belittlement, something,” he insisted.

“Have you met my brother?” she asked with a laugh.

“I have met men like him, I think. The army is full of them,” Simon replied. “You should sleep. I’ll keep watch, if you like.”

“I would like to sleep, though it seems terribly unfair to you. We are both exhausted. I will, but only if you promise to wake me in two hours so that you can take a turn sleeping.”

“If I become overly tired, I will,” he promised.

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s bad form to argue with your bridegroom.”

“We are sharing a bed in what can only be a haunted inn on the eve of our wedding, all of which was arranged via an advertisement in the papers. The heavens have quite literally opened and poured down upon us,” she answered. “I think it better to state that we are, at this point, remaining true to form.”

“Go to sleep, Clara,” he said with a grin. “Just go to sleep.”

*

It was an unnecessary instruction. Before he’d even completed the statement, her breathing had deepened and evened into a soft rhythm that told the truth of it. Sleep had already claimed her.

He took the opportunity to study her. It was a mixture of curiosity and attraction. She was lovelier than he would have anticipated. But it was a comparative analysis. He was looking for differences between the woman sleeping beside him and the creature who had entered his chamber in the guise of an erotic dream turned nightmare. And there were differences. Subtle ones, but still very much present. She was softer, her figure slightly fuller, her hair lit with hints of red and brown buried in those dark strands versus the inky black he’d seen earlier. So what had it been—figment, phantom or other?

A soft sigh escaped her then, her lips parting softly on that sound. The urge to kiss her, to test the softness of those lips, was overwhelming in that instant. It took all of his willpower to resist that urge.

Go on. Do it. She won’t stop you. She wants you to.

It was an insidious whisper, low and full of gravel. It was not, to his mind, a human voice. That voice was something else altogether. If he’d needed further proof that there were dark forces at work within the ramshackle walls of The Ancient Ram Inn, that voice provided it.

Unwilling to risk the temptation, he carefully removed himself from the bed and crossed the room to the hard and unforgiving chair positioned at a small desk beneath the window. It was habit as much as the alarming events of the evening that prompted him to position the chair so that his back would be against the wall.

Crossing his legs at the ankle and crossing his arms over his chest, he leaned back against the wall and kept watch over her. He would, despite their situation, protect her from the dangers of the inn and from himself if need be.

Chapter Five

He had not awakened her. As Clara stared at the sunlight that peeked in through the window, and at the man who sat in the unforgiving wooden chair beneath it, she was reminded yet again of how intimate their current situation was.

“You haven’t slept at all,” she accused.

He smirked slightly. “I dozed a bit. I’m used to getting little or no sleep. My years in the military required a certain degree of adaptability.”

“That was not our bargain,” she pointed out. “You look very tired.”

“And you look quite refreshed, so it was a small price to pay. You were so exhausted last night that you literally fainted. Now, I’ve no wish to leave you alone in here, but I know you will want to wash and dress. I shall take my chair and position it just outside the door.”

She hadn’t considered it, really. The prospect of being alone in the room, a closed door between her and the only other person in that terrifying space was not a pleasant one. Of course, getting out of that bed in the bright light of day, wearing only her nightrail and wrapper, and undertaking her morning toilette under his watchful eye was an equally terrifying prospect.

“I need my things from upstairs,” she said.

“I’ve retrieved them. At dawn… when it was light, I left you for a moment and went upstairs to collect your bags.”

Clara frowned at that. “What are you not telling me?”

He looked away. “I heard something and went to investigate. The moment I entered the room, however, the movement and noises simply stopped. I can only think that whatever is here is toying with us.”

“I agree. Wholeheartedly, I agree.” She shivered at the thought, but there was no denying it.

He rose then. “Get yourself together and we will go to the church. The sooner we can complete the ceremony, the sooner we can leave this place and its strange occurrences behind us.”

She was eager to do both. And if she were to be completely honest, her eagerness to see the ceremony done had little to do with her eagerness to leave The Ancient Ram Inn behind them. The more time she spent in his company, the more fascinating she found this man who was to be her husband. Despite their current situation, she felt safe with him. Protected. It was the strangest thing to realize that no one in her entire life had shown the consideration and concern for her that he, a stranger, had in one night. If that wasn’t a reflection of how sad her former life truly had been then nothing was.

Rising from the bed, she straightened her wrapper which had become twisted during the night and had become terribly revealing. She blushed to think how much he might have seen. But there was no time to focus on such things. The less time she had to spend by herself in that place, a place which did nothing so much as prey on one’s fears and play tricks on one’s mind, the better.

Crossing to the washstand, she poured water from the ewer into the basin and quickly scrubbed as best as she could. It was freezing even with the fire in the hearth, so she had no wish to linger over the task. When she was done, she looked around for her bag and found it placed near the door. Inside was a wool day dress dyed a pretty shade of periwinkle and trimmed with a slightly darker hue of velvet and adorned with an embroidered hem and cuffs. There was a matching spencer that wrapped and fastened beneath her arms with a button on each side. It was hardly what she would have chosen for a wedding gown, but it would do well enough as it had not been so crushed in her bag as more delicate fabrics would have been.

She had just finished dressing and seated herself at the small table near the window to attempt to do something with her hair when a soft knock sounded on the door. “Come in,” she called out.

The door opened then and Simon entered the room. While she had been more modest, he had no qualms about seeing to his morning ablutions with an observer. He washed his face and shaved—a fascinating process that she tried very hard not to appear overly watchful of.

It took some effort to comb all of the snarls from her hair despite having slept with it braided. Once that task was complete, she arranged it into a simple chignon and pinned it in place.

“There’s a livery near the church. I will procure a carriage there to see us home after the service,” he said. “Are you ready?”

Was she? Given that she’d spent the night in his bed, albeit platonically, she would have to be. “I am. Are we taking our things with us? If it’s all the same, I’d rather not return here unless absolutely necessary.”

“On that point,” he said, tying a simple knot in his neckcloth, “we are in complete agreement. I shall be quite content to never set foot in The Ancient Ram Inn ever again.”

*

The walk to the church was uneventful. If people in the small village looked at them somewhat askance, as they were complete strangers, there was nothing for it. His estate was very isolated and the small church there did not have a vicar at present. Wotton-under-Edge was the nearest church in the parish where they could be wed.

It was a strange and twisted confluence of events that had brought them to the small village, Simon thought. Fate seemed to be conspiring against them in some ways.

“I think perhaps we would have done better had I traveled to London to meet you,” Simon offered. “I think, in letting you travel so far from your home, without any sort of protection, that I’ve done you a disservice.”

“It would never have worked,” she said. “In fact, I didn’t tell my brother I was leaving.”

Simon’s steps faltered. “Pardon?”

Clara halted and met his gaze levelly. “James did not wish for me to marry. In part because if I do not, the annuity I receive would continue to be directed to him and then I would be forced to live on whatever he chose to grant me from it. He had no intention of permitting my marriage.”

“What, precisely, did he mean to do with you then?” Simon demanded.

“He was making arrangements for a position as a companion to the elderly mother of one of his colleagues. She’s a horrid woman. Her son is also… well, I couldn’t allow that to happen.”

Her brother had meant to let her live in penury to serve his own greed. But she was of an age where she did not need his permission to marry, at least. “There is less and less to like of him the more I hear.”

“You are not alone in your assessment of his character as lacking,” Clara agreed. “I should have been more forthright with you regarding my situation. I had intended to tell you the whole of it, but… I was so very tired and then so many things were happening that defied reason.”

“You are a woman grown. I have lived in enough places besides England to know that there are other parts of the world where women are regarded as mere property. I’ve learned well enough that they are far too often more capable and intelligent than their male counterparts. Your choice to defy your brother’s schemes for you are a point in your favor, Clara, not a black mark.”

She heaved a sigh of apparent relief. “I’m very glad you feel that way.”

They reached the church just as the vicar was opening the doors.

“Ho, good morning!” the man called out, bright and cheery despite his black garb. “How may I be of service to you fine people this morning?”

“We’ve come to be married. I have a license obtained in Gloucestershire,” Simon replied.

The vicar looked them up and down. “Are you from these parts? One of you must be, or I cannot attend you.”

“I am from Fairendale. Simon Ravenau,” Simon answered. “Newly returned from the army.”

“Ah, yes! I recall your aunt mentioning that she’d found a right and proper way to get you home,” the vicar said with a grin. “I dare not ask what it was. And you, Miss, from whence do you hail?”

“I am from London for the soul purpose of marrying Mr. Ravenau,” Clara replied. “My name is Clara Pennington. My brother is James Pennington.”

“The MP?” the vicar asked. “Read about him in the news sheets all the time! What a smart match you’ve made, Mr. Ravenau! Come on in, then. We’ll get the two of you properly wed! ’Tis a shame you won’t be able to head home right away.”

“Why ever not?” Clara asked.

“The river is too high. The ferry crossings are closed. Closest place to cross the Severn is north at the Iron Bridge,” the vicar explained. “One can take the long way about, but it’s a good two-day ride and there are no horses or carriages left to be had in the village.”

“How much longer is the long way around?” Clara asked.

“Another fifty miles to the bridge at the very least and then another fifty or so to Colefield on the other side of the river,” Simon replied. “Tell me, Vicar, is there another establishment besides The Ancient Ram Inn where we might obtain lodgings?”

The vicar’s friendly expression changed. He appeared instantly wary at the mention of the place. “Every other inn is booked. Many folks have been stranded by that mudslide. I’m sorry to say, The Ancient Ram Inn is all that’s left. Talked to a coachman come through this morning and even all the inns in Gossington are full up. There’s naught for you until you reach Gloucestershire and with the mud and the like, I don’t think you could make it by nightfall. Of course, I could always take you to Bristol in the morning. The channel will be fierce but there are ships crossing it daily to Newport. Tis the fastest way back to Colefield.”

“We would be greatly appreciative of that, sir,” Simon answered. Even if the only way though the Bristol Channel was rife with swift currents and treacherous conditions, it was their only option.

Stepping into the church, Simon walked with Clara to the altar. He repeated the words as the vicar instructed them, as did she. He even slipped a simple ring on her finger, a gold band set with a single large pearl and flanked by a pair of emeralds. It had belonged to his mother. But nothing about the momentous occasion of their marriage could overshadow one terrifying fact. They’d have to spend another night at The Ancient Ram Inn.

Chapter Six

It was with a heavy heart and leaden feet that Clara stepped over the threshold of The Ancient Ram Inn once more. The vicar and his wife had treated them to tea and scones in their drawing room and been artificially jovial. Prior to their leaving, the vicar had placed something in Simon’s hand and offered him well wishes that sounded an awful lot like a final farewell.

“It doesn’t seem nearly so dreadful during daylight hours,” she mused. It wasn’t true, of course. It was as horrid as ever. But she was trying so very hard to remain cheerful.

“Liar,” Simon murmured, so low that only she could hear.

There weren’t any patrons about to eavesdrop on their conversation, but there was an older man behind the bar.

“Good morning, sir and madam,” he said, inclining his head. His hair was completely white and all of it seemed to defy taming. It was as if each individual hair seemed determined to go in a completely different direction from any of its neighbors.

“Good morning, sir,” Simon replied. “We’ll be needing our rooms… er, room, for another night.”

“Another night you say?” the man asked, clearly puzzled. “How did you come to have a room here last night when the inn was closed?”

“Closed?” Clara asked. “But there was a gentleman here who served us ale and bread. He gave me the room upstairs and put Mr. Ravenau in the room just there behind the bar.”

The man’s expression tightened, becoming completely inscrutable. “Och, well, it makes no matter, now does it? You said you’ll only be needing the one room now? This is a respectable establishment. I’ll not be having any sort of fast behavior under my roof!”

“We were married this morning,” Simon explained. “You may check with the vicar if you like.”

The man nodded. “Well, I suppose I can trust you that far. I’ll be giving you the room behind the bar again. Only one with a bed big enough for two.”

Clara couldn’t stop the heated blush that crept over her cheeks. She stepped away from Simon as he paid the innkeeper. There were dozens of questions in her mind. Some about the inn and others still about what might happen when she and Simon were alone in that chamber now that they were married. Staring into the hearth, the low fire burning in the grate, she was absorbed in her own thoughts. When she felt something touch her arm, she let out a soft shriek and whirled, ready to defend herself. But immediately, her fears were allayed. It was Simon.

“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he offered. “This is not an ideal location to begin one’s married life. I wish the circumstances were more suitable.”

“I am happy to begin my married life wherever you are,” she replied. And it was true. They’d known one another but hours. And yet in those hours, he’d shown himself to be kind, brave, forward thinking and incredibly considerate. He was, if she’d ever given thought to marriage before, exactly the kind of husband she would have hoped for.

“We should retreat to our room. The innkeeper has stated he means to keep the taproom closed for the day and our presence out here might make others think he is open for business.”

There were no windows in the taproom that would permit anyone to see in. All were shuttered or so covered in layers of grime that no one would have hope of seeing in.

“Really?”

“He offered it with a wink. I think he’s trying to give us privacy,” Simon replied.

“Oh,” Clara said awkwardly. “Well, I hadn’t considered that. How very generous of him.”

“Come along,” Simon urged. “It will be fine. I promise.”

Clara allowed him to take her hand and lead her to the room where they had spent the previous night together. When the door closed behind them, she flinched slightly at the loud bang it created. There was a heaviness surrounding them that had naught to do with ghosts or ghouls. It was anticipation and fear of the unknown which created that tension.

“Sit down, Clara,” Simon said, and indicated the chair near the window.

On legs that trembled, she made her way to it and sank down gratefully.

“We are married, but I would not see you rushed into something you are not ready for,” he offered. “We have time enough to consummate our marriage when we have had a better opportunity to know one another.”

“We do not,” she replied. “I cannot say how long it will take for my brother to discover my whereabouts. But he has any number of connections. If he thinks he has a chance at annulling the marriage and reclaiming my inheritance for himself, he will do so. So, I think it best we proceed.”

His lips quirked upward. “It need not be a chore.”

Clara drew in a deep, steadying breath. “What is it like?”

“It’s much like a kiss. It’s one of those things that begins slowly and builds into something else altogether.”

“I’ve never been kissed,” Clara admitted with a blush. “I’ve never been courted or had a season. I told myself I didn’t want that sort of thing. That I was content to keep my brother’s home.”

*

She’d never been kissed. Simon stared at her for a moment and wondered what sort of foolish men she must have encountered in her life that no one had taken notice of such a lovely woman. Crossing the room from where he stood near the bed, he didn’t halt his steps until he was directly in front of her chair. Then he simply held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, she placed her hand in his and rose. Only then, only when she was standing so close to him that the hem of her skirts brushed against his boots, did he say anything.

“Then we shall begin with a kiss… and only a kiss, unless you chose more,” he promised.

Knowing that nerves would only grow worse, Simon dipped his head and claimed her lips with a gentleness that belied his own desire. He wanted her. Offering her that reprieve had cost him dearly. The relief he’d felt when she’d denied it had been immeasurable. But he would not let his own needs sway him to impatience. He would not rush her. They had the whole of the day, after all.

Gentle, coaxing—he moved his lips over hers with one goal and one goal alone. Seduction. The soft, pillowy curves of her lips were a treat to be sampled and savored, at least for the moment. It wasn’t until she sighed against his lips and leaned into him, one of her hands curving over his shoulder while the other pressed firmly against his chest, that he dared to deepen the contact. He teased the seam of her lips with his tongue, ever so slightly. She stiffened for just a moment, then relaxed against him, her lips parting in sweet invitation.

Simon didn’t hesitate. He slipped his tongue between her parted lips. With slow and languorous strokes, he introduced her to the ancient art. And she was a gifted pupil. When she began to kiss him in return, tentative at first but with ever growing boldness, he realized that her quiet reserve hid a deeply passionate nature. It was a fact he found himself very thankful for.

He could have kissed her endlessly, but there was a loud knock upon the door and he stepped back abruptly. She looked up at him, her lips swollen and her eyes heavy lidded with a blush staining her cheeks. Then she lowered her lashes demurely and looked away. Simon didn’t curse, but the urge to do so was quite strong.

Turning, he crossed the room and opened the door to find the ancient and slightly grizzled-looking innkeeper holding a hamper. “Vicar sent these over. Well, likely his missus! Thought you might want more than the simple fare we offer here at The Ancient Ram Inn. Can’t say as I’d blame you if you do. I reckon she’s a right hand in the kitchen!”

Simon accepted the basket from the man, offered his thanks and then very hurriedly ushered him out the door. There wasn’t a true lock on the door, but there was a latch—nothing more than a simple wooden block that swiveled and kept the door from swinging inward. He would take whatever precautions he could to keep the rest of the world and whatever dark forces inhabited The Ancient Ram Inn at bay. He wanted no further interruptions. Whatever Clara decided, he would abide by his promise to her. He would not rush her, but how he fervently prayed that she had been as tantalized by their kiss as he had.

He placed the hamper on the table and turned back to her. “That was an unfortunately timed interruption.”

“Well, I suppose that depends on one’s perspective,” she remarked. “It’s certainly given me a moment to collect my thoughts.”

“And will you share those thoughts with me?” he asked.

She left her spot by the window and moved to the small hamper. “Let’s discuss it over a bite to eat. Shall we?”

He pulled the chair out for her and crossed the room to retrieve the other one. “By all means. I’m famished.”

The vicar’s wife had provided ham, fresh bread, cheese, fruit tarts, a bottle of wine and several other delicacies. “She really did send a wonderful spread,” Clara remarked. “We shall have to find some way to thank them.”

“I concur,” he agreed.

They had no plates so everything was spread out on cloth napkins. When it was done, he removed the hamper and Clara sat facing him. “You were going to tell me your thoughts,” he reminded her.

She blushed again, a pretty shade of rose blooming in her cheeks. “Well, it isn’t really thoughts but a decision that I’ve made and perhaps a few questions.”

“Will the answer to those questions impact your decision?”

“Quite possibly,” she admitted.

“Then questions first,” he suggested.

She hesitated for a moment, tearing her hunk of bread into tiny bite-sized morsels before finally asking, “Is it all like that? I mean… the kissing was very nice. Much nicer than I had ever imagined. And if it is, then perhaps all the rest of it is, as well?”

Her nerves were both frustrating and terribly endearing. He hated that women were kept in such a state of ignorance. But all he wanted was to reassure her in that moment. “I will do everything in my power to ensure that all the rest equals or surpasses the kiss we shared.”

“My other question… I’m not even entirely certain how to ask,” she admitted.

“Bluntly,” he replied.

“I know that such activities are generally relegated to the night, but given what happens here in this at night, I’d prefer it if we could—if it’s possible—I know you said you have no modesty but I wasn’t sure if that included—” she stopped, clearly unable to find words.

Of course, he understood precisely what she was asking. “Making love can be done any hour of the day or night. Darkness is not a requirement.”

“Oh… well, I see.”

Simon watched her for a moment, noting that she had stopped eating altogether but still nervously picked at her food. “I’m not going to pounce on you, Clara.”

“I almost wish you would,” she exclaimed in dismay. “I’m entirely out of my depth and have no notion what to do or what comes next.”

Realizing just how much the waiting and the unknown terrified her, Simon decided that it was time to change course. Rising from his seat, he held out his hand to her. “I’m not so hungry, after all.”

“If you step outside for a moment I will change into my night clothes,” she offered.

“Unnecessary,” he replied. “I think I can manage to play lady’s maid for the day. Turn around.”

She did so and then he very gently slipped the pins from her dark hair, letting the mass fall down her back. Sliding his fingers into those rich, mahogany tresses, he rubbed her scalp and pressed his thumbs to the tender spot just at the base of her skull. He could feel the tension there as it slowly ebbed away beneath gentle pressure. When she had relaxed by a significant degree, he trailed his fingers over her shoulders, down her arms, and to the small button closures of her spencer. Freeing them with deft movements, he tugged the jacket from her shoulders and let it slide down her arms until she was free of it entirely. He then draped it over the chair.

Clara hadn’t protested, but he could tell that she was still very nervous. So he offered her a bargain. “I’ll remove your gown, but everything else will stay on for the time being. Is that all right?”

Her only reply was a barely perceptible nod. Turning her to face him, Simon carefully undid the buttons, keeping his touch light and quite perfunctory. The heavy wool parted and simply fell away, the weight of it pulling it to the floor where it puddled at her feet. He helped her to step out of it then retrieved the gown and draped it over the chair with her other discarded items.

“You are not a very good lady’s maid,” she said, eyeing the haphazard pile of clothing.

Simon bit back a grin as he took her hand and pulled her toward the bed. “I never claimed anything greater than adequacy.” Rather than pushing her back onto the bed and coming down on top of her like some ravening beast, he sat down on the edge of it and pulled her across his lap.

For just a moment, the nightmarish scene from the prior evening appeared in his mind. The wicked creature that had borrowed her sweet form to torment him was there, casting its shadow. But he dispelled it quickly. The woman in his arms, whose breasts were crushed against his chest, whose uncertain smile was nothing but sweetness and innocence—she bore no resemblance to the wicked creature who’d invaded his room and his mind in that twilight between waking and dreaming.

“Is something wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing is wrong. Everything is perfect. You, Clara, are perfect,” he said.

Chapter Seven

Clara felt his praise as much as she heard it. It sparked a warmth inside her that seemed to spread outward, not unlike the kiss they’d shared earlier. With that feeling spurring her on, she reached for the simply tied neckcloth he wore and slowly released the knot before dragging the silk free. When that was done, she slipped her hand beneath his coat and helped him to push the well-fitted garment off his shoulders and down his strong arms. “It seems,” she said, “that if you are to play lady’s maid, then I should at least make an effort as a valet.”

“Your efforts,” he said, his voice suddenly much deeper, with a hint of gravel in his voice, “are much appreciated.”

Those were the last words spoken between them. He kissed her then. It wasn’t entirely dissimilar to their earlier kiss. The pleasure was more intense, the nature of the kiss slightly more demanding and less gentle, but no less tantalizing for it. In fact, it might have made it more so. By the time their lips parted again, she was breathless and clinging to him. But he didn’t stop with just a kiss, his hands coasted over her body, touching her everywhere, revealing places that were so sensitive that she could not halt the gasps and soft sighs that escaped her. And when his hands lingered over the tapes of her petticoats in silent question, she answered it by reaching back and releasing them herself.

He levered her back onto the bed, stripping the petticoats away as he went. By the time she was reclining against the pillows, only her chemise, stays and stockings remained. He was kneeling above her, unbuttoning his waistcoat and tossing it aside with little care for the garment. His shirt followed. And once more, she was greeted by the sight of his impossibly sculpted body. Firm muscles were perfectly delineated beneath sun-kissed skin while a thatch of crisp, dark hair covered his chest, narrowing to a thin line that bisected his abdomen and disappeared behind the fall of his breeches.

Unable to contain her curiosity, she reached out, running her fingers over skin that was surprisingly smooth.

“You are far more bold than I would have imagined,” he remarked.

“Should I not be?”

“I like it,” he admitted somewhat breathlessly. “I like it very much.”

Before Clara could act on any other curious impulses, he had levered himself over her, pressing her back against the pillows while his lips caressed her neck, her collar bone and then moved ever lower. When he kissed the swells of her breasts just above the edge of her stays, she felt a strange fluttering sensation within her and a rush of heat unlike anything she’d ever known. And when he tugged her stays lower, until her breasts were covered only by the fine lawn of her chemise, and he covered the pebbled tip with his mouth, her head fell back on a soft cry that she could not contain.

From that moment forward, he gave no quarter. He touched her everywhere—with his hands, his lips, his teeth. It was by turns gentle and rough, but it was marvelous. She couldn’t think at all, only feel, as the blood rushed through her veins and a strange tension coiled within her. When he parted her thighs and stroked her most tender flesh, she shuddered against him. And when he dipped his head to kiss her there, she was too shocked to protest at first. Then she was too mindless. Her entire body tensed. That tension she had noted coiled tighter and tighter. She hovered there for a moment, fearing that she would break—and then she did. The tension simply snapped, and in its wake were ripples of pleasure washing through her, leaving her gasping and quaking against him as she cried out from the overwhelming sensations.

She had not recovered fully to even contemplate what they had done when he moved yet again, this time settling his hips firmly between hers as he freed the fall of his breeches. Curiosity once more got the better of her, and she dared to glance at him from beneath her lashes.

“You can look later,” he promised. “All you like. I can’t wait anymore, Clara. I need you.”

It was the last three words that prompted her to meet his imploring gaze. His face was etched with a raw hunger that left her shaken but also aroused. “Then I’m yours.”

He made a low growling sound against her throat, even as he lifted his hips slightly and then with one hand, guided himself to her entrance. Clara braced herself for the pain she’d heard other women whisper of. But it wasn’t as she’d expected at all. It was uncomfortable, certainly, at first. But she didn’t feel as if he’d murdered her, or as if were some unbearable thing. It was just a momentary discomfort, fleeting and quickly forgotten. But the sensation of having him inside her, that would never be forgotten. It was both alien and yet completely right. The intimacy of it, of taking him into her body, was overwhelming. And then he began to move. Slow, gentle strokes at first that gradually shifted into a faster rhythm. When that familiar tension coiled within her again, Clara was eager for it. She knew what it signaled. And when it broke, when she cried out, he gave a hoarse shout of his own and collapsed against her.

Sweat slicked their bodies in the quiet of that room, but neither moved. Neither rolled away from the other or tried to break that contact. It was a moment of perfection and neither wanted it to end.

*

It was late afternoon when Simon awoke. He glanced at Clara sleeping peacefully beside him. He was not a man given to fancies of romance. But given what they’d shared that afternoon, he was not so foolish as to not think fate might have had a hand in bringing them together. No woman had ever made him feel as she did. Certainly no woman had ever filled him with such a burning and insistent desire. What he’d felt with her transcended the mere physical. It had touched something inside him that he had thought long dormant. She had given him hope for their future, for happiness.

As if she’d felt his perusal, her eyes opened and her lips curved in a soft and wholly seductive smile. “What time is it?”

“Evening, but not yet dark,” he answered.

At the mention of the coming darkness her smile faded. “Will tonight be like last night? If neither of us is ever alone, perhaps whatever is here will not make its presence known again.”

He didn’t think that was true. But saying so and robbing her of a moment’s peace was something he did not have the heart for. “We can only hope. But for now, we really should try and eat something. There’s still another loaf of bread and some cheese in that hamper. And I believe another bottle of wine.”

“Tarts?”

“There might be one,” he said. He knew there was. He’d slipped out of bed and eaten some of them but saved the last for her. “And, I’m certain there is a way you can convince me to forfeit any claim on it.”

She raised her eyebrows at him. “There were four tarts in that hamper, Simon. Four. And now there is one left. You do not have a claim on it.”

He laughed at that. “Fine. Then allow me to find some way to atone for my gluttony.”

Before she could ask what he meant, he’d rolled her onto her back and had hitched one of her knees up so that he rested between her thighs and the evidence of his need was pressed firmly against her. “Maybe I’m just a glutton for all delicious things today.”

She shuddered beneath him. “I think you’ve made a glutton of me, as well. Though I suppose we might be mixing up which of the deadly sins we are currently engaging in.”

He kissed the tender skin just beneath her jawline. “We are married. It’s no longer a sin… we are free to indulge as we please.”

“Then by all means,” she urged, “proceed.”

It wasn’t the distant rumble of thunder that halted his amorous attentions. It was the sudden dimness of the room. Looking toward the window, he felt a familiar sense of foreboding. Through a crack in the shutters that covered the window, he could see dark clouds forming outside. Night was falling early.

“I think our time for play is at an end,” he replied. “You should dress. If we have to vacate these premises, I’d rather neither of us has to run naked and screaming from this establishment.”

Clara sighed heavily in response. “I quite agree. I do not wish to be taken unaware again. Last night… well, exhausted as we both were, it left us very vulnerable. I can only hope tonight will prove to be different.”

“On that, we are in agreement,” Simon said, reluctantly disentangling himself from her and climbing from the bed. He reached for his breeches and donned them quickly before gathering her scattered clothing. As he placed her discarded undergarments on the bed, he noted the room was becoming perceptibly chilled. With that observation came a truly terrifying thought. The events of the night before had been only the beginning.

He dressed quickly as Clara donned her stays and petticoats. He retrieved her gown and spencer from the chair and took them to her. Seating himself on the edge of the bed, he donned his boots as she did the same. There was no hope for her hair. It was thoroughly mussed and she looked like a woman who had spent the entirety of the day abed with a man. It was an entrancing effect, but under the circumstances, it was also a distraction they could not afford.

Fully dressed, Simon made quick work of lighting the fire and lighting the candles in the room. The last thing they needed was to be caught in full darkness. Even as he thought it, lightning crashed outside and the last of the dark clouds rolled in, thoroughly obliterating any remaining light from the fading sunset.

A painting hanging above the fireplace, a poor landscape done by an amateur artist, began to rattle. The frame banged against the stones. Items displayed on the mantel began to quake, shaking to and fro. Some of them even fell, clattering to the floor with loud bangs. The small fire burning in the hearth suddenly roared to blazing life, flames licking well into the chimney.

“Anything with this sort of power is no mere spirit,” Clara murmured. Despite her deceptively calm observation, there was an unmistakable note of terror in her voice.

He agreed with the assessment. What they were dealing with was no mere shade or ghostly apparition. It was a being, ancient and powerful, with the ability to manipulate the physical world and borrow, as it were, the physical characteristics of another.

“We can’t stay here,” he said, suddenly. “If we do, Clara, we will not make it through the night. I’ve no notion what this creature wants from us, but by the dawn, even if our bodies are intact, I fear our souls will not be.”

“Then we shall take our chances in the storm,” she said, stepping closer to him and slipping her hand into his.

With her at his side, he gathered her bag and his greatcoat. They approached the door together, but as they did, one of the items from the mantel flew at them. Clara let out a startled scream and he flinched, ducking to the side. The small, wooden tinderbox smashed against the large timber by the door and broke apart as matches scattered over the floor along with broken bits of wood.

Simon didn’t waste time examining the projectile, but reached for the small latch holding the door closed. He turned it, but when he yanked on the door handle nothing happened. The door would not budge. It was as if it had been barred from the other side.

Cursing, he pulled harder. Still nothing happened. But there was a sound building in the room behind him, a low hiss that seemed to grow until it echoed in the chamber. He pulled Clara to him, shielding her against him, even as he felt the first stinging slash on his neck. She looked up and gasped.

“Simon, you’re bleeding. It struck you.”

He brought his hand up to his neck. There were three red welts just above his cravat, each one bleeding slightly. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I’m so very frightened,” she whispered. “What does it want? Why will it not just let us go?”

He had a sneaking suspicion. It had tried to seduce him and failed. Not only that, he’d chosen a living, breathing woman—a mere mortal—over it. And he did think of the creature as it. It was not a spirit of anyone who had ever lived a mortal life. It was something other, something ancient and eternal… and inherently evil.

Simon hunched his shoulders protectively, bearing the brunt of the unholy tantrum that was occurring behind them. Objects flew from one side of the room to the other. Even the bed lifted and then clattered back to the floor with a thunderous boom. And that awful hissing morphed into a terrible growl that made the hairs on his neck raise. Then he recalled the brief encounter at the church after they’d signed the registry. He hadn’t told her about the small vial the vicar had pushed into his hand that morning. It contained water from the church’s baptismal font. “Reach into my pocket and retrieve the small bottle there. I had hoped the vicar was erring on the side of caution but it seems he had just cause to worry.”

“What is it?”

“Blessed water from the church,” he replied. “I want you to anoint that door and say a prayer.”

“What prayer?” she asked, her voice rising. It wasn’t hysterics, but she was clearly frightened.

“Any prayer. The Lord’s Prayer, a Psalm… it isn’t important what you say, Clara, so long as the words have meaning and faith behind them.”

She nodded and turned to face the door. Taking the stopper from the vial, her hand trembled as she placed droplets of blessed water on the ancient wood. Then she began to recite verses from the bible that, heaven help him, he did not know. While he had not lost his faith in God while serving his country, the opportunity for worship with any sort of formality had often been nonexistent. Prayers uttered by military men were usually those of desperation.

As Clara repeated those verses again and again, the entity, or whatever it could be called, began to shriek in earnest. Simon dared a glance over his shoulder and wished that he had not. It was unlike anything he had ever seen and certainly defied his ability to describe. Its form shifted constantly, one face after another, never revealing its true self, save for one tell-tale marker. Those sharp, blackened teeth he had seen the night before. They were the constant in that shifting form. It raised its outstretched hands toward him, its black, dripping claws reaching for him. And then the door simply opened. The creature dissipated into nothingness. The fire that roared so fiercely that the room might well have been caught ablaze had died back down to a simple hearth fire.

On the other side of the door stood the vicar. He held his bible in one hand and a cross in the other. “I had thought to come and offer you an additional blessing,” he said, his face white and his voice trembling.

“We are very glad of it,” Simon said. “Perhaps it can be offered in the church.”

The vicar nodded. “Indeed. As it should be. Come along. Quickly.”

They exited through the taproom. The old and grizzled innkeeper watched them knowingly from behind the bar. In one corner of the room, the man who had greeted them and offered them rooms the night before stood silent and watchful, his loyal dog at his feet, then they simply vanished into nothingness.

“Simon, did you see—” Clara broke off, unable to complete the thought.

“I did,” he agreed. “But let us not speak of it here.”

With the vicar, they all fled The Ancient Ram Inn into the night, into the darkness and the cold rain that was far less fearsome than anything they might have encountered inside.

“Why did you really come, Vicar?” Simon demanded.

“My conscience,” the vicar stated. “I have worried for you both all day. The closer it came to nightfall, the more my concerns consumed me. And when the storm began to roll in, dark clouds forming over the inn, I knew that I must intervene.”

Clara looked at him, horrified. “Does this happen often? Do unsuspecting travelers often meet this terrible fate here?”

“No,” the vicar said. “The coach that brought you, Mrs. Ravenau, is the first coach to have dropped passengers at The Ancient Ram Inn in two decades. Most, if they are let off there, do not linger. They catch a ride on a farmer’s cart going whatever direction they must travel. When I heard there were guests… well, I had hoped based on what I saw this morning that the two of you would be safe enough together. I was terribly wrong and, for that, I am deeply sorry.”

“There is naught to forgive,” Simon stated. “Your timely intervention affords you much grace.”

The vicar smiled gratefully. “Come. We can make room at the vicarage. It will not be luxurious. Nor will it be especially private for a newly married couple, but it will be peaceful. That, I can promise.”

“We could hardly ask for more,” Clara replied.

Chapter Eight

It was late the following evening, well beyond dusk inching toward night itself, by the time they reached Fairendale. Having traveled by cart to Bristol, and by ship from Bristol to Newport, they’d elected to ride from Newport to Sedbury and Fairendale which lay but a mile beyond the town. It had been a brutal journey, one that left them both beyond exhausted. As they cleared the trees that lined the long drive, the house came fully into view.

Clara stopped short, drawing back on the reins and taking it in. Even in the dim light that remained, the house was lovely. Lights burned within, highlighting the large Palladian windows and French doors. The house was very broad and low to the ground, only two floors in height at the center, with two single story wings stretching on either side and both of them flanked by terraces.

“Simon, it’s beautiful,” she said on a breathless sigh. “I never dreamed it would be so lovely. I could not have conjured a more perfect place.” It was true. Softly rolling hills gave way to beautifully manicured formal gardens that led up to those perfectly symmetrical stone terraces. Off to the left and slightly behind the house was a labyrinth, just barely visible in the quickly fading light.

“I’m glad you think so. I’ve always loved Fairendale. I lived here with my aunt as a boy while my father traveled the world. I was very happy here then. I hope, that if we are blessed with children of our own, they will have that same joy running wild over these lands,” he stated, staring out over the estate’s grounds.

“I want that, too,” she admitted. “I had never realized it before, but I do not think I was ever happy in London. I was so busy seeing to all the tasks required to run James’ household that I never had a moment to stop and think about what was missing from my own life.”

“And what is missing from it?”

Love. Despite the passionate lovemaking they had shared, Clara was not so foolish as to think that alone meant his heart was involved. He cared for her as his responsibility, as any dutiful husband would. But that was not love. And she feared very much that she would lose her own heart to him while his would remain locked away from her. But it was not the time to speak of such things. It was too soon, even in the wake of all they had endured together. “Sleep,” she supplied with a falsely bright grin. “I want to climb into a large, comfortable and very clean bed and sleep until noon tomorrow.”

His gaze locked with hers, his eyes going impossibly dark. It was a look she recognized. It was the same hunger he had awakened in her, after all.

“Is this a bed you mean to occupy alone… or is it one you will share?”

Clara shivered. “I would certainly wish for your company there. I think I shall always desire to have you next to me in bed.”

He leaned over in the saddle, somehow keeping his balance, until his lips hovered scant inches from hers. “I will do all in my power to ensure you never change your mind.”

When his lips touched hers, Clara felt the entire world fading away. All the aches and pains of their hard journey seemed to vanish, as did her exhaustion. It didn’t matter that she had been hungry and tired, dusty from the road, and secretly terrified that they would not reach his home—their home—before dark. They were not so far removed from the horrible events of The Ancient Ram Inn that she wished to be traveling a darkened road and looking over her shoulder at every sound. But all that simply vanished in his kiss. She felt nothing but the heat of him, the strength of him and her own rising need.

He drew back, his lips curving in a slight smile. How, she wondered, could he think he was not the most handsome of men? Scar or no, his face was perfection to her.

“Then let us not linger here,” he whispered. “The sooner we are inside, the sooner we can wash off the dirt from the road and seek our bed.”

Nudging the horse with her heel while gently directing with the reins, Clara started forward. By the time they reached the house, someone had alerted the remainder of the staff to their approach. All were lined up in greeting. Mindful of her road-wearied appearance, Clara attempted to straighten her hair beneath the bonnet she wore.

Simon dismounted first as a stable boy rushed forward to take the reins from him. When he turned to help her dismount, Clara could only pray that her legs would support her after so many hours riding. Thankfully, Simon kept his arm about her waist, offering much needed support.

“Clara, this is Mrs. Winchell, our housekeeper, and Seaton, our butler. I present to you all, Mrs. Clara Ravenau.”

It was all a blur from that point. Servants were introduced, their names all running together. Mrs. Winchell quickly ushered everyone inside.

“Now, there’s water heating for washing and a cold supper laid in your sitting room. Late as it is, you’re bound to be weary to the bone,” the jovial woman exclaimed.

“Quite so,” Clara agreed. “Thank you, Mrs. Winchell. Your attention to detail and to seeing to our comfort is remarkable.”

The housekeeper’s plump cheeks pinkened at the praise, and she put her shoulders back with pride. “I’m glad to do it, Madam. Very glad. And glad I am that the young master has found himself a bride. Tis never good for a man to be on his own so long he doesn’t know how to be with others. He sold off his commission and come home just in time, it would seem.”

Bustled to their adjoining chambers, Clara was shown to one room while Simon disappeared into another. Her meager possessions were unpacked. It was still anyone’s guess if James would consent to send the rest of her things from London. Only time would tell.

As if sensing her distress, Mrs. Winchell offered, “Until your things arrive, there’s a right bit of clothing left by Master Sim—forgive me, by Mr. Ravenau’s aunt. She was a very fashionable lady, even into her dotage. I’ve no doubt that some things can be altered to fit you from her wardrobe. Our Maisy is a good hand with needle and thread. She’ll do you well as a lady’s maid until you settle on someone of your choosing.”

“Thank you again, Mrs. Winchell. I’m sure Maisy will be quite perfect for the position if she wishes to take it on,” Clara offered with a smile.

“Shall I send her to you tonight?”

Clara shook her head. “No, not tonight. I shall see her in the morning though and have a proper bath then, if that is all right.”

Mrs. Winchell nodded enthusiastically as a footman entered carrying a heavy ewer of steaming water. He filled the basin partially with it before adding some of the cooler water from the pitcher next to it.

“I’ll see it done, Madam,” Mrs. Winchell said. Then she waved her hands at the other servants gathered there like she was shooing away errant pigeons. “We’ll leave you for the night then. Welcome to Fairendale.”

When they had gone, Clara made short work of stripping off her soiled gown. Laying it over the back of the chair, she soon added all of her underthings as well. Everything would need to be laundered. She almost wondered, given what they had witnessed and endured, that they should not be burned.

Padding on bare feet to the wash basin, she scrubbed from head to toe until her skin was red from it. The sweet smelling soap was a delicious luxury after such a long and arduous day. She had just finished drying and donned her nightdress when she heard a soft knock. But it hadn’t come from the direction of her chamber door.

Panic seized her. Had it begun in her new home? Had whatever dark forces that The Ancient Ram Inn had been infested with followed them there? Before the fear could fully bloom, before terror swept her away entirely, a panel opened in the wall. It wasn’t anything paranormal or supernatural. It was simply a well-concealed door separating her chamber from Simon’s.

He noted her pale face upon entering. “You look as if you’ve seen a gho—”

“Hush!” she admonished swiftly. “Do not say it! Do not speak of it here. I want to pretend that I am, in that regard at least, the same as I was leaving London. A firm skeptic.”

He closed the distance between them and took her into his arms. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I had forgotten to mention that the doors between rooms were so well disguised.”

“Well, it took a year or so off my life, I think… but I am quite gratified by the outcome,” she said softly, pressing her face against his chest. “It can’t have followed us, can it? We are truly safe here?”

He eased back and stared down into her upturned face. “Do you feel anything amiss in these rooms?”

She shook her head. She didn’t.

“The moment I stepped foot in that inn, I felt compelled to be cautious,” he admitted. “I never felt safe there. Even before anything occurred, I was mindful and wary. I do not feel that here. It feels the same as it did when I left… with one notable exception. You are here, and it is infinitely better for it.”

Clara rose on her toes and pressed her lips to his. It was bold for her, initiating such intimate contact, but she needed it. She needed him. And when he immediately swept her into his arms and carried her to the bed, she clung to him, grateful that he seemed to know inherently what she needed and desired from him.

And as he joined her there, touching and caressing her with a gentleness that belied his strength and the fierceness she sensed in him, Clara gave herself up to it entirely. Perhaps she did not yet love her husband, but she was falling in love with him. How could she not? He was all that a man should be, and certainly all that she could ever have hoped for had she dared allow herself to.

Then the thought fled. Only pleasure remained. And afterward, there was comfort and safety in his arms.

Epilogue

Six Months Later

Simon entered the morning room fresh from his ride. He’d paused only long enough to beat the mud from his boots lest his wife or Mrs. Winchell scold him for it. Clara was reclining on a chaise near the window, enjoying the late spring sunshine and the view of the gardens from the open window there. There was a bit of a breeze coming in, ruffling the letter she held in her hand.

“What correspondence has you so engrossed?” he asked.

She turned to him with a ready smile. “It was a letter from our friend the vicar, inquiring if we are well. He wishes to recommend a young clergyman for the position here in Sedbury. As one of the predominate landowners in the area who will be funding the young man’s salary, he wished your opinion.”

“My opinion on it is that I trust his,” Simon replied. He didn’t care to discuss the vicar or the church. His mind was on far earthlier matters, particularly how fetching she looked in that shade of blue. With a note of wickedness rich in his voice, he suggested, “Put your correspondence away, Clara… I’ve a better notion of how to spend our morning.”

Her brows rose, indicating that she was quite scandalized by the notion. But a smile hovered on her lips and her breath quickened ever so slightly. “You are incorrigible. Whatever am I to do with you?”

He grinned at that. “I could whisper a suggestion or two into your ear, but I fear they may put you to blush… and I find demonstrations so much more effective.”

Clara put the letter aside and rose. As she did so, the muslin of her morning dress draped loosely over the slight rounding of her belly. It was a sight that never failed to take his breath away. He’d thought her beautiful at first glance. And every day since, she had grown more so to him. But the alterations of her body as it swelled with their child was a particular joy that he had never anticipated.

“Who am I to deserve such gloriousness?” he asked softly.

She closed the distance between them, coming to stand in the circle of his arms. “You are brave and strong, fiercely loyal and protective.”

He chuckled, reaching out to press his palm to her belly. “So is a spaniel.”

She smacked his arm playfully. “Then you are the man I love. If you question your worth, you also question my judgment. And I will not stand for it.”

There was a hint of sadness about her that he had not noticed at first. “You didn’t just have a letter from the vicar, did you? Your brother has written again.”

She sighed. “He has. More threats. More guilt and manipulation. He says that by selfishly gifting my inheritance to a stranger that I have ruined him. He cannot possibly manage the life of a political figure in London on his own inheritance alone.”

“Does he even have the faintest clue how terribly selfish he sounds?”

“No,” she said. “He does not. But you do. You see him far more clearly than I ever did… at least until I fled into the night, braving London at its most dangerous hours to start anew.”

“With me,” he said, tugging her closer and pressing a kiss to her lips.

“With you… it’s funny. I fled two types of terror and abuse by running into the darkness. My brother’s home, when I did not even recognize how horribly I was taken advantage of, and then that dreadful inn in Wotton-under-Edge. And yet those nights, which have arguably been the most terrifying I will ever encounter, are what has brought us to this very moment. Had we not been forced to cling to one another as we did at The Ancient Ram Inn, how different might our relationship be today?”

“I’ll never give it credit,” he stated boldly. “Not when I think of what it put you though.”

“Us,” she corrected. “What it put us through. But we are stronger and better for it, and better together still.”

“My beautiful and loving wife… I think every day that I could not love you more and, every day, I am proven wrong,” he murmured softly against her ear.

“Now, you’re just trying to sway me to go upstairs with you,” she teased.

“Did it work?”

“Of course, it did. We both know I was going to do so anyway,” she admitted. Then she placed a hand on her belly, “And we’d better take advantage of it while we can. If I get much bigger, what you have in mind won’t be possible!”

“Oh, yes, it will,” he said. “It will require a bit of creativity, but I am very motivated.”

And then he leaned in and whispered hotly in her ear of all the ways they might be able to indulge their desire for one another. By the time he had finished, they were both breathless with anticipation. So much so that instead of heading for the stairs, he simply walked over, locked the door to the morning room and then took her hand to lead her back to the chaise where she had been lounging.

“You’ll scandalize the servants… again,” she pointed out.

“You’re very loud. I can’t help that,” he said.

And then he proceeded to prove his points, both about her loudness and his creativity and motivation.

Lying together on the chaise in the aftermath, her hair mussed, their clothing askew, and both of them smiling contentedly, Simon considered what she’d said. The Ancient Ram Inn had terrified and terrorized them. But it had made them rely on one another even as strangers. That awful experience had forced their relationship to evolve far more quickly than it would have otherwise. While he could be grateful for the end, the means were not something he would wish on his worst enemy. If the place were to burn to the ground, he would likely rejoice at it.

“You are thinking awfully hard for someone who just did what we did,” Clara remarked, snuggling sleepily against his chest.

“I was thinking about what you said, about those hours of terror and fleeing into the night… I’ll concede that it brought us close in ways nothing else ever could have, at least not so quickly. But that place should be destroyed. Because while ultimately we survived and triumphed, others will not. I cannot help but feel it is lying in wait, ready to devour some other unfortunate creature who does not have what we had.”

“And what did we have?” she asked.

“One another… and hope. We had hope, Clara,” he said and rested his chin atop her head.

It was a problem for another day, and perhaps a problem for another man. His world, once so vast and lonely, had shrunk considerably. It was, at that moment, contained in the circle of his arms, and he was glad of it.

The End

Author’s Note

The Ancient Ram Inn is a real place and the legends of hauntings and paranormal activity included in this story are taken from actual accounts provided by people who have stayed there through the years. It has been featured on numerous paranormal and ghost hunting shows on television. If you wish to learn more, I encourage you to do your own research. And if you are brave enough, maybe one day make a visit to this legendary haunt.

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Chasity Bowlin

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

Fall of the Lyon

Tamed by the Lyon

The Hellion Club Series

A Rogue to Remember

Barefoot in Hyde Park

What Happens in Piccadilly

Sleepless in Southampton

When an Earl Loves a Governess

The Duke’s Magnificent Obsession

The Governess Diaries

The Lost Lords Series

The Lost Lord of Castle Black

The Vanishing of Lord Vale

The Missing Marquess of Althorn

The Resurrection of Lady Ramsleigh

The Mystery of Miss Mason

The Awakening of Lord Ambrose

A Midnight Clear (A Novella)

Hyacinth

About the Author

Chasity Bowlin lives in central Kentucky with her husband and their menagerie of animals. She loves writing, loves traveling and enjoys incorporating tidbits of her actual vacations into her books. She is an avid Anglophile, loving all things British, but specifically all things Regency.

Growing up in Tennessee, spending as much time as possible with her doting grandparents, soap operas were a part of her daily existence, followed by back to back episodes of Scooby Doo. Her path to becoming a romance novelist was set when, rather than simply have her Barbie dolls cruise around in a pink convertible, they time traveled, hosted lavish dinner parties and one even had an evil twin locked in the attic.

Website: www.chasitybowlin.com

The Stones of Ard Cairn

Hildie McQueen

Chapter One

1602, Isle of Lewis, Outer Hebrides

Niven Ross grunted with each movement as he got up that morning. His body ached from the uncomfortable cot and the bruises and knots from the battle just a day prior.

All of the guards were to be present that morning to hear Laird McLeod’s accolades for their victory over the invaders from the north.

Thankfully, there had been only a few casualties as those who attempted to invade had to travel by birlinn, and their numbers, although large, were no match for the combined forces of clans that came together to defend the McLeod’s lands.

Rounding the guard quarters, he relieved himself and then searched out a barrel to wash up. There was little in the way of privacy for the guardsmen, and Niven had grown used to it. Once at the barrel, he removed his dirty clothes, dipped the large-handled wooden ladle into the water and poured the cold liquid over his body.

With his opposite hand, he rubbed away the dirt and whatever other things had permeated through his clothes. Once he completed the task, he picked up the clothing and hurried back inside.

He wanted to wash the clothes, but the task would have to wait. He only had one other tunic and breeches. Both were so worn, one could practically see through them. The downside of not being married was not having someone to look after his clothing or reminding him to purchase them.

Once fully dressed, he joined the ranks of warriors.

Laird McLeod was a small man, short and slight, but somehow managed to exude power. Flanked by his two sons, both much taller and broader, he called out to the men assembled.

Thankfully, the speech was short.

Each man was to be paid extra and those who’d been bound to remain were now free to leave if they wished. There were enough men who would remain to protect the land and, besides, it was obvious that anyone wishing to invade would reconsider upon hearing about the battle in which the enemy was soundly beaten.

As directed by the head guards, the men were dispersed into groups. Those who served the laird directly would be served first meal in the great room. The rest would eat outside, as usual, at tables and benches under a large covering that they’d built and kept fortified.

Huge pots of porridge bubbled over the fire and maids scurried with platters of bread to place on the tables.

Unlike the days prior, there were not as many to feed. Upon the battle ending, all the warriors who didn’t live there had headed back to their lands with their lairds.

Niven considered whether to eat inside or outside. He didn’t wish to sit and listen to the laird and whoever else continue to brag about the demise of the enemy. Niven was sick of war and battle.

For weeks, war was all that everyone had talked about. And now that the actual battling was over, the talking would probably continue even more.

“Ross,” a warrior said as he neared. “The laird wishes to speak to ye.”

It was surprising as the laird had only spoken to him a handful of times. Once was upon his arrival and then a few times to ask about his well-being. Laird McLeod was a kind man, but he had many responsibilities.

Upon entering the great room, Niven changed his mind and decided to eat inside. Along with the porridge, inside there was cheese and meat being served.

“Ah, there ye are, Ross,” the laird said when Niven approached. “I have received a letter from Laird Darach Ross. He has taken over for the clan in South Uist.”

Niven was not aware his uncle had died. It was not a death anyone would mourn. The bastard had been a cruel and evil man. “I was not aware my uncle had died.”

“Apparently, he has. I wished to let ye know in case ye decide to return to yer clan. There is a new laird. I hesitate to admit it, but it is a good thing.”

“I have not yet decided what I will do. I thank ye for relieving me of my pledge. I will travel and may go to South Uist. For now, I am not sure.”

“Whatever ye do, I wish ye well,” the laird replied.

By late that day, Niven was headed south, seeking a small village one of the men had told him about. He would be remaining there for a few days until he decided where to go from there.

Of all the things he missed, more than anything, he yearned for a room to himself with a comfortable bed.

He sought to find a village called Ard Cairn. He’d been told they had a tavern with rooms for rent. It would be as good a place as any for him to rest and have time alone to think.

The sun was falling in the sky as his horse crested a tall hill. In the short distance, there was a formation of stones. They seemed to be in a circular pattern with one on its side in the center.

Although he’d once heard about such formations, it was the first time he’d actually seen such a thing. Curious, he guided the horse toward it. He’d explore it a bit and then go to the village, which he could see was just a short distance away.

Chirps sounded as a flock of birds flew overhead, seeking out trees where they’d settle for the evening.

That entire day, it was as if every sound became keener, every scent sharper and the breeze across his face fresher.

Freedom was a glorious thing.

Seven years he’d been beholden to Laird McLeod. Although never mistreated, there was the always-present undertone that he could not leave. After swearing his sword and fealty to a laird, it was up to said laird to release one from it.

Movement on the ground near the stones caught his attention. A woman with loosed reddish hair, wearing dark green clothing and carrying a basket, walked into the circle of stones.

She’d obviously not heard or seen him, else she may have paused. Or perhaps she had and now was hiding.

Once arriving at the stones, he was astonished at how huge they were. From a distance, they’d not seemed so high. Now, he had to crane his neck to look up at the uneven tops.

Niven dismounted and walked to where he’d seen the woman go. The wind blew through the stones making a low whistling sound that gave the area an eerie feel.

Not prone to musings, he continued on, walking in a circle, noting there was no one there. How had she gone so fast?

He walked through the stones on the left to a marked path into the forest. Perhaps she’d stolen away from there to where she lived.

It was getting late and he was hungry, so Niven decided it would be best to continue on to the village and find himself a warm meal and a room.

A shadow came over him and he whirled about. There was no one there, but he’d seen it, as if someone had hovered over his shoulder.

It had to be the wind, or a bird flying overhead that had caused it, Niven decided. But he was unable to explain away the prickling at the back of his neck.

A trained warrior, he’d depended on instincts to survive. This time, however, he decided it was best to leave well enough alone.

Just as he walked through the stones to where his horse was, once again something seemed to look over his shoulder and again he turned to find no one there. His mind was playing tricks on him. It was possible he’d not seen anyone, not the woman and not the shadows. Instead, he was probably just tired and in need of rest.

His horse was antsy, almost as if it, too, was glad to get away from the stones. “There is nothing amiss. We are just tired,” he told the horse, who of course did not understand. In truth, the words were more for him than for the animal.

The village turned out to be of a good size. Shops and houses lined both sides of several roads that cut across each other. He rode down the center road where he spied the village square and, thankfully, there was both a stable for his horse and a large tavern on the opposite corner.

“Traveling through?” a barrel chested man said as he arrived at the stables. “How many nights will yer steed stay?” The man’s deep voice seemed to rumble from his chest.

“I do not know as yet. I plan to remain for perhaps a sennight,” Niven replied, liking the man who pushed a carrot up to the horse’s mouth.

“Eat, I know ye want it.”

The horse ate the carrot without hesitation.

“Now,” the man said. “The horse is more than welcome. Ye are not. I do not board humans.” The man laughed at his own joke, which in Niven’s opinion was not at all funny.

“Are there rooms at the tavern?”

“Aye, a couple upstairs. Also, at the Smiths’ house but the food isn’t as good.” He pointed down the street. “Down there at the house with the old man sitting outside.”

Once he had boarded the horse, he threw his knapsack over his shoulder and made his way to the tavern.

Several people greeted him as he walked past. The villagers seemed to be a friendly lot.

The aroma of roasting meat made his mouth water and his stomach grumble when Niven entered the low-ceilinged main room of the tavern. There were a few people sitting around tables, either eating or drinking, but there were plenty of empty chairs.

He chose a table along the farthest wall and waited.

Soon, a buxom woman walked over and placed a tankard of ale before him. “Weary traveler, would ye like stewed chicken or meat and potatoes?”

“Meat and potatoes,” Niven replied, “and bread.”

She eyed him for a moment as if assessing if he could pay. By the look of his worn clothing, he did not blame her for hesitating. “Very well.”

“I am in need of a room for five nights. I will pay in advance.”

At that, she smiled widely. “We have plenty of room for ye then.”

When she returned with his food, Niven asked about a seamstress and she told him to come down the next morning and, after breakfast, she’d walk with him to where he could get clothing.

The food, as the stableman had said, was indeed very delicious. And to his delight, there was a bathing room where he was able to sink into a tub of hot water and linger until the water was cool. Once bathed, he went to the bedroom, which was small, but had a large bed, a small table and a washstand. From the window, he could see the town square where several people lingered but, for the most part, the village was quiet.

The next morning Niven dressed and went downstairs. Once he ate, the woman from the night before walked out with him.

“I am Ina. My husband, Tarver, is the proprietor of the tavern. He is currently ill. Fell and hurt his back. Thankfully, our boy, Wallace, is more than capable of tending to the customers.” She continued chattering while they walked up one street and down another, then turned twice. Niven had tried to figure out how to get back, but decided he didn’t care. If Ina didn’t wait for him, he’d enjoy exploring the village.

They arrived at a house with a shop attached. A newly made shingle hung just past the doorway with the single word “seamstress” etched into it.

“Here we are. My sister-in-law is the best. She has ready-made items. She can also sew new ones for ye. She is quite fast.”

They went inside where he found himself the center of attention for the next hour. Ina sat on a stool taking too much delight in her sister-in-law and niece fawning over him. The women touched Niven much more than necessary when taking measurements.

Finally, he was allowed to leave, after declining offers to remain for the midday meal. He carried a bundle that included two tunics and one set of breeches. But he would have to return for another set of each that he’d paid for in advance.

A pink-cheeked Ina walked with him most of the way back and then left him, stating she had to go to the shore and buy fish from the fishermen for supper.

He visited his horse. The animal did not seem inclined to leave his stall. So after brushing it, Niven left it be.

Outside, he ran into the stableman watching over several horses in a corral.

“My horse seems quite content to remain in the stall. That is something new,” Niven told him. “I do not think I got yer name. I am Niven Ross.”

The man chuckled. “Fergus.” He turned and motioned toward the stable. “He walked about the corral this morning, did what he had to do and then walked himself back to the stall. I think he finds the oat bucket a delight.” The man chuckled.

“Have ye ever gone to the stones?” Niven asked, noting the man instantly sobered. “I rode past and thought to have seen a woman.”

The man looked in the direction of the hills. “Ye should leave well enough alone when it comes to the stones.” When the man walked back toward the stables, it was obvious he didn’t wish to continue the conversation.

Unsure why, Niven fetched his horse and decided to return to the stones.

When he looked over his shoulder, the stableman watched him and shook his head.

Something about the circular formation of stones made him wary and curious at the same time. Not one prone to being fearful, he wasn’t about to be intimidated by them.

This time, the woman was leaving from the formation when he rode closer.

“Lady!” Niven called out, urging his horse to a gallop. The woman hesitated, looked in his direction and then hurried into the woods.

“God’s foot,” Niven grumbled. “I should have kept my mouth shut.” He dismounted and raced into the trees but, like the day before, she was nowhere.

She had to live nearby in order to disappear so easily. Niven went back to his horse, grabbed his scabbard and sword and strapped it to his back. Then he led the animal into the woods.

They walked for a long while until coming to a stream. Both he and the horse drank. The entire time, Niven sensed someone was watching him.

He straightened. “I mean ye no harm. I am curious about the stones.”

There was no reply.

When he could not find the woman, he mounted and returned to the village.

The fish stew was so flavorful that Niven asked for a second helping. While he ate, people near him talked about an upcoming competition. He listened intently as he’d often enjoyed competing in games. It would be something enjoyable that he’d not done in a very long time.

Ina came by his table. “Wish a refill of yer ale?”

“Nay, I thank ye.” Niven looked at her. “I saw a woman, twice, near the stones. She has reddish hair, seems young.”

The woman crossed herself. “Ye should stay away from the stones. Who ye probably saw was Dallis Gallaher. The full moon is upon us, she will be there when it is high in the sky. Ye should leave her be. She has work to do. Poor lass, her life is changed forever.”

Intrigued, he had to know more. “What happened to her.”

Ina looked over her shoulder to her son who seemed bored and then she lowered to sit in a chair opposite Niven.

“Dallis is the keeper of the stones. Her ancestors were druids. Every first female born must continue the tradition of keeping their bloodthirsty evil spirits of the stones from killing.”

He fought to keep from making an expression of disbelief. “And how does she do this?”

“I do not know. Nobody does.” Someone called out, asking for more ale and Ina got to her feet. “Ye best stay away. No place for others to go near.”

That night, the eerie feeling of someone watching him made it hard to sleep and Niven wanted to laugh at the ghost story making him restless, as if he were a wee lad scared of bumps in the night.

“Go or die.” The words made him sit straight up. It had sounded like several voices speaking in unison. Niven went to the window and looked up at the sky. The full moon shined brightly down, illuminating the town square with an eerie glow.

“Go or die,” was repeated and he whirled around just in time to see a dark shadow evaporate.

He would return to the stones. The next night, the moon would be even fuller. It was time to put an end to whatever trickery this was.

Chapter Two

Dallis Gallaher lifted a cup to her lips and sipped, her gaze locked to the door. Had the man followed her long enough to find her? If so, would he return?

She eyed the herbs floating in the hot water and hoped they would help her sleep better that night. The dreams were becoming more and more vivid. At times nightmarish, other times beautiful.

In both, a man appeared. He was tall, with dark hair and with the most vivid, clear, hazel eyes she’d ever known. He would approach her, take her hand and carry her away on his horse.

Sometimes they’d be chased by them, the evil ones. Other times, they’d ride until arriving at a beautiful meadow where they made love and enjoyed being free.

Dallis hated the beautiful dream. To leave this place, and the stones, was not in her future.

She supposed the dreams of escaping should make her glad to at least experience what it would be like to live a somewhat normal existence.

Outside, the wind blew. It was harsher than usual and Dallis blew out a breath. Days and nights during the full moon were always the worst. The evil ones were demanding, uncontrollable and, at times, terrifying.

If only she’d had siblings, the responsibility wouldn’t be only her burden. But she’d been left alone, to be the caretaker of the stones.

The next night would be hard. She had to be at her best. Soon the sun would rise, and she would sleep most of the day to ensure she had enough rest.

Dallis turned up the cup and swallowed the bitter liquid, then went to her bed and slept.

Her feet slipped on the wet grass as she walked between two stones. Her palm flattened on one, the cool, solid surface giving her strength. When arriving in the center, she turned in a circle. It was as if the stones had moved. The circle appeared wider than she knew it to be.

“Remain at rest. Return to rest. The moon does call, but ye must remain.”

Dallis repeated the incantation over and over as she walked around the circle. To her dismay, her feet began to sink with each step she took until it was becoming harder and harder to walk.

Soon, she lost her balance and fell forward, her hands sinking up to her wrists, the soft ground swallowing them.

The neighing of a horse made her turn and he appeared. The man with the bright hazel eyes. He walked to her, seeming unencumbered by the soft ground.

Lifting her easily into his arms, he carried Dallis toward the horse.

Over his shoulder, the evil ones rose from the exact spot where she’d been and Dallis reached out.

“Ye must return me to the stones. They will escape,” she explained. “I cannot go with ye.”

He never spoke. The only sounds were the groans of the evil ones as they gained corporeal form. Horrible, distorted, long-waisted bodies with skinny, sinewy arms and legs. Their faces were hollow; just black eyes and huge mouths.

“Ye must return me. They will kill… they will kill.”

Dallis woke with a start, her face wet with perspiration. Her room was bright, telling her it was probably early afternoon. Looking around the room, she sucked in air with desperation, unable to get enough of it.

Were her dreams to come true?

“No,” she said out loud. “I have never lost control and will not this time either.”

There was a scratch at the window and her cat gave her a narrow-eyed look, waiting for her to allow her in.

“Ye have been out all night again,” Dallis admonished the cat. “And then ye return with demands.”

The cat rubbed against her legs, the action helping to settle her.

Later that afternoon, on her way to the village, Dallis considered what items she needed. Her garden had been ravaged by deer and rabbits, and now she found herself in need of vegetables and perhaps a bit of meat.

With her basket hanging on her elbow, she began the walk down the path through the woods that took her directly to the village.

It was shorter than taking the main road and it also kept her from having to worry about lone riders approaching and possibly thinking her easy prey because she was alone.

Moments later, a hunting dog appeared. He belonged to an old man who lived not too far from her. Dallis patted the dog’s head.

“I suppose I should ask Old Hamish if he requires anything from the village,” she told the dog. Together, they neared the small cottage and Dallis called out for the man.

Hamish came around from the side of his home. He waved her away. “Go on before it gets too late. I do not require anything. Take Bruce with ye for protection.”

Soon, she arrived at the village and just in time to procure much of what she needed. It had not occurred to her how late in the day it was until she noticed some of the venders were starting to put things away.

“Dallis,” a woman called out to her. It was Ina, the tavern owner. “Ye should remain in the village tonight. Looks like rain.” Ina looked up to the cloudy sky.

If only she could. The few times she’d stayed at the tavern, she and the woman had chatted and sewed together. It had been wonderful.

“I cannot. Full moon tonight,” she said by way of explanation. Ina crossed herself. “Ah, yes, I forgot. Next week then?”

Dallis nodded. “Aye.”

“Come, Bruce,” Dallis said, slapping her thigh to get the hound’s attention. She began her walk back home. This time, walking as fast as she could.

When Bruce barked, Dallis almost dropped the basket in fright. Hoping it wasn’t a boar or other hunting beast, she slowed and scanned the lower foliage.

Soon however, what appeared was perhaps worse than an animal bent on attack. A man appeared, pulling a horse behind.

It was him, the man from her dreams. Only in person. He was much more vibrant, real, she supposed.

He stopped in his steps and gave her a wary look. “I was looking for ye.”

“Why?” Dallis reached for Bruce, placing her hand atop the animal’s head. “Who are ye?”

“I am Niven Ross. I saw ye twice and wondered about ye.”

Dallis shrugged. “There is no reason for ye to come around. I do not know ye. Please go and leave me be.”

He frowned. “Why do I feel as if we’ve met before? Have we?”

With a firm shake of her head, Dallis hoped not to show the shock his words brought. Had he also dreamed of her? What was the meaning of it? Why now?

“I have never left this area, or the village. If ye traveled through before, perhaps ye saw me.”

He shook his head, his gaze not leaving her face. “No, I have never been here before.”

“Allow me to pass, sir. It looks like it’s about to rain and I would like to be indoors. Do not follow me.”

“Why are ye always at the stones?”

This time, Dallis lost her temper. “Who I am and what I do are not yer concern. Go away and leave me be.” She stalked around him, heading in the direction of Hamish’s cottage. If he followed her, perhaps he’d think she lived there.

But he didn’t follow her. When she looked over her shoulder, he remained stock still, watching her.

When the moon was high, she walked in a circle between the stones. The lantern in her hand swung side to side, creating patterns on the smooth surfaces.

Apprehension filled Dallis. The evil ones were restless, they did not wish to remain captive any longer. She wasn’t sure how she knew but she did. The ground under her feet vibrated and she hurried to her basket, removed bundles of sage and held it over the flame in the lantern until it lit. Then she waved it in the air, repeating the words she’d learned as a child.

She continued for a long time until, finally, the air stilled, and she let out a long sigh.

Exhausted, she allowed her arms to fall to her sides and hung her head. How she hated her existence in that moment. The constant struggle that had become her life.

Appeasing the horrible spirits of ancestors who had died so long ago.

When a cold tendril traveled down the back of her arms, Dallis turned and bit back a scream. Standing next to the center stone was a creature too horrible to describe. It was like the ones in her dream, except this one was entirely red, as if it were bleeding.

“Leave.” Its voice was like many voices at once. Not quite female, but more like a soft male tone. “Go.” Its bony arm lifted, a long finger pointing toward the top of the hill. “Allow us free.”

“Ye cannot escape the circle. I will never allow it,” Dallis said with a conviction she didn’t feel in that moment.

Her legs shook as she took a step back and lifted the sage, waving it across her body. “Ye cannot harm me.”

The creature seemed to smile. “He will die.” When it rushed her, Dallis shuffled backward and let out a scream.

Her heel caught on something and she cried out, flailing as she lost her balance.

But she never hit the ground. Someone caught her.

The creature evaporated with a strange squeal and she turned to see who it was, although a part of her already knew.

Niven Ross ensured she was steady before loosening his grip on her arms. He frowned at her then looked toward where the creature had been.

“Who were ye talking to?”

Dallis let out a breath. He’d not seen it.

Good.

“Where do ye live?” The question caught her off guard. For a moment, she’d convinced herself he did not exist and was someone she’d conjured in her imagination.

But he was real, so very real. The man who’d been in her dreams now held her atop his horse. “I will take ye home.”

The circle was empty now. She didn’t sense the entity but, deep inside, she knew it remained. It was growing impatient. It was waiting for the right moment to escape and if it did, she would be responsible for what happened.

Even if she wished to confide in the man, Niven, the truth about her role and about the evil ones, he probably would never believe her.

Dallis pointed toward the path that was barely visible just past the stones. “In that direction.”

When they arrived at her cottage, a strange feeling came over her. It was as if her body were not her own. Every movement: walking to the cottage, motioning for Niven to follow and then subsequently wrapping her arms around him, allowing a kiss, none of it was her.

Neither was it not her.

In another life, or perhaps another existence, they’d known each other. Of that, she was certain.

Niven seemed confused. He returned the kiss, but then untangled himself from her arms.

He studied her face, his beautiful gaze locking on hers. “This is quite a different reaction to my presence than earlier.”

Dallis clasped her hands together to keep from reaching for him. The kiss had been so very good. Familiar and new at the same time.

“I do not feel well. I apologize. Please go.”

When he didn’t move, she wanted to shove him out the door. Instead, he walked to the small hearth and added wood. Moments later, a cheery fire warmed the room.

“What were ye doing at the stones in the middle of the night?” he asked.

“I could ask ye the same. Why do ye return time and time again? This has nothing to do with ye. Ye are a stranger to this and should not be involved.”

His expression became tense. “I am not sure. It was as if something called me to come and I could not resist. I’ve had dreams, bothersome dreams.”

Dallis went cold. She motioned to a chair. Once he lowered to it, she did the same. “Tell me about the dreams.”

He was silent for a moment, seeming to gather his thoughts. The entire time, she studied him, recalling him in her dreams. His presence settled her and perhaps because of the dreams, she felt a camaraderie with Niven.

“Ye and I escaped. I took ye from whatever was in the stones. An apparition of sorts.” He shrugged as if it meant little. There was more, she knew it, but decided not to push. If they shared the same dreams, then Dallis was perfectly aware what had happened.

“It is best that ye leave Ard Cairn, and not return.” She then added, “Ever,” for emphasis.

“I plan to remain in the village for a sennight. I am deciding where to go from here. Why would ye warn me away? Do ye really believe that whatever is there could do harm?”

Dallis nodded. “They are not mere spirits.” She stopped speaking, realizing it was best not to inform him of the dangers being around the stones for long held. Everyone in the nearby villages knew to keep away from the stones during the full moon. Most did not ask why because those that remembered the past, told the younger ones about it.

The whispers and the stories were better when told by others. Dallis did not speak about it. She did not want to bring up the atrocities of the past by retelling them.

“What I mean to say is that the stones are considered sacred by those of us who live here. We prefer to keep the reasons for our customs to ourselves. If ye remain for a few more days, then kindly stay away from the stones.”

“Ard Cairn. Tall stones,” Niven said in a low tone. “I was not aware the village was named after them.”

The longer he remained, the harder it was becoming to control something pushing her to touch him. Whether to harm him or otherwise, she fought to keep whatever the feelings were at bay.

“It is late. I must rest,” she said curtly. “It is not proper for ye to be here.”

Niven stood and, once again, studied her. “Something is not right,” he said and looked around the small room as if seeking the truth in the walls. “I will return.”

As soon as he crossed the entrance, Dallis began closing the door. “Please do not return.” She slammed the door and barred it before he could reply.

When she turned, the fire in the hearth formed into the shape of a serpent, the fire slithering across the room. Dallis bit back a scream, not wishing to alert Niven and pressed herself flat against the door.

Just before reaching the tip of her shoes, the serpent lifted its head and then rose higher, turning into a form that resembled a human. “Bring him to us.”

The creature seemed to hold out its hand and point to her. “He must be ours.”

Then the serpent lowered to the ground and slid back to the hearth.

Dallis went to her chair and pulled a blanket over her shoulders, more to calm herself than to dispel any chill.

“My God. Whatever shall I do?”

Chapter Three

The further away Niven got from the stones, the harder an uneasiness pressed down across his chest.

It was ridiculous. After fighting battles and living in places that made dungeons seem elegant, he’d never once encountered anything supernatural. Whatever this was, the dreams and being compelled to come to see the woman had nothing to do with spirits.

He chuckled out loud. It had to be a combination of lust and having left the service of Laird McLeod. To be on his own was unfamiliar to him now, and the urge to lay with a woman was normal. It had been too long and Dallis was quite fetching.

The bedchamber in the tavern made him let out a long sigh. It was nice to have such a place to return to. There was a bed that accommodated his size, not to mention the ability to wash up indoors, not exposing his nakedness to everyone who happened to walk by.

He washed his face and removed all of his clothing. It would easily become a habit to wash up every night, perhaps because it felt like such a privilege. When he slid between the blankets, the softness lured him into sleep.

However, a moment later, he was wide awake.

The bed sunk and then Dallis was over him and fully naked. Her body pressed against his and her lips trailed kisses from his mouth down his jaw to his throat.

It wasn’t her. Despite the lust that coursed immediately through his entire body, he knew it was not possible.

Just to be sure, he trailed his hands down her back and cupped her bottom, pulling her tighter against him. She moaned.

How could it be?

Her mouth covered his and, for a delicious moment, he allowed it to push away the warnings in his mind. He’d desired her from the first moment. He knew they’d be perfectly suited. And yet, no matter how real the moment felt. it was not real.

The vivid dream continued as she pressed her lips to his chest, and then moved lower and lower.

Niven let out a gasp when her hand moved up his right thigh and then with all the willpower he possessed, he jerked upright, sitting up in his now empty bed.

Chest expanding, he fought to regain normal breathing and searched the room to ensure he was indeed alone.

A shadow crossed the room, perhaps cast from the moonlight and tall trees outside. It moved to the window and was gone.

It was time for answers. Whatever was happening to him, around him, had an explanation and he’d find out first thing tomorrow what, exactly, the people in the village were hiding.

Early the next morning, Niven descended the stairs. Behind the bar was an older man who he presumed was Ina’s husband.

When Niven sat, the man rounded the bar and lumbered closer. “Ina told me we had a guest. I am Tarver, her husband and proprietor,” the man’s face beamed with pride.

“Niven Ross,” he replied, taking the man’s hand.

When the man returned with a plate piled with food that he could only describe as mouthwatering, Niven took advantage of the fact that the room was empty.

“Will ye sit and join me? I have questions about this place. About the stones.”

Tarver’s expression became shielded. “There isn’t much to tell.”

“I think there is,” Niven began. “I had a strange visitor in my bedchamber last night. It was not the first time.”

At that, the man practically fell into the chair opposite. “Here?”

Niven nodded. “Aye.”

“It has been years since anyone has seen them.” Tarver gave him a stern look. “What did ye do yesterday?”

“I went to the stones. I felt compelled. Spoke to a woman, Dallis.”

“Ye should leave her be. Although it is a sad situation, she has accepted her lot.”

“What lot would that be?” Niven pushed the man to speak, somehow suspecting that if Ina came in, he would not be as forthcoming.

“To be the keeper of the stones.” Tarver leaned forward whispering, “There are evil spirits there that would kill each and every one of us if not for her keeping them appeased.”

Niven didn’t believe it, but he played along. “What if something were to happen to her, or if she left?”

The tavern owner shook his head sadly. “It will come to be, I suppose. The lass will not live forever.”

For some reason, Niven felt a need to protect Dallis. “She deserves more than a lonely life in a cottage spending her days at stones.”

“Aye, I agree, but there is no other way,” Tarver replied. “Ye have experienced it. Even with her there, they have become emboldened. Imagine how much worse it would be without her.”

Niven shook his head. “I will find out exactly what is happening. I do not believe that spirits can be so powerful as to claim lives.”

Tarver huffed. “Tell that to Fergus at the stables. His son was killed by them.”

After eating his fill, Niven walked to the stables. Fergus looked up, seeming surprised to see him. “Ye go out and about a great deal,” he muttered and stood.

Before he could go toward the corral where Niven’s horse was, Niven stopped him. “Is it true what they say about the stones? That evil spirits that kill are there?”

Fergus huffed. “What I know is that my son died there. But it had more to do with him drinking, falling and hitting his head on the center stone than with any spirits.”

“How long ago was that?”

“Two years almost to the day,” Fergus said with a sad shake of his head.

Niven met the man’s gaze. “Has the woman, Dallis, been there all this time?”

“Nay, she lived here in the village until a few months ago, when people began seeing things. It is her heritage to be the keeper of the stones, like her mother and grandmother before her.”

It was hard not to scoff. People were superstitious by nature. At the same time, Niven could not deny there was something strange about the area. He’d never had such strange sensations or dreams before arriving.

Instead of riding, he decided to go for a walk that day and avoid the stones. It was best he spend more time planning what the future would hold.

It turned out to be a full day. He helped an elderly man repair the wheels on his wagon and then chopped wood for another family after a young man hurt himself. Niven realized he could get used to village life.

However, the only trade he knew was being a guard and warrior and that did not pay when not working directly for a laird.

As he made his way back to the tavern, Niven considered different possibilities for how to make a living. He was too old to take on an apprenticeship. His father had been a farmer and he considered that perhaps if his cousin, Laird Ross, would grant him a parcel of land in South Uist, he could give farming a try.

“Not going for a ride today?” Fergus called out when Niven walked past the stables on his way to the tavern.

Niven shook his head but hesitated and walked to where the man sat whittling a figure from a piece of wood. “What can a man do here at the village to make a living?”

Fergus looked around the buildings as if for inspiration. “Ye could be the village constable. Ye could sell wares or perhaps breed animals, like sheep or chickens.”

It was hard not to laugh at the idea of raising chickens. He didn’t particularly care for being around most animals. The only exceptions were dogs and horses.

“Is there not a constable already?”

Fergus shook his head. “McCleary is old and will quit soon.”

Continuing on his way to the tavern, Niven considered the possibility of remaining at Ard Cairn, but realized it was not the right place.

He did not feel quite at home here.

The night was quite dark as the moon was invisible when darkness fell. For an unexplainable reason, Niven was apprehensive as he climbed into bed. The stories and superstitions had gotten to him. Perhaps it was time for him to leave and go to where his family was.

Evil spirits aside, he liked Ard Cairn, but he could not see himself remaining here.

Just as he was about to fall asleep, something touched his right shoulder. A cold hand pushed him onto his back and then another covered the left one.

Niven swung with both arms but hit nothing. It was as if the creature were both corporeal and invisible at the same time. The only thing Niven could see was a face, a monstrous face with hollow eyes, no nose and a wide mouth.

“Go,” it whispered. “Go to the stones.”

Somehow, he managed to slip from the bed and blinked repeatedly, his heart hammering in his chest. What was it?

The nightmares were becoming ridiculously real. Out of nowhere, he stumbled backward, his back slamming against the wall, and once again he swung his fists but hit nothing.

When cold hands wrapped around his neck, Niven fought with all his might. Because of the constriction, he could not call out. It was as if whatever it was took his voice.

He managed to shuffle sideways, fighting the entire time against his invisible foe until the tips of his fingers reached his sword. Pulling it from the scabbard, he swung the iron.

The creature made a whiny, hissing sound and evaporated.

This time, he could not deny it. It was not a dream, but a very real attack by unexplainable foes.

Knocks on the door made him jump and he opened it to find both Ina and Tarver staring at him wide-eyed. It was Ina who spoke first.

“What happened?”

He wasn’t sure what to say. How to explain. “Something attacked me while I slept,” he finally said. “A creature of some sort.”

The couple exchanged worried looks.

“Perhaps it is best if ye leave at sunrise,” Tarver said, “for yer own safety. They will not rest until they harm ye. They’ve chosen ye.”

Niven shook his head. “I do not understand what happened. But I will not cower and run.”

“I will get ye some boiled herbs to calm yer nerves,” offered Ina. The woman continued mumbling something that sounded like a prayer as she walked away.

Tarver met Niven’s gaze. “Do not deny her the beverage. I am sure it is as much for her as it is for ye that she makes it.”

Chapter Four

Dallis wasn’t sure what to think when she spotted Niven at the stones when she took her morning walk. As usual, Bruce, the dog, was at her side, but it hesitated upon seeing Niven.

“What is it, boy?” Dallis asked the dog, patting its head. “Do ye want to bite him? If so, I do not blame ye.”

“What are ye doing here?” Dallis said, not caring that it was a rude way to greet a person. “Ye should leave. How many times must I say it to ye? This is not a place for strangers.”

“They came to me last night. Attacked me in my own bed.” Niven pointed to his neck and she noted the purpling marks. Her eyes widened at the sight.

“I did not think they could actually touch a person. Are ye sure ye were not in a drunken brawl last night?”

Niven gave her a droll look. “I do not drink to excess. Ye can ask Ina, who felt the need to make me drink some sort of boiled herbs.”

Despite or perhaps because of the look of disgust on his face, Dallis had to smile. “I gave her the mixture. It truly works.”

While scratching at his bearded jaw, he studied her. “How does one go about getting rid of them?”

“Ye will not be willing to do it,” Dallis said, walking past him and spreading dried herbs over the center stone. Then she lit a bundle she’d made and walked in a circle. The entire time, she begged the spirits not to bother Niven or any others in the village.

While she performed her daily ritual, Niven stood rather irreverently with his arms crossed, leaning on one of the stones.

He remained silent, his piercing gaze following her. Finally, when she finished, she used a small hand broom to sweep any ashes that may have fallen from the center stone and replaced the items into her basket.

“When Fergus’ son died here, do ye think his death, or his blood, roused them? Or would it appease them?”

“Both have occurred to me,” Dallis replied as he fell in step beside her. “However, we cannot go about asking drunkards to come here and throw themselves upon the stone to find out.”

“What if it is blood alone that appeases them?” Niven asked. “Do ye not have some sort of information passed down to ye from the others?”

Dallis wanted to scream. “I do and I have scoured the pages in an effort to find a way to not have to live this life. I hate it here. I abhor being alone day after day, coming to the stones to do that ridiculous ceremony, which obviously doesn’t do anything to stop them.” She motioned to him as if he needed reminding.

“Perhaps I can help,” Niven said, almost too good-naturedly for someone who’d recently been attacked by an evil creature.

“Very well. I warn ye, however, that it is all riddles and makes absolutely no sense.”

Niven did not reply. Instead, he went to where his horse was and pulled the animal away from its grazing and followed her home.

Instead of inviting him in, Dallis motioned to two chairs outside. “I will bring the books.”

Once he was settled, she hurried inside. After her dreams of them together and the strange occurrence when she’d kissed him, it was best to keep him outside and make sure she stayed away from being too close to him.

Dallis wanted to giggle at the ridiculousness when butterflies seemed to fly in circles in her tummy. She patted her stomach. “Stop it,” she said in a low whisper.

Then after grabbing the stack of tomes from a small table, she went outside and plopped them on an upturned barrel next to where Niven sat.

“I wish to say something about the other day. When… we… er, I kissed ye,” Dallis stammered. “It was…”

He gave her a knowing look. “It was not ye, was it?”

She shook her head. “It was, but it was not. I cannot explain it.”

To her amazement, he shrugged. “I have been visited by ye at the tavern. Only I knew instinctively it was not ye.”

She gaped at him. “What happened?”

“A bit more than what happened here,” he motioned to the door.

Her eyes rounded. “Oh.”

They read and discussed, flipping through the weathered pages of the thick tomes until Dallis thought she’d fall off her wooden chair. She stood and paced while Niven read things out loud, both attempting to decipher words that formed sentences that made little sense.

“Now ye see why I gave up,” Dallis complained. “Line after line of nonsense. I am not sure why the others did not pass the teachings down to one another. My mother was quite ill when she gave me the books. She told me to speak to grandmother before attempting to read them.”

“Did ye?”

“I tried, but she kept putting me off. When she was dying, she tried to tell me things. But like the lines in the tomes, her words were jumbled and confusing.”

Niven studied her for a moment. A lock of hair fell over the left side of his face and Dallis fought not to pushed it back. Nothing had the right to cover such a handsome view. “Do ye remember what she said?”

“One thing she kept repeating was that the lamp’s oil does not need to be overfilled but kept with just enough oil so that the flame remains constant. I asked her about this after she said it the third time. She got aggravated with me, impatient.”

Dallis paused for a moment. “Finally, she took my hand and told me to promise her that I would leave and stay away from the stones. I told her that I’d promised mother to do the opposite and she visibly sagged.”

He did not give up. “Did she ever explain the refrain?”

“Only to tell me to read the page and memorize it.”

“Did ye?”

Dallis picked up the familiar tome and leafed to a page. “Something about a lamp is written here.” She then took the one he held and found the appropriate page. “Again, oil and lamp are mentioned here.”

Before he could ask, she gave him a stern look. “I have memorized both pages. There is little else for me to do out here alone. There is nothing else about lamps in the other two books. Neither of these mentions anything about a constant flame or filling the lamp.”

Niven stood and stretched. For a moment, she thought he’d come closer, and she took a step back and practically fell into the chair. “Where is the fifth book?”

“What?” Dallis sat straighter. “What do ye mean?”

He closed the books and pressed his finger to the cover of the one closest to him. “Here where it speaks of lamps and flame. It mentions book five.”

Dallis got up and hurried to get a closer look. “How did I not notice that before? How could I have been blind to it?”

“Perhaps ye were not supposed to see it,” Niven replied, then shuddered. “I am becoming a wise sage.”

She gave him a droll look.

“We must go to my grandmother’s house. Hurry, we must go and return before nightfall.”

When she grabbed her shawl and attempted to hurry into the forest in the direction of the village, Niven scooped her up and lifted her to the horse. The then mounted behind her and urged the mount forward.

It was disconcerting to lean back against a man’s chest, much less someone she’d only just recently met. Despite it, she had to admit to feeling comfortable, as if they’d known each other for a long time.

“Did ye dream about me?” Niven asked, taking her by surprise.

Dallis was glad she was not facing him or he’d know for sure that she lied. Her face burned hot as she shook her head side to side. “Not that I can remember. Why?”

“The other night, when I dreamed of ye appearing in my bed, although it was strange and I knew ye were not really there, it was as if I knew it because I knew ye.”

Dallis let out a breath. “I am sure ye were confused about that.”

“Ye are not a good liar.

She changed the subject. “I have had nightmares almost daily since coming to the cottage. I am considering asking old man Hamish to allow me to keep his dog with me.”

She felt Niven shrug. “I doubt a dog will keep the nightmares at bay.”

“I will feel less alone,” Dallis replied as a sadness pressed down at her. “I hate being alone.”

When they arrived at the village, the heaviness of the day lifted and Dallis was happy to see that people were out and about, despite the late hour. She stopped and spoke to a couple of women and lifted a bairn to her hip when it stretched out its arms to her.

Niven took her arm. “Ye will eat first and then we will search for the tome.” He guided her to the tavern.

Upon the pair entering the tavern, Ina gave them a curious look but hurried over and hugged Dallis tightly. “We miss ye around here.”

Dallis smiled warmly at the woman. “I do try to come regularly to the market.”

“It isn’t the same and ye know it.” The woman made motions with both hands for her to sit and then left only to hurry back with two steaming bowls.

The food, as always, was flavorful. Dallis sopped up the remaining juices in her bowl with a chunk of freshly baked bread.

Then picking up both hers and Niven’s bowls, she rushed to the kitchen to find Ina. After placing the bowls down, she hugged the woman. “Ye must teach me all yer cooking secrets one day.”

Ina beamed with pride. “Tis only what me own mother taught me.”

They left the tavern and went to Dallis’ grandmother’s house, where she’d lived until having to move closer to the stones.

Dallis gave in to curiosity. “Why are ye here?” she asked Niven. “What made ye come to Ard Cairn?”

“I was allowed to leave from service to Laird McLeod. A guard at the keep told me about this village, that it would be a good place to rest. I decided this was a good place to stop and consider where to settle.”

She wanted to cry at hearing that someone had so much freedom.

“I am so glad for ye that ye have such choices.”

“Ye have them as well,” Niven said as they arrived at the small home.

She opened the door and walked into the dimly lit but tidy space. “I come here regularly and tidy up,” Dallis explained. “It was only a few days that I lived here before I had to go to the cottage in the wood.”

“What made ye move?”

“Apparitions. People in the village started seeing them. And I had nightmares at the same time.”

“We should search,” Niven said.

They split up, Dallis searching trunks in the bedchamber, while Niven looked through the shelves in the small sitting room.

When she found the tome, it was wrapped in a blanket buried deep in a trunk that used to belong to her mother. Dallis wondered why that specific one was hidden. If it was so important, it made little sense.

“I found it,” she said, walking into the sitting room and finding Niven sitting at the kitchen table.

“Make yerself comfortable,” Dallis told him with a bland look. “I thought ye were helping to search.”

“There is not much to look through in here.” He looked over his shoulder toward the bedchamber. “I did not think ye wished to be near me and a bed at the same time.”

“Bah!” Dallis balked. “Ye think quite highly of yerself.”

Instead of a reply, he lifted an eyebrow, then smiled. He was joking. Dallis laughed, instantly feeling even more at ease around the man.

She placed the book on the table. “Thank ye for helping me. I will read it through once I return back to the cottage.”

“Are ye sure ye do not wish to remain here tonight?” he asked, looking around the cozy home.

Despite the promise to not consider her past, Dallis followed his line of sight. “Of course, I would prefer to return to my life here. Any life would be preferable as long as it is not near the stones. But I have little choice. With all that has been happening, especially to ye, I have to return at once.”

“I will take ye,” Niven stood. “It will be quicker on horseback.”

They rode back. This time, she asked him questions to pass the time.

“Where did ye live prior to going to work for Laird McLeod?”

“South Uist. I lived at a farm with my parents and sister.”

“Is that where ye would return to?”

“Only to visit. I do not wish to live there. I may ask my cousin, Laird Darach Ross, for a parcel of land and farm.”

Dallis leaned sideways to look at him. “Ye do not look like a farmer.”

Niven chuckled. The sound was a rich tone that made her smile. “I helped my father but must admit to not finding it to my liking. But what else can I do? My only skills are in battle.”

“Ye can teach sword skills. Ye can be a butcher, or perhaps a traveling bard if ye can sing.”

“I cannot sing.”

“What about horses? Ye can breed them.”

“Hmmm,” Niven was quiet for a long moment. “That may be a very good option.”

When they arrived at the cottage, the sun had fallen. Dallis hurried to find her basket and candles so she could perform the night ceremony at the stones.

“I will not be long,” she told Niven and hurried away, not giving him the opportunity to ask to go with her. Although she wasn’t sure, it felt as if what she had to do had to be done alone.

Just as she walked into the center of the stones, she wished with all her heart she’d asked Niven to come with her.

A large flame flew from the fire in the lantern she held to form a human-like apparition. It was the same tall being, with long, skinny limbs.

She stood frozen to the spot, unsure what to do. Finally, not looking away from the being that seemed to float just above the ground, she placed the basket down and grabbed the bundle of herbs.

Her hands shook so bad, it took forever for it to catch fire. Finally, it started smoking and she walked in a semi-circle, not daring to go near the creature.

“Bring him to me.”

“What?” Dallis asked, stopping her chant.

“Bring him to me,” the creature repeated.

“No,” Dallis replied in a stern tone. “Go back to where ye came from.”

In less than a second, the creature was nose-to-nose with her, and a scream caught in her throat. Dallis opened her mouth and tried to yell, but no sound came.

The creature’s bloody hand grabbed the basket and threw it across the circle. Then to her horror, it lifted her by the neck and slammed her down onto the stone in the center of the circle.

“It is either him, or it will be ye,” it hissed. A drop of cold liquid splattered onto her cheek.

Her throat constricted and she tried to gulp in air. Then it was gone.

Dallis sat up with a hand to her throat, gasping for air. Tears poured down her face. How she hated this. Why had it been her lot?

Too afraid to find her basket, she slid from the stone and ran between the stones and then on to the cottage.

Chapter Five

Niven knew immediately that Dallis had seen something by the wild expression on her face as she ran toward him. She was crying and didn’t stop running until she slammed against his chest. Then she began to sob while clutching to him with a raw desperation.

“It… it ap–peared,” she managed through sobs. “S-so horrible.”

He rubbed her back, knowing there were no words that would erase what she’d seen. All it took was but a thought for him to visualize the creature that appeared in his bedchamber the night before.

When she began to calm, he pressed a glass of ale into her hands and forced her to drink it. She gulped down the liquid, holding the cup in one hand and clutching to his tunic with the other. It was as if he were the cornerstone keeping her from going mad.

“What can I do?” she finally asked. “It will kill us. I know it.”

“Get some rest,” he said as he guided her inside. “I will keep watch. In the morning, we will start reading the tome and, together, we will find a way to ensure it returns to where it came from.”

Dallis lay in the bed, but she stared up at the ceiling, seemingly too scared to sleep. For some reason, Niven sensed they’d not be threatened that night. The creature, for all its threats, did not seem to go past hurting them. If it really wished to kill them, surely it would have done so by now.

He considered that Fergus’ son had died there in the center. The creature had not killed Dallis but had insisted she bring him. Could it be only male blood sated it?

“Will ye come lay with me?”

At first, Niven wasn’t sure what she wanted. The woman was terrified, and no doubt wished someone close. However, it would be a dangerous thing. He considered the options and, finally, removed his boots and belt. Laying the sword next to the bed on the floor, he then lay atop the bedding so that they could not touch.

To his surprise, she slid close, placed her head on his shoulder and her arm over his chest. “Thank ye,” she whispered.

It was his turn to stare at the ceiling, using every bit of strength and willpower to keep from pressing a kiss to her brow.

The woman was not only beautiful, but so very much in need of escape. Much like him, she wanted to start a new life. One of her own choosing.

“Dallis?”

“Mmm?”

“Leave with me.”

She did not reply but seemed to shrug. “I do believe I would, if it were possible. I have never been far from here.”

“Then it is settled. We leave together.”

She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “Would ye do it? Take me away with ye?”

“Aye, I would.”

It was she that kissed him. Her lips pressed against his. A sweeter taste he’d never known. Both needed each other more than anything in that moment.

A thousand spirits could rush the cottage in the moment, but it would not stop him from what happened next.

Between kisses and caresses, they removed each other’s clothing. Niven continued to kiss her as he moved over her. With his mouth and hands, Niven took his time exploring Dallis’ body. She was stunningly made.

When she began urging him for more, they finally joined.

They made love in a way that he’d never done. Each of them taking and ensuring the other’s enjoyment. Soon they were breathless, fighting for completion, unable to keep from crying out loudly as they splintered, falling apart and coming together again.

Niven slid Dallis’ hair between his fingers, the locks sliding through them, cascading to the bed. “I mean it. We leave together. I am not going to go without ye.”

Instead of a reply, she kissed him again. This time, the kiss was sweet. If she only knew how often he’d dreamed of life with a woman like her. It wasn’t until just then with her that it was finally within his reach.

“What do ye think of me?” he finally asked her. A part of him felt like a lad asking a lass to like him.

She studied him and he wondered how clearly she could see in the dark room. “I find ye quite handsome and very kind. It is as if there is a bond between us and because of it, I gave myself to ye.” Again, she kissed him. “Do not feel obligated to take me with ye because of it.”

He caressed her face. “I asked ye to go with me before we made love.”

“True,” Dallis said with a half-smile. “I meant it when I said I would. However…”

“We will ensure all is settled before leaving.”

There were doubts in her gaze. But she nodded. “We should sleep.”

There was nothing like waking up to a beautiful view of a woman fast asleep, hair spread over the pillow and enticing lips slightly parted, allowing for shallow breaths.

Niven hated to wake her, but the sun was high, which meant they’d slept in rather late. Not only that, but the urge to relieve himself was too strong to put off.

Sliding from the bed, he quickly dressed and walked out. The sky was cloudy, which meant it would probably rain soon. Walking back to the front door, he looked to the stones. For some reason, they seemed to be more threatening. It could be the sunlight reflecting from the morning dew, he concluded.

When he walked inside, Dallis was sitting up in the bed. He’d expected shyness, but she smiled warmly at him and his chest constricted with pride.

“Did ye sleep well?” he asked, going to the fireplace to put wood into it. “I will go fetch water if ye tell me where to get it.”

She motioned to a pitcher. “There is some in there for drinking. There is a barrel by the side door, with water for bathing and such.”

There was a bucket by the kitchen table. He was about to get it, but instead went to the bed and leaned forward to kiss Dallis. She held his shoulders, eyes remaining closed when he straightened.

They broke their fast with a simple meal of porridge and bread. As soon as they finished, Dallis washed up the bowls and poured ale from a jug. Then she sat at the table next to him and they began to read the tome.

Niven wasn’t sure how it began. At first a rumble, then a low hum. He and Dallis exchanged confused looks. It was not quite evening but, already, it was dark outside. The clouds had converged to ensure very little sunlight trickled past.

Gathering a lantern from the bedchamber, along with the one they’d been using, they had enough light to see properly.

“I should go and perform the nightly ceremony,” Dallis said, looking worriedly toward the door.

There was another rumble, seeming to come from the earth beneath their feet. “Ye cannot go. Whatever it was hurt ye yesterday.”

“What else can we do?” Dallis swallowed and yelped when thunder sounded.

Niven gathered her into his arms. “It is a storm. Nothing to do with the stones.”

Only, it wasn’t a storm. The walls of the cottage seemed to come alive as the wind pounded with so much force that Niven wondered if the building was about to collapse on them.

He went to the door and looked out. The sky had become so dark that it gave the eerie look of it being half-day and half-night.

Huge raindrops were blown sideways by the strong wind. He walked out to look toward the stones. There was nothing of note to see, but somehow he knew it was there. The same evil being that had visited him and attacked Dallis was there, watching him. Waiting.

Back inside, as he dried off, Dallis watched him, silent questions in her gaze.

“We should leave. Get on the horse, ride away and never turn back,” Niven finally said. “Ye cannot continue this fight. Whatever they are, I do not believe they will actually hurt anyone. They had the opportunity to kill me and ye and they did not.”

Dallis sighed. “If ye step inside the stones, they will kill.”

She stood and walked to him, brushing the wet hair from his brow. “I cannot leave knowing that no one is here to protect an innocent who may die because of it. I could not bear it.”

Chapter Six

Dallis was sure the world was ending by the way the entire house shook and the ground trembled under their feet.

Scrambling for the book they’d retrieved from her grandmother’s house, she picked it up and took it to the bed. Then she flipped through the worn pages, praying something would stand out.

It was as if whatever was angry outside, became furious, thunder sounding when she focused on the words on the page, and it was as if she saw them for the first time.

Ashes and blood. True to life and death.

Forever remain in the depth.

Like the steady flame in a half-filled lamp,
ye will remain.

Never to reclaim.

“Niven,” she called out. “It is here. I know what must happen.” When he didn’t reply, she whirled around.

The front door was open. The wind blew in, tossing the dishes and other household items around as if they were not but dried leaves.

“Niven!” She raced out the door to find him in a battle with two beings that looked like the evil creature she’d seen the night before.

When he swung his sword and sliced across one, it fell to the ground, but did not die. It continued writhing and reaching out for him.

When the second creature fell, two more appeared. Niven could not win against such foes. It was also clear that they were shepherding him toward the stones.

“Do not go to the stones!” Dallis called. But she was slammed backward into the wall of the cottage. The ferocity of the hit was so hard that she lost her breath.

“Niven,” she tried to scream, but it was costing her just to breathe. There was an invisible vise holding her against the wall. Thankfully, it didn’t keep her from moving sideways.

Suddenly, she remembered what Niven had said about iron. He’d told her that iron seemed to hurt them. She slid toward where she kept gardening tools until she was finally able to grab a small spade.

Making stabbing motions at whatever held her, made it lose its grip and she rushed to where Niven was.

“Stop! Go away,” she screamed at the creatures that fought him, while swinging her spade. “Return to where ye came from.”

Her teeth chattered with fear, but she did her best not to succumb to what she really wanted to do. She wanted to fall to the ground, roll into a ball and cry.

To her horror, the same evil creature that had appeared to her stood between the stones. It seemed to be waiting, its hollowed eyes focused on them.

“We cannot possibly win,” Dallis said and then screamed when one of the creatures that fought Niven shoved her so hard that she tumbled onto the ground, rolling several feet before landing, sprawled out on the wet grass.

Niven was almost to the stones. He continued to fight, but it was evident he was tiring. Not sure what to do, Dallis ran into the cottage, grabbed her bowl full of bundled herbs and then lit it all on fire. With the burning herbs, she raced back outside with it toward where the fight continued.

“Let him go!” she screamed. “Return to where ye came from.” The herbs had little effect.

When Niven cried out and stumbled sideways, her blood ran cold as she watched him fall, blood trickling from the side of his face.

He was not unconscious, but not quite aware either. Still, he struggled as the creatures grabbed him by the ankles and dragged him through the stones.

“No!” Dallis ran after them, stopping to pick up his sword. It was heavy, but she managed to swing it hard enough to fell one of the creatures. Its piercing scream seemed to echo from the stones.

The large creature, who seemed to be most powerful as well, stood between her and Niven. “Yer work is done.” Its voice was like a hundred voices at once.

“Let him go,” Dallis said, lifting the sword.

“There is naught ye can do.”

She looked around when sounds emanated from either the stones, or past them. She wasn’t sure at this point what was real and what was imagined.

All Dallis knew was that she would not allow Niven to die. He did not deserve to have been pulled into whatever was happening in her village with her people.

“He is not one of us. Let him go.”

“His blood is pure.” That was the explanation the creature gave before turning to where Niven was struggling to get up to his hands and knees.

The evil creature kicked him, and he collapsed.

Rage filled her and Dallis lifted the sword, charging forward. Before she could reach it, two creatures appeared and blocked her strike. One pushed her and she stumbled backward into a stone, her head bumping against it.

“No,” she whimpered, looking to where the creatures were now placing Niven onto the center stone.

Not sure if it would work, Dallis repeated the words she’d read. “Ashes and blood. True to life and death. Forever remain in the depth. Like the steady flame in a half-filled lamp, ye will remain. Never to reclaim,” Dallis chanted, lifting her hand out toward where Niven was. She repeated the words louder.

The largest creature lifted Niven’s sword while four others held him down.

Then the creature shrieked, and the sword fell from its grasp. One by one, the four who held Niven howled and evaporated.

Huge archers had arrived. They stood between the stones, shooting arrow after arrow at the beings, felling creatures each time a new one appeared.

When they did not step into the circle, Dallis understood that she and Niven had to leave on their own. They could not be saved otherwise.

She half-crawled toward the center. The evil beings did not bother to try to stop her as they did not last long after appearing.

The only one who remained standing was the leader. He was filled with arrows and still stood. He was lifting the sword.

Before Dallis could reach the stone and Niven, the creature lowered the sword with force. The sound of the sword against the stone rang loudly.

She screamed, her wide eyes taking in the sight.

Blinking back tears, she did her best to see. Then her vision cleared.

To her astonishment, the stone was empty. Had Niven vanished?

“Dallis.” He had rolled off the stone and was on the ground beside it. Bent over, he ran to her, grabbed her arm and, together, they hurried out of the circle.

Seconds later, what sounded like a thousand screams emanated from the stones. The sound was loud and shrill, the sound echoing against the stones.

And then there was silence.

Niven grabbed Dallis against him. “Are ye injured?”

“I am fine,” she declared, knowing there were definitely cuts and bruises to be discovered.

“Who are they?” she asked, turning to the stones.

The stones were silent. There was no one around. Barely the sound of the wind.

“Where did the archers go?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “Archers?”

“Aye.”

She turned toward the stones. The archers stood in a line, watching her. Then as one, they lifted their bows in salute. At once, she knew they were the defenders of the stones. She was no longer needed.

“How is it possible?” Dallis uttered and fainted.

When Dallis woke, she was not at the cottage. By the sounds outside, Niven had taken her to the village. Since the room was unfamiliar, she guessed she was at the tavern.

She sat up, feeling silly for having to be taken care of when it had been evident that Niven had been injured much more than her.

It was quiet and the bed was comfortable. She stretched, not wanting to get up just yet. It was a luxury to feel so rested and not have a reason to get up early.

The door opened and Ina peered in. “Ah, ye are finally awake.”

Dallis smiled. “Ye make it sound as if I have slept for days.” Her smile faltered when Ina gave her a quizzical look. “How long have I been asleep?”

“Two days,” Ina replied. “Ye were exhausted and refused to wake even to drink or eat.”

“Goodness.”

“Ye did it,” Ina said in a quiet voice. “They will never return.”

Dallis didn’t have to ask who the woman spoke of. “How do ye know?”

“The stones have changed. All remain except the one in the center.”

“Oh.”

“Has she woken up?” Tarver peered in. He held a tray with a bowl of stew in the center. Dallis’ favorite. “I bring ye something to eat.”

Ina shook her head, pretending to be upset with her husband. “It is not right for a man to walk into a lass’ bedchamber. Give me that.” She took the bowl and shooed him out.

Dallis scrambled to sit straighter as Ina settled the tray with the bowl of stew and chunk of bread on her lap.

“Now, eat. I will fetch Niven. He has been pacing all morning.”

“Give me a few moments before he comes.”

When Ina left, Dallis smoothed down her hair, but gave up. It should be no surprise to Niven that she look a fright.

Instead of fretting over her appearance, she ate quickly, not wanting to be gobbling down food when he walked in.

She’d just finished eating and had donned a robe that Ina had loaned her when Niven knocked.

Upon entering, he came directly to her and pulled her to stand. Then he inspected her face.

While he did so, she noted bruising on his temple and a cut on his bottom lip. But other than that, he did not seem overly injured.

“Ye had a large knot on the back of yer head. I worried ye may not wake.”

Instinctively, she reached back and winced when she felt the offending bulge. “So I do.”

His gaze pierced hers. “I am going to South Uist.”

“Yer family will be glad to see ye,” Dallis replied, her stomach tightening. She would not ask to go. It would be him who’d have to ask her again. Just because they’d been intimate and gone through so much together did not mean he had any obligation to her.

He nodded. “I think they will be glad. So will I.”

“It will be good for ye to be there.”

“I think ye will like them,” he added.

Dallis smiled widely and threw her arms around his neck. “Oh! I cannot wait.”

Chapter Seven

Dallis stretched and then snuggled against her sleeping husband.

They’d been quickly married by the reluctant vicar at Ard Cairn upon learning they’d been intimate. Much to her embarrassment, Niven had walked up to the man and declared they must marry immediately.

Before the vicar could begin to list the process, Niven had informed the man that they’d been intimate on more than one occasion, that he loved her and was taking her to live elsewhere.

Ina and Tarver, Fergus, old man Hamish and even Bruce, the dog, had been present.

Dallis gave Fergus’ son’s widow her grandmother’s house, which had delighted the young woman who was raising a six-year-old boy alone. It had been a perfect day.

Bird calls returned her to the present. She and Niven had finally arrived at the northern shore of South Uist, but it had been rather late, and she was too tired to continue. They’d set up a small camp in a clearing near a creek.

Niven woke, yawning widely. “Time to get up. We will arrive today.”

Moments later, they ate dried fish and flat bread washed down with ale from a wineskin. Dallis helped gather the bedding and placed it on the back of the small wagon they’d used to travel in.

She’d only brought a few things with her. A pitcher and basin that had been her mother’s, several embroidered items her grandmother had made and some gifts from the villagers. Her trunk was filled with items that would bring memories of her life in Ard Cairn.

Niven helped her up to the bench and they continued their trek.

“I have one question,” Niven said, “and then we shall speak of it no more.”

“What is it?” Dallis asked, leaning to put her head on his shoulder, loving the feel of his strong body.

“Why do ye think the creatures awakened?”

“It had to be Fergus’ son dying. I believe spilled blood brought them back.”

“That makes sense,” Niven replied with a sigh. “I am glad the village will never have to worry about them again.”

Dallis smiled at him. “Just in case, I left the one tome with Ina. I gave her clear instructions as to what to chant if it was to happen again.”

“I cannot picture her fighting those creatures,” Niven said with a chuckle.

“I can. Tarver with a ladle and Ina with a large spoon. They can definitely scare anything away.”

They laughed at the vision.

The sun was low on the horizon when Ross Keep came into view. Dallis lost her breath at the beautiful castle beside the sea.

“Yer family is wealthy,” Dallis said breathily. “Why did ye not tell me?”

“My family is wealthy. That does not mean I am,” Niven replied, giving her a smirk.

They were allowed through the gates without hesitation and, soon, a large blond man exited the home and walked to them.

She knew immediately he was who Niven had referred to as “The Lion”. Waves of golden hair framed the handsome but fierce face.

Niven was brunette, his skin olive. This man was light. She could see no family resemblance. Then he turned to meet her gaze and she knew immediately that he was definitely related to Niven. The same brilliant hazel-colored eyes.

“Welcome to Ross Keep and to our clan. I am Laird Darach Ross.” The man’s rich voice was deep and sultry.

Dallis turned to Niven before replying. “Thank ye. I am glad to be here.”

“Good,” Darach said, motioning to the door where a beautiful brunette stood. “I am sure ye and my wife, Isobel, will become great friends.”

Her heart leaped with joy. Not only was she to live with a man she’d already fallen madly in love with, but she was now to finally have a sister.

Niven took her elbow, holding her back as the laird gave instructions as to where their possessions should be taken.

“I love ye, Dallis. Welcome home.”

She looked into his eyes. “I love ye, Niven.”

He seemed taken aback by her declaration, but then chuckled, whispering in her ear, “I would hope so by the way ye fought for me not to be killed. Ye wanted me badly.”

Dallis laughed and elbowed him just as Isobel Ross reached them. The woman hugged her tightly. “Come inside. After a good meal, ye must rest.”

“I do not wish to rest,” Dallis told her. “I wish to begin this new life immediately.”

“And so it shall be,” the laird proclaimed.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Hildie McQueen

Clan Ross Series

A Heartless Laird

A Hardened Warrior

A Hellish Highlander

A Flawed Scotsman

A Fearless Rebel

A Fierce Archer

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

The Lyon’s Laird

About the Author

Most days USA Today Bestseller Hildie McQueen can be found in her overly tight leggings and green hoodie, holding a cup of British black tea while stalking her hunky lawn guy. Author of Medieval Highlander and American Historical romance, she writes something every reader can enjoy.

Hildie’s favorite past-times are reader conventions, traveling, shopping and reading.

She resides in beautiful small town Georgia with her super-hero husband Kurt and three little doggies.

Visit her website at www.hildiemcqueen.com

Facebook: HildieMcQueen

Twitter: @HildieMcQueen

Instagram: hildiemcqueenwriter

White Lady Lost

Maggi Andersen

Chapter One

Christmas 1860

Berry Pomeroy Village, Devon

A sudden mist, damp on Harry Johnson’s face, swirled around him as he walked through the park from the train station at Totnes. On his way to spend Christmas with his parents, Harry had passed up the offer of a lift, preferring to stretch his legs and stride out, after hours spent in the train. But now, with the mist deepening, he began to regret it.

He’d not gone far when a woman dressed all in white emerged from the bushes some yards ahead of him. Threads of gossamer mist swirled around her. Startled, Harry dragged in a breath. Slender and graceful, at first when she turned toward him, he thought her beautiful, but a sharp breeze sprang up from nowhere and stirred her veil. He saw her face more clearly. Beneath the short veil she seemed ageless, neither young nor old. Her eyes darkly shadowed, her expression seemed lost, unfocused. Harry shivered and suffered the weirdest sensation, as if icy fingers danced along his spine. She appeared to look right through him. He stopped for some obscure reason, hesitant to approach her.

Neither did she come to him but held out her arms as if in entreaty. “Help me.”

Startled, he said, “Of course, madam. If I can?”

He slowly crossed the space between them.

“Oh, I do hope so.” Her voice fluttered breathily, the veil down over her face stirred slightly as if by the breeze, like a spider’s web sprinkled with dew. Odd, for there wasn’t a breath of breeze, not even enough to stir the leaves, and the clammy mist had rolled in again. How unearthly she seemed. Unnerved, Harry’s pulse raced. He chastised himself. Accountants were not given to flights of fancy. There was always a logical explanation for everything.

“I have waited so long…” her voice faded on a sigh.

Harry took himself to task. The woman obviously needed his help. But as he moved nearer, she seemed to effortlessly retreat. “Are you in trouble?” Harry couldn’t ignore such a plea, but hoped it might be dealt with swiftly. He didn’t want to be late for Christmas dinner. It would upset his mother, who always went to a great deal of trouble, and his father, a stickler for punctuality. “May I escort you home? Do you live near here?”

“Up there.” She turned to gesture toward the rocky hill where only the rambling ruins of a once mighty fortress perched above a wooded ravine.

“Surely you’re mistaken.” That couldn’t be right. He could just make out the ruins of the fifteenth century St. Margaret’s Tower and the bare stone walls of the gatehouse rising above the mist. No one lived there except the jackdaws. Only visitors came to view it now. He doubted it had been inhabited for hundreds of years, except perhaps by a guard employed by the Duke of Somerset.

“Are you lost? You are welcome to come home with me. I can drive you in my father’s carriage.”

She clasped pale hands together against her breast. “Oh, no. I mustn’t.”

“It’s not far.” He turned to point down the street where the chimneys of his parent’s house belched smoke. “You can warm yourself by the fire and have a sherry. After which, I will take you home.”

Harry turned back to her.

She had vanished.

“Where…?” Harry searched up and down the path but found no sign of her. Had she retreated into the trees? He hadn’t heard so much as a rustle.

“How very odd.” Disturbed by the encounter, he rested his cane on his shoulder and strode on. Deep in thought, he almost walked past the front gate of his parent’s white-washed, thatched-roofed cottage.

“Here you are at last, Harry.” His mother kissed his cheek at the door. “Your coat feels damp, wasn’t Jeffrey Mullins at the station with his gig?”

“Yes, but I preferred to walk and enjoy the country air, Mother. One gets little chance of a good hike when living in the city.” Harry divested himself of his coat and hat.

“Well, it is a lovely, clear night. Come into the parlor. We have dinner guests.”

“Clear?” Harry turned around and saw that indeed the mist had gone. His eyebrows shot up. “The mist certainly cleared rapidly.”

She chuckled. “How you like to tease me, you foolish boy. Come and meet our guests, Mrs. Dunstable and her daughter, Cecily.”

Harry entered the cozy parlor dressed in its Christmas greenery. Tinsel and bright baubles decorated the Christmas tree. It seemed a world apart from the encounter he had just experienced. Warm and comfortable. An older lady in black bombazine sat on the sofa beside a pretty young woman dressed in a white gown, a colorful paisley shawl arranged around her arms. For a moment, Harry thought it might be the woman he met in the park, but no, this girl’s skin glowed with robust health. She seemed so alive. It made him wonder again about the lady in the white veil. Was she ill? Should he have searched for her? He felt strangely guilty, as if he’d let her down somehow.

“Mr. Dunstable passed away earlier this year,” his mother explained. “Eventide can be a lonely time with the absence of loved ones. Mrs. Dunstable, I’m so pleased you and your daughter have joined us.”

“And you are very kind to have invited us, Mrs. Johnson.” Mrs. Dunstable smiled sadly. “Poor Cecily has had a dreary time of late, with just the two of us.”

Cecily’s blue eyes met Harry’s, and she nodded, stirring her glossy brown ringlets.

“How do you do?” He shook Mrs. Dunstable’s hand, then clasped Cecily’s in one of his own. “Miss Dunstable.” She really was the most attractive girl. Something about her drew him beyond what nature had endowed her. The sparkle of mischief or humor in her big eyes, as if she wanted to share an amusing secret.

“Ah, there you are, Harrison.” Harry’s father came into the room, his unlit pipe in his hand. “I am pleased to see you on time. I should not have liked the dinner to be spoiled. Not when your mother and Polly have toiled in the kitchen all day.” He replaced his pipe in the pipe rack and sat in his wing chair near the fire.

“Neither would I, Father.”

“Has another new family come to live in the village?” Harry asked as he threw up his tails and sat on an overly firm chintz-covered chair. His mother had redecorated the room in the latest style with heavy velvet drapes, potted ferns, china ornaments, and crocheted antimacassars covering every suitable surface to protect the furniture from the Macassar oil his father used on his hair.

“No, I don’t believe so,” Father said. “Mother? Mrs. Dunstable?”

They both shook their heads.

“Why do you ask, Harrison?” Mother sat upright with an eye on the door.

“On my way here, I spoke to a young lady in the park I’ve never met before.”

“What was she like?” Cecily asked.

“She wore a white veil, and with the mist swirling around us, I can’t be sure what she…”

“Mist? What mist?” Mr. Johnson rose and went to the window. “No fog tonight. It’s unusually clear. I was just remarking on it to your mother.”

“It must have blown away,” Harrison said, annoyed that his parent should think he made it up.

“Tell me more.” Cecily gazed at Harry, making him wish there was more to tell.

“The lady seemed unworldly. Rather ghostly.” He hadn’t admitted that to himself until now. But it was true. She moved over the ground as if she glided.

“Ghostly?” his mother cried. “Really, Harrison, shame on you. You shall make us all lie scared in our beds tonight.”

“I apologize, Mother.” He shifted in his chair. “Such fantastical thoughts are most unlike me.” He directed his apology to Cecily, not wishing her to think badly of him, and noticed her eyes alight with curiosity and amusement.

“Please tell us more, sir,” she said. “I love ghost stories if this is one.”

“I’m afraid it might disappoint you.” Harry fiddled with a waistcoat button and glanced at his father, who frowned. “I have nothing to add, for she left before I could ask her more. The woman merely appeared to be lost. She pointed to the castle, but surely she doesn’t live there.”

“Indeed not,” his father said. He turned to Mrs. Dunstable. “You might wish to visit our ruined castle sometime.”

“What is its history, Mr. Johnson?” Miss Dunstable asked.

“It’s quite fascinating. When Lord Seymour’s son, Edward Seymour II, inherited Berry Pomeroy, he began to build a stately mansion within the castle walls. An ambitious undertaking, he replaced the old house’s north range with a new north wing three stories high, with a grand staircase.”

“What happened after that, Father?” Harry asked, caught up in the mystery.

“It’s thought that he ran out of money. Or perhaps he had an eye on the baronetcy he purchased later. He became Sir Edward Seymour, first baronet of Berry Pomeroy, but died not long afterward.”

“Then the house was never finished?” Harry turned to see Cecily listening intently.

His father shook his head. “No, never completed.”

“How very sad,” Cecily said. “I should like to know if this mysterious lady in white found her way safely home.”

Her mother frowned at her. “Cecily reads gothic novels.”

“Dinner is served,” Polly announced at the door.

His mother tutted. “Now, let us enjoy a splendid Christmas dinner if we aren’t too unnerved to enjoy it.”

The company brightened as they drank mulled wine and tucked into roast goose served with tasty gravy and a vast array of vegetables. Harry found a silver shilling in his serving of Christmas pudding. Then, after dinner, when Cecily pulled a Christmas cracker with him, he angled it, allowing her to win. It appeared he hadn’t fooled her, for with a questioning glance, she offered the crimson paper hat she’d won to him. “You must wear this because it will muss my hair.”

Harry arranged it on his head.

“How well it looks,” she said with laughter sparking in her eyes.

“I shall wear it every time we meet,” he said with a grin.

“Fool,” she said too softly for her mother, who was discussing a knitting pattern with his, to hear.

For a moment, they contemplated each other.

Later, in the bright moonlight, Harry escorted the ladies to the front door of their cottage. He crossed the lawn and leaped over the fence, his mind filled with images of Cecily, laughing over her mulled wine at the foolish hat on his head. She was quite the most interesting and attractive girl he’d ever met. Something had definitely sparked between them. But nothing could come of it. He could not contemplate settling down until he rose to a higher position in the accountancy firm. And he could hardly carry her over the threshold of his shabby two-room flat.

He climbed the stairs slowly. Had he dreamt up the woman in white? Perturbed, he entered his old bedroom. He found it comforting to gaze about at the paraphernalia he’d gathered throughout his childhood that his mother refused to store in the attic: banners and his award for topping mathematics at college, a cup he won for running, his books, and his ice skates. It put the featureless rooms he rented in London to shame. And somehow, it grounded him.

*

Mr. Harrison Johnson was so handsome, with his deep brown eyes, curly chestnut hair, and tall stature. His tale of the lady in the white veil and the mist was puzzling. Could she have been a ghost? It was indeed strange that she’d disappeared so quickly. More likely a loose woman trying to engage his attentions, Cecily decided. She would have liked to question him further, but under her mother’s keen eye, she had no chance to.

As they prepared for bed, her mother expressed her distrust of Harrison. “I can’t admire a man who talks nonsense and expects us to believe him. That strange woman in the mist.” She clucked her tongue. “He would have been flirting with her, no doubt. He is probably a rake. One hears such stories of young men left to their own devices in the metropolis. Such a pity, too, when his father has such a steadfast character.”

Cecily knew better than to argue with her mother in this frame of mind. But really, there was nothing rakish about the conservative Harrison Johnson. She caught a twinkle in his eye and wanted to make him laugh more. But beneath her mother’s unwavering gaze, a flirtation was unthinkable.

Quite cast down, she changed into her night clothes. She would like to see him again. But as he lived in London and only planned to spend a few days here, there seemed little chance of it. Unless… Harry had promised his father to take their Scottie dog, Benny, out for an early morning walk.

The next morning, Cecily rose early and dressed before Mary brought her cup of tea. When she opened the window, the crisp air held a hint of snow and made her shiver. This mist Harrison spoke of seemed most curious. She couldn’t stop thinking about it, and although she’d seen no evidence of it herself, she did not believe Harrison had made it up. Why would he? There was a mystery here, and she loved mysteries. Intent on catching him when he left the house to walk the dog, she kept an eye out for him as she dressed. When Mary entered with Cecily’s cup of tea, she sat on the window seat to drink it.

She had drunk the last dregs when the Johnson’s front door opened, and Harrison stepped out, with Benny on a lead. As he and the dog started down the path, Cecily leaned her elbows on the sill and called to him. He looked up and smiled.

“Good morning, Miss Dunstable.”

“I wonder if you would care for some company on your walk?” Cecily asked.

He nodded. “Very much.”

“If you care to wait, I shan’t be a moment.”

Cecily checked her appearance in the mirror and hurried to the stairs. She would be back before her mother left her bed.

Chapter Two

Dressed in a dark-blue coat with a velvet collar and a matching blue bonnet, Cecily opened her gate. Harrison smiled a welcome from the footpath while Benny, tail wagging, sniffed the grass at the side. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

“I did, thank you.” She raised her skirts with gloved hands, offering a glimpse of white petticoats above her gray boots.

“My story of the woman in the park did not unduly alarm you?”

“Oh, no. I found it very interesting.”

“I’m glad.” When she took his proffered arm, he breathed in the scent of lily of the valley.

As they walked along the footpath, he glanced sideways at her. The pale blue ribbons decorating her bonnet were the color of her eyes, and the cold air painted roses on her cheeks. Aware he was staring, he tugged at Benny’s lead to move the little dog forward. “How long have you and your mother lived here?”

“Eight months. Mother had to sell our house after Papa died. She manages the flower shop in Totnes. On busy days, I serve behind the counter.”

He enjoyed a pleasant vision of Cecily surrounded by fragrant blooms. “Do you have a favorite flower?”

“I like them all. Daisies are a happy flower, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “An excellent description. They’re such a pleasant sight growing wild in the meadows.”

They reached the park gates. He turned to her. “Shall we go in?”

“Oh yes, do let’s. We might see your white lady. Was she very beautiful?”

“I believe so.” He had to admit the woman had an ethereal beauty, although the bright-eyed girl before him was far more attractive. He did not particularly wish to meet the lady again. He walked the dog along the path. As they moved farther into the trees, Benny, who had been obliging to date, pulled hard against the lead. Distracted by the possibility of meeting the woman again, the lead slipped through Harry’s fingers as the dog bolted, disappearing into the bushes.

“Benny!” Harry took off after him. He’d never be forgiven if anything happened to his father’s dog. Harry had become fond of the little animal himself.

Sharp barking came from a bank of rhododendrons.

“Benny! Here, boy! I’ll give you some of my breakfast bacon,” he yelled.

Cecily laughed. “He’s in those bushes.”

The shrubs shook wildly, then the dog emerged and ran over to them with something in his mouth.

“What has he got there?”

Harry grabbed the trailing lead. He bent down to ease the scrap from the dog’s jaws. Benny growled, unwilling to give it up.

When he opened his mouth, Harry took hold of the shredded piece of white net, but it dissolved into white dust in his gloved fingers.

Harry fought a shiver and dusted his hands. “Nothing but an old rag.”

Cecily’s wide eyes searched his. “Was that what it was?”

“Seems so.” Harry realized Benny had found the piece of net in the precise spot where he first saw the woman. He cast an anxious eye around, but the park was empty. “We should go back, or you’ll be missed at breakfast.”

She turned and kept pace with him. “Did the woman speak to you?”

“She seemed lost and upset. She asked me to help her. I gathered she wanted me to take her home, but she disappeared before I could offer.”

“Where does she live? Did she say?”

He decided it was useless to hide anything from Cecily. “She pointed up there.” In the sunlight, they had a perfect view of the formidable high stone walls of the castle and its tower.

She frowned. “That’s the castle. Surely she can’t have meant there?”

“Perhaps she intended to visit her father,” he said. “He might be employed there as caretaker.”

“Have you ever gone up to see the ruins?”

“We all did when boys. Hoping to find a specter lurking about. We didn’t, of course.”

“You don’t believe in ghosts?”

He shook his head. “Do you?”

“Oh yes. I am sure some poor souls linger here on earth.”

While he considered hers to be a romantic view of the hereafter, he had found the place distinctly eerie. A memory made him shiver. When he and his friends descended the winding stone stairs to the dungeon, the atmosphere changed, grew colder, and shadows shifted, as if something menacing lurked nearby. It had unnerved them, and they didn’t go all the way down. “I didn’t enjoy it very much.”

“I’d love to see the ruins. But Mother is very much against it. She believes it’s ghoulish to go disturbing the dead.”

“I wonder if you would love it. The castle has a grim history.”

“Do you think there are ghosts? What happened there?”

“I’m not entirely sure. Some lost souls, and heaven knows what else. All castles have a bloodthirsty past, don’t they?”

“It’s Saturday. We could visit it this afternoon?”

He frowned, disliking the idea. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.”

Her clear blue eyes gazed into his. “I’m not afraid, are you?”

Harry raised his eyebrows slightly, nettled because she pricked his masculine pride. “I doubt there’s really much to fear except catching a cold. A chilly, dirty place. And I planned to look up an old friend this afternoon.”

“May we go tomorrow, then?” she persisted undaunted. “After church?”

He widened his eyes. “You are an insistent young woman, Miss Dunstable.”

“Pushy, you mean,” she said with an unrepentant grin.

He laughed and shook his head. Benny grew restive and dragged on the lead. “We should go back.”

“You haven’t said you’ll go there with me.” She pouted delightfully.

“Very well, if your mother agrees.” Harry was pretty sure Mrs. Dunstable would pour cold water on the idea. “We’ll enjoy the walk at least, although it’s quite a climb. Let’s say, two o’clock tomorrow, after luncheon.” His mother always served a delicious roast dinner after church.

They returned to the park gates, while Harry examined his feelings. He had to admit, spending time with Cecily would outweigh his disquiet about venturing into the castle. And somehow, he knew she would be there waiting for him tomorrow at two.

He watched her narrow back and neat waist approvingly as she went indoors.

In the entry hall of his parent’s home, Harry removed Benny’s lead. The house smelled of mouthwatering frying bacon. One of his mother’s ample breakfasts awaited him. As he washed his hands and combed his hair, he looked forward to the afternoon when he would call on his friend, Brian Crosby, who worked for the local newspaper. He would know much about what went on in the area, including the castle. If there was anything. It was possible the castle had been closed for the winter season. He frowned. He’d come round to the idea of going up there because he wanted to spend time with Cecily. But in a few days, he would be back in London in his dreary digs and the strict routine of his days.

*

The next morning at church with her mother, Cecily saw Harry come in with his parents. He raised his eyebrows, and she nodded. She felt a little guilty that she hadn’t asked her mother. Mother always read the Bible in her bedroom on Sunday afternoon and usually fell asleep. She expected Cecily to do the same. Cecily hated being shut in. Life was passing her by. On her knees in the pew, she prayed. “Oh Lord, forgive me. This will be my one indiscretion.” Soon Harry would leave, and my chance at happiness will go with him. “I promise to become a dutiful daughter again,” she whispered.

As they left the church, her mother stopped to talk to the Johnsons. Harry discreetly drew her apart. “I spoke to my friend yesterday. Brian knows all about the castle. We recalled some of the ghost stories we’d heard as children. Apparently, a lady wearing a white dress is sometimes seen in the tower and the forecourt. She was Lady Margaret Pomeroy, who’s believed to roam the dungeons of St Margaret’s Tower, where she died after being starved to death by her jealous sister, Lady Eleanor, who loved the same man.”

“Oh! So that is your lady in white,” she cried.

“It doesn’t necessarily follow,” he began, obviously disliking the notion.

“Oh, but that’s so evil!” Cecily said, ignoring him. “The poor thing. How very sad. I wonder why she roams about?”

He gazed at her, amusement in his eyes. “Does she need a reason?”

“They say ghosts can’t go to their rest until someone helps them.” She stared fiercely at him. “We must help her. We are going up there, aren’t we?”

He eyed her carefully. “You wouldn’t prefer a pleasant picnic by the lake?”

“No,” she said firmly, although it did sound enticing.

He sighed. “You still want to go.”

“Yes. I do.”

“What does your mother say?”

Cecily glanced at her mother, who chatted with Mrs. Johnson. “I… haven’t broached it with her. But it will be all right.”

His eyes twinkled as if he doubted her. “I’ll wait at the end of the street at two o’clock. If you don’t come, don’t worry. I’ll understand.”

She lifted her chin. “I’ll be there.”

“Cecily?” Her mother had left the Johnsons and waited at the gate.

“Coming, Mother.” With a firm nod at Harry, Cecily hurried to join her.

After luncheon, as always, she and her mother went to their bedrooms to study the scriptures. When Cecily heard her mother’s bed squeak, she donned her coat and bonnet and waited. A few moments later, she heard her mother’s snores through the wall.

She crept downstairs and carefully opened the front door. It was the maid’s afternoon off, so there was no one to stop her as she darted down the path to the gate. Her heart galloped. Was it because she would spend more time in Harry’s company? Or the chance to see the white lady? Both, she decided. And she was up for anything.

Harry waited for her at the corner. She rushed up to him and said, a little breathlessly, “Well, here I am.”

“So, you are.” His gaze met hers, with a hint of warm affection in his eyes. Did he like her as much as she did him? “Shall we go? We have quite a walk ahead of us and most of it uphill.”

She took his proffered arm, and they strolled toward the steep road. “Tell me more about this lady in white. She sounds very much like the ghost you met in the park.”

“If she had been a ghost,” he amended.

She turned to look at him. “You don’t believe she was one?”

He shrugged. “That’s difficult to say. I’ve never met a wraith before.”

“Did she float in the air?”

“No…not exactly.”

“Could you see right through her?”

He shook his head.

“Oh,” she said, momentarily disappointed.

“But the way she moved and sounded was decidedly odd.”

“Well, there you are!” she said, triumphant.

He patted her hand on his arm. “You are an irrepressible young lady. I hope you’re not disappointed.”

“I shan’t be,” she said a little defiantly.

“Well, I shan’t be either, whatever happens,” he said, capturing her gaze. “Because I get to spend the afternoon with you.”

Cecily’s heart started its gallop again. Her cheeks warmed, and for once, she couldn’t think of a thing to say. Afraid he would realize how his words affected her, she dropped her hand with the pretense of straightening her hat.

But his next comment was like a dash of cold water. “I’m surprised that your mother agreed to this jaunt.”

“Mm.” Cecily’s ribcage tightened with guilt. It wasn’t precisely a lie if she didn’t mention it. She’d left her mother a note explaining her absence in case she should come to find her, but Mother seldom did until dinnertime, and she would be home before then.

He reached for her hand and clasped it in his warm gloved one. “We’d better get a move on. The castle is closed to visitors at four-thirty, and it’s quite a way. We shan’t be able to stay long.”

“Oh, yes, let’s hurry.” She enjoyed his long fingers linked with hers as they tramped along the road. “What about the other ghosts? Did your friend say anything about them?”

“Yes, a woman wearing blue, but I’d rather we didn’t run into her.

A shivery chill ran down her back. “Why not?”

“It’s said she was an evil woman who killed her child. She leads people astray to make them lose their way.”

“She sounds horrid.”

“Nasty. Forewarned is forearmed, though, is it not?”

She grinned with more confidence than she felt. “In any event, I have you to protect me.”

“Sir Galahad at your service.”

She laughed.

Chapter Three

By the time they reached the top of the steep climb through the forest, it was close to four o’clock when they arrived at the castle. Any grumbles about the trek had fallen away as they struggled to conserve their breath while keeping up a good pace.

“It didn’t seem so steep when I came up here years ago.” Harry bent over, breathing deeply, hands on his knees.

“Well, we’re here now.” Cecily hurried on, putting him to shame.

Emerging from woodland, the castle, clad in ivy, looked like something from a long-lost civilization. Harry thought it hardly surprising that ghost stories abounded about the place. Ahead stood the tall gatehouse archway, the gates open. There wasn’t a soul about. All he could hear were the jackdaws roosting atop the tower. It was still as if undisturbed for centuries. The air smelled of damp, moss-covered walls and rotting leaves.

“There was a drawbridge and gun ports in those towers.” Harry pointed upward. “The slots overhead were where they threw objects and hot liquids down,” he continued enthusiastically. “And that groove was for the portcullis which could be dropped to crush attackers.”

They passed through the gatehouse archway. Harry looked down the length of courtyard grass toward the old mansion within the castle walls. Beyond it, as dusk approached, were the stark towering stone walls of St. Margaret’s Tower silhouetted against the gray sky. “I wonder where the caretaker might be?”

“Perhaps he’s showing people over the dungeons.”

Harry grew aware that the sun was lowering to the west, and a chill breeze tugged at his hat. A fellow dressed in period costume appeared through the massive wooden door. A nice touch, Harry thought, but he seemed too young to be a caretaker. “He certainly isn’t the woman in white’s father,” Harry said uneasily.

“Put ye coins in the box in the entry,” he said to Harry. “Ye can wander at will until dark.” The caretaker’s clothes were reminiscent of the fifteenth century: a short doublet, open-necked shirt, and tight trunk hose.

Harry had no intention of being here after dark. A shudder rode down his spine at the thought.

“He looks remarkably authentic,” Cecily said with blithe unconcern as they crossed to the porch.

Harry would feel a good deal better if there were other people around. But inside was quiet and empty. He should have been better prepared. Come earlier and with some form of transport. It worried him. He was responsible for Cecily’s safety. “We’ll take a quick look around, then we must start back to be home before dusk.”

Her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide. “Oh, yes, we must be home for dinner.”

“Your mother knows we were coming here?” Harry asked with a sense of foreboding.

“Not really,” she confessed, her cheeks growing pink. “I left a note. But Mother never comes down until dinnertime on Sundays.”

Harry’s unease grew, and he frowned. He was as culpable as Cecily, so he couldn’t be cross. But after a quick look around, they would leave.

When he glanced over his shoulder, the caretaker had gone. He took Cecily’s arm, and they entered the mansion. Through a towering archway, the shell-like remains of the enormous great hall still had the power to make him catch his breath with its soaring roof and a massive fireplace.

Harry put a coin in the box on a table in the passage, and they walked on.

After passing through the arched doorways of several more stone-built rooms, they emerged into daylight again. Ahead of them loomed the remains of St. Margaret’s Tower. A sign directed visitors to the rampart terrace, and another pointed to steps leading down to the dungeon.

“Where to?” Harry asked, but he knew the answer.

“The dungeons, of course,” Cecily said, tugging on his arm.

As they descended, light filtered down but barely illuminated the twisting stone staircase, which spiraled down into a dank, dark place below. With a dreadful sense of foreboding, Harry stared about at the mossy walls, a bitter chill in the air. Cecily shivered in her wool coat.

“Shall we go back?”

She shook her head. “Not after coming all this way!”

They reached the bottom. Harry called out. “Hello!” His voice bounced off the stone walls and the low ceiling, echoing oddly as if someone had answered. But not so much as a mouse stirred. “Strange. We seem to be the only people here.”

Cecily’s grip on his arm tightened.

In the deep shadows, a white shape flickered. Beside him, Cecily gasped. Harry swallowed and held his breath.

A few yards from them, the woman in white emerged. Harry’s blood turned to ice. Was he seeing things? Without question, she was a wraith. He’d swear the ghost hovered inches above the ground. Any skepticism he’d felt about ghosts vanished, filling his veins with ice.

“That’s the white lady?” Cecily asked in a shaky, hushed voice. “How beautiful she is.”

“She seems to have found her way home. And it’s time we left.” Dragging Cecily with him, he retreated a few steps up the stairway as the ghost floated toward them. When a ray of light from above fell upon her, he could see her clearly. Her elaborately beaded gown had the low square neckline and flowing sleeves of a style worn many centuries ago. The wispy veil attached to her hat wafted about her. But no breeze stirred here in the depths of the castle, only an overpowering smell of dust, stagnant air, and something indefinable but unpleasant. Stifled, Harry dragged in a breath, which didn’t help. He retreated another two steps, taking Cecily with him.

“You have come. Help me.” The strange hollow voice came as before, sending prickles down his spine.

Cecily turned back. “We will. But how?” Her voice shook, but she sounded determined.

“Where is that dashed caretaker?” Harry pulled on her arm. “We need to go, Cecily. Now!”

“If we do, we will always regret it,” Cecily whispered. “We must help her.”

“We might regret it more if we stay.” Another ghost might make an appearance. The evil blue lady who had murdered her own child. Or worse, a host of them? But apart from the lady in white, the dungeon appeared to be empty, at least for now. “Cecily, we are leaving,” he ordered, clutching her arm. But his legs wouldn’t move.

“Come.” The ghost beckoned. She turned and glided away.

Cecily, as if in a trance, stepped down. Harry gritted his teeth, and his knees shook, but he went with her. What had he got himself into? Could he keep this intrepid girl safe?

“The caretaker must come soon to find us. If there were any danger, they wouldn’t permit us to come down here,” Cecily said, managing to sound reasonable.

That thought comforted him a little. He wouldn’t shut the place up with them still on the premises. But where the devil was the fellow?

Harry caught hold of Cecily’s hand before she disappeared into the gloom. She was intent on aiding this spirit, although he couldn’t think how they might do so. If a ghost couldn’t do whatever it was it wanted, how might they? Ready to demand Cecily give this nonsense up, he found his voice. “What happens when the light goes,” he warned. “Imagine getting caught here in the dark? The caretaker might forget about us.” It seemed unlikely, but the possibility made his belly roil.

The ghost beckoned. They followed her deeper into another large, cavernous room.

“Anyone here?” Harry yelled. Nothing but his own voice, echoed back. “Right, that’s it. We go.” He tugged on Cecily’s hand, but she pulled against him. He considered throwing her over his shoulder and getting out of there. But something compelled him forward, too. They followed the white wraith, their footsteps ringing loudly over the stone floor. No other voices or footsteps reached them. They were utterly alone.

*

Cecily’s heart fluttered like a frightened bird about to take flight as they pursued the wisp of white along a dim passage. Mysteriously, although there was no source of light, she could plainly see the ghost gliding ahead of them.

Through a doorway, they entered an enormous cavern where rusty implements of torture, manacles and chains attached to the walls by rings, still held an air of menace. Cobwebs hung from the ceiling. The air was thick with the dust of ages and the acrid odor of blood. How could that be after all this time? She glanced at Harry, seeking reassurance, but he seemed as caught up as she was.

At last, the wraith stopped in front of a low, wooden door. Somehow, because she didn’t seem to move, it opened, and the ghost swept through it.

“She wants us to go inside,” Cecily murmured, her breaths shortening as fear warred with fascination and the need to help the white lady. For surely, she wished them to do so.

The ghost held them in thrall. Compelled to follow, they entered a low-ceilinged chamber. It was empty, but at the far end, another small doorway opened through which the spirit passed.

They followed through a series of tunnels, the ceiling gradually lowering. A rank smell of damp earth filled Cecily’s nose, and here and there, roots penetrated the roof above them like a giant spider’s legs.

“We must be close to the outskirts of the castle,” Harry murmured.

After several twists and turns, Cecily feared she would suffocate, that they would never find their way out again. Would they die here, and their bodies never be found? Harry’s hand tightened on hers. He thought as she did.

Cecily shuddered. “I think I walked through a cold spot.”

The white lady hovered before a small arched door, a rusted key in the lock. Without a word, Harry stepped over to open it. He struggled with the key for several minutes before finally, with a groan, the door creaked opened. Beyond it, the floor was earthen, and water seeped down the moss-covered walls. Ivy draped itself over the ceiling. A potent smell of mud, damp, and ancient bones filled the fetid air.

“Where are we? I suppose it’s too much to hope there’s a way out,” Harry muttered. He ducked his head as they entered the low doorway.

They picked their way carefully over the uneven dirt floor strewn with clumps of earth and rocks.

The ghost hovered before a pile of earth. A hand swept down, and a finger pointed.

“Does she want me to dig?” he asked incredulously. Cecily recoiled in horror as he searched around for a tool. Employing a sharp piece of stone, he crouched down and dug in the red Devon soil.

The cavern soon filled with Harry’s labored breath and the scraping noise his stone made as he dragged the stones and earth away. Minutes passed. Then they gasped and recoiled with horror as a skull rolled out at their feet. The body had not been buried deep. Perhaps never buried at all, for only a coating of soil had covered it. Harry continued to work, exposing the bones of a skeleton. On the finger of one skeleton hand was an unusual ring. And entwined in its ribs, a rope of fat pearls, dirty and dull but still remarkable. “The body must have been undisturbed for centuries, for her jewels still to be here.” His low voice echoed eerily around the chamber.

“Look at the rotting white cloth!” Cecily bent down to peer at it closely.

The ghost swayed as it hovered above them. The veil rocked, and a strange wailing filled the cavern. So loud, it caused dirt to fall in large clumps from the ceiling.

Then the white lady vanished.

“We need to get out now,” Harry yelled.

As they ran for the door, Cecily dragged in a gulp of stale air, desperately wanting to see the sky and smell the clean, fresh spring woodland again.

They left the chamber and kept up the fast pace. “Was it Lady Margaret, do you think?” Cecily cried.

“Whoever it was deserves a proper burial. The authorities must be informed. The local magistrate and the church will want to know about this,” Harry gasped out as they sprinted along the passage.

“Yes,” Cecily felt the gritty soil from his fingers through her gloves as he clutched her hand. Had they helped the white lady?

Horrible shrieks and moaning echoed through the passages. “What the devil! Run, Cecily.”

They passed through several doors and then stopped. “Did we turn right here?” Harry wheezed out.

“I’m not sure!” Cecily’s voice almost gave out. She couldn’t think, and her knees threatened to give way. The cries and moans had grown louder and more menacing. She couldn’t face the fact they might have lost their way, that they might have to retrace their steps. She bit down hard on her bottom lip to stop adding her frantic screams to the howling around them. They must not draw attention to themselves. But how foolish. You couldn’t hide from ghosts. At that thought, a whimpering cry escaped her lips.

Harry cast her a worried look and squeezed her hand. “We’ll be out of here in a few minutes.”

She wished she could believe him. The light was dimming, and she could just make out his face, and his voice sounded hollow and unsteady. He would be every bit as frightened as her.

The way ahead looked unfamiliar, although there was nothing to differentiate one cavern from the next. “Are we lost?” she gasped out, fearing his answer. The stale air pressed against her, and she feared she would suffocate.

Harry selected the right fork after the passage divided in two. “This must lead somewhere,” he said grimly.

It didn’t. It ended in a stone wall.

“The passages all look the same,” Cecily wailed.

Forced to retrace their steps, they entered the tunnel on the left.

This time a door at the end led them into the torture chamber. Cecily’s chest hurt, and she almost sank to her knees with relief. “We’re alright now. I know the way back,” Harry said, patting her reassuringly on the shoulder.

Their noisy breaths almost blotted out the moaning which barreled along the tunnels behind them. When they came upon the twisting stairs, they scurried up them like moles seeking daylight.

At the top, they scurried back into the ruined mansion.

“What the devil?” Harry murmured.

The beautiful strains of violins swelled around them.

“There must be people here!” Cecily said joyfully.

They hurried toward the sound. It drifted out from the great hall.

Music and a buzz of conversation met them at the arched doorway. The great hall was alight, the roaring fire in the hearth burning brightly and casting a warm glow over the guests. It now appeared as it must have several hundred years ago. The ceiling decorative plaster, the elegant fireplace veined marble, the walls covered with tapestries, mirrors, and gilt-edged oil paintings. It was now filled with chattering guests.

“Something’s wrong,” Harry said. “This isn’t real.”

“Look!” Cecily clutched his arm. No one took the slightest interest in them. In their fine satins and silks, people danced a minuet, the women’s jewels sparkling. The music was played by musicians on a dais. Guests attended by servants sat on satin sofas and gilt-edged chairs, drinking wine in fine glasses. A massive chandelier alight with hundreds of candles sent dancing lights over elaborately coiffed heads.

A beautiful woman in a white gown danced with a handsome gentleman, while another woman wearing blue stood watching them, with a fan clutched in her fingers. Cecily could sense the malevolence in her still form.

“That must be Lady Margaret,” Cecily whispered to Harry.

“And the woman in blue, her sister,” he murmured.

In a blink of an eye, the scene vanished. Startled, they stared into the cold empty room, its soaring stone walls rising to the galleries above, stark and bare, with the once grand fireplace now an empty shell. A chill descended and coiled around them like a giant hand.

Harry took a firm hold of Cecily’s hand, and, slightly dazed, they abandoned the mansion.

Chapter Four

Dusk had fallen, casting deep shadows. There was no sign of the caretaker as they burst out into the lilac haze. Harry took grateful breaths of fresh air. He kept searching behind him, but no specters pursued them. No lilting music wafting out of the house. Just silence.

They left the ruins of a once fine loggia and crossed the courtyard to the gatehouse, hurrying into its dark archway.

“Dear God! They’ve shut the gates!”

Muttering a curse, Harry bent to inspect it. A strong chain and lock held the gates fast. “The caretaker has locked us in. He knew we were here. Why didn’t the fellow come and find us?”

Cecily’s face went moon pale in the fading light, her brave demeanor crumbling. “Mother will know, now,” she murmured, pulling her handkerchief from her pocket. She blew her nose. “I shall be in the most dreadful trouble.”

“What did you tell your mother?” he asked, more exasperated with himself than with her.

“Just that we were going for a walk together. And I would be home before dinner.”

He hunched his shoulders. “Then she doesn’t know where we are.”

“No.” Her shoulders drooped. “Does your family?”

He shook his head.

“What will they think?” she asked, her voice thick with unshed tears.

“I don’t know, but it won’t be good.” He put an arm around her trembling shoulders. “Never mind.” He tried to sound hearty. “We can straighten it out when we arrive home. Come on. There must be another way out.”

“Do you really think so?”

“Bound to be,” he said robustly. “We’ll check the boundary walls. Maybe there’s some loosened stones or one low enough to scale.”

She slipped her gloved hand into his, making him painfully aware of how young and vulnerable she was. He’d got her into the worst scrape. This would not hurt his reputation, but to spend the night here with him would certainly damage hers. Gossip was always running hot in a small village.

They found no breaks in the high wall running the length of the courtyard. “No good.” He might manage to climb it, but he would have to leave her here alone. And in any event, he suspected there was a long drop on the other side. “I’m sure we’ll find a way out somewhere. Let’s keep looking.” His forced optimism sounded hollow to his ears, and his spirits lowered with each step.

Hours later, exhausted, hungry, and cold through to the bones, they had searched without success. The moon had risen, and the clear, cold sky was full of stars.

Harry began to worry about Cecily. “No sign of rain, at least. Let’s find some shelter.”

She rubbed her arms and sagged against him. “It’s freezing.” She suddenly pulled away and stared up at him. “Should we have taken those jewels?”

“It would give credence to our story. But I’m not about to go back for them.” Harry flinched, recalling the deafening shrieks and howls that followed them through the tunnels. Facing that again sent a frisson of fear racing through him. “No sign of ghosts. They might remain in the dungeon. Best we find a sheltered corner to wait for morning when the gate will be opened.”

There was little shelter to be had. Harry discounted going up the gatehouse stairs. He didn’t want to be cornered and unable to escape. Nor did he wish to venture too far into the ruins again. They settled in a small room, which must once have been the bakery, with a good view over the courtyard. They’d see anyone coming through the gates, should the person who locked them in realize they’d been overlooked. Removing his overcoat, he laid it on the floor for them to sit on. Niches in the wall would have been meant for ovens. “If I can find some wood, I’ll light a fire.”

“Won’t that attract the ghosts?” Her eyes filled with dread. “Please don’t leave me here alone.”

He sank down beside her. “No, don’t worry. I doubt there’s anything but stone in this God-forsaken place.”

“Shush. Don’t curse. You might offend the ghosts.” She shivered. “I’m so cold.”

He put his arm around her and drew her against him. “For bodily warmth,” he murmured, but she offered no resistance. He could smell her sweet perfume, lily-of-the-valley, and would like to kiss her but considered it a bad idea in the circumstances. “Lean on me. Try to sleep.”

“I won’t sleep a wink.” She rested her head against his shoulder. “But I feel better now.”

“Good girl.”

Harry leaned back. The rough cement wall pricked his back through his tailcoat. He closed his eyes. His stomach growled, making him think of his mother’s dinner. Lord knew what conclusion his parents had come to. Probably that he and Cecily eloped. That would set the cat among the pigeons, wouldn’t it? He almost laughed. Would his father be searching the streets for them? He hoped not. And he doubted anyone would think of looking for them here.

If only he could light a fire, it might attract someone. But he didn’t want to disturb Cecily, who seemed half asleep.

He kept his eyes peeled, watching the dark expanse of the courtyard. It made him feel better, but really, what could he do if some spirit accosted them? He could deal with a flesh and blood assailant with a few well-placed punches, but ghosts? He didn’t want to dwell on that.

Cecily’s velvet bonnet had fallen forward. He pushed it back, gazing down at her troubled brow and delicately featured face. She barely stirred. Whatever it took, he’d defend her to the death.

*

Cecily snuggled against Harry’s coat. She didn’t want to open her eyes and reveal her panicked gaze to him. He already worried enough about her. His fresh cologne and clean male smell reassured her. She sighed; it really wasn’t so bad. Mother would be furious, but once she learned what had happened, then surely… Her eyes flew open at an unearthly sound.

Harry was on his feet. She jumped up and joined him at the door. She could see nothing in the darkness. “What was it?”

“I’m not sure.” Harry pushed Cecily gently behind him. “But it’s coming this way.”

She just had time to see a ghostly figure atop a skeletal steed ride across the courtyard. The horse’s eyes shone a fiery red. Her knees threatened to buckle.

Harry wordlessly snatched up his overcoat, grabbed her hand, and half dragged her from the room. “What was that?” she gasped out as they darted through the kitchen, the small servery, and into a passage.

“I’m not waiting to find out,” he said emphatically.

Bare rooms led into more barren, stone-walled rooms. Then a door lead outside to the east terrace. They crossed the stretch of grass as a blast of icy wind hit her full in the face, making her gasp.

“Those steps might lead to a way out!” Harry shouted.

They might once have. But now, halfway down, the stone steps had crumbled and fallen away, leaving a dangerous and insurmountable gap above the cliff.

Staring silently down, they had no words to express their bitter disappointment.

Cecily forced herself to keep searching. There seemed no access to St. Margaret’s Tower from this end. But perhaps the northeast tower? “Where to now?”

“We go up and wait for dawn,” Harry murmured grimly as they headed for the tower stairs.

Before they reached them, they came to a stumbling stop.

The ghost drifted in the air, ahead of them, blocking their way to the tower.

Harry and Cecily turned to retreat, but a throbbing voice halted their flight.

“Come.”

Cecily swiveled. She stared into the dark. The hovering specter was little more than a wisp of mist now. “Is that Lady Margaret?”

“Let’s hope so,” Harry said. “Better her than one of the others.”

“Come, there’s little time.”

Harry ventured forward. “Let’s see what she wants.”

The misty shape drifted ahead of them, back across the grassy terrace, and down some steps they’d missed. They followed, and, at the end, stairs led upward.

“Where is she taking us?”

Harry’s arm at her back hurried her along. “If it’s a dungeon, she can forget it.”

At the beginning of the east tower steps, the ghost beckoned.

When they reached it, they discovered an outcrop of uncleared bedrock jutting out within a few feet of the mansion’s showy frontage, which created a narrow gap. Placing his hands on either side of the wall, Harry peered down. “It’s quite a steep slope, but if we can reach the wooded ravine below, we’ll be safe.” He dusted his hands. “But it’s dangerous. We’ll have to go carefully. Do you think you can manage it?”

“I can.” Cecily had no intention of staying here alone while he went for help. Nor would she let Harry down. She turned to Margaret’s ghost, sure now who it was. But the specter faded before their eyes. “Thank you for helping us, Lady Margaret.” No sooner were her words out than the last lingering vestige of the spirit vanished into nothingness.

“She’s gone.”

“Seems like it,” Harry said briskly. He stripped off his overcoat. “Put this on.”

“No! You’ll be cold.”

“I’m a warm-blooded fellow.” A brief grin lifted his lips. “And it will protect you from the rocks on the way down.” He held it out and shook it impatiently. “It’s not wise to stand around here arguing the point, Cecily.”

She slipped her arms through the sleeves, which covered her hands. Harry rolled them up. The coat which reached Harry’s knees swirled around her ankles.

No sooner did he do up the buttons, than a roar of ghostly outrage shattered the quiet.

“Off we go,” Harry said as if through his teeth. “I’ll go first.” He stepped onto the steep slope, sending an avalanche of rocks scattering down into the inky blackness.

Far beneath them, the dark stand of forest looked forbidding and unreachable.

He steadied himself on the slope and wedged his foot solidly into place before holding up his hand to help her.

Cecily swallowed nervously and took hold, her foot searching for purchase among the loose rocks and slippery vegetation littering the slope.

Over their heads, two ghostly horses with specters on their backs leaped into the air and vanished.

Harry’s hand tightened around hers in a deathlike grip. He uttered a vulgar word that, in normal circumstances, she would not forgive. Nor did he apologize as they ventured, crablike, down into the dark.

Chapter Five

As the sun rose, the sky turned pink and gold. Harry and Cecily safely reached a narrow ledge above the trees and huddled there to gain their breath. Above them, the castle loomed, silent and sinister. Harry had admired its stark beauty, but no longer. Now it appeared malevolent. Where did the two ghosts riding phantom horses leap to? Would they vanish back into the castle in daylight?

He sat and wrapped his arms around his knees. “As I told you, I learned from my friend Brian about the ancient and powerful Pomeroy family who owned the castle and village since the fifteenth century. As the legend goes, for their part in the religious rebellion of 1549, Edward VI ordered the seizure of the castle. But when troops arrived to enforce the order, the two Pomeroy brothers who held it donned their armor, blindfolded their horses, and spurred them over the ramparts, where they crashed to their deaths.”

“Oh, how horrible? They must have been the ghosts we saw.”

He nodded. “It would appear so.”

“What happened to the castle after that?”

“The King’s Protector, Edward Seymour, acquired it. He was executed in 1552. Then his son by the same name lived there. They extended it and were the ones who added the manor house. But after lightning struck it in 1685, they abandoned it.”

“And it became the moldering ruin it is today,” Cecily said, sounding mournful.

“Yes, left to the sad ghosts.”

“I hope we did what Lady Margaret wished,” Cecily said. “She was so beautiful, and to be trapped in the dungeons by her cruel, jealous sister until she died makes me want to cry.”

“We did what we could. No sense in dwelling on it. We must relegate it to the past,” he said hastily, not wanting to see her upset. “You were very brave,” he added, and he meant it. What a wonderful girl! He didn’t think he’d meet another to equal her if he lived to be a hundred. But in two days, he’d be back in London. And some other chap would snap her up soon enough. Her mother wouldn’t consider him for Cecily’s husband after this, anyway, should Cecily even wish to marry him. Especially as he had so little to offer. He stood up and stamped his cold feet, surprised to find his thoughts wandering down this path. And by how much it suddenly seemed to matter.

“It was because you were with me.” She rose, smiled at him, then shook out her skirts. “I think I could face anything with you at my side, Harry.”

He grinned, suddenly light-hearted and relieved that he hadn’t let her down. That she was safe. He stretched wearily and pointed. “I can see a trail among the trees. It might lead to the road.”

Scrambling down the last of the rocky slope, they joined the trail. Their footsteps stirred up the forest smells of leaf mulch and bark and sent birds flapping away. This, he was familiar with, and it made him feel much more like himself. But he was wearier than he’d ever been in his life, and Cecily was, too. If only they could stop to rest, but he feared if he dropped off, he’d sleep until nightfall!

She sighed heavily, her small hand in his. “I’m not looking forward to going home.”

“I’d sell my soul for a plate of bacon and eggs.” He winked at her to make her laugh.

She pulled away from him, horrified. “Oh, don’t say that!”

“No. Sorry.” He cast her a weak smile.

They pushed their way through the undergrowth as the track narrowed.

“Do you think this leads anywhere?” she asked with a yawn.

“Let’s keep going. We have little choice.” He tried to locate the morning sun to get his bearings, but the trees formed a solid canopy above them.

As he began to fear they’d made a grave error, the trees thinned. With a joyful cry, Harry spied the road. Laughing together, they pushed through the shrubbery, emerging onto the road.

It was still a fair hike down to the village. In the early morning haze, the air was light and fresh, the grass wet with early dew. Harry’s mouth felt bone-dry, and his stomach rumbled. But they had escaped a grim fate of being forever trapped in those underground tunnels. And the ghosts had done little more than frighten them. What awaited them at home now concerned him more.

“Do you think Lady Margaret is at peace now?” Cecily asked, her shoulders sagging as they walked along.

“I like to think so.”

She smiled at him. “I do, too.”

He squeezed her hand. “And Margaret came to our aid.”

“Yes, she did.”

They trudged on wearily in silence.

“My mother doesn’t believe in ghosts,” Cecily said after a while.

He suspected it worried Cecily a lot.

“Neither does my father,” he said. “We need to get our story straight.”

“What will we tell them?” she asked with an anxious grimace.

“That we merely wished to visit the castle, but the caretaker accidentally shut us in. It isn’t exactly a lie,” he added gently.

“No, I suppose not. I’ve never lied to my mother. Writing that letter is the worst thing I’ve ever done.”

“You’ve fallen into bad company, my girl.” He grinned.

Cecily giggled.

An hour and a half later, they reached the outskirts of the village, still too early for many to be about except for the milkman and his cart, his horse waiting patiently.

Harry accompanied Cecily to her front door.

Before she could knock, it flew open. Her mother stared at them, red-eyed. “Where have you been…”

“Allow me to…” Harry went to whip off his hat, then realized he’d lost it somewhere in the dungeon. Mrs. Dunstable glared at him over Cecily’s shoulder. “You…you rake,” she cried. “Go home. Your father will deal with you.”

“But Mother…” Cecily had no time to say more before her mother swept her into the house and slammed the door shut.

Harry ran his hands through his hair. He would not leave Cecily to deal with this. He jumped the fence and strode up to his parents’ door. His mother answered his knock, the relief on her face soon turning to consternation and, worse, disappointment. “Harry, where have you been?” She gasped. “We thought something dreadful had happened to both of you.”

“No, as you see, I am quite well, as is Cecily, but…”

“You kept Cecily out all night? How could you, Harry? You were not brought up to behave in such a fashion.”

“It wasn’t intentional, Mother.” Harry sighed. “Where is Father?”

“In his study, he is most…”

He kissed her cheek. “I need to see him.”

Leaving his mother open-mouthed, Harry strode over and opened the study door without knocking. “Father, I must speak to you.”

“That’s providential, as I wish to have words with you,” his father said, red-faced. “I was tempted to organize a search party but decided it unwise, as it would draw attention to the fact that you and Miss Dunstable were alone all night together. Usually, marriage follows such folly, but it’s as well for you that Mrs. Dunstable doesn’t want you for a son-in-law.”

“We never intended to be away for than an hour or two up at the castle. We planned to return before Cecily was missed.” Aware of his mother hovering in the hall, Harry approached his father’s desk with the hope he wouldn’t succumb to a seizure. “Cecily and I discovered a body in the dungeons up there, and then we were locked in all night.”

“You found what?”

“We believe it is Lady Margaret Pomeroy’s skeleton. I intend to see the vicar later to discuss the burial arrangements. What’s the local magistrate’s name? He shall have to be told. They must retrieve the remains.”

“Mr. Lawrence,” his father muttered, clearly too dumbfounded to say more.

Harry slid into a chair. “I’d better tell you everything. But I warn you, Father, you might find it difficult to believe.”

“Please do,” his father gasped. “Whether or not I believe it is hardly relevant at this point.”

*

“You have some explaining to do, my girl.” Her mother clutched Cecily’s arm as if she might suddenly disappear and pushed her into the parlor. She went to the cupboard and brought out the family Bible. “Now, place your hand on the Bible, Miss. I’ll have the truth from you.”

“I would never lie to you, Mother,” Cecily protested, painfully aware she was about to offer a sanitized version of events.

“Wouldn’t you?” Her mother sank onto the sofa. “I know you, daughter, and I can see you are about to do so.” She folded her arms. “Sit down, and let’s have it.”

Cecily wished Harry was here with her; her tongue tied in knots, and she couldn’t think clearly. It was hard to sort out how much she could say that her mother might accept. She swallowed and launched into the spiel that she and Harry had discussed.

“Well, there you are!” Her mother looked oddly satisfied. “A blatant lie! There has not been a caretaker at the castle for years. Mr. Phillips, whom you know, Cecily, because he has the grocery shop down the road from the florist’s, told me he’s employed to unlock the gates in the morning and lock them up at night.”

“Oh?” Cecily drew in a breath. “Then who was the man dressed in old-fashioned clothing? He said he was the caretaker.” She paused. “Did he say he was the caretaker? Or did we just assume it?”

“What are you talking about?” Her mother frowned. “You’ve been gone all night! What happened between you and Master Johnson?” She narrowed her eyes. “Did he force his attentions on you?”

“No, Mother! They accidentally locked us inside the castle. It was freezing. I was frightened. We saw…ghosts.”

“Ghosts?” Her mother jumped up. “Now you’re talking nonsense!”

“I’m not.” Cecily clutched her hands together. Their version of the story had dissolved into shreds.

Her mother’s lips thinned. “We shall go next door. I will demand that Harrison Johnson tell the truth. All of it!”

“Yes, it will be best, Mother.” Cecily rose, relieved. She wondered how Harry fared. Better than her, surely. She supposed she should not have mentioned the ghosts. What would he say happened to them? Would he mention Lady Margaret? She doubted they would believe it, for what reasonable person would?

She pushed her hair out of her eyes and realized she still wore her coat. There was mud on the hem, and she hadn’t had time to take off her boots. She’d trekked dirt onto the carpet. A wonder her mother hadn’t noticed. “I must change first.”

“No, you shall not. Let the Johnsons see what condition their son has brought you home in.”

Chapter Six

When Cecily and Mrs. Dunstable were shown into the house, Harry’s parents fussed around them, his mother ordering tea while his father added coal to the fire in the grate and stoked it.

Mrs. Dunstable’s face was beetroot red, and she refused to greet Harry. Cecily made eye contact with a small nod of encouragement. He needed it. Not sure how to better explain what Cecily and he had been through, the ground seemed to be opening up beneath his feet. At the tinkle of the teacups heralding the appearance of the tea tray, he braced his shoulders and cleared his throat. Four expectant faces scrutinized him: Cecily and his mother hopeful, Mrs. Dunstable and his father doubting.

To give the matter the justice it deserved, he began at the beginning, where he first saw Lady Margaret’s ghost. Then he went on, sliding quickly over Cecily’s involvement and not mentioning the letter she left her mother. Harry described the castle, their meeting with the ghost, and finding the skeleton. He thought it prudent not to go into detail about the fearful happenings after that, except to explain how they were shut in and forced to spend the night huddled in a corner of the ruins before deciding to find a way out.

“We were fortunate to discover a break in the wall, escaped through it, and climbed down a steep hill. We then made our way to the road,” he said, noticing the stony faces had not softened a fraction.

“Would you care for a scone, Mrs. Dunstable,” his mother said hastily, offering her the plate. “Cook makes the most featherlight ones.”

Mrs. Dunstable squared her shoulders. “No, thank you.”

“I believe I will.” Harry had eaten the loaded plate of food within minutes of his mother placing it before him, but he still felt peckish. He offered the plate to Cecily. “The jam is very good. Shall I pass you the cream?”

Cecily shook her head, her blue eyes dark with worry. “No, I won’t have one, thank you, Harry, er, Mr. Johnson.”

“You have eaten?” he asked.

“No… I…” She glanced at her mother.

Harry sent a frowning glance in Mrs. Dunstable’s direction. “But you have had nothing to eat since luncheon yesterday, Miss Dunstable. Why are you still wearing your soiled coat?”

“Harrison!” his father boomed.

But Mrs. Dunstable’s glare faded to one of dismay. While she didn’t believe a word he said, she obviously didn’t like to be accused of neglect. She stood. “This has been a terrible shock. Cecily has always been a good daughter. We shall go home, Cecily. There is nothing further to be said.”

Harry’s father rose when she did. “Naturally, you are upset by what has happened,” he said. “But my son is as honest as the day is long. Whatever happened up at the castle, I believe him when he says he and your daughter were accidentally shut inside. Spending the night there, it would be easy to imagine a ghost, especially after finding the skeleton. This certainly is a regrettable occurrence. It’s my belief that if we allow the matter to drop, it will pass without creating village gossip, and we can forget all about it.”

Harry glanced at him, both surprised and grateful. His father didn’t believe in ghosts, but he stood up for him.

His mother ushered Mrs. Dunstable and Cecily to the door. Then, once they departed, Mother gave Harry a sad glance before she disappeared into the kitchen.

“Father, surely you do see that I must alert the authorities to the skeleton,” Harry said.

His father shrugged. “It’s of archeological interest. Hundreds of years old. Best the bones are left where they are. You can advise the proper authorities when you return to London. Neither the vicar nor the magistrate should deal with this.”

“But they will take the bones away to gather dust in some university. I promised to ensure a proper burial in the Pomeroy vault.”

Father sighed. “Promised who?”

He almost groaned. “Lady Margaret Pomeroy’s ghost.”

“You still hold to that story? Are you sure you didn’t fall asleep and dream it, Harry?”

“I didn’t close my eyes. It’s not a story. It happened.”

“You do understand that if you proceed with this, it will be of great interest to everyone in the village. Cecily’s reputation would suffer.”

“Nevertheless, it must be done. Cecily will agree with me.”

“You are a grown man of twenty-five, therefore, I cannot prevent you. I could beg you not to, but I see it will be a waste of time.” He strode to his study door and turned. “But please think about what bringing this matter before the village will mean to your lives. Many will find it difficult to believe you. And others won’t be kind.” He paused. “Do you expect Cecily to remain here and endure the gossip?”

“I intend to speak to her about it,” Harry said firmly.

“I doubt Mrs. Dunstable will allow you anywhere near the girl. Surely you don’t blame her?”

“I suppose not. But, Father, I’ve become very fond of her. We plan to write to each other.”

His father nodded. “Of course, but I must warn you. Mrs. Dunstable intends to keep Cecily at home.”

Harry wasn’t sure what that meant. But surely she could not stop them writing?

“I must catch the train back to London tomorrow afternoon, Father. I hope you and Mother have not been too disturbed by what has happened.”

“We shall survive, Harry. I only hope you have decided to be sensible.”

Harry went upstairs. After he bathed and changed, he would find a way to see her.

*

Cecily rose from the bath and dried herself before the fire. Her mother surprised her when she instructed the maid to boil water for the hip bath. And light a fire in her bedroom. She never allowed baths on a weekday, considering a good wash with a flannel more than adequate. Had Harry put her mother to shame? Remembering how forceful he’d been brought a reluctant smile to Cecily’s lips.

Tying her dressing gown belt firmly, she sat to don her slippers, still exhausted despite the relaxing bath. It had been a horrid day. She was almost too tired to sleep or eat, but her mother had gone to the kitchen to see that a boiled egg and bread and butter was prepared for her.

She brushed her hair before the mirror. Without raising his voice, Harry had proved himself to be someone her mother could not browbeat. Cecily had no doubt he would get his way in the end. Her sight blurred, and she wiped away the tears. When he returned to his work in London, he would soon forget her.

After she ate, her mother suggested Cecily take an afternoon nap. She welcomed the chance to be alone, to think. She was lying on her bed in her shift and dressing gown, going over all that had happened to them since the first time she and Harry met when a pebble hit the window.

Cecily jumped up and drew back the curtains. Spying Harry below, she threw up the sash. She put her finger to her lips and indicated that her mother rested in her bedroom next door.

He nodded and gestured for her to come down.

Cecily closed the window and hurriedly threw on her coat, now sponged and restored to its former condition, and pulled on shoes. She went cautiously down the stairs, buttoning her coat. No one accosted her, and she slipped unobserved through the front door.

Harry waited for her. She led him into the shadows created by a tall hedge.

“What is it?” She searched his brown eyes. Pleased to be close to him again, she smiled as the sense of excitement and adventure she always felt when with him lifted her from the doldrums.

“Father is against me telling the vicar and the magistrate about Margaret’s skeleton,” he said. “He feels, quite rightly, that it will focus too much attention on you and damage your reputation.”

“But it must be done,” she said earnestly. Although the thought of the villagers’ condemnation made her stomach tighten. Coming home so early in the morning, the news of their escapade appeared not to have spread, but it would once the discovery of the skeleton came to light. Could she still work in the shop? It was the only thing she had to look forward to.

His warm smile made her heart turn over. “I knew you would say that.” He moved closer and held her chin in his palm, his thumb tracing just below her bottom lip. “What a grand girl you are,” he said huskily.

Startled, a glow of heat raced through her. A man had never touched like that. In fact, no man had ever touched her with his bare hand. At the few dances she attended, while her father was alive, men wore gloves. Harry’s hand was large, warm, and smooth. His eyes searched hers, and she thought he might kiss her. She wished he would, but he dropped his hand and moved away. “I shall not return to London and leave you to that fate. But I have thought of a way which might serve us all.”

She breathed deeply. “Oh, Harry, do please tell me.”

Chapter Seven

Cecily looked worried but also so determined it made his breath catch. He struggled with the desire to take her in his arms, to ease her concerns, as any man would do. He followed her to a garden seat shielded from the house by trees, and they sat close together.

