The Ghost and Miss Demure (18 page)

He hadn’t a clue where this attraction would eventually lead, but for the first time in his life he’d been shot by Cupid’s gold-tipped arrow and he wasn’t going anywhere—and neither was she—until they got together. He wasn’t like the other unscrupulous men in her life, and she’d eventually admit that she was smitten, too.

Until then, if that meant nightly torment…well, he would take it like a man. For a while. Tristam punched his pillow into a new shape and rolled over on his stomach, squashing his remaining tumescence in the feather tick.

Surely she would succumb soon. On the marriageability scale—which had admittedly changed through the years—he still ranked right below a titled lord and well above a doctor, rock star or Hollywood actor, the last two having notoriously high divorce rates due to drug use and infidelity.
Even as a one-night stand he ranked pretty high—though probably below rock stars and actors, he admitted fairly.

“Please, woman,” he muttered into his soggy pillow sham. “You’ve spoiled me for other females. Have a little mercy!”

Then away out in the woods I heard that kind of a
sound that a ghost makes when it wants to tell about
something that’s on its mind and can’t make itself
understood, and so can’t rest easy in its grave, and
has to go about that way every night grieving.

—Mark Twain from
Huckleberry Finn

Karo looked up from the myriad knobs on the espresso machine and drew a deep, steadying breath. Tristam was here. She could sense the pheromones rushing up her nose as she inhaled the delicate smell of vanilla that overlaid the pungent coffee beans she had loaded in the grinder. This was the real McCoy, the substance to last night’s sensual shadow. In the flesh, he was enough to cause a heart attack. A lovely one.

“Morning.” She turned and offered him a smile, hoping that her cheeks didn’t betray her thoughts.

Tristam had checked himself abruptly in the doorway when he saw her bent over the espresso machine and momentarily considered the craven course of running the other way before she spotted him, but once she looked up and offered a tight smile of welcome, he stepped bravely into the room and forced an answering grimace.

“Good morning. Will she go for you? Or would you like me to have a lash?”

“Be my guest.” Karo raised a hand to her head. Her temples were softly throbbing and her stomach was a bit upset. “I only got as far as grinding the beans. I haven’t been able to decide which knob to try next.” She stepped back from the gleaming brass and cleared her throat. “Tristam? Are you set on going up to the…the garret today?”

She could see a red stain racing up the back of his neck. She recognized it from the night before—

But that was ridiculous! That had only been a dream. Hadn’t it?

“Um…Well, actually…Why do you ask?” He didn’t turn to face her, a strange lapse of manners on his part. Tristam as a habit preferred eye contact when speaking.

“No definite reason,” she lied. “I have a bit of a headache and I wanted to do a little reading in the library.”

“Reading?” He reached for the pitcher of milk she had filled and plunged in the thin, stainless steel nozzle. Steam began to hiss and spit as it frothed the cold beverage.

“Yes. In Vellacourt’s journals.”

“What?” The pitcher slipped but was recovered before the milk was upset. Tristam kept his back to her.

“If you don’t mind,” she allowed, watching him grope for the correct knob. His dexterous fingers were unusually clumsy. “I, uh, I had a dream last night.”

“A dream?” Tristam’s voice was constricted almost
to the point of squeaking into an unfamiliar octave. His shoulders were taut enough to bounce quarters off them.

“Is something wrong?” Karo asked—reluctantly, but she did ask.

“Wrong?” he questioned, feeling craven but unwilling to rush upon his fate if it could possibly be avoided.

“Yes, wrong. As in, not right.”

“Yes. Well…quite. I mean, why do you ask?”

“Because you’ve scalded the milk at least three times long as usual and it’s dripping onto the floor.”

“Oh.” Tristam set the pitcher down and reached for a tea towel. He still hadn’t turned around. If Karo didn’t know better, she would think that he was embarrassed about her…well, her double’s behavior last night. But that wasn’t possible. The only way he could know about last night was if it had been real, if he had actually…

“Oh, no!” she blurted, too horrified to be discreet. “It wasn’t a dream at all, was it? That horrid old letch! He went and got you, too! I told him not to. I told him…If he wasn’t dead, I’d kill him.”

Tristam whipped around and stared at her with horrified eyes. Steam boiled into the air. He was definitely flushed three shades beyond normal hue, and it wasn’t the espresso machine’s fault.

“Do you mean…?” he wheezed, dropping the towel.

“Yes!” Karo buried her face in her hands and began to laugh as a vent to her hysteria. A heart attack was imminent. It would finally happen: she would actually die of embarrassment.

“Karo!” Tristam recovered his voice, and it was horrified. “Dear girl, you aren’t crying, are you? I assure you, it was nothing! I am at your service completely. Really! I don’t know when I’ve had a better time.”

