by Mia Vincy
“No,” she told the darkness. “There are no ghosts here.”
“There are ghosts everywhere.”
No mistaking it this time. She had not imagined that whisper, hoarse and masculine. She willed herself to turn, but her legs would not move.
“Do you see them?” the whisper added.
“My lord?” Her voice was quavering, high and hopeful.
Silence. No: not silence. Breathing. Ghosts did not breathe. If they had to exist—and she would really rather they didn’t—they most certainly were not allowed to breathe.
“Luxborough?”
“So many ghosts.”
Forcing her frozen legs into action, Thea turned. And there was Lord Luxborough, barefoot, half dressed, his shirt and breeches white, his hair tousled, his face shadowed. He carried no light, and swayed like a young tree in the wind. She inched closer, holding up the candle to examine his features. His expression was distant, as if he were in a trance.
“My lord?”
He did not respond, his eyes fixed on some distant point in the darkness.
“Lord Luxborough?”
Still nothing.
“Rafe?” she ventured.
Slowly, his eyes tracked to meet hers. He blinked at her, with long, slow blinks.
“Countess,” he said.
“Are you…unwell?”
“You are not a ghost.”
“No.”
“Not yet, anyway.”
“Um.”
Perhaps he was drunk. She drew closer to surreptitiously smell his breath, but the unfamiliar spicy-sweet tang about him was unlike any liquor in her limited experience. She recalled his curious behavior in the garden the night before; perhaps he had been drunk then too.
“Katharine is a ghost,” he said dreamily. “And John is a ghost. And Philip is a ghost. And Father is a ghost. And Katharine is a ghost.”
If not drunk, then definitely some kind of intoxicated. But his manner was so dreamy, and his presence so solid, that Thea’s anxiety faded, and the notion of terrified messages in books seemed ludicrous.
“Katharine,” she repeated. “Can you see her?”
“She’s not here.” He gestured at the portraits with a clumsy wave unlike his usual assured grace. “All of the ghosts.”
So that’s what he was talking about: the portraits. Which did not include portraits of either him or his late wife.
“You’re not here either,” she pointed out.
“Then where am I?” A tremor of fear entered his voice, and he turned in a circle, as slowly as if he were moving through honey. “Where am I? Where am I?”
“You’re here.” Thea caught his hand to stop him from turning. She wondered if she ought to run for help. “I’m here and you’re here.”
“I’m here.” He sighed, calmed, and studied her. “And you’re here.”
Flipping his hand, he tangled his warm fingers with hers. Then he smiled, and even in the dim light it was an unexpectedly sweet smile for that scarred, surly face.
“You wanted to touch the flower,” he reminisced, his fingers playing over hers. “Then I frightened you.”
“Yes. You were rather beastly.”
His brows drew together. His eyes narrowed. Thea tugged at her hand, but he held it fast.
Then he bared his teeth and made a sound. Like…a squeak. Another squeak, and another. It became a series of squeaks, also known as…a giggle.
The Earl of Luxborough was giggling.
“Beastly,” he repeated, still giggling, his face scrunched up and his big shoulders shaking. “I was beastly.”
Thea found herself laughing too, more from relief than amusement, until his giggles subsided with a deep sigh.
“Come along, Countess.” His voice sounded normal now, if a little lethargic. “Come and meet the family.”
He led her to a portrait and she held up the candle to see a man in a big white wig and ornate clothes.
“This was my father.” He led her to another, similar portrait. “And here is my brother John. He didn’t like her, but he gave us a home anyway.”
“Her? Do you mean Katharine? My lord?”
He didn’t answer, his eyes fixed on his brother’s portrait.
“Luxborough?”
Nothing.
“Rafe?”
Sluggishly, he turned his head. The distant dreaminess had returned. “I turned her into a ghost. She was dead when she was alive.”
“What happened to Katharine?”
“I couldn’t help her. You saw her books,” he added in a near whisper. “Her secret messages. She was scared. So very, very scared.”
“What was she scared of?”
“Me.”
Abruptly, he released her hand and wandered away. The cool air collided with the warmth he had left behind. Nothing made sense. Of course, he was intoxicated. Then she remembered the bishop, who clearly cared about him, who had said Luxborough had done nothing wrong, but blamed himself anyway.
Somehow, Thea could not be frightened.
“Lord Luxborough? Rafe?” She darted around in front of him. “Where is your portrait? You are the earl now. Your face should be here.”
“No one wants to see my face.”
“I like your face. It tells your story. How impressed your children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren will be, telling tales about old Rafe, who survived an attack by a giant cat.”
“Not going to have children, so no grandchildren. No great-grandchildren. Et cetera.”
“But you said you needed to marry to get heirs.”
