Heir Untamed (20 page)

Chapter Twelve

The hours between leaving Sander's cabin and waiting to meet him again passed in agonizing slowness. Urmas had informed her upon her arrival back at the castle that he expected his usual morning round of pictures by four that afternoon. He hadn't asked her any questions about where she'd been, or what was going on with her bedroom. She guessed he knew. Of course he knew. He was probably heading up some of the investigation on the inside while Sander worked the outside. Or if Urmas wasn't, then Allar was, and then relaying whatever information onward.

She wondered who knew she hadn't come back to the castle the night before. Most of the guards and perhaps some of the staff. Ingel seemed to know everything that went on under the Ahtissari roof on a regular basis. Chey's absence this morning for breakfast would have been a dead giveaway.

Editing the rash of photos she'd taken on the canoe trip, Chey spent her time curled up on the bed in her room, sitting lotus style, fingers quick on the keys. Often she found her attention drifting to Sander, especially when she pulled up the photos of him inside the canoe. The smile he wore, devilish and handsome, tugged at her heartstrings. He was a fine specimen of a man, suited to the outdoors around him. These photos she would be keeping for herself. Urmas only cared about the ones she'd taken specifically for the Royal family.

At four o'clock, Urmas's assistant showed up for the flash drive. Chey delivered it with a quiet smile, relieved she wouldn't have to face Urmas just yet. A short few minutes later, before she got too involved in other activities, someone knocked at the door. It must be the assistant, back with a question. Chey, fearless now that there was so much foot traffic in the castle, swung the door open.

Elise, the pretty maid with the dark eyes and free swinging ponytail, peered at her over a tall stack of fluffy, folded towels. “Pardon, Miss Sinclair. I have your new towels. The dryer was broken this morning, so I could not exchange them on the first trip.”

“Oh, hello, Elise. Come in, come in.” Chey stepped back and allowed the maid to carry the towels into the bathroom. “I'm done with work for now, you're no bother.”

“Thank you. How is your face? The bruises look a little better. I brought you another tube of the cover up.” Elise's voice echoed from the bathroom.

“It's not as dark. That stuff you brought me really worked well.” The cover up Elise delivered had almost obliterated the black and blue mark around her eye and temple.

Elise strode out of the bathroom and withdrew another small tube from the pocket of her gray pants. She wore the standard, athletic uniform instead of a traditional little skirt and apron. Once in reach, Elise extended the tube with a smile.

Chey eased it from her fingers. “Thanks. I don't think I'll need any more after this. You saved me last night.”

Elise studied her face from a few angles. “Yes, it is good product. You could use a little more today,” she said, gesturing to the raw places uncovered by the cover up.

Chey hadn't brought it with her when she left the castle for Sander's cabin last evening. “Yes, I certainly could.”

Elise smiled, touched Chey's arm, then stepped past for the door. “We will see you in the morning, Miss Chey.”

“Bye, Elise.”

When the door closed, Chey went into the bathroom and liberally applied the contents of the tube to her bruises. As before, she was astounded at what a good job it did. Better yet, there was no thick, cake-like texture on her skin to give away what she'd done. Leaving the tube on the counter, she changed into a fresh pair of jeans and a long sleeved sweater of deep brown. It was heavy enough, she thought, to withstand being out in the elements this evening when Sander took her to the ruins. She made sure to put fresh batteries into her camera and a blank memory card as well. Never know what she might catch out there.

Chey left the castle just before evening was due to set in. Caught by surprise at the heavy bank of thunderclouds overhead, she glanced up at the ominous flicker of lightning as she walked across the bailey. Thunder growled distantly a handful of seconds later.

Just as she reached the bailey gate, a tingle on the nape of her neck made Chey glance back at the castle. Two guards flanked the door she'd exited a moment before, paying her little attention. Her gaze ticked up to the many windows, turrets and arches that comprised the facade of the structure. From this position, the castle towered above, seeming to punch a hole in the sky.

