Patricia Rice (19 page)

Lost in dreams of what she would wear tonight to entice him, which of her mother’s candles she would burn, and which sweet words she hoped he would say, she wasn’t totally prepared for the locked door to swing open.

“Sweet blessed Jesus,” the housekeeper murmured as they were hit with a blast of icy air.

Glancing over Mrs. Hoskins’s shoulder, Christina inhaled sharply.

The locked room was neat as a pin, far neater than any previous they’d encountered. And on the vanity was a vase containing a single yellow rose—as fresh as if it had been plucked that morning, even though the room had supposedly been locked for years.

But the inexplicable rose wasn’t the reason for Christina’s shock. Stepping past the housekeeper, she stared in astonishment at the mirror above the vanity.

A dashing courtier in the chin-length bobbed hair, cultured goatee, and feathered cap of the fifteenth century stared defiantly from within the mirror. Until his square jawed face realigned into a scowl, she could almost believe a portrait had replaced the mirror. His resemblance to Harry was so striking that she nearly held out her hand to him. The image rapidly began to fade—but not before the likeness pointed toward a dark shadow in the mirror’s background.

Christina strained to recognize the silhouette sitting in what appeared to be a chair at a desk, but the man was only an indistinct form—too thin for Harry but not readily recognizable as anyone else.

“What are you trying to tell me?” she demanded of the mirror, but by then, the glass merely reflected her own image.

“Your Grace?” the housekeeper inquired.

“Did you not see it?” she demanded, although a moment later, she wished she could take back the words. Of course the housekeeper hadn’t seen it.

“The rose, Your Grace? Strange, isn’t it? Do you think His Grace may have put it there in honor of his mother? The room is as cold as the outer rings of hell. I’ll have someone lay a fire and dry it out.”

“Yes, of course.” Backing away from the mirror, Christina let the housekeeper rattle on of airing and fires and damp. Harry hadn’t placed that rose there. Harry hadn’t cleaned this room. And that hadn’t been Harry playacting in a fifteenth- century courtier’s costume.

That had been General Rothbottom. She had
seen
a ghost. Not just an aura. A ghost, with clothes and everything. Only once before in her life had she seen a full-formed apparition—and that had been her Aunt Iona warning her that her life was in danger. Her heart beat a little faster in fear. What could he be warning her of?

In the stiff gallery portrait, she hadn’t noticed the general’s resemblance to Harry, but she’d seen the image move in the mirror. He scowled like Harry did. Had he once laughed as Harry did?

What had he been trying to tell her?

Something unpleasant, she was certain. Aunt Iona had spoken. Why hadn’t the general? Did the presence of someone else lessen his ability to speak? Or her ability to hear?

She blinked and frowned. Whatever was happening to her? Her gift was changing… broadening.

Not knowing whether to be excited or frightened, or simply gratified that her Malcolm gift was maturing, she hastened back to the archive room to discover what she could about the general. She was imaginative. She could speculate that the spirits were placing roses in gratitude to Harry’s mother for improving their home, but she couldn’t speculate on who the shadow in the background was. The old duke?

She really needed to
talk
to the castle’s inhabitants if she meant to discover the source of Harry’s problems. Might the general speak if she found him alone? She found the ledger from the fifteenth century and perused the crumbling pages carefully.

The meticulous old script seemed to be that of a clerk who carefully recorded every basket of apples and every acre of grain, but she could find no mention of the castle’s inhabitants. Scanning the entries, she located the record of the purchase of a new chest and bed for the general’s—by then, the earl’s—bride, then entries for the expenses for improvement of the keep.

Apparently the notes from the general’s era had encouraged later generations to continue relating the house’s history. Though the initial entries were scanty, succeeding entries had spilled over into numerous volumes, each increasingly detailed.

Deciding she did not dare ignore the general’s warning any longer, Christina abandoned the ledgers. She must try to talk to him in person. If Harry or his house were in some sort of danger, she must do everything within her ability to prevent it. If the first Lord Winchester had something to say that was important enough for him to materialize in so dramatic a fashion, she must seek him out. Heedless of Harry’s warnings, she hurried downstairs and through the drawing room toward the castle keep that the first earl had evidently expanded for his bride.