Karo lifted her head. “Liar. I don’t know anyone more fastidious than you. The whole thing had to have been repugnant.”

He was fastidious, but only an innocent could image that the experience was repugnant.

“No. No,
really
. Karo.” He sighed, bending to retrieve the towel and turn off the steam. “Are you laughing at me, you wretched girl?”

“No. I’m sorry. I’ve always laughed when I get hysterical. It’s no more helpful than crying, but less disconcerting to others.”

Tristam stared at her. His hectic color began to subside. “I wouldn’t say that. Inappropriate laughter is most disconcerting, let me assure you. And this is most highly inappropriate.”

“Is it?” Karo put her hands back over her eyes. She added to herself, “But, then, you didn’t think you were going crazy, seeing ghosts when none were there. Bad as this is, it’s still a relief. I’m not crazy after all.”

“It’s not bad, it’s…Uh, ghosts? Like…
ghosts
?” Tristam’s voice rose as he finally pro cessed her words.

“Yes, ghosts. You’ve heard of them? Popu lar in literature and lore? The Flying Dutchman. The Wild Hunt. Headless Horsemen. Banshees. Poltergeists, restless spirits…” she enumerated.

“But ghosts? Here? In this house?”

“No, in Burma! Of course here. Think it through. It wasn’t just a random dream we shared, some kind of ESP or hallucination because of the underdone potato. Couldn’t you tell it was Hugh? Who took you up there to the garret?”

“Er, a dream Vellacourt did rather suggest I go on up. Blighter interrupted a damn fine golf game, too,” Tristam added indignantly.

Karo strangled some more laughter and took a grip on her fraying nerves.

Tristam frowned. “You aren’t really suggesting…Karo! My dear, please say that you aren’t suggesting what you’re suggesting. Why can’t this just be a shared dream? Or a bit of the extra-sensory stuff? You can’t really mean that creature—”

“But I do, Tristam.” She lowered her hands, all laughter dying. “I mean just that. I’ve talked to Hugh three times now. I’ve felt him hanging around more than that. We have a real live—or dead—ghost here at Belle Ange. You even recognized who he was when you saw him in your dream.”

“But…do you mean that he was
actually there
last night?” Tristam was again horrified. “In the garret? The whole time!”

“I’m afraid so. He even said…” Karo trailed off.

“Said what?” Tristam’s tone was ominous.

“Well, he suggested that…that, um…Never mind. It isn’t important. The main thing is that we have a ghost here.”

“I wouldn’t say that that’s the
main
thing.”

Their two flushed faces stared at one another across the brass espresso engine as the steamed milk cooled between them.

“But it didn’t really happen. To our bodies,” Karo insisted. “It was an illusion.”

Silence.

“Alright. First things first. A ghost,” Tristam said at last, mercifully breaking the uncomfortable quiet. “Then, by all means, let us adjourn to the library and try to find out exactly what he wants. That was the first place you saw him, yes?”

“I know what he wants—and it isn’t his diary.” Karo stared bravely into her would-be love’s annoyed golden eyes. “He’s lonely and he wants tourists to play with.”

“To
play
with?”

Karo flushed at Tristam’s outraged tone. “Not that way! At least, I don’t
think…
I hope…Good heavens! Do you believe he might…? But he can’t do anything if they’re awake.”

Her sentences were disconnecting at crucial, embarrassing points, but Tristam easily translated her incoherence. “I don’t know, but we had better find out, hadn’t we? I’ve only skimmed the other family members’ journals. I think it may be time to look more closely at the family history.”

“I have a headache and my stomach is jittery,” Karo complained.

“Oh, sorry. I have just the thing.” Tristam turned toward the cupboard and got down a small glass and a couple of bottles. Karo didn’t see what he was mixing, but she wasn’t surprised when he put a frothy pink drink in front of her. “Try this. It’s a corpse-reviver. I had it off a publican in Dublin.”

“It doesn’t have yogurt, does it?” she asked. “I hate yogurt.”

“No.” He waited until she swallowed a mouthful before adding, “It’s an antacid and a splash of bourbon.”

“Ew! Tristam!” But she stopped there. The drink was ghastly, but her stomach was beginning to feel healthier.

“Better? Then let us go exploring.” He reached out and took her arm in a firm grip, propelling her toward the library. The touch was not exactly sweet, but Karo enjoyed it anyway.

“Um, Tristam?” she asked as he hustled her down the dark hall. “Did you mean what you just said—about never having had a better time? Because it was great in a really strange way, but that just isn’t my normal…”

“I should hope not,” he said, blushing. “Let’s drop it for now.”

