The Ghost and Miss Demure (12 page)

“Never.” It was Tristam’s turn to be shocked.

“What!” She blinked at the strength of his refusal. “But, Tristam! We must. If we leave it here the mice will get it. Damp will rot it.” And she just didn’t want the damn thing in the house.

“We’ll do whatever we must to make the library safe. Alarms. Helium filled bookcases, whatever. But I’m not letting the
Malleus Maleficarum
out of my sight. Clarice agrees with me. It is the ultimate drawing card for Belle Ange. Throw in the rumor of a ghost who might be a vampire, and we are a guaranteed success. Besides, Clarice won’t part with it. Says it has to stay at the plantation, a family bequest or something. She was adamant. We have to keep the ghosts happy, remember.”

But were they? Karo wondered.

“But,” she expostulated weakly. “That book’s so old.” And
evil,
the distillation of man’s inhumanity to man. But she didn’t add that. It was an alien thought and not one that modern, rational people discussed over breakfast.

“Don’t be dense, my dear. I told you from the first that we aren’t running a museum. We are here to turn this plantation into a moneymaker. We can’t cower and edge out now that we’ve come to a rough spot. We’ll find money for the cost of the book’s preservation.”

“Couldn’t we display a copy?” she asked desperately. “That would be safer. And, think of the insurance premiums! They’ll be absolutely sky
high if we leave the thing out where someone could snatch it. Or it could get burned!”

Tristam stared at her while he considered her argument. Or was he finally feeling it, too—that sense of being eavesdropped upon by the windows and doors of a house that wished this horrible and foreign thing, this book, purged from its bowels.

A good portion of his accent disappeared when he answered her. “You have a point. A sentimental one, I suspect, but a point. I’ll talk to an agent. But the
Maleficarum
is not going to a museum. Clarice is firm on that, and since she holds the purse strings, I am solidly behind her. All we have to do is find the damned thing and make sure that it’s still here.”

It was good that Tristam wasn’t blindly stubborn. Her last boss had been the kind to take a notion into his head and keep it forever, no matter what evidence was presented. One could give him a concussion trying to knock an idea loose, and it still wouldn’t move an inch. He made concrete look flexible. But was this concession enough? Karo thought not. The book needed to leave here.

Karo stood up and carried her cup to the sink. She wanted a moment to think about the churning down in her gut that was getting worse instead of lessening. Something more than concern over a literary treasure was moving around down there among the liver and kidneys. But how did one say to one’s boss of seven days that he was wrong in thinking that this book was nothing more than a vellum tourist attractant, that they
might actually be in danger if they kept it in the house?

There was a sudden glint at the window. Refracted lighted momentarily blinded her, and Karo put up a hand to shield her face. As she squinted against the intense ray, a clear and preemptory idea popped into her head. It was clear to her that the
Malleus Maleficarum
was an evil thing and should be destroyed. Sending it away wasn’t enough. It had been used by greedy men to justify the female holocaust of the Inquisition and should
never
be put on casual display for the titillation of tourists. It was a weapon, a symbol of oppression as great as slavery and as shameful. It should be buried deep in the ground or even burned in a ritual fire. Why, the book might even still be used to trap a poor spirit on the earthly plane by a vengeful woman, a spirit that longed to go free. And Karo could destroy it with very little effort when it was found.

She blinked and shook her head slowly from side to side, denying the idea. That wasn’t right, was it? She didn’t believe in burning books—any books. Not even the very worst Barbara Cartland novels her mother mailed to her. Karo shivered and then gave herself a mental clout on the nose. It took a moment for her to regain her sight, even after she looked away from the window.

“…fine, Karo?” she heard Tristam ask.

“I’m sorry. What did you say?” She turned back to her employer. He had set his cup aside and risen to his feet. His gaze was intent. Watchful. Predatory.

Was he spying on her? Did he know what she
was thinking? He didn’t seem to care about the house at all—not really. Everything was secrets and lies. For a moment, she looked at him and saw an enemy.

“I asked how you were feeling.”

“Fine.” The tone was a little too trenchant for good manners. She tried to make a joke. “I haven’t been blasted by lightning in the last few days, so no worries.”

