Donna Fletcher Read online

She wondered at Maximillian’s whereabouts. She had expected him to pop up when she was down in the caves, and she had thought for sure when the vicar had visited he would make his presence known to her. She was surprised to find herself upset by his absence.

  “Are you crazy?” she asked her image in the mirror, picking up her hairbrush and running it through her long hair. “You finally have a solitary, peaceful moment. Enjoy it.”

  She smiled at her own admonishing and applied more pressure to her brush. She winced and dropped the brush onto the silver vanity tray. Carefully, she eased her night rail off her shoulder.

  She winced again and looked in surprise at the large purple-and-black bruise on her shoulder. She recalled the metal latch and her determination to open the door, and then glanced again at the results.

  The candles’ flames suddenly flickered, a rush of sea air swept in the room and a deep voice demanded, “How the bloody hell did you get that bruise?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I earned it,” she said proudly, watching his reflection in the mirror as he approached. Dressed in black breeches, a white linen shirt, his dark hair free and wild around his shoulders and wearing a taut expression, he descended upon her.

  He dropped to one knee beside her, his hand going instantly to her bruised flesh.

  She cringed and he growled like an angry bear.

  He stood, walked over to the dresser that held her evening pitcher of water and poured some into the ceramic bowl. “Explain,” he demanded, dropping a cloth into the cold water.

  She sighed, too tired to fight him, but intelligent enough to skirt the truth. “I moved a heavy object.”

  He returned to her side, again dropping to one knee. Without a word he applied the cold cloth to her swollen shoulder.

  Her breath caught at first and then the cold seeped into the bruise and began to dull her pain. She stared at him, his look so intense and his face so finely sculpted that she thought for a moment he couldn’t be real. He had to be a dream.

  Her hand went to his face, needing to feel his flesh beneath her fingers. Her fingers tingled from his warmth and he made no move to distance himself from her. Realizing her action was improper, she dropped her hand and said, “Thank you that helps.”

  “Come,” he ordered, holding his hand out to her and offering no reason for his demand.

  She placed her hand in his, her fatigue reminding her she was in no condition to argue.

  He guided her to the bed and once she was seated on the edge he removed the cloth and walked over to the bowl of water. He dropped the cloth in and carried the bowl to the small stand beside the bed. He then proceeded once again to bathe her shoulder with the cold cloth.

  “Where were you all day?” she asked. The contrast of his warm shirt brushing her bare arm combined with the chill of the cloth sent gooseflesh rising along her skin.

  He sent her a look that quelled her curiosity and he asked, “What object did you attempt to move?”

  She chose to ignore him and ask another question. “Do you like the changes to the manor?”

  “No,” he snapped at her, soaking the cloth once again and reapplying it.

  “I suppose a person with your taste for drab colors wouldn’t care for the richness of the colors I chose.”

  “Answer my question,” he warned her in a soft tone.

  That this large, demanding man could be so tender in caring for her and that he saw to her needs as a husband should, unnerved her. “What que—”

  “You know very well the question.”

  And she knew very well she could not supply him with the answer. She considered that a partial answer might appease him.

  “A stuck latch,” she said indifferently. “Why don’t you like the colors?”

  He dropped the cloth to the bowl once again and studied her bruise with a gentle touch of his fingers. “The colors are not to my liking. My manor suited me just fine the way it was.”

  “Drab with not a speck of life to it.” She attempted to keep the tremor from her voice. His gentle exploration of her bruise made her insides quiver.

  “Defiant and full of strength,” he corrected, rinsing the cloth and returning it to her shoulder. He grabbed her face firmly in his hand. “Now you will tell me exactly what latch caused you so much difficulty.”

  “An old, stubborn one,” she said, pulling free of his grasp.

  He locked his eyes with hers. He would not be denied his answer. His intense gaze penetrated, searched and found the truth. His satisfaction produced a brief smile before he simply and calmly said, “You went to the caves.”

  She shrugged. Why deny it? “Yes, I did.”

  He stood and paced beside the bed, his hands fisted and his jaw tense. “I recall ordering you otherwise.”

  “I’m not one to take orders and I have a terribly curious nature.”

  “So I see,” he said, sitting back down opposite her. He removed the cloth and gently probed the darkened flesh. “Curiosity can hurt.”

  “You feel too alive to be a ghost,” she whispered, her skin heightened in awareness from his soothing touch. She was tired in mind as well as body and wanted answers of her own. “Why do you play this game with me?”

  “I have no choice.”

  “Are you a ghost?” she asked softly.

  “An unsettled spirit searching for peace.” His hand moved to stroke her silky neck.

  “You play with words, Max.”

  “You try my patience, Belinda.”

  “Will I have an answer?”

  “Only if you find it yourself.”

  She smiled, dropping her head forward as he massaged the back of her neck, relaxing her tense muscles. “A challenge. I love a challenge.”

  He worked his fingers around her throat and gently eased her head up. “The caves are dangerous. I want you to promise me you’ll stay away from them.”

  “You challenge me to uncover the truth and then tie my hands.” She shook her head. “I can’t promise you I won’t go to the caves again.”