She remembered clearly the ghostly laughter on another occasion when she'd strayed near here. If it had been the general laughing at her, surely he had the power of speech. Whether or not a fifteenth-century earl would deign to speak to a mere woman was another question entirely.

Although she had found doors on all floors between the new manor and the old one, so far, she had found only one entrance into the castle. In turning the Elizabethan attics into servants’ rooms, she’d seen a cluster of rooms at the end of the hallway indicating that someone lived there. Judging from the muddy boots and male clutter in the chambers, she assumed it must be the missing steward. When asked, Harry had said Jack kept rooms in the house.

It did not seem likely that there would be entrance into the castle from private rooms, so she had not intruded on the steward’s privacy to search for one. She had never gone out on the dangerous parapets to look for a connection on the roof either, although she’d seen stairs that might take her up there.

She had to admit that Harry was right about one thing. The architecture of his home was a trifle strange.

Reaching the first floor and racing through the drawing room and gallery, she recognized the instant she crossed the threshold between the manor and the keep.

If General Rothbottom was a fifteenth-century earl, his ghost was more likely to linger here than anywhere.

Taking a deep breath, she boldly entered the great hall of the keep.

An odd sensation stole over her as she tiptoed across the wide planks of the cavernous chamber. Daylight still poured through the long narrow windows high on one wall. Her lantern illuminated the path directly in front of her, but the far wall and paneled ceiling were hidden in shadows. Perhaps it was simply a fear of the unknown that stirred an excess of sensitivity in her, as if her sight and hearing were more acute.

A creak caused her to hesitate uncertainly.

Straightening her shoulders, she marched on. Old houses creaked. She knew that well enough. But the oppressive stillness crept along her skin. Shouldn’t there be birdsong or wind whistling through the rafters? She had the urge to shout just to hear the sound of life. The place was silent as a tomb.

How would she find the general in here? Did she dare go above?

Was that a rattle? She swung around but saw nothing.

She tilted her head back to scan the upper story. Heavy chandeliers hung from the center of the high, arched ceiling. The one directly over her head swung ponderously in some air current from a broken window or rotten roof. The chain holding it in place creaked and groaned from the weight. That was all.

She’d clambered through graveyards and talked to
ghosts,
for pity’s sake. She shouldn’t be in the least squeamish about air currents and squeaks. Well, maybe squeaks if they sounded at all ratlike. She had an aversion to furry things that streaked across her feet without warning.

To avoid any such encounter, she stood in the empty center of the chamber and stomped her feet as hard as she could. That should send them scattering into the walls.

The chain creaked again, and a rustle in the rafters almost sent her fleeing.

It belatedly occurred to her that she normally trespassed in the keep in accompaniment with a friendly spirit, but this time she was all alone. Foolish of her to worry about that now. The floor seemed safe enough. Actually, she thought great halls usually had stone or dirt floors, so the boards had most likely been added when the manor was built. They should be solid. Although she supposed if there were dungeons underneath…

No, that was in the tower. Different fortification entirely.

She heard no rodent rustlings, just the creak of the roof or floor, and the odd swaying of the chandeliers. The uneasy stirring in her midsection was most likely hunger.

Telling herself that finding General Rothbottom shouldn’t be too difficult, she edged across the towering chamber, testing the floor as she went.

A low moan raised the hackles on her neck.

A sudden draft of chilly air raised goose bumps on her arms.

A loud crash similar to that of chains echoed through the empty hall. The iron wheel of a chandelier overhead creaked.

Deciding it might be better to come another day, Christina turned around to seek the safety of the known.

Only to be halted by the sight of the general in tunic, hose, and feathered cap, holding up a gloved hand in warning.

An instant later, the heavy chandelier gave a rusty sigh and plummeted toward her.

Harry wasn’t in a state conducive to logical thought as he rode through the village toward home. Eager to return to Christina and anticipating a firelight dinner with longing gazes and seductive kisses after a day of dealing with taciturn tenants, he wondered if his bride would be agreeable to more lovemaking so soon after their lusty luncheon. He wondered where she might be right now and if she would be eager to see him.

