Moon Shadows (33 page)

His gaze was steady and diamond hard. “There are many reasons. You are young, Phoebe, and very much alive. Thorne Court is ancient. Dying.”

She pretended to misunderstand him. “Only from lack of
care,” she said, looking around. “Nothing a good dusting and polishing wouldn't set to rights.”

“It's difficult to recruit servants in such isolated country.” He watched her carefully. “And Thorne Court has a certain haunted reputation among the locals.”

“I have no fear of ghosts,” Phoebe said demurely.

“I'm glad to hear that, as I spend a good deal of time away.” He looked down at his glass. “You may find it lonely at times with only the servants for company.”

“I'll be content with your library and your garden.”

“Will you?” Gordon's smile was just a little crooked. “Frankly, I shall be amazed if you last a month!”

Phoebe smiled. “Prepare to be amazed.”

A light flashed in his eyes, but whether it was surprise or displeasure was hard for her to decide.

“Time will tell the tale.” He tossed off the last of his brandy. “No doubt you are longing for your bed. I shall take my leave of you.”

As he rose she leaned forward and touched his sleeve. “You won't regret your generosity, Gordon. I'll endeavor to make myself useful.”

“Mrs. Church will be glad for your direction,” he said curtly. “Meanwhile, make yourself free of the library and the house and gardens.”

Phoebe nodded. “Thank you.”

“When you've finished your refreshments, Mrs. Church will escort you upstairs.” He crossed to her side. “Until tomorrow, then.”

She thought for a moment he meant to take her hand. Instead he bowed, turned and made his painful way toward the door where he'd entered. There were remnants of his former grace in his movements, which made it all the more painful for Phoebe to watch.

He paused on the threshold and turned back. “You haven't really changed, have you? Inside you're still the same stubbornly determined little girl I first met almost seven years ago. One who preferred climbing trees and playing with a clumsy wooden sword to holding doll tea parties on the lawn.”

She arched her brow. “There's no way I can win by
answering. If I agree, I'm a hoyden and if I disagree I'm uncivil. But I admit that little sword became my most cherished childhood toy.”

“I've always wondered why your father let you keep it.”

Phoebe smiled.

“I said that I was playing Saint Michael overcoming demons, when I was really pretending to be Grace O'Malley, the pirate queen.” She bit her lip. “It was the only lie I ever told him.”

He studied her with a cool, appraising look. “And did you feel guilty for deceiving him?”

“Of course.”

He nodded. “I was sure of it. Welcome to Thorne Court, Phoebe. Sleep well.”

Phoebe was left alone with her thoughts and a burning curiosity. Beneath the pain of old hurts and disappointments the bonds they'd forged in childhood were still intact.

Whether there could ever be something more was the question.

“Y
OUR
suite is here, Miss Sutton.”

Mrs. Church, a plump, efficient woman with snowy hair and rosy cheeks threw open the door at the end of the corridor and Phoebe entered a cozy sitting room. She had a quick impression of gracefully carved furniture and splashes of rich color.

Even so, Phoebe was aware of the same fog of neglect here that she'd noted below. Odd, when the servants themselves were neat as wax.

The housekeeper led her through to the bedroom, dominated by an enormous tester bed hung with velvet curtains lined in pale blue silk. The same fabric covered the deep bay window, where a writing desk stood.

An apple-cheeked maid of middle years closed one of the bureau drawers. “This is Elsie, who will be waiting upon you.”

The maid smiled and bobbed a curtsy. “I've just finished putting your things away, and there's hot water in the pitcher, miss. If there's anything else you need, you have only to ask.”

“Thank you. I'm sure I'll be very comfortable here.”
Phoebe glanced at the open wardrobe. Her few garments looked limp and lost in the cavernous space. Even her forest green riding habit, the best of the lot, looked distinctly shabby against the rich wood grain.

Phoebe set down her bandbox in the wardrobe and put the green leather book she'd brought up with her on the writing desk in the alcove. Her father had owned the same book among his collection. When she was seven she'd used it to press some violets, incurring a sad smile and gentle lecture on the care and treatment of rare volumes. She'd never been so careless with a book again.

