Passions of the Ghost (2 page)

Amy felt the prince’s hands drop away from
her. He turned, his profile stiff and outraged against the light from the stairwell.

“How dare you,” he began in his most regal voice.

But Amy wasn’t listening. She was too busy looking. There was a man, a huge man. He must have been here all along, seated in the shadows farther along the tower. Now, as he stood up, she gasped. Amy wasn’t someone who enjoyed violence or the threat of it, but the moment seemed so unreal…She had to admit to a primitive thrill of feminine excitement.

“She wishes you to let her go,” the giant said, in that soft deep rumble. “Could you not hear her? Or are you as deaf as you are lacking in wits?”

Nicco made a choking sound, and for a moment she thought he was going to launch himself at the bigger man. But Nicco was no fool. “Come, Amee,” he said, his voice trembling with rage, “we will go back downstairs, where we won’t be insulted by riffraff.”

“I’m not insulted,” she heard herself say.

Nicco turned to stare at her. He reached out an imperious hand, and she knew she should put her fingers in his and let him lead her, meekly, back to the party. That was what Jez would want her to do. That was what she was here to do. Win him over, learn his secrets…

“I think I’ll stay for a bit,” she said, trying to make light of it. “I’ll be down in a minute.”

He stared at her incredulously, then his mouth hardened. With a regal shrug, Prince Nicco turned and walked away.

Amy gave an inner sigh as he clattered down the steps. Jez would be furious, and rightly so. She was reneging on her promise. But just for a moment she wanted to be free of Nicco and the complications of her brother’s schemes.

“He is not happy with you, damsel.”

“Well, that’s his problem.”

“You are unhurt?”

She frowned at the dark shape. He was very big, but he didn’t sound frightening. Amy trusted her instincts—they’d never let her down.

“Yes. Thank you for your help, but I could have managed.”

She felt his skepticism. He shifted his feet, and there was a clank of armor. She realized he was wearing some sort of medieval costume, too. That probably explained why he looked so big. Padding could do a lot for a man.

“You don’t have to stay here with me,” she said. “Go back to the party if you like. Just keep away from Nicco,” she added. “He can be dangerous when crossed.”

“The party?” he sounded confused. He spoke with a very slight accent, as if English was not his first language.

“The fancy dress party. That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?”

“Fancy dress party,” he said it slowly, as if he’d never heard of such a thing before.

“Yes, you know, for the guests who are here for the Medieval Long Weekend.” Jez had taken a look at the guest list; businessmen and their women, foreign royalty, a couple of Hollywood actors and a few British theater and television personalities. Minor celebs. Which one of them was he?

“There are guests here?” He glanced around suspiciously. “I have invited no guests.”

“No, well, you can attend on your own if you like. I meant the guests who are staying for the weekend. We’re all paying for the privilege.”

“But…this is Reynald de Mortimer’s castle.”

He seemed very confused. Maybe he’d drunk too much mead.

“It
was
Reynald de Mortimer’s castle, before it became a first-class resort hotel. Only the best people here, no riffraff, despite what Nicco says.” She heard the cynicism in her voice and bit her lip, but he didn’t appear to notice. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, and she saw he was wearing some sort of metal helmet, with a vertical piece to cover his nose.

“You are mistaken.” He said it arrogantly and turned to stare out over the frozen landscape. Something metallic struck the heavy stones of the wall. Amy’s eyes widened. There was a sword fastened about his waist, and it looked as big as him.

“You’ve certainly gone for authenticity,” she said, gesturing at his costume. “You look like the real thing. Isn’t that armor heavy?”

“I am accustomed to it.”

“Oh, so you come to lots of these weekends?”

He ignored her question. “Tell me, damsel, is the battle won?”

“Ah, you have me there.” Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea being alone with him. Some of these medieval reenactment enthusiasts were weird, so dedicated to their hobby they convinced themselves they actually were the characters they played. She’d already met a couple of Reynald de Mortimers downstairs at the party, as well as a King John, a William the Conqueror, three Robin Hoods, and a Friar Tuck.

The man on the battlements was staring at her, and it seemed to her that his eyes had no color. She knew it must be an illusion, but it gave her a shock. Wasn’t that why they called Reynald “the Ghost”? Because of his pale ghostly hair and eyes? Suddenly she wondered what color this man’s hair was beneath his helmet.

“What is your name, lady?” He spoke with a peculiar intensity.

“Amy Fairweather. Lady Amy,” she embellished, with a grin. “And you?”

“I am Mortimer,” he said.

“I meant your real name…”

“Lord Reynald de Mortimer.”

