Donna Fletcher Read online

  “You are a sensible young lady, a most admirable trait.”

  “Actually,” Billie said softly with a quick glance about her to make certain no one heard her confession, “I am a bit stubborn-headed, to a fault, or so my uncle had often warned me.

  The vicar’s pause was purposeful and his response delivered slowly. “We all have faults, Billie. But rarely do we admit them.”

  Bessie’s return interrupted their congenial conversation. She extended an invitation to Billie to share the midday meal with a few local women anxious to make the acquaintance of the new lady of the manor. Billie gladly accepted the kind offer and bid the vicar a good day with a promise that they would speak soon.

  By the time Benny arrived at three to return her to the manor, Billie had decided that St. Clair was much to her liking. The people were pleasant and treated her not at all like a stranger, though she credited their acceptance of her to Bessie. She was certain the woman had regaled them with stories of her arrival last night and the courage she had possessed in traveling on to the manor.

  The day had proved fruitful after all. She had dealt fairly and firmly with Percy Hillard. She had met more of the townsfolk. And she had acquainted herself with a kindred spirit, Vicar John Bosworth.

  Her doubts and fears faded and with a lighter heart she returned to the manor.

  Pembrooke opened the front door for her and she entered with a flourish, discarding her scoop bonnet, jacket, gloves and reticule to a nearby chair.

  “We have work to do, Pembrooke,” she announced, her finger tapping her cheek as if a decision was close at hand.

  “I thought my lady would care to rest some before supper.”

  “Rest?” Billie asked oddly.

  Pembrooke seemed as confused as she. “A nap, m’lady. A chance to recoup your strength for the evening.”

  Billie laughed and shook her head. “I never nap and I have no need to recoup. I am accustomed to rising early, working through the day and enjoying more leisurely activities in the evening.”

  Pembrooke rolled his eyes to the heavens. “I will adapt to your strange customs . . . in time. What is it you wish of me now?”

  “I am in need of pen and paper. We are going to make a list.”

  “A list?” he repeated dubiously.

  “Yes. I need to make a list of the changes I can institute immediately and those that will take time.”

  “Changes?” Pembrooke’s voice rose an octave or two.

  Billie walked over to the dining salon and glanced over the spacious room before turning her attention back to Pembrooke. “Yes, changes. New drapes. New wallpaper. Fresh paint. I want to add some brightness and life to the manor. The colors are too grave and lifeless. The rooms need spirit added to them.”

  Pembrooke cleared his throat sharply. “Lord Radborne—”

  With a direct tone that brooked no opposition, Billie prevented him from finishing. “Is deceased. I am the owner of Radborne Manor now, as Mr. Hillard can certainly attest to. Would you be so kind as to bring me the paper and pen I requested?”

  Pembrooke stiffened, his nostrils flaring as he spoke. “As you wish, m’lady.”

  Billie spent the next few hours making detailed lists for the various rooms she felt needed immediate attention while jotting down notes for future reference.

  She hoped she hadn’t insulted Pembrooke by her remark, but she didn’t wish to live in the shadow of the previous owner. One way to make certain she wouldn’t was to change the manor to reflect her own tastes. It would take time for many to accept her ownership of the estate. She imagined it would be referred to as Radborne Manor for many years to come, and she had no objection to that as long as her status as owner was assured.

  It was, after all, the only home she possessed. She had no desire to return to Nantucket. Her future was here. She could feel it. The very spirit of the manor settled around her like a comforting quilt, warm and sheltering. This was now her home. She sensed its overpowering welcome. And she would allow no one to rob her of that deep feeling of security.

  Billie once again startled Pembrooke and Matilda when she insisted on joining them in the kitchen for supper. Refreshed and spirits high, Billie settled herself on the bench at the table.

  “It smells delicious,” she said, rubbing her hands together.

  “Fresh fish stew with potatoes, carrots and wild onions for added flavor. Baked herb bread, hot from the hearth and bread pudding soaked rich with brandy,” Matilda said, her smile spread wide.

