Incorporeal (24 page)

Buried.
Sara shuddered.
I don’t even want to think that word, not now, not after this
.
Lord, what a reunion
.

She stretched, reaching her arms back to press her hands against the headboard, reliving their love-making.
The only thing that matters is he’s here with me. I don’t know how this is possible, but then, when has anything about Nathan ever been possible?

Sara listened for the sound of another person, but the room was quiet, too quiet. “Nathan?”

She glanced around, wondering if he was in the bathroom. It wasn’t worth getting up to look. She didn’t need a pair of binoculars to see that his clothes and his satchel were gone. Sara flopped back onto the stack of pillows, heartsick.

“
You will not cry,” she ordered. “He’s a chicken shit, that’s all, a chicken shit ghost. Damn.” Sara wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.” At least you know where to find him.”

A protective hand on her belly, Sara climbed out of bed. “First things first; breakfast, meetings, and then we will go get Nathaniel Henry Neville and kick his bloody British ass into the next world if that’s what it takes to remind him who and what he really is.”

Chapter Twenty

The dream left him shaken. As he drove north, heading home, Nathan couldn’t get the vivid details out of his mind.
Between the dream and my night with Sara, to say I’m confused would be a massive understatement
.

I’m not sure I know what’s real. I feel like I’m still dreaming. It was easier when she was nothing more than an incorporeal phantom, before I saw her in the flesh. She does have the sweetest skin.
Nathan’s fingers itched at the memory of how glorious she felt.

She must think I’m the biggest asshole on the planet. I don’t do one night stands and I don’t use women for sex.
A hand gripping the wheel, the other hand rubbing the side of his head, Nate berated himself.
I didn’t even have the courage to leave her a note. What a fucking asshole.

He passed the main house and pulled up to the side of the hunting lodge his great-great grandfather had built over the ruins of the former manor. He threw open the trunk of the car, reached for his bag, slung it over his shoulder.

After phoning Jack and his executive assistant, Nate had discovered he still had her manuscript. He wanted to reread it, so he’d stuffed it in his bag along with a few items of clothing and some toiletries before fleeing the city. If he needed anything else, he could borrow it. The main house was a mere fifteen minutes walk through the woods.

Nate felt a drop of rain hit the side of his face.
Yes; and the walk will be in the rain
.

As usual, the door was unlocked. Nate tossed his belongings onto the nearest chair, grabbed one of the macks hanging behind the door, and headed down to the lake. He needed to organize his thoughts before he faced his mother.

She must have seen me drive up, but she’ll assume I’ve brought a woman with me and she’ll keep her distance. She’ll send the housekeeper to invite us up for tea
. Nate smiled for the first time in hours.
My mother is a very proper Englishwoman. Nothing can keep her from her tea
.
What the bloody hell will she think of Sara?

Here’s a better question, Nate. What the bloody hell do you think of Sara?

I don’t know. I don’t know what to do about Sara.

An apology would be a good place to start.

Yes, perhaps I should crawl through broken glass. That might begin to make up for running out on her. But apology or not, I don’t understand what the hell is going on.

Without conscious thought, his feet followed the familiar path through the trees. The lake wasn’t far, a few hundred yards beyond the hunting lodge. When he hit the grassy meadow surrounding the water, the rain began in earnest. He was glad he’d thought to wear a mack.

As he skirted a thick hedge of gorse, Nate spied a dark figure strolling along the water. The man had his hands clasped behind his back, his head down. It had to be his father. He and Nate were the only males living on the estate over six feet tall.

“
Dad,” Nate called out. When the man stopped and turned to look in his direction, Nate waved. “What are you doing here? I thought you were at our offices in Portsmouth?”

“
I could ask you the same question.” His father replied. “You’re supposed to be in London, meeting with our board of directors.”

Nate caught up to him. “I sent Jack in my place.”

“
Why?”

Nate shrugged. “He’s capable, knows them well. Sometimes I think he knows them better than I do. He runs in the same social circles. There was nothing pressing to discuss.”

His father looked him over from head to toe. “Nothing pressing, except what’s brought you up here. What is it, a woman?”

Nate didn’t answer immediately. At last he said, “A dream.”

His father seemed pensive. “Interesting. Walk with me, son.” He put his hands in his pockets, lowered his head against the rain and set off, Nate following.

“
You didn’t answer my question, Dad. Why are you here? Is there something wrong?”

Without changing his stride, his father said, “A ring.”

Nate stumbled and came to a halt. “A ring? What the bloody hell? I dreamed of a ring.”

His father turned around. He pulled a hand out of his pocket and opened his clenched fist, showing Nate the object in his palm. “This ring?”

“
How did you…? What are you…? Yes, that ring.” Nate closed his eyes, willing his pounding heart to slow. “Why do you have it? I haven’t known you to remove it from the chest in twenty years.”

It was his father’s turn to shrug. “I dreamed of it. Come, let’s walk to the pavilion. The roof will keep us dry.”

The two men strolled in silence. The path rose gradually until it ended in a stone staircase. Nate climbed behind his father. At last they stood beneath the moss-covered roof of the old pavilion.

“
I should probably have this rebuilt,” said his father, his voice muted by the soft patter of rain on the roof.

Nate stared out over the water, silent, waiting.

“
Did I ever tell you the story behind this ring?”

With a shake of his head, Nate said, “If you did, I don’t recall it.”

His father turned the ring over in his palm. “Here, take it. Feel the weight of it.”