“The 12th Duke of Somerset owns Berry Pomeroy castle. His grand estate is some distance from Totnes, but he has a mansion near St. Mary’s Church,” Harry explained. “Although I doubt he is often there, I might by chance speak to him, or at least send him a message in the hope he’ll take the matter out of our hands.”

Cecily frowned. “But will he? Lady Margaret was dead before he bought the castle.”

“That is true, but surely he would want the honorable thing done. After all, he is a direct descendant of the Berry Pomeroy line. And Lady Margaret is very much a part of the castle’s history. The tomb of Sir Richard Pomeroy and his wife is at St. Mary’s. And a monument in 1613 to Lord Edward Seymour, who died in 1593, and his son, Sir Edward Seymour and daughter-in-law, Elizabeth.” He paused, enjoying the lively expression in her eyes. “However, before we get too excited, the remains must be identified as Lady Margaret’s.” He smiled. “And I can hardly tell them her ghost led me to them. They will think I am mad.”

“Indeed.” Cecily nodded thoughtfully. “It certainly would be the answer. Then my life here will go on as before.”

Her blue eyes looked so sad, his heart turned over. “I must catch the train to London at three thirty from Totnes station.” His jaw tightened. “I’ll call at the church to speak to the vicar after I call in to the duke’s. I’m hopeful someone will listen to me.” He took her hand. “I shan’t see you tomorrow, Cecily. I wish we had more time together. You will write to me?”

“Of course, but you cannot go to the church without me, Harry,” Cecily cried. “I shall die of curiosity waiting for a letter. Life simply cannot go back to the way it was before you came here.” She gasped as if she’d said too much and firmed her lips. “Not until I know we have done right by Lady Margaret.”

“I cannot take you to Totnes with me, Cecily.” He wished with all his heart he could. “Your mother won’t allow it.”

“Mother and I work in the flower shop in Totnes tomorrow. I can slip away at luncheon and meet you.”

“If you could, that would be splendid.” Harry’s heart leapt at the opportunity of spending more time with her. He wasn’t sure how he could bear leaving her. Yet he must go, or he would lose his job, and his superior had hinted at offering him a better position. It would increase his salary, a gratifying possibility, as they gave most senior posts to married men.

He released her hand, realizing he’d kept it in his grasp, and stood. “You must go back. It wouldn’t be wise if your mother saw us.”

“No, it wouldn’t. Harry, I shall see you at twelve o’clock at St. Mary’s. Please wait for me.”

“Of course I will.”

She stood hesitantly, as if reluctant to leave him.

“Cecily.” Harry took her arms and slowly drew her toward him. He pressed his lips to hers. Cecily made a soft sound as her hand clutched his shoulder. Encouraged, Harry slipped his arms around her waist and pulled her closer, breathing deeply of her perfume. He kissed her again.

He reluctantly drew away from her sweet lips and soft body. “If I don’t see you tomorrow, I promise to write.”

“I will be there.”

She turned and darted away.

Harry went thoughtfully back to his parents’ house.

He sought his father in his study and explained what he intended to do tomorrow.

Father nodded. “It’s an admirable quest, whether or not it succeeds, my son. My best wishes for your success.”

“I enjoy coming home to see you and Mother,” Harry said. “I trust it wasn’t too much of a trial?”

“Not at all. Your mother always looks forward to your visits. I hope your next one will be soon.”

“Not for a while, I fear.” He cleared his throat. “But I intend to write to Cecily, as I’ve said. And I hope that in the future, when I can afford to, we can marry.”

“A trifle hasty, isn’t it? You hardly know the young lady.”

“Didn’t you say you fell in love with Mother at first sight?”

His father acknowledged it with a smile. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up if I were you. I shouldn’t like you to be disappointed.”

“You don’t think when I’ve got a better position, Mrs. Dunstable might give her approval?”

His father frowned. “I doubt it.”

“Why?” Harry asked despondently. “Am I not a decent enough fellow?”

“You are my son and a decent man. That should speak for itself. But I believe Mrs. Dunstable wants her daughter to remain with her.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Until she marries?”

“She has shut the door on a few gentleman callers. I doubt she intends Cecily to marry.”

“Never? But that’s unfair!” Harry’s blood boiled with anger.

“It happens, Harry. No sense in fighting it. Some daughters stay at home to care for their mothers.”

“Not Cecily. She is too full of life. Why, it would be as bad as burying her in a dungeon like Lady Margaret!”

His father’s eyebrows rose, and he reached for his pipe. “Yes, well. As I say, don’t make any firm plans concerning that young lady.”

Harry watched his father press down the tobacco in his pipe. “Then I shall have to find a way to change the woman’s mind.”

His father puffed his lighted pipe, filling the room with smoke. “Your mother would be pleased. She likes Cecily.”

“Good. I’d best pack my bag.”

His father chuckled. “Your mother will have done that for you.”

*

Cecily found her mother beside the parlor fire, at her sewing. She looked up and smiled. “I used to enjoy darning your father’s socks. Such a pleasant pastime. I hope you weren’t reading one of those gothic romances. I’m sure it affects the balance of your nerves. They are filled with a lot of romantic nonsense, which is nothing like real life.”

“I’m not.” She slipped into a chair beside her. “Mother, don’t you want me to fall in love and marry?”

Her mother frowned as she snipped a thread. “No man has asked you, have they? Most girls marry before twenty, and you are almost twenty-two. You are not plain, but you are not the sort to attract men. There’s something in your manner, Cecily, that men don’t take to. You question them and are not dutiful.” She leaned forward and patted Cecily’s hand. “But you have a cozy home here with me, don’t you? It would delight most girls to have such security. And when I die, this will be yours.”

Cecily turned away so her mother could not read her anguished expression. She walked to the door. Was her mother right about her? Harry didn’t seem to think so. She smiled, enjoying the memory of his arms around her, his kisses, his male scent, the rough tweed of his coat beneath her fingers. He was so tall and strong, yet so gentle. She’d loved him since the first night they met. He promised to write, and he would not lie to her. But once in London, where there were so many exciting young women, surely he would soon forget her?

“Cecily?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Make another pot of tea. The maid has gone out, and this is cold.”

“All right, Mother.” She picked up the tray.

Cecily went to the kitchen and took the kettle off the range. Would her life remain bleak and uneventful until the end of her days?

She sniffed, wiped her eyes with a hand, and busied herself with the tea. At least she had tomorrow. Harry might invite her to go to the station with him to see him off.

Chapter Eight

St. Mary’s red sandstone church in Totnes had a tall tower and a carved Tudor door. Harry inspected the grotesque carvings above each door as he wandered the church’s perimeter, on the alert for Cecily. He identified cherubs, animals, birds. And even a monkey. The priory buildings beyond the graveyard looked as ancient as the church. When he’d walked up the hill, he found no sign of activity in the duke’s mansion. He feared it might be shut up as the duke’s estate was some miles away, but he had yet to knock.

Harry watched the street for Cecily, eager to share this with her, for without her, he would lose much of his enthusiasm. He took out his pocket watch again. Half past the hour. Might her mother detain her? He had been confident that such a determined girl would find a way. And sure enough, when he looked down the hill again, there she was, holding up her blue skirts with one hand, the other on her bonnet, striding shamelessly up the street.

With a grin, Harry went to meet her. That’s my girl, he thought. He marveled at how quickly he’d come to know her and to care deeply for her. She hadn’t said she felt the same, not in so many words, but he would bet his life on it. No words were needed. They belonged together. He would write to ask her if she wished to share his life and the future he planned for them. Soon.

She arrived a little breathless. “Have you been into the church?” she asked without preamble, her eyes sparkling with curiosity.

“Without you? Of course not. We’ll go to the mansion first.” They walked down the street and opened the gate, then up the path to the impressive front door. Harry seized the handsome brass knocker and banged it. The hollow sound echoed inside. A maid answered.

“The duke is not here,” she said briskly and shut the door on them.

“Let’s find the vicar.” He grew conscious of the time. There was a fair walk to the station, and Cecily must return to the shop before she was missed. No sense in angering her mother further.

They entered the empty church. Men’s voices came from the vestry, and moments later, the vicar and another gentleman came into the church.

“Pardon me for a moment, Your Grace,” the vicar said. “I shall see to the needs of these young people.” He smiled. “Is it a calling of the banns?”

Harry, his attention caught by the elegantly dressed man waiting beside the vicar, cleared his throat. “Ah, no, Vicar, it’s another matter entirely. And rather complicated, I fear.” He looked across at the gentleman. “Sir, may I inquire if you are the Duke of Somerset?”

The gentleman nodded. “I am.”

Harry bowed, and Cecily dropped into a curtsey beside him. “Then it is you we most particularly wish to see, Your Grace.”

“Why?” He glanced at Cecily and then with steely eyes, scrutinized Harry’s. “What is it about young man?”

“It’s rather long-winded, I’m afraid.”

The door of the church opened. Two ladies entered, their arms full of flowers.

“My office is at your disposal, Your Grace,” the vicar said.

The duke nodded. “Thank you, Vicar. Please join us.”

“It’s a strange story,” Harry began, once they took chairs in the small office. He continued with his truncated version of their findings and explained what they hoped could be done.

“You believe these bones are Lady Margaret Pomeroy’s?”

“I do, Your Grace.”

“I wonder why you are so sure. The remains of many souls might rest there.”

“Lady Margaret’s ghost wished us to find them,” Cecily said in a rush.

His Grace’s eye widened, and an amused smile lifted his lips. “Tales of the ghosts inhabiting the castle abound. I have never set eyes on one. Surely this ghost would approach me?”

“I don’t know why Lady Margaret’s ghost chose us,” Harry said with a sinking feeling that he was failing. “But the specter led us to a small chamber where the bones lay undisturbed for hundreds of years.”

“Extraordinary!” the vicar exclaimed.

“Indeed, it is. How can you be sure no one has entered the chamber?” His Grace inquired. “Visitors crawl all over the castle every week. They hope to find valuables.”

“Lady Margaret’s jewels are still there,” Harry said.

The duke frowned. “Jewels? Did you bring them with you?”

“No. We thought it best to leave them there, Your Grace,” Cecily said, omitting the fact that the ghosts sent them scurrying away.

The duke stared at them. “Describe these jewels.”

“A splendid rope of pearls,” Harry said.

“And an unusual ring.” Cecily gave a slight shudder. “Still on the boney finger.”

His Grace raised his eyebrows. “What kind of ring?”

“We didn’t examine it,” Harry said. “But I believe it to have some sort of insignia or crest.”

“Good heaven,” the duke said, his voice dropping to just above a whisper. “Can you show me tomorrow?”

“That’s impossible, Your Grace. If I don’t catch the London train, I’ll lose my position with my accounting firm in the city.”

“What about you, Miss Dunstable?”

“I’m afraid not, Your Grace. My mother does not want me involved.”

“I can draw a map of the dungeon,” Harry said. “It might take some finding, as we became lost at one point, but once you find the small, wooden door with a rusty lock and key, you will find it.”

His Grace sighed. “Then I must content myself with that.”

“Once the skeleton is confirmed as Lady Margaret’s, we believe her remains should be interred with those of her family.”

“Well, if it proves to be Lady Margaret, that will be done,” the duke said. “You have my thanks and shall be rewarded.”

“We don’t want a reward, Your Grace,” Cecily said. “We only want Lady Margaret’s body to be at rest. Then she will be free.”

“Extraordinary,” the duke murmured. “Allow me to offer you food and drink at my house before your journey.”

“That is kind, Your Grace. But we must decline.” Harry doubted the duke believed in ghosts. He wasn’t so sure about the vicar. It didn’t matter, they had done what they’d been asked to do, and it was now out of their hands. He removed his watch from his waistcoat. Two o’clock. Cecily was late back to the shop, and he had scarcely enough time to catch his train. He feared he would miss it. And that meant he would be late returning to work, which could put an end to his career. “I’m afraid we must hurry. Miss Dunstable must return to the flower shop, and I have to catch the train.”

“That is no problem. My carriage will take you to the train station. First, please draw a map of the dungeon.”

After Harry sat at the desk and sketched a hasty description of their journey through the torture chamber to the small, locked door, the duke took it with a nod of thanks.

“My carriage is at your disposal,” he said before leaving the room.

The vicar went with them to where Harry had left his suitcase. “Should they find the bones to be as you say, it will be of enormous benefit to St. Mary’s. Thank you for bringing it to our attention. Your names will appear on a plaque, of course. And we’ll hold a ceremony.”

“Thank you, but I must decline, Vicar. We cannot allow our names to be mentioned. It will cause a scandal for Miss Dunstable.”

“Ah, I see. Very well, have a safe journey, Mr. Johnson, Miss Dunstable.”

Before they left, they spared a few precious minutes to view the ornate monument to the Berry Pomeroy family.

Four thoroughbred horses waited, harnessed to the duke’s carriage. A liveried footman assisted them inside.

Harry put his suitcase on the opposite seat and turned to her. “We must say goodbye here, Cecily. The carriage will take you to the shop, although I fear you are already very late.”

“I certainly will be because I’m coming to see you off,” she said, her tone brooking no argument.

He smiled, tamping down his unease. “Yes, do come. But there won’t be much time for goodbyes.”

They reached the station with a few minutes to spare, the train already at the station emitting bursts of steam.

Harry bought his ticket, and they hurried onto the platform. He gazed down at this girl he loved with all his heart. “Will you be all right?”

She shrugged. “I shall be. Don’t worry, please, Harry.”

Was she any match for that mother of hers? While Cecily tried to appear composed, she did not fool him. He noted the sadness and shadow of dread in her eyes. He hated to leave her. If only he could stay and fight her battles for her. What his father had told him about her mother gnawed at him. Would Cecily even get his letters?

He tossed his suitcase through the door of the train.

One foot on the step, Harry reached down and, with an arm around her waist, scooped Cecily up as the whistle blew. They fell back through the door into the train. The guard removed the steps and shut the door. Cecily clung to him wide-eyed and laughing as the train, with a series of loud rattles and another gush of steam, chuffed away from the station. “Harry! What have you done?”

“Burned our bridges, sweetheart.” Harry grinned and kissed her. “I love you, Cecily. I cannot offer you much, as yet, I’m afraid. Just a small flat until I get my promotion. But say you will marry me, sweetheart.”

She flung her arms around his neck as the carriage jerked, throwing them off balance. “Oh, yes, Harry. I just want to be with you. Heavens! What will my mother say?”

He braced himself against the sway of the carriage and hugged her close, his face resting against her sweetly perfumed hair. “Never mind about your mother. We’ll send telegrams to our parents when we arrive in London. Your mother will come around in time. After all, she will have gained a charming and helpful son-in-law.”

Cecily giggled. “Oh, Harry. I do love you.”

Epilogue

Four months later…

London, Islington

Harry came inside, dripping water over the mat. He swept Cecily into his arms and kissed her.

She pushed him away. “Ooh, Harry! You’re all wet!”

“Sorry, my love.” He shrugged out of his coat and hung it on a hook. “You wouldn’t have minded a few weeks ago, are you tiring of marriage already?”

She laughed. “Silly. Of course not.”

“Then come and sit on my lap.” He waved two envelopes. “We have received some post.”

“Who are the letters from?” She rested her head against his shoulder as he slit one open with his thumb.

“This one bears the crest of the Duke of Somerset.”

She sat up. “Oh, my goodness. What does the duke say?”

Harry smoothed her hair away and held up the letter so he could read it.

“Dear Mr. and Mrs. Johnson, I am delighted to inform you that after your excellent directions, the chamber was discovered with the remains of Lady Margaret Pomeroy. As the jewels, most particularly the ring, feature in a portrait of the lady, they prove conclusively that they belong to her. We owe you a great debt of gratitude, and although you have proved reluctant to be named, we are pleased to invite you to attend the formal reinterment of Margaret’s remains in the family vault in St Mary’s. It is my sincere hope that you will attend.

Cecily sighed. “Perhaps it’s better for us not to go.”

“Wait, there’s more.” Harry turned the page. “As Mr. Johnson’s parents and Mrs. Johnson’s mother have accepted, might that be an inducement?”

Regards,

Edward Seymour

12th Duke of Somerset

Earl St. Maur, of Berry Pomeroy in the County of Devon.

“Mother has agreed to attend?” Cecily asked in surprise.

“Apparently.” He held up the other letter. “The other letter is from your mother. Would you care to read it?”

Cecily shook her head. “No, you read it, Harry.”

“Very well.” Harry opened the letter.

“Dear daughter, an emissary of the Duke of Somerset has called to invite me to the ceremony for the reinterment of Lady Margaret’s remains. I have accepted, for it would be rude to do otherwise. The Johnsons have offered to escort me. I imagine you won’t attend. Surely it would be prudent not to. I am gratified to learn your living conditions are soon to improve, for I couldn’t bear to think of you living in such straightened circumstances, snatched as you were from your comfortable home.

You wrote that you’ll return for Christmas, and I suppose I must content myself with that.

Mother.”

Harry lowered the letter.

“I mentioned your new position and rise in salary in my last letter to her,” Cecily said. “And about our move to better lodgings.” She drew in a breath. “Mother is very proud, but it appears she will welcome us at Christmas.”

Harry tossed the letters aside. He lifted Cecily’s chin with a finger and gazed tenderly down at her. “You don’t miss her very much, do you, sweetheart? Did I do the wrong thing taking you away?”

“No, Harry. I am sure Mother loves me, and I am grateful to her for caring for me, but after Father died, she made me so miserable.”

He kissed the dimple at the corner of her mouth. “Things will be different when we return to the village for Christmas.”

“Yes, I believe it might.” Her cheeks grew pink. “Especially, when I tell Mother my news. Surely she will be pleased.”

His gaze roamed her face. “What news?”

Cecily flushed and ducked her head. “We are going to have a baby.”

“My love!” Harry kissed her. He rose from the chair with her in his arms and placed her gently on her feet. “A baby is sure to mend fences, but I foresee rivalry ahead between the grandmothers!”

Cecily laughed.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maggi Andersen

The Never Series

Never Doubt a Duke

Never Dance with a Marquess

Never Trust and Earl

Dangerous Lords Series

The Baron’s Betrothal

Seducing the Earl

The Viscount’s Widowed Lady

Governess to the Duke’s Heir

Eleanor Fitzherbert’s Christmas Miracle (A Novella)

Once a Wallflower Series

Presenting Miss Letitia

Introducing Miss Joanna

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

The Scandalous Lyon

Also from Maggi Andersen

The Marquess Meets His Match

Beth

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A USA TODAY bestselling author of Regency romances, with over 35 books published, Maggi’s Regency series are International bestsellers. Stay tuned for Maggi’s latest Regency series out next year. Her novels include Victorian mysteries, contemporary romantic suspense and young adult. Maggi holds a BA in English and Master of Arts Degree in Creative Writing. She supports the RSPCA and animals often feature in her books.

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The Others of Ochil

Mary Lancaster

Chapter One

He first noticed Justina Gale toward the end of the Season. Bored to his back teeth of the social frenzy, he had slipped away from Lady Braithwaite’s ballroom and run upstairs to seek solitude in his lordship’s impressive town library. So, he was not best pleased to find someone else there before him.

A young lady in inevitably white muslin, her smooth chestnut hair simply dressed, was closely examining the bookshelves.

Although she did not appear to register his quiet entrance, she said, “You are quite right. I should not be here, but neither should you. It is more than time you were gone.”

Her voice was pleasant, her tone friendly. She did not appear remotely disconcerted by his presence or his rank, and since he could not recall her, he was both surprised and amused by her informal manners. A witty retort rose to his lips as he strolled into the room, carefully leaving the door wide open.

But before he could say anything, she turned from the shelf, gazing to the far end of the room. “What is there for you to do here, in any case?” She paused and then let out a rather charming, breathless laugh. “You do not throw books at his lordship. You don’t have the strength.”

At that point, he realized several things at once. The girl really did not know he was there. She was not speaking to him but to thin air—or to someone he could not see. She could lack wits. Perhaps, she simply talked to herself when she imagined she was alone. Or…

She spun suddenly to face him, her eyes widening with shock. Her hand flew up to her throat in an instinctive gesture of self-comfort. And he saw that she was pretty, in a slightly unconventional, understated way. Though he couldn’t quite find the source of either her beauty or her almost ethereal…strangeness.

He remembered to bow. “Forgive the intrusion, Miss. I thought you had company.”

She blushed the fiery red of embarrassment but still managed to tilt her chin with something like defiance. “Only my own. I was thinking aloud. Please excuse me.”

She almost bolted past him for the door, but before he could stop her with word or deed—he really did need to pursue his acquaintance with her—someone else blocked her by filling the doorway. A regal lady of middle years in a puce and lavender turban stood there. Mrs. Gale, one of the Season’s matchmaking mamas.

“Justina, what are you doing up here?” she scolded. “Your cousin needs you in the ballroom, and I should not have to—” Mrs. Gale broke off, catching sight of him, and her discontented face broke abruptly into smiles. “My lord, I did not see you! I hope my niece has not been annoying you.”

“On the contrary, it was I who disturbed the lady.” He strolled toward them. “Will you not introduce me to your niece?” Of course, it was possible that they had been introduced before, and he had forgotten, though she did seem a rather memorable young lady.

“His lordship, the Earl of Ochil,” Mrs. Gale said to her niece with something like a warning glare. “Sir, my niece, Miss Justina Gale.”

Miss Justina Gale did not hold out her hand or flirt with her eyes. She merely curtseyed, perhaps still embarrassed to have been caught talking to herself. It was Ochil who held out his hand, obliging her to place hers in it. And she had removed her gloves, perhaps to examine the books. As his fingers closed over hers, a frisson of excitement passed through his veins.

Oh yes, she could be the one…

Ochil bowed civilly over her hand and released it. “Perhaps I may have the honor of a dance later?” he asked. “In the meantime, I shall leave you ladies to your privacy. Unless you would care for an escort back to the ballroom?”

“Just the thing!” Mrs. Gale pounced, as he had known she would. “I have left my daughter to come in search of… Justina, where are your gloves?” she demanded, scandalized.

Justina hastened across to the table and snatched up the gloves which lay there. Ochil knew a sudden urge to help her, to draw them up over her delicate wrists. Ignoring such inappropriate desires, he merely offered his arm to Mrs. Gale and walked with her back to the landing and downstairs to the ballroom. Mrs. Gale chattered away as though they were old friends, and he listened politely while every inch of him was aware of Justina trailing silently behind them.

Because of Justina, he lingered by Mrs. Gale, made civil conversation with her son and daughter, and even allowed himself to be maneuvered into inviting the daughter to dance. Although he had asked the niece first, she appeared almost frightened of him after their encounter in the library, and it seemed cruel to insist. So, he danced with Miss Anne Gale and learned from her that Justina, her cousin, had lived with them since the death of her parents, that although Justina did not care for parties, it was more comfortable for Anne to have a companion closer in age to her than Mama.

In this way, he discovered what he needed to and accordingly let himself enjoy the company of the whole family. In a day or so, he would take the young ladies driving in the park, make a point of speaking to young Mr. Gale at the club. And then he would invite them to Scotland, because they would bring Justina with them.

Because Justina, unless he was very much mistaken, could see and speak to ghosts. And that was exactly what he needed.

Chapter Two

“I must confess, I shall be glad when this wretched journey is over.” Justina’s aunt made the same declaration several times each day. And yet, the journey had not been arduous. They had been traveling north in easy stages and had spent most nights with friends and acquaintances. Only last night, the first since leaving Edinburgh, had been spent at an inn, and that had been comfortable enough.

Justina rather enjoyed traveling. She liked the sense of being nowhere in particular and found hope in the anticipation of where she would arrive. Of course, she was largely invisible in the houses of her hosts, and she most certainly hoped to continue being so in the Earl of Ochil’s home.

She had not forgotten being discovered talking to the chatty spirit in Lord Braithwaite’s library. That had been humiliating enough—no one wants to be thought a lunatic, especially not by an attractive young man. But she had lived in terror of him telling her aunt; and Aunt Gale could scold for hours. Especially about bad ton or impeding Anne’s chances of a brilliant marriage.

“Ochil says there’s decent shooting on his land,” Cousin William contributed, yawning. “I’m looking forward to that. I expect the company will be of the best, too.”

“Top notch,” Aunt Gale agreed with some pride. She beamed at her daughter. “We are most honored by this invitation. And that has to be because of you, my sweet.”

“Well, it was Justina who found him,” Anne pointed out.

“That is true,” Aunt Gale said, much struck. “Actually, that was very clever of you, Justina,” she added generously. “Anne will not forget you once she is a countess.”

“Mama!” Anne exclaimed. “Pray don’t go around saying such things! I daresay there are any number of beautiful and accomplished young ladies at Hillfoot Tower already, all more eligible than I.”

Her mother smiled indulgently. Justina, who regarded the convoluted dances of the marriage mart with a fascinated but detached distaste, felt sorry for her cousin if the match was made. Anne had no idea what sort of a man the Earl of Ochil was, saw only his title and lands and, possibly, his undeniably handsome person. Although his good looks were of the harsher variety, and he had those unusually light grey eyes that seemed to hide his thoughts while reflecting her own straight back at her…

“Besides, he doesn’t come to town very often,” William said, shifting his legs to try and get comfortable. “Can’t see you happy to be immured up here in Ochil’s cursed and haunted tower, Annie.”

“It is not cursed,” Anne said with dignity, “and it is not haunted.”

“Ha! That’s where you’re wrong. Simons showed me some ancient tome, and it’s quite clear the family was cursed by some sixteenth-century abbot. And the house has more ghosts than…” His eyes flickered to Justina and away. “Than the hairs on my head. But there, that’s peasant superstition for you.”

“You needn’t look so worried,” Justina said calmly. “I’m well aware you’re only teasing Anne.”

Aunt Gale leaned forward, her frown a mixture of unease and warning. “You do realize how important this visit to Anne? To all of us? You must not say or do anything to endanger her standing—the family’s standing—with his lordship.”

“I shall be silent and invisible,” Justina promised.

“Yes, but don’t hide in your chamber, or people will think we are cruel to you!” Aunt Gale scolded. “Besides, Anne and I may need you.”

“Cheer up, Justina,” William said wryly. “When Anne is a countess, she can pay a servant instead.”

Justina flushed. “I am happy to help and to be a part of your household.”

“Of course you are,” Aunt Gale said comfortably. “And we are happy to have you. It is very pretty here, is it not? The hills are quite beautiful. Are these the Ochil Hills?”

“Must be,” William said restlessly. “And look, you can see the River Forth on that side. That looks like a castle. We must be almost there.”

The countryside really was lovely. Perhaps it lacked the dramatic grandeur of the border scenery they had passed through several days ago. But to Justina, the area felt gentle, warm, and welcoming—even though the sky was grey and the wind whistling through the carriage windows was undeniably sharp.

The Earl of Ochil’s castle had clearly been built to guard the river. All that was left of it was a large keep some five stories high. But this was no ruin. It was a commanding stone structure with row upon row of large windows that should have looked ridiculous in such a building and yet didn’t. As the Gales’ carriage approached, the Hillfoot Tower looked grand and gracious rather than barbaric, with a wink of sun beaming down on it between dark clouds.

For some reason, the agitation that consumed Justina whenever she thought of meeting the earl again died back. Footmen spilled down the curved steps at the front door. Justina gazed up at the towering building as she was handed out of the carriage and walked up the front steps.

The earl, tall and glorious, stood in the doorway to welcome them, moving aside to usher them in with friendly greetings and inquiries about the journey. Justina barely heard him or the replies of her family. She was vaguely aware of other strangers around her host. But mostly, she stared around her at the building—the high, vaulted ceilings and marble staircases and white-plastered walls.

Inside, it did not look like an austere medieval castle. This was a grand country house, restructured to look so, Justina guessed, in the last century. So much, her eyes told her. Her other senses caught much more conflicting stories. There was warmth here, comfort, and even peace. But beneath that, buried in the centuries of life that had passed here, was excitement, tragedy…evil that made her shiver, courage that awed, and emotion that overwhelmed.

William was right. This house was haunted, though she could see no lurking spirits…yet.

“Miss Justina.”

She jumped, dragging her eyes and her attention down to the speaker. The earl stood in front of her, offering his hand with a faint smile that neither mocked nor discounted the Gales’ poor relation. She placed her hand in his and felt again the shock of his touch, the disturbance caused by his nearness. More than that, she felt he was rooted, somehow, in this house, with all its tragic, violent history, as well as its comfort.

He was a curious specimen. Intriguing, difficult to dismiss like most strangers she encountered.

With some embarrassment, she realized he was searching her face with the same curiosity she must be betraying in her own gaze.

“My lord,” she muttered, hastily withdrawing her hand.

“Allow me to present you to my sister, Lady Jane Rothes, her husband, Sir Donald Rothes, and my brother, Mr. Alan Erskine.”

She curtseyed, slightly alarmed to find the lady and both gentlemen regarding her with far more interest than was usually accorded her. Had she said something aloud, missed some question she should have answered?

But no, thankfully, they were all turning away. Lady Jane was leading the way upstairs with Aunt Gale, and Justina fell into step beside Anne to follow.

“My aunt, Lady Marie, is our official hostess,” Lady Jane said cheerfully, leading them along a passage to a second flight of stairs, “since she lives here with my brothers. You will meet her later. In truth, she has grown a little frail for such events, so Rob asked me to step in. If you need anything at all, I beg you will come either to me or to our housekeeper, Mrs. Bell, but I hope you will be comfortable.”

“It is a beautiful house,” Aunt Gale observed, “though very different inside to what I was expecting from the age of the exterior!”

On the next landing, Lady Jane led them left along a passage. “Yes, I suppose it is quite a bizarre house. It has been so added to over the years—and detracted from! There used to be a large building attached to the tower, built around a courtyard, but it burned to the ground last century. The locals will tell you, you can still see it burning some nights, even smell the smoke. But they do love to scare themselves with such tales.”

She paused by the first door on the left. “I have put Mr. Gale here, and you opposite, Mrs. Gale. Miss Anne Gale is next to her brother, and Miss Justina next to you. Does this arrangement suit?”

“Perfectly,” Aunt Gale assured her fervently, walking in to what looked to be a most comfortable bedchamber, while Anne opened the door to her own room.

Lady Jane smiled and opened the door after Aunt Gale’s. “This is yours.”

Justina, who had more than half expected to share with Anne, was stunned to find herself in an equally large and comfortable room with a fire in the grate, a large bed with hangings to match the window curtains, a desk, a high-backed chair, an armchair, a large wardrobe, and a dressing table with another comfortable chair before it. The washstand bore matching elegant bowl and jug, with fresh, crisp towels.

“Thank you,” Justina murmured, awed.

“Your bags will be with you shortly, but perhaps you would like tea before you settle in?”

“Thank you,” Justina said again, looking about her. “I’ll follow my aunt’s wishes.”

“Of course.” Lady Jane withdrew, leaving Justina alone in her luxurious accommodation. From one window, she could see the river sparkling through the gaps in the woodland greenery. From the other, the hills rose in the distance, proud and gently majestic.

Very slowly, Justina walked to the bed and sank down onto it. Comfortable, of course. In fact, she was in danger of feeling altogether too comfortable here.

Until her aunt’s maid appeared, with the inevitable summons, and she was dragged back to reality.

*

They took tea in a pleasant, sunny drawing room, where Justina was able to blend silently into the scenery, except to hold Anne’s teacup while she admired the view or fetch Aunt Gale’s shawl. There were fewer people than she had expected to be present, but though Lady Jane made a point of introducing them all, their names passed straight through her head. A couple of the gentlemen seemed familiar.

After tea, Lord Ochil and his brother escorted them on a pleasant walk around the tower grounds. A rose garden spread out from one side of the building, and with many of the roses still in bloom, the scent and the spectacle were both glorious.

“This was part of the new house that burned down,” Mr. Alan Erskine told them cheerfully.

“Do you ever think of rebuilding?” Aunt Gale asked.

Mr. Erskine shrugged. “We have more than enough living space in the tower. Rob—Ochil—would rather spend the money on the land or on new ventures.”

This seemed a good idea to Justina. The air blew fresh and scented. Bees still buzzed around the flowers, and the birds overheard sang their delight in the late afternoon sunshine. After so long stuck in the carriage for large parts of most days, Justina knew how they felt. Only with reluctance did she dutifully follow her aunt and cousins back into the house.

As if he understood, the earl smiled at her quite unexpectedly. “It will rain soon,” he said and nodded toward some filthy cloud moving over the hills. “But I’m told tomorrow will be fine, so you can walk as far as you like.”

If only.

She smiled a little nervously and hurried past him. Not because he was unpleasant company, but because she liked studying him too much.

She looked forward to what solitude she could manage between now and the dinner hour, but Aunt Gale swept them all into her bedchamber for a family confabulation.

“This is better, much better even that I had thought!” Aunt Gale enthused. “We are the only family from London he has invited.”

“Denton and Fairfax,” William pointed out.

Aunt waved one dismissive hand. “Single friends of his lordship. The rest of the guests, including the young ladies, are Scottish families. He has singled you out, Anne, in a most flattering way. Now, we must make sure everything is right and proper, of course, but it is up to us to ensure there is plenty of opportunity for Ochil and Anne to spend time together. It is fortunate we are in time for the grand ball which is to be held just three evenings hence.”

Justina blocked out the rest of the discussion, which she found oddly distasteful. She had learned to sense the presence of spirits, even when they didn’t appear to her, and she was sure they lurked in this house.

Released at last to change for dinner, Justina donned her one evening gown, managing the fastenings herself, as she had learned long ago. Her hair was easily brushed and pinned into the simplest of styles, which gave her a whole half hour before she was bidden to join her family for their entrance to the gallery for pre-dinner sherry.

Greatly daring, she eased open her bedchamber door and listened. All was quiet. With an almost gleeful feeling of escape, she slipped from the room and walked along the passage to the stairs, and began to explore.

When she had first come to live with Aunt Gale, she had promised never to go looking for spirits, never to talk about them or to them, and most certainly not in public. Mostly, she had kept that promise, though inevitably, spirits found her, and, if she was alone, it seemed rude not to talk to them. Which was how she had got into trouble being overheard by Lord Ochil. Fortunately, for whatever reason, he had never told her aunt and appeared to think no less of her. Not being remotely vain, Justina was aware he did not think of her at all. And if this was secretly lowering, it was hardly surprising.

This house, on the other hand, was redolent with presence, though not uncomfortably so, merely pleasant, if silent, company as she explored. Most guests were in their chambers at his hour, so she flitted through the other rooms without interruption. Only once, as she was about to open a door, did she hear voices within, and fled across the hall to another room, which turned out to be a library.

This was where she had hoped to end up. Elegant arm chairs and desks were scattered throughout the impressive, book-lined room. A fire glowed in the elaborate fireplace, warning her that this was a place in frequent use, but she calculated she would be safe for now. She would just have to remember to join her aunt in the next twenty minutes.

She began by tracking down the books on the history of Scotland. Fortunately, the library was well arranged by topic, so when she discovered the right shelves, it was not hard to find a dusty volume on the history of Hillfoot Tower and the Erskines of Ochil.

Printed in the previous century, it was a surprisingly fat work. The Erskines, it seemed, had been involved in all of Scotland’s recorded history, and, according to the author, much of that had never been written down but was left to word of mouth.

Justina sat at one of the desks and began to skim through the pages. She had just come to the story of the Abbot of Cambuskenneth’s curse of the sixteenth-century earl—which was pretty all-encompassing—when she felt a faint constriction in her throat.

She coughed to clear it and realized suddenly that she was not alone. A presence seemed to rush upon her, and her throat tightened further. She gasped, jumping to her feet, both hands to her throat as she spun, looking for her invisible attacker. A choking sound escaped her, for she could not breathe. The breath was being squeezed from her body by unseen, unfelt hands.

She could not even call for help, although her aunt would hate her to do so. Instead, she tried to throw herself across the room to escape, but the shelves grew blurry, weaving before her eyes, and she knew she was about to faint.

To die.

Chapter Three

She would not give in, but the world was going black as she forced her legs toward the door, or at least toward where she thought the door should be. Her hands scrabbled uselessly at her throat, fighting an enemy they could not grasp, while she tried desperately to suck in air, to speak.

“Stop that!” a male voice snapped through the ringing of her ears, and abruptly, she was gasping in lungfuls of air, and a strong, male, gloriously substantial arm supported her waist. She was half-carried and placed in a comfortable armchair while she breathed freely if shakily.

The Earl of Ochil swam into her vision. He seemed to be kneeling at her feet, his face frowning with concern as his eyes searched her face and her neck.

“I am so sorry,” he said. “He must have realized your sensitivity and was trying to get your attention.”

“He succeeded.” Her voice shook, though there was no pain. “Who is he?”

“We’re not sure. We just call him the hanged man, but he seems to have been killed in this room and more or less stays here.”

“A servant,” she guessed.

“What makes you say so?”

“He obeys you.”

“Actually, they all obey me, up to a point, though I’ve no idea why.”

The oddity of the conversation finally struck her. She smiled at him. “You can see them, too.”

His breath caught, as though her smile or her words surprised him. He gazed at her for a long moment, then blinked. “Yes. Though only our own ghosts. I didn’t see the one in Braithwaite’s library.”

She regarded him carefully. “Then you don’t mind that I can see them? It makes no difference?”

“To what?” he asked, clearly baffled.

To whether or not you will offer for Anne. Fortunately, she swallowed back the words in time. Instead, she flicked her gaze around the room. “I didn’t see him, your hanged man. Only felt him.”

“He might show himself to you now. He does, sometimes. At any rate, I don’t believe he’ll hurt you again.”

She frowned. “Why does he want our attention?”

In some ways, it was a mistake to look into his face once more, for he had very profound, very beautiful grey eyes, light and reflective and full of expression, even if she could not read them. As before, a shock of awareness thrilled through her, and she hastily drew her hands free of his hold.

“I don’t know,” he replied, rising to his feet and throwing himself into the chair beside hers. “I only see them. I don’t hear them, although they seem to hear me.” He glanced at her, frowning once more, drumming his fingers distractedly on the chair arm. “Do you want to leave?” he asked abruptly.

She jumped to her feet. “I have to join my aunt—”

He rose with her, interrupting without apology. “I mean leave this house, not this room.”

“I can’t. I stay with my aunt.”

He shook his head impatiently. “I’ll find an excuse if you want me to. If our ghosts have frightened you off.”

“They don’t frighten me,” she said in surprise. “They never have. Although I would rather not be strangled. That is new.”

A breath of laughter softened his rather hard face. “You take it all in your stride, do you not?”

“I am used to them. The others, I call them.” She swallowed. “My aunt does not like me to speak of these things. My madness would reflect badly on the family.”

“You are no madder than I,” he said. The gleam in his eyes was beguiling, almost conspiratorial. “But it shall be our secret. We can talk more later. If you like.”

Oh, I would like. Never in her life had she encountered anyone she could discuss the others with. And that it should be him…

Anne’s future husband, she reminded herself severely.

“Perhaps,” she said nervously. “Thank you for…” She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of where she had felt the strangulation.

“You are welcome,” he replied with a twist of the lips.

She gave him a quick smile and fled.

*

Robert Erskine, Earl of Ochil, gazed thoughtfully after her before he walked across to the desk to see what she had been reading. Almost inevitably, about the abbot’s curse. He touched the page thoughtfully. He didn’t believe in curses, even though he had been forced to believe in ghosts. He wondered what she thought, what she felt.

He glanced up and straightened as Jane and Alan came in.

“Your girl just bolted out of here like a startled deer,” Alan observed.

“She is hardly my girl,” Ochil said impatiently.

“You found her,” Alan pointed out. “Did she meet the hanged man?”

“He tried to strangle her.”

“I suppose she will be leaving, then,” Jane said with a sigh. “Or is she too frightened of the aunt?”

“Is she frightened of the aunt?” Ochil wondered.

“Frightened of upsetting her, perhaps,” Jane corrected. “They are not cruel to her, from what I can gather. They seem fond of her, though they treat her a bit like an upper servant.”

“They make use of her,” Alan murmured.

As do I, Ochil thought ruefully. He wasn’t proud of it.

“Rob?” Jane said as he strode impatiently for the door. “You do realize Mrs. Gale would marry you to her daughter?”

He paused, scowling at her amused expression. “Her daughter? I am not interested in her daughter.”

“Then you’d better marry the cousin,” Alan said with unholy glee. “Otherwise, you’ll have wasted their time.”

Ochil swiped up a cushion and spun it backward at his brother. He managed to close the door before the cushion hit it.

*

Before dinner, the Gales were presented to their hostess, Lady Marie Erskine. She had a severe face like a formidable spinster, and her turban sat askew on her head, but she had surprisingly soft eyes and a friendly smile.

“Sit by me,” she commanded Justina, taking her by surprise.

Justina cast a startled look at her aunt, as though asking for permission, but in fact, she could hardly refuse. And Aunt Gale barely noticed, being more concerned with contriving to have her daughter taken into dinner by the earl.

“You are a pretty little thing,” Lady Marie observed, making Justina blink in astonishment once more. “But more to the point, you have a good face. How old are you, child?”

“Twenty, my lady.”

Lady Marie thrust a glass of sherry from a servant’s tray into Justina’s fingers. “And you live with your aunt? Who are your parents?”

“Edward Gale and Elizabeth Ross, though they died five years ago.”

“Of what?”

“A fever,” Justina replied.

“And your aunt took you in? Is your uncle, her husband, dead, too?”

“Yes,” Justina said patiently and sipped her sherry.

Lady Marie smiled mischievously. “Indulge me. I like to play the eccentric spinster with plain speaking. Some call it nosiness. Did your aunt give you a Season in London?”

“I am sharing my cousin’s.”

“Are you?” Lady Marie said shrewdly. “She isn’t wearing a gown several seasons out of date, with mends hidden behind lace.”

“She notices such things. I do not.”

Lady Marie cocked her head to one side consideringly. “No, I don’t believe you do.”

Justina took another sip of sherry. It was rare to get two sips before she was summoned on some trifling errand. Perhaps her ladyship provided unexpected protection. “Have you always lived here in Hillfoot Tower?” she asked, just to see if the questioning would go both ways.

“It has always been my home, yes. I am the old earl’s eldest sister, but I never cared to marry.”

“It is a very…interesting house.”

“You have no idea,” Lady Marie said, amused. Then her eyes narrowed. “Or do you?”

Justina smiled faintly and took a third sip of sherry. Either the company or the wine was liberating, for she realized with surprise that she was almost enjoying herself.

The feeling lasted even over dinner. She was taken into the dining room by an amiable Scottish baron, Lord Kinghorn. In front of her, she could see Anne, not with the earl—who was escorting Mrs. Gale—but with his brother, Mr. Alan Erskine.

Justina was seated between Lord Kinghorn and Mr. Erskine, a place of rather more honor than she was used to as the poor relation. Kinghorn was interested in London’s amusements, and Mr. Erskine entertained her with amusing snippets of the tower’s history, in between flirting with Anne on his other side.

Rather more often than she intended, her gaze strayed secretly to the earl at the head of the table, and more than once, she found him watching her, too, and hastily looked away.

Was he, like her, glad to have finally met someone who understood about the others? Or was he wondering if it was worth offering for Anne if she came with such an odd cousin?

He doesn’t think I’m mad. He understands.

Or says he does.

Either way, she was thinking about him too much, looking at him too much. She should not be so aware—not in this way—of the man who might well become Anne’s husband.

Still, there was undeniable pleasure in this new excitement—the thrill of a new friend, the excitement of an attraction she would never reveal.

Once the ladies left the gentlemen to their port, she was again kept busy fetching and carrying shawls, replacing hair pins, and repairing the hem of Anne’s train that some clumsy person had trodden on. A healthy dose of reality that kept her feet on the ground. And when, at last, the gentlemen joined them in the drawing room, she was sitting quietly behind her aunt and cousin.

The earl chose to sit beside Anne, who positively preened. But after five minutes conversation, he rose and cast a quick, unexpected smile at Justina that almost stopped her heart before bowing and moving on to another guest.

Lady Jane invited one of the young ladies to sing for the company, which she did unaccompanied, even though there was a pianoforte in the room. She sang a couple of plaintive Sottish airs, after which, Lady Marie asked Anne to entertain them.

With a flick of her head, Anne ordered Justina to the pianoforte. Obediently, Justina rose and accompanied her cousin, for although Anne had a good voice, she could not carry the tune without help.

“Do you not sing, too, Miss Justina?” Lord Kinghorn asked affably after one song and a good deal of praise.

Justina’s eyes widened in alarm. “Oh, no.”

“My cousin is a skilled accompanist, as you heard,” Anna said gaily. “That is her great talent.”

“Then, if we cannot prevail on you both for a duet,” the earl said smoothly, “perhaps, Miss Anne, you would favor us with another song?”

Although Anne protested prettily, the result was never in doubt. Justina accompanied her in a second well-prepared song. Aunt Gale beamed with gratification because it was the earl himself who had pressed her.

Justina had the sudden, wicked urge to play more loudly and more intricately to eclipse her cousin in his eyes. Shocked at her own unkindness—which would, in any case, have been pointless, for earls did not look in that way at penniless, eccentric women—she kept her fingers and her unworthy impulses in order.

About halfway through Anne’s song, a lady in a wide-skirted gown of somber black walked past the piano with a baby in her arms. The oddity of this barely registered with Justina before the lady vanished through the wall. Justina blinked after her and returned her attention to the music.

How many ghosts haunted this house?

Chapter Four

In Justina’s experience, ghosts were most likely to appear in the dark. Or perhaps, with her vision less distracted by solid things, she was just more likely to see them. At any rate, she was not surprised when she entered her bedchamber with her solitary stub of candle to see the lady in black again.

It was a bit like gazing at something through a mist or at a badly-faded picture. And yet, the lady was definitely there, bending over a cradle, which had certainly not been in the room before. By the faint glow of her candle—or perhaps it was the shade’s own ghostly luminescence—the woman’s face was distorted with profound, inconsolable grief.

In pity, Justina stepped closer so that she could see inside the cradle. The covers seemed to be folded neatly, but there was no child inside it.

As though her understanding finally penetrated the gulf between their worlds, the lady turned her face to Justina, who felt the tide of her desolation like a breaking wave.

Justina’s knees gave, and she fell back against the wall for support.

“Why do you stay here?” she whispered. “Go to your child.”

The lady in black shook her head and turned back to the empty cradle. Forcing herself, Justina walked forward, and woman and cradle faded to nothing.

Swallowing, Justina set down her candle and sat on the bed, staring at where they had been.

Why were there so many unlaid ghosts in this house? Because, like her, the earl could see them? Perhaps there had always been people of his family who could. After all, Justina’s mother had told her that her mother saw the others, too, so it could be a talent—or a curse—inherited by blood.

Curse. Perhaps the spirits were forced to stay here by the sixteenth-century abbot who had cursed the family. The hanged man, for one, who had tried with such painful success to attract her attention, must have wanted something, some help. Perhaps he wanted to leave this world and could not.

Justina scowled at the realization she had left the book about the curse in the library. She was not eager to return there. One strangling a day was more than enough, especially since she could not rely on the earl to stop it. She would have to wait for morning. She might even ask him to fetch the book for her.

Even as she told herself this with great firmness, she knew she would not wait.

Taking her courage in both hands, she wrapped her shawl more firmly around her and lit a larger candle from the guttering one that had guided her to her chamber. Armed with the light, she set forth once more, her heart in her mouth, to face the hanged man in the library. She hoped she would neither see nor feel him, though the chances were slim.

Moving along the dark passages and down the creaking staircase, her skin tingled with intense awareness. The others rarely troubled her. She was usually glad to see them, and they didn’t normally stay long. But there was something wrong in this house, as though the presence of too many spirits upset the balance of the living.

Not that the living seemed to notice.

Coming at last to the library door, she took several deep breaths to calm the beating of her heart, and prepared to dart inside, seize the book from the desk where she had left it, and bolt back out before the hanged man realized anyone was in the room.

Accordingly, she threw open the library door and charged in, using her free hand to protect the candle from the sudden rush of air.

She skidded to a halt, for the room was already well-lit with lamps and candles, particularly around the armchair by the fireplace, from which a man regarded her with understandable astonishment.

The earl, in his shirt-sleeves, his waistcoat unbuttoned, and his cravat slung over the chair arm, held a book open on his lap. A glass of brandy sat on the table at his elbow.

Butterflies danced in her stomach. Like this, there was something even more dangerously, intimately attractive about him. Especially when the surprise in his eyes began to melt into amusement.

He rose, closing the book and tossing it on the table beside his brandy.

“Miss Gale,” he said, bowing. A smile flickered across his lips. “In an understandable hurry. May I help you?”

“Actually, your being here helps,” she admitted, nodding to the desk where the book still lay open. “I came for that, and I thought if I moved quickly enough, your hanged man wouldn’t notice me.”

“Good tactics,” he said. “And I am in awe of your bravery.”

She tilted her chin and marched past him to the desk. “We both know there was nothing brave in such an entrance. I apologize for disturbing you.” She snatched up the book and spun around to discover he had come closer and stood gazing steadily down at her.

“On the contrary, it was exceedingly brave,” he said. “After such an experience as yours, do you know how many people would have run screaming from the house and refused to return ever?”

She glanced at him uncertainly. “I am used to the others.”

“Have any ever tried to hurt you?”

“No…” She regarded him. “You have a lot of spirits here.”.

“More than is usual?” he asked.

“Many more. Something is wrong. Why do they all stay? Why does the hanged man want attention? Are they trapped here?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I have always accepted them as a peculiarity of the house. When I was a child, I found it odd that other houses didn’t have ghosts.”

“I expect they had all moved in here.”

It won her another of his quick smiles, which faded as he searched her face.

“They seem to hear me,” he said abruptly. “But it is one-sided. You spoke to the ghost in Braithwaite’s library—did you actually have a conversation with it?”

She glanced at the open door, a reflexive worry that Aunt Gale or her cousins might overhear her. “Yes.”

“Perhaps you could try talking to mine.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “I carry my self-importance too far. I consider myself responsible for all who live on my land or in my house, living or dead. I am worried that something has changed. The hanged man is not the only one who wants attention.”

She dragged her gaze free and raised the book. “Perhaps it is your curse.”

“Superstitious twaddle.”

“Like ghosts?”

“Well, we know they are real.”

Justina, who had kept her thumb between the open pages, raised the book and read through the comprehensive curse. “He cursed your ancestor’s children. I saw the spirit of a lady grieving for an empty cradle. He said your house would burn, and it did. That your family would fall from power. That has all happened.”

“Yes, but it took three hundred years. It was a fairly safe bet that it would all happen eventually.”

“Why did he curse your ancestor, in any case?” she asked, flipping back the pages.

“Apparently, the earl tore down the abbot’s palace and used the stone to build onto the tower.”

“Perhaps the curse will be broken if you make a symbolic return of a stone?”

“To whom? There’s no abbot anymore.”

“Hmm.” She lapsed into silence, gazing at the book without seeing it, and finding it very difficult to concentrate on the ghostly problem when the earl stood so close to her.

“Are you happy with your aunt?” he asked abruptly.

She blinked. “You are as direct as Lady Marie.”

“I try to be. Though I can be subtle, too. Are you?”

“Subtle?” she asked, confused.

“Happy with your aunt.”

“Of course.”

“Because you have nowhere else to go?”

She flushed. “I owe my aunt everything.”

“That isn’t what I asked.”

She tilted her chin. “I must have missed the lesson in etiquette that says I must answer a host’s impertinent questions.”

Not anger, but a gleam of appreciation lit his eyes. “So did I. Pretend I am not your host, nor you, my guest. I am impertinent, I admit, but I am trying to understand you, not insult you or your aunt.”

“Why?” she asked, baffled.

“Because you intrigue me.”

“Being odd?” she flung at him.

“Being different, and charmingly so. But I don’t think you are happy.”

She dragged her gaze free of his before she drowned in his bottomless grey eyes. “My aunt has given me a home,” she said with difficulty. “My pride makes me glad to help rather than simply sponge. And yet…”

“And yet?” he prompted.

She glanced back at him. “And yet I dream sometimes of living alone in a quiet house, with just dogs and cats. And perhaps a passing ghost or two on their way from our world.”

“Where no one tells you what to do or say, or what is real and what isn’t?”

“Yes,” she said with relief.

“You needn’t live alone to find peace. Do you not think of marriage?”

She shook her head. “I have no dowry, and besides, a husband would own me in ways my aunt never could.”

“You have a rebellious spirit for one who tries to melt into the furniture.”

She blushed. “I merely do not wish to draw attention to myself.”

“You mean your aunt does not wish you to do so,” he said a little too shrewdly. “You would outshine your cousin.”

At least she could laugh genuinely at that. “You need not flummery me, sir! What is it you would like me to do?”

Something changed in his eyes at that, the faintest narrowing at corners, at the same time as they darkened like smoke, warm and thrilling and dangerous. And then his thick lashes came down, and she thought she must have been mistaken.

“Let me show you around the house,” he said unexpectedly. “Not the upper floors lest we be accused of indiscretion, but around the public rooms and the kitchens. And you can tell me if you see any spirits and if they speak to you.”

Since this was something she had planned to do alone, and she could not deny it would be more comfortable in his presence, she nodded.

“Very well,” she said briskly and picked up her candle.

His lips twitched as though she amused him again, but he merely lifted the candelabra off the mantelpiece and accompanied her to the door.

Chapter Five

Justina rather enjoyed her tour of the castle. There was something very appealing about the layers of its history, the eighteenth-century grandeur imposed on a medieval defensive structure, with added modern wallpapers and furniture. Oddly, the atmosphere she absorbed was not of the violence that had peppered the building’s history but one of warmth and affection and the constant cycle of new life.

Of course, this may have had something to do with the man beside her, who spoke to her as if he actually saw her, as if she was important in her own right. She rather liked his edge of humor, his blunt curiosity, and often novel outlook as they conversed on various subjects, and he told her amusing myths and legends associated with the castle and his family.

And she found it surprisingly easy to talk to him. It delighted her too much to make him laugh, to surprise him. In his company, her awareness of the ghostly presences lightened. Until, as they descended into the basement, she felt something insubstantial rush past her cheek and paused.

“Did you feel that?” she whispered.

“No, but I have seen ghosts in this part of the house. There is a still room over there and laundry rooms on that side.” He raised the candelabra to show her the dark windows high in the walls. “We used to play down here as children, especially when it was stormy, getting under everyone’s feet. It was a great place for hide-and-seek after dark, too.”

Justina moved around the central hall, peeping into rooms and enjoying the echo of the hundreds of people, servants, and ladies of the house who must have busied themselves here, the children who had played the same kinds of games over the centuries.

“This used to be the dairy,” he said at last.

“Used to be?”

“My mother’s servants didn’t like being down here, so she relocated it.”

A familiar shiver ran over Justina’s skin. Oh yes, there were others here, somewhere… She looked about her and moved on. The feeling of presence immediately faded, and on impulse, she stepped back again. At once, every hair on her body seemed to prickle.

She glanced at Lord Ochil, who was watching her carefully. The candle flames flickered, sending shadows scuttling across his strong jaw and the hollows of his eyes. She liked him, but she didn’t know him or his true connection to the spirits who all but swarmed his home.

Her heart actually lurched as he moved toward her. She didn’t know if it was fear or physical excitement, especially when he took her hand and gently tugged her away. He didn’t move far, though, only a pace or two, and then he released her and crouched down, letting the candles illuminate the floor and the wooden hatch with a great iron rung set flat into its own groove.

Justina’s mouth fell open. “Is it a dungeon?” she whispered.

“The servants think so. We use it to store food, and it’s my belief we always did so. But it’s so much more entertaining to imagine my ancestors kept prisoners down here.”

As he spoke, he lifted the iron ring and pulled open the hatch. It creaked, as any door to a dungeon should, but not so very much. In fact, it opened with unexpected ease, and no clouds of dust or cobwebs greeted her.

Somehow, she felt these things should have been there, for an atmosphere of sheer age flooded her, settling over her like a cloak, and she shivered again.

“Are you cold?” he said unexpectedly. “Shall we go back upstairs?”

She shook her head, for she was at least as much attracted as repelled by the powerful presence below her. Weirdly, even before Lord Ochil shone his candles into the pit, she saw something glow down there, like a lantern shrouded in mist.

A long, sturdy wooden ladder dropped from the hatch to the floor below. Ochil leaned down, spreading the candlelight, and she glimpsed sacks of grain stacked against one wall and boxes of what were probably fruit and vegetables on shelves above. To the other side, at the edge of her vision, something that may have been meat hung from a hook. But she rapidly lost interest in the food supplies, for the faint glow she had glimpsed on the ground grew brighter.

Her mouth went dry, for within the light, she saw the figure of a man, sitting on the floor, his back resting against something shadowy that might have been the wall or sacks of grain. He wore a tunic with a thick leather belt, and a large, grey cloak surrounded him. Beside him, in a pile, were battered pieces of metal that might once have been armor, a helmet with a closed visor on the top.

The ghostly man’s legs were stretched out before him, and a young girl knelt by him, apparently bandaging his bloody foot. Her dress was plain, and a cloth veil covered her hair. There was something very gentle and protective about the way she bent over his injury; she moved with lightness and tenderness. Lines of suffering had spread around his eyes and mouth, tugged down his brow to a permanent frown. A man in severe pain.

A long-dead man, she had to remind herself as pity swamped her.

But beyond the physical agonies of the injured knight, an aura of desperate sadness hung about the ghostly pair, powerful, engulfing Justina so that tears actually constricted her throat. As though sensing her, the girl turned and looked right at her. Time seemed to stop, as though two worlds were one.

“Help us,” the man said, his voice weak and hoarse, and yet curiously commanding.

“Please,” the girl whispered.

Overwhelmed, Justina gasped, relieved to feel the earl’s grip, drawing her back from the edge.

“What did they say?” he asked urgently.

“Help us,” Justina repeated. Taking a deep breath, she leaned forward once more. “How? How can we help you?”

But the glow and all within its light had vanished, leaving only a patch of bare floor and wall.

*

Something very like a sob shuddered through Justina. Ochil, in a surge of guilt, put his arm around her and drew her back.

“There, it is enough for now,” he murmured, hugging her to him.

For a moment, she clung, perhaps for solid comfort, and he was shocked by the wave of tenderness that flowed over him. She was soft and frail in his arms, like an injured bird.

“They try to speak to me,” he blurted. “But I can’t hear them. I can’t read their lips.”

She drew back, and God help him, he was sorry. But there was no accusation in her eyes as she said, “This is why you invited us.”

There were half-truths and platitudes for this situation, most of which he had rehearsed. But he couldn’t speak them, not to her.

“I need your help,” he said honestly.

She didn’t say he should have asked for it in the first place. They both knew she couldn’t have given it, couldn’t even have been here without the shield of her aunt and cousins. And yet, he was ashamed of his lack of frankness, his manipulation.

She rose and picked her candle off the floor. He closed the trapdoor and followed with the branch of candles, all now considerably smaller than when he had left the library with them.

Wordlessly, he led her back up to the main part of the house and into the library. She came without fuss or demur, clearly deep in thought. When he poured her a glass of brandy and pushed it into her hands, she took it without seeming to notice, then, when he clinked his own glass against hers, she blinked with surprise and obediently drank.

She didn’t choke or gasp as the liquid hit her throat, but it did seem to bring her back to the moment.

“Who are they?” she asked.

“We think he was a knight imprisoned here back in the early fourteenth century, in the days of King Robert the Bruce. He might even be an ancestor of mine, flung down there when the English captured the castle. She seems to be a servant. But they are always together.”

Her eyes fixed on his, no longer shy or alarmed by him. He liked that. He liked the way she concentrated on a problem.

“You are concerned for them,” she observed. “Why? How long have you seen them there?”

“Since I was a boy.” He gestured her to the chair she had occupied before. “From word of mouth and written accounts, I gather various people have seen them throughout the centuries. But in the last year, they suddenly started trying to tell me something. I felt…rather than looking in on a picture, I was part of their life as much as they are part of mine. And they have been dead for five hundred years.”

She sat, still frowning. “But we don’t know what help they want or need. They might not even be speaking to you but to some long-dead person of their own lives, like an echo of something that really happened.”

“Do you feel that?”

Her eyebrows lifted as though surprised to be asked for her opinion. “No,” she said at last. “I think they see us.”

“Will you help me? Help them?”

“Of course.” Setting down her glass, she prepared to rise as though intending to go straight back down to the dungeon.

He reached out, closing his fingers around her wrist to stop her. “Not now. They have gone for tonight. Tomorrow, after you’ve rested, we can try again. They are quite…intense.”

She nodded with perfect understanding and gazed at his fingers on her wrist. He swept his thumb over the web of blue veins and felt her pulse galloping. There could be any number of reasons for that, but he wanted suddenly to believe it was passion. He was only too aware of their solitude in the quiet of the house, of the tug of physical attraction growing inconveniently strong. She really was pretty, in an entirely rare and intriguing way. And his heart beat hard with temptation.

He had to remind himself that he was a gentleman. So, although she didn’t pull free as she settled back into her chair, he released her.

She reached for her glass in a quick gesture that might have been nervous or just distracted. Thoughtfully, she sipped her brandy, and then her gaze flew to his. “Intense,” she repeated. “Your dungeon ghosts are more intense than any of the others I have seen, even your strangling hanged man. Do you suppose the others stay because of them? Are even kept here because of them?”

“It crossed my mind,” he admitted. “But I can’t hear them.” He hesitated then, “I’m sorry for not explaining the truth. To be honest, until you were here, I didn’t even know if I was right about you. Do you mind?”

“I like to help,” she said a little vaguely. “But my aunt might mind.”

Remembering Jane’s warning that Mrs. Gale expected him to marry her daughter, he shifted uncomfortably. “I may have raised expectations I should not,” he admitted. “I can be single-minded.”

“You would not do for Anne,” she said frankly. “You are too strange.”

He blinked before a breath of laughter shook him. “Even for an earl?”

Her smile was rare, but when it dawned, it was dazzling. “I’m afraid so. My aunt may not see it, but you wouldn’t make Anne happy.”

“I wouldn’t,” he agreed ruefully.

“But your brother might,” she said, taking him by surprise all over again. She sipped her brandy once more, then set down the glass with decision. “I should sleep, or I shall be useless tomorrow.”

He rose with her and, for a moment, stood looking down at her. He wanted to wrap her in his arms and hold her against him, but didn’t trust himself even to bow over her hand. Instead, he managed a crooked smile and a bow, and she rushed from the room, very like one of his ghosts. Certainly just as elusive.

*

Although Justina didn’t exactly distract him from the ghosts in the dungeon, she seemed to have become part of the same quest, not just as someone who could help, but as someone he had deliberately brought here and was responsible for. Quite aside from the way she had crept under his skin in a remarkably short period of time.

Accordingly, he was glad to see, among his early morning riding companions, Justina’s cousin William. Of course, Mrs. Gale might have sent her son to discover the condition of the estate and the prosperity of the locals, with an eye to Anne’s future. Ochil didn’t mind that. He led his companions in a good, hard gallop to the foot of the hills, and on the slower pace back, he let his horse fall into step beside William’s.

“Beautiful country you have around here,” William said enthusiastically.

“The best of all worlds,” Ochil agreed. “Good farmland, and woods and moors to hunt. Got good fishing, too, if you enjoy that. We’ll organize something once you’ve rested from your journey.”

“I look forward to it.”

“Are your ladies good travelers?” Ochil inquired, by way of shaking the tree to see what fell out.

William wrinkled his nose. “Hard to tell. We traveled by such small stages I wondered if we’d ever get here!”

“I gather you are the head of the family,” Ochil said casually. “Does that make you Miss Justina’s guardian, as well as your sister’s?”

“I suppose I am, at least for a few months more until Justina is twenty-one. Not that there’s any fortune involved, for there isn’t. She is just part of the family.” As though he guessed some of Ochil’s thoughts, he colored faintly, adding with a hint of defensiveness. “My mother and sister both rely heavily upon her. I’ve warned them they will miss her if she marries and leaves them.”

“Is that imminent?”

“I don’t see why not. She’ll make a good man a charming wife. A man not in need of a dowry, for I can’t dower them both.”

“Ah. But you are friends?”

“Of course.” William frowned and added stiffly, “If you have heard rumors that she is eccentric, she is merely an original and perfectly good ton.”

“Young ladies are expected to behave in a certain, narrowly prescribed way,” Ochil observed.

“Exactly,” William said with relief. “But she is learning how to go on.”

She was being nagged and badgered into it, Ochil thought with a shade of grimness, so that her spirit wilted and her natural charm was buried under a fear of saying or doing the wrong thing.

Men, noblemen in particular, were granted a far greater degree of tolerance. He pitied Justina for that repression and yet liked all the more that she had opened to him so much yesterday. She had been natural and unafraid and…

And she can help. There is no need to think farther ahead.

And yet, as they rounded the tower in the direction of the stables, he couldn’t help glancing up at the library window, and when he glimpsed her face there, his heart gave a very peculiar lurch.

Chapter Six

Justina woke that morning with the novel warm, happy feeling of having a friend.

She read no more into it. Noblemen like the Earl of Ochil did not look at women like her for anything other than friendship, and he had already admitted enticing them here under false pretenses. She did not mind that either. If anything, she was flattered to be useful, and it was only Anne’s ambitions, not her affections, that had been engaged by him. She had meant it when she told him he would not make Anne happy.

But he made Justina happy. She could relax with him as with no one else because he understood about the others. And if there was a secret longing beneath that comfort, well, she was good at keeping secrets.

Once washed and dressed, she discovered both Aunt Gale and Anne were lazing in the comfort of their beds and were breakfasting from trays in their room. William, apparently, had gone riding with his lordship and several other male guests.

Justina helped herself to a piece of toast from Anne’s plate and a gulp of coffee and then betook herself to the library.

Here, she felt again the frisson of presence.

“Don’t,” she said severely, closing the door behind her. “I know you’re here, and I’ll help you if I can, but I refuse to be strangled.”

As she walked across to the book she still hadn’t managed to remove, it struck her that if she turned, she might well see the disturbing image of the hanged man. She didn’t look but sat down to read the curse once more. Then she dug out other books on the same shelf.

Some time passed before she heard the unmistakable sound of horses’ hooves and male laughter. She rose and went to the window in time to see six riders, including William, riding around the house. The earl was among them, too, tall and straight and solid. She had almost forgotten the very male harshness of his features. No one would suspect him of moving heaven and earth to help ancient ghosts no one else could believe in, let alone see. Even Justina began to think she might have dreamed last night until he glanced suddenly up at the window, and his features softened into a smile that tugged at her heart and several other places a lady should not think about.

My friend, she told herself severely and went back to her books. Would he join her in the library? Or would his duties as host interfere? She shouldn’t stay much longer in any case, for Aunt Gale would be hunting her down.

The door opened and closed quietly behind her, and she knew at once it was Lord Ochil, even before he came close enough for her to recognize his faint, distinctive scent of fresh woodland. It made her want to close her eyes.

Instead, she turned to him, saying, “I can’t find any mention of the curse until about a hundred years ago.”

“No, I think it was invented around the time of the Jacobite risings to explain my family’s bad behavior. The earls fought for the Stuart claims, but a younger son always remained behind to denounce them. It worked, since after both Jacobite defeats, the family still held onto the earldom and the tower.”

Justina pushed the books away from her. “Then the whole story is nonsense.”

“Well, there seems to have been some genuine dispute between the earl and the abbot, but even that is too late for our dungeon ghosts, who must have died at least two hundred years before then. Why are you so obsessed with the curse?”

“Five hundred years is much too long to linger among the living. Something beyond their own desires must keep them here,” Justina said impatiently. “And if we don’t know what it is, we can’t remove it.”

He pulled out the chair next to hers and sat down. “You think that is the help our ghosts want? To be freed of their ties to this world?”

She nodded. “I would like to speak with them further, but yes, I’m sure they must want to move on.”

“They have haunted the dungeon for all this time,” he pointed out. “Why is it so urgent now?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps they have just finally had enough. Perhaps their need has been growing too slowly for you to notice until now. I can’t imagine you have the time or inclination to go down to the dungeon regularly, like making duty calls on an aged relative.” She frowned. “How do you know who they are?”

“I don’t.”

“You said you thought he was your ancestor who followed Robert Bruce and was captured with the castle by the English.”

The earl rose and went to another desk, which he unlocked with a key from his pocket, and took out what looked like another leather-bound book, which he brought back to Justina.

“This is part of a history begun in the fifteenth century by a family chaplain. He wouldn’t have been alive during the wars for Scottish independence, obviously, but he was certainly closer to the word-of-mouth history.” He lifted one leather board, which only lay loosely on top of a heap of vellum sheets as protection. Closely woven, spidery writing filled the top page. “It’s old and faded and difficult to read. I mean to transcribe it before it falls apart, but I haven’t yet got around to it.”

In some excitement, she peered at the top sheet. “It’s in Latin.”

“We were a small country with many languages—English and its colloquial variants, French, Gaelic, Norse… Latin was our language of government and of the church.”

“I have very little Latin,” she said meekly. “No one thinks it necessary to teach girls such things.”

“There are many schoolboys who would be happy to change places.” He turned over a couple of sheets and ran his long finger down the lines without actually touching the velum, and paused. “Here. Sir John Erskine of Ochil, King Robert’s favored knight, defended his Hillfoot keep from the English invaders until it was overrun by trickery. Erskine, severely injured, was flung into a pit by the warrior monk, Hildebrand. He was kept alive only by the devoted attention of a servant girl who was smuggled into the pit to care for him. After the Battle of Bannockburn, the English fled.”

The earl raised his gaze to Justina’s. “He doesn’t say what became of John or the servant girl but does mention their shades are seen still in the pit beneath the tower. Our family appears to be descended from Sir John’s younger brother.”

“So, this nameless maid servant saved his life, but he died anyway?”

Ochil shrugged. “Everyone dies eventually, but it is interesting that together they haunt the dungeon where he was kept.”

“I wondered if the abbot’s later curse had kept them there just as they were ready to leave the earth,” Justina said ruefully. She shook her head and stood. “I should go to my aunt. But may I visit the dungeon again if I have the opportunity?”

“Of course. I can meet you in the old dairy in the hour before dinner? Everyone is busy elsewhere, then.”

She felt herself flush. “There is no need to trouble you. I am strong enough to lift the trap door myself.”

“Perhaps, but I would prefer to be there.”

She could not hide her pleasure in that, though she only smiled before she hurried away to her aunt’s chamber.

*

In the afternoon, most of the gentlemen tramped off on a shooting expedition. The ladies walked in a different direction to enjoy a little watercoloring, sketching, or reading, with the incentive of an al fresco tea.

Justina, weighed down with paper, notebooks, pencils, paints, volumes of poetry, and extra warm clothing for her aunt and cousin, was surprised to have her burdens wordlessly removed by a footman already carrying several easels and a large basket. She thanked him and received a curt nod in return.

The day was a little blustery with clouds scudding across the sky, but it remained dry and mostly sunny. Birds sang, interrupted by the occasional, distant pop of guns, which made Justina wince.

“Does the noise startle you?” Lady Jane inquired, falling into step beside her. “Or is the slaughter which offends?”

“Oh, nothing offends,” Justina assured her hastily. “And the shots are distant enough not to startle.”

“Ochil doesn’t have the birds beaten out of cover to be shot,” Lady Jane observed. “Which is at least sporting. In so far as it is sporting to pit a small, winged creature with a beak against a man with a deadly weapon.”

“You disapprove?” Justina asked in surprise.

“Oh, no, and I am perfectly happy to eat what they bring home. I was just trying to get your attention.”

Justina blinked. “Why?”

“Because you say so little, and I barely know you. It isn’t a criticism,” she added as Justina flushed uncomfortably. “I am just curious by nature.”

“You sound very like your brother.”

Lady Jane laughed. “Well, you are certainly observant. We are alike in many ways, Rob and I, but my younger brother and I lack his focus on duty. It is as well he is the earl and not us.”

Since she seemed to want to talk about her brother, Justina could not resist encouraging her. “You think his lordship too serious?”

“Oh, no, he has an excellent sense of humor, dry and witty, as you may have noticed. But he has an overdeveloped sense of responsibility.”

“He said the same thing. Is he quoting you?”

“Perhaps.” Lady Jane smiled faintly. “It would be good for him to share the load.”

Justina looked at her carefully, then glanced at Anne, walking ahead with two other young ladies. Anne, she knew instinctively, would not share that load. She would add to it. No, they were decidedly wrong for each other.

“Be a friend to my brother,” Lady Jane said, “and I will thank you for it.” She did not stay to see the startlement on Justina’s face but fell back to the dowagers trailing behind with Aunt Gale.

Lady Jane had given her permission to be friends with her brother. A permission she did not need, as Jane must know. Then was the permission for something more?

Justina swallowed and determinedly dragged her wayward mind back to reality. Friendship with Lord Ochil was more than she had ever imagined, and for the length of her stay here, all she needed to make her happy. She could not, would not, think beyond that.

*

When she finally left Aunt Gale to the mercies of her maid, Justina rushed to her own chamber, washed and changed into the same evening gown she always wore, and hastily brushed out and repined her hair. She barely glanced in the mirror—she was more than usually dissatisfied with the young lady gazing back at her, but there was nothing she could do about that. The ghosts in the dungeon, however, perhaps she could help with.

As she turned toward the door, she caught a suddenly strong whiff of smoke. Alarmed, she glanced back at the grate, where only gentle flames licked toward the chimney. But the window seemed to have turned suddenly grey, as though a heavy fog had mingled with the gathering dusk. Fog…or smoke. And where was that ominous glow coming from?

She hurried toward the window, peering outside.

Dear God, the glow was no bonfire, but a massive conflagration, engulfing the huge, gracious house next to the tower. Massive flames shot out of windows through holes in the roof. Stone and timber fell through the fire to the ground. It was out of control, threatening the tower. And no one seemed to have noticed.

She opened her mouth to cry out a warning, already starting to the door to raise the alarm when she remembered one very important point.

There was no building next to the tower.

It had burned to the ground more than fifty years ago.

Slowly, she turned back to the window, gazing out at the fire, which was already fading, along with the building and the fog, until she could see, again, the rose garden and the fields beyond and the outline of the distant hills.

She swallowed. She was not the only person ever to have seen this vision. But she could not help thinking it was meant particularly for her, now, part of the increasingly urgent plea for help from the spirits who haunted this place.

More determined than ever, she marched from the room. But she crept past her aunt’s door and those of her cousins before walking down to the entrance hallway without seeing a soul.

Heading toward the back stairs that led to the basement, she passed the kitchen and the servants’ hall behind the green baize door. Through it, she could still hear the crashing of pots and pans, the brisk orders and lively chatter of a large, busy staff, generally happy with their lot.

Lord Ochil looked after them, too, in his brisk, no-nonsense way. Much as he treated the ghost who had tried to strangle her. No fuss, no rage, just a simple instruction, instantly obeyed: Stop that!

As she descended the steps into the old dairy and laundry rooms, she felt the presence immediately, a powerful pull toward the trap door and the store-pit below. She had never experienced such urgency in the others.

Outside was the growing gloom of dusk, and there wasn’t a great deal of light penetrating the high windows. Still, she knew at once that Lord Ochil was not yet here.

Turning her back with some difficulty on the trap door, she looked around for means of light and found a lantern and some candles. She chose the former and lit it with the flint beside it. As she swung back toward the trap door, something seemed to whoosh past her face. She felt the weight of many spirits, as if they were all gathering around her. The lady in black lurked in the shadows, a baby-shaped blanket in her arms, which Justina saw now was empty.

She was in danger of letting all their tragedies overwhelm her.

“Why do you all stay here?” she whispered. “What keeps you?”

She felt their silent confusion. Only the lady in black pointed to the trap door.

“They do?” Justina asked.

“They do,” several voices whispered back, making her hair stand on end.

She had never been frightened of the others before, but there were so many of them here, she had the feeling they could easily overwhelm her, suffocate her, make her one of them.

Nonsense, she told herself resolutely and marched across to the trap door. She set the lantern down beside it, took hold of the iron rung, and tugged. Although the earl had opened it with such ease last night, it was far heavier than she had imagined, and it took all her strength to heave it up. She staggered back, hauling it with her and let it fall with a clatter. Thank God this basement was kept so clean, or she would have dirt all over her gown. Still, perhaps it would have been more sensible to do this before changing for the evening.

She crouched at the edge of the opening, gazing into the gloomy pit below. “Are you there?”

At first, she couldn’t see them, perhaps because the glow of their presence wasn’t so easily seen before full dark. Then, looking so solid it made her heart lurch, she saw the same ghosts by the grain sacks. This time, the maid sat very close to the knight, and he had one arm at her back, the other outstretched as though to protect her.

“It’s me,” Justina said. “I have come to help you if I can.”

Determinedly, she turned, her hands flat on the floor, to descend the ladder.

“What do you think you’re doing?” a harsh, male voiced demanded.

Justina started, nearly losing her grip as her foot struggled to find the first rung of the ladder.

Chapter Seven

She weaved back alarmingly, and her fingers scrabbled across the wood of the floor. She tried to throw herself forward again, and abruptly, Lord Ochil seized both her arms in an iron grip, hauling her to her feet and back from the edge.

“What am I doing?” she demanded indignantly. “I was about to climb down the ladder before you scared the wits out of me by shouting! I nearly went rather faster than I intended.”

“Sorry,” he muttered. She was dragged against him in what felt almost like a hug—no doubt one of relief—before he released her. “Please don’t go down there on your own. We don’t know what’s happening. Don’t you see there are several more ghosts here? Ghosts I have never seen in this room before?”

“They want us to talk to Sir John. It helps to be closer.” She glanced beyond them to the curiously intense, hovering ghosts. “You find them threatening?”

“No. Yes. I don’t know, they seem different. I’m not sure they will obey me anymore.”

“You could stay here and watch them while I go down,” she suggested.

“Oh, no,” he said grimly. “I will go first, and you can follow me.”

As he climbed down with the lantern, Justina felt alarmed by his lack of certainty. At the same time, she knew instinctively that he wouldn’t allow her to go at all if he was truly afraid for her. And that would have been more difficult, for she had every intention of going.

His hand on her elbow guided her down the last few steps, and they turned together to face the specter of the long-dead knight and the maid who had cared for him.

They, too, stood side by side. Her arm was around his waist, his around her shoulders, as though she was supporting his gory, heavily bandaged leg. They did not shimmer in the air but looked, apart from a certain translucence, remarkably solid.

The knight spoke to the earl in a low, sepulchral voice, faint, as though coming from a great distance. “Robert Erskine.”

“He is Robert Erskine, the Earl of Ochil,” Justina replied.

“And I think you are Sir John Erskine, my ancestor,” Ochil said. “This is my friend, Justina. What is it you want from us?”

“Freedom,” said the knight.

“He does not keep you here,” Justina said.

The maidservant spoke for the first time, her voice unexpectedly stronger than the knight’s. “We keep us here.”

“You keep yourselves here?” Justina repeated, more for Lord Ochil’s benefit. “Why?”

“So that we will not be apart,” the maid said. “He is a great lord and will be forgiven his sins. I am no one and may not go with him.”

“I doubt God sees it that way,” Justina said.

“His representative on earth did,” the knight said. “The warrior monk cursed us to be apart in life and in death.”

“So, there is a curse!” Justina exclaimed. Just an earlier one than the myths told. “The warrior monk, Hildebrand… His curse keeps you apart forever?” She wanted to know their whole story, what happened to them when the Scots took back the keep, what inspired the curse of a monk. “And yet, here you both are.”

“We are together only because we are between the worlds of before…and after. But our strength is fading. We cannot hold these forms, cannot hold back the light any longer.”

Trying to comprehend the sheer will that had held back the light for five hundred years of pain, just to be together, Justina repeated the ghostly words to Lord Ochil, who said at once, “What can we do?”

“Break the curse,” the maid said intensely.

“How?” Justina demanded.

The maid smiled. “Love.”

“Love?” Justina repeated. “You already love him, do you not? This has all been for love, yours and his. God will not punish you for that, whatever the words of a vindictive monk.”

“Curses only work if you believe in them,” the earl said slowly. “And you do. Which means…” He took a step closer to the ghostly pair. “You also believe it can be broken. How?”

“Love’s kiss,” the maid said mournfully. “He laughed as he kept us apart and cursed us. Said only love’s kiss would save us in eternity as in life. And then he killed us.”

Justina repeated her words impatiently, full of outrage and pity for just one of the atrocities and tragedies of their time.

“I cannot kiss her,” Sir John said. Surely, his light, his form, was fading? “I have no sense of touch.” He lifted his all but transparent arm from the girl’s shimmering shoulder. “What you see is an echo, a memory of touch, or action, that neither of us feels. The curse was perfect.” He waved one blurry arm toward the ghosts crowding above them. “They wait for us because they think they have to. They keep us company from goodness.”

Justina opened her mouth to repeat all this, but she realized the maid was gazing at her hard, desperate, as her lover faded, finally parting from her forever.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

An otherworldly white light had formed behind the ghostly pair, growing brighter by the instant. It stretched, reaching Sir John, and still, the maid’s pleading gaze clung to Justina, willing her to understand.

And abruptly, she did. Love’s kiss…

I love him, Robert, the earl… Oh God, I do, and quite as fiercely as this girl loved Sir John… If I cannot save us, I can save them. She moved, reaching up to Lord Ochil’s shoulders, and before he could do more than blink with incomprehension, she fastened her lips to his and kissed him.

He tasted as he smelled, of fresh air and goodness, and nothing in the world had ever been as exciting as the feel of his lips on hers. For the first instant, startlement held him quite still, and then his mouth opened, his arms came around her, and he kissed her back.

She had not even known she wanted this. She had recognized her hopeless love and a barely understood physical attraction, but his kiss made her want to weep and laugh at the same time, to melt into him and consume him, to kiss him forever, and to be closer yet, to know everything…

She tasted passion, her own as well as his, and it was so sweet and thrilling… Just for those moments, she forgot about the quest to free the tragic ghosts. There was only Robert, the man kissing her.

But then, the lips on hers felt different. Her own mouth moved without her permission, pressing into the lips of a stranger. Softer, gentler. She gasped, but Robert held on, and she realized she was kissing the medieval knight. That the maid, his lover, was kissing him.

From the corner of her eye, she saw that the white light no longer pulled at the ghost of Sir John. But it shone more brilliantly than ever.

The ghostly couple stood together before it.

Robert—he tasted and felt like the earl once more—peeled his mouth from hers, and they gazed at the ghosts.

Sir John’s arm was at the girl’s waist, and they glided toward the light. They looked back once and smiled. And then they walked together into the light and vanished with it.

There were only mundane grain sacks and shelves of food and candles.

And loss.

Justina let out a sob. But Robert’s fingers turned her face back to his, and he kissed her again as if he would never stop.

She never wanted him to stop.

“They’re gone,” he said raggedly against her lips.

“I know,” she whispered back.

“No. They’re all gone. At least from here.”

She drew back far enough to look around the pit and the hatch above. No spirits or ghostly lights. “Will you miss them?”

“Yes. And no.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, and he kissed her once more with an aching, sensual tenderness that made her knees wobble. And then, abruptly, he released her lips and pressed his warm, rough cheek against hers. “Do we still have to go to dinner?”

And at last, she began to laugh, breathlessly, helplessly, while the tears ran down her cheeks.

*

Afterward, Ochil had no idea how he managed to leave her. His urge, his every desire, was to take her there among the grain sacks, to know every inch of her outside and in. And if not there, then at the top of the ladder, against the laundry wall or the old dairy table. And she would have welcomed him in either place or both. The knowledge fired his blood to boiling point.

But the situation was fraught with heightened emotions. Their kisses—wild, passionate, delicious kisses—had been to free the trapped spirits of medieval lovers, not for their own gratification. And yet, he was more than gratified.

Love’s kiss. The ghosts had to believe in his and Justina’s love to free themselves.

She kisses as though she loves. So do I. In that moment, in those moments, I did. I do…

Do I love her, then? So soon? So quickly?

His head spinning along with his emotions, he found the strength to draw back from her, not because he didn’t want her any way he could have her, but because she deserved to choose.

“Come,” he said hoarsely, with his arm at her waist, much as Sir John had walked to freedom with his love.

She was silent as she climbed the ladder ahead of him, as they walked upstairs to the public floors. He left her at the door of a cloakroom where she could wash her face and repin her straggling hair.

“I’ll go on up to divert suspicion,” he told her lightly.

“Thank you.” She paused with the door half-open. “My lord?”

“You cannot kiss me like that and call me my lord. My name is Rob.”

She blushed furiously. “I know you didn’t mean it. I know it was for them. You have no obligation to me.” And with that, she slipped inside and closed the door in his face.

He strode on. He couldn’t even understand why he was angry. Until he joined his family and his guests, serving them pre-prandial sherries and brandies and ratafias, and smiling, making jovial conversation while waiting for Justina to join them.

And then it struck him, like a smack on the head.

What will I do if she doesn’t come? If she leaves and never comes back? If she never looks at me again? Why am I angry to think our kisses do not matter?

Because they do.

The door opened, and she entered quietly as she always did, and his heart soared with relief and welcome, far out of proportion to the length of her absence.

“There you are, Justina,” Mrs. Gale said crossly. “Where on earth do you vanish to when I need you?”

“Sorry, Aunt.” She didn’t look at him, and beyond making sure she was given a drink, he did not look at her. Not then. But his eyes strayed to her throughout the evening. He caught her smiling faintly as Alan prattled, then placing a small forkful of food into her mouth—the mouth he had kissed with such delight… She walked past him without even a glance when it was time for the ladies to leave the dining room. He liked the way she moved, quick and smooth, almost like the gliding of the ghosts who spoke to her.

All the little mundane things seemed to take on a new fascination for him. As if his world was new and unfamiliar and exciting because she was in it.

Something terrifying was happening to him, and he welcomed it with open arms and a desperate heart.

Chapter Eight

The old ghosts had gone. The lady in black and her tragically empty cradle no longer appeared randomly in Justina’s bedchamber. The library no longer contained the hanged man. They really had gone with Sir John and his nameless love. And if the younger, more confused spirits remained, well, that was more normal. They would pass on in time, without a curse—or belief in a curse—to keep them here.

As she drifted through the evening and the following day, Justina thought a good deal about the strength of an unsuitable love that endured through five centuries of pain and death. But she had to keep her wits about her, for her main purpose of today and the rest of the week was to avoid Lord Ochil.

It seemed important to give him this space, to remove any idea he might have of obligation to her. Not that she was blind to the passion of his kisses, which he had carried on beyond the necessity of freeing the ghostly lovers. But she knew gentlemen kissed easily, roused easily to passion, and meant little by it. Ochil had an added layer of responsibility, which was what she feared most. She could not bear to be a duty.

And so she avoided outings in his presence, moved around the room if he seemed to be approaching her indoors, and avoided the library like the plague.

“Dinner will be early tonight,” Aunt Gale reminded her.

“Oh? Why?”

“The ball!” Anne exclaimed. “Have you forgotten?”

“Apparently so,” Justina replied with a sinking heart because she hated the boredom of such things as she sat with the dowagers being ignored. Or worse, being asked for a duty dance and having to make excruciating conversation that neither of them wanted. On the other hand, as host, Ochil would be occupied well away from her.

“I am convinced his lordship will open the ball with you, Anne,” Aunt Gale said comfortably. “You must be prepared for the attention.”

“Actually,” Anne replied, “he pays me very little attention. I don’t believe he likes me more than any other lady present.”

“Don’t be silly. Why else did he invite us when he barely knows us?”

“Perhaps he guessed Anne would get on so well with his brother,” Justina said.

They both stared at her, Anne with warning, Aunt Gale with disgust.

“A younger son?” Aunt Gale said disparagingly. “Don’t be ridiculous, Justina. Anne will do much better than that.”

“I’m sure he will have a better fortune than most younger sons,” Justina offered. “What time do we dine?”

*

Dinner was a larger affair than on the previous evenings, with many neighbors joining them, as well as those who had traveled greater distances for the ball. Some were staying for the night, so the tower was so full, it was both easy and peculiarly painful to lose sight of Lord Ochil for long periods.

Finally, dressed in her old, altered, and repaired ballgown, Justina accompanied her aunt and cousins down to the great hall on the first floor, where the ball was to be held. As she entered, it occurred to her that Sir John had probably been served by his maid in this very room, fallen in love with her here…

But there were no signs of him now, or of other spirits, just music and chatter and laughter. She was almost afraid to look at Lord Ochil, as he and Jane welcomed them. His smile was faint and flickering, not the dazzling, voracious one she had glimpsed last night between kisses. But there was warmth and a hint of understanding in his eyes that, for some reason, was more painful than anything else.

He knew she loved him. And sympathized. Because they were friends, were they not? In just a little, she would be happy with that again.

Since there were not enough chairs for everyone, Aunt Gale sat regally by the wall, with her children standing beside her and Justina just a little behind, where she could easily hear which errands she was to run without disturbing anyone. It was a familiar role.

Aunt Gale was clearly excited about the evening, seeing it as a very probable triumph for Anne. Justina knew she was doomed to disappointment, and as the orchestra silenced and the dance floor cleared, she held her breath, ready to deal with the consequences.

The orchestra struck up the opening bars of a waltz, and Lady Jane walked on to the floor on the arm of a local nobleman Justina did not recognize. Lord Ochil walked across the floor to choose his partner.

And it seemed Justina was wrong, for he strode directly toward the Gales. She could almost feel the complacent smile of her aunt. And Anne, though her feelings might have been mixed, certainly preened for this was a considerable honor.

As he always did, Ochil looked very handsome and lordly in his evening dress. He did not strut or even stride. It was more of a prowl, and Justina’s mouth dried with longing. He halted before the beaming Aunt Gale and bowed.

“Mrs. Gale, I wonder if I might steal away your niece?”

Blood sang in Justina’s ears. The smile remained fixed on Aunt Gale’s lips. “My niece?” she repeated as though amused by his mistake.

But Ochil’s gaze had moved on. “Miss Justina, may I have the honor of this dance?”

He knew, damn him, that he had taken her by surprise. It had even been deliberate, so that she could not avoid him as she had been doing all day. And perhaps he was right. Perhaps they should clear the air with a friendly, private discussion while they danced. At any rate, she could not refuse him.

She swallowed, and under the stunned gaze of her aunt and cousins, she placed her fingers in his outstretched hand and walked onto the floor with him. Her knees were shaking.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, low.

“I want to dance with you. And waltzing is the only way I can, with propriety, hold you in my arms.”

Her whole body flushed with memory and longing. And pain because of the impossibility. He swung her into his arms and, as other couples joined them, including Anne and Lord Kinghorn, the waltz began.

Of course, he danced well, too. Justina, who rarely danced, felt her feet clumsy and unsure as she followed his steps and turns.

“Do you like to dance?” he asked.

“I did once. When I was a child.”

“But not now?”

“You are drawing unwelcome attention to me. My aunt is mortified.”

“I am not a coxcomb, but I believe it not an insult for an earl to dance with one’s niece.”

“You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Yes, I do, but I’m trying to show you that you are wrong. I have singled you out because you have been avoiding me all day, and I have something particular I wish to ask you.”

“About the ghosts?” she said with some relief. “I believe—”

“No. Will you marry me, Justina?”

Her feet stumbled. Her throat constricted. He really was wonderful and responsible and kind and honorable… Somewhere, her heart soared because of that, but mostly she was aware of pain.

“Of course, I will not,” she managed. “And you are foolish to ask. You owe me nothing.”

“I am not talking about debts or transactions,” he said impatiently.

“I know. You are talking about last night and how we freed Sir John. It does not matter. I know you did not mean it.”

“My sweet, you are, quite unexpectedly, blinder than I am. Love broke their curse. Our love.”

She closed her eyes. It was just as easy to dance that way. “You were pretending,” she whispered.

And quite suddenly, she spun through the air, her cheek brushed against velvet, and her eyes flew open to discover she was in an alcove, curtained off from the main ballroom.

Ochil held her much too close against the hardness of his body, while he stared fiercely down into her eyes.

“I was not pretending,” he said distinctly.

“It was only a kiss,” she said desperately.

“Only a kiss would not have satisfied the curse or those who believed in it. For the record, it was the sweetest kiss I’ve ever known. All of them were. And here’s another.”

She should have been prepared, but he swooped upon her mouth when it was already open to protest his argument. There was no time to resist and then absolutely desire to do so. With a sob, she gave herself up to it while tears of sheer emotion flowed down her cheeks and into their mouths.

“I love you, Justina Gale,” he whispered against her lips. “That is the full truth of the matter. And I think you love me, too.”

“We barely know each other—”

“Don’t talk common sense to me when I am being romantic.”

A breath of laughter shook her. She searched his face, allowing in the wild hope while she clung desperately to the last of her despised common sense. “You could be mistaken. I do not know how to be a countess. I have no fortune—”

“Is that a yes?” he interrupted.

Her breath caught. She thought of the alternative—loss and loneliness—and of him, wonderful, beloved… And read the reflection of her love in his unusual, light eyes.

She held him tighter and smiled. “Oh yes,” she said, straining up to meet his kiss.

*

A year later, another house party took place at Hillfoot Tower. The new Countess of Ochil was its relaxed hostess, and the few spirits who still haunted the house were glad to see her happiness was not overwhelmed by too many visitors eager to meet the nobody who had caught an earl.

The earl’s family remarked on how radiant she looked.

The Gales observed not only the becoming elegance of Justina’s fashionable gowns but the stunning rise of her self-confidence.

“One would think she had been born to a great household,” Mrs. Gale observed with an odd mixture of pride and resentment.

Anne, who, as the cousin of a countess, had enjoyed a second season in London where she was much more courted, went off immediately in search of the earl’s brother.

The spirits were glad to see that the countess still found time to walk in the rose garden each day, hand-in-hand with her husband. By means of sharing, she had lifted a large weight of responsibility from the earl’s shoulders. These days, he walked with a lighter step and a swagger of contentment in happy companionship with his wife.

The spirits were never vulgar enough to penetrate the marital bedchamber, even though it was such a joyful place. But unlike the guests, they were aware that a new Erskine would find its way into the world in just a few months. They fluttered around Justina as she returned to the house from the rose garden.

“I am quite well,” she assured them.

“Don’t crowd her,” the earl commanded, and the spirits obediently wafted back to allow her greater freedom of movement. For she seemed to think it was rude to walk through their insubstantial bodies.

The spirits were proud of her and of him, a worthy scion of the family. They meant to stay until the new baby was born.

“You don’t need to,” the countess said gently.

And it was true, they did not. The house was at peace now, and it was time. Time to go to the light as Sir John and his love had finally done.

Time for most of them, at least.

The End

Author’s Note

This story was inspired by the many reported hauntings of Alloa Tower in Clackmannanshire, Scotland, once the property of the Earls of Mar. In particular, I found the ghosts of the wounded knight and the maidservant who cared for his injuries curiously touching, and although there is nothing to explain who they were, I had to make them the focus of my ghost story and give them a past and a future.

I have kept my earl’s family name as Erskine, though I have changed his title to fit the nearby hills in order to avoid any clashes with actual history and historical personages. I have also named the castle Hillfoot Tower, after a group of nearby villages known as the hillfoots, although they are some miles closer to the Ochil hills than Alloa, which guards the opening of the Firth of Forth.

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Mary Lancaster

Pleasure Garden Series

Unmasking the Hero (Book 1)

Unmasking Deception (Book 2)

Unmasking Sin (Book 3)

Unmasking the Duke (Book 4)

Unmasking the Thief (Book 5)

Crime & Passion Series

Mysterious Lover

Letters to a Lover

Dangerous Lover

The Husband Dilemma Series

How to Fool a Duke

Season of Scandal Series

Pursued by the Rake

Abandoned to the Prodigal

Married to the Rogue

Unmasked by her Lover

Imperial Season Series

Vienna Waltz

Vienna Woods

Vienna Dawn

Blackhaven Brides Series

The Wicked Baron

The Wicked Lady

The Wicked Rebel

The Wicked Husband

The Wicked Marquis

The Wicked Governess

The Wicked Spy

The Wicked Gypsy

The Wicked Wife

Wicked Christmas (A Novella)

The Wicked Waif

The Wicked Heir

The Wicked Captain

The Wicked Sister

Unmarriageable Series

The Deserted Heart

The Sinister Heart

The Vulgar Heart

The Broken Heart

The Weary Heart

The Secret Heart

Christmas Heart

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

Fed to the Lyon

Also from Mary Lancaster

Madeleine

About Mary Lancaster

Mary Lancaster lives in Scotland with her husband, three mostly grown-up kids and a small, crazy dog.

Her first literary love was historical fiction, a genre which she relishes mixing up with romance and adventure in her own writing. Her most recent books are light, fun Regency romances written for Dragonblade Publishing: The Imperial Season series set at the Congress of Vienna; and the popular Blackhaven Brides series, which is set in a fashionable English spa town frequented by the great and the bad of Regency society.

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Moonstone Landing

Meara Platt

Chapter One

Moonstone Landing

Cornwall, England

July 1805

“Of all the gall,” Lady Henleigh Killigrew muttered as the same man she had seen walking out of the early morning mist these past three days was here again, about to cross her garden with the arrogant air of someone who belonged.

But he did not belong here.

He did not own her garden or her newly acquired residence, Moonstone Cottage, to which the charming garden was attached.

“You, there!” she called out to him as he strode up the cliff steps toward her home. The steps led down onto a small sand beach that also belonged to her now. “Who are you and what are you doing on my property?”

He pretended not to hear her and simply continued to march along the flowered path. She would not mind so much if he were properly dressed. But this knave was wearing nothing but his breeches and boots, his shirt of an obviously fine white lawn material slung over his shoulder. No doubt he had gone for a dawn swim, for his dark hair was slicked back and damp curls clung to his neck. Water droplets gleamed across his firm, tanned chest.

He probably assumed she would be asleep at this early hour and thought he could impose with impunity.

“Sir!” She drew her robe tight over her nightrail and leaned over the balcony of her upper-story bedchamber, hoping to attract his attention before he disappeared around the side of the house. She had no idea who he was or where he went each morning. Perhaps it was to the nearby woods or down the lane toward the village of Moonstone Landing, although yesterday she had scrambled from window to window trying to spot him, to no avail.

If only he weren’t so arrogant about trespassing on her property.

If only he would put his shirt on instead of striding across her grounds with it casually slung over his shoulder, as though he hadn’t a care in the world.

She donned her slippers, grabbed the hunting rifle she kept by the side of her bed, and hurried downstairs to the front door. Perhaps it was a foolish thing to do, for she lived here alone, and the small day staff she maintained was not due to arrive for several hours yet.

Since the cottage was a new purchase for her, she had immediately hired a cook, maid, and groundskeeper earlier this week, but none of them would agree to sleep in because of some nonsense about a ghost in residence at Moonstone Cottage or some such foolish legend.

Well, she hadn’t seen a ghost, only this impudent gentleman.

She knew for certain he was a gentleman because his clothes, the little he had on, were too fine for a working man, although his body was surprisingly well-honed for a man of leisure.

The sun was beginning to burn away the mist, but smoky wisps of gray remained swirling about her legs as she hurried out of the cottage in search of him. The air was cool at this early hour and carried the scent of dew and salt from the nearby English Channel. “Blast it. Where did you go, you sneaky fellow?”

She walked around the house but saw no one anywhere, not a soul walking toward the woods or down the lane into town.

Several squirrels stared at her as she returned to the garden where she had first noticed him. Birds began to chirp amid the lush foliage, probably gossiping about the mad young woman running around in her nightclothes and toting a rifle she had never used before. She frowned up at the treetops to address the birds. “How hard can it be to shoot this thing? Just aim and fire.”

The birds eerily quieted.

She shook her head and walked to the flower beds on her way toward the cliff steps.

This area of Cornwall was known for its red stone cliffs and beautiful beaches, as well as its warm weather. Moonstone Cottage included ownership of a slight stretch of both cliffs and beach.

She gripped the sturdy wooden railing and peered over the red stone heights to the sandy beach below on the chance the trespasser had returned the way he came. But the beach was barren save for a few birds hovering over the mist-covered waves in search of fish.

The wind carried the sound of those waves gently lapping the shore. “This is maddening.”

What sort of man goes swimming in dark waters anyway?

The sun had not quite yet burned through the mist, so those wispy gray tendrils still hovered over patches of the water like so many silent ghosts.

A shiver ran up Henleigh’s spine.

She turned suddenly, sensing someone was close. She had felt an icy breath upon her neck. But when she turned, no one was there.

Is this why the birds had stopped chirping? The squirrels earlier scampering in her garden were now frozen in place, as though turned to stone.

She stepped back from the cliff face and hurried back inside the house, shutting the door behind her and latching it securely. Then she realized the stranger might have crept inside the house while she was outside chasing him.

“Calm yourself, Hen,” she whispered, clutching the rifle a little tighter as she hurried upstairs to her bedchamber and latched that door behind her as well.

She glanced around, realizing she might now have locked herself in with the stranger. “I have a loaded rifle,” she warned, kneeling down to peer under her bed. It was a big, masculine-looking thing with a dark wood headboard and footboard etched with what looked like sea serpents on them and a square canopy over the top draped in a heavy, ocean blue damask.

All the furniture and furnishings in this bedchamber and throughout the cottage had a masculine, nautical feel. The outside did, too. The stone had been painted white, and the shutters were all of a nautical blue, but the cottage’s appearance was softened by the abundance of red roses in front and the beautiful sweep of roses and colorful wildflowers around back.

She had fallen in love with the place at first sight and knew she had to have it when shown through the captain’s bedchamber to the balcony and its overlook onto the garden and beyond to the sea.

“Dust balls,” she muttered, squinting as she peered under the bed and spotted a few. She would ask Marjorie to sweep under there as soon as she arrived for work, but that would not be for a few hours yet.

With rifle still firmly in hand, she yanked open the door to her wardrobe. Her clothes were just as she had left them, her gowns neatly arranged by color and her delicate unmentionables undisturbed. She breathed a sigh of relief, for there was no place else within the room where the bounder could hide.

Unless he is hiding on the balcony.

She cautiously poked her head out and saw no one. “Oh, thank goodness.”

Her nerves had gotten the better of her, causing her to imagine this stranger leaping out at her in places he was not.

She set her rifle back in its spot beside her bed and walked over to one of the plump chairs set beside the fireplace. She sank down on it, for her hands were trembling, and her heart was racing so that she could hardly catch her breath.

She closed her eyes a moment to steady herself. “No one here. You are safe, Hen.”

“What sort of name is Hen?” A man’s deep voice came from behind her, his words coming out in a soft growl.

She gasped and shot to her feet, immediately wanting to grab for her rifle and realizing she had left it by her bed.

Stupid.

Stupid.

Why did she ever let it out of her hands?

However, she put on a brave face for this stranger, unwilling to show him how frightened she truly was. “Who are you and…what…are you…doing…”

Drat!

Her heart was now in a fast flutter, and she could not catch her breath. How did he get in? Her door was latched. She had checked every possible hiding spot. “This is…my…chamber…”

He growled softly again. “You dare to call it yours?”

The prior owner had been a sea captain. “Indeed, I do. I simply have not started redecorating it yet. That project will start next month.”

“Over my dead—” The very stranger she had seen outside earlier was now standing before her with his shirt still off, and glowering at her. His massive chest blocked her view of the rifle.

Lord, he was big.

His arms bulged with muscles as he crossed them over his chest, but his body was taut, lean, and finely rippled.

His eyes were the deepest blue she had ever seen.

He was handsome, even for a man who was about to kill her. However, he made no attempt to reach for her, just stood angrily staring at her.

Was he going to kill her?

She foolishly asked him the question, too late realizing she might have put the idea in his head when he likely only meant to frighten her or steal from her.

Yes, perhaps he was a thief.

A well-dressed one, if the cut of his breeches and fine leather of his boots were any indication. Of course, a brazen thief would steal all the riches he needed to live well. “Take my coin purse and go.”

He frowned, his eyes turning to blue fire. “Madam, you insult me. I am no thief.”

“Then why are you here?” Her head was spinning, and her heart was now painfully racing. She could not make it stop.

She clutched her chest.

Drat again!

She was going to pass out.

“Help me,” she pleaded.

“Why should I?” His arms were still crossed over his chest, and he appeared to be making no move to lift a finger in assistance.

She fell to her knees. “You are a horrible man.”

She heard him inhale sharply as her head hit the carpeted floor with a light thud. Perhaps it was her own intake of breath she’d heard as pain exploded across her brow, even though she had mostly managed to brace her fall.

“Bloody, foolish female,” he muttered, kneeling beside her. “I thought you were faking.”

Now her heart and her head felt as though they were about to burst. “I am not faking, you dolt.” She refused to lose consciousness before she had told off this unspeakable bounder. “If I die, it will be all your fault…and…” She coughed from the strain of talking because it only made her body hurt worse. “I shall put a curse upon your soul…so that you shall never know a moment of…” She coughed again. “Not a moment of happiness from this day forth. I shall heap biblical plagues on you so that your skin will be covered in boils and—”

“Your lungs are quite healthy for someone who hit their head and seems about to pass out. Be quiet and lie still a moment,” he said with surprising gentleness. “Save your breath about those curses. Someone has already heaped them on me.”

Someone beat her to it?

What a disappointment.

She wasn’t certain she believed him, for neither his body nor his face seemed the worse for wear. Up close, he was handsomer than she’d realized. Big and sturdy, and he smelled nice, too. Like something fruity and spicy and insanely appealing to her senses.

“Hen, what is your real name,” he asked, his tone remaining surprisingly gentle.

But he still wasn’t helping her up, and she was beginning to feel ridiculous lying with her cheek dug into the carpet and her body sprawled in a most unladylike fashion. Not that she cared at the moment, for her head was pounding like an ancient war drum, one of those enormous, deep monstrosities that took four soldiers and a cart to haul when advancing on the enemy.

After a moment, she struggled to sit up. However, she kept her eyes closed and put a hand to her brow. “Henleigh is my name. Lady Henleigh Killigrew.”

He grunted. “An odd name for a female.”

“But it is my name, whether you approve of it or not. What is yours?” She may as well know more about the man who was probably going to kill her after he had robbed her.

Yes, she ought to know his name, the better to properly curse him after she’d died.

“Captain Brioc Taran Arundel, at your service, Lady Henleigh.”

“Bree-ok,” she repeated softly. “And Arundel? Like the former owner of this cottage?” This explained why he marched across her property as though he owned it. He was probably related to the sea captain who had died here about a year ago. “Brioc is a Celtic name. What does it mean?”

Had he stayed on to tend the property when he was not sailing off to parts unknown himself?

This also explained his tanned body, for sailors would not feel the need to wear their shirts when toiling under the heat of the sun, especially outside of a lady’s presence. But he ought to have known better than to keep it off now that she had come to reside here.

He cast her a wry smile. “Brioc means mighty, and Taran means thunder. Mighty thunder. Ironic since a storm of mighty thunder was the means of my undoing.”

He knelt beside her, his skin so temptingly close she could almost kiss it. “Your undoing? What do you mean?”

“Have you not guessed who I am yet? Well, I suppose the lump on your head probably left you dazed and thinking slow.”

“It has not!” The carpet was thick and soft enough to cushion much of her fall. She had hit her head, but the damage would have been worse had she not already fallen to her knees and braced her arms to absorb the worst of the impact.

“Is that so?” He arched a dark eyebrow. “Then who am I?”

She frowned at him. “Captain Brioc Taran Arundel. You’ve just told me.”

“Who do you think I am to this property?”

She had no idea what he was talking about. “A relative of the deceased captain. I assume you look after this property whenever you return to Moonstone Landing from your sailings. You are a sea captain, too, are you not? I noticed it in the way you walk, a rather manly stride, but you plant your legs as though making your way across the deck of a ship as it rolls upon the waves.”

He snorted. “And yet, you still have not made the connection.”

“What connection? Obviously, you are related to the Captain Arundel who owned this cottage before me. I purchased it from his estate. Come to think of it, why did he not leave it to you? Did you have a falling out with him?”

“He and I are very close. As close as two people can possibly be. We think alike. We look alike. We even have the same name. We even have the same date of birth.”

She glanced up at him. “But I thought he was an old man. That is…I just assumed he was.”

He shook his head and sighed. “No, he died young. You don’t get it, do you? We even have the same date of death.” He stared at her. “And the same name. Really, Hen. How many more clues must I give you?”

She drew back with a start. “No!”

It could not be.

Her head began to spin again because it all suddenly made sense. “Are you the ghost?”

Chapter Two

“Bravo, Hen,” Brioc said with a hearty chuckle. “I knew you would figure it out eventually.”

Her beautiful eyes narrowed as she frowned at him. “I thought ghosts were supposed to be horrid and scary.”

“Are you suggesting I am handsome?” He could not stop staring at this lovely creature who had taken over his bedchamber and stupidly run around the grounds of the cottage toting a rifle twice her size. He could tell she had never shot anything with it before by the amateurish way she had held it.

She blushed and began to stammer. “I am suggesting no such thing. Why I…of all the unspeakable arrogance. Put on your shirt and stop grinning at me. Since when do ghosts grin?”

No wonder her parents had given her the pet name Hen. This is what she was, a little clucking hen. But a lovely one.

Incredibly lovely, especially up close.

He would know, having had his share of women.

Her eyes were the color of dark chocolate, and her hair was a dark gold, full-bodied, and lush. Her bosom was also full and lush, as he had seen for himself the first night she had slept in his bedchamber. He had intended to scare her away, as he had done with all interlopers before her, but he made the mistake of arriving in time to watch her strip out of her gown and…well, any sane man would have kept his mouth shut and simply watched when coming upon such an exquisite sight.

He had settled in his favorite chair and studied her in fascination as she removed her corset with supple fingers, slipped off her chemise, and then slowly unpinned her hair and shook it loose so that those magnificent locks tumbled down her back in waves of gold silk.

She had gloriously full breasts, but the rest of her was rather slender.

All in all, he found her aspect quite delicate and pleasing despite her priggish nature. Yet, she also had a little of the firebrand in her, and he liked that.

What was she doing living alone in his cottage?

He asked her the question and was not surprised when she began to cluck at him again. But her voice was sweet and her body even sweeter, so he merely listened as she went on about women’s rights and capabilities when a simple, one-sentence explanation would have sufficed.

“Really, Captain Arundel, you are too much. Why should I not own this cottage? Why should I not live by myself? What makes you think every woman is helpless and needs a man to handle matters for her?”

He merely arched an eyebrow, which she interpreted as another reason to take offense.

“Oh, and if you are so clever, then why do you haunt this cottage? You do realize that your presence here lowered its value. If it weren’t for you, I would never have been able to purchase it as cheaply as I did.” She tipped her head and cast him a smug smile. “So, there! Your rash actions allowed me to acquire this beautiful place for almost nothing. I think that makes me far shrewder in business affairs than you. And I’ll have you know, I am quite adept at caring for myself. But with the money I’ve saved because you’ve scared the wits out of everyone from here to Falmouth, I can afford a staff to see to my daily comforts.”

“Are you finished?”

She nodded.

“Good. You still haven’t answered my question. Why are you living alone in my cottage?” He unfolded his arms and took a step toward her. “And kindly spare me the ‘men are arses and woman are clever’ lecture because my mother happened to be one of the smartest people I have ever met. If you knew anything about me—which you obviously do not, you would understand that I judge people on their merits, not their sex. Although, if I were not dead, I would surely be trying to have sex with you right now. So, answer my question. Why are you here alone?”

She attempted to slap his cheek, but her hand went through his face. “How dare you!”

He knew he should not have thrown in that last little bit about having sex with her, for she was a lady, and no one ought ever speak to her this way.

Nor would he have if he were still alive.

But he wasn’t, and he found this most frustrating. She stirred something in him, a deep longing. No, stronger. Perhaps a craving. “Don’t get your feathers in a ruffle, Hen.”

She took a deep breath, filling her lungs, but he continued before she had the chance to let it out. “My point is, you are beautiful. You must have had at least a dozen men dropping to their knees to propose to you during your London season. How many seasons have you had? One? Two? You do not appear to be more than one and twenty years of age. Hardly twenty, if truth be told. Yet you must be old enough to acquire property on your own.”

She released her breath in a soft exhale. “Oh, you think I am beautiful?”

He cast her a soft smile, surprised she did not realize just how exquisite she was. “Yes.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

His expression softened. “I apologize if I was too brash with you. I am used to dealing with more…worldly women. I usually try to avoid virgins.”

“Captain Arundel! Do you always say whatever pops into your head? Must you be so shockingly descriptive with your words?”

“Hen, if you are brave enough to live on your own…and I still have not received an answer to my question about it…then I think you have the mettle to withstand a little blunt speech. Or have I misread you? Are your sensibilities that delicate? Do you fall into a swoon at the slightest impropriety?”

She stared at her hands. “No. And why I am here is none of your business. I own the cottage now. I belong here. You do not.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Now, that is where you are wrong. I am bound to this cottage far more strongly than you are. Need I remind you, I am dead. And yet, I have not moved on. Do you not wonder why? Most souls move on, do they not? So why haven’t I?”

She began to nibble that sweet lower lip of hers. “That is actually an interesting question. Obviously, you’ve given it some thought. What do you think is the reason?”

He shrugged. “If I knew, I would do something about it.”

She took a step closer, seeming to forget he had offended her with his blunt language only moments ago. She also seemed to forget she had just tried to slap him or that he still had not donned his shirt. “If you tell me what happened, perhaps I can help you figure it out.”

Her eyes were that beautiful, dark color and looked quite extraordinary now, lit up like twinkling stars. “I’ll think about it,” he said, realizing he would quite enjoy haunting Hen. Well, not so much haunt her but appreciate her company.

His lack of enthusiasm to her suggestion must have surprised her, for her mouth gaped open. “You’ll think about it?” She took a deep breath, ready to cluck at him again. “Oh, I see. You are happy to remain a misplaced soul, your spirit walking the earth, no one to see you, touch you…care about you.”

“You can see me.”

She cleared her throat. “You are missing my point. Why do you wish to be chained to this cottage for eternity? Does it not pain you to watch time march on, to see your loved ones die and move on, yet you remain stuck here?”

“I only died a year ago, to be precise.”

Hen sank back in the plump chair by the hearth, his favorite chair with a matching ottoman that allowed him to put up his feet and relax as he sat by the fire, a book in one hand and a brandy in the other.

He had purchased the chair and ottoman in Constantinople on one of his seafaring journeys. The cottage was filled with things he had picked up in his travels around the world. Apparently, his solicitor had not bothered packing them up or selling them off, just dumped the problem of disposing of them on Hen.

In truth, he did not mind that his house had been left as a sort of shrine to him. Besides, it was quite comfortable returning night after night to a familiar spot.

“How did you die, Captain Arundel?”

Since she was now in the chair with her feet curled under her bottom, that left the ottoman free for him. He sat down on it and looked at her. “I drowned at sea. In a storm, as I mentioned earlier.”

“Yes, how tragic. I am truly sorry.” She reached out to touch his arm, then realized it would only slip through the air and drew it away.

“Thank you, Hen.” He nodded to acknowledge her words. “Do you mind if I put on my shirt?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Am I hearing right? You intend to behave like a gentleman now?”

He regarded her wryly. “I needn’t if you are opposed to—”

“Please do! It is quite unsettling to entertain a bare-chested man in my bedchamber. I did not expect you to volunteer to properly dress yourself.”

“It is our bedchamber,” he said, liking the soft blush that crept up her cheeks at his words. “And just to be clear, you never need dress on my account. I will never demand it of you.”

She attempted to swat his shoulder, but her hand simply pushed through him. “Why did I think you had turned into a gentleman?”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, Hen. I am certainly no gentleman. Do not ever mistake me for one.”

He slapped his hands on his thighs and rose. “Well, I hear your staff arriving. It is time I left.”

He started for the balcony.

“Captain Arundel, wait.” She followed him to the double doors that opened onto the balcony. “Must you go? You’ve told me so little of yourself or this puzzle we must sort out about your haunting this cottage.”

He stared down at her, wanting to kiss her soft lips. “I’ll frighten your staff, and then you will have no one to look after you. I’ll return when they’ve gone.”

“Please do.” She began to wring her hands.

“Hen? Why are you fretting?”

“I am afraid if I let you go, you will never come back.”

Pain filled him.

He wanted to cup her face and kiss her sweetly.

When had anyone ever cared whether he lived or died? Indeed, with his parents gone years before him, his closest relations were distant cousins who had wanted nothing to do with him in life and even less so now that he was dead.

Of course, he understood Hen’s interest in him had more to do with her love of puzzles. He doubted she cared for him beyond figuring out why he was still here.

Yet, he detected warmth and sincere concern in her eyes.

Why had no one snapped up this beautiful girl during her first season out?

“I am bound here, Hen. I will always come back to you. But I have a question for you.” He ached to touch her and silently cursed his fate that he could not. “Why do you care?”

Chapter Three

As soon as Captain Arundel had disappeared, Henleigh washed and dressed, then hurried downstairs and kept herself busy into the late morning supervising chores around the house. There was not much to do since only she occupied the house and tended to tidy up after herself as a matter of course.

“I’ve finished, Lady Henleigh. Is there anything else ye’d like me to do before I leave?” Marjorie, her young maid, asked before walking back to the village of Moonstone Landing, where she lived with her parents and six siblings.

The day was sparkling, one of those fine summer days when the sun shone brightly and the light breeze off the water kept the heat manageable. “Wait a moment, Marjorie. I’ll fetch my bonnet and walk into the village with you.”

She hurried into the kitchen to speak to the couple she had hired as cook and groundskeeper. The husband had just finished pulling up a patch of weeds by the cliff steps and repairing a few of those steps that had come loose. His wife was just removing a pot off the hearth.

“Is that lamb stew, Mrs. Hawke?” she asked, already knowing the answer, for the delicious aroma was unmistakable.

Mrs. Hawke set the pot down with a thunk onto the sturdy worktable. “Yes, m’lady. It is.”

“Oh, thank you. My stomach is growling already.” She cast her a warm smile. “I’ve decided to walk into town. You and your husband may leave whenever you’ve finished today’s chores. Are there any supplies I should order while I am wandering about?”

“No, m’lady,” the friendly woman replied, her cheeks apple-red from standing close to the hearth fire. “I have all I need.”

Mr. Hawke said much the same. “I’ll let ye know if I think of anything, m’lady. But there’s nothing for this week.”

“Very well.” She waved to them as she hurried off with Marjorie.

She and her maid, who seemed a little uncomfortable walking with her, parted ways as soon as they reached town.

Henleigh realized she might have been too friendly with Marjorie. The girl was not used to conversing with someone of her social standing. Perhaps this would change over time.

As much of it as I have left.

Who could ever know when their time was up?

She shrugged off the thought and went to pay a call on the Moonstone Landing agent who had sold her Captain Arundel’s property. “Mr. Priam, may I have a moment of your time?”

He eyed her warily. “I cannot undo the sale. I warned you about the ghost. I was quite up front with it, and you knew what you were purchasing.”

“I did not come for this reason,” she said with marked impatience. “I have no quarrel with the ghost.”

“You don’t?” He appeared surprised, which meant Captain Arundel usually wasted no time in scaring off visitors to his property. “Please have a seat, Lady Henleigh. Why have you come to see me then?”

“I am here because I wish to know more about my ghost, especially how he died.” She cleared her throat. “You see, I am a bit of a historian, and I thought it would be an interesting project for me to undertake.”

“Ah, then it is the schoolmistress you must ask, for she was there with her class when the unfortunate incident occurred. The schoolhouse is just down the street. Miss Gray usually allows the children outside for a few minutes to run around and have their lunch about now. I would escort you, but I have clients waiting for me, and I am late already. You cannot miss the schoolhouse or Miss Gray. She is a young woman, perhaps a few years older than you. A pretty brunette with a happy countenance.”

“The schoolmistress?” She tried not to sound dismayed, although why should she care if Captain Arundel was sweet on the woman? It was none of her concern at all.

Henleigh rose. “Then I shall be on my way.”

She hurried down the road, quickening her pace when she saw the children already playing outside. “Miss Gray, may I have a word with you?” she asked, easily recognizing the young woman in charge. She was as Mr. Priam had described, dark hair and a lovely smile. He had neglected to mention the emerald sparkle of her eyes. “I am Lady Henleigh Killigrew, and I have just purchased Moonstone Cottage.”

Had Captain Arundel been in love with her?

“Oh, yes. The village is all astir about you. The local bookmaker is taking odds on how long you will last before hurrying back to London and putting the cottage up for sale.” She shook her head. “It is shameful. The captain was a very good man and deserves better than to be the object of such a wager.”

A knot of dismay curled in Henleigh’s belly. “You knew him well, it seems.”

“No, not at all, really. We had never met until he saved my life and those of the children.” She motioned for Henleigh to join her in the shade of a nearby oak tree.

Henleigh blushed.

Had she built up a romance for him in her mind?

Perhaps he had loved Miss Gray from afar and never had the courage to step forward. She silently laughed at the thought. The captain was the sort who went after what he wanted and would let nothing stand in his way.

“This is why I am here,” she said, clearing her head of all other thoughts. “I am an amateur historian and would like to do something at the cottage to commemorate his life. You say he saved you and the children? What happened?”

“There was a fair going on in the village, amusements set up in the village green all week long and boat rides offered. The day was particularly fine, so I took the class down to the dock, and we all got on one of the sloops offering a ride around the harbor. There was no charge for us because…well, I am now betrothed to the young man who owns the vessel.”

“Oh, how lovely. Congratulations. Have you set a wedding date?”

She nodded shyly. “Yes, we are to be married next month. We owe our joy to Captain Arundel. None of us would be here were it not for his bravery. But as I was saying, the day was lovely, so we were quite unprepared when hit by a sudden squall.”

“A squall?”

“Yes, one of those once-in-a-decade violent storms that blows in with torrential force and is gone within twenty minutes, but not before it wreaks havoc upon all in its path. Our sloop was battered and buffeted amid all the thunder and fury, then shoved onto the rocks, damaging the hull so badly, we began to sink.”

Henleigh put a hand to her throat. “Oh, my!”

“The storm had yet to move off, but Captain Arundel did not spare a moment in coming to our rescue. He kept a sailboat in the harbor that I am told he loved to take out at sunset. He ran to it, jumped in with a few other men, and sailed out to rescue us. I was amazed his boat did not capsize, for the waves were high, and the water was a dangerous swirl that formed riptides and whirlpools everywhere. But he was an expert sailor and knew how to handle the wind and the water.”

“Then what happened?”

“The squall had almost passed by the time he reached us, so he was able to maneuver his vessel close to ours and start hauling the children off it. He got them all onto his. Me, as well. Then he sailed to the nearest beach where other rescuers were standing in wait to unload us. Then he went back for the crew.”

Henleigh took out her handkerchief as Miss Gray spoke, for the young woman’s story and her quiet tears also brought tears to her eyes. “How many were you all together?”

“Ten children, me, and a crew of six. The wind was still howling, and we could hear the sharp crack of wood as the sloop began to break apart. Captain Arundel did not waver. He was helping my Henry get one of his injured men onto his sailboat when the sloop’s giant mast suddenly cracked and hit him on the head, knocking him into the sea.”

Tears streamed down Henleigh’s cheeks. “And they could not save him?”

Miss Gray shook her head. “They tried desperately, but it was as though the sea had reached up its mighty jaws and swallowed him. They never saw him surface, not even once in all the hours spent searching after the squall had passed. We were all devastated by his loss. We never recovered his body. It must have been swept out into the English Channel by those dangerous tides and wave swells.”

Henleigh’s heart ached for him. “I suppose it is fitting the sea took him.”

Miss Gray nodded. “He truly loved the sea. I am told that he only came back to land in order to arrange his next sailing.”

“I must do something to honor his memory.” She dabbed her eyes and cheeks. “I had no idea he was someone quite so special.”

“He is a hero to us all. I had never met him before that day. Suddenly, he was before us, shouting orders and calming all of us, assuring us we would all survive. He was our guardian angel that day.”

The schoolboys were starting to get unruly.

Miss Gray turned in dismay as two of the boys began to scuffle. “Lady Henleigh, do forgive me. I must get the children back inside.”

“I won’t delay you. Thank you for your time, Miss Gray. I shall invite you up to the cottage for tea once I am settled in.”

“I would love that,” she said and hurried off.

Henleigh walked down to the dock and stared out across the quiet harbor. The sun glistened on the water, reflecting off it like sparkling diamonds. The wind had picked up, so that whitecaps now formed on the heightening waves. She thought she saw a family of dolphins in the distance but could not be sure.

Sailboats and a few fishing boats were moored near the dock, their ropes groaning as they were pulled taut with the ebb and flow of the tide. Other vessels were out on the water, dotting the harbor, some cutting across it with neatly trimmed sails caught on the breeze.

She inhaled the scent of salt air and fish and weathered wood. “I wish I could hug you, Captain Arundel,” she murmured. “It is beautiful here. I can see why you loved it.”

“I’m glad you like Moonstone Landing, Hen.”

She turned sharply to the deep rumble of his voice and saw him come to stand beside her. He was still clad in the same clothes he had worn this morning, his shirt thankfully still on and now neatly tucked into his breeches.

Truly, he was a fine-looking man.

She shook her head in confusion. “Captain? How can you be here?”

She glanced around, hoping no one caught her talking to him. They must already think her mad to have settled at his cottage. To now be seen talking to herself would raise more eyebrows.

“Should I not be?”

She glanced around once more and put a gloved hand to her mouth, pretending to cough as she spoke to him. “I thought you were bound to the cottage?”

“I am, but that does not mean I cannot go anywhere else. Moonstone Landing is a charming town, do you not think so, Hen?”

She faked another cough. “Yes.”

He laughed. “Ah, you are afraid people will see you talking to yourself and start calling you the Mad Woman of Moonstone Cottage. We shall save our chat until later this evening. But I would like to escort you around town and point out the sights. Do you mind?”

“Not at all. Just don’t expect me to talk to you.”

“You needn’t. I rather like the idea of walking beside you in companionable silence.” He looked around. “I haven’t been down here in a while. Very little has changed.”

They left the dock and returned to the center of town, passing a row of fishmongers and their wagons, and several taverns close to the dock. Further up the street were several farm stands selling fresh produce, a butcher’s shop, bakery, fabrics shop, tea shop, the land agent’s office, a solicitor’s office, the blacksmith’s stable, a carpenter’s workplace, and an inn.

Grazing sheep dotted the village green, and several tinkers had gaily festooned wagons parked along one side of it displaying crockery, trinkets and ribbons, and other wares.

“Wednesday is market day in Moonstone Landing. The green will be packed with stands and wagons then. You’ll be able to find almost anything you need.” He turned to study her. “You look tired, Hen. I think Miss Gray’s story took much out of you.”

She smiled at him. “I do not think I can ever hate you after learning what you did. Please accept my apology for any rudeness I may have displayed toward you.”

“No apology needed,” he said with a rakish grin. “I am still an arrogant arse, even if I do have a few redeeming qualities. But come on, you do look pale. I’ll walk you to the tea shop. Mrs. Halsey makes the best cherry pie. She also has an excellent mint tea.”

The sky had grown overcast, so she hurried to Mrs. Halsey’s shop and sat at one of the tables. She ordered the cherry pie and mint tea and ate as the rain began to fall in earnest.

Captain Arundel was still regarding her with concern. “The rain will pass soon. It always does. But the roadway will be muddy. Mrs. Halsey’s husband keeps a cart out back. He’ll take you back home. You shouldn’t walk, Hen.”

She gave him a subtle nod and then polished off her slice of pie.

The rain had stopped by the time she drank the last of her tea. “That was delicious, Mrs. Halsey. I think I shall take an entire one home with me.”

The portly woman laughed. “Cherry pie was the captain’s favorite, too.”

Henleigh nodded. “Then I shall leave a slice out for him.”

The woman glanced around, then whispered. “Have you seen him yet, my lady? Cherry pie and mint tea was what he ordered whenever he came into my shop.”

Henleigh tried not to blush, but she was never very good at hiding her feelings. Instead, she tried to make a jest of it. “Perhaps he came to me in my sleep and whispered in my ear about your pie and tea. I shall have to thank him, for the recommendation was excellent. I shall bring my nieces around first thing when they come to visit.”

Mrs. Halsey tittered. “I look forward to it.”

Henleigh rose to peer out the window. “May I trouble your husband for a ride home?”

“No trouble at all, m’lady.” She bustled into the kitchen, calling for Mr. Halsey.

The tea shop had emptied out now that the rain stopped.

She and the captain were alone for the moment.

“Hen,” he said gently, “you have nieces?”

She nodded. “Three lovely little girls. My brother’s daughters.”

He frowned. “Would your brother not permit you to live with him? Or was it his wife who chased you away?”

“Neither of them. In truth, they wanted me to stay with them and were very disappointed when I purchased your cottage. They’ll come to visit me soon, and you will meet them. But you mustn’t scare any of them, or I shall never forgive you.”

“Heap more curses on my soul?” He laughed softly but soon turned serious. “I wouldn’t harm your family. They seem very nice.”

“They are. My brother is a very kind man. We have always been close. He married a lovely young woman, who thinks of me as a sister. I am godmother to their eldest girl. She has my name, but hers is spelled H-e-n-l-e-y. I plan to leave the cottage to her upon my—” She gave a ridiculous giggle. “Well, I am getting ahead of myself, aren’t I?”

The captain remained serious in his regard. “Are you?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

His gaze bore into her as though he were trying to reach into her soul. “Why are you here, Hen? What is really going on with you?”

Chapter Four

As soon as the sun had set and Hen had retired to his bedchamber, Brioc put in his appearance. He had arrived earlier but said nothing while she undressed and readied herself for bed, going through the same routine he had watched her go through each night. First, slipping out of her gown, then untying the laces of her corset, and finally removing her chemise to reveal her exquisite body.

She quickly washed the day’s dirt off herself with lavender soap and afterward donned the serviceable nightrail she had set out for herself on the bed.

His bed.

She belonged in it.

If only he could lie beside her and wrap her in his arms.

Were he still alive, he might have done something about getting her into his bed and keeping her beside him always.

Yes, he might have married a girl like Hen.

He watched her toss her robe over her thin, white nightgown before sitting down in the chair beside the hearth. She had a brush in her hand and began to brush her magnificent curls.

These summer nights were too warm for a fire, so she had lit the lamp on his desk to provide the room with illumination. It now cast a warm, amber glow about his bedchamber.

He could stare at her all night like this, her face soft and glowing in the gentle light.

Not wanting to startle her, he waited for her to look around the room for him and call out his name before he showed himself. “I was wondering where you were,” she said as he strode toward her and took his usual seat beside her on the ottoman.

“I want answers, Hen.”

She set aside her brush and frowned at him. “What do you mean?”

“How many times must I ask the question before I get a straight answer out of you? Why are you here?”

“Why should I not be here?”

“Don’t give me that indignant look. I will not be put off this time.” He leaned toward her, wishing he could take hold of her hands. “You have a brother who loves you. A sister-in-law who thinks of you as a sister. Nieces you obviously adore. Do they live in London?”

She nodded.

“Yet, you have left them to come all this way across the south of England to Moonstone Landing and settle here, alone, in my cottage. Cornwall is an awfully long way from London. Why, Hen?”

“I do not wish to talk about it.”

“I am a ghost. I shall haunt you until you do. So you may as well spare yourself the ordeal and talk to me. Is there a scandal attached to you?”

She snorted. “No.”

He believed her.

She obviously knew nothing about men.

He loved that innocence about her.

“Why will you not believe that I fell in love with this cottage and wanted it for my own? It is beautiful here, a paradise on earth. I can see why you loved it, too. The formal rooms are elegant but not too large. The bedchambers are beautifully appointed. Yours has a stunning view of the garden and sea. The town of Moonstone Landing is charming. The sea air is bracing. The weather is warm and inviting. Why should I not want to be here?”

“You are still dissembling, Hen. Why will you not trust me with the truth? I will find out eventually, just as you are determined to find out the reason why I am still bound here even though I am dead.”

She had been clutching her robe as they spoke, but he suddenly realized that it was her heart she was clutching. She did that a lot. Perhaps it was just a mannerism. He supposed genteel, young ladies often clutched their hearts when faced with indelicate matters.

But this wasn’t Hen.

Yes, she was sweet and delicate in some ways. But she was not frail in spirit. It frustrated him not to understand what was going on with her. “Perhaps I ought to pay a call on your brother and learn the truth from him.”

She cast him a doubtful look. “Ha! How can you?”

He folded his arms across his chest. “Ghosts can travel wherever they like.”

She pursed her lips. “Is this some ghostly lore? I don’t believe you. I think you are making it up.”

“As you wish. Care to call my bluff? I can be in London visiting your brother within the hour. That’s another advantage to being a ghost. We can travel faster than you.”

She sighed in dismay. “No, don’t go. Why can you not leave me and my circumstances alone? I came here to avoid having to answer to anyone or face their pitying looks.”

His eyes widened in surprise. “Why would they give you pitying looks?”

Hen was beautiful, smart, and not in want of funds. Probably not in want of suitors either. She had it all, did she not? “Are you in mourning for someone you loved?”

Yet, she did not dress in mourning attire. Nor had he noticed any miniature portrait or other token of a man’s love either carried in a locket or pinned to her gown.

She rose and walked over to his bureau. “I found this today while looking through your things.” She held up a painted miniature portrait of himself. “It is a very good likeness. It must have been done shortly before your…you know.”

“My death? Yes, it was.” He folded his arms across his chest and cast her a rakish smile. “It was done on my last trip to France. I was in Honfleur picking up lace, perfumes, and wine to bring back to England. While strolling near their docks, I met an artist who offered to paint my portrait.”

Hen took another moment to study it, turning the miniature over in her soft hands. “He is obviously talented. He did a very nice job.”

“She.”

“What?”

“The artist was a woman. Married to a wealthy count who did not seem to mind her…er, free-spirited nature. The French are that way, unlike the pinch-lipped English, who are all about setting rules on what others should do.”

Hen dropped the miniature in his top drawer and shut it with a slam. “I ought to have realized. Have you no shame?”

“Me? I was not the married one. If it did not bother her or her husband, where is the harm? I got a lovely portrait out of it. Kindly do not throw it away. It might be worth something someday. She did have artistic talent.”

“Among other talents,” Hen muttered, sounding quite indignant…or was that jealousy he was noting?

“I am not suggesting I would ever break my marriage vows,” he said, although he did not see that he owed Hen any explanation. “I am simply not condemning others who do. It is none of my business what consenting adults decide to do.”

Those warm, chocolate eyes of hers sought his own. “Oh, really? You would be faithful to your wife?”

He reached out and ran his knuckle along the line of her jaw, knowing he could not feel the softness of her skin. Nor could she feel his hand. Still, he needed to caress her. “If you were my wife, I would love you always. I would never break my vows to you.”

She eyed him with pain. “I am tired, Captain Arundel. I think I must go to sleep.”

He nodded. “Will you at least call me Brioc? The formality seems unnecessary since you sleep each night in my bed.”

“I sleep there, but I don’t sleep there…not with you.”

He arched an eyebrow.

She sighed. “I do not want to know if you sleep there, too. All right? Keep it to yourself. We cannot touch each other or feel each other anyway, so it does not count.”

“Fine, I will not mention it. Are you angry with me, Hen?”

“No, how can I ever be? Good night, Brioc. Thank you for showing me around the village today. I really enjoyed myself. And…”

“What is it, Hen?”

“Thank you for rescuing Miss Gray and her students. That was such a brave and magnificently noble thing you did.”

He shrugged. “Others sailed out to the sinking sloop with me.”

“But you led the way. No one else could have done what you did. I’m sorry I snapped at you. I wish I could touch you,” she said in a shaky whisper and closed her eyes. “I am so proud of you and so honored you have allowed me to move into your cottage. I will treasure it and the memory of you forever.”

He leaned forward and put his lips to hers, knowing neither of them could feel the kiss. But he needed to kiss her just the same.

He imagined the taste of cherry pie and mint tea on her tongue.

“Sweet dreams, my lovely Hen.”

She opened her eyes and stared at him in confusion. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

“You kissed me.”

He nodded. “I appreciated your words. Do you mind? I know you could not feel my lips on yours, but the gesture was important to me.”

She shook her head. “No, you don’t understand. You kissed me…and I felt it.”

Was she jesting?

She did not appear to be.

Her eyes were wide as full moons, and her fingers were lightly pressed to her soft lips. “Hen, it cannot be.”

“Try it again.”

“With pleasure,” he murmured and bent his head to hers as she tipped hers up to him. He pressed his mouth over hers. A flood of warmth tore through him, but he did not feel her mouth against his, could only imagine the soft give of her lips.

He drew away and began to trail kisses down her neck, inhaling the scent of lavender on her skin. “Can you feel this, Hen?”

“Oh…my…yes.”

He drew back, feeling bloody-well confused.

Her cheeks were a bright pink, and her eyes held a look quite familiar to him, that of a woman aroused. But it was completely unfamiliar to Hen. She did not understand what her body needed, wanted, or that it was missing something only he could provide. “Now we have another puzzle to solve,” she said in a breathless whisper. “Why can I feel your kisses?”

He had no answer for her.

Nor did he know why he was still bound to the cottage.

Or why Hen was here on her own, forsaking her obviously loving family.

Perhaps tomorrow would bring answers.

In any event, the hour was growing late, and Hen looked tired. “Come to bed,” he said, holding out his hand.

She regarded him quizzically, then nodded and reached for it.

To both their disappointment, her hand simply slid through his outstretched fingers. “Did you feel anything, Hen?”

“No. I’m so sorry. I wanted to.”

“It’s all right.”

She crossed to the bed and removed her robe, then scampered under the covers. She lay back contentedly and turned on her side to watch him. “Where do you sleep, Brioc? Or do ghosts never sleep?”

He had jested earlier about sleeping by her side, but he could not remember where he slept or if he ever did.

All he recalled was swimming along the beach each morning at dawn and then climbing the stairs to his cottage. It had been his routine when he was alive and residing in Moonstone Landing between hauling merchandise to different parts of the world and back.

He made up a story for Hen, knowing it would upset her to know the hollowness of his existence. “I stretch out on the chair beside the hearth, my legs across the ottoman. On warm nights, I’ll sleep on the balcony under a blanket of stars.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“Have you ever tried it, Hen? Sleeping outdoors, the gentle breeze to cool you, and a thousand stars to light up the night sky.”

“No, never. It sounds wonderful. May we try it one night?” She yawned. “But not tonight. I am suddenly so tired. Do you mind if we put it off for another time?”

“I don’t mind, Hen.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead as she closed her eyes. She did not respond to his touch this time, so he expected she had not felt it.

He swallowed his disappointment.

“Sweet dreams, Hen.”

“You too, Brioc. I shall keep you in my dreams tonight.”

She was curled up on one side of his big bed, so he stretched out beside her. Their bodies did not touch, nor did he attempt to reach for her.

He just needed to be near her.

He, too, closed his eyes and fell asleep amid thinking up answers to his questions.

Why was he still here?

Why had Hen come here?

How could she possibly feel his kisses?

Could the answers to these questions be connected?

Chapter Five

Henleigh awoke at dawn to stand on the balcony of her bedchamber. She peered into the mist, eager for the sight of Brioc making his way up the cliff stairs and crossing her garden, his shirt casually slung over his shoulder.

She was no longer offended by his appearance.

In truth, after feeling his kisses last night, she ached to feel more of him. Would his skin be warm against her palms? What would those splendid muscles of his feel like as she ran her hands over them? And the spray of dark curls across his chest? Would the hair be springy or soft?

She shook her head and sighed.

How easily he had turned her into a wanton.

Then she saw him through the disappearing mist, his arms and chest glistening from the drops of water he had not bothered to dry off after donning his boots and breeches. His shirt was slung over one shoulder, as usual. “Brioc,” she called out to him softly.

He glanced up and smiled at her. “Good morning, Hen.”

She let out a breath of relief and smiled back. “Did you sleep well?”

He laughed. “Yes. How about you?”

She nodded. “Quite well, thank you. Come around to the front of the house. I’ll unlatch the door to let you in.”

“You needn’t. A latched door won’t keep me out. I’ll be up in a moment.”

She used her fingers to brush back a few stray wisps of her braided hair and adjusted the belt of her robe. Most of her robes were loose, stiff, and buttoned down the front, but this one was of softest cotton and merely had a belt to wrap around her waist instead of all those buttons. She liked the way it clung to her body and hoped Brioc would find it attractive as well.

“Don’t you look pretty this morning, Hen,” he said, suddenly in her bedchamber and striding across it to join her on the balcony.

She smiled shyly. “Thank you. I expect I am a mess, but you are too polite to say otherwise.”

He had donned his shirt and had it neatly tucked in the waistband of his breeches once again. She swallowed her disappointment.

Those big muscles of his, attached to his hard, lean body, were beckoning for her exploration.

“What do you have planned today?” he asked, regaining her attention while she very discreetly ogled his body.

“Nothing in particular,” she said casually, hoping he had not noticed. “If the morning turns out nice, I thought I might take a walk along the beach.”

“I like the idea. It will be a nice day. I can tell by how quickly the mist is burning off the water. It will be rather hot, which should keep the water calm. Have Mrs. Hawke pack you a picnic lunch. Bring along a blanket to stretch out on and a bonnet to protect your face while you bask in the sun.”

“All right.” She returned indoors and was about to ask him to give her a few minutes of privacy, but he had disappeared. She hurried onto the balcony again and saw him standing by the cliff stairs, staring down at the water.

Within the hour, Marjorie and the Hawkes had arrived.

She had washed, dressed, and done up her hair, eager to get down to the beach. She asked Mrs. Hawke to pack her a basket and Marjorie to give her an old blanket to set out on the sand. Then she was off to meet Brioc, excited what this new day would bring.

There were more steps than she realized.

They were steep, too.

She carefully made her way down.

Climbing them would be much harder, but she would take her time and rest as she needed. Perhaps there was an easier path back to the cottage. Brioc would know and show her.

Her shoes sank into the soft sand the moment she stepped onto the beach.

She paused to take in the view.

The sand was a buttery yellow in contrast to the red of the cliff stone.

The water was the deepest blue.

The breeze was light and salty as it brushed her cheeks.

“Brioc, are you here?” She set out her blanket and picnic basket, tossed off her bonnet, shoes, and stockings, and then lifted her gown to her knees so that she could dip her feet in the water.

“It’s cold!” She gasped but held firm and walked in up to her ankles, giggling as the waves rushed in and tickled her legs as they drew back.

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” Brioc said, coming up behind her.

“It is glorious.” She cast him a brilliant smile. “This is a wonderful idea. I have never done this before.”

“Can you swim?”

“No.”

“Ah, be careful then. Do not go in beyond your knees. The tug of the water is powerful.”

“I won’t.” She regarded him thoughtfully.

His eyes held amusement as he returned her gaze. “What are you thinking, Hen?”

“They never found your body. Do you know where it is? If I find it, I can give you a proper burial. Perhaps this is why you are still bound here.”

“No, that is not the reason. Nothing to do with my body. It is just flesh and bone. Besides, it will never be found. It washed out into the English Channel and carried to the ocean beyond to be eaten by sharks. Hen, do not look so distraught. I was long dead. I did not feel a thing.”

Tears welled in her eyes. “I cannot help aching for you. What happened to you is so unfair.”

He shrugged. “That is life, isn’t it? Often tragic and unfair. But I love the sea. I did not mind dying there.”

“If you do not think it is your unrecovered body interfering with your release from the cottage, then what do you think is the reason?” She hastily raised her gown to her thighs as a strong wave suddenly surrounded her, and water surged above her knees.

The surge of water tugged at her as it ebbed, drawing her a few steps deeper. She managed to break away from its strong pull and darted back onto land.

“Careful, Hen. I told you, the water is powerful.”

She nodded. “I see. And you say it is calm today? How ever were you able to reach the sloop with the storm raging? What you did in saving the schoolteacher and her pupils is nothing short of a miracle.”

He cast her a wry grin. “I may be a cad, but I do have some redeeming qualities. I could not let those children drown.”

She pursed her lips in thought. “Perhaps you are here as a reward for your good deed. Do you think it is possible? That the angels left you here because this is the place you love.”

“No, Hen. As beautiful as it is and as much as I did love Moonstone Cottage, I do not have an unbreakable attachment to it or the village. Come, let’s walk along the beach. Keep to the water’s edge.”

“All right.” She liked walking beside him. There was something lovely about being beside this man, her toes sinking into the wet sand and the sun shining down upon her head. Kittiwakes and kestrels hovered over the water in search of fish, then flew back to their nests amid the carved-out rocks upon the cliff face.

The breeze was stronger down here and blew through her hair. She had left it loose but tied back at her nape by a simple ribbon—a green ribbon to match the green flowers embroidered on her gown of white muslin.

“You look pretty, Hen.”

She blushed. “Thank you.”

He smiled rakishly. “You are not used to gentlemen giving you compliments.”

“I spent two seasons as a wallflower.”

He stopped and looked at her askance, ignoring the breeze as it blew through his dark hair, and the water as it rushed to lap the soles of his boots. “Impossible. You are a diamond of the first water.”

She shook her head. “I looked like a frightened doe most of the time. My gowns were out of style, and I did not dance well at all. Nor did I much like the gentlemen who approached me. Oh, there were plenty of them at first. But they quickly disappeared when they learned I was not an heiress. It suited me just fine.”

His expression darkened. “Was there not a decent man among them?”

She pursed her lips. “Perhaps, but I was not confident enough of myself to tell the decent ones from the scoundrels, so I chased them all away.”

“Would you have chased me away, I wonder?”

“Yes, I fear so. You would have frightened me most of all. Someone as handsome as you? I would have been a stammering ninny.”

“I like to think I would have seen beyond your shyness and tried to put you at ease.”

She continued to walk along the beach, her gown now only hiked to her calves. She supposed it was still scandalous, but she doubted Brioc would complain. He seemed the sort to appreciate a woman’s legs. “I don’t know. There were so many pretty young ladies having their come-outs at the same time as I was. I don’t think you would have bothered with me.”

“I suppose it is a moot point now. I am dead, and we shall never know what might have happened between us had we ever met.”

She picked up a shell and cleaned it off in the water. “This one’s quite pretty. Look how it shines inside. Like a pink pearl. Or an opal, perhaps.”

“That iridescent shine is called nacre.”

“Well, look at that. It is beautiful. Thank you for teaching me something new.”

“You are most welcome. Are you hungry, Hen? We ought to head back to the blanket now.”

“All right.” She wiggled her toes in the warm sand a moment before heading back the way they came. “The waves are lapping the shore with more force now.”

“The tide is coming in. Don’t worry, it will not reach your blanket. I would have warned you if you’d spread it too close to the water. But step back a little as we walk, or those rogue waves will knock you over.”

“I think I would have liked you had I met you earlier, Brioc. Of course, I would have been too shy ever to approach you. I would have swooned if you had ever approached me.”

He grinned. “I would have swooned over you, too.”

She shook her head and laughed heartily. “I doubt it. Our meeting would never have come to anything. As I said, I was a tongue-tied nitwit and just wanted to lose myself against the wall most of the time.”

They returned to the blanket, and she took out the bread and cheese Mrs. Hawke had packed for her. She had also packed a bottle of lemonade and put a cork in it as one would for wine. She struggled to pull it out. “Ugh, it’s tightly stuck in there.”

“Sorry, Hen. I would help if I could.”

“I know.” She gave a final pull, smacking her fisted hand against her chest as she drew it out. “Ow,” she cried, dropping the bottle to clasp her heart.

Of all the stupid things to do.

Brioc was on his knees beside her in a trice. “Hen? What’s wrong? Did you hurt yourself?”

She nodded. “I’ll be all right in a moment.”

He remained beside her, worry filling his eyes. “You hit your heart,” he said, almost to himself.

She ignored the comment.

She had come here to avoid just this discussion with her brother. She refused to have it now with Brioc.

She straightened the bottle, ignoring the fact that most of the lemonade had spilled onto the sand. After wiping off the bits of sand, she took a swig and then replaced the cork. “I just need to lie back a moment and close my eyes.”

He took her hand as she lay back.

How could she feel his kisses last night and now his big, warm hand wrapping around hers? She dared not say anything, for this ability seemed to go only one way. She felt his touch, but he did not feel hers.

She sat up a few minutes later and tore off the end of the loaf of bread. She nibbled a little of the cheese, as well, needing little more than a few bites to satisfy her hunger.

Brioc stared at her. “You eat like a mouse.”

“I wasn’t very hungry.”

“Because of your heart?”

“There is nothing wrong with my heart.”

He stretched out on the blanket. “Fine, Hen. Keep lying to me.”

“I think I had better return to the cottage. Would you mind getting your oafish body off my blanket so I can fold it up?”

“Go ahead. No one’s stopping you. I am nothing but air. You can easily pull it out from under me. Last night I was your hero. Now I am an oaf?”

She sighed and glanced up the flight of stairs leading back to the cottage. “No. You shall always be my hero. But right now, you are irritating me.” She would never make it up those steps without having to stop and rest. Then Brioc would be asking more questions. “Is there an easy walk further along the beach where the climb is not so steep?”

“No, Hen. Well, there is. But it adds about five miles, and I do not think you can walk that distance. The stairs are the simplest. Take your time. I’ll be right beside you all the while. Take as long as your heart needs. Why hide the truth from me?”

She covered her face with her hands and began to cry. “I did not want anyone to know.”

“You cannot hide it from those close to you, Hen. Does your brother know?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“It all makes sense now. You did not care about a ghost haunting this cottage because you came out here to die.” She felt his arm go around her shoulders to comfort her. Why was she now able to feel him? “I wish you had confided in me. Of all people, I think I would be the one to understand best.”

“I don’t want to talk about it. Please don’t make me.”

He grunted. “I won’t. But I do want to hear all of it when you are ready. In your own good time. I won’t press you.”

He sat by her side until she stopped crying and then rose along with her when she gathered the blanket and picnic basket. She had tossed her bonnet, shoes, and stockings in the blanket and began to climb the steps in her bare feet.

She climbed the first twenty steps, then stopped to rest, waiting for her heart to stop pounding through her chest before she started to climb again. She made it up the next twenty steps and rested again.

Brioc watched her.

She was about to climb the next twenty when someone at the top called out her name. “Hen, are you mad? You know what the doctor said!”

“Who is that?” Brioc asked.

“My brother.” She waited for Robert to descend to her, his attire the height of London fashion, and his golden hair ruffled by the wind. She hugged him fiercely when he took her in his arms to embrace her. “Robert, what are you doing here?”

She did not object when he took the basket and blanket out of her hands. “I’ve come to take you back home.”

“No,” she said, stiffening. “I am home. Moonstone Cottage is my home now.”

“Nonsense, Hen. You belong with us. I’ve brought Anne and the girls with me to convince you. Henley, Phoebe, and Chloe missed you desperately and cannot wait to see you again.”

She groaned. “You shouldn’t have done that. I won’t go with you, and now the girls will be heartbroken all over again. Stay the week, but then you must go home.”

“Hen,” he said with a wrenching groan, “you are my little sister. How can I abandon you?”

She glanced over his shoulder to Brioc, who was right behind him and taking in every word. “You are not abandoning me. I am happy here. Truly. I will show you. The girls will have so much fun here. I’ll take them down to the dock and show them the fish market. Then we can have tea in Mrs. Halsey’s tea shop. I have a cook and maid and groundskeeper to take care of all my needs.”

“And what of the ghost?”

Brioc arched an eyebrow.

She took her brother’s arm. “Help me climb the rest of the way up, and I will tell you all about him. He is a hero, did you know?”

“Does he really exist? Will he scare my little girls?”

“No, of course not.”

“And what of me and Anne?”

“He will not harm you, either. I promise.”

Her brother sighed. “And what of Ashbrook?”

She inhaled sharply. “Ashbrook? He came with you? Oh, Robert! Why did you allow it?”

Brioc growled softly. “I thought you said there was no one.”

“There is no one,” she shot back without thinking.

Her brother looked over his shoulder to where Brioc was now standing, two steps up from him. “What are you talking about, Hen?”

She frowned at Brioc.

He frowned right back at her. “Who the hell is Ashbrook?”

Chapter Six

“What are you going to do, Hen?” Brioc paced across his bedchamber, eager to talk to her now that she had retired for the evening, and they had time alone. “Why did you tell me you had no one? The Earl of bloody Ashbrook is not exactly no one.”

“He is a good friend of my brother’s. Best friend, really. He does not love me. He is doing this because he thinks it is the honorable thing to do for my brother’s sake. Did you see the slightest look of longing in his eyes?”

“Yes.”

“You are just saying that because…” She turned to face him. “Are you jealous?”

Brioc folded his arms across his chest. “I am a ghost. How can I be jealous?”

“You would also have to love me, I suppose.” She shook her head to dismiss the notion. “Trust me, he does not love me. I am doing him a favor by rejecting him.”

“Hen, do you have any idea how truly beautiful you are?”

She sank onto the chair by the hearth and tucked her legs under her bottom. “Are you going to tell me again that you would have courted me had we met during one of my London seasons?”

“Why is it so farfetched?”

“Because you are too handsome for words. You are a sophisticated captain, and I am a wallflower. Can we please not have this conversation? You would have looked past me and never once noticed me. Just as Ashbrook did not notice me until my brother confided my situation to him. Suddenly, about two months ago, the man was having flowers delivered to me, horrid ones that made me sneeze because he did not think to ask me which ones I preferred or whether I had any particular sensitivity to them.”

Brioc stifled a grin. “I did not ask you, either.”

“You never had flowers delivered to me. But had I started to sneeze in the garden, you would have asked me about it. What can I do for you, Hen? That’s what you would have said.”

He settled on the ottoman beside her. “So you are going to reject him out of hand because you did not like his flowers?”

“I am going to reject him because he is in love with Lady Anissa Deverell, and she is in love with him. But he thinks this bond of brotherhood with Robert is more important than his own happiness. Besides, he thinks I will be dead before the year is out.”

Brioc’s breath caught in his throat. “Will you, Hen? Is this what your doctor told you?”

She nodded. “But wouldn’t it be a jest on all of us if I lived another twenty years?”

Brioc said nothing.

He would wait for her. Twenty years. Fifty years. A hundred years.

Someone knocked lightly at her door.

She had settled her brother and his wife in a guest chamber down the hall and put the girls in a connecting room next to them since Anne was still nursing baby Chloe. The Earl of Ashbrook was also settled in a bedchamber at the other end of the hall.

They were all too far away to hear him and Hen chatting.

“Who could that be?” she grumbled, rising from her chair. She had changed out of her gown and into her nightrail and robe, going through her usual routine that he found so familiar and surprisingly comforting to him.

She opened the door cautiously, obviously surprised to find Ashbrook there.

Brioc cursed under his breath. “I am going to chase the bloody bounder out.”

Hen cast him a frown, which he took as a plea to keep out of it.

“Why are you here, my lord?” she said with commendable indignation.

“Come now, Hen. Surely, we need not be so formal.”

Brioc noticed that she clutched the door a little tighter.

He was going to flatten the bounder if he tried anything untoward with her.

“That begs the question. Why are you here?”

“Because we need to talk.”

Hen stepped forward to block his entry. “Anything you have to say to me can be said tomorrow morning within my brother’s hearing.”

“No, this cannot. I need to know how you truly feel about me, Hen. You were infatuated with me as a little girl.”

“But you never liked me, nor do you particularly like me now.”

“That isn’t true. I do like you. I can no more bear to see you suffer alone than your brother can. Why will you not accept to marry me? I can give you everything.”

“Can you give me love?”

He blushed. “I…yes…if this is what you must have. You are Robert’s sister…I can…”

“Stop, please. You love my brother, not me. I love him, too. He is a wonderful person, is he not? A true and loyal friend and the best brother a girl can have. Be a good friend to him when the time comes, but do not destroy your own life to accommodate his. What you need to do is grab your happiness with Lady Anissa. Do not be an idiot and delay proposing to her. Love is precious. Do not throw it away.” She shoved him gently out the door. “You are a dear friend to us, but I want you gone first thing in the morning.”

She shut the door in his face, then turned to Brioc. “I am going to stay here until I take my last breath. No one can make me leave, not even you. So don’t you dare start haunting me. You will never chase me away.”

“I like having you here, Hen. But are you being fair to your brother? He is mad with worry over you.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, wanting to be possessive and keep her with him but knowing she would be better off with her loved ones around her.

He was a damn ghost.

No matter how desperately he loved her, he could do nothing to help.

“I don’t want to return to London. The air is thick and dirty. I’ll only sicken faster. And what of my sweet nieces? I don’t want them to see me frail and helpless. I don’t want that, Brioc. I want their memories of me to be happy, not sad and filled with pity.”

“All right, Hen.”

“So I will enjoy my week with them and then send them on their way.” She walked to her bed, slipped off her robe, and settled under the covers.

Brioc worried about her when she curled up in a little ball and began to sniffle. “Hen, I’m coming into bed with you. I want to hold you in my arms. Is that all right?”

“It’s your bed more than it is mine.”

“Is that a yes?”

She nodded.

He was surprised, but she was hurting and probably willing to overlook the impropriety, since he was a ghost anyway and no one was going to see him. She had felt his kisses, but would she also be able to feel his arms around her?

He could not feel her.

Why had it only worked one way?

He wanted so badly to draw her body against his and feel the warmth of her skin against him.

He climbed in beside her and wrapped his arms around her.

To his utter surprise, he felt her.

“Can you feel my arms around you, Hen?”

She remained turned away from him so that her back was to his chest, and they were spooned together. “Yes.”

“I can feel you, too.”

She said nothing, just cried herself to sleep.

Come morning, Brioc was surprised to find himself still in bed with Hen, his big body half atop her and his hands cupping her in places he had no right to touch. He eased away, shaking his head in confusion as he rose and made his way to the balcony. It was almost dawn, and the familiar mist was rising off the water and hugging the flower beds. “Why am I still here?”

He turned to Hen in alarm. “Hen, wake up. Talk to me.”

She grumbled sleepily and opened her eyes. “What’s wrong? Why did you wake me?”

“I slept with you. Now, it is dawn, and I’m still here.”

She sat up in surprise. “What does it mean?”

He sank heavily onto the bed. “I was afraid it meant…I thought you…”

“Oh, I see. No, I’m not dead. But it is most confusing. I see what you mean.” She started to rise but turned him when they heard scratching sounds at the door. “Oh, dear. If that is Ashbrook, you are to do nothing, no matter what he says to me. I want your oath, Brioc.”

“Damn it.”

“Your oath.”

“All right. But if he touches you, I will punch him.”

“Aunt Hen,” her namesake called through the door. “Who are you talking to?”

Her eyes widened.

Brioc laughed. “They can hear you, but not me. I’ll stand on the balcony, out of the way.”

She nodded. “I’m coming, my little chicks.”

She opened the door to allow Henley and Phoebe in. They scrambled onto the bed beside her. “This side is warm, too,” Phoebe said and snuggled where Brioc had been sleeping until moments ago.

Henley buried her head in the pillow. “It smells like the spiced rum Papa has every Yuletide. Then he and mama get all giggly, and he kisses her.”

Hen laughed. “That’s because he likes her.”

“Is that man going to kiss you?” Phoebe asked, staring up at her with adorable, big eyes.

“Oh, you mean your papa’s friend, Lord Ashbrook? No, my chicks. He is not going to kiss me. He is going home today.”

Henley stared at the balcony. “No, not Papa’s friend. That man, the one standing on the balcony with his arms folded over his chest.”

“Blessed saints,” Brioc muttered, stepping back inside. “You can see me?”

Both girls nodded.

Hen looked ready to faint. “Girls…it isn’t…you cannot say a word to your papa…he…good heavens. Oh, dear. I cannot have them lie.”

Brioc knelt beside the bed. “Phoebe. Henley. You must tell your father the truth, of course. But he may not believe you.”

They nodded again.

“Because you are the ghost? We saw your portrait over the mantel in the parlor,” Henley said. “Papa is afraid you will hurt Aunt Hen.”

“No, I would never do that. I give you my sacred oath. I will always protect her and never harm her. You can tell your papa I gave you my sacred oath.”

Which they did later that morning as Hen, her nieces, and brother and sister-in-law sat around the breakfast table. Ashbrook had left for London an hour ago, so it was just the family seated with her.

“Phoebe,” Hen’s brother said, his expression puzzled as he gazed at his daughter. “Who gave you a sacred oath?”

“The ghost, Papa,” Henley replied for her sister. “He is ever so nice.”

“He looks just like his portrait, but even handsomer,” Phoebe said. “He promised never to hurt Aunt Hen. He said he will protect her.”

Her brother and his wife exchanged panicked looks.

“My darlings, you saw the ghost?” Anne asked, her cheeks turning pale. She was dandling baby Chloe on her lap and now held her a little closer.

“Yes, Mama.” Henley nodded. “So did Phoebe. He was by Auntie Hen’s bed.”

“I think he wanted to sleep with her,” Phoebe added helpfully.

Hen snorted while struggling to hold back her laughter.

Her brother was not at all amused. “Hen, what are you putting in their heads?”

“Me? I have done nothing. They climbed into bed with me this morning. We had a lovely chat. We are going to walk down to the dock this morning and look at all the smelly fish. Aren’t we girls?”

“Captain Arundel said he would join us,” Henley said.

Robert set his fork down with a clatter. “Girls, I do not think it will be possible. Something urgent has come up, and I am afraid we must return home. Anne, kindly take our girls upstairs. Hen, I need to talk to you.”

The girls began to cry, but Anne calmed them. “My loves, if you cry, then you will make baby Chloe cry. So do be good and put smiles on your faces.”

Hen was now alone with her brother.

“They spend one night here and are already talking about the ghost, Hen. What is going on?”

“You knew about the ghost of Captain Arundel. He hasn’t harmed me, nor will he ever harm your girls. But you are overset now. I told you not to bring them here, although I am glad to see them again. Stay the week. What harm is there now? They will love this place as much as I do.”

“No. We must go. I will not have them dreaming about ghostly horrors. I’m sorry, Hen. You were right. I should not have brought them here. I will return by myself in a couple of months. In truth, you look well. Better than I ever saw you look in London.” He rubbed a hand across the nape of his neck. “I’m also sorry I brought Ahsbrook.”

She smiled wryly. “Well, some good came of it. He will now propose to Anissa. At least, I hope so. He is a fool if he doesn’t. Will you talk sense into him, Robert? Love is a thing to cherish, never to be taken for granted.”

“What of you?”

“I am happy here. You can see that I am.”

“Yes.” But he looked obviously pained. “I will return in two month. Write to me if you need anything.”

“I will.” She rose along with him. “I love you. You are the best brother in all of England.”

“And you are the most irritating sister ever to exist.” He drew her into his arms and hugged her. “I love you, Hen. Please take care of yourself. And come to me at once if you ever change your mind. You are always welcome to stay with us.”

“I know.”

But she did manage to spend a little of the day with her nieces, taking them to the smelly fish market and a stop for cherry pie at the tea shop before they packed up their coach and returned to London.

Brioc did not join them while they sauntered through the village, realizing it would only upset Hen’s brother further if his girls started talking to him. The sooner the little ones forgot about him, the better.

By nightfall, the cottage fell quiet.

Brioc was waiting for Hen when she climbed the stairs to his bedchamber. She set down her candle and sank onto the chair by the hearth.

He sat beside her on the ottoman. “Hen, how are you holding up?”

She smiled at him. “A little tired, but nothing that a good night’s sleep cannot cure. I do wish my nieces could have stayed longer. But I suppose it is for the best. We still have our puzzle to figure out.”

“What puzzle?”

“You, of course. We still need to find out why you are bound to this cottage.”

He took her hand, amazed that he could feel it wrapped in his. “We don’t, Hen. I’ve figured it out.”

Her eyes widened in surprise. “You have? Tell me. Is there something I can do to help free you?”

He rubbed his thumb lightly over the top of her hand, loving the delicate feel of her skin. “I am free. I have always been free.”

“What do you mean?”

He leaned over and kissed her gently on the lips. “Did you feel that, Hen?”

She nodded. “You taste of the cherry pie I brought home from Mrs. Henley’s tea shop.”

He grinned. “It’s my favorite. I couldn’t resist.”

“But I don’t understand,” she said, now frowning. “Why are you here if you claim you were always free?”

He caressed her cheek, marveling at its softness. “For you, Hen. I am here for you. By your side is where I belong for as long as you need me.”

Her hand trembled. “For me?”

“I love you, my beautiful lass. I knew it the moment I set eyes on you. You came here with Mr. Priam, that arse of a land agent. I watched you walk through my home and then stroll through my garden. I suspected in that moment why I stayed, but I wasn’t sure until now. It was for you. To hold you and love you forever.”

Tears formed in her eyes. “I love you, Brioc. So very much. I did not think I could ever feel this way about anyone. My heart is yours for always. But…what happens now?”

“We wait.”

“For me?” She put a hand to her heart. “It will happen soon, won’t it?”

“Yes, love. This is why we are able to feel each other now. Don’t be afraid, Hen. I will never leave your side. When you are ready, I will walk with you. Hand in hand.”

“Are you sure I will not lose you?”

“Never, Hen. Our hearts are bound.” He stood and brought her up with him. “Come, love. Come to bed and let me hold you in my arms.”

“Will you take off your shirt?”

He grinned. “Only if you will take off your nightgown.”

She cast him a loving smile. “I can be persuaded.”

He took her in his arms and felt the sweet taste of her lips as he kissed her with all his heart and longing. “Blessed saints. I love you, Hen.”

She smiled at him, her gaze soft and tender. “Who knew haunting could ever be this much fun?”

The End

Also by Meara Platt

FARTHINGALE SERIES

My Fair Lily

The Duke I’m Going To Marry

Rules For Reforming A Rake

A Midsummer’s Kiss

The Viscount’s Rose

Earl Of Hearts

If You Wished For Me

Never Dare A Duke

Capturing The Heart Of A Cameron

Tempting Taffy

BOOK OF LOVE SERIES

The Look of Love

The Touch of Love

The Taste of Love

The Song of Love

The Scent of Love

The Kiss of Love

The Chance of Love

The Gift of Love

The Heart of Love

The Hope of Love (novella)

The Promise of Love

The Wonder of Love

The Journey of Love

The Dream of Love (novella)

DARK GARDENS SERIES

Garden of Shadows

Garden of Light

Garden of Dragons

Garden of Destiny

Garden of Angels

THE BRAYDENS

A Match Made In Duty

Earl of Westcliff

Fortune’s Dragon

Earl of Kinross

Earl of Alnwick

Pearls of Fire*

(*also in Pirates of Britannia series)

Aislin

Gennalyn

A Rescued Heart

DeWOLFE PACK ANGELS SERIES

Nobody’s Angel

Kiss An Angel

Bhrodi’s Angel

About the Author

Meara Platt is a USA Today bestselling author and an award winning, Amazon UK All-star. Her favorite place in all the world is England’s Lake District, which may not come as a surprise since many of her stories are set in that idyllic landscape, including her award winning, fantasy romance Dark Gardens series. If you’d like to learn more about the ancient Fae prophecy that is about to unfold in the Dark Gardens series, as well as Meara’s lighthearted, international bestselling Regency romances in the Farthingale series and Book of Love series, or her more emotional Braydens series, please visit Meara’s website at www.mearaplatt.com.

Belware Bridge

A short Scottish tale loosely based on The Legend of Tam O’ Shanter

Violetta Rand

Chapter One

Belware, Scotland 1866

Seth Montgomery had never believed in anything beyond his own confidence and what silver and gold could buy him, until he traveled from America to Scotland to meet his distant family and eventually his betrothed, Lady Rosalind MacRae.

As a young lad, his beloved father had died and left his young wife and the wee boy alone. Thus, desiring the support of her closest relatives, Mrs. Heather Montgomery, along with her precious son and a single maid, sailed the lonely winter seas to New York, where her uncles awaited her and Seth, taking them to New Hampshire where their family’s prosperous farm would become home for the next fifteen years.

But it was not enough to satisfy the restless soul of the lad, for he desired more—and not unlike other sons of Scotland, felt a holy connection, if not God calling him directly, to return to his birthland and reclaim what belonged to him by right. Land. Title. And the woman his father had hand-chosen for him to take as wife.

And as the returning lad—now a full-grown man—strolled along the cobbled streets of his village, he assessed everything that now belonged to him, down to the very stitches that held together the clothes that the townspeople wore.

The baker and smithy, the seamstress, the greengrocer, and others sold their wares within the market square—and it all belonged to him now.

Seth swung his silver-tipped walking stick with flare, as the wealthy and industrious men of Boston did, inclining his head to whatever stranger greeted him with a wave or smile, some even calling out his formal name, The Much Honored Baron of Belware, Seth Montgomery. The title pleased his ears. It did not escape him that some men and women frowned as he passed them by, but would not the devil himself be jealous of a man in his prime that had come into his inheritance?

“My lord,” the rotund barrister, Mr. MacLain, called as he trotted to catch up with him. “It is a beautiful day for a walk, is it not?”

Not an unfeeling person, Seth stopped and waited for his man to join him. “Yes,” he said, “and I am impressed with the bounty of Belware. You have managed my family’s accounts with honor, Mr. MacLain.”

The man sputtered, as if he were not expecting such praise. “I can hardly take any credit, sir. For the people who live here are a hearty lot, pay their taxes, and respect old traditions.”

“I have reviewed the accounts, Mr. MacLain. I am certain the baker has no hand in the investments you have made on my family’s behalf over the last decade.”

“Indeed,” the older man agreed reluctantly. “Have you given thought as to which home you prefer to live in?”

There were four houses to choose from. One within the village proper, the main estate located six miles from town, a sprawling manor house located on the largest farm in the area, and a cottage with extensive gardens. In the two weeks since Seth had been in Scotland, he’d visited them all. He favored the manor house, for it reminded him most of his home in New Hampshire. But the main estate was where his father had resided, and there was something undeniably attractive about it and also something very sad.

“I am unsure,” he said.

“There is no hurry, sir, but may I advise that the sooner you choose, the quicker we can direct the staff to prepare for you and the future baroness?”

Seth gazed at the older man, for his words warmed a once cold spot in his heart. His future baroness. His wife. His future. “I am partial to the manor house.”

The barrister smiled. “A wonderful choice. There is much character in the place. Though…”

“Though?” Seth repeated. A shadow seemed to have crossed his man’s face. “Is there something wrong with the manor house I should know about?”

“Of course not,” Mr. MacLain said, still sounding unsure of himself. “It is just… a mere inconvenience, really.”

“And what would that be, sir?”

The barrister gazed eastward, then looked back at Seth. “The old bridge.”

Seth had crossed it twice only the other day. “Is it in disrepair?”

“Nay,” the barrister said quickly.

“I found it a rather beautiful structure, ancient even. Each gray stone cut to perfection and fitted together in a way our modern architects cannot explain—like the pyramids.”

“Built in 1560, I believe,” the barrister said. “Over three hundred years old. And with something so aged, there are legends that come with it.”

“Legends?” The idea intrigued Seth very much.

“Summer’s End,” the man offered.

Seth’s family celebrated Summer’s End every fall—this would only please him. “I am not unfamiliar with the tradition.”

“Aye,” the barrister said as he rubbed his chin. “But there must be great differences between the celebrations in America, and what we do here in Scotland, especially in Belware.”

“Such as?” Seth began walking again, though at a much slower pace.

“Well, before your great family came to own this land, it is rumored the Celts held celebrations by River Rune. So, there is magic in the water—magic in the soil—magic in the trees. In everything around us.”

The words were uttered with such reverence, Seth almost believed what the older man said. Though he would not disrespect his beliefs, Seth did chuckle. “I understand Scots are superstitious people.”