A flicker of movement in one of the archways drew her attention. Almost before she knew what she was doing, Chey brought the camera hanging around her neck up and snapped off three quick shots. There hadn't been any time to zoom or even focus well.

By the time she lowered the camera, that telltale flicker of motion was gone. Probably another guard walking the long halls or one of the numerous servants on their way to or from an errand for the Royals.

Uneasy, Chey turned around and broke into a jog for the gate. The first drop of rain fell just as she slid behind the wheel of the truck and started the engine.

. . .

“Are you sure it's safe to go in there in this weather?” Chey asked.

Sander glanced out the front windshield, wipers
swish-swishing
away the rain. “Sure it is. Once you get inside, the only place the rain will get to you is if you step out into an open courtyard or something.”

“I'm not really worried about the rain so much as it making stairs or the flooring slick. There are probably a thousand leaks in that thing.” Chey stared at the ruins through the downpour. Darkness hadn't quite swallowed the landscape, though it might as well have for how well she could see. The old castle was more silhouette and looming shape than anything else. She made out the deeper recesses of windows without panes, the top of the high wall, and a tall arch protecting a broad door that appeared to have iron hinges stretching across the surface. It didn't seem so 'small' to Chey. The castle wasn't on par size wise with the main family seat, but it was by no means a paltry dwelling.

Sitting in Sander's Jeep, she gauged the distance between the lowest floor of the castle and the tower she had to climb to get to the room Sander mentioned. It was probably five flights of stairs. At least.

“You'll be fine. Having second thoughts?” he asked with a knowing grin.

Chey swatted his arm. “No. It's just rain and an abandoned castle.”

“An abandoned
haunted
castle,” he corrected. “You take the first set of stairs you see up to the third floor, then follow the main hallway back to the end. There is another doorway, you can't miss it, and a second set of stairs that wind around up to the tower. Here, take the flashlight. I put new batteries in before I left the cabin.” He handed the flashlight across the Jeep.

She took the flashlight and covered her camera with a plastic bag he had on hand. “I got it. Don't worry about me, I'll be fine.”

“Of course you will. Remember, I'll be there shortly after you start screaming.” He lounged against the seat, knees parted casually, one elbow propped against the door.

Chey snorted. “You're enjoying this, aren't you? I'm not going to start screaming, because
ghosts don't exist.
”

“Mhm.” That was Sander's only reply.

Chey counted to three and got out of the Jeep. The rain pelted her at a pace that would leave her clothes drenched if she didn't hurry. Breaking into a run, she approached the stairs and trotted up with care. The stone wasn't as slick as she thought it might be.

Under the cover of the immense porch, Chey uncovered the camera and glanced back at the Jeep. Sander had cut the headlights some time before. She could barely see him past the windshield, a vague shape obscured by the rain. Nevertheless, she waved the bag and went to the heavy wooden door. As she'd thought, iron hinges spiked across the surface from one side, heavy rivets holding them in place. Sander told her the castle wasn't locked, so she had no trouble getting inside.

A large foyer opened up to a high ceiling and an enormous great hall to her right. Although gloomy, she could still make the general shape out. Stuffing the plastic bag into the pocket of her jeans, she snapped on the flashlight. Gasping at the sheer beauty of such an old structure, Chey breathed in the musty, old smell of the stone and wandered further in.

Not usually a woman prone to fantastical ideas, she could easily imagine men in armor and women in long gowns decorating these halls. The castle, she discovered, was rather well preserved. None of the walls appeared to have holes in them that weren't there by design, and thus far, she found no puddles on the floor from leaks in the ceiling.

A certain poignancy pervaded the air, as if the souls of the past were reaching across time and space, welcoming her into their home. A much more volatile time in history, she imagined the triumphs and tragedies that must have happened within these walls.

Don't let your imagination run too far away with you,
she chided herself. That was all she needed. She would start seeing ghosts before she knew it and freak herself out.