“But—”

“Don’t tempt me, Karo Follett. I am trying to do what’s right, but you are skating on very thin ice. We have to think about this. More than that, I suspect that we’re going to…well, we’re going to have to
do
something about this.” He shook his head and changed the subject. “Let’s see. I’ve heard iron is supposed to keep ghosts in their graves. And you can pour salt on the thresholds and paint the doors blue to confuse the spirits,” he mumbled to himself. “And then there’s always exorcism.”

“Exorcism? But, Tristam! You’re not thinking clearly—”

“I’ve had a shock. I expect I’ll be more coherent in a moment or so.” He thrust open the library
door, ducked under the low arch and marched inside at a dignified crouch. “Damn doorway! I’ll just get on the horn to my old chum, Liam Mc-Donnel. I believe his family has a hereditary ghost. He’ll have some ideas about what to do with Vella-court.”

“But Tristam,” she tried again. “Why do we have to do anything to him?”

“What?” He stared at her.

“Look. Hugh does a lot more than just wander the corridors at night dragging clanking chains—”

“He certainly does! The cheeky bastard.”

“But he’s not some trigger of disaster. He’s not an omen, like a death coach or a baying hound or a banshee.”

“How do you know? I think he’s one of the Riders of the Apocalypse.”

He wasn’t taking this the way she’d expected. Now that it was out in the open and she knew she wasn’t insane, Karo was beginning to think quite differently. “Nonsense!” she expostulated. “Tristam, where’s your sense of avarice? You’re not thinking. We…we have a ghost. One that can
do
things.” She spaced out her words and enunciated clearly. “Like Mrs. Muir’s ghost. Like Sleepy Hollow.”

“Not exactly. Vellacourt is a reprobate Peeping Tom who would spend his time hanging about the ladies’ loo peeking up women’s skirts.”

“Well, I know that. But nobody else does. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, he’d just be a regular old Southern haunt.”

“But last night,” he objected.

“Last night he was just trying to be helpful. He thought we needed a romantic nudge. He won’t do it again.” It was more hope than promise, but Karo made her voice firm. And loud. With any luck, Hugh would heed her warning. If he didn’t, he might well end up spending eternity in the great spiritual void—assuming exorcism could truly work.

“Helpful! Romantic nudge!” Tristam tottered a few steps and collapsed into a chair. He laid a hand over his eyes. The gesture was pure theater, and Karo knew that everything was going to be fine after all. Tristam went on in a hollow voice: “I suppose that
you
could call it so. You were in control. Of course, you found my presence so disturbing that you set me on a perch and hooded me like some blasted bird of prey…!”

“Oh, stop it. You’re embarrassing me. And I—the
real
me—didn’t do it. Even if it had been, it wasn’t odious. Not like I thought it would be. It was…”

“Kinky.” Tristam’s fingers parted, and a golden eye looked her way. Karo stared at the ceiling and willed herself to fight off a blush, and he seemed to read her mind: “You
should
blush, my girl. That was very strange, and you obviously enjoyed it entirely too much.”

She defended herself. “I already have blushed—several times. But that is neither here nor there. We were discussing Vellacourt and the tourist trade. We can talk about the other business later.”

“Oh, can we? I think that we should talk about it now.”

“Absolutely not.” Karo was emphatic. “We have work to do—you have a deadline, remember—and I can’t concentrate when I’m…” She swallowed.

“And so?”

She huffed. “And so we can’t be having a—”

“Tête-à-tête on our sexual preferences and hang-ups? But why not?” he asked wistfully, even though her logic made perfect sense. His desire was overwhelming his practicality. He was thinking of everything he wanted from Karo and trying to forget Vellacourt’s involvement. “It’s bound to be more fun than anything in these blasted journals…”

She didn’t seem willing to play along.
“Because,”
she spluttered. “I already told you. I don’t do on-the-job romances. It’s a rule for me. Besides…there’s Hugh. I’m not an exhibitionist. Two’s company but three’s an orgy.”

Tristam stared at her flushed face and agitated hands as she avoided both his touch and gaze. “If I fired you, would you run away with me?”

“If you fire me, I’ll end up in debtors’ prison—or worse yet, back at home with my parents. Besides, you’ll never get all this work done without me.” Modesty was a virtue but not when overdone, and Karo couldn’t afford any false modesty. Neither could Tristam. Not if they were going to keep things safe and balanced.

“Perish the thought.” Her employer stood suddenly and squared his shoulders. “Very well, then. As our cup overfloweth with woe anyway, let’s get down to business. I just want you to keep in mind
that we don’t know Hugh can’t follow us when we leave. What if we are never rid of him?”