“Aye. And you are a Scot.”

Did the man’s accent deepen when he spoke with conviction? “I am what my father was,” Seth said with pride. “As much a Highlander as any man in the hills.”

The barrister grinned ear to ear and surprisingly gripped Seth’s forearm. “Then these good people will welcome you home.”

“Then there is no reason not to choose the manor house as my main residence, is there?”

“Nay,” the barrister said. “Only, I am sure your future wife would like a hand in choosing.”

“Perhaps,” Seth said, but in his heart, he knew his betrothed should be happy to reside wherever he chose, for that is what a husband did, make the best choices for his family. “I would request that you see to all the necessary preparations for the manor house and, as a special favor, have the staff ready for a Summer’s End celebration, too. It is the night I have chosen to speak my vows of marriage before God and the good people of this village.”

The barrister seemed to freeze in place. “Wed on the eve of Summer’s End?”

“Aye.”

“But… it is unheard of.”

“Let us start a new tradition then.”

“Sir, it is unwise to challenge the status quo of this place.”

The word superstition crept into Seth’s mind again as he gazed curiously at the trusted barrister. How could a reliable, educated man believe in such nonsense. “What is it you fear, MacLain? Bad luck? Witches? A curse on the next ten generations of your family?” He chuckled and patted the older man’s back. “No more hesitation, for I will make it financially worth the extra effort you put in.”

Chapter Two

Lady Rosalind MacRae, the only child of the late Earl and Countess of Westley, stood before her uncle, the new earl, and awaited his word on what her betrothed had written them. The banns had been read, and now only a wedding day needed to be chosen.

Though she had never met Seth Montgomery in person, they had corresponded with each other for seven years—and she felt with all her heart that he loved her, and she loved him.

“Damnable American!” her uncle slapped the parchment with his hand. “Left here a Scot and came back an arrogant foreigner.”

“What is it, Uncle?”

He gazed up at her, his eyes growing soft. “Ye are a lovely lass, Rosie. The spitting image of yer mama, though ye have the raven hair of a MacRae.”

She approached him and took his hand, giving it a squeeze. “Has my betrothed done something wrong?” This much adored man had provided her with comfort and love since her parents had died three years ago in a tragic carriage accident in Italy. Even as he searched for his own wife, he had put Rosie’s needs first, dedicated to seeing her wed and settled before he did anything else.

“Montgomery is a dunderhead. Ridiculous. Disrespectful of the traditions we value in Belware!”

“Whatever has he done?” Her heart skipped a beat, fearful their betrothal might be canceled.

Her uncle raised the fist gripping the missive and shook it with anger. “He has chosen the eve of Summer’s End as your wedding night.”

“Oh dear.”

He stared at her, his blue eyes wide as an owl’s, unblinking and speculative. “That is all ye have to say?”

“He is obviously unaware of how seriously we take the eve—”

“You must go to him and explain his grave mistake. Immediately. You are the only one he will listen to.”

“Uncle,” she said. “The baron has made it abundantly clear that he wishes to wait until our wedding day to meet in person.”

Her uncle’s face turned even more sour, and his ears reddened. “We are not medieval barbarians! What man does not wish to meet his future wife before they are wed?”

In all honesty, Rosie had consented to this unusual request of Seth’s because she agreed it would add mystery and excitement to their wedding night—though she could never share such intimate details with her uncle. She and Seth had exchanged photographs two years ago, so she knew what he looked like, dark and handsome, with angular features and thick hair. She would never regret marrying the man her father had chosen for her.

“Ye are being stubborn. And he is singlehandedly making sure the elders of this village will never trust him, or more importantly, respect him.”

She ignored the additional insults of her betrothed and said, “Perhaps there is another way to divert his attention, to keep him from following through on this wedding date.”

“Aye?”

“Since we are so invested in tradition, is there not a practice of holding a celebration for the groom before he speaks his vows?”

Her uncle rubbed his chin, clearly considering her words. “Aye,” he finally said. “But this is usually hosted by his friends and family. The baron is a stranger to us.”

“But you are the closest thing to family he has in Belware. Therefore, the responsibility rests with you. Gather your friends, Uncle. Choose all the men of Belware, speak to the innkeeper, arrange for a wonderful celebration. If my betrothed imbibes too much, surely, he will wish to sleep at the inn. Then we can hold the wedding the next morning.”

Her uncle gathered her into his arms, embracing her tightly. With his chin resting atop her head, he said, “Ye are a practical lass. Intelligent and crafty like your father. How I miss him and your mother.”

“Aye,” she said, as her uncle would. She had spent years in a boarding school in London, where the aristocratic women in charge of her education had battered the Scottish brogue out of her.

He smiled down at her. “Leave me be, lassie. I have a celebration to plan.”

Chapter Three

“A celebration?” Seth looked at his barrister, confused.

“Aye,” the man said. “A chance to commemorate your last moments as a confirmed bachelor.”

“And when would this celebration take place?”

Mr. MacLain loosened his collar before he answered. “Tomorrow.”

Seth’s eyes grew wide as he shook his head. “Impossible. I have chosen tomorrow evening as my wedding night.”

“Aye,” the barrister said, “which is why we must start the celebration early in the day. I know you have been away for a long time, sir. But ye are still a Scot. Consider accepting this invitation as a small gesture of kinship with the men of the village.”

“Kinship? To most, I am their master.”

McLain uttered something imperceptible in Gaelic. “Master is not a word these proud men like to hear.”

Pride was something Seth could appreciate in anyone. He had been raised to be proud of his name and birthright. Perhaps there was something worthwhile in what his barrister suggested. After all, this was his home for the rest of his life, and his sons after him. “And who are the guests of honor at this event?”

“Yourself, of course. And the earl. I will serve as your escort. There is the magistrate…”

“The Earl of Westley will be there?”

“Aye. He is the host.”

Seth grew suddenly pessimistic, for his betrothed had written him often concerning the doubts her uncle had about their engagement. He disapproved of arranged marriages and wanted his only niece, Lady Rosalind, to be happy in her life, not trapped by outdated practices. “How can I refuse the earl?”

The barrister grinned with obvious approval. “Very good. I will send the necessary acceptance to the earl.”

“Where will it be held?”

“At the inn, of course.”

“What time is the bachelor supposed to arrive?” he said in a jesting tone.

“That’s the spirit.” Mr. McLain slapped him on the back as if they were old friends, then regained his formality. “Forgive me. It has been a long while since we held a wedding in the village.”

Seth didn’t mind the lapse in manners at all. He rather looked forward to sampling the local whisky again and meeting the men of the village. From what he knew, there would be more than drinking at the party—perhaps feats of strength, which the Scots were known for. One thing Seth had always striven to do was keep himself in top form. A physically weak man was not fit to lead or to sire sons. And he would use this celebration as an opportunity to prove himself to the locals. He’d earn their respect one way or another.

“There is one other matter, sir,” the barrister said.

“Yes?”

Mr. McLain handed him a missive. “I will wait over there while you read it, for the lady requires an immediate answer.”

“Lady?” Seth gazed down at the paper in his hand. A note from his Rosie. He unfolded the delicate paper and read it out loud. “If you find it in your heart to make an exception to our arrangement, please meet me at the lake on my uncle’s estate at half-past two today.”

Seth folded the missive and shoved it in the inner pocket of his jacket. Hadn’t he made it clear he thought it best the two of them waited until their wedding to meet in person? Years of excitement had built up in his mind and heart for the blessed event tomorrow. And though he hadn’t been a saint over the years, sharing intimacy with women of questionable reputations when he was younger, once he sailed for Scotland, he had pledged to never stray from his beloved Rosie. She was all he thought about, day and night.

Her cherished letters had provided him with a sense of purpose. A need to be successful. A need to grow into the man he’d become—passionate yet tempered. Reluctant but honest. If he dared to see her today, would he be able to control the desire that threatened to burst forth at any moment? She was beautiful, intelligent, and all his. But if she wanted to see him, there must be a good reason.

“Well, sir?” The barrister stirred him back to the present.

“Yes. I will meet her. Tell me, where is the lake?”

Once Mr. McLain gave him directions and hurried away to make whatever arrangements he needed to, Seth stared at his pocket watch. In just under an hour, he would be united with his betrothed.

*

Lady Rosalind waited with trepidation—her body quivering with anticipation. What if he didn’t like the sound of her voice? Or the feel of her hand in his? What if she disliked him? So many doubts ran through her mind that she did not hear the horse approach at first. She was stunned when she turned and found Seth walking in her direction.

Sunlight reflected off his glossy, dark hair. And his form—tall and strong, with wide shoulders, and eyes the color of spring grass, delighted her. The single photograph she possessed of him had been a poor representation of the man she beheld now. Days of stubble on his face added an air of pure Highlander about him, and she knew he was everything she had hoped for in a physical sense. But would his heart be what she so desperately longed for in a man? Could he carry an intelligent conversation? Was he kind? Interested in anything beyond himself?

Though his letters suggested yes to every question, he could have easily misrepresented himself just to snare her into this marriage, for she came with a generous dowry—thirty thousand pounds and property.

She had selected a blue walking dress, and it complemented her curves. But she had also chosen to wear a heavy lace veil, the type a widow in mourning would cover herself with so he could not see her face clearly. Still hiding behind the trunk of the tree, she sucked in a breath as he stood on the other side of it, calling her name.

“Lady Rosalind?”

“I am here,” she squeaked, stepping out so he could see her.

They were frozen in place as they gazed upon each other.

He cleared his throat, looking her up and down, shifting on his feet. “T-this is highly irregular.”

These would be his first words to his future bride? She smiled, knowing he was nervous to meet her for the first time, and raised a gloved hand for him to take. “Is that any way to greet me, Seth?” Surely she must present herself as confident, so he would speak with her without reluctance.

He rubbed his chin, nodding in agreeance before he took her hand and grazed her knuckles with his lips. “Forgive my lack of manners, Rosalind.” He gave a slight bow and slowly released her hand, an enigmatic smile taking form on his face. “This meeting was unexpected and goes against everything we agreed to. I am a creature of habit, my sweet Rosalind. Have I not explained this clearly in my letters?”

“I understand a man of your reliable nature cannot afford to stray from the known path in his business affairs, Lord Belware. But when it comes to matters of the heart, I am sure you can recognize the value and appreciate the need for occasional surprises. Unless you wish us to lead very unremarkable lives once we are married.”

He simply stared at her, either unwilling to answer her, or unable to because her words had shocked him into silence. Had she chosen incorrectly by inviting him here? She’d done everything to still honor their agreement to not see each other until their wedding day, for he could not make out her features through the veil. But she could see him, and admired everything about him, even his deep voice, which soothed her, drew her in, even.

“My intentions were to take a moment to explain why my uncle has chosen to host a party in your honor.”

“I must admit the earl has been less than cordial at times when dealing with me.”

“He is overly protective of me at times.”

His expression softened then. “As I, too, shall be.” Seth reached for her hand, and she gave it to him without delay.

Though they both wore gloves, she felt the heat of his fingers through the leather—or was that simple attraction—physics in a rudimentary sense? The physical processes of things in nature had always intrigued her, and her betrothed was no exception, it would seem. She curled her fingers more tightly around his. “Are you sure we cannot abandon our original promise to one another and allow me to remove this veil so you can finally see me?”

“No,” he said sharply, letting go of her hand. “Try to understand, I have waited years for this moment—for the day of our marriage. That excitement of unveiling you in the church, well, it…” He turned away from her, his emotions palpable.

“I must apologize, my lord. My impatience and excitement lead me to this moment…”

He turned abruptly and grinned. “No. You mustn’t apologize to me. No wrong has been done.”

“I am happy to hear it,” she said, relieved.

“And I am happy to hear your voice for the first time.” His fingers traced the line of her jaw, pausing by her ear. “You are as familiar to me as the dear memories of my father and mother and this beautiful country.”

No one had ever said something so endearing to her, so romantic. “You do not miss America?”

His gaze scanned the distant mountains and woods. “No. Every day I longed for the Highlands. For the natural splendor that exists in every direction I look. The smells and sounds of this place…”

This time Rosie reached out and captured his hand. Their connection to each other was undeniable, that much she knew. “I am happy this place brings you so much joy. I never wish to leave.”

“Then you will be pleased to know I have chosen Belware Manor as our home.”

“Belware Manor,” she repeated. “A picturesque place if ever I saw one. Though my uncle thought you would choose your father’s estate as our main place of residence.”

“I am inspired to start afresh, to leave old, painful memories behind. I will give you the manor house as a wedding gift.”

His generosity pleased her, but it was unnecessary, for the wedding contract had provided a lavish living for her, keeping her personal funds independent of her future husband’s. She and Seth shared more than dreams and a future; they had both lost their parents, Seth’s mother having died recently of an illness in America, binding their hearts not only in matrimony but sorrow, too. “Belware Manor is haunted,” she said in a jesting tone, but serious in her intention to let him know the truth about Belware.

He immediately chuckled, his eyes bright with merriment. “You are not the first to warn me about such things, my sweet Lady Rosalind.”

“Do you doubt me?”

“Of course not,” he said convincingly, but there was still a gleam in his eyes. “But I believe you and everyone in this village are superstitious—raised to fear every little thing that goes bump in the night. I find it rather endearing.”

Rosalind bit her bottom lip to keep from saying something she’d regret later. She and the wonderful people of Belware were not fools. This ancient place possessed many secrets outsiders would never understand or even have the privilege of being exposed to. But Seth… he was caught between two existences, quite literally the old world and new world. Scotland and America. His birthright versus the place he was forced to flee to after his father died. This gave him a right to know the traditions of his birthplace, but would he respect those secrets?

“I have more news,” he said, dragging her from her thoughts.

“Oh?”

“As I am sure the earl told you, I wish to take our vows at the stroke of midnight on Summer’s End at the manor house.”

“Blessed saints,” she said. “This cannot be done.”

“Why not? I have the special license in my pocket. As is the tradition of the Baron of Belware, I have invited everyone from the village, and my barrister has made the necessary arrangements to bring a chief vicar from London to oversee our nuptials. The only elements missing from these plans are the bride and groom.” He smiled hungrily at her. “After all, my sweet Rosalind, I am no different than any man. I want to hold you in my arms and…”

He tugged her into an intimate embrace, nuzzling her neck, his warm breath raising goosebumps all over her body, her very reactive body. She gently pulled away from him, the hope of influencing him to change his mind about their wedding date, lost. She would have to rely on her uncle and the men of the village to get him drunk and keep him from arriving on time for their ceremony. Otherwise…

“What is everyone afraid of?” he asked.

“Shall we take a stroll while we talk?” she suggested.

He offered his arm, and she took it. “Of course.”

“Centuries ago, when this place was little more than a pile of ash and stones…”

He gazed at her with what appeared to be admiration. “You are a storyteller, too?”

“What Scot is not?” she said playfully.

“There is that.”

“Centuries ago, when this place was little more than a pile of ash and stones,” she began again, “a tribe of beautiful women settled here. Some say they came from the land of the Vikings, crossed the North Sea to find a new life—to find grace and hope away from a brutal place filled with violence and sorrow. But their newfound happiness was short-lived. For the men of this place heard of their great beauty and intelligence and wanted to take these women as wives.

“I see nothing unnatural about this…”

“Except that these women had sworn an oath to their goddess to never marry in exchange for her favor and protection.”

“Oh. This is a very serious quandary, then.”

“Indeed, it is. These brave women did everything they could to make the men understand, even provided their families with knowledge of the healing arts. But the men remained unsatisfied, covetous of the freedom the women possessed and jealous of their joy. On the night of the next full moon, what would later be established as Summer’s End, the tribe of men attacked the women while they slept. They bound their hands and dragged them to the mighty River Rune.”

Seth had stopped walking and turned to face her, completely enveloped in her story.

“Each woman was given a choice. Choose one of the men as husband or be thrown into the rushing river and drown.”

“Dear Lord,” he said.

“Yes,” she acknowledged his horror with a slow nod. “There were twenty-six women in total. Eight chose to live, taking the men of their choice as husbands. The remaining women died that night.”

His gaze drifted in the direction of the river—northeast of where they stood. “Murderers. Barbarians. What happened to these evil men?”

“They are the forefathers of Belware.”

“This is mere legend.”

“No,” she said. “One need only search the kirk records. Like so many other places in Scotland, our history has been painstakingly recorded. Including your bloodline, my lord.”

“You have researched my bloodline?”

“Yes.”

“Who…”

“I have traced your family to one of the women belonging to the original eight—Hemsla Dalgaard.”

Seth rubbed his stubbled chin with consternation, his eyes stormy. “This is a blight on my family name.”

“No,” she said, taking his hand. “We all share the same history. That is why we must honor our traditions in Belware—to remember these brave women with dignity and deep respect.”

Chapter Four

The thrill of seeing his betrothed in the flesh for the first time kept Seth’s heart discomfited as he rode his highly favored mare, shipped with him from America, to the village. Their meeting had filled him with many emotions, some conflicting, for he had never known his family’s deeper history. His parents had failed to tell him of the cold-blooded murders of those innocent women. Why Rosalind had informed him of such details, he did not know—perhaps she simply enjoyed researching genealogy.

Or maybe she had needed to confirm his pedigree before they spoke their vows this very evening before God and their witnesses. Either way, it left him with many questions. Ones he would have to put off until after their wedding.

The pleasant, white-washed structure with four dormer windows and potted flowers decorating the façade was the only tavern in the village. The couple who owned and operated it had been kind to him upon his arrival in Scotland, giving him the best suite of rooms and use of the private sitting room for as long as he needed, while he made preparations for his long-term living situation.

He dismounted and offered the reins to the stable lad that rushed from behind the tavern to greet him. “Treat her with great care,” he said, flipping a silver coin in the air, which the boy eagerly caught.

“She’s a real beauty, sir.”

He nodded, knowing the mare was the finest piece of horseflesh he had ever ridden.

Seth turned about, gazing up and down the main road, watching as unassuming villagers went about their late afternoon business. He could see across the street and down the way just a bit, where a group of men were busy constructing what could only be a pyre for the bonfire that would happen later tonight in the kirkyard. It seemed a rather pagan tradition to occur on hallowed ground. But then, nothing about this village was normal, really.

The working people walked about with the same amount of pride and entitlement as the gentry, and the women were rather well-educated compared to females in other country settings, and unusually independent. His Rosie had proven herself just that earlier—the bold move to meet him privately and without a chaperone!

Not that he didn’t appreciate such things; he did, but it would take much getting used to.

Before he could gather his next thoughts, the double doors at the front of the tavern slammed open, and his barrister, the earl, and a half-dozen men came out to welcome him to the celebration.

“My lord,” Mr. McClain said with unusual enthusiasm. “We have been waiting for you.”

“Indeed,” the Earl of Westley agreed gruffly, taking a deep drink from the crystal glass in his hand.

Why was the earl drinking ale from a crystal vessel? Seth almost laughed aloud at such absurdity, but held it in. The man already mistrusted and disliked him for however many reasons. Of course, Seth could not blame him, for who would want to let such a delightful woman as Lady Rosalind go, even if she was his niece? Seth imagined his bride managed the earl’s estate flawlessly, her intelligence and beauty brightening his life every day. As she would Seth’s very soon…

The thought of caressing her skin—smelling her lovely hair—gazing upon her without that veil… her voice promised that she was the rare beauty shown in the single photograph he possessed of her. Her mischievous smile and glittering eyes staring back at him always.

The other men gathered round him and patted him upon the back in congratulatory fashion, then ushered him inside, where the scent of savory meat being braised and fresh bread baking in the oven made his mouth water and his stomach roil with hunger.

The public room was near filled with all the men of the village, no women in sight, not even the innkeeper’s daughter who normally served the meals and ale at this time of day. Instead, there were two men dressed in livery with trays in their hands, rushing about with glasses filled with ale, brandy, and perhaps some of that superior whisky.

Seth made it no secret which he preferred right now and chose whisky, drinking it down in two gulps to the approval of everyone. Upon which he was immediately given another serving.

“At this rate of imbibing,” the earl said close to his ear, “you’ll crawl to the altar and shame my beloved niece.”

Seth gazed at the man as he sipped at the second drink and shook his head. “I would never embarrass Rosie.”

The earl eyed him with great suspicion. “Rosie, is it? And where did such familiarity with my niece come from?”

“Sir,” Seth started.

But the earl stopped him short by raising his hand. “I don’t want to know.”

“Why are you so set against me?”

The earl snickered. “I’d be against any man who anchored my sweet Rosie to this godforsaken place.”

The insult surprised Seth. Lucky for them both, no one else was listening at the moment, for the other men were too busy singing and drinking. “I had no idea you disliked it so much.”

“I disapprove of this place for Rosalind,” the earl said. “She deserves better. A London lady. Bath. Cornwall, even. But for her parents to choose to marry her to you, I can only think they had every intention of keeping her here.”

Seth didn’t know how to respond, exactly. The earl spoke truthfully. By marrying Seth, Lady Rosalind would not spend much time in London or the other fashionable places in England. Their lives would be tied to his estates in and around Belware mostly, though they would travel as the seasons allowed.

“Our parents were the best of friends, Lord Westerly.”

“Aye,” the earl said. “It is because of those long-standing ties that I am honoring the marriage contract. But…”

“Westerly…” They were interrupted by Sir James, who flung his arm carelessly about the earl’s shoulders and grinned. “Are you giving the young baron a stiff talking-to?”

The earl let out a frustrated breath. “Until…”

“Here.” James cut him off rudely and swiped two cups of beer from the tray of a passing servant and shoved them into the hands of the earl and Seth. “Drink many of these, and everything will start to look clearer.”

“Clearer?” Seth thought the opposite would happen if he overindulged in spirits.

“Aye,” James said. “’Tis the Highland way, is it not, Westerly? Have you failed to do your duty and teach this young man about his homeland and our traditions?”

The earl raked his fingers through his thick hair and sighed. “The baron knows our ways.”

“Actually,” Seth looked at Sir James, “there are many things I don’t know. For instance, why would a bonfire happen on the kirk grounds on this night of shadows and monsters?”

“Shadows and monsters?” the earl appeared offended.

“Oh, go stuff yourself,” Sir James shooed the earl away as if he were little more than a bothersome fly. “I will answer your questions.”

“Very good,” Seth said appreciatively. “The bonfire?”

“Well, some cannot stomach why we allow it. But this village and all of the original families, including yours, have a blood debt on their hands. And we sanction the bonfire every year as a way of honoring the elder women in our families, for they shall dance late into the night while we drink and try to forget.”

“Because…”

“The murder of the northern women,” Sir James said soberly. “A blasted shame what happened.”

“How does dancing around a bonfire honor those women?”

“Do you not understand, lad? They were witches, all of them. White witches, of course. Healers and fortune-tellers.”

Seth rubbed his chin, the hair on the back of his neck standing on end for some unknown reason. “Summer’s End was their favorite night of the year—commemorating their oaths to the gods. The fall harvest. The full moon. Anything with nature, really. They were the first naturalists, I think.”

Seth finished off his ale and set the empty glass aside on a nearby table. Had he picked this night to wed by coincidence, or had there been a higher reason? “Then a blessed night for a wedding.”

Sir James coughed and signaled a waiter for another drink. “That depends entirely on who you are asking.”

“You.”

“Well,” the man spluttered again, seemingly nervous. “Though this is an important eve of celebration, it is also one filled with dark curses.”

Seth chuckled and patted the man’s shoulder affectionately. “Ghosts and witches. Haunted manor houses and ancient bridges?”

“Why, yes,” the man said matter-of-factly.

“I have always been taught belief in superstitions die with education. But that does not seem to be the case in Belware.”

“You have been away a long time, lad. Try not to judge before you know the truth of things.”

“I do not mean to be judgmental, only critical of what I am told about such things.”

“Did you ever consider the greatest of legends are based on truth instead of lies?”

“Perhaps,” Seth said, to keep the peace and not appear arrogant. After all, he had to live with these good people for the rest of his days.

*

Lady Rosalind, along with her lady’s maid and two other female servants, had taken her uncle’s carriage to her new home, Belware Manor, in the late afternoon. There, preparations were made for her wedding celebration. Many guests had arrived early and were resting before the ceremony and following feast.

The fine home was everything Rosie had dreamed of—elegant and unique as a country estate should be. There were vast gardens, a loch, sprawling forest, and walking and riding paths—many places to explore.

The manor had been superbly decorated with the last blooms of summer and greenery, hundreds of candles, and colorful banners. She had refrained from visiting the small estate chapel and would wait to meet her betrothed there under the full moon.

“It is beautiful,” her companion and lady’s maid, Shockley, said quietly, gazing about the ball room. “The housekeeper, Mrs. Black, is very skilled.”

“Yes, and the cook…” Rosalind sniffed the air delicately and smiled. “Such aromas.”

“Ye should eat before the ceremony,” her maid said. “Will help with yer nerves, I think.”

“Perhaps a cup of tea, but I relish the anxiety. It is part of the excitement of finally becoming the Baroness of Belware. My husband is young and strong, intelligent, and possesses a sense of humor—what lady could do better?”

Shockley crossed herself before she spoke. “Do ye think he will be here before midnight, my lady?”

Unfortunately, Rosie didn’t know any better than her maid. Though her uncle had been determined to make her betrothed late for his own wedding in order to block him from offending the poor spirits that roamed the village on this hallowed eve, she couldn’t underestimate Seth’s determination. He had reiterated in numerous letters that punctuality was of great import to him, and during their meeting yesterday…. hadn’t she tried in every way to let him know it was not a proper night to marry? She could not just blurt it, for that would be offensive to any gentleman.

“Only if the earl and the men of the village successfully delay him with entertainments.”

Shockley rolled her eyes. “Ye are the only bride I’ve ever known who would encourage her groom to drink.”

“We cannot admonish the new baron for picking a wedding date that pleases him. Even if we did, I am not convinced he would believe us. We must hope that everything will fall into place as should be—thereby avoiding any ill fortune brought on by a wedding at midnight on the eve of Summer’s End.”

Chapter Five

“Beware the witches of Belware. Beauties in their own right. Legendary ladies from the northern climes, drowned for make-believe crimes…”

Seth refused to sing such a horrid song with the drunk residents of Belware. No matter how welcoming and entertaining these men had been, including the elusive earl, Seth found himself violated by the words. Open admittance to the needless slaughter of innocent women—one of which was reportedly his relative. A woman forced into marriage to keep her life.

He’d drank more ale and whisky than he ever had but was still steady on his feet. And as he gazed at his pocket watch—eleven-thirty of the clock—he realized if he didn’t go to the stables and order his mare brought out, that for the first time in his adulthood, he would be late for an important event. The most important of his life! What would his betrothed think of him? How would he live with himself?

As he sipped the last bit of ale in his glass, he envisioned his sweet Rosalind in a pale pink gown with blossoms in her hair and a translucent veil covering her lovely face, walking up the aisle to him, ready to take him as husband. Heat suffused his body as he slammed the glass down on the bar and smiled at the tavern owner.

“Care for another, my lord?” the pleasant man asked.

Seth shook his head. “Another time.” He dropped a pile of coins on the bar and thanked the man for accommodating him. “Your wife is an impressive cook. Send my regards to her and your children.”

As he reached for his brown felt hat on the bar and straightened his short lounge jacket, Seth suddenly realized he was dressed in his riding costume, not his wedding clothes. He would need to change as soon as he arrived at Belware Manor. Blast his bad luck and irresponsibility. He would not have his bride waiting for him at the altar like some jilted woman.

Before he was able to step outside the tavern, his barrister blocked his way with a grin. “And where are you off to, sir?”

“The same place you and the earl should be going. My wedding. Now kindly step aside, Mr. McClain.”

“But, sir…”

Seth, a towering six feet, gently swept the barrister aside and walked out. From behind him came the sound of the earl’s booming baritone, “Montgomery! Get back inside.”

Ignoring the earl, Seth rounded the building and called out for the stable lad. Within a few moments, the boy appeared with his mare and handed her over. Seth smiled at him, grateful at least one person in this village wasn’t trying to delay his nuptials. He flipped an extra shilling at the lad, then mounted his horse.

Always a spirited animal, his mare seemed unusually so tonight, high-stepping and restless as he trotted her down the main street, struck by the activity and blinding light emanating from the kirkyard. Anyone with a set of eyes could not ignore the scene, for dozens of women, some scantily clad and some naked, danced wildly around the inferno before them. Hell-like flames shot into the air, igniting the inky sky with color.

Seth halted, gaping—horrified and shocked—wishing he understood the chanting, the nonsensical words they repeated over and over again as their bodies moved in unison to the vulgar beat of drums.

This is what he had been warned about. Summer’s End. Witches dancing in the kirkyard. Old spirits being aroused on this very eve. Traditions being honored. Curses being fulfilled.

He felt out of place suddenly, even threatened. But nothing could make him tear his gaze from the scene as an older woman emerged from the dancing ring of women and pointed at him. She was stark naked, her body touched by advanced years, and Seth couldn’t keep from laughing… not shaming laughter, but more from nervousness and self-preservation.

But it didn’t matter to the old witch. She shook her finger violently, calling out his name, encouraging the other women to stop dancing and stare at him.

“Intruder! Debaucher of the fairer sex. The Baron of Belware!”

Had his eyes played tricks on him, or had her normal features transformed into something hideous—bulging black eyes—green skin—fangs—elongated fingers with talons for fingernails? A hissing noise followed by more chanting. Screeching and cackling!

His heart stopped, or so it seemed, before it beat violently again, and all the hairs on his body stood on end. Run! Flee! Save yourself! his instincts screamed unrelentingly. His mare reared up, and without prompting her, took off, galloping violently forward, nearly bucking him as he hung on with his strong thighs and hands.

He must reach that damned bridge to make it to his wedding. That bridge. The haunted, cursed bridge.

As his mare crashed along the open road, then neared a narrowed riding path leading out of the village and to his new home, everything flashing around him, he couldn’t overlook the burning torches that had been placed along the pathway. Who would do such a thing? For the moon was full, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

According to his barrister, there was a full moon every Summer’s Eve.

And from what Seth could see, there was too much light for an accursed night such as this.

Not meaning to, he spurred his horse faster and she responded—bolting—dangerously fast, veering to the left and almost off the groomed path.

Then Seth heard the sound of thunder, or so he thought. The ground shook underneath him as Belware Bridge loomed before him. Just make it across, then you are home.

Debaucher of women!

Had he imagined those words, those accusing words, or had the wind carried them?

He dared to turn around in the saddle, spotting a whirl of smoke and fire gaining on him, what sounded like a hundred hoofbeats and a hundred voices screaming for his blood.

“Grab the Baron of Belware. Sacrifice him as atonement for the sins of these men. These murderers….”

Sweet Jesus in heaven…

He turned back and leaned over his mare’s neck, holding on to her for dear life, begging and urging her onward, faster and faster as the bridge waited directly in front of him, the welcoming arch suddenly a safe haven.

Demons were afoot screaming for his blasted soul. And all he could see and taste, smell and feel, was his Rosalind, his blessed Rosie.

Then his mare’s front hooves hit the cobblestones of the bridge, but as she thrust forward, there was resistance at her back end. The beast reared again, whinnying and groaning, her powerful body struggling to go forward…

Fear ripped through Seth’s body as he turned round and met the face and hands of the very creature in the kirkyard that had screamed for his destruction! Her talons grasped the flowing tail of his mare, wrestling the creature for control, trying to pull them back from the bridge into total darkness.

No. This couldn’t be, and Seth gritted his teeth as he faced forward again and screamed to his brave mount. “Go, girl, unless we both perish this unholy night!”

He prayed as he never had. Silent, desperate prayers.

Then, as he thought all was lost, he closed his eyes tightly and yelled out, “Mercy! I am not one of the men that killed you!”

He awoke on the ground, his mare standing over him, pawing at the earth and breathing heavily. Seth shook his head and sat up; they had made it across the bridge. But when… how had he ended up on the ground?

Rising to his feet and dusting off his pants and jacket, he reached for his horse to soothe her. She had saved his life, apparently. Worried for her wellbeing, he circled her and froze at her backside. He blinked to make sure he was seeing correctly. Her beautiful tail. It was gone. Blood stained the poor beast’s hindquarters, but not so much he thought she would die.

He gazed across the bridge, torchlight still visible on the other side, voices still buzzing. The witches had pursued him. Chased him down like demons from hell.

“Seth! My dearest, Seth!”

He knew that musical voice, Rosalind. Then she was drowned out by a dozen other voices—cries of concern.

“My lord, what happened?”

“Are you well, sir?”

“You are late for your own wedding…”

That made him whip around and stare at the group of people standing behind his beloved Lady Rosalind.

“Not by choice, it seems.” He pointed to his mare. “What evils lurk in the night in Belware?” he demanded of his guests.

One man surged forward and inspected his mount. “Rosie, girl, did you not tell your groom to beware of crossing Belware Bridge at the witching hour on Summer’s End eve?”

Rosalind looked thoroughly chastised as she stared at the ground and said, “No.”

“’Tis a miracle they didna catch ye,” another man offered. “Yer horse has paid the price for ye. For once ye cross the middle of the river on the bridge, no witch can touch ye.”

The reality of it all settled in Seth’s gut like lead, heavy and poisonous, and for a moment, he faltered on his feet. Rosalind reached out and steadied him.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He gazed down at her delicate features, so beautiful and gentle. Everything he could want in a woman and more. “Yes,” he said resolutely. “For you are here.” He tugged her into his arms and kissed the top of her head as she laid her cheek on his chest. “Come,” he commanded, having recovered his senses. “Nothing will keep me from speaking my vows before God and our guests.”

As he directed his guests to return to the manor house, his bride tucked beside him, and his brave mare walking behind him, he turned his head and stared back at the bridge.

Ye escaped me this time, Baron. Yet, if I ever find ye on the bridge again on Summer’s End, I will have ye. Body and soul. Forever.

As a violent shiver shook him, Seth knew from that time onward, he would respect the traditions of Belware, as his forefathers had before him.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Violetta Rand

The Husband Dilemma Series

How to Fool a Duke

Highlands Forever Series

Unbreakable

Undeniable

Unyielding

Lords of Hedonism

Duke of Decadence

Viking’s Fury Series

Love’s Fury

Desire’s Fury

Passion’s Fury

Also from Violetta Rand

Viking Hearts

Raven

About Violetta Rand

Raised in Corpus Christi, Texas, Violetta Rand spent her childhood reading, writing, and playing soccer. After meeting her husband in New England, they moved to Alaska where she studied environmental science. Violetta spent a decade working as a scientist before quitting her day job to pursue her dream as a full time writer.

Violetta still lives in Anchorage, Alaska, and spends her days writing evocative contemporary and historical romance. When she’s not reading, writing, or editing, she enjoys time with her husband, pets, and friends.

Website:

www.violettarandromance.com

The Bridge to Love

Alexa Aston

Prologue

Kent—August 1280

Lady Anne of Glanville stood at the edge of the forest beside the old oak tree. She looked across the way, her gaze on the wooden bridge spanning the Medway River, the link between her father’s property and that of Lord Windthorst of Windsong. Elric had told her to meet him here early, before morning mass began, because he had something very important to discuss with her. She spied movement on the other side and her heart sped up when Elric appeared.

Anne loved Elric with all her heart.

She couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t known the handsome man who now began to cross the bridge to her side of the river. Two years older than she was, Elric had recently turned eighteen. He had fostered at Lord Morran’s over the years, coming home only infrequently, but always making certain that he saw her when he returned to Windsong. She had watched him grow from a young, sturdy boy into the man that now ventured across the bridge, tall and broad-shouldered, with sparking blue eyes and thick, golden hair.

He spied her in the darkness and hurried toward her.

Reaching her, he took her hand and said, “It seems years since I last saw you, Anne.” His eyes roamed her face as if he had asked her a question and awaited some kind of answer.

“I was glad to receive your message,” she told him. “It is good to see you, Elric. It always is.”

Suddenly, he seized her shoulders, his eyes dark.

“I have something I must ask you,” he said solemnly.

When he didn’t speak, Anne asked nervously, “What do you wish of me?”

Elric said, “I wish for you to be my wife, Anne.”

He bent, pressing his lips to hers for the very first time. They were warm and soft as they brushed against her own.

Her heart sang as she wrapped her arms about his waist.

The sweet kiss went on, warming her blood, stirring something unknown within her. Her childhood dreams were now coming true.

Elric broke the kiss, gazing down upon her now with a confident smile. “I want us to wed at once,” he shared.

His determined words gave her pause, as if something stood in their way. “Why? What is wrong? What are you not telling me?”

Anger flushed his face as he said, “Father wishes for me to wed Lord Bronwyn’s daughter. He wants a union between our two families,” Elric explained. “The king favors Lord Bronwyn. Father hopes if I wed the earl’s eldest daughter that our family will bask in that favor, as well.”

“We cannot go against your father’s wishes,” Anne said dully, hurt filling her as the brief happiness had been snatched away. “I am a dutiful daughter and you have always been a dutiful son.”

“He doesn’t understand what I hold dear,” Elric said. “I have loved you from the time we were children, Anne. I want to go on loving you throughout time.”

“But how can you go against your father?” she asked. “If we wed, he would hate you—and he would certainly hate me.”

“He will accept what is,” Elric predicted. “I promise you that, Anne. I have already spoken to our priest, Father Michael. He knows my heart and how I feel about you. He is willing to help us. The question is, can you wed me under such circumstances?”

Anne swallowed, her thoughts swirling. She turned away from Elric, needing time to think, but knowing she didn’t have that luxury. Her eyes turned to the tree trunk in front of her. The massive oak had stood here for many years. A set of initials were carved into it.

Her parents’ initials.

They had been a love match and her mother had brought Anne to this tree from the time she could walk, pointing out what her father had scratched into the wood. Though her mother had died three years ago, she still lived in Anne’s heart—and that of her father’s. Lord Glanville had sworn never to remarry, wanting to remain faithful to the only woman he ever loved.

Anne possessed that kind of love for Elric. She would have her father’s support in this endeavor. It would be difficult since Lord Windthorst had already chosen a bride for his son but Anne promised herself to be the best wife she could be to Elric and hoped that would win over his father.

She turned and faced her true love and saw the worry that filled his face.

Taking his hands in hers, she said, “I will wed you anywhere. In any place. At any time. I love you, Elric. I always have. I always will.”

He beamed at her, the doubt falling from his face. “We will meet at midnight,” he informed her. “Father Michael says we must have a witness to the marriage.”

Anne frowned. “Who could we tell about this?”

“I have decided to ask Bickford to observe our union.”

Anne did not like Elric’s cousin. He was three years older than Elric and had come to live with the de Bergville family after his father’s death over ten years ago. Bickford was far too arrogant for her taste. Knowing, though, that they required a witness for the ceremony, she could understand why Elric wanted to ask his cousin. Elric was an only son and family meant a great deal to him. It made sense to invite Bickford to act as their witness.

“When will you tell him of our plans?” she asked.

“After we sup this evening in the great hall. Bickford is in charge of the night patrols around Windsong. If need be as we leave the castle’s gates, we can use the excuse that he wants to make a personal sweep about the estate. No one will question him.”

Elric framed Anne’s face in his large hands and said, “I will count the minutes until we can be together.”

He lowered his mouth to hers again and the kiss brought her reassurance.

Breaking the kiss, he smiled down upon her. He took her hand in his, entwining their fingers, and pointed to the oak tree.

“I have always enjoyed the story of your father carving these initials into this tree. I want to do something similar.”

As the sun began to break along the horizon, Elric led Anne to the center of the bridge, where he stopped.

“Just as many people will see your parents’ initials on that tree over the decades to come, I also want others to see tangible evidence of our love.”

He released her hand and pulled a blade from his boot.

Anne watched as Elric carved a heart into the handrail, a warm glow filling her. Then he carved his own initials into the wood.

“We will wed at this spot at midnight,” he proclaimed. “And once we have been joined as man and wife, I will add your initials here. It will be a spot we bring our children to over the years and tell them our love story.”

This time, it was Anne who wanted a kiss. She gripped Elric’s tunic and pulled his mouth down to hers. Their lips joined together, just as their bodies would after they were pronounced as one in the eyes of God.

She pulled away, gazing steadily at Elric and said, “I love you.”

Her beloved smoothed her hair. “I love you, too, my sweetling. Until tonight.”

They parted, each walking in the opposite direction of the other across the wooden bridge. When Anne reached her side, she turned, seeing that Elric had also paused. She blew him a kiss and he pretended to catch it and tuck it inside his tunic.

Anne made her way back through the woods to her home. She hurried toward the chapel for morning mass, which was about to begin. Peace blanketed her.

When dawn broke tomorrow morning, she would be a married woman.

*

Anne slipped from her bed and donned her boots. She had called for a bath earlier, pouring in some lavender oil. Elric had once told her every time he caught the scent of lavender, he thought of her. She had dressed in a cotehardie of midnight blue, hoping the dark color would help her blend into the night. She prayed that she would find no one awake as she crept down the stairs and past the great hall, where dozens of people had bedded down for the night. No one stirred as she quietly opened the door to the keep and closed it behind her. She kept to the shadows, not wanting to alert any sentry to her movements as she made her way to the sally port.

Her father had showed her the secret door many years ago and she had gone through it numerous times. Her familiarity with the sally port helped as she made her way out it and kept close to the wall surrounding her father’s castle.

The moon shone brightly but the evening was cloudy. Anne bided her time until the clouds crossed it, knowing that would aid in her escape. She raced across the open land in front of the castle and darted into the familiar woods.

She made her way quickly through the forest until she arrived at the oak tree. Pausing, she traced her fingers through the letters carved into the trunk, a smile on her face. She had made a love match as her parents had.

Turning, she watched with keen eyes, waiting for Elric to appear. Moments later, he did, the moonlight shining on his golden hair.

As Elric stepped onto the bridge, Anne moved toward it and did the same. They met in the middle. He clasped her hands and asked, “Are you ready to take this step, my love?”

“Never more ready,” she declared, knowing she would walk through fire to be with this man.

She heard other footsteps on the bridge and looked to see the Windsong priest and Bickford heading toward them.

‘I am Father Michael, Lady Anne.”

“Thank you for assisting us, Father,” she said earnestly.

“When Elric came to me and asked for this favor, I could not turn him down. He has told me many times over the years of his love for you. May God favor you and bless you with many children,” the priest said.

Anne’s eyes flicked to Bickford. She wanted to make an effort with him, knowing he was soon to be family.

“Thank you, Bickford, for being a part of this,” she said.

Bickford nodded. “I was happy to hear of my cousin’s secret plans.” His mouth turned down as he added, “It will be difficult for my uncle to accept since he wished for a marriage with Lord Bronwyn’s daughter but I am certain the two of you will bring him around.”

Anne thought it churlish for Bickford to mention this but kept silent.

Father Michael asked them to join hands and face him. They did so and the ceremony began. As Elric pledged himself to her, she did the same, knowing how right their love was.

The priest called for a symbol of their love and devotion and Bickford produced a thin silver band, handing it to Elric. Elric slipped it on Anne’s finger and then tenderly kissed her hand. His gesture moved her, tears misting her eyes.

The priest concluded the ceremony with a final prayer and Elric gave her a short, sweet kiss. Anne thought of how many kisses they would trade over the coming years.

Her new husband turned to Father Michael. “Thank you, Father.”

“It was my pleasure,” the priest replied, his eyes twinkling. “I will see the both of you at morning mass.”

The holy man of God moved toward the Windsong side of the bridge. Anne waved goodbye to him and then turned her focus to Bickford.

“Thank you again for witnessing our marriage.”

Bickford gave her an enigmatic smile. “I would see you safely back to Windsong.”

“That isn’t necessary,” Elric said. He retrieved his blade. “I have something to do here before we leave. You may go ahead, Cousin.”

Bickford shrugged. “If you insist.” He stepped forward and without warning, brushed an unexpected kiss upon Anne’s cheek. “Welcome to the family, my lady.”

She shuddered involuntarily and heard his chuckle as he retreated from the bridge.

“Are you all right?” Elric asked, concerned.

She pushed aside the sudden uneasiness that filled her. “I am now that you are my husband.”

His palm cupped her cheek. “I feel my love for you filling me, sweetling. Bubbling up and pouring from me.” He kissed her. “Never has a man loved a woman as I love you, Anne. Our love will continue long after we are gone from this earth. May God let us always walk together, both here on earth and one day among the angels.”

Raising his dagger, Elric etched an A inside the heart, next to his own initials. As he paused, she stepped closer and traced the letter with her finger.

“Now, shall I whittle a G for Anne of Glanville?” he mused. “You are no longer of Glanville. You are a de Bergville. I want it to be perfect, just as you are, my love. Our initials will be witness to our deep and abiding love. Years from now, others will walk across this bridge and wonder of the story behind the letters held within this heart. So, tell me—what shall I slice into the wood to bind us through all time?”

Her longing for him caused her to tug on his tunic, bringing his mouth down hard on hers. Elric’s arms enveloped her and he kissed her deeply. A kiss of the promises he had made to her and all those to come in the years ahead. Desire flooded her, knowing they would soon join together physically. Hope filled her that a babe would result from their coupling tonight.

Suddenly, Elric was ripped from her arms. She saw a stranger wrap his beefy arm about Elric’s neck. Bickford was there as well, his hand latching on to Elric’s wrist, forcing the blade from Elric’s hand. It hit the ground.

Anne thought to toss herself into the fray in order to give her husband a chance to escape but without warning, bands of steel encircled her, jerking her back, pinning her arms to her side. She struggled as Bickford stepped toward her, his smile now one of pure evil. The man holding her thrust her away from him and Anne stumbled. Bickford caught her and spun her about, one arm tightening about her waist as he yanked her to him. She opened her mouth to scream but his other hand covered her mouth, muffling her cry.

As she squirmed, trying to free herself, the man who had first held her joined the other stranger. Elric’s eyes were wide with fright as he grappled with his captor. Anne could see her husband was losing the battle, his supply of air cut off.

“Loosen your grip, Castor,” Bickford ordered. “I want him conscious. Help him, Fulk.”

The one called Castor relaxed his hold, his arm still about Elric’s neck. The other, Fulk, moved in, seizing Elric’s flailing arms as he gasped for air.

“What do you want?” Elric wheezed.

But Anne knew. Fear filled her as Bickford’s hand drifted up and tightened on her breast, squeezing it painfully. She shouted for him to stop but her words were stifled by his hand pressing against her mouth.

Elric fought to escape the two men holding him, anger sparking in his eyes. “Let her go. Don’t touch her.”

“Oh, but I do want to touch her, Cousin. I want the sweet Lady Anne—and your title.”

“What?” Elric croaked.

“I have always wanted to be the lord of Windsong,” Bickford revealed. “Ever since I came. Only you stood in my way, Elric. You, the honorable, handsome, only son. If you are gone, I will be able to claim my heart’s desire. Uncle’s death. The title. The land. The wealth.

“And Lady Anne.”

She twisted violently as she tried to escape Bickford’s grasp.

“Do it,” he commanded.

Without hesitation, Fulk grabbed a handful of Elric’s golden curls and yanked his head back. He swiftly drew a dagger across her beloved’s throat.

Elric’s eyes widened in surprise and pain. He made an awful gurgling sound as Fulk released Elric’s hair. As his head dropped to his chest, Castor stepped to the handrail. With Fulk’s help, the two men tossed Elric into the river.

Bickford’s hand dropped from Anne’s mouth. A primal scream came from her, one of agony and lost hope. She broke away and rushed to the rail, looking frantically into the rushing waters and seeing nothing in the darkness below.

“You can now wed me, dearest Anne,” Bickford said. “I always wanted you but you never glanced in my direction. It was always Elric.”

“And it always will be, you cowardly bastard,” she proclaimed. “Elric is my life and my only love.”

With that, Anne, flung herself from the bridge.

She hit the cold river water, being swept downstream quickly. For a moment, she fought to keep her head above water. Then she forced her instinct to survive aside and surrendered to the water. She stopped trying to paddle. She felt herself being dragged down by the weight of her cotehardie. Opening her arms wide, she gave in to the water.

And drowned.

For what seemed a lifetime, Anne floated dreamily in the water, thoughts of kissing Elric keeping her happy. Then she found herself somehow standing. She looked about and immediately recognized the familiar surroundings.

She stood on the Glanbury side of the Medway River, next to the oak tree. Before her was the bridge.

The bridge to Elric.

She saw him on the Windsong side, looking wistfully at her. Eager to touch him—to kiss him—Anne ran the few feet to the bridge. She stepped onto it and then suddenly stopped.

It was as if she couldn’t move. Her feet refused to lift. She took a few steps back with ease and then took a few more. Then she lifted her skirts and began to run.

Again, after only a few feet she stopped, as if some invisible barrier stood in her way. She looked at her feet, trying to understand what prevented her from continuing.

Raising her head, her gaze connected with Elric’s. He stood sadly on the other side. He shook his head in defeat.

Anne tried again and again but could not break through, no matter how she availed herself.

Why couldn’t she get to Elric?

And then she understood.

She was dead. So was Elric. And the bridge stood between them, keeping them apart.

For all time . . .

Chapter One

London—August 1811

Lady Iris Langley awoke, an emptiness spreading within her.

The Season was over and done.

Last night, she had danced the night away at a ball, the last social event until next April. While the evening had been enjoyable, Iris left without any offers of marriage. When this Season—her first—began, she held high hopes of finding a husband. Not just any husband.

The right husband.

Unfortunately, none of the many bachelors she had been introduced to met her requirements. Yes, she had many gentlemen call upon her over the last several months. But none of them stood out from the others. Her stepmother chastised her on a daily basis, accusing Iris of been too picky. Well, what was wrong with that? It was a husband she was considering, a man she would spend the rest of her life with. Of course she needed to be selective.

Her list included wanting a man who would treat her with respect and admire her as much for her brain as he did her beauty. Regrettably, almost ever suitor complimented her endlessly on her looks. Her dark, raven hair. Her deep, gray eyes. Her flawless complexion and beautiful smile. Though they weren’t allowed to mention it, she had caught many of them perusing her hourglass figure, as well.

Not one gentleman seemed to wish to know anything about her, though. While she was inquisitive and asked others questions about themselves, her callers rarely—if ever—did the same. She could tell anyone who asked what Lord Dixon’s favorite color was. That Lord Dutton preferred ham and Lord Brock enjoyed chicken. She knew Lord Crocker only went to see comedies at the theatre and that Lord Harris enjoyed gardening.

Not a single one of those titled gentlemen could provide one personal thing they had learned about her. She knew it—because she had finally asked each of them. They had all looked at her, perplexed, and then acted surprised when she lit into them, accusing them of merely courting her for her beauty and sizeable dowry.

Iris wanted to be seen for herself.

Crispin had seen her. He had known her likes and dislikes.

She had not seen her childhood friend in almost a decade. Once, they had been inseparable. Her father’s estate, Glanbury, and Crispin’s home, Windsong, almost adjoined. Only the Medway River separated their properties. For some reason, though he was four years older than Iris, Crispin had taken her under his wing when they were young. He taught her to skip rocks across a pond and fish in the river. He was the first to set her atop a pony and teach her about horses and how to ride. Iris had spent every summer day in Crispin’s company and many other days of his school holidays with him.

But their lives changed. Crispin’s first when his father, the Earl of Windthorst, died. Crispin was eleven and a second son so his older brother, Royston, inherited the title. Royston had just turned twenty-one. While their father had made time for both of his sons, Royston cared nothing for his younger brother, probably due to the age gap between them. Or simply because he was nasty. At least that’s what Iris thought. Royston was selfish and manipulative and preferred to ignore Crispin when he returned from school. That actually gave Crispin and her more time together.

Then things changed again. And not for the better.

Iris’ mother died in childbirth when she was ten. Lady Glanville had lost several babes over the years, never bringing any to term after Iris’ birth. Finally, she had, though the boy was stillborn. Sometimes, Iris believed her mother died of a broken heart since she hadn’t been able to provide her beloved husband with an heir.

Her father was inconsolable in the weeks after his wife’s death. They were a love match, rare in Polite Society. She recalled the first time Mama had taken her walking through the woods. They had paused at an enormous oak tree. Mama had said it must have stood there for hundreds of years. She showed Iris where couples had carved their initials into the tree and had Iris find her parents’ initials.

Mama had speculated on how many couples had etched their initials into the oak’s trunk, a tribute to their love. She told Iris that one day she must have her sweetheart do the same so that she, too, could become part of the history of Glanbury.

Iris hadn’t seen the lovers’ tree since Mama’s death. After a few months of grieving, Papa took her to London. Glanbury had been a happy place for him and he couldn’t stand the thought of being there without his wife. Lord Glanville had them remain in town permanently so Iris hadn’t seen Crispin again. Eventually, her father remarried a widow of great beauty.

And great cunning.

Iris hated her.

She had thought with Papa having wed again, they would spend the Season in town and then return to the country as most other families did. Iris missed country life. The clean air. The quiet. The peace. The new Lady Glanville, however, had no desire to live in a house where her predecessor had. She knew her husband had been in love with his first wife and seemed jealous of a dead woman.

Instead, the three of them had remained in town year-round. She watched as her father, who went into his second marriage with great hope, slowly saw those hopes shattered. The new Lady Glanville seemed to care little for her husband and nothing for her stepdaughter. As time passed, Iris heard the servants gossiping about the string of lovers their mistress took. She watched Papa grow more unhappy as time passed, caught in a trap of his own making.

Iris didn’t want a marriage like that. She wanted one far different. One like Mama and Papa had experienced.

Perhaps she was looking for love.

Obviously, it had not come to her during her first Season. Now, London would empty out, a majority of the ton going to their country estates, while she would remain here, lonely and unsatisfied.

She thought again of the oak tree, filled with letters of lovers who had romantically placed their initials upon its trunk, each leaving their mark that spoke to their love for one another. She wanted a man who would understand why she wanted the same.

Would she ever find him?

Her thoughts turned to Crispin again. She used to daydream about him after she had left Kent. She wrote two, lengthy letters to him but he answered neither and she believed he had grown tired of her. Still, she had looked for him in the glittering ballrooms of London when she made her debut but never found him. After getting to know a few others who had recently made their come-outs with her, she’d discovered that Lord Windthorst, Crispin’s brother, had died just before the Season began and that Crispin, a lieutenant serving in His Majesty’s army, had come home to take up the mantle of earl as he mourned.

Perhaps knowing Crispin was in England, back at Windsong, is what had prevented Iris from forming an attachment to another man.

Because her heart told her she loved Crispin.

Would he even remember her? The little girl that worshipped him. And even if he did think of her fondly, how was she ever to see him again? Her stepmother refused to set foot upon Glanbury lands. Perhaps she could convince Papa that it was finally time to pay a visit to their country home.

Without Lady Glanville.

Now that Iris had a plan of action, she tossed aside the bedclothes and rang for her longtime maid. Rose soon arrived and helped her to dress for the day. She hoped to find her father at breakfast and was startled when she entered the breakfast room because her stepmother was also present. She rarely rose before noon, even when the Season wasn’t in full swing.

As Iris took her place at the table, she felt anger hanging in the air. She looked to her father, the kindest and most gentle of men, and saw his face mottled red with rage. Quickly, she glanced to her stepmother and saw the fury in her eyes, knowing an explosion would soon take place. Lady Glanville was known for her volatile temper and the servants had always tread lightly, never knowing if or when they might be dismissed on the spot.

A footman placed a plate filled with toast points and a poached egg before Iris, her usual breakfast, while another footman brought her a cup of steaming tea. Both servants retreated to a corner, their expressions grim.

Deciding to venture into deep waters, Iris said, “Good morning, Papa. Good morning, Stepmama.”

That was all it took for Lady Glanville to explode.

“How many times have I told you not to call me that?” she snapped. “I am not and never will be your mama. I am not old enough to be your mama. I have no desire to parent you in any way. You took none of my advice during the Season and that is why you now sit at this table with no offers of marriage. I cannot believe we are stuck with you for another year.”

Before Iris could respond, her father slammed his fist down upon the table. “You will not speak to my daughter in that tone ever again!” He looked to the two footmen and their hovering butler and added, “Leave. Now.”

With haste, all three servants exited the room.

Lady Glanville’s eyes narrowed. “It must be something of importance you wish to speak to me about. Clever of you to have asked the servants to leave.”

“I wish I could ask you to leave, Madam,” Papa forced out, shocking Iris to her core.

“What is wrong, Papa?” she asked, knowing something was very wrong.

“What is wrong, Iris, is that I married this harridan. Or should I say slut?” His eyes flicked to his wife and back to Iris. “I was lonely for so many years after your mama’s death. I finally thought it would be good for me—and you, since you would soon make your come-out—for us to have a woman’s touch in the household again. How very wrong I was.”

Papa rose to his feet and said to the countess, “You are a disgrace, Woman.”

His wife shot to her feet, as well. “I am nothing of the sort, Glanville,” she said icily. “I manage this household with aplomb. I am one of the leading ladies in the ton regarding fashion. You will apologize to me at once and perhaps I will consider forgiving you.”

Her father scrambled from his place and, after a few strides, grabbed Lady Glanville by the shoulders, shaking her.

“You have betrayed me in every way possible,” he said harshly. “Yes, I know about your parade of lovers. The thought sickens me. I am tired of you. Of everything about you.”

Iris watched in horror as her stepmother slapped Papa, the red imprint of her palm staining his cheek.

“How dare you!” she roared. “I have done my best to be your countess and shepherd your daughter through her come-out Season. And this is how you repay me?”

She tried to pull away but his fingers tightened on her and he said, “I don’t want to have anything to do with you, Madam. You disgust me. I rue the day I wed you and if I could, I would be rid of you.”

“Then divorce me, Glanville,” she hissed.

Iris gasped. No one in the ton petitioned for a divorce. It was a lengthy, expensive process—and it ruined the reputation of the couple involved in the proceedings. In turn, it would ruin her reputation, as well. Her hopes of ever marrying would be slim with such a scandal hanging over her family. Her gaze connected with her stepmother’s and Iris saw the woman knew what she was thinking.

“If you divorce me, Glanville, it will ruin your precious daughter,” Lady Glanville spat out.

Shock filled Papa’s face and he released his wife, stepping back in horror. Then he looked at her with such contempt that Iris shuddered, wondering at the depth of his rage.

“Then we will lead separate lives from this moment on, Madam,” he announced. “Iris and I will return today to Glanbury. You are to remain here in London.”

“And when next Season comes?” Lady Glanville challenged. “What then?”

“Iris and I will return to this house. We will neither speak to you nor have anything to do with you. You will have the east wing to call your own but this is the last time I will ever address you, in private or public.”

His gaze turned to Iris and he said, “We are going home.”

Papa quit the room. Iris rose, having no appetite now. Her heart sang, however, knowing she would now return to her childhood home, to the place where she and Papa had been happy.

She rose and her stepmother said, “He thinks he has won. He hasn’t. He will come crawling back to me. He needs me.”

Iris shook her head. “You are a viper. Poison to everyone. Papa and I will be happier without you.” She paused and then added, “And who is to say he won’t take lovers himself? You have done so throughout your marriage, making no secret of it. You have not given him the expected heir. You have been more than a disappointment as a wife. You have been a disaster. I am only glad Papa has finally seen this and washed his hands of you.”

Iris hurried upstairs, where she rang for Rose and told the servant they were departing London immediately and returning to Kent until the next Season.

Her maid’s jaw fell. “Is that so, my lady?”

“Yes, Rose. We are finally going home.”

Two hours later, she sat next to her father in their carriage. As they left London, she took his hand in hers.

“Thank you, Papa, for finally standing up to her.”

“I don’t know what I was thinking when I decided to wed her,” he admitted. “She was a widow and had beauty and a maturity about her. I knew I could never love her but I did hope for an heir off her. Instead, all you and I received was heartache.”

He squeezed her hand. “I am sorry I kept us from Glanbury for so long,” he apologized. “I spent the happiest years of my life there with your mother. After her death, I could not see myself living there and had to escape. I knew my steward would mange things well for me and I thought being in town, you and I could create a new life for us. I have wronged you, Iris. I hope you can forgive me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Papa. We are going home, which is all I ever wanted.”

Iris settled against the carriage cushion and gazed out the window, hoping by being away from Lady Glanville, both she and Papa could reclaim their lives and happiness.

She also planned to see Crispin. Something told her their meeting would determine her future.

Chapter Two

Excitement filled Iris as they drew near Glanbury. Then she began giggling uncontrollably.

“What is it?” Papa asked.

Mirth filled her as she said, “I just realized that we have taken the carriage and horses. Lady Glanville has no transportation at all.”

Her father erupted into laughter and Iris joined him, wiping tears from her eyes.

“I cannot see her walking anywhere, can you?” he asked. “She won’t even cross the room to pick up a handkerchief and rings for a maid to bring it to her.” He sighed. “Oh, it does feel good to laugh again. I don’t remember the last time I did.”

Papa squeezed her hand. “And it is good to see you smiling again, Iris. I don’t recall you doing so the entire Season.”

“That is because Lady Glanville keep thrusting undesirable gentlemen at me. She confirmed today that she wanted me to wed merely to get me out of the house.”

He chuckled. “If she could have married me off to someone else, she would have done so.”

Sadness filled Iris. “I am sorry you are saddled with her, Papa. I know divorce is out of the question.”

“It is. It would ruin any chance you have of finding a husband. I won’t do that to you.”

“I wish you could find contentment, Papa.”

He shrugged. “I found joy every day with your mother. I had hoped my new wife might provide me with companionship. I had just passed forty when I began courting her. I was lonely. Wanting an heir so that I could pass down my title. She pretended to be quite mad for me. It was only after we spoke our vows that she showed her true colors. She told me coupling was painful for her, both physically and emotionally. Even had her physician come and have a talk with me. He told me she had lost a child and was unable to have another.”

Anger flared within her. “Then she should have told you of that before you wed. She must have known you wanted an heir.”

“I should have clearly communicated that to her,” he said regretfully. “If I knew she couldn’t bear me a son, I never would have offered for her.”

“Do you think she and the doctor lied to you?”

“I’m not certain,” he replied. “I do know the act is not painful to her because she has had a stream of lovers in the two years we have been wed. I heard rumors of it. I would enter my club and the place would go silent. Finally, I hired a Bow Street Runner to get to the bottom of things. It may be true she cannot bear a child and that gives her the freedom to take as many lovers as she wishes without fear. I had planned to confront her about her behavior after meeting with the runner yesterday afternoon. I do apologize for things escalating as they did, especially in front of you. I would have kept this knowledge from you. That I felt young again because a woman a decade younger than me found me attractive. Now I know she merely wanted to secure her future. The runner told me that her lovers are all in their twenties. Young bucks she dallies with and then sends on their way. I was a such a fool.”

Iris slipped her arm through his. “No, Papa, you were deceived by a wicked woman. Do not blame yourself for her evil ways.”

“Perhaps she sensed that I could never give my full heart to her. That it would always belong to your mother.”

She sniffed. “That is no excuse for her abominable behavior. Please, let’s forget about her for now. We are almost home. We’ll be there for months.” Iris sighed. “At least until next Season, I suppose.”

“Do you not wish to go back to town for it?” he asked gently. “Were you that unhappy?”

“I don’t know,” she said honestly. “I missed the country dreadfully. And . . .” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed and then said, “I suppose none of the bachelors I met lived up to my image of the ideal gentleman. A man I would want to make my husband.”

Papa looked at her sagely. “You mean none of them were Lord Windthorst.”

Her cheeks heated. “I suppose I can keep nothing from you. Yes, in the back of mind, it has always been Crispin.”

“You were close as children. I know his despicable brother is dead and that Crispin holds the title.” He smiled. “Perhaps we should ask Lord Windthorst to dinner now that we are back at Glanbury.”

“Could we, Papa?”

Hope filled Iris. She didn’t know if Crispin would wish to continue their friendship from long ago, especially since he had never answered her letters. Still, they were adults now and neighbors. She wanted to see him. Talk with him. Only then would she know if something remained between them.

“I don’t see why not. Of course, who knows how we will find Glanbury. We have been gone a good while.”

The carriage slowed and turned into the lane that led up to the house. Iris’ heart pounded and she gripped her father’s hand tightly.

“We will find it is still home, Papa.”

When they descended from the carriage, Mrs. Bennett greeted them.

“My stars! I had no idea you were coming, my lord. And Lady Iris.” Tears filled the housekeeper’s eyes. “Oh, my lady. How you have grown into a beauty. I haven’t seen you since you were a girl of ten.”

Iris embraced the housekeeper. “I have missed you and Glanbury, Mrs. Bennett. Papa and I are back. At least until next Season.”

“Oh, Lady Iris, so much needs to be done. It’s only me and one maid. And Cook, of course. We covered the furniture in sheets and let all the other servants go. It will take time to air your rooms and prepare the place for living again.”

“Would it be easier if my daughter and I stayed at the village inn for a week or so, Mrs. Bennett?” asked Papa.

“That’s an excellent idea, my lord. Staff will need to be hired. The place will need a thorough cleaning.”

“Then we’ll come every day,” Papa declared. “Iris can help in hiring new servants and getting the household into order. I will spend my days with Mr. Tate, catching up on estate matters and visiting my tenants. He may be my steward but I want a hand in things again.”

“Oh, it is ever so good to have you both back, my lord. But . . . what of Lady Glanville?”

Papa frowned and brusquely said, “She will reside in town.”

“I see,” the housekeeper said thoughtfully. “Well, come inside and we can begin to see what needs to be done.”

“I think I will go into Aylesworth and secure rooms for us for the next week,” Papa said. “Iris, you go with Mrs. Bennett. And we would like to invite Lord Windthorst to dinner a week from today.”

The housekeeper nodded. “We will be in good shape by then, my lord.”

Papa beamed. “Splendid—because two weeks from today, we will be holding a country ball. I want the neighborhood to know we are back.”

“A ball, Papa? What an excellent idea.”

Iris knew a country ball differed from most because not only would gentry from the neighborhood receive invitations but also the tenants at Glanbury and even residents in the local village. It would be the perfect way to reestablish former friendships and make new ones, as well as allow their tenants to see that Papa was truly committed to them.

Mrs. Bennett blew out a breath. “Well, I don’t see why not. If we can hire a new staff and get the house back into order, hosting a country ball would thrill everyone.”

“I will leave the details to you and Iris, Mrs. Bennett.” Papa kissed Iris’ cheek. “I’ll go into Aylesworth now and put out the word that we are back and in need of servants, both in the house and the stables. We may have to send to London, however, in order to find ourselves a butler.”

Mrs. Bennett cleared her throat. “Might I be so bold as to suggest my cousin, Lord Glanville? His name is Mr. Cutler and he recently lost his position. His employer closed his London townhouse due to poor health and will remain in the country. All the town servants were dismissed, including my cousin. I don’t know if he’s found another household yet but if he hasn’t, I can recommend him.”

“That is excellent news, Mrs. Bennett. Write to your cousin and have him come to Glanbury as soon as possible,” Papa suggested. “You have served us for many years and I value your opinion. If you say Mr. Cutler is qualified, then the position is his.”

“Thank you, my lord,” said the grateful servant. “You will not be disappointed.” Mrs. Bennett looked to Iris. “Shall we tour the house, my lady?”

“With pleasure,” Iris said enthusiastically.

*

Iris told her father goodnight and went upstairs to her bedchamber. She had chosen to keep the same one she had used as a girl. The past week had been a flurry of activity, with a bevy of servants being hired to get Glanbury back to a livable standard. She and Mrs. Bennett had been pleased with the results and asked all the new maids and footmen to remain. Cook had also been allowed to hire two scullery maids to assist her in preparing meals for Iris and her father and the new staff. More would come onboard in the coming weeks because her father wanted to fill the stables and hire a head groom and assistants to help care for the horses and vehicles. As of now, only their coachman from London handled the horses.

Mr. Cutler, their new butler, had arrived two days ago. Iris immediately saw the family resemblance between him and their housekeeper. True to her word, Mrs. Bennett’s cousin proved to be a superb leader and eminently qualified to assume the reins over the household. Mr. Cutler had silver being polished and furniture moved within minutes of his arrival. He and Mrs. Bennett worked well together and Iris knew that Glanbury once more was in capable hands. Tomorrow, they would host Crispin for dinner and Mr. Cutler promised Iris that the country ball could easily take place the week after.

Because of his assurances and those of Mrs. Bennett, Iris had spent the better part of the day writing out invitations and having footmen deliver them to those in the community. Mrs. Bennett filled in a few of the gaps as to who still lived in the neighborhood, as well as in Aylesworth, and Iris would show Crispin her invitation list tomorrow evening to see if he could think of anyone else they would need to invite.

She looked forward to seeing him after so long a time apart. She told herself not to get her hopes up. Not to expect too much—actually, anything—from him. They were two people who had not seen one another in almost a decade. She knew they had both changed. Even matured.

But a part of her hoped that they could achieve the closeness they once had, as friends.

Or something more.

As she entered her bedchamber, ready to spend her first night back under Glanbury’s roof, a sense of calm filled her. Being home after so many years had brought a peace of mind that she hadn’t known during all her years in London.

And then she caught a whiff of lavender.

Iris closed the door and stepped into the room, something tugging at the back of her memory. She walked about, her brow furrowed. Then it occurred to her.

Her childhood playmate . . .

She had always smelled lavender when the young woman came to play with her. What was her name?

Iris now knew that Anne had been but a figment of her active imagination. She’d had no brothers or sisters and had merely invented someone to play dolls or pretend to take tea with her.

Anne.

Yes, that was her name. Anne. She had appeared to Iris when she was barely walking. For a long while, Iris thought Anne was real. She only came out when Iris was alone. She had welcomed Anne with open arms. She remembered sitting beside her as they turned the pages of a book. Anne watching her draw. Iris would prop up her dolls and she and Anne would play with them, even serving them tea with a child’s set of dishes. Anne had even lain on the bed beside her when Iris took her naps. She recalled spending long hours talking to Anne. The young woman never spoke, only listened as Iris prattled on, talking enough for the both of them.

Gradually, over time, Anne had faded away.

Iris supposed it was because she grew older and didn’t believe in imaginary playmates anymore. Or perhaps it was because she met Crispin and they began spending so much time together. Whatever the reason, Iris had no longer needed to have a make-believe friend—and so Anne had disappeared.

Still, every now and then, when Iris had entered her bedchamber, she could smell the faint scent of lavender, as if Anne continued to watch over her.

Why would she be smelling it now, so many years after childhood?

Feeling a bit unsettled, she rang for Rose. The sensible maid brokered no nonsense from anyone. Iris needed a good dose of the very sensible Rose.

The servant appeared. “You were busy today, my lady. All them invitations to write out. It took a fair amount of footmen to see them all delivered. Here, I’ve got your night rail already laid out on the bed. Let’s get you into it for your first night back home. Oh, it’s lovely to be at Glanbury again,” Rose declared.

Her maid had the right effect on Iris, chattering away and dissipating the feelings of unease which had come over her. Rose had her sit at the dressing table and removed the pins from Iris’ hair, brushing it out until it shone and then plaiting it into a single braid for sleep.

“Anything else you need tonight, my lady?”

“No. That will be all, Rose. Thank you.”

Iris climbed into bed as the maid left the room and leaned over to blow out the candles before settling against the pillows. The sheer curtain panes allowed the moonlight to shine into the room. Iris never liked the damask curtains to be drawn at night because she was an early riser and liked morning light streaming into her room, gently awakening her.

She glanced about and then tried to shake off the feeling of being watched. She almost rose to close the curtains, which would plunge the room into darkness, but she was so weary. Instead, she closed her eyes, thinking of all she needed to accomplish tomorrow.

When she would finally see Crispin.

Iris knew it was a dream. Odd that she could be aware of that fact and yet not awake. In it, she opened her eyes and tossed back the bedclothes. She went to the window and glanced outside. The night was quiet. Still.

She turned and saw Anne standing there.

Iris looked at Anne with more mature eyes now. In her youth, she had thought Anne much older than she was. Now, she could see that Anne was no more than fifteen or sixteen. Her long, dark hair cascaded about her and Iris wondered why it hung loose. She had never really noticed what Anne wore but now she saw that it was as if Anne were dressed from another time, an earlier one, long before now.

“You came back,” Anne said—though her lips did not move.

“We went away because Papa was sad that Mama died,” Iris explained.

“I know. She was sad to leave here.”

“Did you know Mama?”

Anne nodded. “I used to watch the two of you together. She loved having a little girl. And she was so happy with your father.”

“They were a love match. Papa carved their initials into the lovers’ tree.”

Sorrow filled Anne’s face.

“Did I say something wrong?” Iris asked, taking a few steps toward her friend.

“I loved once.”

“Who was he, Anne?”

But Anne moved away, fading into the shadows.

Iris awoke with a start. She realized she was back in her bed and that she had only left it in the dream. The dream that had been of Anne.

Then she glanced to the foot of her bed.

Anne stood there, watching Iris, sadness enveloping her.

She gasped—and Anne dissolved into nothingness.

Chapter Three

Somehow, Iris managed to fall asleep again though it had taken a good half-hour to do so. She awoke as the early morning light streamed into the room. Her window faced the east and so she always received the first light.

The vivid dream from last night came back to her.

Iris closed her eyes, drifting back to the dream again. She easily recalled Anne. What the young woman looked like and how she was dressed. What Anne had said.

That she had once loved someone.

Iris now believed that Anne was a ghost, not some figment of her childhood imagination. Anne had lived at Glanbury long ago.

The question was why her spirit still remained.

She wondered how many others had seen Anne over the years. She wanted to ask Papa if he had seen her but somehow she doubted it. It might be possible from what Anne had said that Mama had seen her. Or perhaps Anne had merely watched Iris and her mother. She felt no anger in Anne but sensed the immense unhappiness which filled the spirit. Was her melancholy caused by the man she loved? Had he not returned Anne’s love? Had her parents kept Anne and her lover apart? Or had she died in childbirth?

Iris had so many questions. She was determined to discover Anne’s identity.

“I will discover who you are, Anne, and why you are so unhappy,” she vowed aloud.

Opening her eyes, for a moment she believed she saw Anne standing at the foot of the bed. Iris blinked and saw nothing was there.

Or at least nothing was there now.

“Anne,” she said softly, “I want to help you. You stayed at Glanbury for a reason after your death. I must help you find a way to move on.”

Determination filled her as she swung her legs from the bed and rang for Rose. She said nothing of seeing a ghost to her maid and would not even tell Papa. Still, she thought he might be able to help her uncover the identity of who Anne had been when she walked the earth.

At breakfast, Iris asked, “Do we have any records of Glanbury’s ancestors, Papa? I know some families record births and deaths in their family Bible.”

“What brought about this sudden interest?” he asked.

“I suppose as we prepared everything for us to live here again, it got me to thinking of all the ones who came before us.”

“There is a book of some sorts. It is quite old. The first Earl of Glanville began it when he received the earldom. It lists births, marriages, and deaths. Would you like to see it?”

“I would,” she said with enthusiasm, certain that she would learn something of Anne from this book.

They finished eating and Papa invited her to the library. Pulling the book from the shelf, he took it to a long table and opened it. Turning the pages carefully, he pointed.

“There is your name, Iris. Your mother’s hand was much better than mine so she recorded your birth.”

A lump swelled her throat and her fingertips touched where her name rested on the page. She noticed her mother had also recorded her marriage to Lord Glanville—and that her father had yet to make note of his second marriage to the current Lady Glanville, much less the death of his first wife.

“This is just what I was looking for, Papa,” she said softly.

“Don’t forget the old family cemetery,” he reminded her. “Though no family members have been buried there for a good hundred years or more, it does contain your ancestors.”

Iris had forgotten the space devoted to the graves of past residents of Glanbury since all Langleys were now buried in the church’s graveyard in Aylesworth. Excitement rippled through her as she thought she might be able to find Anne’s grave.

“I must leave you on your own,” Papa said. “I am meeting again with Mr. Tate.”

“Don’t forget that we have a guest for dinner tonight,” she reminded.

“I won’t. I will be taking tea with Mr. Tate and one of our tenants this afternoon so I will see you and Lord Windthorst at dinner.”

“Be in the drawing room at seven, Papa. We shall have drinks there and then go into dinner.”

“That sounds lovely.” He kissed her cheek. “You can tell us at dinner all about the preparations for the ball.”

He left and she eagerly returned her attention to the book. Iris thought about what Anne wore and knew the clothing was nothing like the Georgian era or even the Stuarts and Tudors before. No, Anne had been haunting Glanbury for quite some time.

Gently closing the book, Iris opened it at its beginning and decided to work her way forward. The first entry was dated April of 1140 and noted that under the reign of Henry Beauclerc, Henry I of England, the earldom had been granted. It then listed the first Earl of Glanville, his name and date of birth, and his two marriages. Under each marriage appeared a list of children from that marriage, with their births, marriages, and dates of death recorded.

Iris began skimming through the book, carefully turning the thick, old parchment pages as she looked for Anne’s name. She saw one but noted this Anne had died before her tenth birthday. Another Anne was listed several pages from that first entry but she, too, had died when she was five. Neither could possibly be her Anne.

Then she found an entry for a third Anne, born in 1264. She had two older siblings. One had become the next earl.

What Iris found incredibly odd, however, was that while Anne’s date of birth had been recorded, no marriage or date of death had been entered. She continued studying each page until she reached Tudor times. Instinct told her that her Anne could not have lived during those times or later. That the ghost of Anne which Iris had seen over the years—and last night in her dream—was the Anne who was the only individual listed who did not reveal a date of marriage or death. Iris could understand if Anne wed and moved away why her date of death might have been a mystery. Yet throughout the book, even until now, all death dates were recorded. Well, except her own mother.

Why did this Anne have no mention of her death?

Puzzled, she returned the book to the shelf and decided to look in the graveyard. Once there, though, she found no answers. She discovered graves for Anne’s two brothers, as well as her father and mother. Yet Anne had no grave of her own. It was as if she had disappeared and no one knew what had happened to her.

Had she run away with her lover? If so, why did her ghost haunt Glanbury? Had he made Anne unhappy? Or worse, had he abandoned her? Did she die in some hovel far from her home, only to have her spirit return to the place she had known happiness?

Iris had so many questions—and no answers.

She thought of the tree where lovers had placed their initials and hurried from the graveyard to the nearby forest. If she could find Anne’s initials there, along with those of her lover, it might be a further clue in helping discover why Anne wasn’t at peace.

Reaching the tree, Iris paused a moment. It loomed larger than any tree nearby, its trunk massive. She stepped closer and her fingers immediately found where her father had placed his initials and his bride’s. Papa had done what no others had and also carved their wedding date below their initials. Iris had always thought that a thoughtful touch and longed for the day when her groom would do the same.

She searched the tree, looking high and low, circling about it until she had studied every mark placed upon it. Anne’s initials weren’t here. Sighing, she leaned against the tree.

And saw Anne.

The apparition was hard to see in the strong daylight but Iris knew it was her. Anne stood beside the ancient footbridge which crossed the Medway River, the link which she had crossed dozens of times on her way to meet Crispin. Iris had always been in a hurry and never once paused on the bridge itself.

Did this bridge have something to do with Anne?

Quickly, she hurried from the woods and toward the bridge. Anne watched Iris approach. As she drew near, she could see Anne was translucent. Iris could see the bridge behind Anne.

She reached the ghost and said, “I know you are a ghost, Anne. Does this bridge have anything to do with why you returned to Glanbury?”

Anne pointed as she slowly dissipated.

“Where, Anne?” demanded Iris. “Am I to cross the bridge?”

But the ghost had vanished. She would have to seek the answers on her own.

Iris stepped onto the bridge and walked across it slowly, looking at the planks of wood below her feet. The sides. The handrail. Where once she had scampered across it without any thought, this time, she moved slowly and deliberately. Her patience was rewarded when she reached the very center of the bridge.

Atop the handrail, someone had carved a heart. Within the heart were the initials EdB and below it an A.

Could this A be for Anne? And who was EdB?

Anne meant for Iris to find this clue. Though she hadn’t the foggiest notion what it meant, Iris knew it might be the key to unlock why Anne roamed Glanbury hundreds of years after her death.

She would discuss this with Crispin tonight. He had always had a love for history and she seemed to remember he knew quite a bit about his ancestors. Maybe he could help her discover who EdB was.

And help Anne find peace.

*

Iris nervously left her bedchamber. She wore one of her favorite gowns, a sprigged muslin with small cornflower blue hearts upon it. The hearts brought out the deep gray of her eyes. She’d had Rose roll her hair into a simple chignon, not wanting anything too fussy or formal for Crispin’s visit.

She wondered what he looked like now. He had always been tall for his age, with thick, dark blond hair that lightened considerably during the summer months when they’d spent so much of their time outdoors. Those days now seemed a thousand years ago.

Tamping down her nerves, she went downstairs to the drawing room. Papa was already there.

And so was Crispin.

His blue eyes lit up when he caught sight of her and he moved across the room, taking her hands in his.

“It is good to see you, Iris.”

His smile both warmed her—and made her belly flip-flop crazily. She had not worn gloves, seeing as how this was a casual evening at home with an old friend. Neither did he and his bare fingers clasping hers sent a heat up her arms, straight to her cheeks.

She pulled her hands from his, flustered, and curtseyed. “It is good to see you, Lord Windthorst.”

He frowned. “There’ll be none of that. You are Iris. I am Crispin. We are old, dear friends. My title cannot change that. Come, let us rejoin your father.”

Iris allowed him to escort her across the room, where her father had plopped into his favorite chair. Crispin indicated the settee to Papa’s right and she sat. He settled next to her, big and large and smelling absolutely wonderful.

Mr. Cutler appeared with a tray, offering them drinks. Iris declined after the others took theirs, fearing she needed to keep her wits about her tonight else she might blunder and reveal her true feelings to Crispin.

She admitted silently that she might have fooled herself all Season long, trying to be interested in other men, entertaining suitors who called upon her and doing her best to make a good impression at every social affair she attended.

When all along there had always been only one man for her.

Crispin.

She blinked a few times and focused on the conversation at hand. Papa and Crispin were discussing his time during the army. As she listened, the blood pounded in her ears, drowning out their talk. This would never do. She needed to get her feelings under control. She hadn’t seen Crispin since she was ten and now she was nineteen. She needed to put aside her foolish crush.

But his thigh rested next to hers, causing a delicious warmth to continue to spread through her. His bergamot cologne beckoned her to lean closer and inhale him. Iris resisted that urge.

Barely.

She grit her teeth, willing herself to listen and quit daydreaming. Crispin was an earl now. He would want an elegant woman to become his countess. No matter how hard she had tried this past Season, Iris wasn’t graceful, much less unemotional. Women of the ton looked blandly at everything and everyone, while she had a hard time keeping her emotions in check. Her heart might yearn for this man but she doubted he would ever see her as more than a girl, the tomboy she had once been. Though she now did fine needlepoint and could play the pianoforte remarkably well, he would look at her and remember her barefoot, climbing trees.

Their butler reappeared and announced that dinner was ready to be served.

Crispin turned to her. “You have been very quiet, Iris. I hope talk of my time at war didn’t bore you.”

“No, far from it, my lord. I was only surprised to hear that you had left school and went straight into the army without a stop at university.”

His mouth tightened. “Royston held the purse strings. He believed a university education would have been wasted on me, especially since I was destined to go into the army anyway. He purchased my commission and I went off to war, wet behind the ears and most likely the greenest officer in His Majesty’s army.”

He offered her his arm. “May I escort you into dinner?”

“Of course.”

They followed her father down the hall and into the small dining room. Iris had thought it more appropriate with only the three of them to dine here instead of at the table which seated a good thirty-six.

Crispin seated her and both men took their places, with Papa at the head of the small table and their guest to Papa’s right. Iris was across from Crispin and hoped she would be able to eat without staring at him.

She relaxed as the first course arrived. Crispin had a way of putting everyone at ease and soon the three of them were laughing as old friends should. Two hours later, they adjourned to the library, where the men drank their port and Iris allowed herself a small glass of sherry.

After a few minutes, Papa rose and said, “It has been a long day and I wish to retire. Please don’t think of leaving just yet,” he told Crispin. “I know you and Iris are old friends and have much to catch up on.”

“Goodnight, Lord Glanville. Thank you for the dinner invitation. And the one to your ball. It arrived this afternoon.”

Papa smiled. “It may have been my idea to hold a country ball and reacquaint us with our neighbors but it is Iris who is seeing it come to fruition. All thanks should go to her. Goodnight.”

Once her father was gone, Crispin turned to her. He took her hand and gazed deeply into her eyes.

“It is so very good to see you again, Iris. I feared I might never do so.”

“You could have seen me if you had attended the Season.”

He frowned. “Once I received word of Royston’s death, I sold out and returned to Windsong. I knew it would be in disarray because everything my brother touched became a mess. I needed to sort out the estate instead of gallivanting off to London.”

Crispin continued to hold her hand and Iris’ mouth grew dry.

“I worried every day and night that word would arrive of your impending marriage. I heard in the village that it was your first Season. I was positive some gallant bachelor would sweep you off your feet and I would never see you again.”

“That didn’t happen,” she said softly, her belly now doing somersaults.

“No. It didn’t.” His gaze held hers. “Why is that, Iris? Why would a beautiful woman such as you not take a husband?”

She licked her lips nervously. “Because no man interested me.” She paused and added, “Because no one was you, Crispin.”

There. She’d said it. He now knew. He might laugh a bit. Tease her some.

Instead, his fingers tightened on hers. His free hand cradled her cheek.

“I have never forgotten you, Iris. I have thought about you every day for the last decade. When I awoke. When I fell asleep at night. When I marched into the heat of battle.”

“You did?” she squeaked.

“I did,” he assured her. “I know we were merely children but I always saw our friendship blossoming when we grew older. Becoming . . . more.”

She bit her lip. “But . . . I wrote to you, Crispin. You did not answer my letters. I thought you wanted nothing more to do with me.”

Anger sparked in his eyes. “I never received any letter from you. I can only assume that Royston kept them from me.” His thumb stroked her cheek. “I would have written you back. I would have written you every day, Iris. I almost did write to you before I left for war. So much time had passed, though. I thought you had forgotten me.”

Her hand clasped his wrist. “I never forgot you,” she said fiercely. “You were my world.”

“And you were mine.” He looked at her tenderly. “May I kiss you, Iris?”

“I may die if you don’t,” she told him.

Crispin chuckled. “Always honest. Always truthful.”

“Not something valued much in Polite Society, I’m afraid,” she said ruefully.

“We don’t need the ton. Because we have each other.”

He framed her face with his hands and his mouth touched hers. Slowly, he brushed his lips against hers, bringing goosebumps to her arms and causing her pulse to flutter wildly.

She had never been kissed. Every time a suitor had tried to do so, Iris had turned her head or stepped away. Somehow, she had been saving herself for this moment.

This perfect moment.

Crispin’s fingers slid to her throat, his thumb rubbing where her pulse beat wildly. His hands moved to her shoulders, holding her steady as he increased the pressure on her lips. A sense of urgency overwhelmed her and her hands grasped his coat. Iris gripped it tightly as Crispin’s hands lovingly moved up and down her back before he drew her to him. Her hands slid up his hard, muscled chest and pushed into his hair, so soft and silky.

Then his tongue glided slowly along her bottom lip, bringing a frisson of desire. She opened to him and his tongue swept inside her mouth. Mating with hers. Exploring. Teasing. Tormenting.

The kiss went on, becoming more demanding. More possessive. Iris gave herself over to Crispin, knowing he would always protect her.

Finally, he broke the kiss. They both panted, their foreheads resting against one another’s, hearts racing. Crispin’s hands cradled her cheeks.

“I love you, Iris. I have my entire life. Marry me. Please say you will be mine.”

“Yes,” she replied breathlessly. “I love you, Crispin. You are my everything.”

Iris caught the scent of lavender as Crispin kissed her tenderly.

Chapter Four

Iris snuggled against Crispin’s side. No, not Crispin’s side.

Her betrothed’s side.

“I still can’t believe we are engaged,” she said softly, the wonder of knowing she would spend the rest of her life by Crispin’s side still so new.

He tilted her chin up for a sweet, lingering kiss.

“Do you think Papa knew of our feelings and that is why he left us alone tonight?”

Crispin chuckled. “Your father has always been most astute. He also is a man who was very much in love with his wife.”

“Papa remarried two years ago,” she revealed. “A widow ten years my senior.”

“He what?”

Iris nodded. “I was surprised but knew he was lonely. He told me he sought companionship and had hopes of an heir.”

“Where is Lady Glanville?”

She snorted. “We left her in London. She is a terribly wicked woman, Crispin. She deceived Papa and did not tell him she could no longer have children. Supposedly, she lost a babe during her first marriage and is never able to have another one.”

“That is very sad for Lord Glanville, I’m sure.”

“What’s even worse is that once she had the protection of Papa’s name, she betrayed her marriage vows repeatedly.” Iris sensed her cheeks flushing but added, “She has taken lovers. Several of them.”

“That’s terrible!” Crispin proclaimed.

“Apparently, it is an open secret in Polite Society. Papa confronted her about it just before we left town last week. He broke all ties with her. They will now lead separate lives.”

“That is why you returned to Glanbury?”

“Yes. Papa couldn’t stand to be here after Mama passed. That is why we left so abruptly.” Iris sighed. “I told you about this in my letters to you.”

He smoothed her hair. “I am sorry I never received any of them. If Royston wasn’t already dead, I’d have to kill him myself because he kept you from me.”

He kissed the top of her head and entwined their fingers together. “I am sorry we were separated for all those years.”

“Would you have come to London for me?” she asked.

“I’ve thought about it ever since I returned. Royston left things a bloody mess, though. My first duty was to my tenants.” He smiled. “But yes, I had plans to seek you out if no word came of you wedding some gentleman.”

“I am so happy, Crispin.”

“I am, too, love. When would you like us to marry?”

“Do we have to wait long?” she asked. “I don’t want to waste any further time.”

“Then we will have the banns read come Sunday. That gives you three weeks to plan our wedding.”

“It won’t take much planning,” she assured him. “I already have a gown I can wear. That is what usually takes the longest. I would like to keep it simple. A bit of greenery to decorate the chapel. What about guests?”

“I bow to your wishes.”

She thought a moment and then suggested, “Why don’t we keep the ceremony small and then open up the wedding breakfast to our tenants and the rest of the neighborhood?”

“I like that idea.” Crispin dropped a sweet kiss on her lips.

“Do you smell that?” Iris asked, getting a faint whiff of lavender.

“What?” He sniffed the air. “Hmm. Lavender, perhaps?”

“Yes!” she cried. “So, you can smell it.”

“I do.” He leaned close and kissed her neck. “But you are not wearing any. Where is it coming from?”

“Don’t think I’ve gone mad when I say this,” she began. “But I believe it is our resident ghost.”

Iris explained how Anne used to come to her when she was a child, playing with her when no one was around.

“By the time we met and became friends, she had already begun to come around less. Then as I spent time with you, she seemed to disappear. It was almost as if she knew you would watch over me and she no longer needed to. But . . . she is back.”

“You have seen her? A ghost?”

“I believe so.”

She detailed the dream she had and what Anne had revealed to her in it.

“When I awoke, I caught a glimpse of her. I promised to help her, Crispin.”

He looked bewildered. “But what can we do?”

“She lingers because she is unhappy. We have to find out why—and help her leave.”

Iris retrieved the family book and showed Crispin the entry.

“So, only her birth is listed. No marriage or death.”

“That’s correct. I combed through this book and she is the only person in it with incomplete information. I also went to the family plot of graves to look for her. I found her two brothers mentioned here in the graveyard, as well as her parents—but no Anne. I’d hoped to find a clue at the lovers’ oak.”

“You mean the tree with all the initials of couples carved into it?”

“Yes, that’s the one. Crispin, I saw Anne there. She appeared to me again. She was so transparent, I could see through her. She indicated the bridge to me and so I searched it.”

Eagerly, she explained the heart she had discovered, with EdB and A inscribed.

“I believe she is the A. If we could find out who EdB is, that might be the final piece that could solve this puzzle. I remembered how much you enjoyed history. Could you help me?”

“Of course.” He stroked her cheek. “And I already know EdB must be one of my ancestors. I am Crispin Bergville—but the family name used to be de Bergville.”

Iris clapped her hands. “So Anne was in love with a de Bergville. Do you know of any records your family kept?”

Excitement lit his face. “I know exactly where they are. I used to pull them out and study them as a boy. We will find who EdB is and hopefully use that information to help bring Anne to rest.”

She threw her arms about him and kissed him with enthusiasm. “Oh, thank you, Crispin. For believing me. For wanting to help me.”

Suddenly, the scent of lavender grew stronger and Iris gazed about the room.

“There,” she whispered. “By the fire.”

Anne stood there, a look of hope on her face.

“We will find out who your beloved was, Anne,” Crispin told the specter. “And we will do our best to help you find solace.”

The ghost smiled sadly at them as she slowly dissolved.

*

Iris bounded out of bed at first light and rang for Rose. As usual, her maid entered with a smile.

“Good morning, my lady. You see most happy today.”

She couldn’t help herself and burst out with, “I am going to wed Lord Windthorst!”

Iris twirled about the room and then collapsed onto the bed in laughter.

“Why, that’s wonderful news, my lady. You two were always peas in a pod back when we spent all our time at Glanbury.”

“Seeing him again last night made me understand why none of the gentlemen appealed to me this past Season. I love him, Rose, I truly do. And he loves me. We are going to be married!” she shouted. “But you mustn’t tell anyone yet. I need to speak to Papa this morning.”

“I’ll be silent as the grave, my lady. You can count on me.” Rose paused. “Will . . . will I go with you to Windsong?”

She leaped from the bed and threw her arms about the servant. “You better. I can’t do anything without you, Rose.”

Relief filled the maid’s face. “That’s wonderful, my lady. When is the wedding?”

Iris explained how the banns would be read tomorrow in church. “That means we will have three weeks to prepare.”

“What are you going to wear? Might I suggest the light blue silk gown?”

She laughed merrily. “That is the very one I had in mind.”

As Rose helped her to dress, they discussed how Iris should wear her hair and what should be served at the wedding breakfast.

“Lord Glanville will be so pleased,” Rose noted. “And you won’t have to put up with any more of Lady Glanville’s meddling in your life.”

“There is that.” She smoothed her skirts. “I am off to breakfast with Papa. Once I have done so, I want the entire household to know.” She twirled in a circle three times, laughing, and then exited her bedchamber.

Dashing into the breakfast room, Iris came to an abrupt stop. Crispin was seated at the table.

“What are you doing here?” she asked, moving toward him.

He rose and took her hands. “I wanted to do things properly, love. That meant speaking to your father before you did.”

She beamed up at him. “I do love you, you know.”

He bent and gave her a swift kiss.

Iris looked to her father. He had also risen and held out his arms. “Come here, my darling child.”

She stepped into his embrace, relishing his warmth, knowing they had his support for their union.

Looking up at him, she asked, “You don’t think it’s too soon, do you?”

He chuckled. “It was years in the making, Iris. No, I am happy to see you so happy. Lord Windthorst will make for a fine husband. He has already told me just how much he loves you and how terribly he plans to spoil you.”

She glanced to her fiancé. “Spoil me? Oh, I do like the sound of that.”

Crispin seated her next to him and they spoke over breakfast about the upcoming wedding.

“I’ve already ridden into Aylesworth this morning to let the vicar know to begin the reading of the banns at tomorrow’s service and that we will need his church in three weeks’ time.”

“Already?” she asked, laughing. “My, you must have gotten to the vicarage quite early.”

Crispin grinned sheepishly. “I wanted to make certain there would be no delays. I hope you don’t mind but I arranged for the wedding to be the Monday morning following the third calling of the banns.”

She slipped her hand into his. “I think that is a perfect day for our wedding.”

They finished eating and Iris told her father that she would be spending most of the day at Windsong.

“Ah, looking over your new home, I suppose,” he said, looking a bit forlorn. “I will miss you, Daughter.”

“You are welcomed anytime at Windsong, my lord,” Crispin said. “No invitation is required. You are family. I have no father and I hope I may look upon you as one.”

Papa took Crispin’s hand and shook it. “I may never have a son of my blood but you will be the son of my heart.”

His words moved Iris to tears.

“I am off. Mr. Tate has a dozen things for us to do today,” Papa said. “Will I see you for dinner?”

Crispin replied, “I will make certain Iris is back by then, my lord.”

Once Papa left, Crispin told her he had ridden over and asked if she would like to ride back.

“We don’t have any horses for me to use,” she lamented. “Only our carriage horses.”

A wicked gleam came into his eyes. “Then I suppose you’ll simply have to ride with me.”

They went to the stables and Crispin mounted his horse, reaching down and taking her up in front of him. Iris liked how her fiancé wrapped his arm possessively about her waist and pulled her into his chest. Crispin directed his horse into the woods and had them pause at the lovers’ oak.

“Shall we carve our initials into it now?” he asked.

This was a moment Iris had dreamed of her entire life, ever since her mother had showed her this tree.

“Yes,” she said with enthusiasm.

Crispin helped her from the horse and pulled a blade from his boot. “Where would you like them?”

She showed him the spot next to her parents’ initials and watched as he sliced through the wood. When he finished, she blew on it and then traced her fingers along the letters.

“This makes it very real,” she said softly.

He kissed her in reply, a long, soul-searching kiss that had Iris hungering for more.

“Shall we?”

“Can you lead your horse across the bridge?” she asked. “I want you to see the initials resting there.”

Crispin took the horse’s reins in one hand and hers in his other and they stepped onto the bridge. At the halfway mark, Iris showed him the initials surrounded by the heart.

“Let us go see if we can locate this EdB in the family archives.”

Leaving his mount at the stables, they entered the house and came across the butler.

“Soames, gather the servants in the foyer in ten minutes’ time,” Crispin instructed.

While they waited, he took her to the portrait gallery, showing Iris a picture of his parents. They looked utterly bored.

“We will have ours done, as well, except I believe our expressions will be markedly different from my parents’ faces. They tolerated one another. Barely.” He slipped his arms about her. “I intend for everyone to know we are a love match.”

Crispin kissed her and Iris couldn’t wait for them to truly become as one.

Leading her to the foyer, she saw it packed with servants. Apprehension filled her. Soon, she would be the mistress at Windsong and in charge of all of these people.

Crispin laced his fingers through hers and climbed a few of the steps so that they might be able to see all who had gathered.

“I wanted to let everyone know that Lady Iris has agreed to become my countess. We will be married in just over three weeks.”

Cheers broke out, along with thunderous applause. She saw the nods of approval. Crispin moved to the bottom of the staircase and introduced every servant as they came by, giving them well wishes. Last to file by were Mr. and Mrs. Soames, the butler and housekeeper.

“We are delighted at the news, my lord,” Soames said.

“I look forward to working with you, Lady Iris,” Mrs. Soames said. “I know you will wish to make some changes.”

She smiled at the housekeeper. “I hope you will advise me on any that I might want to make.”

“Why don’t you allow Mrs. Soames to give you a tour of the house?” Crispin suggested. “I will look through the family records while you do so then you can join me.”

Iris was eager to see her new home. Though she had visited Windsong several times, it had been many years ago.

“I will see you in an hour or so, my lord,” she said formally, eager not only to see her new home but to be behind closed doors so she could kiss Crispin again.

Chapter Five

Once Iris joined Crispin again, she saw he had several open books scattered about a table.

“Have you found him?” she asked hopefully.

“I have. Thanks to you first finding Anne, I had a better idea of a starting point. Since she was born in 1264, I searched for de Bergville men who had been born between the years 1244 and 1270.”

“Twenty years before her birth?” she asked, puzzled.

“It’s not as unusual as you think. Why, women today are regularly wed to men their father’s age. A twenty year gap between them wouldn’t be uncommon. That’s why I also extended my search a few years after her birth date, as well. During that time, I only found one son who had been born whose Christian name started with an E. Elric. Elric de Bergville. It has to be him.”

Crispin led Iris to the open volumes, using his finger to skim down a page until he located what he wanted her to see.

“Look here. Elric de Bergville, born to Hrodwyn and Livith de Bergville. You can see Elric was the firstborn of three children and the only male. You can see where neither of his sisters survived childhood.”

“1262. So he was two years older than Anne,” she mused.

“Yes. With neighboring estates, I’m certain they would have known one another.” He pointed back at the entry. “And look—no marriages indicated for him. What’s even more significant? There is no recorded death.”

“Just like Anne,” Iris said, a chill running along her spine.

“Exactly. I looked through the entries for pages before and after Elric. Every person mentioned has both a birth and death date.”

Iris began pacing about the room, trying to work things through in her mind. “Do you think they ran away together?”

“It’s a thought but I don’t see why they would have. Elric was obviously the heir to Windsong, being the only son born of the marriage. Why would he walk away from a title and property and most likely wealth?”

“It just doesn’t make sense. They both disappeared from their family’s histories. We have evidence of their love, thanks to Elric’s etching their initials in the heart on the bridge.” She paused. “What puzzles me is why he seemingly didn’t finish? Why did he only carve an A for Anne and not complete the rest?”

“That is part of the mystery,” Crispin said. “If we could find out why he didn’t, it might help explain the reason why Anne still walks at Glanbury all these years later.”

Crispin turned back to the book. “Elric’s cousin, Bickford, became the next earl. From this record, it shows Bickford’s father died when the boy was only ten. He must have come to live at Windsong if he didn’t already. With Elric’s disappearance—or death—Bickford assumed the title upon Hrodwyn’s passing.”

“What of the graves?” she asked. “We should look for Elric’s stone just in case.”

“Come, I’ll take you now.”

Crispin led her outside and they walked almost half a mile before they arrived at a small graveyard.

“This is where de Bergvilles were buried for many years. Like your family, we eventually began placing our dead in the church cemetery at Aylesworth.”

They searched the graves. Iris found many of the headstones so worn that she could only make out a few numbers or letters. They did find both Hrodwyn and Livith’s resting places, along with Bickford de Bergville. But no sign of Elric could be found.

“I should see you home now,” Crispin told her. “You have had a full day.”

They returned to the stables and, within twenty minutes, found themselves back at Glanbury. He escorted her to the front door.

“I’ll keep at it,” he promised. “You do the same. Between the two of us, we are bound to come up with an answer.”

“I hope so,” Iris replied, glancing around. Seeing no one, she pulled him down for a quick kiss. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

He beamed. “Tomorrow—and every day for the rest of our lives, love.”

*

The next three weeks passed quickly. The country ball proved to be a rousing success and Iris and her father became reacquainted with many of their neighbors and tenants thanks to it. Since the banns had been read the Sunday before the ball, everyone was aware of her engagement to Crispin and they had spent a good portion of the evening receiving good wishes from all present.

Her father had allowed Crispin to address their guests during supper and her fiancé invited everyone in the room to attend their wedding breakfast. Because of the large number expected, the cooks at Windsong and Glanbury had been in constant communication, with both providing an equal portion of the wedding breakfast food.

Iris had spent a good deal of time at Windsong, overseeing a few changes she wished to make. She discussed all the redecorating with Mrs. Soames and found the housekeeper to have both good judgment and excellent taste. Working with Mrs. Soames in the years to come would be a delight.

Her only disappointment had been in being unable to learn what had happened to Anne and Elric. Iris was convinced the pair had been sweethearts and she had begun to suspect foul play, telling Crispin that would be the only reason for the couple’s disappearance and why Anne seemed doomed to walk Glanbury forever. She blamed Bickford de Bergville, who had inherited the title of Earl of Windthorst, and believed somehow Bickford was responsible for Elric and Anne vanishing.

She longed to catch sight of Anne again but the ghost had made no more appearances to her. A few times, she had smelled a whiff of lavender and quickly studied her surroundings, seeking out Anne to no avail.

It was now the eve of her wedding and Iris made her way upstairs to her bedchamber for the last time. Tomorrow night she would be wed and sleeping in Crispin’s bed. He’d told her there would be no separate sleeping arrangements. He wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms and awaken to her every morning. It delighted Iris that he felt that way and she felt her love grow for him.

Rose helped her disrobe and prepare for bed, brushing out Iris’ hair and braiding it.

“Just think, my lady, tomorrow night we’ll be under Windsong’s roof,” the servant said. “I’ve got you all packed. Your trunks will be delivered to Windsong first thing in the morning.”

“Thank you for handling all that, Rose,” she murmured, crawling into bed.

She lay awake for a while, hoping for a final glimpse of Anne. Finally, Iris sat up.

“I am leaving, Anne. I know you have seen me with Crispin. Tonight is my last night before I depart for Windsong. Please, help me understand how to bring you peace. I don’t want you to walk the halls of Glanbury any longer. I want you happy. With Elric.”

At the mention of Elric’s name, the room flooded with the scent of lavender.

“Come to me again in my dreams, Anne,” she pleaded. “Help me to help you.”

With that, Iris rested her head against the pillow and feel into a deep slumber.

Once again, she knew it was a dream. It was night and she stood in the woods, near the old oak. Only one set of initials had been inscribed into its trunk. Iris watched as Anne came through the trees. Iris wanted to call out to her but found she couldn’t speak.

Anne didn’t acknowledge Iris’ presence. She paused at the tree and traced her fingers along the letters before sweeping past Iris. Iris innately knew Anne had touched her parents’ initials. They had been the first placed on the trunk, starting a tradition that had lasted over hundreds of years.

Then Iris watched Anne happily rush toward the bridge. A handsome young man with golden hair crossed from the Windsong side. The couple met in the middle and joined hands. It startled her how much the two resembled Crispin and her. She had never thought about it but she shared Anne’s raven hair and gray eyes. Elric was tall and had an athletic build similar to Crispin.

Then a priest and another man appeared. She understood the man to be Bickford. The two joined the couple at the center of the bridge and Iris watched as they spoke their vows, tears in her eyes. Then the priest and Bickford left, while Elric and Anne remained. Even from this distance, she could see the love for one another shining in their eyes.

She moved to the edge of the bridge, wanting to hear what they said. They kissed and Elric said, “Never has a man loved a woman as I love you, Anne. Our love will continue long after we are gone from this earth. May God let us always walk together among the angels.”

Tears blurred her eyes as she saw Elric take a dagger and make a mark within the heart. Anne’s finger moved over it in wonder.

“Now, shall I whittle a G for Glanville? You are no longer a Glanville but a de Bergville. I want it to be perfect, just as you are my love. Our initials will be witness to our deep and abiding love. Years from now, others will walk across this bridge and wonder of the story behind the letters held within this heart. So, tell me—what letter shall I slice into the wood to bind us through all time?”

Iris held her breath as the pair kissed again.

But the scene quickly changed. Chaos swirled. Suddenly, others were there, restraining Elric. Bickford had returned and held Anne captive. Iris tried to step onto the bridge, wanting to help, but it was as if she were frozen to the spot. Bile rose in her as she witnessed Elric’s throat cut, his body hoisted over the handrail. It dropped into the raging waters of the Medway River.

Anne broke away and raced to the spot where Elric had disappeared. She and Bickford exchanged angry words—and then Anne threw herself from the bridge.

Iris stood in shock.

And then Anne suddenly stood next to her, her large gray eyes full of sadness. She reached out her hand, a wail piercing the night air. Iris looked and saw Elric standing on the Windsong side. He tried to take a step onto the bridge—and couldn’t.

Understanding flooded Iris. The two lovers had not wanted to leave this earth without each other. They had returned, the bridge connecting them, and yet somehow keeping them apart. Their strong love had united them in death but something still bound them to this place.

Iris moved onto the bridge, walking slowly across it until she reached the middle. She glanced down and saw what Elric had etched onto the handrail.

And she knew now what must be done.

Iris awoke with a start. She saw Anne silently standing beside the bed.

“I understand, Anne. I will have Crispin help me. We will come to you once we are wed.”

Anne reached out and placed a cold hand on Iris’ cheek. Then she vanished.

Determination filled Iris as she rose. Today was not only her wedding day.

It was the day she would right the wrong done to Anne and Elric more than five hundred years ago.

She rang for Rose and, soon, the preparation began in earnest. Hot water was brought, along with a light meal for her to eat. She was bathed and dressed and her hair artfully arranged.

“You look lovely, my lady,” Rose said, tears brimming in her eyes. “But there’s one more thing to do.”

Confused because she thought she already looked her best, Iris frowned as the maid withdrew something from her pocket and handed it to Iris.

She took the small box and opened it, her heart pounding as she saw what lay against the velvet.

A heart-shaped brooch composed of diamonds.

“Lord Windthorst gave it to me yesterday,” Rose explained. “He said it was his wedding gift to you and you should wear it to the altar. That you would know what it meant.”

Deep emotion flooded her and she said, “I do know.” Her fingers trembled and she said, “Would you place it on me, Rose?”

The maid grinned. “With pleasure, my lady.”

Once the brooch was attached to her gown, Iris looked into the mirror. “It’s perfect,” she whispered.

Papa waited for her in the foyer and watched as Iris descended the stairs. Tears filled his eyes as he took her hands in his.

“Your mother would have been so proud. I know she is watching over you.” He squeezed her hands. “And she—and I—are so happy that you have made a love match, Iris.”

Papa pulled her toward him and enveloped him in her arms. They held on to each other a long moment and then he released her.

Offering his arm, he said, “I believe we have a wedding to attend,” his smile bright.

The drive to Aylesworth only took a few minutes and the carriage pulled up in front of the church. Papa climbed out and helped her down the steps. They moved to the church’s doors.

He paused before they entered and said, “I hope you have more years with Crispin than I did your mother. Whatever comes, though, cherish each day you have with your husband.”

“I will, Papa. I promise.”

He nodded and their footman opened the door, allowing them to step inside the church. Iris’ eyes immediately searched for Crispin. He stood at the altar next to the vicar, looking so tall and incredibly handsome. She floated down the aisle on Papa’s arm, her heart swelling with love for this good man.

Crispin took her hands in his and raised them to his lips, brushing a tender kiss upon her knuckles.

“I know how to help Anne and Elric,” she whispered. “But we must go to the bridge.”

His eyebrows arched—and then he rewarded her with a brilliant smile.

“I always knew you were a clever girl.”

The vicar cleared his throat loudly in disapproval, frowning at them. “Are you ready to proceed, my lord?”

“Yes, Vicar. More than ready.”

As the clergyman opened his Bible and looked down to find his place, her groom flashed her a wicked grin.

Chapter Six

The rest of the ceremony progressed without a problem and, within the hour, Iris found herself wed to Crispin. He escorted her down the aisle and outside to the waiting carriage as the handful of guests cheered.

Once inside, he pulled her onto his lap for a long, delicious kiss that lasted all the way from the church to Windsong, where the wedding breakfast would take place.

As their carriage arrived, he broke the kiss. “You have figured out how to help our hapless lovers?”

Iris giggled. “My head is spinning from that kiss. But yes, I know what must be done. Let us attend to our guests and then we will make things right once again for Anne and Elric.”

Crispin helped her from the carriage and they entered Windsong, which already felt like home to her. The breakfast was being held in the ballroom since so many were expected. They entered and a resounding applause broke out. Her new husband led her to a table for two in the center of the room and they took their seats.

Once the guests from their wedding arrived, Crispin signaled Soames and the butler soon had footmen delivering dishes to each table. They feasted upon several courses, getting up to mingle with those present between each course. Finally, a large cake was rolled in and Iris and her groom cut the first piece of it together.

By now, champagne had been distributed and Papa called for a toast, saying, “To my wonderful daughter and the man who has made her so happy. I give you Lord and Lady Windthorst.”

“To Lord and Lady Windthorst!” the crowd echoed enthusiastically.

They made the rounds throughout the room and it took a good hour to speak with those they hadn’t already. Once that was accomplished, they paused at the door leading from the ballroom. Crispin thanked everyone for coming and escorted Iris from the room, sweeping her into his arms and carrying her up the staircase to earl’s suite.

He closed the door behind them and took her through a sitting room to the bedchamber, where he placed her gently upon the bed.

“I thought we could go to the bridge now,” she began.

Her husband placed his index finger against her lips. “No. It will take forever for the guests to disperse. I’m sure they would question us if we passed among them and left to go to the woods.” He began tracing her lips with his finger. “Besides, I can think of something to do to pass the time until we can slip into the woods unnoticed.”

Heat flushed her cheeks. “You mean . . . you wish to couple now? It is still daylight!” she said, shocked at the idea.

“Oh, we will make love despite the hour of the day, love,” he told her, his eyes darkening. “And in many places beyond this bed. We will couple before breakfast and after. In the stables and while beside the lake as we picnic. We will spend long, lazy afternoons together in this bed, the sun shining down on your beautiful body. Forget anything you have heard and lose any assumptions, Iris. Our lovemaking is for us and us alone.”

She twined her arms about his neck. “Very well, my lord. Let this exploration begin.”

Crispin undressed her slowly, kissing the newly-exposed skin as he did. Eventually, Iris wore not a stitch. Her husband flung off his own layers of clothing with abandon and captured her in his arms. Soon, he kissed her everywhere. Behind her ears and her knees. Along her nape down to the small of her back. Up her calves to her inner thighs.

And then her core.

Iris never knew such things existed as Crispin made love to her with his hands and lips and tongue. He pierced not only her throbbing core, brought to life by his sweet caresses, but her soul. And when his cock pushed inside her, they began a memorable dance of love, their bodies moving in time to one another, the pleasure immeasurable, the love hot and strong.

He collapsed atop her and then rolled to his side, still inside her as he kissed her thoroughly.

Breaking the kiss, he asked, “What do you think of marriage so far, Lady Windthorst?”

“I think being married suits us very well, my lord.”

They lay cradled in one another’s arms for several minutes and then Crispin released her. He brought a cloth and basin of water to the bed and tenderly ministered to her.

“Enough time has passed,” he said. “We must go help our ghost. What do you have in mind?”

“First, we should get dressed,” she teased. “Be sure to bring your blade again.”

Crispin latched on to her waist and lifted her from the bed, pausing to kiss her before he released her.

“Shall I play lady’s maid to you?” he asked. “You may return the favor and be my valet.”

Iris giggled. “I shall look forward to it, my lord.”

Once they were both dressed, she quickly braided her hair into a single plait. Crispin had pulled the pins from her hair and they were scattered everywhere. She hadn’t the patience or the skill to try and duplicate Rose’s handiwork.

Their fingers entwined, they slipped from the room and down the staircase, encountering only Mr. Soames.

“We are going for a walk, Soames,” Crispin said crisply.

“Very good, my lord,” the butler replied.

They left Windsong and made their way across the front lawn and toward the forested area. Iris recounted her dream to Crispin along the way.

“It doesn’t sound like a dream to me.”

“I agree,” she said. “It was as if Anne made me a witness to what occurred.”

“You were right to suspect foul play. I hate that I spring from Bickford.”

She squeezed his hand. “Royston was more like Bickford. You would never have murdered someone in order to gain a title.”

“I hate that Anne had to watch her beloved slain before her very eyes,” Crispin said. “And that she drowned. That’s a horrible death to endure.”

“It would have been more horrible if she had lived and was forced to wed Bickford. Especially when her heart belonged to Elric.”

As they drew near, Iris could hear the Medway River gushing. Soon, the bridge appeared and she directed Crispin to its middle section, where Elric had carved the heart.

“I forgot to tell you thank you for my brooch. It’s perfect.”

“It reminded me of Elric and Anne and their love,” he told her. “From what you overheard, it seems they have a love that will never die.” Pausing, he then asked, “So what am I to carve?”

“I believe that Anne will be reunited with Elric if you complete what should lie within the heart. Because they were already wed, use her married initials. Elric was interrupted before he could finish his task and leave a reminder to the world about their enduring love.”

“All right,” Crispin said.

He brought up his knife tip to the wood and stilled. Gooseflesh broke out along her arms as their gazes met.

Then Iris turned to her right and saw Anne standing on the Glanbury side of the bridge, her hand resting on the rail. Hope filled Anne’s face. Iris glanced to her left and gasped.

Elric stood on the Windsong side. He, too, gripped the rail, eagerness on his face.

“We know how to reunite you,” Iris called out. “Crispin and I wed today, just as you did so long ago. Today, you will come together in the afterlife and your spirits will no longer be bound to this place. The bridge which has kept you apart will now connect you once more.”

She touched Crispin’s back. “Go ahead.”

“Help me,” he said. “It should be the both of us doing this.”

He took her hand and placed it atop his and then began moving the sharp tip back and forth against the wood. Iris felt chills ripple through her as they worked together.

The moment the final curve of the B was complete, the air about them changed. Crispin slipped his arm about her waist and they stepped back, remaining directly across from the heart. Iris watched as joy filled Anne’s face and the ghost stepped onto the bridge and ran across it. She stopped in front of them.

Elric joined her, his smile full of love. He reached out and the ghosts joined hands, gazing deeply into one another’s eyes. Iris felt the waves of love emanating from them.

Both spirits turned toward Crispin and her, so transparent that she could see straight through them.

Anne once again touched Iris’ cheek in gratitude. Elric placed his hand on Crispin’s shoulder. Instead of the cold she had felt from before, this time, warmth filled Iris at the touch.

Then the ghosts began to glow. Color filled their faces and rippled down their bodies. She saw Anne wore a gown of midnight blue and Elric’s tunic was a dark hunter green. She thought she heard the words thank you though neither ghost spoke aloud.

The pair stepped away, their fingers going to the handrail where the heart lay. Elric smiled and embraced Anne, kissing her. For a moment, they looked as real as any humans. Then slowly, the vibrant colors grew fainter and fainter until the couple faded into nothingness.

“They are at rest now,” she said knowingly. “Together. Forever.”

“Just as we are,” her husband said. “I hope to love you as long and as well as Elric has loved Anne.”

Crispin kissed Iris tenderly.

Something told her they would one day meet Anne and Elric.

But not for a very long time . . .

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Alexa Aston

Dukes Done Wrong Series

Discouraging the Duke

Deflecting the Duke

Disrupting the Duke

Delighting the Duke

Destiny with a Duke

Dukes of Distinction Series

Duke of Renown

Duke of Charm

Duke of Disrepute

Duke of Arrogance

Duke of Honor

The St. Clairs Series

Devoted to the Duke

Midnight with the Marquess

Embracing the Earl

Defending the Duke

Suddenly a St. Clair

Starlight Night

Soldiers & Soulmates Series

To Heal an Earl

To Tame a Rogue

To Trust a Duke

To Save a Love

To Win a Widow

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

The Lyon’s Lady Love

King’s Cousins Series

The Pawn

The Heir

The Bastard

Medieval Runaway Wives

Song of the Heart

A Promise of Tomorrow

Destined for Love

Knights of Honor Series

Word of Honor

Marked by Honor

Code of Honor

Journey to Honor

Heart of Honor

Bold in Honor

Love and Honor

Gift of Honor

Path to Honor

Return to Honor

About the Author

Award-winning and internationally bestselling author Alexa Aston’s historical romances use history as a backdrop to place her characters in extraordinary circumstances, where their intense desire for one another grows into the treasured gift of love.

She is the author of Regency and Medieval romance, including: Dukes of Distinction; Soldiers & Soulmates; The St. Clairs; The King’s Cousins; and The Knights of Honor.

A native Texan, Alexa lives with her husband in a Dallas suburb, where she eats her fair share of dark chocolate and plots out stories while she walks every morning. She enjoys a good Netflix binge; travel; seafood; and can’t get enough of Survivor or The Crown.

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Blind Faith

Earls are Wild
Book 2.5

Anna Markland

Dedicated to all who have seen the light.

“True love is like ghosts,

which everyone talks about,
but few have seen.”

~Francois de la Rochefoucauld

More Anna Markland

Anna has authored more than sixty bestselling, award-winning and much-loved Medieval, Viking and Highlander historical romance novels and novellas. Most recently, she has ventured into the world of the Regency.

No matter the historical or geographic setting, most of her series recount the adventures of successive generations of one family, with emphasis on the importance of ancestry and honor. A detailed list with links can be found at annamarkland.com.

Get a Grip

Breightmet Hall, Lancashire, England 1817

Boyd Sheridan awoke in a cold sweat, sat bolt upright in the creaking bed and strained to listen. The pulse thudding in his ears made it difficult to hear. Had he imagined the eerie moaning? He clutched the damp linens to his chest. “Get a grip, man. You’re a decorated war hero,” he rasped. Perhaps sleeping in the buff wasn’t a good idea if the house was being burgled.

Not for the first time, he cursed the heroic impulse at Waterloo that had earned him a knighthood but cost him his sight.

“Who’s there?” he demanded, sickened by the fear in his voice and the gooseflesh marching up and down his spine.

Silence.

Yet, he knew for certain he wasn’t alone. Blindness heightened other senses. He felt a presence.

He startled when someone rapped on the door of his chamber. “It’s Granville, sir. Is everything all right?”

What could he say to the faithful servant who’d been with him since his army days? The man had accompanied him north to this ramshackle medieval house in Lancashire and willingly served as valet, butler, footman and general dogs-body despite being past his prime. “I’m fine,” he lied. “Just a bad dream.”

He listened for Granville’s slippered footfalls, then the click of a door closing.

He was alone again. Except, he knew he wasn’t.

He’d overheard the cook telling tales about a ghost in the house. “They warned me this old place was haunted, you know,” he rasped, shaking his head at his own folly. “Talking to ghosts. They’ll be carting me off to Bedlam soon.

“I can’t see you,” he went on to explain. “Not because you’re a ghost. I’m blind.”

Gritting his teeth, he raked his fingers through disheveled hair, afraid he might, in fact, be going mad. He didn’t sense malevolence, though his nose couldn’t detect the scent of a living being. Chatting with this unseen presence might be preferable to seeking sleep he knew wouldn’t come. He hadn’t had a good night’s rest since the explosion.

“Are you the White Lady they say haunts the house and grounds?”

Silence.

“Can’t say I believe in ghosts.”

Nothing.

“Legend has it your brothers murdered your lover.”

A faint sob echoed, sending more gooseflesh scurrying across his nape.

Yet, he felt an unexpected kinship with this woman. He’d known heartbreak. “I know how you feel. Lucinda broke off our engagement as soon as she found out I’d lost my sight. I don’t blame her. The army physicians think it might be temporary, but I know it isn’t.”

He gathered the blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against the headboard, no longer feeling afraid—of the ghost, at any rate.

He startled awake some time later. The blanket had slipped from his shoulders and he was shivering. Sensing the ghost had gone, he settled back under the covers. It was of some consolation he at least had a seemingly benign phantom to share the lonely years that loomed ahead.

*

The following day, Boyd was sitting outside on the terrace behind the house. The rattan chair wasn’t very comfortable but the paved area provided shelter from the wind and it was good to feel the sun on his face. Granville constantly muttered about the weeds growing in the cracks between the flagstones, but weeds were of no concern to Boyd. He tensed when he heard his manservant’s heavy footfalls. He’d become used to Granville’s military gait, but he really didn’t want to be disturbed. “The Earl of Farnworth to see you, Major.”

He supposed he should be grateful for small mercies. It was a blessing he’d regained his hearing in the hospital a fortnight after the blast. His head filled with disturbing questions about whether or not he’d have detected the presence of last night’s ghost if he couldn’t hear. Granville’s polite cough jolted him back to the terrace.

He wasn’t fit company for the earl, but Gabriel Smith was a stalwart friend, his commander at Waterloo, the man who’d dragged him to safety after the world turned on its head. Of course, that was long before Gabe had discovered he would inherit an earldom from a distant cousin. “I’ll come inside,” he said. “Tea in the drawing room, if you please.”

“Shall I lead the way, sir?”

He appreciated his servant’s discrete way of ascertaining if he needed help navigating the weedy path. They hadn’t been at Breightmet long enough for Boyd to learn where each and every obstacle lay in waiting.

“I’ll assist Major Sheridan, Granville,” a deep voice boomed, as the earl took Boyd’s hand in a hearty shake. “You can see to the tea.”

“My lord,” Boyd said.

“None of that, old friend. We’ve never stood on ceremony.”

“I’d say it’s good to see you, Gabe, but…”

He immediately resented the self-pity in his voice. He’d purchased Breightmet Hall at Gabe’s suggestion because it was only a few miles from Thicketford Manor, the earl’s residence. The former lieutenant colonel had proven himself a true friend after Waterloo. Boyd had received a knighthood thanks to Gabe’s efforts on his behalf. Now, he was behaving like a whining child.

“I understand,” the earl replied, taking his elbow. “Shall we?”

“Thanks. I’m learning to get about this old place, but it will take a while.”

“You’re one of the strongest men I know, Boyd. You’ll overcome this adversity.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” he replied as Gabe led him to the sofa. “Lots of uneven floors to navigate.”

His friend chuckled. “You need to hire more staff. This house has stood empty for years and could benefit from a few repairs, a good scrub and some redecorating. Granville can’t be expected to do everything. He’s no longer a young man.”

It wasn’t the first time Gabe had made these suggestions, but Boyd’s gut clenched nevertheless. It was bad enough Granville had to watch him stumble about. “I have a cook,” he protested.

“A woman who comes for two hours, prepares your evening meal, then leaves a cold plate for next day’s luncheon.”

Boyd wasn’t about to admit he hankered for something for breakfast other than his manservant’s burnt toast. The squeaking wheels of the tea trolley provided a welcome diversion. “Here’s the tea,” he declared. “I’ll have to ask you to be mother, Granville.”

“Sirs,” his former batman replied, his tone and rigid stance betraying the army discipline that had ruled his life.

“Seriously,” Gabe continued as tea was poured into rattling china cups. “It’s too quiet. You need people to talk to.”

Boyd should keep his mouth shut, but…

“Actually, I had rather a good chat last night with the ghost.” His friend didn’t need to know Boyd had done all the talking.

Gabe’s teaspoon stilled.

Granville stopped pouring.

Both men were probably exchanging a worried glance. “You think I am going mad, and you may be right. However, I am quite certain a specter visited my chamber.”

“Your tea, sir,” Granville said softly.

Relieved his servant hadn’t underscored his ineptitude by moving his hand to the cup, he curled his hands carefully around the saucer. “Thank you,” he replied.

“And what did you and this ghost discuss?” Gabe asked, a hint of amusement in his voice.

“This and that.”

“Sounds fascinating,” his friend remarked. “And you’re right. Local legend has it this place is haunted by a lady. I’m sure you’ll have many meaningful conversations when she deigns to appear. However, I came today to suggest a living, breathing human being as your housekeeper.”

Boyd sipped his tea. “Anything sweet to eat, Granville?”

“Don’t change the subject,” Gabe retorted.

“I detected sarcasm, and I don’t need a housekeeper.”

“Begging your pardon, sir,” Granville interrupted, “but we do. This house needs a woman’s touch.”

“Amelia Southwell has worked for our family for some time now,” Gabe went on before Boyd had a chance to interrupt. “We took her on as a nanny when Rafe was born.”

Boyd bristled. “I do not need a nanny.”

“Pray, let me finish. Amelia turned out to be much more than a nanny. She’s reliable, organized, an accomplished pianist, and well-read. More importantly, she’s very knowledgeable on the topic of the newly invented night writing for the blind.”

Boyd’s gut clenched. Night writing! Army life was all he knew and it had never included writing in pitch black nothingness. “Good lord, a bluestocking,” he exclaimed.

Gabe’s cup rattled as he set it down. His leather boots squeaked as he eased himself out of the chair. “When you decide to stop wallowing in self-pity, Major Sheridan, send word to Thicketford Manor and I’ll speak to Amelia.”

Panic surged up Boyd’s spine. He’d insulted a close friend who only wanted to help. “I suppose there’s no harm in your mentioning it to this woman.”

Gabe put a hand on his shoulder. “I will, though I wanted to broach the topic with you first. There’s no guarantee she’ll agree to come.”

Prickly

Still nervous after the unusual summons to Thicketford’s library after she’d put Rafe to bed, Amelia stared at the Earl of Farnworth, her emotions all at sea.

“I’m honored, my lord,” she said politely when she finally found her voice, though the suggestion she apply for a position as a housekeeper was hardly an honor. “However, I don’t think…”

“Hear me out, Miss Southwell,” the earl replied, looming over her as he stood with his hands behind his back in front of the cold grate. “Perhaps I didn’t explain it properly.”

Normally a man of quiet confidence, he seemed unsure. Wishing she hadn’t accepted the invitation to sit, and wondering why he’d taken to addressing her more formally, Amelia meshed her fingers together and settled trembling hands in her lap. “To be truthful, I don’t wish to leave your employ at all, but I’d hoped to improve my station once I left Thicketford Manor.”

From the upholstered armchair facing hers, Lady Farnworth chimed in. “And we don’t want to lose you, Amelia. You’ve been much more than a nanny for Raphael. Lady Susan respects your intellect and considers you a friend, as do I.”

It was a level of esteem few servants could aspire to. Hence Amelia’s desire to remain at Thicketford Manor until an opportunity arose that she couldn’t possibly refuse. The position of housekeeper to a blind man hardly fell into that category.

“There’s no doubt we’ll miss your presence,” Lord Farnworth added. “I thought you’d be ideal for the post at Breightmet Hall. Major Sheridan lacks an efficient housekeeper, that’s true. However, it’s more complicated than that.”

Amelia’s confusion grew by leaps and bounds. “I don’t understand, sir,” was all she could think to say.

“It’s not only the house that lacks organization,” Lady Emma explained when the earl began pacing. “Major Sheridan needs…” She glanced at her husband, clearly uncomfortable.

Amelia bristled. Surely they weren’t suggesting…

“He lost his sight in an explosion at Waterloo, Amelia,” the earl almost shouted, coming to an abrupt halt. “And he’s not coping with it.”

Her heart went out to this unknown man. The earl clearly held him in high regard. For a courageous soldier to suffer such a loss must be devastating. However, taking care of the thriving child of a wealthy family was one thing. Major Sheridan was a grown man, who, from the sounds of it, had been horribly wounded and wasn’t in a good frame of mind. Gruesome disfigurements often resulted from explosions. It would be difficult to see such a person every day and not weep for their suffering. “I’m not really qualified for…”

For what? What exactly did the earl expect of her?

“You’ve become conversant with the newly invented night writing,” Lady Emma said.

Butterflies took flight in Amelia’s stomach. Experimenting with night writing had been challenging and fun. But she wasn’t blind. Being sighted allowed her to peek whenever reading the raised dots became confusing.

“I have read a great deal about it,” she admitted. “But teaching it to someone else is a different matter.”

Especially a blind person—which was ironic in itself.

The conversation dragged on. Amelia was eventually released with an undertaking to at least consider the proposal.

Discovering the gurgling baby still wide awake, she lifted him from his white iron cot and rocked him over her shoulder. “How can I leave my darling boy?” she whispered.

He patted her cheeks with his pudgy little hands in reply.

“On the other hand,” she reasoned, “tutoring would be a step up, although Major Sheridan is a grown man. It seems almost indecent to consider it.”

Rafe blew bubbles.

“You’re no help, young man,” she teased.

She rocked the good-natured babe until he fell asleep. Having laid him back in his cot, she stepped away when Lady Farnworth entered the nursery.

“I just came to see if everything was all right,” her mistress whispered, gazing lovingly at her son. “I know it’s a big decision, and goodness knows you’ll be impossible to replace, but I can assure you the major is an honorable man.”

Nodding, Amelia bade the countess goodnight and sought her bed, resigned to a restless night plagued by indecision. She’d found a refuge at Thicketford Manor but, now, she was facing the prospect of another upheaval.

*

As the earl’s sleek carriage came to a halt in front of Breightmet Hall, Amelia was convinced she’d made a terrible error in judgment. She’d allowed herself to be persuaded to attend an interview. The sprawling, half-timbered house looked like it had been built in stages over hundreds of years, each addition designed without regard to the whole. Mrs. Radcliffe would deem it more than fitting as a setting for one of her gothic novels. The overgrown tangle of glossy-leafed rhododendrons and the jungle of morning glory vines cried out for a determined gardener, not a housekeeper.

“Don’t be nervous,” Lady Emma murmured, the catch in her voice betraying her own uncertainty. “Outward appearances can be deceiving.”

Amelia appreciated that the countess had taken the time to accompany her, but her ladyship’s presence wasn’t providing the reassurance she’d expected.

The earl alit after James Footman opened the door and lowered the steps. He assisted his wife, then held out his hand for Amelia. “Sheridan’s a first-class chap,” he said as they walked to the weathered front door. “However, his situation has taken a toll. He tends to be…er…prickly. Don’t let it put you off.”

Prickly!

Being a nanny might not be the lifelong career she wanted, but no one at Thicketford Manor had ever treated her with anything but respect. “I’m not sure this is a good idea, my lord,” she tried, resentful of her own cowardice. “He’s an unmarried man. One has to maintain appearances. If I needed a reference…er…later…”

“Don’t be concerned about that,” Lady Emma assured her.

Unsure as to the countess’ meaning, Amelia cringed at the sonorous echo of the discolored brass knocker.

“By the way,” the earl said softly, looking unusually nervous as they waited on the well-worn doorstep. “They say the ghost of a woman has haunted this house for hundreds of years, but don’t let that influence your decision.”

Her stomach in knots, Amelia sincerely doubted her already trembling legs would carry her over the threshold.

Interview

Boyd tensed when the metallic sound of the knocker echoed through the house. He’d insisted Granville guide him to the loveseat in the living room in plenty of time to receive his visitors but he’d never been good at waiting. However, he certainly didn’t want to be bumping into furniture in front of this bluestocking.

He’d agreed to the interview as a concession to Gabriel but was confident it wouldn’t take long. He’d ask one or two questions, feign interest in this so-called night writing, then send her on her way. Thank you, but no thank you.

He inhaled deeply to steady his nerves when male voices he recognized drifted from the front entryway. “What the hell are you nervous about?” he chided himself. “She’s just a woman.”

As the voices came closer, a delicate perfume stole up his nostrils—one he recognized only too well. Violets were the faithless Lucinda’s favorite.

Damn.

Not only was he about to navigate the turbulent waters of relating to a woman for the first time as a blind man, every whiff would be a bitter reminder of his fiancée’s inconstancy.

*

Amelia recognized Major Sheridan’s cologne as soon as she set foot in the cluttered drawing room full of furniture that had seen better days. It was the same fragrance Conrad Williams was wearing the day his mistress accosted him outside the home of Amelia’s parents and shot him dead in a fit of jealous rage.

Her fiancé’s betrayal had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. She and her family agreed she was well rid of a philandering fellow she’d never truly loved, but the experience had made her wary of men. She’d never suspected Conrad kept a mistress.

Her first sight of her potential employer came as a shock. He was neither elderly nor horribly scarred—two things she’d been prepared to face in light of what Earl Gabriel had told her. Indeed, he was possibly the most striking man she’d ever set eyes on. High cheekbones, a proud nose, full lips, a shadow of morning stubble, masses of dark hair tied back in a long queue. An elegant man, he looked entirely out of place in the cluttered room. She’d wager he’d been a favorite of the ladies before the accident.

However, his stern countenance indicated his displeasure. He didn’t want her as his housekeeper anymore than she wanted the position.

The countess bent to lay a hand on his clenched fist. “It’s Lady Farnworth, Major Sheridan,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind I came with my husband and Miss Southwell.”

“Not at all, my lady,” he replied, his tone of voice betraying his preference that none of them had come. “You’re always welcome. Please take a seat.”

“May I introduce Miss Amelia Southwell?” Earl Gabriel asked after clearing his throat.

“Miss Southwell,” Boyd acknowledged coldly.

“And I present my good friend, Major Boyd Sheridan.”

“How do you do?” she replied, realizing too late that a polite curtsey was redundant since he couldn’t see her. And did she truly expect a cheery reply?

“I do middling,” he replied haughtily. “Forgive me if I don’t rise to greet you, Miss Southwell. There’s always a danger I might fall over, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Amelia couldn’t fail to detect the sarcasm—and the self-pity. It was tempting to fling back an equally rude retort, but she heeded Earl Gabriel’s warning glance.

“Please be seated, Miss Southwell,” the major said. “The earl will show you where.”

Amelia smiled inwardly. Clearly, there was nothing wrong with Sheridan’s hearing. He knew she was still on her feet. “Thank you, Major,” she replied sweetly, making sure her silk skirts rustled as she sat on a high-back wooden chair whose cushion desperately needed a new cover.

Eyebrows raised, Earl Gabriel nodded.

She took that as her cue not to allow his friend to intimidate her. “I must tell you, Major,” she declared before her host had a chance to speak, “I can see from the questionable state of this room that you do, indeed, need a housekeeper. However, I’m not interested in spending my life cleaning house.”

If Sheridan’s gasp was any indication, she’d thrown him off balance, but the broad smile that banished his scowl stole the breath from her lungs. He wasn’t just striking. He was heartbreakingly handsome.

*

Once he recovered from his surprise at her blunt remarks, Boyd stifled an urge to laugh and asked, “So, why are you here?” He probably knew the answer. She saw him as a project, someone to experiment on with night writing.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” she replied. “As you know, I’m currently employed as a nanny to Earl Gabriel’s son. However, and my employers are aware of this, I took the position as…er…I had only recently come north, you see, and…er…”

Her sudden reticence seemed out of character. It was puzzling, and she was fidgeting with her skirts. There was something she didn’t want him to know. “You’re trying to say you needed the position.”

Gabriel interjected. “We took Miss Southwell on as a nanny, though we acknowledged she was overqualified.”

Clearly, this young woman had come north to get away from something—or someone. Boyd was all too familiar with the urge to flee, so he didn’t pursue the matter, but he wondered if Gabe knew her secret. “You don’t see the position of housekeeper as a step up, or something you’re suited to?” he asked.

“I’m capable of hiring and supervising servants, organizing your household, that sort of thing,” she retorted, irritation in her voice. “But I have other skills and talents that may be of use to you.”

Gabe cleared his throat again.

Boyd was tempted to chuckle, imagining Miss Southwell’s deep blush if she realized the suggestive nature of her boast. “Really?” he drawled, wondering suddenly if she was blonde, or brunette, pretty or…?

He clenched his jaw. Her appearance was of no importance. She’d be out of his life in five minutes.

Blinded by Science

“So, explain to me about this night writing,” Sheridan said.

Amelia was no fool. She recognized the intent behind the question. He wasn’t interested. In fact, he couldn’t have sounded more bored.

If he wanted boredom, she’d oblige. “Night writing is an encoding system that uses symbols of twelve dots,” she began, rushing on when he opened his mouth to make what was sure to be some flippant remark about dots. “They are arranged as two columns of six dots embossed on a square of paperboard. The system was designed in 1815 by Charles Barbier. It is, in fact, one of twelve different writing methods created by Barbier.”

She soldiered on, delighted she seemed to have stunned the gaping major to silence with her knowledge. She proceeded to roll out the artillery. “His system was related to the Polybius square, in which a two-digit code represents a character. Barbier’s original version was a six-by-five matrix, which he later expanded into a six-by-six matrix to include the main sounds of the French alphabet, as well as several digraphs and trigraphs.”

If she bored him with the details, he would politely send her on her way, with his thanks, of course. In her experience, few men tolerated a bluestocking for long.

“Intriguing,” he said, throwing her plan into disarray when there was no hint of sarcasm in his voice.

There was nothing for it but to bring up the big guns. “I have a sample,” she cooed, “if you’d care to examine it.”

*

Boyd chuckled inwardly. Miss Southwell was clearly of the opinion she’d blinded him with science. No wonder Gabe thought so highly of her. One thing was for sure, life would never be dull with the sharp-witted Miss Southwell around.

That wasn’t going to happen, but he’d never been one to back away from a challenge—until he’d lost his sight. That was proving to be a mountain he might not succeed in climbing. “Perhaps you could show me,” he said in answer to her suggestion.

In the ensuing silence, he’d wager she’d pursed her lips. He rather liked the idea he’d flummoxed her. The only way to be sure would be to touch his finger to her mouth. She’d likely slap him, but it might be worth it.

“With your permission,” she said, interrupting his reverie as to whether her lips were full, thin, or… “I’ll need to sit beside you in order to demonstrate.”

As he might have expected, she didn’t wait for permission. The next thing he knew, she’d seated herself beside him on the loveseat. As its name implied, the chair was designed for two—two lovers. Inevitably, their hips, arms and thighs touched. She took a moment or two to settle her skirts, aggravating his predictable male reaction to her proximity, as well as to the perfume—annoyingly, it seemed he was still a sucker for violets.

On second thought, since the accident, his manhood hadn’t clamored for the attention it currently demanded. Perhaps there was more to this night writing than he’d bargained for.

“Give me your hand, sir,” she commanded.

“My hand?” he parroted.

“So I may guide you to read the dots,” she said as if speaking to a dimwitted child.

For what Boyd estimated to be about ten minutes, he struggled in vain to understand how the raised dots could translate to meaningful words. Sweat trickled down his spine. As she patiently guided his fingers over the embossed paperboard, one thing became abundantly clear. He’d never had a stronger physical reaction to any female.

“It takes a while to master,” she allowed, removing her hand.

He instantly missed her warmth; the disappointment in her voice bothered him. “I’m confident I can blossom under your tutelage,” he heard himself say.

Could he have sounded any more like a philandering fool?

Gabe coughed.

“I’d be pleased to offer you employment, Miss Southwell,” Boyd announced, trying to sound more like the disciplined soldier he was. “When can you start?”

*

After a week of weighing the pros and cons of the position at Breightmet Hall, Amelia decided nothing ventured, nothing gained. Putting on a brave front, she bade Thicketford Manor a tearful farewell, still uncertain about the decision she’d made.

“You’ve made the right decision,” Earl Gabriel assured her as the Farnworth carriage set off for Breightmet Hall.

“I’m not so sure,” she confessed, “but I sincerely believe I can help the major adjust to his new reality.”

“He needs you,” the earl replied, a sentiment she supposed she could agree with. In a strange way she didn’t fully understand, she needed Major Boyd Sheridan. He represented a new purpose for her life. Taking care of children was one thing; helping a war hero cope with a devastating injury might lead to other opportunities. The ability to read would improve the lives of blind people immeasurably.

Besides which, despite his initial gruff welcome, she found she rather liked the major. “I think Major Sheridan and I will get along,” she said as the carriage came to a halt.

“I sincerely hope so,” the earl replied.

The cryptic remark only served to increase Amelia’s nervousness.

“I’ll escort you inside,” Earl Gabriel said when they arrived at the rear entrance.

“I thank you, my lord, for everything,” she replied, “but I think it’s better if I go in alone. If I’m to run the household, it’s best I stand on my own two feet now.”

Smiling, he took her hand and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. “You’ll do well, Amelia. I trust Major Sheridan appreciates his good fortune. Remember, Thicketford Manor is only a stone’s throw away.”

She accepted James Footman’s help to alight, wondering if there was some hidden meaning behind the earl’s words. The question remained moot when the door opened and Granville appeared. “Praise the Lord,” he exclaimed. “You’re heaven sent.”

She took his welcome as an auspicious beginning. The major trusted him and it was important she have his support. “If you’re available,” she replied, “I’d like to sit down and make a list of what you see as the first order of business if we’re to sort out this house.”

He stood to attention and saluted. “Right you are, Miss Southwell.”

It was tempting to laugh, but she thought better of it. “Is the major about?” she asked.

The light went out of his eyes. “No. In his study. We’ll likely not see him till dinner time.”

Amelia was relieved she wouldn’t have to face her employer right away, but she wondered what a blind man did in his study all day.

*

Holed up in his study, Boyd sipped his brandy. His head already ached and here he was drinking strong spirits early in the day.

Disgustingly aware brandy wasn’t going to solve the problem of Amelia Southwell, he took another sip anyway.

“When did you become such a coward, Sheridan?” he sneered. “She’s not the first woman you’ve been attracted to.”

Dismayed to discover the crystal glass empty, he hesitated to call Granville for a refill.

By the sounds of it, his manservant and the bluestocking were still chatting in the kitchen. His faithful retainer certainly sounded enthusiastic about whatever they were discussing. “I suppose I have expected too much from the old chap.”

Certainly, Miss Southwell’s arrival would benefit Granville. But her presence loomed as a torment for Boyd. Stiffening his spine, he resolved to never forget he was her employer. Men of honor didn’t dally with their female employees, no matter how appealing they were.

He scoffed at his own folly. “As if a vibrant woman like Amelia would be remotely interested in you.”

Lunacy

Boyd waited, listening to the creaks and groans of the old house as it settled for the night. “I think I’ll call you my Invisible Lady,” he whispered with a chuckle. “Although, perhaps others can see you.”

The ghost gave no indication that she liked or disliked the name he’d bestowed, but she didn’t leave.

“I don’t think anyone else can see you. Miss Southwell has been here a week. She’s accomplished miracles. Cook comes for a full day now. The new parlor maid has taken a lot off Granville’s shoulders. He seems happier. The gardener reports progress with the jungle. None of them have said anything about you. At least, not to me.”

He felt a sudden chill. “What else? You want to know about me. I suppose I am happier too. Have you noticed the old place smells a lot better? Warmer with hearty fires in every room. Although, perhaps you prefer the cold.”

The chill in the room persisted. “Yes, very well. If you insist. I confess, I am making progress with Miss Southwell’s night writing.”

He sensed the ghost’s impatience. “All right. I admit. I enjoy her company. Her perfume steals up my nose and I…”

He clenched his jaw when interest stirred at his groin. “You’re a lunatic, Sheridan. Talking to a ghost and believing a bright woman like Amelia Southwell could ever be interested in a blind man.”

The window rattled. Boyd attributed it to the wind whipping a branch against the glass.

*

All things considered, things at Breightmet Hall had gone much better than Amelia expected.

The cook was happier with her increased wages. Regular meals were now the order of the day. She just wished the woman wouldn’t chatter incessantly about the ghost that reportedly haunted the house. The tale of lovers torn apart by violence dredged up painful memories she’d sooner forget. She doubted the old wives’ tale was true since she’d neither seen nor felt a ghostly presence in the house.

The parlor maid, the footman and the gardener, all three from the nearby village and recommended by the cook, were settling in well and working hard. They too believed the house was haunted, albeit by a benign spirit.

The house smelled clean and fresh. Hearty fires set in grates scrubbed clean of soot had chased away the damp chill.

Granville approved of the changes and appeared more relaxed now that he had only his master’s needs to take care of.

Major Sheridan was making excellent progress with night writing.

However, the more time she spent with her pupil, the more distracted she became. She itched to untie the ribbon of his queue and sift her fingers through the long, thick tresses.

She couldn’t explain why she felt the urge to inhale his cologne whenever a hint of it wafted her way. She should loathe the reminder of Conrad, yet there was something about the combination of Boyd’s scent and the cologne that lightened her heart.

He had lovely, even teeth when he smiled, which he did more often now.

She craved the touch of his long, elegant fingers on her nipples that insisted on pebbling whenever she was near him.

She wished he would open his eyes so she could see what color they were.

It was lunacy. As if a decorated war hero would be interested in a girl like her.

Besides, she heard him talking to himself at night, which confirmed her fear he had ghosts of his own he was struggling to lay to rest.

*

The mornings passed too slowly for Boyd. He couldn’t wait for the afternoon lessons in night writing to begin. Miss Southwell probably thought he was keen to get on with it because the subject was interesting, when, in truth, it was she who had enthralled him.

Simply sitting beside her on the loveseat stirred his male interest. He feigned difficulty deciphering the dots just so she would place her warm hand atop his.

It was foolhardy and, if her occasional sudden intake of breath was any indication, she found his behavior distressing.

One day, his lust overcame his common sense. “I wonder, Miss Southwell, may I touch your hair?”

She tensed.

He soldiered on. “It’s simply so very difficult to imagine what you look like, and I thought…”

“Yes,” she whispered, taking hold of his hand. “You may touch it.”

He was already overly warm, having taken to wearing his long frock coat indoors. It wouldn’t do to let her see the effect she had on his manhood, which reacted predictably when she guided his hand to her head.

“You wear your hair down,” he managed from his dry throat as silken tresses slipped through his trembling fingers.

“Yes,” she murmured. “I hope you don’t mind. I thought since you can’t…oh.”

He’d embarrassed her—the last thing he wanted to do. “Are your tresses fair or dark, Miss Southwell?” he asked in an effort to alleviate the embarrassment of her faux pas.

“I’m blonde,” she replied.

He was lost.

*

Wondering how she could have been so thoughtless, Amelia closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, childishly glad she hadn’t had time to pin up her hair this day.

Her eyes flew open when he asked, “It’s forward of me, but may I touch your face, Miss Southwell? I have no idea what you look like.”

The boyish uncertainty on his handsome face tugged at her heartstrings. “Yes, of course,” she replied. “I should have thought of it sooner.”

Best not to mention she’d hoped to pluck up the courage to suggest he get to know her features.

She held her breath as he slowly ran his fingertips over her forehead, eyes, nose, and lips—delicately, as if he feared she might break. His skin was slightly rough, as one might expect of a soldier. She hoped he couldn’t detect the beating of her heart pulsing in her ears.

Winged creatures took flight in her stomach as he traced his finger along her bottom lip. When he pursed his own full lips, a wild premonition caused her to gasp. He was going to kiss her.

She didn’t have a chance to think how she might react. He stood abruptly and excused himself. “I recall an urgent matter in my study,” he rasped, reaching for the silver handle of the cane he used to help him navigate. It escaped his grasp and fell to the floor. Apparently reluctant to retrieve it, he stumbled out of the drawing room, colliding with the high-back wooden chair as he went.

Apparition

“I’m a fool,” Boyd admitted to the ghost.

His Invisible Lady normally brought a chill to their nightly conversations; now, a faint, warm breeze caressed his face. “Say what you will, my dear phantom, it’s ludicrous to lust after Miss Southwell.”

The chill returned.

He lay back against the headboard and folded his arms across his chest. “You’re right. I’m still a young man, healthy and fit in every other way. What’s wrong with being aroused by Amelia?”

“Because you’re blind,” he countered against his own nonsensical outburst. “A capable woman like her needs a man who’s whole. I should dismiss her before I do something I’ll regret.”

It was tempting to attribute the disturbance in the air to his Invisible Lady shaking her head but, clearly, he was overwrought and exhausted. Dealing with blindness was hard enough, now he had to cope with thwarted sexual cravings.

Exasperated, he pressed his fisted hands to his blighted eyes, and eventually surrendered to sleep.

The dreadful horror of Waterloo reared its ugly head—the relentless, deafening din of the barrages, clods of earth and body parts flying through the air, gut-wrenching screams of unbearable agony, the stench of smoke and death. Then, the sudden, paralyzing realization the gun had malfunctioned. The shell was about to explode inside the barrel. His men would be blown to smithereens. Unless…

“No,” he shouted, waking in a cold sweat. “No.”

“Sir, sir.”

Granville.

“It’s just a bad dream, sir.”

Trembling as he struggled to banish the soul-destroying images from his mind, he forced open his eyelids, then closed them quickly. Cold sweat turned to a raging fever when he thought he’d seen a glimmer of light.

Gradually, a peaceful calm stole over him as his breathing slowed. Dare he hope he’d glimpsed his Invisible Lady dressed in white, standing in the doorway, a candle raised to chase away his darkness?

*

Amelia came awake, puzzled by a warm breeze tickling her face. Assuming the window had been left open, she got out of bed and relit the candle by her bedside.

Still half-asleep, she checked the latch, confirming that she had, indeed, made sure it was closed before retiring.

Suddenly chilled by an eerie certainty she wasn’t alone in the room, she raised the candle.

Her breath caught in her throat when a white blur appeared briefly, then dissolved through the closed door.

Heart thudding in her ears, she gasped. Was it possible the tales of a ghostly presence at Breightmet Hall were true? Or was she simply imagining things?

She tensed, alarm washing over her when a heart-wrenching shout of denial echoed from down the hall.

Boyd!

Slippered feet hurried down the hallway.

She heard Granville’s voice, and cries of anguish.

Something was terribly wrong.

Hastily, she donned her white cotton wrapper, gripped the candlestick and hastened to the major’s room.

The door stood open, but she dithered on the threshold. Boyd Sheridan raised his head and seemed to look right through her. It was the first time she had seen his eyes open. The compulsion to wrap her arms around him and chase away the darkness was nigh on overwhelming. She could only guess at the horrors of war that haunted him.

However, her proud employer would be mortified if he knew she’d seen him sobbing against his valet’s shoulder.

“Blimey, Miss,” Granville exclaimed when he glanced in her direction. “For a minute, I thought you were the White Lady.”

*

Boyd cursed the accident that had robbed him of his sight. Why hadn’t the infernal piece of artillery simply killed him? Death would have been preferable to the half-life he was living.

And now, Amelia Southwell, the woman who drew him like a lodestone, had seen him at his pitiful worst—a wreck of a man, sobbing his heart out on his servant’s sleeve like a child.

Anger, despair and embarrassment threatened to choke him.

But he’d seen her, hadn’t he?

True, he’d thought she was the ghost, but he had seen something, if only for a second.

Calmer now, he clenched his jaw. It would be foolhardy to allow hope to take root. The doctors had talked about flash blindness, hopeful there was a chance the condition would resolve itself. He didn’t believe it. His blindness was permanent and that was that. The sooner he accepted the fact…

“Has Miss Southwell gone?” he asked his servant.

Pray God she isn’t still witnessing my cowardice.

“Yes, sir. Back to her room.”

“I plan to dismiss her on the morrow,” he said, though the prospect left him feeling empty.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t think you should do that. Miss Southwell’s brought life to this old place.” He hesitated before continuing. “You’ll think I’m losing my marbles, but I believe the ghost likes having her here.”

*

It was a long time before Amelia fell asleep. For hours, she stared into the darkness, debating whether or not she should have entered the major’s bedroom. But what would she have done then—followed her instinct, taken him into her arms and rocked him like a babe? He’d have been mortified.

Granville might have suffered an apoplexy.

She couldn’t deny an inner compulsion to help wrestle his demons into submission, though it was unlikely he’d be willing to share anything of his nightmares with her. After all, she was simply his housekeeper, an employee.

She covered her head with the pillow to shut out the insistent little voice that whispered she wanted to be much more than that.

A Better Understanding

Silence dominated breakfast the following day. Major Sheridan seemed determined not to bring up the previous night’s events. However, Amelia felt an irrational compulsion to talk about the ghost. “A strange thing happened last night,” she began, regretting it instantly when the major dropped his fork and clenched his jaw as it clattered to the planked floor of the morning room.

Granville shot her a warning glance as he guided a clean fork into the major’s hand, but she chose to ignore it. “I think I may have seen the famous ghost everyone talks about.”

Granville rushed to assist the major with his chair when he tossed down his napkin and made to rise.

“In my study, if you please, Miss Southwell,” Sheridan declared before stalking away, his cane thudding on the wooden flooring.

She might have objected that she hadn’t finished her cup of coffee, but her employer’s stern tone of voice tied a knot in her belly. She’d thought they were making progress, but it sounded like she was about to be dismissed.

Her throat constricted as indignation soared. If the major thought he was going to dismiss her, he’d better think again. A dismissal on her record of employment would spoil the chances of ever improving her station in life. She’d done nothing to warrant dismissal.

Ghost or not, she was beginning to feel a sense of belonging at Breightmet Hall. Despite his sometimes cool demeanor, she liked the major. More than liked, if truth be told. She followed him to the study, intent on making him understand she had to stay, for both their sakes.

*

Seated at his desk, Boyd heard Amelia enter. The sharp click of the door closing and the speed with which she approached told him she was upset, which wasn’t surprising given his rudeness. His determination to dismiss her faltered. He enjoyed her company. She was helping him navigate his darkness, filling his days with a purpose. Why did he feel compelled to send her away? “Please take a seat,” he said as he got to his feet.

“I prefer to stand,” she replied curtly, confirming his belief she was angry.

He dithered, searching for a way to apologize. “I have no idea why I refer to this room as my study,” he began. “There’s little for a blind man to study.”

He slumped into the chair, disgusted by the self-pity in his voice.

“But you will,” she replied. “Once you master night writing. And there’s nothing wrong with your mind.”

Except that I hold conversations with a ghost.

He didn’t share her optimism, but her tone of voice was different. The anger had subsided. “I apologize for my boorish behavior,” he said. “As you know, I’m not good at being the only blind person among a household full of sighted people.”

“I would like to have a better understanding of your difficulties,” she replied.

“Other than having you wear a blindfold, I’m not sure how we could accomplish that.”

He sat up straight, tensing when rustling skirts indicated she had moved to stand beside him. “Perhaps in small ways,” she whispered.

Intrigued by the hint of nervousness in her voice, he turned to the sound of her voice and asked, “Such as?”

“If you will permit it, I’ll close my eyes and use my other senses to see what you look like. Just as you did with me.”

“Other senses?” he parroted, his cock saluting the prospect of Amelia Southwell putting her elegant hands on him.

“May I?” she asked.

“But you already know what I look like,” he retorted perversely, though he longed to feel her hands on his face.

“Indulge me,” she said. “It’s simply an experiment.”

The annoyance was back.

“Very well,” he rasped, hoping his arousal didn’t split his britches when she touched him.

He gripped the carved arms of his chair, his anticipation growing when she rubbed her hands together. “Warming them up,” she explained.

I’m already on fire.

The light touch of her fingertips on his forehead sent a maelstrom of emotions flooding through him. It was the first time since the accident that anyone had touched him for the sake of touching. His throat constricted as she slowly traced his eyebrows. He prayed the welling tears wouldn’t spill forth when she covered his eyelids.

“My beak’s too big,” he jested, striving for levity when she lingered on his nose.

“Nonsense,” she replied. “It’s a proud nose befitting a proud man.”

Before she reached his lips, he knew he would give in to the impulse to lick a fingertip and suck it into his mouth.

*

Amelia considered herself well-read. However, the topic of erotic behavior wasn’t one a young woman of good breeding could or should spend time reading about. That was probably the reason she’d had no idea her fingertips were so intimately connected to her nipples as well as to the secret, unmentionable place genteel young women didn’t acknowledge existed.

“Oh,” she breathed, at a loss for words when the major sucked her finger into his mouth, confirming the astonishing relationship between the aforesaid body parts.

“Oh,” she repeated when he put his arms around her waist and pulled her into his lap.

“Forgive me,” he rasped.

She was about to tell him there was nothing to forgive, but his kiss banished all coherent thought.

The Kiss

Boyd decided to prolong the kiss as long as he could since it was more than likely Amelia would slap his face once they broke apart. However, her enthusiastic response to his suckling her lower lip took him by surprise. Emboldened, he traced his tongue along the seam of her lips, elated when she opened and allowed him entry. The warm taste of coffee and innocence flooded his senses. Her skin smelled clean and fresh. He tightened his embrace, growling when the tip of her tongue teased his. The turmoil in his loins increased when her hand wandered to his nape and slowly slipped the queue from his hair. Intoxicated when she raked her fingers along his scalp, he deepened the kiss. She must be aware of his rock-hard arousal against her bottom, but he couldn’t let her go. He was so close to the edge, if she moaned again, he might embarrass himself.

That perplexing prospect jolted him back to reality. Gulping air, he ended the kiss and rested his forehead against hers. She was breathing as heavily as he was, which was perhaps a good sign. How he wished he could see her face. He desperately needed to know how she felt about what had just happened. Reluctantly, he loosened his manic grip on her body. “I apologize for my ungentlemanly behavior,” he began, shocked any sound had emerged from his constricted throat. “I’m your employer…”

A sudden gust of icy cold wind swirled its tentacles around them both.

Shivering, Amelia cuddled closer.

Since there were no windows in the study and the door remained firmly closed, he could only assume his Invisible Lady wanted him to kiss Amelia again. So he obliged.

*

Cocooned in Boyd’s arms, Amelia surrendered once more to the wanton sensations coursing through her body. Had her mouth not been occupied, she’d have cried out her delight when he cupped her breast and brushed his thumb over the nipple aching for his touch.

She was the major’s employee. Her mother had warned her often enough that male employers invariably took advantage of their female staff.

She knew instinctively that Boyd Sheridan wasn’t that kind of man. In fact, she was more responsible for their current situation than he was.

However, there was no avoiding reality. They either had to deny their mutual attraction, or…

“We must stop,” he rasped when they broke apart for air.

Her euphoria faltered, until he added, “Before we go too far.”

Amelia had no carnal knowledge of the sexual interactions between men and women, although Boyd Sheridan had given rise to physical cravings she’d never experienced before. However, having grown up with three older brothers who weren’t shy about boasting of their sexual exploits, she fully understood the significance of the hard swelling beneath her bottom. Boyd wanted her—the bluestocking most men had no time for, a woman who hadn’t been able to inspire the loyalty of a fiancé she’d trusted. The realization sent heat spiraling through her body.

Despite his protestations, Boyd hadn’t loosened his embrace. She cupped his face. “I’m not sorry, and I’m not upset,” she explained, knowing he couldn’t see her smile. “But you are right. We need to think about what just happened.”

He swallowed hard and removed his arms. “No amount of thinking will change the fact I am drawn to you, Amelia,” he confessed.

“And I to you,” she admitted, noticing the study had warmed considerably.

“But you deserve a man who’s whole.”

She shook her head. “I deserve a man who cares for me, one who’ll be loyal and true. Not like…”

She instantly regretted even mentioning the fiasco of her betrothal.

“Tell me.”

“I was engaged to be married.”

“What happened?”

“He died.”

“I’m so sorry.”

There was no point hiding the truth. “Murdered by a jealous mistress.”

His reply wasn’t what she expected. “That explains why the ghost likes you,” he said. “Her lover was reportedly murdered by her brothers.”

She startled when a low moan broke the silence.

“She wants us to be together,” Boyd exclaimed.

A ghost’s blessing was a notion Amelia had to give some thought to. She and Boyd barely knew each other and there was much to be sorted out if their relationship was to continue. She kissed him softly before easing off his lap.

His face reddened. He coughed nervously, trying to cover the bulge at his groin with the tails of his frock coat.

She wasn’t sure what came over her. Touching her fingertips to the warm swelling simply seemed the right thing to do. “I’m not offended,” she whispered, elated when he covered her hand and pressed it to his arousal.

“My fiancée broke off our engagement when she was told I had lost my sight,” he confessed.

“She was a fool to let you go,” she replied.

“I don’t blame her,” he said. “Lucinda enjoyed the social life in London. The waltz was becoming more popular after Almack’s sanctioned it. I think she was in love with the thrill of dancing in the arms of an officer in uniform.”

Amelia could understand. Waltzing with a handsome man like Boyd would be thrilling indeed. “Did you like dancing?” she asked.

The sudden tension in his shoulders told her he’d been an excellent dance partner.

“I don’t know how to waltz,” she whispered. “This house has a small ballroom that looks like it hasn’t been used in years. Perhaps you could teach me.”

*

Boyd had a choice. He could quit the field now and avoid any further damage to his heart. A sincere apology for his inexcusable actions and the promise of an excellent reference would suffice to ensure Amelia Southwell’s departure from his house and his life. She’d go on to find a better position and a more suitable fellow. It was the right thing to do.

Or was it? The gentle hand on his manhood and the subtle aroma of violets said it wasn’t. The prospect of a lonely, celibate life loomed like a fate worse than death. The brooding ghostly presence hovering over him was displeased that he was even considering backing away from Amelia’s challenge.

Major Boyd Sheridan faced challenges head on, though he’d done a poor job of accepting the loss of his sight. His bravado at Waterloo had cost him his vision and apparently left a few scars he’d never seen, but his men, including Granville had survived.

Teach her to dance? Was she mad? Did she want to see him stumble and fall?

He shook his head. Amelia wished to help him learn how to cope with his new reality, and not simply because she was a kind and giving woman, an employee concerned for her employer. They were drawn to each other—even a blind man could see that.

Byron’s poem suddenly leapt into his thoughts.

*

Waltz—Waltz—alone both legs and arms demands, liberal of feet—and lavish of her hands;

Hands which may freely range in public sight, where ne’er before—but—pray ‘put out the light.’

Methinks the glare of yonder chandelier shines much too far—or I am much too near;

And true, though strange—Waltz whispers this remark; ‘My slippery steps are safest in the dark!’

*

Byron disparaged the waltz, but his words planted an exhilarating idea in Boyd’s mind. “I accept the role of dance master,” he quipped. “On one condition.”

She let out a breath. “Condition?”

“We dance in the dark. Tonight.”

The Dance

Amelia took a few bites of the roasted chicken the cook had prepared for the evening meal. The meat was tender and flavorful, the carrots cooked just the way she liked them, but she was too nervous to eat.

She glanced across the polished table. Boyd was picking at his food, apparently as apprehensive as she about their upcoming tryst.

She’d been a bundle of nerves since he’d suggested dancing in the dark. The naughty idea had caused her intimate inner muscles to clench. She’d nigh on flown from the study to set the maid to the task of opening up the long-disused ballroom.

As the afternoon progressed, she’d gathered up the Holland covers protecting various statues, swept the floor herself and called upon Granville and the gardener to lend a hand with shoving couches and banquettes out of the way. By the time the place was clean, it was clear from the facial expressions of the departing servants they thought she’d lost her mind. Of course, they had no notion of the motivation for preparing the ballroom.

Satisfied with the progress, she improvised a few notes in three-quarter time on the pianoforte—an unexpected discovery. The instrument was woefully out of tune, but touching the keys again after so long calmed her restless spirit. She got the eerie feeling someone was humming along with the tune, but it was probably the wind taking advantage of windows opened after being shut tight for years.

“I heard you playing earlier,” Boyd said seductively.

Her heart skipped. It seemed he had decided to accept the role of the eligible bachelor he was. Amelia’s betrothal to Conrad had been arranged by her parents; the wretch had never wooed her. Setting her knife and fork beside the remains of her dinner, she acknowledged a burning desire to being wooed by Major Boyd Sheridan. “I’m out of practice,” she cooed, fluttering her eyelashes for some insane reason.

“It sounded fine to me,” he replied.

“Unfortunately, we won’t have music for our lesson,” she lamented.

“We’ll make our own music,” he rasped.

*

Boyd couldn’t finish his meal. Resurrecting the long-buried confident and affable chap he used to be was proving to be a nerve-wracking and gut-wrenching process.

However, Amelia had brought light to his darkness and made him realize he could survive, and perhaps even prosper—with her help. Many men boasted of loyal and supportive wives, including the current Prime Minister. Why should he be any different?

Or, perhaps he was getting ahead of himself. When it came down to it, Amelia might be unwilling to take the ultimate step and face a daunting future with him. Whatever the case, he intended to use the opportunity of tonight’s tryst to win her heart.

“I’ll have to ask you to guide me to the ballroom,” he said as he rose from the table. He’d previously resented asking for help. His cock heartily approved when he asked her to hand him his cane.

“Yes, of course,” she replied breathlessly.

A smug little voice assured him he was already well on his way to making her his.

She took his arm and led him slowly into a part of the house he hadn’t been in before, but his throat didn’t constrict with the usual anxiety. She would keep him safe.

“Here we are,” she declared, her voice strained as they stepped into the ballroom.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, wondering if she sensed the unmistakable presence of his Invisible Lady.

“I told the servants to leave the room in darkness.”

She’s afraid.

He’d never entered the room before and couldn’t explain that he “saw” it in his mind’s eye. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t let you fall.”

*

“Have you never danced?” Boyd asked as they stood face to face in the pitch black.

“My parents occasionally hosted social gatherings at their home in Kent,” she replied. “I joined in the minuets, quadrilles, that sort of thing.”

“With Conrad?”

She detected a hint of jealousy in his voice. It was interesting how the darkness sharpened a girl’s hearing.

“Oh, no,” she assured him. “He thought dancing was for the lower classes.”

Her heart fluttered when he took her hand, put his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“Contredanse is one thing,” he whispered. “The waltz is something entirely different.”

“Some say it’s…indecent,” she stammered, his warm breath on her ear making her foolishly nervous. The confident Amelia Southwell was clearly rubbish at this wooing business.

“Not if the two people whose bodies are touching care deeply about each other,” he said softly.

She considered the arousing notion while he explained the steps. He held her hand. Neither of them wore gloves. His arm was around her waist. Her breasts were pressed against the solid wall of his broad chest. They stood thigh to thigh, the hard swell of his manhood impossible to ignore. It was highly improper—and she loved every intoxicating wave of delight that washed over her. Shame was the furthest thing from her mind when he set them in motion, whispering the count of the steps as they progressed slowly around the ballroom.

She quickly realized she was in the arms of a graceful athlete who was light on his feet. He led with unerring confidence. All she had to do was follow. They were no longer a blind man and a bluestocking taking tentative steps in the dark. Boyd and Amelia waltzed with style and panache, the persistent whistling of the wind their only accompaniment. Closing her eyes added to the enchantment of flying around the room.

“I’m falling in love with you,” he confessed without missing a step.

“And I with you,” she replied, her heart stuttering when he brought them to a halt and went down on one knee, still holding her hand.

“Miss Amelia Southwell, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

Happiness constricted her throat as tears welled.

Evidently mistaking her hesitation for rejection, he released her and stood. “I realize it’s a lot to ask.”

She cupped his face in her hands. “Marrying you is my heart’s desire,” she told him. “You’re the finest man I’ve ever known, and you complete me.”

“Oh, God,” he growled before gathering her into his embrace. Time lost its meaning as they kissed, deeply, passionately, tongues dueling, breath mingling. Hands wandered to intimate places as they swayed together. When they finally strolled away from the ballroom, she willingly allowed him to lead her to his chamber. But she paused on the threshold.

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispered.

“It’s not that,” she replied. “I thought I heard the piano.”

*

The Miracle of Love

Boyd feared his heart might burst forth from his chest. Not only had Amelia agreed to be his wife, she’d committed herself to him unaware of what he and the Invisible Lady knew. Lost in the exhilarating joy of waltzing with Amelia, Boyd opened his eyes and allowed hope to penetrate the darkness. They were blurry, but he swore he could make out white statues around the outer walls of the ballroom. Had he actually seen the brief glimmer of candlelight a day ago? He blinked, but the fuzzy images remained.

He was certain Amelia would notice his eyes were open when she cupped his face in her hands, but perhaps darkness wasn’t as faithful a friend to her as it was to him.

If she thought he was surer of his progress as they made their way along unlit hallways to his chamber, she made no mention of it. It wasn’t perfect—he misjudged the door and collided with the jamb—but even regaining his sight partially would be a monumental gift.

Heart racing, he drew Amelia into his chamber, confused at first by the bright light cast by at least a dozen candles. How had this come about? But then he chuckled, took his beloved’s hands and tried to focus on her features as they stood face to face.

The puzzled frown did nothing to mar her beauty. Her lips looked as full and tempting as they had felt; green eyes came as a surprise. She was indeed blonde and he thirsted to pull out the pins and let the glory fall free.

“Your eyes are turquoise,” she exclaimed with a wide-eyed smile that stopped his heart.

“And you are exquisite,” he rasped, sifting his fingers through silken tresses.

The frown was back. The breath hitched in her throat. “Can you see me?”

“Only faintly,” he admitted.

Her reaction was unexpected. “You perhaps want to reconsider,” she murmured, averting her gaze to the carpeted floor.

He tilted her chin, forcing her to look at him. The welling tears tore at his heart. “Reconsider what?”

“You’ll no longer need me if you can see.”

He inhaled deeply. “You think I want to marry you because I lack a guide? I love you, Amelia. I need you by my side whether I can see or not. To be frank, there’s blurred vision in only one eye at present. The other is as sightless as it ever was. It might be a temporary reprieve. I thought you loved me, but…”

His cock saluted when she silenced him with a kiss and her hands got busy tearing the frock coat from his shoulders.

*

Amelia had harbored a secret dread of taking off her clothes in front of the late, unlamented Conrad. She relished Boyd’s careful undressing and his adoring perusal of her nudity. Slowly, he smoothed long, elegant fingers over her shoulders, breasts, hips and thighs like a man worshiping a sacred object. She’d never considered herself beautiful. Now, she was a goddess.