“I have heirs. I have Christopher. He’s my other brother. I have another other brother too. Half my brothers are dead. Half my brothers are alive. I’m half dead and half alive. Where was I?”
“Christopher. Heirs.”
“Christopher has lots of heirs. His wife produces them in litters, like a rabbit.”
He resumed his walk, toward the gloomy passage leading to his rooms. But his gait was unsteady and he bumped into the doorjamb. He stopped short and frowned at it.
“My lord?”
He poked the doorjamb.
“Luxborough?”
No response.
“Rafe?”
Slowly, he turned his head.
“Do you need help?” she said. “Shall I take you to your room?”
“Countess. It’s you.”
“That’s right.”
“I like you, Countess. You talk too much but I like you anyway.”
“Oh. Good. Are you drunk?”
“Bhang,” he said.
“Bang?” she repeated.
“Bhang,” he agreed.
“Like a gun? Bang?”
“Like a gun.” He giggled. “Bang bang.”
“You’re giggling.”
“I am not.”
“I’ll help you back to your rooms.”
Again, she took his big hand in hers. He lifted her hand and placed a light kiss on her knuckles.
“Bang,” he whispered.
Then, still holding her hand, he led the way through the darkness to his well-lit rooms.
In his rooms, Luxborough released her and made for a jug of water. He poured himself a glass and drank.
Thea put down her candle and waited, looking about with interest and worrying if she had made a mistake in coming here.
“Luxborough?”
He didn’t answer.
“Rafe?”
“Hmm?”
“I’ll go now. If you’re all right. Should I fetch someone?”
He held up a hand, indicating she should wait. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and when he opened them again, his gaze seemed clearer.
“Don’t fear me. I’m not mad. I’ll not hurt you. I just want to know how to make it better.” His voice began to drift again as he wandered back to her. “Perhaps I cannot save any lives, perhaps everything I try is useless, but maybe it’s enough to take the pain away, if only for a while.”
; He paused to study her, and then he lifted his arms and cradled her face, those big hands warming her cheeks and jaw. She wondered if she should be frightened, but instead a sense of comfort unfurled over her like a blanket. Those hands were tender, as were his eyes as they searched hers, tired and gentle and dazed. She felt dazed too, by his touch, by his closeness. By the strange, sweet intimacy of this strange midnight moment. She felt herself sway toward him.
“Because it hurts, sometimes, and it’s nice to take away the pain,” he murmured. “Do you ever hurt, Countess?”
“Sometimes,” she whispered, mesmerized.
“Poor Countess.”
He released her face and she missed his touch immediately, but before she could react, he slid his arms around her and enfolded her against him, exactly as she had longed for him to do. He might be mad or dangerous or drunk or anything, but she didn’t care. He was holding her, and she wanted nothing else.
And though Thea knew she should not, she circled her arms around his waist and relaxed into him, her eyes closed, her cheek pressed to his warm, solid chest. There was his heart, beating in slow, steady thuds.
Suddenly, she wanted to weep. Three lonely years’ worth of tears, three exhausting years of putting on a brave face, of not letting herself cry because that would be giving in and letting them win, those tears welled up inside her. How pathetic she was, to take comfort from a man like this, when he was intoxicated and she was lying about her very name.
But she did not pull away. Instead, she spread her hands over his back, feeling the firm muscles through the linen of his shirt. He rested his cheek on her hair, and his arms engulfed her, strong and sure. Soon, her urge to weep melted, and peacefulness spread through her, like he was warming her from the inside. Perhaps she was intoxicated too.
His body became heavier: He was falling asleep. Reluctantly, Thea dropped her arms and pulled away. He released her and stumbled backward. When he ran his hands through his hair, she regretted not doing that herself. Her sole opportunity to experience the feel of those tousled curls and she had missed it.
“Time for bed,” she said softly.
“Bed.” He wandered to the connecting door. “Join me. Poor Countess. So lively and lovely. Doesn’t like to dine alone. Doesn’t like to sleep alone.”
Chuckling, he disappeared into the darkness of his bedroom.
Thea took her candle to the doorway. In the dim light, she watched as he climbed into his bed and under the covers, and apparently fell asleep.
Already she was forgotten, but he was not. She felt him still, his arms encircling her body, that peacefulness in her heart.
She would not believe him to have done ill. But her curiosity burned brighter than ever. She would have to leave soon, tomorrow or the next day, and if she didn’t learn his secrets now, she would never know.
Chapter 14
The next afternoon, Thea wrapped a dark-green cloak over her gown and announced to no one in particular that she was taking a walk. Her walk took her along the stream and, when she was sure no one was looking, she raised the cloak’s hood over her head and darted across the footbridge into the Forbidden Woods.
On the peaceful, sun-dappled path, she kept to the tree line, ready to hide if anyone came. By “anyone,” she meant Luxborough. Or Rafe, as she thought of him now, as that was the only name he had answered in the night.