Amy sighed. In the circumstances it was only polite to go along with him, but she really wished he’d said “Fred Smith” or “Jack Brown” or someone real rather than someone who was dead.

“How do you do, my lord?” She’d been practicing her curtsy, and she was proud of it.

He stared down his nose at her as she wobbled, then his mouth twitched.

It wasn’t the reaction she’d expected. Friar Tuck had said it was the best curtsy he’d seen since Maid Marian. How dare he laugh at her after she’d been so tolerant of him?

“Who is your father, damsel?”

“None of your business.”

His mouth twitched again. “I would determine your bloodline. Are you from Norman stock or English?”

“Oh, right. English, then. My father is Lord Larry of the Parkhill Housing Estate. Block B, Flat Five.”

Again he looked puzzled. Good. It served him right for laughing at her curtsy. He obviously didn’t know Parkhill was one of the most notorious housing estates in outer London, where no one went out after dark but the pushers and the thugs.

“Not as nice as your place,” she had the grace to add.

“My castle is altered since I left it.” Was that a forlorn note she heard in his voice?

“Well, it would have, wouldn’t it? How many hundreds of years is it since you were last here?”

“I…left this place in 1299.”

“That’s seven hundred years, give or take.”

This time he didn’t say anything, his expression stony as the battlements. Again the hairs rose on the back of her neck.

“Of course, there’s the legend,” she went on. “The one in the guidebook.”

“Tell me.”

She tried not to resent his arrogant tone. “Well, the legend says that if there’s ever danger to the castle or anyone in it, then the Ghost will come back to life and save the day. A bit like a comic book superhero.”

“And is there danger to the castle or anyone in it?” he asked.

“I don’t think so. Not in the way you mean, anyway. Some of the guests are pretty dreadful, but I don’t think they’re actually dangerous.”

He almost smiled.

“Although you did save me from Nicco. Not that I needed saving. All the same, I don’t think you’d have returned from the dead for that, do you?”

He wasn’t listening. He was gazing toward the keep, where lights sparkled, and the faint sound of music drifted through the snow. “I am back,” he said, and there was triumph in his voice. “I live again. Maybe there is more to this than the witch told me.”

When the hairs on the back of her neck prickled for the third time, Amy decided she should heed them and leave.

“I need to get back to the party,” she said. “It was nice to meet you. My lord.”

She began to pick her way carefully over the icy stones. When she was safe in the stairwell, she turned. He was watching her and there was
something
about him…

Amy hurried down the stairs as fast as her four-inch heels would allow her.

Reynald did not go after her. There was too much to consider. He’d known as soon as he stepped into the armory that this wasn’t the same world that he had left behind him, but he’d hoped that it was a matter easily put right. Now those hopes were well and truly dashed.

Seven hundred years!

It was beyond his comprehension. What changes had been wrought, what lives had been lived, what wonders had come and gone in that time?

He shivered, numb with cold, despite his heavy clothing. The woman had not been like the women with whom he was familiar. Though French was his everyday tongue, he recognized the English she spoke, but it was a peculiar sort of English. And her behavior was strange. She lacked the modesty he was used to in the blue-blooded females of his own time. But while she was with him here on the rooftop, he hadn’t felt quite so alone.

Reynald was a Marcher Lord, one of the most powerful men in the land, a king within his own kingdom. Unlike other landholding lords, the Marcher Lords did not answer to the king; they ruled their people and made their own laws. And now
he
had come to this.

It was his fault.

Guilt crept into the solitary silence around him. He had failed himself and his men; he had failed to keep the promise he made to bring peace to his lands. The Welsh had declared themselves willing to lay down their weapons, and he had been happy to meet them halfway. Angharad, with her clever tongue, had brought them together. That final day was meant to be a celebration, and he had arranged for a great feast, with a mock battle and music and players. Some of the most important men on the borders had come to see the signing of the historic document.

Aye, peace had been so close, he could taste it.

And then, in an instant, it was snatched away from him. He remembered the stench of blood and death, the shrieks of pain as people were dying all around him. Burning, everything burning. He had looked for Angharad, the old wisewoman, but she had vanished.
Run!
he had shouted, in the hope she could hear him. His last thought had been for her welfare, then there was only darkness and death, as the between-worlds swallowed him up.

“I gave my word that there would be peace. That the bloodshed was ended,” he whispered to the soft-falling snow. “And I did not keep it.”

A flap of wings, and a large bird settled beside him. It was an eagle, and its blue eyes were fixed unwaveringly upon him. With a ruffle of its feathers it began to speak in the voice of the witch.

“Feeling sorry for yourself, Ghost?”