Her nipples pebbled at his reverent touch. An ache blossomed in her womb when he suckled greedily.

Since their first meeting, she’d appreciated his physique and acknowledged he was a well-made man. His nakedness proved how badly she’d underestimated what lay beneath the tailored clothing.

In a room filled with light, she savored every moment of learning the planes and contours of his body. With three brothers, she was no stranger to the male anatomy, but the silky hardness of Boyd’s thick lance made her mouth water and her womanhood weep.

He brought her to previously unimagined dizzying heights of pleasure with his clever fingers and tongue. Desperate to feel his manhood inside her, she pleaded with him to join their bodies.

The moment his manhood breached her maidenhead, joy filled her heart.

She clamped her legs around his thrusting hips, pressing her head to his chest as she clung to him. She matched him stroke for stroke until the euphoria building inside crested, lifting her to soar on clouds of bliss. She rejoiced when all the colors of the rainbow washed over her at the very moment Boyd bellowed his completion.

She collapsed back onto the pillow and met his gaze, nigh on moved to tears by the love she saw in those beleaguered turquoise depths.

“I can still see you,” he rasped.

“And I can still hear the confounded piano,” she replied.

He stretched his neck to listen. “She’s happy I’ve ruined you,” he said with a teasing smile.

It took her a moment to understand. “You mean…”

“The Invisible Lady,” he confirmed. “Perhaps now I’ll be able to see her.”

There was a time Amelia would have dismissed tales of ghosts out of hand, but she knew differently now.

“The rainbow’s a sign she’s at peace,” he said.

“As am I,” she whispered, awestruck that he too had seen the rainbow.

*

The wedding was a small affair, conducted by Canon Parr at St. John’s parish church in Preston a month after Amelia had accepted Boyd’s proposal.

Boyd was honored to have an earl at his side as his best man. As well as being a staunch friend, Gabriel Smith had brought Amelia to him.

Gabriel’s physician, Dr. Adrian Henry, served as groomsman. The good doctor had referred Boyd to an eye specialist in Manchester. He pronounced the right eye more or less healed, but the left in all likelihood irreparably damaged.

Amelia suggested a black eyepatch and insisted he wear it in bed. According to her, he looked like a rakish pirate.

Having come north for the wedding, all three strapping brothers gave Amelia away—no mean feat given the breadth of their shoulders and the narrowness of the center aisle. They’d initially expressed concerns about his impairment, but their indignant sister soon set them straight. In subsequent conversations, the eyepatch seemed to be the thing that impressed the trio the most. Boyd privately thought his war service and the knighthood would better serve to recommend him as a suitable husband, but he wasn’t going to argue.

He no longer worried about his impaired eyesight. As far as he was concerned, Amelia’s love had brought about a miracle. Not that she’d restored his vision; rather, she’d forced him out of his despair and made him realize he could still live a full and happy life.

The ghost of Breightmet Hall had a lot to do with his newfound happiness as well. He was disappointed not to see his Invisible Lady in the church, although he hadn’t really expected her to leave the house she’d haunted for hundreds of years.

The End

Footnotes

Readers may recognize some of the characters in this story from my series, EARLS ARE WILD. Earl Gabriel Smith, his wife Emma, Dr. Adrian Henry, and even Amelia appear in EVERY EARL HAS A SILVER LINING, and WILD EARL CHASE.

Canon Parr and his church play cameo roles as well.

Boyd and Amelia could well put in an appearance in Book 3 of the series, SLOW AND STEADY WINS THE EARL.

*

The Invisible Lady is based on the legend of Dorothy Southworth, the White Lady of Salmesbury Hall near Preston in Lancashire.

https://www.samlesburyhall.co.uk/about/history
https://www.visitpreston.com/blogs/visit-blog/2019/10/haunted-preston-samlesbury-halls-spooky-history/
https://www.lancs.live/news/lancashire-news/tragic-story-preston-country-home-19140109

*

The details of Barbier’s night writing parroted so pedantically by Amelia come from en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Night_writing. Louis Braille’s system for the blind was invented a few years later.

*

I based Breightmet Hall on Little Moreton Hall, a medieval house I visited many years ago. You’ll love the pictures.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Little_Moreton_Hall

I have published more than sixty popular historical romances, but the EARLS ARE WILD series is the first I’ve set in my native Lancashire. I took the opportunity to include many of the place names I recall from childhood. Breightmet, Thicketford, Crompton, and Farnworth conjure happy memories.

*

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Anna Markland

Earls are Wild Series

Every Earl Has a Silver Lining

Wild Earl Chase

Clash of the Tartans Series

Kilty Secrets

Kilted at the Altar

Kilty Pleasures

Kilty Party

Kilts in the Wind

Kilts Ahoy!

The Viking’s Gift (A Novella)

About the Author

Thank you for reading Blind Faith. If you’d like to leave a review where you purchased the collection, and/or on Goodreads and BookBub, I would appreciate it. Reviews contribute greatly to an author’s success.

I’d love you to visit my website and my Facebook page, Anna Markland Novels.

Tweet me @annamarkland, join me on Pinterest, or sign up for my newsletter.

Follow me on BookBub and be the first to know when my next book is released. I’m also on Instagram.

*

As an amateur genealogist (aka an addict of family tree research) I became obsessed with tracing my English roots back to the Norman Conquest in the 11th century.

This turned out to be pipe dream since I am not descended from the nobility and records were not kept for “common folks” until much later. Even then, early parish records are often indecipherable.

As a result, I began to write stories about a medieval family I conjured from my imagination. The Montbryces were born.

Like many people, I had an inner craving to write one good book. What was originally intended as that one book about my fictional family eventually became the 12-book series, The Montbryce Legacy.

In other words, writing superseded genealogy as my principal addiction, and I have since published more than 60 novels and novellas. Almost all are historical romances that feature Vikings, Highlanders, medieval knights or Regency earls. You can find more details on my website annamarkland.com.

I’ve lived most of my life in Canada, but I was born in the UK. The years spent in English schools instilled in me a love of European history which continues to this day. While I may boast of being a proud Canadian, I’m still a Lancashire lass at heart.

Before becoming a full-time writer, I was an elementary school teacher, a job I loved. I then worked as administrator for a world-wide disaster relief organization.

I love cats, although I haven’t been able to bring myself to adopt another one since unexpectedly losing Topaz a few years ago.

I have few domestic skills. You’ll notice most of my heroines hate sewing!

I try to follow a few simple guiding principles in my writing. I give my characters free rein to tell their story which often turns out to be different from my original version! I’m a firm believer in love at first sight. My protagonists may initially deny the attraction but, eventually, my heroes and heroines find their soul mates. It seems only natural then to include scenes of intimacy enjoyed by people who love each other deeply. I believe such intimacy is wholesome. Historical accuracy is important to me, although I have been known to tweak history when necessary. I write romance because I find a happy ending very satisfying.

*

Many thanks to the members of my critique group, Sylvie Grayson, Reggi Allder, Jacquie Biggar and Liz Ann Carson, and to my editor, Scott Moreland. The value you add to my work is much appreciated.

*

Percy’s Perdition

Aubrey Wynne

A robin, a lady in white, and a desperate wife will put Percy on an unexpected path to perdition.

There are two things the Earl of Karmaughton holds dear: power and his wife. Ellie has spent her marriage repairing the damage caused by her husband’s unscrupulous business transactions. She knows his soul is worth saving. But it will take a ghostly encounter for the callous nobleman to learn that for every action there is a consequence.

Legend: Everyone knows that when a robin flies inside one’s house, it’s a harbinger of death. For the wicked Lord Lyttelton, English rogue and turncoat, the bird transformed into a lady in white who correctly predicted his death in three days. On the third day, he boasted he’d “jockeyed” the ghost. On the third day, just before midnight on November 27, 1779, he died suddenly in his bed. The apparition was said to be the mother of one of the many innocents he seduced.

Prologue

“The light of the day is followed by night, as a shadow follows a body.”

Aristotle

November 24, 1779

“She’s dead!”

“Who?” Lord Lyttelton glanced up from the hazard table, his jaw tightening indiscernibly at the interruption. He turned to his friend with a practiced smile.

“Mrs. Amphlett!” Mr. Andrews hissed. “You seduced her daughter, and the on dits say it’s your fault.”

Lyttelton snorted. “My fault? I certainly didn’t see her in the bed with us.”

“It’s all over Town that she died of a broken heart.”

The men at the table had stilled. All eyes on were the baron. He cast his gaze around, saw the accusation—or disgust—on each man’s face. He bowed. “Gentlemen, I will take my leave. Please don’t miss my witty conversation overmuch.”

As he walked away, he could hear the whispers and grinned. He enjoyed the moniker of the Wicked Lord Lyttelton. They were envious of his freedom to do what he pleased without remorse. There was a benefit to having no conscience.

Andrews trailed behind. “What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Nothing. It’s not like I can bring her back from the dead,” scoffed the baron. “Besides, it’s a ridiculous notion. People don’t die from emotions. Her heart gave out. She was a weak, whimpering old woman.”

“But—”

“It’s not my concern. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll take my leave. It’s been an evening of heavy losses.” Lyttelton ran a hand through his thick curls. “I may need to visit the old dowager duchess to recoup my losses.”

“By God, how can you touch something so ancient? She’s hideous.” Andrews grimaced.

“She’s generous, and I snuff the candles in advance.” He chuckled. “It’s worth an evening of fine food, brandy, and enough blunt to cover my debts.”

“I think I’d rather take a chance on the poor house,” Andrews argued, his nose wrinkling.

“You’ve never stepped a foot inside the poor house, or you’d agree with my choice of a warm and willing widow. Don’t judge.” He gave Andrews a nod. “I’ll meet up with you tomorrow night after the Lords convene.”

“Yes, I want to hear the reaction when you announce you’re changing sides. Back here at White’s, then?”

“Yes, I still have credit here. Those pompous asses should have given me the sinecure.” Lyttelton scowled. “I should have been Keeper of the Privy Seal. No one could appreciate the advantages of that position like I could.”

“So true,” agreed Andrews.

*

The carriage pulled up to Pitt Place under a starless sky. The butler opened the door before the carriage had come to a complete stop, spilling a stream of golden light down the steps.

“Good evening, Your Lordship. Early night?” he asked.

“Yes, a busy day tomorrow.”

Lyttelton passed the butler without a glance. He took the stairs quickly, entered his chambers, and poured a glass of brandy as his valet entered. “I’m tired. I shall retire straight away.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“It’s hot in here. Open the window.” The baron wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “That fire is stoked enough to heat the entire ballroom.”

“Yes, my lord.”

An hour later, Lyttelton lay back against the bolsters, going over the next day’s speech in his head. He needed another an easy appointment. One that would bring in brass without any much effort on his part. Otherwise, his lifestyle would take a drastic change. He could cut his wife’s pin money. Her family would make sure she got what she needed. They never saw each other, anyway. It had been a marriage of necessity, not a love match.

His eyes drooped; his chin dropped to his chest.

Lyttelton woke with a start. A rustling or… a flapping. He sat up and saw a bird perched on the windowsill. The room had grown chilly, and a shiver passed over him. “What the devil?” he asked the robin. “Am I dreaming?”

The bird fluttered its wings, hovering in the window sash, then a mist seeped from its red breast. It formed a long narrow cloud, covering the robin. Lyttelton blinked. The mist was now a woman, an ethereal shape. He sucked in a breath.

“Who are you? I demand you leave my room immediately.” A cold sweat covered his bare skin. His heart beat rapidly; his mouth was dry. He tried to call for his valet but could not muster the volume needed to call outside the bedchamber.

“What do you want?” he rasped at the menacing woman. Her hair was covered in a cap, as if she’d just risen from her bed. Her face was familiar…

“Your death is imminent.” Her voice wavered, as if a wind pushed it back and forth. She held up three fingers.

“I shall die in three months?” he asked in a whisper. Gravel scraped at his throat as he struggled to take in a breath.

“Three days. Prepare yourself, sir.” With those words, the eerie form slipped out the window and into the dark night.

Lyttelton didn’t sleep well that night. He woke in a foul mood and shaken by the apparition. No, the dream. That’s all it had been. He rose and faced the day.

At breakfast, he shared his dream with his guests, trying to make light of it. The ladies tittered at the thought of a ghost in the house. Their laughter added to his confidence. It had been a bit of memory tucked in the back of his brain. The robin that had flown into Mrs. Dawson’s drawing room during his visit. Add Andrews’ news of the dead woman, and his dream had been created.

Still shaken, Lyttelton maintained his typical schedule through the next few days. On the morning of November 27, he joined his house guests for breakfast again. “If I make it through this day, I will have bilked the ghost!” Laughter echoed around the table.

That night, Lord Lyttelton again went to bed early. At half-past eleven, he crawled into the bed, declaring to his valet that he’d jockeyed the ghost. “I’m fit as can be!” he declared.

“Yes, my lord.”

At fifteen minutes before midnight, his valet entered the bedchamber again to close the window.

Lord Lyttelton was dead.

Chapter One

“Learn to see. Realize that everything connects to everything else.”

Leonardo DaVinci

April 10, 1826

London, England

The Countess of Karmaughton grimaced and turned her back on the men surrounding her husband’s desk. His scowl was enough to send the pack of them scurrying, except each man desired something badly enough to risk staying. Despicable wolves, snarling at one another for a dominant position in the earl’s favor. A man infamous for unseemly investments that only a desperate nobleman would consider. Though, desperate was not a word ever associated with Lord Karmaughton. Cunning, ruthless, heartless, extraordinarily wealthy—those descriptions were all quite accurate. His onyx eyes and midnight hair didn’t help brighten his reputation.

Ellie had heard the whispered monikers: Callous Karmaughton. Stone-faced Percy. She pulled on her gloves and snatched her parasol from the butler as she stormed down the wide portico steps. She refused to be dragged to the depths of Hell with him.

I’ll hand you the moon, my love, but don’t interfere in my business dealings. Her husband’s words echoed in her head.

Her overbearing, arrogant, ridiculously handsome husband. A smirk tugged at her lips. She’d learned way around her condescending man after seven years of marriage. She only interfered with the aftermath of his investments, repairing at least some of the damage when possible.

A liveried coachman stood patiently by the gleaming black phaeton, door open and the steps down. “My lady.” He nodded and held out a white-gloved hand to assist her up and into the open carriage.

Ellie settled onto the plush velvet squab. Her lumpy satin reticule rested heavily on her pale-blue silk skirt. That color matches your lovely eyes to perfection. I’m the most fortunate man in London. No, in England. No, in all the world. Again, her husband’s words at breakfast reverberated in her brain. Her infuriating, passionate, loving husband.

“I swear he’s two men. How can that unconscionable whipster in our library be the same man who holds me so tenderly at night?” she mumbled to herself. The driver slapped the leather reins against the wide rumps of the pristine white horses, leaving St. James’s Square behind them.

“Pardon, ma’am?” asked the driver, his head tilted back, one finger holding the brim of his tall black hat.

“Nothing, Barker.” She popped open her umbrella to shield her eyes from the bright afternoon sun. Not even the perpetual fog hanging over Town could dampen the golden rays or her mood. “To the school, please.”

He nodded, clicked to the horses after yielding to a hansom cab, and steered onto Piccadilly. The traffic grew heavier as they left the residential area. It was an indirect route to St. Agatha’s Home for Boys, but necessary. Ellie always made sure she was seen in or near Hyde Park at the social hour, then Barker would ease them along Oxford or Bond Street. At dinner, she would mention who she’d seen driving around the serpentine or buying baubles. An alibi her husband never questioned.

As they passed the silversmith’s on Oxford, she waved at two acquaintances, accompanied by their footmen, admiring the intricate jewelry in the display window. She settled back and enjoyed the sights until the landscape noticeably changed. Oxford Street and its shops gave way to dingy buildings and the heightened odor of sewage. The passersby no longer wore expensive walking clothes, but instead had homespun garments, often filthy, ragged, or both. The phaeton turned down a narrow street and stopped in front of an aged stone building with a huge oak door and tarnished brass knocker.

The driver whistled. A lad in woolen knee breeches and a stained, oversized shirt rushed from between the buildings to take the reins. A street sweep, a boy no more than six or seven, rushed up to clean a path for her as Barker jumped down and helped Ellie to the clay and gravel street. She picked up her skirts and darted up the steps, knocking impatiently at the door.

A gangly young man answered, his green eyes sparkling with pleasure as he bowed and allowed her entrance. “Hello, James.” She pulled off her gloves and then her bonnet. “Is Mrs. Ladley available?”

“Always to you, my lady.” He led her into a small parlor. The furnishings were a bit shabby, but the room was spotless. “Shall I ring for some tea?”

She shook her head. “I can’t stay long today. Tell Mrs. Ladley I would like to visit the children before I leave, though.”

He gave a nod and left the room, leaving the door ajar. She sat in a worn chintz chair, the arms threadbare, and traced the remnants of a floral pattern with a forefinger. Her reticule lay in her lap once more, the satin braid digging into her wrist.

“Oh, Lady Karmaughton, it is good to see you again.” The schoolmistress bustled in, frizzy curls bouncing beneath her mobcap. “The children are so excited to see the Sunshine Lady.”

“Goodness, they will be disappointed, then.”

Mrs. Ladley shook her head, her brown eyes crinkling. “It’s the color of your hair, ma’am. They say it’s the color of the sun on the brightest summer day.”

Ellie blushed at the unexpected compliment. “I see you’ve employed James as a butler of sorts?”

“Butler, driver, giver of baths, whatever we need at the time. He’s a good lad. Can you believe how he’s grown? Just a little runt when he came here at ten.”

“Now he’s taller than both of us,” added Ellie.

“Standing on top of one another.” Mrs. Ladley giggled. “My, that put a silly image in my head.”

Ellie spent over an hour with the students. Twenty children who asked her questions and shyly answered her own. Some read for her, and others practiced their numbers for her approval. The smallest boy, Samuel, sat on her lap, playing with the ringlets that fell over her shoulder. His deep red hair had once been combed back, but the rebellious waves fell over one blue eye. His lips pursed as he concentrated, pulling a strand of her hair, and wrapping it around one plump finger.

“It’s time for me to go,” she announced, to a chorus of objections. “I hope to see you again very soon. She placed a coin in each child’s palm. Then the children ran forward to give her a hug, and Ellie blinked several times. Her visits were bittersweet. “I’ve been thinking. We need to change the name of this place. It’s no longer only for boys. I will give a thruppence to the student who comes up with the best name for our school.”

Ellie left a boisterous argument behind her as the children began yelling out possibilities.

“They love you, my lady, and look forward to your visits. Coin or no!” Mrs. Ladley flapped her hands and shooed two youngsters back into the classroom. “Off with you, return to your studies now, and make Lady Karmaughton proud. I’ll be back in a moment.”

In the quiet parlor, Mrs. Ladley provided a narrative of the latest infant that had arrived. “She’s got a lusty wail to her, ma’am. Her cheeks are filled out and rosy now. You’d barely recognize her as the same babe.”

Ellie rewarded her with a pleased smile as she opened the reticule and pulled out a small square of paper. “This is the name of a factory. I’m afraid there’s a new owner, and the employees may soon receive a wage cut or be put out. Could you use these funds as you did the last time?”

Mrs. Ladley bobbed her head. “Oh, ma’am, you are the most kind and generous lady.” She grunted as Ellie dropped the jingling pouch into her plump hand. “Did you want to see the records I’ve kept of where the last purse went? Most of it put food on family tables, but we also paid for some doctoring. A little boy with a fever and a young woman in trouble birthing her first babe.”

Ellie shook her head. “Next week, perhaps. My time is limited today. Be sure to make a tally of what you need if this runs out before then. Send James, and Barker will get word to me.”

“As always, thank you, ma’am. I don’t know what these poor folks would do if it weren’t for you and Lord Karmaughton.”

They wouldn’t need me if it weren’t for Lord Karmaughton, she thought, but her lips turned up in a gracious smile. “We do what we can, Mrs. Ladley.”

She collected her bonnet and gloves from the towering James. “Good day to you, sir. Watch over Mrs. Ladley. There are so many depending on her.” Her words were quiet as she deftly tied the ribbons beneath her chin.

“Every day, ma’am. Every day.”

She left with a spright step, her heart infinitely lighter. Once settled in the phaeton, she snapped the parasol open against the sun emerging from the one dark cloud in the sky. It made her think of Percy. “We’ll stop at the confectioner’s on the way home, please. I’ll need to sweeten my lord’s mood this evening. I fear my purse won’t last the good mistress long.”

Barker adjusted his hat over his snowy, short-cropped hair, his brown eyes twinkling. “Yes, my lady.” With a grin, he snapped the reins and the matching white rumps moved away from the narrow brick building.

Between the marzipan and her own flirtations, Percy would never refuse her request for more pin money.

*

Percy watched Ellie pour a glass of brandy, her slender pale fingers wrapped around the cut crystal. She smiled sweetly as she handed it to him, and he wondered what trickery cluttered that beautiful head.

He grabbed her wrist as she turned away and pulled her onto his lap. “How was your day, my love?” His nose inhaled her sweet floral scent, violet mixed with vanilla, and sighed. His wife was an oasis in a scalding desert. Her purity kept him above the sludge of his daily enterprises; her gentle touch was a soothing ointment to his hardened demeanor.

“Well, let’s see.” Ellie tapped a finger against her mouth, drawing attention to the plump pink skin. She smiled knowingly at his quiet growl, and he snatched her fingers in his hand.

“Time for that later,” she whispered in his ear.

The minx! He reached up and pulled a pin from her hair. A thick wave fell over shoulder. The color of butter and almost as soft, he thought, as he rubbed it between his fingers. He always enjoyed this little game when she wanted something. “My apologies, love. I can’t help that you’re so distracting.”

With an exaggerated sigh, she regaled him with her trip around the Serpentine, who she’d seen riding along Rotten Row, and the purchases she’d made. “I’m afraid I might have overspent,” she added as one manicured nail trailed along his jaw.

“You’re fortunate you married a wealthy man. I’ll notify my solicitor to send you more.” Percy brushed the back of his hand along the white swell of her breasts, then cupped her neck, pulling her mouth down to his. He could never get enough of this woman. “It would be much easier if you would just let the merchants bill me.”

“Oh. No! Then I would never remember how much I’ve spent. Your fortune would be gone in a blink if I didn’t have some way to keep an account. My mother always said shopping is one of a woman’s few true pleasures but”—her nail lightly scraped his neck and dipped beneath his perfectly knotted cravat—“remember never to take advantage of your lord’s good nature. Besides, the proprietors are so appreciative of coin. It can take months for credit to be settled. They have families to take care for, too, my dear.”

“They are also more inclined to save the best of their wares for Lady Karmaughton,” he said with a chuckle. No one, not even his Ellie, was completely selfless. It was a lesson he’d learned well as a child. A service or favor or even a good deed always received some type of reward in return. “I won’t criticize your expenditures after hearing some of the complaints at the club the other night. Bentley’s wife lost a hundred pounds at whist.”

Ellie gasped. “No! That’s outrageous.”

“Yes, but that’s the least of his problems.” Percy thought about yesterday’s session in the House of Lords. The idiot man had changed his tune and argued against him. It wouldn’t take much digging to find a reason for the bird-witted fool to change his vote when the Lords met again.

Ellie rose and poured herself a small glass of sherry. “Your mother would like us to attend her musicale on Thursday.”

He saw determination glitter in her clear blue eyes. “I can hear her now. ‘Perseus, why does it take an act of God to visit your mother?’ I’ll get a kiss on the cheek, and she’ll ignore me the rest of the evening.” He blew out a long sigh and held up a hand. “This is the one outing you want to choose?”

Ellie nodded, beaming at him. “She loves you. You’re her son, and she’s lonely.”

Percy snorted. “I highly doubt the loneliness bit, but I’ll go if you’re sure it’s what you want. May I remind you, it’s only the beginning of April.”

When they were first married, invitations had arrived daily. Lady Karmaughton was a social creature and wanted to attend many of the functions. While he didn’t mind the occasional ball or the theater, the soirees and musicales were torture. And then there were the charity events. Percy had found a compromise. He would attend the balls for political reasons and the theater for enjoyment. Outside of that, he would escort her to one other event each month. Seven years later, the agreement still held. It seemed April’s charity outing would be to his mother’s. Blast!

The butler summoned them for supper. He rose, and she tucked her arm in his elbow. As he leaned down to brush his lips against her hair, she tilted back her head. He covered her mouth with his, and she melded against his length. Percy felt her smile against his lips, and his body responded. How he loved this woman. He’d give his life for Ellie. And there wasn’t another person, possession, or idea worth that trade.

Percy chuckled, swept her into his arms, and nibbled her neck. Yes, his wife could overspend every day if this was always the outcome. “We’ll be late,” he mumbled over his shoulder to the butler, who quietly closed the pocket doors.

“Oh, my lord, you are a devil.”

He grinned as he laid her on the chaise longue and ran his hands down her hip. “And you, my love, are the devil’s sweet temptation in the flesh,” he rumbled, his lips tasting the sweet satin of her neck.

She gasped and wriggled beneath him. “Then I’m afraid we’re both damned.”

*

Ellie nibbled at a candied apricot as she snuggled against Percy’s chest. They had foregone supper, moved to their bedchambers, and now ate a cold repast spread about the counterpane. “I heard the most delicious tale the other day. Did I tell you of the wicked Lord Lyttelton?”

Percy smiled and kissed the top of her head, the blond waves spread over her bare shoulders. His limbs were heavy, and he couldn’t care less about some rakish peer. “No, love.”

“He was a baron with no regard for mankind, wasting his money and seducing innocents. One mother was so horrified when her daughter succumbed to his advances, she died of a broken heart.” Ellie paused while she took sip of wine. “But the mother had the final word.”

“They always do,” he agreed.

She slapped his arm but grinned. “Anyway, she returned as a ghost and told him of his looming demise. Three days and he would be dead.”

“Ah, but one can do so much living in three days.” He picked up a hunk of cheese and offered Ellie a bite.

“Well, a quarter hour before midnight of the third day, he dropped dead! Can you imagine?” She sank her teeth into the blue and white Wiltshire and smacked her lips.

“People die every day, my dear. It doesn’t mean an apparition caused it.”

“This happened years ago, but there is much documentation. And it gets stranger.” She kissed his cheek. “The wicked lord stopped by his friend’s bedchamber on his way to Hell. The man saw the baron at the foot of his bed, miles away in another county, the same night he died. He woke his household to look for the scoundrel since Lord Lyttelton was known for his pranks. But alas, he was never found.”

“Because he was dead.”

“Exactly!” She beamed at him as if he’d done something very clever.

Percy snorted. “You have a way of maneuvering our conversations until it appears I agree with you.” He kissed her soundly on the mouth.

“Don’t you?” she asked, batting her eyelashes.

Chapter Two

“Honest people don’t hide their deeds.”

Emily Bronte

April 11

Percy bolted up, his nightshirt clinging to the cold sweat covering his body. His breathing came hard and fast. Before him stood the wavering image of a woman. She was dressed in a white nightrail, her eyes wide in a pale face, and a finger pointing at him.

“What the—”

“Three days before your reckoning.”

“This is what I get for eating sweets so late at night,” he huffed.

“There is nothing sweet about death.” The ghost looked upon Ellie and smiled. “You will miss her.”

Percy turned to his sleeping wife, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. “I would never let her go,” he answered the apparition. A cold gust washed over him, drying his clammy skin. “Tell me…”

She was gone. It was gone. He swiped a hand over his face. What the devil had just happened? Ellie stirred and he pulled her close as he lay back down. Whatever it was he’d just seen, he would keep it to himself. His wife would either find it a splendid joke or be consumed with worry for the next three days.

Percy swallowed back the bile rising in his throat. He’d never tasted it before.

*

Thursday evening

Returning to London after the musicale

“You deceived me!” Percy bellowed over the slanting rain. He slammed his dripping beaver hat on the velvet cushion. “I cannot believe she invited us both on the same night.”

Ellie cringed as she pulled off her damp gloves. Unbuttoning the cape, her cold fingers pushed back the rabbit-lined hood and smoothed her hair. She had expected him to be upset, but not so enraged. “He’s your son and heir. And her grandson. Why would he not be there?”

Her husband glared at her. “He has made it quite obvious in his nineteen years that he despises me. I understand why you are attached to him, but I’ve made my opinion very clear.”

She blinked back the tears. With no children of her own, she adored the young, impulsive viscount, and he was devoted to her. He had been twelve when Ellie became countess, and the constant confrontations between the young Percy and the older had been exhausting. It had taken her the first year for the pair to call a truce. For her. And they both reminded her of that fact any time the father and son were forced to remain in the same room together.

“He’s young and idealistic.” Ellie took her husband’s hand and threaded her fingers with his. “He’ll understand you better someday.”

The argument between her two favorite men echoed in her head.

“I heard you were the silent investor in the gentleman’s club that opened last year on St. James.” The younger Percy enjoyed goading his father, finding out information the elder preferred to keep quiet. “You realize it’s worse than the first establishment you funded.”

“And how is that?” her husband had asked in a bored tone.

“The first one just provided willing harlots upstairs. This one not only provides the same entertainment, but also takes in unwed mothers. And sells the babies, pretending to ship them off to an orphanage.” Her stepson locked his gaze on Ellie. “Until recently, that is.”

He knew. The righteous heir had discovered her manipulations yet kept her secret. But the son had harangued his father throughout the evening. Conversation had included a new factory that had let workers go if they didn’t accept lower pay and hired the Irish at half the cost. Wages that would barely feed one man let alone his family.

By the time they had called for the carriage, Percy was seething. Ellie had not looked forward to the ride home.

The carriage slowed and came to a stop. She flipped the shutter open, and Barker’s creased face appeared, his white hair like a beacon in the darkness. He tipped his ever-present black hat, water streaming from the deep rim. “It’s a narrow bridge, my lord. Just waiting for the other carriage to pass.” He nodded to the side, indicating the road ahead of them. “The horse looks lame, so it’s a slow crossing.”

“Devil it,” grumbled Percy.

Ellie gave Barker a grateful smile. The horse in her line of vision pawed nervously at the sodden ground and gave an impatient snort, his white mane now gray and plastered against his muscled neck.

Barker followed her gaze. “My apology, ma’am. I’m training a new horse, so I doubt he’s been driven in a storm. The weather seemed fine when I left, or I’d have taken the mare.”

“I’m sure you’ll handle him with your usual expertise.” She shot a side glance at her glowering husband. “Thank you for letting us know.”

The coachman returned to his perch. They sat in silence, the downpour making conversation difficult. She had no desire to yell, especially in anger. Though he was trying her patience. She left the slats open and breathed in the crisp air and scent of wet earth, the chilly mist cooling her irritation.

Drops beaded along the polished wood, a slow drip onto the edge of the squab. Plop… Plip… Plop…

The wheels rasped beneath them, and the conveyance lurched ahead. Ellie’s gaze shot across the river, pinned on the dark forms of trees across the river. The wooden bridge swayed a bit as the horses clattered over the planks. Halfway across, thunder boomed, and lightning crisscrossed the sky. A crack ricocheted in her ears, followed by Barker’s shouts and the screech of frightened horses, then they lunged ahead.

“Bloody hell!” Karmaughton’s jaw ticked. “I know he’s loyal to you, but we might consider a better driver.”

Ellie clutched his hand to keep from tumbling onto the opposite bench. She could imagine Barker pulling on the reins with all his strength. The carriage veered, the back wheels skidding on the slick planks, then smashed through the side rail. The crunch of wood mixed with her scream as Percy’s arm went about her; his other hand clutched the leather arm strap above to secure them both. The shadows she’d observed through the window tipped and went skyward.

Barker’s whip snapped furiously, trying to pull the rear wheel back onto the planks. “Move on! Move on!” he shouted.

The downward force pulled the horses backwards, and the conveyance teetered precariously. A rush of bitter wind, the splinter of wood, and a groan of metal. Another scream pierced the night as they plummeted toward the raging river.

Her head bashed against the solid roof; pain shot down her spine. She blinked, stars in front of her eyes, and reached blindly forward.

“Oh, dear God,” she cried. Panic ran cold through her veins. No, it was water, seeping through the open shutter, swirling around her legs and waist. “We’re going to drown.”

“Don’t let go,” yelled Percy, guiding her fingers to his great coat. With one hand around her waist, the other still gripping the strap as leverage, he kicked at the carriage door not yet submerged. Icy rain pelted their faces as the river swirled around her chest. Three times, his boot pounded the wood, her scream echoing with each thrust. Finally, the frame shattered.

The river rippled around her collar. Hot tears warmed her cheeks and ran down her neck. “I love you, Percy.”

Then her body surged up, the dark water pulling at her cape and skirts as if reluctant to let her go. But Percy’s obstinate will defeated the dark swells.

The frame groaned, and Ellie clutched at Percy’s tails as he pulled them from the sinking vehicle. Her voluminous cape fell away, allowing her head to remain above water, despite her heavy skirts. She saw Barker, clinging to the harnesses while he released the horses. When he turned, his hands reached desperately for the sinking carriage. Even from a distance, she saw the panic in his eyes.

“He can’t swim,” she yelled at Percy.

He shook his head. “We need to get to shore. He’ll find his way.”

She ignored her husband and began to swim toward Barker, spluttering on a mouthful of dank water. The man had protected her countless times, driving her safely through the rookeries of London. How could she turn her back on him now?

Strong fingers acted like a vice on her shoulders, halting any progress she made as she flailed at the violent waters, the rain still coming down in a relentless sheet. Her lungs were tight, an ache growing in her chest.

“I’ll get him. You swim for shore,” Percy roared in her ear.

Ellie nodded but remained there, treading water. Her teeth chattered, and she forced her numb limbs in slow, deliberate movements. Her bonnet bobbed on the swells, mimicking her body as a tremor ran through her. She saw Percy reach Barker. The carriage creaked, shuddered, and was sucked under the black waves as if some monster had snatched it from below. Water churned and shot up from the force, then fell. In horror, she watched her husband and driver pulled under the torrent.

She cried out, choking and gasping on the frigid spray. Her arms were so heavy; she couldn’t feel her feet. Swim for shore. Percy’s words rattled in her head.

Ellie pulled an arm out of the water. One stroke, another, and another. But she’d wasted too much energy staying afloat. Her elbow would no longer bend, her legs hung helplessly, wrapped in her satin skirt and petticoats. Ellie’s body sank, and she struggled once more to reach the surface. Her lungs exploded, her heart pounded, then slowed, and blessed darkness took her.

Chapter Three

“If you have done terrible things, you must endure terrible things; for thus the sacred light of injustice shines bright.”

Sophocles

Purgatory

Percy opened his eyes cautiously. He tipped his head one way, then the other. A soft pillow cushioned his head, an embroidered, red satin counterpane covered him to his neck. He pulled his hand from beneath the heavy material and rubbed his chin. He needed a shave. Above him, a matching red canopy stretched across the four-poster bed.

“Where the devil I am?” He raised himself on his elbows and looked around.

The right side of the room contained a dressing table, small stool, and a washing stand with pitcher and basin. On the left was a fireplace with cheery flames snapping from glowing coals. Two wingback chairs flanked the hearth with a thick wool carpet beneath. A black silk banyan lay across the foot of the bed. Quite the cozy setting.

With a start, he realized he was naked. And warm. Memories of the dark, stormy river, the rain, the carriage, and its occupants succumbing to the water. “Ellie!” Panic swelled in his chest, thickened his dry throat as his scratchy shout faded. “Ellie!”

Percy jumped from the bed and snatched the banyan, tying the belt with an impatient jerk. His bare feet padded across the floor planks, and he flung open the door. A balding man sat at a large dining table. A decanter of golden liquor at his elbow and an inkpot in front of him, he smiled and waved his quill, the end of the feather trembling in the stillness.

“Ah, welcome. Ye were verra tired when ye arrived, so I let ye sleep. That kind of rest will be rare as the years go by.” He returned his attention to the large book and scribbled something on one of the giant sheets. “There is a cold supper on the sideboard, if ye’re so inclined.”

“Where is my wife?”

“With Mr. Barker, I’d imagine.”

“They both made it, then?” Percy clenched his fists. He wanted to see Ellie. To hold her. To know she was fine.

“Made it here?” The elderly gentleman nodded and pushed his spectacles up on the bridge of his nose. He slammed the ledger shut and folded his hands on the worn leather cover. “They’ve been discussing the next step, though I dinna agree with their decision.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” He scowled, surprised the other man made no reaction. “I want to see my wife.”

“I’m afraid that’s not up to you, Mr. Perseus—” He squinted down at a sheet of paper, half-covered by the large book. “Karma. How fitting, don’t ye think?”

“Karmaughton. Lord Karmaughton.” Percy ground his teeth. “And you are?”

The man nudged the ledger and nodded as he read the full name under his breath. “Ah, my mistake, my lord.” He held out his hand. “Mr. Archibald Campbell, at your service. I must say, I didn’t expect my replacement to be so… noble.”

“Your replace—” He grabbed the Scot by his collar, irritated by his familiarity and lack of compliance. “Answer my question or say your prayers. Where. Is. My. Wife?”

“Och, ye’ll not hurt me, so dinna waste yer energy or time. Though time is something ye’ll have plenty of.” The annoying little man’s chuckle faded along with his smug smile. “Ye dinna ken, do ye? Ye dinna realize what’s happened.”

Percy jerked Campbell up, his boots dangling above the floor. “If you don’t stop talking in riddles—”

“Perseus!” Her voice stilled him. “Let the poor man go.” A hand touched his shoulder, and Percy dropped Campbell with a thud.

Campbell straightened his outdated frock coat and carefully smoothed his few strands of gray back over his scalp. “Ye’re fortunate to have stopped here at all. Ye should have continued on yer dark journey.”

“Now, Mr. Campbell, don’t let him goad you. He’s very adept at it.” Ellie stepped between them, then threw her arms around Percy’s neck.

She was pale but otherwise appeared unharmed. The dark circles beneath her blue eyes worried him. He brushed back a flaxen lock, the tightness in his chest easing.

“You look more rested, my dear. Good. We have so much work to do.” She released him and went to the sideboard. “I’ll get you a mince pie. You’ve always liked those.”

He watched the familiar sway of her hips as she walked away. Her dress had seen better days. It was torn in several spots and several buttons were missing on her bodice. His brows furrowed as he took in her stockinged feet. Had she lost her shoes? And why was he undressed while she still wore the same outfit? He shook his head, hoping to remove the fog that seemed to have settled.

Ellie smiled him over her shoulder. She filled a plate and set it on the table in front of him. “A full stomach and some excellent brandy should do the trick.”

“I’m not hungry,” he griped.

“Of course not, ye eejit,” piped Campbell, “ye’re de—”

“Archibald, please leave this to me,” interrupted Ellie as she poured Percy a glass of brandy.

Relief seeped through him with the normalcy of her actions, but his head spun with countless questions.

*

“Sweetheart, it seems we are no longer… as we were.” Ellie kept the smile frozen in place. “We’ll need to make a few adjustments.”

“This beastly little Scot has depleted the last of my patience. Just come out with it.” He took a sip of brandy and let out a long breath. “I’m assuming by your placating tone that it isn’t good news.”

“Ye’re dead, ye arrogant blunderhead,” Campbell blurted indignantly, his cheeks red. “Ye’d be suffering in the Sixth Circle if it wasna for yer lovely wife. She’s yer saving grace, and ye’d better appreciate her.”

“The Sixth what?”

Ellie closed her eyes. She’d known this would not be easy, and Mr. Campbell was not helping, though he meant well. “You see, darling, we did not survive the accident.”

“None of us?” Percy’s knuckles were white as they gripped the glass of brandy.

“Thanks to Barker’s quick thinking, the horses made it to shore.” She sat down next to her husband, leaned forward, and took one hand between both of hers. “We are in Purgatory, neither heaven nor hell. Also known as Limbo, the First Circle of Hell.”

Percy stared at her for a long moment, his handsome face stern, dark brows drawn together as her words sank in. Then his eyes crinkled, and his loud guffaws filled the room. Ellie winced at the harsh sound.

“I’m serious.”

The laughter stopped abruptly. “We’re dead?”

She nodded and rubbed the top of his hand. “I’m afraid so. But all is not lost. Barker and I have both agreed to stay here and, er, assist you.”

“To stay—” He shook his head and snatched away his hand, scrubbing his face. “Purgatory, as in the place of atonement for our sins and all that rubbish?”

Campbell snorted. “I thought the same when I arrived, but I’ll guarantee ye it’s not rubbish.”

Percy tipped back his head and yelled at the ceiling. “Will someone please just tell me what is going on here?”

Ellie tugged on his elbow and pulled him back onto the chair. “It turns out there are protocols when one dies. I have led a good life, helped others, and have a place waiting for me in Heaven. Barker also has his place… reserved.”

“And I don’t?” Percy asked, his eyes narrowed.

“Temper will not advance your cause, sweetheart. That is one reason we are here.” She patted his hand again. “However, we’ve been given an opportunity for you to make amends.”

“For my terrible transgressions?” he asked in a sarcastic tone.

“To be blunt, ye were sentenced to the Sixth Circle. It’s where souls go who commit heresies against humanity.” Campbell cleared his throat. “Do ye have any knowledge of the afterlife?”

Percy’s ragged sigh was answer enough.

“He really didn’t believe in anything abstract,” explained Ellie. At least Percy was calm now and willing to listen. “I’m afraid this may rattle your logical mind, dear, so please take a deep breath and let Archibald finish.”

Her husband grunted but didn’t argue. She turned a smile on Campbell. “Would you continue, please?”

“Of course.” The elderly man’s faded brown eyes lit up at her attention. “A soul spends eternity reaping the rewards of his actions during life. If ye’ve led a virtuous life, yer eternity is what makes ye most happy. Lady Karma, er, Karmaughton, has earned such a reward, along with her faithful servant, Barker.”

“And I have not?”

Campbell’s chuckle started low then erupted into raucous laughter. He shook his head and wiped at his eyes. “Och, no. The decisions ye made while on Earth caused too much suffering. Ye increased yer wealth at the expense of so many others. The slaves transported on the ships ye owned—”

“I never supported the slave trade!” bellowed Percy.

Ellie cringed. “You turned a blind eye to the extra cargo the captains took on. And the factories you invested in had deplorable working conditions. Those scalawags pressed every drop of life from their employees and kept the profit.”

“Yer money helped immoral men do the devil’s business,” added Campbell. “Yer reward should be experiencing the same suffering of those poor souls. Each and every one of them. For eternity.”

Ellie threaded her fingers through his when he paled. “But that is not your fate.”

“Nay, not yet. Ye’ve been given a chance here, in Purgatory, to cleanse yerself of yer past sins. Lady Karmaughton made her case and suggested ye’d need her help here, as ye did in life.”

Percy sat silent. She searched his face for emotion, some sign that he understood their predicament. “Percy, the fact that you tried to save Barker, gave your life for another, shows there is hope for you.”

“I didn’t save him since he’s dead.” He cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it. His touch warmed her chilled skin. “I wasn’t a hero. I did it for you. The only goodness in me comes from you.”

“I couldn’t love a monster, Percy,” she whispered and blinked back hot tears. “We can do this together. Please, don’t make me face eternity without you.”

He stood and gripped her fingers, pulling her to her feet. His arms enveloped her, and he held her close, stroking her hair. “I could never let you go, my sweet, dear wife. I promise to do whatever you ask of me.”

She gave him a watery smile, then laid her face against his chest again. They would manage this catastrophe together. With Barker’s help, and the temptations of their earthly world gone, they would find the light in his soul. It might be only a tiny flicker now, but Ellie would coax it into a blaze.

Chapter Four

“I feel monotony and death to be almost the same.”

Charlotte Bronte

Of all the tasks ever set before him, this had to be the most abominable. An eternity—well, it would seem endless—of casting vile souls to their proper place in Hell. It seemed easy enough, except for the clause that the soul must understand it was a consequence of their own sin. Perseus wondered if it made the punishment more effective, knowing what awaited the villain and why. He supposed true atonement could not be achieved without acknowledging one’s guilt.

“How long did I sleep?” He turned another yellowed page of the monstrous ledger. It was bigger than his lap and heavy. Of course, it held the name of every soul who had spent time here.

“Time isn’t measured quite the same here,” Ellie murmured as her finger ran down the columns of names. “Oh, thank goodness!” She smiled up at him, her clear blue eyes crinkling. “My father wasn’t always on his best behavior, but he prided himself on admitting to his mistakes. I knew he wouldn’t be here.”

“Don’t tell me you’re looking for familiar names?” He ran a hand through his hair. Only his wife would consider socializing in Purgatory. “And has that annoying Highlander left, yet?”

“I’d guess we’ve been here close to a week. Yes, I’m looking for acquaintances. And no, Archibald is still here. He’s assisting me before he removes himself.”

“What did you enlist him to do?” By the look on her face, Percy knew this would be a roundabout explanation. Ellie was very good at weaving a story around his inquiries. Hoping he would forget the original question, Percy assumed, or fall asleep before she finished her convoluted preamble.

“There are so many souls here waiting. Just waiting. They did nothing wrong but never did any good, either. By turning a blind eye or keeping quiet when they saw an injustice, they were sentenced here for a period of time.” Ellie chewed on her bottom lip. “I can’t imagine anyone would want to do nothing for decades.”

He groaned. “So, Lady Karmaughton has proposed a plan to keep them occupied?”

“I knew you would agree!” She beamed at him. “Wait until you see the grounds here. The old wagons will be perfect!”

“I didn’t voice my consent. I asked a question. And wagons for what?” This was not an extended visit to Bath or their country manor with entertainment and friends to invite for tea. “And where the hell is Barker?”

“There’s no need for that kind of language. He’s working with Archibald.” Her finger stopped at another name. “I do believe he was a friend of my grandfather’s. On my mother’s side.”

“Focus, Ellie.” He put an arm around her and pulled her close, his chin resting on the top of her hair. Even in death, she smelled divine. The violet and vanilla still clung to the blonde tendrils. She was lovely, her smooth complexion a bit paler than in life but still supple, her hair sun-kissed, her eyes sparkling like the ocean on a summer’s day. And she had saved him. So many times in life, as Campbell had informed him, and now in death.

“Well, we’re renovating Archibald’s circus to add some color to our existence. We may be able to use components of it to help the passing souls acknowledge their sins.” She patted his cheek, then stretched forward and gave him a light kiss on the lips. “We’ll receive news in advance when these… beings are to arrive. We could direct them to a specific area of the grounds, one that complements their sins.”

“And this army of blind innocents you are assembling?”

“They will be the circus actors. I have the most wonderful image in my head. We will gather the Limbo residents, as they call themselves, and recruit their talents for a variety of entertainment.” She clasped her hands together. “What do you think?”

“It’s a ridiculous notion. However, we’ll need some type of amusement to pass the time. Boredom may be the true punishment in this godawful place.” He tapped her nose with his finger. “Create whatever your heart desires. Now, for the most important question.”

She closed the book. “Yes?”

“Are we able to make love?”

“According to Archibald, we have all the senses we had while living. Though the extreme pleasures, or pains, are missing. We will never be hungry nor starving. We eat because it’s habit. We may be content but never ecstatic. Annoyed but never irate. Your favorite dish will taste the same but not give you the same pleasure, as will your precious brandy. My touch—”

“Is one sensation that will never fade.” He scooped her onto his lap. “Let me prove it.”

“Percy, there is so much to do,” Ellie murmured as she tipped her head back and allowed him access to her neck.

“Yes, my love.” He feathered kisses along her collarbone, his lips pausing at the hollow in her throat. “And we have an interminable amount of time to accomplish all your lofty goals.”

“I suppose an hour or two—”

“Or three or four.” Then he covered her mouth with his and silenced any further protests. “We have eternity, you know.”

He needed her skin against his, her warmth, her affection. The longer he was dead, the more he realized how much Ellie kept him… alive, so to speak. She filled him with her love, kept his proverbial heart beating. That night in the river, the black waters swirling around them, a hollowness had consumed him when Ellie had sunk beneath the water. Fear as he’d never known. An eternity without his wife would be the worst kind of hell for him. Percy would do whatever was needed to keep her by his side. If it meant acquiring a conscience, then so be it.

*

Ellie snuggled against him. He had been right. There was nothing mediocre about the lovemaking. She smiled as her finger traced the wiry, dark curls on his chest.

“Tell me how Campbell ended up here.” His voice rumbled against her cheek.

“Well, he owned the circus but wasn’t satisfied with his profits. He began a side show, proclaiming those featured as ‘living human curiosities’. Children or destitute adults, mostly, who had some deformity that people would pay to gawk at.” She pushed up and settled against the pillows. “He paid his employees next to nothing, and since they travelled, most didn’t even have the option to return home.”

“So, they were under his thumb?”

She nodded. “One day, a fire erupted in one of the wagons. It was late at night, and no one occupied it. By the time someone called for help, several more wagons were in flames. Archibald heard a boy crying out, and he entered the wagon to save the child. The roof collapsed, and he covered the boy with his own body.”

“Did the child survive?”

“Yes, but Archibald did not. Because he sacrificed his life, he was given the opportunity to save his soul. He has been in Purgatory since his death in 1702.”

Percy coughed. “Over a hundred years?”

“Perhaps we won’t be here that long.” Ellie stroked his cheek. She knew her husband’s heart, knew he possessed the empathy needed to save himself. Or she wouldn’t have stayed.

Guilt gnawed at her when she thought of Barker. He shouldn’t have made the sacrifice, but she was so thankful to him for remaining. “Now, we must learn the Nine Circles. It is your duty to direct the sinners to their proper realm of punishment.”

“You should be somewhere heavenly.” Percy gathered her in his arms and kissed the top of her head. “Not here with your treacherous husband.”

“There will be bright days. Archibald said there are occasions when a soul can make amends. If their regret is sincere and for the right reasons, they may be able to return and try to right their wrongs. I will be helpful in those cases.”

Percy saw the world in black and white. There was little gray in his vision. He considered her compassion and ability to see the good in others as a flaw. Yet here, that weakness would be a strength. She threw back the counterpane and rose from the bed, covering herself with a satin robe. She tossed the black silk banyan at her husband.

“Time to get to work. We’ll study the ancient tome for a bit, and then you can meet the rest of the… workers.”

She slipped on soft leather shoes and padded into the dining room that doubled as a parlor. Their quarters had shrunk significantly in this new world, but she was also closer to Percy. Ellie was satisfied.

They drank tea and pored over the pages of the thick leather volume.

“The First Circle of Limbo is where we are now.” Percy turned the page. “The Second Circle is Lust, though it extends past the sexual urge. One can lust after another’s belongings or lifestyle, or covet another’s spouse. Blast!” He shook his head and gave a whistle. “I’m glad I’m not doomed here.”

Those who resided in the second realm were buffeted with fierce winds, never giving the soul peace or rest. The strong gales dried out the eyes and whipped the skin until it was cracked and bleeding.

“Circle Three is Gluttony. I don’t think that needs much explanation,” Percy continued. “A person can be gluttonous over many things.” The sinners here lay rotting in a continual frigid rain, never satisfied, the object of their desire just beyond their reach.

Ellie turned another page. “Circle Four is Greed. Oh, my. They must carry a stone for eternity, the weight dependent on the number of sins in their lifetime.”

“The Fifth Circle is Anger. Interesting…” Percy rubbed his chin. “So, the person who has no patience, lashes out at people for no reason? Doesn’t seem enough to cast someone to Hell.”

“You’re missing the point. They never take responsibility for their own actions. When something goes wrong, or they make a mistake, it is always someone else’s fault. The spoiled heir, the bullies, all those who make our lives miserable when we come across them.” Ellie knew enough of this type to fill the realm. She thought an eternity of constant combat, perpetual conflict was a just end.

“And here we have the Sixth Circle, where I should have been. Heresy against Humanity. Experiencing the pain I caused directly and indirectly.” Percy took her hand and kissed the palm. “Thank you, my love, for coming to my rescue.”

They spent the rest of the morning learning the intricacies of Hell. Circle Seven, Violence, cast murderers into boiling blood while accomplices were transformed into bleeding trees, providing the blood for the seething lake.

The Eighth Circle, Fraud, contained multiple ditches and bridges. Each one held a punishment for a type of crime. A chancer might be whipped by demons for one sin, or covered in excrement for another. Ellie shuddered.

The ninth and last circle was Treachery, where the villains were locked in an icy lake. There were four rings of ice to pass through. But once the sinner attained the inner circle, thinking themselves finally free, they were met by Lucifer.

“An eternity of horrific monotony, as these realms indicate, is indeed cruel justice,” mumbled Percy, closing the leather cover.

“Who would have thought Hell could be so complicated?” giggled Ellie before she clasped her hand over her mouth. She shouldn’t be making jokes about damnation. There was nothing funny about the Circles. Or their situation. “Are you ready to tour the grounds?”

Chapter Five

“As she planted, so does she harvest; such is the field of karma.”

Sri Guru Granth Sahib

Ellie strolled down the main thoroughfare of the circus. It was coming together splendidly. She had personally interviewed each soul in residence to find out their specific talents. It amazed her that many didn’t even realize they had a skill.

Next, she organized the worker bees, as Percy called them, to blend their special talents. Carpenters worked with an architect, women handy with a needle paired with a modiste to create costumes and other necessities. A chef prepared a menu for easy to eat treats while housewives and cooks followed his recipes and put the ingredients together.

Except for the food, all the materials they needed had been within the dilapidated remains of Archibald’s circus. He had even produced paint.

The air held a festival-like excitement. “We need a name for the place,” she broached. “The souls call us Lord and Lady Karma.”

“Thanks to Campbell and his inattention to detail.” He laughed at her frown. “Granted, my family name is probably best not used here. So, I’m fine with that.”

“Good. Now, I want a carnevale atmosphere. Remember when we were in Venice?”

“You were the loveliest masked woman in all of Italy. That balcony overlooking the canal where we—”

Ellie sighed. “Now who needs to focus? I’ve been thinking of the word carnevale and its reference to Lent. It means ‘without meat’ and is celebrated just before the forty days of abstinence. But carne can also be translated as ‘flesh’ so…”

“We are a realm of the dead, without flesh.”

Her husband was so clever. “Yes, so I thought Karma’s Karnival would be a perfect moniker.”

Percy let out a long sigh. “Only my wife would want to create a circus in Purgatory and give it a name.”

“I knew you’d agree!” She nodded at several men building a booth for target practice. At the end of the lane, stood a large wooden structure with a canvas roof. It would be the theater where the performances would take place. “Now I must check with Alice on costumes. Everything is coming together splendidly.”

Later that day, she found her husband near the Wagon of Mirrors. She heard one of the workers call his name, and he acknowledged the man with a wave. The mighty Earl of Karmaughton had truly accepted his title, Lord Karma. The men seemed to look up to him, and Ellie saw the earnestness in his eyes as he listened to Barker explain something, his hands flying this way and that as he pointed toward the theater.

“Ah, my dear, you are just in time.” Percy held out his hand to take hers. “Barker is explaining where we could find some animals. One of the men was a lion trainer and worked a bit with elephants.”

“Elephants? Goodness. Are they also…?”

Barker nodded. “It seems animals have souls too. However, they rarely incur the wrath of the Almighty. We can borrow them, according to Campbell. He seems to be able to find just about anything we need.”

Ellie clapped her hands together. “Wonderful! Did you know there are more than a dozen acrobats with us? One of them is a man. They will need equipment to set up for practices.”

Barker nodded. “I’m working on it, my lady. We also have some Grimaldi enthusiasts who would like to try their hand at clowning.”

Ellie wrapped her fingers around Percy’s arm as they moved toward their quarters. They were the only inhabitants that did not sleep on wheels or the ground. Archibald had built a comfortable two-room home. Though her husband moaned about the size, she loved having him within sight. “I’m proud of you, Percy. You’ve adapted well to the circumstances.”

“High praise coming from my wife,” he quipped. “I still don’t see how the circus will help us. We explain what will happen to those who arrive, have them admit their wrongdoing, and send them on their way.”

“The mind doesn’t accept a fact because you tell him to, sweetheart. As commanding as your presence is, you can’t bend one’s thoughts. Some of the souls may need help realizing their transgressions. That is where Karma’s Karnival comes into play.” She stepped into the parlor and turned to place her arms around Percy’s neck. “We may have to show them rather than tell them what offences they’ve committed in order for them to accept their guilt.”

“Persuasion instead of force?” he asked. “While I take the bull by the horns, you offer him a piece of apple. I admit, your way might be better, but I have no patience for fools.”

“That’s why I’m here, my lord.” Ellie’s heart thumped. She loved this man more than life itself. She giggled at that thought.

“What’s so funny?” his dark eyes narrowed. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Never, Lord Karma.” She raised up on her tiptoes and kissed his lips. In a blink, he’d scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bedroom, kicking the door open with his boot.

*

“A missive has arrived, my lord.” Barker stood at the door with a grin on his craggy face, holding out an ivory envelope. His brown eyes sparkled. “I believe the show is about to begin.”

Percy grunted and took the note. He squinted at the flowing cursive, then looked back at Barker’s eager face. “May I ask you a question?”

“Of course, my lord,” he answered with a nod, removing his stovepipe hat.

“Are you affected like the rest of us? This tedium, the dullness, do you suffer it?”

Barker shook his head. “No, sir. I’m happy, in fact very happy to say I am not distressed by it all. Nor is Lady Karma. We didn’t, er, we were always, well…”

“Yes, yes, I’m not a green boy. I understand the difference between the two of you and myself. Thank you, Barker.” He shut the door and moved to the hearth. A golden blade sat on the mantel, and he slid the tip beneath the melted seal of an ornate wax gate.

Interesting. Could Ellie’s ability to feel pleasure be the reason he also enjoyed their physical joining? According to the rules, he should not be able to experience such decadence.

“Who was that?” asked the woman in question.

“Barker. It seems we have our first soul.” He waved the parchment in his hand and sat down in the overstuffed chair. “Care to read it with me?”

“Of course!” She settled on his lap, wiggling until she was comfortable, and he was not.

He held the letter with one hand, the other resting lightly on Ellie’s hips.

Lord Karma,

Greetings and welcome to Purgatory. I will be your intermediary for the Almighty and the mortals. Please give our regards to Eleanor and tell her that we hope to meet soon.

Your first assignment is the Duke of Latimore. His lecherous lifestyle has caused countless bastards and ruined hundreds of innocent women. His lack of empathy and refusal to accept responsibility for these innocents is the main complaint against His Grace. He has been sentenced to the Second Circle of Lust. Enclosed is a family portrait of the duke.

Best of luck,

Michael, Archangel

“Such a nice guardian,” Ellie said. “I met him when Barker and I made our proposition to stay. He really is a dear.”

“You met an archangel and the Almighty?” She was a constant surprise.

“Oh, my. Such a stern look he has.” Ellie held the small cameo portrait out in front of them. “His wife and daughter are lovely.”

Percy scanned the figures. The duke was tall and thin with sharp features. Neither a handsome nor ugly man, his hair full but gray, his stature arrogant. The painter caught a sadness in his wife’s eyes that was not reflected in the daughter. He assumed the duchess knew of her husband’s exploits. Both women had dark hair and eyes, both on the pretty side but not beautiful.

“No son?” he wondered out loud. “Perhaps he was disillusioned because he had no heir. I’ve seen men display their disappointment in odd ways.”

Ellie shook her head. “I feel the evil in this man. I think his lust is fed by attacking the weak. Look at his daughter, her posture compared to her mother. One is beaten down and without hope while the other is proud and confident. I’d wager he dotes on her.”

“Maybe the duchess has found happiness again.” Percy snorted. “I never thought of it before, but the death of some might cause joy for others.”

“Look at you, finding a light in the dark tunnel.” Ellie poked his stomach, and he let out an exaggerated huff. “How shall we convince this man that he is the devil incarnate? Shall we lure him with the belly dancers?”

“He would enjoy that. We need to make him feel the pain he has caused, understand the consequences of his lust. Find what he cares about most and use it against him.” Excitement drummed in his gut. A challenge is just what he needed.

“His daughter.” Ellie indicated the younger woman’s face in the portrait. “Her entire demeanor tells me she has been overindulged all her life. Look how her shoulder leans back against her father? His vices were never apparent to her.”

Percy was impressed with her observation. “You’re right. But we can’t bring his daughter to Purgatory.”

“No, but we have some very competent actors that could take on such a role. I’ll take this with me and see if we can find a mock daughter for His Grace.” She tapped her finger on her full bottom lip. “Then a gentleman to play the rogue who steals her innocence.”

In a breath, she was off his lap and out the door. “Please remember not to lose your patience. We must pass this first test, or all is lost.”

Test? He opened his mouth, but she was gone. Percy thought the bargain had been struck. Ellie had never mentioned any conditions to the deal. He supposed he should feel anxiety or worry over the outcome. But then again, this was Purgatory!

Chapter Six

“Stars hide your fires; Let not night see my black and deep desires.”

William Shakespeare, Macbeth

Percy concentrated on the lad with the red curls and worn woolen breeches. His shirt was stained with dirt and sweat but he wore an infectious grin, the freckles evident on his pale cheeks. His wife had addressed him as Rabbie. He was no more than ten or so, and the earl wondered what evil the child could have ignored to end up here at such a tender age.

Shrugging his shoulders, Perseus concentrated on the boy. Look at me, Rabbie. Look. At. Me. Now!

The boy’s head came up, his eyes searching for someone or something, then locked onto Perseus. They both smiled. Come here. I need you. Rabbie trotted toward him.

“At yer service, Gov’nor.” He took his brown cap off and bowed with a flourish.

Percy smiled again. He’d discovered that if he thought of someone or something long enough, it appeared. A benefit of being imprisoned here, and a boon for the job. After practicing the past week, he learned the more he focused, the more particular the thought was, the speedier the result. Yes, this would come in quite handy.

“Do you think you could find Lady Karmaught—Lady Karma? Tell her I need to speak with her.” He chuckled as the boy nodded and scampered away. Ellie didn’t know of this “gift” yet. It was so entertaining to watch her rush up to him, only to discover she couldn’t remember why finding him was so important.

Percy had no reason to divulge his secret yet. So far, he’d convinced Widow Harken that her wrinkles were softening. For three days, he’d observed the older woman peering at her reflection in glass panes or the lacquered side of wagon. The more creases she thought disappeared from her face, the more obvious her flirtations became toward Campbell. His wife would be pleased to know he’d used this power to improve one’s happiness. Indeed, Widow Harken appeared quite jovial this week.

“You have a mischievous glint in those black eyes.” Ellie stood on the tips of her leather boots to kiss his cheek. “Is there news?”

He nodded and wondered if this new ability would allow him to shield her from some of the filth they would encounter. She considered herself a strong woman, but there were ghastly deeds that a gently bred female could never imagine. “Walk with me and show me what you have created.”

Her full lips tipped up, showing a tiny dimple at the corner of her mouth. He bent and kissed it. “I have not seen the horses or the elephant,” he declared as she led him along the gravel aisle. “Have the tigers arrived?”

“Oh, yes. Charles is making wonderful progress with them. And the elephant has fallen in love with Alice. She’s one of the trick riders. I do believe the monstrous beast thinks itself a horse.” She stopped at a booth painted with bright oranges and reds. “Tommy, the rubber has arrived for the balloons. Did you get the darts I sent over?”

“Yes, my lady.” The man held one out in his palm. It had a narrow wooden handle, intricately carved, with a blade shaped like a large needle. Tommy’s shaggy blond hair gleamed in the afternoon sun, bright as the metal he flashed before them, as he showed off the dart. “I’ll have the balloons made and ready as soon as you give the word.”

“Thank you. I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

The young man ducked his head and mumbled his thanks in return.

“We have our crest. Regina is so creative, and Luger is a master blacksmith. Wait until you see what we’ve come up with.” She took his hand and pulled him toward the gates. “Barker said he’ll have it painted on every wagon and the doors of the theater.”

The double wrought-iron gates resembled those that graced the entrance of many estates, tall and intimidating. Percy squinted against the sun. Atop the scroll of each gate was a golden circle with a double KK in the center. “For Karma, I assume?” he asked drily.

“I have such a clever husband,” she quipped. “Do you like it?”

He nodded as they turned and resumed their stroll.

“I have a secret,” Ellie whispered. “I’ve acquired some odd skills.”

Percy raised an eyebrow. “Such as?”

“I can imagine a feeling and inflict it on someone else.” She pursed her lips, as if searching for the words. “Let’s say Rabbie’s sweltering from the heat as he works. If I imagine a cloth in cold water, wring it out, and concentrate on Rabbie’s forehead, he will feel the coolness on his face.”

He halted. “What did you say?”

“It sounds bizarre, I know. The other day, Alice fell from the back of a horse while practicing. She wasn’t hurt, but it frightened her. She approached the mare again to remount, and I saw Alice breathing rapidly.” Ellie chewed her bottom lip. “I knew it was panic. A natural reaction to the fall. So, I stared at her chest and slowly breathed in and out, and in a moment, Alice was too.”

“That could be coincidence.” He patted her arm, nodding at the workers who passed them. They all wore the same era of clothing now instead of the decade or century in which they had died. The women suffered corsets and wide skirts that trailed the ground, and the men sported trousers, linen shirts, and vests.

“Don’t patronize me. I’ll see if it’s happenstance as time passes.”

Percy laughed at her wagging finger, her lovely heart-shaped face framed by a large yellow bonnet of straw. A wide, gold band decorated the top and sides, the long tails of satin forming a bow under her chin. As she scolded him, the wefted silk skirt swished, turning gold, yellow, then back to gold with each step.

“And what sensation will you imagine for your loving husband?” he whispered in her ear, violet and vanilla tickling his nose. A delightful pink crept her neck and into her face.

“You are a rake,” she hissed with a grin.

*

Ellie clapped her hands. “Quiet, everyone!” She turned in a slow half-circle, taking in all the souls now under her and Percy’s care. The benches were filled with adults and children, the latter always piercing her heart. “I have received some very important news concerning our time here. For each soul assisted to their proper place, the workers involved will receive a year off their sentence. I will be certain everyone has a role to play.”

The murmurs grew louder and more animated as she waited for them to digest this information. They had followed her instructions to reinvent this circus, hoping at most for alleviation from their boredom. But this was an unexpected reward that Ellie had fought with Michael over and won. Sinners were allowed to repent, and sometimes found salvation. Why should these poor beings not have an opportunity to redeem themselves?

“We will decide how to deal with each new customer, as Lord Karma has labeled them, as we go. Each case will be different. You have all been given a card with the information you need for our first guest. When the man has moved on, the next soul will be delivered. So, let’s not dawdle.”

“The more reprobates we cast out, the less time you will have to spend here,” added Percy. “Are we ready?”

The crowd shouted in agreement.

“Remember, the dead that arrive may not realize they have passed. They may think it’s a dream—”

“Or a nightmare,” yelled Barker. “Showtime!”

The workers scattered, and Ellie gripped her friend’s arm. “You will make the most debonair ring master.” She reached up and adjusted his tall black hat. Behind him a whip cracked, followed by a low growl. Her palms were damp against the heavy folds of her skirt.

“Are you prepared for this?”

Percy’s baritone rumbled against her ear. He was so handsome in his black frock coat and paisley vest. His trousers matched the fawn in the paisley design while the necktie coordinated with the midnight purple. She wished they were en route to a ball. But if wishes were pounds, her mother had always said, the rookeries would disappear.

“Yes.” With her hand in the crook of his arm, they left the show tent and headed to the entrance.

As they approached, the wide gates opened. A rotund old man stood there, hat in hand, scratching his head and looking at his coat sleeves in bewilderment.

“Welcome to Karma’s Karnival, Your Grace,” began Percy.

“Carnival? How the bloody hell did I get here? I remember blowing out the lamp and pulling the counterpane up, and the next thing I know, I’m dressed and…” The Duke of Latimore squinted at his surroundings. “It must be a dream. I don’t venture anywhere without my hat and cane.” He pinched himself and winced.

Percy shrugged, then extended his arm to invite him through the gate. “Please, come in. I am Lord Karma, and this is my lovely wife, Lady Karma.”

“Pffft!” Latimore answered with an annoyed exhale of foul breath.

Ellie wrinkled her nose, observing the duke as he joined them. He was very short, she realized as they walked side by side, and heavy on his feet, but not steady. Rabbie could tip him off balance easily enough. His thready voice hinted at his age, and his faded green eyes were unfocused. For an instant, she pitied him and wondered that this insipid little man could have wreaked so much havoc in his world.

“Are you thirsty? Can I get you anything?” asked Percy in a hospitable tone. He winked at Ellie over his shoulder.

“Some blue ruin would be good,” croaked Latimore. “Some time alone with this young beauty, even better.”

“I’m afraid we don’t have any gin, but I do have some fine brandy. And if you lay so much as a finger on her, I’ll slice it off and stuff it down your throat.” Percy’s timbre never faltered when he issued the threat. They stopped in front of their home, and Percy opened the door. “Your Grace.”

Ellie noted the look of satisfaction on Percy’s face when the duke blanched at the warning. They entered the parlor, ready to begin. Heavy drapes blocked out the sun, and a fire crackled in the hearth. A decanter and a plate of shortbread sat on a side table.

Once settled at the table, a drink poured for both men, Ellie picked up the cameo with the duke’s family portrait. “You have a lovely wife and daughter. No son?” she asked blandly.

His gaze shot to her palm, the gold chain dangling through her fingers. “Where did you get that?”

“It was given to us, so we could prepare for your arrival.” Percy leaned forward, his elbows resting on the arms of his chair, hands clasped. “It seems you’ve been a nasty boy, Your Grace. Your urges are infamous.”

“I’ll play along with this until I wake.” The duke chortled. “I’ve certainly had my share of diversions. I’m a peer of the blasted realm. It’s in my blood to indulge a whim as it takes me.”

His cackle grated on Ellie’s nerves. The old cur’s dark side hadn’t taken long to come out. “Regardless of who it affects? The pain you cause?”

Latimore snorted. “Life for the working classes is not meant to be easy. It’s the way of the world, and I can’t change it. I never murdered anyone.” He tipped his head back and finished the brandy in one swallow. “What do you expect me to do? Set up every kitchen maid in her own house and shower my low-born bastards with privilege? How quaint your world must be.”

She poured the duke another drink and regarded her husband with gritted teeth. “Well, I must agree with Michael that you’re in the right place. Ready yourself, Your Grace.”

“I’ve had enough of this falderol. Tell me why I am here!” he demanded.

“You’re dead, deceased, no longer living, a walking corpse,” supplied Percy, earning him a grateful smile from Ellie. “It’s time for introspection and decisions, for you’ll soon learn that reckoning comes even to a duke.”

Latimore spat out his brandy, his eyes bulging, his fleshy chin wobbling. “This is some kind of a prank. I demand to return to my bed.”

“You’ve a new home, now. I wouldn’t be in any hurry to reside there.” Ellie fingered the cameo again. “Shall we take a walk and tour the circus? I think we have some amusements that you’ll enjoy.”

The trio ambled down the main aisle, Latimore squinting and scowling at the booths and passersby. “Who are these people? Have they received their moral lecture? What’s next?”

“Inquisitive, aren’t we?” asked Ellie. “Here we are. The show will begin soon. Do you like acrobats?”

“Female?”

She nodded. “See for yourself.”

Inside the wooden structure, beneath the great canvas roof, were a dozen young women wearing white stockings and sleeveless form-fitting corsets with long, gold fringe shimmering against their thighs. Slippers, tied with ribbons, crisscrossed up their calves. Several practiced flips or backward bends. Another group made a pyramid by standing on one another’s shoulders. Three more were swinging back and forth on trapezes.

In a corner stood Hugo, the strong man, dressed in snug material that stretched across his body and left his hairy chest, arms, and legs bare. He raised the oversized hammer over his head and struck the flat rounded steel surface at his feet. A disc shot up and clanged against a bell.

“Ten minutes to show time,” Hugo announced to the crowd gathering on the benches.

Latimore licked his lips. “Let’s get seated.”

“Don’t worry, Your Grace, Lord Karma will make sure you get exactly what you need.” Ellie gave him a polite smile.

“Cost is no matter, you know,” he murmured, his eyes roving over the women. One had bent to adjust a strap around her ankle, her white bosom openly displayed above the low-cut, tight shirt. “I like the blonde, but I’d take any of them.”

“First, you need a ticket,” Percy informed him. “I’m afraid you’ll have to earn your admittance since coin is not accepted here.”

Chapter Seven

“Nothing contributes so much to tranquilize the mind as a steady purpose – a point on which the soul may fix its intellectual eye.”

Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley, Frankenstein

“What kind of imbeciles run this place?” the duke grumbled, but he followed his hosts across the lane toward a booth filled with colorful balloons. He fumbled in a pocket, then cursed.

“You have no money here, Your Grace.” Percy reminded him with his most sympathetic smile. “I’m afraid you’ll have to rely on your wit and skill. Let’s hope you have enough of both.”

He took in a long breath and focused on the aging lecher. A calm settled over him as their feet crunched on the gravel. It was the same with every business transaction; the moment he knew he had the advantage. His mind quieted, and he concentrated only on the result. The Duke of Latimore would give the Karmas their first victory.

Tommy stood behind the counter, laying out the beautifully detailed darts. The balloons he’d made were pinned to a large board behind him, all an array of sizes. “Step right up, folks,” he called. “Fifty points gets a ticket to the performance. One hundred points and you’ll meet the performer of your choice after the show.”

“Alone?” hooted the duke as he waddled up to the counter.

“That would be up to the guvnor.” Tommy’s blond head nodded toward Percy. “Choose six darts. The smaller ones are lighter and easier to maneuver, but the larger points are sure to puncture the rubber.”

Latimore took his time admiring and selecting one of the petite and detailed handles.

“Sweetheart, why don’t you throw the first one to show His Grace how it’s done,” suggested Ellie.

With a wink at his wife, Percy chose a dart. He pulled his hand up to his shoulder, closed one eye, and sent it flying. It popped a large balloon on the top right corner of the board. The burst latex revealed the bold black numbers two and five.

“Twenty-five,” shouted Tommy to the spectators who’d stopped to watch. “Halfway to a ticket for the upcoming premiere.”

Percy locked his gaze on Latimore’s profile, the image of the duke’s daughter in his head. Latimore stared at the revealed numbers. His eyes grew wide and his mouth slack, pointing at the board. “Rachel!”

“Who?” Percy asked blandly, avoiding Ellie’s questioning look.

“My daughter’s face…” The duke shook his head, as if to clear his mind. “I could have sworn…”

“Your turn,” grinned Tommy. “Steady hand, now.”

The old man mimicked Karma’s stance and actions. Percy noticed his wife’s eyes followed the glint of silver, and her head jerk as the needled point burst the balloon.

“Devil it!” cried Latimore, grabbing his flabby thigh, and rubbing it vigorously. “Something poked me.”

“Twenty-five,” announced Tommy.

Percy focused again on the duke as the elderly gentleman glanced up at the board and caught his breath. Latimore shook his head and held up a hand. “Where did she come from?”

“Who?” Ellie asked this time.

“One of my maids, her face was…”

“Perhaps your mind is tired from all the excitement, Your Grace?” Percy inquired.

It wasn’t, of course. With each number revealed, the duke saw the face of another woman, another victim whose life had been ruined by the old man’s lust. Percy chose those who had experienced particularly violent attacks by the profligate. And with each pop, Latimore howled in pain and rubbed another spot on his body. Under his scrutiny, Ellie’s eyes remained on the duke, evading her husband’s stare, her hands clutching the cashmere shawl around her shoulders.

“Fifteen,” shouted Tommy, his smile not reaching the soft golden eyes. He handed Latimore a brown piece of square leather, a circle burned onto the center with the number two in the center. “Congratulations, exactly a hundred points. Here’s your ticket.”

The duke accepted the ticket with trembling fingers. He stared at it for a long moment, blinking. Then he turned and yelled at the bystanders, “What are you loitering about for? Go find your own amusements.” He tucked the piece of leather into his pocket.

“Are you feeling well, Your Grace?” asked Ellie, her voice dripping like fresh honey. “Let me help you to your seat. Percy, will he be in the first row?”

“He has the chair of honor.” With a hand on her lower back, he guided her and the duke to the main theater. The large ring was filled with performers.

The old man was sufficiently shaken, and so far, everything had proceeded like clockwork. Ellie’s trick of adding pain from the dart to various body parts had been brilliant. The Karmas were quite the duo.

*

Latimore settled into the only chair. It was unpadded wood with a tall back and spindly legs and arms. He kinked his neck to peer up at the domed fawn-colored ceiling. Ellie and Percy flanked the duke, seated on benches on either side of him. Her back rigid, her toes poked into the packed-dirt floor, she held her breath and waited. Had they prepared enough?

Then Barker appeared, so regal and handsome in his red tails, black trousers, vest, and hat. Ellie noticed his white hair had receded more, but his expression and demeanor remained energetic. In his hand was a brass speaking trumpet. He raised it to his lips.

“Ladies and gentleman! For your entertainment, I would like to introduce Hugo, the burliest, brawniest, strongest man alive. His potent power will amaze our lady spectators and stir envy in their men as he lifts two hundred pounds and then holds four hundred.” Barker bowed and backed away, joining the piano player at the outer boundary of the ring. The ivory keys jingled a dramatic lead-in. Ellie gave a sigh of relief as the knot in her stomach loosened.

Hugo took a bow, then lifted two round circles of smooth stone connected by a steel bar. He raised the bar to his chest then pushed it above his head with a loud grunt, one leg straight pitched straight behind him, the other with his knee slightly bent. He remained still as two of the acrobats approached him.

One on either side of him, each woman placed a foot on one thigh, a hand grasping his shoulders, and climbed up to sit on the bar. They posed, as if sitting on a trapeze, and nodded and pointed to Hugo while the audience applauded. The acrobats placed their toes back on Hugo’s shoulders, clasped hands, and gracefully leaped to the ground. Hugo straightened and pushed the heavy weights forward, letting the stone hit the ground with a loud thud.

“I thought I won a ticket to see half-naked women, not some muscle-bound oaf,” whined Latimore.

“They’re next, and I’d keep my voice down if I were you. Hugo is known for his temper,” Ellie shushed with barely any guilt.

Barker returned to the center of the ring. “Ladies and gentlemen, Hugo the Strongman!” The applaud began again and then died down. “Now, our acrobats and expert trapeze troupe will swing, twist, and soar before your eyes.”

Six dark-haired girls ran across the wide ring, jumping, tumbling, then creating a six-person pyramid for the crowd. The human pieces of the pyramid then disassembled by flipping in the air, landing on their feet, and making a bow.

Ellie noted the smirk on the duke’s face as he watched the pretty acrobats move across the ring. Her stomach twisted, and she cradled it with her palms to ease the nausea. Percy caught her movement, and his eyes bore into the disgusting old man, one side of his mouth tipped in a sneer. Patience, sweetheart, patience.

By the time the trapeze act finished, Latimore was panting, his eyes glazed with desire, his fingers gripping the arms of his straight-back chair. “I want to meet them all.”

“The agreement was to choose one,” Percy reminded him, his tone sharp.

“I didn’t agree to anything. I’m the bloody Duke of Latimore, and I demand to meet them all.” He stood, throwing back his shoulders. “Now!”

“I’m afraid this realm doesn’t recognize your authority, Your Grace.” Percy also stood, towering over the portly man. “However, I see no reason we cannot introduce you to the troupe.”

“That’s better.” Latimore looked over his shoulder, watching the audience file out. “Where can I see them alone?”

“Patience. I think what we have planned may already be more than you can manage.” Percy walked into the ring and spoke to Barker, who then called for the girls to join Lord Karma.

“Your Grace, may I introduce Mary?” A pretty redhead gave the duke a quick curtsy.

The duke held out his hand to take the young woman’s. Just before they touched, the old man cried out. “Rachel?”

“No, Your Grace, this is Mary.” Percy said patiently. “Remember?”

Latimore licked his lips and blinked. “Yes, Mary.”

He reached out to take the girl’s hand again. Ellie wondered at the sudden fear in the duke’s eyes before her gaze locked with Hugo and she gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He picked up the giant mallet. Just as Latimore’s fingers touched the young acrobat, Hugo smashed the hammer down and the metal disc shot up the pole and clanged the bell. As the brass reverberated, Latimore grabbed his skull and moaned.

“Oh my, His Grace isn’t feeling well. Perhaps we should put off our introductions.” Ellie clucked sympathetically.

“No, no,” the duke griped. “For a moment, she looked like…”

“The brandy was very potent.” Ellie bit the inside of her lip, hiding her amusement. She should not be taking such glee in Latimore’s discomfort. Percy, of course, retained his bland expression. He had not seemed at all surprised at the duke’s strange illusions.

There was something her husband was not telling her.

Chapter Eight

“The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.”

Psalms 1:4

Percy held back a smile. First, he’d imposed the likeness of Latimore’s daughter at the top of the dart board. Her image bore witness to the faces of the duke’s victims, revealed after each balloon the old man popped. The daughter would be used to their advantage. Rachel seemed to be the nobleman’s weakness, the only person he cared about. Now the geezer was seeing Rachel each time he was introduced to one of the young women he lusted after. And if his hunch was correct, Ellie was responsible for the pain in the old man’s head. Each time Latimore attempted to touch one of the acrobats, Hugo would wield his hammer, and the duke would groan and clutch his temples. Nice touch, my love.

Once the introductions were completed, Percy whispered to his wife, “Now take the pain away. We want him completely cognizant of what happens next.”

“Yes, my lord,” she whispered back, her breath warm against his neck. Her blue eyes darkened as their guest wheezed loudly. “We seem to be causing a great deal of stress for His Grace. Perhaps a rest would be in order?”

“Yes, yes. If I could just sit a moment,” agreed the duke and collapsed into his chair, his trembling fingers wiping at the sweat on his brow. “I’m not sure what’s come over me.”

“Do you still believe this is a dream?” asked Percy.

“What else could it be?”

“Retribution?” ventured Ellie.

He shook his head. “My deeds have been no worse than most, including the transgressions with females you’ve pointed out. We men have appetites, eh, Karma?” He sniggered and elbowed Percy. “A woman is for enjoyment and breeding. Our job is to plant our seed as often as we can.”

“You have no remorse for the attentions you forced on others?” Ellie leaned closer. “No regrets for any of your actions?”

“Bloody hell. They were harlots. They’re all harlots.” Latimore squirmed in his chair, realizing he’d just insulted another man’s wife. He turned imploring eyes on Percy, obviously hoping for support from another male.

“Let’s not embarrass our guest, my love. I’ve decided he needs to meet one of our lovely ladies in private.” Percy held up a hand to stop his wife’s protest. “Follow me, Your Grace.”

A tiny spark grew in Latimore’s faded green eyes. “We men must stick together, eh?”

“Yes, in most circumstances. Now, shall we move on to the Wagon of Mirrors?” Percy snorted as the duke pushed past him and left the theater.

Outside, customers strolled along the center aisle in the bright sun, casting sideways glances at the trio as they passed. Percy stopped at a large black and red wagon, the same yellow circle with the KKs in the center painted on the doors. He pulled on a knob and waved his arm, inviting the duke inside. The old man gripped the rail and ascended the few stairs into the apartment.

“What’s this? My patience is growing thin with all this cloak and dagger nonsense.” Latimore turned in a circle, glaring at himself in several mirrors.

“Follow me, Your Grace.” They moved along a narrow hall of reflecting glass. Percy pointed to what appeared to be a window. “There she is.”

A woman sat at a dressing table, her back to them, brushing her long, dark waves. The mirror she gazed into was distorted and only a vague shape discernable. Latimore’s tongue traced his mouth, leaving his lips wet and slick. “She’s mine? For how long?”

“Time is not relevant here. And yes, she is certainly yours.” Percy leaned back against the glass in the narrow hall and caught Ellie’s gaze. He knew she’d follow them in and smiled at the curiosity in her blue eyes.

A man in a dark blue banyan entered the room and stood behind the woman, blocking their view of her. His fingers lifted one of her thick tresses and she gasped. He leaned down and pulled her mane to the side, kissing her neck.

“What are you doing?” the woman hissed. “I didn’t ask you come tonight.”

But the intruder ignored her and moved to the side, cupping her chin with one hand, and turning her face toward him. He bent again and covered her mouth with his, as her pale, thin arms pushed against him.

“Who the devil is that man? She’s mine. I won’t have used bits, I tell you.” The duke’s fist waved in the air. “Get him out of there. He’s spoiling the goods.”

“That’s the only problem with this scene?” asked Percy, his voice deceptively quiet. “Then you need to observe a bit longer.”

The male beyond the window grabbed a handful of the woman’s dark brown locks and yanked her head back, revealing her features.

“Rachel! Oh my God, Rachel!” The duke pounded on the window with his fists. “Let her go, you dirty scum. I’ll have you hung for this.”

“Do you know her?” asked Percy, mild curiosity in his tone.

“It’s my daughter, you idiot. Get her out of there. I’ll kill the son of a bitch.” He pounded on the window again as Rachel stood and faced the intruder.

“You naughty boy! I suppose you could stay for a bit and entertain me.” She put her arms around his neck and pressed her body close to his.

“She’s an innocent?” asked Percy. “It seems Rachel has inherited your… tastes.”

“You bloody scoundrel,” he sputtered. “Get my daughter out of ther—”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to watch this scene play out, Your Grace. I am sorry about your daughter and her diversions, but I have a task to complete.” He tsked at the old man, whose fingers scraped down the glass. “You’ve brought this on yourself, you know.”

“How did I cause this?” he ground out.

“They’re harlots, remember?” Percy enjoyed using the duke’s words against him.

“Not my little girl. She’s an innocent soul. A loving, sweet daughter.”

“They’re all harlots, you said.”

“What do you want from me?” Latimore asked in a ragged whisper, the groans from the adjoining room growing louder. His forehead pressed against the pane, defeat showing in his slumped shoulders.

“I want you to admit your wrongdoing.” Percy leaned low. “I want you to beg for penance, accept the justice that is your due.”

“Will you make him stop? Can my daughter be redeemed?”

Percy heard the pleading tone and nodded. The duke had been broken.

*

The wind was brutal. It tore at his cheekbones and burned his eyes. The Second Circle was everything the book had described. The duke clutched at Percy’s sleeves, the gales blowing the stout man to his knees. Souls whipped past them, tossed like leaves in an autumn storm. They reached out bony fingers; their scratched and bloody faces echoed the horror of their surroundings.

“Meet the newer arrivals,” he informed the duke. “Eventually, the vicious gusts will shrivel your eyes and dry your skin until it peels off your body. Your muscles will turn to jerky, the unrelenting wind thrashing you for eternity.”

“Don’t leave me here,” he begged. “I did what you asked.”

“Yes,” agreed Percy, “and I thank you for that.” The whimpers of the Duke of Latimore faded behind him, curving his lips into a devilish smile.

*

He turned his back on the Duke of Latimore and went home. Strange how quickly this peculiar realm had become home. As he opened the door, Ellie met him. She threw her arms around his neck. “We did it. Michael has sent us another letter.” She waved the envelope in her hand.

“I believe I may have found my calling.”

Her husky chuckle sent heat reeling through his core.

“But right now, there is only one thing I’m interested in right now.” Percy took the envelope from her and tossed it over his head.

As he scooped her into his arms, Percy silently vowed to protect Ellie from the worst of the evil. He would fulfill his obligations, send a prayer of thanks to the Almighty every day, and get his wife out of here as soon as possible. In the meantime, he would embrace Karma’s Karnival and rule their new world.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Aubrey Wynne

A MacNaughton Castle Romance

Deception and Desire (Book 1)

An Allusive Love (Book 2)

A Bonny Pretender (Book 3)

A Merry MacNaughton Mishap (Novella)

About the Author

Bestselling and award-winning author Aubrey Wynne is an elementary teacher by trade, champion of children and animals by conscience, and author by night. She resides in the Midwest with her husband, dogs, horses, mule, and barn cats. Obsessions include wine, history, travel, trail riding, and all things Christmas. Her books have received the Golden Quill, Aspen Gold, Heart of Excellence, and the Gayle Wilson Award of Excellence.

Aubrey’s first love is medieval romance but after dipping her toe in the Regency period in 2018 with the Wicked Earls’ Club, she was smitten. This inspired her spin-off series Once Upon a Widow. In 2020, she will launch the Scottish Regency series A MacNaughton Castle Romance with Dragonblade Novels.

Find Aubrey

Website: aubreywynne.com

Facebook: facebook.com/magnificentvalor

Twitter: @aubreywynne51

Instagram: Aubreywynne51

Subscribe to Aubrey’s newsletter for new releases, exclusive excerpts, and free stories:

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Facebook Reading Group: facebook.com/groups/AubreyWynnesEverAfters

The Ghost Bride

Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Author’s Note

I was delighted to be invited to write for this anthology. At the time, I was right in the middle of watching the works of English historian and author MR James. James’ ghost stories, set during the Victorian and Edwardian eras in which he lived, are quiet and chilling. The Ghost Bride is loosely based on sightings of The White Lady of Berry Pomeroy Castle.

Prologue

31 October 1884

“Mummy, why do you never wear this ring?”

Jemima Rhodes looked at her ten-year-old son in the reflection of the dressing table mirror as she secured her diamond earbobs.

Benjamin held up the small circle of gold and black enamel. She knew the piece well, although it had been many years since she’d last looked at it.

Ben’s question attracted the attention of his older sister who abandoned her rummaging through her mother’s jewelry box to turn her attention to what her brother had found.

“It’s no surprise she wouldn’t wear such a thing,” twelve-year-old Rebecca declared. “There’s a skeleton on it. It’s a gruesome piece.”

“That’s a memento mori ring,” Jemima answered. “It is to remember someone who died.”

At that moment, Montague Rhodes walked into the bedroom, wire-rimmed spectacles at the end of his nose, sandy hair streaked here and there with silver that only made him look more dashing in Jemima’s eyes.

“Who died?” he asked, looking up from his book.

She cast him a meaningful look. “Darling, the children have found Isabeau’s ring.”

“Ah…”

Their father’s sober reaction stole the children’s attention immediately.

“Who’s Isabeau?” Rebecca demanded. “I know of no relative with that name.”

Jemima held her husband’s gaze.

“Do you think it’s time?” she asked.

“They’re still children…”

“I’m nearly eleven!” protested Ben.

“What is it, Papa? Is it some great family scandal? Ooh, do tell!”

Jemima sighed. She supposed they were old enough now to know the story.

Remembrances of that strange spring still intruded into her dreams, but only occasionally. They were just echoes of the past; mere shadows that disappeared once she opened her eyes.

And, yet, there had been a time when she had been awake, eyes wide open, and saw things that ought not to be there. She had come face to face with a malevolence that tried to end her life and Monty’s, too.

Her husband watched her closely. She knew it would be her decision whether or not the tale would be told.

They had the time. Their good friends, Reggie and Wendy Acton, were not expected to arrive for at least another hour.

The ring was now in her hand. Jemima rubbed a thumb across it, feeling the uneven surface. The skull of the gold skeleton stared blankly from black eye sockets.

“I think they’re old enough to know.”

Monty leaned down and kissed her softly before sitting down on the bed adjacent.

She looked into the eager eyes of her children.

“To know what?” asked Rebecca.

“How I met your mother,” Monty answered. “And how I very nearly lost her.”

Chapter One

May 1867

South Devon

Jemima Douglas closed the carriage window against the eddies of smoke as the train made its way up toward the town of Stanton.

Two of her three fellow passengers in the compartment were bound for a holiday in Cornwall.

During the half-day journey, she had been drawn into conversation by the Misses Tonks, spinster sisters some years past middle age. They treated the first-class compartment as though it were their own drawing room, and they’d invited friends to tea.

“Twins!” they proudly announced, and Jemima had absolutely no doubt about that. They looked alike, dressed alike in a fetching shade of pink, shared the same mannerisms, and even finished off each other’s sentences. It was as though speaking to one person who happened to inhabit two separate bodies.

Their insistence on holding court was how Jemima came to know the name of the carriage’s other occupant.

She though him an aloof sort of chap at first, because he had his head in a book when she got on the train at Exeter, and had said nothing until one of the Misses Tonks announced they had cinnamon buns to share, would prefer to spend the trip in conviviality, and intended to use the privilege of their age to make their fellow travelers’ acquaintance without a formal introduction.

As it turned out, the man was happy to talk and especially fond of cinnamon buns. Montague Rhodes fell into conversation easily, as though he were actually taking tea with two favorite aunts.

He revealed he was a historian at Cambridge and had been invited to Stanton to visit an old friend who was being very mysterious about something interesting he’d found connected with the old St. Anne’s Church in the village of Gatcombe.

“A historian! Well, you can’t come all this way and not visit Gatcombe Castle,” said the first Miss Tonks.

“Oh, surely you must know it well,” added the second.

“Indeed, I do know it. It was a motte and bailey castle, one of the earliest in England. Later, it was expanded into a Tudor manor house. The original construction dates back to William the Conqueror.”

“If I recall my history,” Jemima ventured, “William gave leave to Judhael of Stanton to build the castle only to have it confiscated in the Rebellion of 1088.”

Montague Rhodes regarded her over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. His hazel eyes twinkled. “I should put you at the top of the class.”

She might have believed he was flirting with her but, before she could respond to his compliment, he turned his attention back to the Misses Tonks who interrogated him in turns with questions about his work. He answered them in good humor before their inquisition turned to her.

Jemima revealed she was a correspondent for The London Ladies’ Observer writing a series of features on the history and beauty of South Devon to encourage other young women to travel.

“A worthwhile endeavor,” the second Miss Tonks said approvingly. “Young ladies should travel. We have traveled the full breadth of England, Scotland, and Wales – and in our younger years to Paris—”

“—and Vienna,” they finished in unison.

The train slowed to a stop.

Jemima secured a hat pin before rising to gather her belongings – her shawl, carpetbag, and traveling artist’s easel. She farewelled the Misses Tonks. The young man stood also, effortlessly drawing his suitcase from the luggage rack before reaching out a hand toward her carpetbag.

“Allow me, Miss Douglas.”

“Very kind of you, Mr. Rhodes, but I shouldn’t want to put you out.”

“No trouble at all since we are both disembarking.”

She allowed him to take the bag and stepped down onto the platform, returning the enthusiastic wave of the elderly ladies before the train moved off to its westerly terminus.

“May I carry this to your destination?

Jemima regarded Montague Rhodes. He had a tall, athletic build and had mentioned in passing that he’d played cricket against Oxford. He also had a nice smile that only added to his general good looks but, still, Jemima fully intended to do for herself.

“Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m not staying in Stanton,” she said. “I’ve arranged accommodation in Gatcombe itself.”

“Then it is my loss. I’m staying in Stanton tonight and will take up lodgings at Gatcombe from tomorrow. But surely you don’t intend to walk there with your bags – it’s nearly two miles.”

His concern over her transportation made her like him all the more.

“The innkeeper will meet me. He shouldn’t be long.”

Rhodes set down her bag.

“Will you sit here, and let me see if he’s waiting?”

Jemima agreed. As much as she enjoyed her independence, it was nice to have someone take an interest in her welfare after such a long journey.

She watched him leave the platform. In the distance beyond, she observed Stanton, set into the cliffs, its streets zig-zagging along its face, descending to the sea below.

The bustle of the station ebbed away. She was alone, hearing nothing save the rustling of the trees in the hills and the tweeting of nearby birds.

No, not quite alone.

On the opposite platform stood another woman dressed quite unusually in white with a strange sort of head covering – a veil? – obscuring her features.

It seemed impolite to stare, so Jemima retrieved a small hold-all from her carpetbag, and extracted the letter from the inn confirming her booking and the approximate time of arrival. She set them away before pulling out her late father’s fob watch to check the time against the station clock. It was twenty-past three. The train had been ten minutes early so her transport should be here shortly.

She put away her watch and glanced across the tracks. The woman opposite had not moved, her head still lowered. Was something wrong? Was she ill?

Jemima frowned. There was something amiss…

She approached the edge of the platform, intending to call across when, unprovoked, her chest tightened in a constricting band. She could do nothing but stand and stare. The veiled figure’s head slowly rose.

A visage more skull than face revealed itself. There were voids where the eyes ought to be, but the creature found hers unerringly enough. It took one step then another, walking off the platform itself seemingly on air before opening its lipless mouth wide in a high-pitched, unearthly scream. Jemima felt the sound go through her. It went on and on, filling her ears until she could hear and see nothing but the nightmare before her.

Her head spun, only to realize her body had spun with it. Masculine arms held her tightly, pulling her back from the edge of the platform just as a steam engine barreled past, its piercing whistle replacing the specter’s scream in her ears.

“Miss Douglas!”

Jemima looked up at her rescuer. Montague Rhodes stared back at her, eyes wide in shock. Over his shoulder, she saw the portly station master approach them at a clip.

“You almost stepped in front of that train, Miss!” the man yelled.

Jemima nodded, not trusting herself to speak, but allowing Rhodes to help her keep her feet, accepting his support to reach a bench. She gingerly lowered herself onto it.

“Get the lady some water!” he instructed the station master before turning back to her. “Are you all right?”

“I… I saw…” Jemima looked across to the opposite platform. It was deserted. Rhodes looked at her expectantly.

“You fainted.”

She lowered her eyes from his. How ridiculous. She had never fainted once in her life and, yet, that must have been it. What else could it have been?

The station master returned with water, hastily poured in a mug. Jemima sipped. It tasted faintly of the station master’s tea.

“You were right lucky your young man was there, Miss, otherwise you’d have gone under the wheels.”

“I must have fainted,” she echoed before gaining her feet. “But I’m quite all right now.”

The two men did their best to hide their skepticism. But, in truth, she did feel fine – now. To prove her point, she picked up her carpetbag and art case and headed toward the station exit.

But not before one last glance at the empty platform opposite.

Chapter Two

Monty watched the young woman walking a few yards ahead of him, her head held high, confidently carrying her luggage as though she hadn’t a care in the world. She seemed in full possession of herself now.

What on earth had happened back there?

Was Miss Douglas suicidal?

The thought filled him with dismay, but he dismissed it.

No. He might entertain that idea of a total stranger, but he had spent the past three hours in her company. She cheerfully took part in the conversation from Exeter and seemed genuinely looking forward to her plans in Gatcombe.

But despite what he’d told her and the station master, she hadn’t fainted. If anything, she looked mesmerized by something on the opposite side of the tracks. And he hadn’t missed the fact that, just a few moment ago as they were leaving, she had spared a glance to the other platform.

Waiting outside the station gate, the innkeeper stood by his horse and cart. He seemed an avuncular sort of fellow, a pleasant smile on his weathered face. At seeing her, he raised his hand and called out.

“There ye are, Miss. Lemme help ye with yer kit.”

Jemima greeted him brightly, calling him by name – Mr. Oatley – and accepted his hand to climb up into the cart without a moment’s hesitation. To Monty, it was clear she had put the incident behind her; perhaps he should do the same.

He considered himself a man of science, a logical thinker not given to flights of fancy. So he could safely ascribe the unsettled feeling that lingered in the bottom of his stomach to having averted a near tragedy.

“’Ello there, sir. Ye must be Dr. Rhodes what the deacon said to expect.”

“Doctor?”

Jemima regarded him curiously. He hid a smile. He’d not shared that tidbit of information on the train. The title was still new to him and, frankly, every time he heard “Dr. Rhodes”, he turned around to look for his father.

He pretended to have not heard Jemima’s question and addressed the driver.

“I am. However, I won’t be joining you until tomorrow. The deacon has asked me to dine with him this evening.” He hoisted his suitcase onto the cart and shouldered his canvas satchel. “But if you’d be so good as to take my suitcase on, I’ll not trouble you to make a return visit just for me. I’ll bicycle to the inn in the morning.”

The innkeeper tugged the peak of his flat cap. “Right ye are, then,” he said before climbing into the cart.

Apart from a little color on her pretty cheeks, Jemima Douglas looked unaffected by her scare. His scrutiny of her must have become obvious, because she gave him a long, slow smile that told him she was aware of it – and not displeased by the attention.

She leaned forward and offered her hand. He took it and felt a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you for lending me a hand today, Doctor Rhodes.” Her brown eyes twinkled with the emphasis on his title.

He grinned in return, somewhat pleased such an attractive, charming young woman was happy to continue this mild flirtation.

“You’ve experienced the full extent of my medical knowledge, Miss Douglas,” he grinned, “but should you need advice on a historical matter, then you will find me well-versed.”

She returned the smile as the innkeeper snapped the reins. She raised a hand in farewell before lowering it to re-pin auburn strands come loose from her chignon. The conveyance pulled away.

Monty turned his attention down toward Stanton in a better frame of mind than he had been just ten minutes before.

And why shouldn’t he? There was a lot to look forward to – his first survey as a doctor and associate professor, the project commissioned by his good friend Reggie Acton, the new deacon of this parish, and, now, meeting an attractive young lady who seemed to like him. So far, this visit was off to a very promising start.

He found the gothic spire of St. Mark’s Church and headed toward it, knowing that Reggie’s house would be close by.

*

Jemima breathed in deeply as Mr. Oatley directed his horse down the path that wended its way through the woods. It had rained recently; the earthy scent filled her nostrils. The sound of the birds chirping brightly delighted her.

Catching the sound of a bubbling stream, she searched for its source and was rewarded by a glint of it through some of the spindlier examples of trees that thinned out to expose an old mill, its wheel missing a few boards, and the millhouse itself covered in moss.

She was ready to begin her work in the morning. She had planned the trip for weeks, so she knew she was unlikely to spot Gatcombe Castle from here. They were two miles away from it, and the woods had grown thick since the Duke of Ashprington abandoned the seat in the seventeenth century.

Still, she had to ask the question.

“Is Gatcombe Castle visible from the village, Mr. Oatley?”

“You’ve come at the wrong time of year for that, Miss. Only in winter can ye see the top of the turrets when all the leaves are gone. It be a fair hike into the woods for ye.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Mr. Oatley. A packed lunch and my sketching pad will be all I need.”

“There not be a lot in the village. Most folk go to Stanton to shop, but it do us,” the innkeeper continued. “We’re right proud of our church. There’s been one on that site since William the Conqueror, they say.”

And there it was, the dark grey stone church with its Norman tower standing proud on an expanse of green lawn dotted with equally weathered headstones. Completing the scene, a woman dressed head to toe in black, obviously a widow, stood by one of the grave markers. Jemima determined to include the woman in one of her sketches to capture the setting.

The church indeed looked a fair age to her inexperienced eye. She looked forward to talking to Doctor Rhodes about it. The recollection of their conversation on the trip from Exeter drew a smile. They’d become fast friends though they’d only just met.

The road turned to the left. The building they approached was larger than she’d imagined. The inn was classically Tudor in design. The first floor was stone, but the remaining two stories were the half-timbered style, the dark oak timbers infilled with wattle and daub weathered a chalky white. Windows set in black frames gleamed in the afternoon light. The first and second floors had window boxes filled with pretty little pink and purple flowers.

The building was L-shaped. The southern wing presented its face to visitors coming up the main road into the village. A sign outside announced the name, The Laughing Cavalier.

“No, ye can’t see the castle this time of year, but I rightly think this is a pretty enough sight to the eyes to attract them visitors down by train to our village.”

The pride was evident in the man’s voice and not without justification either. She had a fleeting wish of possessing a photographic camera but, even so, it would capture only the image, not the colors – for that she would need her watercolors.

“My word, it is charming! My readers will love hearing about this place.”

“My good lady wife, she be right proud of it. Ye should’ve seen the place when we came here six year ago. Left to rack and ruin, it was. But she’s made it such a cozy place inside, just ye see!”

Mr. Oatley assisted her down from the carriage just as the inn door opened. A whitish-haired woman as round as she was short greeted Jemima with a hearty hello.

Beside her, a youth, aged about thirteen, hesitated at the number of bags in the back of the cart.

“Ye take this one up to room number seven,” Mr. Oatley instructed. “That’s for Dr. Rhodes who’ll be arriving tomorrow. I’ll take Miss Douglas’ things. Patty, my dear, do show our guest around.”

“Quite so, quite so,” answered the woman.

Jemima followed Mrs. Oatley inside, where the Tudor feeling was replicated. It was like stepping back in time. Dark oak paneling covered the walls. Someone only a little taller than herself would have to duck beneath a heavy oak beam to take the three steps down into the good-sized sitting room. A large fireplace with inglenook dominated one wall, flanked by a pair of cushion-covered settees – one of which was occupied by a large orange tabby.

Closer to the window, two small, round tables, each with two timber chairs of a much later period, provided a place for quiet conversation with views across to the fireplace or outside to the green and the church beyond.

Up a couple of steps on the other side of the sitting room was a staircase to the upper floors. On the other side of that was the dining room. A large refectory table that might seat twelve comfortably stood in the middle. Past the table, yet another pair of doors. The kitchen, Jemima presumed.

Mrs. Oatley seemed to have anticipated every question she might have, so Jemima was content to be given the guided tour and history lesson while making mental notes for her article as she went.

“O’course, The Laughin’ Cavalier were much bigger then. Whenever there were a big do up at the castle, servants that couldn’t be ’oused up there, the coachmen and the like, they’d stay ’ere. And ’orses, too. It were a big stable, though part o’that’s gone to ruin. Story ’as it that several generations of dukes and their friends would come ’ere to drink and gamble away from their wives’ disapprovin’ eyes.”

Jemima followed the innkeeper’s wife upstairs to the first landing.

“Since ye’re the only female guest, we’ve put ye on this floor so ye can ’ave the bath and privy all to yerself,” the woman stated plainly. “Upstairs, we ’ave two gentlemen, Dr. Rhodes, who’s a ’istorian, and Colonel Wetherford. He comes ’ere for the shootin’ and fishin’.”

They stopped halfway down the oak-lined hall. Jemima counted three doors on each side. The end wall’s panels had been stained dark to match the other walls, but it was clear they were of much later construction and hid a longer passage.

“My John put that up, and upstairs, too. No point in doin’ up more rooms ’til these ones turn a profit.”

“Well, I hope my magazine article will have letters of request flooding in,” said Jemima.

Her words pleased Mrs. Oatley, who opened the door on her right. The curtains were already open and Jemima’s carpetbag and artist equipment tidily placed on a table beneath the window which offered a higher aspect of the green and the church.

In contrast to the dark hallway, the bedroom was bright and airy, thanks in no small part to the whitewashed walls. The major piece of furniture was the four-poster bed, its slender columns wrapped in curtains of blue and gold damask.

Indeed, the more she looked, the more Jemima saw the care and attention the Oatleys had taken to give her a delightful first impression – a spray of wildflowers in an earthenware jar, a modern sink with hot and cold water taps next to a dressing table with a plain but nicely figured oval mirror.

It was delightful. Jemima told Mrs. Oatley so. The older woman beamed.

“Dinner is served at eight o’clock, so there is plenty of time for ye to have a rest after yer journey.”

“I would love a bath.”

“Then I’ll draw it for ye myself, Miss Douglas.”

Jemima looked through the window. The afternoon shadows were long, and what she could see of the village – just a couple of cottages – would no doubt look their best in the morning.

Besides, it would be pleasant to catch up with Monty – as she had begun to think of him – as he started his work at St. Anne’s. He didn’t know it yet, but he would also feature in her magazine article.

Be honest with yourself, Jem. You want to give him a better impression of you.

She was not a woman prone to fainting; neither was she one to indulge in flights of fancy. But she knew what she saw. Or at least what she thought she saw on the train platform.

Perhaps a relax in a bath and a sleep before dinner might clear away those lingering shadows.

Chapter Three

Monty sat up straight and dabbed the napkin to his lips with obvious satisfaction before setting it on the dining table beside him. He addressed his hostess.

“Wendy, I have to tell you – Reggie does not deserve you. This was the finest meal I’ve had since, well, your wedding, as a matter of fact.”

The young woman beamed her pleasure.

Reggie laughed and reached across the table to take his wife’s hand. “Let me second that motion.”

Wendy Acton regarded her husband tenderly.

However hyperbolic, Monty meant the compliment sincerely. Reggie had found a jewel in Wendy – not that he had to do much unearthing. They had been neighbors and childhood sweethearts. He couldn’t think of two people better matched in affection and temperament. And Monty had known her almost as long as Reggie and considered her as a sister.

Which, of course, gave her every right to treat him like a brother.

“Then it is time you emerged from your dusty books and took a look about yourself,” she said. “There must be any number of young ladies around Cambridge who might make a good wife. Or perhaps you’ll find one here in Stanton.”

“Now that’s his trouble,” added Reggie. “His mind is so far in the past that he cannot see what is in the present! But that very attribute is why I need him now.”

Wendy rose from the table. The two men rose with her.

“You’ve been champing at the bit all day to show Monty your books, so go. I’ll have coffee sent to your study.”

Reggie said nothing more, leaving Monty to follow him across the passage to the study. “What’s the mystery about?” Monty asked. “You sounded very excited in your last letter, and all you would tell is it had something to do with St. Anne’s Church.”

His friend reached his desk and turned, preventing Monty from seeing what was on it.

“When you’ve inherited a trove such as I have here, you’d be excited, too. See that trunk there?” He nodded at a dilapidated chest in the corner. “To the best of anyone’s recollection, it’s been here for years. It was locked, and no one had the key. The deacon before me had no interest in it – you have to admit it is shabby-looking. No one knows where it came from and, in the absence of a claim by a rightful owner, I took it upon myself to break the lock. This is what I discovered.”

Reggie stepped away from the desk to reveal four large, leather-bound volumes. It was clear they were old, the faded leather cracked.

Monty drew near and ran a hand over the covers.

“Sixteenth century.”

Reggie grinned, his eyes shining. Monty felt an excitement as though they were both twelve-years-old boys again, ready to play a prank on a school master.

The aged cover creaked as he opened it. He could see at a glance that the paper was thick, its edges uneven. It was in beautiful condition, only a small amount of foxing marred the cream, handmade stock. There, in black ink, was a flourished inscription.

Etienne Melton

Duke of Ashprington

1503

Monty consulted a long-buried memory.

“Melton’s forebears were given the land by William the Conqueror, but the line died out, and the title reverted to the Crown, did it not?

Reggie nodded. “Henry VIII gifted the land and castle to the Duke of Hawell, but his heirs couldn’t afford the upkeep. The whole place was abandoned during the reign of Charles II.”

“The earlier history is what is generally supposed, but not too much more is known about the Melton family.”

“Until now. I want you to look through these books. Your familiarity with Anglo-Norman language is much better than mine, but I did get through enough to learn that tangible proof of the family’s history might still exist at St. Anne’s.”

Reggie tapped his finger on a folded receipt currently being used as a bookmark.

“According to local legend, the wife of the last Duke of Ashprington is buried at St. Anne’s. Why would she be buried there and not in the family crypt at Exeter Cathedral?”

“Perhaps their marriage wasn’t as happy as yours.”

Reggie offered a mocking ha-ha in response before adding, “The original church was extensively changed during the Reformation. If we can find proof of the Melton family, we will have pieced together a puzzle that has vexed scholars for centuries.”

“It would help if we had something tangible to link the history…”

“Like this perhaps?”

Reggie opened his hand. In his palm were two gold rings.

He tipped them into Monty’s outstretched hand. The first ring was quickly identified by its black enamel as a piece of mourning jewelry. The second was a signet with an armorial carved in relief, four fleurs-de-lis, one in each corner surrounding a dolphin.

“They were in the chest. The armorial matches the illustration on the flyleaf of the second volume.”

Monty swiftly opened it, and there it was, filling half the page, but with the addition of blue and white wavy lines behind the dolphin of gold leaf. The fleurs-de-lis were red.

He whistled. “Impressive. Imagine seeing banners with the duke’s colors.”

Below it was a motto: Amor Numquam Moritur

“Love Never Dies…” added Reggie. “You can see why I made a booking for you at the village.”

“As Doctor Rhodes.”

Monty’s friend grinned. “That’s for sending me the parcel of books addressed to Dr. Acton. It took the local postmaster the better part of a week trying to find the new doctor in town before he thought to visit the rectory.”

Monty smiled and looked back at the lavish armorial. He felt Reggie’s excitement, and it matched his own.

“This is a true treasure, indeed. Thanks to you, we can rewrite English history.”

“Only you can make that happen. You have the knowledge and the willingness to roll up your sleeves. It was joining you on field trips over the summers in Cambridge that made me pay attention to the history all about us. If you can prove what we suppose, then you’ll deserve all the credit.”

The clock struck ten.

“Then I should turn in. It’s been a long day, and we have no shortage of things to do tomorrow.”

Monty knew he would sleep soundly tonight, ready to begin his work in the morning. The knowledge he would also see Miss Jemima Douglas again only added to his satisfaction.

*

She walked through the woods. They smelled of decay. Years upon years of leaf fall made the ground spongy underfoot. The mill was up ahead, long abandoned. The trees had begun to reclaim it and yet there was a light in the window.

The sun reflecting off glass?

She didn’t think so.

Jemima continued. The ground became boggy, making each step a chore. Oddly, the mill didn’t get any closer.

Now the light was outside the mill and grew larger, now the size of a person.

She saw it. The figure from the train platform. A woman dressed like a bride of long ago.

Her heart pounded. The ground between them seemed to vanish in an instant. A desiccated face stared at her with sightless eyes. It opened its mouth and screamed.

Jemima started awake. Her rapidly pounding heart was no dream. Neither was the howling sound.

Her rational mind warred with primal fear until the final tendrils of sleep vanished. She turned her head.

There was her apparition.

The curtain flapped in the chill wind which had sprung up in the night. The window was open a crack. That explained the howling.

She shook her head ruefully then rose to attend to it, more than glad that the gooseflesh on her arms was caused by the cold of the night air.

There was no ghost. A dream. That’s all it was.

Still, as she pulled aside the curtain, it was in the back of her mind there would be something there… outside. But there was not. The wind that blew the curtain also pushed away clouds that hid the moon. It shone down on the sleeping village.

St. Anne’s was silhouetted black against the inky sky. Everything was as it should be.

Jemima smiled to herself and returned to bed, where the rest of her sleep was solid and undisturbed.

Chapter Four

The sound of conversation drifted up the stairs from the dining room below. Jemima recognized the voices of Colonel Wetherford and Monty Rhodes. She smiled and added a quickness to her step.

Monty and the colonel had taken one of the tables by the window. At the colonel’s feet lay Rascal, his Irish wolf hound, a dog whose large size belied his sweetness.

Before she could make her way across, Mrs. Oatley stepped out of the kitchen with what appeared to be wrapped sandwiches on a tray. The older woman’s smile of greeting faltered a little, her eyebrows raised before settling once more.

Jemima knew her walking ensemble was not approved of by everyone. She wore a button-down blouse under a short waisted jacket of Lincoln green. The matching skirt ended at her shins, the rest of her legs covered in loose-fitted trousers, gathered at the ankles of her boots.

“Why, don’t ye look fetchin’ this morning, Miss Douglas…”

She had to give Mrs. Oatley credit for gamely hiding her disapproval.

“Thank you, Mrs. Oatley. A practical outfit for hiking, wouldn’t you agree?”

Realization dawned on the woman’s face.

“Yes, o’course, for ’iking. Long skirts wouldn’t do no good, would they? And the path to the castle is well overgrown.”

The conversation had attracted the attention of the two other guests. If the gentlemen were scandalized by her attire, then they’d had time to get over their shock. Both rose to their feet and greeted her warmly, especially Monty.

“Good morning, Colonel. Good morning, Dr. Rhodes.”

The colonel, she had learned last night, had retired from the army after thirty years of service, mostly in India. He’d been a regular at The Laughing Cavalier for years, even spending one of his visits helping out with the renovations.

The man’s soft grey hair contrasted with leathery skin, still tanned from his years abroad.

“There’s yer lunch, Colonel,” said Mrs. Oatley.

“Thank you, m’dear. Wish me luck with the hunt. I hope to bring you back a brace of pheasants.”

He turned to address his fellow guests. “You’ve not lived until you’ve had Mrs. Oatley’s pheasant in apple and cider. Now there’s something your lady readers will enjoy, Miss Douglas!”

“Well, I, too, wish you happy hunting, Colonel – because that does sound delicious.”

The colonel departed, Rascal at his heels.

“Will you join me for breakfast, Miss Douglas?”

“We’ve known each other for nearly a day, Dr. Rhodes, I think you should call me Jemima.”

“Only if you stop calling me Dr. Rhodes. Monty will do.”

Jemima suppressed a smile at the thought she was right – the way his light brown hair flopped across his brow and gave him a boyish air, he was a Monty, not a staid Montague or Montgomery.

“How is your friend? The one you came here to see? Did he give you any further information about the mystery he proposed you solve?”

As a charming breakfast was laid before them, she listened as Monty recounted the previous evening.

“You can close your mouth now,” he said with a wink at the conclusion of his tale.

“This would be a marvelous story for my readers.”

He looked pleased by her response which, in turn, pleased her.

“I was planning on visiting the castle today, but I can change my plans and watch you at work. Or, better still, I could be your assistant.”

“I’m afraid you won’t get much of a story if you join me today. I only have the vaguest notion of what I’m looking for and where to find it. Do join me for dinner. You can interrogate me then to your heart’s content, if that would interest you.

“And, if it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition, I’d like to join you exploring the castle. If I could identify the earliest parts of it, it might help better identify structures of a similar age at the church.”

Jemima nodded. “Then I shall postpone my walk to the castle. We can go together tomorrow. I think I’ll spend this morning exploring the old water mill I saw coming into the village instead, and sketch some scenes for my article.”

She raised her tea cup.

“Here’s to well laid plans, Monty.”

It was strange how daylight changed everything. The church looked dark and ominous in the shadows of late afternoon, but was a charming example of its type in the bright morning sun.

She accompanied Monty as far as the church lychgate. He shouldered his knapsack and gave her a cheery wave before entering the yard.

Jemima headed back down the road toward Stanton and found the overgrown path that led to the old water mill without difficulty. It was as picturesque as she remembered. Dappled sunlight dotted the old timber structure with patches of gold. Birds tweeted high in the trees, well out of sight. The merry babbling of the nearby stream drew her in.

She stopped about fifteen yards from it. Despite its dilapidated state, it was delightful, so she set up her portable easel and propped herself against her shooting stick. There were no mysterious lights in the window, nor any palpable feeling of dread. She smiled.

The figure on the platform was nothing but a figment of her imagination, borne of being hungry and tired. Her dream was just a dream and nothing more.

After an hour or so of sketching the view, Jemima ventured nearer to examine the mill in closer detail, then wandered beyond it for a short distance. The trail she followed came to an end, so she backtracked to the mill and followed the direction of the brook upstream toward the village.

A stone marker, half-hidden in the tall grass, caught her attention, but she was distracted by the feel of uneven paving underfoot. She toed away the loose dirt with her boot and found what looked like a cobble stone. She brushed away earth from an adjacent stone and found another cobble.

The more she looked, the more she found, until the manner of it became obvious. There was a road here, half-buried over time.

It ended at the stream.

But no – there, on the other side, it appeared to continue for a little while farther before being reclaimed by forest.

Might this have been the original road to the castle?

She wetted a handkerchief in the stream and returned to the marker to wipe over its weathered face.

There! A glimpse of a carving before the old stone absorbed the moisture and the details disappeared once more. She pulled out a pencil and a leaf from her sketchbook and began rubbing.

It was hard to tell what it was. A sea serpent or some kind or a dragon. Perhaps Monty would recognize the design.

She sketched the marker as it lay and returned to the stream.

There must have been some way to cross.

A moment later she spotted two large stones, roughly the same size and evenly spaced, jutting barely above the water. Likely foundations for a bridge, except nothing remained of it now. She fancied that, once upon a time, there would be pillars supporting an arch and the bridge itself.

Leaving her satchel and easel behind, Jemima made three deftly timed leaps – bank to pillar to pillar to bank – to the other side of the stream.

She had no idea what caused her to look up, only that, once she had, she was mesmerized, rooted to the spot.

Peeking just above the trees, at a distance of some eight hundred yards by her estimation, was one of the towers of Gatcombe Castle.

This must have been the old main road, now forgotten and overgrown. Possibly no one else had been in this spot for a hundred years, maybe more.

In her mind’s eye, the trees receded, and the paved road become visible and wider where, in the distance, it curved away. A long pennant fluttered from the top of the tower.

If she breathed in deep, she could almost imagine herself transported back in time.

Chapter Five

Monty found himself whistling an old tune. Where it had come from, he had no idea.

He made his way across the cemetery lawn looking up at the church before him, making notes as he walked.

Even without prior knowledge of St. Anne’s, his experience with ancient buildings told him that this edifice of stone dated no earlier than the year 1600. It was built in what was known as the Perpendicular style, but there were remains still of Early English and decorative work. The church’s square tower, typically Norman, complete with battlements, was the tallest structure in the village.

He wondered whether it was possible to see Gatcombe Castle from the top.

Monty came to a stop by the south porch, shrugged off his satchel, and dug about inside. He already had his notepad and pencil in his pocket, so out of the pack came a wind-out tape measure shaped like a discus and just as heavy, along with a folding yard rule, and, finally, a compact theodolite.

Given the history of Gatcombe and its castle pre-dated the present church, it was no great leap to assert that an earlier church had rested on this site. But was it built to the same dimensions as the building now standing?

If so, he would know exactly where to start searching for older interments; if not, he would have to do some digging, and he would need the permission of the archdiocese to continue.

He began his survey at the southern end of the church, methodically making his way along the western side of the building, taking down the dimensions as he went. So far, there was nothing out of the ordinary. He smiled. It was just as well Jemima hadn’t accompanied him today – there wasn’t a lot to write about.

As for himself, he was not too dismayed. The role of the historian was one of painstaking forbearance. It was not wise to speculate too much at the beginning. He was a marshaller of facts. The interpretation would come later.

With the outside dimensions now recorded, he stepped out of the shadows into the sunshine and found a bench in the churchyard to his liking from where he could draw the building based on the measurements. Over the next hour or so, he worked, occasionally glancing at the structure to add further features as the sun illuminated them. It was midday before he finished.

Tempting though it was to go back to the inn for lunch, Monty decided against it. The day was too fine. And one always took advantage of good weather while one could.

Satisfied the drawing was an adequate representation of the eastern elevation, Monty set aside the sketchbook and looked about. Everyone in the village was well about their work day – he heard the sound of a blacksmith pounding on an anvil, a mother calling for her children to wash up for lunch. At the inn, Mr. Oatley had opened the cellar door to take delivery of barrels of ale. On the other side of the green, a man stood on a roof, laying in new thatch.

There was no one in the churchyard, save an old widow, head to toe in black, standing by a weathered stone on the eastern side of the church. Her head was bowed in private contemplation, so he didn’t call out.

He rummaged through his bag and pulled out the large iron key Reggie had given him. The church had fallen into disuse, only in service for Easter and Christmas. Reggie had told him most of the villagers went to Stanton on Sundays.

Inside, the church was light and airy, but considerably dusty. Monty took in the arches that supported the roof over the aisles while he paced out his steps down the nave to the chancel. They echoed behind him as he approached the apse. He would start here looking for stone that seemed out of place with the rest.

The stained glass cast distorted colored shadows on the stone floor, but there was something about the way the light hit the eastern wall that drew his attention. He approached to take a closer look at a series of diagonal score marks that ran across the face of the plaster.

There’s something behind it.

He pushed, not very hard, and the chalky substance fell away. He went back to his satchel for a small pick and returned to chip away, following one particular crack until it revealed a door inset into the stone. Its thick timbers and the nature of the lock gave every impression of it being a great age.

Monty ran his fingers over the lock. He tried his key. To no particular surprise, it didn’t work. An entrance to a crypt, he had no doubt. Did it date to the time of the present building? Or much earlier?

Unfortunately, he needed something more than a small hand pick to break open the door. And that included Reggie’s permission. He’d already taken a liberty chipping away the plaster, even if it was already falling off. At least it was a start.

He gathered up his gear and headed back down the nave to the western side of the church where another door unlocked easily with his key. This one led to the tower. Inside was stuffy. Sharp shards of light illuminated dust motes dancing on the air disturbed by the opening of the door. A wooden staircase clung to the inner stone walls.

A cautious step led to a second, then a third. The first dozen creaked ominously underfoot, otherwise the stairs were solid. Monty was sweating by the time he reached the top. He squeezed his way around four brass bells to a narrow ladder that reached up to the trap door in the roof. A few forceful blows from his fist dislodged the dirt around the trap door enough for him to push it open. Eddies of fresh air tumbled in, cooling his face but also making him sneeze.

He clambered up to the roof and placed a steady hand on the stone battlements.

Here was a view!

Over the canopy of forest trees on a rise that overlooked the gorge and the village was the Gatcombe Castle gatehouse. The twin towers were surprisingly intact. It didn’t take much imagination to see the castle as it once stood, dominant over the landscape with only the church to rival it for grandeur.

He moved across to the other side of the tower to look along the ridge line of the church roof.

In the yard, just beyond the ridge line, the old woman remained. Had she been there all this time in the heat of the day? As though aware of being watched, she moved out of view.

As he surveyed the view of the churchyard, Monty was struck by an odd sensation. A knowing, striking his being with certainty before his conscious mind could make sense of it.

He walked the perimeter of the tower roof three times over before he could articulate it. St. Anne’s had been built inside the foundations of another, much larger building! Now that he was looking for it, he could see the setback. The grass was a different color, more yellow than grass in the wider churchyard beyond. The mid-afternoon shadows highlighted a faint ridge that marked the foundations of the original church.

Chapter Six

The last of the sunlight faded. Jemima looked up from the page and let out a sigh. She’d been writing for the better part of two hours, putting her thoughts together in her journal while drafting the first of the series of articles for The London Ladies’ Observer.

The letter she’d written to her editor outlined her desire to stay in Gatcombe beyond the three days originally scheduled. She wrote about Monty’s project and her plans for a series of articles, not just the travel feature she had been originally commissioned to write. Another week was what she needed. In return, her editor would receive an exclusive series on England’s hidden history.

The letter she’d dashed off the moment she returned was to be sent with the rest of the afternoon post. Jemima had used the remaining daylight to begin her first article. At her elbow were the sketches she’d made. There was a little refining to do before sending them.

The rubbing of the standing stone – some kind a sea serpent surrounded by four fleurs-de-lis, it appeared – she kept to one side. She wanted to show Monty and would have done so before dinner, but Mrs. Oatley had told her he had already gone back to Stanton on an errand.

She hid her disappointment. She had found something of interest. She was sure of it, but only he would know.

That’s not the only reason, and you know it.

Yes, well that was true. He was a good-looking man who also seemed every inch a gentleman.

Jemima shook her head and put away her pen and ink with a short sigh.

Nothing could ever come of it, of course. She would be back home in London in little over a week, making her living as a full-time writer, and Monty would return to his university to unearth other mysteries of the past.

Twilight became dusk. Over the sound of crickets, she heard the crunching sound of bicycle wheels on gravel, followed by the sound of the inn door closing. Jemima caught a few words of greeting and recognized the voice as belonging to Monty.

He’d returned!

Something caught her attention in the direction of the church. A glimmer of light? No, likely just a man lighting his pipe while on his way home.

The evening meal was pleasant. So, too, was the company. The colonel was particularly garrulous and dominated the conversation. Jemima matched the smile Monty hid behind a glass of wine as one tale of India merged into another without a pause between courses.

Still, the stories were entertaining and, as the evening went on, they found themselves by the fire along with the Oatleys.

Mr. Oatley prodded the fire before leaning back in his chair. “Now how’d ye go today over at that church, Dr. Rhodes? Found some hidden secrets?”

Jemima liked the way Monty’s eyes twinkled as he leaned forward on strong, firm thighs, a glass of sherry in hand.

“You know, I rather think I have… your St. Anne’s was built on the foundations of an older, much larger church.”

“A larger church? For a village this small?” Mrs. Oatley exclaimed.

“But you suspect it dates from the time of the Duke of Ashprington before the Dissolution?” Jemima asked. That earned her a look of appreciation and a smile from Monty which warmed her more than the sherry.

“I hope to find the church had a closer connection to the castle. The diaries my friend found at the Deanery seemed to suggest as much. I think I’ve found the crypt, or at least I found a door that had been plastered over. It’s locked so I’m waiting for permission to break it open.”

“Probably nothing more than a disused storeroom, old boy,” muttered the colonel, who had by this time slumped in his chair with his eyes closed in a half-doze.

“Do ye really need to do that, Dr. Rhodes?” Mrs. Oatley animatedly shrugged her shoulders in demonstration of a violent shiver. “There may be dead people in there.”

“I’m counting on it! I believe the church, well, the old church, might be the final resting place of the last Duchess of Ashprington. If I can prove that, it will provide a better understanding of the castle and the village. It might even help in your quest to bring more visitors to Gatcombe, Mr. Oatley.”

“It might well put some ghosts to rest,” the innkeeper intoned.

“Don’t say that, John!” Mrs. Oatley nudged her husband. “What ’ave I told ye? Them tales’ll make people too frightened to stay!”

“Nonsense, ole girl! They just be tales folks tell around these parts. Besides, people like to hear ghost stories.”

“Well, I don’t. And neither would yer readers, would they, Miss Douglas?”

Jemima set down her empty glass knowing she was going to disappoint the woman twice in one day. “I think you might be surprised, Mrs. Oatley. My readers love a good mystery, and if it also comes with a tragic tale and a gruesome past, then so much the better.”

The sidelong look the innkeeper’s wife gave her suggested she might have gone down in the older woman’s estimation.

“Are there ghosts, Mr. and Mrs. Oatley?” Monty asked, clearly happy to continue in a playful mood.

“None what I’ve ever seen,” the woman responded, rising from her seat, cheeks coloring. “I’ll bid a good night to ye all.”

“I agree, Mrs. Oatley. Stuff ’n’ nonsense,” huffed the colonel, seeming more exhausted than exasperated. “Rascal and I are off to bed, too.”

The clock chimed a quarter past ten. As the last of the sound from the bells faded, Jemima became conscious of the silence, save the crackling of the fire.

Mr. Oatley poured himself another glass of sherry.

“The missus might think it’s a bad idea, but I reckon she’s wrong.”

Monty shot Jemima a glance with a grin to go with it.

“I think you’ll find us both in agreement, Mr. Oatley,” he said. “The dark of night, the fire’s flames flickering on the walls – I can’t think of a better time and place to tell us a ghost story. You have our full attention.”

The innkeeper took a sip from his glass and paused a beat before beginning.

“The old folks around here say the spirit of young woman haunts Gatcombe Castle. She’s seen walking the grounds on nights there’s no moon, dressed in her nightclothes.”

Jemima leaned forward to listen.

“She was the bride-to-be of the last duke, but misfortune befell her on the night before the wedding. Some say she was carried from her bed by the pixies who were jealous of her happiness. It was her sister what found she were missing the next morning. The duke was heartbroken. He spent months looking for her to no avail, and she was given up for dead though no body were found.

“A year to the day of her disappearance, the duke announced that he would wed the sister. But it’s said that on their wedding night, when they were lying in their bed, they heard a terrible weeping. They looked out the window, and there on the lawn was her ghost, all in white, trapped between this world and the next. The duke never found happiness with the sister ’cause he was still in love with the first one. And although the duke and duchess are long dead, The Ghost Bride remains.

“Some say she’s begging for help to escape from the world of the fae. Others say she appears to lovers as a warning to guard their hearts. So, beware if ye walk alone at the castle on the night of a dark moon…”

Jemima frowned and fought an involuntary shiver. The tale was short on the actual description of the ghost, but it instantly brought to mind the mirage on the station platform.

Nightclothes? Or a wedding dress? With a veil…

She straightened in her chair. It was nonsense. A fiction, obviously. There were no such things as ghosts, yet how easy it was to be carried away with the idea that maybe…

She unfurrowed her brow and hoped no one saw her. But Monty had. The frown she had sought to banish from her face had now taken up residence on his. She set her attention on their host.

“Bravo, Mr. Oatley,” she said brightly. “The readers of The London Ladies’ Observer will adore this tale. It is tragic and romantic – everything a ghost story should be.”

The compliment pleased the innkeeper.

“Mind ye,” he cautioned, “I don’t set no stock in ghosts. I’ve seen none, and I don’t care to, but there be some truth to the tale, I’d wager it.”

Monty nodded. “Well, according to the history books, the last duke died without issue, so his grant was returned to the Crown,” he said. “His wife was Marguerite du Bois.”

“Is there any way of finding out whether the duchess had a sister?” Jemima asked.

“I haven’t had time to look at all the ledgers Reggie has. Perhaps you’d like to join me reading them?” Monty paused, clearly wondering whether she considered him too forward. “That is, if your time allows. Two sets of eyes will be better than one.”

The offer pleased her. The icy shard of unease from a moment before melted away, sending warmth through her veins instead.

“I’d be delighted! In the interests of furthering knowledge and captivating my readers, of course.”

Jemima saw Monty’s smile falter at her caveat – then right itself as he picked up on her teasing tone.

Mrs. Oatley returned to the sitting room with lit candles. She and Monty said goodnight, took one each, and headed for the stairs. Jemima skirted her way around the darting ginger tomcat as she took the first step. Monty held out his hand. She accepted it to right her balance.

Later, they might find reasons to excuse why their hands remained joined as they climbed the first flight of stairs but, in this moment, it felt right.

Monty only let go when they reached the landing.

“Goodnight. Sweet dreams.”

Three words. But the way he delivered them sent shivers of another kind through her. Her whole body awakened to his nearness.

Jemima walked to her door and glanced back down the hall to find Monty still on the landing, his tall, lean form illuminated by the candle’s flickering flame.

“Goodnight,” she whispered to him before watching him turn and climb the second flight of stairs to his own room.

Jemima closed the door behind her and began her normal nighttime routine, changing out of the dress she wore to dinner and slipping on her nightgown before releasing her hair from its chignon and brushing it out.

At first, she dismissed a sound outside as the caterwauling of cats, but it continued, long and keening.

No, it was the unmistakable sound of a woman wailing in distress. Someone from the village? Jemima drew back the curtains and looked out.

There! On the road outside the inn! A woman head to toe in white. A bridal garland circling her head. A diaphanous veil spread out as if caught by the breeze, but there was none; the night was perfectly still.

Her!

Jemima clasped a hand to her mouth to prevent a scream.

The figure on the station platform! She was real!

The specter turned and raised her head. Jemima stared into those hollow sockets. Although the apparition remained where it was, the wailing became louder. Jemima covered both ears but, still, it would not stop.

Chapter Seven

Monty was delighted Jemima had kept her hand in his. He’d been tempted to kiss her then, but it was too soon. Hopefully, before long…

He needed a distraction. He went to his desk and became so engrossed in writing his notes that he didn’t at first notice the sound, which seemed to him to be far away, too indistinct to be readily identified. He redoubled his attention to the journal in front of him, concentrating on the scratch of pen on paper until he could ignore it no more.

It sounded like a woman weeping…

He stood, leaning across his desk, to pull back the curtain. He could see nothing outside but St. Anne’s silhouetted against a clear night sky. He raised the sash. The crying became louder. The emotion of desolation and despair hit him in the chest like a blow. This was a soul in anguish.

Jemima!

He rushed from his room, down the carpeted stairs and along the first-floor landing to her door. He beat it twice with the palm of his hand before she opened it.

Jemima took his breath away, even more beautiful with auburn hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, her brown eyes wide. Her face was pale, but not tear-stained nor red from weeping.

“I saw her! The Ghost Bride!”

She stepped to one side and pointed to the window. Monty took it as his invitation to enter. He crossed the room in rapid paces and peered out of the window. He saw nothing, but felt the warm presence of Jemima at his shoulder, smelled the scent of lavender, heard her breathing harshly as though she’d been running.

“I’m not making it up,” she said. “I know there is nothing there now, but I tell you, she was there when you came to the door.”

Her hand touched his shoulder, and he turned. Her eyes pleaded with him to believe her.

“I’m not hysterical. I know what I saw. I know what I heard.”

He chanced a touch to her cheek with his fingertips.

“I know. I heard her, too.”

Jemima dropped her head, let it rest on his shoulder, then let out a sigh, accompanied by a shudder. It was only natural that he put his arms around her in a comforting embrace. She returned it. Monty closed his eyes and savored the moment.

“There’s more,” she whispered. “I’ve seen her before… at the train station when I nearly… and you…”

Monty squeezed his eyes shut. The incident replayed itself in his mind’s eye as if it had happened just a moment before. He couldn’t claim to have seen the ghost for himself, but Jemima had certainly seen something, and that something nearly killed her.

She took a deep breath. He viewed it as his cue to end the embrace. She straightened, took a step back, and raised her face to the ceiling, her eyes closed in what appeared to be frustration.

“This is madness. I don’t believe in ghosts.”

“Well, this one seems to believe in you.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

“Why do you say that?”

He’d meant it as a joke. It didn’t seem funny now. He shrugged in an attempt to give himself time to fashion an answer.

“You’re making fun of me.”

The disappointment in her voice affected him more than it should. Monty shook his head.

“I believe you saw something,” he said softly. “I’ve spent enough time late at night in ancient buildings and lonely old libraries to have experienced the feeling of being watched or catching movement out of the corners of my eyes, and for there to be nothing at all.”

“But you don’t believe I saw a ghost.”

“Shhh, listen.” Monty put a finger to his lips. Jemima cocked an ear. The inn was silent and still.

“We are agreed we both heard a woman crying and screaming, right?”

Jemima nodded.

“If it were someone playing a trick on us after spinning that tale, don’t you think the colonel would have stirred? Rascal at least? Do you hear them?”

He received a shake of the head in response.

“Then we’re both mad,” she said.

“Perhaps so, but isn’t it better to be mad in company?”

Her smile emerged like the sun on a cloudy day, the oppressive mood lifting.

“Then what should we do? Why does she only appear to me?”

“Maybe she wants someone to rescue her from the land of the pixies.” That received a raised eyebrow in response.

“My knowledge of pixie lore is nonexistent, so I’m no good to her.”

Monty chuckled, then a thought struck him and, once it took hold, it wouldn’t let him go.

“Maybe we’ll find her in Reggie’s books. Maybe we’ll find her in the crypt…”

He watched Jemima consider his suggestion before slowly shaking her head.

“Impossible. We’d have to take Mr. Oatley’s story on its face to begin with. Even if it was halfway true, it requires a lot of assumptions.”

“But wouldn’t you like to try? We have the journals belonging to the last Duke of Ashprington, access to all the parish records, and a willingness to look. Perhaps that’s all we need.”

Her smile returned once more, this time broader, a teasing twinkle in her eyes.

“You’re mad to entertain this.”

He responded with a grin of his own. “As I said, isn’t it better to be mad in company?”

Before he could stop himself, he leaned forward to drop a kiss on her cheek. He might be slapped for his effort, but it was worth it. He watched her closely, delighted to find that her cheeks, which had been so pale a few moment ago, were now rosy. Her smile, too, took on a different complexion which told him she was not at all displeased by his liberty.

Chapter Eight

“This is where I made the rubbing.”

Jemima pointed to the stone. Monty unshouldered his pack and went forward to inspect it. He pulled out a magnifying glass to examine the markings before taking a pencil and paper to make a rubbing of his own.

He’d kissed her… yet that morning when they met at breakfast, it was as though last night had not happened at all. There was no awkwardness between them as they pored over the map, planning the day.

And it was a day made for hiking, pleasantly warm with a hint of cool breeze off the sea. In short, picture perfect in every way, so much so that it would be tempting to imagine last night had been a dream.

Jemima frowned. If the apparition was a figment of her imagination, then Monty’s embrace and kiss might not be real either.

Well, if he wasn’t going to raise the subject, then she wouldn’t either. She was a professional, after all. A writer, one who’d made a commitment to her editor for a series of riveting features.

“It dates to the sixteenth century without question,” Monty muttered, more to himself than her as he jotted down the stone’s measurements and location. “And you’ll be happy to know you’ve uncovered the crest of the Duke of Ashprington.

“I think we should try to follow the original path to the castle. It will take us along the edge of the gorge. There could be some outbuildings worth exploring along the way… Jemima?”

Oh – he’d caught her woolgathering. He regarded her expectantly. Clearly, he was wondering what she was thinking.

“Why did you kiss me last night?”

Monty looked somewhat sheepish.

“Shouldn’t I have?”

“Now you’re begging the question.”

“Ah, well, that will never do.” The mock gravity in his voice caused a spark of delight to run through her. “Then I shall speak plainly, so there is no misunderstanding. I wanted to kiss you last night.”

“And now, in the broad light of day?”

He took a few steps toward her, close enough for her to touch but, maddeningly, just out of reach.

“In the broad light of day, I’d like to kiss you even more.”

Jemima took the final step forward, touching a hand to his arm.

“I’d like that, too.”

Anticipation thrummed through her veins. His lips found hers. She breathed in his scent, a pleasing mix of pine and cedar. Her lips opened to his for a soft kiss. It was not quite chaste, but neither was she in fear of him ravishing her in the middle of the woods. It promised greater pleasures in the future.

When the kiss ended, the smile on Monty’s face was not of a roué smugly pleased at his conquest; rather, unexpected delight was in his eyes. He reached for her hand and kissed it gallantly.

“As tempting as it would be to do more of this, we still have a quite a hike before us if we’re going to make the most of the daylight.”

He took up his bag and reached for her hand. She curled her fingers around his as they hiked together, deeper into the woods.

Jemima appreciated that Monty had treated her as an equal. He asked on setting out whether he could take her pack but, once he saw how well-equipped she was for the expedition, he didn’t ask again.

They chatted about nothing of any real consequence – an amusing anecdote from Monty’s lecture hall, followed by one of Jemima’s about a fascinating old woman she’d interviewed who had been a spy in the Napoleonic Wars.

The sun rose higher overhead, but the shade beneath the canopy of trees was cool and refreshing, aided by the sound of water below as it tumbled over rocks, racing pell-mell toward the sea. Still, the hike was a challenging one.

The original road took them along the edge of a deep but narrow gorge. Through the vegetation on the inside of the road, they caught glimpses of a stone curtain wall. It was surprisingly intact for its age.

“We should be coming up to the oldest part of the castle, the original keep. It dates back to the twelfth century,” he said.

“If anywhere ought to be haunted then, there would be my guess,” she said wryly.

Monty flashed her a smile before looking back up at the wall. She saw his smile fade, and he shook his head.

“What’s the matter?”

“I thought I saw something.”

She tried to keep her tone offhand. “Our Ghost Bride?”

“No. I thought I saw a someone standing on the parapet, watching us.”

He pointed to his right, up a bit further from where they stood, a spot where the trees had thinned out to reveal the wall lit by the sun.

“Do you see something?”

Jemima shaded her eyes.

“Just a shadow cast by one of the castellations,” she said. Then “something” moved, followed by the sound of two blasts in quick succession.

“Oh! A murder –”

“What?”

“A murder of crows. See, they’ve just taken flight…”

Indeed, the birds, six of them, she counted, flew away from them and disappeared into the forest beyond.

Monty laughed. “I see them now. They’ve must have been frightened off by the colonel’s shotgun.”

“I feel better knowing he’s in the area. Last night still has me jumping at shadows,” she confessed.

Monty took her hand once more.

“Me, too.”

*

He shouldn’t be surprised that he was primed to see things that weren’t there after the experience of last night. He recalled the terrible anguish of the weeping, the sound of it so loud it felt like it was all around him. Inside him.

In the broad light of day, in the delight of Jemima’s company, he could keep the dark memory in perspective. And yet, he felt in his bones that they had been watched just now.

They reached Gatcombe Castle’s gatehouse, an imposing stone structure with thick walls. At the far end, one part bulged out of the rampart and rose higher than the walls itself.

“There,” he pointed out. “That’s the old keep. Game to look further?”

A bead of sweat had formed on her brow.

“I haven’t spent the better of part of two hours trekking just to stand outside and look at it, Dr. Rhodes,” she said.

He wasn’t certain at first whether or not she sounded peevish, but then she wiped a hand across her perspiring face, failing to dislodge a strand of hair that remained stuck on her cheek, and grinned. Indicating the entrance with a nod of her head, she added, “Lead on, MacDuff.”

In that moment, Monty knew he’d found the woman for him, now and forever.

He offered a mock shudder. “Do you really want to bring mention of ‘the Scottish play’ here?”

She laughed. “Til Birnam Wood remove to Dunsinane? Being so far from Scotland, I think we’re safe enough.”

They turned their attention back to the entrance. The portcullis was long gone, along with anything that remained of the murder hole that would have been a key defense.

Monty fell back into the familiar role of lecturer, pointing out items of interest. He’d seen many of these castles before. He waited for Jemima to indicate she’d heard enough of his prattle. She didn’t, so he continued.

Before them was the inner ward. It was huge, a paddock the size of a cricket ground, all gone to seed. It was warmer here, the walls protecting it from the breeze rising up from the sea. There was no one else about, but it didn’t take too much imagination to think of dozens of day-trippers sitting on the lawn with their picnic lunches.

Ahead, evenly spaced foundations one yard square hinted at where the colonnades would have stood to support another two stories above. All that remained of that building was a part wall far to the left which would have contained the kitchen.

“The duke finally completed the work his father had begun twenty years before him in 1505. From what I’ve read, it was a very impressive early Tudor manor house. Reggie showed me an artist’s impression. Burning to the ground after being struck by lightning was apparently the last straw for the final owners.”

Jemima pointed to her right.

“And yet that building looks almost intact.”

“It’s another one hundred years earlier still. So, where would you like to begin exploring?”

“The light is so perfect at the moment. I want to capture the ruins as they are now.”

Monty nodded, reaching into his satchel for a book where he consulted his notes. A house of this size would have had a chapel. But now, seeing the structure for himself, he didn’t have much hope that anything useful would remain.

He tugged at the brim of his cap to settle it on his head.

“I want to look at the older section, especially to find out how close I can get to the old tower,” he told her. “If you change your mind about exploring, be careful, especially around the walls. They may look sturdy, but appearances can be deceiving.”

He received a nod, a smile, and a dismissive wave as Jemima set up her easel.

Monty approached the remains of the fifteenth century structure which had been built between the shorter of the two external walls.

The Ghost Bride.

As a historian, he knew myths and legends had some kind of basis in fact, no matter how fantastical the tale. If he could believe there was a King of the Britons called Arthur, then why couldn’t the Duke of Ashprington have had a bride no one had heard about?

He looked about. The walls of the original four-story manor house seemed sturdy enough. The ground floor still had its vaulted stone ceiling intact in most places, although most of the plaster had gone. Walls which would have been clad in timber were now bare stone.

Thinking about it, Monty wondered whether some of the oak panels in The Laughing Cavalier were reclaimed from this site. He would pay closer attention on their return.

He ventured further into the ruins, cocking an ear at a low moaning sound. His heart trebled its beat until he realized it was nothing more than the breeze finding its way through the open roof and the paneless windows in the upper stories. Taking his time, he surveyed the inside, taking notes as he went. Stone stairs built into the wall took him to the ramparts. To his left was the old tower; at his right, on top of the gatehouse, was another door.

Mentally tossing a coin, Monty chose right. He walked along the rampart toward the door, pausing to look over to see if he could spot Jemima on the overgrown lawn. Her easel was there, but she was not.

Curiosity must have gotten the better of her.

The room over the gatehouse had been converted to more habitable space than simply a guard room.

Now that’s a surprise.

Part of the stone wash had been covered in plaster and painted. Monty pulled out a flask of water and a handkerchief to wipe away the dirt. A fresco of a pastoral scene then resolved itself to a view of a city street lined with date palms.

Jerusalem?

Was this room used as the chapel?

He wiped down another surface and discovered more Biblical scenes. The light that streamed through the open window dimmed momentarily as a cloud crossed the face of the sun. It was probably time he found Jemima. She might like to document these frescos.

Just one more…

He walked over to a corner and wiped away more of the centuries’ old dirt from a shield-shaped stone plaque.

Unlike the religious images, this one bore an image of a noblewoman in a pink gown with a garland of flowers in her hair. Offering her a bloom was a wealthy young man, judging by his garb. Monty crouched to read the inscription.

The marriage of

Isabeau and Etienne

Now and forevermore

Love Never Dies

Proof the duke had an attachment to someone other than the woman who became his wife! No doubt this was the source of the legend of The Ghost Bride.

Monty returned to the ramparts. Steadying himself against two large stones that formed part of the castellations, he looked down into the ward. Jemima’s easel remained abandoned.

Where was she?

Across the way in the ruins of the old Tudor mansion, he spied a figure in the building’s shadows. He waved.

“Jemima!” he called. “You won’t believe what I’ve found! Wait there. I’m coming down!”

Chapter Nine

After perhaps an hour sketching in the ward, Jemima sought respite from the heat within the stone walls of the castle keep.

She allowed her imagination to wander. Where there was bare stone, she saw oak-paneled walls. Where there was dirt and weeds underfoot, she imagined flagstones.

She now found herself in the middle of the structure, looking up the rising tower of stone to the open sky above.

Moss and ferns had found purchase in walls that would have been covered in panels, plaster, and colorful tapestries.

At regular intervals, horizontal recesses appeared in the walls. There were four in all. Once, heavy oak beams would have sat there as floor joists for the three stories above her.

With all vestiges of the wooden flooring stripped away, passages opened out into voids giving her a view of the outer walls on the far side of the castle.

Oh, what she wouldn’t give to see Gatcombe Castle in all its regal splendor!

With her smaller sketchbook in hand, Jemima outlined the view, making note of the correct shades of blues, greens, and greys to use.

She walked on, making her way to the part Monty had pointed out as being the oldest part of the structure – the medieval watch tower. She found it readily enough, but couldn’t find a doorway on the ground level she was on. Perhaps its only entrance was to be found from the ramparts. She stood back to see if a bricked-up entrance would make itself obvious to her, but the passage of time had weathered the stones as to make it impossible to tell.

She closed her eyes a moment and listened to the sound of the quickening breeze through the trees in the forest that surrounded the castle. Birds chirped and, if she listened carefully, she could almost make out the sound of the river at the bottom of the gorge.

There was a strange kind of beauty even in this desolation.

She was mindful that hundreds, if not thousands, of people had walked where she now walked. They lived, they loved, they died leaving no trace of their mortal existence. Yet they had been here, were still here, if only in her imagination.

She shook herself. That type of thinking really would have her jumping at shadows. Still, it was nice to know she was not alone.

“Monty!” she called.

There was no answer.

Perhaps he was already waiting for her in the ward.

Jemima retraced her steps until she spied the wild lawn out in the courtyard.

She heard her name called and hastened toward the entrance but, just as she crossed the threshold, the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

She turned to her left intuitively.

The Ghost Bride stood mere inches away.

Her ethereal gown and hair garland glared white against the slate grey stone. Large, hollow eye sockets regarded her sightlessly.

Jemima felt dread rise up her legs, through her body to her chest where her heart hammered wildly.

The figure’s mouth slowly opened.

Jemima anticipated the coming scream with one of her own.

“Jemima!”

She turned and ran toward Monty’s call. He was at the far end of the ward near her easel. Something caught her eyes. There – up on the parapet. One of the castellations seemed to be moving of its own accord.

Jemima screamed a warning to Monty, but it was too late – the heavy weight was falling.

*

Monty heard the scream, the one from last night. The one that was not Jemima.

He called her name with more urgency, and spotted her at last on the far side of the courtyard, running toward him. She screamed, “Look out!”

He heard the sound of stone grinding on stone. Instinct kicked in. He ran, too, but got no more than two paces away when the ground shook underneath him with enough violence to send him sprawling.

He sat upright and looked back. A large stone measuring nearly three feet square was buried inches deep in the ground where he’d stood just a second earlier.

He fell onto his back, panting in shock.

“Monty!”

Jemima’s voice appeared to come from far away. He felt her hand on his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see her beautiful face looking down at him, her dark brown eyes wide with fright.

“Are you all right?”

He moved to sit up, but she put more pressure on his shoulder.

“No. If you’re injured, you’d better stay lying down.”

He took her hand and brought it to his lips, then slowly sat up.

“I’m fine,” he said, “but that was close.”

Jemima sat down beside him, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Too close.”

There was silence between them for a long moment until their ragged breathing returned to normal.

“She’s here,” Jemima whispered. He didn’t need to be told who. Monty got to his feet and extended a hand to Jemima to stand. He didn’t let go of it as he looked about the courtyard.

“Do you see her now?”

Jemima looked back to where The Ghost Bride had been and shook her head.

Monty breathed out slowly. “I saw her, too – in life… up in the chapel. Her name was Isabeau. She’s in a marriage plaque with the duke.”

Jemima’s mouth dropped open, fear giving way to curiosity.

“Oh, Monty! Proof she existed! Will you show me?”

“Are you sure? After what just happened, wouldn’t you prefer to go back to the inn? We can go now, if you like, and return later.”

Jemima shook her head. “No… show me. If you’re not frightened, then neither am I. We’ll just make sure we’re careful.”

Monty’s heart swelled, and he kissed her on the temple.

“You know,” he said, “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

Chapter Ten

I think I’m falling in love with you.

Jemima smiled and shook her head as they walked hand-in-hand to the stone stairs that led to the ramparts.

It was just the thing to say to defuse a tense moment. It was outrageous, of course. They’d only known each other for two days, yet it was hard to imagine a time before she knew him.

How strange…

Nevertheless, her hand remained in his, grounding her. The strange happenings around her seemed much less threatening with this man beside her.

He paused at the entrance to the chapel. “Here we are. You can just see the remains of the painting on the plaster here, and then toward the front where I imagine the altar must have been.”

“And Isabeau?”

“Over to our right. The stone plaque.”

He drew her closer and traced the outline of the faded figures. Jemima read the inscription aloud.

“Amor Numquam Moritur. I’m afraid my Latin does not do me credit.”

“Love Never Dies. It was the duke’s family motto.”

“How strangely appropriate.” Jemima squared her shoulders. She carefully copied the painting into her small sketchpad, trusting that Monty was keeping an eye out, lest The Ghost Bride make another unexpected appearance.

The angle of light changed, becoming softer, marking the advancing hour.

“Monty?”

“I’m here, outside.”

Jemima put away her sketchpad and joined him at the part of the parapet which was now missing.

“Is this where the falling stone came from?”

Monty nodded.

She peered over the edge to see the block in the ward below. Her easel, knocked over, was just a few feet from it.

How close had they come to disaster.

Monty settled a hand on her shoulder.

“There’s something else,” he said softly. “Look.”

The stone beneath where the fallen one had stood was lighter grey than the weathered stones around it. Gouges ran along its upper face.

“It didn’t fall as a matter of happenstance,” Monty continued. “It was pushed. And by someone with remarkable strength…”

She turned swiftly to meet his eyes. His expression was tight.

“Who? Who would do such a thing?”

He shook his head but provided no answer.

The sound of a hound’s bark broke the tension. Jemima looked around and saw the colonel and Rascal on the road outside the castle heading in the direction of the village.

“It’s time to head back,” Monty said with forced brightness. “If the colonel had a successful day’s hunt, I don’t want to miss out on Mrs. Oatley’s pheasant dish.”

“The Oatleys will ask about our trek. The colonel, too. What do we tell them about seeing The Ghost Bride?” she asked.

“We tell them nothing. They didn’t hear her cries last night and, despite Mr. Oatley’s relishing of the tale, I don’t believe he’d think well of us if we say we did. Tell them only what we can prove. Telling Mr. Oatley we can prove the Duke of Ashprington intended to marry someone other than Marguerite will add to his enjoyment. Let him speculate on whether or not she and Isabeau were sisters.”

They reached the outskirts of the village just as the sun fell behind the woods, and were making their way past the church when Jemima paused.

“What is it?” Monty asked.

“Do you see the old woman over there?”

“The widow? Yes. She was here when I was surveying the church yesterday.”

“I first saw her the evening I arrived, standing in that very spot. I wonder if it’s her husband’s grave,” Jemima mused. “You know, she’s there so often I suspect she’d know everything that goes on in the village.”

“Good thinking,” said Monty. “We’ll see if she’ll speak to us in the morning.”

Mrs. Oatley greeted them at the inn door.

“Ah, there ye are! The wanderers return. I was thinkin’ I’d ’ave to send a search party out for ye! The colonel returned with some excellent game. And what of ye? Any excitin’ discoveries?”

“It was grand day, Mrs. Oatley,” said Monty as though they’d simply been out for a pleasant stroll in the gardens. “Miss Douglas and I will share everything at supper tonight.”

“Well, before I forget, ye got a letter waitin’ for ye, Dr. Rhodes.”

Mrs. Oatley pulled it from her apron and handed it to him.

“It’s from Reggie,” he said, scanning the message. “I’ve permission from the bishop to break into the crypt. Reggie will be here bright and early tomorrow morning as the official representative.”

“Oh, that’s grand! The whole village ’as been askin’ about what’s ’appenin’ at the church.”

“I hope they won’t be disappointed,” said Monty. “There is no guarantee that we’ll find anything of interest.”

The poor woman looked so comically crestfallen that Jemima felt obliged to reassure her.

“Even if Dr. Rhodes doesn’t find the missing duchess, I’ll spin a tale for my readers that is so compelling you’ll have a full house every season.”

“Bless ye, dear. Anythin’ to put Gatcombe on the map again.”

The night was still. Jemima raised the window sash a couple of inches more to air the room then raised the wick on the lamp to flood her room with light. Then she lit another lamp just for good measure. She told herself she needed the illumination to write her articles but, the truth was, she was a little nervous of the dark.

There, she said it. The woman who’d trekked the Pennines alone, who’d spent a whole month in Paris without escort or guide, was afraid of the dark. Or rather, who might now appear to her in the dark.

She sat down to write.

It had been well when her mind was occupied by her articles and illustrations, but when the final draft had been put in an envelope and addressed, it was erring toward midnight. The inn was silent and, despite her best efforts to the contrary, part of her kept an ear out for the baleful wail to start again.

It did not. And she didn’t want it to. She was tired after such a long day, and her body craved sleep. She slowly rose from her desk, extinguishing one lamp and lowering the wick on the other before she turned down the sheets on her bed and undressed for bed.

At least the ghost had a name if Monty was right about his discovery.

“Isabeau,” she whispered. “I know you want to be found. Monty and I will do our best to help you. But we need to sleep and not be frightened in the night. Will you do that for us?”

She half-expected an audible reply. Instead, a cooling gust of air filled the room with a sigh before ebbing away.

She supposed that was her answer.

Chapter Eleven

Monty awoke before dawn. This was not the first time he’d uncovered some interesting, if arcane point of history, but to put one’s shoulder into it and physically bring a part of the past to the light of day… well, that made all the years of study – and lack of sleep – worth it.

He bounded down the stairs ready for a large breakfast. No sooner had he filled his plate than Reggie entered wearing the black cassock of his office. Following behind was Wendy.

He started to rise, but Reggie’s wife raised her hand instead. “Don’t stand on ceremony on our account. Eat your breakfast. This is going to be an exciting day!”

Monty invited them to join him, then he spotted Jemima coming into the dining room.

“Jemima! There’s someone I want you to meet,” he said, noticing the significant look that passed between his friends.

He made the introductions.

“Dr. Rhodes – Monty – has spoken of you both. I feel I know you already,” said Jemima.

The deacon’s wife squeezed Jemima’s hand. “Then we’re all friends, so I insist you call me Wendy.”

“Jemima found the crest of the Duke of Ashprington on a marker stone and, yesterday, we found a plaque, a wedding token it seems, of Etienne and a woman by the name of Isabeau.”

Reggie frowned. “But his wife was Marguerite. When she died, he did not remarry.”

Monty leaned forward. “No. This comes before. Local folklore has it that Etienne’s intended was Marguerite’s sister. The story goes that Isabeau disappeared the night before her wedding and was never seen again. Etienne married Marguerite a year later.”

“Is there a way of finding out whether Marguerite did have a sister?” Wendy asked.

Reggie looked thoughtful. “It may be difficult. Some church records were destroyed during the time of Henry VIII, others during the Great Civil War, but I can see what was transferred to Stanton, or perhaps even the cathedral where the duke is interred.”

Over the course of breakfast, more and more people entered the inn. Most of them were villagers who had learned of Monty’s work and wanted their curiosity sated.

Before the morning became too advanced, the four of them, joined by Mr. Oatley and the colonel, headed for the church.

Standing at her customary position by a stone of the churchyard, the lonely widow seemed unmoved by the spectacle. She remained with her head bowed.

“Look! There she is again,” said Jemima. “I meant to ask over breakfast this morning if anyone knew who she is.”

“Did you want to speak with her now?” Wendy asked.

Monty saw the expectant glance Jemima threw his way. The old woman might know something of interest but, then again, she may not. What was certain was a long-forgotten crypt awaited them. “Later?” he offered. “I’m quite eager to open the crypt.”

Jemima acquiesced, and the group entered the church. They approached the apse and regarded the portion of the aged door from which Monty had already chipped away the crumbling plaster.

“There,” said Monty.

Reggie pulled out an assortment of keys to try in the ancient lock; none of them worked.

“’Behold, I stand at the door and knock’,” he joked.

“I’d be concerned if we knocked, and someone knocked back!” quipped the colonel.

Monty set to work with a hammer to tap away at the plaster until the whole arched door was exposed.

Behind him, Jemima sketched the scene with Wendy at her shoulder watching on.

Finally, Monty picked up a pry bar. “Nothing for it now but to break open the door.”

He drove the end of the bar into the timber around the lock until it fell away. Three hefty shoves had the door open, squealing inward a few inches on rusted hinges. He peered through the gap.

“There is a narrow staircase. That should lead to a vault below,” said Monty, loud enough for the curious onlookers to hear. “Mr. Oatley, will you light the lanterns?”

*

Jemima furiously finished sketching the scene before her and turned over a new page in the folio. She stepped forward to join them, but Monty shook his head.

“We don’t know what we’ll find down there. The walls or ceiling may be unsound, or even caved in. We’ll go down first to make sure it’s safe and get some more lamps lit. We could be a while, so you might as well wait in the sun. See if the old widow is amenable for a chat.”

“Take care,” she whispered.

She and Wendy stepped out into the warm sunlight.

The old widow had gone.

She spied the grey stone where the woman had been standing and made her way over to it.

“That’s strange.”

“How so?” Wendy asked.

“I assumed she was here to pay her respects, but there’s nothing carved on this stone.”

Wendy looked about her. “Part of the foundations of the old church, do you think? It would be about the correct distance away, according to Monty’s calculations.”

Jemima, too, looked about and agreed with her conclusion.

“Miss Douglas! Mrs. Acton!” The innkeeper shouted excitedly from the corner of the church, waving his hand to attract their attention. “The doctors have found something!”

The two women hurried back into the church. Jemima snatched up her sketchbook and pencil. From just inside the entrance to the crypt, Monty peered up at her and held out his hand.

“Take care, the steps are narrow and steep.”

Jemima took each step slowly. Reggie helped Wendy do the same.

A dozen lamps lit the vaulted ceilings which gave a clearance of not much more than six feet. It was more than adequate for her, but she noticed Monty and Reggie walked with their heads lowered.

“There are four interments here,” said Reggie.

“Are any of them our mysterious Isabeau?” Jemima asked.

Monty answered, “No, so the one we’re most interested in now is right at the end.”

The colonel raised the lantern he carried, casting light across the side of the sarcophagus. Chiseled in the stone was the Ashprington coat of arms and an inscription:

Lady Marguerite Melton

Duchess of Ashprington

1489-1558

Veritas vos liberabit

Jemima set quickly to sketching the scene.

“‘The truth will set you free’,” Wendy translated. “How odd to have this inscription and not the family motto. What is it? Love Never Dies?”

“That’s not all,” said Reggie, raising his lamp higher. “The stone on the other side has fallen away.”

“And the duchess’ body?”

“Pretty much gone to dust, but we did find something unusual.”

Monty held up a large iron key.

Jemima paused her sketching.

“A key? Why would such a thing be buried with her?”

Reggie shrugged. “Perhaps it was a token because she was the chatelaine of Gatcombe Castle.”

“What if it is a real key?” she asked. “What might it have unlocked?”

Monty shrugged. “A treasure room? A private boudoir, perhaps. If it was a working key, it will be no good to us now. There are no doors left at the castle.”

Reggie turned to Monty. “Keep it for now. I’ll make a note of it in my report to the bishop, and he can decide how he wants to proceed with the preservation of the crypt.”

Chapter Twelve

The next morning came over wet and drizzly. Reggie had returned early, bringing with him the four ledgers that had belonged to Etienne Melton, the last Duke of Ashprington. Jemima returned to Stanton with him to post a parcel and go through some old parish records he’d chanced upon.

The Oatleys had kindly volunteered their dining table after lunch, giving it over to the ledgers and Monty’s copious notes as he reviewed the books.

The first two volumes revealed what Etienne’s father had paid to construct his new manor house and the almost ruinous upkeep of the original residence. He had been in the process of bricking over some of the most unstable of the medieval structure, blocking off rooms that were no longer needed and were far too expensive to keep warm and dry.

Toward the end of the third ledger, Monty found the first mention of marriage. A contract had been drawn between Etienne’s father for him to marry the daughter of an aristocratic family from Norfolk.

Then Etienne had come into his own as duke and intended to honor the arrangement his father made with the Earl of Rallison.

Monty set down his spectacles and took a deep breath. He’d completely lost track of time. He looked about him. The colonel had nodded off in a chair by the fire. Rascal, lying at his master’s feet, noticed Monty and lifted his head. The hound gave a series of friendly thumps of his tail before lowering his head once more.

Noises in the kitchen and the smell of baking heralded the approaching evening meal time. Jemima should be back soon, Monty thought with a smile.

He picked up the iron key from Marguerite’s tomb, turning it in his palm. There was more to be discovered at Gatcombe Castle. He had to go back.

The medieval tower would be the focus of his search.

The front door opened and cold damp air roiled in. Jemima shucked her jacket briskly and shook it dry before hurrying over to Monty.

Her very presence put a smile on his face that God was in His Heaven and all was right with the world. And there was an excitement in her eyes that was unmistakable.

“Guess what?” she exclaimed. “Isabeau and Marguerite were sisters!”

Rascal raised his head, and the colonel grunted in his sleep. Jemima lowered her voice. “The old story is true!” she whispered.

“Reggie’s old parish records?”

“Yes. But we were lucky. They were just scraps of pages torn from births, marriages, and deaths registers all bundled together. But right among the last of them were the births of daughters to the Earl and Countess Rollison – Marguerite and Isabeau.”

“Yes!” Monty grasped her by the shoulders and hugged her. After a moment, he released her. “Was there anything more?”

“No, just dates of birth.”

Mrs. Oatley poked her head around the kitchen door and asked if she could have her dining table back, “if it wasn’t too much trouble”.

Jemima helped Monty clear the table and carry the notebooks and ledgers up to his room while he told her what he had uncovered this afternoon.

Lastly, Jemima set the iron key upon a sheaf of his handwritten notes.

“I keep thinking of the inscription on Marguerite’s tomb. ‘The truth will set you free’,” she said. “Do you think he found out about a lie she told? Concerning Isabeau’s disappearance perhaps? It might explain why she was interred here and not in Exeter.”

Monty shrugged.

“It’s entirely possible, but unless it’s in the duke’s ledgers, I don’t think we’ll ever know the whole truth.”

“Then what happens next?”

“I’ll go back to the castle tomorrow.”

“What do you mean ‘I’, Dr. Rhodes? We will go back to the castle tomorrow.”

“Are you sure? What happened a couple of days ago was unnerving. It could have been deadly.”

“But you were planning on going alone.”

He had no real response to that except he was used to doing everything alone. But she would brook no argument, it appeared.

“I’m going with you. First of all, if there is something dangerous there, we are safer as two. Secondly, Dr. Rhodes, you promised me an exclusive story for The London Ladies’ Observer, and I intend to see it through.”

What else could Monty do but pull her into his arms and kiss her?

The drizzle had eased the next day, but the sky remained grey and tendrils of mist still clung to the treetops.

Mrs. Oatley had ensured they were more than amply provisioned for spending a full day at the castle. Monty and Jemima even had the company of the colonel and Rascal as far as the gatehouse before they parted ways. The colonel intended to make his way to the river by an old path and try his luck with a rod and line.

In the bright sunshine of a few days ago, Gatcombe Castle was every inch a romantic ruin. Now, in the weak light of an overcast morning, it had altogether a less welcoming atmosphere.

In the ward, the stone which had plunged from the parapet remained as a reminder to be aware of hidden dangers.

Jemima had spent much of the walk there in silence. When she spoke now, her voice was soft. “Do you mind if we visit the chapel first?”

Monty shook his head. He didn’t mind.

“I want to look at the wedding plaque again,” she continued. “After what we learned of Etienne and Isabeau, I want to see their faces again. They’ve become more real to me, as though I know them already as flesh and blood, not simply names in a book.” She shook her head. “This must sound strange to you.”

He came to the top of the rampart first and held out his hand to Jemima as she climbed the last two steps.

“Not at all,” he answered. “Scholars have a reputation for being ‘away with the fairies’. It’s because we’ve seen worlds in our mind that can’t be seen with the eyes. But the more we study, the more real they become until we see them alongside the real world.

“When you asked if I’d seen The Ghost Bride, I could honestly say I hadn’t. And yet, when I study the life of someone who lived long ago, I have a clear picture of them in my mind. When I walk where they walked, I can see them beside me. So, yes, I see ghosts. Just not as you do.”

They entered the chapel. Jemima made her way directly to the plaque.

“I haven’t seen her for days,” she said. “I made a bargain. I promised we would look for her if she let me sleep at night.”

Monty stood beside her and put an arm around her shoulders.

“We’ll do our best. That’s my promise to her also.”

After a minute, they made their way to the old tower at the other end of the rampart – the only possible place left to search.

Thunder rolled in the distance. The scent of coming rain filled his nostrils, and the sky darkened further.

At the tower entrance, he withdrew two small oil lanterns from his satchel and lit them. They dispelled some of the blackness to reveal stone steps set into the wall that spiraled downward into the inky void below.

Monty led the way, Jemima a step behind him. He didn’t have to sound a note of caution, the risk was clearly evident, and they stuck close to the wall, away from the open void in the middle of the tower.

A short ways down, the stairs met a circular stone landing, and Monty raised his lantern to reveal a bricked-in arch.

“At one time, this connected to the original manor. Just as Etienne’s ledgers show, his father had started to seal up the tower. There would have been a wooden floor here making the room a solar for the lord and his original family. Let’s go further down.”

They reached another landing; another bricked-in arch on the manor side. The final flight of stairs led down to a large stone-floored chamber.

“The Great Hall,” said Monty, his voice reverberating up the tower.

They stepped into the empty room.

“I imagined a medieval castle being much bigger.”

“This was primarily a watchtower when it was first built,” said Monty, beginning to walk around the perimeter, “just large enough to hold a small garrison. The men would have slept in this room as well as dined here.”

A loud crack of thunder reached them, followed by a gust of rain-laden air.

“I don’t fancy the idea of walking back to the inn in torrential rain,” said Jemima.

“Nor me. And unfortunately, there’s nothing to be found here. There’s another door that led to the manor house, but…”

“Bricked up?” Jemima sighed.

“I’m afraid so. We’ve not enough lamp oil to stay here through the storm. We need to go up to the ramparts and perhaps shelter in the chapel.”

As they started up, Monty kept his eyes on Jemima in front of him and the soft daylight that filtered through the doorway far above. But after only six or seven steps, Jemima stopped.

“Monty…” she whispered, a quiver in her voice.

He looked in the direction she pointed.

In the middle of the space, literally standing on air level with them, was a figure in white, a spectral woman with a garland of flowers in her hair, just as Jemima had described.

The Ghost Bride.

Chapter Thirteen

Jemima took a ragged breath.

“Do you see her?” she asked.

“Yes. I see her.”