  Billie licked her lips. “My mouth is watering.”

  Matilda hurried to arrange the table, setting it more elegantly since Billie was present. It just wouldn’t do to have the lady of the manor eating off anything but the best china, even if it was in the kitchen.

  Surprisingly Matilda and Pembrooke quite enjoyed the meal. Billie kept a steady patter of conversation going until, feeling she had disrupted the couple’s routine enough for one day, she forced a yawn, allowing for the perfect reason to excuse herself. She bid both a fond good night and retired to her room.

  A fire in the hearth welcomed her and candles cast a soft glow of light around the room. The yawn that surfaced as she undressed was unexpected and she realized her busy day had caught up with her. She looked forward to the comfort of the waiting bed, its pillows plumped and the counterpane drawn back.

  She changed for bed and brushed her hair vigorously. Her scalp tingled from the stiff bristles when she finished.

  A sudden gust of damp wind blew the window open and howled through the room, snuffing the candles out in an instant.

  Buried in the dark corner of the room, away from the friendly glow of the fire, she hastily fumbled toward the open window and reached up to secure the latch and shut out the chilling wind.

  She bumped her knee on the stool when she then turned to grope her way toward the chest. Candles lay there within easy reach and with a few more tentative steps and a bit of a stretch, she undoubtedly would find them. Her fingertips grazed the wax sticks and she righted them in their brass holders as she fumbled along, attempting to light them.

  A spark caught the wick and set it aflame. The simple light brought a sigh of relief and a smile to Billie’s lips. She stretched her hands out near the flame, seeking the pleasure of its warmth. And then she felt it.

  Unsure at first of the direction of the faint chill that crossed her back, she glanced at the window in confusion or confirmation, she wasn’t certain.

  The languid coolness drifted over her once more . . . from behind. Her wide-eyed expression remained fixed on the closed window in front of her. The window she herself had secured only moments before.

  The candles flickered wildly, threatening to extinguish and racing Billie’s heart to near exploding.

  She froze, listening to the heavy silence of the room. The fire’s hiss and crackles sounded like frantic whispered warnings, urging her to run . . . to escape!

  She was too frightened to shiver. She stood immobilized. Uncertain. Unprotected.

  A deep, caustic voice erupted in the silence. “Did you enjoy my bed, madam?”

  Chapter Six

  A mixture of fear and anger raced through Billie as she turned sharply, almost losing her balance and toppling over. She righted herself in an instant and glowered at Maximillian Radborne, ghost of Radborne Manor.

  He occupied his usual place by the mantel, impeccably groomed in the deepest midnight blue waistcoat and black breeches. A white silk shirt was inappropriately opened to the middle of his chest. A chest sculpted perfectly with thick muscles. And his face? Too handsome. Too arrogant. Too human . . . to even consider this man a ghost.

  With a will born of pure stubbornness she threw her question at him. “What in heaven’s name—” she paused, shook her head and corrected herself. “What the devil are you doing back here?”

  His smile teased and tempted, and Billie was instantly reminded of the blistering sermons Preacher Neelsom delivered back in Nantucket. B
eware the man who tempts the flesh with sinful smiles and promises.

  He moved away from the mantel, discarding his waistcoat to the nearby chair with the nonchalance of one who planned to stay. “Need I remind you that this is my room?”

  Billie stood firm though her knees knocked once or twice. “Need I remind you that you are dead?”

  “My untimely demise does not prohibit me from continuing my residence here.”

  His towering height and autocratic manner intimidated. He was without a doubt accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed without exception as his stern tone that expected immediate compliance implied.

  Billie wondered if Heaven and Hell had both refused him admittance. “If you are a ghost—”

  His deep voice boomed throughout the room, causing Billie to retreat two hasty steps back. “What the bloody hell do you mean if I am a ghost?”