Fingers trembling slightly, Nate reached for the ring. He dropped it into his palm. The thing was heavy, old, shaped by hand; the stones, the diamonds and rubies, rough cut. They looked nothing like the glittering stones in a modern ring. These jewels were raw, elemental, radiating power and history.

“
It’s Spanish gold, too old to be from the Americas.” His father nodded. “The stones are rough, as they were in those days; the diamonds probably came from Spanish colonies in Africa, the rubies from trade with India.”

Nate forced himself to ask the obvious question. “How did you come to possess it?”

“
Your grandfather left it to me, as his father left it to him, and his father before him. It’s been in the family for five hundred years.”

Nate’s stomach lurched.
Of course. Why not? Makes as much sense as anything else that’s happened over the past forty-eight hours
.

“
One of our ancestors, another Robert Neville, had a twin sister, Katherine. As the story goes, she met a Spanish Converso, a Jew recently converted to Catholicism. He owned a fleet of merchant ships, trading vessels that plied the waters between the west coast of Spain and Portsmouth. They fell in love, but when the family disapproved, she ran off with him.”

“
What did she look like, this Katherine?”

His father shrugged. “What does it matter? She’s been dead for centuries. She looked like most of us, I suppose.” He gave Nate a crooked grin. “Aside from you. I don’t know where you come from, with your dark pirate looks.”

“
What happened to her?”

“
She married the man, bore him children, five or six, I don’t recall how many. His name was de Manua.”

Nate jerked, losing his hold on the ring. He snagged it just before it hit the floor of the pavilion. He straightened up, eyes meeting his father’s. “Same as our shipping company.”

His father nodded. “Here.” He held out his hand. “Let me keep that.”

Nate handed him the ring and watched as his father stuck it in his jacket pocket.

“
She was murdered,” his father said, his voice oddly flat, “along with her family. The Spanish crown wanted de Manua’s ships. The fires of the Inquisition allowed the king and queen to keep their hands clean. The ships went to a nephew of the queen. Three were sunk in a storm. The fourth limped into Portsmouth…”

“
But there were only three…”
Where did that come from? How do I know anything about this? Sara’s book? That must be how I know.

His father shot him a funny look. “I thought you’d never heard this story.”

Nate shook his head. “I haven’t. Go on, Dad, finish.”

His father cleared his throat. “Word came to Robert that the last of de Manua’s ships had docked, sailed by a small band of Conversos fleeing the Inquisitors. He heard a rumor that his sister’s only surviving child, her youngest son, was on board.”

Nate’s heart sped up again. Long dormant tumblers began to click in his brain. “Did he, did he find him?”

“
No, not at first, he searched for several years.” His father paused to watch a pair of ducks break the surface of the lake. “By the time Robert arrived in Portsmouth, the lad had gone and no one knew where he was. The King confiscated the ship and all its contents. Sir Robert purchased it from the Crown for a thousand pounds sterling. He brought the crew here, and kept them on as his retainers.”

I need to sit down
. Nate fumbled his way to a worn bench.

“
That’s wet, son.”

Nate leaned back and closed his eyes. He ran shaking hands through his damp hair. The bench creaked as his father sat beside him.

“
What is it, son?”

Nate spoke through a throat raw with emotion. “I remember the rest of the story.”

“
But…”

“
No, Dad, don’t interrupt. Let me get this out.”

“
Go on, then.”

His eyes still closed, Nate said, “It was three, maybe four years later. Robert Neville found me outside a filthy tavern in Cheapside. I was sick, dying. He loaded me into a wagon and brought me here, to the old manor house. He nursed me himself, but it was no use. I died a fortnight later. I gave him the ring, to keep for me, for the future. It was all I had left of my family. Christ, I can’t believe this is happening.”

Once more Nate’s world shifted on its axis, as all three lives fought for dominance in his head. It was as if he’d tumbled off the edge of that cliff in Spain. He was in danger of drowning in the random crash of competing memories. His life in Andalusia, his death here in the original manor house, the centuries spent in self-imposed purgatory, the salvation that was Sara, and his new life as a Neville. The memories churned in the raging surf, battling for dominance.

His father forgotten, Nate floundered as wave after wave of images held him underwater, pounded him. It seemed like centuries passed while he struggled, desperate for a single breath of air.

At long last, it was the memory of his time with Sara that gave him the strength to break the surface.
She’s mine. The child she carries is my gift from God
.

Reeling, Nate jumped to his feet. “I remember,” he shouted. “Dad, I remember everything.”

The only answer was the patter of rain on the roof.

“
Dad?” Nate spun in a circle, nostrils flaring as he caught the lingering scent of a Guardian. His father, or the likeness of his father, had gone. Nate stood alone in the pavilion.

What the bloody hell?

For a second, the sun broke through the clouds and the glint of gold caught his eye.

The ring
. He scooped it off the bench.
Sara
.
I’ve got to find Sara
.

Chapter Twenty-One

Her back aching, Sara stood and stretched.
Between the flight and these meetings I’ve spent way too much time sitting. I’m not accustomed to this
. Out of courtesy, the men in the room stood as well.

“
Please don’t get up, gentlemen. I simply need to stretch my legs. Would you mind if we took a break?”

Heads nodded.

“
Is there anywhere to get in a quick walk around here?”

A young man rose from his seat. “Hyde Park is no more than two blocks from here. I’d be happy to escort you.”

Sara smiled at him. “Thanks, but that’s not necessary. If you point me in the right direction I can probably find my way.”

The man shook his head and smiled in return. “I insist. London traffic can be what you Yanks call bumper cars. I’d feel better if you had someone to clear the way for you.”