His answer didn’t bring the comfort it ought to have done. Nor did the sight of The Ghost Bride opening her mouth wide. Her mournful wail seemed to take with it every bit of light except that from their lamps.

“Jemima, move on.” Monty’s voice was tight. “Let’s get to the ramparts.”

She turned away from Isabeau’s ghost back to the stairs and shrieked in surprise at the sight of another person in the tower.

The old widow from the church was just three steps above them. A palpable malevolence radiated from her.

The Ghost Bride screamed louder. The old widow glared blackly at them.

Monty squeezed past Jemima, pressing her against the wall. “Madam! Let us pass!”

He advanced a step. The woman raised her wizened hands toward him. Monty took one more step, and got no further.

The woman pushed her hands toward him and, though Jemima would swear she was not close enough to touch Monty, he was nonetheless lifted off his feet and thrust aside into the dark void.

Jemima screamed his name as, a split second later, he landed with a thud, a clatter from his pack, and an “oof!” on the stone floor.

The lamp in his hand smashed and disappeared from view. Now, Jemima’s own lamp guttered and went out, leaving her in total darkness.

The Ghost Bride was gone. Was the old widow gone, too?

Jemima’s heart threatened to bang though her chest. It took a minute to control the tremors that coursed through her and realize she still had hold of her lamp.

But she had no matches. Monty did.

“Monty!” His name came out in a half-sob.

There was no answer. The only sounds were the howling wind from the approaching storm, and the pounding of her own heart in her ears.

She hugged the wall, taking one step down, then another, calling out his name, fearful the wicked old widow was descending the steps also in the darkness above her. Only when she reached the Great Hall did she stumble across Monty’s prone body.

He groaned.

Alive!

She fought tears of relief, and despaired he might be seriously injured. She sat down beside him and put a hand on his chest.

“Jemima,” he said hoarsely.

“Don’t move. Are you hurt?”

“Everything hurts. But nothing broken, I think… I landed on my satchel. It cushioned my fall. You?”

“I’m fine,” she lied.

“Where’s the old widow?”

“Gone, I hope. I’m going to feel in your pockets for matches to relight my lamp.”

“Left breast pocket,” he said.

A moment later, weak lamplight illuminated his face. It was cut and bruised. She spotted his satchel nearby and pulled out a small – dented – flask of water and a handkerchief to wipe his face. He managed a half-sitting position.

“Do you think you can make it back up the stairs?”

“As long as that old witch isn’t blocking the way…” He rolled onto his right hip, groaning as he did so.

“Oh, Monty, she never touched you. The person we thought was a widow has to be a ghost, too…”

“I believe you, my love – and she also packs quite a punch.”

Jemima crouched, ready to help Monty to his feet, but he was no longer looking at her, rather over her shoulder.

Dread welled up. She swallowed and turned. Several feet away, off to one side, was The Ghost Bride.

Standing directly in front of her was the widow.

Jemima rose to face her.

“Marguerite?” she whispered.

The old woman snarled, then raised her arms. Jemima turned away and braced for a hit like the one Monty experienced. Instead, she was pulled, somehow encircled in the widow’s arms, though she was still some feet away.

Using all of her strength, Jemima struggled, but could not break free as the widow began to drag her backwards.

“Jemima!”

Monty struggled to his knees, horror and powerlessness written large on his face. The Ghost Bride offered only a scream.

Jemima cried for Monty, barely hearing her own voice over the wail of The Ghost Bride.

Then she felt the wall at her back and prayed the widow would let her go.

Oh, my God!

The hardness of the stone wall yielded.

She felt herself melting through it and then through wood. A door?

Then there was nothing but night.

Jemima had no idea how long she remained in the blackness. But, at last, she turned around slowly and discovered an arched doorway leading out into a well-lit hall.

She walked out right in front of a young woman carrying a large tray and cringed, eyes squeezed shut, bracing for impact. It did not come. It seemed as if the woman walked right through her – then she paused and looked back with a frown.

It was on the tip of Jemima’s tongue to apologize when another girl approached. She, too, wore the same plain style of dress, a dark grey, cut square across the neck. A servant’s uniform. Jemima waited for one of them to ask who she was, and why she was here.

“I dislikes this part of the manor,” the first maid said to the second. “There be something not right.”

“Methinks you ponder too much on such things,” the second replied.

“I tell thee aright, Moll, there be someone here.”

The one called Moll looked about, her eyes sliding straight over Jemima. She looked back at her companion. “Don’t be a dalcop. There be no one.”

The two girls looked in her direction once more, the first shrugging her shoulders, before walking away.

There were no lamps here. Tall bronze candelabras stood in niches between the deep-set windows. Jemima peered outside. It was the ward, but not as it was just a few hours before. The grass was gone, replaced by gravel. Across the way, where there should be ruins, were the colonnades and the manor house fully restored.

Emerging from beneath the gatehouse was a party of eight on horseback – three women, five men. The men wore hose, not trousers. The doublets they wore were short with over-wide shoulders. They wore caps. Jemima suspected if she were closer, she’d see those caps decorated with feathers.

The ladies, too, wore caps with their riding attire, although from this distance it was difficult to see the particulars of their dress.

How could it be? How could that servant girl walk right through her and not see her?

A dream. It is only a dream…

She shook her head.

Which dream, exactly? The one in which she and Monty are trapped at the bottom of a tower by spiteful ghosts? Or the one where she is walking around a Tudor manor?

She sat heavily on the deep stone sill as realization dawned.

In this place, I am the ghost.

She closed her eyes and put trembling fingers to her lips. Opening her eyes didn’t change the scene.

Was it her fate to be trapped forever in the past?

Chapter Fourteen

Monty could do nothing but look on in horror as the ghostly figure in black pulled Jemima away from him without once ever laying a hand on her.

“Jemima! Jem!”

His ribs hurt from the fall, his body was leaden and his stomach was roiling, made even more ill by the scream of The Ghost Bride that filled his head with such wretched despair.

By the time he managed to gain his feet and stumble forward, Jemima was gone… through the stone! Yet just before she vanished completely, he saw through the wall, as though the stones had become translucent like frosted glass. Beyond the stone was a door; he only caught the merest glimpse of it, but there was no mistaking it.

Now Jemima was behind that wall and beyond that door. He had to get to her!

He clawed the stones, trying to find any loose enough to dislodge. There were none. Nor was there enough purchase between them to prise them out. All he got from the effort was scraped and bleeding fingers.

The only light in the Great Hall was that from the lamp Jemima had lit and even that he saw only as a blurry glow. At some point, he’d lost his glasses. Also noticeably absent was sound, other than the rain outside.

The Ghost Bride had gone, too, leaving him alone.

He stumbled away from the wall and sagged to his knees just as his gut had had enough. He vomited.

Hurt, everywhere hurt, from the nauseating pounding of his head to the deep ache of endless bruises on his back, his arms, and his legs. Not to mention the sting of the cuts on his hands and on his face. He gritted his teeth and struggled back to his feet, his head swimming. On his third attempt, he snagged the handle of the lamp and lurched toward the stairs.

She’s gone. Get help.

She’s gone. Get help.

The mantra got him as far up as the solar landing where his knees buckled. He vomited once more.

Jemima…

He squeezed his eyes shut. The vision of her disappearing through the wall, through the door, would not leave him.

Marguerite.

Monty heard Jemima clearly say her name.

Lady Marguerite. The key.

Jemima and Wendy had told him how they found the supposed grave marker the old widow stood by was, in reality, a blank stone. He’d realized it was actually a foundation stone for the original church and lay directly above the crypt.

The old woman stood over the tomb of Lady Marguerite and had twice been seen with The Ghost Bride.

The key in the crypt. It was meant for this door. He didn’t know how, but it made sense.

He pushed himself to his feet and was hit by a wave of vertigo, nearly sending him tumbling backwards down the stairs. He sunk to his knees and crawled up the final flight.

She’s gone. Get help. Get key. The key is all.

Fresh, rain-filled air hit him. He breathed in deep. He’d made it as far as the ramparts. The rain on his face revived him a little, but any thrill of achievement was short-lived. He still had to make it out of the castle and run a mile to get to the inn.

Run?

He could barely walk.

She’s gone. Get help. Get key. The key is all.

Monty made it as far as the rampart stairs.

Dizziness. The agony of tumbling down stairs. Then blackness.

*

Jemima followed the sound of laughter until she reached a door and found herself somehow through it and standing in a room. A large four-poster bed with rich maroon and gold curtains dominated the space; the same fabric covered the windows. Two floor candelabras blazed, even though it was the middle of the day.

The furniture was large and impressive. This was distinctly a masculine abode.

Heedless of Jemima’s presence, a bare-chested young man with dark hair led a pretty young brunette toward the bed. She clutched her dress to her chest, the stays at her back loosened. He pulled her into his arms, kissing her passionately. The young woman wrapped her arms around him, leaving her dress to slither to the floor.

Embarrassed to witness two people in such an intimate moment, Jemima started to turn away only to realize she was not the only voyeur. Another woman hid in the far corner of the room, peering from behind a tapestry.

“Tomorrow, my beloved Isabeau, you will be my wife as well as my love,” the man whispered.

“Etienne,” the woman whispered his name in obvious ecstasy.

Isabeau and Etienne! Real and alive!

The other woman watching them sneered. Her face contorted with anger and jealousy.

Jemima knew that expression; she had seen that expression.

It belonged to Marguerite.

“I cannot wait that long,” whispered Isabeau. “Say the word, and I will come to you tonight.”

Jemima turned away completely until she faced the hall and found herself outside the room once more.

“Is this what you were trying tell me, Isabeau?” she whispered. “Are you showing me what happened to you?”

Marguerite, dressed in a richly embroidered gown of emerald green, emerged from a narrow passage off the hall, looking this way and that before walking away. Jemima followed about a dozen paces before she felt ill, as though she might faint. The condition was momentary. When she recovered, Jemima was standing in front of another open door.

It was another bedchamber. This one distinctly feminine in decoration. Two women occupied it, and they looked so much alike and were close in age, so it was impossible not to know they were sisters.

Isabeau and Marguerite.

Marguerite, still in her green gown, closed the curtains. It was black outside. Nighttime, though scarcely a minute had passed since Jemima had stood outside Etienne’s bedchamber.

Isabeau was seated on a tapestry-covered stool wearing a cotton chemise.

Marguerite paused at a table, her back to her sister, and poured two pewter goblets of wine before extracting a slip of paper from her sleeve. She tipped the powdery contents into one of the cups, stirred it, and gave it to Isabeau.

The unwitting Isabeau drank from her cup. Marguerite hid a smile behind the lip of her own goblet before setting it down.

“Here. I would comb your hair before you sleep,” she said, picking up a carved ivory comb and beginning work on her sister’s hair.

“Dost think I could sleep, so close to my wedding day?”

“But you must, my sister. The morrow brings a day like no other. The first of your new life. Drink. It will help you sleep.” Marguerite leaned forward and whispered. “I should hate you so if I did not love you so much.”

Isabeau turned to her sister with a frown. “You speak in riddles.”

“Etienne was meant to be mine. Mother always told me so before she died. It was only that Father let you have your way.”

“Really?” Isabeau’s surprise sounded genuine to Jemima’s ears. “I never knew that. I knew only that from the moment I beheld Etienne, there would be no other man for me. And he has told me that his own heart knew, too, when first we were introduced.”

Jemima could see the twisted expression on Marguerite’s face, but Isabeau could not.

“Then I shall be content to love him as a brother,” said Marguerite evenly.

Isabeau sighed and allowed her sister to continue combing her hair. After several minutes, Marguerite stopped and cocked her head.

“Why did you stop?”

“I thought I heard someone at the door.”

Marguerite left her place and crossed to the door. Jemima took a couple of steps back, afraid to come nose to nose with the woman. She watched Marguerite lean out into the empty hallway and look left, then right with great deliberation before stepping back into the room.

“I have a message,” Marguerite whispered to her sister. “It is from Etienne’s manservant. He wishes you to meet him in the hall in the old tower.”

Jemima felt queasy once more. She closed her eyes a moment, shaking her head to clear it.

When she opened her eyes, she found herself back in the Great Hall. It was unfurnished, bare except for piles of stone, cut to size, in front of the large fireplace and two doors leading to other rooms of the tower.

One of the doors was open. Light spilled from it. Jemima walked toward it.

The room was nothing more than an alcove, a storeroom backing into the base of the old castle’s curtain wall. But now it was a romantic tableau. It contained a small bed and table, lit with candle, a flask of wine, two wine glasses, and a small trencher of food. Lying on the bed was a circlet of silk flowers from which flowed a beautiful white veil.

“Etienne?” Isabeau whispered.

Jemima turned. Isabeau entered the hall, unsteady on her feet, relying on her sister for support.

She noticed the alcove as Jemima had done. Isabeau let go of her sister’s arm. She stepped forth cautiously, and a secret smile crossed the woman’s beautiful features. “Etienne, dost you tryst with me here? You have chosen well. None would seek us in this place.”

She entered the small room and lovingly stroked a hand down the veil before placing it on her head. She started to sway. She lowered herself onto the cot and lay down.

“Etienne? Where art thou?”

Jemima reeled from a sense of overwhelming hatred and bitterness as Marguerite walked through her as the maid had done before.

Marguerite leaned over her sister and slapped her hard. One cheek, then the other.

“No. Do not sleep now. Not before I tell you. Etienne is mine; he will always be mine. Now and forever.”

Isabeau tried to get up, struggling against the effects of the drugged wine with no success.

“You spoke aright. None will seek you in this place. But I am not without feeling for you, Sister. Drink the wine I have left, and you will go peacefully into the next world.”

Marguerite slammed the heavy oak door shut and locked it with the iron key.

She regarded the pile of stones. Unwitting workmen would fill in the doorway tomorrow.

And, by that, Marguerite ensured her sister was entombed forever.

Chapter Fifteen

Monty had no idea how long he drifted in and out of consciousness. Now, he was semi-awake, soaked to the skin, and chilled. At least it was no longer raining. And there was something warm on his palm.

He opened his eyes to look up at a large dog licking his hand.

“Rascal,” he groaned out.

The hound barked in seeming confirmation of his name. He barked again and again until Monty heard the sound of booted feet sloshing through the muddy ground.

“What have you found, old boy?”

Monty recognized the sound of the colonel’s voice and then hurrying feet.

“My God! Rhodes, what happened?”

With a supreme effort, he forced the words out. “She’s gone. Get key.”

“Who’s gone? Miss Douglas? Where is she?”

“…gone. Get key.”

Colonel Wetherford shouldered his rifle and fired three shots in quick succession into a nearby earth bank before pulling Monty into the lee of the ruins. From the older soldier’s waistcoat came a small flask, and he put it to Monty’s lips. It was brandy. Fire down his throat burned away the lethargy.

“There’ll be men here soon. They’ll carry you down to the village.”

“No. Jemima’s here, they’ve taken her.”

“Who’s taken her?”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say The Ghost Bride and the widow, but even in his concussed state, he knew how ridiculous that would sound.

He shook his head, rolling himself into a crawling position, then to his knees, and, on a silent count to three, managed to get to his feet. He swayed and stumbled up against a wall, which at least kept him upright.

“I know where she is. We need the key. We won’t get in without the key.”

“You look awful, old boy. There’s half the village out looking for you and Miss Douglas. Best thing you can do is get back to the inn to get warm and dry. We’ll look for her.”

Monty shook his head. Every ache, every wrench, every bruise was nothing compared to the fear that thrummed through him every moment Jemima was missing.

“You don’t understand. You’ll never find her without me.”

The colonel frowned. “How badly did you bump your head?”

Before he could answer, a group of men arrived carrying lit torches.

“Dr. Rhodes! Ye’re safe,” Mr. Oatley exclaimed.

“He’s taken a bad fall,” said the colonel. “He needs to be inside before he catches his death.”

Monty drew a deep breath and mustered every ounce of energy to yell, “I’m not going anywhere without Miss Douglas! I know where she is. We need men with pick axes and pry bars. I need the key from my room. The iron key. On the desk.”

“Steady there, old chap…”

“She’s been gone God knows how long. We need to get her out!”

Mr. Oatley pointed to two youths.

“Get ye back to the inn. Tell the missus to wrap up some dry clothes for the gent here and bring back what he requests – pick axes, pry bars…” The innkeeper gave Monty a doubtful look. “And the key on his desk. A big iron key.”

The two young men took off at a sprint.

“Where’s Miss Douglas, Dr. Rhodes?”

“In the old watchtower, down in the Great Hall.”

Mr. Oatley told a man to stay behind and wait for the returning youths and led the remaining group of three men up the stairs, across the rampart, and to the tower. Monty accepted the help of the colonel to make it back up the stairs. By the time they reached the tower doorway, the search party had set lamps at intervals on the tower stairs. Halfway down the final flight, just past the solar, he caught a glint on the step.

“My glasses.”

He bent down to pick them up, finding the left lens cracked. The effort made him feel ill again. He breathed in deep, fighting the nausea, knowing the sooner he was in the Great Hall, the sooner he could rescue Jemima.

The hall was lit with more lanterns. Two packs, his and Jemima’s, lay on the floor where they had left them.

“You said Miss Jemima were in here?” said Mr. Oatley.

He looked around and saw now where the stones here were slightly different. He’d missed it earlier – another walled-in door directly opposite the doorway to the manor house. Now with more light, he could see the doorway more clearly, including a smear of his own blood. He pointed. “Over there.”

The men looked at one another.

“How’s that again, Dr. Rhodes?”

Monty closed his eyes a moment and took a couple of deep breaths. He hated what he was about to say, knew how ridiculous it sounded, yet it was the truth. No matter how fanciful it sounded, it was still the truth.

He told them what had happened from the appearance of The Ghost Bride here to when he was found.

“Open your eyes! You’ll see the shape of the old doorway.”

Five sets of eyes stared at him incredulously. Then Rascal, sniffing about the floor near the bricked-in door, suddenly sat back on his haunches and howled.

“Right,” the colonel announced. “Damned if I understand it, but that’s enough for me. Pickering, you go after the lads and tell ’em to hurry with those tools. The rest of us can scout round the castle for Miss Douglas.” He glanced at Monty. “Just in case…”

Monty turned his back as the men left, leaving him in the care of the innkeeper.

“I’m not a madman,” Monty said quietly. “What I said is what happened. Jemima disappeared behind this wall. She’s trapped there.”

“By The Ghost Bride,” said Mr. Oatley, voice flat.

Monty shook his head before resting it against the stone.

“No, by the ghost of Lady Marguerite, the Duchess of Ashprington.”

The two men sat in uncomfortable silence for the next hour before the two young men returned with two pick axes and a pry bar, Monty’s dry clothing – and the key.

He clasped the key to his breast for a moment before changing into the dry clothing, his body stiff with the cold and the pain of the bruises which were deepening to a purple-black. They were all over his body, large enough to leave no doubt to the men who noticed them that he had been through some kind of ordeal.

“Mr. Pickerin’ says the lady is behind that wall,” ventured one of the youths. “Is that so?”

Monty nodded tiredly and shouldered the pick. He swung, the iron sending sparks as it made contact with the stone.

Let them think me mad.

The others looked on as he chipped away, opening up a gap between the joints big enough to insert the pry bar.

Swaying on his feet, he dropped the pick and reached for the pry bar. He rammed it in the gap and levered with all his might. It seemed that nothing would budge the centuries-old stone. He tried once more. It shifted an eighth of an inch, sending Monty tumbling forward.

Mr. Oatley took pity and approached. “Here – let me.”

Monty sat and examined more scratches on his hands as Oatley strained at the bar. Finally, the stone, about twice the size of a house brick, popped out. Its neighbors shifted minutely, but were too well keyed in place to simply fall away.

One of the youths peered in the opened gap.

“Hey, the doctor’s right. There’s a door!”

Mr. Oatley examined it for himself. “Dr. Rhodes, ye be right all along.”

He sent one of the boys for the colonel before he rolled up his shirt sleeves

With Monty on the pick and Mr. Oatley prying, it was slow going, the exertion draining the last of Monty’s reserves.

When the colonel and the other men returned, Monty sighed in relief. The fitter, stronger men took over, though it took them an hour before the door was fully exposed. One of the men raised a pick axe to strike the lock.

“No!” Monty cried out, “We must try the key first.”

Call it superstition or a premonition, but he suspected that if the men broke down the door, they wouldn’t find Jemima.

The key. It was the key.

He inserted the key into the lock with shaking hands. Something of this age, uncared for centuries, would surely be rusted solid, yet it turned readily in his hand, the mechanism withdrawing the bolt with a clunk.

Monty threw open the door.

Lying motionless on the floor beyond was Jemima.

He rushed to her side, and relief flooded him at seeing the rise and fall of her chest. She was alive!

Someone handed him a brandy flask, and he dribbled a little between her lips. She woke up, coughing wetly. A cheer went up.

Her eyes found his, and she smiled.

“Are you all right, my love?” he asked.

“Yes… and have I got a story to tell!”

Monty’s injuries and pains didn’t bother him now. His tiredness vanished. He helped Jemima sit up. She wrapped her arms around his neck and embraced him.

“My God!” Mr. Oatley gasped, holding a lantern high. “There be another body in here!”

“Monty, help me up. I need to say goodbye.”

He helped Jemima to her feet. With his arm supporting her, they approached a narrow cot at the back of the alcove.

Lying on it was the mummified body of a woman, no more than dried skin and bones clad in a long white dress, a garland of fragile silk flowers still on her head. Her mouth lay open in a silent scream.

“This is Lady Isabeau du Bois,” she said. “She was to be married to Etienne, the last Duke of Ashprington. She is The Ghost Bride. What was once lost is now found. May her soul find its true eternal rest.”

They climbed the steps of the tower to the ramparts. The sky was clearing.

Jemima breathed in deeply.

“She meant us no harm, The Ghost Bride, she just wanted to be found,” she said. “As for Marguerite, she was the old woman in black. Perhaps now the truth will set her free as well.”

Monty folded her into his embrace. He kissed the top of her head, but that wasn’t enough – he needed to feel her lips on his.

“I love you, Jemima. I was scared I’d lose you forever.”

She looked up into his eyes, her eyes shining with tears of joy.

“I love you, too, but I had no fear. No matter where I had gone, I knew you would find me,” she said.

He smiled, unable to resist touching her cheek once more.

“Love Never Dies,” she whispered.

Epilogue

31 October 1884

London

Two wide pairs of brown eyes, so like their mother’s, looked at them.

Monty laughed and exchanged a look with Jemima.

“It looks like we’ve caught two fish,” he said, for their children’s mouths were agape.

“Y-Y-You’ve seen ghosts?” said Ben, his tone more perplexed than frightened.

Rebecca was the first to recover. She closed her mouth and sat up straight on the bed, doing her best to act grown up.

“No, of course not,” she told her brother. “It’s All Hallows’ Eve. You’re supposed to tell ghost stories. Mama and Papa have spun a fantastical tale for us.”

Poor Ben looked crestfallen, as though deceived, poor little lad. Then his head bobbed up.

“That doesn’t explain the momentous ring…”

“Memento mori,” Jemima corrected.

“Or why there’s an old key framed in a shadow box in the library.”

It was clear Rebecca couldn’t think of anything immediately to dispute her brother’s logic.

“Ghosts? Surely you jest?” she challenged. “Mama would have written a story about it for The London Ladies’ Observer.”

Downstairs, the doorbell rang.

“You may read it in the morning,” Jemima told her. She rose and kissed Rebecca on the cheek and Ben on the top of his head. Monty kissed his daughter goodnight and ruffled his son’s hair in his customary affectionate tease.

Reggie and Wendy were downstairs waiting for them. They would share the telling of tonight’s tale over supper.

Monty would never take his life for granted, nor the love of his wife and children. It was in these moments, quiet and small that he truly believed…

Love Never Dies.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Heart of the Corsairs Series

Captive of the Corsairs

Revenge of the Corsairs

Shadow of the Corsairs

King’s Rogues Series

Live and Let Spy

Spyfall

Spy Another Day

Father’s Day (A Novella)

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

The Lyon Sleeps Tonight

Also from Elizabeth Ellen Carter

Dark Heart

Warming Winter’s Heart

About the Author

Elizabeth Ellen Carter is an award-winning historical romance writer who pens richly detailed historical romantic adventures. A former newspaper journalist, Carter ran an award-winning PR agency for 12 years. The author lives in Australia with her husband and two cats.

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Haunted Knight

Elizabeth Johns

Chapter One

Sir Martin Hardy was perfectly content in his bachelorhood. He had luxurious rooms at the Albany, good friends and enough money to support said lifestyle. What more could a gentleman desire? Dawn was hinting at arrival when he entered his rooms after a pleasing night at Vauxhall and then cards at Watier’s.

“Good morning, Percy.” He greeted his valet with a yawn, ready for a good, long sleep.

“You had an enjoyable evening, sir?”

“Yes, yes, I did, Percy.”

“A letter came by post for you, just after you left last evening.”

“By post, you say? Where was it from?”

“I could not say, sir. I will fetch it for you,” he said as he finished removing Martin’s cuff-links and placed them in a drawer of the oak dressing table.

Martin untied his neckcloth and had begun to shrug out of his coat when Percy handed him the letter. He broke the seal and began to read. “It is from my steward at Greystone.”

Dear Sir,

I hate to trouble you with such nonsense…

“I cannot wait to hear this,” Martin mused aloud.

…but the servants are upset and have insisted that I inform you.

Martin frowned. He had retained no live-in servants at Greystone since Mr. and Mrs. Hardwick had retired, but there were several day-servants who came in to clean and attend the gardens.

They are convinced Greystone is being haunted again, and are now refusing to set foot on the estate. I have combed the entire place from top to bottom, including every cottage, barn and stable. I can find nothing to support their claims, yet, they would insist.

Please advise me of your instructions in this matter.

Your obedient servant,

Bromley.

“Well, that is certainly unexpected,” Martin muttered.

The valet shook out the coat’s creases and waited for him to continue.

“It seems I must make a trip into the country. Our resident ghost has decided to awaken. Will you prepare a portmanteau while I snatch some sleep? Wake me at ten; I shall travel as far as possible today.”

“Will you be riding or taking the curricle, sir?”

“Riding, I think. I do not plan to remain long.”

“Very good, sir.”

Martin went to bed with a smile on his face, thinking what a glorious diversion this could be. There was little happening in Town at the moment and he had been contemplating a hunting trip in the North. Perhaps he could do the same at Greystone. He would see how things were when he arrived and perhaps even invite some friends to join him.

Percy woke him as instructed, and having dressed, Martin ate a light meal before setting off on Dante, his trusty black gelding.

As he rode through the open countryside, relishing the somewhat brisk early autumn day, he tried to think of the last time he had been home. He was not neglectful, as he had a most excellent steward, but there was very little there for him but sad memories and loneliness. Both of his parents had been dead for several years and he could scarce walk the halls without missing them. His sister lived in Northumberland with her brood of six, and while he loved her, he could only take small doses of the chaos.

He pursed his lips, trying to remember as he cantered along. Two years, was it? Could it be? How had time slipped away from him so? Certainly, he had not been deliberately neglectful, having intended to visit at least twice a year, if only for appearances. There really was no good excuse, and he was glad now that he was going… but the ghost? He chuckled. There had always been tales of doors being unlocked despite missing keys, or phantoms haunting the stables, but he had never been able to find any evidence.

“It has to be animals,” he reasoned to Dante. As a child, a family of squirrels had tormented them for a time and he remembered his mother recounting stories of similar inhabitance by some squirrels who had found a clever entrance in the wall of the cellar. “Finding the culprits and offering a little bit of reassurance should make everything right in no time.”

He stopped for an afternoon meal and to give Dante a rest before continuing on for the last stage of the journey. It was dusk by the time he reached Greystone Priory, a highly unoriginal name for the pile of stones that made up the old manor. It had housed the baronets of Hardy for several generations since the monks had abandoned it—a far pleasanter way of saying they were destroyed by the Saxons.

As he rode up the drive, he paused on the hill overlooking the estate, which sat nestled in the valley. It was a beautiful estate, he acknowledged, as he surveyed the house and its surroundings, the last few rays of light on its front face.

The trees’ leaves had begun to turn various shades of yellow, orange, and red, and the scene was almost like a painting. A herd of deer were drinking from the stream that rolled across the eastern side of the property and a strange feeling came over him.

Dante’s ears pricked up and he urged the horse onward to the bridge.

“Perhaps returning at night was not the wisest choice,” he teased himself, riding down the valley as the last rays went behind the hill.

Dante’s ears flickered again and Martin felt the hairs on his neck stand on end. “I might have to bring you into the house to sleep so I am not alone,” he muttered to his horse. Or sleep in the stables, he mused. Whatever it was, there was definitely a strange atmosphere he had never felt there before. Had he kept it too empty and the ghost had taken over?

He laughed to himself. He rarely thought about them one way or the other, apart from to tease—or try to scare—friends.

“Well, Dante, ’tis but we two tonight. I will hire some full-time servants from the village while we are here.”

*

Helen muttered an unladylike curse when she saw the gentleman arrive on horseback. It was hard enough to hide during the day, but having someone in residence would make it even more difficult. She had been living at Greystone with Agnes, her dog, since her mother’s death two months ago. They slept in the house at night and hid in the woods during the day.

She was able to find enough scraps to eat from the garden and fishing in the river, and while it was unrealistic for them to stay at Greystone forever, for now it gave her time to decide what to do.

Since there was no possibility of returning home, she hoped to use the legends of Greystone Priory to her advantage.

Hopefully, this visitor would not stay for long. She tried to be a considerate guest and work in exchange for the small amount of food she took. The grounds and house were well tended, but she’d discovered an overgrown herb garden in the ruins of the old monastery and had been cultivating the plants back to life. Part of her wanted to grow the herbs out of spite. It was the root of the reason she had run away, after all.

Tears welled in her eyes at the horrible remembrance of her mother’s death and of having to flee for fear of her own safety. Greystone had been a natural choice for Helen to escape to. Although she lived two villages away, she had heard the legends of the priory being haunted—and that the family was not in residence. She had been pleasantly surprised to find that the servants did not stay at night, except for the steward, who lived in a cottage on the estate. He was easy enough to avoid.

Agnes growled next to her as the gentleman and his horse grew closer. “Hush,” she commanded in a whisper. “We cannot afford to be discovered.”

The dog let out a rumbling protest but did quieten.

As the man and his magnificent horse drew closer, Helen took the unfair opportunity to study the former from her view behind the shelter of trees. He was well-formed. From his appearance a likely gentleman of leisure, he obviously spent a great deal of time on sport. Her male cousins were all devout huntsmen and scarce thought of aught besides their cattle and their dogs.

She liked her cousins, but where had they been when she most needed them?

No, it was better this way. If she had stayed, they would have been forced to choose and she was afraid of what the results might have been—only consider what had happened to her mother.

The gentleman dismounted and walked the black gelding into the stable.

She had seen someone bring fresh hay and oats earlier. She should have realized there would be a visitor.

The man had a habit of talking to his horse, which endeared her to him, but she knew the danger in allowing herself to like anyone. She could only trust Agnes and herself.

If she were to describe him, he might sound average, with brown hair and of middling height, yet there was something about him that told her he was anything but. She was drawn to get close enough to see his eyes—and had always believed the eyes were the doorway to the soul. It was certainly too dark to see his eyes and she could not afford to be close enough anyway. Hopefully, he would be gone on the morrow, otherwise it might be necessary to scare him away.

Chapter Two

Martin had endured a dreadful night. With every creak and groan of the old priory, he had questioned his sanity. Had it not been for that eerie sensation when he’d arrived last night, he would have slept the sleep of the dead as he usually did. It certainly did not help that he had left the curtains open, and the sun was staring him straight in the face at this early hour when he would normally just be coming home from his evening’s revelries.

“Cursed stupid ghosts,” he muttered and went to fetch some water from the basin—except he hadn’t brought Percy along and there was no water. He threw on some breeches and a shirt – there was no one to dress properly for at this hour—and wandered through the house and kitchens, out to the pump. “Why did you not bring Percy, you fool? Because you are only staying a day or two,” he reminded himself.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end again and he could not shake the feeling of being watched.

Stupid monks and stupid ghosts and stupid Saxons for not letting their souls rest. He splashed his face with the brisk pump water and filled a bucket to take to Dante.

As he lifted the bucket, out of the corner of his eye he saw a shadow pass through the courtyard, and stilled.

He set down the bucket and ran over to look behind the stables, but there was nothing there. Now you are imagining things! He shook his head and went to fetch the bucket to take to Dante. I am imagining ghosts!

“Good morning, old fellow. We both seem to have survived the night, anyway.”

Dante nestled up against him as if he’d been gone a fortnight instead of a few hours.

“I am pleased to see you, too. May I find this ghost quickly so we can be back to our life in London.”

He gave Dante some hay and brushed him down, then went back to the house to dress. He would breakfast in the village and hear the latest news before finding Bromley and going over the property with him. He refilled his wash-basin and carried it back to his chambers. In the daylight, everything appeared harmless, though he had to admit that he’d been somewhat nervous in the dark. “Imagination is a dangerous thing,” he said to himself, as he washed and put on fresh clothing for the day. As he pulled his shirt over his head, the sun’s rays were rising over the valley. He saw another flash of a shadow, and for a moment he had a vision of a beautiful girl with long black hair, and a large black beast.

“Now you’re indulging in fantasy,” he muttered, although distant memories of fairy tales from school and childhood flooded his memory. He finished dressing and went back to saddle Dante. Perhaps the villagers could better clarify what was haunting the priory.

“Sir Martin!” the landlord called when he walked in through the door.

He had to admit there was a sense of peace and nostalgia in being home. The tap-room was surprisingly crowded, but he took a table near the back wall.

“What brings you home?” old man Davies asked. Two of his daughters did the cleaning at the priory.

“Bromley says the day-servants are scared off by a ghost. Have you seen or heard anything?”

The innkeeper shrugged. “There’s always been talk of spirits in these parts, but my girl Alys is known to be a bit dramatic. She swears she seen a Beowulf crossing the grounds.”

“Mayhap I should speak with her. Have you heard anything else?”

The host’s wife brought a tankard of porter and set it before him with a plate of coddled eggs and ham. “Some say they’ve seen the three monks and some say they’ve seen a girl, but she disappears into the mist.” Mrs. Davies rubbed her hands on her apron and then lifted them into the air.

“Be it any wonder our girls are prone to the fanciful?” The innkeeper shook his head and walked away.

Martin had not eaten since yesterday afternoon and so he tucked into his hearty meal, thinking about what they had said. Clearly, matters had gone too far and he might be forced to stay for a while. He would need some of the servants to remain in the house and help—if he could convince any of them to come, that was. He raised his hand to hail Mrs. Davies back.

“Yes, sir?”

“I might be staying awhile. Do you think anyone would be willing to take a full-time position for a week or two? I would be in residence, of course.”

Mrs. Davies looked skeptical, but Martin knew work was hard to come by in the country, and the priory paid well. “I will see what I can do, sir. Some of the younger folk might think it a lark.”

“I should be grateful.”

“I daresay I could bring my girls and cook for you if no one else is willing,” she added.

As she spoke, three large gentlemen walked into the room. Martin quickly had their measure. Had they been in Melton, they would have looked more in place.

“Who are they?” he asked Mrs. Davies.

“The Evans boys from Leominster. They are looking for their lost cousin, though they do not say it outright.”

“What happened to her?”

“I heard she ran away, after her mother… died.”

Martin vaguely remembered some Evans brothers at school. He narrowed his gaze and thought the eldest looked familiar. He raised a hand towards the three men and welcomed them to his table.

“Is that you, Hardy?” Brian Evans asked. “I hardly recognized you,” he said, shaking his hand. “These are my brothers, Broderick and Bryn.

“What brings you this way? Your estate is on the other side of the county, is it not?” Martin asked.

“We heard there’s a ghost—thought to hunt it down,” Bryn answered.

Martin thought they were looking for their cousin, but he remained quiet on the subject. “I have heard the same thing. It has frightened all of my servants away. I slept in the house last night and saw nothing, however,” he said in a disappointed voice.

“We will be happy to help you. We did not want to trespass with no one at home,” the eldest brother said.

One of the younger brothers rubbed his hands together. “I need to hunt something.” Clearly that was the only thing on the young gentleman’s mind.

“You are more than welcome. The sooner we find our ghost, the sooner I can return to London.”

*

Helen had almost been caught that morning. She had been throwing a stick with Agnes and had been surprised that the gentleman was awake. She had never known any of her cousins to awaken before noon. Nor yet had she seen the steward or any of the servants there before eight.

She waited until she saw him ride away, then hurriedly went to gather some food for herself and Agnes for the morning. Perhaps she had time to cook a fish or two before he returned. But how long would he stay? She knew she could not hide forever, but until things settled again at home and she achieved her next birthday, which entitled her to her inheritance, she had little in the way of resources. Then she hoped to catch a ship to America and start a new life where no one knew her name or her mother’s reputation.

Quickly, she built a fire and roasted the fish she had caught in the river with a sharpened stick—a skill she had learned from romping about with her cousins. If anyone saw her fire, it would lead them straight to her. She was just pouring water over the ashes when she heard several horses galloping up the drive. Despite being well hidden, she gave a start, her heart pumping loudly inside her chest. She would never be one to seek excitement, that was for certain, because she hated feeling like a wanted criminal.

“Stay,” she commanded Agnes, and crept towards the stables despite her best interests being to remain hidden. She wanted to see who had come.

She bit back a gasp when she saw her three cousins.

“You have not seen a girl around here, have you, Hardy?” Brian asked.

Helen gripped the tree at the question and her cousins’ sudden appearance so near.

“What kind of girl?” Hardy asked.

“I suppose there is no harm in telling you our cousin Helen has run away from home and we thought she might have come here.”

“Why do you think she is here?”

“It is well known hereabouts that the priory is haunted and empty.” Brian cleared his throat nervously. “And frankly, that would appeal to Helen.”

Helen cursed silently. Perhaps they knew her better than she had imagined.

“I have not seen her, but I arrived only last night. My steward has been all over the house, but you are welcome to search the estate.”

“We’re much obliged,” Brian said and the three brothers hurtled away on their horses. The other gentleman, however, stayed—the one Brian had called Hardy.

Helen watched the horses gallop away and breathed a slight sigh of relief. She had no doubt she could have evaded her cousins, for she had learned to hunt and play with them, after all. She watched the gentleman standing in the stable yard, looking pensive.

For some reason, she felt very drawn to him. Once upon a time, she might have had a chance to marry someone such as he, but she had forfeited any hope of such a marriage when she ran away. She’d known there was no real future for her once her mother had been accused of sorcery.

What utter fustian! Why did a knowledge of healing with herbs threaten people so much? What did it matter if she had healed someone when the doctors could not? Barely more than medieval ignorance, the wicked accusations had yet ruined her mother and led to her death.

Helen returned her attention to the gentleman before her but he was no longer there. The sky was beginning to darken and a storm was brewing. She needed to seek cover, but she had lost track of her quarry. How could she be so careless? She also needed to return to Agnes. If her cousins found the dog first, she would give Helen away.

She searched everywhere around her and looked towards the woods beyond where she had left Agnes. How had the gentleman disappeared? He could be anywhere and she shivered with fear. A crack of thunder made her start. Did she dare make a dash for the trees? Surely he had returned to the house, but how could he have done so and she not see him?

She cursed as another crack of thunder opened up the skies and rain began to pour down in heavy sheets. Why could it not have been a gentle trickle? she thought pointlessly.

From the corner of her eye, a movement caught her attention and her gaze met that of Hardy’s for a brief second before she moved back behind her tree.

He had seen her! She knew it!

Then a galloping horse approached through the heavy rain and he turned to see who was upon them. Thankfully, the horse belonged not to her cousins but to the steward.

She leaned against the tree, gripping the bark. That had been close. The look in his eyes had not been merciful and she had been saved in the nick of time. She scurried back across to where she had left Agnes, who was on full alert with tail up and ears pointed. Clearly the dog wished to dispose of the perceived threats.

Helen patted her on the head. “Not now, Nessie.” Nevertheless, Helen feared she might need the dog’s protection soon.

There was only one thing to do: she would have to try to scare him away.

Chapter Three

Bromley’s arrival could not have been more poorly timed. Martin had seen the girl and she, him. He knew she had been no ghost. He was beginning to think his ghost and the lost cousin were one and the same.

“Good day, sir,” Bromley said, tipping his hat and sliding down from his horse.

“Come into the stables,” Martin said, knowing it was unfair to keep his steward in the rain but all the while wanting to chase after his mysterious lady.

She had to have been the figure he saw that morning. What was it Evans had said about her running away? Why would a lady ruin herself by doing such a thing?

He refocused his attention on his steward.

“I apologize for not being here to greet you last night, sir.”

“Think nothing of it. I did not send word ahead.”

“I knew you would come soon, but I thought perhaps it would be today. Did you have everything you needed? I had the stable stocked for your horse.”

“Yes, I asked at the inn for some full-time servants while I am here.”

Bromley looked skeptical. “I have offered to double wages, sir, and no one will come.”

“What, precisely, has been happening?”

The steward’s eyes shifted from side to side as though he was afraid what he said would be taken poorly by the ghosts. Martin would have laughed if he didn’t think he would offend him. “Is it noises, like animals in the cellars?

“No, sir. It is a barghest,” he whispered. “It only comes out at night. That is why no one will stay in the house.”

According to folklore, Martin recalled, a barghest was a goblin beast with huge teeth and claws, and seeing one meant death would soon follow. It had to be the girl’s dog. Now he was wishing he had questioned Evans more closely about the girl.

“Has it occurred to any of you that it could be a vagrant poaching on the estate? It is rather unfortunate, but most people in the area are aware the family is not in residence.”

Bromley looked someone chastened and lowered his eyes. “I suppose it could be as you say, but I have seen no evidence of any such thing.”

“I am here now and shall not leave until the matter is resolved. The Evans brothers from Leominster are here, searching for a lost relative. If they need anything, please see to it.”

“Yes sir. Thank you for coming, sir.” Bromley bowed, remounted and left. Martin immediately hurried to where he had seen the girl. Of course, she was no longer there, but he tried to follow her tracks in the mud before they washed away. They led him to the remnants of a campfire, right beside the river. Here, the tracks disappeared.

Martin cursed and then looked around him. She could not have gone far. He knew these woods better than anyone and he would find her—hopefully before it was too late. How long could she have been hiding there?

He kneeled down to look around, hoping for some clue about the mysterious dark angel he had seen that morning. He knew she would not return to that site, and considered where else she might go. T’would not be far in that weather, that was certain.

He straightened and returned to the house in deep contemplation. First, he needed to discover what she was running from and then he needed to find her. He suspected she was a very clever opponent and he had to admit he was thrilled by the thought of the chase.

The Evans brothers returned from their search for dinner. Mrs. Davies arrived mid-afternoon with her two daughters to cook and clean while Martin was in residence, and prepared a hearty meal of roasted beef, with potatoes, carrots, and fresh bread.

As the gentlemen sat down to their meal, Martin determined to find out everything he could. Alys set large mugs of porter before them and Martin waved for his guests to partake. “Please do not stand on ceremony here when it is just we men. Forgive the circumstances, but I am rarely home.”

“This suits us just grand. We’re much obliged to you.”

“Did you discover anything today?”

Bryn belched loudly. “We found a campfire by the river, but it had rained too much to track anyone or determine how long they had been there. Other than large animal droppings, there was nothing to indicate she is here.”

“I wish we had our dogs,” Broderick grumbled.

“Why did your cousin run away? Is she a willful chit?”

The brothers glanced at one another. Clearly, they were hiding something.

“I would not call her willful. There was some talk about her mother.”

“She ran away because of her mother?” Something did not sound right. “What does her mother say? Clearly, they are ladies.”

“Her mother is dead.”

“I am sorry to hear that. My condolences.”

Again, the brothers glanced at each other, and Broderick shifted uncomfortably.

“What is it?”

“Helen’s mother was accused of being a witch—of sorcery. That is why Helen left. Our father threw her dam out of the house. She died from exposure.”

“Did he evict your cousin, too?”

“She was incensed, but Father did not force her to leave. We are trying to find her and bring her back home.”

“What will happen to her?”

The eldest made a grunting noise between bites. “Marry her off. The old squire will still take her.”

Martin suspected the old squire was part of the reason the chit had run away, but she had to be found, or she would follow in her mother’s wake with winter soon approaching. “I will do what I can to help. I know the area better than most. If she is here, I will find her.”

Martin left the brothers playing billiards, with the Davies girls attending, and decided to go out searching again. If the villagers believed the priory haunted by a barghest that only came out at night, then this was his best chance to find the girl.

The priory stood just above the flood plain and mists would accumulate about its stones, especially at night. They certainly added credence to many of the ghost tales. Indeed, if his servants had seen a large black dog running through the mist, he could comprehend how fear had spread amongst the already superstitious. He pulled on his greatcoat and hat and set out into the mud to find the girl.

*

Helen had debated all day about what she could do to scare the gentleman away from his own estate, but everything she considered she quickly dismissed. Honestly, he did not seem the type to be scared or to believe in ghosts. Helen had never seen a ghost herself, but she did not think all spirits had to be evil and hoped she would meet with a kind one if she ever did. At first, she had thought about running away from the priory, but there were plenty of places on the estate to hide and if she could not be found then he would give up and leave. She only had to be more patient than he.

Although aware it was a risk, Helen had gone into the house and followed the hidden passageways to overhear her cousins. Why had Hardy invited them to stay? Now they would take their time in returning to Leominster.

Perhaps she could do something to alarm them in their beds one night. Unfortunately, using Agnes against them would not fadge since she was likely to lick their faces, having known them since she was a pup. At the thought, Helen retraced her steps to where she had left her pet outside. The gentlemen had gone to play billiards, so she should have a slight reprieve for the night. Determinedly, she went back through the passageway, never quite comfortable in the dark. She could feel the damp and cobwebs, and imagined rats and other things lurking around every bend.

Instead of a warm bed in one of the servants’ rooms, she would need to sleep outdoors that night. The rain had stopped, but the ground was muddy. She breathed a sigh of relief when she reached the old door that was hidden in the garden. It creaked loudly when it opened, and Helen felt certain the whole house must have heard it. She stepped out and closed it behind her, relishing the fresh air and rearranging the brush and branches as best she could to hide the evidence of her having been there.

Following the stone path to avoid the mud, she tried to think of somewhere dry and warm to sleep. She was so lost in her thoughts that she did not notice the large man approaching until it was too late.

She screamed as one arm came around her. Another then covered her mouth, and she was hauled against a hard chest.

“Hush. I will not harm you!” he commanded, and she stilled.

“I will release you if you will promise not to scream or run away.” She nodded and his arms began to loosen, but Agnes had heard her screams and was running full tilt at the man, whom Helen could only assume to be Hardy.

He let out a grunt as Agnes made contact, throwing him to the ground and causing her to stumble.

“Off, Agnes!” she commanded.

The large beast of a dog whined her displeasure, but did withdraw.

Helen held out her hand to the man and met his gaze. “She is very protective of me.”

“As I see. I cannot fault her for that.”

He took her hand and rose to his feet, but did not let go. The immediate threat had passed, yet while she felt she was very much in danger from him, how she could not say.

“No one will harm you here. Come. Let us talk inside where we may be warm and dry,” he said with a quick glance down at his mud-covered attire. “Your cousins are here, searching for you.”

She recoiled and stepped back, but he held firm.

“Are you afraid of them?”

“Please, you must not tell them I am here!” she begged.

“I assume you have a good explanation. I will keep you hidden for now, but shall expect a full disclosure once we are inside.”

She hesitated a moment, not knowing whether to trust this man or not. She could take her chances for three more months, but with winter coming, she would be battling the elements until she reached her majority. Her mother had not fared well in the same situation, but she had been less prepared.

“You do not want to try to live through this winter on your own, Helen.”

Her eyes jumped up to his at the shock of her name on his lips. She could barely see his face in the darkness, but his gaze was intense.

“Your cousins told me about your mother.”

She tensed.

“Are you afraid of the man they will force you to marry? Is that why you ran away?” he queried.

“It is a large part of the reason,” she admitted quietly, beginning to shiver in the damp cold.

He pulled her closer and put his arms back around her, not in a threatening way, but a protective one. It was strangely comforting. Agnes whimpered her displeasure and with her muzzle nudged at Helen’s side.

“I will reach my majority in three months. I only have to survive until then.”

Her breathing was suddenly shallow and a strange sensation was flooding her body. She had never been this close to a man before, so she could only assume it was attraction. It was a dangerous, heady feeling and she briefly wondered if he thought she was open to an improper liaison because she was ruined.

As their lips met, all thoughts of propriety flew from her mind. His lips were soft and gentle, and the rush of heavy feeling only grew stronger. How could such a small contact create such a sensation?

He pulled away and pressed his forehead to hers. “Forgive me, I am the worst sort of blackguard for taking advantage of you in such a manner.”

She slightly shook her head. “No, indeed, ’twas I. I have forgotten myself completely, but it matters not now. Will you allow me to leave, and not tell my cousins?”

“I am afraid I cannot allow you to go back out there on your own. You may stay here with my blessing, but you will have to find a way to convince your cousins to leave.”

“I believe I have an idea. Some good brandy would help.”

Chapter Four

Martin was not sure what he had been thinking telling the girl she could stay there, but he had seen the struggle inside of her written on her face and knew he had to help her. He had no legal right over her person, but if she was three months away from freedom, then it was a small price for him to pay to help her when he had an entirely empty house for her to dwell in. Otherwise, she would weigh on his conscience and he would worry about her safety.

But he would have to leave, because he was very, very attracted to her. He no intention of winding up leg-shackled, and she was a lady—and a beautiful one at that.

He debated where in the house to take her that she would remain undiscovered, but now that the Davies were there in service, she could not stay there, and her cousins were in the guest quarters. That only left his mother’s old room, which he never thought to see occupied again. He took her and Agnes up the back stairs and went into the sitting room to find a taper.

Seeing her in the dark had not done her justice. She was fairy-like with her black hair and light blue eyes. Her skin was pale, but perfection.

You would think he was a young adolescent who had just discovered that there were girls in the world besides their mother.

“Did you hear me, sir?” Helen was asking him and looking at him strangely. He shook himself from his musings. He had to get a hold of himself!

“Forgive me, would you repeat that?”

“I was thinking you could give my cousins plenty of brandy and they will fall asleep sooner. Then I can scare each of them one by one by making noises in the passageways.”

“Do you think that will truly work?” Martin asked skeptically.

“My cousins are a bit on that simple side,” she said with an apologetic grin. “And they tend toward the superstitious.”

“What noises do you intend to make?”

“I intend to have Agnes help. She is good at growling on command and then I hope to make some scraping and clanging noises like the tales go.”

“How can I help you? Besides an endless supply of brandy?”

“I think pretend to go to sleep in your room so you can be available when they run out of the room scared witless. She laughed musically. “I think I will go change into something white so I look like an apparition.”

Martin blinked and watched her escape into the hidden passageways. How long had she been here that she knew his house better than he did? He shook his head. He was fascinated with the girl and he hoped her tricks worked. He was not yet ready to admit how leaving her here on her own did not settle well, but was he ready to do they honorable thing? That did not sit very well either. He would have to leave her, though, and the thought of that settled even worse. He shook his head and went to find some brandy in the cellars.

He need not have worried that the brothers were being neglected. Alys and Enid were seeing to the cousins’ needs. Any other time he would have been amused. How best to separate the girls from the cousins though? He did not wish for the local serving girls to be carrying tales of ghosts back to the village.

“I was checking to see if you need anything?” Martin asked as he entered the room with a bottle of a very old Armagnac, of dubious origins.

The girls quickly hopped out of the laps they were sitting in and scurried away.

The cousins, while appearing disappointed were interested in the bottle in his hand. “I thought you might be needing some more refreshments for the evening.”

“Much obliged,” Brian said as his speech slurred, and it was apparent that Davies girls had already been filling them with something. Perhaps this would be an easy task. “I think I’ll retire for the evening,” he remarked casually and began to leave the billiards room.

“We might as well join you,” Brian surprised him by saying, and the others followed him upstairs. He smiled as he thought of Helen preparing for her haunting and hoped it would be so easy.

Once in his chamber, he removed his boots and stripped down to his shirt sleeves and breeches and laid on top of his bed with his arms behind his head and waited. It was only a quarter of an hour before the festivities began. At first, he was not certain if he was hearing things or imagining them.

He heard the floorboards creak in the passageway followed by a clanging sound. Had she found some old chains? It was not long before he heard one door open and one of the brothers fly out into the hall. He laughed as footsteps ran down the hall towards another door.

Next, there was a growling sound and a large scraping sound.

By gad she was good! Martin proclaimed to himself as he heard another door open and footsteps seeking solace in another room.

Martin laughed, wholly enjoying himself. There was only one more brother to convince, apparently. He rolled out of his bed and decided to see if he could help convince them to leave. As he wandered to the chamber, he wondered what else Helen might have up her sleeve. Was she aware that two had already run coward from their rooms? Very likely. They were not precisely quiet about it!

The door was open and Martin knocked on the frame. “There’s something amiss?” he asked, trying to keep a straight face.

The younger two looked scared out of their wits and Brian seemed exasperated. “These two ninnies think there is a ghost.”

“Of course there is,” Martin agreed. “Is that not why you are here?”

“I thought it was a beast!” Bryn cried. “I heard creaking and chains.”

“Well, I heard a growl,” Broderick proclaimed as he held a rifle in his hands. “I say we go after it!”

“Oh, the beast never comes in the house. Only the monks!”

“I know what I heard,” he slurred.

“I think you both had too much brandy. Go back to bed and we can search in the morning,” Brian commanded, obviously only interested when his sleep was not disturbed.

On cue, there was a loud wail and thumping on the door. Even Martin nearly jumped out of his skin. Brian was already out of bed and throwing on his clothes as he let out a colorful explicative.

“Do you believe me now?” Broderick asked.

“Let’s get out of here!”

“The ghost won’t hurt you,” Martin objected half-heartedly. “I have lived here are all of my life and they’ve never harmed me.”

The three brothers did not even pause to say goodbye. He heard them run through the house and out the front door. Martin nearly collapsed with laughter as he knocked on the secret entrance to the hidden passageways. “They are gone now!”

*

Helen heard Sir Hardy laughing as she entered into the bedroom, though that was not the wisest choice. She was a bit disappointed.

“What is the matter?” he asked as he tried to stop laughing and look concerned.

She directed her hands at her attire. “I did not even get to show them the apparition!”

That sent him into further fits of laughter. “That is because you were too effective with your other antics.”

“I suppose I was,” she said and sat in a chair by the window with Agnes following at her heels.

Her cousins were gone, so why did she not feel happy about it? The awkwardness of her situation hit her very strongly as the two of them sat in a bedchamber in the middle of the night in silence.

He came down from the bed and stood before her, looking thoughtful. She looked up at him and waited.

“I suppose it is late and we should seek our beds.”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“What is the matter? Should you not be elated with your victory?”

“I am.” She swallowed. “It is just difficult watching family leave and not knowing what is next. This is better than the alternative, however.”

“I will speak with my steward tomorrow and ensure you are protected while here. No one else need to know about your presence.”

“I appreciate that, but if you will let me go on as I have, I will try not to inconvenience you and will be gone on my birth date.”

“It would be safer for you if my steward knew of your presence. I assure you I will tell no one else.”

He held out his hand to help her up. She hesitated before placing her hand in his, knowing how he had affected her last time they had touched. It was no different this time. She could feel herself tremble as their fingers met.

She should have kept her eyes down, but she made the mistake of looking up. She was naïve about men, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes.

She pulled her hand back and turned away. “We should go to bed. Thank you for not giving me away tonight.”

“The pleasure was all mine,” he said as she walked to the door and then hurried down the hall to her chamber. Despite being safe, she was unable to sleep the remainder of the night, wondering about her choices and regretting her future. It was a futile exercise at that point. Had she stayed in Leominster, she would already have been married to the old, grotesque squire. Now that she was ruined, there was only one kind of offer Sir Hardy could make to her and she had no intention of becoming any man’s mistress despite the odds against her.

In the morning, she resolved to keep her distance. Now that he knew there was no ghost, he would go back to his life in London.

Helen must have finally drifted off to sleep. She had surprisingly pleasant dreams of her mother, and somehow felt she was having a conversation with her.

They were walking through her mother’s herb garden back at home like they always used to do. Or was it there of a garden there at the priory?

“You should not have run, Helen.”

“After what they did to you? And would you have had me marry Squire Higgins? Uncle would have forced me.”

“He certainly would have tried,” her mother agreed.

“I will soon be of age. I will go to America and start anew.”

“America is not so different from here. Even though birth matters less, it is still difficult for a young, single female on her own—if you survive the journey there.”

“Is it really so hard?”

“I have seen it,” her mother confirmed.

“What would you have me do, then?” Helen asked with desperation.

“You have what you need here. He is a good man and has already proven he will take care of you.”

“But would he have me? This is too close to home here. People know I ran away.”

“You did nothing wrong. You were scared. I think with his name, people will quickly forgive and forget.”

“Perhaps, but will he have me?”

“If you could see the way he looks at you, you would not doubt so.” Her mother picked a stem from a verbena and lifted the purple flowers to her nose. It was a known aphrodisiac and warded off evil spirits.

Helen smiled at the thought. Could it be possible?

“I might add, scaring your cousins was a nice touch.” Her mother smiled.

“But will they stay gone?”

“Do not worry. If they return, I will see to them.” Her mother reached out to touch her face. “I love you, dear. I will always be watching over you.”

“I love you too, Mother.”

When she awoke, she could not shake the feeling that it really happened. Could it be that spirits were real? She wanted to believe she had been with her mother. Nevertheless, she somehow felt comforted by her mother’s presence. She would always be with her.

Chapter Five

Martin had not slept well after Helen left him. Somehow, leaving her here alone seemed wrong. He did not convince himself that he was not very attracted to her.

Of course, he was, and she was a lady, born and bred… but was she well and truly ruined? Would her reputation recover if she had the protection of his name? He was certainly glad the Evans brothers had departed so easily. At least he had time for sober reflection. He ate his breakfast, realizing he would need to send the Davies women back to the inn. If Helen was to remain, the house had to be empty. Having finished his meal, he collected some of the remaining food. When Alys came in to clear the table, he informed her of his intention to leave.

“You may go home after breakfast, Alys. I thought I would have visitors for some time, but with the ghost mystery being resolved, we may all return to normal.”

The relief on her face was palpable. “Very good, sir,” she said as she took some dishes and scurried away to tell her mother and sister.

Martin chuckled and then took the extra food to awaken his guest.

A sleepy Helen opened the door to him.

“Good morning,” he greeted her cheerfully. “I have sent the servants back to the inn. They should be gone shortly.”

Helen blinked the sleep from her eyes. “What did you tell them?”

“Just that we found an animal making noises in the passageways and the Evans brothers dealt with it.”

“And in the blink of an eye, everyone has gone? They believed you?”

He tilted his head. “Why would they not? They served breakfast first, though, so I have brought you some. I would like to introduce you to my steward, Bromley, before I leave. He will ensure you have food and anything else you might need while you are here. When your date of birth arrives, I will return and escort you to the solicitor, if you wish it.”

A flicker of hurt passed over her eyes before she turned away. He had to leave before he did something foolish. He was tempted to propose running away to Gretna Green. He had better leave as soon as possible! Yet seeing her in the lady’s chamber felt right. Having her there should have felt wrong, but quite the opposite was true.

A loud banging resounded on the front door. Martin looked out of the window which had a view of the main sweep. He groaned. “Your cousins have returned.”

Helen gasped and ran behind the screen. “I must hide!”

“No one will disturb you in here,” he reassured her. He walked over to her and put a hand on her arm. “Eat your breakfast in peace. I will speak to your cousins.” He smiled at her, and though she looked doubtful, she did not flinch from him. Somehow that warmed him inside and filled him with encouragement as he went downstairs to see why the Evans brothers had returned.

As he rounded the staircase on the way to his study, Alys most ran into him.

“Pardon me, sir, but you have some visitors.”

“Yes, I heard. Thank you, Alys.”

The three large brothers were pacing across the Persian carpet.

“Good morning. Has something happened?” Martin asked innocently.

“We think Helen was pretending to be the ghost,” Brian said, speaking for them all. Bryn and Broderick nodded their agreement. “It is something she would do.”

“I have seen no evidence of a ghost or anyone pretending to be one,” he fibbed.

Brian grunted. They could hardly reinvite themselves to stay after their cowardly display the previous night. Martin was not about to extend the offer again.

“Nothing appeared to you after we left last night?”

“Nothing at all. I had a most excellent night’s sleep. I assure you, if I find your cousin, I will inform her you are searching for her.”

The brothers glanced at each other and Brian gave a little shrug of acquiescence. “Let her know we want only what’s best for her.”

“She’s a right ’un,” Broderick added.

“It is reassuring to know you have her best interests at heart.”

Martin hoped Helen had overheard, if for nothing else than to be reassured that someone did care about her. Martin was not convinced she would not still be forced to marry the squire, however.

Just then, a large gust of wind came down through the chimney, causing all of them to jump. Martin was impressed. How had Helen done that?

But then, the room grew cold and Martin knew it was not Helen. The windows rattled and darkness fell over the room before a disembodied voice throbbed in the air.

“Cease harrying Helen.” The faint yet raspy voice echoed.

Martin squinted in the darkness and could have sworn he saw the outline of a beautiful woman.

“Is that you, Aunt?” Brian asked.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves for treating her so! Now, leave!”

If Helen was appearing as her apparition, then she was doing a good job of it. Somehow, Martin knew it was not her, and yet he was not afraid of what appeared before him. The Evans brothers were. He could almost hear their knees knocking as they clung to one another.

Brian spoke, his voice shaking. “B-b-but we only wanted to take care of her,” he sputtered.

“I will look after her. Now leave!”

They needed no further telling. They scuttled off, leaving through the front door without bothering to close it. Martin turned around to see if the apparition was still there. She was.

“You will take care of Helen.” She posed it as both command and question.

“I will.” Martin answered without hesitation, surprising even himself.

She smiled and stretched out her hand, but when Martin went to reach for it, she disappeared.

Agnes ran into the room and began to circle and whimper where Helen’s mother had been. She lay down and put her head on her paws, as though sad. Martin walked over and knelt down to pet the dog’s head and console her.

“What was that?” Helen asked from behind him. He had not heard her approach.

“I think it was your mother.”

Helen smiled. “I thought she visited me last night. Did she say anything?”

Martin chuckled. “She sent your cousins to the rightabout and told them to leave you alone.”

“That sounds like her. Did she say anything else?”

“Yes. She told me to look after you.”

*

Helen did not know what to say. She hardly knew this man, yet she was drawn to him.

“You need not heed the commands of a spirit,” she answered quickly.

“Oh, but I think I should. She may never rest in peace, otherwise.”

“You would have me, that my mother may rest in peace?”

He gave an adorable half-shrug, looking boyish. “Well, I daresay I would quite enjoy taking care of you.”

“Would you, indeed?” she asked coyly.

“I would—and you may help me haunt all visitors at Greystone Priory until we, too, are spirits.”

Helen laughed. “Only the unwanted ones.”

“As you wish.” He leaned down and kissed her—a long and proper kiss which left her boneless. “I think we should not delay.”

“I cannot marry before my birthday, sir. My uncle must give his consent.”

“I suspect he would not mind exchanging me for the old squire. And somehow, I think your cousins will support me in this.”

She shook her head. “You do not understand. My uncle would not support my mother, and instead cast her out.”

Sir Martin looked at her with such tenderness and concern that she swallowed hard to choke back the emotion overwhelming her. She had seen her mother. Her mother had saved her! And now this man was willing to take care of her. Never could she have imagined such an outcome when she left her uncle’s home on that fateful day.

“Whatever you wish, my dear, but I happen to know a vicar with some lofty connections. I cannot think your uncle would gainsay an Archbishop. We may then take an extended holiday; thus, when he hears the news, it will be beyond your birthday.

“Mayhap even my uncle would not wish to confront an Archbishop.”

Sir Martin smiled down at her and her spirits lifted with happiness.

“I suggest we hire a carriage in Hereford and thence make our way to Devon. Do you think Agnes would be able to keep up with horses so far?”

“Oh, yes! She loves to think she is a horse!” Helen laughed.

“Excellent. Then I shall arrange to borrow Bromley’s mount. They can see it returned to him. The sooner we are on our way, I believe, the better.”

“You are certain your friends will not mind our unexpected and unconventional arrival?”

“Most certain. The Knighton family is anything but conventional!”

“Do you mean the Duke of Knighton?” Helen asked in awe.

“The very one. His brother Edmund is the vicar.”

Helen hesitated.

Sir Martin took her hands and drew her against him, embracing her in a hug. “Fear not. You will feel better when we are away from here. Edmund and Isabella will adore you and want to help, I assure you. His life’s work has been to help light-skirts.”

Helen relaxed. She did feel better knowing that. “I suppose he will not object to a runaway then.”

He kissed her gently on the forehead. “No, he will not. Go and gather your belongings. We will be away as soon as the horses are ready.”

Once they reached the next county, Helen felt a sense of peace, even knowing she had her mother’s approval and protection. When they arrived late that evening in Hereford, there was a lovely coach and four waiting for them.

The distance achieved from Leominster eased her mind, yet it was the gentleman beside her who was particularly comforting.

“We have come this far without incident. Are you ready?” he asked as he began to hand her into the coach.

“It all seems like a fairytale,” Helen answered, then climbed in. “Oh!” she exclaimed.

“Is there something the matter?” Martin asked quickly and looked inside.

“It is verbena,” she said in awe, as she picked up the bunch of purple flowers that rested on the squab.

“Verbena?” he asked in confusion.

“It was my mother’s favorite. When I was walking with her through the garden in my dreams, she was holding one. It is thought to be protective.”

Sir Martin smiled. “I think it means your mother approves.”

“Yes, she does.” Helen held the flower to her nose. “It is also used in love spells,” she muttered under her breath, and felt her cheeks warm.

He heard her. “We will explore that later, I think,” he said with a devious smile. “Shall we go? Suddenly, I cannot wait to arrive in Devonshire!”

Helen laughed, and as Sir Martin climbed into the coach and the footman began to close the door, Agnes shoved the servant out of the way and began to climb into the coach.

“Agnes!” Helen scolded, but the dog did not listen. She promptly placed as much of her body on the bench beside Helen, squeezing between her and Martin, and made it clear she was there to protect her.

Sir Martin sat resignedly on the opposite bench attempting to situate his long legs in a very crowded coach.

“Do not worry, Agnes,” he said. “We will behave until the wedding!”

Agnes growled her thoughts on the matter, which vaguely resembled, “You had best.”

“But on our wedding night, you will sleep in the stables!”

Helen chuckled as the door closed and the coach lurched forward.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Johns

Gentlemen of Knights Series

Duke of Knight (Book 1)

Black Knight (Book 2)

Knight and Day (Book 3)

Dark of Knight (Book 4)

Shining Knight (Book 5)

Dangerous Knight (Book 6)

About the Author

Like many writers, Elizabeth Johns was first an avid reader, though she was a reluctant convert. It was Jane Austen’s clever wit and unique turn of phrase that hooked Johns when she was “forced” to read Pride and Prejudice for a school assignment. She began writing when she ran out of her favorite author’s books and decided to try her hand at crafting a Regency romance novel. Her journey into publishing began with the release of Surrender the Past, book one of the Loring-Abbott Series. Johns makes no pretensions to Austen’s wit but hopes readers will perhaps laugh and find some enjoyment in her writing.

Johns attributes much of her inspiration to her mother, a former English teacher. During their last summer together, Johns would sit on the porch swing and read her stories to her mother, who encouraged her to continue writing. Busy with multiple careers, including a professional job in the medical field, author and mother of two children, Johns squeezes in time for reading whenever possible.

The Grey Lady of the Manor

Elizabeth Keysian

Chapter One

Essex, England 1553

Lettice Carter was not having the best of days. An argument with her spiteful stepmother had sent her out of the house early, and now she’d dropped an iron cauldron, cracking its base and rendering it useless.

The crash would have woken the dead. But with any luck, her employers, Master and Mistress Smythe, were already awake, catering to the needs of their baby son. They were a loving and patient couple, but how many more bent latten spoons, broken knives, or cracked cauldrons would they tolerate?

Letty couldn’t lose her position here—she just couldn’t. It was her only escape from the poisonous atmosphere back home, where her new stepmother wanted the house to herself, and her father was too besotted to notice the war being waged upon his only daughter.

“It’s as though I’m cursed. Or these things are bewitched.” She glanced uneasily toward the doorway of the old monks’ kitchen, thinking she saw a man’s figure. Master Smythe?

She shook her head. Nay—just a shadow. The former Hospitaller commandery was bound to make anyone feel nervous and send shivers down one’s spine. So much tragedy had occurred in this place over the years. The broad lawn before the recently demolished chapel was pockmarked with the graves of former inhabitants—not all of whom would have died from natural causes.

How anyone could live cheek-by-jowl with a graveyard without having nightmares was beyond Letty. The sooner the master’s new house was completed and the last of the old commandery buildings demolished, the better. Mayhap then, there would be a room available for her so that she need never darken her father’s door again.

Could she survive that long? If she couldn’t find out how to mollify the mischievous sprites that made her appear so clumsy, her place here would be given to someone else. Then her only hope of escape would be by marriage. But even if one of the village lads in Temple Roding were prepared to take her, she would still be within her stepmother’s reach.

“Another accident, Letty?”

She spun around as Mistress Smythe entered the kitchen.

“Oh, Mistress—how long have you been there?” Her heart pounded in her throat.

“I have but lately come, in response to the crash. You’re not hurt, I trust?”

Letty finally remembered her manners and bobbed a curtsy. “Your pardon. I thought someone was in the doorway earlier, but they vanished.”

“Was it Simpkin? Did he startle you into dropping the pot? ’Tis high time he learned not to play tricks on people.”

“Nay, it was a man’s shadow that I thought I saw, not a boy. And that was after I broke the cauldron. Forgive me, Mistress. I’ll take it to the forge for repair—pray, take the cost from my wages.”

“Simpkin can take it. You have more important things to do.”

Mistress Smythe gazed around the kitchen and Letty froze, hoping she wouldn’t find fault with anything. She’d already seen to it that there was a plentiful supply of herbs suspended from the beams of the roof, that the wooden saltbox was filled and clean, and the shelves were tightly stacked with newly-cleansed crocks and pewter. She’d given the long table a thorough scrub—all would have been well had she not dropped that accursed cauldron!

“I have it in my mind to make up some tinctures today, for little Myall’s cholic. What say you that I do that and make breakfast, too, while you clean the parlor? It’s been neglected ever since my husband moved here, as he cares only for the farm and his new house.”

And you, Mistress, and the babe. Letty had never seen a couple more in love, nor more devoted to one another. She bobbed another curtsy, wiped her hands on her apron, and gathered up a besom and cloth.

Mistress Smythe was emptying water from the pail into a spare cauldron.

“Are you certain you wouldn’t like me to do that?”

“Nay. Take this pail and fill it, then mop the parlor floor. ’Tis a fine day, and the floor will dry quickly enough.”

Letty ducked her head and went—she’d been dismissed from the kitchen and sent to clean a room containing fewer breakables. Mistress Smythe would manage well enough—until last year, she’d been no more than a village girl like herself—albeit an odd one who kept a pet falcon and had a surfeit of uncles. Domestic labor was nothing new to Mistress Smythe, Cecily Neville as was. She had developed an air of ladylike grace since her marriage, but she was still practical—and not in the least bit proud.

As Letty toiled at the well handle, she stared down the stone-lined shaft to the black water below. In just over a sennight, all the maidens from the village would be performing their midsummer magic, picking nine kinds of flowers, dancing at midnight with garlands in their hair, and looking down wells in the hope of seeing the image of the man they would one day marry.

She flushed as she seized the well bucket and emptied it into her pail. Not a single one of the local young men had ever set his cap at her. Was it because she was so short that she barely came up to their chins? Because she had too slender a figure? Mayhap it was the way her dark brown hair curled relentlessly around her head, refusing to ever be tamed. From occasional stolen glances in the glass, she knew that her large brown eyes looked too serious and that her overbite rendered her expression anxious. What lad would want a wife who wasn’t pretty? Her stepmother had pointed this out on numerous occasions.

Stomping across the yard, Letty entered the parlor of the former commander’s house. The sunlight had yet to penetrate its small windows or warm the stone walls, and she couldn’t repress a shudder as she entered.

She must make an effort and clean the room to perfection, to make amends for having damaged the cauldron. As she dragged a cross-backed chair over to the door to create some space, she speculated on the reason Mistress Smythe had given her this task.

There was little made of metal in here and nothing of any value. No blades, armor, or decorative items of weaponry, no toasting forks or chimney cranes. In truth, nothing that she was liable to break. Simpkin had teased her when she came to work at the commandery, calling her an “anti-smith”—someone who destroyed rather than created metal objects. She had even broken her wrist on one occasion. Had she accidentally offended a house sprite or a hobgoblin and been turned into a walking catastrophe?

She looked askance at the wide iron fireback in the empty fireplace. Surely, that was too sturdy for her to damage—but perhaps it would be best to avoid it. Once Simpkin was done with his tasks, she would get him to clear the ashes and dust the grate.

Now surrounded by cloth, leather, wood, and ceramics—things she was never clumsy with—she swept and mopped the floor, dusted the surfaces, and removed the cobwebs.

In the far corner, a heavy, carved armoire confronted her. It ought to be moved so she could clean underneath, but it would be wise to empty it first. Kneeling, she decanted the contents—some moth-eaten tapestries, an enormous Bible, several old parchments, and a hinged square box.

A shiver ran through her when she placed the box on top of the armoire. It might be best to look within to make sure the contents were sound, and not something she could easily break.

The box wasn’t locked, so she had no expectation of finding anything precious inside. But the last thing she thought to see were the empty eye sockets of a human skull glaring at her.

With a scream, she dropped the lid, but the movement sent the box crashing to the floor. The upper part of the skull rolled and smashed against the foot of the armoire, breaking into three pieces.

A shadow writhed up from the fragments and enveloped her.

Her mind reeled, her heart stopped, and the world went black.

Chapter Two

“Letty. Letty—wake up!”

The pungent scent of cotton lavender beneath her nose brought Letty back to her senses with a start. She gazed up into the worried eyes of Mistress Smythe.

“Alas, Mistress, I’ve broken something else. How can you ever forgive me?” She felt the tears sting her eyes. This would be the final straw, she was certain.

“Sit up. Did you bang your head? No? Good. What came over you?”

Letty bit her lip. “I don’t know.” She’d seen skulls before, but they were those of executed felons, left to remind the populace of what happened to traitors, murderers, and thieves. But to stumble across one so suddenly, carefully preserved in a box—she’d had the shock of her life and was still shaking. Getting to her feet, she watched Mistress Smythe collect up the pieces and return them to the box, along with the detached lower jaw.

“I don’t know why we kept this,” she said. “As a community motivated by faith, the Knights Hospitaller should not have shown any deference to superstition. But there it is—as a country girl yourself, you know how many of us are brought up to believe in ghosts, sprites, witches, devils, goblins, and Lord knows what other frightful beings.”

Letty crossed herself. The attention of otherworldly creatures had never troubled her before she came to work at the old Hospitaller commandery. Now, she seemed plagued by invisible enemies.

“Don’t let the master see you crossing yourself, Letty.” Mistress Smythe glanced over her shoulder. “He considers it the brand of the old faith. If King Edward dies and the Howards have their way, we will soon be a fully Protestant kingdom. You and I must move with the times to avoid persecution—no matter how we might feel about it.”

Letty wondered what the Protestant Church would have to say about skulls in boxes.

“Is this a saint’s relic?” If so, little wonder it had been hidden away. It would also explain why she’d felt that rush of some powerful, angry spirit when she dropped the skull—she’d just defiled something holy.

“Nay, not at all. Did you never hear the tale of the blacksmith and his lady?”

Letty sat up straight, shaking her head. Though no longer a child, she still loved stories. Mistress Smythe settled herself into the cross-backed chair.

“Long before we were born, the steed of the lady in question, who lived in the manor at Rooks Well, I believe, chanced to throw a shoe. She led the animal to the nearest village—ours—where she found the blacksmith’s forge and begged him to shoe her horse so she could return home from her ride. The task took far longer than it ought to have done because the smith kept being distracted by the lady’s beauty.”

Letty nodded. She’d heard such tales before—love sprang up between two people fated by birth never to be together, and when they took action to remedy this, tragedy ensued.

“What happened?”

“They fell in love, and she made any excuse to visit Temple Roding and spend time with the strong, handsome blacksmith. His ability to work with iron was almost magical, and while some in the village avoided him altogether, most just treated him with respect. He had a terrible temper upon him—or so the legend goes. Of course, the lady’s parents would never let their only child marry a lowly blacksmith, so she and he decided to run away together.”

“I think I may have heard this story once.” It must have been when her dear mother was alive before the cruel sweating sickness stole her away and put the detestable Goodwife Prudence in her place. “The lady died before they could wed, didn’t she?”

“She drowned. I think she was knocked senseless by some accident before the water claimed her—a terrible tragedy.”

“So, the smith never saw his love again.” If this story were indeed true, then she had little enough to complain of. Imagine losing the love of your life under such circumstances! The lady must have held such hope and joy in her heart, only to be snuffed out like a candle flame.

Mistress Smythe shook her head. “He never saw her. He hanged himself upon hearing the dreadful news. That is, as I’m sure you realize by now, his skull in the box.”

Letty’s flesh tingled unpleasantly. “But how does it come to be here, at the commandery?”

“As a suicide, the blacksmith was not permitted a grave in consecrated ground. He was buried at the crossroads where the highway from Temple Roding meets the road running toward Bulforde and Rooks Well. But his spirit was furious at this treatment. It is said that objects flew around in the smithy after his death as if flung by unseen hands. No one could take over the forge, so no one could get their horses shod, or their plowshares mended. Thus, it was decided that the man’s head should be dug up and brought back to the forge in an attempt to calm the violent outbursts.”

A family of swifts suddenly screeched past the open doorway, and a smell of freshly-cut hay wafted in. How could anyone believe in ghosts on such a fine summer’s day? Winter was the time for tall tales, shivers, and shadows.

“Pray, continue, Mistress.”

“The restless spirit was quieted by the burial of the skull in a cavity beneath the floor, and a new smith was installed. Whether the fellow was cursed by the ghost of the previous incumbent or just careless, no one knows, but the forge burned down soon afterward. Only the old blacksmith’s skull survived.”

“That might have been ill-fortune—nothing more.” It was what Letty preferred to believe. The story was strumming on her nerves, making her feel like a badly played lute. Despite the brightness and comfort of the day, she was once again feeling ill at ease.

“Wishing to allay the villagers’ fears, the Knights Hospitaller took charge of the skull. I never knew where they’d put it—no one showed it to me when I lived here as a child. Mayhap they thought I had known enough of tragedy.”

Letty nodded soberly. Mistress Smythe had lost her mother at her birth and had never known her father.

“And now the skull is broken.”

“Look not so pale. Now that we have discovered it, I shall mend it, and have Allan bury it next to the Hospitaller graveyard. Now that there’s no chaplain—or even a chapel—there is no one to object to its presence. I imagine that being buried next to consecrated ground will be a satisfactory conclusion to the dead man’s tale.”

“Are you not afraid of fire?” If a ghost could destroy a smithy, it could just as easily destroy a farmstead.

“Of course, I am—after the events of last year in which my husband and I nearly perished. But that fire was caused by mortal hands. We are always cautious here. I wish that I hadn’t told you the tale now—I’ve made you fret still further.”

Letty got to her feet. “Nay, Mistress. I’m quite recovered. Once I’ve finished cleaning, mayhap I’ll take the geese to the pond for a swim.”

She loved the geese at the old commandery, and they seemed to have no objection to her. Their relationship had been established as soon as she’d arrived at the manor—when she clapped at them to get out of her way, they went. If another person did it, the geese just ran at them, hissing. When she called them to her, they came—they obeyed no one else. It felt like her one saving grace—she could successfully herd geese. And she could cook, of course, so long as it didn’t involve the use of too many iron implements.

Mistress Smythe gazed at her for a long moment, frowning, then seemed to make up her mind about something.

“Why not take them once you’ve broken your fast? You’ve had a fright, and the walk will do you good—and if you take the geese to the village pond, you can report back to me on how the roof of my old cottage progresses. A thatcher’s man has come over from Rooks Well, but I don’t know if I trust the quality of his work—we disagreed immediately. I wanted the thatch replaced with new, but he tried to persuade me to purchase tiles instead, as they are less likely to catch fire. Imagine that! A thatcher not preaching what he practices! If his master finds out what he said to me, he’ll be ousted from his position soon enough. Foolish young fellow.”

“Odd, indeed.” Employment was valuable, and no apprentice ought to disagree with his master. Letty wasn’t sure she wanted to meet so stupid a fellow—she’d observe his work on the roof from a distance without speaking to him. Just so long as his ladder didn’t break or his iron thatching pins fly out as soon as she came near, all would be well.

And maybe, while in the village, she might have a discreet word with the priest to find out what could be done to deal with the haunting. But no one must know—if her stepmother found out, she’d be a laughingstock.

Chapter Three

“Master Merrick!”

Perkin wobbled a moment on his ladder, then tucked his hammer into his belt and gazed down.

“Mistress Smythe. Good day to you.” He settled his bundle of reeds so it couldn’t slide down the roof, then backed down the ladder, leaping to the ground and missing the last three rungs.

He made his bow. “The work progresses well—”

“I didn’t come here about the work. There is little time—I have a favor to ask.”

“Whatever you say, Mistress.” Why was his employer’s wife glancing around surreptitiously? Was she here without her husband’s knowledge, and if so, what could she possibly want with him?

He felt a sharp slap on his arm. “It’s not that kind of favor, you foolish fellow. Well, not exactly. I need you to distract a young woman for me.”

He grinned broadly. Intrigue? Trysts? Flirtation? He was greatly fond of those things.

“I see no difficulty there, Mistress.”

She frowned up at him. “This is no time for vanity, sirrah. The maid is much troubled. Her home is unhappy and her mind is greatly afflicted by a fear of ghosts and curses.”

“Hah!” She must be young if she had such fancies. Or simple.

He tilted his head to one side. “What kind of distraction did you have in mind?”

“I understand that you enjoy a good jest.”

Where had she heard that? He didn’t want to be thought shallow—he played tricks on people and attempted to make them laugh only to fill the void within himself.

“I try to be hearty and cheerful if that’s what you mean. Occasionally, I might play the fool.” He hoped he wasn’t revealing too much. The last thing he wanted was for anyone to guess at the amount of pain he carried.

“If, as a boon to me, you will play some of your tricks on Lettice Carter, I shall support you against your master. I know you don’t see eye-to-eye.”

Perkin pushed his cap back from his forehead. This clever young woman knew far too much.

“I don’t understand. You want to support me against my master—are we talking about my efforts to convince you to use tile instead of thatch?”

She nodded. “I know Hugh Thatcher doesn’t care for tile. But I understand that tile’s less flammable than thatch despite its cost and weight. I shall tell your master of its merits if you’ll help me with Letty.”

Perkin folded his arms across his chest. He’d already thatched half the roof of this lady’s former dwelling—was she about to change her mind? Despite his conviction that tile would soon become the preferred building material in the area—even on the roofs of common cottages—he would not enjoy having to undo his handiwork.

“Better continue as you have with this place. It contains pleasant memories despite the fire last year. I’d like to see it restored to what it once was.”

Good. But what game was Mistress Smythe playing?

“If you succeed with Letty, I’ll persuade my husband to have you tile one of the less important buildings—the shippon, mayhap. We can then convince Master Hugh Thatcher that it is time for him to add tiling as well as thatching to his business. Would that suit? Ah! Here comes Letty—I must make haste. Follow her, befriend her, make her think that otherworldly things have occurred, then prove to her they were merely tricks, illusions. She must cease to believe in ghosts, or she will never be happy. She mustn’t see me—farewell!”

Leaving Perkin gaping, his employer’s wife vanished among the village cottages.

He glanced around for the person he was meant to be cozening and spotted an elfin young woman driving geese into the village pond. She laughed at them as they honked and splashed, then glanced around as if filled with guilt for having dared to smile.

He had no plan in place and wasn’t even sure he’d decided to accept Mistress Smythe’s commission, but now he’d seen Letty, he was intrigued. Evidently, she had seen him, too—a flush stole over her cheeks, and she turned her head aside.

Striding round to the corner of the cottage, he stole a longer look. The young woman watched her geese with a worried frown, her eyes large and dark, her full upper lip making her look vulnerable and young. And exceedingly kissable.

He sucked in a breath, then pretended to be inspecting the tools suspended from his belt. He could permit himself to admire other women from afar, but he must never look on them with desire. If he didn’t wed Sarah Thatcher, his master’s vain, selfish daughter, he could never take over the thatching business. And if he didn’t persuade the ageing Hugh Thatcher to move with the times, the enterprise would fail, and they’d be paupers.

Curse Mistress Smythe! Why couldn’t she have engaged him to play tricks on an older, married woman—someone untouchable, forbidden? Hopefully, Letty Carter was spoken for and thus forbidden territory—she was surely comely enough to be much sought after.

Buoying himself up with some deep breaths, he strode across the green toward her.

“God give you good day, Maid. ’Tis a fine flock of geese you have there.” Not the most impressive opening remark, but he was struggling to find the right words.

She shaded her eyes and looked at him. “You’re the thatcher.” Her voice was soft, with a slight Suffolk burr. He liked it.

“The very same. Well—not the master thatcher, only his apprentice.” He gazed at her. What else could he say? “It is a fine morning and likely to be a fine day.” He attempted to sweeten his banal remark with his brightest smile.

To no effect. She looked past his shoulder at the cottage. “The thatching looks very neat. How much more work have you to do?”

She was interested in his craft? A rarity, indeed. Sarah Thatcher didn’t care at all about her father’s business. She was only interested in lace, baubles, and hats.

“It has taken longer than expected.” He moved between Letty and the sunlight, so she wouldn’t have to shade her eyes—it was essential to see what she looked like up close. “I had to work with a carpenter to replace the main timbers and battens before the thatching could begin. But I might be finished by week’s end, if the fine weather holds.”

“You seem to like the word ‘fine’, sir.”

He took a step backward. Was she teasing him? It was meant to be the other way around.

“I try to see everything in a good light and make the best of whatever befalls me. But I fear for you—you seem burdened.”

She tilted her pointed chin at him. “I always look like this. I have a naturally anxious-looking face.”

“I’m glad to hear there is naught amiss.” What had Mistress Smythe said about ghosts and curses? He couldn’t remember exactly what she’d ordered him to do, and the rapid pumping of his heart was proving most distracting.

“Know you the landlord of this cottage?” He squatted cross-legged on the grass that fringed the pool and gazed up at her, hoping to put her at ease.

“Master Smythe? Aye. These birds are his.” She indicated the geese. “You’re not afraid of geese?”

“They deserve a healthy respect.” Mayhap he should playfully throw a stick into the middle of the pond. Then he could win her favor by helping her to round up the outraged geese. He glanced around for a stick. There weren’t any.

It would be better to find out more before putting his campaign together. If he didn’t tread carefully, she’d be off quicker than a fox before hounds.

Flattery usually worked with women. “You must be the Lettice Carter of whom I’ve heard mention.”

She nodded shyly, then settled herself down a short distance away from him, arranging her skirts to cover her legs. “What do you know of me?”

He’d have to take a guess. “I hear you’re a splendid cook.”

Ah! She was smiling. Luck must be on his side.

“I hope I am, though somewhat accident-prone. Or cursed—I know not which. It is a great annoyance in a kitchen.”

Perfect. This was exactly what he needed to learn more about. “Cursed, you say? I can’t imagine why anyone would hex so sweet a maid.”

She frowned. “Nor I. I have done nothing to deserve such unnatural attention. You’re quite right. Unless my stepmother—”

He threw his head back and chuckled. “Don’t tell me that she’s a witch! There’s no evidence for such things, I assure you. Witches are just people who are addled in the head, or who enjoy frightening their neighbors. And for the fools who genuinely believe that hags can harm them, there are counter-measures. Boots hung over doorways, or walled into the chimney, hag stones, cold iron—”

“That is where my problem lies. It seems that for me, the iron itself is cursed.”

He gazed at her sorrowfully. Who had put such ridiculous fears into this maid’s pretty head? Mistress Smythe was right to seek his help for her—he was eminently pragmatic and laughed at superstition.

A goose scudded across the surface of the pond, chasing another in a flurry of feathers and spray. Letty snapped her fingers and hissed, making the belligerent bird subside with a splash.

The distraction had given him time to think. “Do you also believe in ghosts, Mistress Carter?”

She worried at her lower lip, then turned her brown eyes to his. He could see a few frizzy wisps of dark hair escaping from her coif and wondered irreverently what it would be like to touch them. Mercy, but the day had heated up quickly! He ran a finger around the inside of his collar.

“You would mock me if I told you.”

“Sometimes, ’tis easier to speak to a stranger.” Or so he hoped.

She stared at him for a moment. “Mayhap, it is. You may not have heard the tale, but a blacksmith once took his life in Temple Roding.”

Perkin sucked in a breath. Life was precious, as he knew to his cost—what could drive anyone to snuff out their own?

“Why?”

“He lost his ladylove. She was drowned, or some such thing. He was buried at the crossroads, but then his skull was dug up and taken to the smithy—which then burned down. All save the skull was lost. That is now kept up at the manor—I found it, dropped it, and broke it. So many accidents befall me, and I seem to be forever damaging iron items! My stepmother berates me constantly. Mistress Smythe is far more patient.”

She must be—Perkin had never heard so ludicrous a notion. But he must appear to believe if he was to earn Letty Carter’s trust.

“So, have these accidents only happened since you dropped the skull?”

“Nay—I was cursed afore that. Last year, I broke my wrist.”

“Then, have things worsened since you dropped the skull? There might be no connection at all.”

She blinked at him. “I don’t know. It only happened this morning.”

Yes, indeed—Letty Carter was full to the brim with foolish notions. He must do what he could to disabuse her of them at once. If it meant Mistress Smythe interceding with Hugh Thatcher on his behalf, it would be well worth the effort.

“I understand what you say about ghosts, and their evil influence. There are tales of one at Rooks Well, where I spent my youth. She was the only child of the lord of the manor and fell in love with a humble artisan—he might have been a blacksmith, too, like the owner of your skull.”

He heard her suck in a breath. She was hanging on his every word—it was adorable.

“They decided to run away together since her family would never approve a match between them. But the lady—so it is said—was killed when her conveyance took a tumble into a flooded brook. Her lover was distraught and, like your blacksmith, he took his own life. The bridge where the lady met her end is called Patience Bridge—named after the unfortunate damsel, I assume. Over time, legend has turned her spirit into that of a spiteful old witch, forever trying to drag unsuspecting travelers down to share her watery grave.”

His storytelling must be convincing. It produced a shudder in his audience.

“Is that true? How terrible.”

He paused a moment, hoping, like a player, to conjure dramatic effect. “Of course, it isn’t true! I don’t believe in ghosts, and nor should you. I just made it all up.”

He hadn’t exactly made it up, as it was, indeed, a local legend. But it was best she think that he’d invented the tale. He was meant to be crushing her superstitious beliefs, not reinforcing them.

Her outrage was endearing and made him chuckle, but not for long. He was shoved roughly off balance, and before he could do anything about it, he was up to his neck in water, pushing pondweed out of his eyes and batting away the snapping beaks of several angry geese.

“You mocked me!” She was on her feet, fists clenched, a small, furious whirlwind. “You promised you wouldn’t!”

Before he could catch his breath or utter a sound, she had snapped her fingers and was marching away, driving the geese in front of her.

He looked around, praying no one had seen him being bested by a wench half his size, and scrambled out of the pond, swiping the noxious mud from his sleeves and hose.

Well—that was unfortunate. He’d overplayed his hand and failed in his commission. Mistress Smythe would not be pleased.

Suddenly, a chill swept through his body, like a gust of winter wind. That pond water must be colder than he thought. Gazing thoughtfully after Letty, he began rubbing vigorously at his arms, but his hands froze mid-movement.

Something that had no shape, but was about the height and breadth of a person, had appeared in the young woman’s wake. It moved with her, but it was no shadow, and he could see right through it.

Impossible. He rubbed at his eyes—he must have silt in them, from the pond. Aye, that was it. He could no longer see the shape. But the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end, and the world no longer seemed quite as it had been. It might be harder to convince Lettice Carter of the nonexistence of ghosts than he’d thought.

Chapter Four

It was Midsummer’s Eve, when the maidens in the village—of whom there were, mayhap, fewer than there should have been—performed traditional rituals to learn who they were going to marry.

Having no expectation of marrying anyone, Letty had thus far resisted the urging of her peers. But after Sarah Thatcher, a vain peacock of a woman, walked over from Bulforde to join in the revels, she changed her mind. Especially when Sarah boasted that she knew exactly who she’d see—Perkin Merrick, her father’s thatching apprentice. Letty was dying to find out if this could be true, as they seemed a mismatched pair, at the very least.

One of the night’s traditions was to pick nine kinds of flowers, then gaze down a well to see reflected there the face of one’s future husband. Or one could put the flowers under one’s pillow, and he’d invade one’s dreams. Not traditional, but a common occurrence, all the same, was the loss of maidenheads in the bushes and the long grass—so long as the weather was fine. Determined to avoid such peril, Letty decided not to look down the village well. She’d head for the ancient Templar well on the manor instead—there was no likelihood of any lusty youth following her right into the middle of Master Smythe’s abode.

Woodruff Scrivener pulled off her coif and shook out her dark locks. “I’ll not wear my garland atop this—it would be most unbecoming.”

“No one’s going to notice in the dark,” scoffed Sarah Thatcher, “but I might as well keep mine clean until the morrow.” She freed her thick, heavy braid and tucked her coif into her scrip.

Letty pulled a face as she gazed at Sarah. The idea of the tow-headed, grey-eyed Perkin huffing and puffing between this woman’s thighs was hideous. Oh, she must think herself so far above them all to have captured that fine figure of a man for her very own. Assuming she had.

Letty blinked. Since when had she considered Perkin handsome? He was odious and fully deserved to have been pushed into the pond. He and Sarah would be perfect for one another—he would mock her, she would pinch him, and they would argue all the livelong day.

Curse it! She must put Perkin from her mind, or she would imagine it was his face she saw in the well water, and the spirit of her future true love wouldn’t appear at all.

Lifting her lantern to avoid potholes in the dusk, she joined the laughing throng as they went in search of nine kinds of flowers. Luckily, the white cow parsley was easy to find in the gloom, and the verges were full of campion, ox-eye daisies, dog roses, and other blooms. The air smelled sweet, of growing hay and freshly-pulled flower stems, and the evening throbbed with expectation.

As soon as she had the required number of flowers in her apron, Letty slipped away from the rest of the group and took the lane toward Temple Roding manor.

And suddenly, everything felt different. She had an uncanny sense of being followed, but whenever she gazed over her shoulder, there was naught to see but shadows and burgeoning bushes. Yet her scalp continued to prickle, and a deep sense of foreboding stole over her.

It must be one of the village lads, following her in the darkness, intent on playing a trick on her. Hopefully, he had nothing more serious in mind—she had no intention of losing her maidenhead this night or having a husband forced upon her who would pin her to Temple Roding with no hope of escape. Her fingers went to the handle of the eating knife strung from her belt—she’d defend her honor with her blade if necessary. Or at least, threaten to do so.

Chin set, she made her way toward the manor house, spun around three times as the rite required, then stepped into the well house. The old Templar shaft was so deep that it required a special mechanism to draw up the bucket. It had been thought sensible to put a building around the apparatus to protect it from the elements.

Which meant that, when she gazed down into the well, all she could see was darkness. She couldn’t even see her own reflection, let alone that of anyone else. What folly! Why had she bothered? There was no point in looking here, but she couldn’t give up entirely—she needed some kind of hope. She needed to know that, one day, a stranger would whisk her away from Temple Roding and the clutches of her resentful, demanding stepmother.

She couldn’t pray for a face to magically appear, for this was an ancient ritual, passed down through the centuries and guarded by whatever gods the English had believed in before the days of Christianity. In truth, she shouldn’t have anything to do with such a superstitious practice. What would Master and Mistress Smythe do if they found out?

She’d just made up her mind to cease staring into the black emptiness when the air turned cold. But there was no wind and no reason for the sudden chill. Did this mean the magic was working? If so, she couldn’t deny it, could she? Who knew what might happen if she didn’t take what was offered? Arousing the wrath of a pagan god would surely be unwise.

Clutching her flower-filled apron against her breast, she peered into the ink-dark depths of the well.

Nothing. She blinked and sucked in a breath, but before she could make a move to leave, her vision became clouded. The air had become positively icy. Shuddering, she forced herself to watch as an otherworldly mist shimmered just above the surface of the water far below.

Then features began to appear. Letty gripped the wall of the well, knuckles whitening, transfixed by fear. A bony face with hollowed eyes and a dark beard swam into her vision. It was a real face, belonging to a man with a thick neck, broad shoulders, and a head of unruly hair. But the face wore a grim, despairing expression, one that filled her soul with emptiness.

Her hand flew to her mouth, restraining a cry of alarm. At that exact moment, two hands seized her by the shoulders, pulling her backward. Her scream was cut off by rough fingers across her mouth, and she fought the urge to faint with all her might.

Too late.

Chapter Five

Perkin hadn’t meant to frighten her so severely that she fainted in his arms. He had only intended to peer over her shoulder, let her see his reflection, then mock her for thinking there was anything magical about the practice of looking down a well.

She gave a gulp and turned in his arms, her fingers clawing at the front of his jerkin. “Oh, ’twas foul! An awful sight. And such a feeling of deep despair!”

Tears coursed down her cheeks, and he pulled her closer, inhaling the lavender scent of her hair.

“What is it? What did you see?”

“A shade, a skeletal face. It drained all the warmth from my body and all the joy from my soul.”

Aha. This was precisely the kind of gullibility Mistress Smythe had been talking about. She wanted Letty cured of her anxieties and fantasies, and he would benefit if he were the one to do it.

“That was no ghost, sweet lady. Forgive me—I am ofttimes known to play the fool, and you have fallen foul of one of my jests. I had no idea I would frighten you so much by peering over your shoulder like that. Pray, grant me your forgiveness.”

Lying to her left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he shrugged away the guilt. She felt so good in his arms—he wouldn’t mind if she chose to stay there a moment or two longer.

“What do you mean, it was one of your jests? You have no beard, or dark hair. And your face is well-fleshed out and handsome. What I saw was a specter, a restless spirit. Oh, now I’m certain that I must be cursed! I must find me a priest and see what can be done to lay the ghost.”

“There are no such thing as ghosts.” His mind snagged on the fact that she’d called him “handsome”. Then snagged again when he remembered the wraith that had appeared behind her the other day.

Nay. There must be some logical explanation for that—he just wasn’t learned enough to know it. “I repeat—that was no spirit. It was me. I held your lantern beneath my chin, like so.” He demonstrated. “Hence the appearance of hollowed eyes. The dark hair and beard were merely shadows thrown by the candlelight. Come now, calm yourself.”

His hand was rhythmically stroking her back, and her trembling lips were so close to his own, he had to clench his teeth to resist kissing her. Ah! Midsummer’s Eve exerted a powerful influence over the young and lusty. He must watch his step—he’d promised Mistress Smythe to quell Letty’s fears, not to seduce her. If he were to do the latter, he’d let everyone down and completely ruin his prospects.

“Come,” he said gently. “You’ve had a fright, and the best place for you is bed.” A pox on’t! Now he was imagining her in his bed. Be damned to this wicked, infuriating night!

“Let’s get you to your feet, shall we?” He held her as far away as possible. “Will you accept my apology? I didn’t mean to scare you out of your wits. But ’tis an old jest, and I’m sure many young men before me have done the same thing and made certain their sweethearts saw only their faces in the well.”

She stepped away from him, hands planted firmly at her waist. “But they behaved in earnest to secure the hearts of their future wives. You meant only to make a clown of me.”

“Am I not to have your forgiveness, then?” He put as much earnestness in his tone as he could. It had always been hard for him to appear serious—he wore joviality about him like a suit of armor. It was the best way to assuage the agony of having been unable to save his parents from the fire, the best way to manage when one was totally alone in the world. No one had ever guessed how much the tragedy had formed his nature—not Master Thatcher, nor his daughter Sarah. Not even Mistress Smythe, who was undeniably both sensitive and clever.

Letty’s response to his plea was a haughty toss of the head. She was wearing no coif, just a garland of braided ivy with some dandelions threaded into it. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders in a tantalizing mass of curls. What would it feel like to run his fingers through it? To tug on a curl and watch it bounce back? He could spend many happy hours enjoying that hair, that slender body, that elfin face. Years, even.

What?

Fortunately, a sharp slap on the cheek knocked him out of his lecherous state of mind.

“I do not forgive you. It was a cruel, heartless trick. I despise you, Perkin Merrick. I’m leaving.”

“Wait! Let me accompany you. It is full dark now.”

“I have my lantern. And there are many villagers abroad this night. I’m in no danger.”

She was, of course. Did she not realize how much of a temptation she presented, with those huge eyes and that vulnerable-looking mouth? With the fields and woods packed with young lads and maids intent on frolicking, it wasn’t wise to let her walk home alone.

“All the same, I’ll come. As far as your door. Or just to your gate—I’ll see you safely within.”

“If my stepmother catches sight of you, she’ll flay the skin off my back. I’m forbidden to go a-courting, and she’ll think that’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

“Isn’t that what you are doing?”

Another voice smote the air—harsh and haughty. A voice he knew only too well.

He spun around. “Sarah! Well met. I was about to come in search of you.”

“Not from what I overheard.” His master’s daughter bristled. “For what transgression must you be forgiven? Nay—say not a word, for I know exactly what’s been going on. Strumpet!”

Before he could react, Sarah had seized two fistfuls of Letty’s hair and yanked on it hard. Letty brought up her hands to defend herself as he leaped forward to pull the cursing, growling Sarah away from her victim.

As soon as the two women were separated, Letty rushed forward and slapped him again. “You have used me most ill. Both of you. Now get your loathsome ladylove away from here before I rouse the entire manor and have you thrown down the well!”

Chest heaving, she marched off into the darkness.

He barely had time to admire her spirit before another hand made contact with his face, knocking him sideways.

“How dare you dangle after another woman when you’re meant to be marrying me? My father will hear of this and will give you cause to regret your actions this night.”

As he rubbed ruefully at his jaw, Sarah, too, strode off into the night, thankfully taking a different path than Letty.

He had failed Mistress Smythe and failed his master, too, by apparently being unfaithful to Sarah. It would take all the cunning and pretty words he could devise to get himself out of this situation with his manly pride still intact.

Pray to God he hadn’t just damaged his prospects as well as his pride.

Chapter Six

When her malicious stepmother threw a bag of dried peas at her and split her lip, Letty decided it was time to run away. Her only fault this time had been to accidentally chop through a lovage plant when her pruning knife slipped, but Prudence had been beyond furious.

Letty’s mind worked rapidly, wondering how far she would get without coin—her stepmother demanded all her wages to pay for her keep. Would Mistress Smythe take her in until she’d earned enough money to travel far away? But even if she could take refuge at the manor, where would she sleep? The place was in turmoil while the new house was being constructed, and she’d only be a nuisance to everyone.

“Daughter.”

She rubbed the tears from her eyes and stood up. “Father.”

He shifted his gaze away from her face but took her hand and stared down at it.

“Forgive Prue. Your stepmother is anxious today, and her temper always flares quickly when her mind is burdened.”

He was continually making excuses for his scold of a wife. In olden days, Goodwife Prudence would have been dunked in the village pond or had her head put in the Scold’s Bridle. Perhaps they should revive the tradition.

“What has put her into such a temper today?”

“She’s frightened by the news of King Edward’s death. Without a male heir, the kingdom becomes unstable. We want no internal squabbles, no fighting. The affairs of the monarchy could damage us—even here, deep in the heart of Essex.”

“Then mayhap you should try and put her mind at rest, Father.” Letty tilted her chin at him. She would never be openly defiant, but sometimes, he just needed a push in the right direction.

“I shall. And for now, maybe you should make yourself scarce. Whatever you do in this garden, Prudence will find fault with—you know how proud of it she is.”

Indeed. Even though she never lifted a finger to tend it herself.

“I shall go to the manor early, then.” There were always tasks needing to be done there. So long as she didn’t have to go near the graveyard and the little pile of earth that revealed where the blacksmith’s skull had been buried. His curse had a long reach if her accident with the knife today was anything to go by.

Fortunately, on her arrival at Temple Roding manor, she was rewarded with a task that would take her still farther away from trouble—herding some of the geese to sell at Low Ongar market.

A day out in the early July sunshine with the geese would be the perfect antidote to her gloom. She’d be sad to see them sold, however, as they were—in their own peculiar way—like friends to her.

The road took Letty and the small flock over Patience Bridge, near the village of Rooks Well. Was this bridge the place where there’d been a tragic death? Perkin Merrick had spoken of a grand lady who’d run off to elope with a blacksmith, but her conveyance had tipped over on the bend, and she’d died.

Letty could understand how heartbroken the blacksmith must have been to lose his love, but really, it was no excuse for haunting people, cursing them, or setting buildings aflame. What had his lady been like? Addled in the head, if she was rich, but prepared to settle for being a mere artisan’s wife. Mayhap she’d had a mother like Prudence. That would account for her need to elope, in very truth.

As she peered down at the sluggish water, Letty heard a scraping noise from the bank and turned just in time to see the gander, Cecil, flounce happily into the water.

No! This was a disaster! For wherever he went, the others were sure to follow, and they’d soon be off downstream and headed for freedom.

“Shoo! Shoo!” She clapped and hissed at the gaggle of geese, pushing them back from the banks and onto the roadway.

“Cecil! Come here, you feathered devil. Come back right now!”

Cecil trod water and stared at her with his beady black eyes, then honked loudly, a clarion call to his fellows.

Frantically, she flapped her skirts at the rest of the geese. Oh, why was there no one here when she needed help? There was nothing else for it. She’d have to go into the water and fetch Cecil out herself. How deep was it? If ’twas deep enough to drown a full-grown woman, she ought not to risk it.

But what alternative was there? She glanced around, her heart hammering in her chest. Hah! There was some sorrel—she’d grab a handful and try tempting Cecil out with that. Quickly untying her shoes, she slithered down the bank toward the recalcitrant goose, but when she reached the water’s edge, her feet sank ankle-deep in mud.

Grimacing, she pulled at her feet, but the mud held her tight. Fear skittered up her spine—could one drown in mud? An attempt to loosen the other foot failed, and she sank a few inches deeper.

Now might be a good time to scream for help—this was a well-used highway, and someone would surely be along in a moment.

“Help! I’m stuck. Please help me!”

She heard someone shout in response, and the sound of running feet made her sigh out her relief—until she discovered to whom the feet belonged.

Perkin Merrick leaned over the bridge, grinning down at her.

“Well, well, what have we here? God give you good day, Letty Carter. I see that the Grey Lady’s ghost has you in her clutches. Once she has a hold of you, it will take ten men to pull you out. I rather fear you are doomed.”

Chapter Seven

How he loved to tease this young woman! Her cheeks reddened, and her dark eyes flared—and that look of vulnerability fled. He was clearly good for her—such a pity that his taunting made her hate him. But he had a task to perform, and the successful completion of that mattered more than her good opinion.

“Are you going to get me out of here or not?”

What in heaven had she been thinking, clambering down the steep bank? He’d been joking about the Grey Lady, of course, but not about the cloying mud. He’d seen a cow become stuck in it once and it had, in truth, taken several men to free the bellowing beast.

He unbuckled his belt. Would it be strong enough? Geese hissed and fretted about his ankles, but he waved his stick at them until they backed off.

“I’ll hold on to the wall to steady myself. Can you reach the end of my belt? There’s no point in me coming down there and both of us getting stuck.”

She glanced over her shoulder at a haughty-looking goose treading water in the shallows and gnawed at her lip.

“Is that one of yours?”

She nodded.

“It can wait. We must get you out first.”

“But I’m meant to be taking Cecil to market. And the rest of them. I must get him back.”

“You first, then the geese,” he said, setting his jaw. Mistress Smythe had a kind heart—he hoped—surely, she would understand if one of the geese were lost?

His belt was strained to breaking point as he attempted to pull Letty from the mud. As soon as she had one foot free, she dug her nails into the bank and, with his help, was able to release the other foot and claw her way to level ground. But the effort was such that she lost her balance and collapsed on him, covering him in dripping black mud.

He laughed as he helped her up. “What a sight we must make! Come—yonder is a place where we can get down to the water to clean ourselves up without risking our lives. With the Grey Lady’s permission, of course.” He chuckled.

“But the gander—”

“You can’t go to market looking like a vagrant—no one will buy from you. Be sensible, Woman, and do as I say.”

“Everyone tells me what to do,” she grumbled as he led her along the bank to a shallow, pebbled area.

“Be of good cheer. The sun smiles upon us now, none of your geese have been harmed, and you’ve just been rescued by the most dashing blade in the neighborhood. Even if he is but a thatcher’s rebellious apprentice. Any other wench would be delighted.”

“Don’t call me ‘wench’.” She filled her cupped hands with water and began scrubbing the mud from her legs.

Perkin was transfixed. Such shapely ankles! Such pure, white flesh! Nay. When one looked closer—which he couldn’t help doing—one could see she was covered in bruises as if she’d fallen down a scree slope. But this was Essex. There were no rockslides here.

“Ugh. I have mud all up my arms, as well. How did I manage that?”

“Let me roll up your sleeves for you, then. My hands are cleaner than yours.”

She shied away from him like a wounded animal, but he reached out and tugged at the ties of her cuff. When he rolled up the sleeve, he saw more bruises—some old and yellowing, others red and angry, recently done.

“What caused these? Have you had an accident?”

“No accident.” She held out her other arm for the sleeve to be rolled up but turned her face away.

He traced a finger over the soft skin and, suddenly, fury boiled within him, more potent than anything he’d ever known.

He leaped to his feet. “Who did this to you? Not the Smythes, surely? They seem like godly people.”

She shook her head, and a curl of dark hair escaped her coif. “Of course not. They’ve been kindness itself to me, for all that I am so clumsy and bedeviled.”

His jaw clenched. Her father then, or her mother. Or had she a vindictive sibling? He needed to know more about this maid who bore her pain so nobly.

“Who hurt you? If you don’t tell me, I’ll cast you back into the mud where I found you.” An idle threat. He was so affected by this young woman’s suffering that he vowed then and there to wreak vengeance on whoever had inflicted it.

“Ah, ’tis nothing. My stepmother is full of yellow bile, and it makes her irritable. But I transgress often, so mayhap I deserve her wrath.”

“You most certainly do not.” He pulled her around to look at him, and as he scanned her face, he saw a spot of dried blood on her lip.

It took great effort to control his rage. If only he knew how to throw curses! He’d like to see that cruel stepmother boiled in a vat of her own bile.

“Did she do this, too?” Of course, she had. It was infuriating—what went on behind closed doors was far too often ignored, just accepted as part of family life. Husbands beat their wives, and children were given the belt for insubordination and laziness. He didn’t approve of any of it. Why couldn’t people just be content with one another?

Letty stared at him, her brown eyes full of trouble. “You won’t say anything, will you? Or do anything foolish?”

He touched the corner of her lip with a gentle finger. “I can’t promise. This sort of thing disgusts me.”

“Oh, but you mustn’t!” She grabbed his hand and clung to it. “It would only make things worse. Don’t be concerned for me—I shall leave home as soon as I can.” She gave him a wan smile. “Perchance I’ll find a husband at Low Ongar market—who knows?”

The devil she would!

“I’ll take you under my protection for the rest of the day. We’ll go to the market together, so I’ll be on hand to deal with any more mishaps. You do seem to be exceptionally unlucky, Letty Carter.” Sarah would scold, Mistress Smythe would be disappointed, and Hugh Thatcher would shout at him, but he’d bring them around in the end. A few jests, his disarming grin, and a promise to work from dawn to dusk the following day would settle matters.

“You can’t help me—I’m cursed by that blacksmith’s shade.”

“Nonsense. I’ll prove you wrong if only you put your trust in me.”

“Why should I believe you? You’re the least trustworthy fellow I’ve ever met.”

That wiped the smile off his face. Solemnly, he offered her his hand. “I apologize for that. Come, let’s get these geese of yours back on the road—we can discuss my contemptible character later.”

“What about Cecil—I mean, the gander?”

“Shall we assume he’ll follow if we can get the rest of the flock to come with us? Geese tend not to enjoy being alone.”

He peered over the wall of the bridge to find out where the gander had gone, and saw a sight that well-nigh stopped his heart.

Below him, a shape appeared in the water. He blinked, but the thing remained, nebulous, weightless, and drifting slowly with the current. Ice trickled down his spine. A trick of the light, surely? He shaded his eyes and the figure dispersed, like a multitude of ripples. But these were no ordinary ripples.

He heard Letty whimper as the scattered image came together once more, and now he could see beyond a doubt the form of a woman, face-down in the water. The wraith’s long hair fanned out around her head and her fists, starkly white, were thrust out in front of her. Grey skirts clung and twisted around her legs.

Even though he knew it was too late—probably centuries too late—he was poised to leap down from the bridge until Letty’s touch yanked him back to reality.

“It’s the Grey Lady, isn’t it? Lady Patience,” she whispered. “Now do you believe in ghosts?”

He slipped an arm around her waist and drew her to him, whether for her comfort or for his, he knew not. But the warmth of Letty’s body dragged him back from the gaping tombs of the dead to sunlit reality, and as he stared and blinked at the floating corpse, it vanished.

He rubbed a hand across his eyes. All his certainties, all his comforting beliefs, were crumbling away.

He felt Letty tremble and gave her a reassuring squeeze. “Well, Maid—I see I may have to revise my views. But I disapprove of ghosts, and I fully intend to prevent them persecuting you.”

He only hoped he could think of something. It had become essential that he should free Letty Carter from all her troubles. And by doing so, perhaps he’d be able to resolve his own.

Chapter Eight

Letty awoke to sounds of screaming and raging. Leaping from her bed, she threw her kirtle over her shift and clambered down the ladder to see what was amiss. Goodwife Prudence was apt to make a scene over nothing, but she’d never heard her sound as overset as this before.

There was no one below, but the door leading to the yard was wide open, affording her a view of the vegetable garden full of figures and flying feathers.

“Get a besom—beat them out of here. Don’t just stand there gawping, Lettice, you laggard! Do as I say, or I’ll see to it that you won’t be able to sit on your lazy backside for a week!”

Despite her stepmother’s threats, the scene before Letty was almost comical. Father, trying to hold up his untied hose with one hand, was struggling to herd a flock of uncooperative grey geese toward the garden gate. Goody Prudence, her kirtle undone and her huge bosom flopping about unsupported—but mercifully concealed by her shift—was trying to prod the geese away with the poker.

“Do something, Lettice! They’ve have trampled all the seedlings and nibbled off the new shoots. The peppermint’s been torn to shreds, and the sorrel and fat-hen entirely uprooted. My beautiful garden! It looks like a battle’s been waged. I knew something was in the wind when King Edward died so young—dire things lie ahead for us all!”

Letty shook her head and began waving her skirts and clapping at the geese. It seemed a shame to spoil the birds’ fun, and it was a delight to see her stepmother so enraged. But she dared not enjoy this spectacle for long—any damage the geese did could deny them all a tasty supper and give her even more work to do to put all to rights again.

“Mark my words! This is just the beginning!” her stepmother proclaimed as the geese bobbed and hissed their way out onto the lane. “It’s a portent of terrible times to come. There’ll be strange lights in the sky, a murrain of the cattle, showers of blood coming down from the clouds! I learned all about these things from the old priests.”

Letty closed the gate behind the geese, battling hysterical laughter. Honestly, how could Goody Prue believe such things? Jane Grey and Princess Mary Tudor were contesting the throne of England, aye, but surely, this was not the first time such a thing had happened? And nobody really believed in rains of blood and portents of doom anymore. Did they?

She was just pondering if her own conviction on the existence of ghosts was similarly laughable when a movement caught her eye. Someone stood in the shadow of the hawthorn bushes flanking the cottages opposite.

Her heart stilled—for a terrifying moment, she feared it was the blacksmith’s shade. Had he brought about this latest catastrophe? Why was this vengeful spirit so determined to do her mischief?

Next instant, the figure resolved itself into the form of Perkin Merrick, grinning smugly as he gave her a gallant bow.

He was behind this? This was beyond the pale. She’d imagined that they were friends now, after he’d walked her all the way to the market the other day, entertaining her with his tall tales.

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, spinning her around to face the blazing fury of her stepmother.

“You did this, you feckless dolt. You let those stupid birds you’re so fond of into my garden. I’ll make their owners pay—your fancy friends up at the manor will be most displeased. They’ll turn you off, and then you’ll have to do your duty and look after your father and me. But not before you’ve been rightfully punished.”

Letty, aware that some of the neighbors had gathered to enjoy the performance, lowered her voice. “They are not geese from the manor. Theirs are mostly white, whereas these are grey.”

“Don’t talk back to me, girl!” A stinging slap across the face reopened the split lip Letty had received two days earlier. Tears pricked her eyes.

“I did not let the geese in the garden. I was in bed—you know that.”

“Aye, lazy slug-a-bed that you are. You must have let them in last night. Your defiance can no longer be tolerated. You will not leave this house again without my permission—do you understand?”

To emphasize her pronouncement, Prue struck Letty again, making her ears ring and sending her reeling. Why was Father doing nothing to stop his wife? Did he not care for his daughter at all?

Suddenly, a figure loomed between Letty and her stepmother. She gaped in shock as Perkin Merrick seized Prue’s wrists in his hands and held them firmly at her sides.

“Desist, Goodwife. The fault is mine, not your daughter’s. If you wish to set about someone with your fists, pray—make me your target.”

Letty stepped to his side and immediately felt the comforting warmth of his presence. Until now, she hadn’t appreciated how tall he was, nor how broad across the shoulders. Though he was probably accentuating his assets to impress her stepmother.

The look of stunned surprise on Goody Prue’s face was worth a mint. Letty’s face hurt too much for her to laugh, fortunately, because it would have been most unwise.

Father recovered from his astonishment first, wrenched Prue from Perkin’s grasp, and stood breast to breast with the thatcher.

“I know you. You’re the lad repairing the roof of Master Smythe’s cottage, the one that burned down last year. Now tell me, what’s all this about?”

Letty saw Perkin wince, but he folded his arms across his chest and looked her father squarely in the eyes.

“I am, indeed. I come from Bulforde, close to Rooks Well. I presume you know it?”

“Never mind that. Tell me what you’re up to before I call the constable.”

Father was trying to soothe the spluttering Prue and stand up to the implacable Perkin at the same time. Letty was too torn between laughter and fear to do more than stare in horrified fascination. What would be the outcome of this skirmish? Surely, Perkin’s gallant support of her would do more harm than good.

He took her hand and squeezed it before addressing Father. “Truth be told, I wanted to teach your malicious wife a lesson, sir. She treats your daughter worse than a stray dog, and I am appalled that you can allow such cruelty to go on beneath your roof. You’re spoiling Letty’s character, turning her into a frightened doe, convinced that whatever she does will bring the hounds upon her.”

Stay—she wasn’t as timid as all that, was she? After all, she’d pushed Perkin in the village pond, quite regardless of the consequences.

Father’s fingers trembled, the pallor of his face testament to his anger. He prodded at Perkin’s chest.

“And how exactly does that concern you, young rogue? Answer me that!”

“It concerns me because I am the man Letty is going to marry.”

Chapter Nine

Perkin caught his breath and gazed down at the woman he’d just claimed for his own. She was angry, unshod, unwilling—and totally adorable. Before she could utter a word of protest, he caught her up in his arms and marched out of the yard with her, followed by the confused gaggle of geese he’d herded together from the local common.

“Why would I want to marry you?” Her arms were twined around his neck, but whether it was compliance or because she intended to strangle him, he had no idea.

“Because I am your hero, who has come to your rescue.” He tossed his head, raised his chin, and did his best to appear heroic. But the vigor was starting to ebb from his veins. He’d done a terrible thing, which they might both live to regret.

“Don’t you like me? Not even a little?”

“No. You are loathsome. How can I go back home now? Stepmother will flay the flesh from my bones.”

“She’ll not lay another finger on you, not while I still draw breath. Marriage is the best way to keep you safe—you’ll be under my protection, not your father’s. He doesn’t deserve you. You know I speak the truth.”

She scowled at him. “Where do you think you’re taking me? This is abduction, you know—I consented to nothing.”

“I confess that I overplayed my hand, but I swear to do the right thing by you. I’m taking you to Temple Roding manor, so we may be amongst decent, sensible people.”

“They can’t see me like this!” She released her hold, catching at the unlaced edges of her kirtle. “I don’t even have my coif on.”

He didn’t mind at all, but he understood. He set her down as soon as they were out of sight of the village and ushered her into a shady patch of woodland.

“Here—I’ll knot my kerchief around your hair while you lace up. We need shoes for you, though—I shall have to go back for your belongings.”

She gazed up at him, her eyes wide. “You’d really do that? Go back into the lion’s den?”

“For you, I would brave anything.” He knew that he meant it. Sarah Thatcher had a comfortable life with a father who doted on her and a mother who never raised a hand to her—she had no real need of him but as a handsome suitor to parade around. Letty Carter did need him, whether she knew it yet or not.

She tutted as she tied her laces together. “A pretty speech, but if I go with you, where are we to live? And what are we to live on—air?”

He noted with some pride that she hadn’t rejected his suit outright. If she was pondering the practicalities of being man and wife, she’d given him an opening, and he must make the most of it.

“We’ll dwell at the manor if they can accommodate us. I must expect that as soon as news of this event reaches my master’s ears, he’ll cast me out of his abode and sue me for breaking my indenture. But my term’s almost up, and by the time he’s decided whether or not to go to the law, it will no longer be worth his while.”

“What then? What about your things?”

He loved that she now seemed concerned for him. Letty Carter had a good heart—she just rarely had the opportunity to show it.

He gathered her hair in his hands, knotting his kerchief over the top and battling the desire to press his face against her curls and inhale their lavender scent. At a time like this, a fellow needed to keep his wits about him.

“Knowing Sarah, my tools and possessions will be thrown on the midden. I can collect them from there.”

“How can you be so cheerful when you’ve just turned both our lives upside down?”

“Change can be turned to one’s advantage.” Nothing that happened in his life would ever be as grim as watching his parents die screaming in a house fire when he was too young to do anything about it. Having survived the horror of that moment, he refused to allow fear or misery into his life.

“You look downhearted, sweeting. Why not kiss your rescuer, and convince him that you are worth his sacrifice?”

“I’d rather kiss my father’s sow,” she said, but smiled.

Chapter Ten

Master Smythe stood, legs planted firmly apart and with his hands on his hips. “So, Master Perkin Merrick, am I to understand that you’re essentially a vagabond now?”

Perkin winced. “I’d prefer the term ‘itinerant journeyman thatcher’, sir. But if you give me employment, you may call me by whatever title you want.”

The lord of the manor’s frown vanished. “You have a quick tongue, Master Merrick. No doubt your ready wit irritated your former master beyond bearing. Unless, of course, you have committed some more heinous crime. Robbing him of his tools, mayhap?”

Perkin pushed his shoulders back. “Certainly not. I might be accused of stealing his daughter’s heart—but in very truth, it was never my intention to do so.”

“You had better not cause trouble among my female servants or laborers.” Smythe raised an eyebrow.

Did that mean the man was considering giving him work? Perkin’s heart raced. It would mean he could see Letty every day, and they’d be spared the spite of Sarah Thatcher and her father.

It had been wrong of him to lay claim to Letty when he didn’t have the means to support a wife, but some devil had driven him today, and he hadn’t been able to restrain himself.

“My heart beats for one woman only, Master. You may as well know now. It is Lettice Carter.”

Motes of dust swirled in the beam of light that slashed through the parlor of the old Hospitaller commander’s house. The silence felt so thick, it hung around Perkin like a cloak, and he waited, fists clenched, for Master Smythe’s decision. He forced himself to meet the man’s unblinking, questioning gaze.

Smythe heaved out a breath. “Very well. You may help with building my new house—I’ll have a word with the master mason. But my wife and I will be watching you two lovebirds like hawks, do you understand? Your time is not your own while you’re at your daily toil. I can’t afford to have any slacking.”

Outside, a cart trundled across the cobbles, and someone could be heard operating the winding mechanism on the well. It was almost certainly Letty. His collar felt tight, and his cheeks heated.

“I understand, Master.” He glanced toward the narrow window, which looked across the old graveyard to where the new manor house was rising course by course, built of bricks the color of sunset on an autumn day. It was going to look magnificent when finished. How proud he would be to work on it!

But there was one more question to ask, and all his hopes—all their hopes, for he and Letty were now as one—depended upon the answer.

“Do you plan to tile or thatch your new dwelling, sir?”

Smythe moved to the doorway, and Perkin followed him out into the yard. From the foolish grin on the man’s face, he could tell that Smythe was proud of his new dwelling. It would be proof of his status and prosperity—everything that a man who had to make his own wealth could wish for.

“I’m having it tiled. ’Tis a considerable expense, but those tiles ought to last a lifetime, whereas thatch would need replacing. I know I shouldn’t say that to a thatcher by trade.”

“Not at all. I agree that tile is better, and I’d be honored if you’d let me roof your new home for you. I have learned the relevant skills.”

This wasn’t entirely true, but how hard could it be? One just needed stronger and more frequent battens and the right length and type of nail. And a head for heights—which he most certainly had.

“Alas—the master mason will have to find you something else to do. I have already signed a contract with a tiler at Bulmer Tye for the work. But you’re able-bodied and quick-witted—you’ll soon learn to do whatever task the master assigns you.”

Knowing his luck, he’d probably end up mixing daub for the partition walls. Or carrying barrowloads of lime mortar that would stain and eat into his clothes.

It was a blow to his hopes—but not entirely unexpected.

“I have one further boon to ask of you.” He knew he was presuming a great deal, but he couldn’t go back to Hugh Thatcher’s house again—all ties had been severed since he’d laid claim to Letty.

“What is it?”

“Is there somewhere on the manor that I may lay my head?”

“There’s loft space above the granary. But you’ll have to cope with the sounds of the farm cats chasing mice all night. And you must comb all the straw out of your hair in the morning—I won’t have any of my people looking disreputable. Do it for Letty’s sake, too—she needs a suitor of whom she can be proud. And you are not to take advantage of the fact that she is now temporarily living beneath my roof.”

“I understand, sir.” Perkin bowed, doffing his cap. Well, he had a place to stay and some work now—even if both were of a lowly sort. Bidding Smythe a good day, he hurried into the well house to see if Letty was still there.

And found her trying to smother her tears.

“What’s happened, my sweet?” Glancing around to be sure they were not observed, he took her in his arms and held her until the sniffles ceased. She felt as soft as a dove, nestled against him, and the scent of her hair suffused his senses, drugging him. As he held her, comforting her within the circle of his arms, something broke deep inside him. Suddenly, after all these years of living behind an impenetrable shield, he felt pain. Not just his own, but hers as well—it was an unwelcome sensation, but doubtless inevitable. He smiled ruefully as he kissed her hair.

“I’ve damaged something else,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “The blacksmith’s curse assails me yet.”

Now would not be a good time to tell her that he’d failed to get a lucrative position on the manor, then. He cleared his throat. “What’s broken now?”

She held out a length of thick metal—the sheared-off end of the crank handle for raising the bucket. He took it and examined the place where it had been severed.

“No blacksmith’s ghost caused this. ’Tis a fracture that could easily result from bad workmanship—and that’s exactly what you’re going to say to Mistress Smythe. There’s no such thing as spirits—except the Holy Ghost, of course—and this breakage could have happened to anyone. It’s not your fault.”

A shadow filled the doorway of the well house, and Perkin froze, all his senses alert. Curse it! Just when he’d promised his new master that he’d not dally with Letty, here he was, in a loving embrace with her. He spun around to interpose his body between Smythe and his distressed sweetheart.

But there was no one there. Only—the well house was filled with shadow, which had not been there before. Releasing Letty, he rushed outside, but no clouds covered the sun and nobody was visible within fifty yards of where he stood. How odd!

Frowning, he returned and gazed into Letty’s terrified eyes. His heart sank—he didn’t even need to ask.

“I saw him over your shoulder.” Her words came out like sobs. “A man’s shape. Like a dark, moving mist. Did you not feel his need?”

“It was just a cloud passing across the sun. Nothing to worry about. Now, let’s go and explain to the mistress about this badly-made handle.”

She clutched at his sleeve. “We have to do something, Perkin. Something that will lay the blacksmith’s ghost and stop his violent storms of temper that always rebound upon me. I think the lovers must be reunited.”

Perkin’s scalp prickled as the air in the well house grew chill. Outside, the bright July day continued, warm and full of life. But now he was surrounded by a stench, as if something had fallen down the well and rotted there. He wrinkled his nose.

“Though I refuse to believe in curses, witches, or ghosts, I will do whatever is in my power to please you, my love.” Although he’d had that vision of the Grey Lady, he wasn’t prepared to think of it as anything more than that—a vision.

“Perfect.” Letty dried her tears on her apron. “Meet me back here around eleven of the clock tonight. I have an idea how we may put an end to all this.”

“Very well.” Perchance by humoring her, he could help her. And he hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d do anything for her.

Because he was falling head-over-heels in love with Lettice Carter.

Chapter Eleven

Bright moonlight pushed the shadows to the edges of the highway as Letty, hand-in-hand with Perkin, hurried toward Patience Bridge. Owls flew across their path on silent wings, and small creatures squeaked in the hedgerows. It being now late July, the heat of the day had not yet ebbed away, and it felt as if the whole night were enfolding her in a warm, velvet glove, keeping her calm and safe.

Which was just as well because it was a battle to remain calm with her disturbing suitor at her side. She couldn’t help the lift to her step or the flutter of her heart each time he looked at her or squeezed her hand. Were they not on a mission of such deadly import, it would be the perfect night for lovers. They should be chasing in and out of the trees, laughing, falling breathlessly against an old trunk, clasping each other in a passionate embrace, and kissing.

Her lips tingled each time he smiled at her. If he reciprocated her feelings, if he truly intended to wed her—when he could afford it—she must be the luckiest woman in Christendom! Only one thing marred her happiness, and it was a matter of such enormity that she scarcely dared let herself think about it.

They had dug up and stolen the blacksmith’s skull. They were taking all that remained of him to join his ladylove, the Grey Lady of Rooks Well manor. Letty resisted the urge to continually look over her shoulder, afraid to see a wall of flame where the blacksmith’s shade wrought his vengeance on Temple Roding manor in a fury at his skull’s removal. But Perkin’s self-assurance comforted her, and she knew that if she showed any fear, he’d mock her mercilessly. Besides which, this escapade was her idea, and she’d look foolish if she abandoned the plan now.

As they approached the bridge, the night seemed to settle around them, intently watchful, ominously quiet. Perkin opened his bag, retrieved the exhumed skull and brushed off some remaining specks of dirt with his sleeve. Oh—they would be in so much trouble when the mistress found out! Hopefully, she’d not discover the loss for some time and would value their work so much by then that she could be persuaded not to cast them out on the spot.

The pallid light reflected off the polished bone, and shadows filled the empty eye sockets. When the deep chill swamped her, it was no longer unexpected—she felt as if frozen in an icy pond, unable to move or speak. Behind her, she sensed the presence of the dead man, but nothing on heaven or earth could induce her to turn around and look at him.

Only Perkin’s strength bore her up—he seemed less affected by the ominous presence.

“Where shall I cast it?”

She pointed a shaking finger. “Drop it below the bridge—in the middle, where the water runs deepest. That way, the skull will be mostly in the shadows, where no one will see.”

She clung to his free arm as he tossed the gruesome object into the black, writhing current, not sure if she should exult or be terrified when she heard the splash.

“What do we do now?” He kissed her lightly on the forehead. “Do we wait or head for home?”

Now that the skull was in the water, and nothing terrible had happened to them, her courage started to return.

“Let’s wait for a little while. I want to see if anything changes.”

And suddenly, something did change. Perkin sniffed the air. Even though he claimed to have no belief in unearthly beings, she knew he could smell the same as she—a powerful scent of roses. It was the perfume of cultivated garden blooms—the dog roses that trailed over the nearby hedgerows had virtually no scent at all. So whence had the scent come? There were no dwellings and not another soul in sight.

The air was still chill, but the moonlight flooded the bridge and the water below with a magical, silvery light, and Letty looked down, entranced by the sparkling ripples.

Then, as she watched, a figure took shape in the water. It was the same spectral woman, clad in an old-fashioned grey dress, her long hair flowing loose about her shoulders. She was face down and floating toward the bridge with the current when suddenly, another shape materialized from beneath her, checking the hopeless drifting of her lifeless body.

Letty gasped as thick, masculine arms wrapped themselves around the waist of the wraith. The two figures rolled over in the water, their lips meeting in one last, impassioned kiss. Then the current took them out of view.

As soon as she felt able to move, Letty hurried to the other side of the bridge, but there was naught to see. The blacksmith and his ladylove were gone. The night sprang to life again, like a clock that has been rewound, and she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She felt the warmth of Perkin’s body behind her and turned into his arms. “Did you see that?” Her voice came out as a whisper.

He kissed her lightly on the lips, and heat suffused her from head to toe.

“I did.” His voice was warm, too, wrapping around her like a cloak, and he gazed down at her as if she were the only woman in the world.

She tilted her head cheekily, reveling in this new feeling of freedom from fear. “Well? Do you believe in ghosts now?”

“I saw something, but it may have been my imagination. Or a mote in my eye. Or something I ate.”

“Perkin Merrick! You are intolerable!” She pushed at him, and he caught her hands, laughing, and pulled her to him. Many moments were then lost in the joy of his kiss, and she felt all her troubles dissolve in the overwhelming heat of his embrace.

When her head was spinning, and she felt she would burst with pleasure, she pulled reluctantly away.

“I suppose we’d better return to ensure that the blacksmith has wrought no further mischief on the manor.”

“One last look.” He drew her to the bridge parapet, above the place where he’d thrown the skull, and peered down.

“You’d think they’d say ‘thank you’ to us for reuniting them after all this time. Not even a farewell wave.”

“Nay, wait—there’s something down there. And it’s not the skull.”

Her heart thundered as she peered down at a finger of moonlight penetrating the depths of the stream. Something glittered below the surface—surely, it hadn’t been there earlier? Had the skull displaced some silt when it fell, revealing what had been hidden before?

“It looks like coins. Gold, I think—for no other metal would survive so well in silt.”

“Unless your eyes deceive you, or it was something you ate.” She chuckled.

“No time for mirth, Wench—this is a serious business. Here—take my jerkin and kerchief. Now, turn away while I undo my points. I don’t see any need to get my hose wet when I go in.”

She turned away, flushing, and tried not to imagine what Perkin would look like undressing. Rather splendid, she expected.

“You can look now, Maid.”

She turned to see him, clad only in his long shirt, lowering himself down the bank to the little pebbled beach she remembered from her last visit. He made his way carefully up the middle of the stream toward the bridge.

There followed an agonizing few moments as he ducked his head beneath the water, scrabbled about below the surface, then came up for air again. She hadn’t even asked if he could swim—so few people could—she shouldn’t have let him go down there without taking more precautions.

Relief washed over her as he stood up, firm and steady in the water, his soaked shirt outlining every contour of his muscles. Silt dripped from his outstretched hand, curled into a fist around what he’d found.

“Gold coins. Whether they’re sovereigns or angels, I know not—I’ve never seen such wealth before. They were in a leather purse, but that dissolved as soon as I touched it. Throw me my bag, and I’ll see if I can find any more.”

She did as bidden, waiting anxiously until he seemed satisfied that he’d found all there was to be found. She joined him then, on the grassy slope leading down to the pebbled beach. Keeping his back to her, he dried himself as best he could with his kerchief, replaced his hose and shoes, and wrung out his shirt before spreading it over a hawthorn bush.

“I wish we’d brought the lantern,” he muttered, rubbing each coin carefully on the grass before placing it in his bag.

“We don’t need a lantern to tell that they’re gold. Gold which, I believe, now belongs to us.”

He glanced up at her. “I didn’t know you were mercenary, Mistress Carter.”

“Money accounts for only a small part of my happiness.” He accounted for a great deal more, but to tell him so would make him vain. “I know in very truth that it’s a gift, intended for us.”

“Because we reunited those lovers for eternity? I didn’t know spirits could give presents.”

“Well, in this case, they have. It was Lady Patience’s gold, I think. Her dowry, mayhap, which she stole before she went to meet the blacksmith. It fell into the water with her, and was lost. Now that they have no further use for it, the lovers have bequeathed it to us.”

His eyes twinkled as he gazed at her. “I suppose we ought not to incur the blacksmith’s wrath by not accepting the money.”

“And he certainly wouldn’t want us to return it to the family who tried to tear the lovers apart.”

He turned a coin over in his strong, skilled fingers. “Better wait until morning to examine and count these properly. There may be enough to set me up in business. But only if you agree that’s how to spend it—it was your idea to come here, after all. The gold should belong to you.”

She laid her hand on his. “I would adore it if it allowed you to start a business, making and laying tiles as you’ve always wanted to do. I have only one condition.”

“What’s that, sweeting?” He reached for a lock of her hair and twined it around his finger.

“That we go as far away from Temple Roding village, and my father and stepmother, as possible.”

He gave her a wry grin. “I shan’t object to being away from Bulforde, either. We’ll return to the manor, gather our things and depart in the morning once we’ve said our farewells. But what shall we do now, my love? The night is young.” He shot her a look that made her body tingle with longing and lay back on the grass.

With the moonlight turning his flesh to silver, highlighting the intriguing curves and muscles of his body, she knew that she had a lot more to learn about this man. It might take a whole lifetime to understand him fully, but she couldn’t imagine spending her time in any better way. As she lay down and rested her head on the pad of his shoulder, she allowed her fingers to explore the contours of his chest.

“I think you know exactly what we are going to do now, my love,” she purred, turning her head to receive his kiss.

And as it turned out, he did.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Elizabeth Keysian

Trysts and Treachery Series

Lord of Deception (Book 1)

Lord of Loyalty (Book 2)

Lord of the Forest (Book 3)

Lord of Mistrust (Book 4)

Lord of the Manor (Book 5)

About the Author

Elizabeth Keysian is an international bestselling author of heart-pounding Regency romances, set mostly in the West of England. She is working on a fresh series for Dragonblade Publishing called Trysts and Treachery, which is set in the Tudor era. Though primarily a writer of romance, she loves to put a bit of mystery, adventure, and suspense into her stories, and refuses to let her characters take themselves too seriously.

Elizabeth likes to write from experience, not easy when her works range from the medieval to the Victorian eras. However, her passion for re-enactment has helped, as have the many years she spent working in museums and British archaeology. If you find some detail in her work you’ve never come across before, you can bet she either dug it up, quite literally, or found it on a museum shelf.

Social media/web links

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A Governess of No Fear

Emily E K Murdoch

Chapter One

“—see, here, it declines just as amare does, the verb to love,” said Miss Evangeline Jones, pushing a wayward curl of hair behind her ear. “Do you see, boys?”

There was a murmur of agreement behind her, and Evangeline repressed a smile. She knew there was nothing more dull on a Friday afternoon than Latin verbs—she had been a child once, too.

But she was governess to the Shirley boys, and sons of a gentleman had to learn Latin.

Even if they could agree there were much more interesting things to be doing.

“And so, amo, amas, amat, amamus, amatis, amant,” she said clearly, tapping the words written in crisp chalk on the blackboard. “What do we learn from—”

Her lesson was interrupted by something she sensed without hearing. A lack of attention. It was a specialty of governesses.

“Please pay attention, Master Martin,” Evangeline said without turning around.

She did not need to. Master Martin Shirley, the eldest son of the Shirley household, was a rascal though a good-natured one, and during the two years she had been part of the Ettington Park household, Evangeline had started to understand the boy’s nature.

Still, at eight years old, he was adept at leading his younger brother into mischief.

“I am!” Master Martin’s voice piped up in that wonderfully outraged tone a child used whenever punished for something they considered not their fault.

“Fine,” said Evangeline with a smile. “Robert. Focus.”

“B-But I am paying attention, Miss Jones!”

The small boy mimicked the outrage of his brother, and Evangeline sighed before turning to face them.

That was always the trouble with brothers. If you weren’t careful, they would quickly learn to work together against you, which was the last thing she needed.

The two Shirley boys, hair dark and rumpled as their father’s often was, stared up with wide, innocent eyes. Evangeline may have only been a governess here, but she was no fool. She knew it was only a matter of time before these two rascals started some real trouble.

“Well, I am glad to see you are entirely dedicated to your Latin,” she said. “Master Martin, would you be so kind as to decline the next verb on your sheet?”

The boy sighed heavily as he rose to his feet, chair scraping back. “Servo, servas, servat, servamus, servatis, servant.”

“Good,” said Evangeline. Turning back to the blackboard, she started to write. “And yet when we move to one of the more irregular verbs—”

A chill. Even for this last October day, it was not possible for the room to suddenly drop in temperature like that. Which meant…

Miss Evangeline Jones’s heart lurched. Not again. She had promised herself she would not believe such nonsense, but it was impossible to ignore. Ettington Park was, after all, a very old house. Almost ancient. Shirleys had lived here for hundreds of years, and that meant…

“Irregular verbs,” she said in as strong a voice as possible. “Which are…”

Her voice trailed away as the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

She was still being haunted by two people here after two years in residence.

One was the man she loved but knew she could not have. He stalked these corridors and was constantly coming across her, making her heart flutter most painfully.

The other…

Evangeline took a deep breath. She was not losing her mind. She was here, disturbing her in the schoolroom. Her place. Her safe place.

Lady Emma.

She had not yet dared to say the name aloud. It was a fancy, she had told herself for the first few months. It was a trick of the light, had been her excuse after a year. But now she knew better. She knew the ghost haunting the house was not just here for the family.

It was here for her.

“Miss Jones?” Master Martin’s voice sounded curious rather than concerned.

Evangeline took a deep breath. She knew that to her two students, she had just trailed off while standing before the blackboard and had now stood here for several minutes. They would be wondering what was wrong.

How would she ever explain to them?

She turned slowly on the spot, and as her two charges appeared in her view, so did a woman.

She was pale. Paler than pale and wearing a Tudor-style gown. Her face was…sad. Evangeline had never seen another expression on that face and never hoped to. She had hoped to never see the woman again.

She was standing—she was floating just behind the two boys.

Evangeline took another deep breath. “You…you can’t hear anything or see…her?”

Shame flowed through her veins as she completed the sentence, but she had to ask.

The two Shirley boys looked at each other and then around the schoolroom. Evangeline had been pleased with it when she had first arrived. Bright, with all the latest books and no interference, she was promised, from the father. She had felt full of ideas, full of passion. Being a governess had never before been in the cards for her, but it was something she was willing to embrace on behalf of her friend.

But now, the schoolroom was somewhere to avoid. Somewhere to fear. Because before too long, when she and the boys were there, so was…

“Lady Emma,” Evangeline whispered.

She had been warned.

“Oh, you’ll see ghosts all over this old place,” said Mrs. Peters matter-of-factly as she had swept down a staircase in Evangeline’s first week. “Yes, every housekeeper has to warn the other servants. There’s a prince about here, you know.”

“Ghosts?” Evangeline had spluttered. “Here?”

And the housekeeper had given her a wry smile. “You’re in the country now, girl, not your London townhouses that get built every day. There have been Shirleys here since time began…”

Evangeline blinked, but the ghost she had been told was Lady Emma did not depart from the schoolroom. She had heard the story.

“What are you looking at?”

Martin was staring in wide-eyed bewilderment. His younger brother was looking around the room as though he was playing hide and seek with a disobliging player.

“Nothing,” said Evangeline distantly.

She blinked. The ghost was gone.

“Come now, we must not forget our conjugations,” she said as sternly as she could manage, as though it had been one of the Shirley boys who had distracted them from their work on the blackboard. “If we continue looking at the first conjugation…”

This was all Vivienne Clarke’s fault.

It was she, the friend from childhood days, who had been so insistent, who had been sure that they would make a success of it.

“But I don’t know how to be a governess, Viv!” Evangeline had protested back when the subject had first been raised.

“Nonsense,” Vivienne had said smartly. She always had been sure of herself, confident on any topic, even if she knew nothing about it. “What is there to know? A child needs to be taught, and we are educated enough to do that. We will have authority and rank, Evangeline. We will need nothing else.”

“But, to start a business!” Evangeline’s eyes had been wide, she remembered that. “Do you really think we can?”

And Vivienne had glared. “Can? Can and must!”

It had seemed impossible, yet Vivienne had done it. She had been so determined—and of course, Evangeline remembered, they had little choice in other income or employment.

Two ladies could not be expected to work.

Vivienne had been certain that creating the Governess Bureau would be their quickest and surest way out of genteel poverty. Making a fortune was never the aim. Being able to live, to know one’s food would not run out—that was the dream.

And Evangeline had to admit, as she pointed out how the Latin verbs conjugated to Martin and Robert, that Vivienne had been right. That was the only reason she had agreed to it. Being a governess was one of the few ways one could make a living as a woman, at least if one wished to still be admitted into polite society.

“Now, Master Robert, do you see?” Evangeline said without turning around. “Here, how the irregular verb declines?”

Dull, dull, dull, she thought. It was a lonely life. No mistress in the house, a housekeeper who tolerated her, a ghost who simply wouldn’t leave her alone, and…

Evangeline swallowed. She was not going to think about him. The master of Ettington Park should be above her thoughts, not even a consideration. It did not matter that he made her heart burn whenever she looked at him.

“I said, Master Robert?”

She turned at these words. The two brothers, so alike, especially when they sat together like that, were whispering to each other.

Evangeline smiled. The clock in the hallway had chimed four o’clock not long before, and they had been working hard. Well, mostly. It was too much, she always thought, to expect a child to concentrate for the entirety of an afternoon.

Besides, it was not as though she did not know what they were distracted by.

“You are to be permitted to attend the All Hallow’s Eve ball, then?”

Her words were spoken without rebuke. The thought of all society coming to one’s home in all their finery would have distracted her from her studies, too.

“Yes,” said Robert eagerly, turning to his governess. “And Mrs. Peters says we shall have hot pies, and a drink of—”

“Shh!” The elder brother frowned at his younger companion. “We weren’t talking about that, Miss Jones. We were talking…talking about Latin.”

He looked up with those blue eyes, and Evangeline forced down a laugh. Such barefaced lies, and from a child, too. They were incorrigible!

But they were good boys. She was fortunate. She had already received letters from Vivienne about the two other governesses they had placed, who were having a terrible time.

“The All Hallow’s Eve ball,” she said a little wistfully. “I am sure you will enjoy it.”

“It’s going to be wonderful!” said Robert with shining eyes. “Music and dancing and fortune telling. Mrs. Peters says we’ll burn nuts to tell who is going to get married next!”

Trusting her luck, Evangeline thought dryly, her nut would never pop!

It was one of Vivienne’s rules, one of the cornerstones of the Governess Bureau. No falling in love with the masters.

It was why she had refused Vivienne a visit in the summer. She had wished to see her; wished for companionship beyond the stiffness of the servants and two small boys.

But if her friend saw how she looked at her master…

“And there’ll even be ghosts!”

Evangeline flinched at Martin’s words. “You know what I’ve told you about talking about such things, you’ll frighten your brother.”

“I’m not scared!” came the inevitable words from young Master Robert. “Not of the Ettington Park ghosts, anyway. Maybe other ghosts, but not ours. They protect us.”

Evangeline could not help but smile at these words, spoken so solemnly and with such certainty. It must be pleasant to be so sure of one’s place in the world. To know one would always have a home, a place where one was welcome.

The white shadow of Lady Emma certainly didn’t make her feel protected, but then Evangeline wasn’t part of the family.

“How do they protect you?” she asked curiously.

Martin looked a little confused at the question. “They just do. That’s what Papa says.”

Even the mere hint of him made Evangeline flush. She spent her days trying not to think of him. The man who stalked the corridors of Ettington Park, just as he stalked her dreams.

“Well, we don’t have to listen to your Papa now, do we?” Evangeline said bracingly.

“Telling my sons not to listen to me, eh?”

Evangeline froze. She knew that dry voice.

Whipping around, she saw to her horror Sir Mark Shirley, master of Ettington Park, standing in the doorway of the schoolroom, arms crossed, with a wry look on his face.

The boys giggled as Evangeline flushed. Of course, of all the moments today when the master—her master—could eavesdrop on her teaching, it had to be that moment!

“No,” she said, grateful her voice managed to keep level, “I just meant—”

“My boys should be learning,” Sir Mark interrupted, cutting across her with a sharp look. “Not chatting away about nonsense! That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

There was a definite heat to her cheeks now, but Evangeline managed to meet his eyes as she said, “We are learning, sir. We have been examining the declination of the Latin—”

“They were talking about ghosts,” said Sir Mark.

Behind her, one of the boys—Robert, from the sound of it—made a wooing noise.

Evangeline closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

When she opened her eyes, Sir Mark was looking shrewdly at her. “I admit myself surprised, Miss Jones. When I hired you to undertake the education of two English gentlemen, I had not considered such topics. I thought you would know better than to teach my boys such superstitions.”

A spark of rebellion flared in Evangeline’s heart, and she found herself saying, “We were discussing the history of the ghosts of this house, of the Shirley family. It appears there are a great number of—”

“I’m afraid that is not what you should be discussing,” said Sir Mark sharply.

That same spark of rebellion had not died out. “I have never been afraid in my life.”

She caught his gaze then, after that foolish remark that she had been unable to prevent from spilling from her mouth. What was she thinking? Was that disgust or shock in his eyes—or something more?

“I see you have been reviewing Latin verbs,” he said, not addressing her wild comment. “Amare. To love. Far more instructive than ghost stories.”

Evangeline’s cheeks flushed. Of course that was the verb on the blackboard!

“But it seems common knowledge that ghosts reside here,” she said quietly. “I was merely—”

“Don’t be silly, Miss Jones. You know better than that.” The way he spoke, all fire and passion. If only it was for her… “There are no ghosts at Ettington Park. You need have no fear of them, though I do not believe, as you say, that you have ever been afraid in your life.”

“But Papa, you told us about them!”

Evangeline did smile at this from Martin. Children always had a way with words, and their timing was either impeccable or disastrous.

Sometimes both.

Sir Mark smiled, too. “Well, so I did, but not so you could avoid your Latin verbs!”

He stepped forward and cuffed the two lads gently around the head, and they protested as though they had been flogged, as was expected between fathers and sons.

A warmth rushed through Evangeline. Seeing them like this, as they should be. The master spent too little time with his sons, was known for it within the household. If only whatever it was holding him back could be removed. If only she could make him see, make him show the love he felt for them.

If only she could show the love she felt for—

“Now, Miss Jones, I would have thought you experienced enough to keep them on track,” said Sir Mark, all joy and smiles gone. “Finish off today’s lessons and then send them downstairs. They can make themselves useful for this ball. Come, too. Wear whatever you want.”

He was gone without another word, leaving Evangeline with nothing but flushed cheeks and a fluttering heart.

Come, too. Wear whatever you want.

If only that invitation was not such a throwaway comment. If only he wished her to be there, and if only she had a gown suitable for…

If only, if only. No one won the ‘what if’ game.

The boys were giggling, and as Evangeline turned to give them a sharp reproving look, they ceased laughing but smiled broadly.

Well, she still had something of value, the respect of her charges. They even liked her, from what she could tell, and she liked them. But she had to put all thoughts of becoming their mother behind her.

“Now, laudare,” said Evangeline to a chorus of groans behind her.

Chapter Two

Dear Vivienne,

Another horrible storm here last night; I hope it was not too awful in London. Several trees are down in the park, and the head gardener here tells me many of his winter vegetables are quite ruined, the soil so sodden no seed can hope to survive. I think I will have to overcome my aversion to cabbage, for it appears to be the only vegetable to thrive in such a setting, worse luck.

I know we have discussed this—or at least, come near to discussing it in the past. I was always honest with you, Vivienne. I never wished to be a governess, this was your endeavor. After two years here, I wish to leave I am finished at Ettington Park I cannot do this anymore I wish to come back to London

I know you are proud of the Governess Bureau, and so am I. Five governesses now! You must be so proud of your hard work. As the first governess to go out and attract support, I feel I have done all I can to I am not business-minded like you. Giving up my position at Ettington Park would allow me to

Evangeline looked down at the letter covered in smudges, blots of ink, and was, now that she examined it, far more crossed out than actual words.

Oh, it was all hopeless. As she pushed back that wayward curl which always seemed to lean forward, she tried to read the letter as though she was Vivienne. She would not be that interested in the vegetable news, but she could not just come out and say it, could she?

After all, she had attempted to tell Vivienne several times that she could no longer stay at Ettington Park, not with Mark—not with the master here.

She could not bear it.

Evangeline looked critically at the piece of paper, sighed heavily as the noise echoed around the empty bedchamber, and screwed it up. No, that was not quite right. She had to be clear, and she had to instruct her friend that she was leaving. She did not have to ask permission!

An image of Miss Vivienne Clarke entered her mind, and she smiled wryly. Vivienne was quite an intimidating woman, even as a friend.

No, she needed to start again. She needed to be direct, to say things as she would wish. To be bold, as she never was in life.

If she could only tell Sir Mark how she felt…

Evangeline shook her head and started to write another version of the letter she knew she must send.

Vivienne,

There is nothing for it. I have to be honest with you and tell you that I must leave Ettington Park as soon as possible—before Christmas, if possible. It has become difficult for me to stay here, and though the children are lovely, and I have found teaching to be far more interesting than I had expected, I cannot remain here.

I have fallen in love, Vivienne. Worse, I have fallen in love with my employer, Sir Mark Shirley. He makes me feel

And I never wanted to found the Governess Bureau in the first place. You know that! It was your idea, and it is a good one, but I cannot do it.

He Whenever I am around him, I cannot breathe. I am trapped in the house with him, Vivienne, and I can never express my emotions which burn deeper within me with every passing day! It is cruel to leave me here, and I must go. I have to return to London and

And what? Evangeline leaned back in her chair and shook her head slowly. Where would she go, what would she do if she were not a governess? It was not as though there were many other options for ladies in her situation.

Besides, leaving the Governess Bureau, which Vivienne had established, and becoming a governess somewhere else would not help. She would be paid far less, for a start, and she would never be able to escape the thoughts, the memory, the image of him.

Sir Mark Shirley.

Evangeline’s eyes scanned over the second letter she had attempted and laughed. She could not help it. She knew precisely what Vivienne would say when she saw it.

“Love? With your master? Don’t be silly, Evangeline, ’tis just a passing fancy. You know we do not allow any of our governesses such wild ideas!”

It was true that any other lady engaged as a governess through the Bureau was gently reminded that matrimony was not a path their governesses took, especially with the master of the house they were going to—but it was hardly a rule.

And Evangeline had not taken it seriously when Vivienne had suggested it. She had never believed she would meet a gentleman like Sir Mark.

No, if Vivienne saw this letter, she would think her a complete fool. Worse, if Sir Mark saw the letter…

Evangeline shivered. The thought was intoxicating, but only for a moment. To stop hiding herself, to stop trying to quash her reaction to him whenever Sir Mark entered the room—that would be pleasant indeed.

But then he would know…

“No, absolutely not,” said Evangeline aloud decidedly. “It would not be worth the risk.”

The letter was scrunched up hurriedly and dropped into the wastepaper basket beside her little desk. It had been her greatest pleasure to see when she had first arrived at the Park. A place to write, to correspond!

It was only after a few empty months here that Evangeline realized she had no one but Vivienne to correspond with, and she was far too busy growing the reputation of the Bureau.

As Evangeline leaned back and tried to think, her ears picked up the sounds of movement downstairs. Quite a lot of movement. Footsteps, shouts, laughter.

The preparations were at a pace, then. Evangeline sighed to think of the excitement and joy that would be experienced below this evening. The very best people expected to be invited to Ettington Park for the All Hallow’s Eve ball; it was the third during her post here. And from the accounts she heard from the footmen who were chosen to attend on the guests, it was a sight to behold.

Candles everywhere, she had been told, with more food and wine than was ever seen at the home. Pumpkins and turnips carved all over the place, and a barrel for bobbing apples, and even a bonfire outside on the drive.

Evangeline smiled wistfully. It was not her place to be there, and while she had been disappointed the last two years, this year it was rather a relief.

She was not needed; the boys would be quite adequately cared for by their father—the man who had entirely taken over her waking thoughts.

The memory of her first day at Ettington Park swam into her mind, and Evangeline’s heart fluttered at the thought. It had been a warm day; it had been a relief to depart London and its stuffiness and retreat to the countryside.

Ettington Park. It had sounded so mysterious, so exotic. When she had arrived, it was to discover, to her surprise, that the manor house she had pictured was not too far from the truth.

Its towering spires and sandstone walls had appeared suddenly as she had trundled up the drive in the carriage, and its majesty and beauty had impressed her, adding to the nerves already growing in her chest.

She had not been sure, then, how Vivienne had managed to convince her into it. A governess? Yet she had come, and as her shoes had dropped onto the graveled drive, Evangeline had felt a sense of joy and excitement. She had looked around, trying to take in all the beauty while she could.

And something had caught her eye—just a flicker; something in her peripheral vision that should not have been there.

She had turned and seen a woman—but not a woman. A woman in shape and figure but entirely translucent and shimmering in the sun.

Evangeline remembered her jaw had dropped and the woman, for she was a woman, dressed as a Tudor maidservant would have been, had stepped closer—no, glided. Floated.

A ghost.

Evangeline had not even thought. She had just acted, her feet taking her hastily toward the house, through the front door, and into the cool and reassuringly solid hallway.

Heart racing, cheeks flushed, she had looked behind her, fearful the ghost, or whatever it was, would follow her. But it did not. She had just floated there, out in the drive, looking at her. Watching her.

“Why in God’s name are you here?”

And Evangeline had whipped around to see a tall man, dark hair and wild eyes, glaring as though she was trespassing.

“I…I am the governess, sir,” she had said, taking him for the butler or some sort of manservant, so untidy was his dress. “Sir Mark Shirley instructed me to come here.”

And he had looked her up and down with a sneer, which should have told her his standing, and said, “I believe I did, but as a servant, you should have come through that door. This door is for company.”

His coldness, his inability to look her properly in the eyes, but more than anything, his disdain was enough. It told her everything she needed to know—or so she thought.

“Sir Mark,” she had said quietly, dropping into a curtsey but unable to help herself as she had risen, “I think you are mistaken. I am not a servant, I am a governess.”

Goodness, she had said that with such pride, looking back. A governess. It was not exactly an heiress, but she had been proud. Though it was not the life she would have chosen, it was still a very noble and respected tradition.

Sir Mark, on the other hand, did not appear to think so. He took another look at her, smirked, and strode off with the last remark, “I would never have guessed.”

The music had started below; the musicians really were excellent. Sir Mark never skimped when it came to entertaining.

He did skimp on praise, however. She could count on one hand alone the number of times that the master of the house had stated that she was doing a good job with his children.

“Robert’s come on,” he had said once, in that gruff direct way of his. “I’m impressed.”

And with that, he had walked away.

Gold dust, that’s what his words were. Evangeline had found herself craving them more and more with each passing month that she found herself warming to him.

For there was warmth under there, under all the gruffness and seriousness. An English gentleman, Evangeline knew, was rarely permitted to express himself. When combined with a naturally taciturn nature, it created a man like Sir Mark. And what a man.

She knew the precise moment she had fallen in love with him. It had been coming on for weeks and occurred when she had almost been at Ettington Park a year.

Martin had taken the examination for the grammar school, the one all the Shirley boys attended. It was an honor, his father had told him stiffly before the examination, to even be considered. It was not something to be taken lightly. It had to be passed.

And Evangeline had seen the fear on the boy’s face as he had left the house that day, and she had been nervous all day. When the boy returned, it was with a hail from his father that Master Martin had done the entire family proud: full marks.

Full marks. Evangeline had seen the terror on the boy’s face as the household cheered the seven-year-old in the hallway of the Park, and only minutes later, the boy had been crying in her arms in the privacy of the schoolroom.

“I don’t want to go,” he had sobbed, Evangeline’s heart breaking for him. “Don’t send me away, I will be good!”

And she had been powerless to comfort him, for it was what Shirleys did. She knew that; Sir Mark had been clear about that.

That evening, Evangeline had not been able to sleep. The situation had turned around and around in her mind, and she had determined she must do something for him. Even if that was just a hug and the reassurance that all would be well.

She had crept down the corridor and had even reached out a hand to open Martin’s bedchamber door, but she had hesitated. The door was ajar. Someone else was in there.

Eavesdropping was wrong, she knew—but the temptation had been too great when she had caught a snippet of the conversation.

“—don’t know why you are so upset,” Sir Mark was saying gruffly.

And there had been a sniff. Evangeline’s grip on the door handle had tightened. Was this the moment for her to interrupt and protect Martin from his father’s wrath?

“You did so well,” came the deep voice through the door, utterly perplexed. “I would have understood such misery if you had performed poorly, but I am very proud of you, Martin.”

Evangeline’s stomach had swooped. This was, perhaps, the first time the eldest Shirley boy had heard his father give him such praise.

“I know,” came the bleat from the boy.

“I never thought that your governess was much use really,” said Sir Mark in a low voice. “It turns out she knows her Plato from her Socrates. I shall have to be careful, or I may be forced to give her a pay raise.”

Evangeline’s heart had sung. He had never praised her before, and though this was not the situation she would have chosen…

But then the joy left her as her heart started to beat faster.

“But I do not wish to go to school.”

“What did you say?” Sir Mark’s voice was not stiffbut confused.

There was a hearty sniff, and then Martin’s voice had said, nervously, “I…I do not want to go away from you, Papa. I do not want to leave, p-please…please don’t make me go.”

There had been silence, which Evangeline could not bear. It went on too long, and unable to see in the room, she was unsure whether the boy’s plea had fallen on deaf ears or—

“Maybe next year,” came the reply. “I would certainly not force you, Martin. You are my son. Your happiness…it means everything to me.”

Heart racing and knowing that if this went wrong, she would lose her place, Evangeline pushed the door open ever so slightly. It did not need to open much. Just enough to give her a view of what was happening in that room.

Martin was looking at his father in surprise, the two of them seated at the end of the bed.

“You…you’re not going to make me go?”

And in a swift movement neither of them clearly expected, Sir Mark had pulled his son into his arms and held him tightly, his face pained, as though letting go would cause him absolute agony.

And then he did. “Of course not. I would never send you away if you did not want to.”

That was it. That was the moment. Evangeline had slipped away with a smile on her face and her heart singing, knowing she had fallen in love with a man who barely noticed her.

But a good man. A man deserving of her affection, even if she was utterly undeserving of his. For Sir Mark, through his gruffness and his stilted conversation, had deep devotion for his sons.

The music below changed. The dancing had begun. Well, it would be quite a party. Sir Mark’s rather pathetic invitation notwithstanding, she was glad she was not down there.

Here, in the privacy of her room, she could at least indulge in these happy memories of her time here, though in her heart of hearts, she knew she should have left.

The room suddenly sank into a chill. Evangeline closed her eyes in despair.

“Why won’t you leave me alone?”

There was no answer. Of course, there wasn’t. There never was.

Opening her eyes, she turned around to see Lady Emma floating by her bed. Shoulders tense and heart quickening, Evangeline swallowed.

“I know you are Lady Emma,” she said quietly. “If anyone had told me before I had arrived here that I would be talking to a ghost…well.”

The ghost merely examined her, face blank as it always was. It did not appear to be there to scare her, just…to be there.

Evangeline licked her lips. “You were the governess to the Shirley boys years ago—generations ago, weren’t you? That’s what Mrs. Peters says.”

There was no change in expression on the woman who floated feet from her.

“I do not know why you are haunting me. I am doing everything I can for those boys.”

Never once had the ghost spoken to her.

Rising to her feet, she took a few steps to the left to see whether this would encourage Lady Emma to leave her alone, but all that happened was that the ghost floated nearer. Evangeline took another step to the left, closer to the door, and Lady Emma grew closer.

Her stomach lurched. She had no desire to go to the All Hallow’s Eve ball, but it had to be better than here. Anything to get out of the way of ghost, who did not appear to want to leave her alone.

Stepping out of the room and down the corridor, Evangeline looked over her shoulder and saw that the ghost was following her. She moved closer to the noise, the sound of music growing louder.

She did not have to be noticed by anyone. She could ignore them all, hide from them—from him. As long as she could avoid this ghost.

Chapter Three

“—and of course, I couldn’t have that! Red wallpaper with that green velvet? I had to put a stop to that, and his lordship did not mind, did you Lord—oh. He’s gone.”

A fortunate man indeed to have avoided such nonsense, thought Sir Mark. The husband of the harpy—the woman—before him had slunk away as soon as Lady Romeril had started nattering away about the new decoration she had inflicted on the Romeril household.

“Yes, he’s gone,” said Sir Mark.

Well, there wasn’t really any cause nor need for him to say anything else. That was always how he had been raised, and how he was raising his boys.

If you couldn’t say anything nice, then don’t say anything at all.

That was all very well and good, but when faced with the company of Lady Romeril at one’s ball, it was difficult to know what to say.

“Well, Lord Romeril was never that interested in décor,” said his wife dismissively with a wave of her hand. “Not like you, Sir Mark. Why, you have stood here for near ten minutes and given me your rapt attention!”

So he had, thought Mark wryly. If he hadn’t been forced to be so polite, Lady Romeril being who she was, he would have walked away minutes ago.

He certainly would not have allowed himself to get entrapped with her in a corner.

“I imagine you’ll want to hear all about the Bath townhouse,” said Lady Romeril, drawing herself up proudly as she launched into what Mark could only suppose was another monologue during which he would not be required to contribute. “I thought the marble itself all very well and good, but the dirt! Sir Mark, you had never seen the like. I had to show one of the maids just how…”

And on she droned. Well, Mark was sure there were worse people to be stuck with at a ball, to be sure…though he could not remember any at the moment.

All he had to do was hide how bored to tears he was. Lady Romeril was not interested in whether he was actually paying attention, as long as she was standing by a handsome man.

Sir Mark tried not to sigh. The All Hallow’s Eve ball. It was a tradition of the Shirley family, and so he kept it, but he had no interest in this sort of thing. Pageantry. Fripperies. More ladies in wigs than he knew what to do with.

The food was good, the wine was flowing, and there were a number of people dancing to the musicians who would be exhausted by the end of the night.

“…and there it was, the perfect rug for the drawing room!” Lady Romeril exclaimed with a sharp tap of Sir Mark with her fan. “I tell you the truth, Sir Mark, I could not have made it up. Perfectly matched to the rug in the hallway, though they were purchased at least fifty years apart. It was a real find, you know, and his lordship told me himself…”

Sir Mark thought privately that Lady Romeril was fortunate she was such a good-looking woman, or else Lord Romeril would have taken a mistress. If he had not already.

The great and the good of society were here, from the local villages, Stratford-upon-Avon, and town itself. Few who received an invitation from a Shirley ever declined it.

“—but then, as Lady Romeril, I knew my place in society and quickly cut her down,” said Lady Romeril triumphantly with wide eyes. “The cheek of it all, don’t you think?”

Sir Mark waited, but it was clear he was now required to add something. “Yes.”

Lady Romeril waited for more, but when she did not receive it, continued. “Yes, I pride myself in those elegant little cutting remarks that many a debutante has received when…”

Sir Mark sighed. Society was something he had avoided for almost six years, ever since he lost his wife.

Lady Hayley was a jewel and not to be replaced, that was what everyone had told him. Sir Mark was not so sure about that—about as cutting as a diamond and as brilliant as a jewel, but there had been no softness there. No kindness.

You could marvel at a diamond, but you could not embrace it. Not without cutting yourself.

“Yes, I flatter myself that Lord Romeril is very pleased with me,” said Lady Romeril, preening slightly as the dancers whirled before them. “Four sons in ten years, not something every woman can boast.”

Sir Mark nodded rather than commit his thoughts to posterity. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, certainly, but he was rather of the opinion that Lord Romeril was probably too intimidated by his wife to say anything to the contrary.

“You are smiling,” said Lady Romeril sharply. “I must know why.”

“Then I must disappoint you, Lady Romeril,” said Sir Mark. Wild horses would not have dragged that particular thought from him. “For ’tis a private joke, and I am afraid one that you would not know the full history of. I would not burden you with the full story.”

Lady Romeril glared. “You forget, I think, Sir Mark, that I am an important part of society and considered one of the Madams of Almack’s. One day, no one will be able to even move in the ton without me knowing about it, and you may regret your remarks then!”

Without another word, she stalked away, pushing past other guests or glaring so ferociously that they stepped out of her path.

Sir Mark smiled. Lady Romeril did not frighten him; she was one in a long line of ladies who had declared themselves vital for society to function, and in his almost forty years, he had seen many of them come and go.

Lady Romeril would be no different. Of course, if he were wrong, and Lady Romeril one day did become the sort of woman who could ruin a young lady’s coming out or broker marriages between the great families…

Well. That would be a very sorry day indeed for society.

Everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves; the dancing had just finished, and now the musicians were preparing for the next set. Gentlemen were approaching ladies, some boldly, some with pink cheeks. Those ladies not being approached were looking out across the room, hoping for a gentleman to catch their eye.

The whole place had been decorated under Mrs. Peters’s strict instructions, and Sir Mark was pleased to see that she had once again excelled. He had never seen so many candles in one place, and there were little touches he had not noticed before. Different color waxes, little garlands and wreaths of the last summer foliage.

All was going well—except, of course, that Lady Romeril was standing on the other side of the room with a gaggle of ladies all a similar age around her. She was speaking rapidly under her voice and shooting him glares he was certain he did not deserve.

Well, he could not blame her. Sir Mark was all too aware of the limitations for ladies in society; they had so little to do, even when married. They had children, and they decorated.

Was there anything else? He could not think of anything. Hayley had wished to do more, but even as a lady of a manor, there had been little she could do besides polish her accomplishments and visit the villagers.

The only other choice, of course, was to become a governess.

Damn, thought Sir Mark fiercely. He had promised himself he would not think about her, that he would entirely push her from his mind, a task more impossible with each passing day. He had never noticed before just how present a servant could be in a house like this.

Well, not entirely a servant. Sir Mark remembered fondly the first moment they had met. There had been fire in Miss Evangeline Jones even then.

Jolted from his reverie by the approach of an older man with a walking stick and scowl, Sir Mark bowed to Lord Romeril.

“My lord,” he said stiffly. “An honor to have you at another All Hallow’s Eve ball.”

The older man nodded. “I know. You well, man? Haven’t seen you in town this age.”

That was, thought Sir Mark because he would have to leave his children. His home.

His governess.

“Everything for the ball seems to be going smoothly,” said Sir Mark aloud.

Lord Romeril suddenly smiled, and it was a far too-knowing smile for Sir Mark’s liking. “Yes, but that is not what I asked.”

God curse all house guests who were too perceptive, thought Sir Mark savagely. Could it not be enough that he simply wanted to be left alone? That he wished to sit with his thoughts, his desires—no, he must not go down that route.

Miss Jones deserved better than that.

