Captive Bride (13 page)

In a drawing room one afternoon shortly after the accident, Bea heard her mother say to a friend that even if her husband was not overly fond these days, at least
he
was not a madman. And what sort of woman complained publicly to her husband about his little
peccadillos
?

Bea had turned away from her mother in shame. A man and a woman ought to be allowed to love each other in any way they chose, though Bea couldn’t like Lord
Cheriot’s
dalliances, of course. Tip’s story only confirmed that the baron was a conscientious father, if not a faithful husband. But he did not seem to resemble his easy-natured son, or to know his character very well.

Or perhaps he had known his son well enough? Perhaps it was Bea who knew Tip less well than she thought. He had been devoted to
Georgie
, after all.
Just because he showed Bea no excess of feeling certainly didn’t mean he was not capable of it.
It only meant that she did not inspire it in him.

A dull ache lodged in her chest.

But this time that ache irritated her. She should not be moved by this. She had known the truth for years, reemphasized each time he proffered her yet another calm, emotionless proposal of marriage.

“You will not find what you seek in those books.” The harsh voice echoed through the chamber like a Chinese gong. Bea pivoted and met Lord
Iversly’s
black gaze. He stood by the window, the light filtering through him in opalescent gloom. He wore a black cloak over a mail shirt, and his face looked more haggard than the previous day.

Tip spoke quietly. “Where is he, Bea?”

“By the window.
Why won’t we find what we are looking for here?” she directed to the ghost.

“It was never written.”

“Not even in someone’s diary? I cannot believe it.”

“None ever remained here long enough to leave such a record. I frightened them all away.” His low laughter sounded desolate. It seemed to hint at desperation.

Bea moved toward him. Tip’s hand touched hers, as though he meant to stall her, but she went forward.

“You seem distressed, my lord,” she said. “Are you unwell?”

“How could I be more unwell, my lady, than being dead?”

When he put it that way, her question did sound absurd. But something about him seemed different today.
Unsettled.
Cold seemed to surround her.

“Have you come to tell us something,
Iversly
, or merely to frighten Miss
Sinclaire
?” Tip’s voice sounded very deep.
Threatening
.

“She is not frightened by me, are you, my lady?”
Iversly’s
ebony gaze was unreadable. It scanned her slowly. “You would make an enviable bride. It is a shame you did not arrive here before the girl, or I would be claiming you tomorrow night instead.”

A thrill of fear trickled through her, proving that the ghost didn’t know everything after all. Tip moved beside her, his stance undeniably protective. The combination of that and the
specter’s words set off a flower of heat in her middle. Her breaths came a bit short.

“What is this talk of tomorrow night?” Tip demanded. “Why then?
Why not a week from now, or yesterday?”

Lord
Iversly’s
face grew grimmer yet. “The curse comes to an end on All Hallows’ Eve.”

Alarm shot through Bea.
“An
end
?
In what manner?”

“When the warlock cursed me, he allowed me one night each century to steal my fate back, if I should be so fortunate. One moment, at the stroke of midnight on All Hallows’ Eve, during which I may claim my bride whether she agrees to it or not.”

“What do you mean?”

“For four hundred years, dozens of maidens have lived in my castle, visited it, taunting me with freedom from this waking death, yet never once agreeing to give me the keys that would unbind me.”

“Well, you cannot blame them,” she said as evenly as she was able.

“But I can desire them. Desire what I want above all else.”

“A living woman?”
Tip growled.

“No.
The freedom to die.”

“To die?”
Bea’s heart sped. “You mean, when you finally marry a maiden you will—”

“Be no more. Travel to the bowels of
Gehenna
and cease to exist. At long last, blessed damnation will be mine.”

Bea’s hands trembled. It felt wonderful and awful at once. But being alive should be just like that. It should be pleasure and pain, both of which she rarely ever felt. Like Lord
Iversly
, for years she had lived a sort of half life. No wonder this journey seemed like an adventure. She had not really
lived
in so long, and it was glorious to finally feel something other than disparagement, dullness, and constant disappointment.

“And your wife?” she asked, an undeniable tremor in her voice. “What will become of her?”

“Bea.” Tip’s hand touched the small of her back, spreading warmth through her.

Abruptly, she hated her body’s reaction to him. It felt like a betrayal. She didn’t want to feel alive from his touch. She wanted real life—heart and body together—not the same hopeless yearning she had nurtured for years.

With firm resolve, she stepped away from him toward the lord of the castle.

“What about your bride, Lord
Iversly
?” she repeated.

“She, unfortunately, will die.”

Her breath failed. “Die?”

“You cannot do this to an innocent woman,
Iversly
.”

“I can, and I will. Spend four hundred years in lifeless exile, lad, watching warm bodies share their flesh like rutting animals, not knowing what true unity means, what they could have were they to understand, and then accuse me of villainy for wishing to be free of that torment.” His tone menaced. “I dare you.”

“But must she die, truly?” Bea said quickly.

“Not if she comes to me willingly. If she
awaits
the midnight hour, however, she will suffer her fate.” Light seemed to flicker in his coal-black eyes, almost like a spark. “Would you consent to becoming my bride, my lady?” His tone was thin again, laced with anguish.

“What would happen if I did consent?”