He needed all the cheerful thoughts he could summon. He’d just paid the estate’s bank debt with the last of Christina’s dowry. That left him with no cash to buy seeds to plant the fallow fields unless he borrowed it. It would take only one small disaster to topple his precarious house of cards and render him unable to pay Carthage’s installment with profits from rent and crops in the fall. He wasn’t a gambler by nature. He hated risk.

For cash to tide them over until fall, he’d had to write to his solicitor and ask him to rent out the London town house for the season. He didn’t know how to tell Christina that they wouldn’t be returning to the city anytime soon.

But his bride’s enthusiastic lovemaking had lightened his stormy mood and given him hope for a brighter day. He’d decided he wanted his sons to romp through the Roman ruins as he had. An adult might love the intellectual stimulation of London, but children belonged in the country.

Riding through the village, he tried to concentrate on that happy thought so he wouldn’t terrify Christina into running away from him. She seemed to be sensitive to his darker moods, so he would do his best to relieve her of the burden of his anger and frustration.

The sight of an imposingly large stranger leaning broad shoulders against the tavern wall halted his eager progress.

Wearing a gentleman’s coat without the fashionable accompaniment of wig or hat, the giant seemed occupied in talking to a tall, slender man in unfashionable garb. The instant the slender man scratched his head with a pencil, Harry recognized him as Robert Morton, an old school chum and the engineer he’d hired, and his mood plummeted. Christina had made her thoughts clear on her opinion of tearing down the castle. Rob would be an unpleasant reminder of their differences.

Harry couldn’t place the brawny, black-haired stranger, although there was something familiar about him. Since both men looked up at once, he didn’t have the leisure to study the situation. He swung down from Caesar and tipped his hat to the engineer.

“I didn’t expect your arrival so soon, Rob. Glad you could come down.”

“It’s a pleasure to serve you, Your Grace.” Morton bowed formally, if a trifle awkwardly. He’d never quite conquered his height and lankiness.

Harry cuffed his shoulder. “I’m still Harry. After sharing the same swill at school for years, we ought to be brothers under the skin.” He offered his hand to Rob while keeping a close watch on the giant who was watching him. The newcomer didn’t straighten from his careless position or behave as if he was at all impressed by Harry’s title.

Harry hadn’t decided if that was a good or bad thing as Morton said, “Your wife’s cousin here has been apprising me of your happy state, Harry. I congratulate you on your recent marriage. Are you acquainted with Mr. Dougal, or shall I make the presentation?”

Racking his brain for a “Dougal” on Christina’s family tree, Harry was fairly certain he hadn’t met the gentleman at their hasty wedding. Swarthy, with eyes as dark as his hair, and a proud jut of nose, her so-called cousin looked more gypsy than gentleman. But when he shoved away from the wall to tower above them, he resembled a king more royal than any from the House of Hanover.

“We’ve not the pleasure,” the stranger rumbled from deep in his chest. “Aidan Dougal, at your service, Your Grace. More a cousin-in-law than cousin to your wife. I hear you have a medieval chalice for sale.”

Harry thought his eyebrows skidded skyward before he brought them under control. “I had not mentioned that, I believe.”

“You’ve married a Malcolm. You need not mention it for it to be known. If I am unwanted, you have only to say the word, and I will take myself off.”

Harry had his doubts about that. Aidan Dougal did not appear to be the kind of man who walked away easily.

But thinking Christina might be so delighted to see family that she would excuse him the engineer, Harry nodded his acceptance. “I cannot say that I’m ready to part with the relic, but Christina will welcome a guest. If you have knowledge of medieval artifacts, we can examine the chalice together. Did you gentleman ride in or take the coach?”

“We’ve stabled our horses,” Morton replied. “Are you sure we would not impose by appearing without warning?”

“No, no, come along. We’re early yet for dinner. We can find suitable rooms and give you time to wash up, although I must warn you, the accommodations are far less than I could wish, which is the reason you’re here, Morton.”