“You have brought me back to life seven hundred years too late!” It burst out of him, with all his fury and pain, and he couldn’t stop it.

“It was necessary to wait,” she replied calmly.

“How can I help anyone now, after so long?”

“You can help by learning from your mistakes, Ghost.”

He looked down his nose at her.

“You are a powerful man, Lord de Mortimer, but I could turn you to dust with a flick of my fingers.”

“I always did what was right.”

“But how did you know it was right?”

“My advisors…”

“Hmm.”

He frowned.

“The answers to all of your questions are to be found here, in the castle. You must look for them in the right places.”

“And then?”

“Then you can ask me again to take you home.”

“I can go back to the past and remake history? I can save my people?”

“Find the answers, and you will be capable of anything, Reynald. You were a great man, but you can be a much greater one.”

“Take me home now, and I—”

“You’re not listening.” Angrily, the eagle flapped its wings, rising slowly from the battlements.

“I am listening. The woman…Amy…”

“Amy Fairweather.” The bird chuckled disturbingly.

“Is she my friend or my enemy?”

“Well, that is something you’re going to have to work out for yourself, Ghost. This time without your advisors.”

The eagle sped away, growing smaller, until it was invisible against the dark sky.
What do I do now?
he asked himself grumpily. In his own time he could have shouted, and men would have come to serve him and obey his orders, but here…He knew that he could shout all he wanted, and no one would listen.

“I am Reynald de Mortimer,” he reassured himself. “Surely, even seven hundred years into the future, that means
something
.”

But there was no one to answer him.

Reynald stood in the antechamber and glowered
at the big oak doors that led into the great hall. There was a tremendous noise coming from behind them—voices and laughter and music. If it
was
music! His ears hurt from the pounding of the drums and droning chant of the singers; the very stones around him were vibrating as if several battering rams were crashing rhythmically against the outer walls of the keep.

Who were these people? What were they doing here in his stronghold?

Reynald strode forward and, reaching for the doors, threw them open. The thudding of drums rolled over him, momentarily numbing his senses. It was like walking into the full force of a gale.

He gritted his teeth against the cacophony and looked around. His magnificent hall was full of strangers in strange garments. His elaborately carved lord’s chair was gone from the dais, as were the trestle tables and benches used by his people, and his fine tapestries from the walls. There were no serious men in serious conversation over roast beef and ale. No dogs wrestling in the herb-strewn rushes over scraps, and no serving wenches giggling as they carried in the meal. Instead, the long room was filled with interlopers, some dancing as if they had fleas biting them, some standing with glass receptacles in their hands, sipping miserly at the liquid contained inside, and some shouting at each other to be heard above the music. The air was full of sweet perfumes, and the coloring and styles of their clothing were made shocking by the fact that it was almost familiar…while at the same time there was something very wrong.

Reynald narrowed his eyes and waited for the silence that always fell in his presence. To his amazement, a small man in a fool’s colorful clothing came up to him, holding a tray of food—tiny bits and pieces that would be barely a mouthful for a child. He gave Reynald a simpering smile.

“Medieval canapés, sir?”

Reynald gave him a murderous glance, and after a tense moment the fool backed unsteadily away.

Others in the room were becoming aware of him, stopping what they were doing to turn and stare. The music stopped, too, and the ensuing quiet was shocking in its intensity. Reynald cast his eye about the room, trying to find where the musicians were placed, but he could not see them. Instead, he caught sight of a man in armor very much like his own, and of a similar size and shape. He, too, wore a helmet. The man was glaring back at him, his hand resting menacingly on the sword at his side.

“Do you dare to challenge the Ghost in his own hall?” Reynald shouted, and drew his own sword several inches free of the scabbard. He saw the other man do the same.

“So, you want a confrontation, do you? I will teach you a lesson, lout!”

Reynald took a menacing step forward, but so did the other man. With a ringing sound, he drew his sword out completely and swung it in a wide arc.

A gasp sounded from the people nearest him, as they stumbled back, out of range. He ignored the reaction; he was busy watching the other man. Who did exactly the same thing as he and was now standing, glowering, daring him to move forward. Reynald showed his teeth. So did the other man.

And that was when he understood.

He was seeing a mirrored reflection. The glass was enormous, larger than any he had ever seen, and it was hanging upon the far wall, facing him. The man he had been about to fight was actually himself.

Shocked and embarrassed, he gazed into his own eyes, and roared, “Leave me! I wish to be alone.”

Someone in the crowd let out a shrill shriek, which was followed by a growing swell of uneasy murmuring. No one moved. Frustrated, Reynald ran his gaze over them and noticed several more men in armor. One of the knights had pale hair that was obviously a wig. Was this sorry creature meant to be him? Under his incensed glare, the man began to shuffle uneasily.