“
Bea—
”

“What would happen, Lord
Iversly
?
To me?”

“We would both continue as I am now, never dying, but together.
No longer alone.”
His
voice seemed to plead, dark and deep and alluring in its danger, sending shivers from the soles of her feet to the crown of her head.

“Get out of here,
Iversly
,” Tip ground out.
“Now.”

The ghost stared at him, the sunlight oozing through him like mist. His gaze returned to Bea
.

“Consider it, my dear. We could get along well. With you, I believe, I would not despise eternity.”

He vanished.

Bea swallowed jerkily, and took a few quick breaths, but she felt astoundingly giddy and a bit dizzy. She clasped her shaking hands together.

“Is he gone?” Tip’s voice grated.

She nodded.

He came to her side and grasped her shoulders firmly, pulling her around to face him.

“You wouldn’t do it, Bea. Would you?
To save Lady Bronwyn?”

Her eyes went wide. “Of course I wouldn’t. What on earth—? Do you think me
mad
?”

His gaze swept across her face, his eyes bright and, it seemed, bewildered. “You seemed so intrigued. And you— you—” He broke off.

Bea shook her head. “Well, whatever you obviously do not wish to say, I am not out of my mind.” She shrugged out of his grasp, her feelings tangled. He could not look at her like this, with anxiety and intensity in his eyes, and not care for her a little. But she knew that already. They were friends, just as he had said earlier.
Friends
,
and he did not wish to see his friend give herself to a ghost for eternity, of course. Just because his touch turned her joints to liquid didn’t mean a thing. Her longing for him was her curse, her own living death.

She tried to speak evenly. “I merely wish to learn as much as we can so we have more information to work with.” 

“Are you certain you don’t wish for more than that?”

“Yes, I’m certain. I don’t want to be a ghost for eternity. What sort of person do you think I am?”

“One who seems extraordinarily interested in the details of this curse, not to mention in that
scoundrel.
”

“Of course I am.” She gave her indignation rein. “I intend to help Lady Bronwyn escape her fate.”

Tip’s color seemed higher than usual, his stance tense, as though he labored under powerful emotion too.
Astonishment?
Mounting anger, like hers?

Bea swallowed back the thickness rising in her throat. Here was proof. He could feel strong emotion, simply not the sort she yearned for him to feel for her.

“It is our best chance to ask as many questions as possible,” she managed. “Then something useful might suggest itself to us.” She moved toward the door. “Lady Bronwyn’s grandmother lived here for many years before Bronwyn came to be with her last summer. Perhaps she knows something of the things Lord
Iversly
spoke of earlier, the maidens who have come through the castle but who have not been trapped here, and the w-warm bodies.”

Her cheeks burned, but she could not allow it to bother her. There was a mystery to be solved, a life to save, and it helped distract her from Tip’s changeable mood now and the sense of hopelessness washing over her. “Perhaps there is some clue we can deduce from that.”

“You are enjoying this drama, aren’t you?” His voice halted her. It was strained and hard, entirely unlike him.
“Playing the part of an amateur Bow Street Runner.
Who will you question
next, Bea?” He sounded very strange. “The
milkmaid,
or perhaps the vicar? Vicars always have a lot to say since they know everyone’s business, I understand, although he might be somewhat put off by your line of questioning. Vicar, can you tell me how many virgins remain in the village, and if any of them have ever been to the castle?”

Bea’s back stiffened. “That’s lovely, my lord. It is really no surprise that all those doting mamas and young ladies in town find you so charming.”

“Perhaps they bring out the worst in me,” he snapped.

Bea gaped. He had never spoken to her in that tone before.

She clenched her teeth. “Do you think so?”

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. “This conversation isn’t going anywhere,” he said tightly.

“Then I will. I have
work
to do.”

Suspicion glinted in his emerald eyes. “Off to have another chat with him?”

“Who?”

“Your admirer.”

Bea lifted her chin. “I believe you are jealous, Peter
Cheriot
.”

“That’s ridiculous. Why on earth would I be jealous?”

Her eyes opened wide, her stomach sick again. “I thought I had left Mama behind on this trip. But I see she is here after all, though in clever disguise.”

“Perhaps she ought to be here. At least she would recognize the impropriety in your salacious interest in the details of this curse.”

“Salacious?”

“Would you prefer prurient?” His voice rose again.

“Because I wish to get to the bottom of this?”
 

“Because you are clearly taking great pleasure in the minutiae of it.”
 

“You sound like a prude.”

“I beg your—” He blinked. “Blast it, I do.” But his voice was still stony.

She tilted her head, molten energy pulsing through her veins now, anger surging ahead of helplessness.

“You are not a prude, are you, Tip?” Her words stung her tongue, but it felt good to finally give him back some of the teasing he’d always served her.

“Bea . . .” he warned.

“I cannot see why you would not answer me unless you are one. Are you, then?”

“Most certainly not,” he said in strangled tones.

“You still sound like one.”

“And you, missy, sound like a doxy.”

“So? What does it matter how I sound, closeted in Yorkshire all the time as I am? Do you know what?” Her mouth formed words without thought before them. “I think you are displeased with me now because you are shocked to discover my true character.
Who I truly am.”

He merely stared.