“I know,” he said curtly. “But as host this evening, that is what is top of my mind. I have to make sure everyone is enjoying themselves, and—”

“Even you?” Lord Romeril had cut in but was not looking fierce, as his wife would have done. Instead, he was looking at the younger man with a slightly knowing smile.

Sir Mark could not help but return it. “As long as my boys do not disrupt anything and enjoy the ceremony and nonsense, then I am happy.”

He jerked his head over at them. There, behind the musicians, eyes wide with sticky fingers clutching the pies Mrs. Peters had promised, were two boys.

His boys. His heart surged whenever he looked at them. They were his own, all right; there was no Hayley in either of them, thank God. The eldest even looked like he had at that age, or so it appeared from the painting in the Blue Room.

Lord Romeril nodded appreciatively. “They are well-behaved boys, Sir Mark, and you should be proud of them. Almost as good as my own boys.”

Sir Mark knew this was a compliment, and took it as such. There was no one more proud of his sons than Lord Romeril.

“But I am surprised you permit them to attend the ball without any supervision,” continued Lord Romeril. “Time was, I was never allowed to go anywhere without some sort of nanny or governess, but I s’pose I am a different generation. Don’t you have a governess?”

Sir Mark’s heart skipped a beat.

“I do have a governess,” he said stiffly. “She is upstairs.”

“Ah,” said Lord Romeril, as though Sir Mark had said far more than he actually had. “You don’t rate her, then? You would rather they ran about here without her?”

It was all Sir Mark could do to reign in his irritation, but unlike with his wife, this was not Lord Romeril’s fault.

No, it was his own. Had he ever managed to untangle his thoughts, his feelings for Miss Evangeline Jones?

No, and he was not likely to either. Not if he wanted to keep her, for he was certain if she had any idea how he desired her, how impressed he was with her, then she would certainly leave—go back to that Bureau of hers in London.

She would walk out of his life, and he would be utterly bereft without her.

A life without Miss Jones? It did not bear thinking about. She was pretty, yes, but there was so much more to her than that. She was…warm. She made him feel warm, made any room she was in feel warm. She made it come alive, her laughter, her cleverness, her kindness to his boys.

Anyone who was gentle with his sons was always going to be in Sir Mark’s good books, but there was something different about her. She cared for them deeply, he could tell, and that had been what had drawn her in at first.

Oh, God, he could not put his finger on it. All he knew was that he had fallen in love with her, and he would be damned if he ever did everything about it.

He would not risk losing her. His life without Evangeline Jones, even with her at a distance, would be—

“Yes, I suppose you’re right,” cut Lord Romeril into his thoughts.

Sir Mark shook his head as though he had been underwater. The noise of the ball rushed back, and he realized he had almost forgotten where he was.

“I remember the last governess we had,” Lord Romeril continued, scrunching up his nose. “Miss Michaels. Terrible woman. Don’t blame you for wanting to keep yours upstairs, keep her from dowdying the place up. Not when we have so many fine debutantes this year. Consider, Miss Chesworth and the Right Honorable Elizabeth Sandringham! So lovely!”

Lord Romeril pointed at the ladies in question. Sir Mark nodded but said nothing. They were pretty—at least, there was nothing about them to offend the eye.

But to compare them to Miss Jones? Nonsense. They may have names that would open doors for them in polite society, but there was little else to recommend them.

They had nothing on Evangeline—that was, Miss Jones. Even in her plain gowns and simple hairstyle designed to keep her wayward curls out of her eyes, she put them all to shame.

He had thought she would be here by now. He had been as clear and direct as possible, hadn’t he? He had hoped, after she had been a part of the family for so long, she would have felt comfortable to attend the ball.

Damnit, here he was, stuck hosting it, and the one person he wanted here had not thought fit to come.

And that was despite a direct invitation, too.

“Come, too. Wear whatever you want.”

Miss Evangeline Jones had not come down, and though Sir Mark knew he would never cross that line—never would permit himself to do such a thing—she was part of his family.

He loved her kindness, her wit, the way she was with the boys. His children loved her, most of the servants liked her—or tolerated her in the case of Mrs. Peters, which was praise indeed.

He loved her. Sir Mark had given up attempting to convince himself he had no real interest in her. He could not deny the feelings in his heart—nor those in his body when she was near.

“God, I had better ask someone to dance with me,” said Lord Romeril with a sigh, “or I will find myself forced to do the unthinkable.”

This perked up Sir Mark’s curiosity. “The unthinkable, my lord?”

The older man nodded. “Dance with my wife.”

He laughed dryly as he walked away, and Sir Mark shook his head. It was sad, really. Lady Romeril was not the kindest woman, but she was not unkind.

It was a terrible thing to be shackled in marriage with a partner who was fickle. He knew better than most, and if he ever chose to wed again…

Sir Mark sighed. No, he never would. He was sure Evangeline did not want him to say anything. Had he not encouraged her, asking her to the ball? To dance with her, it would be poetry in motion—though the whole neighborhood would be scandalized to see the lord of Ettington Park dance with a servant!

No, he had to put her entirely out of his mind. He stepped forward, meandering around the room and through the crowd of guests. Most of them inclined their heads, a few thanked him for such a wonderful evening.

Their platitudes meant nothing. Not as Miss Evangeline Jones came into view, cheeks pink, breathing heavily as though she had run down the stairs.

His heart lurched, and his fingers tingled. He would have to say something soon. He could not go on like this, not knowing, wondering whether she felt it, too, the draw that existed between them.

Was this it? The moment to approach her?

Sir Mark restrained himself. Doing such a thing in public would not be wise—and besides, he needed something from her. A sign. A hint she would be receptive to his advances.

He was not one to push himself on a woman. At the same time, Miss Jones looked rather flustered. Perhaps she would be reassured by his presence; perhaps one of his guests had attempted a liberty unwelcome by the young lady.

Just as Sir Mark decided to take a step closer to her, he suddenly spotted something that shouldn’t be there—a figure in white, walking into the library.

Who was that? It was not anyone he recognized, and it was common courtesy at a ball not to wander through other people’s homes.

“Excuse me,” he called, stepping forward and entering the library. “Guests are requested not to enter the library…”

His voice faded away as the woman turned to him—and it was not a woman. Or at least, it was. It had been.

She shimmered in the candlelight; the bookcase containing his works on hunting and hounds was still visible through the old-fashioned gown she was wearing.

“Wh-What?” was all Sir Mark could manage. “B-But…no, who are you? What do you want?”

The woman looked at him, saying nothing. And then she moved, not toward him but toward the wall—the wall which may as well have been smoke for all the resistance it put up against her.

The ghost, for it was a ghost, Sir Mark could not deny it, drifted through the wall.

He was alone, and he stood stock-still, attempting to understand what he had just seen. What had he said to Miss Jones only hours before?

“Don’t be silly, Miss Jones. You know better than that. There are no ghosts at Ettington Park. You need have no fear of them, though I do not believe, as you say, that you have ever been afraid in your life.”

And yet, what had he just seen? Had his eyes deceived him?

And then Evangeline came running into the library, straight into his arms, and Sir Mark did the only thing he knew and kissed her.

Chapter Four

This was not happening. Evangeline could not take it in—she must be dreaming. The master, kissing her! Sir Mark Shirley, holding her in his arms and pouring down what could only be described as passion onto her lips!

For a moment, she lost herself in his embrace. His lips were soft, teasing, and her entire body rippled with pleasure and the promise of more as he held her.

This was what she had wanted. Sir Mark moved his hands to her waist, clutching at her, pulling her closer. Evangeline did not think. She just acted, putting her hands into his hair. Her life would be over as soon as this kiss was, she knew, and that meant she had to take advantage of every single second.

She knew she should stop; this was most unladylike behavior and certainly not what a governess should be doing with her master!

But she could not help herself. This was what she had wanted for such a long time, and there was no need to think. Thinking was for the future, when she would have to reconcile losing her place with the disappointment and shame of the world.

In this moment, she could have her arms around Mark and kiss him as though…as though they were equals. As though this could be something more than it was.

As though it could lead to something real. Something permanent.

Evangeline clung to him as a port in a storm. As though he was the only real thing in the world, and if she let go, even for a second, then she would be utterly lost.

All her reticence, all that control she had been forced to manage whenever she was with him…all that had fallen away.

As her senses became full of him, and Evangeline could not think of anything else, she did not hold anything back, kissing him passionately. His tongue teased her lips, and she allowed him in, desperate for more.

“Mark,” she murmured as the kiss broke, followed swiftly by another.

Oh, this was heaven. She had never expected such a response as she had rushed, terrified, into the room. She had wanted comfort, a feeling of safety, and she had received both.

She would never be able to remain hereafter kissing the master in such a shameless fashion.

Besides, Evangeline could just make out through the haze of emotions that Mark was kissing her back. He had, after all, instigated the kiss itself! Was he confused? Did he think she was another woman?

It pained her to even consider that he was kissing her under the mistaken belief she was a different woman, but Evangeline could think of no other reason why the gruff, easily irritated, and yet tender man was kissing her so devotedly.

“Oh, Evangeline,” he murmured, kissing her neck and then returning to her lips.

Evangeline could not believe it. Her fervor only increased at the certain knowledge that Sir Mark Shirley was not only kissing her so wildly but was ruining her for all other men—and he knew it was her.

When they finally broke apart, Evangeline felt her cheeks immediately flush with heat, and she looked away.

How could she look at him now? How could she look her master in the eyes after what she had allowed herself to do, what temptation she had succumbed to?

A finger, strong but gentle, nudged her chin upward, so that she looked Mark directly in the face. He was smiling.

“Finally,” he murmured.

Evangeline could barely hear him, and she was still so embarrassed. What had she been thinking, rushing into the library like this, straight into her master’s arms? Instead of apologizing and immediately detangling herself, which is what she should have done…

No one would hire a governess from the Bureau now! Not after this news got out—after she was dismissed from the Shirley household and for taking such liberty!

“Evangeline?”

His voice was gentle, but she could not take in the tenderness within those four syllables. Her mind was racing, unable to accept what she had done.

It was all too much. The Governess Bureau, Vivienne, all they had built together; she knew she would give it all up for him. For Mark.

But did he even want her to? What did all this mean?

“I…I rushed in here,” managed Evangeline.

Well, really! As though he was not already well aware of that, having just thrown herself into his arms!

She had to explain herself. Governesses were not supposed to rush into libraries and throw themselves into the arms of their masters!

It was only then that Evangeline remembered precisely why she had done so, and she turned quickly to look behind her, heart beating rapidly. She had been certain that she would be behind her. Lady Emma.

But there was no one. Evangeline looked around the library wildly. It was not possible that Lady Emma would leave her in peace, not after following her down from her bedchamber to the ball.

But the place was empty. There were the books in their bookcases, the cabinet filled with silver and trinkets. The grandfather clock, ticking away sedately, twenty minutes slow.

All was calm. All, that was, save for Evangeline’s frantic breathing and the sensation that all was not quite well.

“What is wrong?” asked Mark quietly. He had not stepped away, Evangeline all too aware of how close he was.

She needed to get a grip of herself if she was to extricate herself from this foolish situation with a minimum of embarrassment. After all, he was certain to think she was making it all up, wasn’t she? Hadn’t he said as much only a few hours ago?

“Don’t be silly, Miss Jones, you know better than that. There are no ghosts at Ettington Park. You need have no fear of them, though I do not believe, as you say, that you have ever been afraid in your life.”

Evangeline swallowed. “I…I saw…”

Mark did not move nor frown. Instead, he smiled, that special smile she had only ever seen him use when he looked at his sons. It warmed her, giving her the strength to continue in what she knew would be a tale difficult to believe—even on this All Hallow’s Eve.

“You may think me foolish,” she admitted.

“I have never thought you foolish.”

His voice was tender, and Evangeline had to ignore it. She would never be able to continue if he kept being this…this kind.

Or worse, she would launch herself at him and start kissing him again.

“I saw Lady Emma,” she said quietly. “The ghost I have seen before…I see her almost every day, in truth. She looks at me like…”

Evangeline found her mouth was dry and tried to concentrate on continuing. She had to say this, though she would probably regret it.

If this was the last conversation she would have with Mark, it had to be an honest one.

“She chased me in here, I think. At least, she moved me by…” Evangeline took a deep breath. “She is the governess ghost, all the servants know about her. Tell me you have seen her!”

Her voice ended on a rather tremulous note. Lady Emma had frightened her, had somehow pushed her into this room where she had taken the biggest liberty of her life.

Yet Mark did not look stern or dismissive or even disbelieving.

He was smiling as he spoke slowly. “A lady in a Tudor-style gown and a sad smile?”

Evangeline almost sagged with relief; it was so reassuring to know she was not the only one who had seen her. After all this time wondering why Lady Emma had been following her, continuously appearing in the schoolroom, on her walks around the park, even once in church, which had been rather a shock to the system, it was more heartening than she could express to know that she was not the only one who had seen her.

“You—you have seen her then!”

Evangeline placed a hand on Mark’s chest, an anchor in this moment of distress.

Her hand burned, and she stepped away quickly. She should not have done that—why was she acting as though the man before her was her beloved, when that could never be!

“I definitely saw her, and I don’t care if you think I am mad! She chased me in here. She has not left me alone since I arrived at Ettington Park!”

“I do not think you are mad,” said Mark swiftly.

There was no hint of suspicion in his voice, nor look of concern that she was losing all reason. If anything, his expression was of care.

He stepped toward her, and in a sudden movement that made Evangeline gasp, he took her hands in his. She could feel the heat of his touch, a heat that seared and yet comforted.

What did he want from her? Was this something new between them?

“She…” Mark spoke softly, his gruff expression belying the quiet of his voice. “She drew me in here, I think. As though she wanted the two of us together.”

It was impossible for Evangeline not to blush at that word, which she found herself repeating. “Together?”

He did not wait. Mark pulled her closer and bestowed another passionate kiss on her lips, just as fiery as those before, and Evangeline lost herself in the sensuality.

He made her feel…oh, everything. The wave of emotion within her swelled but then died away as he broke the kiss and stared into her eyes.

“I have fought this for too long, and I will not any longer. I…I have fallen in love with you, Evangeline.”

She blinked, hardly aware of what she was doing but knowing that what she had just heard could not be true. It couldn’t be.

“No, you haven’t,” she whispered.

Mark laughed. “Only you would argue against me on this, Evangeline! I have fallen in love with you, and by God, though I did not expect it, I have never ceased to consider you with a mixture of devotion and desire.”

Evangeline could do nothing but look at him, her hands still in his. Was he in earnest? Could it be true?

Mark released one of her hands but only to stroke her cheek. “Evangeline, have no fear. You came into this strange house not knowing a soul, and I have treated you coldly because I knew I should not step across this line—and yet you have, with no fear, taught my boys far better than I could ever have imagined. I…I love you.”

Evangeline’s heart was beating so rapidly, it felt like a purr rather than a beat, and she could not think what to do—though she knew what had to be said.

Even if Mark had entirely lost his head, she had not.

“Mark—Sir Mark, you know what you say is…” she tried and then gathered her thoughts. “We cannot be together, ’tis not possible.”

The world did not smile kindly on such love as theirs because she could see the adoration now in his eyes. It was as though a dam of affection had finally been broken, and when she looked into his gaze, it was love pouring through.

But what would the world say? What would society say? What, even worse, would Vivienne say?

She had always said never to become distracted by a man. Miss Clarke and Miss Jones, the two owners and proprietresses of the Governess Bureau.

What would happen if—

Her thoughts and panic were immediately stopped by a kiss, and Evangeline welcomed it. Whenever he was kissing her, all thoughts and concerns disappeared. She could trust him; she knew that. But was he serious about the future?

Mark broke the kiss. “Who are we to deny ourselves? I have been alone for years, and with you by my side as my wife, I know I will be happier.”

“But Vivienne—Miss Clarke,” stammered Evangeline. “She will not like it. Society will not like it.”

“Oh, society,” said Mark dismissively, brushing those concerns aside easily. “I do not care what society thinks—and you may find that your friend will be pleased for you.”

If only that was true. Evangeline could not help but think privately that he could not be more wrong.

It was all too confusing. All she seemed able to do was hesitate, teetering on the edge of potential happiness but unable to take another step toward it. She wanted to be happy; she wanted to be with Mark, but this was all happening so suddenly.

A shout and burst of laughter poured through the door, and Evangeline glanced at it.

“Your ball still awaits you,” she said ruefully.

Mark shrugged. “There’ll always be another All Hallow’s Eve ball. You know, my father used to say that it was on this night that the line between our world and the spirit world is broken. Perhaps Lady Emma, or whoever she was, wanted to take this opportunity to encourage us.”

Evangeline smiled wryly. “I think Lady Emma has haunted me for a while.”

He laughed. “Well, the story goes that Lady Emma was a governess, so you know she must approve of you.”

It was all starting to sound as though they had made a decision or some sort of arrangement, Evangeline realized. Was this it? Was this the beginning of the rest of her life?

“Do…do you really want me to be your wife?”

Mark did not answer—at least, not in words. Instead, he kept his hands in hers and dropped to his knees before her, causing Evangeline’s heart to twist with unexpected joy.

“Evangeline,” he said seriously. “You are…I know I have not wooed you, but it has been impossible for me to stay away from you. You must have seen it, must have noticed. Do not make me beg!”

“Come here,” she laughed, pulling him to his feet and finding herself once more in his arms.

It was a different embrace than any other she had ever experienced. Not precisely chaste, but devoted, rather than purely passionate. As Evangeline leaned her head against his shoulder, she saw, to her surprise, a figure she had not expected.

Lady Emma. The ghost was floating just by the window, and instead of the somber expression she had grown used to, Lady Emma was smiling.

Don’t forget to read the rest of the series, The Governess Bureau—or explore Emily’s other Dragonblade series, Never the Bride, where you can meet Lady Romeril again…

The End

Historical Note

Ettington Park does exist in England, UK, and it is renowned for its ghosts. Lady Emma is considered to be the ghost of a governess, and the Shirley family lived in the house for over a thousand years.

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily E K Murdoch

The Governess Bureau Series

A Governess of Great Talents (Book 1)

A Governess of Discretion (Book 2)

A Governess of Many Languages (Book 3)

Never The Bride Series

Always the Bridesmaid (Book 1)

Always the Chaperone (Book 2)

Always the Courtesan (Book 3)

Always the Best Friend (Book 4)

Always the Wallflower (Book 5)

Always the Bluestocking (Book 6)

Always the Rival (Book 7)

Always the Matchmaker (Book 8)

Always the Widow (Book 9)

Always the Rebel (Book 10)

Always the Mistress (Book 11)

Always the Second Choice (Book 12)

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

Always the Lyon Tamer

About Emily E K Murdoch

If you love falling in love, then you’ve come to the right place.

I am a historian and writer and have a varied career to date: from examining medieval manuscripts to designing museum exhibitions, to working as a researcher for the BBC to working for the National Trust.

My books range from England 1050 to Texas 1848, and I can’t wait for you to fall in love with my heroes and heroines!

Follow me on twitter and instagram @emilyekmurdoch, find me on facebook at facebook.com/theemilyekmurdoch, and read my blog at www.emilyekmurdoch.com.

Haunted Hart

Emily Royal

Prologue

The walls of the ruins rose up ahead—dark, cracked silhouettes, a deeper black against the night sky. In the distance, an owl screeched.

Callum moved forward, gritting his teeth and displaying—what he hoped—more bravery and fortitude than his ten-year-old frame could carry.

His friend stopped and raised his hand.

“Did ye hear that, Cal? The wailing of the dead.”

The moon broke through the clouds, illuminating the jagged edges of the palace walls. In the cold light, they looked almost blue—a pale, ethereal light, which pulsed faintly, as if the building were alive.

But it was long dead—destroyed by Cromwell’s forces.

A dark shape flittered across Callum’s line of vision, and the skin tightened on the back of his neck. Ahead, a thin mist rose from the ground.

“I’m cold, Duncan,” he said. “I want to go home.”

“Och, Callum, ye’re a lassie at heart,” Duncan laughed. “You’re only scared of the White Lady.”

“I’m not!”

“Aye, ye are,” Duncan said. “And rightly so. If she doesn’t like you, she’ll come out of the walls and eat you! But ye can only call yerself a true Scotsman if ye spend the night up near the gallery. Where she lives.”

“Then why don’t you go?” Callum asked.

“I’ve already been.” Duncan puffed out his chest. “But if ye’re going to be a lassie about it, I’ll go and show ye how to be a real man. I’m not afraid of the dead.”

“Go ahead then.”

“Ye’re a coward!” Duncan laughed, and he ran ahead until the shadow of the building swallowed him up.

Callum drew in a deep breath to summon his courage and set off in his friend’s wake.

A hush descended over the land—as if the building held its breath and waited—punctuated only by the sound of Callum’s feet crunching on the path. The moon slid behind a cloud, plunging the land into darkness, and Callum dug his fingernails into his palms to stave off the tide of terror which swelled within him.

Calm yerself—ye’re a man. There’s no such thing as ghosts…

As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw the mist sliding over the ruins—icy fingers curling round the walls. The mist swirled and danced, forming a thick shape that pulsed to a steady rhythm as if it were alive, moving slowly up and down until the blurred edged took form.

The form of a woman.

Dressed in a flowing gown that trailed behind her, she drifted along the wall, floating in the air for a moment. Then she descended toward the path.

A chill coursed through Callum’s blood. The surrounding trees whispered in the breeze—soft, low murmurs which formed the shapes of words in his mind…

In life and death.

His heart shuddered, and he froze.

Then, he shook his head. What nonsense! Da would thrash him for being out so late at night—not to mention having such fanciful notions about the trees speaking.

He moved forward, then his heart almost stopped as he heard a scream of pure terror.

The whispers turned to wails which echoed around the building.

The wails of the dead.

With a crash, Duncan broke through a bush ahead and ran toward Callum. Eyes wide with terror, face ashen, he let out a wail, his mouth wide open, a black, gaping hole.

“It’s the Lady!” Duncan screamed. “I saw her! She reached out to me!”

“Where?”

“Run! Before she gets us!”

Duncan pushed past him and sprinted along the path. Callum hesitated and glanced back toward the ruined palace where the mist now moved toward him.

Then the voice whispered in his head—full of longing and despair.

Rory—my Rory!

With the instinct of the terrorized, Callum’s body sprang to life, and he set off after Duncan. The two boys didn’t stop running until they’d reached the warm, welcoming lights of the coaching inn that was Duncan’s home.

Duncan shivered in the doorway. “S-she s-spoke to me,” he stuttered, his eyes glazed with fear.

“What did she say, Dunc?”

“She said she wanted her Rory, th-that she waited for him in life and death. Then, sh-she reached out toward me.”

“What did she look like?”

“She had long, bony fingers,” Duncan said. “Like claws they were! She wore a white nightgown—like one of ma’s—and she had long black hair with a streak of silver. And her eyes…” He shivered and let out a whimper. “Dark as the night, they were! They looked like they’d swallow you up—like a bottomless pit!”

A voice called out from inside.

“Duncan, laddie, is that you?”

Duncan shook his head.

“Aye, Mrs. MacLeish!” Callum cried out. He nudged his friend. “Best pull yerself together and go see yer ma.”

“What about you?” Duncan asked.

“I’ll be fine,” Callum said more bravely than he felt. “I’m only across the street.”

“I’ll watch ye from here until ye’re safe inside.”

Callum set off for home, and as he reached the middle of the cobbled street, he passed through a cold patch of air as if an icy hand waited to claim him.

He broke into a run until he reached his home, and he slipped in through the back door. With luck, Da wouldn’t have noticed he’d been out.

Before he closed his door against the night, he heard a single whispered word.

Rory…

Chapter One

“I don’t see why I can’t come with you to the meeting.”

Lilah folded her arms and stared at her husband, who rolled his eyes and glanced out of the carriage window.

How typical of a man! Hoping that if he ignored her, she’d cease talking. Not that she could be easily ignored within the confines of the carriage.

“I thought we’d already discussed it, my love,” he said. “Like it or not, the merchant in St. Andrews prefer to deal with a man.”

He flinched as he spoke, as if he anticipated her reaction.

“Is that why we’re staying twenty miles away, Fraser,” she said, “so you can ride off to see him, safe in the knowledge that I can’t follow?”

He shook his head. “No, love. We’re staying in Falkland because it’s prettier and less crowded. I thought you’d prefer to explore the hills rather than the seaside while I’m discussing the sale of whisky in a stuffy office.”

“So I must play the dutiful wife and tend to our children while you continue to run the business by yourself.”

Even as Lilah spoke the words, she regretted them. She loved her children more than anything—the two peaceful forms, who’d slept soundly throughout the journey from the Highlands, with hardly a whimper—seven-year-old Flora, who nestled against her, and four-year-old Campbell, who lay curled up on the opposite seat, his head in his father’s lap.

Lately, her mood swung to and fro as violently as a weathercock in a hurricane. And today, after a particularly arduous morning when she’d struggled to keep her breakfast down—courtesy of the greasy fare at the inn in Perthshire they’d stayed in—her temper could be likened to that of a gorgon.

Her husband sighed. “Be fair, Delilah.”

Delilah.

Not “Lilah,” “love,” or—as he was wont to call her after they’d made love—“my wee terrier,”

But Delilah.

Her usually even-tempered husband was irritated.

He turned from the view out of the window and focused his attention on her.

Her heart skipped a little as she looked into his eyes—two bright sapphires, full of insight and understanding, which always looked deep inside her as if he could read her soul. Each time they made love, he kept his eyes open, binding her with a gaze so full of promise that she willingly surrendered to him, yielding to the pleasures he could bring.

A warmth fired her blood, pooling in her center, and she parted her lips.

Then she looked away. He had the power to render her helpless with a single hungry glance, and he knew it.

“I only want to be a part of the business,” she said. “Is that so terrible?”

A large hand captured hers.

“Of course not, my love,” he said, “and you know I always take your advice. You’re a great help at the distillery, and the verses you write are helping to sell some of the limited-edition lines of our whisky. I cannot begin to match your abilities in that regard—but you must also understand that I am better placed in other aspects of the business.”

Which was his diplomatic way of saying that he lacked the talents to write verse to adorn his bottles of whisky, and she lacked the balls—literally—to negotiate business deals with liquor merchants.

“I don’t want to be a trophy wife,” she said.

He let out a laugh, his deep, rich voice booming round the carriage.

“Nobody could accuse my Lilah of being a trophy wife.”

Flora stirred in her sleep, yawned and stretched her arms, then opened her eyes. So like her father’s—the same intense shade of blue, framed by flame-red hair.

“Are we there yet, Mama?”

Lilah drew her daughter into her arms. “Not far to go now, Flora, darling.”

Not long afterward, the carriage drew to a halt. The boy in Fraser’s lap stirred and woke. Sleepy hazel eyes looked across at his mother, love in their expression—and Lilah’s heart gave a little jolt.

My son.

Campbell McGregor, Marquess of Stanton—such a weighty title to place on the shoulders of a lad of less than five years. But little Cam cared nothing for his title, nor that his father was a duke. He was just a little boy who loved his pet dog and ate too many sweetmeats when his grandmamma came to visit.

Lilah leaned forward and looked out of the window. In the evening light, she could discern the shapes of the houses in the village, and beyond, a row of battlements which stood out against the evening sky, a dark, jagged shape.

Campbell leaped out of his seat “Ooh, look at that, Papa! What is it?”

“It’s the palace,” came the reply. “It’s hundreds of years old.”

“Is that why it’s a ruin?”

“No, little one,” he said, smiling. “Part of it was destroyed by fire around the time of the civil war.”

“I wonder why it’s not been repaired,” Lilah said. “What a shame!”

“Perhaps it’s haunted,” Flora suggested.

Lilah sighed. Her daughter had lately become fascinated by tales of ghosts after having found a volume of myths and legends in the library at Glendarron, most notably a tale about a ghost said to haunt the summit of Ben MacDui. Since then, Flora had been looking for ghosts everywhere, much to her younger brother’s fascination.

“You think so, Florry?” Campbell asked. “I don’t like it. I think it looks creepy.”

“There must be a ghost there,” Flora said. “I bet she’ll come and get you!”

Cam’s eyes widened, and he shrank against Fraser’s body.

“That’s enough, Flora,” Lilah said sharply. “You’re frightening your brother. You should know there’s no such thing as ghosts.”

“The innkeeper will know,” Flora continued. “I shall ask him.”

“Flora MacGregor, you’ll do no such thing!” Lilah snapped.

Flora jumped at the tone of her mother’s voice, then folded her arms and stuck out her lower lip.

“Come on, Florrie,” Fraser said, holding out his hand. “No more talk of ghosts. You wouldn’t want to spoil your supper, would you? Mrs. McLeish wrote to say she’d have a fine spread waiting for us on our arrival, and I’m starving!”

Lilah exchanged a smile with her husband. Infuriating he might be at times, but she couldn’t deny that he was the most devoted father in the world.

Chapter Two

Fraser pushed his soup bowl aside and leaned back in his chair.

“Had enough already?” His wife smiled at him from across the table, her eyes glittering in the candlelight.

“I shouldn’t have had that last ladleful,” he admitted, “but Mrs. McLeish’s Cullen skink is the best I’ve tasted.”

“You wouldn’t dare say that if Finola were here,” Lilah laughed. “She’d slice your head off for insulting her own recipe.”

“True,” he replied, “but Ma’s not here, is she? And you’d not tell tales on me, would you, Flora?”

His daughter looked up from her soup bowl. “Of course not, Papa.”

Their hostess appeared, together with a flame-haired boy of about Flora’s age.

“Have you finished, Your Grace?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. McLeish,” Fraser said. “I don’t think I could fit any more in. I must say it has a rather unique taste.”

“It’s my ma’s recipe,” she replied, “and her ma’s before her. Ye’ll find every woman has her own particular recipe for Cullen skink. My secret is the crisped leeks I sprinkle on the top.” She gestured to the lad beside her. “Well, Duncan—what are ye waiting for? Clear the duchess’s plate!”

The lad scuttled toward Lilah and picked up her plate. He eyed the half-full bowl with suspicion.

“Did ye not like it, ma’am?” he asked.

“Duncan!” the landlady admonished. “You address the duchess as Your Grace.”

Lilah gave the lad a smile of reassurance. “It’s delicious, young man,” she said, “but I’m a little unwell—the motion of the coach didn’t agree with me.”

True enough, his wife looked pale—which most likely explained her poor temper during the journey.

“Would ye like to retire to the parlor?” Mrs. McLeish asked.

“I’d like that very much, thank you,” Lilah said. “And perhaps an evening stroll afterward. I’d like to have a closer look at the palace.”

“Och no, ma’am!” the boy said. “You’re best visiting it during the day.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because of the lady!”

“What lady?”

“The White Lady!” he said. “She haunts the gallery at the pal…ow!”

The landlady clipped him round the ear. “That’s enough, Duncan,” she said, gesturing toward Campbell. “Ye don’t want to frighten the wee laddie here, do you? Be off with you! Go help Morag with the pots.”

The boy let out a huff, then exited the dining room, his arms laden with dirty bowls.

While Flora watched the lad with a fascinated expression on her face, Campbell’s eyes had widened with fear.

Fraser’s wife rose to her feet. “Come on, you two,” she said. “Let’s get you settled upstairs. We’ve a busy day exploring tomorrow while your Papa concludes his business.”

Ignoring the trace of bitterness in his wife’s tone, Fraser followed suit and opened his arms.

“Come on, young sir.”

Cam climbed down from his chair and ran into Fraser’s arms. Fraser scooped him up and lifted him into the air.

“Whee!” His son squealed with delight, tales of ghosts forgotten.

Lilah smiled, then she took Flora’s hand.

Less than ten minutes later, Fraser and his wife entered the parlor. Though simply furnished, the room was warm and welcoming, the low ceiling adding to the atmosphere of comfort. A fire crackled in the fireplace, which dominated the length of one wall, and a solitary old man slept in a rocking chair beside the hearth.

Shortly after, the landlord scuttled in, holding a vase of flowers.

“Begging your pardon, Your Grace, I didnae realize you’d be down so soon. Please, take the seat on the sofa there, by the fire.” He gestured to the sleeping figure by the fireplace. “Alastair—be off with you, man! Let our guests enjoy their evening in peace.”

The old man opened an eye in the manner of a sleeping dog reluctant to give up its place beside the fire, and he issued a low grumble.

Fraser’s wife settled herself on the sofa and smiled at the old man. “Please don’t leave on our account,” she said. “I’m sure there’s nowhere as pleasant tonight as beside this fireplace. I only hope we’re not disturbing your rest.”

A hot-tempered little terrier she was, but Lilah could turn on the charm when she wanted. The old man’s face cracked into a smile, and two bright eyes twinkled at her.

“Ye’re right there, hen,” he said. “And there’s nowhere better to be than safely tucked inside when the moon is full.” He nodded to Fraser. “Are ye MacGregor, the whisky maker we’ve been hearing so much about?”

“Hush, Alastair!” the landlord said. “This is the Duke and Duchess of Molineux.”

“But I prefer to be known as Fraser MacGregor,” Fraser said, holding out his hand. “Are ye fond of a drop of the mountain dew yerself?”

“Aye, that I am.”

Fraser pulled a flask out of his pocket. “Perhaps ye’d care to join me?”

The old man’s face split into a gap-toothed smile.

“And Mr. McLeish, too, perhaps,” Fraser added.

The landlord shook his head. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m needed in the stables. Mrs. McLeish would have my ballocks if she caught me drinking before the chores are done. I’ll fetch ye some glasses.”

Fraser shot him a look of sympathy—the shared pain of husbands united in adversity—all the time aware that Lilah’s gaze was fixed on him.

He knew how the man felt.

“Perhaps tomorrow night?” the landlord continued, a tone of hope in his voice.

“We’d be delighted,” Lilah said in her sweetest tone.

She wasn’t fooling anyone. His little terrier might be an Englishwoman by birth, but she was a Scot by nature. And every Scotsman who valued his vitals knew the benefit of appeasing his woman.

The landlord crossed the floor to a cabinet at the opposite end of the parlor and set the vase down. He returned with three glasses and placed them on the table in front of the sofa, then scuttled off. Shortly after, Mrs. McLeish’s sharp tones could be heard, issuing orders, while her husband responded in a placating tone. Fraser glanced at Lilah, who, all of a sudden, seemed to take an excessive degree of interest in the picture hanging over the fireplace.

“Are ye interested in the picture, hen?” the old man asked in his cracked voice.

“The picture? Oh—yes,” Lilah said. “What an unusual shaped hill! Is it local?”

“It’s Falkland Hill,” the man said. “The view from the top is the finest in the kingdom.”

“I should like to explore it,” Lilah said. “Perhaps tomorrow,” she glanced at Fraser, “while you’re conducting your business. Would it be suitable for children?”

“Och, aye,” the old man said, giving Fraser a wink, “if they’re as feisty as their ma. But mind ye return before sundown.”

“I assure you, I’m not likely to get lost on a hill,” Lilah said, a note of irritation in her voice. “I’ve climbed mountains in the Highlands, haven’t I, Fraser?”

“Och, I’m not disputing your capabilities, hen,” the old man said, “but ye wouldn’t want to meet the lady.”

“The White Lady?” Fraser asked.

“Aye—she’s a legend hereabouts.”

Fraser poured a little whisky into each glass, pushed one toward the old man, then settled back. He sipped his drink, relishing the warm glow which radiated through him each time the fiery liquid slipped down his throat.

Lilah rolled her eyes but said nothing. The old man picked up his glass and held it to the light. At length, he gave an approving nod, then took a sip.

“Tell us about the White Lady,” Fraser said.

“Fraser, I hardly think…” Lilah began, but he interrupted her.

“There’s no harm in a little local legend,” he said. “The children are safely tucked up in bed. Unless you’re frightened?”

She let out an un-duchess-like snort.

“Maighread Murray, her name was,” the old man said. “She’s been wandering round the palace for the past two hundred years.”

“Why?” Lilah demanded.

“Ye don’t believe me?” the old man asked.

Lilah said nothing and lifted her glass to her lips.

“Maighread was known for her beauty,” he continued. “Hair the color of midnight—like a raven’s wing. The Old Murray saw her as his most prized possession, and she was destined to wed the son of the neighboring laird and unite the two clans.”

“What happened?” Lilah asked. “Did she die?”

“No, but she might as well have done. She fell in love with the son of a cowherd. But her da found out and beat the lad black and blue and said he’d kill him if he touched her again.”

Fraser took another sip of whisky. “What happened to her?”

“Her da didn’t touch her—he needed her body unblemished so that her intended’s family could inspect her before the wedding. But he locked her in her chamber, where she was to stay until her wedding. Brave lass that she was, she climbed out of her window and ran to her Rory. Her Da didn’t discover she’d gone until it was too late. They pledged their love with a handfasting in the woods on Falkland Hill. She wore a white dress with a garland of flowers—daisies and buttercups. They thought they’d remain hidden. But her da found them.”

The old man shook his head. “Poor lass.”

“What happened to her?” Lilah asked.

“Her da cast her out, branded her a hoor.”

“A what?”

The old man colored. “A woman of ill-repute. A whore. Her da declared her ruined and demanded the lad’s life as payment.”

“Dear Lord!” Lilah cried. “He didn’t kill him, did he?”

“He sent Rory to battle,” the old man said. “But the night before he left, they met in secret in the palace and lay with each other. Then the next morning, he left for battle, and she waved him off and watched him leave, pledging that, in life and death, she would be waiting for him.” He gave a sigh and drained his glass.

“She’s still waiting.”

“Did he die in the battle?” Lilah asked.

“Nobody knows.”

“You must know what battle he fought in,” she continued. “Was it Culloden?”

“Nobody knows.”

She let out a snort. “I suspect it changes each time you tell the story.”

The fire flickered and roared, and Fraser’s skin tightened as the air turned cold around him.

Then an explosion of crockery shattered the silence. Fraser jerked back and turned toward the direction of the noise. Shards of porcelain and crumpled flowers lay on the floor in the center of the parlor, in a puddle of water.

“It’s the vase MacLeish brought in,” Fraser said. “But he set it down on that table at the other end of the room.”

“It’s Maighread!” the old man hissed. “Ye’ve angered her with yer words, hen.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Lilah huffed.

Fraser’s heart nearly leaped out of his chest when the door burst open.

MacLeish entered. “Is everything all right? I heard a crash.” He glanced toward the floor. “Och no—my Shona’s vase! How did it happen?”

“It was Maighread,” the old man said. “The lass here must have angered her with her lack of faith.”

“Now, that’s enough, Alastair!” the innkeeper said. “What have I told you about frightening the guests with your tales?” He bowed toward Lilah. “I do beg yer pardon, Your Grace.”

“No matter,” Lilah said. “I only hope the vase wasn’t too valuable.”

“Shona won’t miss it—it’s been tucked away in the cellar for years. She only wanted it put out to make the place look pretty for you. Just give me a minute, and I’ll have the mess cleared up.”

“Please don’t put yourself to any trouble,” Lilah said. “I think it’s time we retired anyway.”

Taking his cue, Fraser rose to his feet and addressed the old man.

“Goodnight, my friend.”

“Aye,” came the reply. “And mind how ye go with that skeptical Sassenach wife of yours. Maighread’s got a fair temper on her if she takes a dislike to someone.”

Before Lilah could respond, Fraser steered her through the doorway and out of the parlor. As he crossed the threshold, his body shiveredas if icy fingers caressed the back of his neck.

Chapter Three

Lilah sat at the dressing table and brushed her hair. In the reflection of the mirror, she saw her husband removing his shirt, and her breath caught at the sight of his strong, muscular form.

Why did he have to be so beautiful?

She smiled and drew in a breath to dissipate the warm fog of need that clouded her judgment every time she saw him naked.

Once again, she was reminded of her good fortune in securing his heart. Though his title merited a full entourage of servants, when they traveled as a family, he always preferred a simpler, more intimate arrangement—just the two of them and their children, as if they were any other ordinary family touring the country. Only the family crest adorning the side of the carriage and the hushed, reverent tones adopted by the MacLeishes on their arrival at the inn gave any indication of their status.

But Fraser cared nothing for his title. His first love was his family business.

No—she chided herself inwardly—his first love was his family. Lilah, their children—and his mother, Finola—who’d welcomed Lilah into the family with open arms despite the fact that Lilah was, by her own admission, argumentative, overly frank, and strong-willed.

Which, as her husband told her on numerous occasions, was one of the many reasons why he loved her.

A couple of hours later, her nausea had diminished after a cup of hot tea, and she was very much looking forward to the sort of disturbance brought about by her husband’s virility. And, judging by the hungry expression in his eyes as he slid across the chamber and approached her from behind, he shared her sentiments.

She tipped her head back, and he lowered his mouth to hers.

“My beautiful wife,” he whispered, his breath a warm caress across her lips. “My appetite has returned. Perhaps, my wife might furnish me with a little after-dinner sweetmeat.”

He slipped a warm hand into her nightgown, and her nipples pebbled with anticipation. Then his tongue flicked out and probed against the seam of her lips. She parted them and sighed.

He let out a low chuckle. “Mmm—perhaps there’s two dainty little sweetmeats for me to taste tonight.”

He placed a kiss on the corner of her mouth, then flicked a nipple with his thumb and withdrew.

Leaving her wanting—and he knew it, if the cocky grin on his face was anything to go by.

He strode toward the bed and shed his breeches, giving her a glimpse of his firm buttocks before he slipped under the covers.

Well—if he expected her to jump into bed with him like a wanton, he’d have to wait. Making a great show of her toilette, Lilah picked up her bottle of cologne and dabbed the stopper at the base of her throat.

“What did you think of the story that strange man told tonight?” she asked.

“What, Old Alastair?” He laughed. “I dare say he’ll tell any tall tale to an obliging guest—especially if they ply him with liquor. I wonder who Maighread was?”

Lilah snorted. “You don’t think that story was true, do you, Fraser? That old man couldn’t even tell me which battle her lover fought in—Rory was it?” She shook her head. “No—most likely, the woman in the story was some local girl who was overly free with her favors, got herself pregnant out of wedlock, with no notion of who the father was, so she made up a tale about a lost soldier.”

She rose from her seat and approached the bed. Her husband’s eyes glittered with a ravenous expression, and she unlaced the front of her gown.

“If I recall, you were pregnant with Flora before we married,” he teased.

“I think you had something to do with that also,” she said. “And I didn’t go spreading my legs for every man in the vicinity like some harlot.”

Crash!

She jumped at the sound of shattered glass. “What the devil was that?”

A strong, sweet, floral smell thickened in the air, and Fraser leaped out of the bed.

“There it is—look!” He pointed to the floor beside the dressing table where the remnants of the bottle of cologne lay. It had narrowly missed the rug to land on the stone floor, shattered beyond recognition.

“Oh, Fraser—my cologne from Paris!” Lilah cried. “And you went to such trouble to get it for me. I’m so sorry—I must have left it too close to the edge of the table.”

“Or perhaps you angered Maighread again?” he suggested.

“Don’t be a fool,” Lilah snapped, disguising the rush of fear with her sharp tone.

“Are ye calling yer man a fool?” He held out his hand. “Come here—it’s time to submit to yer husband.” His eyes glittered dangerously, and a secret thrill coursed through her. He nodded to her nightgown.

“Ye’re overdressed, woman.”

She took his hand. “Will you punish my transgression, Your Grace?”

He drew her close and nuzzled her neck, then he placed a kiss on her ear and nipped her earlobe.

“Wench! Tonight, I shall do what I want with ye.”

His voice, a low rumble, sent a shockwave of need through her, and a wicked pulse throbbed in her center. Then he pushed her onto the bed, and she yielded, parting her thighs in offering.

“That’s how I like my woman,” he growled, “open and ready for me.”

He crawled toward her and nudged her legs further apart with his knee.

Then he slipped inside her, and her body shuddered with pleasure.

“Mmm,” he chuckled. “Ready for me, weren’t ye, lass?”

“Why, you arrogant—oh!” she cried out as he shifted inside her, igniting a fizz of pleasure.

“That’s my wee terrier.” He withdrew, then plunged inside her, and the pleasure intensified, deep within, growing with each thrust.

She closed her eyes, relishing the feel of him. His breathing deepened until he gave a sharp cry, and her body disintegrated around him. When she opened her eyes again, he was looking down at her, his shaggy red locks framing his face, a lazy, satisfied smile on his lips.

“If only every meal could end like that,” he said. “Never forget that you’re my woman. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Mmm-hmm.” She nestled against him and ran her hand along his chest, her fingertips tracing the planes of his muscles.

He rumbled his approval as her hand moved toward the warm nest of wiry curls below his waist.

“Still ready for me, aren’t you?” she teased. “Never forget that you’re my man.”

The bed jerked as he sat upright.

“Did you hear that?” he cried.

She rolled onto her back. “Hear what?”

“It sounded like a scream—it came from outside.”

“Then it’s most likely an owl.”

“It was a voice,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Probably that old man singing to himself on the way home.” Lilah reached toward him. “Come back to bed.”

He pushed her hand away.

“Lilah, we mustn’t.”

“But you always love it when I…”

“No, love.”

“Why not?”

“I-I can’t explain it,” he whispered. “It’s a feeling I have. Like something bad will happen.”

A chill descended as if cold fingers caressed her skin, and she thought she heard a soft breath just behind her. But when she turned her head, there was nothing.

“There it was again!” he cried. “It’s a voice. A woman’s voice—crying. Like a long wail of despair. Can’t you hear it?”

He leaped out of bed and crossed the floor to the window.

Lilah rolled onto her side and snuggled under the covers. “If you want to cavort about naked, I’m not joining you,” she said, closing her eyes as the heavy blanket of sleep beckoned. “Mind your feet—don’t forget that broken bottle.”

She heard him draw the curtain back, then she closed her eyes.

“There’s someone outside,” he whispered. “A woman.”

“Mrs. McLeish, most likely,” she murmured.

“No, her hair’s much longer,” he said, his voice receding into the distance as she drifted into sleep. “She looks much younger and thinner. She’s wearing a white gown—like a wedding gown. And her hair’s loose. Black with a silver streak—like a shaft of moonlight. She’s going toward the palace, and she looks like she’s…”

But whatever else he said faded into the background as sleep claimed her.

*

Where’s my Rory?

The voice echoed in Lilah’s head, and she opened her eyes. Her husband slept soundly on his back next to her, his chest rising and falling to the rhythm of soft snores.

“On your side, Fraser,” she murmured, giving him a nudge.

With a low rumble, he let out another snore, then rolled onto his side, the bed shifting under the weight of his huge body. He let out a deep sigh, then his breathing steadied once more.

Then she became aware of another sound—a soft whisper of a breath.

The candle had long since burned out, but as Lilah stared into the darkness, her stomach tightened as a small light winked at her from the floor. It grew, forming a thin sliver, then a second light joined the first—followed by another.

Then a beam of light slid through the air, and her heart gave a jolt. She clutched the bedsheet, and a whimper escaped her lips.

The beam began to dance, swaying to a gentle rhythm—and the whispers resumed, spiraling around the room.

“Who’s there?” she called out, more boldly than she felt.

The whispers grew louder until she could discern a single word.

Hoor!

“Who is it?”

Ye’re the slut who’s taken my Rory…

A ripple of fear threaded through her. “M-maighread?”

He’s mine! In life and death!

“Leave us alone!” Lilah cried. “This man’s mine!”

Ye’re a hoor! I’ll wring yer neck!

The beam of light expanded and grew in intensity, then it rushed toward her with a high-pitched scream. She turned her head away and closed her eyes, lifting her arms to defend herself. Invisible fingers clutched her arms, and she cried out in terror…

“Lilah—Lilah, love! Wake up!”

Lilah opened her eyes.

She lay on the bed. Two strong hands held her down, and a large body loomed over her.

“Let me go!” she cried.

“Lilah, love. It’s me—Fraser!”

She blinked, and her husband’s concerned face swam into focus. He sat on the bed, already dressed, and caressed her shoulders.

“I-I thought…” she stuttered.

“Ye were having a dream,” he said.

“But I heard a scream,” she said. “It was so real!”

“Mrs. McLeish’s prize cockerel,” he said with a grin. “Noisy bird. I’ve half a mind to wring its neck—and I told it as much when it woke me up!”

“Then what was…”

She shook her head to dispel the fog of sleep and looked around the chamber. The remnants of the bottle of cologne lay on the floor, glinting in the sunlight that streamed through the window.

Of course! Fraser must have left the curtains open last night after he’d looked out, and the moonlight must have picked up the edge of the glass.

What a fool she’d been!

“Come on, sleepyhead,” he said. “Long day today. I can smell smokies, and I’m starving! If Mrs. McLeish’s breakfasts are as good as her suppers, I’ll not fit into my breeches by the time we leave here. The maid’s just brought in fresh water. I’ll go and see to the children.”

He exited the chamber, and Lilah approached the washstand, where steam rose from the washbowl in front of the mirror. She picked up the soap and sniffed it.

Lavender.

She dipped a washcloth into the water and worked lather into the fabric. Then she wiped her face, breathing in the delicate aroma of the soap.

She rinsed her face, looked up, and froze.

A thin layer of mist covered the mirror, except for the center where she could discern a single word, written in sharp, angular letters.

Hoor

She let out a shriek and leaped back, and the soap fell to the floor with a clatter.

“Fraser!”

Footsteps approached, and he burst through the door.

“The writing…” She pointed to the mirror, bile rising in her throat.

“I can’t see anything.”

“Don’t play games!” she cried, glaring at him. “Look at it!”

“There’s nothing there—I swear.”

She turned back, and he was right. Save for the thin layer of fog, the mirror was unmarked.

He took her hand. “Ye’re trembling, lass! Are ye well?”

She continued to stare at the mirror—willing the writing to return but also dreading it.

“Perhaps you had a little too much whisky last night,” he suggested.

“I feel a little queasy, that’s all,” she said. “I’m not going soft in the head.”

“Maybe you should remain indoors today.”

She shook her head. “The children will be so disappointed.”

“Then why don’t I take them out today?”

“What about your business meeting?” she asked.

“You’re more important than the business,” he said. “There’s hundreds of liquor merchants—but only one woman that I love with all my soul.”

Her stomach twisted with nausea—or was it guilt at her bad temper of yesterday? She’d admonished him for most of their journey about not being able to attend his meeting, and yet—here he was—thinking nothing of sacrificing it so that he could spend the day with his family.

She reached up and caressed his face. “I love you, Fraser,” she said. “And because I love you, I insist that you go. I’ll be well—there’s nothing a good dose of fresh air won’t cure.”

He dipped his head and claimed a kiss.

“I’d better wait for you in the corridor, outside,” he said. “If I remain here while you’re dressing, I’ll have a cockstand large enough to frighten the whole village—ghost, or no ghost.”

“Fraser!” she swatted his arm, and he gave her a grin, then left. Shortly after, she heard the excited squeals of the children as he burst into their room singing good morning in his deep baritone.

As Lilah reached for her undergarments, she heard a soft whisper. Cursing herself for being an over-imaginative fool, she continued dressing.

But she covered the washstand mirror with her nightrail and couldn’t deny her relief once she’d joined her husband outside the bedchamber.

Chapter Four

Fraser watched his wife help their daughter to bacon. Lilah seemed to have recovered her spirits, but he couldn’t help noticing that earlier, she’d tipped four spoons of sugar into her teacup—usually a sign of an unsettled stomach.

She sipped her tea and met his gaze. Her expression broke into a smile as if the sun had emerged from a cloud, and his body warmed with love. He’d first been attracted to her spirit—the fire in her belly. But it was her smile that had captured his soul. Each time she smiled, his heart melted. An argumentative and forthright little thing, most often she frowned—which meant that people, in general, mistook her for a bad-tempered hellion. But he wouldn’t have her any other way. No simpering miss was she. And it made her smiles all the more worthwhile because they were genuine.

Mrs. McLeish appeared with the flame-haired boy who’d accompanied her last night, brandishing another plateful of bacon. The children squealed with delight, and Campbell reached forward to take a piece.

“Steady, young sir!” the landlady cried. “It’ll burn yer fingers.”

“Quite right,” Lilah said. “Campbell—where’re your manners?”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” the boy said. “And you said I needed my strength today if we’re going up the hill!”

“Are ye climbing Falkland Hill today?” the landlady asked.

“I thought I’d take the children,” Lilah said. “Old Alastair said last night that the view from the top is the finest in the kingdom.”

“Aye, that it is,” Mrs. McLeish said. “He says rather too much, does Old Alastair, sometimes.”

Lilah looked up, apprehension in her expression.

“Take no notice of his tales. When he’s had a few too many, he can’t stop blethering about the White Lady.”

Lilah nodded and resumed her attention on her breakfast. But Fraser wasn’t fooled. She pushed the bacon round the plate, then set her fork down.

“I hope he didn’t unsettle ye too much, Your Grace,” the landlady continued.

“No,” Lilah said. “He said a lot about the White Lady but very little about her lover—Rory, was it?”

“I know about him,” Duncan said. “Don’t I, Ma?”

“Hush, lad!” Mrs. McLeish admonished. “The duchess doesn’t want to hear yer tales.”

“I don’t mind,” Lilah said. “What was he like, Duncan?”

“A great big warrior!” the boy said, his eyes shining. “With flame-red hair just like mine.” He pointed to Fraser. “And yours! I’ve not seen him, but I’ve seen her. She wears a white gown and has long black hair with a streak of moonlight.”

Fraser’s breath caught in his throat.

Ye gods—he’d seen a woman exactly like that last night!

Lilah let out a nervous laugh and tipped another spoon of sugar into her tea. “Should I be worried if my husband is the image of a ghost’s lover? Perhaps I’m in danger.”

She glanced up, and her gaze met Fraser’s. She might be smiling, but her eyes had grown dark with a ripple of fear in their expression.

“Och, no!” Mrs. McLeish laughed. “Ye’ll be in no more danger than yer husband if the White Lady wants to be reunited with her lover.”

“How so?” Fraser asked.

The landlady blushed. “Oh—begging your pardon, Your Grace. I only meant to reassure your wife. The dead will not harm the living unless they wish to be reunited with a loved one.”

Reunited in death.

A shiver of fear trickled down Fraser’s spine.

“I should be glad you’re in St. Andrews today, Fraser, and out of harm’s way,” Lilah said, giving him a warm smile.

“Ah—so I have your permission to attend the meeting!” he laughed. “Believe me, White Lady, or no White Lady, I’d rather be with you and the children. If only to make sure you don’t get lost on the hill.”

“The hill’s easy to find,” Mrs. McLeish said. “Ye just look out of the window, and there it is. The Shepherd’s Well isn’t so easy to find.”

“The Shepherd’s Well?” Lilah asked.

“It’s a holy well—a sacred spring, about halfway up the hill,” Mrs. McLeish said. “The water’s said to have healing properties. Ye can drink from it to save carrying water up the hill. Duncan here can show you to the path, if ye like, and tell ye how to find the well.”

The boy glanced nervously at Lilah, but she gave him a smile of reassurance.

“I’d love that,” Lilah said. “Would you be my guide, young man? Perhaps in return for a shilling?”

The boy’s eyes widened. “Can Callum come, too? He’s my friend.”

Fraser let out a laugh. “Canny wee lad! Ye’d have to share that shilling, mind.”

“Ye can earn yer shilling, Duncan,” the landlady said. “Go and ask Morag to make up a picnic for the lady and the two wee ones. Do ye like Scotch pie, Your Grace? And perhaps some tablet? It was freshly made this morning.”

“We love Scotch pie,” Lilah said, “don’t we children?”

“Ooh—tablet!” Campbell and Flora cried in unison.

“Perhaps yer ma will let you each have a piece as a reward at the top of the hill,” the landlady said.

Fraser sighed. “Now I am envious.”

“Perhaps Duncan can suggest somewhere we can explore tomorrow when you can join us,” Lilah said.

“There’s the Bunnet Stane,” Duncan said.

The landlady shook her head. “Och, that’s a long way for the wee ones, though it’s worth the walk.”

“What’s the Bunnet Stane?” Fraser asked.

“It’s a big rock, balanced on a column—like ye’d think it’d topple over at any moment,” Duncan said. “I’ll take ye there tomorrow for another shilling.”

“Duncan!” The landlady clipped the boy over the head.

“Ye strike a hard bargain, lad,” Fraser laughed. “Here, let’s shake hands to seal the deal.”

He offered his hand, and the boy’s face split into a wide grin as he took it.

“The White Lady used to meet Rory there,” the boy said. “I can show you where.”

Damn. Perhaps it wasn’t worth a look, after all. In fact, he’d pay the lad two shillings not to take them.

Why was it that each time he thought of the White Lady, a sense of unease came over him as if a tragedy was waiting just beyond the horizon?

Chapter Five

“Come on, Mama!”

Lilah grasped the wooden railing and glanced up. The seemingly endless flight of steps had almost defeated her. And it would haveif the children had not raced ahead. Despite the ache in her legs, her pride would not let her surrender.

Despite his young age, Campbell was a sturdy boy—just like his father. To see him jumping up and down at the top of the steps, holding his older sister’s hand, made Lilah feel tired and want to sit down and rest. And Duncan had warned her that once they’d cleared the forest, the slopes of the hill only became steeper.

“Can you see the spring?” she called out.

“No, Mama,” Flora said, “but Duncan said we’d not be able to see it from here. It’s further along the tree line. Don’t you remember?”

Lilah smiled to herself. Her daughter was even more forthright than Lilah herself. She almost pitied the young man who’d secure Flora’s heart. He’d have to be a strong character to manage her.

And to weather Fraser’s scrutiny.

But, unlike most titled men, Fraser didn’t care whether his children married titles—or whether they married at all. He just wanted them to be happy.

Unlike poor Maighread…

As Lilah reached the top of the steps, the forest thinned out, and she found herself standing on the slope of the hill. She paused to catch a breath. A warm hand slipped into hers, and she looked down to see her son’s face smiling eagerly up at her.

“Come on, Mama—I’m thirsty,” he said. “Duncan said the spring wasn’t far from the steps.”

She hooked the basket over her arm, and the three of them set off in search of the spring.

They didn’t have to walk far. After a few paces, a ring of stones came into view—flat, even slabs surrounding a small pool of clear water. Lilah kneeled beside it, and the children followed.

“It’s so clear!” Flora cried. “But I can’t see to the bottom.”

Beneath the water’s surface, Lilah could discern rocks glinting in the sunlight. But in the center, the water soaked up the light, like an abyss looking back at her.

She pulled out a cup from her basket and dipped it into the water. She took a sip, and the cool, fresh liquid slipped down her throat. Then she handed it to Flora.

“Try it.”

Her daughter took the cup and drained it, then she refilled it and passed it to her brother.

“It’s lovely, Cam.”

“Can we have some tablet now?” Campbell asked.

“Only once we’re at the top of the hill,” Lilah said. “Come on. We’d best get going. We want to get there and back before dusk, don’t we?”

“We’ll get to the top before you, Mama!” Flora laughed. She grasped her brother’s hand. “Come along, Cam—I’ll race you. I can see the path.”

Lilah dropped the cup in her basket and followed her children. Then she stopped and looked back at the spring. A thin layer of mist floated above the water’s surface, like a shroud. As she watched, it rose and thickened until she discerned a human form.

She shivered as a chill brushed her skin.

“Come on, Mama!”

Lilah turned toward the children, then glanced back at the spring.

The mist had gone.

A ripple of wind brushed through the trees.

She shivered, then set off after the children. As she stepped out of the shadow of the trees and into the warmth of the sun, she heard a single, whispered word.

Hoor…

*

The path seemed to grow steeper with each step. Several times Lilah spotted what she thought was the summit, but each time she reached it, the hill stretched ahead, steeper still as if it would never end.

Flora clasped her younger brother’s hand and helped him up, giving him encouragement each time he slipped.

“Come on, Cam! Not much further. We’ll make it to the top together.”

From where had Flora inherited her generosity of spirit? Lilah smiled—it certainly wasn’t from her. She’d always argued with her older brother and resisted his efforts to turn her into a lady.

She glanced down at the folds of her skirt, smeared with dirt from the many times she’d slipped on the path, and let out a giggle. Poor Dexter—wanting Lilah to be a lady—he’d never stood a chance!

Another step forward, and a gust of wind nearly dislodged Lilah’s bonnet. She glanced up and gave a cry of joy.

Ahead, the hill flattened out to form a small plateau, in the center of which was a small pile of stones.

“Children—we’ve made it!”

Lilah approached the summit cairn, picked up a nearby stone, and added it to the pile. Then she lifted her arms, drew in a lungful of air, and gave a whoop of joy.

The wind captured her voice and carried it into the sky, where a skylark floated above them, singing into the air.

“Look, Mama!” Flora cried. “You can see the sea!”

The sky was almost cloudless, and the air clear, save for a soft haze in the distance. To the east, the shimmer of the sea dominated the horizon, which merged into the lighter blue of the sky. The landscape lacked the raw ruggedness of the land around Glendarron, her Highland home, but the softer green fields, dotted with sheep and cows, still warmed her heart—a land where the people toiled to preserve it and belonged to it. Unlike London, where the people saw the land as belonging to them and constantly strived to outdo each other in terms of grandeur.

Here, the people loved what they had rather than wanted what they did not have.

To the west rose the soft peak of the twin of the hill they’d just climbed, more prominent than the rugged peaks of the Highlands due to the flatness of the surrounding land. Perhaps, when Fraser joined them tomorrow, they might venture there. Before he’d parted with them, the young boy, Duncan, had said the Bunnet Stane was at the foot of the west hill.

Though perhaps, if it was somewhere frequented by the White Lady, it was best avoided.

Lilah looked back over the path they’d just climbed, which snaked around the contours of the hill until it disappeared into the forest. She followed the line of the trees with her gaze to the cluster of buildings forming the village of Falkland.

“Come and look,” she said. “I can see the palace from here.”

“That’s where the White Lady lives,” Campbell said. “Duncan told me. She lives in the ruined part, where the gallery used to be.”

The palace looked forlorn in the afternoon light. One half was intact, but the ruined half clung to the main building like a drowning man who’d been dashed against the rocks in a storm. The jagged edges of the stone walls were still blackened and crumpled from the long-ago fire—the bones of a carcass left to crumble and fade. Not a house for the living—but a house for the dead.

A chill swept over Lilah as she fixed her gaze on the ruins. Was the White Lady, at very this moment, looking up at the hill—at her? Were they rivals, staring at each other in challenge across the centuries?

Flora’s voice broke the spell. “Can we have our picnic now? I’m hungry.”

“Of course,” Lilah said.

“I want my tablet!” Campbell cried.

“Pie first, young man, then you’ll get your tablet if you eat your pie,” Lilah said. “Then we’ll go exploring. This hill’s supposed to be a Pictish fort. Wouldn’t Papa love it if we were to find something interesting to take back for him?”

A needle of guilt pricked at her. She’d been argumentative during the carriage ride to Falkland, bemoaning the unfairness of having to tend to the children while Fraser tended to the business. But what was the business compared to her family? What better way to spend her time during their visit than exploring with her children?

When she’d bid Fraser goodbye, she’d seen the regret in his eyes—the regret that she could not go with him. But also the regret that he was missing out on today’s excursion. When she saw him again, she resolved to be more appreciative of her husband—the man who bore her temper with fortitude and understanding.

And love.

She loved him—more than she could ever have imagined loving anyone. But she never told—or showed—him enough.

Perhaps that was why the image of the tragic Maighread had been haunting her throughout the day—to teach her a lesson in humility and gratitude—that, unlike that poor girl, Lilah could love her man openly and without censure.

The wind swirled round her head, and a faint voice whispered in her mind.

Sassenach hoor…

She snapped her head round, but she was alone apart from Flora and Campbell, who were occupied with adding stones to the cairn. Shivering, she pulled out a plaid blanket from her basket and set it on the ground, making sure that the palace was not visible from where they sat.

And that they were not visible from the palace.

*

As the sun slipped toward the horizon, a warm pink glow bathed the landscape. The shadow of the hill moved across the ground, almost as if it chased after Lilah and the children. With a final burst of light—like the flare of a dying candle before it’s extinguished forever—the tips of the trees in the forest ahead glowed orange as if they were on fire. Then the glow faded, and the air grew cold.

“We shouldn’t have stayed so long on the hill,” Lilah said. “But never mind—we’ll have an adventure in the forest, won’t we?”

“I don’t like it,” Campbell said, his voice muffled around his thumb, which he’d stuck firmly in his mouth.

“I think it’s lovely!” Flora said. “The wood nymphs might come out to play.”

The boy started sniffing—the precursor to tears—and Lilah took his hand.

“Come on, little warrior,” she said. “A brave Highlander isn’t afraid of a few trees. The journey back will be much faster now we’re going downhill—and I remember Mrs. McLeish saying something about roast venison for supper tonight.”

“Oooh, Cam, that’s your favorite!” Flora said.

His eyes lit up, and he stumbled forward.

“Cam’s tired, Mama,” Flora said.

“Then I’ll carry him.”

Lilah handed the basket to her daughter and lifted her son into her arms, then they entered the forest.

The wind rushed through the trees, punctuated by the evening calls of the birds—the distinct repeated pattern of the song thrush and the high-pitched warbling of a robin.

“Can you hear the birds, Cam?” Lilah said. “They’re guiding us back to the inn.”

As they picked their way down the path, Lilah heard another sound—more like a growl.

“Come along, Flora!” she said brightly. “Papa will be waiting for us.”

She hurried and focused on the sound of their footsteps.

Then she heard it again.

Another growl—followed by a long, low moan.

“What was that!” Flora cried.

“Perhaps it’s an owl,” Lilah said. She tightened her grip on Campbell, who’d begun to tremble.

“That’s not an owl, Mama.”

Of course it is!” Lilah said. “Brown owls make all sorts of strange noises when they hunt. Come on—we don’t want to disturb him when he’s hungry.”

But Flora was right. No owl made a noise like that—nor any creature Lilah knew of.

At least—not any living creature.

“Uuuuhhhhhh!!!”

Lilah’s blood froze as an inhuman wail rose up from behind.

“Mama!” Flora screamed.

“Run, Flora!” Lilah cried, “as fast as you can. I’ll be right behind you!”

Flora set off, and, not daring to look back, Lilah ran after her, clutching her son in her arms. Neither of them stopped running until they’d emerged from the forest and reentered the village. Shortly after, they reached the inn, with its warm, welcoming lights and its thick, sturdy door, which shut out the night and whatever had been hunting them.

Chapter Six

“Where’s Papa?” Flora asked.

“He’s not returned from St. Andrews,” Lilah said. “The carriage isn’t back.”

“Can’t we stay up until he comes?”

“It’s very late, my darling. I’ll ask him to look in as soon as he’s here. Now hush—your brother’s already asleep.”

Lilah stroked her son’s face. His mouth curled into a sleepy smile, and he drew in a deep breath, then sighed.

When she glanced back at her daughter, she was asleep.

Lilah closed the bedchamber door, then made her way downstairs to the dining room.

“Mrs. McLeish!” she called out.

The landlady appeared, wiping her hand on her apron.

“Duchess! I didn’t realize you were back from your excursion. His Grace found you, then.”

“What do you mean?” Lilah asked. “He’s not back from St Andrews. The carriage isn’t outside.”

“My Alex took it round the back to the stables. He sent His Grace up the hill after ye.”

“When?” Lilah asked.

The landlady glanced at the longcase clock by the window. “An hour ago, at least.”

An hour?

Where was he?

A cold hand of dread clawed at Lilah’s stomach. Then she sighed and scolded herself inwardly. A huge, red-blooded Hhighlander like her husband could cope with a small hill in the dark.

But what if the noise on the hill was something to do with him? Lilah’s instinct had been to panic and run, believing the noise was a ghost. But now she was safely inside, her rational mind told her that it must have been something living.

She glanced out of the window. The moon hung in the cloudless sky, bathing the landscape in a cold blue light.

Enough light to see by.

“Shall I bring your supper now, Your Grace?”

“Perhaps later,” Lilah said, “when I’ve found my husband.”

“I’ll fetch Duncan to go with ye. He’s across the road with wee Callum. I can send Morag for him.”

“No, leave him be,” Lilah said.

A voice whispered in her mind that she hadn’t a moment to lose.

*

The hill path looked different in the moonlight—a pale blue light cast sharp shadows across the landscape, picking out the occasional stone, which looked as if it was illuminated from the inside with an ethereal glow.

A shiver of fear rippled through Lilah. Perhaps she should have taken up Mrs. McLeish’s offer and waited for Duncan to guide her. But the last thing she wanted was a young boy witnessing her fear and thinking her a coward.

She held her lamp up and peered into the darkness.

Two spots of green flashed in the lamplight ahead—two luminous eyes. She let out a cry, and the eyes moved, then she caught the flash of a tail.

A fox—or a young deer.

Stop being such a fool!

Gritting her teeth, she continued along the path toward the bend, where the incline steepened. Surely this wasn’t far from where she’d heard the noises? The jagged rock at the side of the path looked familiar—she remembered passing it on the way down as she ran.

She stopped to catch her breath and strained to listen. The birdsong had ceased—robins and thrushes safely tucked away in their nests, surrendering the terrain to the night hunters.

A screech echoed overhead, and the lamp slipped from her hand and smashed on the ground.

“No!”

She let out a cry of frustration as the light flickered and died, leaving her surrounded by the darkness.

Lilah’s heart thudded, and she clutched her chest, shaking her head to dispel the whooshing in her ears.

“Steady and calm,” she whispered, willing her heart rate to slow. “There’s no ghost here.” She closed her eyes and focused on her husband—the man who loved her. Perhaps he hid behind a tree as a jape to pay her back for her poor humor.

Yes, that was it—he was indulging in a joke. She’d pay him back, and they’d retire to the inn for a glass of whisky and a laugh.

Lilah’s heart rate slowed, and she opened her eyes, focusing on the trees. The trunks glowed faintly in the moonlight, but beyond, through the gaps between the trees, all she could see was total darkness—a void—as if she stood on the brink between life and the world beyond.

The trees whispered to each other, and the whispers surrounded her. Then a faint mist emerged from the darkness and moved toward her, pulsing to and fro.

The whispers increased, until a single word echoed through the night, which sent a chill through her bones.

Hoor…

Lilah struck out in front of her and batted away the mist with her arms.

In life and death…

The White Lady.

“You won’t take my husband, Maighread Murray,” Lilah cried. “He’s mine!” She lifted her head and screamed.

“Fraser—where are you?”

Her blood froze as a long, low wail echoed round the forest.

“Uuuhhhhh!”

It was him!

“Fraser!”

She darted off the path and sprinted toward the sound. The mist thickened around her, spiraling ahead until she could discern a human form.

Sassenach Hoor!

Fear turned to anger, and Lilah curled her hand into a fist and ran straight toward the apparition. She swung her arm at it, and the mist exploded in front of her.

“No! You shan’t take him!” she cried. “Fraser!”

Her lungs ached as she ran deeper into the forest.

Then her foot caught on a stone, and she pitched forward. Pain exploded in her ankle as she crashed to the ground. The mist danced round her, spiraling into a circle. The whispers continued, and faint laughter echoed in the air.

“Leave me alone!” Lilah screamed. She tried to stand, but her ankle gave way, and she fell to her knees. She crawled forward, then reached out with her hands—but instead of solid ground, she felt only air. She blinked away her tears, and the ground before her came into focus. She was on the edge of a bank, which fell almost vertically, some ten or twenty feet into a small rocky gorge.

At the bottom lay a man, his face pale in the moonlight.

Fraser…

“Fraser!” she cried. “Are you hurt?”

He stirred and let out a low moan.

Lilah eased herself down the bank, testing the rocky wall with her feet to find a purchase. Halfway down, her foot slipped, and she slid to the bottom. She crawled toward her husband and took his hand.

Sweet heaven—his skin was freezing! How long had he been there?

His eyes were closed, brow furrowed in pain. He parted his lips and murmured something unintelligible. She lowered her head and placed her ear close to his mouth.

“Fraser?”

“In life and death.”

Cold fingers clawed at her insides.

“No, my love,” she said. “You’re not going to die.”

“She’s waiting…”

Lilah caressed his face, then felt something warm and sticky on her fingers.

Blood.

“Fraser, my love, you’ve fallen and hit your head,” she said. “But I’m here now.”

“My arm…”

“No, your head,” she said. “It’s just a little bump. Can you sit?”

“No,” he whispered. “My arm…”

The left arm of his jacket was torn, and a dark stain spread across the material. She grasped the sleeve and tore it open to reveal a deep gash that ran along his forearm. Dark liquid glistened in the moonlight.

Lilah’s heart almost stopped at the sight of his life’s blood draining away. He needed a doctor—and soon—or he’d bleed to death.

She grasped the hem of her petticoat and pulled it apart, tearing off a strip of silk. Then she tied it round his arm, just above the gash, secured it with a knot, and pulled it tight.

He let out a deep moan of agony, which echoed around the gorge, and her heart shuddered in fear as she heard a high-pitched wail, as if in response, from the top of the ridge.

But she refused to look up. Her husband needed her—and compared to her love for him, her fear of the White Lady paled into nothing.

Relief washed over her as the blood flow stopped. Her makeshift tourniquet had worked. But she needed to get him to safety. Fraser would not survive the night outside—his body was freezing.

“Delilah…”

“Fraser!” she sobbed. “We have to leave here, my darling.”

“I’m cold,” he said.

Lilah removed her coat and placed it over him.

“Is that better, my love?”

“So cold…” he whispered.

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. “I know. I must try to find help.”

Cold fingers gripped her hand. “No,” he croaked. “If you go, I’ll never see you again.”

His chest rose and fell in a deep sigh, then he opened his eyes.

“She’s here—look!”

Lilah turned and saw thin fingers of mist curling over the ridge, shrouding the wall of the gorge. At the top, the solid form of a woman in a long, flowing white gown floated along the ridge.

“No!” she cried. “You can’t take him—I won’t let you!”

Rory—my Rory…

“He’s not your Rory!” Lilah sobbed.

The figure drifted along the wall, moving closer, arms outstretched, hair flowing behind her—jet black except for a long streak of silver which shone in the moonlight.

In life and death…

“No!” Lilah screamed. “You can’t have him! He can’t die here—take me instead!”

The figure stopped moving and remained in mid-air, gently undulating.

“Have mercy!” Lilah pleaded. “I love this man with all my heart. I’m sorry for your loss, but he’s not your Rory. If you must claim a life, then take mine. If we must be parted, then let him be the one who lives. He’s a better person than I could ever be—kind, loving…” She let out a sob. “…So many people depend on him—they need him, as I do. He’s a father, a landlord, and a son—and the world would be a poorer place without him. He’s the light of my soul, and if you must have a sacrifice, then I’ll let you claim me—if it means he can live.”

In life and death…

“Yes!” Lilah cried. “Give him life—and let me choose death.”

The apparition remained motionless for a moment, then began to ascend, slowly, toward the top of the ridge, where it floated between the trees and disappeared.

“No!” Lilah screamed. “Come back! Help—help!”

She cried until her throat grew hoarse, then she grasped her husband’s arms and pulled with all her strength, but he didn’t move. His huge, muscular body—a body which she took such delight in—had surrendered to mortality and lay broken on the rocks.

She tried to stand, but her ankle crumpled beneath her. The walls of the gorge seemed to close in on her like a prison. She could hardly stand, let alone climb.

There was no way out.

“Forgive me, darling,” he whispered.

“What for?”

“For not letting you come to St. Andrews with me.”

“Oh, Fraser!” she cried, overcome with guilt. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Aye, there is, my wee terrier. Ye were unhappy not to have a greater hand in the business. I know ye struggle within the confines of the household—that the domestic life is hard on you. I came to find you on the hill today to say that, from now on, I will strive to do better by ye.”

“Oh, my love!” she cried. “It’s I who should be begging forgiveness for being so discontent with my lot—when I am the most fortunate woman in the world because I have you.”

“Lilah,” he whispered, “my beautiful Lilah. I’m so tired—but will ye grant me one request before I go to sleep?”

“Anything.”

“A kiss,” he said. “One last kiss that I can remember forever.”

She dipped her head and brushed her lips against his. His skin was so cold! Then she placed her head on his chest and held onto him, listening to the faint sound of his heartbeat.

*

The whispers in the night had long-since vanished, leaving a cold, deathly silence. Lilah continued to cling to her husband as if she feared that at any moment, the White Lady would return to claim him. The moon slipped behind a cloud, plunging the gorge into darkness.

Before long, Lilah heard a twig snap in the distance. She squeezed her husband’s hand and looked up, straining to see.

Then a light appeared at the top of the ridge, flickering with a warm, orange glow.

“Hello there!” a voice called out.

“Down here!” Lilah cried. “Help us!”

“Is that you, Your Grace?”

“Yes—who’s there?”

“It’s Alex McLeish! Are you all right?”

“My husband’s hurt,” Lilah cried. “He hit his head, and he’s got a bad cut on his arm. But I can’t move him.”

“Aye, that’s right,” the voice replied. “Just wait there, and I’ll be down. I’ve brought help.”

A second light joined the first—then a third, and a fourth, and Lilah heard a murmur of voices. Shortly after, a rope appeared, and the innkeeper lowered himself down the side of the gorge.

“Are you hurt, ma’am?” he asked.

“Just my ankle,” she said, “but my husband—he needs a doctor.”

“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Dinnae worry, lass, we’ve a fine doctor in the village. We’ll take yer husband there.”

He lifted his head and called out. “Angus! Get yerself down here with another rope!”

A voice called out in response, then a second man descended and joined them.

“How did you know to find us?” Lilah asked.

“My Shona said ye’d gone up the hill looking for yer husband,” McLeish said. “She sent me and the lads up when ye didn’t return.” He gave a knowing smile. “Then the lady showed us the way.”

“The lady?”

“Aye—Maighread herself,” the second man said. “Ye’re a long way from the path, lass. We’d never have found ye otherwise. But Duncan—McLeish’s wee boy—saw her. A great mist rose up, and there she was—standing in the middle of the path. She floated away into the trees, then stopped and beckoned to us.”

“And you followed?”

“Aye,” McLeish said. “Each time we stopped, she turned and beckoned again until we came to this here gorge. Then she disappeared. As if her work was done.”

He kneeled beside Fraser’s prone form and inspected the makeshift tourniquet. “Nasty gash yer husband’s got on his arm, lass,” he said, “but Doctor McAllister will see him right. Let’s get him out of this gorge first.”

He looped the rope round Fraser’s shoulders.

“Be careful with him—please!” Lilah cried.

“Dinnae worry, lass, we’ll take care of him—and we’ll soon have ye snug and cozy beside the fire with a dram to warm yer bones.” McLeish gave her arm a reassuring pat. “Clever lass—ye saved his life with that tourniquet.”

Lilah might have applied the tourniquet, but she knew who’d really saved her husband’s life.

It was the woman who’d brought help.

The White Lady.

Chapter Seven

Fraser’s head throbbed with pain.

What the devil was happening? He felt like a dozen angry Highlanders were stampeding through his brain.

With cabers.

He drew in a breath and inhaled the faint aroma of herbs.

Voices murmured in the distance—a deep male voice, with professional, crisp tones.

He’d heard that voice earlier—when fingers and hands had poked and prodded at him, sending a firebolt of agony through his arm.

He tried to move and let out a groan as a sharp pain sliced through the flesh of his arm.

“He’s in pain!” a voice cried—a voice he knew and loved.

“He’ll recover, Your Grace,” the male voice said. “He’s a strong, brawny lad. He’ll be up and about in a day or two. A good few doses of Mrs. McLeish’s stew will restore his strength.”

Ah—that explained the delicious odor.

The voices continued, then a door opened and closed in the distance.

A soft hand caressed his face, and delicate fingertips traced the outline of his mouth. Then warm lips brushed against his skin.

“My love…”

He opened his eyes. His wife’s face swam into focus, her beautiful eyes glowing with love.

Her lips curved into a smile.

“You’re awake—at last,” she said.

“How long have I been asleep?”

“A day and a half. It’s early afternoon, and the children have been asking after you since yesterday morning.”

“Where are they?”

“Exploring the village,” she said. “Young Duncan—the innkeeper’s son—and his friend are giving them a tour.”

“My arm hurts.”

“I’m sure it does. You cut it—badly,” she said. “When you fell—don’t you remember?”

He closed his eyes, and the memory swam into his mind—a white-clad figure floating into the forest. At first, he’d thought it was his wife until he saw the long black hair—with a silver streak of moonlight…

“The ground disappeared beneath me,” he said. “I fell through the air and hit my head. Then…” He opened his eyes. “The next thing I remember was hearing your voice—saying how much you loved me.”

“Oh, Fraser!” she cried. “I was so worried—I thought you were going to die. After such a long day, you should have waited for us at the inn rather than venture out onto the hill.”

“I wanted to see you,” he said, “and I didn’t want to wait a moment longer than necessary. I felt so guilty.”

She slipped her hand into his, then the bed shifted as she sat beside him. “Why should you feel guilty?” she asked.

“I knew you wanted to go to St. Andrews with me—that you didn’t just want to be seen as a wife and mother.”

She brushed her lips against his. “I did,” she said, “but I was wrong. I shouldn’t have argued. Besides…” she smiled. “I have a new reason to relish my role as a wife and mother.”

“You do?”

She took his hand and kissed it. Then, slowly, she unfurled his fingers and pressed his palm against her belly.

A flicker of hope sparked inside his heart, then she nodded.

“Yes, my love,” she said. “I wasn’t sure at first and was going to wait until we returned home before telling you.”

“Oh, my darling! That’s the best news I could ever have hoped for.”

“Weren’t you hoping for good news in St. Andrews?” she asked. “Was your business meeting successful?”

“What’s a business meeting compared to a new life, my love? You’re what matters to me—you, our children, and…” he caressed her stomach, “…and the child to come.”

She dipped her head and captured his lips with a kiss.

“I’ll never argue with you again,” she whispered.

He smiled to himself. “Oh, my sweet lass—ye wouldn’t be my feisty wee terrier then. Do you not realize that I love you exactly as ye are?”

“And I love you.”

“Come here.”

She lay on the bed, her body warm beside him, and nestled against his chest. Lulled by the steady sound of her breathing, he drifted into sleep.

*

Lilah’s husband slept soundly.

She kissed his cheek and stroked his hair. A slow smile curled on his lips, and he murmured her name.

Doctor McAllister had advised that Fraser would be well enough to rise tomorrow. But, for now, he needed rest. After checking the bandage on his arm where the doctor had administered a neat row of stitches, Lilah rose from the bed and ventured downstairs into the parlor, where Mrs. McLeish was polishing the tables.

As soon as she saw Lilah, the landlady stood and wiped her hands on her apron.

“May I fetch you some tea, Your Grace?”

“No, thank you, Mrs. McLeish,” Lilah said. “I thought I might explore the village.”

“What a lovely idea!” The landlady said. “The boys are still out with your children—my Duncan’s ever so taken with your wee Campbell. He’s such a sweet boy—and the image of his father. I think they’ve gone to play in the burn if you wanted to join them.”

She gestured toward the ceiling.

“Is yer husband feeling better?”

“Yes,” Lilah said. “I can’t thank you enough for sending your husband out to find us—and for sending for the doctor.”

“Och, it’s no trouble,” the landlady said. “There’s no need to thank us.”

“Yes, there is.”

And there was someone else Lilah needed to thank.

Draping her shawl round her shoulders, Lilah set off in the direction of the palace—the home of the White Lady.

*

The building seemed to increase in height the closer Lilah moved toward it. The ruined part still bore the scars from the fire which had destroyed it.

An overgrown path led toward the gallery where Alastair—the old man at the inn—said the White Lady was often seen. Lilah pushed her way through the bushes and moved closer.

The sun drifted behind a cloud, and a chill filled the air. Lilah drew her shawl round her.

What was she doing? Not two days ago, she’d dismissed the old man’s tales of the ghost. And now, she was actually looking for her! Like a hysterical weak-minded fool who believed in fairies and magical folk. Not the sensible, level-headed woman she aspired to be.

The palace wasn’t the home of a ghost. It was just a building, most of which was ruined. As her gaze drifted across the outline of the structure, following the uneven edges of the walls, a cloud of mist rose up along the wall, forming long, thin fingers which crawled up the walls.

Then a shadow appeared, though there was nothing to cast it.

“Maighread?”

The shadow moved within the mist, expanding, until it took on a human form.

“Maighread,” Lilah whispered. “You sent for help—you saved my husband.”

The mist drifted toward her.

“You saved his life,” Lilah said. “Why—when you wanted him for yourself? Was it because I offered myself instead? Because I told you how much I love him?”

The mist continued toward Lilah, but she stood her ground.

“I didn’t believe in you at first,” she said. “Forgive me. And I’m sorry you lost your Rory. I cannot begin to imagine the pain you feel—not knowing where he is or what happened to him. And I’ll forever be grateful for what you did for my Fraser. I pray that one day, you’ll be reunited with your Rory and can find peace.”

Lilah moved forward, but the shadow receded, then the mist dispersed into the air. By the time she reached the wall, the mist—and the shadow—had gone.

In its place was a garland of flowers—small white daisies and golden buttercups, illuminated in a patch of sunlight.

Chapter Eight

One week later…

Fraser stretched and yawned—his muscles flexing as he spread across the bed. He reached out, but the soft body he’d been expecting was not there. Instead, there was a faint imprint in the mattress, bearing a trace of her warmth.

The pain in his arm had almost gone, courtesy of Doctor McAllister’s expert needlework—and of Lilah’s loving care.

But, this morning, a dull ache throbbed in his calves.

Courtesy of yesterday’s excursion to the…what did they call it?

The Bunnet Stane.

Had Fraser not seen it, he wouldn’t have believed it existed—a large, round rock perched on top of a column, as if a giant hand had plucked it from the ground and balanced it there for a jape. But the young lads—Duncan and Callum—had explained how the rock had formed by natural means. The two boys had assigned themselves as guides to Fraser’s family and had taken Flora and Campbell out on excursions, while Fraser had recuperated from his injuries and submitted himself to Lilah’s tender care.

He smiled to himself at the memory of her administrations—how she’d changed his bandages every day, peppered his arm with tender kisses, then crawled into bed with him. She had set his senses ablaze as she proceeded to kiss every inch of his body.

His wee terrier—the feisty lass he’d fallen in love with the first time they’d met and sparred with words in his London house…

His wicked, wanton wife.

And then…yesterday…while the two village boys had taken their children exploring on the slope of the hill, he’d made love to her against the rocks and indulged in her wantonness.

He sighed and rolled onto his back.

Though he was glad to be leaving for home today, he was going to miss the carefree days they’d spent around Falkland—just enjoying each other as a family. They had so many roles—duke and duchess, employer, landlord—but none were so fulfilling as that of husband and wife—and parents.

Soft footsteps approached the bed, and nimble fingers teased his nightshirt open. Then warm lips caressed his skin, placing a trail of open-mouthed kisses across his body.

“Good morning, sleepyhead.”

He opened his eyes to see her looking down at him, her beautiful face framed by soft, brown hair, her eyes warm with love.

“It’s time to rise if you want a good breakfast before we leave.”

He sighed. “Much as I relish the prospect of another of Mrs. McLeish’s breakfasts, I wish we could stay here—in this bed—for another day.”

She leaned over and brushed her lips against his. “I know,” she said. “I wish we could stay here a little longer. I’d forgotten the sheer joy to be had in just being a wife and mother.”

“So, you’re glad you came?” he asked. “Even though you didn’t attend the business meeting?”

“Yes,” she said, moving her hand toward his waistband, “and I’m glad I have such an understanding husband who weathers my poor temper.”

Reluctantly, he climbed out of the bed and padded across the chamber to the washstand. If his wife had moved her hand any lower, they’d never leave the bed—he’d have buried himself inside her and remained there ’til noon.

He dipped his hands into the washbasin, then looked into the washstand mirror.

“What this?”

A chain of flowers was draped over the mirror—small white daisies interspersed with yellow buttercups.

Lilah’s face joined his reflection, and she reached out, lifting the daisy chain with her fingertips.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It wasn’t there earlier.”

“Perhaps Flora made it for us?”

She shook her head, then smiled. “No,” she said, “I think it’s a parting gift from another.”

*

The footman closed the door, and the carriage set off. Lilah waved to the McLeishes and young Duncan then settled back into her seat.

“Will we be home tonight, Mama?”

Her son reached for a blanket, and she placed it over his lap.

“No, Cam,” Flora said, nestling beside Fraser on the opposite seat. “Don’t you remember? It took two days to get here—so it will take two days to go back. Surely you understand that! Or perhaps you think the horses will sprout wings, like Pegasus.”

“Florry, don’t tease your brother,” Fraser said. Lilah exchanged a glance with her husband, and they smiled across the carriage at each other. Despite her teasing, Flora adored her younger brother. Both children would be overjoyed when they knew they had a sibling on the way.

The carriage rounded a corner, and the palace came into view, the jagged edge of the ruined part glinting in the sunlight. Lilah opened the window and leaned out. As her gaze slid across the walls, she froze.

A face was at one of the windows—a pale face with long black hair, marked with a silver streak.

Only it wasn’t a window. It was a gap in the wall, high up where a window would once have been—looking out from a room that was no longer there.

“Fraser…”

He joined her at the window.

“Can you see it?” she whispered.

“That’s a sheer wall,” he said. “Nobody could get up that high.”

“No one living,” Lilah whispered. “It’s her. She’s waiting for him.” She shook her head. “Poor lady—she’ll never be at peace until he returns.”

He took her hand and lifted it to his lips. “Perhaps she’ll find peace in reuniting lovers—as she did with us that night on the hill.”

Lilah nodded and continued to watch the face.

Thank you, she mouthed, caressing her belly. If this child is a girl, I’ll name her Maighread.

The face moved, and for a moment, she thought she saw it smile. She blinked, then it was gone, and though she continued to watch the palace until it was out of sight, it did not return.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Emily Royal

Headstrong Harts

What the Hart Wants, Book 1

Queen of my Hart, Book 2

Hidden Hart, Book 3

The Prizefighter’s Hart, Book 4

London Libertines

Henry’s Bride, Book 1

Hawthorne’s Wife, Book 2

Roderick’s Widow, Book 3

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

A Lyon’s Pride

About the Author

Emily Royal grew up in Sussex, England, and has devoured romantic novels for as long as she can remember. A mathematician at heart, Emily has worked in financial services for over twenty years. She indulged in her love of writing after she moved to Scotland, where she lives with her husband, teenage daughters and menagerie of rescue pets including Twinkle, an attention-seeking boa constrictor.

She has a passion for both reading and writing romance with a weakness for Regency rakes, Highland heroes, and Medieval knights. Persuasion is one of her all-time favorite novels which she reads several times each year and she is fortunate enough to live within sight of a Medieval palace.

When not writing, Emily enjoys playing the piano, hiking, and painting landscapes, particularly the Highlands. One of her ambitions is to paint, as well as climb, every mountain in Scotland.

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Rohaise the Red

Of Delgatie Castle

Heather McCollum

Chapter One

Aberdeenshire, Scotland

27 October The Year of Our Lord 1663

“No, no, no, no, no…” Abigail Lindsey whispered as she ran through the pelting rain across the road and onto the moor. Was the man in the tavern behind her William? She wasn’t going back inside to find out.

Abigail squinted into the darkness that stretched like a blanket over the hill leading toward the hulking castle ruins at the top.

You are mine, Abigail, to do with as I please.

“No bloody chance,” she whispered, hurrying forward. She had already paid for the entire coach ride to Inverness, but she would end her journey here in the tiny town of Turriff. Her alias, Grace Winfield, would simply disappear. Hopefully, without anyone taking note.

Unless someone inside the tavern said, “Aye, a lass with red hair has been here.”

Who had seen her? The bar maid? The coachman? Her fellow passengers she’d endured all day as she fled from Aberdeen?

The autumn rains had made the peat spongy, and thunder rumbled in the distance as if God argued with her hasty plan to abandon her journey to Inverness. She trudged on toward the castle. “’Tis vacant,” she responded to His almighty question about her sanity. “And sound.” At least she hoped so.

Petticoat in hand, Abigail marched across the moor, her thighs aching as she climbed, hoping the stormy twilight hid her flight. She glanced over her shoulder, her heart thumping so hard, her hand flew to her chest. Holy God! A man stood at the edge of the moor, watching her. Damn the light blue cloak William had given her. It was her warmest, but it stood out in the darkness.

“I am but a phantom roaming the moors,” she said between her rapid breaths, the pains in her legs forgotten as she broke into a run. Lightning splintered across the sky. “Assistance would be appreciated,” she said, raising her gaze to heaven.

Looking back again, she gasped. The man was following her onto the moor. “No.” William or not, he was after her. Abigail charged forward toward the looming shadow of the castle, her satchel banging between her shoulder blades. She ran for long minutes, not looking behind her.

Rain tapped sporadically against the hood pulled over her head. Crack! Lightning shot across the black skyscape again. Its careless light revealed the hairy vines growing like tentacles up the front of the sand-colored stone façade of the three-story tower house before her. With walls thick and solid, if she could get inside, she might survive the night. As she leaped off the moor, her boots crunched the pebbles of the overgrown road before it.

Running up to the front double doors, Abigail grabbed the cold iron latch, working it with desperation. It didn’t release, though she shook it frantically. “Oh God, please open!”

The man must be closing in with his longer strides and trousers instead of skirts. Abigail tilted her face to the dark windows just as another flash of light cut across the sky. A woman stood at the window on the second floor. Her hair long, her face pale, and her eyes turned down toward Abigail.

“Please help me!” Abigail cried. She looked over her shoulder toward the moor. It was dark, but there was movement, the shadow of a monster. Breathing so hard her words were weak, she looked up at the woman again. “He will kill me. Please! Let me in!” A sob came out, born of panic. She pounded on the door, her fists tight. “Please let me in! He is coming!”

In the silence of the receding thunder, Abigail heard the scrape of iron in the lock. Thumbs pressing on top of each other in their haste, she squashed the iron latch, and the door swung inwards. She dashed into darkness, her heels loud on the wooden floor, and spun to slam the door. Fingers desperately seeking, she found the iron key in the lock and used both hands to turn it, snatching it back out. Pivoting, her eyes wide in the inky darkness, she dropped her bag and pressed her back against the door. Little sparks appeared in her periphery like popping embers rising from a bonfire.

Rain pelted the house, and thunder rolled like the deep rumble of a mythical beast. Something wooden banged in the back of the castle, making her jump. “Are there other ways he could get inside?” she whispered into the darkness.

The only answer was a lashing of wind that shrieked around the eves. At the end of a loud clap of thunder, she thought she heard a deep voice yell. Her breath blew out in gusts, and she slapped her hood off her head so she could better listen.

Ye are safe. In the darkness, she could not tell from which direction it had come. A woman’s voice, soft but strong. It felt like truth and not just hope. He cannot hurt you now.

Abigail sank to the floor, her damp and dirty dress belled out around her. She clutched her bent knees, bowing her head as if to curl into a tiny ball. “I am safe,” she whispered. Please God, let it be true.

*

Drip… Drip… Drip…

The sound teased, pressing against Abigail’s bladder, and she shifted, the aches in her limbs making her groan as she stretched. The sourness in her mouth reminded her how thirsty she was. The castle. William. The woman in the window.

She blinked and pushed up slowly from the floor. “Holy God,” she yelped as she saw the woman. She stood in the center of the long room, staring at Abigail. Her eyes were dark in a pale face, her hair striking in contrast. Red and straight, it fell unadorned down to her waist. She wore a green gown without a crinoline to hold it out.

Abigail straightened. “Pardon me, milady.” Her breath caught as she turned to see the lady had moved closer without a sound, and Abigail forced an uneasy smile. “Thank you for letting me take refuge in your home last night. A man from the village was chasing me across the moor.”

The woman’s head tilted to the side, her face blank.

“I am Abigail,” she said. “Well, actually it is Grace, now,” she added quickly. Lord help her. If she was going to live a life of duplicity, she had better improve her lying skills. “Forgive me for intruding, but is there a privy closet? I am in need.”

Abigail bent to pick up her bag and straightened to find the room empty. “Milady?” But she had vanished. Abigail huffed softly. “I will find it myself.”

The great hall was long with wooden beams running the length of the ceiling. Dust-covered tapestries lay bunched on the floor against the walls, as if they’d fallen there and were left to mold. A dusty table sat in the middle of the room, a cold and blackened hearth at the end with a tarnished shield over it. Fuzzy lines of cobweb hung in patterns amongst gutted candles in two chandeliers overhead. Although dry, the castle had fallen into complete disrepair. Was the woman alone?

Abigail found a pot behind a privacy screen in an alcove. “Thank the blessed lord,” she murmured, ducking behind. Her boots clipped on the wooden floor as she returned to the great hall, staring up at the cobwebs that shifted with a draft moving unseen about the ceiling.

“Milady?” she called at the bottom of the turning staircase. More cobwebs ran across the wide expanse of the steps as if no one ever used them. But Abigail had seen the woman staring down at her from the window above.

She found an iron poker, caked with rust, and brandished it like a sword, swiping the cobweb strings out of her way. “Are you here alone?” she called, but there was no answer. The place felt… hollow.

The corridor above was dry, the chilled air smelling heavily of dust. Abigail’s boots clipped softly on the floorboards, her senses alert. She opened each door, poking her head into bedchambers, their scant furniture covered with draped sheets. The only room without dust covers was the one whose windows faced the front of the castle.

“Good morn,” she called. Sheets lay in discarded piles, but no footprints marred the fine coating of dust. A four-poster bed was covered with a silk coverlet and pillows. The wardrobe doors squeaked as she opened them to find a green gown hanging there, identical to the one the red-haired lady wore. Abigail plucked at her own stained petticoat. Maybe she could buy the green gown from the lady if she had others.

The third floor was much the same, with smaller rooms and no furnishings. Abigail returned to the wide, twisting staircase and trailed a hand down the curved wall as she descended. She looked through a broken window, the jagged glass framing the isolated landscape.

Hurrying down and across the great hall, Abigail entered the kitchens in the rear. “Milady?” Light filtered in from several windows high up, two of them broken. The rustle and chirp of a startled bird made her start as a sparrow fluttered up from a cold hearth, shooting out a window.

“Do you have any food and drink I could buy?” Abigail called. Thirst made her tongue stick in her mouth. Walking over, she caught a drop of rainwater from the sill and put her finger in her mouth, turning toward the broken door.

Abigail gasped, nearly choking on her own finger, and shoved backwards until she climbed halfway onto the workbench. An arm, stiff and unmoving, lay on the floor, peeking out from the far table. She leaned out until she could see the rest of the prone body. Blood, black and thick, pooled out under a man’s head. “Holy Lord,” she whispered. His skull was crushed, an iron skillet on the ground beside him.

Pulling her tattered skirts close, Abigail crept toward him and crouched, touching his jacket. “Damp,” she whispered. He’d been in last night’s rain. Abigail’s heart jumped about inside her chest, and she drew in a full breath. She picked open his jacket pocket, pulling forth a few shillings and a folded missive. She held it up to the light.

Abigail Lindsey

5 feet 6 inches

Slight of build

Long, curling red-gold hair

£100 upon receipt, must be alive

Abigail stared numbly at the paper, her stomach tight. “William,” she breathed out. “He’s hired men to hunt me.”

*

Kerrick Hay took a swig of the honey ale he’d just purchased at the Turriff Tavern. The middle-aged barmaid gave him a coquettish smile, and he dropped a shilling on the table. “I will return when my wagon arrives.”

“If ye get lonely up at Delgatie, just let a lass know,” the woman said, her smile inviting.

“Appreciated,” he said, his gaze already on the door.

“Ye best be careful crossing the moors,” she said. “A man went missing three nights ago.”

He frowned. “At Delgatie?”

“On the moor somewhere between here and there. The coachman said he saw him headed that way, and he never returned for his horse.” She leaned over the bar. “Since I was a wee lass, folks have talked of a lady in red haunting Delgatie Castle. Her name is Rohaise.”

He placed his leather hat back on his head. “’Tis good I don’t believe in spirits, except for the whisky variety.” He picked up the sack of apples he’d purchased and strode from the tavern to retrieve Leum, his large, black horse who waited patiently near the post. Leum’s head tossed as he eyed the sack.

Kerrick pulled out two of the apples, presenting one to his horse. Leum lipped it from his hand, crunching it as Kerrick took a bite of his own and spotted a few golden-colored trees in the distance next to his castle. He imagined a field of barley to the west and a herd of sheep spread out around his property.

One year to make a profit, or ye lose everything. His father’s bitter terms battered against Kerrick’s determination.

And don’t sully the Hay name any more than ye have, his older brother had added.

Dammit. He’d been a hero in Cromwell’s army, but at home he was just a lowly traitor.

Kerrick guided Leum over the spongy moor, made more treacherous after the rains. Careful progress took nearly an hour, bringing him before the three-story fortress. At least all four walls seemed to be standing. The wind blew the limbs of two large oak trees, their yellow leaves flitting down like colored rain as he led Leum around the eastern side where a stone wall enclosed what he remembered was a back garden. There was little hope it had survived decades of neglect. He stopped Leum near the barn.

“Serves you right. Working for William.”

He pivoted at the sound of the voice. A lass?

Rocks clanked together as if she were dropping them. Kerrick walked silently to the closed gate.

“I suppose I must say some words,” the voice floated over the wall. “Dearest God. As a good Christian woman, I must ask for you to forgive this man who no doubt meant to do me harm, and to forgive whoever hit him, because she saved me.”

Saved her? Kerrick pressed the gate where the lock had been smashed. The lass stood alone amongst the weeds. She had the most beautiful fall of golden red hair. Curls cascaded down the back of her green gown.

She stared down at a pile of rocks. “So blessings on your soul, you horrid bastard.” She dropped another rock onto the heap. The wind shifted, and the familiar, tangy smell of death rolled into Kerrick.

“What the hell?” He pushed through the gate. “Who are ye?” The woman gasped, twirling toward him. “And what are ye doing in my castle?” He looked down at the rock pile where two boots stuck out from the end. “With a dead man?”

Chapter Two

Before Abigail could form any type of response, a pail flew across the yard as if the wind had picked it up, hurling it toward the mountainous man standing at the broken gate. His arm, which held a sinister sword, came across, knocking the pail away.

“I didn’t kill him,” Abigail yelled, “but if you come closer, you might join him.”

The stubborn man took another step but stopped as smaller rocks from the pile shot toward him. “Stad!” he roared. He dove, rolling over the ground on his back, to leap up, grabbing a discarded wooden wheelbarrow to hold before his face. “I am Kerrick Hay,” he yelled. “Owner of this property and castle. Cease your throwing, woman!”

“I’m not the one throwing things,” she yelled. Abigail ran through the back door, slamming it shut. Her hand scrambled to turn the heavy key in the lock.

Bam!

Abigail jumped back as the man slammed against the door.

Hide. The woman’s voice called loud and clear like the few times she’d spoken to her before. Abigail ran through the kitchen into the great hall. Hiding in a corner, she tried to slow her breath.

Crash!

“Holy God,” she whispered. He was inside.

Bam! Bam! Bam! A series of things hit the walls in the kitchen.

“Stad, ye witch. This is my home, my home as a Hay. Cease your torment!”

Clang! That sounded like the iron poker.

“Who are ye? Rohaise the Red? Is that who ye bloody are?” he called out.

The specter had a name?

“’Tis my castle ye haunt, banshee,” he yelled.

The sounds of attack ceased. If he were a Hay and owner of the castle, it wasn’t likely that he would just leave. He also probably hadn’t been sent by William. Abigail let out a long breath. But she wasn’t in the clear, not if he were bent on rape or murder. She had little defense apart from her fingernails, which were chipped and pointy from all the scrubbing she’d done over the last few days.

Heart pounding, Abigail listened to the man’s boots coming closer. Hands clenched, she held her chin steady. Confidence is your best defense. Her father’s words helped her stand strong.

The man’s gaze snapped around the hall, halting when he saw her. “Fuck,” he said, and raised his arms to block his face. After a moment, he lowered them, eyeing her suspiciously. “Are ye flesh and blood, lass?”

“Yes, but she will come back if you try to hurt me.”

He muttered something. “Who are ye? And why are ye in my castle?”

“I am Grace Winfield. I… have nowhere else to live. Your castle was vacant and a mess, so I have been scrubbing it. I fixed the door you just ripped apart.”

“What the bloody hell is that… thing?”

“I don’t know anything about the spirit except that this was her gown. She protected me from that man after I arrived.”

“The spirit killed the man?” he asked, watching her closely.

She nodded. “With an iron skillet to the head after he kicked in the kitchen door, which will need to be repaired a second time.”

The man rubbed a hand against his own head. “I have no doubt she could kill,” he murmured, annoyance darkening his words. “Even though I bloody hell don’t believe in the nonsense of spirits,” he said loudly and looked around the room as if Rohaise would suddenly appear. He strode to the mantel to tug free the ornamental shield from the wall.

“You are… Kerrick Hay, owner of this property?” she asked.

“Aye.” He set the metal shield against his leg but within easy reach. With the bright light shining in from the narrow windowpanes, she could see that his eyes were a deep blue, almost gray. He was broad through his shoulders and narrow at the waist and hips, and he was obviously strong from the show of muscles pressed against his sleeves when he raised his hands to cup his head.

“Did she hit your head?”

“Aye, but the ache has more to do with the fact that my castle has come with an angry spirit, a lass without a home, and a dead man half-buried in the garden.”

He dropped his hands and stared at her. “Ye’ve been here for three days?”

She nodded.

He glanced around the great hall. “And ye’ve cleaned?”

“Yes, and two rooms above,” she said. “I can be your maid.”

“And your name is Grace Winfield?”

She forced a smile and nodded quickly. “From Edinburgh.”

“And why did ye travel here?”

“I… I was taking the coach to Inverness when a man showed too much interest. I decided to end my journey, and he followed me. Rohaise attacked him when he broke into your home.”

He frowned, rubbing his head. “Ye don’t know how to get a spirit out of a castle, do ye?”

“No.”

Kerrick crossed his arms and exhaled, his legs spread in a battle stance. “I could use help setting this place working, and if the banshee saved ye maybe ye can reason with her.” He shook his head. “Damn ghost.” He looked toward the kitchen. “First though, I need to get that body off my land.”

“I didn’t dare go beyond the wall,” she said. “I tried to dig, but the ground was so hard and full of rocks.”

“So ye built a cairn over him,” he said, as if her plan had been ridiculous.

Abigail narrowed her eyes. “Show me how to dispose of his body properly, so when Rohaise takes her fury out on you, I’ll know what to do when you start to stink up the castle.”

Kerrick murmured something else in Gaelic, picked up the shield, and strode back to the kitchen.

Abigail let out a long breath. She wasn’t going to be raped and murdered today, or even dragged back to William. She placed her hands on her cheeks. “Thank you, Lord.”

*

“Good bloody Lord,” Kerrick swore as he backed up to view the corpse propped against the boulder and rubbed his nose. The man had turned sallow, his skin loose, and the exposed brain matter dry and dark with old blood. And he stank. Kerrick had carried the decaying body half a mile from Delgatie and set him to look like he’d sat to rest against a tall boulder.

“And the rock,” Grace, said, pointing to the one he’d bloodied with a bit of the man’s wound. She stood upwind, an arm over her nose.

Kerrick pushed the rock by the man so it looked to have rolled off the top of the boulder and hit him on the head, killing him with the blow.

“Wouldn’t he have fallen over?” Grace asked.

Kerrick raised his foot and shoved the man’s shoulder, making him fall over. “Better?” he asked.

Grace dropped her arm and smiled. “Yes.”

“Ye have a devious mind, lass.”

“Not normally,” she answered, following him as he began to traipse back toward Delgatie Castle.

He heard her boots tapping across the rocks and onto the frozen peat. It was best he didn’t look at her and her lush beauty. She was a distraction, one he certainly did not need. “The lasses I know would have gone into town to find someone to help them if they’d witnessed a murder,” he said.

“A murder by a ghost?” she asked. “Who would have believed me? I would have been thrown into the jail or be already on my way to be hanged.”

She was right. If he hadn’t been assaulted by the red-haired spirit, he’d have assumed she’d done the deed. “Ye were defending yourself.”

“In a home I had broken into,” she pointed out.

He glanced back at her. “Ye aren’t the spirit’s relation are ye? Ye both have red hair.” Grace’s hair was gold and coppery red, full of curl as it moved about her shoulders down her back. In truth, nothing like the spirit’s.

“No,” she said, frowning.

“Where is your family?” he asked. “Why aren’t ye home protected by a fiery haired father or a fiery tempered brother?” He stepped up and over a flat boulder that sat like an island amongst the fading heather scattered in clumps across the damp, autumn moor. “Ye shouldn’t be traveling alone.”

“My parents are both dead, and I have no siblings.”

“And your da left ye destitute?” Anger welled up inside Kerrick, his eyes still turned outward. Had the man made no provisions for his only child, left alone in a depraved world?

“I was provided for,” she said quickly. “But there are unscrupulous villains everywhere, one of which has taken what was left to me.”

He stopped, and she ran into his back, making him turn. “Pardon,” she mumbled. It was a quick contact, her softness that he’d seen in her form proving all too real.

The muted sun shone on her face, the pale blue of her cape making the blue in her eyes even more noticeable. “Someone stole your inheritance?” Kerrick asked.

She nodded. “I have only what I brought with me and a ticket to take me all the way to Inverness if I wish.”

Kerrick rubbed his mouth, his gut tight. He had a sister who was fortunate to live in Megginch Castle in Perth with his father and their oldest brother. The idea of someone making Dorcas run from her home, with barely anything, cast fury through Kerrick like a rock hitting the center of a pond, rippling out until his hands fisted. “I can help ye, Grace.”

You are a fool with your causes, boy, when you should be looking to Hay interests. Kerrick exhaled long, pushing his father’s condemnation away. “I can help ye get what is your due.” Grace shook her head, and a small part of him relaxed in relief at not having to prove his father right again.

“I need to put it all behind me.” She looked outward but rapidly returned to his gaze. “But I do wish to stay. I can cook and clean.”

He began to walk again, Grace beside him. “The wage is low,” he said, “but ye would have a roof over your head, food that I can provide, and…” He glanced her way, meeting her blue eyes, “no harm will come to ye in my care, from me or any man. I cannot predict what that banshee can do yet.”

“She definitely likes me better than you,” Grace said, some of the heaviness in her voice lifted. A small smile turned up the corners of her lush mouth. “Thank you.”

He nodded and looked away. They walked in silence, the two of them side by side as they traipsed back to his stony ruin. The first day at Delgatie was coming to an end and all he had done was hire a maid and evict a dead man. There was so much to do to get the fields ready for a spring planting, and yet he couldn’t stop thinking about the woman walking next to him.

Who is the bastard who took her inheritance? If it had been the man the ghost knocked dead with a skillet, Grace would have said so.

“Will you get chickens soon?” she asked.

It took him a moment to focus on her question. “Aye.”

They continued to walk. She smells of flowers. The subtle fragrance had cleared away the last scent of death from his nose when she’d fallen against him.

“And perhaps a cow?” she said.

“Aye.”

She was probably a virgin. And she will stay one. Damn his brother for betting he wouldn’t go a fortnight without finding a willing woman in his bed. The lasses didn’t seem to care that Kerrick was the second son of the wealthy George Hay. Dorcas said it was because he was brawny and handsome. Brawny, handsome, and poor except for this falling-down castle, and even that was forfeit if he couldn’t make a profit from it. The odds of success were not high, but he’d beaten the odds more than once, and damn it, he would again.

Chapter Three

Abigail watched Kerrick remove his horse’s bit and harness. Lord help her, the man was handsome. With a straight nose and a nicely formed mouth over a cropped beard, he would catch any woman’s attention. His wavy brown hair fell almost to his strong jawline. He was broad and as tall as William, maybe taller. He wore a leather doublet over a white linen tunic and tall leather boots that reached just below the edge of his great kilt. Kerrick Hay’s strength was quite obvious.

She smiled, their gazes connecting. Kerrick frowned as he studied her and looked away. Maybe he was hungry. “I can put together something for us to eat with your supplies,” she said.

“That would be much appreciated,” Kerrick said. “The bag with some food is on the table in the kitchen. I’ll take care of Leum and wash out here.”

She walked through the gate into the back courtyard. Certainly, she could be of use here. I will not be a show piece for you to bring out to entertain your friends and then lock me back away. Her fist clenched against her chest as she remembered the last words she’d shouted at William.

You will come to heel, Abigail, once I have you in my bed. William’s reply made her shiver as she walked through the splintered kitchen door. With a deep inhale, she pushed the nightmare aside. Yanking the cords open on Kerrick’s satchel, she pulled out a wrapped wedge of cheese, along with apples and milled flour.

A slight breeze tickled her cheek, and Abigail jumped, her hand going to her chest. The woman with red hair stood opposite her at the table. “Rohaise,” Abigail whispered. The spirit looked hazy and stared down at the food. “You can have some,” Abigail said, holding out a plump apple.

Rohaise met her gaze. Sorrow filled her eyes, along with hunger. Could she not eat or taste? “I am sorry,” Abigail whispered, and the woman vanished.

*

“Surprisingly good,” Kerrick said. He took another bite of the apple and cheese tart Grace had fashioned for their dinner.

“I melted the cheese to use with the flour to form the crust. The apples were sweet, and I found chestnuts in the side yard to crumble on top.” She smiled, pride filling her lovely eyes. Her skin was smooth and her nose and chin perfectly matched. And her lips begged to be kissed.

Damn fool. He dropped his gaze back to his plate. “I’ll get supplies from town in a few days and ask about chickens and a milk cow.”

“Eggs will help,” she said. “And this one will like pouncing after the chickens.” She set her new kitten on the floor.

Kerrick had found the sweet ball of fluff with its mother and siblings in the barn. It had been the runt, and the other kittens didn’t like to share the mother cat’s teats. Luckily it had survived long enough to be able to eat mashed apples and bits of dried meat.

The kitten rolled, leaped up, and pounced on a dry leaf that had come in on his boot. Grace laughed. The sound matched the flowery smell that emanated from her. Grace smelled like summer, sunshine, and joy. Bloody hell.

Tap, tap, tap, creak, creak… creak. Kerrick lifted his gaze overhead. “Footsteps?”

Grace lifted her gaze also, exposing the slender column of her throat. “I spent the first day chasing them around, but Rohaise will not be seen unless she wishes it.”

“A damn unwanted guest,” he said.

“At least she doesn’t require food and warmth.”

“That is looking at the positive,” he grumbled and set his cup back on the table. “’Tis been a long day. I’m heading up to bed.”

“Which bed?” she asked.

“The largest one.”

She tipped her head. “I cleaned the master bedchamber first, but Rohaise seems partial to it, so I cleaned the one next door for me to use.”

“I will take the master since I am the master of Delgatie,” he said.

“You might end up with a bed partner.”

He looked at the ceiling. “I will send her on her way.”

“Shall I lock the skillet in the brick oven tonight, just in case?”

His chair scraped as he pushed back, making the kitten leap onto Grace’s lap. “I’ll lock my bedchamber door. If she can float inside, the bloody skillet cannot make it through the wood.”

Kerrick never thought to utter such ludicrous words. He shook his head. When wagering to win his place in the family after returning from Cromwell’s war, he thought the only ghosts plaguing him would be from his time on the battlefield.

His gaze rested on Grace as she held the kitten against her cheek. Such a soft cheek. “Good eve,” he said and traipsed away before his gaze could linger.

Kerrick carried his satchel upstairs and quickly started a fire in the master bedchamber hearth. He went next door to build one for Grace. She had done an excellent job cleaning both chambers. His gaze strayed to the medium-sized bed that she had been sleeping in. It was probably filled with her sweet flowery scent.

“Will you sleep with me?” The faint voice came from the hallway, and for an instant Kerrick’s heart pumped blood hard through his body as he turned on the toes of his boots, still in his crouch. “I think I will call you Boo for Boudica, the powerful warrior queen of the Celts.”

He straightened, exhaling as he realized Grace was inviting her cat into bed with her, not him. Good. He certainly didn’t need an entanglement with a lass right now.

“Oh,” she said, walking in to find him there.

“I was starting your fire,” he said. “’Tis a cold night.”

The flickers of light cast gold across her, and the curve of a smile relaxed her mouth. “That was most kind.” The kitten jumped from her arms, making her look down, breaking the tether.

He nodded. “Let us hope for a peaceful night.” Striding past her, he made it to his room and shut the door. Nay. He wouldn’t let her flowery scent distract him from his need to get Delgatie running.

Kerrick scanned the corners of his room as he undressed. No red-haired spirit. He stalked over to the bed, yanking back the covers. “’Tis my room,” he said and climbed in. “’Tis my castle.” He leaned over and blew out the taper he’d brought up with him, leaving the room lit only by the hearth fire.

“Dammit,” he murmured, and got out to pad across the room to turn the iron key in the lock. He’d escaped death by sword and artillery in Cromwell’s army. He would not be killed by a spirit brandishing a flying skillet.

On the other side of the wall Grace was probably washing her face and combing through all that silky hair of hers. Did she sprinkle lavender on her pillow to make her hair smell more enticing? “Fool,” he murmured and climbed back in bed, turning his thoughts to the sheep he needed to house. But as the exhaustion from the day of mucking the ancient stable, fixing the back door he’d splintered, fighting off a vengeful ghost, and hauling a body half a mile away caught up to him, Kerrick fell into a dream. But it wasn’t of sheep. It was of red hair that smelled of flowers.

Grace. She smiled at him, turning in a circle of falling flower petals. They stood in a hazy field outside Delgatie’s walls. He tried to walk to her, but his feet felt stuck. When he looked down, they were caught in a peat bog, trapping him.

“Kerrick,” she said, and he saw that her smile had fled. She pointed behind him, and he twisted his body to see. Suddenly he was inside the wall, and Rohaise stood directly before him, only inches away. He yelled, raising his sword… and jerked awake.

Flat on his back, his eyes snapped open to darkness and a pale ghostly face, with floating red hair, leaned over him.

Chapter Four

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound came from the wall behind Abigail’s headboard. Abigail pushed up onto her knees in the firelit room, staring at it. Little Boo lifted her black and white head, tilting it.

“You heard it too,” Abigail whispered.

“Fucking hell!” Kerrick yelled from next door.

Abigail threw her legs over the side of the bed and ran out into the hall. She pounded on his door. “Kerrick! What’s wrong?”

The key scraped in the lock, and the door flew open. Kerrick stood there, completely naked. His chest was broad with a sprinkling of hair across it, and the finely sculpted muscles in his shoulders and arms showed blatant power. He turned, and the hearth fire revealed his perfectly toned arse as he traipsed away.

She snapped her gaze to the ceiling. “You are naked,” she said.

“She was bloody hell staring at me while I slept.” His voice boomed in the quiet night. “Hovering right over me.”

“You are upset because she woke you?”

He stopped, turning to stare at her like she was daft. “I am angry because she was bloody staring at me while I slept, and there is nothing I can God damn do about it.” His hair stood out from his head as if he’d been raking his fingers through it, but it was the thick muscles of his back and chest, toned legs, and obvious maleness that made it hard to breathe evenly.

“You could change rooms,” she said, and he stopped pacing to glare at her. Lord, he was big. Everywhere.

She flapped a hand in his direction. “Can you put something on?”

“A man can stomp around naked in his own bed chamber,” he yelled, looking at the ceiling as if Rohaise still hovered above him.

A breeze tickled Abigail’s hair, and the spirit appeared beside her, dressed in a white smock. Kerrick stared at both of them, his eyes wide, his frown fierce. “Like bloody twins.”

“Maybe she wouldn’t be staring at you if you put some clothes on,” Abigail snapped, her heart pounding with the nearness of the ghost and the mix of feelings coursing through her.

Rohaise glided across the room. She rapped her knuckles on the wall separating their rooms. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then she disappeared into it. “Lovely,” Abigail said. “Now she’s in my room.”

“Worse than a family of rats,” Kerrick said, and yanked the quilt off the bed to wrap around his hips.

Even with a flowery quilt, probably stitched by some sweet grandmother, pressed up against his parts, he was magnificently masculine.

“Shall we sleep downstairs?” she asked.

“With perfectly good beds up here?” he yelled.

Hiss. Meow.

Abigail gasped. “Boo.” The kitten ran into the room from the hallway as if chased from hers. Abigail scooped her up. “Boo doesn’t like Rohaise either.”

Kerrick murmured curses under his breath. He grabbed his pillow, his sheathed sword, and another blanket from his bed, holding them before him so that Abigail could only see his eyes and forehead above them. “Get your pillow and blankets. If the other rooms aren’t clean, we can hope they will at least be quiet.”

Abigail ran back to her room. It looked empty, but Boo prickled her nails against her arm to get down. She let her jump and grabbed her own blankets. Kerrick stood in her doorway, his gaze searching the shadows.

He gave her a quick nod, balancing everything in his arms. “This way.” She and Boo followed him in the inky darkness. Kerrick pushed through a door into one of the smaller rooms. The moon had risen on that side of the tower house, shining through the windows, casting a silverish glow. The bed was made for two people but was still narrower than either of the ones they’d left behind.

Kerrick threw his pillow and blanket over a wooden chair and yanked the dusty covers off the bed. “Ye can have the left side, away from the door, although the banshee could just float through the damn wall, I suppose.”

Abigail stood there, watching as he took up his blanket to wrap around himself and sat on his side of the bed.

“Sleep next to you?” she asked. “While you are naked?”

He grabbed the back of his head. “Lass, I have no evil intentions toward ye, and I’d rather have ye close so I can be sure ye are safe.”

“You are the one she wants to hit with a skillet,” she said.

“Return to your own room, then.” He leaned back on his elbows. Boo jumped into the center of the bed.

“I think it best I stay to keep you safe.” Abigail sat on her side of the bed.

He snorted but didn’t argue her point. She pulled her legs up and settled the blankets around her. Boo curled up in the narrow space between their pillows, serving as chaperone. Abigail breathed in the dry smell of dust and pulled her hand out to rub her itchy nose. “Perhaps we should say a prayer,” she whispered.

“Go right ahead,” Kerrick said. He lay on his back as if ready to spring up in defense.

“Dearest God,” Abigail began. “Please keep Rohaise away from us tonight and help her move on to your realm. And please keep Kerrick from being bludgeoned by a skillet.”

Kerrick murmured a curse.

“And help us to get a good night’s rest. Amen,” she finished.

“Nothing about preventing me from taking liberties?” Kerrick asked.

“And please God, do not let Kerrick take liberties with Rohaise or else she will surely dent his head with a skillet.”

Kerrick’s chuckle broke the tension. “Amen,” he said, and Abigail laughed quietly. Even though she wanted to turn inward to face him, Abigail made herself turn toward the outside of the bed. After several minutes, Kerrick did the same. She released a long breath and closed her eyes. Boo purred softly between them, and Abigail slowly succumbed to sleep.

*

“Ye are a laborer then,” Kerrick’s father pronounced. “No longer a warrior, fooled by Cromwell.”

“I will not fight for Charles Stuart’s absolute rule over us, no matter that he gave ye back your lands. I will build Delgatie into a working estate.”

“Ye have one year,” his father intoned. “Else ye lose it all. All ye will have are your books and your sword and any stray sheep that happens to survive your blundering shepherding.”

George Hay III strode out of his study at Megginch Castle in Perth, his boots clipping with disappointment and little faith for the abilities of his second son.

Kerrick turned and reared backward, away from the lady with floating red hair.

His eyes opened, and he was staring at the mold-stained ceiling. He glanced to the side and jerked upright. “Bloody damn!” he yelled at the woman staring at him.

She held her hands up. “’Tis just me,” Grace said. “Flesh and bones.”

He huffed, leaning on his elbow. “Your hair.”

“I know, I look like a specter,” she said, her face grim in the light filtering in from the dirty window beyond her.

“Nay, just the red caught at me. Your eyes are full of life and blue. Hers are blank and brown.”

She tipped her head slightly. “Thank you.”

Grace was also lushly curved and sweet smelling and he guessed, soft and perfect beneath her clothes. He covered his exposed leg with the quilt. Had she seen the nasty scar along his thigh?

“Does it pain you?” she asked.

“Not anymore,” he murmured.

“So you were a warrior then? A royalist?”

“My father is, and my brother. Much to my father’s disappointment, I am not.” Kerrick let his gaze wander across the spill of her red hair over the pillows. Somehow it made talking about his sins easier.

“That must be awkward,” she said.

He snorted softly. “Cromwell had good ideas about a republic until power began to taint them. A sin of all mankind, I suppose. I fought against those who wished to be ruled by one man, a king to decide the fate of England and our own country.” He shook his head. “By the time my leg healed after my last battle, Cromwell had died, and the populace, like a bunch of ignorant sheep, begged Charles Stuart to return from exile.”

“Were your family’s lands returned?” she asked, sitting against the headboard. Her hair fell around her shoulders across the white of her smock and robe.

“Aye,” he said, and looked away.

“And you would not fight for him.”

Kerrick stretched his arms overhead. “Even if I wanted to, I’m too well known as loyal to the roundheads to be anything but a foot soldier in Charles’ army.”

“So you came to Delgatie to start an estate as a private man,” she said.

“My father would call me a laborer, with a sneer in his voice.”

Her hand slid out of the blankets to rest on his arm. The pressure of her touch made his gut tighten. He did not need pity.

He slid off his side of the bed, careful to keep the quilt around his lower half. He cleared his voice. “I am to get Delgatie up and running within the year, making it a profitable estate.”

Her brows rose. “A single year? The property has been left to the wild for decades, maybe centuries. You are just one person.”

“’Tis my father’s terms. Delgatie is profitable by this time next year, or I lose it and any place within the Hay family.”

Her lips parted, and her hand stilled on the cat. “That is unreasonable,” she said, a twist of outrage in her words as her brows pinched.

“The other option he gave me was to join the clergy, which I would not.” He looked around the dusty room. “And I had a fondness for Delgatie, having visited it when I was a boy. However, I never stayed the night and didn’t believe the tales of Rohaise.”

Grace pushed out of bed, looking like a rumpled angel. “I will help you. And next year this place will be so successful that your father will be amazed.” She looked ready to run out onto the peat field and start tilling.

Meow. Boo stood at the closed door.

“I think your kitten is about to piss in the dust,” he said.

“Oh no,” Grace said, dropping her blanket to scoop up the kitten. Kerrick heard her feet slapping against the wooden stairs on her way down.

He exhaled long, rubbing his face with one hand, and looked around the room. Despite the dream, he’d slept well in this dusty nest. It was now day two, which had to be better than day one.

*

Abigail held Boo to her chest while turning the iron key in the front door lock. This was why her mother hadn’t wanted her to have a cat indoors. They use the privy wherever they want.

Abigail yanked the door open. “God’s bones!” she cursed as she stared into the flushed face of a woman on the doorstep, her hand poised to knock.

“Pardon me,” the woman said and lowered her fist. She stepped back, squinting her eyes as she gazed up at the second-floor window and then back at Abigail. “Ye were just in that window. I saw ye.”

The familiar woman had brown hair swept up into a tidy bun. Her cheeks were pink from the brisk morning air, and she held a basket with a cloth over it. “How did ye get downstairs so fast?”

Abigail set Boo down, and the kitten tore off toward the barn. “I… I saw you coming,” she said, hoping the woman wouldn’t counter with the fact Abigail had been completely surprised by her presence on her doorstep. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Aye.” She stepped forward in a way that made it obvious she was coming inside. “I am looking for the master of the house,” she said. “I am Fiona Campbell. I’ve come to tell Kerrick Hay that his wagon from Perth has arrived.” Fiona inspected the great hall with wide eyes.

Abigail’s heart thumped. Fiona was the barmaid from the tavern. “I will let him know. Thank you,” she said going to the door as if to usher her out.

Fiona frowned. “I wish to say good day to him. I brought him some apple scones.” She eyed Abigail up and down, obviously noting that she wore bedclothes.

Footsteps sounded on the steps, rapid and light. Fiona turned, thrusting her large bosom out before her, but Kerrick didn’t emerge. She peered at the stairs. “I heard someone coming down.” The floor squeaked as if someone were walking above. “Are there others living here?” Her face lit up, and she lowered her voice. “Maybe the lady in red?” She walked along the table, not waiting for a reply.

“When I was a young lass,” Fiona said, “I remember everyone talking about the lady in red here in the old castle. Poor woman who died of a broken heart when her man did not come to wed her? I think he was a Hay also.”

Suddenly Rohaise appeared behind Fiona.

“Uh…” Abigail started, but Fiona kept talking.

“Because people would pay a fine shilling to see her.”

Could Kerrick earn coin from the visits, proving to his father that he could make the place profitable? “Well, we—”

“People would come as far away as Aberdeen or even Edinburgh,” Fiona continued. “We get coaches in every day. I am sure people would come up and pay to see a ghostly lady on their journey to Inverness.”

Aberdeen? William was in Aberdeen, sending people to hunt for her, a girl with red hair. Fiona would send them right up to Kerrick’s castle. Abigail shook her head. “I am afraid not. The castle is exceedingly quiet and boring.”

Fiona’s mouth pinched in dismay. “Too bad, that.”

Rohaise disappeared, but a slight wind made the tiny hairs at Abigail’s temple tickle against her cheek. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sound came from the wall behind her that extended up into the room Rohaise had claimed. Tap. Tap. Tap. It grew louder until Abigail had to raise her voice to be heard. “We have rats. ’Tis why I had a cat inside.”

Fiona snorted. “That wee kit will get itself eaten by rats big enough to make all that racket.”

Crash. Both of them gasped, turning toward the kitchen in unison. “Lord,” Fiona said and hurried forward as if Delgatie were her own home. “The rats be taking over.”

Abigail followed, dodging past her to reach the kitchen first. The last thing she needed was a skillet floating in the air, but the kitchen was empty.

“It sounded like glass,” Fiona said. “Watch your bare feet.” She set her basket on the table.

Had Rohaise smashed a drinking glass in anger?

“God…” Fiona cursed and pointed at the floor near the hearth. Abigail rushed up beside her, her toes curling off the cold stone floor. But there were no glass slivers to avoid. There was, however, a fully whole drinking glass sitting upright on the stone floor half filled with wine. As if someone had set it down gently.

The barmaid looked to Abigail, her eyes wide.

Abigail swallowed, forcing a smile. “Our rats are quite odd.”

“But the glass—”

“I set it there earlier.”

“I heard something shatter,” Kerrick said, striding into the kitchen as he tied his tunic.

Fiona’s gaze slid between the two of them in obvious undress. “Ye did not say ye had a woman up here when ye were in town.” Her tone was accusing.

“I… I did not know she had arrived,” he answered.

Fiona frowned at Abigail, squinting her eyes. “Ye came on the coach last week, didn’t ye? Supposed to go on to Inverness, but ye never showed up for it. A man was asking about a lass with red hair and went looking for ye, but he’s disappeared too.”

“I was visiting my family in Edinburgh, and I bought the full ticket to Inverness by mistake,” Abigail said, pushing her lips into a smile. “I meant to get off here to meet…” She swallowed and exhaled. “Meet my husband.”

Both Kerrick and Fiona stared at her with frowns, but Abigail continued. “I came first to air the castle and take inventory. Lord Hay was to meet me.”

Fiona bobbed her head, her lips pinched. She looked at Kerrick. “I brought ye these scones,” she said, setting them down on the table. “Ye can bring the basket back when ye come get your wagon.”

“It has arrived?” Kerrick asked, excitement lighting his words.

“’Tis why I’m here, I suppose,” Fiona grumbled and turned to trudge back through the house, Abigail following.

“Thank you for coming,” Abigail called as she shut the door behind her. She turned to lean against it and let a big puff of air out of her cheeks.

Kerrick walked in, eating a scone. “As a lord’s wife, ye really should be dressed when entertaining visitors.”

Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. “It was the fastest way to get her out of the house before Rohaise tossed something else across the room or tapped a hole through the wall.” Abigail clenched her teeth. “When I leave, you can say I traveled to see a sister and died.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “’Tis a sad story.”

“I am sure Fiona will comfort you,” she said, irritation in her tone.

A hint of a grin returned to his handsome face. “Ho now, do I detect jealousy?”

“Kerrick Hay,” she said, her voice rising, “I can wield a skillet as well as Rohaise.”

He laughed and turned to walk back through the great hall toward the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“To saddle Leum.”

He swung back around, making her stop short right before him. “And ye should put on some proper clothing, Lady Hay.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“To town,” he said, his smile broadening.

Chapter Five

Kerrick flipped back the canvas from the wagon. “Hurrah.” Three crates sat in the middle of the bed, along with a trunk of his clothes and linens, bags of grain and seed, a box of tea, and ground-breaking tools. He smiled at Grace, who stood beside him. “All a man needs to repair an estate and get it producing.”

“Are you planning to plow up the peat by hand?” she asked.

“Nay. I have a plow head coming, and I will rent a pair of oxen,” he said, leaping onto the bed with the pry bar to open the first crate of books. “And these are all a man needs to keep from going insane.”

“Insanity? Is that a concern of yours?” she asked. “Because a wife ought to know such things.”

He yanked out a copy of Voltaire’s Optimism that had become his companion in the darkest of days. “Do ye like to read?”

She threw a knee up onto the wagon bed, and he helped her climb. “Yes actually,” she said, raising her voice above the sound of rain that had just started tapping on the slate roof. “I spent most of my life reading in my father’s study.”

Kerrick’s gaze rested on the deep gold cast to her red hair as she bent over his collection, the light from his lamp adding to the soft glow. “And ye could bring none with ye.”

She didn’t look up, but her fingers paused on one of the spines as she shook her head. “’Twas like leaving behind the best of friends.”

“Ye are welcome to read mine. Plays by Shakespeare and Marlow. Poems by Milton and Voltaire. The novel Don Quixote. Paradise Lost. And books on farming and estate running.”

“You collect them?”

“Aye,” he said, smiling when she looked up from her crouched position. Lord help him, she was bonny.

“That seems a rather strange hobby for a soldier.”

He grasped his copy of Optimism. “A learned person is a powerful person. I credit my strategic abilities to books.” He helped her stand, his hand under her arm. She was warm against the coolness of his fingers. “The rest of the wagon is full of things that will make our lives easier up at the castle.”

“Is there a priest hidden in there who can chase out a spirit?”

He snorted. “Perhaps we can do it ourselves. My mother used to walk around the outside of our estate in Perth with burning wood sage to capture unhealthy and bad air in the smoke, which would then rise into the heavens.” As if to accent the reference to God’s abode, thunder rumbled outside.

“I add wood sage to our list of necessities,” she said.

He smiled. This was easy, this banter between them. He’d never just talked with a woman. Either they were admonishing him, his sister in particular, or trying to entice him into a tryst.

Kerrick jumped to the ground. Turning, he grasped Grace’s waist, lifting her down. She was perfect in his hands and made no move to pull away, but the wagon blocked her from behind. He cleared his throat and dropped his hands, turning. “Let’s find a meal and decide if we can make it back to Delgatie this eve.”

With Grace on his arm, they pushed out into the weather. Wind, cold and wet, gusted so hard against them that for a moment, Grace seemed to be swept away in it, her hair flying out like flames from a bonfire.

“Good lord,” she yelled. Kerrick caught her hand, and the two of them ran for the tavern door, pushing inside. The rain had soaked him, and Grace’s hair lay in damp locks around her shoulders, but she laughed and shook the water from her hands.

“Good eve, Lord and Lady Hay,” Fiona called from the bar. “Been out in the wet and wind I see.”

“Good eve, Mistress Fiona,” Grace called, picking at her sodden petticoats. “I am afraid it has ruined us.”

“Dry yerself by the hearth, and I’ll bring ye two servings of my cottage pie. It just came out of the bricks.”

“And two ales please,” Kerrick said, laying a shilling on the counter. He followed Grace to a small table near the hearth.

“’Tis a right blustery day,” Fiona said, bringing the ales. “There’s no one in the room above if ye’d care to rent it.” A gust of wind rattled the panes in the windows facing the road.

Grace held out one of her dripping curls. “The books should not get wet.”

Kerrick dropped another shilling on the table. “Aye, we will take the room.”

“’Tis a small bed,” Fiona said, “but I don’t think your lady will mind sharing with ye.” She winked and walked away.

*

The bed was made for two people, but those two people were undoubtedly lovers. Abigail stared at it as she listened to Kerrick trudge back down the stairs to secure Leum and the wagon. She had asked for a bath, and Fiona had two stout boys carry up water and a wooden tub hardly bigger than a bucket. She wrestled the water from the fire. Even wrapped, the handle was hot, and she sloshed some water over.

“Saint Bart’s bones,” she whispered her father’s favorite curse and felt the pressure of tears in her eyes. She let them run out, the thickness of them making the room look as if underwater. She hadn’t grieved enough for the man who had cared for her alone after her mother died. Now that John Lindsey was in Heaven, he must see the darkness in William’s heart and know that he should never have struck a bargain for him to wed Abigail once he died.

Abigail stripped the rest of her clothing off, careful to stay away from the window without a curtain, and stepped into the bucket of warm water. It barely reached her knees, but it was clean. She used the jasmine soap she’d bought from Fiona to quickly scrub herself while she stood, sinking in to rinse the dirt away. Everything but her hair was rosy and clean by the time she was done, and she stepped out, grabbing the drying sheet.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs, and she hurried to wrap the sheet around her just as a knock came. “Grace? Are ye out of the bath?”

“Yes,” she said. “But—”

“I bathed too,” Kerrick said and opened the door. His gaze fell on her, and he stopped. His hair was wet, his shirt removed and held casually in his hand. “I did not mean to intrude,” he said and backed out, closing the door behind him.

Abigail looked down at her hard nipples poking through the thin, wet bathing sheet. “I might as well have been naked,” she whispered, frowning as she wiped the sheet over her arms and shoulders.

Smock in place even though it stuck to her damp skin, she climbed into the bed. “You can come in now.”

Kerrick opened the door, spotted her under the covers, and walked inside. “Wagon and horse are secure.”

“Good.” She lay on her back, eyes to the ceiling. The bed dipped as he sat and pulled off one boot and then the second. The covers rose as he slid underneath. She turned toward the wall, grazing him slightly with her backside.

“I put my tunic back on,” he said.

“Also good.” She was so stiff lying next to him with only the thin linen of their undergarments between them that she doubted she’d sleep.

He shifted. “I can sleep on the floor. I’ve slept on the hard ground plenty of times on marches.”

She exhaled, forcing herself to relax. Kerrick Hay had lain next to her all the previous night without touching her. “You are honorable,” she said. “We can share.”

Outside, the storm buffeted the tavern. With an obvious gap around the crooked window, the floor would surely be wet by morning. She inhaled and caught the fresh scent of Kerrick behind her, and his warmth filled the space under the blanket.

“I wonder if Rohaise is wandering around Delgatie looking for us,” Kerrick said, his voice softer, as if he worried that he was disturbing her.

Abigail smiled, watching the firelight from the hearth dance upon the wall she faced. “She can tap all night without us being cross.”

She listened to his deep chuckle. “I just hope nothing is smashed when we return,” he said.

“Thank goodness Boo is safe in the barn.”

Lightning flashed, and a crack of thunder shattered the night. Abigail startled, bumping her backside against him. The sensation shot through her, making her heart race.

She rolled over to face him. His eyes were open as he stared up at the ceiling. “You are thinking something very hard,” she whispered. Laying there facing him in the dark as she whispered felt so intimate. Like they were trading secrets. Could she trust him with hers?

His brows pinched. “Do ye always smell of flowers? Like ye have a stash of flowers ye roll in all the time?” he asked, turning his head to meet her gaze.

“What does that…?” Her face scrunched to match his brow. “What?”

“Ye smell like flowers, always. In the rain, walking on the moors with a dead body, in a barn that needs to be mucked out, in a dusty room that hasn’t been touched for a century. Every room ye inhabit smells like a blooming garden.”

She closed her open mouth. He made it sound bad that she smelled good. Abigail poked him in the thick muscle of his upper arm. “Well, do you always have to be so… hard, like you’re chiseled out of granite?”

His other hand came up to rub the spot she’d poked. “’Tis my training. I had to be strong and agile to survive.”

“Well, ’tis my soap,” she answered with the same inflections. “I have to be smelling like flowers because…” She made a little frustrated growl. “Because I like flowers.”

“’Tis damn distracting,” he mumbled, his voice surly.

“So are your muscles,” she said and turned back toward the wall. Her backside grazed his. Her stomach fluttered, and she squeezed her eyes shut. What a ridiculous argument to have.

The rain continued to beat like a drum, and thunder rumbled. As the rain slowed, so did Abigail’s breathing until the comfortable darkness and warmth relaxed her.

The rain ceased, and she stood before Delgatie Castle. Kerrick stood outside the wall, his shirt off, his kilt sitting low on his narrow hips. His skin was damp, making it glisten. He motioned toward a plot of fresh grass with jasmine. She bent to smell the flowers and laid down on the soft green.

“Ye do roll in flowers.” Kerrick sat next to her, his gaze intense. Just his nearness caused the ache deep inside her to spread warmth. “Abigail.”

“You know my name,” she said.

“I know all about ye, lass.” Kerrick bent down, his lips pressing against hers. Heat spiraled down through Abigail, pooling in her abdomen and the crux of her legs. She shifted against him, her body rubbing his.

Boom!

Abigail jerked awake, the sound of the thunder ebbing away. She had turned toward the center of the bed. Rain poured outside, and wind rattled the individual windowpanes.

Another strike of lightning flashed. Kerrick’s eyes were open, staring at her. Walls of rain, darkness, and wind blocked out the rest of the world. It was as if it had all washed away, leaving them alone, the warmth of their bodies and their combined clean smell mixing under the single blanket.

Lightning flickered wildly. His gaze hadn’t left hers. “I like the way ye smell of flowers, lass,” he whispered, the words just loud enough to be heard over the press of the wind on the eaves.

A succession of flashing and thunder rattled the room, the drama of it mimicking the rush Abigail felt inside. Through it all, Kerrick’s intense gaze never left her. With another crack of thunder, she pressed forward.

Kerrick’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her halfway onto his muscular body. His mouth slanted across hers, and she opened against him, her foot sliding up the taut muscles in his leg. Her heart beat frantically, and her fingers found the edge of his tunic, lifting it up so her palms could slide against his warm skin. He had muscles all the way up his torso and chest where a light sprinkling of hair reminded her just how different their bodies were.

With a low growl that sent a shiver of desire through Abigail, Kerrick tore his tunic off over his head. He was completely naked next to her, but the thought only made her want him more as he caught her up in another kiss. Wave after wave of rain hit the window like wave after wave of heat battered any maidenly resistance she might have felt.

Abigail pressed her body against his hard frame, feeling the rise of his jack between them.

“Grace,” he said, pulling back, sliding her to the side. “We should not.”

“I ache, Kerrick,” she whispered.

His hand glided over her smock that encased her restless, naked body. She stroked up and down his chest.

“Lass,” he said, his voice a whispered rasp. “I would not have ye regretting this.”

She knew what happened in the marriage bed. Her mother had informed her with a book. A part of her argued that if she was not a virgin, maybe William wouldn’t want her. Maybe if she became Kerrick’s wife, she’d be safe. There was no guarantee that Kerrick would wed her, but at the moment everything felt so right, making none of that matter.

“I’m sure I’ll have regrets in life,” she breathed against his lips. “But this will not be one of them.”

Kerrick growled low, turning her so that he was over top of her, his face displaying torture and want. He bent to kiss her neck. Her smock slid off her shoulders, and he stroked the outside of her bare hip, making sensation swell within Abigail, and the moan of the wind outside swallowed her own.

Lightning flashed, showing his beautifully chiseled muscle. She slipped her smock down, allowing her full breasts to spill out. Lust and desire played across Kerrick’s face, and he pulled her to him again, kissing her. Abigail’s sensitive nipples rubbed against his bare chest. Her fingers roamed the thick muscles of his arms and shoulders, exploring every scar and smoothness of his hot skin.

The sound of horses in the rain made Kerrick glance toward the window. “’Tis the Aberdeen coach,” Kerrick said, taking a deep breath. “Delayed by the storm.”

She pressed back into him to capture another kiss, thankful that she hadn’t continued on her journey or she’d never have met this powerful, honorable man.

“Abigail Lindsey,” a man said outside the window. “She would have ridden on this coach.”

The deep voice cut like frozen steel through Abigail, and she stiffened, her breath freezing to ice in the center of her chest. Oh God, no. She rolled across Kerrick’s body, her feet hitting the floor. By the time she got to the window, the man who’d known her true name was inside the tavern below. But she didn’t need to see him. The voice was enough. William Gordon had found her.

Chapter Six

Kerrick had slept fitfully the rest of the night. Bloody rogue. He had almost taken Grace right there in the bed where she now sat, her face turned toward the window. He rubbed a hand down the side of his face.

“Grace, I am sorry,” he said. “Tell me how to make things right between us.”

Dawn was just a hint on the horizon, but the rekindled fire cast a glow over her. She met his gaze, her eyes strained. “Would you marry me?”

He paused, staring. “We have only known each—”

She waved her hand. “I jest.” She didn’t smile at all. In fact, she looked ready to explode if anyone came near her.

He shook his head. “Last night, I did not mean to…”

“Let me ravish you?” she asked, her voice lighter.

“Ravish me?” he asked.

Worry sat in her eyes, as it had since last night. “I kissed you first, and I am sorry I put your restraint to the test. It was not my intention to tease.”

Before he could reply, she stood and grabbed her pale blue cape. “The rain has stopped, and I would like to return to Delgatie before everyone is awake.”

Her comments were like a whirlwind throwing his gut this way and that. “We would need to leave the wagon until the mud dries.”

She sighed. “Your books.” She shook her head. “I am just… I am worried about Boo. I may not have set her outside the castle before we left.”

“I doubt a kitten could do more harm than Rohaise,” he said, but since they were obviously not getting more sleep, they may as well be off. He’d leave word with the stable boy that he’d return in a day or two for the wagon. Right now, his guilt tugged at him, and he’d do just about anything Grace asked of him. How about wedding her? Her jest festered in his mind as he escorted her out the door.

*

Abigail rode before Kerrick on Leum, his arms wrapped around her. Dawn was fully up now, and she’d seen several people go in and out of the tavern the few times she’d glanced back over her shoulder. Where was William?

Kerrick stopped Leum before the castle where Rohaise stared out of her second-floor window. “She doesn’t look happy to see us,” Abigail said, momentarily distracted by the other huge problem before her.

“I’m not happy to see her either.” Kerrick guided Leum around to the barn.

Abigail dismounted and picked Boo up out of a rolling battle with her siblings to cuddle against her face. “You are outside,” she said for Kerrick’s benefit. Boo batted at one of her curls.

“Ye stay here until I make sure Rohaise isn’t throwing things about,” Kerrick said.

Abigail nodded, trying to give him a smile she knew must look forced. Kerrick was so strong and kind. Surely, she could trust him with her identity. If she wanted anything more to grow between them, she must be truthful.

“Kerrick,” she called as he started to walk away.

“Aye?”

I am not who you think. The words were on her tongue but would not come. “Be careful,” she said.

“I will brandish my shield.”

Abigail set Boo down, and the kitten jumped and rolled on her way back to play. Away from the tavern with the moors around them, she could almost feel safe, even knowing William was close. “Let him take the coach west,” she whispered and sat down with the kittens. If she could just hide away here until William forgot about her, she might be safe enough to use her name.

The wind blew against the barn, making the tree above shed more golden leaves that blew in through the open doors. Long minutes passed as she waited, her thoughts turning away from William to Kerrick. She hadn’t heard any yelling or things hitting the back wall. “Maybe I should check,” she said, standing and brushing off her skirts. She walked to the back gate.

“Abigail. Abigail Lindsey.”

She gasped at the sound of her name.

*

Kerrick waved the singed missive that Rohaise had led him to when he’d entered the castle. “Abigail Lindsey. Five feet, six inches. Slight of build. Long, curling red-gold hair. One hundred pounds upon receipt.” Must be alive.

Grace, or rather Abigail, stood just inside the back garden gate, eyes wide and mouth open. “Where did you find that?”

“Ye are Abigail Lindsey? Not Grace Winfield.” He didn’t wait for her nod. “Is there anything else ye are hiding?”

Her face pinched, and for a moment he thought she might cry. “William would have found me by my real name.”

Must be alive. “William? Is he the man who stole your inheritance?”

She nodded.

If he were simply after her money, and had already won it, why would he follow her? “Are ye married to him?” The thought of Grace, or rather Abigail, in another man’s arms twisted his gut.

“No,” she said. “Betrothed, even though I never agreed to it.”

He breathed past the tightness in his chest, trying to rid himself of the familiar feel of betrayal. Everyone will fool you, son, and you are stupid enough to believe them. Once again, his father was right.

Her gaze shifted to the note. “Did Rohaise give you that?”

“She showed me where ye tried to burn it.”

“Why would she do that?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Are your parents really dead?”

“Yes,” she said, her lips tight. “Everything else I have told you is true.”

“If I’d said I would marry ye, would ye have wed me as Grace Winfield or would ye have confessed before the kirk?”

“I would have told you.” She swallowed. “Before.”

“’Tis good to know ye draw the line at lying before God.” He let the missive float to the ground and strode out the gate.

*

Abigail watched him walk away, a hollow feeling in her middle. Turning, she ran into the kitchen. “Rohaise,” she yelled.

A slight wind filtered through the room, and the spirit grew into being. A guilty smile played about her lips.

“Why did you show him that missive?”

He should know. He should choose.

“Choose? What should Kerrick choose?”

Steps behind Abigail made her turn, a scream lodging in her throat.

“Perhaps he should choose to carry you back to your rightful husband.” William Gordon stood in the doorway. The cheeks above his clipped beard were red, and a light sheen of sweat was on his brow from hiking the moor.

Abigail’s knees almost buckled under the weight of her nightmare come to life. William was there with no one to witness his threatened atrocities against her. He stood tall and smiled wickedly as if giddy about winning a prize.

“I am not wed to you, William.” Abigail concentrated on breathing in and out. “I will never be your wife.”

He pulled a folded parchment from his vest and shook it open. “On this day of our lord 20 October fifteen sixty-three, William Gordon and Abigail Grace Lindsey were wed by the minister Jonathan Wentley.”

“That is not true,” she said, feeling her throat constrict.

“Ah, but here is your signature,” William said, holding up the contract. “I even have two witnesses who say a woman with red hair signed it before the cleric.”

“A forgery.”

He folded it away. “I think my bride just got nervous with the thought of the wedding night and ran away. It is my duty to find her and instruct her in her new duties.”

What weapons were in the kitchen? There were knives against the window and the iron skillet in the cold box.

“I am not going back with you,” she said and dashed toward the knives. She grabbed one, brandishing it before her.

He laughed, coming forward. With a quick smack, he knocked it out of her hand. “I will have to punish you, Abigail, for your insolence toward your husband.” He smiled. “Why does the idea of that make me hard?” He rubbed the front of his tight breeches where his erection bulged.

“Because you’re a monster,” she said, glaring. “But even monsters sleep, William. When you do, I will seek my revenge.”

He laughed. “You? Little Abigail, daughter of the book merchant? I am not afraid.” He leaned in. “In fact, I like a bit of pain with pleasure. Shall we find out if you do too?”

She turned to grab another knife, but he pushed her up against the counter, pinning her with his pelvis, his jack pressed against her backside. She reared backward, jamming into his groin. He grunted, cupping himself.

His face had hardened. “Every injury you inflict on me will be visited back on you, Abigail, ten times worse. You bruise my cock, just think what I can do between your legs, my dear.” The promise of torture made nausea roll through her. She barely noticed the wind breezing through the kitchen.

A bag of milled flour next to Abigail tipped, falling across the counter. She jumped to the side as William frowned at it. Suddenly a volley of flour flew from the open sack right at William’s face.

Run!

Rohaise’s word filled Abigail’s ears. She ran past William’s flailing arms and dove toward the larder where she’d locked up the heavy skillet. A cask of wine jumped off a shelf toward William, but he dodged it. It crashed on the floor, creating a flood of red. Baskets and tankards shot at him, the drinking glass shattering on the floor.

“Witchcraft,” he yelled, ducking, his gaze on Abigail. “You will burn for this.”

Would he rape her and then accuse her of witchcraft? Without Rohaise by her side, Abigail had few powers to save herself. But she could swing a skillet.

“Leave here and live,” Abigail yelled, her teeth bared.

“Leave you here with that man who is not your husband?” William yelled, wiping a hand down his flour-covered face. It gave his stern features the paleness of a ghost. “When he returns, you will be gone.”

Abigail’s trembling stilled, and she stood taller. “I am tired of running from you, William. You are a heartless monster, ruled only by greed and lust. I will die by my own hand before I allow you to torture me.”

He lunged for her, grabbing her arm that held the skillet. The iron went flying from her grasp, and Abigail fought against his hold. Where was Rohaise? All the objects lay about the ransacked kitchen unmoving. Fury and fear combined to funnel up through Abigail, and a scream came out of her. Long and shrill, it gave her strength she didn’t know she had. She twisted in his grasp, her knee coming up straight into his ballocks, and he grunted, his hold loosening.

Rapid footfalls drew Abigail’s wide eyes. A sob tore from her as Kerrick ran through the open doorway, wild fury on his face. Rohaise hovered near him. Kerrick picked William up by the throat. Muscles bulging and teeth clenched, Kerrick yelled in his face. “Ye fucking bastard.” His fist drew back, and he punched him square in the jaw.

The impact threw William back, and before she could think, Abigail yanked the skillet off the ground, holding it high.

Hit him! The hate in Rohaise’s voice added to her fear, and Abigail brought the iron pan down on William’s head. The massive weight of all she’d endured added to her downward thrust.

Crack! Thud.

The skillet hit his skull, and William fell over. Blood poured from his cracked head to mix with the wine on the floor. His eyes remained open with astonishment.

Abigail chocked on a sob, the pan sliding from her weak hands to clatter on the floor. Kerrick pulled her into his arms, her face against his solid chest. He didn’t say anything, just held her, letting her weep and shake. For a long moment, Abigail surrendered all her strength, letting Kerrick hold her up.

“Bloody hell,” Kerrick murmured, backing them up.

Abigail wiped her cheeks and followed Kerrick’s gaze. She gasped. William, blood gushing from his head wound, sat up. He looked at his blood and flour-covered hands, turning them this way and that. His gaze fell on Abigail and then Kerrick, a strange smile curving his lips. “I can still feel his warmth.”

It was William, but it was not. “Oh my God,” Abigail murmured.

“Rohaise?” Kerrick asked.

William’s eyes, which had always been blue, looked darker, browner. He stood up slowly, the rest of his body whole. “It is heavy, but manageable,” he said.

“Are ye Rohaise?” Kerrick asked.

“Aye,” she said through William’s lips, the accent strange coming from his mouth. “It has been a long time since I could feel this much.” She walked to the counter where an apple lay half-smashed from being hurled across the room. She crunched into it, a huge smile growing across William’s flour-washed face streaked with blood.

The entire macabre scene struck Abigail hard enough that she saw sparks on the edge of her periphery. “How is this possible?”

“’Tis Samhain,” Rohaise said, chewing greedily. Juice dripped off her bottom lip. “The line between the spirit world and your world is at its thinnest. I have never been able to slip into someone until now.”

“Is he in there too?” Kerrick asked, apparently able to think about something other than trying not to swoon.

She shook William’s head. “Nay. Abigail hit him dead.”

A small sob jumped within Abigail, and Kerrick pulled her back into his chest.

“His body is dead, then,” Kerrick said. Already William’s skin was taking on a bluish tint on the parts not covered by flour. “Are ye able to make his blood flow?”

Rohaise held William’s thick fingers up to her neck, pressing and feeling. Her hand dropped to his chest over his heart, and she frowned. “Nay, his body has stopped working.” She glanced down and they all saw the wetness from his urine and shite beginning to drain out of him, saturating his tight breeches.

“Daingead,” Rohaise muttered the curse and started biting the rest of the apple with a ravenous attack, taking every bit of the flesh while Abigail watched in fascinated horror. Rohaise dropped the core and wiped daintily across her mouth with one finger, then stuck it into her mouth to lick it clean.

She frowned at them. “He is growing cold and stiffening. He will smell by tomorrow. I dislike the smell of death.”

William’s eyes suddenly froze with morbid vacancy. His body went limp, falling to the kitchen floor. A whoosh of wind shot through the kitchen and was gone.

Chapter Seven

Abigail sat in the barn as the day wore on, the iron skillet, washed of blood, next to her. Waiting. Listening. Trying to ignore how hungry she was. Boo kept her company, curling up in her lap as if knowing she needed her closeness. It had been hours since Kerrick left with William draped over his horse.

The sound of hoofbeats made her stiffen, and she stood, ready to hide.

“Back again.”

Abigail released her breath when she heard Kerrick’s voice. When he’d left to haul William’s body out on the moor, she remained outside the castle where Rohaise roamed. The whole day had left Abigail cold and weak. I’ve killed a man.

He was going to kill you. If not today, then soon enough.

Her justifications did little to ease her conscience.

Kerrick rounded the door to lead Leum into the barn, making the kittens scatter into the corners which were growing thick with shadows. The day was waning. Soon Samhain would be over, and Rohaise would not be quite as frightening.

Kerrick saw Abigail and paused. “Are ye well?”

She took a full breath. “My middle name is Grace,” she said. “When I escaped Aberdeen, I started using it and made up the last name Winfield. I swore to myself that I would use it for the rest of my life so William couldn’t find me.” She blinked, trying to decipher his face, but he gave nothing of his thoughts away. “I would have told you before more happened… between us. I was afraid that even speaking my name into the world would somehow alert him that I was here.” She shook her head. “I know that sounds insane. I—”

“Ye did what ye had to do to protect yourself,” he said. Kerrick led his horse into its stable, and Abigail watched as he removed the tack, his strength making easy work of it. Leum began to munch on hay, and Kerrick came out, sliding the latch shut.

He turned, stopping before her and met her gaze. “I had time to think on the moor.” He shook his head. “I have never been in the type of jeopardy ye were in,” Kerrick said, his voice deep and soft. “I have fought men as a man, as a soldier, or as a brother on equal footing.” His hand came up to rest on her shoulder. “As a woman, ye must feel hunted, easily entrapped, and at the mercy of those stronger than ye.”

She nodded but didn’t speak, feeling the press of emotion in her chest.

“It was foolish to grow angry at ye,” he said, dropping his hand. “My father told me often that I was easily fooled, especially when I joined Cromwell’s army. ’Twas my issue, not yours.”

“I am sorry.” Her remorse filled each word.

He pulled her closer, and she went into his arms willingly. He kissed her forehead. “Do ye want me to call ye Abigail or Grace?”

“Abigail,” she whispered, relief coming out with the word. “Now that William is dead.”

“Ye can claim your inheritance now,” he said, “back in Aberdeen.”

She hadn’t even thought of that, her mind had been so wrapped up with the grim events and worry over Kerrick not forgiving her.

“I have crates of books there,” she said, taking a long deep breath that filled her with hope, something that had been missing for so long. “If I add it to yours, Delgatie will have a fine library indeed.”

His hand found hers, his fingers weaving through her own in an intimate hold. They walked together out of the barn, Boo following. The sun had started to lower toward the horizon.

“Has Rohaise been about?” he asked as they walked through the broken gate.

“I’ve been hiding out here, so I don’t know. I left the skillet in the barn, just in case.”

“Ye are wise,” he said.

Total destruction lay within the four walls of the kitchen. Flour, wine, and blood mixed on the stone floor. Tankards scattered and dented. Dishes and glassware shattered. Without a word, he guided her into the great hall where he lit several sconces along the walls.

“What do we do now?” she asked, her voice small.

“I think we stay out of her way while it is still Samhain. The sun should set within the hour, but we can return to town to sleep.”

She nodded, looking down at the blood-splattered green gown. “I need to change into my other stained gown,” she said. Thank goodness she’d scrubbed most of it clean. “It’s in my room. I’ll be right back.”

“Grab whatever else ye need for the night,” he called as she hurried up the stairs.

In the front room she’d used before, she slipped out of Rohaise’s green gown and threw a clean white smock on over her head. Abigail turned and gasped, her heart pounding.

Rohaise hovered by the wall behind the bed’s headboard. Tap. Tap. Tap. Her knuckles hit the wall.

“You scared me,” Abigail said, feeling all the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

’Tis still Samhain. Rohaise floated closer to her. I need you to free me from the wall.

“Free you?”

I am imprisoned there. My father tired of my weeping for my love. He put me in the wall.

Abigail pressed a hand to her chest. “That is horrible.”

You can help me. Go to the wall, Abigail. Help me like I helped you.

“I will get Kerrick. He will—”

Help me now! A breeze blew around Abigail as Rohaise whipped behind her, a rock held in her ghostly hand. Crack. A blinding pain shot through Abigail’s head, and blackness engulfed her before she hit the floor.

*

Kerrick stared at the mess in the kitchen. If anyone came up from town and saw it, there would be an inquiry. They needed to clean some before going to the inn. Grabbing a crate, he began to toss shards of pottery and glass into it.

He heard steps in the great hall. “I’m in here,” he called to Abigail through the open door.

“And I am in here for ye, Kerrick Hay.” The oddly accented voice shot warrior’s energy through his blood, like when he’d been about to fight on the battlefield. He turned sharply. Abigail stood there, her shoulders bare, wrapped in a sheet. Her smile was full of mischief.

“Abigail?” he said, but despite the outward appearance, he knew she was not the sweet, clever woman who had just gone above to change her dress.

“I have wanted this for a very long time,” she said taking more steps toward him.

Hiss! Abigail’s kitten leaped onto the counter, her tiny ears back, her hair standing on end to make her look twice her size as she arched her back.

Abigail ignored Boo and continued her advance toward Kerrick. He’d been stalked by brazen lasses when he was part of Cromwell’s army, but this was different. There was a hunger in Abigail’s face as if he were that apple Rohaise had devoured earlier.

She stopped several feet from him. Her fingers unfolded one by one until the sheet dropped to the floor, leaving her completely naked. His breath lodged in his chest. The waning sun shone through the small windows, revealing her smooth skin over gentle, soft curves. Abigail’s smile grew, and she slid her hands over her full breasts, pinching her rosy nipples before traveling lower to stroke her own softly rounded abdomen, her fingers reaching toward the dark patch between her legs.

“Rohaise?” he said, trying to keep his voice even.

Her smile grew to show her teeth. “Aye.”

“What have ye done with Abigail?”

She glided over to him, and he saw that her blue eyes had darkened to brown. Kerrick grabbed her upper arms, and her smile faltered. “She is here, inside with me.”

Reaching forward, he pressed his fingers against her neck and inhaled fully at the strong pulse there. She’s alive. Kerrick stepped around her and grabbed up the sheet, draping it over her shoulders. “What are ye doing in her body?”

Her smile returned. “’Tis Samhain, and once I saw I could enter that villain’s dead body on this day, I tried with this very much alive one,” she said, and shook off the sheet.

Kerrick caught it. “Damnit, Rohaise,” he said, wrapping it and tying the ends in a knot over her shoulder. “Ye need to leave her body now.”

She pouted and shook her head. “I was meant to marry a Hay, and now I can. I will truly be the lady of Delgatie Castle. As it should be.”

He looked deep into her dark, flat eyes. Did Abigail know what was going on? “Abigail?” he asked.

Rohaise frowned. “She is sleeping.”

“Leave her body. Now.” His voice filled the dismantled room.

Abigail’s face pinched into a sinister mask. “Nay, milord,” Rohaise said through the tight clench she held with her stacked teeth.

Kerrick grabbed her arms, shaking her. “Leave her.”

Rohaise’s head snapped back. “What ye do to me, ye do to her.”

Kerrick yanked his hands away, and Rohaise straightened, staring directly at him. “Human bodies are fragile, milord. I could trip and fall down the stairs. They are quite steep.” The look of tightly held anger turned to satisfaction as she watched him. “As long as ye keep us safe, Abigail Lindsey lives.” She raised her hand to his face. “And in this body, I can give ye such pleasure.”

He remained still as her fingers traced down his cheek, the touch making his gut twist in on itself.

“I can have your children, Kerrick Hay. This body is young and beautiful and vigorous, everything a man of your endurance can use for his delight.”

She reached up on her toes to kiss him. She smelled of Abigail, the flower scent remaining on her body, but the feel of her lips on his made cold dread roll through him. This monster would never be Abigail, despite the outward appearance.

Rohaise pulled back, a smile across her face. “And when Samhain is over,” she said, “I’m certain I will be able to stay within this body permanently.”

Bloody hell. The sun was sinking fast. Once it was below the horizon, Samhain would be over for another year. “How do ye know that?”

“Before you came to Delgatie, while she slept, I tried to slip into this woman, and I couldn’t. But with the barrier between life and death thin on Samhain, I was able to easily.” She shrugged Abigail’s straight shoulders. “So once the barrier shuts, I will be able to stay.”

The thought ripped through Kerrick. “Ye helped Abigail. Why would ye hurt her?”

“I am not hurting her,” she said, walking away from him to stretch her arms over her head. “She is still alive, and I know she desires ye.” Her smile turned teasing, and she reached down to touch between her legs. “She is wet for ye, milord.”

Dammit. “Can I talk to her?”

Rohaise crossed her arms over Abigail’s breasts. “Nay. She is sleeping, and that is where she will stay. She will keep this body living with all the workings that God gave her, but I will rule everything else.” Abigail would be caught in a nightmarish sleep, unable to control herself.

He needed a plan to expel Rohaise without jeopardizing Abigail. And he needed to execute it fast. He stared at her, his mind running through scenarios. Rohaise had acted independently for centuries. How would she react to being controlled by another?

“I am thirsty,” he said. “As my wife, ye will be required to see to all my needs.”

She smiled broadly and tugged at the knot he’d tied at her shoulder, letting the sheet drop. “I will, milord.”

He looked away from Abigail’s lush body. “I am thirsty, and ye will obey your lord. Tie that sheet around ye and fetch me ale.”

Her brows lowered, and she pouted as she wrapped the sheet around herself. “Ye would not rather bed me?”

“Ale. Now, woman.”

Boo hissed as Rohaise walked gingerly through the broken glass past her, the kitten running out the back door.

“Ye will be modest outside my bed chamber, Rohaise,” he said, his voice hard. “And ye will clean up all this mess and cook me some food.”

She frowned but walked over to the table, avoiding the blood and wine. “We will hire maids for that,” she said, bending to find a cask that hadn’t been smashed.

“I may use a maid or two if they are bonny enough, but ye, wife, will see to my needs, including keeping my castle clean and my belly full.”

She jerked upright, frowning. “I will not tolerate mistresses, milord.”

The sun was nearly set. How much longer did he have to save Abigail?

He stalked to Rohaise, grabbing her arm hard enough that Abigail would likely have bruises. ’Tis not Abigail right now. He frowned down into her face, piercing her flat brown eyes. “Ye will tolerate anything I desire, wife. I am the man, and ye are here to comfort and bring me pleasure and children, nothing else. And certainly not your opinion about the mistresses I keep.”

Rohaise pulled her hand back, cocked to slap him. Kerrick easily caught it and smiled wickedly as she struggled to yank it back. “Ye are not strong in Abigail’s body, Rohaise. As my wife in this weak body, ye will do what I say or suffer the consequences.”

“I will kill her then,” she said, her upper lip curling as if she growled.

He met her stare. “If ye kill her, ye will be trapped in this body, dying too.” He had no idea if that were true but neither did the spirit. “I don’t see God looking too favorably on ye for killing an innocent woman.” Rohaise’s eyes opened wider. “Your soul will burn in Hell’s fires,” he said, hoping he found something, anything that she feared.

She shook her head as if casting off his words. “God knows of my turmoil. He will judge me worthy of his angels.”

Damn. His plan was not working. The sunset cast an orange glow in the room. Oh Lord, Abigail. He couldn’t fail her.

Kerrick slid his hand up Rohaise’s throat, resting under her chin just enough to show his dominance. “Ye will cook and clean all day and take my pleasure at night when I am not with my mistresses. Ye will smile and be the good wife ye wished to be, no matter what I do.” He leaned in. “Even if it gives ye pain or disgusts ye.”

Her eyes widened as he let his words paint terrible pictures in her mind. “Ye are a monster, then. Like Abigail’s William,” she said.

Kerrick did not loosen his hold on her and shrugged. “I will be your husband, and ye are too weak in this body to do anything about it.” He leaned into her ear. “Ye may find ye like being tied outside with your arse in the air for me to—”

“Nay!” She jerked her face away, shoving against him, her arms trying to break free of his fierce hold. But she was unable to escape while stuck in Abigail’s body. With a wild shriek, Abigail suddenly went limp, and a great wind whipped through the room.

Kerrick caught her, lifting her in his arms. Rohaise had left her.

He tore through the back kitchen door, Abigail pressed against his chest. Smashing through the broken wheelbarrow, he ran a direct line out of the gate. Past the boundary of the wall, he raced to the barn, setting Abigail down gently on the floor against a hay bale. Boo jumped up next to her as if on guard.

“Abigail,” he said, his hands brushing her hair from her face. “Abigail, please.” Kerrick lowered his ear to her chest as his fingers sought the pulse in her neck.

Thud. Thud. Thud. He closed his eyes, staying there for a long moment, taking in the steady deep thud with relief. “Thank ye, Lord,” he whispered. His hands explored the back of her head where a bump swelled, the crustiness of blood indicating that Rohaise had hit her.

Kerrick grabbed a wool blanket from Leum’s back and covered her. “Abigail,” he said, sliding his thumb over her bottom lip.

“Meow.” Boo rubbed against her.

“Kerrick?” Abigail murmured.

“Aye, lass.” He swallowed, his breath ragged.

“Rohaise…” she said, her voice weak. “She hit me. I had the most horrible dream.” She reached up to touch his face and he grabbed her hand, kissing it. “It wasn’t a dream, was it?” she asked.

“Nay.”

“I… I did and said things…”

“It wasn’t ye, Abigail.”

He pulled her into his arms, holding her there as she shivered. “And you said… you—”

“Said terrible things I did not mean to get her out of ye.”

“I know,” she said, hugging him. “You are very clever, Kerrick Hay. I could feel her lust turn to loathing.”

He huffed, kissing her forehead.

“I am not going back in there until after Samhain,” she said, trembling.

“It comes every year,” he said. “And even as a spirit, Rohaise haunts this place. She is a constant threat.”

“I think terrible things happened to her,” Abigail said. “We must look inside the wall that she taps. When she was… in me…” She paused and pressed a hand to her chest, “there was this terrible trapped feeling, and such anger and betrayal.”

But Kerrick felt no pity for the spirit that had taken Abigail over. “She needs to go,” he said. “Tonight. If the veil between the living and the dead is at its thinnest, she is most vulnerable.” The sun had not yet vanished.

“What will you do?”

Kerrick inhaled. Seeing Abigail taken by Rohaise proved once again how deadly she was and how important Abigail had become to him. There was no way to live peacefully with the ghost. “I will set her free.”

Chapter Eight

Abigail reached for his wrist, struggling to rise. “Don’t go back in there.”

Kerrick helped her stand, holding her close. It was obvious that she was all Abigail once again. There was a softness about her frame with a strength inside that he admired. His hand went to her cheek. “I need to do this, and I will take every precaution.” He touched his forehead to hers. “Ye are the one she wants to invade. So whatever ye hear or see, do not go back inside the garden wall or the castle, even after the sun goes down.”

She huffed, frowning, but nodded.

Kerrick strode around the hulking mass to the front. He stared up at the castle he’d dreamed would be the center of his estate, proving to his father that he wasn’t a disappointment. That he could take a ruin and build it into a profitable enterprise. That he was no fool or traitor, but a man of intelligence, ingenuity, and perseverance. What would his father think of his plan now?