  Billie planted her hands on her hips to hide their trembling. “You look to be of sound flesh and bone to me.”

  He advanced another few steps, his voice much lower and softer in volume yet so much more intimidating. “Does my flesh impress you?”

  Billie felt the flush of heat race to her cheeks. But she refused to let this ghost—-or man—frighten her away. “That would depend on if your flesh is real or merely spirit.”

  He gripped his shirt and spread it apart, taunting her with, “Touch me and discover for yourself.”

  She would have preferred that he was a misty shroud floating in the air than this apparent man of flesh and arrogant strength. Somehow the latter appeared more frightening. Or was she being foolish to think him real? Perhaps he was a stubborn ghost and when touched, her hand would meet no hard, resistant flesh, but instead slip right through the unearthly apparition.

  Shedding her fear, or at least tucking it away for the moment, her practical side surfaced and rushed her forward.

  She halted abruptly when her hand slapped against rock-hard flesh. A stunning warmth radiated up her arm and drifted down to her stomach, tumbling it until it protested with a faint whimper.

  He was no ghost. He was solid man and from the feel of him she harbored no doubt that his solid form extended to every part of his body.

  Maximillian arched a defiant brow. “You are bold.”

  Not a question—just a sure statement that was obviously meant to intimidate. Which it did, though Billie showed no signs of just how much it affected her. Her knees were doing a fine job of that, quivering beneath her night rail.

  “And you—” she said sharply and with a solid poke to his chest as if confirming for a second time that his firm flesh was real— “are no ghost.”

  Maximillian glanced down at her jabbing finger and then raised his head ever so slowly, as if warning her of imminent danger.

  Billie knew the wisdom of retreat when necessary. She took two steps back, but refused to take her stubborn gaze off his face.

  He compelled, commanded and conquered all in one look. This was no ordinary man. He was a man accustomed to power and obedience. He was a man no woman refused and a man that no man dared to challenge. But was he a ghost?

  “I take solid form when necessary,” he said with a touch of annoyance at having to explain his ghostly abilities.

  Billie gave thought to her mother’s ghost stories and with a brief tap of her finger to her lips and a squint of her eyes, she flung out her left arm, pointing her finger at the wall. “Walk through that wall.”

  Maximillian smiled, pushed Billie’s arm out of his way and collapsed on the bed, bracing himself against the fluff of pillows. “I don’t do parlor tricks.”

  Billie swung around to face him. “I want proof of your ghostly status. What about your clothing?” she asked, but allowed no time for an answer. “Ghosts remain wearing the articles of clothing they died in.”

  “A mere myth and I grow tired of your demands, madam. It is I who should demand an explanation as to your presence in my home.”

  “My home,” Billie corrected, wishing he would vacate her bed. He was sure to leave a sea-scented fragrance on her linens which would cause her a fretful sleep.

  “Explain yourself,” he ordered boldly.

  Billie acquiesced, wanting this matter clarified as quickly as possible. “My stepfather, your uncle Henry Radborne, passed on and left all his possessions to me. Therefore, Radborne Manor is legally mine.”

  A faint frown marred his powerful features. “That does present a predicament.”

  “In what way?”

  The frown easily turned to a teasing smile. “That by inheriting the manor you have inherited me.”

  Billie stared dumbfounded at him. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Immensely serious. This was my home before my death and will remain my home until I decide to move on.”

  Billie heard her mother’s warnings about ghosts that were unable to pass on due to deeds left undone or circumstances involving the death. “Why do you remain on this earthly plane, if you are a ghost?” she wondered.

  He shook his head and released a dramatic sigh. “A tragic and untimely death I have yet to accept.”

  “And what will it take for you to accept your fate?”

  Maximillian showered her body with a sinful gaze. “That, madam, has yet to be determined.”

  The fire’s crackle followed by a sharp pop alerted Billie to the reason his focus remained on her lower anatomy. The glow from the hearth silhouetted her body beneath her cotton night dress, giving the lord of the manor an improper view.

