Donna Fletcher Read online

  She chose not to disagree, planning to work out this strange turn of events on her own.

  “Did you see the person who ran into you?”

  “No, I can’t even be sure of his size. He appeared bent over as he ran toward me and battered me like a ram. It all happened so fast I didn’t have time to think or react. What troubles me most is that I don’t understand what he was searching for.”

  “Coins probably.”

  “I don’t think so, Max. My letters to family and friends lay opened and scattered across the desk as if read and discarded in haste.”

  Maximillian didn’t care for what he heard and his deep voice reflected his concern. “The thief seeks knowledge about you.”

  A yawn attacked her and she shrugged. “I’ve made no secret of my background, and most in the village know my origins.”

  Max’s expression grew dark, his eyes narrowing. “Does anyone know of your family?”

  Sadly, she answered him. “I have no family. They’re all gone. I’m alone.”

  “An aunt? Uncle?”

  “No one. I either had to journey here to St. Clair and claim my inheritance or marry a man I could not abide. My choices were limited, though not difficult. I realized I could not commit myself to a man I did not love. And I often dreamed of traveling to distant lands, so my decision was an easy one. I chose to come to St. Clair.”

  “You have me.”

  Billie wasn’t certain she had heard him correctly. “I have you?”

  “Me,” he reiterated softly.

  She smiled without it hurting her head. “I never imagined a friendly ghost.”

  “Friendly isn’t exactly how I would describe our relationship.” He slipped his hand over hers linking their fingers.

  “Describe our relationship,” she urged with a teasing smile.

  He didn’t hesitate. “Unusual.”

  She laughed. “We finally agree.”

  His fingers tightened around hers. “I want you to be careful.”

  “I’m alw—”

  He brought their clenched fingers up to her mouth to silence her words. “I’m serious about this. If that person did not find what he was looking for this evening, he may return. If he did find what he was looking for . . .” He paused and skimmed her lips with their entwined fingers. “Then you may be in danger.”

  “You’re confusing me,” she said and shook her head, forgetting the bump. She winced when the pain struck.

  She didn’t notice that his jaw clenched and his free hand fisted at his side. “Enough about this evening. Tell me about Nantucket.”

  “You’d like it,” she said, relaxing against the mound of pillows and still clinging to his hand that he rested in her lap.

  They spent an hour talking of Nantucket and St. Clair, comparing the towns’ similarities and differences. They smiled, laughed and conversed easily until Billie could no longer keep her eyes open and drifted off to sleep.

  Maximillian left her side only for a moment, stoking the fire to make certain the room remained comfortably warm. He returned to the bed, easing himself down alongside her, not wanting to disturb her, yet not wanting to leave her alone.

  The thought that she had no one, that she had traversed an ocean alone to come to a foreign country and begin a new life made him admire and respect her all the more. She could have planted herself in a loveless marriage like many women did when finding themselves on their own. But instead she saw an opportunity for herself with her stepfather’s inheritance and although it meant giving up all she had known and was familiar with, she took the chance.

  She was strong, resilient and beautiful.

  He reached out and ran the back of his hand across her cheek. Her skin was silky soft, the color of rich cream and tasted just as sweet. Her eyes, hidden in contented slumber, were of the deepest brown like the fresh earth when dark and ripe and ready for planting. And her hair was a contrast in color ranging from a light, faint brown to the richest blond.

  Her body was an area he had best not dwell; such intimate thoughts would do him no good.

  Why? Why had she entered his life now?

  He shook his head at his disgruntled thought and tapped her cheek with his finger, waiting for her protesting groan. He stopped as soon as she responded. He didn’t want her slipping into an eternal slumber. She was too full of life to allow it to carelessly slip away.

  He had been careless and now had to face the results. He had lost so much and thought to reclaim it so easily. He had not judged his situation wisely and had paid dearly.

  He thought to chase her away, assure her safety, but now . . .

  He selfishly wanted her with him.

  She stirred, sighing his name.

  He comforted her with a soothing caress to her neck and soft words of reassurance that he would not leave her side. She settled once again.

  How had she become so important to him? So fast? When had he realized he ached to touch her every moment he was with her? When did he realize it was only a matter of time before they became intimate? And when did he begin to worry about the consequences of bringing his restless spirit to rest?

  She turned and slumped down into the pillows. Her awkward position would only cause her neck discomfort in the morning. He reached over her and cupped her head in his hand, avoiding the area around the bump. He tossed several pillows aside so she could rest her head more comfortably on one pillow rather than a mound.

  He told himself she no longer needed him but, unconvinced by his own words, he remained, stretched out beside her on the bed. He would watch over her, nudging her occasionally to make certain that only slumber had claimed her.

  Billie cuddled up against him in the middle of the night burying her face against his linen shirt.

  When morning finally peeked through the windowpanes, the only proof that Maximillian had ever been there was the scent of the sea on the pillow that Billie hugged closely to her.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two days later rain returned to St. Clair. Billie watched it run against the windowpane in the kitchen. She was busy cutting vegetables for the fish chowder she was cooking, happy to have finally found some time to prepare a favorite dish of hers.