“I’m ever so glad,” he said. “So, where did your lovely brain go for the last four minutes?”

Four minutes? Had it been so long?

“Trinidad, Rio…” She waved an airy hand, knowing she had to lie. “Another century.” She swallowed. “Tristam, can I ask you something? Just hypothetically.”

“Ask away.” He took a step closer, and her ganglia began to tingle. She could almost swear that there were eyes focused on her back and a hand poised to reach inside her skin and grab her heart, ready to turn her into a fleshy puppet.

She suddenly wondered where ’Stein had gone to. He hadn’t been bothering them for breakfast. Did he know they weren’t alone now and was choosing to avoid this room? Cats were supposed to be able to sense the presence of supernatural creatures.

She had to ask. “Do you think that there might
actually
be a ghost here?” She addressed the vee in Tristam’s shirt, not daring to look her employer in the eye in case he started laughing at her.

“No. Unless you’re from the press. Then I believe it absolutely.” A small smile flashed past, and a splash of his mutant pheromones raced up her
nostrils. Her nerves began a different sort of tingling. Her body was trying to simultaneous go tense and go limp. As an aerobic workout, it beat the usual isometric exercises. She could feel herself beginning to sweat in the valley between her breasts and in her tightly curled palms.

The last several days had been spent wearing a government certified safety mask that was guaranteed to filter out spray paint, pollen, grain dust, silica and asbestos as she sorted through the accumulations of the ages. Karo wondered if the #9 micron screen would offer any defense against the very potent Tristam English musk. Alas, it seemed unlikely that anything less than an enclosed, environmental suit would do the trick—and then only if she couldn’t see him.

She pried her eyes up from his golden flesh. They both tended to spend the days half unbuttoned with their sleeves rolled up, but she still found the sight of his down-covered chest to be disturbing. Normally she’d enjoy the distraction, but not now. There was something more important that had to be done.

“Why do you ask? Seen any more ghosts? Are you
hante
?” he asked, smiling slightly.

“No fair speaking French,” she managed to reply, though it felt like her heart was pressing against the back of her teeth. The room had grown very warm, the oxygen all being burned up. No wonder ’Stein had given breakfast a pass. He’d have had kitty heatstroke in two seconds flat.

But, the heat reminded her of something.

“You’re being evasive.” Tristam advanced another two feet. A shadow slipped over his face,
changing him; mild-mannered and meek had done a skip around the corner and left his evil twin behind. This bold doppelganger insisted, “Tell me what’s worrying you. Let me help.”

“I’m being cautious and thoughtful.”

He was too close. She was burning up. The elastic in her bra was beginning to melt into her flesh right above her fourth rib, and she had the feeling that she was suffocating on moldering air.

“You’re white as—forgive the cliché—a sheet. But you’re also sweating. Are you certain that you are well?” Another yard of hard pine disappeared under a single, long-limbed step. This was what had happened the first night she met him, down in the library. The room could be measured in acres and she still felt that she was running out of safe kitchen space. If he took another step she would reach critical mass and combust all over the shiny floor. She had to get away. Had to get some air.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she hedged, stepping away from Tristam and nearer to the kitchen door. “What I am going to do is take a quick walk out to the guest cottage and have a look around. It should be dry by now.”

“Karo!” His voice was hurt, but he halted his advance. “I thought you trusted me. I’ve been a lamb, haven’t I? Why flee now?”

“Don’t be stupid!” she flashed with sudden irritation. “I’m just interested in the old cookhouse. That’s what it was in the old days, right?”

“And slave quarters.” He came no closer. Perhaps he could see the flames licking at her ears. They felt on fire, sunburned. She felt something
pressing in on her, like a blast wave that went on and on. “I wish that you would tell me what is troubling you, my dear. Is it the book? Does it truly frighten you?”

“Yes.” She had been worried about the book, hadn’t she? “And the fact that I don’t know about the wisdom of promoting a ghost like a tourist attraction.” Not when it was real. Was it real?

“A few minutes ago you were all for it,” he pointed out.

Had she been? His words seemed to be eating up all the air in the kitchen. She was feeling light-headed. She had to get outside, but he kept her here talking!