She opened it at random and her breath hissed out between her teeth. There, on page thirty-five, were the pale brown imprints of five little violets. Her heart raced and her fingers trembled and she opened the book to the inside cover and read the name on the ornate bookplate there:
AMBROSE SUTTON
,
ESQ
.

Tears stung her eyes. So, the late viscount had been her benefactor here, too, buying up her father's library. It comforted her to hold this little piece of her past, to know her father's hands had held this book.

Phoebe blinked away her tears and stepped up to the bay window while she composed herself. The wind sang beyond the mullioned panes, rattling the glass. She parted the draperies and looked out.

Below lay a wide terrace and formal gardens but beyond the great hills rose up, primitive and untamed. She reached up to undo the talisman necklace her father had given her and turned to look the other way.

Such a startling and beautiful sight met her gaze that Phoebe didn't even feel her unclasped necklace slip from her throat. Lights blazed atop the crest of the nearest hill, so brilliant against the darkness that she was dazzled.

She looked over her shoulder. “What is that place lit up so brightly, Mrs. Church?”

The housekeeper straightened a collar box on the chest of drawers. “What place would that be, miss?”

“It looks to be a lovely castle.” She could make out arched
windows and a host of soaring towers, slender turrets and airy buttresses.

“There are no castles hereabouts, miss,” Mrs. Church said discouragingly. “Not even ruins.”

“Well, there is certainly
something
there,” Phoebe said crisply. “Come and see for yourself.” She realized her necklace was gone and knelt to retrieve it. The silvery stone felt cool as ice against her palm.

Mrs. Church came to Phoebe's side rather reluctantly. Her look out the window was brief. She shook her head.

“Begging your pardon, miss, I see naught of any lights.”

“But . . .” Phoebe began—and stopped in surprise as she turned back toward the glass.

Darkness had swallowed the moon and the moor was only an ebony curve against the lighter sky. Phoebe frowned. “Nor do I see them now. How curious! I suppose it must have been a reflection of the lamplight in the window glass.”

The housekeeper nodded. “ 'Tis been a long and tiring day. Elsie will help you get ready for bed, and in the morning I'll show you round the manor.”

Phoebe thanked her but refused the maid's assistance. “Please, go and seek your own beds and sleep for what is left of the night. I shall do the same.”

Elsie hurried gratefully up to her room beneath the eaves, but Mrs. Church didn't take Phoebe's advice. She went in search of Lord Thornwood and found him with Holloway, down in the drawing room. It startled her to see them there: the room hadn't been used in years.

Holloway held a taper to a branch of candles and flickering light danced over the shrouded furniture and chandelier.

Mrs. Church hurried to Gordon's side. “I must speak with you, my lord.”

“Ah, Mrs. Church. Holloway and I were just discussing the need to take off the holland covers and prepare the parlor for Miss Sutton's use.”

“Of course, my lord. I'll set things forward tomorrow.” She shook her head. “But 'tis not of that we need to speak, my lord.”

Gordon scrutinized her keenly. “Something has upset you, Mrs. Church. What is wrong?”

“Oh, my lord! She's seen it!”

“Seen what?”

“The castle on the hill!”

“The devil you say!” Gordon was rocked. He certainly hadn't expected that.

“Oh, my lord, whatever are we to do?”

Gordon rubbed his hand over the twisted scars along his jaw. “I don't know,” he said slowly. “This changes everything.”

Mrs. Church nodded and burst into tears.

A
S
Phoebe undressed and bathed she was unaware of the drama she'd brought into the household. She hung her traveling clothes in the other side of the wardrobe, to be brushed and pressed in the morning, then took the pins from her chignon. Her hair tumbled down her back, bright as flame as she gave it a hundred strokes with her brush.

As she snuffed out the lamp, her thoughts circled back to the strange illusion she'd seen from the window.
It seemed so real, that glowing castle on the moor!

She frowned, staring at the closed draperies and suddenly realized her conclusion was wrong. The bright light she'd seen at the window couldn't have been the lamp's reflection: the velvet bed hangings would have blocked it.