  Matilda and Pembrooke had gone to the village; actually Matilda had all but dragged her husband out of the house. He, not his wife, had strongly voiced his opinion about the lady of the manor working in the kitchen like a common cook.

  His wife didn’t share his rigid views, having spent time chatting with Billie and learning about her life in Nantucket. The poor girl was accustomed to doing for herself, not born to the pampered life of the gentry. She befriended who she pleased and had earned the respect of more villagers than any lady Matilda had ever known.

  Pembrooke even attempted to use the excuse that Billie still required attention, the bump on her head not being completely healed. But with two days past since the incident and the bump on her head nearly gone, his objection was dismissed as nonsense by a stern Matilda and out the door and into the carriage the couple went.

  Billie had eagerly slipped into the gray wool dress she had worn for chore time in Nantucket and had borrowed one of Matilda’s large white bib aprons. She tied it twice around her waist and set to work cooking.

  The broth, heavily seasoned with herbs and spices, was stewing in the iron kettle over the open flame while her hands busily sliced potatoes. She felt like her old self, having rested the past two days. Now it was time to return to her daily routine and to her ghostly investigation.

  The front door’s lion knocker echoed through the manor and had Billie hastily wiping her hands on her apron and rushing to see who visited.

  “Claudia,” Billie said with a smile, and hugged the woman when she entered.

  “You are the most unconventional lady,” Claudia said, but returned her hug with enthusiasm.

  Billie took her cloak, gloves and bonnet, depositing them in the receiving parlor on a chair.

  “Join me in the kit
chen,” Billie said and led a startled Claudia to the room that was filled with such rich scents that it made one’s mouth water.

  “It smells delicious,” Claudia said with an unladylike sniff of the air. “Whatever are you cooking?”

  Billie put the kettle on and arranged teacups on the trestle table. “Please sit,” she offered and answered, “Fresh fish chowder.”

  Claudia watched in amazement as Billie hurried around the room, collecting all the paraphernalia that normally sat in readiness on a serving tray. She arranged the items in their proper serving places on the table and then added a plate she had artfully grouped with slices of fruit bread.

  She attended to the boiling tea, brewing the leaves like a woman long familiar with the process and sat the teapot on the table to steep.

  “I need to finish cutting the potatoes so they finish cooking with the other vegetables. Do you mind if I work while we visit?”

  Claudia, completely enthralled by Billie’s charming and unpretentious manner, simply nodded.

  “I’m so glad you stopped by. In Nantucket friends would often drop in for a chat.”

  “When John told me of your accident I wanted to come right over, but he insisted you needed rest. He just informed me today that you were well enough to have visitors.”

  “I feel much better.” She dropped the chunks of potatoes into the pot, stirring the chowder. With a quick wash of her hands in the ceramic basin, she hung her apron on the peg on the wall by the door and eagerly joined Claudia.

  They enjoyed the tea and fruit bread and chatted like neighbors sharing an afternoon visit.

  “I talked with Bessie about finding out the whereabouts of a man named Derry Jones who may have information concerning Oran’s death.”

  Claudia’s eyes rounded as wide as large coins. “Oran’s death? I thought you were curious in regards to Maximillian?”

  “Don’t you find it strange that the son died only a short time after the father was murdered?”

  “It was an accident caused by a wreck, something not unusual around here.”

  “But no body was found?”

  Claudia offered a reasonable explanation. “It washed out to sea.”

  “Have most drowning victims washed out to sea?” Billie inquired.

  Claudia’s mouth opened and closed so fast it was as if she bit back her retort. She cast a pondering glance at Billie and then spoke. “Come to think of it, most of the bodies wash up along shore here or along one of the other villages’ shores.”

  Billie mentally filed that bit of important information away for future reference.

  “What are you suggesting?”

  Billie shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s too early to piece together such fragmented facts. I need to learn more about Oran’s murder and the events that followed. But something doesn’t seem right. And I won’t feel properly settled here until I can lay to rest this uneasiness that gnaws at me.”

  She wished she could discuss seeing more than one ghost with Claudia, but since the woman was the self-proclaimed busybody of the village she knew that wasn’t a wise choice. Hearing that the new lady of the manor talked with ghosts would challenge her credibility, not to mention her sanity.

  Claudia patted her hand. “I’ll do what I can, Billie, but you must promise me that you will be careful in your search. You never know what unsavory characters you may come up against.”

  Ghosts. If she could face ghosts, she could face anything.

  “I promise I’ll be careful,” she assured her and then asked, “Were the caves below used by smugglers?”

  Claudia frowned. “I’m afraid so.”

  “With Oran Radborne’s knowledge?”

  Claudia nodded, her frown deepening. “He only dealt with insignificant smugglers, no one who the authorities were concerned with. I wouldn’t be surprised if the magistrate wasn’t involved as well, accepting a few bottles of foreign brandy and cigars as payment to ignore the illegal activity in the caves.”

  “What happened?” she asked, recalling Oran was limited in the information he could supply.