“Ah, well, the good scent of country air will make it all worthwhile. I’ve heard much of your father’s construction. I’m quite eager to see it.”

Morton kept up a pleasant dialogue as they rode the final mile to Sommersville. Eager to rejoin Christina, Harry responded absently at best. With the noncommittal expression of a judge, Aidan Dougal rode his big black stallion in silence. Had Harry been less wrapped up in thoughts of his wife, he might have pondered the man’s impassivity, but as it was, he accepted Dougal as another Malcolm—or was it Ives?—eccentric.

In anticipation of seeing Christina, he spurred his mount into a gallop as the mansion rose up behind the curtain of trees. It wasn’t yet dusk, but close enough that lights flickered behind several of the windows. And outdoors.

Puzzled over that, Harry flew into the yard at a reckless pace, bringing Caesar to a rearing halt when Meg raced toward him.

“Harry, have you seen Christina? Is she with you?” Meg threw a glance past him to the two men riding at a more sedate pace up the drive. Disappointment warred with interest in her expression before she turned back to Harry. “I thought perhaps she’d gone into the village.”

Harry was already off his horse and running for the door of the manor where a footman held the door for him. The Elizabethan manor. The one that had already dropped a lintel on her. “When did you see her last?” he demanded, trying to sound authoritative and in control when his heart had sunk to his stomach and fear dulled his brains.

“Hours and hours ago.” Meg ran to keep up with him. “I went into town to speak with Mora, and Mrs. Abbott came back with me to discuss the party, and Christina said she had plans…”

Harry scarce heard past “hours.” Forgetting his guests, he grabbed a lantern from the footman. “Where have you looked?” He didn’t wait for an answer but strode down the main hall, expecting everyone to follow.

“The maids have searched the new wing, Your Grace,” the footman answered, catching his breath as he caught up with Harry’s long strides. “Me and Miss Winchester been looking upstairs and down in here. The grooms ain’t seen Her Grace and her horse is in its stall.”

“I’ll start in the attics,” a deep voice thundered from behind them. “She has a partiality for ghosts in attics.”

Relieved that someone understood, Harry turned to acknowledge Aidan Dougal’s offer. “Up those stairs, then. I’d advise taking a left at the top and using the back stairs in the first chamber on the right to find the attics. You’ll need light in the stairs. They’re dark even at noon.”

“I’ll help. Where should I go?” Morton accepted a candle from a maid who came running down a corridor with a handful of them. It was only April, and clouds were rolling in from the coast. The meager light from the windows would fade soon.

“If you can judge the safety of the stairs as you go, take the tower steps down to the dungeons. Meg can show you the door. Has anyone searched the gardens?” The awful memory of Christina falling into the pond rose in his mind’s eye, and Harry nearly staggered under the pain of it. If he lost Christina to this damned house, he’d personally set fire to the monstrosity.

“The grooms have. I can send them back again and tell them to search farther afield,” Meg offered.

“To the Roman ruins, please. After you take Rob to the tower door, stay in the foyer and keep us all apprised of what each finds.” Without more ado, Harry dashed into the drawing room on his left—in the direction of the derelict castle. He’d forbidden the servants to traverse the old floors down here. He couldn’t ask them to join him now.

If he wasn’t so terrified, he could work himself up to a really fine rage. He’d
told
her these floors were treacherous. She
knew
the old parapets had killed his family. How could she defy him like this?

What would he do if he lost her?

That painful question crawled around and around in his head like some maggot gone mad, rendering him incapable of further thought. He tried hoping she’d just gone to visit with a tenant or that she was out gathering posies in the wood, and he would soon hear cries of welcome. But even her cousin acknowledged the unlikelihood of that.

“Christina!” Harry shouted now that he was out of range of the others and could unleash some of his panic. He threw open door after door on the ground floor of the manor and was startled by some of the changes he discovered within once familiar chambers.

His mother’s downstairs sitting room remained just as she’d left it, with her embroidery unfinished on its stand. But his father’s old study now resembled a storeroom of stuffed and mounted animal heads, with a few ugly spears and crossbows thrown in for good measure.