Phoebe tried to puzzle out what would have caused the illusion. There seemed to be no rational explanation. She was about to climb the three steps up into the bed when the wind died down abruptly. In the sudden silence of the room, she heard the sound of hoofbeats from beyond her window.

She blew out her candle and tiptoed through the dark room to the window. Pulling the curtains open a few inches, she looked out on the moon-frosted landscape. A cloaked figure galloped across the open parklands toward the wood that fringed them. She watched as horse and rider disappeared among the trees and waited while her bare feet grew cold.

Her patience was rewarded when they emerged on the moor. A moment later they vanished from view. The clock ticked the minutes away, but nothing else occurred as far as she could see.

Phoebe let the curtain drop and made her way through the darkened room to the bed. There was something wrong at Thorne Court. She felt it in her bones.

Curiosity was no match for the effects of her long journey. Snuggled beneath the covers, she fell quickly into dreams.

It was summer and she was dancing across the moor in sheer delight, freer than she'd felt in years. So light and free that her feet actually lifted from the ground. Suddenly she was flying through the air, soaring like a lark with the sunlight warm upon her back.

It was as natural as breathing. She flew and flew, filled with joy and wonder. Then a shadow covered her, and she froze in sudden fear. She began to fall, hurtling down while the sky turned black and the wind whistled past her. She couldn't remember how to fly, and the ground was rising up to meet her as she plunged helplessly toward her doom.

Then miracle of miracles, a hand reached out, clasped her wrist. She was lifted up and away, cradled against a wide chest and the thunder of her rescuer's heart echoed the wild beating of hers. She couldn't see his face but she knew who'd saved her.

“Gordon!” she cried, but her words were lost in the rushing wind.

They flew together over the dark countryside, heading toward a distant glow. As they drew closer she saw it was a castle, its every window glowing like the sun.

She was set down gently on a marble terrace, where
doors stood open to a vast, golden hall. Her blood stirred to the sound of harp and pipe and fiddle. Her companion bowed gracefully over her hand, his garments silks and velvets, a chain of sapphires around his throat.

“Good even to you, Phoebe Sutton. Will you join me in the dance?”

At the touch of his hand she was filled with happiness and delight. She dipped into a curtsy. “Indeed I will, my lord.”

He led her inside the hall in the glow of a thousand candles. Phoebe caught her breath in awe. The golden walls shimmered with their own inner light, and lamps of ruby and emerald and topaz hung down from the vaulted ceiling.

The center of the hall was thronged with the most beautiful beings she'd ever seen. Silks rustled and jewels winked as they swirled through the steps of an intricate dance. She gazed at them in wonder.
They are like a band of angels,
she thought.

Phoebe turned toward her companion. “Have I died? Is this heaven?”

Her words echoed around the room like crashing cymbals. A loud cry went up from the revelers, the dancing ceased and . . .

Phoebe awakened with a start.

Her heart bounded against her ribs and she was totally disoriented. She sat up with the comforter pulled up to her neck and looked around.

Slowly she recognized the outlines of the carved wardrobe between the windows and the slipper chair drawn up before the hearth. She was in her chamber at Thorne Court. The lovely castle filled with glorious beings had been nothing but a dream.

Her pounding pulse slowed and she realized the music still echoing in her ears was the singing of the wind beneath the eaves. Regret and a profound sense of loss filled her.

I never saw his face,
she thought and felt bereft. She would have liked to stay in that beautiful place forever.

Then Phoebe shook off her disappointment.
I am at Thorne
Court, living in more luxury than I have ever known. For now, that is heaven enough.

 

I
N
the castle on the moor the revels were in full swing. Blue light flared and dimmed in the gallery and a tall form took shape.

Lady Rowan sat quietly, a crystal globe in her lap. She vanished it with a gesture and slanted a look up at the newcomer.

“A quick return, Lord Jack. Did your courage fail you?”

He'd caught a glimpse of the scene inside the globe before it disappeared: dancers weaving a circle around two people—himself and Phoebe Sutton. His eyes flashed with annoyance.