  “I don’t know.” She shook her head, her eyes misting with tears. “He was found shot to death in the caves. He was such a dear man, thoughtful and kind.” She laughed sadly. “Arrogant and demanding as well. He expected obedience as all lords do.”

  Billie at first thought, like father like son, but after becoming more familiar with her new home, she realized just how important heritage and titles were. A lord of a manor demanded a certain amount of respect, and though it appeared tyrannical to her since she came from a country where nobility was nonexistent, here it held great importance.

  She also realized that Claudia had loved Oran Radborne. It was written in the sadness that claimed her eyes and the tremble in her lips.

  “Oran loved his son dearly. He had raised him mostly on his own, his wife having been sickly and succumbing to her illness when Maximilian turned fifteen. He wanted so much to see his son marry and have a family. He was in the process of securing a good marriage contract for him when he died.”

  “Marriage contract?”

  Claudia took a sip of her tea before she answered. “Titled families arrange marriages for their sons and daughters. One cannot marry below their station and then, of course, there’s the dowry a wife brings to the marriage. Many a family has tripled their wealth and holdings by arranging a lucrative marriage.”

  “What about love?” Billie asked, stunned.

  Claudia cast a wistful glance at Billie. “Love is something a woman dreams about in her youth, discovers that it is far beyond her grasp as she matures and when she grows old finally realizes that she shouldn’t have settled for anything less.”

  “I won’t settle for less,” Billie said with a firm resolve that turned Claudia’s frown to a smile.

  “I’ll remind you often of that claim.” She finished her tea and promised to contact a few people who could provide information concerning recent smuggling activities in the area before she took her leave, thanking Billie for a most delightful visit.

  Billie returned to the kitchen after seeing Claudia to the door. Her entrance was brought to an abrupt halt when she spied Oran standing over her bubbling fish chowder, sniffing at it.

  “Smells simply delicious, my dear, I only wish I had retained my earthly appetite in spirit form.”

  Startled that he stood there, it took Billie a few moments to find her voice. “You and your son have drastically altered my opinion of ghosts.”

  “We’re not the conventional type of ghosts. The misty shroud, rattling chains, moaning and groaning don’t appeal to me. After all, I am a lord and must maintain my dignity.”

  Billie had to laugh—she couldn’t help it. A ghostly lord that felt himself a class above the regular ghost. She curtsied politely. “Do sit down, my lord, and visit.”

  Oran held his head high and gave his deep blue waistcoat a tug. He sent her a rakish smile that reminded her of Maximillian’s smile. “I would be delighted to.”

  He sat in the same spot Claudia had vacated and glanced ruefully at her empty cup. “I miss her.” And before Billie could tell him that Claudia missed him as well, he shifted the topic. “You promised to be careful.”

  Her hand instantly went to the back of her head, understanding he referred to her accident. “A thief—”

  He interrupted. “Was anything stolen?”

  She recalled her conversation with Max. Had the thief discovered what he came for or had his search been interrupted? “I’m not certain.”

  “You must consider all the possibilities,” Oran warned. “Don’t overlook anything, even if it appears insignificant.”

  Billie intended to get some answers of her own from Oran. She joined him at the table. “Why were you involved with the smugglers?”

  “A harmless group, hardly worthy of the title smugglers. They dealt in trivial trade.”

  Billie shook her head in disbelief. “One of those smugglers shot y�
��”

  She halted when he furrowed his brow, studied him a moment and calmly spoke. “It wasn’t one of your smugglers that shot you, was it?”

  He didn’t confirm her suspicions. “Look where you least expect to find the answers.”

  “From Maximillian,” she said with a teasing smile.

  “Maximillian has much to offer you, if you but listen.”

  “Listen to him demand and dictate.”

  “He’s a lord,” Oran reminded.

  Billie corrected him as she so often corrected Max. “A deceased lord.”

  “Things aren’t always what they seem.”

  Billie attacked. “Aha, he isn’t a ghost is he? He just plays at one. But for what purpose?”

  Oran stood, shaking his head. “You must solve this puzzle on your own. I have said too much already.”

  “I will find out, you know,” she challenged.

  “You will solve the puzzle, I have no doubt. But when you finish, then what? Perhaps you will find yourself with a piece that fits in more than one way.”

  “One piece that fits two?” she asked, attempting to understand.

  His expression was overly cheerful. “Or two that fit one.”

  A knock at the front door prevented any further discussion.

  Oran stood. “I will visit with you again.”

  “Perhaps you could knock next time,” Billie teased.

  “A ghost never announces his arrival, my dear, at least not a lordly ghost.”

  Billie laughed and headed for the door. “Next time we visit I will have solved some of the puzzle.” She turned back around at the kitchen door. Oran was gone. She wasn’t surprised.

  As she hurried to the front door, his voice, filled with fatherly concern, trailed after her. “Be careful.”

  “I will. I will,” she repeated, opening the door.

  John stood there, potted crocuses clutched in his hand. “You will what?”

  “Flowers for me?” she asked, purposely avoiding his question while urging him in with a wave of her hand and anxiously closing the door behind him.

  He offered them to her. “I wanted to bring you a bit of spring.”