“Think of the Cantervilles. Hamlet. Sleepy Hollow,” he said. Karo couldn’t think much of anything except the need for cool air, but she made an effort to stay coherent. It would be unwise to let him know that…What didn’t she want him to know?

“A few minutes ago, I didn’t know that someone else had seen Vellacourt’s ghost,” she managed. “And I didn’t know about the book.”

“Someone else? You mean Valperga? You still don’t know she saw anything. The old bat was nuts. Absolutely whacko. The trick cyclists would have had a field day with her. She might have just had rats in the belfry.”

“And in the garret. And that’s hairsplitting…What’s a trick cyclist?” She scratched at a sudden itch in her palms. Her whole skin felt vaguely prickled. She was perspiring in the small of her back and soaking the waistband of her pants.

“An old time headshrinker,” he translated.
“Look at it this way, Vellacourt was an exhibitionist. If his ectoplasm was really still hanging about, he would probably enjoy showing off for the gardeners and such. But no one has seen a thing. Other than you after being hit by lightning.” Tristam sounded both calm and irritated. It was an interesting vocal trick, like two people both using his voice at the same time. “I know that the atmosphere here is unpleasant and a lot of the art suggestive of horrid things, but mightn’t it just be that you had a bad start? Being hit by a million volts can do strange things to the mind.”

“Condescension will get you nowhere,” Karo snapped. “You’re the boss. Do what you want. Now back off before I throw something heavy at your head. I want to go outside.”

He laughed suddenly and the tension broke. He again looked like Tristam. Fresh air filled the overheated vacuum around her body and Karo could feel moisture condensing on her skin in heavy drops. Her muscles went limp and she almost staggered with relief. She wanted to lie down on the shiny wood floor and take a ten-hour nap.

“So. What’s in the cookhouse, do you think? Have I missed something?” he asked, turning back for his coffee. He looked quite cool in his turned-up shirtsleeves, but there was a betraying sheen of dew on the back of his neck that said he had also been affected, if not to the degree that she had.

“Nothing, I hope. I’d like to move some of the house hold accouterments out there. It really is the best place for them.” Karo took a furtive swipe at her brow.

“Good idea. Let me know what you find and I’ll get whatever stuff you want moved out.” His PDA was again consulted. The two of them were back to business, as if the previous odd exchange had never taken place.

“Are you going to get the gardeners to help? The cauldrons in particular are heavy,” she added. A grounds crew had arrived two days after the storm and begun a cleanup and aesthetic transformation of Belle Ange’s riotous gardens.

“No need. This body isn’t all for show. I can bung that stuff about. Just shout me up when you’re ready. I’ll be in the library.”

He did not again suggest that she join him.

“Okay. I won’t be long,” she promised.

“Take your time,” he said agreeably. “It will be a help to clear out some working space instead of just shifting the masses around. And don’t worry about that book. We can look for it this evening or even tomorrow. It’s too stuffy to be doing intense poking around right now.”

“Okay,” she said again, and then headed for the door. She was bent on escape, but she still noticed his change of priorities concerning the
Mal-leus Maleficarum
. Was he trying to keep her away from the book? Did he know that for a moment she had thought about destroying it?

Tristam stared after Karo, wondering what had just happened. They had been having a pleasant breakfast conversation and then all of sudden the tension had been so thick he’d nearly had to swim through it. The moment he got halfway to Karo’s side, she’d broken into a sweat and run away.

“Where are you running, my dear?” he asked whimsically. “Just away from the big bad wolf? Am I really so scary? Or was it just that book? Can you really be so frightened by an artifact?”

He poured out his cold coffee, frowning at the brown drops that ran down the sparkling porcelain sink. A sudden embarrassment had come over him. What had he been thinking, stalking her that way? He’d never chased a woman in his life—he’d never had to. At home, the English name had always been ample attraction for women, working for both him and his older brother, Jeremy. In the States, the women seemed to have a different outlook, and that had made it even easier! Being more aggressive than their Euro pe an counterparts, American women skipped the usual catch-me-if-you-can bed races. They were also quite amenable to his lifestyle; they always understood that one or the other of them would eventually be moving on, and he’d always been content to have it that way.