“What tricks are you up to now, Lady Rowan?”

“Why, what can you mean?”

“You seem to have an unusual interest in my affairs tonight!”

“My interest alights on many things,” she said sweetly.

Jack wasn't fooled. There was definitely mischief afoot. He sat down beside Lady Rowan. “The mortal woman reached Thorne Court safely—as I'm sure you know.” He frowned down at her. “That's what you wanted, isn't it?”

Her eyes shone with golden depths and her mouth curved in a beguiling smile. “What I want is your happiness.” She tapped his arm with her jeweled fingers. “One way or another.”

“I doubt your wish will be granted,” he said, his voice bitter as rue. “She saw the castle! Was that your doing?”

A frown etched her smooth brow. “No. That is very unusual. She has the gift of second sight. That changes things . . .” Lady Rowan led him to a bench where they sat down. “I am curious. What is she like, this human woman?”

“She is strong . . .” he said and stopped.

That wasn't what he'd intended to say. It was true, though. Although she appeared to be fashioned of fine porcelain, Phoebe Sutton's will was forged of tempered steel.

“She is also nobody's fool.”

Lady Rowan sighed. “Unfortunate!” She toyed with her
bracelet of stars and dazzling sparks of light leaped from it. “Perhaps you should have left her to her fate, after all.”

Jack scowled. His affection for Lady Rowan was sincere, but there were times when her attitude was so casual, so careless that it bordered on cruelty. Long though he'd lived among faerie folk, he realized now that he would never understand them completely.

“You are a cold creature, my lady, for all the warmth of your smiles. You speak of a human life as if it were nothing,” he said harshly. “Of less importance than the blown seedlings of a dandelion puff. But I cannot be so careless where mortals are concerned. I did what I thought best—and now I must live with the consequences.”

“Is it . . .
remorse
 . . . you feel?” She turned the word over on her tongue, tasting its foreignness.

“I pity her sincerely.” His jaw tightened. “She thinks she has reached a safe haven!”

“Who is to say at this point?” Lady Rowan said. “Perhaps she has, and it will go no farther.”

“If you believe that, you are grasping at moonbeams. Once Phoebe Sutton arrived at Thorne Court, her future was set. She will be drawn into your web, like others were before her.”

Lady Rowan watched the emotions flit across his handsome face with interest and a puzzled curiosity. Lord Jack was always restive and out of sorts when he returned from the mundane world beyond the castle's walls. Tonight, however, there was something more.

“And if she is, then you may ride to her rescue again, like Sir Galahad.”

Jack toyed with the silver bracelet on his right wrist. “In three weeks the seven years you bargained for me will be up. I shall be beyond helping myself, much less anyone else.”

She dismissed his concerns with an airy wave. “A lot can happen in three weeks. But I do not like your mood.”

She gestured and his gold and silver cup appeared in her hand, the sapphires like blue flame in the candlelight. “Nectar and mead, to ease your spirits.”

Jack took the goblet, saluted her with it and drank deeply.
As he did so, that odd little light glowed again in Lady Rowan's eyes. The feeling that he was caught up in some devious game of her devising grew stronger. He set the goblet down, but it was already too late.

Within the span of a single heartbeat her potion held him spellbound. Magic flowed through his veins, spreading a pleasant numbness. All the cold, empty spaces in him filled up with joy and merriment.

Jack laughed, his good humor restored. Why should he bother with the fate of one mortal woman? Phoebe Sutton was nothing to him.

Lady Rowan smiled, seeing the transformation in him. “Ah, that is more like it. I do not care to see you gloomy . . .”

She could not understand the lure of the mortal world: how could he yearn for the brief human existence where every joy seemed countered by sorrow, when he could remain young and handsome forever in the Kingdom of Faerie?

But there was no time to pursue the thought, even if she'd been so inclined. Jack rose, took her hand and bowed over it.

“Come, my Lady Rowan!”

She smiled and took his arm. They descended the marble staircase together and joined in the dance, and every care was forgotten.