Dim firelight flickered behind the windows. Where exactly were the sconces lit inside? He’d lit two, no three, lamps in glass in the great hall. There was a bowl of very flammable pine pitch next to the table where he’d been mending the back door with it.

He ran both hands down his face. “Am I really doing this?” he murmured, but he already knew the answer.

Taking a deep breath, Kerrick strode up to the double doors, clutching the iron key. Unlocking it, he entered, his gaze fastening onto the closest sconce. The air inside was chilled as if filled with Rohaise’s icy anger. Kerrick yanked the glass cover off the lamp’s flame. Without further thought, he turned to the tapestry that Abigail had asked him to rehang against the wall and held the flickering flame to it. The ancient fibers caught quickly, food for the fire’s voracious appetite. He lit a taper from it and dropped it into the pitch, and the bowl whooshed to life.

Kerrick used his kilt to hold the burning pot and ran up the stairs. In each room, he used his dagger to push some of the flaming substance out onto the carpets.

Kerrick Hay. Rohaise’s voice shot through the crackle of the fire as it caught, but he paid it no heed and ran to Abigail’s bedchamber, lighting the curtains and the green gown thrown across the bed.

Ye will stop.

Kerrick lit the mattress full of dry hay and ran back into the hall where fire glowed out of the rooms he’d already visited. He dashed into the master bedchamber and paused. Rohaise stood against the wall that she tapped, her arms spread as if protecting it. What are ye doing? Ye will burn me to ash.

“So be it!” he yelled, drawing in the smoke-laced air. Coughing, he dropped the hot, flaming pot on the bed.

Nay! Rohaise screamed, and Kerrick dodged as a rock flew across the space, thudding hard against the wall. He ran from the room, feeling the cold wind of the spirit whirl around him. He moved from side to side along the wide stairs, learning from his many battles to dodge when under fire. Could she slip into him if he were conscious?

At the bottom, he tore through the great hall where the one tapestry burned up the entire wall. He grabbed another of the lamps held in the sconce and ran to the other two tapestries, catching them easily, their brittle threads welcoming the all-consuming flame.

Rohaise appeared before him, her hands out. Ye burn our home? How can ye?

“’Tis my home, not yours. Your time is done at Delgatie, and ye will hurt no one else.” He brandished the uncovered lamp before her, and a fierce look came over Rohaise’s face. Surprise and overwhelming turned into hatred and anger.

Then ye will burn with me.

A tankard from the sideboard flew across the space, and Kerrick dodged it and a heavy candelabrum as they smashed into the wall. He ran down the corridor and into the kitchen. Raising his lamp, he set hanging baskets and dried herbs on fire. It consumed them, spreading up to the wooden rafters as Rohaise shrieked in pure fury.

Knives flew toward him, making him duck, and embedded into the back wall of the kitchen, handles quivering as if enraged they missed him. Flames grew up around him, and Rohaise spread her arms before the door.

Ye will burn too, Kerrick Hay. She began to throw everything that wasn’t wall or floor at him. The table upended, rushing toward him. He dove out of the way, and a rafter fell. He rolled, barely escaping.

Leaping up, he pivoted toward the door to the garden, but Rohaise blocked it. Her hair swirled up and around her, its red hue very much like the fire raging quickly through the entire castle. It reached toward him like the tentacles of some deadly sea beast.

“Move aside,” he yelled. If he ran through her, would she lodge within him? He covered his mouth and nose with an arm, trying to hold his breath as the air was consumed in the room. Heat and smoke swelled around him. He turned to run back into the great hall, but before he could leave the kitchen, another rafter fell, blocking the open doorway.

Rohaise glided to the hearth, and Kerrick ducked as a cauldron flew at him. If she knocked him unconscious, he would surely die. He ran to the door to the courtyard. “Damn!” Rohaise had locked the door without the key, probably pushing the tumblers inside like she pushed pots from counters.

Ye cannot escape!

Kerrick yanked out the iron key from his jacket, brandishing it like a sword. But before he could run to thrust it in the lock, Rohaise threw the hearth grate at his hand, knocking the key loose. A blast of wind hit the small window by the door, shattering the glass outward. The key rose in the air, flying out the small window into the garden.

Kerrick couldn’t draw in a full breath, and he felt his strength failing like he had on the battlefield as his leg bled fiercely.

Rohaise smiled wickedly before the door, floating there as she kept up a volley of smaller utensils. How would he be able to kick open that locked door without air?

“Abigail,” he said.

Your precious Abigail isn’t here. Rohaise’s words roared over the crackling flames, full of victory.

Before she could utter another word, the back door flew inward, straight through Rohaise’s body. “Yes, I am.” Abigail stood in the doorway. The key she’d retrieved stuck in the lock from the outside.

Kerrick wasted no time and hurled himself across the room, grabbing Abigail’s hand on the way, tugging her as he coughed violently. In the garden, he sucked in large draughts of fresh air but didn’t stop running. Together they escaped the open gate beyond the threshold of Delgatie Castle.

He fell to the ground. Abigail knelt beside him, wiping his blackened face with the blanket he’d wrapped around her. “I saw the flames. I heard you yell.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t stay behind.” The scorching in his throat made it impossible to answer.

Crash!

Windows shattered along the second floor. Flames shot out like a dragon scorching the air with its breath. Even the back garden became engulfed.

Kerrick pulled Abigail against him, wrapping his arms around her as they sat on the cold, damp ground, watching the fire destroy his future.

*

Abigail woke alone in the barn and reached out where Kerrick had slept next to her. His body heat still lingered. She pushed up from the hay bed, spotting Boo curled up with her siblings.

Abigail wrapped the warm blanket around herself, stepping out into the frost-coated dawn.

“Oh God,” she whispered. Delgatie Castle sat in jagged ruin, smoke rising into the morning mist that rolled along the moors. She walked to the front where Kerrick stood, his tunic blackened with the smoke that had almost killed him as he set ablaze the only home he had.

He glanced at her as she took his hand in both of hers. “You can rebuild,” she said.

“What coins I have, if they survived the flames, are only enough for seed and a few animals and provisions until the harvest. Not enough to rebuild a castle.” She wove her fingers through his, squeezing.

The stony holes where the glass windowpanes had blown out looked down upon them like the vacant eyes of a skull.

“Is it safe to go in?” Abigail asked, her voice like a whisper.

He shook his head. “The upstairs has fallen down below, but there could be some loose timbers.”

Abigail walked up to the stone doorway, careful not to touch. “Rohaise,” she called into it, her gaze scanning the wreckage of planks, mortar, and burnt tapestries and what must have been the bed from above. “Rohaise. Are you here?”

Silence. She released a breath. Kerrick came up to stand next to her and pointed toward the center of the pile of broken soot-blackened plaster. “Do ye see them?” he asked, and she peered closer, trying to look amongst the pieces.

Abigail gasped softly. “Is that a skull?”

“Aye,” he said. “A femur bone too.” He leaned in, peering upward as if to judge where the pile of debris had come from. “In the wall above, between the rooms.”

Abigail looked at him. “Where she tapped?” He nodded.

The bones lay amongst the pieces of the wall that had confined Rohaise. The wall had been her tomb. “You did it then,” she whispered. “Rohaise is free.”

Chapter Nine

Abigail stood before the daubed residence on the quiet street in Aberdeen. “I thought never to see it again,” she murmured as Kerrick took her hand. “I escaped town with the evening coach after my father was taken to be buried.”

“We can visit his grave when we inquire about interring Rohaise’s bones in my family crypt,” Kerrick said. In the broken walls of Delgatie, once the fire died away, they had recovered a set of women’s bones. She had been encased in the wall either alive or dead, and there was no proof either way. She had wanted to be a Hay for so long, he felt it right to inter her with the man she had been waiting for all those years.

Abigail pulled in a deep breath, her eyes scanning the windows that she’d stared out of her whole life. She wiped off the house key that she’d unearthed from the flowerpot where she’d hidden it before fleeing William’s grasp.

She climbed the steps in her simple blue gown and green cape that she’d purchased after the fire with the few surviving coins Kerrick had found in the wreckage. Kerrick followed her inside, and she stopped to breathe in the familiar scent hanging in the house. It was a mix of herbs, years of baked bread, books, and the soap she had learned to make from her mother. It was the smell of home.

Their boots echoed on the floorboards as they walked toward her father’s library. “William may have sold some things,” she said, noticing a pastoral painting absent from the foyer wall. “I sold some things too for money to travel.” Her footsteps clipped faster as she strode to the library.

“Thank God,” she whispered when she pushed through and inhaled the smell of her father’s old books. They looked untouched.

Kerrick slid the curtains back from the windows, letting in light. Specks of dust circulated in the air. “Ye have more tomes than I,” he said, his smile large as he walked along, bending to read the spines.

Her shoulders relaxed with her growing smile. “I thought I’d lost them. William knew they were precious to me.”

Kerrick walked over to her and touched her face softly. Since the destruction of Delgatie Castle three days ago, they’d slept in the same room at the tavern and traveled here as husband and wife. But Kerrick had slept on the floor despite the attraction that continued to grow between them, seemingly with each glance.

“We will have the largest private library in Aberdeenshire if we… combine them,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, studying his eyes. Combine them? What exactly did that mean?

Kerrick bent his face toward hers, and her eyes flickered closed as his lips touched.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Abigail’s eyes snaped open, and they stared at one another.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

“A curious neighbor who saw Leum tied up outside?” he suggested.

“I haven’t a clue,” she said, looking down the hall toward the door.

Rap. Rap. Rap. “Lady Gordon?” called a voice from outside.

“Gordon?” she said, her heart sinking at the title she would have had if William were still alive and had forced her back to Aberdeen with his forged marriage contract.

Kerrick frowned and turned, striding down the hall. Abigail followed but let him open the door.

A smallish man in trousers and a tailored shirt and ruff stood there, his head covered by a full black wig of curls. “Has Lady Gordon returned?” he asked.

“There is no Lady Gordon here,” Kerrick said, but the man looked past him.

“A Lady Abigail Lindsey Gordon?”

He cannot hurt me. William is dead. “I am Abigail Lindsey. William Gordon was found dead, lost on the moors and killed by animals,” she said.

“Aye,” the man said. “My condolences.” He unfolded a parchment, holding it up. “You are entitled to his holdings as the benefactress.” He glanced at Kerrick. “There are no provisions for a new husband if she remarries.”

Abigail came up closer, confusion slowing her thoughts. “I do not understand. William had no wealth of his own.”

The man’s brow rose. “He did not inherit until he wed. When the two of you wed a month ago,” he said, holding open another parchment with her faked signature, “his father’s will was enacted.”

“He had to marry,” Kerrick said, and the solicitor took it as a question.

“Yes, to inherit his twenty-thousand pounds and estates,” the man said. “And I was to verify the marriage before relinquishing the funds. I’ve had a runner sitting outside this house for weeks to tell me if there was any movement. Today there was.” He smiled tightly.

“I have to sit down,” Abigail said, unable to catch a full breath.

Kerrick lifted under her arm, his mouth near her ear. “Ye didn’t swoon when a ghost made William stand, so ye will not swoon now.” The humor in his voice helped her inhale as he led her to a wooden bench. She clutched the seat so as not to tip.

The man followed inside the house. “You are Abigail Lindsey Gordon, are you not? Wed to William Gordon within a year of his father’s death?”

“His father’s death?” she said numbly. William’s father had died last autumn. She wasn’t certain of the date, but the anniversary must be quite soon.

“Yes, Lord William needed to marry a woman before October thirty-first and bring her before me, his father’s solicitor, within a month of the date so I could assure he had held his part of the bargain, or else the estate and monies would be given to a distant cousin in Inverness.” He stared at Abigail. “So, are you Lord William’s wife?”

“That is what the document says,” Kerrick said, pointing at the paper in the man’s hand. Abigail managed to nod.

“Very well then,” the man said, relief in his voice. “My duty is fulfilled.” He looked closely at Abigail. “And if my sources are correct, the estate and inheritance are going to someone much… improved over Lord William Gordon.”

Abigail’s heart beat with wings, hope filling her. Twenty-thousand pounds. William had to marry to receive his inheritance, and no sane woman would agree.

And his forgery of her name had made her the beneficiary of it all.

The man shook Kerrick’s hand. “I will be by tomorrow with papers to sign and the keys to Gordon’s three estates.”

“Thank ye,” Kerrick said, ushering him out. The door clicked, and Kerrick returned to Abigail. He crouched before her and took her hands. “Are ye well, Abigail?”

She looked at him and blinked, her smile spreading across her face. “We can rebuild, Kerrick.” She swallowed. “I will sell two of William’s estates, and we will use the money to rebuild Delgatie Castle.” She stood slowly, and he did too. She grabbed his arms. “Even without your father’s money, we can make the land turn a profit. Maybe not this year but next.”

He looked down into her face. “’Tis your money, not mine.”

Her lips pinched tighter. “Then I am investing it in you, Kerrick Hay. I am investing… all of me in you,” she said, her voice softening. Had she said too much? Would he not want her? “I… I want us to be together,” she said.

A smile grew slowly across his handsome face. “Together?” he said, and she nodded. “Are ye courting me, Abigail Lindsey?”

She couldn’t stop the smile that grew on her own face. “Perhaps I am.”

Kerrick’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her into his warmth. His mouth came down to hers, kissing her with all the joy that came with hope. She held onto the back of his neck and slanted her face to deepen it. The kiss was familiar and tantalizing, and full of a future that Abigail would completely embrace.

The End

Historical Note

North of Aberdeen, Scotland, Delgatie Castle sits with a thousand years of turmoil and war surrounding it. Although its hallways are occupied by numerous spirits, a beautiful woman with vivid red hair is seen the most, especially in a particular bedchamber named after her. Rohaise, said to be a lord’s daughter, taps, knocks, and hums as she walks Delgatie’s halls. She is especially active when there are handsome men staying in her chamber.

I hope to one day explore Delgatie myself. As a teen, I lived in a pre-Civil War manor house in Virginia where spirits walked the halls, so Rohaise fascinates me. To read about my own memories of surviving a haunting, visit my post at
www.heathermccollum.com/the-haunting-of-heathers-house.

Once Upon A Haunted Heart

Anna St. Claire

Prologue

Surrey, England

19 October 1813

The woman’s scream pierced the air as the pain of her child’s entrance into the world wracked her body.

“Please . . . I pray . . . something for the pain . . .”

“Is there something we can do to help?” begged her aunt.

The midwife tutted, shaking her head. “I am sorry, my dear.” The older woman picked up the small vial found next to the bed and held it to the light. “What have you done, my child? Who told you to drink this? They do not use it when a pregnancy has gone to term.”

“The earl’s physician said it would ensure an easier delivery,” Melinda huffed in pain.

“The earl’s physician gave you this?” Her aunt’s eyes rounded in horror.

“No, he wrote it on paper and arranged it with the chemist . . .” her words fell off as realization of what she had done hit her and she feared for her child.

Melinda lay writhing in pain while the midwife took charge. She could not believe her stupidity. Her betrothed had promised to return after seeing his father. However, he had never returned. Nothing made sense. Daniel had seemed excited at the prospect of having a child. He had promised to wed her. He said he loved her.

Once the pregnancy had begun to show, her presence caused speculation and her father risked losing customers. He moved her to his sister-in-law’s home several towns away from her own, certain no one would recognize her or connect her to their family business.

The last months of the pregnancy were difficult. Desperation had driven her to the earl’s door. She had explained her circumstances to her betrothed’s father and pleaded for a place to stay until he returned for her.

His father ridiculed her.

“He is not your betrothed,” the earl mocked. “And there will be no wedding. Rather than wed you, he left on a trip.”

“Where did he go? Please tell me,” she begged.

The earl would not say. She had heard a rumor he had gone to fight with Wellington but could gain no confirmation.

“He made no mention of being betrothed,” scoffed the earl, staring down at her softly rounded belly.

“Please, my lord. ’Tis your son’s baby. I am carrying Daniel’s baby . . .” The door slammed shut. “And I have no place to stay,” she finished, tears streaming down her face.

Several months later, she received a visit from a man claiming to be the earl’s physician. He maintained the earl had sent him, saying His Lordship had reconsidered helping her and sent funds for the comfort of her and her baby, but requested she never seek him out again. It had been a substantial amount of money—two hundred pounds. The physician had arranged for the vial, assuring her he had secured it to gain her comfort in her pregnancy, and instructed her to take it when the pain started.

She never showed it to anyone. When she started cramping, she tried the medicine. Almost immediately, the cramping worsened, and the pain had grown to such an intensity, it was as if the baby was ripping itself from her womb. Her aunt had summoned the midwife and sent word to her brother-in-law.

Too late, she realized the intent of the doctor’s visit—if he was even a physician. Melinda had allowed the earl’s offer of money to cloud her judgment, and as a result, both lives—hers and her baby’s—were threatened.

A pain like no other rent her body as the child’s head finally showed itself and the lusty wails of her daughter drowned out Melinda’s cry. Why did you leave us, Daniel? There was a strange comfort about her as her daughter emerged, and she would have sworn she could see Daniel’s face gazing down at the baby.

“Daniel . . . you are here,” she cried, puzzled that his brown eyes spoke of heartbreak.

Weak but needing to touch the child, Melinda held out her arms, comforted when her aunt placed her daughter to her chest to suckle. Her body felt depleted and worn, quickly losing its strength. She could barely take a breath without effort. I am dying. But why is Daniel here? Her body shook, and the bleeding intensified.

“The bleeding is getting worse. Please, help my niece,” her aunt cried, putting cold cloths on Melinda’s head, and frantically pushing her hair from her face.

“There is no hope for her,” the midwife whispered in a choked voice. “I fear the girl has taken too much of the vial to stop it.”

“Danielle . . . her name . . . is Danielle,” Melinda rasped. “Please, Aunt, please see she is cared for properly.”

“I will do my best, sweet niece.”

“I love you, Danielle. I shall always be near,” Melinda breathed, before kissing her daughter’s forehead and handing the child to her aunt. Conflicting emotions washed over her—joy, pain, and anger. Daniel’s specter beckoned her against the din of her daughter’s wails.

She struggled to fill her lungs once more.

“May the earl know no peace, and there be no further union in his line until they acknowledge my daughter,” Melinda intoned as her life faded.

Chapter One

October 1814

Lady Violet Hanson stared at the betrothal ring on her hand and closed her eyes. Edward Baxter, the Earl of Whitlock, was everything she could want in a man—he was smart, funny, and the type of man women found themselves helplessly drawn to. With dark hair and blue eyes, broad shoulders, and a lean waist, he was extremely handsome. Her parents, the Earl and Countess of Carsely, were most pleased with the match.

Upon meeting Edward, she, as well as others, had been certain she had seen a ghost. Except for his azure blue eyes, the man could have passed for a twin of his deceased cousin, Viscount Daniel Wilders.

He was the opposite of his more serious-minded cousin, the former Viscount Wilders, who had died on the battlefield at Vitoria. Until recently, the ton had been abuzz with rumors the former viscount had purchased a commission in response to his father’s refusal to condone marriage between him and a young woman, and fled, furious at his father’s condescension. The Earl of Whitlock had not realized until too late that his son had purchased the commission. By the time he located him and attempted to return him safely home, his son had died.

Word of his beloved son’s death was said to have caused the older earl’s heart attack, for he died that very afternoon.

Violet had known Lord Daniel Wilders to be a kind young man, as their parents had summer seats close to each other, and had socialized frequently. Her older sister had had a first-hand account of the late viscount’s disinterest in any of the young women during the Season, fueling speculation his heart had been otherwise engaged, although no one was ever named, and no betrothal announced.

With the death of the earl, the title passed to Daniel’s cousin, Edward Baxter, the man Violet could not wait to marry.

With Waterloo behind them, Violet’s parents finally allowed her to have her first Season. At eight and ten, she was slightly older than many other young ladies that debuted with her.

Once she met Edward, no one else mattered. Their courtship had lasted through most of the Season, culminating with the young earl’s proposal last evening.

They had set their wedding for October 21, three weeks from now, Violet thought. Nothing could mar her wedding day.

Mother had asked Madame Couture, the modiste, to arrive that morning to measure Violet for her wedding dress and have her trousseau commissioned.

The threat of rain was the only thing that spoiled an otherwise perfect day. She would allow nothing—not even rain—to damage her mood. Violet held the ring up again and admired the setting. It was an oval emerald nestled in pink gold, with gold leaves and tiny glistening diamonds swirling about the emerald as if forming a nest. Edward’s maternal grandmother had worn the ring.

“Violet, are you dressed, my dearest?” Mother asked, barely tapping the door before she entered. “I brought your chocolate and biscuits. It is turning cold outside, which reminds me. You will need a new pelisse,” she said, setting the small silver tray on the bedside table.

“Good morning, Mother.” She swung her feet to the side of the bed and sat up, combing her toes through the thick burgundy and green carpet. “In a little over three weeks, I will be leaving this bedroom. It feels surreal.”

“Well, it is very real. Your very handsome betrothed has much to recommend him. He returned home a hero, after all.” Her mother started to say more but did not.

It was something not normally discussed. Edward had not been part of Society, and many were unaware of his existence until he assumed the earldom following the death of the former Earl of Whitlock.

It was good to be finally back in their own home, though she would miss the parties and beehive of activity she had enjoyed in London. The war had disrupted much in the surrounding villages and towns, and with the return of the men from Waterloo, things were becoming more normal.

“Edward has asked if we might go riding this afternoon, Mother—of course, only after Madame Couture has finished. Would you and Father mind?” Her parents would grant her anything within reason, but she asked permission, just the same.

“Will you mind if a groom follows? That is the only way I will be comfortable. Horses terrify Abby. She could never keep up with the two of you.”

Violet handed the second cup of chocolate to her mother, who had taken a seat next to her, and both women laughed. “Abby is wonderful, and I really should take more time and show her how to ride. However, I do not know whether it is the horse or the rider that needs conditioning to the other. When Abby nears a horse, the looks she gives are quite terrifying. Star is our most gentle horse, and the poor mare shies away.” Violet rounded her eyes in mock shock and playfully gave a frozen look of terror across her lips.

“Oh dear,” Mother said, tittering at her daughter’s reenactment of her maid. “Perhaps we should leave them alone. Neither Abby nor the poor mare needs additional aggravation.” She placed the emptied cup back on the tray. “I will send Abby up to help you. Madame Couture will need as much time as possible, and apparently, yours is not the only wedding she is working on.” With that, the woman left the room, leaving Violet to ponder her future.

A scratch at the door signaled Abby’s arrival.

The young woman walked in and bobbed a curtsey. “My lady, your mama has informed me you are to be ready at half-nine. I have fresh linens and your blue muslin dress is hanging behind the screen,” she said, setting down the linens on a small shelf beneath the washbasin. She picked up the silver tray with the empty cups and turned. “I shall return quickly, my lady.”

Violet was dressed before long and met with her mother and the modiste in her mother’s large sitting room, as it gave the modicum of privacy needed. She was tired when she finally returned to her room. Abby was already laying out her next outfit. After feeling like a human pincushion for hours, she stared.

“It’s the pink velvet habit. I know it’s your favorite and thought you’d want to wear it today with your betrothed,” Abby said.

She had almost forgotten. “Thank you. I had hoped the pelisse we ordered a few weeks ago would be back as well, but the modiste told me earlier the woolen fabric we requested had just arrived from London. With the order Mother just gave her, she may fall even further behind. No matter. I have last year’s, and it will do,” replied Violet.

As she dressed, her mother poked her head into the room. “Violet, join us for our midday meal. Also, your father asked to speak with his lordship upon your return from your outing.”

“I shall be down in ten minutes, Mother.”

Her mother dipped her head and closed the door behind her as she left.

Violet turned to Abby. “Mother is sending a groom with me, so you will not have to ride.”

“Thank you, my lady,” the young maid said as she heaved a sigh of relief. “In good conscience, I am a poor chaperone on horseback,” she said with a sheepish smile.

“I thought you might enjoy horseback riding lessons sometime. Not today, of course. But soon, if you are interested. You might not be as afraid if you knew more about horses,” Violet hastened to add.

Abby had been with her since childhood. The last thing she wanted was to worry her friend or make her feel bad. She was reminded how difficult it was to maintain noblesse oblige.

“That sounds like a fine idea, my lady. Perhaps I can start with a pony,” Abby added shrewdly, making Violet laugh. The thought of Abby in the pen riding a large pony was quite humorous.

Abby placed her comb on the vanity and stepped back. “My lady, I believe this is the best style for riding. The braid looks loose, but it’s very secure. It should stay in place beneath your hat.”

Violet took a quick look as Abby gave a little color to her cheeks. “Perfect! And just in time. My stomach is rumbling.” Both girls laughed as Violet grabbed her gloves and scurried to the stairs.

Luncheon was well underway when she arrived. Her parents were deep in discussion about the wedding. Father wanted it at St. George’s in London, whereas Mother was saying she wanted Violet to decide. Was that her mother? Violet felt sure she could not have heard that right. She would discuss it with Edward and get his feelings.

Less than an hour later, she and Edward were on their horses headed toward the deep green pastureland behind her stable. Her left hand suddenly began to feel strange—everything itched and burned. Since she wore kid gloves, she was reluctant to scratch. She tried squeezing it, lightly slapping at the top of the hand, and even scratching softly through the glove, until finally, she could stand it no longer and ripped off the glove. Her hand had become covered with large angry welts and began to swell.

“Edward, look at my hand!” Fear seized her heart. Nothing like this had ever happened to her.

“My God! What happened?”

Tremulously, Violet shook out her glove and a small, shiny black spider fell from the glove and landed on the skirt of her riding habit.

“A spider! Help! Get it off me!”

Edward slid quickly from his horse and ran to assist her, followed by the groom.

Violet squeezed her eyes shut. “Did you get it? Please take it off me!”

Edward spotted the vile creature. With his handkerchief, he scooped it from her skirt, wrapping it tightly and stuffing it into his waistcoat pocket, apparently refusing to think further about what he had just done.

“I have never seen a spider or even an ant in my glove.” She shook, feeling on the verge of histrionics.

“You must calm yourself. We should get you home, immediately. I will take the spider with me, in a vial of course, and find out more about it,” Edward said warily, as he tore off his cravat and wrapped her hand in it.

“As much as it pains me, I hate to kill it,” Violet said, recoiling from the pain when her hand was touched.

She realized Edward had not stomped the spider and killed it, intent to know what had bitten her.

“Hold your hand up, my dearest,” pleaded Edward, propping her arm in the air. “It is the best way to keep the poisons from spreading.”

“Are you sure the horrid spider cannot bite you?” she said, worrying her bottom lip.

“While I cannot be a hundred percent positive, I have it wrapped in my handkerchief. It has little room to move. I do not think it will bite me, my love,” Edward reassured her. “We should get home and get that looked at.” He looked around him. “Doctor James’ home is further than your own.”

Violet gave him a smile she did not feel. This day was supposed to have been perfect. “He may not even be in residence.”

“Nelson,” Edward said, facing the groom. “Ride back to Lady Violet’s house and ask Ambrose to summon Doctor James. Tell her family she has been bitten by a spider and seems to be having a . . .” he glanced at her hand. “Terrible reaction to the bite.”

“Right away, my lord,” the groom replied, squeezing the flanks of the gelding he was riding and flying across the fields towards the house.

Violet’s hand hurt horribly. It burned and throbbed. Looking at it, when she thought she could, she noticed the finger her ring was on had swollen desperately. “Edward, my hand. It has been bitten. Look at my finger. The skin has swollen around the ring, causing the finger to appear bluish on the end.”

“Please, darling, hold your hand up,” he said. “We need to get cold water or ice on it. It was common for the men to be bitten by a rogue spider, or even a snake, during the war and get reactions such as this.”

“I fear you will think me a baby, but my finger is throbbing badly. Perhaps we should ride faster,” she urged, feeling sweaty and a little feverish.

“We need to get you home,” he agreed.

They kicked at the sides of their mounts, spurring them toward the stable as quickly as possible.

When they got closer to her house, a groom met them to take the mounts and Edward carried Violet up the steps.

“My lord, we summoned the doctor. Her parents requested you bring her to the parlor.”

Edward carried Violet into the parlor and laid her upon the ivory settee, propping a pillow beneath her head.

“Is she going to be all right?” her mother asked, frantically.

Abby entered the room carrying a small bucket of ice and some cold water. “My lady, if you will allow me, my aunt taught me a little medicinal knowledge. When the groom came back, I was in the kitchen and overheard what had happened. I cannot imagine how a spider got into the glove, but I have an idea of how to handle the bite.”

“Please,” the countess waved the maid forward.

“I brought the spider home and if you have a glass vial or a vessel to place it in, I would be keen on removing it from my pocket,” Edward said, wincing.

Lady Carsely shuddered. “I hate spiders. They are necessary, I suppose, but they are so . . . unnerving.”

“My lady. We sent for Doctor James. In the meantime, with your permission, I plan to ice the hand,” Abby said calmly.

“Certainly, Abby. Please do it.”

Nodding, Abby unwrapped the cravat in which Edward had bound the hand and looked at it. “’Tis strange. While there are welts on the back of her hand, the finger with the ring appears the worst. Yet, here is the bite on the back of the hand, nowhere near the finger. ’Tis very swollen.”

“Indeed.” Edward looked at what Abby had pointed out and found it strange. “Please do not think of the jewelry. We shall cut the ring off, if necessary. Jewelry can always be replaced or repaired,” Edward said quickly.

“Send for the gardener and ask him to bring his snippers,” Lord Carsely instructed Ambrose.

“Yes, my lord. Right away.” The tall man turned on his heel and left the room. In less than five minutes he had returned with the gardener, brandishing his snippers.

“Mr. Greene, you must open the ring so we can remove it from her finger. I fear it is cutting off her circulation,” Mother instructed.

“Yes, my lady.” The grizzled older man bent over Violet’s hand and gently squeezed the tip of his garden snippers as far under the small band of gold as he could and snipped. The band split open and Edward pried it apart and removed it, before placing it into his pocket.

“My finger feels so cold, almost like ice,” Violet said in halting tones, as she lamented the loss of her beautiful ring and the sight of her finger. She was grateful Edward was not upset.

Shortly after the band left her finger, the swelling seemed to slow, allowing the bluish tint to wane.

The doctor arrived and was shown into the room. “My lord, my lady. I got here as quickly as I could. What seems to be the difficulty?”

The housekeeper arrived, carrying a small vial.

“I will show you,” Edward said. He unwound his handkerchief carefully and shook the spider into the vial. “Lady Violet began to complain of her hand hurting and itching. When she could not relieve it without scratching her hand, she pulled her glove off and this fell out of the glove.”

“My stars!” Lady Carsely said, fanning her face. “I detest the creatures. They frighten me.”

“May I?” Doctor James asked.

At Edward’s nod, the doctor picked up the small glass vial and closely examined the spider. “I have seen them before. It looks like a ‘noble false widow spider.’ I have never known anyone to have died by one around here,” Doctor James said. “Their bites can cause quite a reaction—even death to someone highly allergic, if not attended quickly.

“Death?” Violet’s eyes rounded. She could feel her pulse beating in her neck.

“My lady, my aunt prepared a paste of pearl ash for me once, when I reacted to something in the yard. It helps with the reaction. I grabbed a bit on my way in here.”

“Yes, I am happy you have it. I do not have it in my bag, but many cooks have it in the kitchen,” the doctor said. “It might be wise to try. ’Tis an alkaline salt, a leavening agent for baking. I am not sure why it works, but in my experience, it helps reduce the swelling.”

Cook freshened the small bucket of ice and within an hour, the emergency had been brought under control. Violet was feeling much more herself. She enjoyed her time on the settee with Edward and leaning her head on his shoulder—and had it not been a spider bite that allowed it, she would have liked to repeat it.

She chuckled. As they were affianced, no one said anything, as long as they left the parlor door open.

“Thank you, Edward. I had been looking forward to our outing today. Had I known to check my gloves before placing them on my hand, we could have avoided this ridiculous problem.”

“Hush, my dear. You need your rest. I fear your father will ask me to leave if it looks like we are not allowing that to take place. I will take the spider home and look into a book of arthropods. I was looking through my uncle’s library,” he paused. “It is difficult to think in terms of all of my cousin’s and uncle’s holdings as being mine.”

“I can imagine that is difficult.”

“I was not particularly close to my cousin, Daniel, but we had mutual respect and got along famously when we attended family events. He was a serious chap and very interested in biology and the like. I found several books on botany, animals, and insects in the library. I am assuming they were there for Daniel. My uncle was not known as an avid reader. He would manage through his papers and business documents, of course, but his interest seemed to end with his business affairs.”

Edward gave a sorrowful sigh. “There are so many stories swirling about concerning Daniel. I have even heard of a young woman. The circumstances of his life in those last months seem tragic. At least they were able to return his body. There is more to all of this. I feel it and would like to find out.”

“I do not blame you,” Violet said. “Daniel lived nearby, of course. Your property borders ours. Yet, I rarely saw Daniel, unless it was with his parents, who for a long time, were close friends with my parents. His father and mother seemed to get on very well, making the old earl quite sad in his later years when Daniel’s mother died in childbirth.”

“Yes, I recall. Aunt Mary and her baby died. It was a girl.”

“My dear, I feel it is time I let you get some real rest. If you are feeling better, we can take our ride in a few days,” he said, kissing her neck.

“That would be lovely.” Violet gazed into Edward’s blue eyes. They were the color of the ocean. With his tanned face and dark hair, he was surely the most handsome and kind man in the world. She adored spending time with him.

“I must be off and let you rest,” he said, standing. He leaned over and placed a small warm kiss on the affected hand.

Violet touched his arm. “Oh, Edward! I almost forgot. Father asked to speak with you before you leave.”

Chapter Two

Later that day

Edward followed Ambrose back to the earl’s study, once he felt convinced Lady Violet would be all right.

“How is my daughter?” the Earl of Carsely asked, standing in front of his mahogany desk, his hand extended to greet Edward.

“Much better, my lord. I cannot fathom something like that happening. Thankfully, her reaction seems to be subsided.”

“The doctor stopped by before he left and assured me she would be fine. Odd name for a spider, though,” he said, clearing his throat.

“Yes. I agree.” Edward reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew the corked vial. “I trapped it and plan to look it up in some books I have in my study. Would you like to see it?”

“Son, is there a reason you preserved it?” the earl drew back, his eyes wide.

Edward laughed. “Actually, yes. Lady Violet insisted it not be killed. I have discovered your daughter’s affection for living creatures knows no bounds.”

“Yes. I am surprised she did not name it.” Her father laughed. “I do not mind the stray dogs and cats and even the baby fox—a kit, I believe she called it. But I draw the line at spiders, especially if they have bitten me,” Carsely said.

“What does she do with the animals? I am curious,” Edward asked, wondering if he would need to install a stable for her small refugees.

“Many never leave,” he chuckled, giving a knowing nod out the window toward his stables. “I have been working on the settlement paperwork . . .” he began.

“My lord, I do not mean to be disrespectful, but I do not want your money. Please establish an account for your daughter. Her dowry is hers to do with as she wishes,” Edward said.

The earl regarded him and smiled. “That is generous, Lord Whitlock. I will take care of the changes.”

“I will happily sign the agreement when you have it ready,” Edward replied. He was concerned about Violet. Her hand seemed much better by the time he left, but the incident had left them both a little shaken. Considering the gloves had been new—something he overheard her maid mutter—he wondered about the spider getting into them. Nothing made sense.

The day was still young since they had not been able to take their ride. He decided to take the ring to the local jeweler for repair on his way home. A door jingled behind him when he entered. He looked around and noticed the many different collections of jewels. Except for getting the ring cleaned, he had never been in the shop. And his last visit had been too rushed to take notice of his surroundings.

“Hello, my lord. How can I help you?” A burly older man with gold-rimmed glasses on the bottom of his nose closed a cabinet door and looked up when he entered.

“Mr. Diamond, how are you today?” Edward asked, trying to think of how to discuss the broken ring he had in his pocket. It would certainly make for delightful ton fodder. Yet, the older man had a reputation for discretion, so he felt comfortable on that front.

Still . . .

“Quite well. How did your lady like the beautiful ring? A most unique ring it is,” he said before taking a handkerchief out, blowing into it, and stuffing it back into his trouser pocket. Adjusting his glasses, he looked back at Edward with a now red nose. “Sorry, my lord. I seem to have picked up a slight cold this morning.”

“It is the weather for such a thing—cold one day, warmer the next, and then cold rain. It is difficult to avert a cold for long,” Edward replied. “It is the ring that brings me back today.” He fished into his pocket and pulled out the ring in its box.

“My! Do we need to size it?” the older man asked, moving down the counter to stand in front of Edward.

“In a matter of speaking. Um. It needs a great deal more. We had to cut it from my betrothed’s finger this morning.”

The man’s eyes rounded. “I was anticipating you would need it sized, but I had not anticipated it being too small. It was last sized for Viscount Wilders . . .” The man stopped, perhaps thinking he had said too much. “Since it is your family’s treasure, I do not think I am crossing lines to divulge that it was sized not so long ago.” He wiped the sweat from his brow.

Edward smiled. “Not at all. One of my questions was about the history of the ring. I was curious about who may have worn it besides my grandmother.” He passed the damaged ring to the jeweler.

Mr. Diamond winced. “I see what you mean. The slice in the gold band is easy enough to fix. Thankfully, the front of it was not damaged. It would have taken more time to correct the delicate leaves. I have a man who does a wonderful job on that sort of gold work.” He removed his glasses and put a magnifying glass to his eye, taking a closer look. “Every diamond is in perfect shape. The emerald is undamaged, even. It should take a day or two to correct this. Was the size to your liking?”

Edward smiled. “It fit my lady’s finger beautifully.”

“Wonderful. I have the size notation here, and I will make sure it is the same,” he said, patting a small pad that sat next to him on the counter.

“Before you sized it for the viscount, had there been any other wearers besides my grandmother?” he asked.

“None that I am aware of. Viscount Wilders said he had described the ring to his betrothed, having seen and loved it when he was a child.”

“Ah. I see.” An uncomfortable feeling washed over Edward. It was enough to realize how close he and Daniel looked, but similarities like this felt prickly. He scanned the case of rings the jeweler had before him. “I thought I might commission another ring.”

Mr. Diamond adjusted his glasses on the end of his nose and smiled up at Edward. “Of course, my lord. Might there be a preference for a particular stone?” He reached down into the cabinet and pulled out a small velvet board and laid some colorful stones on it. “These are paste examples of various stones and in various cuts, but very true to the real thing. Do you see one that appeals to you?”

Edward spied a lovely amethyst stone in the center and pointed to it. It was in a perfect oval. “This is what I had in mind. My lady’s first name and her eyes would be a perfect match,” he effused. “I think a silver setting would set this off beautifully. I liked the small diamonds and the gold intertwined in the other. However, I do not wish to replicate the emerald ring. I wish this ring to be different. Perhaps a halo of small diamonds surrounding the larger stone and two larger diamond baguettes on the sides.”

“I see you have already been thinking about this ring. You have excellent taste. Sometimes we create bands and leave them ready for jewel selection. I happen to have one similar to what you describe.” He reached back into the cabinet and pulled out a small velvet box, opening it and passing it across to Edward.

“Yes, this is much as I had imagined. Is this silver?” Edward inquired.

“It is. Will there be any adjustments?” the jeweler asked.

“I would like the two larger diamonds to be triangular-shaped diamonds and sit on each side of the center diamond, with a small baguette on the end of each, just so,” Edward said, pointing out the changes.

“As I said, my lord. You have excellent taste. This shall take me a few days to complete. I will have your emerald ring repaired by the end of the day tomorrow,” Mr. Diamond said. “Shall I add both orders to your account?”

“Yes, that would be fine. I will pick them up at the same time,” Edward replied, curious. He had not been aware an account had been established for him. He started to leave but turned back. “Mr. Diamond, I have wondered about my account. As you know, I have only held my title a relatively short time. Are there other charges on my account?”

“No, my lord. The account passed to you from the earl, so it includes all of your family’s jewelry we have taken care of. If you ever need to see it, you have but to ask,” the man added, proudly, tapping on his leather book.

“I appreciate knowing that. You have been helpful,” Edward said, tipping his head slightly, before taking his leave.

Once he was back on his horse, his thoughts shifted back to the conversation he had just had with Henry Diamond. The man had been a wealth of information. However, having heard the story of his ring nagged at him.

Something felt off here, and he needed to know more.

He wanted to know more about Daniel’s love interest. All he knew was that she had been a local woman who disappeared and was not heard from again. He would ask Dirks, his valet, to help him locate some information. He trusted Dirks, having known the man’s family for a long time.

Twenty minutes later, he approached Whitlock Manor, a sight he had not yet grown used to seeing. The new three-storied mansion had a massive arched entryway, bordered on both sides by tall windows. The steps to the front door fanned out beautifully in both directions. Pink azaleas and rose-colored rhododendrons formed a colorful hedge beneath the front windows of the house.

A bricked, circular drive rounded in front of the house and was joined by a large walkway to the steps. Years ago, his grandmother decided to cover the drive with shells. She sourced a large shipment from the closest seaside towns and required all oyster shells served on the estate to be crushed and added to the road. Over the years, the tree-lined road became covered with the discarded shells. It formed a good base for them to ride upon, especially when it rained or snowed. It also let visitors know they had left the main road.

A footman met him at the base of the steps and accepted his horse’s reins. “Thank you, Burl.”

The door opened and his butler, a tall man with a slight paunch and balding pate, accepted his coat and gloves. “Shadrock, have light refreshments sent to my study.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Edward went straight to his study and searched the books before finally deciding on a large edition of Arachnids Identified. Thumbing to the section on spiders, he scanned the pages until finding the “noble false widow spider.” Withdrawing the small glass vial from his pocket, he compared the small spider still crawling around the glass vial with the one on the page.

“The doctor was correct. You give a rather nasty bite, my dear.” He read further, turning the small vial over in his hand. They are usually found in dark, woodsy places, not linen drawers.

Edward deliberated on whether to free the spider, finally deciding in favor of letting it live. It was not an actual black widow. You cannot help that you look a lot like your cousin, he thought.

Lifting the pane of one of the windows flanking his desk, he then opened the vial. “Out you go. I am not sure how you found your way into a new pair of gloves but do relocate yourself far from my home.” Flinging the insect from the glass vessel, he closed the window.

Closing the sash, he smiled, comfortable he could tell Lady Violet the truth—he had freed the spider.

A niggling feeling told him there was something he was not seeing. What was it? Edward did not count himself among those finding conspiracy behind every ill-fated move. However, now he had too many unanswered questions. His grandmother’s ring had not been used beyond her lifetime. Hearing from Mr. Diamond that Daniel had had it sized surprised him.

How far had his cousin’s relationship progressed?

While Edward had not been stunned to learn the former Earl of Whitlock refused his son’s request, he had been stunned to learn Daniel had joined the military, especially with all that was taking place. It suggested his cousin had decided to disregard his connection to the peerage and earn a living on his own. He stood and opened his study door just as Burl passed by.

“Burl, a moment, please.” He motioned for the man to enter.

“Certainly, my lord,” the butler replied.

“Excellent. I have need of information.”

The butler came in and closed the door. His expression was strained.

“I do not mean to pry, but certain things have happened that make me feel the need to ask questions about my cousin, Daniel, Lord Wilders.”

Burl glanced down before looking back up and Edward would swear his eyes had misted. The man had cared for Daniel. That was clear.

“I wanted to know more about the woman Daniel had professed to love. Do you know anything about her?”

Instantly, Burl’s shoulders relaxed. “My lord, if I can be so bold in my answer. It was a problem the old earl and his son, Lord Wilders, could not get past. The earl had been determined Lord Wilders would marry Lady Frances Elders, to whom he had been betrothed since birth. Lord Wilders refused.” He stopped, suddenly looking abashed. “My lord, I apologize. I have spoken too freely.”

“No. Please go on. I have never asked and have only been told what others wanted me to know. I know there was a disagreement over a betrothal. Daniel was killed in battle. But that is rather all meager information. I have a gut feeling there is more to this I should know.”

“There were rumors, my lord—of his betrothed.”

“What sort of rumors, Burl?”

“She died in childbirth, my lord. I cannot say it is true. But rumors said the baby was born within months of Lord Wilders’ death.”

“A child?”

Burl nodded.

“Do you know the woman’s name?”

“Miss Melinda Bellamy, my lord. She showed up one day to see the earl and left in tears.”

“You have a sterling memory, Burl,” Edward remarked, amazed at the capacity he had for details. He knew Burl would have information. “Was this before Daniel died?”

“It was, my lord. The week before.” The old man’s eyes misted, again. “The earl refused her request.” It was a statement and not a question.

“Miss Bellamy. Was she from this area?” Edward probed.

“Her family is in commerce,” he replied. “They have a business in a nearby village.”

Edward nodded. “Ah.” The pieces were coming together, creating a very tragic story for his cousin, and causing his heart to pain him. For most of their lives, Daniel and Edward had seen little of each other—yet, when they were together, many called them twins.

But in Edward’s way of thinking, they could not have been more different. While Edward would help an animal with a broken leg heal, Daniel would look at it more practically, thinking it better to relieve the animal’s misery. The boys had been as opposite as they could be. However, in this case, it seemed Daniel’s propensity for practicality may have been overset by emotion.

One thing became clear. Edward needed to find that child. He had not been part of the peerage growing up, and he still had to acclimate himself to the ways of the ton. One thing he could not abide was casting off children. Nothing could justify that in his mind. If they had not wanted to give the child a name, his uncle could have given money.

As it turned out, the child might have been the only legacy Daniel left.

“Burl, please have Dirks see me.”

“Thank you, my lord.” The old retainer bowed and removed from the room, closing the door behind him.

He should have asked the child’s gender. Yet what difference would it have made? A child . . . good God! There was a child out there—one he wanted to know better. I need to find the child.

A quick tap sounded at the door.

“Come in, Dirks,” Edward said softly.

“Yes, my lord. I came right away. How can I be of service?”

Edward laughed when he noticed Dirks inspecting his clothing. “Calm yourself, Dirks, I have not mussed my clothes. I need you to do something for me that requires discretion and trust. I can rely on you for both.”

“Yes, my lord?” Astonished, the balding man looked up. “May I take a seat?”

“Certainly.” He waved his hand towards the leather seats in front of his desk. “Your choice.” He waited for the man to seat himself. “I need to find the child Miss Melinda Bellamy left behind.”

A wave of shock crossed the valet’s face. “You know of the child?” he whispered hoarsely.

Edward exhaled. “I just found out. I wish you had mentioned it to me, yet I understand it would never have come up without my asking. And the staff would never bring it up. However, I have learned there was a child born the day Miss Bellamy died. I do not know the child’s gender and I have no idea of their whereabouts. However, I have deduced Miss Bellamy’s parents did not condone her situation, as evidenced by a visit she paid to my uncle, the former earl. I do not believe a well-meaning woman would put herself through that unless it was a last resort.”

The larger painting of the earl and his wife slipped from over the fireplace and crashed to the floor, causing both men to start.

Dirks scrambled to his feet and rushed towards the fireplace, picking up the picture. It had been hanging by a wire on a nail. “How did that happen, my lord? Except for a piece of the frame being broken, the painting appears in good order,” he said, propping the oil painting against the bookshelf that lined the walls on either side of the fireplace.

“Yes,” Edward said, making his way to the painting. “That was bizarre.” Especially the timing, he thought. “I will have Burl plan for its repair and bring another selection of paintings to choose from for the study.”

“The woman’s parents live in the village of Shere,” Dirks offered.

“I would like their names. I want to locate the child. Surely, they know what has happened to them. Discover what you can. I plan to make a visit.”

“That painting falling was rather . . . eerie,” Dirks remarked.

“It was that,” Edward agreed, suppressing a shudder. It felt downright unnerving. Something inside urged him on. He needed to see this through. “Dirks, let me know what you find.”

Chapter Three

A few days later

Violet sat up and stretched her arms, feeling much improved. Her hand had healed completely, and after a couple of days, she was feeling more herself.

Abby entered following a quick knock at the door and stopped short, apparently halted by an already awake mistress. She bobbed a curtsy. “My lady, you are awake. ’Tis a lovely day.”

Violet smiled at the woman. “I am. And it is lovely—even more so because I will see my earl today. As long as another wicked spider does not accost us, the day should be fine, although . . .” she paused, deciding how to say what she wanted, “I had the strangest dream last night, which left me with the strangest sensation, and although I cannot recall the details, it has left me feeling quite out of sorts.” She placed her hand on her forehead in frustration. “Do you recall your dreams, Abby?”

The woman smiled. “Sometimes I can recall them. However, I hear ’tis bad luck to even repeat a dream. Best not to recall it,” she lightly chided as she placed Violet’s newly polished half-boots next to the armoire.

“You are right, of course,” Violet replied wistfully. “The dream I had has left me feeling anxious.” In her dream, she had peered into her looking glass and another woman’s face stared back at her, causing her to drop it, breaking the glass. Violet glanced out the window near her. “You know what?” she whispered. “It is pretty outside, and my betrothed plans to take me riding. ’Tis surely the start of a wonderful day.” Heaving a sigh, she yawned and gave an extra stretch of her arms before moving to the edge of the bed. “I shall not allow anything to mar it.” Violet wiggled her toes into her warm pink slippers, stood, and walked behind her screen to her water bowl to perform her ablutions.

“Your mother requested you join her to break your fast,” Abby added, smoothing the covers on Violet’s bed. She laid out the riding habit.

“Surely Mother wishes to discuss the betrothal dinner.”

“Do you have a preference for your hair, my lady?” Abby mentioned, moving to the vanity and picking up the brush.

Violet sat at her vanity facing away from the maid. “Whatever you decide is fine as long as it tolerates horseback riding,” she said.

She felt Abby’s hand tremble at the mention of horseback riding. There had to be a way to help Abby learn to ride comfortably.

Violet closed her eyes as Abby worked on her hair, plaiting it and twisting it up into a lovely coif behind her head. She enjoyed having someone comb through her hair. She felt Abby anchor it with pins.

“’Tis done, my lady, Abby said, extending the mirror for her mistress’s approval.

Violet slowly opened her eyes and drew back, her heart racing staring at the object, momentarily unwilling to take it from Abby’s proffered hand. Memories of a woman’s pale face shrouded in flowing auburn hair flashed through her mind.

It was a dream, she repeated to herself, before finally accepting the mirror.

“Is something amiss?” Abby prompted, concerned.

Violet forced herself to relax and accepted the silver mirror. “It looks much less severe than it feels. I like it,” she remarked on her hair, still leery of the mirror. She fought the urge to drop it.

“I thought you would like it. Do the pins pain you?” Abby asked.

Forcing herself to focus on her hair, she took a better look. “No, they do not. I rather like it. The hat will fit nicely and not muss it.” She managed to calmly set the mirror face down on the vanity.

“I brushed off the pale green riding habit for you. I think it shows off your hair and eyes quite nicely, my lady.” Abby walked to the armoire and opened it. Lifting on her toes, she retrieved the matching hat. Quickly, she helped Violet into her habit and fastened the small, plumed hat upon her head.

Violet admired herself in the standing mirror. “This could become my new favorite habit,” she sighed. “It is not so tight I cannot breathe.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of gloves and shook them. “I fear I shall never place a pair upon my hand without checking first,” she said with a nervous laugh.

“Aye. I can understand perfectly, Lady Violet. I find myself doing the same with my own gloves,” Abby replied. “I declare I have never before seen a spider in a glove. That would have raised the hairs of the dead.”

“Thank you, Abby.” Violet took a final look in the tall looking glass before leaving the room and making her way to the dining room to join her mother.

As she walked in, the countess placed a gossip sheet down beside her plate. “Violet, you look radiant,” she effused. “Cook made the porridge you like, and I believe left a small bowl with diced apples and cinnamon.”

Violet ladled her porridge into a bowl, fixing it the way she enjoyed it before adding a few strips of bacon on a small plate. “This is perfect,” she said as she sat down and placed the napkin in her lap. “Abby said you were waiting. I hope I did not keep you long.”

“Nonsense. I have barely had time to peruse my sheets. The announcement of your betrothal should be in there.”

Her mother kept a close eye on the gossip sheets, as Violet was certain happened in all households.

“I saw where Lady Frances Elders married Viscount Reginald Davis last week,” her mother said, back to perusing her sheets.

Violet looked up, sensing an eeriness about her. “I believe Lady Elders had her come out several years ahead of me, with Deborah.” Her sister had married a Viscount Thomas some years ago. “I recall Deborah once mentioning the lady had been quite shy during their coming out and was looked upon as bookish, although quite lovely.”

“I have not even thought about Lady Elders and her daughter in years. For some reason I thought she had been already betrothed,” her mother murmured, still engrossed in the news.

“That’s interesting, Mother,” Violet commented, unwilling to give any more time to the subject. Her arm felt covered in gooseflesh, despite the warmth of her velvet habit. She continued to eat her porridge, chasing a piece of apple around the bowl with her spoon.

“How odd. I do not see your announcement in the paper. I thought it would have made it in earlier in the week. Today is Thursday and it is still not here,” her mother said, frustrated, as she folded the paper up and placed it beside her plate. “What are your plans today?”

“Edward and I plan to go horseback riding. We thought it would be a good day to perhaps stretch the legs of the horses and ride down toward the pond.”

“That’s got some craggy grounds. Be careful to go slightly east to take you around that, lest your horse suffers a thrown shoe or a bad ankle,” her mother advised.

“Good advice, Mother. I will suggest that when Edward arrives,” Violet said, taking a sly look at the clock on the wall behind her mother’s head. He should be here soon, she thought excitedly.

“When you are not in a rush to get out the door, we should discuss the betrothal dinner. You had asked for a small affair, and not a ball.” Her mother sniffed. “I would have liked to throw you a ball, but we shall do a dinner party.”

“Mother, I did not want a party,” Violet replied, hearing the last word her mother slid into the conversation.

“Pish. It will be a small affair, I promise,” her mother said, suddenly shaking out the paper again and pulling it up in front of her. “We shall decide particulars later.”

It was no use. Her mother would have her way. Best not end on a bad note before she left to ride or guilt would plague her the entire time and ruin her outing. It must mean a lot to Mother. She did not usually resort to these types of tactics.

“Ahem,” Ambrose cleared his throat in the doorway of the room. “My ladies, Lord Whitlock has arrived.”

Violet nearly leapt from her chair as she scurried to her mother and kissed her on the cheek. “I will see you later, Mother.”

“Remember what I told you. Avoid the rocky side of the pond.”

“I will, Mother,” she said, smiling and resisting the urge to roll her eyes. It was just a ride across the property, and she was an accomplished rider.

Edward met her in the small parlor off the foyer. She stopped short as she saw his image framed so ethereally by the sunlight. He looked so handsome in his white breeches and hunter green jacket. She loved a man in breeches and boots!

He turned, smiling. “Hello, my lovely lady,” he said softly for her ears alone. “I brought you a gift.”

She ignored the familiar sound of Mother’s footsteps and the swish of skirts behind her as she accepted the small burgundy velvet box. She pressed the small gold button on the front and opened the box to reveal the most beautiful ring she could have imagined. It was silver with a large oval amethyst enclosed in two small rings of diamond chips, with a larger, triangular diamond on each side of it. Her stomach quaked as he placed it on her finger and a bolt of excitement shot to her core.

“I wanted you to have a ring designed just for you, Violet,” he said, beaming.

She swallowed. “It is beautiful,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. She loved him so much. He had not commented such—but then, neither had she. However, his actions spoke volumes in her mind. He was devoted, thoughtful, and loving—everything she had always imagined in a husband. She held out faith he would feel the same.

“Good morning, Lady Carsely,” Edward said, standing to recognize the countess and giving an elegant bow.

“Mother, look!” Violet held out her hand, showing off the ring.

A small gasp escaped her mother. “That is lovely, my dear. I do not think I have ever seen a ring to rival the beauty.” Lady Carsely regarded her daughter and Lord Whitlock. “Please forgive me. I intruded in at a most personal moment. However, I know you and Violet plan to ride the property and I am most concerned about the rocky grounds that appear shortly before the pond. I keep asking Frederick to have it plowed and smoothed out, but we have not accomplished that. I tend to over worry.”

“We could move to the lightly wooded area parallel to the pond. There is a broad path if I recall correctly,” Edward replied, soothingly.

“Yes! I believe you are right. Thank you. I shall put my concerns away.” She peered out the window. “I see Nelson is already out front with her horse.”

Less than a half-hour later, Violet and Edward were on their ride, with her groom, trailing a respectable distance behind. Violet loved days like this. The wind felt perfect—giving a good breeze when they stopped.

“I would very much like to help Abby get over her aversion to horses,” Violet ventured as they slowed to a canter.

“Violet, it might be best to let well enough alone. She has a reason for her fear of horses. Have you ever asked her what that could be?” Edward probed.

“Her father was thrown from a horse and was injured, but I understand it happened before she was old enough to know about it,” Violet said, scrunching her eyebrows thoughtfully. “I do not think anything else happened, although I am not familiar with any details.”

“That would have been significant, although as it happened before she was old enough to know. Perhaps her parents spoke of it often,” Edward suggested.

“You may have something there. I thought to offer her the lessons but will see what I can find out before I do. I own that the woman shakes whenever I even mention horseback riding. It seems most peculiar,” she said, grinning and giving a disbelieving shake of her head.

“Ah. I see where the trail splits off toward the treed area,” he said, steering his steed in that direction. “I have not been on this trail in some time. Before I left for the war, your father had a house party, and I came with my family. We went grouse hunting on the ridge that overlooks the pond.”

“I recall that,” Violet said. “I recall meeting you briefly and fearing my sister, Deborah, would command your attention,” she added shyly.

“I think the only thing that snared my attention at that time was adventure—the very idea of it. And indeed, your sister is a beauty, but she pales next to you. I rather adore your pluck and your intellect. You never speak of the weather and other mundane topics of which most ladies are schooled to speak.”

Violet giggled softly. As they approached the end of the wooded path, the pond came into view and the two of them guided their horses to the pathway that surrounded the large pond. “Mother calls this a lake. She and Father used to take the small boat across it.”

“I had forgotten about the boathouse. We should probably avoid doing anything on the water since I had not said anything about that to your mother.”

“I agree. I know how to swim, but not in this heavy attire,” she said, breaking into a short laugh.

“I can imagine that would be difficult,” he replied, a grin on his lips.

“’Tis not fair men can simply strip down to their breeches and swim,” she commented, thinking how wonderful it might be to witness Edward swimming.

“Or less,” he smirked.

“My lord,” she said, feigning embarrassment.

The two went into a slow canter and Violet shifted, settling a little differently into the saddle. The pathway was smooth and afforded them room enough to ride side by side. “I am rather enjoying our outing. I wish I had thought to bring a picnic basket along this time,” she commented.

“I confess, I remained so focused on presenting the ring, I forgot it myself.”

“The ring is beautiful, my lord. I would have kissed you, but for my mother coming up behind us so unexpectedly,” she said.

“I believe she was worried,” he replied softly.

“Yes. When Mother worries, she does seem to hover,” Violet agreed.

At that moment her horse started acting strangely, bucking up a little in the rear, before taking off in a start.

“Violet!” Edward shouted as he hastened his horse to catch her.

Violet struggled to control her mare. “Jewel, please . . .” she pleaded, as her body came off the saddle slightly. As they rounded the corner of the pond where the boathouse sat, the mare neighed, sounding in pain. She took the turn and reared up next to the pond, tossing Violet into the air and throwing her into the pond.

Violet landed hard in the pond, her shoulder hitting the edge of the wooden dock that launched the rowboats.

“Oh my God!” Edward boomed.

As her head hit the water, she heard his cry.

“Please help,” she gurgled and flailed her arms to right herself and hold up her head, but her left arm would not cooperate. Her booted feet tried to gain purchase but slid under her on the muddied bottom of the pond. She saw faces, but the roar of the noise in her ears drowned their voices.

All she could register in her mind was cold. Why had she decided to swim?

Silly girl. You were thrown from Jewel.

How had that happened?

Large hands pulled her from the murky water and two rough woolen blankets were thrown about her shoulders. Voices around her were becoming clearer.

“Edward,” she pleaded, her voice tremulous. It took all her energy to speak. “My arm hurts.”

White-hot agony shot through her body once, then again, eliciting a fierce scream. The pain felt overwhelming. Unable to stop herself, with her other arm, she felt for her hat, unsure of why. Somehow it had managed to stay attached. “My hair . . .”

“Looks fine, my darling. Stay alert,” Edward commanded softly.

“Abby will be pleased, she said,” smiling and feeling herself fade.

“Violet. You must stay alert,” he pleaded, leaning down to kiss her. The last thing she felt was his warm lips on hers.

Chapter Four

What the hell had just happened?

Lord Carsely would think he was out to kill his daughter. At the very least, he might never allow them to ride together again, much less marry, Edward thought as he waited for Nelson to hand Violet up to him. Once he had her in hand, he kissed her head and leaned her blanketed, wet body as close to him as he could get her.

He tugged his reins and turned Champion toward the wooded path. As he did so, he saw the light gray manifestation of an auburn-haired woman glide across the path and into the trees ahead of him.

“Did you see that, Nelson?”

Nelson had just mounted his gelding. “Yes, my lord, I did.”

Edward would swear he heard quaking in the man’s voice. “Damn! What is going on?”

“I cannot say, my lord, but I would swear on my mother’s grave that looked to be a ghost.” The man’s voice wavered. “I witnessed that. Have never seen a ghost in my life.”

Unnerved by the sight, himself, he pulled Violet’s cold, wet body closer to his own. “Nelson, return Jewel to the stable. Check everything. The horse was fine for most of the ride,” he directed.

“Yes, my lord,” the groom answered in a low, shaky voice.

He watched the man ride ahead of him, pulling Jewel, who appeared to have settled down. When he had got to Violet, her horse was already in the water, trying to pull her from the wet murky depths with her teeth, gripping her habit. He was touched by the display of love and obvious distress from the horse, making him realize the affection the two had for each other. Violet had told him she had raised Jewel from birth.

He watched her sleep as they rode, her breathing even. When he checked her head, he felt no bump. However, her left arm looked bloodied and possibly broken. He prayed not. The ghostly form weighed heavily on his mind. Who was she?

For reasons he could not fathom, Melinda Bellamy’s name came to mind, and he determined to find out what Dirks had learned. Surely Dirks could describe her. His gut said she was connected to all the misadventures, but how—and why?

As they approached the manor house, the earl and his wife ran down the steps to meet him. Thoughts of the ethereal visage faded from his mind.

“I sent for Doctor James,” the earl said, his voice laced with concern.

Edward gently passed Violet’s sleeping, limp body to her father and followed as the earl and the countess walked their daughter into the house.

“Violet, darling, wake up,” her mother said, choking back a sob.

“What happened?” her father demanded, turning to Edward.

“I do not know, as yet, my lord. One minute we were cantering around the pond. I was looking for a place to stop the horses for rest, when all of a sudden, your daughter’s mare reared up, throwing Violet from the saddle as we began to clear the boathouse. I believe she may have clipped the edge of the pier with her shoulder. It is bloodied. As fast as I was to get to her, her horse was faster. Jewel was trying to pull her out of the water with her teeth. I think you may see the marks on the shoulder of her habit.”

“They have a fondness for each other, like nothing I have ever witnessed. Nelson reported the horse was inconsolable the night Violet was injured by the spider. Violet visited her horse the next day to assure Jewel she was all right,” her mother interjected.

“Thank goodness the horse loves her. If this had happened with a horse I did not know as well, I hesitate to think what I would do . . .”

“You would do nothing, or you would face the wrath of your daughter,” her mother finished. “Your daughter would make our lives hell if you so much as injured a hair on an animal’s head,” the countess finished.

Ten minutes passed before the doctor arrived. “I was passing your estate when your footman spotted me. I just delivered the Fortunas’ child down the road.” The doctor handed his hat and cloak to Ambrose and moved to the parlor. “This is the second accident in almost as many days.” His voice was laced with concern.

“Yes, we are aware,” Edward replied in clipped tones, feeling helpless and irritated at the reminder. “Nelson is checking the horse. She was thrown from her saddle.” His heart had stopped for a moment when he saw Violet being tugged at by her mare—not because he worried about Jewel, but he had thought he had lost her.

“Our Violet has always been an excellent rider,” the countess said in a worried voice from the parlor couch. “What am I missing here?”

Her pained voice chilled Edward. Indeed, something had happened. There had to be a connection to the woman he had seen. But Edward hesitated to say anything, fearful of being thought daft. “Nelson is checking the horse. We should know if there is any correlation there, soon,” he muttered to himself, caught up in watching the doctor check Violet’s eyes and arm.

“She has a good reaction in her eyes. I believe she will wake up soon. Her arm, though, needs sutures.”

“Oh, my goodness. My poor child,” moaned the countess softly. “Ambrose, please send for Abby and Miss Ludlow. Have warmed water sent up to Violet’s room. And send for Seth. We need to move her upstairs.”

“Yes, my lady,” the retainer said, leaving.

“I will carry her, my dear. No need to get a footman to do this.” The earl picked his daughter up and carried her wet body upstairs with the doctor in tow.

Edward trailed the countess. As they approached the landing, Abby, who had rushed ahead, met them. “Oh, God! My lady, my lords. I will have her bed prepared.” The rattled woman rushed ahead.

Miss Ludlow, the housekeeper, was just leaving the room as they approached. “I’ve left plenty of towels and a bar of soap with the basin of water.”

“Good woman,” the earl said as he carried his daughter past Miss Ludlow. He laid Violet on the bed and moved back to allow access.

Doctor James stepped forward. “I need to examine her. Would you men remain outside, and I will call you as soon as the exam is over?”

“Certainly,” the earl said. “I need to change into a dry coat.” The door closed, leaving the ladies in the room with Violet and the doctor. The earl looked in his direction. “Let me take this coat off and I will meet you in the study.”

Edward stood in the hall, feeling helpless.

“I think a brandy might calm my nerves and warm you up, Son,” the earl offered. “The doctor takes his time with exams, and my missus will have Violet changed into dry clothing.”

He did not want to leave her side. What he wanted to do was kiss her awake. What the hell happened? Edward needed to know. He had no idea of what he would say to Lord Carsely and hoped Nelson could offer something that made sense.

While the earl exchanged his coat and waistcoat for dry clothing, Edward stared out the window. The countess’ gardens surrounded the area outside of the earl’s study and provided a pleasing view of blooms of red, white, and pink roses. It was a lovely, well-tended garden with hedges and benches and a gazebo that provided privacy and places to rest. Why did we not walk in the garden instead?

You are not being rational, he chided himself. I should leave when we determine if Violet is doing all right, and I will talk to Dirks as soon as I return home.

Lost in thought, he had not heard the earl come into the room.

“Brandy, Lord Whitlock?” the earl offered from behind him.

Turning, Edward feigned a smile. “Have you heard anything?”

“I assure you, it will take another quarter-hour before they open the door to us. She will need to get settled in some dry clothing. Tell me again, what happened—all of it,” he said, withdrawing two glasses from the corner liquor cabinet and pouring the brandy.

“It was strange,” Edward began, recounting the entirety to the earl. He had decided to share the ghostly vision, when Nelson appeared at the door, twisting his cap in his hands.

“My lords,” the man said, his throat hoarse with fear.

“Nelson, come in. What did you find?”

“My lords, I do not know how this happened.” He pulled a small metal tack from his pocket and handed it to Lord Carsely. “I found this attached to Lady Violet’s saddle.”

Edward’s face went ashen. He had noticed Violet shift in the saddle, which would have driven the sharp point into her horse. The accident had been no accident at all. At once, the odd events flooded his mind—the spider and its odd name, the picture falling, the ring for Violet having also been sized for Daniel’s supposed betrothed, the ghostly image of a woman, and the accident. He felt light-headed with the awareness.

“My God! Who would do such a thing to my daughter?” The earl slammed his glass down, splashing brandy on the edge of his desk.

Nelson looked pleadingly at Edward. “My lord, did you mention the lady we saw that crossed the pond into the woods?”

“What lady? What is he talking about, Whitlock?”

Edward felt his pulse race. How did one stop a ghost? He sensed this was all connected to him.

“A ghost-like image of a woman crossed into the woods in front of us, as we were putting Lady Violet on my horse. Nelson and I both saw it.”

“A ghost.” The earl grew silent. “I have heard of this type of thing, but thought it was nonsense.”

“Perhaps it is most times. However, too many things have happened these last couple of days—too many coincidences.”

Edward recounted the events that in his mind pointed to Miss Bellamy and her supposed betrothal to Viscount Wilders. “It all seems strange, and I cannot explain why my mind points to a woman I have never met.”

“You look exactly like Lord Wilders,” the countess said, walking into the room. “She may have you confused with her supposed betrothed.”

“I knew Daniel and realized we look alike . . .”

“Like twins,” she said, cutting in. “He was said to have a woman below his class, and his father forbade the marriage.”

“My mother’s family had several sets of twins, but it was a generation ago. I have different parents but always found it curious we looked alike. There are others within my family that favor each other, but none so closely.”

“That is odd. However, it happens. I have an aunt whose painting looks as if it could be my own,” the countess said. “Violet is awake, and we have removed her wet riding habit.” She cleared her throat. “There were bite marks on the sleeve,” she said, looking at Edward. “As you described. Poor Jewel. However, while she knows Violet was rescued, as soon as Violet is able, she must go to her and soothe her,” she added.

“Dear, there has been much that has happened. We should continue this discussion after I see my daughter,” the earl said, moving towards the door.

“Yes, I would very much like to see her, if I am permitted,” Edward said, worried about propriety, as they were not yet married.

“Of course, you can see her. You are betrothed. Violet will want to see you,” the countess said. She started to leave but stopped and turned to Nelson. “Nelson, I heard what you found. I would ask you not to repeat this to anyone.”

“Yes, my lady. I will keep it to myself,” the groom said, leaving behind them.

Edward could not hold back. He took the steps two at a time, reaching the landing ahead of her parents. As he approached the top step, he heard an exchange between Abby and Violet. He stepped into the doorway. Violet lay in a high poster bed, covered in shades of blue. Light blue floral paper covered the walls. Her chair, curtains, and canopy were in deep navy-blue velvet.

“Abby, the last thing I recall is making sure I still had my hat. I found my hair to still be intact!” Violet smiled.

“I told you it would hold, my lady,” Abby replied before the two of them began to laugh.

That Violet was talking and in good spirits did his heart good.

Doctor James rose and stepped to the bedroom door as they arrived. “Thankfully, she slept while I stitched her shoulder. It only required a few stitches and since she was in a deep sleep, the countess assisted me. Other than that, she seems remarkably unscathed. I do think she should not ride her horse for a couple of weeks to let the shoulder mend. It appeared to have popped out and then back into the socket. It is swollen and bruised. That would have been painful to reset, so it was indeed, a mercy.”

“I felt a horrible pain twice,” Violet said, tentatively, clearly overhearing. “Certainly, it appears to have been a mercy, as I had no control over what was happening. Surely, if you offered to reset it, I would have been overset with the pain. Being given no choice was better.”

“I listened to her chest but heard no signs of fluid from being underwater,” the doctor continued. “’Tis a remarkable thing, considering she must have held her breath instinctively.” He turned to her. “Do you swim, Lady Violet?”

She nodded. “Not the best, but I swim. Father taught me,” she said, smiling at her father.

The earl’s face beamed with pride. He cleared his throat. “I felt swimming an important skill with water on the grounds, knowing how children are about venturing where they ought not.”

“Lucky young woman. Not all fathers are as forward-thinking,” the doctor replied to his patient. “Pneumonia easily follows a compromised lung, which could have made all of this more difficult, had you swallowed water. I want you to stay in bed for two days and drink willow tea for the pain. I can leave laudanum if you wish.”

“We have some, if she needs it,” the countess responded. “I should think the willow tea should be enough. My daughter never fares well with laudanum. It makes her sick.”

“Very well,” Doctor James said, packing his bag. “I will check in on you tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” the earl said, shaking the man’s hand. As they left, he stopped where Edward still stood in the doorway. “My goodness, Son, go in and see her.” He chuckled, moving past him with the doctor. “I will see the doctor to the door.”

The countess and Abby followed the earl and the doctor from the room, leaving Violet and Edward alone.

“I was so worried about you, my sweet,” he said, pulling her navy velvet chair from the other side of the room and placing it next to her pillow. When he sat down, he picked up her hand and looked at her ring. “I may be the worst thing in the world for you.” He sighed.

“I do not know what you mean,” Violet said, her voice trembling.

“Darling, I am going nowhere, but I feel somehow our betrothal has something to do with your accidents.”

“Why do you say that?” Violet asked.

Wordlessly, he placed his hand alongside her face and leaned in to kiss her, tenderly brushing his lips across hers. She opened her mouth, and he slid his tongue in and gently swept it around, meeting her tongue with his own in a gentle caress. Finally, he pulled back, both of them with their chests heaving. “I needed to kiss you,” he said.

“It is all supposition, on my part. Yet, being reminded of my likeness to my cousin has me thinking I need to know more about the lady he could not marry,” Edward explained. “I should like to speak with her family.”

“Do you feel they are doing this?” Violet asked warily.

“No. If my suspicions are right, she is the danger,” he said.

Chapter Five

Three days later

Violet looked out the window and scanned the grounds. Her room faced the front of the house. The wind blew stirring leaves that swirled in the air. It would not be a good day for outside activity, as a storm threatened. She reached over to her nightstand and picked up her copy of La Belle Assemblée, thumbing it open to where she had left off yesterday.

For the last several days, all she had done was read. With her shoulder still sensitive, she had done as the doctor ordered and rested it, now attributing the vividly sharp pain to when it had dislocated and moved back into the socket. Associating pain with anything brought the incident into sharp detail.

She twirled her betrothal ring between her fingers, getting used to its feel. The loss of the first one still disturbed her. But she understood Edward’s desire to return it to the family jewel vault and have a special one made for her.

There was too much pain connected to it, he had said.

Her betrothed had designed this ring especially for her, making the ring more special. No one else would have worn it, and they could start their traditions with it.

Abby knocked at her opened door. “My lady, you are awake. Let me help you get dressed. Your mama is in the parlor and wishes you to join her.”

“I should not ask this, but do we have visitors?” Violet had not felt in the mood for niceties. She felt the need to be reflective. Usually, she enjoyed company any time.

“She did not mention any. Perhaps she just wants your company,” the abigail said. “How are you feeling?”

“Except for a dull ache on my shoulder where the stitches were placed, I am well. The skin has mostly healed, except for a large bruise.”

“You took a big spill, my lady. We are lucky your injuries were light,” her maid replied, laying out her light green dress with the ecru lace overlay and the light green kid half-boots. “Your hair would be lovely gathered on top, with soft curls cascading around your face.” She pulled out an off-white band with small pearls sewn on it. “This is something I found in your ribbon drawer the other day. I thought it perfect for this dress.”

“That is exquisite. Yet, I have never seen it before. Are you sure it is mine?”

“Would you like to do something different, my lady?” the maid asked, alarmed.

“No matter. ’Tis lovely. Let us use it,” Violet agreed. “I think it will be a delightful addition. Perhaps it is my sister’s. She left lots of hair combs and fripperies like this.”

“It matches your dress beautifully,” the maid added with a wink. “The day will be stormy. If you go out, I recommend your heavy green pelisse.” Abby helped Violet dress, and when they were almost finished, she brought the looking glass around for Violet to use.

Violet accepted it tentatively. I must forget that silly dream, she chastised herself and gripped the handle. “Oh, Abby. It’s so lovely. I adore the new hairstyles you are finding for me.”

Her maid smiled, clearly pleased. “I hope you do not mind, but I have been noting some hairstyles drawn in your magazines,” Abby said.

“Of course not. They are yours as soon as I finish them—or if you wish to read them earlier, you have but to ask. By the way, I have gathered a box of my dresses from last season. They are for you over there,” she said, pointing behind her screen.

“My lady. You normally wait until Christmastide. How very generous of you.”

“I expect to set a date soon, and I wanted you to have them now. Please say nothing to Mother, but I threw in a few dresses from the last two seasons that I never wore. I thought you might enjoy them.” Violet was pleased she had thought to do this early. She had not disliked the dresses but wished to give her maid a new dress or two.

Abby hugged her. “My lady, I have mended the small hole in your habit and pressed it. It is hanging in the closet.”

“Thank you, Abby. ’Tis funny how certain things become favored. However, I enjoy the comfort of that riding habit and hated it damaged. Mother showed me the tack that was under the saddle. For the life of me, I still do not understand how that happened. How would such a thing get there?” Violet’s body quaked as she said the words. It frightened her to think someone would want to harm her or her sweet mare.

A fierce churning from her stomach reminded her she had not eaten, so she descended the stairs to meet her mother.

“There you are, my dear. You look wonderful. Are you feeling better today? You should continue to rest that shoulder.” The countess moved to the door and gently hugged her daughter.

“I have grown tired of the willow tea and am most eager to get back to normal.” At that moment, a tree limb from the dogwood tree outside scratched the window and wind rattled the sash. “I wish the weather was nicer today. The wind is so strong. While I do not plan to ride Jewel for a while, I might have liked a walk.”

“Lord Whitlock mentioned a visit later in the day. Perhaps the winds will have calmed by then and you can take a walk,” suggested her mother. “I asked you here because recent events created a nagging desire to search my escritoire for any of the gossip rags I might have kept from the last couple of years. Typically, I toss them when we have finished reading them. However, this one was oddly folded and tucked beside my inks.”

The countess handed the paper to her daughter.

Violet scanned the page and flipped to the back to see what may have been Viscount Wilder’s name in a one-line mention.

This writer has it on the best authority that a certain Viscount DW has lost his heart to someone who is not LFE. Are they betrothed?

“Mother, would this be Viscount Daniel Wilders?” She stared at the other initials. “LFE . . . who would that be? Mayhap Lady Frances Elders? I had not realized they had been betrothed,” Violet murmured, still absorbing the gossip. “I cannot recall seeing this gossip sheet.”

“I had the same reaction, my dear. Most strange,” her mother replied. “And yes, he had been engaged from the crib. However, his death freed Lady Elders to enter Society and she has since married. I have heard she is with child.”

“It seems this gossip sheet gave credence to word of his romance and posted it.” Violet looked at the date. “He would have already left for the continent to fight. Sad outcome, that.”

“I agree. He was a polite young man, but very serious-minded. I rarely observed him laughing when our families mingled,” the countess remarked.

Violet touched her hand to her temple.

“Are you ill, my dear? Doctor James plans to return later today. I can ask him to come earlier,” the countess suggested.

“No, please, Mother. It is but a small headache. I am sure ’tis nothing. I probably slept too long,” Violet said. “However, my stomach tells me I shall perish if I do not break my fast soon.” She gave a weak smile.

Her mother dipped her head. “I confess, I have only had my coffee. The information the groom and Lord Whitlock shared bothered me so much I looked for whatever I could find.”

“Bring it with you. It could be interesting revisiting the older gossip,” Violet said with a light giggle.

A servant brought a missive on a salver. “It looks like it is from Lord Whitlock,” the countess said, handing the letter to Violet.

Violet lifted the seal and opened the message. “Edward has been called out of town for two or three days. He apologizes for breaking our afternoon engagement.” She folded it and tucked it in her pocket.

She missed him already.

*

The wind was rough, but Edward refused to allow the threatening weather to keep him from what he needed to do. He had hoped to see Violet; however, this trip had become more urgent, forcing him to cancel their afternoon visit. He sent word he would be out of town for the next two days and asked her father to have the contracts ready for his signature. Once he finished today’s meeting, he planned a quick trip to London to see his solicitor and make sure things were in order.

Thankfully, he had met with the Bellamy family the day before. The ride to Shere had taken two hours each way, but the information had been useful. His visit had clearly taken them by surprise and brought bad memories to the forefront.

Mrs. Bellamy grew pale when asked about a child. Edward had to press to get any information.

“Please, if my cousin and your daughter had a child, I would want to know of it. I am most certain Lord Wilders had not known about a baby, or he would not have carved out a military career,” he persuaded. He could not imagine what had driven Daniel to decide he had to join Wellington’s forces. It had seemed reckless. There had to have been other options. He could only think of one at this point.

Mr. Bellamy sat down, overwhelmed by the whole of it. “I forced my daughter to leave. We told her we were ashamed,” he said tearfully. The man sat with his hand on his head. “My sister-in-law took her in, and she went to Dorking to live. The only thing I know is she died in childbirth.” He began to weep. “We buried our daughter without considering where the child had been taken. It may be too late to look for her.”

“I disagree, sir,” Edward interjected.

“You could be right. Until this moment, I had not the motivation to look for her.” The man regarded Edward with swollen eyes. “It was a girl. And my sister-in-law has not spoken to me, unless forced, since Melinda’s death. I was a monster to send my daughter away. But business . . .” His words dropped off.

Mrs. Bellamy started to say something but stopped. Instead, she handed him a crumpled paper with her sister’s name and address.

“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy. If I find the child, would you like to know?”

Without hesitation, they both answered at once. “Yes.”

The man grasped Edward’s hand. “I do not deserve a chance to know this child. You are a stranger and are more charitable to me than I was to my own flesh and blood. This child… she is our blood, and we want to find her. What I did to my daughter . . .” he choked out. “I let other social needs—my business—override my judgment and my heart. Please, let us know.”

“I will do that.” Edward gave an assuring squeeze to the man’s hand. “Knowing it is a girl helps. I shall do my best to find her.” With that, he took his leave.

Dirks had been waiting with more news when he arrived home. The servant had secured the baby’s given name, Danielle, as well as information on Miss Bellamy’s final hours. The aunt’s home was two or three hours away, and Edward hoped he could make it before the weather gave way to rain. Glancing up at the angry sky, he sent a prayer that the weather would hold.

Edward felt driven to locate the child and determine what had happened to her mother. He invited Dirks to accompany him and was glad for the company. The man had been invaluable, having gathered all the information and conducted interviews—even locating the midwife who had delivered the child. Edward hoped the midwife could shed light on the ostensible connection between the death of Miss Bellamy and his life.

When asked about the young woman’s death, the midwife tearfully conveyed a curse uttered by Miss Bellamy as she died. “Her last hours were hard. She knew both she and her child had been poisoned and she uttered a curse with her dying breath. I gave your man directions to the gel’s aunt for more. She refused to part with the child when her niece passed.”

Surely if the aunt had kept the child, her sister would have known. So where could baby Danielle be?

Dirks sped his gelding up until they rode side by side. “My lord, I was told Mrs. Foster’s property was only a few miles once we entered Dorking. We should be close.”

“That is my hope, although we may soon be pummeled with rain,” Edward replied. He was anxious to hear the aunt’s recollection of her niece’s final moments if only to confirm his worst fear. A ghost was trying to kill his fiancée. Why?

“I wonder if the old earl ever knew the baby’s name, or that it lived,” Dirks said, pulling Edward from his thoughts.

“I would wager no. Reportedly he died shortly after being told his son was dead. The doctor commented the earl had not been ill previously. It seems the loss of Daniel broke him, although we may never know. If there is a curse, it answers some of the strange and dangerous happenings of late. I wish to know the substance of the oath and the child’s location. If she was adopted out, she may be impossible to locate,” Edward declared.

Particularly if she was sent to an orphanage that fed the workhouses, he thought. He desperately needed to find his cousin’s daughter.

He had never before considered the fate of unwanted children. The search for this child had enlightened him and he found the flagrant lack of peerage parental responsibility abominable. As a member of Parliament, he would make his voice count for change where children were concerned.

There were many injustices in the world. He wanted his voice to matter and stand for something. He felt sure Daniel would agree.

“There, just ahead. Could that be it?” Dirks pointed to a small cottage surrounded by a low-bricked wall with white roses climbing over it. The wind carried the tinkling sounds of a child’s giggle and he thought he could see the auburn, curly head of a child sitting on a blanket. Meanwhile, an older woman rushed around pulling nappies from the line before it rained.

Chapter Six

Two days later

Violet was thrilled to see Edward and met him at the door. Several days had passed, and the sporadic bad weather and her injury had been enough to keep her indoors. She was anxious to enjoy the crisp autumn weather the day brought.

“Good morning, Violet. Would you care to take a ride to the lake and perhaps, visit the gardens, nearby? The trails are perfect for a small carriage,” he offered, handing Ambrose his hat. “Give me leave to see your father for a few minutes, but afterward, the day is yours,” he said, squeezing her hand.

“I will await you in the parlor,” Violet said, trying to contain her excitement. She scooped up a small black and white cat moving against her legs and hugged him closely.

“I have not met your cat before,” Edward remarked with a smile.

The cat gave a terse, “Meow.”

“Ah, a smart kitty, as well,” he laughed.

“They are all smart. Cats are independent thinkers. If they like you, you have no problems. If they do not, they maintain their distance.” She gave a demure smile. “Domino seems accepting of you. I believe he has welcomed you.” She beamed. “Father, however, is not a friend of the cats, but tolerates them as long as they behave.” A small snicker escaped her. “Domino likes his office, and Father frequently finds him in his seat. I believe it is Domino’s way of forcing a relationship.” She gave a throaty little laugh.

“I have no doubt but that our life together will be an adventure,” he returned with an indulgent chuckle. He kissed the back of her hand. “I will be finished soon, and we can leave.”

She watched Edward follow Ambrose to her father’s office. Father had already told her of the terms of the contract. She was lucky to have a man who cared about her and not her money. Father had suggested she see his man of business about possible investments—something she planned to do later.

“Darling, come sit with me.” Her mother’s voice called from the parlor.

“I will be right there, Mother.” Violet walked into the parlor and took a seat on the white satin chair next to her mother’s pale yellow settee. The room always lent her a sense of calm with its pale yellow and white patterned wallpaper and white curtains flanking pale sheers.

“This week seems to have slipped by so quickly. I am afraid if you want to be married on the twenty-first of October, we should finalize those preparations. I have arranged for Madame Couture to meet us here tomorrow for the final fittings. Feel free to commission a few more items for your trousseau,” the countess continued. “Madame knows your favorite colors and plans to bring fabrics that she feels you would enjoy.”

“Thank you, Mother. However . . .”

Her mother held up her hand and interrupted. “Daughter, you are about to make an excuse. I am concerned time will pass quickly and this will not get done properly. I do not expect you will have to commit more than a couple of hours.” She softened her voice. “I realize you hate this type of thing, but it is necessary.”

“Mother, I try to enjoy it, but the long periods of standing, being stuck with needles, and holding my arms out for what seems like forever, has never been fun to me,” Violet admitted.

“Yes. However, you enjoy the dresses,” her mother inserted.

“True,” Violet conceded. “I am being vexatious, and I apologize. I know you were looking forward to celebrating the betrothal, but perhaps we can put our efforts more toward the wedding breakfast. Maybe we can hold a celebratory ball later.”

Her mother smiled. “I had given thought to that, as well. And while we are on the subject, I found some lovely dress drawings that I thought you might want to consider.”

*

Edward found the two women poring over pictures of dresses and discussing fabrics when he returned to the front parlor. Lord Carsely had had the contract ready, and after they affixed signatures, Edward had shared the results of his and Dirks’ findings, as well as his plans. Her father had urged him to share it with his daughter today.

“My daughter has a big heart. She will be very supportive of your plans,” Lord Carsely asserted.

“Ahem,” Edward said, standing at the doorway and clearing his throat before walking into the room. “It seems I am interrupting a very important selection process.”

“Yes . . . well, yes and no. You are not interrupting. And it is important as it is my trousseau,” Violet said, standing and rushing to his side.

“My lord, your carriage has arrived,” Ambrose spoke from behind them.

“Ah. Thank you.” Edward turned to Violet. “Are you ready? I thought the landau would be perfect. My cook prepared a small basket. And I have blankets, in case there is a chill.” He looked around. “Where is Abby?”

“She should be here. Ambrose, have you seen her?” Violet asked, taking her pelisse and gloves from the butler.

The retainer started to answer when the sound of footsteps could be heard rushing toward them from the stairwell. “I am sorry, my lady. Mending needed catching up and I lost track of the time,” the abigail replied.

A few minutes later, they were in the carriage and pulling out of the drive.

Edward filled Violet in on what he had learned about his cousin’s betrothed. “We found the child. Mrs. Foster had placed the child in a small orphanage in a nearby village. She worked out an arrangement with the headmistress allowing her to bring the child to her home for short stays. There is some delicate information I wish to discuss around this, Violet.”

“What is that, Edward?” Violet gave a discreet nod toward Abby, who was sitting with her eyes closed, having nodded off.

He took her hand and squeezed it. “I fear I may have been right that many of the incidents are tied to a curse Miss Bellamy placed on my family. I have seen her and sensed her presence several times.”

Violet drew in a sharp intake of breath. “Surely not! Why would she try to hurt me?”

“She wants recognition of the child in some form, which I planned to do, anyway. I do not know why you have been targeted with these horrible incidents. If she were not a ghost, I would have called her out!” Edward said.

“What do you mean, recognize the child? Give her your name?” Violet asked, her eyes rounding.

“I am unsure of the laws governing this and spoke with my solicitor, Morris Bentley. He feels since she is a girl, it would be prudent to take her as my ward,” he said.

“Surely, we should do more than that. She has family, and I will never understand why she was ever at an orphanage,” Violet said, in a rush.

“You have a beautiful heart, Violet.” He kissed her nose. “If you are willing, I would like to adopt her,” Edward spoke slowly.

“Edward, you will not get any pushback from me. But how does the aunt feel?”

“She had planned to adopt her but was happier for me to give her a rightful place in our family—something her niece specifically had sought.”

“My parents would acknowledge her, as well, if we were to adopt . . .”

He was excited to hear this. “Her mother’s parents would want access to her.”

“I have no problem with that.”

“There is more . . .” he started, but he noticed the descent down the hill to the lake had picked up speed. “Williams, what is happening?” His voice was laced with concern.

“Oh no!” Abby woke up and gave a startled cry, pushing her body into the corner of the carriage.

“I am not sure, my lord,” the burly driver said, steadily pulling back on the reins of the horses. “Something is not right with the horse on the left. I noticed she began to move her ears in a prickly fashion. I immediately began to slow the horses, fearful the horse was in distress.”

“Abby, calm down. We will be fine. See? The horses are slowing.”

“Thank God you noticed!” Edward said to the driver, relief evident in his voice.

The horses came to a complete stop in a small valley between two small hills.

The lake was straight ahead of them. Had the horses continued to pick up speed, Edward feared they might have gone into the water. Edward took his hand and ran it softly down the side of his betrothed’s face. “I will be right back. I want to check the equipage with my driver and see if there could be more animals.”

His footman was holding the reins of the horse, while the driver was checking the harnesses and equipage. “I cannot find anything concrete. I noticed she was pricking her ears and I was afraid of jibbing, so I began to stop the carriage.”

“You did the right thing,” Edward assured his driver. “Thank you for being so alert.”

A small whimper drew their attention. Violet heard it, too, because she stood and wanted down from the carriage. “I hear an animal in pain,” she said, handing her hand to Edward. He helped her from the carriage, and she ran to the tree off the side of the road.

“It’s a dog, and he appears to have been tied up here for quite a while. Pass me a knife. This poor thing has not had any food or water for some time.” She approached the dog, her hand extended.

Edward handed Violet his pocketknife. He watched her cut the rope that tied a small black dog to a tree, then walked her to the carriage.

“This animal needs nourishment. I cannot say how long she has been tied here, but it seems to have been a while. It was fortuitous that we stopped in this spot and found her, Edward,” Violet said.

Some branches beyond where the dog sat began to move and Edward thought he saw a woman he recognized moving away. “I need to check something. I will be right back,” he said. Glancing over his shoulder, he noticed Violet and Abby had become involved with the small dog as soon as he walked away.

He walked about fifteen yards and saw the woman’s visage in the tree foliage, watching.

“You are Miss Bellamy,” he said.

Wordlessly, she inclined her head, watching him.

Had this poor dog been a test?

A mixture of fear and cold fury filled his gut, and he lost his temper and focused on the apparition in the sparsely wooded area in front of him. “Damnit, I do not know you, Miss Bellamy; however, I know your story, and I have heard you.” His voice was a fierce whisper. “You have nothing to worry about with your daughter, I assure you. However, time is something that can mean a lot to your child. Do not continue to push or you risk losing the favor you seek.”

A long moment passed. Then the woman gave another quick nod, before turning and vanishing into the air, leaving him staring after her. Gathering himself, he took a deep breath at the sound of footsteps coming from behind him.

His driver stood twisting his hat in his hands. “The horses seem to be fine, and there are no problems with the equipage, my lord.”

“Thank you, Snipes. I saw no signs of any further animals. Let us continue the ride until we find a place where we can turn the carriage safely and return. I am unwilling to take any chances with our passengers.” He looked ahead to where Violet and her maid stood petting the dog, hoping no one had heard him calling out the ghost. Most assuredly, it was something he would like to forget.

“Look, my lady. There is a name on the collar.” Abby pulled up a small part of the collar.

Edward noticed Violet squint at the dog’s muddied nameplate, apparently trying to make out the lettering. “It says ‘Lucy,’” she said. “Seems a strange name for a dog, but I rather like it.”

“Were you yelling at a ghost?” Violet asked him quietly when he got closer.

“Yes. I was speaking to her. I do not know if she heard me. I know nothing about ghosts. But I am willing to try anything to stop these horrible incidents from occurring. I will explain later,” he conceded, unwilling to speak of it further just yet.

“I would like very much to take our dog home and bathe her.” She smiled coyly.

“I can agree she needs a bath. Perhaps we can feed her first. My cook packed bread and cheeses and water.”

“Yes! That is a wonderful idea,” Violet agreed.

He had just given a sound set down to a ghost. Edward thought back to his interview with Mrs. Foster. The woman had been very close to her niece, and the girl’s death had nearly killed her. Once he had assured her no harm was meant toward the child, their visit had gone well. She had described the baby’s delivery as well as the words her niece had said with her last breath.

A shudder ran through him as he recalled them.

He tamped down the fury that this woman would have been responsible for all of it—the ring, the spider, the horsing accident, and this near accident. But for the astute observation of his driver, this one could have had tragic consequences. The irony of it all was he would have sought out the child without all of the wraithlike prompts.

May the earl know no peace, and there be no further union in his line until they acknowledge my daughter.

“I think we should return to your home and take care of Lucy,” he said, unable to shake the sense of eeriness. “She needs a good bath and a meal. And it would not hurt to have a veterinarian examine her.”

Lucy chose to sit next to Violet, who insisted on holding her by the collar on the ride back. “I do not want her to fall. She has been through enough,” his betrothed said.

“My lady, Cook will not be happy . . .” Abby started.

Violet snorted. “Cook is used to my many rescues, Abby. Often she is my cohort,” she added with a giggle. “Father, however, may have a word or two, I fear.”

“Yes, he may. However, it will be but a short time.” Frankly, the arrangement was probably as good as it would get, Edward thought, glad to allow the dog to claim his seat next to his betrothed this once, as the animal reeked of excrement. It was a good thing this was a landau. An enclosed carriage could have left them all stinking. He knew Snipes would see the carriage got a good cleaning in addition to the assessment planned for the equipment.

Abby cleared her throat. “My lady, if you do not mind, I should like to put those horse riding lessons off a bit more,” she said in earnest.

“I understand and will be glad to assist you when you are ready, Abby,” Violet said, grinning. “It has been a trying week for the horses and the poor animals may object to our riding them,” she added as her face broke into a smile.

Epilogue

21 October 1814

Violet adjusted her headpiece and gazed into the long looking glass, giving herself a final appraisal of her wedding dress. Madame Couture had outdone herself, creating a confection that made her feel like royalty. She and her mother had selected the fabrics—a crème-colored satin as the underdress, with tiny patterns of shimmering pearls handsewn along a softly scalloped edge that included a train. Delicate white gauze formed long undersleeves, and a shimmering silver ribbon separated a one-piece bodice and skirt. An over-dress of diaphanous gossamer covered the dress.

Abby had outdone herself with Violet’s hair. Obviously, she had found a new picture from a magazine. A small tiara of tiny diamonds and amethysts was carefully entwined into a loose chignon, with wispy blonde curls softly framing her face.

She turned her ring around on her finger. So much had changed in her life. In less than an hour, she would become a wife and a mother. Edward had arranged for the adoption of Danielle, his late cousin’s child. Upon the determination to adopt the child, her mother and Madame Couture had quickly put their heads together and created clothing for the darling child, whose lovely auburn-colored hair and brown eyes won the hearts of everyone that met her. Violet’s sister, Deborah, and her husband, Viscount Roger Thomas, had arrived the night before and had become immediately smitten with Danielle—happy to have a family playmate the age of their own Emily.

Lucy, who had also been thrust into a new family, immediately became devoted to Danielle, becoming an instant nanny—a four-legged one that followed the toddler everywhere and slept in a small round bed placed beside the crib. Doctor James, who gave Danielle her first examination, declared the dog healthy as well, and gave his approval to the arrangement, commenting that Lucy’s presence seemed to settle the child.

To avoid thrusting too much change at Danielle, the child had taken up temporary residence with Violet and her family. As they all lived within a ten-mile radius, Melinda’s grandparents and aunt had visited several times, quickly becoming welcome extensions of Danielle’s new family, and had been invited to attend the nuptials today. Even with all the change, life seemed to have calmed down to what Violet considered normal since the day they found Lucy. With all the fuss of the dog and a new child in their midst, she had forgotten to follow up with Edward about the ghost he had been talking to that day.

Opening the door to the nursery, she found Abby and her sister making final adjustments to Emily’s and Danielle’s hair and dresses. Deborah took great pleasure in being an involved mother.

Madame Couture had fashioned both girls a dress from Violet’s leftover fabric. It had been her mother’s idea.

“The girls look adorable,” she said, walking up behind Deborah and touching her sister’s shoulder. “Are you sure that you and Roger are willing to help with Danielle while Edward and I are away for a few days? We plan to take a longer honeymoon later, once Danielle is more settled.”

“Most certainly. You know how much I love mothering my little girl. I am delighted she will have a companion, if only for a short period,” her sister replied. “They are to be cousins, after all.”

Violet hugged her sister, realizing how much she had missed her sister and her wry sense of humor. “Thank you, Deborah. I have missed you.”

“Nonsense, we will see much of each other, now that you are to be married and no longer worried about a Season,” her sister quipped.

“Are you ready, my dear?” The countess stepped into the room, followed by her husband.

“It means so much to us that you and Roger will stay a few days, Deborah.”

“Pish! Roger and Edward get along famously. I have a feeling we will be seeing everyone so often, you may wish to get rid of me,” Deborah said.

Lord Carsely pulled his youngest daughter close. “We are very happy for you, Violet. You have a gift for sharing your life that never fails to make me proud.”

“You mean my willingness to rescue every injured animal?” she asked, full of mirth.

“That and your huge heart. This lucky little girl will learn much from you and Edward,” he said, settling a kiss on her cheek. “It pleases me that you have found someone with a heart to match your own.”

“I almost forgot. These are for you.” Her mother withdrew a navy velvet box from her reticule. “I gave a similar gift to your sister on her wedding day. These are from your grandmother. She had a strand made for each of you from pearls her mother had given her.”

“They are special and very beautiful,” Violet breathed, turning the delicate necklace over in her hand. She leaned forward for her mother to attach them. The pearls made a perfect addition to her gown.

“There,” her mother said, kissing her cheek and stepping back to admire the pearls. Her mother touched her husband’s arm. “Ladies, we should get going. Roger and Edward must already be at the church. They will wonder what happened to us.”

*

The small family arrived at St. Mary’s Church and, except for Violet and her father, took their seats in the front.

As Violet walked down the aisle with her father, she focused her attention on her betrothed, but could not help the odd feeling of being watched from behind. All the guests were in the front. When her father joined her hand to her betrothed, a cold draft of air whooshed around the bottom of her skirt and she stole a glance toward the back of the church. An ethereal woman dressed in white with flowing auburn hair stood next to a man wearing the red army uniform. He looked exactly like Edward, except for his dark eyes.

She wanted to signal to Edward to look but was afraid others would see.

Could others see them, or were they only visible to her and Edward?

She started when she noticed a white velvet necklace lined in pearls tied around the woman’s throat, recalling having worn a similar one only weeks ago—the same one! Fear gripped her, and she fought to remain calm. The woman had used unworldly means to see her daughter accepted and cared for, no matter what it took to get it done. She had not been coy with her efforts, either. Unconsciously, Violet touched her ring finger. It calmed her.

The vicar’s voice drew her attention as he called for them to recite their vows. Edward placed a small silver band channeled with small diamonds all around it on her finger. As he slid the ring down her finger, he looked into her eyes.

“I love you, Lady Violet Baxter. You have made me the happiest man alive,” he said, brushing her lips with a kiss.

Her heart flipped. They had not spoken of love—although she felt he cared for her deeply. Tears clouded her eyes as she looked from her finger to his face. “I love you, Edward.” She lifted onto her toes and placed her arms around his neck as his lips covered her own.

As they walked towards the door, he stopped and they both kissed Danielle. He returned the child to his mother-in-law and turned to his wife. “Did you see them?”

She startled. “Miss Bellamy and your cousin?” she said. “I could feel their presence and I turned around and saw them. She wore the white velvet choker that I thought was my sister’s only weeks ago. I wore it,” she whispered, fighting the agitation. “I knew I had never seen it before, but Abby convinced me to wear it.”

“Perhaps it was a sign of approval,” he returned in a whisper. “They looked happy.”

“They did,” she agreed, thoughtfully. After the frightful time they had had lately, she was glad to see them happy, although an involuntary shudder ran through her.

“I confess, once I realized what was happening, I quailed, unsure of what to do,” he said as they reached the door to the chapel. He kissed her neck and murmured, “We will see everyone at your parents’ home. For now, I intend to have a few minutes alone with my new bride. Let us hurry through this celebratory breakfast. There is much I wish to teach you.” He gave a rapacious smile that caused her stomach to flip in anticipation.

The door to the bridal carriage closed and it lurched forward. “At last, I have you to myself,” Edward breathed, leaning in to give her neck a soft kiss. “The night awaits us, Wife.” He cast a sly look at her.

Violet had never felt so happy in all her life. “My husband, I cannot wait to learn all you have to teach me,” she said demurely.

“Impudent wife.” He cupped her face and covered her mouth with his, hungrily accepting everything she offered. “I love you, Violet.”

“And I love you, my handsome, wonderful husband,” Violet said. She placed her head on his shoulder and peered up at him, taking in the warmth of his body. Her body thrummed with an unfamiliar need. She was not hungry for food.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Anna St. Claire

The Rakes of Mayhem Series

The Earl of Excess (Book 1)

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

Lyon’s Prey

About the Author

Anna St. Claire is a big believer that nothing is impossible if you believe in yourself. She sprinkles her stories with laughter, romance, mystery and lots of possibilities, adhering to the belief that goodness, love and chocolate will win the day.

Anna is both an avid reader author of American and British historical romance. She and her husband live in Charlotte, North Carolina with their two dogs and often, their two beautiful granddaughters, who live nearby. Daughter, sister, wife, mother, and Mimi—all life roles that Anna St. Claire relishes and feels blessed to still enjoy. And she loves her pets – dogs and cats alike.

Anna relocated from New York to the Carolinas as a child. Her mother, a retired English and History teacher, always encouraged Anna’s interest in writing, after discovering short stories she would write in her spare time.

As a child, she loved mysteries and checked out every Encyclopedia Brown story that came into the school library. Before too long, her fascination with history and reading led her to her first historical romance—Margaret Mitchell’s Gone With The Wind, now a treasured, but weathered book from being read multiple times. The day she discovered Kathleen Woodiwiss’ books, Shanna and Ashes In The Wind, Anna became hooked. She read every historical romance that came her way and dreams of writing her own historical romances took seed.

Today, her focus is primarily the Regency and Civil War eras, although Anna enjoys almost any period in American and British history. She would love to connect with any of her readers on her website – www.annastclaire.com, through email – annastclaireauthor@gmail.com, BookBub – www.bookbub.com/profile/anna-st-claire, Twitter – @1AnnaStClaire, Facebook – facebook.com/authorannastclaire or on Amazon – amazon.com/Anna-St-Claire/e/B078WMRHHF.

The Lair of the Burrells

The Brazen Burrells prequel

Lynne Connolly

Chapter One

October, 1815

A gust of wind whipped away the remaining pins from Cecilia’s hair, and sent strands across her face. She spat them out, then dragged them out of the way. Rain spattered her, but she took no notice of it. She was soaked through. She couldn’t get any wetter.

The shock, the freezing cold, none of it mattered as the ship swayed again and she grabbed the slippery rail, staring out into the darkness. A few lights gleamed on the water from the ship, but that was all. Heavy clouds obscured the stars, and the moon had gone completely. Shadows loomed ahead, too vague for her to make out comforting shapes. Oh for the shape of a house, or even a tree.

Arms went around her. She had no need to turn around to know who it was. Her husband nuzzled into her neck, put his lips next to her ear. “We’ll get there.”

“I’m not so sure.” But she spoke into the wind, so Frank probably hadn’t heard her. Just as well. He was an optimist, but Cecilia knew better. Bad things did happen to good people. Frank had seen more than she; for one thing he was older than her, and for another, he was a man. But she’d helped as best she could, walking over the fields of Waterloo looking for survivors, holding her bile until she found a patch of grass to vomit in. She’d taken her turn tending to the wounded, and helped lay out the dead.

Cecilia had gone from a pampered society lady to the wife of a soldier on active duty. She didn’t regret her decision to marry him for a minute, not for a second.

Even now, when a tempest had blown up out of nowhere. They had taken ship at Leith in one of those vessels that hugged the shore, but they’d been whisked out to sea, and now they could be tossed on the rocks that clustered around Frank’s childhood home. The rocks they couldn’t see.

They’d boarded the ship for what they imagined would be a day’s calm sailing around the coast. Who would have thought that after the horrors of a full-scale battle, their lives would end here?

Cecilia covered her stomach with her hand, and Frank covered them both. Protecting them both, Cecilia and the baby they had made. “The captain is trying to draw us closer. He knows this part of the coast well.”

She could hardly hear him, but she knew his voice now, knew the timbre, from sleepy morning grunt to cries of passion as he brought them both to ecstasy.

At least she’d had that. If she died tonight, at least she’d had that.

“Look!” somebody cried. One of the other passengers pointed into the blackness. “I can see a light!”

A star, most likely, rather than any human cause. But she looked, and blinked. Perhaps he was right. And perhaps they were closer to dashing against the rocks than any of them knew.

She turned away from the sight of death to the man she loved more than life. Even now, he could smile in that intimate way that sent shivers down her spine. If tonight was her last on earth, this was the last sight she wanted.

He kissed her, his lips cold and wet, as hers must be. “You have been a blessing,” he said. “The best thing in my life.”

“And you are mine. My love, my miracle.”

The scream of the wind and the sails thrashing above their heads drowned the sound, but she could read his lips and see the love in his eyes. Although perhaps drowning in them wasn’t the right metaphor in the circumstances.

A crack shocked her into looking up. Frank pushed her, so she landed in the arms of someone behind her, gasping for breath. The mast crashed down, shattering the side of the ship, the sound of splintering wood filling her ears. Her scream was lost in the wind. “Frank!”

“Come away, Missus,” a rough voice said in her ear. “With the mast down, we’ve got a chance.”

She pulled at the man holding her but his arms were wrapped fast around her waist and he wouldn’t let her go. All she could do was scream Frank’s name.

He didn’t answer her.

Survival was everything now.

Captain McIntyre yelled instructions to the crew and remaining passengers. One member of the crew held up his hand, and two others tied a rope around his waist. As soon as it was done, he dived out, and swam for the shore they could barely see.

Everyone lent a hand. One tug meant he was in trouble and they should pull him back. Three meant he was on solid ground.

Cecilia waited with the others. Right now, she had to stay alive. Just a little longer, and she could indulge her grief.

The wind had reduced in ferocity. It still sent chills right through her, making her shiver uncontrollably, but she could hear people if they shouted, and follow instructions.

As the clouds thinned, vague shapes became visible, mountains, trees. So they held the rope. She’d never forget the sailor’s carefree grin as he stripped to the waist and jumped overboard. The crippled ship wouldn’t stay afloat much longer.

They waited for an eternity, but the rope did not slacken. Under the captain’s command, they paid it out slowly, never letting it go completely limp. Then the captain shouted. “One tug!”

Cecilia held her breath.

“Two!”

“Three!”

A ragged cheer went up. Cecilia looked behind her, but the fallen mast obscured her vision. Frank could be under it, or behind it in the shattered half of the ship furthest from shore. Or swept out to sea. Three other passengers kept him company, as far as she could tell. “We’ll come oot first thing,” the captain said. “If they’re here, we’ll find them.”

His thick brogue would have been incomprehensible to her a month ago, but spending time in Edinburgh with Frank’s mother and sister had given her ear a chance to tune itself in to Scots. Not that she understood every word, but she did well enough. If she got onshore, if she lived, she’d go back there. Not home, not yet.

She swallowed, and paid attention to the captain. He was dividing up the people he had charge of now. Ten crew, ten passengers. He beckoned to a brawny sailor. “Here, McShane. Ye can swim, canna ye?”

The sailor shook his head. “But I can stay afloat.”

“Good enough. “Ye go next. Stay with Fraser, help him set up.”

What were they planning?

They discovered soon enough. McShane took another rope, a thicker one, and wrapped the first one around his waist. Narrowing her eyes against the rain, Cecilia leaned against the side of the ship, what was left of it, with another woman. Together, they watched McShane pull on the guide rope, taking the thicker rope with him, moving slowly until he was out of sight.

A flare of light startled her, made her step back, but there it was. A torch of some kind, flickering bravely about a hundred yards away, maybe a bit more. Shouts came from the darkness, or they might have been the sound of the wind, still whistling around them and through the jagged edges of the broken mast.

The captain shouted back. “Halloo! Ahoy!”

The ship groaned, its timbers creaking. Would it collapse before they had a chance to get ashore?

He beckoned to the oldest lady in the group. If Cecilia had been shivering, this lady was positively shaking. She couldn’t hold the rope, surely.

The captain wrapped it firmly around her wrist and lower arm, then gave her the larger one. “All ye have to do is hold on. They’ll pull ye.”

Everyone watched as the woman disappeared into the darkness, moving as if on gliders. She cried out, sobbed her fear as she went. Cecilia would not do that. If she went, she would do it bravely. In honor of her husband.

Hastily, she turned her mind away from Frank. She could not weaken now. Not yet.

The captain and crew worked the ropes, which acted as pulleys. They’d tied them together, so that the passengers had to twine part of each loop around themselves. One by one, they went into the void and did not return. Then it was her turn. She drew a deep breath and stepped forward. The ship moved under her.

“We’re stuck on rocks,” the captain said to her. “Try to keep yer footing. There are rocks under us, as well as sand. But I canna help ye if ye fall. They’ll pull ye ashore and it isna far.”

Cecilia nodded, clenching her teeth so they wouldn’t chatter. The captain might think she was afraid. She was not afraid, she would not think of it. She would recall the actions of her brave soldier husband and make him proud of her. Wherever he was.

She turned, winding the rope around her waist, and held on. A steady pull, slow but sure, guided her as she stepped into the chilly water, the ship protecting her from the worst of the waves. Only a few kicks and she found the sea floor, sand swirling around her legs and feet. She kept going.

A lifetime later, arms pulled her in and disentangled her. She opened her eyes—when had she closed them? “McShane.”

“Aye.” He turned her and passed her to someone else standing behind him. Another male who smelled of tobacco and wood smoke, with a generous helping of beer. He passed her to someone behind him and she gathered she was being passed down a human chain to the end of the beach.

A man grabbed her, lifted her onto a cart, threw a coarse, noxious blanket over her. She clutched it gratefully, heedless of the stink and filth. “Lady Cecilia?” a shaking voice asked.

“Y-yes.” It had been an age since she’d last spoken. The woman’s voice came out of the darkness. “They’re taking us to the big house. All the passengers, they said.”

“They?”

“From the village a mile away, and the castle. Came when they heard.”

She was saved.

Chapter Two

Cecilia blinked awake. She was alone, lying on a cot in a sliver of a room. Since every part of her ached, she lay still. Light outside the narrow window told her it was full day, and the skies were newly washed blue.

The rough walls and bare furnishings gave her no clue where she was. But the woman had said “the castle”, so she could guess. She had reached her destination. Not in the way she wanted, but she was at least here. She could fulfill her duty and then go back to Edinburgh before the worst of the winter set in. October was their last chance to get here, to this bleak part of the Scottish coast. They had thought to return in a week, but she was on her own now and she yearned for home.

She would not leave without her husband. One way or another.

If Frank had survived the wreck, surely he would have come to her, found her wherever she was.

But she was alive, and dry, and warm, under a great pile of coarse, brown blankets.

When she exhaled, her breath steamed out in the chilly air. She was wearing a shift—not hers, so someone had stripped her and put her to bed. She didn’t know who. She had no memory of anything after she’d moved closer to the woman in the cart, trying to keep warm.

The latch rattled and the door opened. A woman bustled inside, skirts rustling. She was dressed in no particular fashion in layers of wool, bright and cheerful colors, with a plaid shawl thrown over the whole. Cecilia envied her. “Ye’re awake.”

“Yes.” Cecilia licked her dry lips. How could they be dry when she’d spent most of yesterday wet? At least the shivering had stopped.

“Ye’re Lady Cecilia Burrell. Burrell like the master.” The woman eyed her curiously. She was of indeterminate age, her round face showing few wrinkles, but her blue eyes full of wisdom and experience.

Feeling at a disadvantage, Cecilia sat up and drew the blankets around her. “Yes. I’m Lady Cecilia Burrell. I’m married to his grandson.”

“Aye? But ye willna get a title from that. He’s a viscount, ye know.”

“I have a title of my own,” Cecilia explained, “though it’s only a courtesy one. Call me what you like.” She lowered her head, resting her forehead on her updrawn knees. She was past caring about nonsense like her title.

“Aye, weel, I’m Mrs. Mcavity. The housekeeper here. Still…”

She went outside and returned with a large pitcher, taking it over to the washstand. “Hot water. I daresay ye’d like a wash.”

“And some clothes,” Cecilia said. Or was she expected to drape the blankets around her, as the housekeeper seemed to have done?

The woman nodded and went outside again, returning with an armful of linen and woolen fabric. She threw that over the only chair in the room. The bed, the small washstand and the chair were all that would fit in the room. “Take yer time. Come down to the kitchen when ye’re ready. Unless ye’d want to stay in bed?”

“No!” Cecilia said as the woman went back to the door. “Tell me about the shipwreck. What happened after—after I came here?” Had they found Frank? Hope bloomed in her chest.

The woman sighed. “Aye, weel. The men got eighteen live ashore. Two bodies. Half the ship floated away in the storm, and it will take a while to sort it oot. Lots of little bays on this part of the coast. It could take days until they’re all washed ashore.” She shrugged. “It’s a shame, but there we are.” She paused. “Ye have somebody missing?”

Cecilia nodded. “My husband.”

Mrs. Mcavity’s mouth tightened and her blue eyes grew sad. “Ye’ll find oot soon. Better ye know the truth than find it oot later, eh?”

“Yes, far better.” She had to admit that. To wait, and wait, and wait, and never know the end to her story. That would be terrible.

“I lost my husband to the sea. Long time ago now.” She shook herself out of her reverie. “Ye last saw him on the ship, ye say?”

“Yes. The mast fell between us, and I haven’t seen him since.”

Mrs. Mcavity clicked her tongue. “He might not be dead. It was only a squall, although we were expecting worse when we heard the wind. I’ll ask for ye.” She paused at the door. “I’ll leave ye in peace. Do ye want me to tell his lordship ye’re here?”

“No, thank you. I’ll tell him myself.”

Which she must do. After all, she carried the future viscount. If her babe was a boy, that was. She wrapped her arms around herself as a wave of grief overwhelmed her. What if Frank was dead? What would she do? Go back to her brother in London, or stay here? Would she be allowed to keep her baby, if it was a boy? Oh, she needed Frank. She’d been married less than a year. How could she be a widow so soon? She’d been prepared for the eventuality if he’d died in battle, had lived in terror for the days of Waterloo. But he came back to her. Would he come back this time?

Cecilia didn’t watch Mrs. Mcavity leave, but stared at the blue sky through the window. The housekeeper left without a sound.

She closed her eyes, remembering that last kiss, the last embrace. When she opened her eyes again, the sun had moved away from the window. She must have dropped off again. Throwing back the covers, she took stock of her body. No damage, apart from a few bruises. No blood, no pains in her stomach. Surely she was hurt more than this?

As if in answer, the babe moved. The child had done that for the first time last week, shocking her, but although she’d urged Frank to cup her belly, he could feel nothing. There it was again. A stir, like a bubble of air in her stomach. But she knew what it was.

Tossing her shift back over her body, she swung her legs out of the narrow bed and came into contact with the cold floor. She had no shoes or stockings to mask the cold, but she had known worse. Marshy, muddy fields, for instance. She hated those. Groaning, she stood up, and the world righted itself. She felt no disturbance, although exhaustion racked her body.

Ignoring her discomfort, she took a single step, which brought her to the washstand. The water was cold, and she regretted giving in to her tiredness. Now, she had to wash in cold water. She tossed her shift on the chair, noticing that it held only one garment now. The housekeeper must have needed the clothes she’d brought for somebody else. She had the shift and a coarsely woven robe. Presently, that was all she owned in the world. The rest of her possessions were in Edinburgh and London. They might as well be on the other side of the world for all the good they would do her now.

Even her wedding ring had gone, swept away on the current. She spared a pang of regret for it, and set to washing in cold water, using one of the blankets as a towel. She dressed, if putting on two garments could be called that.

Outside her room, a narrow corridor led to an equally narrow set of stairs. Spiral stairs, like the ones in church towers leading up to the belfry.

A door at the bottom led to a wider corridor, this one with a strip of drugget down the center, which softened the shock of the cold somewhat against her bare feet. And down again, to a corridor with carpet. Paintings hung along its length. Dark, gloomy paintings darkened by time and the smoke from innumerable fires. She did not stop to study them.

More sure of her bearings now, she found a grand staircase, a stone base with elaborate wooden balusters, dull and slightly grainy under her hand. Mrs. Mcavity did not consider polishing part of her duties, then. And at last, she met a human being.

The man regarded her solemnly. “Are ye from the ship, then?” he asked.

“Yes. Are there any others from the wreck?”

“They’re in the kitchen. I’ll take ye down.”

He seemed pleasant enough, although he did not introduce himself, so she was forced to ask, “Who are you?”

“McSwain, Ma’am. I’m the second footman here. His lordship employs a small staff.” He paused. “These are strange times.”

“The lady who brought water up to me said they had a few wrecks.”

“Not as many in recent years, Ma’am. The lights are better. We’ve a better lighthouse these days, though last night it didna help much.” He led her down the main stairs and onto a marble floor that made her draw a sharp breath.

He looked down. “Oh, Ma’am, we should have brought ye clothes.”

“You did, but someone took them away.”

He frowned. “I canna remember bringing ye anything, Ma’am. Ye’re wearing an old wrapper I canna remember seeing. But there are clothes in the kitchen, from the wreck and some the villagers have brought. His lordship ordered that we find ye all at least one change of clothes.”

Apparently, once he was started up, stopping him might prove difficult. She liked to hear the chatter. She could easily have stayed where she was, in that tiny room, mourning her husband and refusing to move on, but this was better. It was forcing her to face reality.

“Some of the survivors are in the inn down in the village, but they only have three bedrooms, and it would have been an awful crush. The ship had ten crew and twenty passengers, or so the man downstairs says, the captain, that is. He’s a remarkable man, though he’s very shaken by what happened. And of course, his ship is gone. He has to go back to his master and tell him, so they can claim the insurance. I dinna know why these men dinna want to feel good, hard land under their feet.”

Crossing the hall, Cecilia thought she’d had enough of dry, hard land. Especially freezing marble. Whoever decided to put marble on the floor of this place was out of his mind.

They went down to the door at the back. At last, she heard voices. Low conversation, with the occasional pause. No laughter.

Eleven people sat around a long table in the center of a kitchen area. Doors leading off showed how the central kitchen opened into rooms that must contain pantries, meat stores, a dairy. But Cecilia did not concern herself with those. Only with the fire blazing in the hearth, the scent of roasting meat and baking bread. Four people, by the looks of them a cook and three maids, went about their duties quietly around them. Giving up the table must have caused them some inconvenience.

Everyone looked up. She recognized faces, but not names. For such a short journey, they had kept to themselves for the most part.

Frank was not there. She did not expect he would be. He would have moved heaven and earth to come to her, if he’d been alive. Since the day was well into the afternoon, he’d have been here by now.

But she refused to admit he was dead. He could not be, it was not possible. Not yet. Surely, fate would not be so cruel.

Two men rose, followed reluctantly by another two. They all wore borrowed clothes, not as ramshackle as her robe, but coats that obviously did not fit and were ten years out of date. “Madam, please come to the fire. You are most welcome.”

“Are we the only ones staying here?” she asked.

He shook his head. “The captain and two of his men are out looking with the locals. They will not give up, they say, until they account for everyone. I am Mr. McIntyre, lawyer of Edinburgh, here to visit the master of the house at his request. My wife is here,” he indicated a lady wrapped in a nondescript gown and an assortment of shawls, “and these are Mr. Burgoyne of London and his daughter…”

She recognized none of them, and stopped listening other than taking note of their names. Truthfully, she didn’t care about any of them. Only of keeping what dignity she had left and getting back to Edinburgh. Not by sea.

“Madam?” McIntyre prompted.

She could lie about her name, or even refuse to divulge it. But what would be the point of that? “I’m the wife of Colonel Frank Burrell.”

The four servants stopped what they were doing. The methodical sound of someone chopping vegetables ceased and, for a few seconds, only the sound of the fire crackling remained.

The cook cleared her throat, and the sounds recommenced. Someone put a cup of tea in front of Cecilia. She nodded her thanks. From the other side, a plateful of hot food appeared, fried potatoes, bacon, nothing elaborate, but Cecilia had to stop herself falling on it like a ravening wolf on a rabbit.

Someone left the room.

Cecilia picked up a knife and fork. “We were visiting his grandfather. They have not yet found my husband, though I am sure he will appear.” She would remain sure until proof came that she was wrong.

“Colonel, you say?” the lawyer asked.

“Yes. Of the Eighth Dragoons.”

Another pause. “Ah, the last we heard, he was a major. We heard of his regiment’s bravery at Waterloo, my lady. Read about it. Veritable dragons rather than dragoons, they said in the paper.” That was another man, Radclyffe, the lawyer’s assistant. He sounded admiring. War always looked heroic and exciting from a distance. “Does his lordship know that his grandson was here?”

She noticed the casual use of her title. So that news had spread, too. Ah, well.

“I doubt it,” she said, thinking of the tiny, bleak room at the top of the castle. “But he will now.” That person who had left the room would be hurrying to tell him, she imagined. Well, it saved her doing so. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d be summoned to his presence before too long. So she had better start eating.

She plied her cutlery vigorously while she ate and listened to the talk around her. She learned nothing more of significance about the accident, but some of the gossip interested her.

“Do you think smugglers or wreckers caused the ship to run aground?”

“Aye, smugglers used to infest this part of the coast,” the lawyer said. “But it’s become less profitable recently. And loyalty to the country is popular. Against the French,” he explained, as if it needed explaining. He sat upright and still. Despite his jumble of clothes, nobody would have mistaken him anything other than a gentleman. As if he had imposed the condition on himself.

Frank was not half so concerned with gentlemanly demeanor, unless required to be so by his superior officers.

The door opened and closed silently, but the cool draught of air at the back of her neck told her someone had come in. He came around the table and eyed her doubtfully. She met his gaze. This man was an upper servant, not dressed in formal livery, but the spick and span appearance told her as much. He did not bow, but inclined his head. “His lordship requests your presence, Madam.”

Another shift in title. Interesting. But she had better get it over with.

Cecilia got to her feet. She had finished her meal, anyway. The voluminous brown robe flapped about her. “Very well. Lead the way.”

The others watched in silence as she followed the man. She did not imagine the animated chatter as she closed the door and stepped into the long corridor. The stone chill hit her bare feet again, but the kitchen fire had warmed her and she did not shiver. There had been no shoes or slippers left in the kitchen pile. For a house full of servants, the pile had been meager.

They climbed the kitchen stairs back to the hallway, and up a grand flight of stairs. Her first experience of a Scottish castle had, so far, not been encouraging, but she would be mistress of this place one day, and she should, she supposed, take an interest.

The upper corridor was carpeted, which came as a welcome change. She stopped. “I do not think his lordship would welcome my presence in this condition.”

The servant turned to face her. “He said immediately, Ma’am.”

“My lady,” she corrected him, putting up her chin. She might as well claim her title, since it was known.

The man stared down at her in silence for a few seconds, before turning and leading the way once more.

A shock went through Cecilia. He did not believe her. Even in the battlefield, her skirts soaked to the knees with mud and blood, nobody had doubted her identity. As if she had become someone else. And the viscount wanted to see her like this, did he?

Her hair straggled over her shoulders; her feet were bare, her clothes, such as they were, borrowed. But that did not change who she was. Cecilia tightened the belt of the robe, and tossed back her hair, smoothing it with her palms as the servant strode away. Anger cut through the dull shield of incipient grief. She welcomed it, and took it as her shield and comforter.

When they reached a set of double doors, the servant flung them open. Both of them. He strode inside, and announced her. “This is the woman, my lord.”

“Ah.”

A blast of heat hit Cecilia as she went into the room, together with an air of shocking luxury. Shocking, because she had seen nothing of the kind in this place. Even the corridor outside was modestly furnished. But not this place.

She spread her skirts and curtseyed, controlling her rise perfectly. Folding her hands together, she confronted the shadowy figure sitting in the wingback chair before a blazing fire, and the female standing behind him. “Since introductions seem to be somewhat unfashionable in this place, I will announce myself. I am Lady Cecilia Burrell, wife to Colonel Frank Burrell of His Majesty’s 8th Dragoons.” Some demon made her add, “And you are…?”

Chapter Three

Silence reigned supreme for several minutes. Only the solid tick of the clock hung on the wall and the crackle of the fire broke the ominous hush. Cecilia was in no hurry to break it. She stood, completely still, waiting for the viscount to speak. The light in this room was dim, and the curtains closed. Two wall-sconces held a grand total of four candles, which flickered bravely, trying to disperse the darkness.

He stared at her. She had no idea what he wanted of her, so she decided to wait for him. Let him take the lead until she knew more. She had more important things to concern her.

Viscount Hetherington took a deep breath. “Do you have any proof of your identity?”

Of all the things he could have said, she had not expected that. Frank and his grandfather barely knew each other, as the old man had refused to acknowledge the marriage of Frank’s father, his only son to an adventuress from Ireland. The adventuress had given her husband four children, and after a few attempts at reconciliation, they had not concerned themselves with him.

Cecilia smoothed her hands over her robe. “I have nothing here other than the clothes I wear.”

“You wear no ring.”

She swallowed back her tears. “The sea took it.”

“Anyone could say that.” She glanced at the woman behind the chair, who moved further into the shadows. An assistant?

She stood her ground. “They could. It is your choice whether to believe me or not. Mine to leave and find my way to someone who knows who I am and my true worth.” Aware of her growing temper, she snapped her mouth shut.

The old man waved a hand as if to bat her away. “Come nearer the fire, Child.”

In this room, Cecilia hardly needed to do that. The heat stifled her after the chill of the rest of the place, but she did as he bade and moved closer.

Nearer the fire, Cecilia could make out the features of the two people. She did not sit on the vacant chair, although she longed to. Her muscles ached. At home, her brother would have insisted that she took to her bed for at least a day, but he was not here. She wished he was.

Although he had a blanket laid over his lap, the old man’s gauntness was plain to see. Had he been ill, or had he always looked that way? Was he ill now? That would mean Frank would inherit the title, if…

He was alive. He was.

She knew that woman. What was Lady Mary Inglethorpe doing here?

Lady Mary was in her mid-twenties, and was already out in society. She had not taken, or so everyone said.

Probably because she wore dark clothing, and stood in the shadows, Cecilia had not recognized her at first. And Lady Mary did not look as she had in London. Her round, smooth face was topped by a large, unfashionable, white linen cap. Its mercilessly starched frill encircled her face, and did her no favors. From what Cecilia saw of her clothes, they were plain, in a dark shade of red. So different to the woman in London. Some said the season would not be the same without her. Others said it would be better without her.

“Why do you call yourself “Lady”?” the old man demanded abruptly. “Frank has no title. All I have is the viscountcy, no courtesy title. Or were you not aware of that?” His voice tailed off into a sneer.

“I am the sister of the Duke of Goldthorpe, and so I am entitled to bear the honorific,” she said. “Frank wrote to you, did he not, informing you of his marriage?” She glanced at Lady Mary, but the woman remained silent.

The old man shrugged. “He may have done so. I didn’t take much notice. Goldthorpe, eh? Then you’re an heiress? If you’re the person you claim to be.”

“I brought a good portion to my marriage, and I may call on my brother whenever I wish, but I choose not to. He has recently married, too, and I would rather he enjoyed the nuptial state without worrying about me. Frank and I have enough. I have no expectations, so I am not an heiress.”

Money had not been her primary concern when facing the might of France in war. Once they had outfitted Frank in his outrageously lavish uniform and the horses he needed, they’d still had enough left to live as well as anyone could on the front line. She could provide for her child on her own, if she needed to. Not that this old man deserved to know that. Cecilia was perilously close to losing her temper.

“So you’ve not come to me cap in hand for money? You don’t want anything from me?”

Cecilia hesitated, bit her lip when she would have told him the real reason for their visit. Once they were sure of the child, as sure as anyone could be, they had decided to travel here to inform the viscount of the baby. But something held her back. She didn’t know what. As if a voice had whispered in her ear, “Don’t give it all away. Not yet.”

The voice was right. She needed to take her time and find out what the old man wanted, and why he had greeted her in this way. From what Frank had said, she had not expected open arms, but the viscount had written back, indicating that he would receive his grandson.

Frank’s mother and sister had declined to accompany them. If they had, Cecilia might have had company, and someone to vouch for her. If Lady Mary refused to do so, which Cecilia suspected she would.

With no money, and no way of proving her identity, she needed to get to Edinburgh, or at least find a safe haven while she wrote to her brother and her mother-in-law to send help. Would he throw her out of doors? She wouldn’t put it past him.

“I would like shelter until I know more about Frank. I would appreciate the loan of a carriage to take us back to Edinburgh, or at least, the loan of the fare. Other than that, no, we are not expecting anything from you.”

“I see.” Lord Hetherington grunted and leaned back. “What do you think, m’dear?”

He was talking to the woman behind him. When she moved, Cecelia saw the gleam of pearls around her neck. Those pearls were fine ones, large and lustrous.

Cecilia felt sick. Surely she hadn’t…

The woman spoke for the first time. “It is our Christian duty to care for the sick and to aid the unfortunate.” She sighed, her bosom rising. “I know this woman,” she said. Finally! “She is who she says she is.” She sent Cecilia a poisonous glare. “The sister of the Duke of Goldthorpe, and the wife of your grandson. She ran off with him, you know, but they fetched her back and made it respectable. Everybody was talking about it.” Her look was openly disdainful.

So what was Cecilia expected to say in return? That Lady Mary had been a spinster for ten years, refusing to slip into old maid-dom? That she had worn the pastel shades allotted to young girls year after year? That she had flirted and laughed with increasing desperation?

Cecilia would say none of those things. Why would she?

“I am the viscountess,” Lady Mary said.

Cecilia nodded. She’d expected the announcement. Dreaded it. How desperate must Lady Mary have been to agree to become Viscountess Hetherington? “Congratulations,” she murmured.

“Thank you.”

Unexpectedly, the viscount laughed. It was a gargled sound, to be sure, but unmistakably a laugh. “Frank gave me the idea. You remember he went to that marriage broker woman? Or didn’t you know that?”

“I did.” Her brother had married the woman Frank was supposed to wed. Frank’s misguided attempt to stop Cecilia thinking of him romantically had backfired spectacularly. Finally, Frank had admitted that Cecilia was his true love. She’d loved him forever. After that, nothing would have stopped her from having him. Something else she wouldn’t be telling Frank’s grandfather.

“Well, I did the same. Why shouldn’t I buy a bride? So I did. When Frank became a soldier I knew I couldn’t rely on him for an heir.” He sighed. “I was almost forgiving him, but he did that. I’d have brought him here, shown him what he needed to know. But no, he had to sign up with the damned English army.”

“The British army,” Cecilia reminded him. “To fight Napoleon. Frank wants to stay in the army, but now that he’s a colonel, he won’t be expected to take the field. Besides, Boney’s finished.”

“They said that before,” the viscount pointed out, “when they sent him to Elba. From what I read, he just walked out. Left and boarded the French gunboat that was waiting for him in the harbor. How do we know he won’t do it again?”

“He’s been sent to a deserted island under strict guard,” Cecilia said. “And Europe is sick of fighting.”

“Hmph. There’ll be another war. There always is. But the point is, somebody has to make the heir.” He waved to his wife, a signal for her to move. Obediently, she came out from her shelter behind the chair.

The viscountess was heavily pregnant.

Her red face was not entirely due to the glow of the fire. Cecilia lowered her gaze, to stop herself from staring. “I’ll see to your accommodation,” she said. “I’ll put you in the room allotted to the viscount’s heir.”

In the stunned silence, the viscountess walked to the door.

The viscount watched his wife leave, his pale blue eyes without expression. When she’d gone, he turned to Cecilia and grinned. “Fine woman, ain’t she?”

Cecilia wasn’t sure what to say, but considering her position, she nodded and returned the smile. “She appears to have done her duty.”

The viscount reached to his side and found a thick cane, the top a single, heavy knot. He plunked it by the side of the chair. “She was keen enough.” He leered, his mouth wide. “Well I could hardly go to London in search of a wife, could I? And the estate needs an heir.”

From what Frank had said, there wasn’t much left of the estate. He had inherited nothing from his father. “Is it an old title?”

“Older than your brother’s, I’ll be bound.” His chuckle ended in a cough. The fire crackled and spat, as if joining in from sympathy. “Second duke, is he?”

“Yes,” she said. He was trying to rile her. Knowing that gave her the power to refuse to allow him to do it. “And the ninth earl.”

“Father a friend of Fox?”

“He was,” she answered. With anyone else, her short responses would have appeared rude, but she was being very careful, trying to feel her way, especially after the recent revelation. She missed her father. His laughter had colored her childhood. If the viscount started on her father, she might not find her temper so easy to quell.

“Hmph.” The viscount sucked in a noisy breath through his nose. The fire crackled its laughter. “Well, if you were coming for a handout, you’ll be disappointed. I don’t have money to throw away.”

He paused, staring at something in the distance, behind Cecilia’s head. She did not turn to follow his gaze. “My boy should never have married that woman. Taken in by her, he was. What else could I do but turn her off? And she killed him.”

Cecilia opened her eyes wide, her jaw dropping open in shock. Mrs. Burrell a murderess? That was ridiculous.

But she didn’t have to say anything. The viscount continued all on his own. “Dragged him round half of Europe, and then did it again. All that and a war on. Led him on a merry dance, once she’d made sure of him. And then she produced one son. One! If she’d dropped a brood I might’ve let her back into the house. As it was.” He turned away, his face in the shadows, but not before Cecilia had seen the wince of pain. Had he wanted to keep his son so safe that once the boy became a man he rebelled? Parents who tried to make their children something they were not should prepare for trouble. But they rarely did.

Frank had offered to leave the army for her, to sell out and buy a comfortable mansion somewhere. That plan made Cecilia’s heart ache with longing. To walk with him in peaceful, green fields every day, to know her neighbors, to live in the kind of house that did not need a major plan of action just to clean. But she knew Frank would have been deeply unhappy had he missed the Waterloo campaign. That he’d even offered to do that for her was enough. Once he’d secured decent dowries for his sisters, he was content, he’d said. But she knew better.

And as matters turned out, the old man sitting before her had refused to give him or his sisters a penny. From what she had seen, this castle, spacious though it was, needed the hand of a good housekeeper. Even here, in the viscount’s apartment, the gleaming canvases mounted on the walls were murky with soot. Nobody had cleaned them for nigh on a decade. Perhaps Mrs. Mcavity would turn it around, if she was new. Whatever happened, Cecilia would not be here to see it.

“All I require,” she said, “is to be given shelter until I discover my husband’s fate. Then I would appreciate the use of a carriage to take me—us—back to Edinburgh.”

“Aye, you can have that. Although you’ll get little else. If he’s dead and that bairn in my wife’s belly is a boy, he will become the new viscount.”

But if the babe in her belly turned out to be a boy, he would inherit, not any child the new viscountess birthed. And if Frank lived, they would make more. The viscount couldn’t change that. But she wouldn’t tell him, not yet. She’d carried her baby lightly, and the sickness that had eased only recently had kept her slender. This old man would never notice, especially since he seemed to live in the near dark. The storm was still rumbling outside, although its raw fury had abated. But the clouds hung thick in the sky and the sun seemed to have given up for the day.

The gloom enveloped her heart, pushing her towards hiding her pain in a dark corner. Or that little room where she’d woken up.

“We should know in a day or two. If we don’t hear by then, we’ll assume he’s dead. Just as well my lawyer’s here. He’s here to get the marriage contract signed and sealed, but he might have to sort out a few other things.” His eyes gleamed. “Did you bring a dowry to the marriage?”

“Yes. A substantial one.” Anger sparked as she met his greedy gaze. “But unlike you, we signed a contract. That money is for me and—” She broke off. And her children. That note of warning sounded in her head again, and she changed what she was going to say. “If I die, it goes back to my brother.”

“Doesn’t your husband have a say?”

“You’ve already written him off.” She lifted her chin and stared down her nose at him. “I do not believe he is dead.” He couldn’t be. Life would not be so cruel as to put them through the torture of the Waterloo campaign, and for him, the war against Napoleon, only to meet his end like this.

No. It could not be. She would not allow it.

Chapter Four

Could this really be dry land under him? Had he really survived?

Frank lay still. Perhaps he was in heaven. Or hell. Frank didn’t think much about the afterlife. He’d spent most of his time too close to it to make contemplation of it comfortable. He drew a breath. Did people breathe after death?

As always, his thoughts flew to his wife. At least she had ended up on the side nearest the land. That kiss. He spread his thoughts, trying to find her, but he could not. Besides, he wouldn’t want her here, wherever here was.

“Are ye staying there all day, then?”

A man’s voice, not an angel’s. The hoarse voice had a touch of amusement about it, rousing a response. “What else is there to do?” he asked, mildly shocked that the sound came out of his throat at all. He rolled his shoulders, flexed his muscles gently. Nothing hurt too much. Oh, a lot ached, but there was no sharp, piercing pain that a broken bone or sword cut would cause. Bruises aplenty, but if he’d escaped with them alone, he was a very lucky man.

But then he moved his foot. A sharp pain drove straight up his leg, but then eased as a soothing sound flowed through him. Maybe a bruise.

Apparently, he was not dead. When he rolled from his side onto his back, he felt confident he could sit up without much effort. He proceeded to do so and found out that he was right. He ignored the aches now that he’d identified them as relatively minor. He sat on wet sand some distance from the sea. Cliffs surrounded him, hard granite, with scrubs of dull green sketched over them. The terrain seemed mildly familiar.

He leaned his elbows on his updrawn knees and pressed the pads of his thumbs to his eyes, trying to work his reluctant mind into action. Think, man, think!

That voice came again. “If ye want to get to shelter afore nightfall, ye’d better get moving, lad.”

Taking his time, he lowered his hands and looked up.

His face was silhouetted against the sky, so Frank had to squint. He made out a beard, and a wrinkled face, none too clean. “You saw the wreck?”

“Nay. My wife told me about it, so I came down to the beach to see what I could do. Turns oot ye’re the only one here. The rest were forced up to the next bay.”

“How are they?”

“I dinna know.”

Frank sent up a short, silent prayer for his fellows. When the mast had come down, it had shattered their side of the ship, and everyone on his side was swept away. Frank remembered grabbing something—a spar or an oar, but its shattered end had sent splinters into his palm. He glanced at his hand. Well, that part was true.

The ferocious ocean had claimed them for its own, dragging them away from any expectation of safety. “How did I live?”

“I don’t know that, either. Mebbe ye have unfinished business here.”

“Maybe I have.” He thought of his wife and baby, and his fear for them heightened. “My wife?”

“Aye. I’m told she’s tired but well. Come now. Stand.”

Frank had spent many nights under the stars, but that had been in Spain where the nights were friendlier than they were here. And he’d had good blankets to cover him. More often than not, he’d been fortunate enough to have canvas over him. No such comforts here. He had to find shelter. And Cecilia must be out of her mind with worry.

He rolled up on all fours, and then pushed himself to his feet, standing there for a moment to let the dizziness subside. Yes, that was better, even though his lower leg felt stiff.

His rescuer was about four inches shorter than Frank’s five foot ten, but stockier. He wore—everything. Practical for the Scot, dressing in layers. At a guess, he’d say that the man had a couple of warm shirts on, then a waistcoat, and a coat, and a blanket tossed over the whole. Frank had his shirt, waistcoat, breeches and what was left of his stockings under his scuffed and damaged boots. One of them had an upper that was partially separated from the sole at the end, but better that than no boots at all.

“Where am I?”

“The second cove along from the Big House.” He said it like that, the capitals firmly in place in his rough voice. “Ye know where ye are.”

Yes, he did. In the fast dimming daylight, he recognized the two crags at the end of the beach, and recalled the slim passage between them. He could walk to his grandfather’s house. This bay was shallow, and if he stayed here too long, the sea would come back in and take him again.

Setting his sights firmly to the space between the crags, Frank started walking. When he was sure he could reach his objective, as strength returned to his bones, he looked around. His rescuer was two steps behind him, so Frank slowed. He wanted to walk side by side with this man.

“Have you lived here long?”

“All my life. Never been anywhere else save Edinburgh a time or two, and once abroad to war.”

He’d found common ground. He couldn’t recall meeting this man before, and he had only visited his grandfather rarely. So they talked of this and that, and armies, then returned to this country. Frank let him talk, timed his steps to the slow, pacing speech. He stopped listening consciously, only letting the words sink in and spread through him, giving him strength and stamina.

Before he knew it, they’d arrived at the cliffs. He waved for the old man to go ahead, but he shook his head. “Ye go first. I want to keep my eye on ye.”

Frank felt the same. He wanted to ensure this man arrived at their destination safely, but he accepted the decision.

The passage was dark and dank, scattered with loose pebbles and larger rocks, and Frank had to concentrate to keep his footing. His ruined boots didn’t help.

But they got through safely. Frank listened to the footsteps all the way along, waiting for a fall, but there was none. His companion was very light on his feet, and sometimes he had to strain to hear him. But he felt his presence. Since they had to go in single file, they couldn’t converse any further, but the companionship established, they walked together. Frank doubted he’d have made his way here without his rescuer.

At the end, he turned, anxious to ensure his friend had negotiated the passage safely. He had.

The older man combed his fingers through his beard. “Reckon ye can make yer own way from here.”

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

The man gestured in the opposite direction to where a wisp of smoke was just discernible, threading its way up to the sky. “I go the other way now.”

“You must come to the castle. I’ll be there. Ask for Colonel Burrell.”

“Aye, I know who ye are. I’ll come and see ye. Goodnight.”

Numbly, Frank bade him a good night as if they were taking an ordinary evening walk. Their journey had taken little more than an hour, he gauged from the position of the sun behind the clouds, but he felt as if he’d known this man all his life.

He watched the bundle of cloth trudge its way towards the barest sign of life before he turned and headed for the cliff and his grandfather’s home.

The castle appeared much as Frank remembered from his last visit, just before they’d set out for London at the beginning of the year. Soot-stained, stern and foursquare, an old keep converted into a more modern dwelling. The keep was still discernible behind the hotchpotch of appendages. Nothing as elegant as a real design, the family had just built on to the main building as they’d fancied and as space allowed. It loomed over the houses straggling down the slope of the hill like a giant in a fairy tale, a gothic fantasy brought to life. Only because successive generations refused to engage a proper architect and let him loose. Now the family could not afford such a major expense, although Frank, now with substantial booty from his military campaigns to call on, could at least give his wife the home she deserved, and provide his sisters with some kind of respectable dowry. Not this place.

His wife, his sisters, his mother! He had not thought of them in the last hour, only concentrated on getting to safety. Now his terror for Cecilia returned. If she had survived the shipwreck, she’d be here. And she’d be worried sick.

As he climbed the last part of the cliff, his muscles began to ache. He hadn’t been aware of it before. But now, cramping began to set in. He had to force himself up the final part. His breathing grew harder, and he had to force the air in and out of his body, as if this last effort was overcoming him.

But he reached it. He hammered on the door, leaned on it. Someone opened it. He fell into humanity.

Chapter Five

When Frank awoke, daylight poured into his eyes, making him blink and screw them up. A soft movement to the side of the bed he lay in drew his attention. He knew that sound, knew the delicate scent of the woman who meant more to him than any other. That was worth opening his eyes for.

“Frank?” she said softly.

“I was the last time I checked,” he said, and smiled. After all, he had a lot to smile about. His eyes watered, but whether from the bright light or the rush of emotion that filled him, he didn’t care to say.

“I was so worried. When the mast came down…”

He turned his head, drank in her loving gaze. “Yes. Our side of the vessel took the worst of it. Shattered.” He held out his hand. “That’s where these splinters came from.” His hand was lightly bandaged.

“I took them out while you were sleeping. Lord, I’ve only ever known you sleep that deeply once before.”

“After Waterloo.” He paused. Yes, that was bad. He hadn’t slept for nearly three days, but like any soldier, he knew how to make up the lack when he had the chance. Not that he’d put any conscious effort into it.

He turned, reaching for her, but a sharp shot of pain made him cry out. Only then did he realize that his leg was heavily bandaged from below the knee to the foot. “What…?”

“Your poor ankle is badly wrenched,” she murmured, leaning into him. “When I cut off your boots while I was getting you ready for bed, I found it. It’s not as bad as it could be,” she went on hastily. She must have seen the shock in his eyes. “My guess is that your boot supported it. You couldn’t have come far with a wrench like that. It’s badly swollen.”

He remembered his journey. Why had the pain of the wrench not made itself known? “About two miles, I’d say. From the second bay up. So small it’s never had a proper name. The bay beyond the twin crags is the nearest it ever got.”

Her eyes widened. “I thought you hadn’t spent much time here.”

He forced his memory to work, frowned as he focused. “Not much, but what time we did spend here, my sisters and I tried not to stay inside the castle. We escaped as much as we could, and explored the area. I remembered it from then. I must have.” He shook his head. At least that wasn’t broken. Come to think of it, he knew where to go as if he’d been born here, instead of in Ireland. The memory must have stuck somewhere.

Thank God it had. “A man found me, made me get up and we talked as we went. He said he’d come from a cottage in the opposite direction to the castle. He looked old, sixty at the least, but what my mother would term a good sixty.”

“They had people looking out for survivors.”

“Have they found any others?” He remembered seeing two or three washed away in the turbulence. For that matter, how had he survived? He could swim, but not strong enough to face a storm like this one. Had they survived? So many questions without answers.

“A few.” She swallowed. “At least three dead. One sailor, two passengers. So far. Five still missing. There are twelve of us here in the castle, thirteen now.” She smiled. “The rest are staying at the inn.”

“Ah.” He remembered the death tolls from Waterloo, a mere five months ago. His pain when he read the long lists of the dead, how many had given their lives on both sides struck him to the heart. As it had his commander. Wellington had vowed never to take to the battlefield again. “A close run thing,” he’d called it and he was right.

Losing three, perhaps more, brought the pain back to him. He would never lose that. Not as long as he lived. And yet—he was alive. “What happened to you?” he asked.

“We got to the beach. The captain made a big loop out of rope to guide us. A few bruises, one or two broken bones but everybody on our side of the ship got to safety. The viscount’s lawyer is here.”

“He is?” Frank smiled. “Once, I’d have been happy to hear that. Perhaps, finally, he’d settle an allowance on my sisters and me. Now, I don’t care. I can take care of you, and I’ve provided for my sisters. All on my own, without his help.”

“And I can’t tell you how proud of you I am.” She took his good hand, pressed it warmly. Then leaned forward.

They lost a few minutes in a deep, passionate kiss. His left arm pressed against her belly. Something inside her moved.

He drew back in shock. “Was that…”

“Yes. Your son or daughter.”

When she leaned back, he placed his hand on her stomach, gazing into her eyes. “I still can’t believe it.”

“We worked hard for this baby,” she reminded him with a smile.

“So we did.” They shared another kiss. “I need to get you to safety before the bad weather really sets in.”

She couldn’t agree more. “Presumably, the mail coach visits the house, or at least the inn in the village. We could even take the stage.”

“It’s not far to Edinburgh. We should never have taken that ship, though I thought we could get here and back quickly that way, after we’d fulfilled our errand.”

He pushed a hand against the mattress, easing himself up, while his wife stacked pillows up behind him. After a moment of giddiness, the room settled and so did he.

The door opened, and the fragrant scent of fresh meat stew heralded the entrance of the new viscountess.

Cecilia muttered a word more suited to the battlefield than the ballroom. “I’m sorry. I should have told you.”

After a swift glance at her, Frank turned his attention back to the newcomer and frowned. “Don’t I know you?”

After setting her tray on a nearby table, the woman turned to face him. “Yes, you do. I’m your new mother.”

Oh, yes. Oh, he knew her. “Lady Mary,” he murmured.

“Lady Hetherington,” she said. And she bore the proof of her marriage before her.

Dear God. The woman who had made his friend Goldthorpe’s life a misery before he’d firmly told her that although his mother had conceived the notion that they should suit, he had not.

His stepgrandmother—was that right?—gazed at him. Frank stared back. “You married my grandfather? You know he is over seventy, do you not?”

“There are some very robust men of seventy.”

“My grandfather is not one of them.”

Her lips curved as she cradled her belly. “I would dispute that.”

With an effort, Frank kept his temper. He was really too tired for that.

“He said he needed to secure the succession,” Cecilia put in quickly. “If you were insisting on putting yourself into danger.”

Frank shook his head. “I would not make my life a misery for a sorry excuse for a viscountcy. My grandfather refused to give my father a penny, you know. I trust you’ve secured a portion in the marriage contract?”

His new stepgrandmother glanced away, then back. “Of course. My father was most diligent. I will come out of this marriage with little more than I brought into it, but it’s worth it.” Her face grew hard, her eyes glittered as she narrowed them. “Every bit of it. Your best friend, your wife’s brother, deserves a setback. After refusing me, he married a common tradesman’s daughter? My lineage is impeccable, and yet I was not good enough for him? Well, I am good enough for your grandfather, and my child will be a viscount. You have no idea how much I am looking forward to seeing my child in your place!”

Frank tipped his head back wearily. “You cannot supplant me or any son of mine. My grandfather tried to have his son’s marriage declared invalid, but he failed. Your child will have a sorry inheritance.”

“What son? You said a son?” Her sharp gaze darted to Cecilia’s stomach and back at his face. “She is expecting a child? No!” Her anguished cry settled somewhere in the rafters.

He sighed, in no mood for histrionics. “That is why we made the journey here. To tell him our news before the weather grew worse.”

“You didn’t say!” She turned her attention to Cecilia. “You didn’t tell us!”

“I would have done so, but my first concern was for Frank.” She reached out, and he took her hand. “Our baby is safe.”

Mary spun around, her woolen skirts wrapping around her legs, then unwinding slowly. “We will see about that.” She stalked out, the heels of her sturdy shoes rapping against the bare floor. She slammed the door.

Cecilia spoke into the tense atmosphere. “I believe she had visions of turning me out into the cold. Then, when the impropriety of that became apparent, perhaps she kept me here, forcing me to witness her triumph. Such as it is. I chose not to tell her of my condition. I don’t trust her.”

He squeezed her hand. “It is nothing. As soon as I am able to travel, we will go. By the stage, the mail or a private chaise, we will leave this benighted place and its miserable inhabitants.”

After Frank had rejected the “slop” the viscountess had brought him, he managed to struggle down to dinner, with the help of a borrowed cane the footman had found for him. He said he wanted to visit their fellows, and hear the stories for himself.

His wife wore a simple dress of blue, and sturdy, thick shoes. He thought her charming in her borrowed garments. Over the whole, she’d found a plaid shawl, so she appeared almost like one of his father’s servants. Except that she bore herself like a queen.

Despite Cecilia threatening and begging him to stay in bed, he managed. He’d known worse. True, he wasn’t sure how he had walked so far with his foot as painful and swollen as it was, but he had. Probably the old man, who’d taken his mind off the various aches and pains racking his body. He’d bolstered Frank’s determination to see his wife again, and not to leave their baby fatherless.

And here he was. Before he left he would seek that old man out and thank him profusely.

At least the main dining room had a fire burning, but the smell of damp hit the nostrils over the more appetizing smell of cooked meat and vegetables. A gloomy room painted a dark red, with suspicious darker shadows up near the yellowed plaster ceiling. The viscount sent his excuses, but the viscountess took her place at the foot of the table. Reluctantly, Frank took the head, but as the viscount’s heir, that was his place. He kept the sturdy walking stick by his side. He did not want to mislay that. As it was, he found walking around far more difficult than he admitted to anyone. His foot hurt like the devil, and having to wear a makeshift sole tied to his foot was more than annoying.

Two maids served the food. It was of the type usually known as “hearty”. And plain, too. They dumped the chipped blue and white tureens onto the table, and left. A far cry from the elegant and expensive services offered by society hostesses.

He’d known worse. Much worse.

The new viscountess must know this was not the fare to offer to her visitors. Did she care, or could she do nothing about it? He still had to work out why she had done it.

Cecilia had told him that Lady Mary had engaged the services of a scandalous marriage broker only accepted by the male half of society. The lady’s services did not come cheap, either. Pin money would not pay for that.

His grandfather, yes, he would want to put Frank and his family’s nose out, especially if Frank had been lost in battle. That would concern him more than continuing the family.

Captain McIntyre greeted him heartily, walked around the table to shake his hand. “It’s right good to see ye safe, Colonel. We feared for the worst, I dinna mind telling ye.”

“So did I.” He grinned, happy to see the captain. Nobody could have predicted the squall that came out of nowhere, and McIntyre had done his best for his ship and passengers. “I owe you a deep debt of gratitude for caring for my wife.”

The captain shook his head. “No thanks needed. I’m off down to the beach again in the morning, and to the bay where ye landed. Did ye happen to see any other people there?” He returned to his seat.

“Only the old man who saved me,” Frank said. “He came with me to the far end of the passage, and then left me. Lived at the little cottage in the other direction to the house.”

The captain frowned. “Cottage?”

“Yes, sir. It was on its own, nothing else nearby. But I saw the smoke emerge from the chimney.”

“I canna say I noticed it. I’ll look for it in the morning. Perhaps the old man knows more about the two missing men.”

“I would appreciate it if you told the man how grateful I am for his help. I owe him my life. If it was not for him, I doubt I would have gotten to safety.”

The captain scratched his head with the prongs of his fork. “Aye, I’ll look for him. Do ye want him to know yer name, sir?”

“Indeed I do. I would like to send him a reward when I am able to do so.” He glanced at his wife, then down at himself. Both had been provided with clothes, but Cecilia had her simple gown, and he had a shirt, breeches and a drab but warm coat. That, and some ill-fitting shoes and stockings were the sum of his possessions. When he’d seen the poor clothes the viscountess had provided, he wondered at them. Had the viscount no more than one suit of clothes? And the viscountess had not seen fit to give Cecilia anything suitable to her station. On purpose, of course she had. She might want to humiliate them, especially since she probably thought Frank had cost her a duke. Goldthorpe would never have taken her.

Captain McIntyre followed his glance, and nodded. “We’re all ragamuffins, are we not? We will come around soon enough.”

He was right. The people sitting around the table wore an odd selection of clothes. Some of them must have been thirty years old, at least, the braided coats on the men and the full skirts on the women displaying the styles of the last century. Only the viscountess wore a gown that resembled fashionable dress.

“This house seems strangely devoid of servants,” one woman, a Mrs. Cooper, commented.

“Most come in every day,” Lady Hetherington said as she forked up a piece of some vegetable smothered in tasteless white sauce. Frank knew it was tasteless, because he’d just tried it. “We have two male servants and two maids who live in. My lady’s maid left, and I am waiting for the new one to arrive. My husband has a personal servant. Then there is the housekeeper and the butler, of course. We have sufficient help, and they are not all sitting in the kitchen gossiping and eating their heads off.”

The bitterness of her words, which she had tried to disguise, told Frank that the lack of live-in servants was not her decision.

“I met the housekeeper when I arrived,” Cecilia said. “I haven’t seen her since.”

“Someone mentioned that the housekeeper was supervising the opening of a few more rooms,” Captain McIntyre bellowed. He tended to bellow a great number of things. Perhaps that came with being a ship’s captain.

“I will be heartily glad of it,” one of the ladies remarked.

“I am told that the mail visits the village once a week, and will collect the travelers who book a seat,” the captain continued.

The captain grunted. “Which means the passengers who are already at the inn will have taken the seats.”

“I will send someone down there tomorrow.” Mrs. Cooper, a middle-aged woman of comfortable build and fluffy blonde hair spooned up some stew and chewed unenthusiastically.

Frank did not blame her. The food tasted of nothing, all of it. But it was food and it was hot, so he counted that a blessing.

“How does this disaster compare with Waterloo?” the lady asked. “Considering that you went through that campaign with barely a scratch, and this shipwreck was nearly the end of you.”

Frank pushed his plate away. “I think that God has a wicked sense of humor to allow me to come through the bloodiest battle I’ve ever been a part of without a scratch, only to nearly kill me in a minor squall close to the Scottish coast.” Three people laughed. The others stared at him. Either they did not understand or they thought he was insulting. He noted the reactions and moved on. “At least this time, a nation’s fate did not rest on our shoulders.”

“He was promoted on the field when his colonel was killed,” Cecilia said. “His commanding officer confirmed the promotion later.”

“Oh?” The captain took an interest. “Ye are fortunate, sir, but I am sure ye deserved the honor.”

Before Frank could deny it, Cecilia took his hand. “He did,” she said.

At the end of the day, and in the morning, he had his own personal miracle. He would never forget that.

Chapter Six

After another night’s sleep, Cecilia woke up beside her husband, as she had almost every day since their marriage. Except in war, and the last two nights. She pushed the thought aside. She would not start the day on such a sad note. Instead, she would count her blessings.

The letter to her brother would be on its way, but it would take the best part of a week to get to him. Their best chance was if Frank’s mother in Edinburgh sent a carriage for them. They would get the letter today.

“We have to get out of here,” he told her. “Before I say something I might regret.”

“To your grandfather?”

He drew her closer, so she was using his shoulder as a pillow. He enjoyed that. “And my new grandmother. Should I call her that? I think I should, you know.”

Her giggle tickled his skin delightfully. “It would annoy her. She is so dignified, and so angry all the time. She was not in the drawing room when the ladies retired, you know. We did not stay long, but at least we were civil. Why did she do it?”

“I can think of a few reasons.” He kissed her cheek, nuzzling against her soft, fragrant hair. “To spite me, to spite you. She thought she had a chance with your brother, you know.”

“Piers would never have married her,” she said. “Even if she’d seduced him he would not have done that.”

“Did he tell you, then?”

She lifted her chin, met his gaze. “Tell me what?”

“Ah. Well, I daresay there’s no harm you knowing. She did her best to seduce him. She set her sights on him the season before last, and tried to entrap him several times. But Piers is a downy one. However, at one ball, I saw her follow him into the garden, and I knew that in that particular house there was a secluded pavilion. I also knew that Piers had arranged a certain…”

“Tryst?” she suggested. “Did you think I did not know that my brother has never enjoyed celibacy?”

The idea of Piers enthusiastically embracing celibacy made his best friend laugh. “Yes, well. If I had not followed and caught up with her, she would have trapped him for sure. Presumably, she’d told her family to follow, because they turned up promptly, ten minutes after she had left for the pavilion.”

“Was there scandal?”

“Well, the bets at White’s had mysteriously increased the day of the plot. So some people knew of it. However, although she tried to create some scandal, there was nothing for her to base it on. So I thwarted her plans to trap Piers. She must have turned her mind to revenge then. But last season had more about it than just marriage plans.”

“I know it.” She kissed his throat. “Piers told me I might think of marriage this coming season. But he was too late. I’d already given my heart.”

“And I had given mine. I was foolish to try to deny it.”

“You were,” she said.

He turned his head and met her lips in a kiss that burned any other thought away. They belonged together, and they always had. She’d known it from the first time she’d met him, when she was sixteen and he was thirty. Calf love, he’d called it once. But she knew what she wanted, and she’d seen the shocked response in his eyes, so she knew her reaction to him was reciprocated.

And so here they were, celebrating their love. They were both alive, and so was the baby in her belly. They were warm, sharing a bed in a room where the fire blazed and the curtains kept the worst of the weather at bay.

From their first night together, they’d fitted. They’d worked. She had found expressing their love came easily, no embarrassment, and very little discomfort. Now, there was no discomfort at all. Only love. She flowed over him, and he helped, easing her on top of him so she could sit up and remove her oversized linen night rail. She tossed it aside and gloried in his possessive, passionate gaze as he took inventory. He ran his hands up and down her sides, and then cupped her breasts and touched her in the way he knew she loved. “I adore you, my lady. Every part of my being is yours.”

“And I am yours,” she murmured, as she touched him in response, making him shudder and moan.

She took him in, as naturally as breathing, and began to move.

Gazing at one another, knowing only their love, they moved as one, touching, sharing kisses and murmured words, allowing their love to take them where it always did, to that mutual point of ecstasy when nothing lay between them, as their bodies had truly become one.

They slept then, until well into the morning. No clock adorned the mantelpiece, so they had no way of telling the time. Frank’s pocket watch had gone the way of the rest of his belongings. They were not close enough to the village to hear the church clock. But neither of them cared.

After breakfast, Cecilia decided to walk upstairs to the gallery, to see what manner of ancestors her husband had. And to stay out of the way of the other guests. As she approached the stairs, Mrs. Cooper found her, and engaged her in half an hour’s discussion about Waterloo, and what ladies would be expected to do there.

As far as Cecilia was concerned, that experience was behind her and would remain there. “Did you have to deal with many of the dead?” the lady asked her.

“In what way, deal with them?”

“See them returning, write letters to their relatives.”

Cecilia saw the torrent of anecdotes filling the lady’s future. She did not wish to be a source of them. So she merely replied, “Naturally,” and quelled the seething beast rising inside her. “It is not an experience I care to repeat.”

Although one day, she might have to.

“Naturally,” Mrs. Cooper replied. “My husband, bless his soul, is not an adventurous man.”

The sound of quick footsteps announced the arrival of the lawyer. He paused when he saw them. “Good day, ladies. I wonder, Lady Burrell, if you have the time for a few words?”

“Of course,” Cecilia said, at once relieved to be spared her inquisition and curious as to what the lawyer had to say. She gestured to a door. “Should we go in here?”

McIntyre nodded, and opened the door for her. It led to a dank but clean little room, some kind of antechamber. No fire, but two chairs and a small side table adorned the place. A dark landscape hung on the wall, like all the others in the house, blackened with soot. Dispiriting.

She sat and motioned to the other chair. The lawyer followed her example.

“How may I help you, Mr. McIntyre?”

“Well.” He leaned back, folded his hands over his stomach. “His lordship has made a strange request. You should know, my lady, that I am his lordship’s new man of business. He said he was dissatisfied with the previous incumbent but from what I gathered before I left Edinburgh, he changes his lawyer frequently. I do not scruple to say that before I left town, I called on his last man of business. While he could not break the confidential information given to him, he gave me the impression that the viscount could be a difficult man to deal with. And so I have found. I would like to ask you a few things.”

“But you are not my lawyer, Mr. McIntyre. I can no more share any details with you than his lordship’s previous lawyer.” Even if she knew them.

“Ah, yes, of course. However, I am not in Edinburgh, so I do not have access to the usual resources. If I have to go back to town and then return, I fear I’ll be staying the winter here.”

Fear was the right word, Cecilia thought. Frank had set about a mission this morning, to find a man willing to ride to Edinburgh and take a message to his mother. They could be out of here within the week if he was successful, and she would wager all she had that he would succeed.

“I will help you all I can,” she said. Besides, she wanted to know what had ruffled McIntyre’s feathers. He twiddled his thumbs as he spoke, and moved his feet, crossing his legs, then uncrossing them.

“I had my interview with his lordship today,” he said. “He made some requests that I do not think are possible. But I cannot be sure.” He paused. Cecilia waited. He continued when she gave him no helpful prompt. “My lady, do you know the disposition of your husband’s inheritance?”

“He receives almost everything on the death of the present viscount,” she said. She had discussed the matter with Frank, who was anxious to show her that he would provide for her all he could. She did not care, but his concern for her warmed him. “The estate is not one of the greatest in the land, but my husband is eager to put it into better heart, once he can do it.” She did not add that Frank’s frustrations with his grandfather’s consistent refusals was one of the factors that had driven him to join the army.

The lawyer cleared his throat and stared down at his thumbs, busy weaving an invisible scarf. He raised his eyes again. “You must understand, my lady, that I am only repeating his lordship’s concerns. He is worried that…that is…”

Having the gist of his concerns, Cecilia decided to put him out of his misery. “You mean his lordship has repeated his claims that my husband is the product of an illegitimate marriage?”

“Ah, erm, yes, that is his concern. He wishes me to, as he puts it, disinherit your husband and replace him with the child of his wife’s womb. Boy or girl. Now as you probably know, my lady, although some Scottish titles may descend in the female line, this title is not one of them.”

“You need not concern yourself with that.” Cecilia suppressed her sigh. She had heard this tale before, from her husband. “This is the reason the viscount has changed his advisors so frequently. They all give him the same answer. He cannot disinherit my husband. Only death can prevent my husband inheriting the viscountcy.” She shuddered, unable to repress that reaction. That had nearly happened two nights ago. So nearly. Hurriedly, she pushed past the moment and continued. “His parents were legally married. We have ample paperwork to prove it, and your predecessors accepted the fact.”

He nodded. “I feared—that is, I am glad to hear—that. But, my lady.” He gave up on the scarf and twisted his hands together. “My lady, this is difficult. Pardon me. But he informs me that you are eighteen years old, and your guardian did not give permission for your marriage. That would make it illegal.”

Dull shock settled like a stone in her stomach. Of course he would try that. The ensuing scandal and gossip he could cause by saying that was the last thing they needed, especially with Frank’s sisters making their overdue come-out next year. She sighed wearily, as if she’d expected the accusation. Of course, she should have. “He must be desperate. Was this new this visit?”

“Yes,” he said.

“He knows I’m with child.” She should have expected it. “So naturally, he wants to disinherit it. No doubt he will also offer to foster it. How can bringing up a child in the army be suitable for a viscount’s heir?” Now that she’d met the viscount, she could see him saying it as clearly as if he stood before her.

Mr. McIntyre shifted in his chair, but said nothing.

“My brother, the Duke of Goldthorpe, gave his permission for my marriage to the colonel,” she said firmly. “I was not coerced, forced, or tricked into marriage. In short, I was the one who instigated it.”

McIntyre did not look happy. His flat mouth turned down, his gaze lowered to his hands again. “I feared as much. But if I refuse his business, he will harangue someone else. He might even find someone unethical enough to accept his claims and take you and your husband to court. That, I don’t scruple to tell you, will eat up what is left of the estate and put you into debt.”

“Did you tell him that?”

He paused before answering. “No, because I think he would do it. He is mad to disown or disbar your husband, but it cannot be done.”

“Should it?”

He raised his gaze to hers, met her eyes. She gazed back, unflinching. “Having met your husband, I have an opinion, but that is not relevant to my professional advice. If he challenges you, will you meet it?”

She let a smile curve her mouth. “I doubt it. We will be too busy. And his debts will die with him. We will refuse them. Let the creditors pick over the corpse of the estate.” If her husband continued in his army career, he might earn a title of his own one day. Not that she cared. She had not married Frank for that. He had not married her because of her status, either.

She had given the man enough time. She got to her feet. So did he. Cecilia shook out her skirts. “I must leave you to make your own decisions, but I can verify that my husband is the legitimate son of a legitimate marriage, and that I am married to my husband with the consent and blessing of my brother. You may check those things when you return to civilization. Whatever decision you make, I can assure you that it will make no difference to our lives. Moreover, if Frank could give the title away, he would do so. It means nothing to either of us.”

Cecilia went to the door, every inch of her a duke’s sister, with all the pomp and grandeur that went with it. “You should deter the viscount from pursuing his ruinous course, especially since he now has a wife and a coming child depending on him. He should concentrate on them, not some ridiculous feud that started before my husband and I were even born.”

With a sense of triumph of a job well done, she left the lawyer to think over what she had said. She was not unaware of the challenges the viscount occasionally made, but nobody in her husband’s family expected a penny from him. The only thing he had done in recent years was to drag Frank’s sisters off the stage in Edinburgh, where they had decided to become actresses. It was one thing to perform in amateur productions in Dublin, however finely staged. Quite another to appear before the baying crowd in a public theater.

He had done it for his precious viscountcy.

Outside the small parlor, Cecilia ran into the viscountess. Actually collided with her, belly to belly. Instinctively, she flung out her hand and found purchase on the newel at the bottom of the elaborate wooden stairs. “I beg your pardon.” She would have passed on, but the lady touched her elbow on her way past. “A moment.”

Had she been listening to Cecilia’s conversation with Mr. McIntyre? Since the viscountess had been standing very close to the room, Cecilia had her suspicions.

Lady Hetherington glanced around, as if expecting to see someone. “Let me show you the family portraits. They’re upstairs in the Long Gallery.”

A private conversation? Cecilia shrugged and followed the lady up two flights of stairs. Their footsteps echoed hollowly on the uncarpeted treads.

Upstairs, it was freezing cold. Although icicles had not formed over the narrow, mullioned windows, Cecilia suspected it might be too cold for that.

She did not have long to look around her at the serried portraits ranked in solemn procession along what amounted to a long corridor. She thought of the long gallery in her childhood home, the bay windows where one might sit and chat or while the morning away reading, the beautifully displayed paintings and the soft chatter of friends. This place was as bleak as the rest of the castle. Not a place to linger and chat.

“You’re truly with child?” Lady Hetherington looked Cecilia up and down.

Cecilia took umbrage at being assessed in that way. “Yes. Grandmama.”

Lady Hetherington, who was clad in a red silk gown that was at the height of fashion huffed and spun around, her skirts swirling. Then she turned back. In a London ballroom, the gesture would be dramatic and impressive, but with only Cecilia as an audience, she might as well not have bothered. Cecilia wasn’t impressed. But a touch of warmth from inside her broke the chill. “Was that it? Yes, I’m with child. No, I do not intend to tell you anything more.”

“My child will inherit the title,” her ladyship announced. “I heard what you said to McIntyre. Why did you lie?”

“I did not.”

“You did. I know about your elopement. Everybody does. You did not marry in Scotland, so your marriage is invalid. He will prove it.”

“Your husband?” Cecilia enjoyed the viscountess’s flinch.

“He was mine, your brother. Mine.”

Her changes of topic confused Cecilia. “He did not think so.”

“I loved him for years. He knows.”

A nasty suspicion crossed Cecilia’s mind. Had her brother seduced the viscountess? But no, if he had a mistress, he kept the affair discreet and he never preyed on single society ladies. “What do you mean?”