Christina wasn’t in any of the rooms he searched.

He shouted her name again, only to receive echoes in return. As he approached the doors connecting the manor to the old castle, his heart pounded loud enough to hear. Surely she hadn’t entered the castle. His brother and father had fallen from the parapet of the front tower located between these two buildings. He’d had the entrance boarded up.

A resounding clangor echoing out of nowhere caused him to leap two feet into the air. The metallic clamor echoed so obnoxiously that he couldn’t immediately discern its direction or the difference between its reverberations and the terrified pounding of his heart. What the devil could make a noise like that aside from a battle between several suits of armor and the bells of St. Paul’s?

He raised the lantern to look around, and the light bounced off a spear similar to the ones in his father’s study. It lay on the gallery floor, pointing in the direction of the great hall ballroom. He didn’t think the thing could have caused that racket. He glanced at the walls to see from where it might have fallen, but without windows, it was too dark to see. Thinking a weapon probably wasn’t useful if Christina had fallen through the floor, he grabbed it anyway.

“Christina!” he shouted again, praying he was coming closer. He hadn’t been in the castle in ages. How large could it be? Could she hear him?

He heard a loud thump in the rooms above, and he halted, trying to remember the location of the nearest staircase. A muffled male curse followed, and he remembered Christina’s cousin. Aidan would be searching up there and had no doubt come up against one of the many architectural oddities. He should have warned the man about the windowless room with the swinging door.

Ahead of Harry, the elaborately carved wooden doors to the ballroom gaped open, a certain sign that his orders had been disobeyed. Hurrying forward, he almost stumbled at the sound of a weak cry. Heart pounding, he shouted, “Christina!”

He stood still, waiting for the echoes of his shout to die down. The cry he’d heard had been muffled and didn’t seem to come from the echoing vastness of the great hall. When he heard no further response, he held up his lantern—and nearly fell to his knees.

One of the massive chandeliers lay in the middle of the ballroom floor in a shattered heap of iron. If Christina had been anywhere near it—

Harry bellowed Christina’s name loud enough to shake the rafters. Dust trickled from overhead as he raced to the chandelier, set down his lantern, and braced his legs and arms to lift the heavy wheel.

The moan again. But not here. Releasing the iron, he swung around, trying to pinpoint the sound. Nothing. He passed the light back and forth over the chandelier. No bright swathe of color indicated Christina’s presence. But it had fallen. She might have been under it. She wasn’t there now.

“Christina, damn you, do you want me to die of fright? Where are you?” he yelled fruitlessly at the rafters.

“I don’t know precisely,” came the reasonable—if muffled—reply.

Wanting to lie down and roll on the floor with relief and laughter at this commonsensical end to his harrowing fear, and equally desiring his hands around a pretty neck so he could shake some sense into his adventuresome bride, Harry heroically did neither. He raised his lantern to scan the beams around the outer reaches of the room.

“Keep talking. Perhaps I can find your direction. Was that you moaning a moment ago, or have you captured a ghost?”

“I may have cursed a time or two,” she admitted, her voice sounding weak and hollow from some distance on his right. “I think I may have broken something.”

“Besides the chandelier?” His heart knotted up his throat until he could barely speak, but he managed the jest for her sake. Advancing in the direction of her voice, swinging the lantern back and forth, he tried to stay calm. This was Christina, after all. She’d fallen out of more trees than he could count and walked away unscathed. “Broken what?” he asked when she did not instantly reply.

“My leg?” she said doubtfully.

He tripped over an old crossbow that had no reason to be in a ballroom. Did he mistake, or was it pointing at the far wall? He would become as imaginative as Christina at this rate. He could almost think her ghosts were pointing the way. “Don’t move. I’ll find you. Are you bleeding badly?”

“No, I don’t think so. It may be my arm. It hurts. I can’t move. Do you have a candle, Harry? It’s awfully dark in here.”

He could hear her scrambling about, moving as he’d just told her not to do. “Sit still, dammit! Yes, I have a candle. Can you see the light from it yet?”