  She possessed a strong will, one that matched his own and he admired her for it. “What am I to do with you, Billie?”

  Without thought and not knowing why, she answered, “Kiss me.”

  He smiled and with his hands firmly around her neck he drew her to him. “With pleasure, m’lady.”

  His lips claimed hers and she was swept up in his assault, losing all coherent thought. His tongue had speared her lips on contact and taken her with an erotic force that made her limbs quiver and sent a rush of sweetness between her legs.

  She felt the soft feather pillow behind her and realized he had eased her back on the bed and lay partially stretched across her.

  Perhaps she dreamed. Perhaps none of this was real. Perhaps she only willed this arrogant lord to appear in order to appease her own desires. Fantasies.

  If so, she intended at this moment to enjoy him. Her hands rode over his back, reveling in the taut muscles beneath his shirt. She arched her head back to accommodate the kisses he rained along the sensitive column of her throat, and when his hand cupped her breast and squeezed with a gentle forcefulness, she groaned.

  His touch softened with the gentling of his kiss. Soon she found his rhythmic caresses soothing her into a sleepy state. Her last thought of him before drifting off into a peaceful slumber was of him cradling her protectively and whispering, “Free me.”

  o0o

  Maximillian’s words echoed in her head most of the next day. The sun was bright and no rain clouds threatened and for this she was grateful. And she was most relieved that the ground was dry enough to walk to the village and the vicar’s house for tea.

  She needed thinking time, a chance for thoughts to take hold and work through. Back home in Nantucket she had used washing time, baking time and walking time for her thinking time. Here in St. Clair she was deprived of all that. Matilda baked, a woman from the village attended to the wash and walking had been impossible due to the rain.

>   Today, when her prayers that the sun would remain shining were answered, she almost ran from the manor.

  Pembrooke had rushed after her with her forgotten bonnet and reminded her to keep to the road and watch her step.

  The man worried like a father and it was quite nice to know he cared. Now she was on her way with her thoughts on last night and Max.

  She had always thought this ghost business was simple, thanks to her mother’s expert storytelling abilities. A ghost was a misty shroud that floated in the air, never spoke a word and frightened the devil out of people.

  Now having become acquainted with two suspected ghosts, one appeared harmless and the other . . .

  Frightened the devil out of her.

  How could she have asked him to kiss her last night?

  Because she wanted him to.

  Her own answer caused her to pause in her tracks. She had to be the most sinful woman. Only a short time before she had kissed Maximillian, she had kissed the vicar and enjoyed it.

  And her kiss with Max?

  Unforgettable.

  She had thought briefly this morning that she had dreamed the whole incident. But when she had groaned in embarrassment and buried her face in the pillow beside her, the scent of the sea invaded her nostrils, reminding her of his lingering presence.

  She even recalled to her dismay cuddling against him during the night. How long had he stayed?

  Billie shook the troubling thoughts from her head and marched on. She must settle this ghostly dilemma. It was her only hope of retaining her sanity.

  She remembered him whispering, Free me. Free him from what? His earthly reign? His charade? She needed to intensify her investigation. She hoped Bessie would still be at the vicar’s when she arrived. She would ask her for help in locating this character called Derry Jones.

  Her meeting with Oran would remain her secret. If she began hinting that there was another ghost at the manor people were certain to think her crazy.

  She refused to hurry her pace though she was anxious to talk with Bessie. It had been too long since she had taken a solitary walk and she found her own company delightful.

  Once at the manor gate she stopped and turned, staring at the manor in all its splendid gloom. Even with the bright sun beating down on it, the manor still retained a sense of unwelcome about it.

  Whatever could she do to change it? She paced in front of the open iron gate, considering possibilities.

  Color was a definite necessity. She would make certain the window treatments were bold in color. Flower beds rich in assorted colors would do well sprinkled across the lawn and bordering the entrance drive. Ornate stone containers bursting with a mixture of flowers and herbs crowding the manor steps would be a welcome greeting for visitors, as would scented wreaths of lavender decorating the front doors.

  Her decision made and noted, she walked through the gates, halted and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. “Ivy for the gates,” she told herself, certain the green clinging vine would definitely soften the harshness of the black iron that warned away rather than welcomed visitors.

  In no time and with a feeling of vigor, Billie was knocking at the vicar’s door.

  “Bessie, how wonderful,” she said when the plump woman opened the door. “Just the person I wanted to see.”

  “What can I do for you, m’lady?” She took Billie’s bonnet, cloak and gloves and directed her to the small parlor where the vicar usually took his afternoon tea.

  Billie seated herself on the ivory settee, adjusting her garnet dress at the wrists before patting the seat beside her. “Come join me for a moment, Bessie. I have a favor to ask.”

  Ready to please the new lady of the manor, Bessie obliged.

  “First I must tell you how pleased I am with the work you have done for me at the manor. The dining room chair covers are lovely. I can’t wait to use them.”

  “ ’Tis the colors, m’lady,” Bessie said with a bob of her head. “You have a special eye that blends colors perfectly.”