“Exactly what you are thinking. Then he left me and took up with that woman. Your husband introduced them.”

In that house, where Frank had gone to find a wife. To free Cecilia, he’d told her later. He was wrong, and she’d set about proving it. Perhaps she had forced the issue, but if Frank had not been willing, she would not have done it. Not like this woman, who seemed to have been holding a torch for her brother. Did he even know it?

“I told him I loved him. He knew we were meant to be together, and he still left me. You think I do not know your story?”

“I’m sorry?”

“You pushed your husband into marrying you. Your brother approved, or so he said. What a good idea, I thought. How clever.” The viscountess bent towards Cecilia like a cat set on a fight. Cecilia resisted taking a step back. She would not retreat. But Lady Hetherington did not retreat, either. “I discovered that your husband went to a marriage broker. Did you know that? He wanted money, because my husband refused to give him any. Were you aware?”

“Yes.” She knew why, as well.

“He wanted money, that’s all. And you foolishly provided it. Now, he wants more.” She turned her back on Cecilia, a deliberate insult. “He won’t get it.”

Cecilia considered leaving, but she’d have to pass the viscountess to do so, and she didn’t trust the woman not to reach out for her. The viscountess was probably twice her size, especially with her pregnancy so far advanced. Better to hear her out, let her spew her venom and then leave.

“We came out of courtesy to Frank’s grandfather.”

“You should give your money to my husband. He is the head of the family.” Her eyes spat fire.

Cecilia held her temper and her astonishment well in check. For now. “What would he do with it? He doesn’t seem to have spent his own inheritance very well.”

“He never had any.” She glanced around at the dark paintings and gloomy, soot-blackened walls. “I was under the impression…” She let her voice tail off.

Long galleries had more than one entrance. Perhaps if she turned and walked away, that would be the best. She faced the woman, torn between comforting her and leaving her. Because Lady Hetherington was very unhappy. Bitterness consumed her, put lines between her brows and by the sides of her mouth.

“Did you think he was rich?”

“What? He is a peer of the realm. I have never met a poor one.” She seemed bewildered. “I married the senior member of the family. I outrank you.”

Cecilia was not so sure. But rank had never interested her. For formal dinners, she stood where she was told, and took the arm of the gentleman designated to escort her in. But what did it matter? After Waterloo, she’d tended the wounded, private and general alike, given them equal attention because they all had families at home, they had all fought.

She would give her new grandmother that.

Tired of the spite, of the petty revenge, she turned and began to walk to the other end of the long room.

“Do not turn your back on me!” the lady thundered after her.

Cecilia kept on walking. Until something thumped between her shoulder blades, so hard that she went down heavily. The fall forced the air out of her body and she gasped, trying to suck in air.

Then the woman was on her, grabbing her hair and turning her so she lay on her back. “What?”

“You will not bear a child.” Before Cecilia could get up, the lady straddled her, forcing her back down, shoving her shoulders roughly. “You will not, do you hear me?”

A knife was in her hand, small, wickedly gleaming in the dim light.

“The heir is mine!”

Cecilia twisted, gasping for air, but the weight on her thighs was too heavy for her to throw the woman off.

Lady Hetherington sat up, grinning, holding the knife high.

As she brought it down, and Cecilia tried to twist out of her way, a shout rang down the room, the sound bouncing off the walls, seeming to circle them. The viscountess stared straight ahead, screamed, the noise she made deafening.

The sound pushed Cecilia into action. She lifted her hands, swung forward, shoved the viscountess in the middle of her chest, forcing her down. The knife bounced out of her hand, but as Cecilia rolled off her and grabbed the weapon, her opponent stayed down.

The woman got to her feet, and Cecilia faced her. Why was nobody coming here? Surely the noise had alerted somebody?

But the viscountess kept her back to her, staring ahead. Cecilia saw nothing at first, but then a movement as someone came into view.

Lady Hetherington screamed and ran, shoving Cecilia aside, making no attempt to attack her.

Cecilia was left facing the comfortable figure of Mrs. Mcavity, clad in her myriad of shawls. “Weel, now,” she said. “Ye shouldna be here, Ma’am. This part of the castle isna safe for ye. Get thee downstairs, and to yer husband. Dinna let that woman get ye alone again. I’ll see to her. Ye, I’ll see again in a few years.”

And she disappeared, melted away into nothing.

Chapter Seven

Cecilia did not scream again, not at the sight of the woman who had welcomed her into the castle and acted as her guardian angel. But it was, as the duke had said, a close-run thing. She stood for a long time staring at the place where Mrs. Mcavity had stood, as solid-seeming as the woman who’d sat on her legs and tried to kill her baby.

Was she insane? Not Mrs. Mcavity, but the new viscountess. Come to think of it…Cecilia did a rapid calculation in her head. Cecilia herself was three months pregnant, as far as they could tell. When she’d married Frank, that was last spring. Her stepgrandmother would have had to move fast if she’d copied Frank’s example and gone to a marriage broker. That would mean that her husband would have had to put her in the family way extremely quickly.

Some women carried high and looked more heavily pregnant than they were. She could only be six months gone, at the most. Was she padding her figure?

She was unhinged, Cecilia decided, but living in this bleak castle with the city a day’s travel away at least might have bent her out of shape. Mrs. Mcavity was the least of her troubles. If the viscountess meant her harm, the quicker they left this place, the better. While she’d been exploring, Frank had been finding a man to take a message to Edinburgh. More reliable than the mail, and faster, he’d said. She had to agree with him. Their one problem was money, but perhaps he could find a messenger willing to take the message on trust, and get his payment from Frank’s mother.

Dear God, no wonder Frank and his sisters had wanted nothing to do with their grandfather.

And she’d been rescued by—a ghost?

Hurrying to the end of the long room, she found a door, but it was unused, the hinges rusted into place. Nobody could get out that way. Her hands were wet. She glanced down. Damnation, it was blood, not sweat, as she’d supposed. Not much, the knife must have caught her as she tried to knock Lady Hetherington’s arm out of the way, but deep enough.

Once, Cecilia might have fainted, but not now. Lifting her skirts, she hurried down the room, raising dust from the length of carpet that adorned it, determined to leave this gloomy place as soon as she could.

Chapter Eight

Frank found a horse in his grandfather’s stables, and ruthlessly commandeered it. He needed help getting into the saddle because of his injured ankle, but once there, he managed well enough. He’d spent enough time in the saddle to cope with a mere wrench. He turned the beast to the house of the man who had saved him. If he found its direction, and told his savior his own, he could recompense him once he reached Edinburgh, and he was determined to do so.

He owed Mcavity his life.

Skirting the narrow passage and the bay where he’d nearly died, he found the place well enough. It was the only man-made structure for miles. The thatch of the cottage was in a poor state, much of it gone, and the chimney didn’t look strong enough to handle a fire. The planks that made up the front door were worn and only small flakes of paint remained.

Frank couldn’t alight. If he had, he wouldn’t be able to mount again without help. He shouted. “Halloo!”

No answer. He circled the place, saw the parlous state of it, and turned for the village. Perhaps the landlord of the inn would know the old man, and help Frank get in touch with him. Another storm would destroy the cottage. If his savior was living there, he wouldn’t last much longer. Frank knew how he could thank the man.

Back at the inn, he got an ostler to help him down and, with the aid of his cane, limped his way into the inn.

“That old building near the small bay.”

The landlord wiped his hands on a clean cloth and turned to him. “Aye. It’s been there for a long time. It’s a wonder it hasn’t fallen down, but it will. In time.” Just as well, Frank was attuned to the thick accent the man used.

“Do you know who lives there?”

His host burst into laughter. “Why, nobody. It’s a memorial, that’s all.”

Frank nodded to the cask of beer on the shelf and the landlord obligingly turned the tap and poured him a full tankard. Frank tasted it and nodded. “You brew well. So tell me about the house and who lives there. Lived there.” If nobody lived there, why did his rescuer say he did?

“It’s been empty a long time, but nobody robbed it out. They left it alone because the couple who lived there never died. Or so they said.”

Frank felt a chill in his bones that had nothing to do with the cheerful warmth of the inn. He let the innkeeper talk.

“Their family was devoted to yours, sir. It’s said that a Mcavity went with the Burrell who went to the Crusades with King Richard. Never wavered. But the old man and his wife who lived there were the last. They had a son, but he drowned, poor boy, in the bay. Their house was the nearest, and they used to go and help when there was a wreck, and back then, there were a lot of wrecks. There’s a story about their deaths, but nobody rightly knows.” He shrugged and turned to refill Frank’s tankard while he recounted the story. “It’s a good tale, but nobody knows for sure. Their graves are in the kirkyard yonder.”

Frank finished his beer, thanked the landlord and set to business. He found the landlord more amenable than anyone in the castle. He made his arrangements, and much more content than before, left the inn to hobble across the green to the churchyard.

And just where the landlord had told him, he found the grave.

Now, Cecilia only had a gown with a smear of blood on it to wear to dinner. Severely shaken, she went to her room and sat on the bed, waiting for her shock to subside. Eventually, she tidied herself up and went to find her grandfather-in-law.

She didn’t wait for his “Come in”, after she knocked. She merely lifted the latch and entered.

He was sitting in his chair next to the fire. Did he ever leave it? As usual, the blast of heat smacked her as she entered, but she expected it now. The viscountess was not present. Cecilia didn’t know if she was glad or not.

“What do you want?” he demanded in his typically curmudgeonly way.

She curtseyed, more a reminder of what manners were than a true obeisance. “Your wife attacked me,” she said. To prove her point, she held up her bandaged arm. Not a very good job, as she’d had to do it herself. Her skirt was still smeared with blood. She must look more like a ragamuffin than the wife of the heir to this place.

“She did, aye? You must have provoked her sorely.”

“You would know that. Unless you never talk to her. She has resented me for an imaginary slight for years. But that does not give her the right to fling me to the floor and threaten my child with a knife.”

His rheumy eyes opened wider and he sat up. For once, he looked like an aristocrat, ramrod straight and dignified, despite the wisps of gray hair that surrounded his head like a perverted halo. “She did, eh? And no, she should not have done that. Since she got with child, her moods have changed. She shouts more than she talks, and she resents the world. Including me. Well, nobody made her marry me. I sent to that woman in London and I got her.” He subsided again, seeming to collapse inside himself. “Best keep out of her way.”

“If my child is a boy, he is your heir.” She wanted him to understand that.

“Aye, I know.” He sighed heavily. “If my son had chosen anybody but her as a wife, I’d have welcomed them. But she’s a scoundrel, an adventuress.”

And so were her daughters, Cecilia thought, but she didn’t say it. And astonishingly beautiful. Not that she’d say that, either. “But I am not.”

“No, you’re not. I thought young Frank would die in the wars, but he didn’t, and now you’re here.” He shook his head, and gripped the handle of his cane tightly. “You’d better get to your room. I’ll send somebody to you.”

That was all she was going to get from him, she could see that. So she left. She would surely keep out of the viscountess’ way. Would her husband remonstrate with her? In Cecilia’s opinion, she should be locked up as a lunatic, but living in this place was enough to drive anyone mad.

She met Mrs. Cooper on her way to her room. The lady tutted at the state of Cecilia’s self-applied bandage, and insisted on unwrapping it, washing it properly and re-bandaging it much more neatly. Cecilia didn’t explain how she’d cut her hand. The less people knew, the better. Gossip ran faster than the wind.

Frank came in, hair rumpled from running his hands through it, a habit of his she had given up trying to break. “I got a man to ride to town for us—why, what’s this?” He hurried over to where Cecilia sat. Mrs. Cooper got to her feet. “Your lady wife had a slight accident. Nothing to worry about, I assure you, Colonel. I will leave you in your husband’s capable hands.”

She smiled and left the bedroom. “She might be a pompous old stick, but she knows how to bandage a wound,” Cecilia said. “She’s right. It’s not serious.”

He sat next to her and, after propping his cane on the side of the bench where she sat, took her hand gently. “Now, what have you been doing?”

“Promise not to fly off the handle?”

“When have you ever known me to do that?”

“You might, when you hear what happened,” she said. She recounted her story as calmly as she could, including the disappearance of Mrs. Mcavity at the end. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” she said.

“I have,” he answered. “On my way to the village, I rode to the old cottage where the man who rescued me from the storm lived. Or I thought he did. The place is a ruin, a shell, the innkeeper at the village told me. He told me a story. Now it’s my turn to recount something strange.”

“Oh.” She shivered a little.

“He told me that there is an old legend about a couple called Mcavity who died in a terrible storm a hundred years ago. They were rescuing passengers from a shipwreck when the laird came upon them, took them for wreckers, and killed them on the spot. When he learned his mistake, he was so remorseful that he threw himself from a room at the top of the highest tower, dashing against the rocks.”

“Goodness.” Taken aback, Cecilia didn’t know what to say.

“That old man who made me walk to the top of the bay told me his name was Mcavity.”

She thought of the room where she’d awoken in bed. She’d never seen it since, not given it a moment’s thought, but now that she was more familiar with the castle, she was sure she could find her way there.

“I want to check something,” she said. Despite his protests that she must rest, she insisted on leaving their room and going to the small doorway set into the old stone of the original building.

It wasn’t there. They stared at the place where it should have been, the bricked-up doorway obviously done a long time ago.

A servant passed them, stopped.

“Where does this door lead?” Frank asked him.

“Nowhere,” the servant replied. “There used to be a turret there, but it crumbled away years ago.”

Frank dismissed him, and took Cecilia’s hands. “We are leaving this accursed place,” he said. “Tonight. I bespoke a room at the inn in the village. The survivors of the wreck left on today’s mail coach, and as soon as our carriage arrives, we’ll follow them. I never want to see this place again.”

“You might have to,” she pointed out. “It will be yours one day.”

Frank shrugged. “That doesn’t mean we have to live here.” He looked around, shuddered.

A voice whispered past them. “Nothing that a bucket of soapy water and a cloth couldna put right.”

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Lynne Connolly

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

Lyon Eyes

The Daring Dersinghams Series

A Touch of Silver

A Hint of Starlight

A Trace of Roses

A Bunch of Mistletoe

A Whisper of Treason

About the Author

I write stories, and I always have. And I love a happy ending, especially a well-deserved one.

I’m an award-winning, best-selling author of historical romance. I fell in love with the eighteenth century when I was nine years old, and it’s my dream job to write about the people who lived and loved back then.

I used to work in marketing, and I have more letters after my name than in it, but I don’t use them much anymore.

I live in the UK with my family, including my muse, Frankie the Nonsense, a ragdoll with no decorum. I love traveling, and I get over to the States at least once a year.

My website is at lynneconnolly.com. Twitter @lynneconnolly and my Facebook page is here: facebook.com/lynneconnollyuk. My blog is at lynneconnolly.blogspot.com.

I also have a newsletter. If you’d like to join it, email me on lynneconnollyuk@yahoo.co.uk or fill in the form on my website.

Guardian of Midnight Manor

Maeve Greyson

Chapter One

Blackborn Hall

Manchester, England

June 1797

“Is he…?” Arthur Preston, the next Earl of Blackborn, couldn’t bear to even utter the word.

Granddad Herschel, the current earl, was the only family he had. In fact, the only family he had ever had since his parents’ tragic deaths in a fire that only spared him because the nursery was in a separate wing of the former Blackborn seat at Midnight Manor.

“He is resting in his room, m’lord.” Flanders, Granddad’s only servant for as far back as Arthur could remember, gave a reserved tilt of his head toward the double staircase at the end of the wide entry hall. The man’s sagging jowls swayed with his every move, a great deal like the floppy ears of a hound. As Arthur headed for the stairs, Flanders cleared his throat with a loud harrumph.

“Yes?” Halting mid-step, Arthur braced himself. One never knew what the devoted butler would report. He counted on the servant to keep him apprised of his eccentric grandfather’s escapades. Granddad might be getting on in years, but age had yet to dim the man’s imagination or his adventurous spirit. “What has he done now?”

Flanders cleared his throat again and spared a side-eyed glance toward the stairs. “I feel you should know that Mr. Burnley is with him.”

“Is he?” Arthur shifted in place on the same red carpeting that had always cushioned his landings when he slid down the banisters as a child. Padded Granddad’s dismounts, too. The old lion, as Granddad liked to be called, had been the one to teach Arthur proper form when it came to jumping off before reaching the carved lion’s head at the end that would rip off his ballocks if hit at full speed. “And why is Mr. Burnley here?”

Mr. Theodore Burnley was the family’s solicitor. Had been for years. Arthur peered up the staircase, then turned back to the faithful Flanders, who had always served as valet, butler, cook, gardener, and coachman with unbelievable ease. “What’s the old lion up to now?”

“I believe he has been apprised of your indiscretions, m’lord.” The elderly servant gave him a chiding look that Arthur knew all too well. “Something about inappropriate attentiveness to every young widow between here and London?”

Arthur laughed, wondering which lady had contacted Granddad in the hopes of either fattening her purse or placing a wedding noose around his neck. “That is quite the area, old man.”

“It is also quite a few women,” Flanders retorted in the same exasperated tone often adopted during Arthur’s rambunctious childhood.

“I am always discreet,” Arthur lied, knowing it futile. Somehow, Flanders and Granddad always knew the truth.

“Get up here, young man! Now, I say!” The bellow nearly shook the timbers of the sprawling manor house.

Even though he knew himself in trouble yet again, it pleased him to hear the old lion’s roar as loud as ever. He gave Flanders a hard look. “Your missive said he was at death’s door?”

“Perhaps, I worded that poorly, m’lord.” The butler cracked a rare smile. “It should have read that the young master will be at death’s door should he not change his ways and take his grandsire’s advice to heart.”

“I see.” It was too late to retreat, and he had never been a coward. Arthur rolled his shoulders, straightened his coat, then strode up the staircase curving to the right. Time to face the mighty beast in his lair. He tapped a knuckle on the door. “Grandfather?”

“In here, boy. Now.”

Arthur entered. Two steps in, he found himself on his back. “Kip! Enough!” he laughed, shoving at the immovable monstrosity sitting on his chest. The hairy black dog, big as a pony but sweet-tempered as a lamb, held him down and washed his face with a most thorough licking.

“Kip! Let him up. You can have him later if there’s anything left of him once I’ve finished.”

The exuberant animal gave one last swipe of its massive tongue, then jumped on the bed and stretched out beside its master.

“Grandfather—”

“You might as well stop right there.” The balding man, his fringe of white hair matching the snowiness of his ample mustache, sat propped among satin pillows with a glass of brandy in one hand. “You only call me Grandfather when you fear yourself in trouble.” He sipped the drink, then aimed it at Arthur. “Do not mistake me for an old fool, boy.”

A small, bespectacled man, dressed entirely in black sat perched on the edge of a leather wingback chair beside the bed. He bowed his head in a poor attempt at hiding a smile.

“And how are you today, Mr. Burnley?” The solicitor irritated Arthur to no end. He had an annoying habit of turning up at the most inconvenient of times and always without warning.

“I am quite well, m’lord.” The man resettled his wire-rimmed glasses higher on his nose, then nodded. “Thank you for the inquiry.”

“Get to the meat of it, Burnley, or shall I?” Granddad slid his glass to the table.

The ruby liquid sparkled in the light given off by the single candle protected by a glass hurricane shade. It stoked Arthur’s courage. Might as well ask for a refreshment of his own. “May I have a last drink before my trial and sentencing?”

“Would you mind, Burnley?” The old earl patted the plush coverlet across him. “I just got comfortable, you see.”

“Think nothing of it, m’lord.” Burnley set aside a sheaf of papers, went to the sideboard, and poured two drinks. He drew Arthur’s attention back to the earl’s brandy on the nightstand. The glass was now empty. “Would you like to serve your grandsire, m’lord?”

“Of course.” Arthur fetched the glass and quickly replaced it with the fresh drink. Upon procuring his own, he sat on the edge of the bed. “Out with it, old lion. What is it now? Flanders led me to believe you were dying.”

The earl chuckled, then drained the second glass and plopped it on the table. All humor left him, replaced with stern disapproval. “It is high time you married before one of those light skirts traps you.”

“Which one contacted you?” Might as well face the attack head-on. Granddad expected no less.

“Not a one.” The old man grew quiet as he stroked the dog lying next to him. His fingers sank into the beast’s thick black fur. “As I said, it is high time you settled down. Married. Filled this hall with great-grandchildren for me to teach about sliding down banisters and all manner of other important things.”

“I have plenty of time to—”

“Well, I do not!” the earl roared in a voice like thunder. “Do you never think of anyone other than yourself?”

Granddad’s displeasure pained him. Arthur loved and respected his grandsire more than the man would ever know. But he wasn’t ready to marry. Surely, he could find another way to appease the old lion.

“Forgive me, Granddad.” He rubbed his thumb along the smooth rim of his glass. “I fear I am finding it hard to understand why you suddenly find this matter so upsetting.”

The solicitor leaned forward with a subtle clearing of his throat.

His expression gave Arthur pause. “Has something happened that I have not been made aware of?”

“Perhaps, I could assist in shedding some light on the matter, m’lord?” Mr. Burnley perked like a cat ready for its cream. “With your permission?”

Granddad Herschel agreed with an irritated flip of his hand.

“You are now in your thirties, m’lord,” Mr. Burnley began. “And yet still have not received the entirety of your inheritance.” His face puckered with a frown, sliding his glasses to the tip of his nose. “Are you not interested in how you might satisfy the will and fully receive what is rightfully yours?”

“My yearly stipend is quite generous.” Arthur shrugged, more confused than before. He had never been the greedy sort because he had always had whatever he wanted. Was money the issue here? Had something gone awry with some of their investments? He had not been informed of such.

“I have a comfortable home here in Manchester. Travel wherever and whenever I wish. Enjoy the company of friends—and others.” He allowed himself a smug grin. “What more could I want?” Before Granddad or the solicitor could comment, he continued, “I am not prone to gaming, wild partying, or excessive expenditures. Compared to some, I might even be considered a bore. Have there been losses? What have I not been told?”

“I assure you, m’lord, your accounts, as well as your grandfather’s, are quite solid.” Mr. Burnley picked up the papers. “But, as I said, you are in your thirties now. You should know that the will stipulates your stipend ends this year.”

“Ends?” He turned and stared at Granddad, who had a disturbing twinkle in his eyes. “Then rewrite the bloody will.”

“I cannot, my boy.” With a sly smirk, the old earl tipped his head toward the sheaf of documents. “That is your parents’ will. Not mine.”

“I need another drink.” Arthur hurried to the sideboard and helped himself to a generous refill. After a hefty sip, he set the glass down and faced the man holding his future in his hands. This entire visit had suddenly become most disturbing. “So, what must I do to satisfy these final requirements and receive the entirety of my inheritance? Marry some prominent heiress in her first season with hips so broad I am guaranteed the successful breeding of progeny?”

“M’lord!” The solicitor looked suitably shocked.

Granddad chuckled and took another sip of brandy. “Get on with it, Burnley. Before the boy pops his buttons.”

“Yes, m’lord.” The little man cleared his throat, adjusted his spectacles, then folded back one of the pages. “The will states you must seek an audience with the Guardian of Midnight Manor.” He cringed as though expecting another unpleasant outburst. “Then you must follow the advice received.”

Arthur didn’t know whether to laugh or throw something at his grinning grandfather. The Guardian of Midnight Manor was a Blackborn family myth about a ghost dog that haunted the crumbling estate currently leased to tenant farmers. Supposedly, the canine specter always introduced the Blackborn males to the woman guaranteed to give them love and contentment all the rest of their days. This had to be one of Granddad’s infamous pranks. He glared at the old lion. “This is your trickery. Isn’t it? Poorly played, old man. Poorly played, indeed.”

The cunning old earl motioned to the solicitor. “Show him the will. The signatures. The dates. Everything.” The curling tips of his mustache lifted in a self-satisfied smile. “If you do not believe Burnley or myself, feel quite free to take the document and have it reviewed by a man of your choosing.”

Arthur snatched the papers and stared at them.

The solicitor rose and hesitantly tapped the bottom portion of the front page. “Just here, m’lord. The part in question.”

It was all there in black and white, albeit a bit faded with the years. He flipped through and stared at his father’s signature, unable to remember a single thing about the man. The only reason he knew what his parents looked like was because of their portraits in the library. “Why would they include such a ridiculous codicil?”

“They wanted to ensure your happiness,” Granddad said. “The Guardian led them to each other. Introduced me to your grandmother. United my own parents. True love is a rare and wondrous thing, my boy. Why would you not wish to embrace it?”

Arthur stared at the silly old codger who had obviously taken leave of his senses. “Most in your position would describe marriage as a means of improving one’s position in polite society. Do you not wish me to marry a young lady of wealth and impeccable social standing to improve the Blackborn pedigree even more?”

“You are not a prize pig I wish to show at the fair.” His grandfather lifted his empty glass and waved it toward the decanters. “Another brandy, boy. And find yourself some good sense to go along with it, eh?” He smiled down at his dog and scratched the great beast behind the ears. “You do remember how to go about finding the Guardian, do you not? As a boy, you loved the legend. It was your favorite bedtime story.”

“Well, of course it was.” Arthur refreshed Granddad’s brandy, as well as his own. “What child doesn’t love tales about spooky ruins and ghostly dogs with glowing red eyes? But as I recall, in the stories you told, the dog wasn’t a matchmaker. He ran off scoundrels and sometimes even ate them.”

“Bah!” Granddad waved away Arthur’s words, then winked at Mr. Burnley.

The solicitor took the cue, hopped up, and gave a polite nod. “Good day to you both, m’lords.” He nodded again at Arthur. “And best of luck in your endeavors, m’lord. I feel most certain all will be well.”

“Not bloody likely,” Arthur growled under his breath as the man skittered out of the room.

Granddad snorted with laughter. Ancient the man might be, his hearing was still impeccable. “Tomorrow night is the full moon,” he said, pausing for another sip, then smiling as the heady drink went down. “I say, that is good.” He smacked his lips, then continued. “Where was I? Oh yes! As I was saying, tomorrow night is the full moon. Go to the tower ruins at Midnight Manor when the moon reaches its zenith. Behind them, actually. I do believe there at the back is where I met your grandmother.”

“And what then?” Arthur blew out a frustrated breath. This bordered on the ridiculous.

Granddad shrugged. “Wait.”

“Wait?”

The old man gave him a look that set the back of his neck to tingling. “Yes, dear boy. Wait.”

Chapter Two

Jennet Ross dumped the platter of meaty scraps on the ground, then wiggled her fingers at the stray. “Come now. Come, eat yer supper. Ye know I willna hurt ye.” The skittish creature whined, so she retreated a few steps to make it less uneasy. Poor thing. Probably mistreated to no end. She smiled at the beast. That would change. He’d come around to trusting her, eventually.

“Ye’re a fine lad,” she crooned to the large black dog, whose sides no longer looked like a washboard with its ribs sticking out. Thanks to her kitchen scraps, the animal was becoming the picture of a well-fed hound. “Now that we’ve gotten ye braw and healthy, could ye find it in yer heart to guard my hen house? Or the pig pen, maybe? As a thank ye for the food, ye ken?”

The dog eyed her, barely wagging its shaggy tail, as it wolfed down the pile of food.

“Ye know that thievin’ bas—” She stopped herself. Nay. She shouldn’t use such coarse language. Not even when speaking to the beast. She began again, “That thief made off with my best piglet last night. The best one!” Jaw tightening, she glared in the direction where the crime occurred. “When I catch him, he’ll get my pitchfork so deep in his backside, he willna sit for a month of Sundays.”

“Jennet? Who ye be talking to, lass?” Auntie Eubha’s shrill voice cut across the farmyard, destroying the night’s peacefulness. “Jennet?”

The stray shot off into the darkness, disappearing without a sound.

Jennet wished she could follow. Not that she didn’t love her aunt, but she grew tired of Auntie Eubha’s constant nattering. “If ye were quieter, ye wouldha seen him.”

“Him?” Auntie repeated, her high-pitched fussing hitting an even sharper note. The plump woman hurried across the yard, lantern raised and broomstick held at the ready. “Who is this him?”

“The dog, Auntie. Remember?”

Ever since their previous landowner’s unseemly advances, both Auntie and Grandfather had been extra protective of her when it came to men. Not that she couldn’t rebuff such improprieties on her own. In fact, she was quite adept at it. That was how they suddenly found themselves evicted from their croft in Scotland. Because she had rewarded the landowner’s lustful behavior with a broken nose. Smacked him flat in the face with her spade. Labeled as useless troublemakers, they’d traveled all the way to Manchester, England, to find anyone willing to lease them another farm.

Out of breath, her plump cheeks scarlet in the lantern-light, Auntie Eubha peered into the shadows. “Dog? I see no dog.”

“Well, ye wouldna see him, now would ye? Seeing as how ye scairt him off.” Retrieving her own lantern from the fencepost, she herded Auntie back in the door’s direction. “Inside wi’ ye now, or ye’ll be down with the ague afore ye know it.”

“In future, I shall try to be more soft-spoken,” the woman said, still struggling to breathe as she waddled along. “’Twould be good to have a dog about.” She jerked her head back and forth so hard, her white kerchief fluttered like wings. “Three chickens gone. A piglet. Who knows how many eggs?” She shook the broom. “And that doesna even count the vegetables stolen from the garden.” She looked ready to cry. “I had such a taste for those peas. Saved a bit of pork fat for their cooking. Planned on a fine pan of fried bread to go with them.”

“Calm down, Auntie.” Jennet herded her into their modest cottage. “Shh, now. Look. Grandfather is fast asleep in his chair. Poor old soul. Weary to the bone, he is.”

“Dinna shush me,” the matron fussed. “That man canna hear himself break wind. We willna wake him, I promise ye.”

“Be that as it may…” She turned the elderly woman toward the narrow staircase leading up to their room. “’Tis time for bed. On wi’ ye now. I’ll be up as soon as I get Grandfather into his bed. If he sleeps in that chair, he’ll nay be able to move come morning.”

“Serves him right, old coot. Says he sleeps down here to protect us. Pshaw!” Auntie lit the candle in the brass chamberstick, lifted it high, and headed toward the shadowy stairs. “Mind the lanterns, aye? Ye’ll put them out to save the oil?”

“Yes, Auntie.” Jennet held her tongue. This same conversation happened nearly every night. “To the bed wi’ ye now. Sleep well.”

“Aye, lass. Dinna be long. I canna rest easy if I dinna hear yer breathing beside me.”

Jennet bit her lip to keep from smiling. Auntie would be snoring before her head hit the pillow. After the elder disappeared up the steps, she hurried to the narrow bed in the corner beside the hearth and turned it down. Grandfather wheezed out a long rumbling snore that ended with a snort. It made her smile, his sleep sounds both comforting and sad. He was getting on in years. The only parent she had ever known. She’d miss him so when he went on to his reward.

He sagged sideways in the high-backed wooden chair softened with a few threadbare pillows. One of his arms hung over the side, and his pipe dangled from his fingers. Thankfully, the thing hadn’t dropped. The clay stem was already short as could be.

Jennet emptied its bowl into the hearth and set it on the small round table beside his chair. With a gentle pull on his hand, she spoke close to his ear. “Come, Grandfather. To bed with ye now.”

His scraggly brows wiggled up and down like a pair of unkempt wooly worms. “What? What say ye?”

She playfully tugged on his bushy mutton chop sideburns, as she had often done as a child. “Come to bed,” she repeated louder. “Ye canna spend the night in yer chair.”

He gave her a sleepy, loving smile and gently patted her cheek. “Ye’ve the right of it, sweet child, as ye always do. I dinna ken what I would do without ye.”

Helping him stand, she wrapped his arm around her shoulders. He had sat so long, he’d gone stiff as a rusted hinge. She got him seated on the side of the bed, removed his boots, then helped him lie back and tucked his blankets up to his chin. After a kiss on his cheek, she smiled. “Sleep well, Grandfather.”

The old man nodded. “God bless and keep ye, dear child.” He was back to sleep before she fully straightened.

Too restless to seek her own slumber, Jennet went back outside and paced back and forth in front of the bench beneath the window. She should have been weary after a full day of weeding the garden, tending the animals, and herding Auntie and Grandfather, but for some unknown reason, a tenseness made it impossible to sit, much less lay in the bed beside her snoring aunt. It was a balmy summer evening. She stared upward and smiled. It must be the full moon making her so fidgety.

The silvery orb had risen so high, she no longer needed a lantern. It bathed everything in its bright blue-white light, making it as easy to see as if it were daytime. A gentle breeze stirred, making the trees rustle with a peaceful shushing. Jennet needed this time to herself. It centered her. Helped her work on the problems always nagging at the back of her mind. Unfortunately, she had yet to discover a solution for any of them.

The matter of the thief. How to catch the fiend in the act. Then there were the crops and the strange blight that had shown up in the orchard. She would have to seek advice about that from someone in town. Such a thing had never happened on their farm in Scotland. Grandfather seemed weaker this summer. If something were to befall her dear grandsire, would the current landowner see fit to allow two women to maintain the tenancy? She shook her head and blew out a heavy sigh. Who knew the answer to any of those things?

She needed a walk to clear her head, or she would never sleep. It didn’t matter that the hour was late. Better to walk in the fresh air than toss and turn in the stuffy room where Auntie insisted that sleeping with the window open would surely bring on the ague. Silly old woman. She swore everything brought on the ague.

Taking the dirt path to the right, she headed toward the ruins that towered over the property. Crumbling stone walls, complete with an impressive arched entrance, once a fine pele tower built to guard the estate, or so she had been told, were all that remained of the infamous Midnight Manor.

Enough of the structure still had the roof intact to provide quite an ample stable for some of the farm animals and roosts for the chickens. Something about the stonework of the place intrigued her. What stories they could tell, if only they could speak. The townsfolk feared the place, said it was haunted and wouldn’t come anywhere near it. That’s why none of the women she had met came visiting. They had given her that excuse on several occasions.

Jennet blew out a lonely sigh, lifting her face to the breeze’s caress. She was a Scot. She didn’t fear ghosts. Spirits could guide the living if treated with the respect they deserved. Besides, she had seen nothing strange or eerie since they arrived. The stories about a ghostly dog with glowing red eyes were surely some silly tales to keep children from playing among the ruins.

With a tilt of her head toward the barred gate of the archway, she listened. All she heard was silence since the cows and sheep had remained in the adjoining field, enjoying the mild night. She needed to check just the same. What with all the thievery of late. She noticed the pitchfork and spade leaning against the outside wall. Grandfather had forgotten to put them away again. He used to be so careful of his tools, but this summer, it seemed like he was slipping. She gathered them up and pushed open the creaking gate of iron bars, thankful they had chained the heavy wooden barrier used during winter out of the way. The interior was dim, but enough moonlight filtered in through the door and arched window to enable her to see. Just as she returned the tools to their rack next to the chicken coop, the sound of flapping wings and flustered clucking filled the air.

The thief. Or maybe a fox. It had to be because she hadn’t made enough noise to disturb the hens. Silent as a feather, she eased the pitchfork back down. Whether it be beast or person troubling her poultry, they would rue the day they had decided to steal from her again.

She entered the coop through the door connecting it to the stable, then paused, not wishing for her skirts to rustle in the straw and warn the intruder off. The birds had already settled back down, their contented clucking signaling that whatever had startled them must not have been that dire.

Silly hens. Jennet turned to put away the pitchfork, but the unmistakable sound of something clumping about on the packed dirt outside stopped her. Footsteps. Boots, in fact. Most definitely a person. She hurried back into the stable, a plan of attack already forming. If that fool thief planned on stealing eggs, chickens, or anything else he had no right to, she had a surprise in store for him.

She would sneak her way around the wall and catch him in the act. When she came to the gate, she stopped. The rusty thing couldn’t move without the hinges squealing louder than a pinched piglet. She eyed the arched window. They had chained its shutters open to give the stable a good airing. It was her only hope of taking the thief by surprise.

She rolled a keg of nails under it, climbed on top, then dropped the pitchfork out the opening first. Gathering her lower petticoat up out of the way, she shinnied out next, thankful no one was there to witness her unladylike behavior. Thievery demanded action, not propriety. She recovered the pitchfork, held it at the ready, and slipped around to the back of the building. Grandfather had built the hen house, so its exterior had nothing more than a small door for the birds. But each of the compartments that held their nests had its own panel that opened for the gathering of eggs. It kept the birds safe from animals but not from thieves able to operate the latches that kept the hinged panels closed.

Peeping around the corner to assess the details of her prey, she frowned. A man. A well-dressed man, in fact. Cutaway coat with shining brass buttons displayed the impressive width of his shoulders. Fine, buff-colored breeches hugged his muscular legs. Tall riding boots, their polished leather gleaming in the moonlight. A neckcloth so white it took on an eerie glow. She wasn’t close enough to make out his features, but his cropped hair was black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat. He looked to be a person of genteel rank. Whether he behaved like a gentleman remained to be seen.

Weapon raised, she stepped out of the shadows. “Ye better have good reason for yer trespassing, or ye’ll be feeling this pitchfork.”

The stranger jerked about, obviously startled. He peered at her for half a breath, then had the temerity to adopt an ingratiating smile. “Forgive me for frightening you, madam.” Another step toward her, and he came to a quick halt when met with the sharp tines of the pitchfork.

“Dinna speak to me as if I’m some featherbrained ninny.” She jabbed the air to assure the rogue she didn’t jest. “Are ye the one who stole my piglet? The eggs? My hens?” Stabbing the air again, she brandished the pitchfork higher and forged ahead, growing angrier by the second. “Is this the type of tomfoolery that rogues such as yerself do for amusement? Rob good, hard-working folk of their living? Well, I tell ye right now, sir, ye best make yerself right with the Lord, for yer reckoning is at hand.”

The gentleman’s air shifted from placating to painfully polite. He retreated a step, hands lifted, and focus locked on the pitchfork. “I assure you, Mistress—?” He paused, obviously waiting for her to introduce herself.

“Miss Jennet Ross, thank ye verra much.” She kept her weapon aimed and ready. “I recommend ye start explaining yer presence here if ye dinna wish to stand there all night.”

“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Ross.” He gave a polite half-bow and held a hand to his chest. “I am Lord Blackborn.” He twitched as though finding the title distasteful. “The baron—not the earl.” After a glance around, he added in a quieter tone, “But you may call me Arthur, if it would convince you to set aside your fine weapon there.”

“Blackborn,” she repeated. The balmy evening suddenly became quite chilly. She stabbed the pitchfork into the ground and lowered her gaze. “Forgive me, m’lord.” As an afterthought, she dropped a clumsy curtsy that would have made her aunt faint dead away from embarrassment.

Chapter Three

Such a pretty protectress of Midnight Manor.

At least as far as he could discern. Her fair hair shone a warm golden shade even in the moon’s cool, blue-white light. He liked the way her abundance of curls seemed to have a mind of their own, escaping the efforts of pins and ribbons to keep them tethered in a bunch at the back of her head. Instead, the tempting wisps fluttered about in the breeze, snatching at her shoulders in a way he found most pleasing. A curvy young miss. Healthy. One might even call her sturdy—although not to her face. He had no doubts she could hurl that pitchfork with the strength and accuracy of any man. The incessantly preening ladies of his most recent acquaintance paled in comparison to this determined young woman.

And she was so much nicer than some ghostly dog with glowing red eyes.

Arthur realized he was staring. “Forgive me, Miss Ross.”

She kept her gaze locked on the ground and remained silent.

“Miss Ross?”

“Aye?”

He barely heard her.

“You have done nothing wrong,” he hurried to assure. “Please don’t feel you must stand before me like some truant waiting for the strike of the headmaster’s cane.” He so wished he hadn’t used his title and struck her mute. “There has been thieving here, you said?”

That brought the beauty back to life.

“Aye, m’lord.” She lifted her head and even risked another step toward him. “Three hens, an untold number of eggs, and last night, my finest piglet!”

Arthur bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling. Miss Ross wasn’t hysterical as most ladies would be, she was enraged and ready to do battle. He liked her. “I am so sorry to hear that. Do you feel the details point to a marauding animal or a person?”

She threw up both hands, finally forgetting she was the tenant farmer and he the titled landowner. “It’s as though the things disappear into thin air. I’m at my wits’ end, and this canna continue. I fear one of the calves’ll surely be next, and then what excuse shall I give to the—” She cut herself off, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. Even in the moonlight, he recognized worry and fear flashing in her eyes.

“My grandfather will understand. I promise you, Miss Ross. I shall make certain of it.” He spotted a bench on the other side of what must be the henhouse. “Would you mind if we sat? I know the hour is late, but I walked here, and when you came at me with that pitchfork, you gave me quite the shock.”

She wrinkled her nose and stole a glance back at the tiny cottage that had to be her dwelling. “It wouldna be quite proper, now would it?”

Arthur pressed a hand to his heart. “I swear I shall tell no one. Your reputation will be most safe.”

“Dinna make light of such things. Reputations are fickle beasts that can render ye homeless if ye dinna take care.” Her gaze drifted to the bench, and the furrow between her brows eased. “But seein’ as we are already here.”

Even though they were but a few steps away, he offered his arm. “M’lady?”

Her eyes narrowed, matching the tightness of her jaw. “Just so ye know, I dinna take well to teasing.” Chin at a defiant tilt, she marched to the bench and perched on one end of it. She faced the pasture, turning her back toward where he would sit.

“So noted, madam.” Arthur joined her. “How did you and your husband come to be in Manchester?” While subtlety usually came easily to him, his confirmation of her unmarried status did seem a bit glaring. He hoped she wouldn’t take offense, but he had to know for certain.

“I have no husband,” she confirmed. “Auntie, Grandfather, and I lost our croft in Scotland.” She fidgeted, squaring her shoulders and stiffening her spine. “Our search for another tenancy ended here because no one else had the confidence nor kindness to let to us.” Looking out across the sleepy farmstead, she drew in a deep breath, then released it.

“When we contacted the solicitor who placed the advert for Midnight Manor, he agreed to a lease despite our lack of references because no one else offered any interest in the place.” Her stiffness disappeared, and the promise of a smile enhanced the fullness of her tempting lips. She nervously plucked at the folds of her overdress, gathered to her hips. The muddied hemline of her lower petticoat looked to have taken the brunt of the soiling from her labors. “I am sure ye are quite aware of what the townsfolk say about this place.” Her smile finally bloomed full and beautiful, lending a sparkle to her eyes. “The lore of the tower being haunted?” Her excitement at the possibility of ghosts made him decide this ridiculous quest had turned out quite nicely after all.

“I have heard the rumors,” he admitted. “But I don’t believe I have ever had the pleasure of hearing the legend in its entirety.” That wasn’t a lie. Not exactly. The tales he had enjoyed as a child had all been about the ghostly dog expunging evil from the Manor. Only yesterday had he learned of the beast’s eternal duty to introduce all Blackborn males to their future wives. He honestly couldn’t recall the origin of the story nor how the ghost had come to be. But he could tell by the twinkle in Miss Ross’s eyes that she not only knew the myth but couldn’t wait to share it. “I know it to be quite late, but would you care to relate what you know about the myth of the ghostly dog that haunts Midnight Manor?”

“Oh, aye.” She finally faced him, hands clasped in her lap. Leaning forward, she looked about to share a secret or juicy morsel of gossip. “Many, many years ago, no one knows how many years for certain, a mighty nobleman was master of this land.”

The more entranced the lady became with her storytelling, the thicker her brogue, and Arthur loved it. “Go on,” he urged, contented to sit in the chicken yard until dawn if this dear woman saw fit to allow it.

“He had but one child,” she said, her voice ringing with solemnity and suspense. “The child his beloved wife died bringing into this world. A precious daughter. As lovely and innocent a young woman as ye would ever hope to meet.” She paused as only a born storyteller would. “Fair Ellen was her name, and the wee maiden was her father’s pride and joy.”

Arthur found himself enraptured. Not by the story. But by this rare woman who didn’t march to society’s strict tempo or standards. “She was her father’s pride and joy,” he repeated. “Please, do go on.”

Her tender features pulled into a thunderous scowl as Jennet gladly obliged. “But the nobleman erred in his ways when he married again. To an evil woman. A woman with a jealous heart and malice in her blood. She couldn’t bear the favor her husband gave to his beloved daughter, so she devised a way to rid herself of the lass.”

“Yes?” Arthur prayed the telling of the legend would last forever. “Go on.”

“She conspired with the master cook, striking a bargain if he would help her. The wicked brute agreed, and so she put her plot to action. When the nobleman left for his daily hunt, his jealous wife went to Fair Ellen and bid her help in preparing a fine feast to serve upon his return. Of course, the girl loved her father so verra much, she quickly agreed and asked her stepmother what she required. The vile woman told the lass to go to the kitchens and tell the cook to dress a fair, milk-white doe for the nobleman’s favorite pie.”

Jennet took hold of his hands and held them tight. She was so caught up in her tale, she was oblivious to what she did. Arthur was glad, hoping she never came to her senses and released them.

Her voice grew hushed. “So, Fair Ellen found the master cook just as her stepmother bade, and when she told him the words, he laid his bloodthirsty hands upon her, shouting as he lifted the knife, ‘ye be the fair, milk-white doe for yer father’s pie, and I mean to kill ye!’”

Once again, Jennet paused, building the suspense until Arthur held his breath.

“And?” he urged, scooting closer.

“A scullery boy, loyal to his master and the precious maiden, rushed forward and begged the cook to take his life in Fair Ellen’s stead. But the evil man shoved him aside and stabbed the lass dead, warning the kitchen lad that if he told a soul, he would find himself butchered, as well, and cooked along with the girl. The boy fled, unbelieving of the horror he had just witnessed.”

She paused again. Voice low and ominous, her words became hushed. “When the nobleman returned that night and sat at his table, he commanded his wife to fetch his fair daughter to sup with them. Instead, the cruel lady smiled and set a healthy portion of the terrible pie in front of the man. ‘Eat,’ she said. ‘Yer daughter has taken leave of this place and run off to a nunnery.’ The lie broke the father’s heart, and he replied, ‘Nay. I willna eat until my daughter is restored to me.’ By then, the scullery lad found his courage, ran to his master, and told of the grisly tale. As proof, he told the nobleman to search his wife’s chambers for a small wooden box the cook had given her. When the box was found and opened, it held one of Fair Ellen’s fingers wearing the ring the nobleman had presented to her on her last birthday.”

“Ghastly,” Arthur whispered, finding himself as caught up in the tale as he was with the enchanting Miss Ross. “Surely, the man ordered his wife and cook executed?”

“Aye,” Jennet said, retribution arching her fair brows. “Burnt the woman at the stake and boiled the cook in his own oil.”

“Even that was too lenient for them.” Arthur shook his head. “Such a tragedy. Thank goodness for the loyalty of the boy.”

With a sympathetic nod, Jennet agreed. “It is said that the grieving nobleman refused to eat and died soon after, leaving all his worldly possessions to the brave lad.” In an eerie tone, she continued, “And it’s also said the poor man’s soul still mourns for his murdered daughter. Walking this earth as a great black dog with glowing red eyes. Always searching for his precious Ellen.”

“What a remarkable tale.” Arthur smiled, wishing the story had been longer. “And a remarkable storyteller, as well. Thank you so very much for sharing it with me, Miss Ross.”

Jennet bowed her head at the praise, then gasped. With a jerk, she released his hands and hid her own behind her back. “Forgive me, m’lord. I meant no impertinence. Truly, I did not.”

“When it is just us, with only nature as our chaperone, I am Arthur,” he corrected. “Not m’lord.” He scooted as far from her as the bench would allow to make her feel less ill at ease. “I promise you, I am not some rake looking to take advantage of my grandfather’s tenants, and I would never cause you nor your family any problems.” He shrugged. “To be honest, I’ve never paid much mind to society’s silly rules. I dictate my own actions.” With a grin, he added, “As you can imagine, I am quite unpopular because of my opinions, but at least I know who I can trust.”

Her smile returned, albeit a much shyer version. “I thank ye, m’lor—Arthur. Ye may call me Jennet under the same conditions.” She caught her bottom lip between her teeth again. A habit he already found endearing. “If ye would like to, that is. Ye dinna have to, if ye dinna wish it. I fear I get carried away when telling ghost stories because I love them so.”

“Have you seen the dog yet, Jennet?” He loved the feel of her name as it rolled off his tongue. It felt so… natural. As if he had uttered it all his life.

“The ghost dog with the red eyes?” She laughed. “Nay, m’lord.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Forgive me. Using yer Christian name will take some getting used to.”

“Ah, yes. The traditions that make us what we are today.”

“I suppose so,” she said quietly, then a strained silence rose like a wall between them. When he feared she was about to leave, she turned to him and frowned. “Why are ye here, Arthur? A gentleman such as yerself? Skulking about the farm at such an hour?”

Might as well tell the dear lady. After all, she seemed to enjoy a good ghost story. “I am looking for a wife.”

“Beg pardon?” She looked at him as though she thought him mad.

He grinned. Both glad and relieved to see the tense silence between them gone. “There is another legend about the ghostly dog of Midnight Manor.”

“Do tell?” Jennet leaned forward, her rapt attention returned.

“Yes, dear Jennet.” Arthur gave the same knowing nod Granddad had always used when starting a story. “The specter canine is also known as the Guardian of Midnight Manor, and he leads the Blackborn males to their prospective brides. The women guaranteed to bring them love and contentment throughout their lives.” He shrugged. “And maybe even beyond.”

Her eyes narrowed again, but this time, with leeriness rather than as an effect to enhance her storytelling. “Dinna make me regret trusting ye, Arthur,” she warned quietly.

Arthur raised his right hand and placed his left over his heart. “I swear it.” With a slow nod, he pointed up at the moon. “As a matter of fact, I was sent here by my grandfather and the family solicitor because doing such—” he leaned forward, “—coming here at midnight on the full moon to seek an audience with the Guardian of Midnight Manor—is a requirement in my parents’ will for me to come into the full of my inheritance.”

“What a strange thing to put into a will. Visiting with a ghost dog?” Jennet’s head tilted as she studied him. “What happens when ye return and tell them ye didna see the dog? Just a crazed Scot and her pitchfork.”

At that, he had to shrug again. “I am not certain.” With one last glance at the moon’s position in the sky, he rose and gave a sincere bow. “What I do know, is I have very much enjoyed making your acquaintance, Miss Jennet Ross, and I do hope to see you again soon.”

Jennet graced him with another smile that warmed his heart. She rose and curtsied. “Ye’re a rare man, Arthur, and I am proud to call ye friend.” Her lilting giggle sounded like music in the night. “Well… a secret friend when no one else is around, aye?”

“A friend, dear lady. Always.” With a great deal of regret that their visit had to end, Arthur bowed one last time. “I bid you farewell. Until we meet again.”

Chapter Four

Jennet stifled a yawn as she started where she had left off weeding in the garden yesterday. Backbreaking work, but the peas, carrots, potatoes, and corn would bring a fine price at market and keep them fed through summer and on into the winter. The mindless task was also perfect for remembering last night’s visit with Arthur. She felt quite scandalous at allowing herself to even think of him by his Christian name rather than by his title. Such a handsome man. And so nice. Not at all lustful or rude like their last landowner.

“I didna expect such a smile today considering the hour ye finally got to bed.” Auntie Eubha stood between the cottage and the garden fence, wringing out a sopping wet shirt. Once dry enough to suit her, she shook out the wrinkles and draped it across a taut rope strung between two posts.

“Now, how do ye know what time I got to bed? Ye’re snores were lifting the roof.” Jennet couldn’t resist. She was in too good a mood not to tease.

“I dinna snore,” Auntie said with a lofty air before bending over the washtub and scrubbing another garment. “I’ll have ye know my supper didna set well with me at all. When I went to fetch m’self a wee drink to ease my pains, ye were nowhere to be found.” She straightened and shot a warning squint across the fence. “Now, where were ye? Hunting that thief all by yerself? That isna a fitting task for a maiden alone, ye ken? Pitchfork or no pitchfork.”

Jennet decided it best to tell the truth. Well, at least some of it. After all, if Arthur happened by and acted as though they had already met, both Auntie and Grandfather would find it strange. Old they might be, but both were still sharp as spines on a thistle.

“I thought I heard the thief,” she began, choosing her words carefully. “The hens fretted and flapped so much, I’m surprised they didna wake ye.”

Her aunt dropped the garment back into the wash water and rushed to the fence. “What caused the commotion? A vagrant? A fox? What, child? Tell me!”

“It was our landlord’s grandson. The young Lord Blackborn.” Jennet smiled again, remembering how Arthur had introduced himself as the baron and not the earl.

“The young Lord Blackborn?” her aunt repeated in a voice suddenly gone strange. “The baron who lives to the east of Manchester?”

“I dinna ken where the man lives,” Jennet replied, rounding a row of peas and dumping her basket of weeds in the compost heap. “But, aye, it was the baron. He said so when he introduced himself.”

“And what was that man doing here at such an unseemly hour?” Drying her hands on her apron, the elderly woman puffed up, making her usual plumpness seem even more generous. “And why did ye nay call out to myself or yer grandfather to come to yer aid?”

“I thought ye said Grandfather couldna hear himself break wind?” Jennet teased.

Auntie swelled even more, and her rosy coloring flared brighter. “I wouldha heard yer call and sent him with his musket!” She pulled open the garden gate and stepped inside. “Answer me, Jennet. Why was his lordship here, and more to the point, why did ye nay call out for help?”

In her aunt’s current mood, the woman would never believe the truth. Flighty as the elder was, Auntie didn’t much care for ghost stories.

“His late evening walk brought him this way,” Jennet lied, unable to come up with anything else believable. “This farmstead was once the Blackborn family seat before most of the manor house burned so long ago. He thought to revisit it. Remember what the solicitor told us?”

“Be that as it may, ye have yet to explain why ye didna call out.” Hands reddened by lye soap and hot wash water, the scowling matron shook a finger. “We canna lose this farmstead, lass. Ye know as well as I that if our name draws another black mark, no one will ever let to us again.”

A coldness filled Jennet. A hurt she would never be free of. Even though their previous landowner had trapped her in the barn to make his unwelcomed advances, even though she had refused the man by breaking his nose with her spade, everyone still blamed her for his improper behavior when her only fault was being a woman. It was always the woman’s fault. No matter what the man did. “I assure ye, Auntie, my behavior was exemplary and proper, as was Lord Blackborn’s.”

“Be that as it may,” her aunt began again, wearing out the infernal phrase. “Once again, just as before, ye had no witnesses nor a proper chaperone or guardian to refute any rumors that might occur.” Her chin jerked lower, and she shot a shaming look down her long nose. “Now, did ye?”

“There will be no rumors unless the chickens decide to spread falsehoods.” Jennet yanked out another weed, wishing she had come up with a better lie. Straightening, she glared at the meddling old woman. “And whichever hen cackles out tales will end up in a pot with dumplings and carrots!”

Auntie headed back to the washtub, still shaking a finger in Jennet’s direction. “I’ll be speaking to Grandfather about this. He’ll have words for ye, I grant ye that.”

“I am most certain he will,” Jennet muttered as she trudged to the row of vegetables farthest from her aunt. It didn’t matter. She had already weeded these plants. She’d check them again to put some space between herself and Auntie’s hurtful chatter.

A movement in the shade beneath the great oak at the edge of the pasture caught her eye. Breath held, she watched and waited, ready to run for her pitchfork. Predators rarely came out in the light of day, but if hungry enough or searching for food for their young, the hour didn’t matter. She relaxed when she made out the dark shape of her sweet stray. Poor boy. Probably ready for a bit of breakfast. She had saved the morning scraps for when he turned up, knowing if she scraped them onto the ground without him there, the chickens would pick them clean before he showed.

“My back needs a rest,” she called out as she headed back to the cottage. “I’ll carry out the scraps now, check on the lambs, then help ye with the rest of the wash, aye?”

“Aye,” her aunt said without looking up from her scrubbing. “That’ll do nicely.” She paused and shot a stern look as Jennet passed. “But I shall still speak to Grandfather.”

“Whatever ye feel ye must do.” Jennet bit back any additional comments that might continue the conversation. She’d listened to quite enough of Auntie’s feelings about Arthur’s visit. She hurried into the cottage, fetched the scrap bowl off the sideboard, then gave her aunt a wide berth on the way to the oak tree. Thank goodness the tall row of corn on the far side of the garden blocked it from the old woman’s view.

“I missed ye this morning.” She eased toward the great black dog sitting at the base of the old tree. “Ye’re the only friend I have, ye ken? The only one I can talk to.” She scraped the breakfast leavings onto the ground. Grandfather ate hearty first thing each day. Oats. Eggs. Sausages. Ham. Fried bread. Even though he wasn’t a large man, he ate enough for ten. Or at least, he once did. Each day it seemed he left more and more on his plate when he pushed away from the table.

She sat on the bench beneath the tree, a sense of contentment filling her as the animal wolfed down every bite. “Ye wouldna think me a light skirt for my visit with Arthur last night, would ye?”

For the first time since he had arrived at the farmstead, the beast came closer, his long tail wagging. Even though he was just a dog, his great brown eyes seemed to hold such kindness and wisdom. Ever so quietly, he whined, then put his paw in her lap.

Jennet’s heart warmed at the gesture. “Would ye let me pet yer head?”

His tail wagged faster.

“Such a fine lad, ye are.” A thought came to her as she stroked his silky black head and rubbed his ears. “If Arthur should ever return, ye should visit him.” A smile she couldn’t stop made her feel better. “He’s looking for a dog to help him find his future wife.”

The noble beast’s tail wagged faster, and his tongue lolled out the side of his mouth. If Jennet didn’t know better, she’d swear the dog smiled.

*

“Good morning, m’lord.”

“Flanders.” Arthur handed over his hat and gloves, then promptly slipped off his coat, as well. It was a warm day, and waistcoat and shirt were more than appropriate for a brief visit with Granddad. “And where might I find the old lion today?”

“In the library, m’lord,” the man replied as he carefully folded the coat over one arm. “His lordship seems quite pleased with himself today?”

“Subtle, you are not.” Arthur grinned, not in the least put out by the butler’s gentle prying. The man had always been more family than servant. “And you are quite astute. I am in a very pleasant mood because I consider last night’s quest to have been a resounding success.”

Flanders arched a bushy gray brow. Quite the reaction for the reticent man. “Your grandfather will be most pleased to hear it.”

“That remains to be seen.” Arthur turned toward the library. “Don’t worry about announcing me, but do wish me luck, old man.”

“Always, m’lord,” the butler replied with a solemn bow.

The man’s response made Arthur smile. In fact, even though he had slept little, everything about the day had made him smile so far. Perhaps because of the delightful Miss Jennet Ross and their most enjoyable visit. He pushed through the heavy double doors of the library and immediately loosened his cravat. “Blazes, Granddad! A fire in the hearth? Today? Why not open the windows for a bit of fresh air?” He frowned. “And where is Kip? I never feel properly met without that monstrosity’s slobbery welcome.”

The elder Lord Blackborn sat beside the roaring hearth, still in his dressing gown with a throw over his lap. Even though it was early in the day, he cradled his usual snifter of brandy in one hand. He winked, enjoyed a sip, then replied, “I find an overly warm library discourages unwelcome visitors. And Kip has gone outside for his morning constitutional. Terrorizing the rabbits or some such wot.” He held up the glass and winked again. “Help yourself to any libation you wish, my boy. I daren’t call for Flanders. The old goat informed me he needed time in the garden if I was to have the fresh greens I requested for my dinner.”

“I fear I cannot tarry long. I merely came by to inform you I have satisfied the will.” Unable to bear the heat any longer, he moved to the window and pushed it open wide. “There. Much better.”

“Have you now?” His lordship chuckled to himself as he relished another sip. Leaning forward in the leather wingback chair, he made an overtly theatrical look around the room. “I see no young lady. Have you not the common decency to bring your intended for an introduction to your grandfather?”

“The will stated I must seek the guidance of the Guardian at midnight during the full moon.” Arthur sat on the windowsill, determined to beat the old lion and blasted solicitor at their own game. “I did just so last night.”

“Apparently, you did not read the passage in its entirety, dear lad.” His snowy mustache twitched as the earl happily chortled again. “It also stated you must follow the advice given and marry the chosen young lady.”

“The tale of the Guardian is a myth,” Arthur announced, proud to have proven himself right and all that nonsense about ghost dogs and legends wrong. “An amusing story for young boys. Not a matchmaking service for the Blackborn line.” He folded his arms and gave a victorious nod. “Last night, no ghost dog with glowing red eyes appeared anywhere near Midnight Manor.”

Granddad held up his glass as though giving a toast. “Ah, but did you meet a young lady in the moonlight?”

How did the sly old fox know? Arthur paused, mulling over his answer. Conversations with Granddad could be a great deal like a game of chess. Every move had to be plotted with the utmost care.

“Why, whatever is the matter, boy?” His lordship settled himself more comfortably in the chair and smiled. “You do realize your silence speaks volumes?” He motioned toward the cabinet of decanters across the room. “Perhaps, you would care for a drink after all?”

Perhaps a small glass of sherry wouldn’t be amiss. Arthur strode to the cabinet and helped himself. “Are you ready for another, Granddad?” He held up the brandy.

“I am ready for an answer.” Sliding his glass to the table beside his chair, the earl leaned back and steepled his fingers together, slowly tapping them in a most annoying manner.

“You always do that, you know.” Arthur returned to the window, determined not to let the wily old man rattle him.

“Do what?”

“Tap your fingers like that right before you go in for the kill.”

“Why, Arthur. I cannot believe you would say such a thing about your beloved grandsire.” His lordship seemed to purr. Now Arthur knew where the moniker, old lion came from.

Downing his sherry, Arthur blew out a frustrated huff. There was nothing to do but answer him. “Yes. I met a young lady last night.” He decided to play the game another way. “Your tenant farmer. A lovely Scottish miss, brandishing a pitchfork.”

“I see,” was the only comment his lordship made.

Arthur braced himself. The game had started. He could tell by the gleam in the earl’s eyes. “She informed me they have had incidents of thieving. Chickens. Eggs. A piglet, even. She was most distressed.” He had to throw Granddad off. Turn this into a report about issues at the farmstead. The old lion despised the thought of anyone taking anything that belonged to him.

“I see,” the earl said again with a smug chuckle as he watched the fire. “This pitchfork the woman brandished. You speak of it as if she used it as a weapon intended for yourself.” He retrieved his drink, then reclined back in his seat with a disturbing half-smile.

“When I startled her chickens, she thought I might be the thief.” That was true enough. “When she found out who I was and that I meant her no harm, she quickly set it aside.”

“Did she now?”

It was then he realized he had just erred by revealing he had introduced himself and put dear Jennet at ease. Might as well be out with it. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Miss Ross is quite a delightful young woman, Granddad. I like her.” There. He said it.

“She is also a tenant farmer, boy. And a Scot, no less.” The old man’s tone rang with a warning that Arthur found most insulting. “You do understand my meaning?” Granddad continued, still staring into the fire.

“What I understand,” Arthur said, deciding to let his honest opinion speak and all else be damned. “Is that Miss Jennet Ross is a fine young lady who I fully intend to see again. She is much better company than any of the so-called acceptable ladies of my acquaintance.” Then he plopped his glass on the windowsill and strode to the doors, tossing back his farewells, “Good day to you, Grandfather.”

“You only call me Grandfather when you find yourself in trouble or are sorely vexed.” The old man didn’t bother to look away from the crackling logs. “Where are you off to in such haste?” he called out as Arthur yanked open the door without commenting.

“To see Miss Jennet Ross.”

Chapter Five

Astride his sleek black thoroughbred, Arthur followed the old carriage path to Midnight Manor. As he neared the heart of the farmstead, he surveyed the scene. A plump matron soused clothes up and down in a large washtub. A man who looked entirely too frail to handle his chores leaned against the top rung of a ladder, hammering a board up under the eaves of the dwelling. As soon as the washer woman spied him, she scuttled off at an impressive run for the codger mending the roof.

“Good day to you, madam,” Arthur called out to ease the harried biddy. The poor old thing not only looked to be gasping for breath, but her cheeks glowed red as fire.

She careened to a halt and dipped with a series of hopping curtsies. “Good day to ye, m’lord. Good day to ye, indeed.” Chin tucked and eyes lowered, she twitched forward and back, huffing and wheezing like a steam engine.

Arthur wouldn’t be surprised if she swooned. “Are you well, madam?”

The elderly man from the ladder hitched his way around the corner of the cottage. “Good day to ye, m’lord,” he shouted, leaving Arthur to believe the man suffered from an impairment of his ears. One of Granddad’s longtime friends had behaved in the same manner, and Flanders had explained the poor gentleman had gone deaf as a post.

“Good day to you,” Arthur shouted back as he dismounted, taking care to face the man. Flanders had also explained that Granddad’s deaf fellow had used lip-reading to aid in understanding anything spoken.

“We are honored by your visit, your lordship. Verra honored, indeed.” Still loud enough to be heard in the next shire, the grizzled old coot pointed a knobby finger toward the pastures. “Lambs are doing well. Calves and piglets thriving too, m’lord. Would ye wish a tour of the place? I think ye’ll be quite pleased.”

Jennet must have told them about his visit. How else would they know his identity?

“That would be most kind,” he yelled back at the man, then gave the washer woman his best smile. “And might I inquire after Miss Ross?” he asked at a more polite volume. “Has she detected anymore thievery?”

“Eh? What’d he say?” The farmer cupped a hand to his ear and scowled at the wide-eyed matron.

“He inquires after Jennet!” she shouted, wringing her hands in her apron. She managed another quick curtsy. “I be Jennet’s aunt. Eubha MacElmurray at yer service, m’lord.”

“What?” the old man shouted. “What say ye?”

“Jennet!” the aunt shouted again. “He asks about Jennet!”

“Jennet?” The elder’s face darkened into a fearsome scowl. He swung about and took a step toward Arthur. “Why ye be asking about my Jennet?”

“Grandfather!” Mrs. MacElmurray shrieked, rushing forward. “Mind yer manners, ye old fool! We canna lose another farm.”

The fuming man thumped his chest and gimped closer. “I be Hugh Ross, Jennet’s grandfather,” he shouted even louder than before. “Answer me! How ye be knowing my granddaughter?”

“Hush, ye old fool! Jennet! Jennet!” The flustered biddy flew off like an overstuffed hen being chased by a fox. “Ye must come, Jennet! Come quick, I say!”

Jennet came running, rounding the corner of the garden with her skirts gathered to her knees.

Arthur smiled. God help him, he had never known a woman like her.

As soon as she laid eyes on them all, she jerked to a stop, shook out her dress, and proceeded at a more ladylike pace. Once she had her grandfather by the arm, she forced a smile. Her eyes begged Arthur’s forgiveness. “Grandfather, this is Lord Blackborn. He is the grandson of the Earl of Blackborn, our landowner.”

“I know that,” the old man growled. “The solicitor told me of him when we signed on, and yer auntie filled in the rest about what a rakehell he is.”

“Grandfather!” Jennet’s fair cheeks flamed as scarlet as her aunt’s. “Please forgive him, m’lord,” she begged softly. “He means no harm. I swear.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Arthur reassured her, wishing he could ease her distress. This dear lady was even more breathtaking in the light of day. A rare treasure to cherish and protect. “I beg your forgiveness for causing such a stir with my visit. I promise you, it was not my intent.”

“What?” Hugh took hold of her arm and yanked her around to face him. “What are the both of ye saying?”

“He wishes to see the livestock,” Jennet lied.

“Into the house with ye,” the old man said, shoving her in that direction.

“Now, see here.” Arthur charged forward and pulled Hugh back.

The old man balled up his knobby fist and swung, missing Arthur’s chin by a whisper.

Jennet’s aunt fainted dead away, hitting the ground with a soft thump.

“Oh, Grandfather!” Jennet pushed her way between them. “His lordship has been nothing but kind. A true gentleman. I promise.”

“Then how does he know of ye?” the old man blustered so loud that birds flushed from the trees. “I willna have anyone putting their hands upon ye nor sullying yer good name. Had my bloody fill of landed Scots and overbearing, titled Sassenachs thinking they can take whatever they wish. Whenever they wish it! ’Tis war I mean to wage against the lot of ye!”

“I assure you, sir,” Arthur began, upset not for himself but poor Jennet. His dear lady had gone quite pale, and he feared her the next to swoon.

“Get off me land!” Hugh roared, his eyes wild and unnatural. “Be gone wi’ ye now afore I get my musket and shoot ye in the arse!”

Jennet’s aunt, who had risen to her knees, keened out another wavering shriek and fainted again.

“I am so sorry,” Jennet sobbed. “Please forgive him, m’lord. He knows not what he says. I have never seen him in such a state.”

Arthur’s heart swelled for the sweet girl. He longed to sweep her into his arms and promise her all would be well. “Fear not, dear lady. Nothing will come of this. You have my word.” He smiled and lowered his voice even more. “And as far as I am concerned, we remain friends. If you allow it and accept me.”

“I will,” she whispered.

“What say ye?” Hugh shouted, advancing again with his fists in the air.

“Please, Arthur,” Jennet cried, struggling to pull her grandfather back. “Please go.”

Her calling him by his given name was all it took. The best way he could protect her, at least for the moment, would be to remove himself from the situation. Hopefully, then she could calm her grandfather before the old man did himself harm with such overwrought emotions.

He sprang to his horse and tipped his hat. “I am sorry, dear Jennet. Please find it in your heart to forgive me.”

After her teary-eyed nod, he wheeled about and spurred his horse into a fierce gallop.

Once out of sight of the cottage, he pulled his mount to a halt and leapt from the saddle. He needed to walk. Needed to think. How on earth could he mend this? His precious Jennet. He had caused her so much trouble. That had not been his intent. “Damn and blast it all!”

He walked to the short bridge spanning the trickling stream his thoroughbred always crossed with an effortless jump. The horse followed at a meandering pace. Perhaps the calming effect of the gurgling water might help him sort his thoughts and come up with a satisfactory solution. He had to convince Hugh Ross that first, he would never cause Jennet any harm or disrespect, and second, he very much liked her.

“Very much like her,” he repeated under his breath. Yes. He did like her even more than very much. She was so much more…a proper description eluded him. “Real,” he finally uttered. Jennet didn’t affect silly airs nor entertain ridiculous charades to make herself seem more enticing. She was enticing enough as just herself. Jennet Ross. Protectress with a pitchfork and master storyteller.

But what to do about her grandfather? And, apparently, her easily excitable aunt.

He stared down at the stream, watching the water race across the smooth, round stones. A heavy sigh escaped him as the weight of the situation settled fully on his shoulders. His own behavior was very much at fault here. The reputation of ensuring that lonely young widows didn’t remain lonely. Then there was his title and the ridiculous rules of polite society. Perhaps the kindest thing he could do for Jennet would be to stay away. That would keep her reputation intact, her grandfather calm, and her aunt off the ground. But, damn and blast, he hated the thought of not seeing her again.

A sudden absence of sunshine drew his gaze upward. Ominous gray clouds had rolled in, blotting out the sun. Thunder rumbled in the distance. An appropriate ending for the promising day that had gone straight to hell in a handbasket. Time to head home to escape a good soaking. Might as well. Nothing more to be done here. His joyful mood had been effectively destroyed and replaced with a black one.

He tugged on the reins to cross the bridge. The animal planted its feet and refused to follow. “Come, Matchem. What ails you?” He pulled again. The thoroughbred tossed his head, yanking the reins out of Arthur’s hand as he stepped back several paces.

“It must be the storm.” Arthur recovered the lines and mounted to better control the beast. He turned the horse back toward the bridge. Considering the animal’s current behavior, a jump across the stream might not end well. He tightened the reins, determined to keep it calm. The thoroughbred grumbled out a nervous whinny, turned aside, and skittered a few paces farther away from the bridge. Arthur looked up from the struggle to turn it back and went still. A monstrous black dog blocked the crossing.

“Kip,” he scolded. “You shouldn’t be so far from the hall.”

The wolflike canine inched forward, then lowered its head. Its spiny hackles created a high, bristling ridge running from between its ears to the tip of its tail. With a harsh snapping of powerful jaws, it bared its teeth. A strange double set of deadly fangs dripped as though starved for fresh meat. A hideous growl clicked deep in its throat, then the dog’s eyes glowed an unworldly red.

“You are not Kip.”

Arthur swallowed hard. A chill raced down his spine, and the back of his neck tingled. Not only had the beast appeared out of nowhere, but the thing’s eyes looked like windows into Hell.

“I am a Blackborn,” he announced, sounding a great deal braver than he felt. “What do you want of me?” If this was the fabled Guardian of Midnight Manor, he hoped introducing himself would protect him from either being eaten or dragged to the animal’s unholy lair. “And this is not the full moon. Daytime. This is daytime, you see? The sun is merely hidden by clouds.” He felt like a fool, babbling to the monster. Time to make an escape.

He turned the horse to bypass the bridge and spurred it on. Nervous mount or not, time to jump the stream and run.

Jaws gnashing, the ghostly dog leapt in front of the mount, blocking that direction, as well. The horse squealed and reared, nearly unseating Arthur. Lightning struck close, splitting a tree beside them. A deafening clap of thunder shook the earth. The spooked thoroughbred bucked, flinging Arthur off its back before galloping away.

He hit the ground hard but rolled and softened the landing a bit. Struggling to gather his wits, he crouched on hands and knees in the tall grass beside the road. Hopefully, the monster wanted horseflesh and had given chase.

The unearthly clicking growl informed him otherwise. It grew louder, closer. He swore he felt the heat of the thing’s breath.

Arthur searched for anything to fend off the beast. Snatching up a rock and a pitiful stick, he jumped to his feet. “What do you want with me?” he shouted again, backing up as the snarling animal crept toward him. Terror filled him, but the will to survive beat it back. “What do you want?”

Inch by inch, the hellhound herded him backward down the old carriage path. Arthur glanced all around, determined not to return to the cottage and cause Jennet any more trouble. He’d take to the woods, shinny up a tree, and wait the devil dog out. With any luck, it would return to the hell from whence it came. A poor plan, but he had to try.

The monster lunged as though reading his mind.

Arthur twisted away from the deadly jaws, cringing as the specter’s fiery breath covered him in spittle that burned like grease popping from a pan. He fled down the road toward the Ross’s dwelling. The hideous entity raged close behind, nipping at his heels. Unwelcome or not, he had to get to that cottage and get inside.

He pounded around the last bend, his speed fueled by terror. The sight he met brought him to a full stop. The unholy monster about to devour him could just be damned.

Jennet and her aunt. On their knees. Bent over the still form of Hugh Ross. Both women weeping.

Lightning split the air again. Thunder exploded, shaking the ground. The dark sky opened up and unleashed the rains. As Arthur walked toward the grim scene, he stole a glance back. The demonic dog was gone.

The fainting aunt lifted her face to the storm and released a high-pitched keening. “I canna believe he’s gone. I canna believe he’s left us.”

Jennet lifted her head as he crouched down beside her. Her sweet eyes were dark with more pain and sorrow than he ever knew existed. “He is gone,” she whispered. With her hand on her grandfather’s chest, she shook her head. “So still. So cold. And it’s all my fault.” Rain streamed down her face, catching on her pale lashes and mixing with her tears.

He eased her into an embrace, thankful when she accepted his comforting. “It is not your fault,” he murmured against her cheek. “It is God’s will, dearest one.”

“I dinna ken what will become of us.” She trembled in his arms, her weeping silent.

Instinct and the fire in his heart bade him cradle her as she cried.

Her aunt cut loose with another keening shriek, moaning as she swayed from side to side. Arthur barely refrained from rolling his eyes. Perhaps it was time to move the mourning inside, out of the mud and rain. Ever so gently, he slid a finger under Jennet’s chin and lifted her face. “With your permission, I shall carry your grandfather inside.”

Biting her lip, she agreed with a quick nod.

Arthur gathered up Hugh Ross’s wasted form and rose to his feet with little effort. Jennet hurried to open the door, ignoring her aunt still wailing on her knees. She rushed to a small cot in the corner, hitching out a quiet sob as she smoothed her grandfather’s covers for the last time. “Here, please.”

After settling the man on the bed, Arthur straightened and turned to Jennet. His poor sweet lady stood hugging herself, trembling even more than before. Unable to bear her suffering, he caught her close and held her. And then he swore to never let her go.

Chapter Six

“I feel quite alone back here,” Auntie Eubha called out from the rear seat of the barouche.

Jennet, in the front beside Arthur, tossed a stern glare back at her. “Ye said ye felt quite weak and ready to faint at the gravesite. With all the seats to yerself, ye can prop yer feet and rest, ye ken?” She’d had her fill of auntie’s loud keening and carrying on at the funeral. A proper weeping would never be denied, but there was no call for caterwauling like a cat with its tail caught in a door.

Arthur’s shaking shoulders brushed against hers, betraying his amusement. Jennet refused to look his way. If she did, she might laugh out loud, and that would not be appropriate today. “Ye are nay helping,” she whispered out the side of her mouth. Her wording made her smile.

Aye, he had helped. In every way. With everything. The casket. The funeral. Grandfather’s fine headstone in the kirkyard. And he had carried her and Auntie to the services in this lovely carriage. But more than that, he had stayed at her side through it all. She had not missed the townsfolk’s looks or their whisperings and knew very well what they all said. Everyone wondered why Lord Blackborn gave a fig about the dead tenant farmer and his family.

“You will stay?” Arthur asked, keeping his eyes on the road ahead. When she didn’t answer, he slowed the carriage and looked her full in the face. “You will stay, will you not?” he repeated for her ears alone.

“Why are we stopping?” Auntie asked with the shrillness of a bird in dire need of being shot.

“We are not stopping,” Arthur reassured, making the horses veer from one side of the path to the other. “I am merely avoiding parts of the road certain to cause you discomfort.” He rolled his eyes, then shot Jennet a sideways glance. “Well, my lady?”

“Ye know that is not the proper way to address me,” she gently scolded. “And yes. We will stay here for as long as his lordship will allow it.” With Grandfather’s weakening over the past few months, she had handled most of the planting and animal husbandry. Midnight Manor was a small farmstead. She was certain she and Auntie could manage the place if Lord Blackborn saw fit to continue the land’s lease to two women.

“I shall see that Granddad allows it.” He leaned the barest bit, pressing his shoulder tighter against hers. “And I will also address you as my lady because I consider you such.” With a meaningful rubbing of their shoulders, he added, “You are my lady.”

She caught her breath at the way he stressed the word my. A delightful warmth, one that had become quite regular of late whenever Arthur was near, swept through her. “M’lord,” she whispered, pressing a hand to her fluttering middle. “Ye shouldna speak so.”

“No. I should not,” he agreed. “Not until your period of mourning is complete. Then we shall discuss it further.”

She didn’t catch her breath again. Instead, she found it quite impossible to breathe at all. Surely he didn’t mean?

“I canna hear a word the two of ye are saying,” came Auntie’s pitiful whine from the back.

“Good,” Arthur muttered under his breath.

Jennet bit her lip again to keep from laughing.

They bounced along the winding road, lined with wildflowers dancing in the breeze. The lovely summer’s day seemed hardly touched by the solemn occasion of laying Grandfather to rest. Guilt still riddled her, but deep in her heart, she knew that even without the uproar of Arthur’s visit, Grandfather would more than likely have passed within a few days. After all, he had been weakening for quite some time.

As they rounded the final bend in the road, she frowned. “Who might that be?”

A phaeton, its black cover raised, waited in front of the cottage.

“I am not certain,” Arthur remarked in a leery tone that suggested he might know more about the one-horse carriage than he cared to admit.

“This canna be good.” Jennet tensed as she caught sight of Mr. Burnley leafing through some papers while he waited. She hadn’t much cared for the solicitor when they had responded to the advert for the farmstead, and for the life of her, she didn’t know why. The man had not been rude or unkind. There was just something about him that seemed more cold and detached than was usual.

“What do ye think he wants?” Auntie demanded in a loud whisper.

“We are about to find out.” Arthur brought the carriage to a halt and helped both ladies step down. “Burnley,” he said, stepping in front of the man and blocking access to anyone except himself.

Jennet was more than a little grateful.

Mr. Burnley removed his hat and bowed. “Good day to you, m’lord.” With a nervous smile, he tugged at the knot of his cravat. “It is good to see you, m’lord. I thought his lordship remarked you had left for London?”

“The old lion misunderstood. Why are you here?”

Arthur’s manner made Jennet even more nervous. It appeared her instincts were right. Any news the solicitor bore could not be good. “Would ye care to come inside, Mr. Burnley?” Perhaps, if she were kind to the man, it would soften whatever ill-tidings he bore. “We have tea and a fine cake from the ladies’ club at the church.”

The small man flinched as if she had struck him. “Thank you, but no, madam.” He sidled from side to side, then frowned down at the papers he held. With a curt bob of his head, he shoved them toward her. “My apologies, madam, but I fear there is no recourse. I am sure you understand.”

The letters in bold, black ink at the top of the document stabbed Jennet with as much force as a dagger. “Eviction notice,” she read aloud, cringing when her voice broke.

“God have mercy upon us,” Auntie cried out, then shook her fist at the man. “Ye are a cruel, unfeeling man! Could ye nay even wait until tomorrow? Grandfather’s funeral was just today.”

“I am truly sorry—” Mr. Burnley began.

“You are not nearly as sorry as you are going to be, Burnley.” Arthur took the document from Jennet. A muscle in his cheek ticked as he flipped the pages.

“The lease, m’lord. Duly signed by Mr. Ross and witnessed by my clerk.” With an apologetic glance toward Jennet, he gave the slightest shrug. “Both the madams here were present. In fact, they initialed just below Mr. Ross’s signature. All parties knowingly agreed that if Mr. Ross was not here at the farmstead, even merely to oversee the management of the place, then it would once again become available to a replacement tenant. This place cannot legally be overseen by two women.”

Auntie Eubha burst into tears before wheeling about and fleeing into the cottage. Jennet wished she could do the same, but that would simply prove the solicitor’s point that women were too lacking in gumption and spirit to handle the business of managing a farm. She lifted her chin. “I didna notice how long we have to pack our things and leave?”

“One week, Miss Ross. I am sorry. Your grandfather initialed that as well.” Mr. Burnley fiddled with the brim of his hat, squinting against the day’s brightness.

“That is not correct, Mr. Burnley.” Arthur ripped the document in two and shoved the pieces back to the man’s chest.

“M’lord?”

“Miss Ross can stay here as long as she likes.” Arthur took hold of her hand and held it ever so gently. “When she becomes my wife, I shall have paperwork drawn up that properly lists her as the sole owner of Midnight Manor.” A pleased with himself smile quirked a corner of his mouth as he locked eyes with her. “A proper wedding gift, my darling. To honor our auspicious meeting here on a moonlit night.” He went down on one knee. “I intended to wait until your period of mourning had properly finished. But it appears, and thankfully so I must selfishly add, that I must ask for your hand sooner. Will you be my wife, Jennet?”

“Yer wife?” She lost herself in the longing in his gaze. A longing that mirrored her own. “But we just met,” she weakly argued. “How can ye be certain?”

“Because the Guardian of Midnight Manor guaranteed our happiness when he refused to let me leave you.”

“Aye,” she whispered, unable to believe she had really said the word. “Yes. I will be yer wife and do my best to make ye happy.”

Arthur brushed a kiss to the back of her hand, then stood and swept her into his arms. Bending his head, he covered her mouth with his. All her sorrow fell away, along with every worry and fear. Excitement for the future coursed through her. Joy. Hope. And oh, such a sweet aching as she had never known before. Somewhere very far away, she heard a faint howl. But it didn’t sound lost or lonely. Jennet suddenly knew something or someone had just given their blessing to the match.

“That changes things considerably, m’lord,” Mr. Burnley announced in a loud voice. “Ahem… m’lord.”

Arthur lifted his head, smiling down at her as he spoke. “What now, Burnley?”

“I shall take care of the deed personally, m’lord,” the little man announced with a broad smile. But then his expression returned to one of dread. “And while this also settles the matter of your inheritance, you realize there is still your grandsire to inform about the match and transfer of property.”

“Never fear, Burnley. I shall proudly share the news with the old lion when I introduce him to my sweet Jennet.”

The solicitor visibly exhaled, looking more than a little relieved. “Thank you, m’lord. That is most gracious of you.”

“What does he mean by that?” Jennet eyed them both, wondering what they weren’t saying out loud.

Arthur wrinkled his nose. “Never mind him, dear one. He has always been a twitchy little man. Have you not, Burnley?”

“Oh, absolutely, m’lord.” Mr. Burnley stepped up into his carriage. He tipped his hat and gave them both a polite nod. “And let me be the first to congratulate your lordship and your ladyship. May you enjoy endless years of love and contentment.” With a slap of the reins on his horse’s rump, he spun the phaeton about and drove away.

Chapter Seven

“Arthur—”

“Steady on, dear heart. All will be well. I shall see to it.” Arthur held the door and ushered her in, determined that Granddad welcome Jennet into the family and grant her the love and respect she deserved. After all, the old lion shouldn’t be shocked that Arthur had chosen love over status. Hadn’t he been the one insisting the ghostly Guardian would point Arthur down the path of true love? The grumbling old coot shouldn’t have kicked up such a fuss when the venture presented Jennet.

His lovely lady’s eyes flared wider as she stepped inside the grandeur of Blackborn Hall. Her grip on his arm tightened as she glanced upward at the stained glass rendering of a roaring lion set into the paneled walls of mahogany. They paused a short distance into the entryway. The place was silent except for the loud, rhythmic tick-tock of the grandfather clock beside the stair.

“Flanders!” Arthur frowned, cocked his head, and listened. How odd. The exceptional butler never left the front door unattended. The man had an uncanny knowledge of anyone’s arrival. “Something is quite off here,” he noted, with a glance inside the double doors of the library that stood uncharacteristically ajar.

“The place seems…empty.” Jennet released his arm to ease about and peep through the different archways leading to other parts of the house. “Not a soul is about.”

“Kip!” Surely, the dog would come running. Arthur held his breath, waiting for the familiar clicking of the animal’s toenails on the hardwood floors or marble tiles, depending on where he trotted. “Kip!” he called out again, much louder.

“They are not here, m’lord.”

“Good gracious,” Jennet gasped, then rushed back to Arthur’s side. “Where did he come from?” she whispered.

Mr. Theodore Burnley stood between them and the front door, his black hat in his hands.

“Is this your idea of a game, Burnley? If so, I do not find it amusing in the least.” Jennet’s trembling incensed Arthur even further. How dare the insolent man startle his beloved so. “Well?” he demanded. “Where were you hiding when we came in? And, more importantly, why are you here?”

The solicitor gave them both a kindly smile, then bowed. “Do forgive me for startling the lady and yourself, m’lord. I assure you, it was not my intent.” Gaze still lowered, the man seemed almost thoughtful. “I often forget, you understand. One of my many failings, I fear.” He finally lifted his head and partially turned toward the front entrance. “I beg your indulgence, m’lord. There is something the both of you, you and your intended lady must see. Would you do me the honor of stepping this way?”

Something about the fellow struck Arthur as stranger than usual. An eeriness hung about him, creating the sort of chill that called for stoking the fire. “Step this way to where?” He refused to move without more information.

“All will become clear, m’lord. You have my word.” Burnley held the front door and waited. “Naught more than a short walk, your lordship. Here on the estate.”

“Perhaps, we should, Arthur.” Jennet squeezed his arm again, not in a panic this time, but in a reassuring manner. “He seems most sincere.”

“I am, m’lady. I assure you.” Burnley waited.

Arthur studied the little man. He had never liked nor trusted him, but Granddad had always seemed to place great store in the solicitor. And he had always treated Jennet with the utmost respect. Even when trying to evict her from the farmstead.

“Fine.” Arthur led the way, helped Jennet down the steps, then waited for Burnley to take them to whatever he felt it so necessary they see.

“This way, m’lord.” Tucking his spectacles into his waistcoat pocket, the twitchy man popped on his hat and marched forward like a soldier on parade.

They followed him along the narrow roadway the carriages used when circling the manor to the stables and carriage house around back. As they walked, it occurred to Arthur that a drastic change had fallen across the place. Everything was still. Silent as could be. Completely vacant. No horses. No Kip. Not even a bird or butterfly flitted among the flowers Flanders so carefully tended in the garden. Even the gentle summer breeze had died away. The only sound was the crunch of their footsteps in the gravel.

“This way, please.” Burnley unlocked the black iron gate leading to a part of the estate Arthur never frequented. What was the use? He had never met a single soul buried there. The solicitor pushed the gate open wide, removed his hat, and bowed, waiting for them to step through.

“What are you playing at, Burnley? The Blackborn cemetery? Why?” Arthur stood rooted to the spot. This game was not amusing, and he would speak to Granddad regarding the continued use of this impertinent fool for the family’s affairs.

“Please, m’lord. I assure you this is not a jest.” He fidgeted at the gate, bobbing his head again. “Once we reach what I wish to show you, I shall explain everything and answer any questions that remain.”

“We could at least pay our respects to yer parents,” Jennet suggested softly. She gave him a sad smile. “’Twould do no harm, ye ken?”

“For you alone, I do this.” He covered her hand with his, then shot an irritated glare at Burnley as they passed through the gate. “Lead on, man, but know this, the old lion shall hear of your behavior today.”

The solicitor bowed. “Yes, m’lord. I understand fully.” He led the way around the headstones, statues, and the magnificent mausoleum where Arthur’s parents lay at rest. Then turned onto a path leading to the remotest corner of the cemetery, a part that Arthur hadn’t realized existed. In fact, the overgrown area looked quite neglected, nothing like the front of the family graveyard.

Burnley came to a halt in front of a small mausoleum. Corners crumbling, unknown years of weather had stained the walls an ancient greenish-black. A once magnificent statue of a roaring lion lounged across its top.

“I have never seen this before,” Arthur said, his voice hushed.

“This area is normally kept from the living,” Burnley said quietly. Head bowed, and hat clutched to his chest, he swayed a bit toward the tarnished placard on the front. “The inscription, m’lord?”

“Here lies Lord Herschel Preston, fifth Earl of Blackborn, and his beloved wife, Patricia,” Arthur read aloud. Realization hit him full in the chest, knocking out every breath. He stumbled back a step. “This cannot be,” he gasped.

“Arthur, dear? Who is it?” Jennet held tight to his arm. “Who was the fifth Earl of Blackborn?”

“Granddad,” Arthur whispered, unmitigated sorrow threatening to push him to his knees. “Granddad has died.” He grabbed Burnley by the lapels and shook him. “Why was I not informed? Why was I not called to his bedside?”

The solicitor didn’t speak, just kept his eyes on the tomb.

Jennet stepped closer to the placard, her lips moving as she silently read the entire inscription. “Arthur. Let the man be. Ye must see this.” The weight of her hand on his arm broke through his pain. “Please, love. Let the poor man go. There is much here we must try to understand.”

He shoved the man away and pulled her into his arms. “He cannot be gone, Jennet. He just cannot.”

She held him close, patting and shushing, as though he were a child. “It appears he has nay been with us for quite a long while, dear one. Read the date.”

Arthur shook his head. With the whole of his world upended, the ability to understand escaped him. “What are you saying?”

“The date,” she repeated gently.

After a deep breath, Arthur turned back to the placard and froze. “That is impossible.”

“It is quite possible, m’lord,” Burnley quietly confirmed.

He turned and stared at the solemn man. “The year he died is listed as the year I was born.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Still fiddling the brim of his hat between his fingers, the solicitor nodded. “You were six months old, in fact.” His sad smile flickered, then faded away. “Your grandfather’s pride and joy. His love for you surpassed everything.” He paused a moment, then added, “Even the grave.”

Arthur stumbled back a few steps, bumping into an old stone bench. He lowered himself, unable to believe what both the placard and Burnley suggested. Jennet hurried to sit beside him, steadying him.

“What you suggest is not…comprehendible,” he uttered. “Kip? Flanders? What about them? Did they know he was a spirit too stubborn for the grave?”

Burnley’s smile flickered again, then disappeared as he nodded at the mausoleum. “Kip is buried in there with him. Flanders’s grave lies over there beside the fence. Mine is in the farthest corner.”

“What?” Arthur inclined his head and leaned closer. Surely, he had misheard.

“They are all dead,” Jennet whispered, paler than he had ever seen her. He felt pretty pale himself.

“Perhaps it would help if I explained what happened the night of the fire?” Burnley moved to stand in front of them as though ready to confess his sins. He watched Arthur as though waiting.

“Perhaps it would,” Arthur muttered. Both their hands cold as ice, he held Jennet tightly to keep each of them from fainting dead away. Realizing the solicitor remained silent, he managed a nod. “Go on.”

“As you now know, you are the sole survivor of the fire that destroyed most of Midnight Manor,” Burnley began. “The sixth Earl of Blackborn, since your father didn’t live to inherit the title.” He paused, his sparse brows knotting above his intense gaze.

“Yes.” Arthur nodded again since that seemed to be what the man needed before he would continue.

“What you do not know is that neither your grandfather nor myself died that exact night. We did not succumb to the fatal effects of the smoke until three days later. Time enough for your grandfather to not only put his effects in order but also to place a curse upon my soul. A curse, I fear, I very much deserve.”

“I see.” What else could he say? What the solicitor, or supposed ghost of the solicitor, suggested, bordered on the fantastical.

Burnley sadly shook his head. “No, m’lord. I am afraid you still do not see.” Staring at the ground, he fidgeted in place. “It was I who caused the fire.” He twitched with a stern jerk of his head. “Not intentionally, mind you, but I caused it just the same.” He lifted his almost nonexistent chin, leveling his gaze with Arthur’s. “I was a drunk, you see. In secret, of course. Your grandfather always knew, but out of his most generous kindness, he still saw fit to use my office for all his affairs.” His shoulders slumped with a heavy sigh. “The fire started in the library when I knocked over the lamp.” He stared off into the distance, reliving that night. “I remember watching the curtains burn, totally fascinated by how the flames lapped up the material like thirsty hounds.” With a shudder, he clutched his hat higher on his chest. “I finally sobered enough to drag myself outside. Your grandfather crawled out, sobbing because the way was blocked to you and your parents.” He glanced back at the mausoleum. “Kip saved you, m’lord. Carried you out by the back of your nightdress without leaving a mark on you. He took you to your grandfather, then laid down beside you and died.”

Jennet hiccupped out a muted sob, then pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed it to her mouth.

Arthur swallowed hard and blinked faster. Men did not cry. “Go on,” he said since Burnley looked as if there was more.

“As your grandfather cradled you to his chest, even though he could hardly breathe, he promised to never leave you. He swore you would want for nothing, including a home where you felt loved and nurtured.” Burnley shrugged. “Since there were no relations to take you in, your childhood could have been a great deal more grim had he not rooted his spirit in this world and cared for you himself. He, along with the help of Kip and Flanders.” He bowed his head again. “And then he cursed me to serve the Blackborn line as their solicitor, protecting their accounts from any ill by any means possible, for all eternity.” He looked up and nodded. “I am to never rest for what I cost your family, and that is as it should be, m’lord.”

“And now he is gone?”

“Yes, m’lord.” Mr. Burnley nodded toward Jennet. “You are no longer alone, you see? Miss Jennet’s love for you has granted your grandfather, Kip, and Flanders the peace they needed and the choice to move on.”

“And you, Mr. Burnley?” Jennet asked softly. “What of you?”

The solicitor gave a respectful bow. “I shall continue serving the Blackborn line.” A full smile brightened the man more than Arthur had ever seen him brightened before. “Not because the curse demands it, but because I consider it an honor to do so.”

Arthur rose, went to the mausoleum, and rested a hand on the regal head of the stone lion. “Rest well, old lion,” he whispered. “I will always love you and promise to regale my future children with tales of their gloriously stubborn great-grandfather and all his adventures.”

“That we will,” Jennet agreed, stepping to his side and wrapping an arm around him. “And I thank ye, m’lord, for sending me the love of my life.”

Epilogue

Blackborn Hall

Three years later…

“Twins! Can you believe it? Twin boys!”

One of Flanders’s rare smiles emerged as he peered into first one cradle and then the other. “Bravo, indeed, m’lord. I dare say these two shall be quite the proper retribution for his young lordship’s childhood.”

“You never have forgiven him for that bathtub full of frogs. Have you, old goat?”

“That is but one of his many crimes, m’lord. As you well know.” Flanders stepped back, stuck his nose in the air, and crossed his arms.

The ghostly earl bent closer to the nearest babe. “As soon as you and your brother are old enough, I shall teach you how to slide down the banister.” He glanced over at the large black dog, nosing the other baby’s blanket until it was nicely tucked. “What do you think, Kip? Fine lads, are they not?”

The magnificent dog wagged its tail, moved to the other child, and tended to his blankets.

“Should we not be on our way, m’lord?” Flanders asked with a nod toward the window. “It will be dawn soon, and her ladyship will most certainly be in to check on her sons since we inadvertently frightened off yet another nanny.”

“There was nothing inadvertent about it, and you well know it. That woman was an incompetent fool.” The old earl pulled a rocking chair closer to the babes and sat in it. “Young Owen there, your namesake, I might add, screamed until beset with the hiccups, while that useless excuse for a servant bumbled about changing little Herschel’s nappy.”

“Your namesake did fill it quite full, m’lord,” Flanders noted. “The distasteful odor even chased Kip from the room.”

The dog whined as if arguing his defense.

“I think it high time we took our place in the household again,” the earl announced. “Arthur shall still be the Earl of Blackborn, of course, but other than that, we shall take matters into our own hands—as it should be.”

Flanders rolled his eyes and expelled a heavy sigh. “I have been waiting for that proclamation.”

“Well, what do you think, old goat?” The earl leaned forward in anticipation. “You said yourself resting in peace is a tad on the quiet side. As for me, I am absolutely bored to tears.”

Kip stood at the earl’s side, his tail wagging.

“See? Even Kip is up for the task. Especially since we have these two fine lads depending on us now.”

“And how shall you break this news to the twins’ parents, m’lord?” Flanders arched a brow and peered down his long nose like a headmaster about to administer a scolding.

The nursery door opened. Jennet stepped inside, bleary-eyed and rumpled with the weariness plaguing any young mother of newborn twins. “Ye are most welcome to do anything ye please,” she warned in a hissing whisper. “But if ye wake my wee lads, I shall call the priest to exorcise the lot of ye.” She checked on her sleeping children, then stepped back to the door. Pointing a finger first at the earl, then Flanders, and finally Kip, she gave a hard shake of it. “Quiet now. Understand me?”

“Yes, your ladyship.” Flanders gave a solemn bow.

Kip stretched out on the floor and tucked his nose between his paws.

The old earl pressed a finger to his lips, then grinned and waved her away. “Go back to bed, dear granddaughter. We will watch over these precious two. You have my word.”

Jennet’s stern look softened. “Of that, I have no doubt.” She started to leave but paused and looked back at the trio. “And, by the by, Arthur is nay a fool. He knows it’s been the three of ye scaring off the nannies.” She nodded. “He’ll be happy to see ye, though. Come to breakfast, aye?” She pointed at them again. “But dinna frighten cook nor the maids, or ye’ll find yerself with those jobs as well. I willna have my household disrupted any more than it already has been. Do ye hear me?”

“Yes, your ladyship.” Flanders bowed again, then shot a warning scowl at the earl. “I agree to stay and watch over the young lordlings. I do not agree to take on any other duties. Is that understood, m’lord?”

“We shall see, you old goat. We shall see.”

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Maeve Greyson

Time to Love a Highlander Series

Loving Her Highland Thief

Taming Her Highland Legend

Highland Heroes Series

The Guardian

The Warrior

The Judge

The Dreamer

The Bard

The Ghost

About the Author

“No one has the power to shatter your dreams unless you give it to them.” That’s Maeve Greyson’s mantra. She and her husband of almost forty years traveled around the world while in the U.S. Air Force. Now, they’re settled in rural Kentucky where Maeve writes about her beloved Highlanders and the fearless women who tame them. When she’s not plotting her next romantic Scottish tale, she can be found herding cats, grandchildren, and her husband—not necessarily in that order.

SOCIAL MEDIA LINKS:

Website: maevegreyson.com

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BookBub: bookbub.com/authors/maeve-greyson

The Dauntless Boy

Whitney Blake

Chapter One

Elm Hill, Norwich

May 1, 1777

Ariadne had been working in the house for four months and she still hadn’t seen her master. It was a strange arrangement. But it’s to help Father. She might not have liked Father, but she supposed she loved him.

More or less.

Almost everything she earned, she sent home—not that home was so far away. Father and Eleanor lived just across the city, and she saw them almost every Sunday, which was the day her faceless master allowed her to take for herself.

She looked out the window at the gray sky and sighed.

No one else, and especially no other women, would take this position. How Father had even managed to have the conversation with Stephen that led to her being situated here, she was not sure. He’d always kept to himself under the best of circumstances, which was understandable behavior from someone whose parents were not from England and whose trade relied on proprietary knowledge.

Grandfather must have had to learn much about the native plants. Father would have had an advantage, seeing as he was born here.

She knew Father and Stephen had spoken in a public house, but she couldn’t picture how the amenable, if somber, Stephen had approached her surly father. The accident made him even worse.

It was an unintended self-poisoning, some kind of contamination from a patron’s medicine that left Father ill. Ariadne knew better than most people the double-lives of plants and minerals, the alchemy that depended on such dualities. It could go wrong, easily.

Eleanor, who spent more time milling about in town than her father and sister, knew all about the quiet house steeped in misgivings. It was on a narrow old street near Princes Street. No house that stood here should be so infamous when the route was so traversed and had always been important to the lifeblood of trade. Some of the houses abutting the river still had their own quays, Ariadne knew.

But this one was known for being the home of a beast or a ghost, though no one seemed sure which caused the trouble. What was more, rumor said, this creature was likely friends with the ghost of a man who perished in a fire.

Ariadne did not know if a beast could be friends with a ghost. The thought was actually unsettling. She felt that if there was anything, it was likely another specter.

She hoped, in any case, that the man who’d died in the devastating fire of 1507 had a companion. She’d heard the nighttime noises herself, a scuffling paired with whimpers that sounded almost human yet were too eerie to come from one.

“Have you the master’s breakfast?” Stephen interrupted her introspection.

There was no cook, so the simple meals fell to Ariadne to prepare. She found cooking was not as difficult as she first believed. She had already done most of it at home, given she was the eldest and still unmarried.

Eleanor must despise me, now. Her younger sister now fulfilled the role she served at home and resented it. Ariadne missed the camaraderie they’d had as girls, but the lack couldn’t be helped.

“Yes, it’s just here,” she said.

She glanced at the elderly majordomo who had exactly two servants to look after. He was thin, tall, and reminiscent of nothing so much as a crane with small round spectacles. Full of nervous agitation that hid a natural kindness, she wondered if he missed a full household of staff.

How long ago that might have been, she knew not, for the house itself was clean, orderly, and too large for one man, but it was furnished to the best standard. Nothing was old or unkempt, and should the master choose to entertain, he could do so tomorrow night without any trouble. He just chose not to, a thing of note on a street whose residents were storied—at times very wealthy, too, but always storied.

Of course, help would need to be hired. Stephen, Ariadne, and the hostler, Gareth, would have a difficult time readying the rooms for company, and she could cook only straightforward fare.

And there’s the matter of the whimpering. Though they shared the street with at least three public houses, it could not be justified as the noise of drunkards.

Ariadne handed the tray to Stephen. There was so much she wished to ask him, yet she sensed it would not be well-received.

Stephen saw the master; he must have known what truly happened.

She surveyed him silently and he offered her a thin smile. “You seem to be getting on well,” he said. Stephen was thoughtful and not for the first time, she wondered if he might have a family: a wife, children.

“Indeed, I am.”

There was little point to explaining how she felt the weight of being her sister and father’s primary means of income, or how she was the one thing keeping them from the Bridewell. Stephen knew some of it, at least, for he had first spoken to father in that crowded public house.

He’d explained Francis Gold needed a housemaid. In essence, a caretaker who did some of the things a maid might, some of the duties of a cook, and a few of a general groundskeeper. It was only the house, a small garden, and a tiny mews. There was plenty of money, and there would be no question of her compensation.

What she needed most of all, Stephen said to Father, was a dauntless heart and the greatest of discretion.

The Gold family’s reputation was rife with legends and Francis was the last of his line, perhaps partially because of this reputation. He had neither a wife nor children, and although she knew he traveled for business and did venture out to public houses, he was enigmatic and took great care to be left alone.

No one could say precisely when it happened—Ariadne had once believed it hadn’t happened—but one of his relatives was involved in a murder, the sort of killing discussed in whispers and murmurs over ale and cider. Some versions of the stories claimed the victim was a fiancée. A few more held it was a clandestine lover, while some maintained it was a maid.

That was why, Stephen told Father, Ariadne had to have courage. There was nothing wrong with the house and nothing amiss with Mr. Gold, who just kept very odd habits. It was highly likely, according to Stephen, Ariadne would not see him at all. The house’s atmosphere was still and silent.

Father asked, “Why not hire a lad?”

“The ghost,” Stephen had apparently explained without a speck of exaggeration, “cannot tolerate a lad.”

Father did not think ghosts existed. Thus, he assured Stephen she would arrive at Gold House at eight of-the-clock the next Monday. Ariadne felt she had no choice: though she was the eldest of two daughters, she had no family of her own. She also did not possess a formal education.

Father needed income, being unable to work, and she had no prospects of employment save the position she now had. She’d once fostered the thought of being an apothecary in her own right. But she needed more training, which Father was unwilling to provide. Everything she had learned, she learned through quiet, unobtrusive observation.

One of her keenest pleasures was sitting in Gold’s garden. It was not large and occupied the narrow stretch of land between the back of the house and the river. Someone in the family must have known something about medicinal plants, for there were many of them and they looked as though they’d been rooted in the ground a long while.

Although Father had never wronged or hit her, she was pleased to be here. Better the ghosts and rumors of a murder than the noxious feeling of being directly within Father’s influence. When he had informed her that she was to go to the house on Elm Hill, it did not take her long to adjust to the idea.

Dauntless heart, indeed.

It does feel like so long ago, she thought. Not four months.

“Good,” said Stephen.

“May I ask a question?”

Raising his white eyebrows slightly, Stephen said, “Perhaps.” He hefted the tray so that he held it more securely.

“Do you believe I shall ever meet the master? Mr. Gold?”

Stephen’s jaw tightened under his considerable jowls. Though he was thin, old age encroached and caused a certain downward pull to his face. He wore no wig today, but when he did, it did not help the illusion of a long face. “It is unlikely, although I do understand why you may wish to do so. But I assure you, he is flesh and blood.”

What an odd thing to assert. Ariadne might have said more, but Stephen, clearly wishing for the conversation to come to an end, turned away and stalked from the kitchen.

*

Though it was late, and she was weary, there was nothing more restorative than a turn in the garden. She looked at the full moon, marveling at the way this felt little like the city she had called home all her life and more like a fairy land from an old tale. Faintly, the river lapped at its banks as waterfowl splashed gently on its surface.

The air was mild, almost like it was in honor of Beltane, that old holiday of fire and sensual energy. She did not believe all the old traditions, though something about this night did feel different. Perhaps it was just her mind being fanciful. Dew glimmered on the foliage, the buds and leaves, set alight by the moon. The clouds from earlier had cleared, the weather shifting like it could not bear to veil such light from human eyes.

She made her way to her favorite bench, an old stone thing that must have been as old as some of the plants she’d observed. While she sat there, she could see the entirety of the house’s first and second floors while the ground floor was obscured by shrubs and the gradually layered effect of the garden itself. There was also a natural angled effect, with the garden wall being lower than the house’s foundations.

In all, she appreciated that she could observe without being seen unless one was looking out at the garden from an upper-floor window. As she was the only servant who resided in the house, with Stephen returning home until the early morning hours and Gareth residing in the mews opposite the garden, she could enjoy the privacy.

Or so she thought. Idly, as she gazed at what stars she could see above the slanted roof, she registered the feeling of being watched. When she brought her eyes to the house, there was a drawn, gray face peeking out a window. Ariadne gasped, less frightened than confused.

It was a woman’s face, that was for certain. Her first rationalization was that perhaps it was a friend of Mr. Gold’s—a lover, mayhap.

Then she considered the hue of the woman’s skin.

No person was the gray shade of wet flint. And no person could have cheeks that sunk so far inward—not unless they sucked at the meat of their cheeks, which Ariadne could imagine doing for the sake of a pantomime, but not to look out of a window at nearly midnight.

In the second she had made up her mind that this was the result of her own tiredness, and she ought to retire to bed, the face vanished. It did not withdraw from the window, in the way someone might if they were turning away from the view.

Disappeared.

Ariadne was still more captivated than terrified.

She grew even more intrigued when, seemingly prompted by the ghastly face’s disappearance, a man’s face came to the window directly below. It was as though he was roused by footsteps above and needed to take some air, for his appearance was almost immediate.

Unmoving, she studied the candlelit visage of a striking man in his middle age. Flickering light played on his face’s planes and angles, warm umber in contrast to the moon’s silver white. She could not determine the color of his eyes or collar-length hair, which was not queued, but both seemed dark.

He set the candle on the sill, opened the window slightly and paused with his hands on the pane, held so that they were level with his trim chest. He wore no nightshirt.

Ariadne was fascinated. Had the woman somehow stirred him? This cannot have been his nightly custom, for she often came to the garden at this time and had never glimpsed him.

Good evening, Mr. Gold.

Chapter Two

Francis did not want to be barred from The Turkey Cock for starting a row, which was only a problem because it was his favorite public house. There was always The Britons Arms or The Crown, both within yards of each other.

“Belligerent, aren’t you, Gold?” sneered one of his fellow patrons. Francis did not think he was belligerent at all, but he’d managed to spill the man’s glass. It was an unfortunate accident, nothing premeditated.

Much to the detriment of The Turkey Cock’s implausibly peaceful air, for despite being busy it was somehow always serene, the pint’s owner did not think Francis was without malicious intent.

“I claim nothing of the kind, and I think you would find very few people to agree with you.”

“How am I to know you aren’t the type to spill a man’s glass?”

One of the licensees, a portly man called John, said from across the smoky room, “Leave it be, Worth.”

“I’ll leave it be when he buys me more ale.”

Francis had no such desire, but he was not without the means and so gestured wearily at John to give Worth another. No, I don’t want to frequent the others.

The Crown was too rowdy, while The Britons Arms was too old and housed in a structure that had survived the great fire. It was probably the oldest on the street. Its patrons were equally wizened, perhaps drawn by its venerable age and unique construction that suited the Low Countries more than the east coast of England.

He preferred The Turkey Cock for its name, ale, and licensees who did not ask too many questions of him. He went to great lengths not to face questions.

Francis had no desire to reestablish his patterns of travel. To be sure, he lived very little of his life away from this city or parts of London. But all the same, it displeased him to consider that he might not only have to amend his habits, but he would also have to amend them in such a way that maintained his privacy on a daily basis.

The new maid—though she was hardly new if she had served for four months—was terribly inquisitive, which made his goal all the more difficult. He’d had to watch her covertly and time all of his comings and goings.

Stephen he could handle, but a new woman asking things and wondering why he lived his life so oddly, he could not tolerate.

Unfortunately, she was lovely, all unruly dark curls and large blue eyes. He had not been in the same room with her, but he was extremely skilled at seeing without being seen. When one lived with a ghost, one had to make strategic and often odd choices. Even avoid intriguing women. Though, that was likely a good choice since she was hired help and he was the master of the house.

Francis sipped his ale. He’d stopped being bitter about his life ages ago. It hadn’t been him who killed the girl, after all, but one of his forefathers. Well, male relatives.

Who had the absolute nerve to hide the body, allegedly.

That, he supposed, was precisely why the ghost would not rest.

Night upon night, he felt the ghost follow him, even though he’d decided as a grown man to change his room daily. His house was not overly large, but he still rotated rooms and did not require a bed to sleep.

He did not really sleep, anyway. He did not really do much of anything save drink, change where he pretended or tried to sleep, maintain his business as a purveyor of finely-woven cloth surprisingly well, and avoid the pretty maid with her intelligent blue eyes.

It was Stephen’s suggestion that they take a new maid after he became a widower. His wife had been the housekeeper for many years, and as Francis grew more reclusive and it became clear he would not have a family, she easily kept up with all the duties expected of her. However, Stephen alone could not do so.

Although there was only one person residing in the house and that person was the master, Stephen felt he could not be expected to cook and clean and mend. Reluctantly, Francis agreed: with one caveat. This new maid was never to venture above the ground floor, and she was to reside in a little room opposite the kitchen.

Stephen, up to his ankles in dust, readily agreed, and so the maid was found.

Not that I care to know her circumstances or her background. And God as his witness, he did not. She could be a murderess for all he knew. It might be a boon should she murder me in my sleep.

He crinkled his nose. It might not be, too. If he died in the house, there was no promise he would not be trapped with that specter.

Is it blasphemous to think so?

He thought not.

There are more things in heaven and earth… not to mention, Saul had consulted the ghost of Samuel. Surely it was not blasphemous to believe in them.

And it is not likely you shall father a son, so you need not worry about telling someone else this ghastly business.

He swallowed more ale.

Sixteen was not his finest year. It was the year in which his father had died and he first learned of the ghost. His mother told him the story in a warm closed room with a roaring fire. January was milder than it could have been, but wind rattled the windows and the whole house seemed to shudder.

She’d been so solemn he at first wondered if she had lamentable news to share with him, then he recalled little could be worse than Father’s accidental death under the wheel of a carriage.

He was not precisely wrong in his assumption, but neither was he strictly right.

“Each head of the family learns this secret when they reach their eighteenth year, according to tradition, but I suppose your father’s death dictates you must hear it sooner,” Mother said. Things in those days were different, and now that he was two years away from fifty rather than two away from eighteen, they seemed like a dream he could scarcely recall. A modest array of servants, including a young Stephen, made certain the house was tended and Francis and Mother were well-fed, well-attired. They lacked for nothing.

With the exception of lacking peace, Francis still wanted for nothing.

Except for companionship, his inner voice said. He, as usual, gagged it. And a full night of sleep.

“A secret?” he’d said to Mother. It seemed intriguing, if opaque. That interest lasted merely a moment before transmuting into revulsion.

“Many, many years ago,” said Mother, and she took a deep breath, “an uncle of yours committed a terrible act.”

“When? Which uncle?” Francis had seen the vague notes kept by one ancestor on the family. It was, for a short time, one of his pet interests to commit them to memory. The notes only held names and birthdates for the most part, but it had still interested him.

But Mother did not know. “I cannot say with any specificity. Your father knew the details far better than I.”

“I see. Well, do tell me this… terrible act.”

“He killed a servant. A woman, I was told,” said Mother.

Though this seemed brutal to Francis, he also wanted to believe the best of any woeful situation like that: that it was an accident, and the servant was laid to rest with respect.

“It caused him to go mad,” she continued, “and rather than own to causing the death, your father was told he hid the corpse and pretended she had simply run off. Eloped with a lover.”

“Hid her?” Francis’ voice, which had broken and deepened, still rose and cracked. He was not prone to fearfulness or melancholy—although, evidently, his line did possess some kind of latent madness in the blood, for he was an utmost recluse, now.

Mother sighed. “Somewhere nearby, I was given to believe.”

That made some sense to Francis, for the street had always been occupied and bustling in some way. It was not the sort of place where such an incident could be hidden unless one turned directly to one’s own property or immediate space. The residents and traders were not generally the kind of people to turn a blind eye to violence, either, for it was no rookery.

There was bound to be someone who’d notice, perhaps a nun or a monk or—Francis had thought at the time—depending on how early this ancestor had lived in the street’s lifespan, one of the beguines residing in The Britons Arms before it became anything else. A beguine’s allegiance was to God, not the worldly and influential men who gave them alms. Surely they would not allow a murder to go unpunished.

Francis was full of questions, all of which he knew his mother probably could not answer. It seemed his father told her the tale as some kind of last safeguard, and she was only expected to tell it should there be a grave event. She was such a gentle lady and Father would have known he could not, or should not, tell her anything too grisly.

Francis settled on asking, “Was she ever found?”

“No.”

He sat back in his chair and cast his eyes on the fire. It had occurred to him that he wouldn’t like his own family to suffer with not knowing where he was, believing, perhaps, that he had run away to marry a girl.

Still having no idea where he’d gone.

He was fortunate to have his parents’ affections and they would not have accepted a story like that without making inquiries. It must have been different, he’d thought, for a woman who had to work.

He’d decided to clear the keenest of sympathy for the unknown woman from his mind for the sake of his own wellness. Always an empathetic child who was growing into an empathetic man, it was difficult to do so, but he managed. “Do you think she is somewhere here?”

“It is possible,” said Mother. He recalled studying her face at the three words, for she did not look convinced. He then realized her solemnity had not been instigated by true belief, but a dislike of the secret. It was nothing but a legend, to her.

“You do not believe it happened, do you?”

“In everything, your father was an impeccably honest man. I do not believe he would willingly tell a scandalous lie, and especially not one so terrible about his own family.”

“That is not what I asked.” Father was always impeccable in his word, which did matter a great deal in matters of trade. Francis would not have termed him gullible in any way, but he was earnest. If Father took it into his head that his relative had done such a wrong, Francis guessed he might attempt to right it.

He would not, as would some men, question the story or why it existed.

“The last time your father searched for the… remains, you were but a boy.” Mother shook her head. “He found nothing. He felt they must be in the house, the gardens…” She shrugged. “Nothing has ever been found, and as a sensible woman, I must conclude there is nothing to be found.”

“If you do not believe it, why would you tell me?”

“Because,” she said, as she reached forward to pat his knee gently, “your father wished me to, should anything happen to him before he could.”

“But why should it be at all important to me, or any head of the family?” Francis struggled to make sense of it, for if there was nothing to the tale, he could not see why it would be guarded as such a secret. If it were just an eerie legend, it would surely just be retold to everyone. Otherworldly stories had an invigorating effect on the system.

At sixteen, Francis’ inclination leaned in the direction of belief, though he could not prove anything. His mother, whom he loved deeply, had apparently remained unconvinced her whole life. But she could not, after all, deny her husband the ability to look for proof of something his male line deemed so awful it was carefully passed from hand to hand like a snake that might strike.

And now, at forty-eight, Francis knew better than to doubt the story. Although he wanted to believe his mind was responsible for everything he heard and saw, it seemed beyond the realms of possibility for there not to be a ghost.

He did not think, for instance, his own mental abilities extended to fabricating the smell of rosewater in empty rooms when no one in all the house wore it. He could not stand the scent of roses and only tolerated them when they were outdoors.

Long had he given up trying to locate her body, or as was likely, her skeleton. Now, he just fled.

Yes, he thought, staring at the top of his ale. She must be real.

Chapter Three

The last thing she expected was to enter the short corridor to see a nude man in the middle of the night. Barely touched by the moonlight filtering through a window, he looked burnished.

In her months being here, she had not encountered anyone save Gareth or Stephen, and she’d certainly never come across them during her illicit meandering through the house.

Mercifully, neither had ever been naked.

She’d never had any desire to see either without their clothes. But as she stood gawping at the vision just brightened by her candle, she decided it was a welcome sight.

She was unmarried and past her prime, but not dead, as Eleanor would claim.

This had to be the elusive Francis Gold, the same man she’d seen in the window. For a noted recluse, she thought he looked incredibly well, as though he was quite active. Having grown up in the city, she knew his family was descended from powerful mercers with plenty of means, so perhaps it was something to do with his line. She stared at him unabashedly.

If I’m to be reprimanded, I may as well enjoy myself first.

Ariadne knew she was not to venture above the ground floor, which seemed odd given she was supposed to tidy, among her other duties. At first, it was easy to abide by the rule. Then she grew more comfortable with her new surroundings and learned, not only was she the sole maid, there also weren’t other servants to tell on her should she deviate from her instructions.

There was no nosey Mrs. in charge and Stephen supervised her with a light but specific hand. He did not expect to be called Mr., either. She told herself she was not terribly disobedient because she only ventured onto the first floor, never the second floor or the attic.

Why is he not moving?

That seemed strange, so she took a step closer. Still, he did not move.

Perhaps he is sleepwalking.

It was not a problem everyone experienced, she knew, but it was more common than many surmised. Over the years, Father had tended a number of those with the affliction. It was best not to rouse them, as they could become confused and hurt themselves or another.

Gold made a halting motion in her direction. Although his eyes were open, he clearly did not see her. She took a shuddering breath and decided to try helping him. She’d looked her fill and would now pay the tithe.

Keeping the candlestick carefully in hand, she came to his side and hoped to guide him back to his room.

Where… is his room?

This floor held a study, a wood-paneled room that was half-library and half-parlor, a room that could have been a bedroom at some time, and a narrow one that was more of a cupboard. Neither of the latter two were fully furnished, and they seemed to be in disuse. She assumed Gold House was rebuilt after the awful fire, either in part or in full. Every owner could have tinkered with walls and windows alike. Never having been rich, she did not know what masters of stately houses did to their insides.

Though she’d explored a little, the house’s logic did elude her. Like its master did.

Until now, at any rate.

Gingerly, she put a hand at the small of Gold’s back, apprehensive for him to startle but having no other way to steer him. He was two or three inches under six feet, and slender, but he had an obvious advantage in size compared to her.

He was very warm under her palm, almost too warm. When he gave a shiver, she decided to get him to the wood-paneled room, reasoning it would be better for him to recline sooner rather than later.

She couldn’t keep him steady for long if he trembled, and she worried that should she try to navigate stairs in the dark with a man under one hand and a candlestick in her other, it might lead to injury, fire, or both.

“Here,” she said, taking toddling steps to the room. He faltered along at her side, surprisingly malleable.

When she put the candlestick on a narrow table and towed him to the chaise, he spoke. “You don’t customarily touch me.”

Curious and hoping he would say more, she said, “I don’t?”

“No. Nor do you have a candle.”

“No?”

“You have a far more mellifluous voice this evening.”

She admitted to herself that she enjoyed his voice, too, what very little she had heard of it. “Thank you.”

“And you are agreeable.”

She gently pressed at the small of his back until he sat down. When he was sitting, she put her hands on his shoulders and applied a little pressure until he rested on his back.

She endeavored not to look at the muscles that moved under the soft skin of his stomach, or at his manhood.

Two things worked in favor of that resolve: the candle emitted dim light and there was little afforded from outside.

“Why should I not be?”

“In my considerable experience with them, or with one, ghosts are not agreeable.”

Ariadne opened her mouth, about to speak, then moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Carnal interest did things to a body. Her mouth was drier than usual, while another orifice was decidedly not. She took a blanket from the chair nearest the cold hearth and draped it over him.

There. Now he will not be so exposed.

She returned her attention to the more interesting matter—namely that he believed she was a ghost. Questions burbled to mind like a stream fed into a river. She had heard so many noises that she had to agree the ghost must be peeved. She thought of the scowling face she’d seen in the window.

It had not seemed, by any reckoning of the word, agreeable.

“Have you tried talking to it—me—before?”

She had loved fairy stories as a child, but Mother often cautioned her such things were not for the pure of mind or heart. Much to her chagrin, Ariadne replied she would rather be impure and interesting than pure and dull. That bore itself out now, for certain, because the mysterious sounds and rumors only fueled her interest in discovering their truths.

Gold closed his sightless eyes and shook his head. “No, but since you are being sweet now, I do not mind doing so at the moment. Call me Francis.”

Francis.

She thought before speaking further. Stephen took care of the master’s room, just as he ferried the master’s meals and dirtied dishes. She laundered the linens and washed bowls and cutlery, but had no knowledge of where Gold slept or even of where he ate. Likewise, she did not know his evening habits. Though, one of them must be sleeping without anything on his body.

She should speak to Stephen about this unusual encounter, for if Gold was ill, he needed looking after and she probably could not provide the care. If only Father had trained me as he would have a son.

“I thank you. It… I do get lonely,” she said. It was the truth. While she was allowed to venture out in the evenings and given every Sunday free, she had no friends and no desire to visit Father and Eleanor more than once a week at the most. She was not saddened, but she did yearn for… something. Someone, perhaps. The garden was lovely and provided much to contemplate, yet it was not the same as companionship.

“I am sorry,” said Gold, and although he did not sound asleep, he did sound weary, “that I do not know where you are.”

Ariadne frowned. “Where I am?” It seemed plain enough to her.

“Yes, I’ve no notion of where my ancestor put your remains.”

“Well…” she struggled to keep the keenness from her voice. “Perhaps follow me one night.”

“There is an idea. I have spent just over three decades hiding from you.”

She could not begin to understand what he meant by such a thing, so she said, “Be dauntless. Try a new strategy, then.”

Gold chuckled.

She liked it.

“Very well, my specter. I shall try something out of character.”

His what? Never mind. She did like the possessive being used to describe her.

“Good.” And before he could chuckle again, the sound like sunlight shining through autumn leaves, she took her candlestick and slipped from the room.

*

Ariadne tried not to allow the previous night to dictate her day too much. She greeted Stephen with the usual warmth and made sure to tell him the master might be ill, without explaining what, exactly, had transpired. She kept most of her focus on the chicken that was to be the evening meal.

“He was groaning,” she said, “and I can but assume it was him. Though… I know you and Gareth believe in the ghost.” Both majordomo and hostler spent as little time as they feasibly could in the house. Stephen, of course, spent far more of his days within, but Gareth only ever ventured into the kitchen. “Perhaps you would not think he made the noise.”

Stephen, for his part, did not look convinced or unconvinced she told the truth. But she would expect nothing less from a manservant with years of experience in his post. He’d likely heard any number of things to which it was better not to openly react.

She continued, “I do not think it was a spirit, but a man.”

“I shall make certain he is well, and if he is not, I shall make arrangements for what he needs.”

She had to be satisfied with that and wait to see if Gold himself recalled anything about their misadventure. As she could not control whether or not he told Stephen, she tried not to fret over the possibility.

Besides, it was her opinion that they would not dismiss her—she knew the house’s reputation and how few people would risk entering Gold’s employ. Specters and recluses were a powerfully dissuading combination, almost no matter what the pay. Some, she knew, would fear for their own souls. Mother would have, and she would have feared for Ariadne’s, too.

If Mother was alive, you would not have been here in this house without a battle.

“Ah, so you do sometimes keep to your instructed rooms.”

Startled, she looked up from the chicken she was plucking.

Gold leaned against the doorway leading into the kitchen, his light brown hair in a messy queue, his fine clothes rumpled. He crossed his arms when she brought her eyes to him.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said, after taking a breath and stopping herself from picturing what was under those layers of fabric. It was not that she did not like the fabric, or the colors, shades of russet that underscored his eyes, which took on a similar hue. It was simply that, like a woman parched, she wished to drink.

She resolutely plucked at the white feathers.

“Do not come above stairs again.” He spoke quietly, but she thought he could be more scared than angry.

Her first reaction was to deny she had gone, but that would have made little sense when it was clear—even to someone who’d apparently been addled—she had. She reminded herself that she had to consider, too, that she did not know what Stephen would divulge. It would not do to appear as an outright liar.

She could seem recalcitrant but lying did not sit well with her. “You were not well,” she said, eyeing the headless chicken.

“I am rarely well.”

Vexed, she said, “That may be, but have you wondered why? Shuttering yourself in at all hours of the day, your only connection a ghost? Hardly healthy, to me.” She could only read or write at a simple level, those skills gleaned when Father still actively kept his trade, but she adeptly knew how to maintain health. Eschewing all contact and daylight routines was not generally a way to remain sound of body or mind. “I believe this ghost has occupied your mind in far too singular a manner.”

“You speak with such authority on something you know little about.”

“I have lived here since February. I have heard the noises.” Initially unsettling, they became more intriguing, the source of speculation and not terror.

Stephen had said to Father the ghost disliked men, anyway, which gave her a measure of confidence. She should like to see the specter and, allegedly, it would not hurt her if she did encounter it. But like it was a cat who wished to evade human hands, she had only heard what she presumed was the ghost.

There could be any number of mundane explanations and she was starting to think Gold was rather taxed in mind and spirit. But when one considered the story of the family ancestor who supposedly killed a woman, it was irresistible to believe, or wish to believe, something extraordinary was afoot.

Gold stalked over and stopped within half an arm’s length of her. “You may believe you understand all, but I will remind you to remain where you’re told. If I see you outside of your room and this kitchen, or the garden, I shall dismiss you.”

She was unconvinced and sensed more desperate bombast than truth in the ultimatum. “Who would you find to cook for you?”

“I’ve survived on little in the past, and you’ll notice there are several public houses very nearby. I wouldn’t starve, though your concern is admirable.”

Ariadne held her breath for a moment. Then she said, “No woman, unless she was very desperate, would work here.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Were you desperate, then?” Gold’s eyes rested on her and she did not imagine the desire in them.

Ariadne disregarded the arousal in the pit of her stomach and shrugged. “My father needs the money.”

“Can he not work himself?”

“No, he cannot.”

“What a lamentable state of affairs it is for a man when he needs to send his daughter out to work.”

This close and in the daylight, she had a better look at him. She only looked at him sidelong, as though he was some kind of flame she should not stare at, but she would say he was fifteen or so years older than her. Perhaps less. His physical condition belied his age, for although there were strands of gray in his hair mingling with the brown, he was spry. He seemed, save for his odd ways, strong and focused.

“You underestimate what kind of reputation this house has,” she said, persisting.

She ignored what he said about Father, for it sounded satirical and she was too disconcerted by Gold’s presence to discuss her family’s personal affairs with him.

With speed reminiscent of a cat latching its fangs into a fleeing mouse, he brought his fingers under her chin. She let her hands fall from the chicken.

When he angled her chin to look at him, it was not with force or malice, but conviction. “You had best recall my instructions.” He looked at her before taking his fingers away and she could not help her chin listing toward them.

Then he left the kitchen, leaving her to wonder what, precisely, he was attempting to obscure. And instead of being afraid of his intensity, it called to her.

Chapter Four

The first night happened after the day he accosted her in the kitchen. He’d ensconced himself in the attic, but by ten of-the-clock, she’d found him. Stephen would not have told her, and Gareth knew little of his evening process before bedding down for the night, so he was incensed she located him on her own.

It was fortuitous—or not—that he’d elected to wear a nightshirt.

“I gave you a clear mandate.”

“You’ll find I am very dull,” Ariadne said cheerfully.

“You seem clever enough to me.”

He tried to block the door with his body, but perhaps emboldened by her contact with him when she’d guided him to the library, she pressed inside.

She said, “I have so many questions.”

At a loss, he turned to face her. “You should not be here.” He worried the specter would bring her to harm, or he would, should he enter a state like the one he had been in last night.

“Perhaps not, but I value answers more than propriety. Do you not know? I am not at all appealing as a wife. I care not if anyone speaks ill of me. Anyway, my father consigned me to you.” She sat on a stool under the window overlooking the garden, looking at him with impossibly blue eyes.

Bless her, she thought he was concerned for her reputation and he was happy to explain otherwise. “I worry not for your good name, but your…” He did not know what to say. Mind? Soul? “Sanity.” And he wanted to say, despite his ire, she was very appealing as a wife from where he stood. He did not. “You mentioned propriety, but… that is not at all what I think of.”

“Why confine me to the kitchen or my room, then?”

“I appreciate you are not asking with chagrin.”

“Of course not. I am curious.”

He shook his head. “I shall give up trying to escort you downstairs for now.”

“You may find that is better for your peace of mind. I would not let you.” Ariadne was maddeningly serene, and he kept back a splutter. “I saw her, you know.”

“You…”

“I was in the garden on Beltane, near midnight.” Ariadne looked out of the window. “I saw a face out of this very window. A gray face. Then yours.” She turned back to him and smiled. Part of him became hers. “I hadn’t seen you before.”

“I made great efforts for you not to see me,” he said, perhaps too dourly.

*

Nights with gentle rain were the best, both for speaking to her or sitting in silence when she refused to leave. One such evening, she asked how the ghost had announced herself to him. He had already explained the legend itself, how his mother told him the story.

But Ariadne was interested in patterns and logistics. He’d hoped it might scare her back downstairs, that she might believe he was cursed.

She asked, “Was the house always afflicted?”

That night, they were in an actual bedroom, his mother and father’s before it became his own. Ariadne was rousing the fire back to life from some dying coals. Francis held back some of the circumstances of how he’d investigated some aspects of the legend, how as a younger man he was more enthused about solving a mystery.

He did not want to encourage her.

“I remember hearing things from time to time as a boy, odd noises. But only sometimes.” He considered why they’d been milder back then, as opposed to now.

Father might have been the one attracting all of her ire. Or mayhap Mother had a tempering influence on the spirit.

He could not say if anything was truer than something else, being neither well-versed in the subject of the preternatural nor inclined to philosophize much about it.

“And did you see her?”

“In the basement, sometimes, I did see a figure. I suppose it was a woman. I never saw her so clearly and she did not follow me.”

Ariadne, conversely, questioned everything. She would have followed a specter in the basement. Of that, he was sure.

She nodded. “And this… how long have you been… like this?”

Like a hare fleeing a hunter?

He imagined that there must have always been quiet rumors concerning whatever ancestor had done the deed, so to speak. These things rarely went without generating some kind of talk. But he was the first Gold to fan the flames of outright speculation.

After all, you are markedly odd.

“I was sixteen when my father died,” he said. “As I’ve said to you… my mother told me the story of the murder, but she did say it was supposed to be my father who initiated me.” His smile was brittle. “So, in answer to your question… decades.”

If she felt it was tragic that a man had lived his life the way Francis had, she gave no indication. “That alone might have made me wonder if the story were true at all.”

“I held both possibilities—that it could be true, and that it might not be.”

Ariadne bit her lip in thought. When her teeth came away, it was more flushed. “And your father never once intimated…”

“No. And it never seemed to have this effect on him.” Francis motioned to himself. He sat on an alcove inset into the wall, which his mother had once used to display various trinkets. “I can recall a time when I did not hear what I hear now or see what I see now… the activity was milder. Far milder.”

You may just be weak.

His self-seclusion had not always been so extreme. Time, it seemed, had ripened the ghost’s powers as much as it rotted his mind.

He was blessed to have his family’s wealth and property and unlike an aristocrat, he had no tenants to mind. Trade was easy to manage when one was a coward, so long as one had a family reputation for acumen and quality results. He was merely maintaining what his father and the men before his father had built.

Coward.

As though she could peer into his mind, Ariadne said, “Perhaps that means you are marked. She might sense something in you that she never did with the others.” Adding, like it was an afterthought, she said, “Meaning no disrespect to your kin.”

“Of course not,” said Francis. He smirked, for she did not seem nervous at all about insulting his ancestors. “If I am marked, what for?” Shrugging, he said, “It has been years and I still haven’t done anything for her.”

“That does not mean you cannot.”

One thing he had learned, and learned well, in these talks: Ariadne was irrepressible.

Stephen, noticing either a change in her or a change in Francis, inquired whether he ought to take her more firmly in hand. Francis replied that it would not be necessary, which seemed to surprise Stephen.

Francis hadn’t expected this thirst for companionship and another’s understanding. For she seemed to intuit his depths, the contradictions he could not put to rights.

*

For the first fortnight of their arrangement, he was prone to gruffness and thereafter was always susceptible to being rather short with Ariadne. He supposed he was out of practice dealing with people—interacting with those who were not denizens of the public houses, or merchants and traders.

Who are often also great frequenters of public houses, at any rate.

Despite his sometimes-sour demeanor, they had only one melancholic, tense discussion, and the rest were more lighthearted. In effect, it was over his character and tangentially about her being sent home and out of his employ.

“I don’t think it’s fair for you to be trapped here,” he said, sipping a damson liqueur Stephen had made.

“I am not trapped,” Ariadne said. She said she disliked damsons and elected to have a small glass of ale instead. Rather than remain indoors, they were sequestered at the far end of the garden.

“These cannot be the usual conditions for a maid.” He meant all the shades of the otherworldly that seemed to intrude here, as well as the half-mad master, but she seemed to think of something else.

“They are not.” Before he could say with triumph that he knew she was discontented, she continued, “You have always done right by me. There has been no philandering. I am not mistreated by any housekeeper, as you have none, and Stephen has never hit me. Even Gareth is respectful.”

Francis did like Gareth, a quiet, tall lad with an eye for horseflesh. He was always more comfortable with the beasts than with men, and would probably be the least likely hostler to molest a maid.

“So, I agree,” she said. “These are not the usual conditions for a maid.”

Hardly understanding why he was attempting to drive her away, he said, “Do you not have a beau or a fiancé?” He knew she’d claimed she was not eligible. That did not mean she had no one or did not aim to find someone.

In the darkness of a cloudy night sky and feeble light of one candle, he was taking the opportunity to commit her features to memory.

“I always kept to myself.”

“That is not useful information.”

Ariadne huffed, then said, “There was one man my father was keen on. Gaston. He is not the worst man I have ever met, but he is something of a boorish lout.”

Francis snorted.

“He was perhaps only a few years older than me,” said Ariadne. “Though he did act much younger. I was more interested in plants and remedies than…” she paused, deliberating over what to say, and Francis could picture what followed than. “Tending to his desires.” She smiled with utter impishness. “So, because I did not, he deemed me cold. I suppose my father might have given me to him anyway. But in the end… my sister shall marry him. Eleanor and Gaston have been courting at least as long as I have been here.” She smirked. “They shall be a good match. She is rather vain, and he is rather vapid.”

Disgruntled, Francis was about to interject that she was not property.

Then, when she gently elbowed him in the side, he understood she was finding the humor in the situation.

“Father met Stephen at The Crown and decided to give me to you, instead.”

At her words, he understood why he was endeavoring to place some distance between them. These nights had planted a seed of friendship and it was, for him, quickly growing into something else.

It had only been weeks and Francis could not discount the influence of time on a relationship, but he was also not naive to the possibility of fast connections between souls. In some respects, he must have been denying himself the opportunity to find them for all these years, even though he did not think about his habits in those terms.

After she said her father had given her to him, he thought of what that might truly be like.

No one would want to be friends with a man stalked by a spirit—and no one would want to be his wife, either. Before he had friends or a lover, or one who became anything more, he needed to solve that problem.

And he couldn’t.

“What is it?”

Some of his thoughts must have surfaced upon his countenance. He tried to calm himself.

“Nothing,” he said.

But she set aside her ale and stroked some of the hair at his temples, her hands at both sides of his head. “You are a woeful liar.”

“You should consider going home to your father.”

“Why?”

“Because I…” Could come to love you and I don’t want to subject you to my terror or ineptitudes. “Think you would have a better chance at a fulfilling life.”

“Francis, I did not take this position because I loved living in my father’s house. Of course, he did not frame it as a choice. I give almost all of my coin to him and my sister.”

“Did he mistreat you?”

“No, but he is a bitter man since falling ill.”

He did not press for more details and, instead, closed his eyes, lulled and warmed by her slight touch. “If you change your mind and choose to go, I shall not stop you.”

If you leave me here to rot in this mausoleum, I cannot blame you.

“I thank you for the trust,” she said, as her fingers rubbed small circles on his scalp. “But I shall not go.”

Yes, Francis realized, trust was indeed part of what he extended. As for the rest, he could hardly hope.

*

June 21

“Perhaps I should follow the ghost where she leads?”

Francis looked at Ariadne with respect. He scarcely believed that tonight marked weeks’ worth of her visits. Calling them visits makes them seem salacious.

He wished they were. But more than that, he felt deep kinship with this woman who’d bludgeoned into his warped routines. She was no miss or lightskirt—not that there was any problem with women providing services for pay. We’ve just never really discussed the terms of this… arrangement.

And they hadn’t. She simply found him in whatever room he occupied for the night. There weren’t many, and decidedly not as many as some of the grander houses could boast, so he could not credit either of them with undue genius. He imagined he had patterns.

“The men of my family have all tried to no avail.” He did not know for certain what they’d all tried and had only his mother’s word to rely upon for the confirmation. But he assumed attempts had been made, depending upon how seriously each man took the story.

He did wonder about that… am I the worst affected?

Every night was treacherous and as evidenced by his conversation with Ariadne that he did not remember, but she could recount, his mind must have created some of the duress. Not all men would take that as comfort, he knew. But if he were to blame for some of what he experienced, that could be understood in a manner specters could not.

“Have any of the women?” With her legs and feet tucked under her in the chair, the question was very arch.

He could not help but smile. “If you must know, I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

Francis smirked. “We were not… or… I was not given to believe I should even discuss this with anyone, woman or otherwise. I cannot say how many shared the tale with their wives or kin.”

“Or lovers.”

He let that go. Wisely, he felt.

“No woman, to my knowledge, has communicated with the spirit.”

“Yet Father was told the spirit had no issue with women. How do you know, if it has not interacted with any?” Ariadne tilted her head, causing her mahogany curls to waver.

They did not stand by much propriety in this house, although Francis was starting to regret his lax attitude. The feelings he had for her were surely inappropriate or misplaced at best. Yet, she seemed not at all intimidated by him.

Or anything.

“I… don’t.”

In their earliest conversations, he was uncomfortable with her endless questions and the seemingly inexhaustible amount of curiosity. Then it became galvanizing. He could not say exactly when. Many nights had gone, too, without sight nor sound of the ghost. He could only attribute that to Ariadne’s jarring, but sustaining, influence.

“Well,” she said, “then you cannot expect or say with certainty that I will not have more success than you if I try to determine where she goes or what she wants.”

“I am sure she wishes for the location of her remains to be known.”

“Likely so. But how will you ever find them if you do not try something different?” Ariadne smiled. “I know you are older than me, but you are not so old to be set in your ways.”

Chapter Five

Gold might have made great efforts to leave undetected from the house, and she knew he did journey out—although not by anyone’s customary standard. Whatever trade or business matters he attended, they did not seem to have regular schedules.

But once she had seen him, Ariadne was acutely aware of his presence.

What was more, something about her must have inspired his trust, for he now ventured downstairs more often than he had in the previous four months. She smirked as she replaced a cheesecloth over a bowl of compote to discourage flies.

He likes cherries. He steals them.

She’d always found them too sour on their own, but evidently, Gold enjoyed them, for he had absconded with quite a few she’d intended to preserve. Well, he is the master of the house, she reminded herself. It was something she suspected she’d need to keep thinking, especially if their custom of conversing after dark continued.

It was hard to say if it would, but she did unexpectedly crave their interactions. In truth, meeting him had been like discovering a new favorite scent or food. She was compelled to seek more of it, of him.

Gareth entered the kitchen and she glanced at him. “Good morning, Gareth.”

Silent as ever, he nodded in her direction and procured a small piece of cheese. She tried again, wondering if it would ever be possible to make any conversation with the lad. “The weather is most mild. I expect the master’s journey to London will be pleasant.”

Gold had mentioned in passing he was to travel there this morning and return within the next fortnight.

This should not have inspired her desire to search for the ghost or invite her to interact.

It did.

Ariadne would, after all, be left alone within the house. It must have been that he was unused to informing a staff or a maid of his travel plans, for Stephen almost did not count as such, and the distance between Norwich and London meant the journey could take about twenty hours in total. It was still very early, and the sun was not yet up.

I have never made it myself, but I’ve always paid attention when people speak of it. Many travelers noted that the most opportune coach would leave before sunrise.

She wished to travel to many countries despite knowing the opportunity might never be afforded to her, yet she still could not imagine the comparatively short journey to London.

I wonder if Stephen shall stay here while the master is away.

The thought wasn’t ideal, for he would not approve of any attempts she might make to find, communicate with, or help the ghost. Regardless of whether or not said spirit was real, he would not condone her experiments to determine if it was.

But it was not actually helping the ghost as much as it was helping the master.

Francis Gold already occupied so many of her thoughts, it seemed most unwise to allow him more range.

Gareth merely grunted in reply to her words. He took a small hamper she had prepared with various foods for the journey. Then he made his way back out, she supposed to return to the mews. Perhaps there would be no future with Gareth as an acquaintance, after all.

Her next visitor was Gold himself, appearing… abashed, she decided. He wore the finest clothes she had yet seen him in, all tailored with travel in mind but proclaiming clear quality.

She cleared her throat and said, “Yes? I have already… Gareth took the basket.”

“Pardon?”

“In case you’d get…” she finished lamely, “hungry.”

“I did not come for that,” he said, then, as though recalling it was more polite to offer thanks, “but I do thank you for thinking of it. No… I…”

She waited.

His eyes moved as he looked at her, taking her in. She hoped he enjoyed what he saw. “I should greatly prefer it if you kept to your own room, the kitchens… and did not…”

“Yes?

He must have been a seer who could see into her mind, for he said, “Leave the ghost be. I am sure she shall ignore you on account of your being…”

“A woman?”

At that, his eyes fell to her bosom. “Yes. Precisely.”

“I promise I shall not make any trouble,” she said, reluctant to agree in as many words.

“That is not what I said.”

“No,” she said. “I do hang upon your every word. I know it is not what you said.”

Gold sighed.

Emboldened, she took a few steps forward and closed the space between them. She looked up at him, smiling. “I promise I shall not make trouble at all.”

He took a breath, swallowed. For a small moment, she wondered if—hoped, with a thrill—he might kiss her.

Then he shook his head once and strode off, giving a mumbled oath. Whatever she felt, he clearly did, too. But she needed to examine that thought later.

Satisfied, she wondered exactly what the best way was of not making any trouble.

*

Stephen did not remain that evening, which was a keen relief. Drawing from half-remembered stories she’d heard as a child, she tried to create an inviting atmosphere for a ghost. She had little idea of what it might constitute. But she could make a guess. In the wood-paneled room, she’d arranged candles upon the windowsills and even burned several herbs with mystical reputations.

If you are not careful, someone will truly call you a witch. She chuckled. Some apothecaries were even now called such by the ignorant, and even more midwives and wise women could still be weighted with the same misconceptions.

“Well,” she said, after a moment of adjusting to the quiet. There were usually ambient noises from outside, but it seemed still.

“I… if you’d like to come out and speak to me, and stop bothering the master of the house, that would be… much appreciated.”

Her words were met with silence. But it felt like the kind of silence that happened just before someone spoke. “Perhaps you have noticed… I have been speaking with him more often. He is a good man, I believe.”

She rested her chin on the palm of her hand, staring at the smoke rising from one of the tiny piles of smoldering herbs.

“Of course, that is not of any comfort to you, but if you are real… he did not hurt you.”

An hour later, she decided to retire to bed. There had been no miraculous sightings of a spectral woman and not so much as a puff of cold breath in her direction.

It only made her want to try harder to make some kind of contact.

*

Something told her to choose a later hour that night. No one she had ever met had tried to contact the dead, and her mother and father tried to raise their daughters to respect, even fear, the afterlife. It was less about God, which perhaps it should have been, and how to avoid antagonizing spirits and demons.

If Mother can see me from where she is, I’m certain she shall do her best to come through and box my ears.

Being flirtatious with her master, attempting what many good Christians considered the dark arts…

Ariadne lit the candles once again, believing three hours past midnight was a sufficiently late time.

“Hello,” she said to the empty room. “I have come back. You know, he shall not be gone for long… if the hearsay is true and you do not mind women but do despise men… now would be an excellent time to tell me where you are.”

Ariadne paused for a moment. “There are many women who would shy away from this topic, but I assure you, I cannot judge you if it was a lovers’ quarrel and it went wrong…”

A gentle tap reverberated on the wall opposite the fireplace.

Interesting.

“Was it, then?” Ariadne waited. Then she added, for she did not believe this particular spirit would have any reason to break her confidence, “I am not my master’s lover, but I have wondered if I could be. I…” she searched her mind for the right word. “Do have feelings for him. I think I could love him.”

She reflected upon the conversations they’d shared, all warmer and more intimate than any she’d had with another person. Gold supported her interests, so long as they did not veer in the direction of what she was doing right this moment, and he treated her with respect and interest.

He had also grown to look at her as though she was someone peerless, without any rivals. She knew what it felt like to have men gaze at her like she was a choice cut of meat. Gaston did. This was nowhere near comparable.

Several of her deep breaths passed before another knock came from the wall.

Then another.

Smiling, she said, “Very well.” She could have been talking only to the air, but she rose and went to the wall.

Immediately, in a manner that was decidedly not the house settling in changeable late spring weather, a tap came from a place just above her head, almost as though someone was doing it purposefully to emphasize a sentence.

Eleanor was prone to gesticulating with her hands whenever she spoke, so it was not a habit with which Ariadne was unfamiliar. She could well picture a young woman doing so, even in the hereafter.

She rested her palm softly in the same area. It felt cooler than the space around it. “Could we perhaps… one for yes, two for no?”

She rapped once to demonstrate a yes and twice to show the no.

Perhaps predictably, there was no mirroring of her actions.

There was, however, a new and persistent smell of roses that did not seem like it was of the natural world. She had dried enough of the magnificent petals to know no rose had ever smelled so stubborn, as though it had been dipped in honey and left out under the sun.

And this panel does feel… hollow.

She bit her lip with some excitement. She was already undertaking something forbidden and there could be no harm in pushing it a little more. Carefully, she used her fingertips to feel the edges of the small, wooden panel.

It was an old house and there was a chance she might find a space behind it. One could never tell what had changed over the years. A house like this had to be a mixture of all its masters’ whims and wishes. Her fingers caught at the upper left corner of the panel, and the wood came loose. She made sure to hold it gently lest she drop and chip it. The only reservation she had now was whether she might be met with an insect or a spider.

But she couldn’t not put her hand in the compartment. She glanced at one of the candlesticks and retrieved it, setting the wood panel on a slender table for safekeeping.

Raising the flame, she allowed it to illuminate the nook.

There were no creatures, and it was neither dusty nor cobwebbed. She squinted, up on her toes to see.

An unassuming skeleton key dangled from a crooked nail.

“Thank you,” she said, taking the key from its nail.

She could not say how long it had been there or who had hidden it but knew with a conviction that was not quite hers—it felt foreign like the rose scent—this key would help Francis find answers to the questions that had plagued his life.

*

Of course, by the time he’d returned from London, her idea of following the ghost was not, as she let Gold think and assumed he thought, new or untested.

Ariadne smiled in wan amusement as she passed The Turkey Cock. She knew she had to tell him the truth, which was precisely that she’d gone against his wishes and interacted with his resident spirit while he was away. It seemed she had succeeded, but to what end, she did not know.

Remains could be within the house.

Unlikely, if so many Golds had tried to locate them within its confines.

They could be in a church, which would depend upon many factors, access being one. She had no doubt, though, that most people—even holy people—could be bribed. If that was the case, she may as well give up trying to find a skeleton this very moment.

The city was full of churches. More, she’d heard tell, than anywhere else.

If she turned and looked at either the top or bottom of the street, she could spy three.

No, I do not think she would be in a church. Not if it was meant to be clandestine.

Too much could go wrong, and someone who’d lost their heads over a murder was… she chewed her lip, considering.

Most likely compromised. Some might be able to manage something like the disposal of a body. But without prior knowledge or accomplices, she had to guess the task was not an easy one.

It was easier to imagine grave-robbing than stashing a body away.

No. Things cannot be so complex.

Whatever had truly happened, it had to be simpler than any dramatist or writer would like to imagine. She now believed two things about the mystery: first, that the story had origins in a true past event.

She did not doubt men could be careless or cruel, and after all, the richest or most powerful families were no more refined than common folk. They all had the same base desires—and most likely the same sharp reactions to an accidental murder. Rich men simply had more options at their disposal.

Kings have whole armies and reserves of money, after all.

The Gold family was not royal or aristocratic. But it had been powerful in its way and could indeed be hiding something—relying upon the strange ritual of telling only the boys, the men, the firstborn or most positioned to inherit, to ensure privacy.

After meeting Gold and better understanding his habits, she believed he himself had contributed most to the rumors surrounding his house. If, for instance, someone passing by on the street as they returned home from a public house had heard him moaning…

Then that would raise the hair on the back of almost anyone’s neck, and if they had already heard stories about the house…

The second thing she now believed was Gold suffered greatly from the idea that violence committed by his own relative had given rise to such stories. She had not seen the ghost since that fateful Beltane night, but she had come to know he made a great deal of the harrowing sounds.

She was almost home. Walking outdoors helped her think, and she found it more difficult to think things through when she was concentrating on any of her duties. She slowed her pace.

I doubt anyone else knows he makes them. Gold had no wife and Stephen returned home at nightfall.

He would be mortified if he knew I knew. She wanted to alleviate some of that suffering if possible. She did not have to know when or exactly how it started, but when she thought of Gold’s deceptively kind nature, it might have been inevitable. He must have felt for the ghost.

No master she’d ever heard of had told a maid she should leave his service. No man she’d ever heard of had been so consumed by his ancestor harming one woman. And the events in the story are not even confirmed!

It was a reasonable conjecture that at least some of his sightings of the specter were generated by his own mind. Especially now that she had spent time in the house completely alone and also knew for certain he made at least some of the frightening sounds.

Yet she could not believe that it was the entire explanation. Not with the way she’d found the key. Somehow, she had not managed to tell Gold the rather shocking truth, despite knowing she should.

Perhaps tonight.

Chapter Six

There was no plan in Francis’ mind that said, “This summer, I shall start to fall in love.”

It didn’t matter, for Ariadne seemed to transcend the vast majority of all other customary bounds. Granted, he was not the most conventional of masters and gave her much freer rein than others would. Part of that was his own temperament, for he did value autonomy and believed those beneath him should have it as much as anyone else.

Beneath me? He cringed internally. Everything became a double entendre when he was near her.

She opened a window as she spoke. “It is as though the solstice commanded the weather to turn its eye to summer.”

Even that innocent statement was subjected to his carnal urges. As I’ve turned my eye to you? They, paired with the respect and warmth he felt for her uncanny, dogged ways, were growing more intense by the day.

He was almost sorry he had scheduled no more journeys to London, because they at least forced him to consider other matters. Without the distance and other tasks, he found himself consumed by thoughts of Ariadne. They were much better than being consumed with thoughts of a ghost, the nebulous guilt that closed in upon him from the age of sixteen onward. But they posed interesting problems of their own.

What sort of life would I provide her? He worried not for his financial ability, but his mind.

“I find the warmth pleasant,” he said.

He hadn’t had nearly as many nightmares when he did sleep, and had even resided in one room for several nights in a row.

“I always did, myself. Eleanor, my sister, hates summer.” With a smile, Ariadne said, “I think that is somewhat why I took to it.”

He grinned and stretched in his chair. “That does seem entirely within keeping of your character.”

You have not even kissed her, much less bedded her, and here you are thinking of a lifetime.

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“I do not know what that might connote about me, then,” she said, though her eyes smiled.

When she came to sit in the chair opposite his, she seemed even more full of energy than she often was. “What is it?”

“I have something I must tell you, but…”

“But?” He raised an eyebrow.

“You must promise not to get angry.”

He could think only of a few phrases that were more ominous than that one. “I cannot, but I shall… control any bout of temper.”

She swallowed and said, “That is fair, I suppose.”

Curious, for she had never seemed circumspect, he waited for her to speak.

When he did not interject, she said, “While you were in London, I did some…” she appeared to choose her words carefully. “Investigating.”

“I see.” Unless he was misinformed, she could not read well or at all, which led him to wonder what kind of investigating she meant. “What about?”

With a twinge of misgiving, he thought, She means of the specter.

“The house.” Even by candlelight, he saw her blush.

She is lying.

“Just the house?”

She pursed her lips, then said, “Not for a purpose that you’d approve, but… I remained in the house.”

“Very well. What is it you really mean to say?”

“I reached out to the ghost.”

“Even though I told you not to?”

“I am glad I did.”

As he was trying to decide if he would keep to his mandate of sending her back to her father should his instructions not be obeyed, he realized he could not. The very thought of not seeing her every night appalled him. Still, he was chagrined she had not heeded him.

“I shall be the judge of whether or not you should be glad.”

His brusqueness wounded her, for she flinched minutely. “I have something for you.” She leaned closer to him and took something from a pocket. “Here.”

Immobilized by displeasure and arousal, he was too busy gazing at her lips to understand what she pressed into his hand. Perhaps we wouldn’t need to discuss the transgression so much as work it out in another manner…

“What is this?”

She leaned closer, perhaps lured by the touch of her fingers on his palm. A sliver of warm, smooth metal was against his skin, but so were her fingertips. He knew which he felt more.

A key. He did not have to look at the object to know its weight and shape in his hand.

“It’s a key. I didn’t try any locks.”

He blinked, then smirked in spite of himself. “Oh, that makes me much more amenable to your investigations.”

“Does it?” Ariadne’s tongue skimmed her lower lip.

When it dipped back into her mouth, he brushed his lips against hers. “No, I would have preferred you obeyed what I said.”

Perhaps she was relieved she was not being reprimanded—which he still had half a mind to do—because she chuckled against his mouth before she truly returned his kiss.

“Your demeanor is far worse than your actions,” she said.

He grunted, more out of pleasure than in vexation at her words. “Fine, dauntless woman. What do you propose I do with this key?”

“I would think that is obvious.”

“Is it?”

“Try it on locks.”

“I don’t know if it will be so simple. Where did you find it? I won’t ask how, in exact detail, you did.” He did not think he wished to know.

“Behind a wood panel on the wall.” She nodded in its general direction.

That is actually rather impressive. He told himself she must have good instincts rather than wonder if the ghost had shown her the way. Living in this house had given him nothing but a respect bordering on fearful reverence for the preternatural. But before he became so reverent, he was far more determined to solve whatever mystery existed.

As a young man, he’d tried to find any compartments, bolt holes… to no success.

Perhaps you need to try again.

He gave a huff. “Oh, of course, where all skeleton keys are kept.” After he deepened their kiss enough to suspect he would never want to kiss anyone but her, he drew back and said, “You cannot want this.” But he’d noticed the pull they experienced and his words fell flat.

“I do,” she assured him. “I just think you shall be preoccupied until you determine what that key opens.”

She was correct, but he also felt a gnawing fear it would lead to nothing and he would be caught in the same cycles that had existed before she came to alter them.

She also seemed to interpret the fear in his eyes. “Shall we do it together, then?” She glanced at the key. “I shall not be specific in telling you why, but I believe if I were to help you look, we shall get an answer much more smoothly.”

When a knock came from a corner of the room, he could not imagine why she smiled. To him, it sounded like a meaningless bit of wood settling, but he did enjoy her smiles.

*

An hour into their search—which was charged with pleasurable tension, for she seemed more distracted by his face and the movements of his hands along walls and at the doorways—he at last discovered a hollow board under the bed in his chosen bedroom.

He would have sworn this area had already been subject to one of his original endeavors to find something out of the ordinary.

I suppose I shall just stop making any assumptions at all.

“Could you please… I need light.”

“What have you found?”

Ariadne brought a candlestick and rested it gently on the floor, careful to mind anything that could catch flame. Together, they shifted the bed so Francis would no longer need to wiggle under it to access the floor.

“Something new to me, and I have been over this room.” He smiled at her. “Would you like to do the deed?”

She held his gaze as though to say, I would indeed, then said, “If you think it would help.”

“I do.”

She crouched next to the board he’d jarred slightly askew. After she moved it, she produced a narrow box of the kind that might be on one’s bureau or desk. “This does have a lock that looks as though it fits the key.” She looked up at him with a delighted smile. “And it is not large enough to house bones… so I am relieved.”

He chuckled. “Somehow, I do not know if that is an appropriate thing to be gleeful about, but I’m equally pleased I haven’t been sporadically resting over a body.”

Hope threaded through him. Whatever resided in the box, it felt as though it was of great importance. Ariadne stood and put the box on the bed. Then, she picked up the candle.

“Go on,” she said.

He took the key in hand. When he pressed it into the lock, it fit; they were obviously a set. Keys had not changed so very much over the generations, so he could not say it was any older or younger than those he used every day.

Before he opened the box itself, he looked at her. “This might be nothing at all. Someone’s gambling debts or a list of lovers.” He did not believe it; the moment weighed heavy and significant.

“Or it might well be something,” she said. “Only looking into it will tell.” She took his free hand in her own and squeezed. “I do not believe in coincidences.”

“Neither do I.”

“Then… stop delaying.”

He did as she directed and turned the key, lifted the lid.

Inside was a very slender number of papers.

Ariadne brought the candle close enough so he could begin to see writing upon them. “You shall have to tell me what they say.” But a moment later, as though she recalled their differences in status and how they should be acknowledged, she added, “If you see fit.”

He said, running a thumb along her palm, “You cannot be serious, Ariadne—do you really believe I wouldn’t?” She did not answer, so he said, “You are as much a part of this as I am. You are more a part of it than I am.”

Of that, he was convinced. Without her, and if she had not gone against his wishes, who knew how long the box would have remained hidden. Nothing earthly had told him it mattered, and he would examine that in the future. This moment could not be an accident.

“I think you should read them,” she said. When he looked at her, she smiled and nodded in encouragement.

So, he read.

He had no wish to relinquish her hand, so they stood in a somewhat awkward position, but he was happy she didn’t move away from him. All he needed to glean was on the first page, but he read each of them. There were three in total.

He started to hand the pages to Ariadne, stunned by what had been revealed and unable to read aloud to her.

Then he recalled what she’d just said. She would not be able to learn anything from the paper without him.

“Ah… it’s an… a relative of mine. From… a… about… a century and a quarter ago?” Though he was usually impeccable with numbers, the ability presently escaped him. “Not an uncle, as my mother stated. I…” He would have to refer to the old scribbles he’d once read as a boy to be sure, but he thought this man, who possessed the Christian name Robert, was actually a cousin. “A cousin? I do not know precisely.”

She must have sensed his disquiet. Gently, she said, “Tell me more.”

“There was a woman. She was his mother’s maid before his mother died, and they…” At this juncture, Francis took his hand back and rubbed at his face. “He says they fell in love and were to be married. Which… if I had read that even just a few weeks ago, I wouldn’t have necessarily believed.”

“But now,” Ariadne said, and he did not have to see her face to know she smiled, “you may have experience in a very similar matter?” Then, in a voice that still produced a thrill within him despite his shock, she added, “Francis.”

“Just so. I feel differently, now that you are present.” He dropped his hand and read the words for a second time. “Men can do awful things. But… she wasn’t murdered.” Francis would not discount the many things he knew happened to women at the hands of men, but he could not think why Robert would fabricate anything like this. He seemed, if one could judge from handwriting alone, heartbroken.

“What does he say, then?”

“It seemed she had some sort of a fit one night.”

Ariadne’s eyes widened. “That is terrible.” She, Francis wagered, knew more about any kind of fits than he did.

“They’d gone to bed, and he awoke to sounds of her… choking, he thought. When he lit a candle, he saw she was unwell, but before he could summon any help…”

Ariadne sighed. “She died.”

What impacted Francis most about the story was how he could so easily imagine it. “Yes, she did.” He was not prepared for the onslaught of empathy, of feeling, for this couple.

Then Ariadne asked what he knew she would. She had been raised here and had likely heard far more versions of the story than he had. “What was done with her? If they were in love, I highly doubt the rumors about her body being hidden somewhere are correct.”

“She was put to rest at St. Jude and St. Simon. Right near The Turkey Cock.” He was still trying to comprehend the fact, given all the time he’d spent at the public house.

Shaking her head, Ariadne sat upon the bed and looked up at him. She placed the candlestick atop a bedside table. “Everything I have heard is so utterly wrong.”

“It is. But all anyone needs to say for such stories to become monstrous is one salacious thing.”

He so sorely regretted all of the time he had spent miserable, steeped in guilt and terror. And I pity the men before me, too, who’d felt the same guilt or… the need to solve the question.

He would never know when the facts of the original event shifted into the secret, the ritualistic handing-down of knowledge. It hadn’t needed to affect anyone so badly, himself included.

This will take some time to grow accustomed to. Delicately, he replaced the pages in their home and set the box next to the candlestick. He’d already seen that his ancestor had retreated from public life while still managing trade matters.

Much like you did.

He still had so many questions that would not be answered. The casual mention of going to bed spoke of a conjugal relationship, but he wanted to know if, with no parents left to disapprove of his behavior, Robert was actually free to speak about his marriage plans.

It seemed very likely, if the woman was properly interred.

Why not clear his own name?

Mayhap Robert subjected himself to most of the shame. He’d said he was writing as an older man, and made no mention of anyone ridiculing him for being a murderer, only that he’d retreated in grief from much of his life.

Which means the rumors only began later…

A blessing for Robert, but a curse for the Golds that followed him. Francis could see how, if the business and the house weren’t always passed between immediate family, the actual story would not have been well-preserved.

When he sat heavily next to Ariadne, she surprised him by facing him and putting her arms around his shoulders. He knew it was his own situation that instigated so much of his speculation.

“Perhaps now, you shall be able to sleep.”

He took a long breath. “Particularly if the ghost was never… real.” It might have been to convince himself everything was not as strange as it could be. But he wanted to believe—perversely—his own mental faculties had created her and were helped along by family legend. Ariadne appeared to want to reassure him, but he knew better than to misinterpret her fleeting look of skepticism. “Why do you hesitate to agree?”

“No, I do agree.”

“Do you?” He leaned forward so she would have no choice but to recline on the bed or stand, should she not wish to.

“Yes.” To his happiness, she did lay back, allowing him to angle himself against her body.

“Are you certain?” He barely kissed the side of her throat and was gratified when she moaned quietly.

“I think there must have been something of a ghost lingering,” she said reluctantly.

“Why?” He kissed her in the same place, this time tempering it with a nip to her skin.

“Oh. Well, I did see her… and when I found the key…”

“What sort of necromancy did you do to find that key?”

Enjoying the intervals of kisses with discussion as much as she seemed to, he gave her another.

“None,” she said, and he felt her pulse go faster. “I did no necromancy, but… before I found the key, something knocked right on the panel that obscured it. I could smell roses, too. Rosewater.” It was a mystery he would consider later, for she gripped his hand with some urgency. “Please, if you do not do something, I fear I shall be the next person in this house to go mad.”

“Then I shall do something.” He grinned. “You thought I was mad?”

“Not in truth, but…”

It was not a clarification she would finish, because he kissed her sweetly until her tongue was occupied with teasing his. And when he slipped a hand under her skirts, they were both focused on earthly pleasure instead of otherworldly suffering.

Epilogue

May 1, 1780

Ariadne looked up at the house with satisfaction, remembering how ominous and unloved it had appeared when she’d first arrived. I would say I cannot recognize it, but… the last three years felt like a good dream. Sunlight bathed the house, glowing on the windows.

“Mrs. Gold,” Stephen said as he opened the door.

She smiled. Being recognized as such was still novel, and what was more, it was less about marriage and more about being Francis’ equal. In fact, as a merchant’s wife, she’d learned some women were addressed with “Mrs.” not because they were married, but because they headed their own business ventures. Of their number, some were widows, but others had never been married at all.

Now knowing the precise amount of work that went into trade, she admired them.

Perhaps it was because she had not been raised to do it, but some days seemed insurmountably full of things to accomplish. Cloth, it seemed, had been the basis of the Gold family’s good fortune. Now that he was not immobilized by guilt, Francis was more visibly involved in its production and sale. He had innovative ideas of which colors should be paired together and had masterminded some patterns that were now in high demand with the wealthy set in London.

“The market was very busy this morning,” she said to Stephen as she passed him.

“That would be the sun’s influence, I should think.”

“Indeed.” She walked into the kitchen and Stephen trailed behind her. “I have little idea how I shall keep up with demand for my tinctures,” she said. Even after many months of being the mistress of the house, she could not speak to him as though he was lesser than her.

“I may be wrong,” said Stephen, “but I expect that is a good thing.”

The lack of tension in his household had transformed him: gone was the severe, drawn, birdlike air she’d associated with him when they were first introduced. Now in charge of a small number of servants, Stephen seemed much more content. She glanced above their heads where bundles of herbs were hanging to dry.

Alice, their cook of advanced age and sharp mind, often remarked Mrs. Gold’s herbs were strange and confused her nose, but she tolerated them being alongside the more usual ones for seasoning.

Ariadne simply made certain that any which might have a toxic effect were kept far from the others, just in case Alice took it into her head to experiment with her spices.

“It is.”

She could hardly believe her good luck at times. Though often occupied with matters of her husband’s business, for she had wished to learn as much as she could about his ancestral trade, he encouraged her to further her learning when it came to plants and medicines.

Father passed last winter and there was very little property to inherit. Eleanor had sold their hovel and was now married to Gaston, who evidently considered one sister as good as the other. Ariadne did not envy Eleanor a bit, but she seemed far more content as a married woman than she had as an unwed one.

Having no use for them, Eleanor passed Father’s sketches and notes to Ariadne. He had been marginally more literate than his daughters and relied predominately upon his own system of drawings and rudimentary notations. Much of his knowledge died with him, not least of which because he’d viewed daughters as inferior to sons—what Ariadne presently gleaned about being an apothecary, she gleaned almost entirely on her own.

The garden was now her personal domain and Gareth, of all unlikely candidates, had quite a gift with growing things. She supposed horses and plants alike needed a calm touch.

“How was the market?” Francis entered through the back door, his nose pink from the sun.

“Busy. Oh,” she said brightly, recalling a matter they’d discussed a fortnight ago, “the young woman from Huntingdon returned. Her babe is fine.”

A pregnant woman had sought Ariadne due to her reputation: the child had not moved for weeks. This wasn’t strange to Ariadne, but she could also admit it was one thing to be serene when faced when someone else’s problem and quite another if it was your own child. Moved by the woman’s nervousness, Ariadne had described the situation to Francis that evening after he had finished his work for the day.

“That is wonderful,” said Francis. He came around the large work table that dominated the kitchen and kissed her soundly. “My brilliant wife.”

“Knowing about herbs does not mean I am brilliant,” she said, but she smiled all the same. “I suppose it does mean I shall not accidentally kill any of us with the wrong plant.”

Insistent, he said, “That is a kind of brilliance. Looking at natural things and knowing which ones will help a mother? What leaves will ease a cough?” Impish, he added, “Stop a heart? Brilliant.”

“You must be sure to keep on my good side.”

“I may have some ideas on how to do so,” he murmured. He arched an eyebrow. “Most need a bed. Or a wall. I’m not overly discerning.”

Stephen coughed and Ariadne did not have to turn to know he scuffled from the kitchen. She heard his shoes against the floor. “Please, Francis, think of Stephen’s delicate nature. You shall offend him deeply.”

He chuckled and brought his hands to her waist. “I know. It is his cross to bear.”

When she looked into his warm eyes, she was swept by such gratitude and wonder that she found she could not speak. That often happened to her now, but it was always a good speechlessness.

She blessed her stubbornness, thinking only that if she had not been so focused on solving a mystery, none of her present life would exist.

The ghost seemed to be gone. Nothing of her remained save for an occasional strong suggestion of rosewater in an empty room’s corner. It appeared to Ariadne that she might have been placed in the Gold House for the sake of exonerating a long-dead man—Robert Gold had never been guilty.

But as time could, it had created a patina over the most unfortunate but mundane of events.

In turn, she’d freed Francis, liberating him from a curse brought about by his own volition. If there was any darkness left at all, it was the kind seeds needed to grow. Combined with the sunshine that now touched Gold House, it would lead to beautiful things.

The End

Additional Dragonblade books by Author Whitney Blake

Dukes of Destiny Series

Duke of Havoc

Duke of Sorrow

Duke of Disgrace

Duke of Misfortune

The Lyon’s Den Connected World

The Lyon’s Den in Winter

About the Author

Whitney is a bit of a wanderer and something of a bluestocking. She’s been telling stories since childhood, when she would rewrite the endings of her favorite books and movies (or add “deleted scenes” to them). When she’s not writing or reading, she enjoys cooking, dancing, and going for long walks with no specific destination in mind.

Literary work comes naturally to Whitney and she’s very excited to be pursuing her passion – rich storylines, vibrant characters, and most of all, a happily ever after.

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