  Billie stepped to the right side of the bed where the shadows protectively engulfed her.

  Maximillian released a petulant sigh.

  “You must find another room to reside in.”

  “I think not.” His voice rang with authority.

  She attempted reason. “We cannot share the same bedroom.”

  “Why not? I am a ghost.”

  “Ghost or not, it isn’t proper.”

  “I was never one to conform to convention.”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  He laughed. “Tales still spin about me, do they?”

  “Embellished tales I’m sure.” Although Billie wondered. “Now would you kindly be something in death that you were not in life?”

  “Which is?”

  Billie squared her shoulders and announced firmly, “A gentleman who vacates a lady’s bedroom upon request.”

  His smile was barely tangible and his eyes glazed with a sensuous heat. “Ah, madam, but I was never requested to vacate a lady’s bedroom, but rather to stay and entertain.”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Of course. Aren’t all ghosts?”

  Billie threw her hands up. “This will never work, unless—”

  Maximillian raised a curious brow as he watched Billie pace in front of the bottom of the bed.

  She stopped abruptly, locked her arm around one of the bed’s tall posts and looked at him directly. “Unless we discover the reason you still remain earthbound, rectify it and thereby free you to finally rest in peace.”

  Maximillian was off the bed and stood beside her in an instant.

  Her head spun, his quick movement making her dizzy and uncertain if he had floated in midair across the bed to her or he had moved so rapidly that he appeared a blur. She shivered in doubt.

  His arm slipped around her waist, drawing her against his solid warmth. Their clothing established the barest of boundaries between them. She felt all of him from his muscled chest to his firm thighs and the hardness in between.

  How could this wall of sculpted flesh be a spirit? He was all too male to be less than human.

  His heated flesh chased the chills from her body and caused her skin to tingle in response. The strange tremors increased as his other arm found its way around her.

  Cocooned in his arms she raised her face to him.

  “You would help me seek peace?” His voice was whisper soft and his lips rested threateningly close to hers.
/>   She nodded, afraid to speak, afraid her lips would brush his and afraid she would find them all too inviting.

  He gave her a curious glance, his eyes questioning for one brief moment and then almost as if attuned to her thoughts he leaned down and caught her lips with his.

  It was a gentle capture, but a conquering one. And as quickly as he tasted her, he stopped.

  Her eyes flashed open and to her surprise she stood alone in the room, her arms wrapped securely around the bedpost. Her worried glance searched the room.

  When she was certain her trembling legs could support her, she hurried to the door and opened it just enough to search the hallway.

  The long, dark corridor was much too uninviting, and she shut and bolted the door. She leaned back against the polished wood and cast another glance around the room. The fire roared, her bed lay prepared for her and she was alone.

  She shook her head. Had she been dreaming? Had she gone to bed, fallen asleep and walked in her sleep?

  Again she shook her head. Absolutely not. He had been real. She had felt his flesh. His very hard and heated flesh. And his lips. Her fingers tentatively touched her lips. They were warm, full and aching with the want of him.

  She walked to the bed in a daze, extinguishing the few candles that remained lighted. The hearths’ flame kept the room bathed in a soft glow as Billie hurried beneath the counterpane.

  Her eyes gave the room one last, quick survey and with a heavy sigh she dropped back upon the pillows. Her nostrils instantly filled with the sharp scent of the sea.

  She groaned and rolled over, burying her head in the sea-scented pillow to make certain she wasn’t dreaming. Confirming her meeting with Maximillian had been real and so had the kiss, she angrily flung the pillow off the bed and flopped back around to lie on her back and ponder her encounter.

  “Sleep tight, Belinda.” The soft whisper was followed by a gentle laugh that drifted off into the darkness.

  Billie called out. “You’ll not share my bedroom, Maximillian Radborne.”

  Another laugh followed and dissipated overhead.

  Billie angrily pounded the mattress before drawing the covers over her head and shivering herself to sleep.