  “Thank you.” Billie accepted the compliment gracefully. She had always loved vibrant, rich colors that favored the best of nature. “But there is much work yet to be completed.”

  “And I’m pleased that you’ve chosen me to do the work. The money will surely help George and me.”

  “I’m glad,” Billie said sincerely, realizing that she had provided much-needed work for several villagers and would continue to do so with the various improvements she had planned for the manor. “I was hoping you could help me in another way.”

  Bessie nodded. “What can I do, my lady?”

  “I don’t know many people here or in the surrounding area. And I am curious to discover the whereabouts and information on one Derry Jones.”

  “The name has a familiar ring to it.”

  “I have been told he possesses a dubious nature.”

  “Then he could prove dangerous,” Bessie warned, sounding like a protective mother.

  “I only require the information,” Billie assured her.

  “What information?” John asked, entering the room.

  Bessie immediately vacated her seat. “I’ll see to the tea.” She sent Billie a conspiratorial wink before departing.

  Billie smiled at Bessie’s clear message and at John as he joined her on the settee. “My search to solve the mystery of Radborne Manor continues.”

  He took her hand and kissed her cheek. “Do be careful.”

  She patted his hand. “I’m always careful.”

  The familiar nudge of his glasses reminded Billie he was nervous, but surprisingly he addressed his concerns.

  “You sometimes take on more than you should.”

  “Never more than I can handle,” she assured him.

  A further adjustment of his glasses and a tug of his gray waistcoat over his slightly rounded belly had him once again speaking his concerns. “You should have a man’s assistance. A woman should not have to face difficulties alone.”

  “Where I come from women were more often than not on their own. Their men took to the sea and they had no choice but to be independent.”

  “It is different here, Billie,” he said. “Especially being the lady of a manor.”

  Billie held up her hand in defense. “I am on my own, John. There is no changing that.”

  “Change is always possible,” he said softly and stood. “Come walk with me in the garden. It is such a beautiful day.”

  Bessie appeared at the door with the tea tray.

  “Please keep it hot, Bessie. Billie and I are going to take a spot of fresh air.” He held out his hand to Billie.

  “It will still be piping hot on your return,” Bessie assured him and took her leave.

  Billie took his hand and shortly she was draped in her cloak, he in his jacket and off they walked along the paths of the carefully tended garden that lay dormant in winter sleep.

  The sun was bright and radiated long-forgotten warmth. Spring was almost upon them and Billie looked forward to it.

  “Look,” she cried and left his side to drop down along the shell path. “A crocus breaks through.”

  John joined her, kneeling beside her and brushing winter’s debris away from the tiny bud that graced the path’s border. “Billie,” he said softly as he finished, dusting dirt from his hands. “I-I find th-that I ha-have feelings for y-you.”

  Billie looked at him. His glasses sat perched correctly on the bridge of his nose, his eyes a blur from the thick lenses. Her heart flip-flopped. His sincerity was tangible. He actually cared for her. Had feelings. Love? Was it possible?

  The image of Maximillian raced before her eyes, the power of his lips, the strength of his embrace, his demanding nature.

  “Give me a chance,” John said, interrupting her thoughts. He stood, pulling her up along with him. “I care for you, Billie.”

  She shivered, though not from the chill breeze, but from the thought that she could have a normal life with John. He would treat her well,
be a good father and a loving companion.

  “You’re cold. We’ll return,” he said, folding her arm over his and leading her back to the house before she could protest.

  He summoned Bessie, directing her to bring the tea and a blanket. He soon had her lap and legs tucked snugly with a wool blanket and he handed her a hot cup of mint tea with a shortbread biscuit balanced on the saucer’s edge.

  “You’re too kind, John,” she said and relaxed in the settee, enjoying his attention.

  “I care,” he reiterated and sat back himself with his teacup. “Tell me of the ghost. Any more visits?”

  She didn’t want to be reminded of Maximillian now. He interfered far too often in her life and at the moment she found pleasure in being with John.

  But she realized she couldn’t lie to him, so she spoke the truth. “He visits me often.”

  John listened.

  She found him easy to confide in so her words flowed freely. “He becomes familiar with me at times.”

  “How so?”

  “He kisses me.” She couldn’t admit that he touched her intimately. It wasn’t proper.

  John spoke candidly. “Have you given thought to what I once suggested, that he is but a dream?”

  Billie sipped her tea and slowly returned the delicate china cup to the saucer on her lap. “I have considered it.”

  “Is he perhaps what you desire in a man?”

  His question troubled her. What type of man was she attracted to? John was tender, understanding and of common features. Max was stubborn, overbearing and terribly handsome. Where John’s touch was tame, Maximillian’s touch denoted courage, protection and virility. Characteristics Billie had found seductive.

  Yet she found comfort and safety when in John’ presence. Combined they would make the perfect man.

  John waited patiently for a response or perhaps he required none. Did he just wish to set her mind to thinking?

  She decided to answer him. “I’m not certain what I desire. I know not if Maximillian is a dream or a true ghost or perhaps he is of flesh and blood and but plays a game. I only know I must solve the mystery or the manor will never truly be mine.”

  “I will assist you in any way possible.”