Thunder growled beyond the castle, rolling instead of cracking and booming. Lightning pierced the windows, shedding yet more, if brief, illumination over the walls and interior. Fascinated by the spartan design, she followed the foyer to the set of stairs Sander mentioned. Setting the flashlight down, she angled it so that she could snap off a picture or two with interesting shadows cast across the steps. Picking the flashlight up, she ascended, mesmerized by the immense proportions and maze-like hallways.

By comparison, this castle showed its age much more than the other one. The stone looked worn, as did the stairs, though that was not to say it
felt
unsteady. Far from it. She knew she was as secure on these stairs as those at the main castle. Taking more photos along the way, she found the second door at the end of the hall and went up. These stairs spiraled around and around, winding upward through each level. The walls curved as well, the stone smoother here, less rough on her palm. Chey wondered how many times Andra had walked this route. It sent chills up her spine to know this was the exact same path the woman had taken probably thousands of times. Andra had actually stood right in this very spot. So had her murderer, if Sander was to be believed.

A rustle behind her caused Chey to spin, gasping, the flashlight beam spearing the darkness. She could only see perhaps ten feet forward or back thanks to the curving design. “Sander, is that you?”

No response.

“That's not funny. You can't cheat and scare me,” she accused.

Nothing.

Thinning her lips, she listened another minute. The vague rustle didn't come again. A spate of fresh thunder encouraged her to finish her ascent. She knew when she'd come to the landing of the right room because there were no more steps to take. This was it, the end of the line in the south tower.

The door she stood in front of had been Andra's. Seizing the moment, Chey snapped off a few pictures. Caught up in the ancient history and the story Sander told her, she finally put her fingers on the iron handle and pushed the door in. The hinges whined and screeched.

Circular, the south tower room was bigger than Chey thought it would be. She could have fit ten queen sized beds in that space with room for dressers, a few armoires and a sofa or two. Several cathedral shaped windows were cut into the walls, the sills more than a foot thick. Only darkness and the storm raged beyond, obliterating whatever view Andra had from the tower. Nothing remained from that time, not even a splinter of wood from a chair or scraps of old cloth.

What
did
survive, were the beams high up along the ceiling. Chey pinpointed the center one and stared at it for an indefinite amount of time. To know that
this
was the beam Andra hung from was more than a little eerie. And she understood now why Sander had said Andra couldn't have been the one to hang herself. If there hadn't been a very tall ladder, there was no way she could have gotten the rope over the beam.

The hinge on the door whined. Startled, Chey swung her light that direction.

It's just the wind. Ghosts don't exist.
True enough, there was a stiff breeze blowing in the three arched windows that could have moved the door forward or back several inches. So far, rain hadn't penetrated the pass-through.

To prove a point, she took a few pictures of the doorway, and then the beams above. The entire time, goosebumps decorated her skin under the material of her sweater. Anyone would be creeped out, she assured herself. Someone—
two
people—had been murdered in this room.

A flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye near the door caused her to whip the flashlight beam that direction again. Was she seeing things? Could the mind play such convincing tricks?
Of course it can. Sander planted a haunted story in your mind and now you're imagining a ghost around every corner.

What felt like a touch skimmed her left arm. Chey screamed, dropped the flashlight, and struck out with a hand. She encountered nothing but air. Turning a dizzying circle, her camera thumping against her chest, she shuddered. Nothing and no one was in the room.

“Stop it, Chey. It's just the wind. It's only the wind.” Talking to herself, she stooped and blindly reached for the flashlight. Thunder cracked so hard in the sky that it startled another scream from her throat. Lurching upright, she tried the button and discovered the flashlight was broken. Fantastic. That would make escaping the south tower even more dangerous as full dark descended outside.

Never mind what eerie images she might conjure thanks to a lack of light.

The hinges on the door split the air with a loud creak. Chey yelped when a definite shadow parted from the deeper shadows of the landing beyond.

“Chey?” Sander asked. A moment later, a blitz of lightning illuminated his frowning face. “I heard you scream.”

She would have loved to blame Sander for the 'touch' to her arm. The fact of the matter was—she couldn't. No one had been in the room. His concern for her was real, as well, indicating he hadn't been playing tricks.