His gaze moved on. He spotted ladies in elaborate gowns, some with wimples or veils upon their heads, and several men dressed as kings, which was strange, because he knew very well in his own time there had been only one King Edward upon England’s throne.

Who were these people? Was this a game? The woman on the tower roof—Amy—had said it was a fancy dress party. But why were they aping him and those he had known? A tightness was forming in his chest as he contemplated this world gone mad. What must he do now? What was required of him?

And then he saw
her
, Lady Amy Fairweather, and a calmness settled over him.

He held his breath as she wended her way through the tightly packed crowd. In the bright light he could see what he had not seen before. Her gown consisted of layers of fine, sparkling cloth that was almost transparent. He could see the curved shape of her body, and her legs as she walked. She had red hair, bright as flame, that curled in clusters about her head, and her eyes were as green as spring grass.

She was smiling at him, and Reynald felt his heart start to pound in a way it had never done before.

“My lord Mortimer,” Amy said, in a loud, gently scolding voice. “You are frightening your guests! I’m sure you wouldn’t want to drive them out into the snow on such a night as this.”

A trickle of excited laughter from the people behind her let her know they’d heard and understood. This man was playing the role of the famous Ghost, and it was all part of the Medieval Weekend they had paid to be a part of.

Amy didn’t know why she’d come to his rescue—he’d been quite frightening when he’d come bursting into the room. But she’d seen something in his eyes, in the tilt of his head, that made her think he needed her help. He’d helped her with Nicco; the least she could do was return the favor.

“Have you traveled far, my lord?” she went on. “From the Tower of London perhaps? Remind me, who
is
the king these days?”

She winked as she glanced up at him, inviting him to join in the game.

“King Edward,” he answered promptly. “He bids me keep my borders quiet, although it is not in his power to order me. I am king here in my own right.”

He said it with such certainty, Amy almost believed it herself. There was a burst of delighted laughter.

“Ah,” she nodded. “The Welsh are being troublesome again, eh?”

“Aye, they are always troublesome,” he grumbled.

More good-natured laughter. Someone called out, “Especially when they beat us at rugby!” They all thought it was part of the reenactment, a little playacting for their benefit.

“Do you dance, my lord?” she asked.

“Dance?” he demanded arrogantly. “I have better things to do with my time, damsel.”

That brought on shouts and hoots.

“Surely there’s always time for a beautiful woman!” a voice replied.

Reynald frowned. “While I dance, my borders are breached.”

They loved that.

“No, no,” Amy held up her hand for silence. “Lord de Mortimer has no time to waste. Besides, it must be tricky dancing in a coat of armor. Imagine how long it takes to get it on and off. Do you ever take it off, my lord? It looks a bit rusty in places. Perhaps you bathe in it?”

The great hall erupted in laughter.

“You are making a jest of me, damsel,” the Ghost said coldly, slamming his sword back into its scabbard.

Amy pretended to be contrite. “Only a little,” she admitted. “You were frightening everyone. I didn’t want you to get thrown out.”

As if on cue, his gaze slid past her. He was reaching for his sword again. It was definitely a
real
sword, too. Whoever he was, he’d gone for authenticity over comfort. She should have been frightened, but she wasn’t. It wasn’t murder she saw in his eyes but a cool, intelligent wariness. This wasn’t a man who panicked and struck out blindly; he was a man who watched and waited, then made his decisions.

“Ms. Fairweather?” a voice said at her shoulder.

Amy turned. It was Mr. Coster, the manager of the resort. He was eyeing the big man uneasily, and he looked twitchy, as if he might call in security. Amy couldn’t blame him, but she certainly didn’t want security, or worse the police, stomping all over the castle asking questions. She and Jez didn’t need any investigation into who was who and why they were here—especially Jez, who was “a person of interest” according to the police.

“Mr. Coster.” She smiled the charming smile that always got her out of trouble.

“This gentleman is upsetting my guests.” Mr. Coster wasn’t charmed. He reached into his jacket pocket, probably for his cell phone.

“Is anyone here upset?” Amy appealed to the crowd.

They were generous in their assurance that they weren’t, but Coster appeared unconvinced. “I can’t have any trouble,” he said.

Amy knew it was time to take control. She was an expert at reading what type of person she was dealing with, and she’d already summed up the hotel manager. Coster was a stickler for the rules, the sort of man who would never belch without excusing himself even if he was alone. But he was also very aware of what others thought of him. He wouldn’t want to appear foolish.

She grasped the big man’s arm, and found it hard from sheer muscle. “I promise you, Mr. Coster, everything is perfectly fine. He’s, eh, with me. If you want, I’ll take
Lord de Mortimer
”—she winked—“back to his room. He’s just flown in from Los Angeles, and he’s tired.”

“What’s your name, sir?” Coster asked suspiciously. “Are you a registered guest?”

Amy widened her eyes, and then she laughed. “Oh, you’re joking, aren’t you? He’s very good, isn’t he, when he gets involved in a part? And he’s taking this weekend very seriously. Aren’t you, sweetheart? I shouldn’t really tell, but he’s just been offered a wonderful movie role.”

In his helmet, Reynald looked down his nose at her, but there was something in his eyes she didn’t expect to see. Amusement.

Coster’s demeanor had changed, and he was staring at the big man, trying desperately to recognize in him someone famous he should know. Amy had read him perfectly; he was too worried about humiliating himself to ask again. “What movie role is that?” he asked tentatively.

“King Arthur, isn’t it, sweetheart? Or are you playing Sir Lancelot. I keep mixing them up. I know that Spielberg is directing…”

Coster jumped in, relieved he knew
that
name. “Well, congratulations! I am very pleased for you, and for us, having you here amongst us for our Medieval Long Weekend.”

Amy smiled. There were murmurs around them, and she heard a few well-known film stars mentioned, as everybody decided they knew who the man in armor really was.

“You were in that movie about the goblins?” Coster said with more certainty than showed in his eyes. “Not Harry Potter, the other one.”

“The hobbits?” Amy corrected him.

“Yes!”

“No, not that one.”

Coster looked crestfallen.

“Time for bed, darling.” She began to lead Reynald away, not wanting to push her luck. She glimpsed Jez coming toward her, giving her a “What’s-going-on?” look. “Coster wanted to call the police,” she murmured urgently as he reached her. Then she noticed Nicco was standing sulkily behind him. No doubt the prince had filled her brother in on the business on the battlements.

“I do not want—” Reynald began in an arrogant undertone.

“I don’t care what you want,” she cut him short. “Coster’s right, you’re frightening the guests. You’ll get yourself arrested, and believe me, we don’t want that. Come on now.”

But it wasn’t going to be that easy after all.

“I want you to stay for a drink, Amee.”

Nicco moved to stand in front of her, his smile more sharklike than winning. Had Jez put him up to this?

“I’m sorry, Nicco, I need to go—”

“No, no, you do not need to go. I am asking you to stay with
me.
” And he placed his hand on his chest in a theatrical gesture that made her wonder if he was quite sane.

“Nicco, really, I—”

“Amee.”

“You shit-spitting toad,” said a deep voice at her back. “She has said no. Be a man and accede to her wishes.”

Nicco’s eyes flashed pure fury. “What do you know of being a man, riffraff? I am a prince!”

“I have met princes before, and they had better manners.” Reynald was unimpressed.

Amy held up her hands between them. “No, this isn’t going to happen here. Save it for later.” She gave Nicco a forced smile. “I’m sorry, I am, but I have to go.”

There was an expression in his eyes, something violent and dangerous that made her pause, just for a second, then she took Reynald’s arm and tugged him after her, out of the room.

Back in the great hall, the music cranked up again, and there was a burst of excited chatter. Now that they were no longer being observed, the sugary act fell from Amy like a snake’s skin, and she was all business. “You’d better tell me where your room is so that I can get you up there real quick. You might want to pack and leave, before Coster decides to throw you out after all.”

He stared back at her, arms folded, eyes watchful.

“Where is your room?” she repeated, sounding out each word.

“The castle belongs to me. All the rooms are mine.”

“A problem, Ms. Fairweather?”

Coster again. He’d followed them as far as the doorway, and now there was a burly security guard beside him, watching them suspiciously. As Amy had feared, he wasn’t totally convinced after all. She resurrected her smile.

“This is a wonderful place, Mr. Coster. Do you hire out to film crews?”

He blinked. “Yes, of course.”

“Mmm, you’ll have to mention it to Steven,” she murmured not-so-subtly to the man beside her. “Wasn’t he looking for locations? Do you have any brochures?” she added, smiling again at Coster. “I could fax him details.”

“I…yes, of course.” The wariness in Coster’s eyes was at war with his desperate need to believe in the possibility of what she was saying.

“I’ll get some details in the morning.” She yawned. “Well, good night!”

Amy grabbed Reynald’s arm and began to lead him toward the elevator. “I don’t know why I’m doing this,” she said crossly, sotto voce. “Why do I get myself into these situations?”