But she encountered no one on the path, which ended abruptly, spilling her into a huge, grassy clearing. There, resplendent in the sunshine, stood a church-like edifice of white iron and glass, behind which lay the green silhouettes of plants. A stone cottage sat deeper into the clearing, and several more paths led into the surrounding trees.
A greenhouse. Well. Nothing surprising or sinister about that.
Fortuitously, the place was deserted. No workers, no earl. With another furtive glance, Thea ran across the clearing to the greenhouse and edged along the glass walls until she came to a door. As she was about to ease it open, a movement made her freeze. The silhouette of a large man. Luxborough! Heart pounding, Thea ducked and, still hunched over, raced away from the greenhouse to the stone cottage, where she flattened herself against the wall. When no angry earl appeared to scold her, she assessed her options. There was nothing interesting here, so she needed to return to the house without him seeing her. Nearby was the entrance to another narrow path leading into the trees, and she dashed toward it, hoping it led back, sooner or later, to the house.
Where it led, however, was to another clearing, no bigger than a parlor, with two more paths leading away. It took Thea several ragged, relieved breaths until she was calm enough to notice what lay at the center of the clearing.
A grave.
The grass around the gray stone was carefully tended. A morning glory vine clambered exuberantly over the tomb and headstone, pink blooms winking among its glossy green leaves. A pair of little blue birds perched on the headstone, chattering at each other, before flying off to their next appointment.
Thea crouched beside the grave and she knew, even before she tenderly parted the vines covering the headstone, whose name she would see.
Katharine Jane Landcross.
She traced the engraved letters and then the dates: Katharine had been twenty-five years old when she died, nine years earlier. The only other words were from the Bible: “Come unto Me and I will give you rest.”
“What is your story?” she whispered. “What happened, Katharine?”
A sound: She spun and stood, shrinking into her cloak. Luxborough, coatless and hatless, was heading right for her, striding along one of the other paths so fast his hair bounced and his shirtsleeves billowed. His face… Oh, how awful and evident was the displeasure on his face.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered, though she knew he could not hear.
He had given her one rule—not to come into the woods—and she had broken it. The story of his late wife still haunted him, and she had barged right in. He was clearly upset and he had every right to be, and oh, she could not bear it! Before she even knew what she was doing, Thea had whirled about and was running back down the path she had come.
What a coward she was, to run like this! The right thing would be to face his anger and disappointment, but those two things had always made her weak, and now she was embarrassed and guilty too, and oh, she could not face him. So run she would, and keep on running. Run back to the house, where she would run to Gilbert and run away. Helen would surely be married, and Luxborough would not be sorry to see her go.
But back in the clearing, a glimpse of what she thought was another person had her shoving open the door to the stone cottage and dashing inside to hide. She shut the door and waited, struggling to listen over the rushing of her blood: nothing. Once her eyes had adjusted to the gloom and her lungs had recovered from her exertion, she turned.
And found herself nose to grin with a human skeleton.
With a cry, Thea leaped backward, slamming into the wooden door. A heartbeat later, she laughed at her own fright.
The skeleton hung from a hook and made no attempt to attack her, even as she sidled near. She poked one bony shoulder. It swayed and grinned. Well, it couldn’t help that, poor thing.
Fascinated, Thea looked around. The skeleton’s domain proved to be a single room, with a stove in one corner and dried herbs on the walls. Dominating the space was a huge battered table covered with glass receptacles and various items whose names Thea could not guess, let alone their purpose. Also on the table was a row of large jars in which floated strange shapes. She drew closer. Was that…? A snake with two heads! And a strange creature like a misshapen, half-formed baby, with thumbs on its feet and a long curling tail. And there— She lifted her eyes to a shelf holding a collection of invitingly fat books, whose spines bore the words “Materia Medica.”
Then the door slammed open. Rafe filled the doorway, a looming silhouette against the light.
Thea could not see his face, and she supposed he could not see he
rs in the gloom. Her fingers gripped the wooden edge of the table, and when he turned his head, the angle showed his clenched jaw, his tense shoulders. Sourness flooded her throat, the familiar taste of having been a disappointment.
Hands aching, she released the table, wiped her palms over her skirt, and straightened her spine. No more cowardice. That was not who she wanted to be.
“Have you found what you were looking for, then? Proof that what they say of me is true?” His voice was harsh, unlike the confused, gentle man whose embrace had calmed her the night before. “My evil sorcery? My poisons? My cruelty? How you must fear me now.”
She feared him.
Rafe wanted to throw back his head and howl. Tear the door off its hinges and smash every glass vessel in the room. Then she’d have a reason to fear him!
His own fault. Threatening her friend. Teasing her for a kiss. Being surly and silent and solitary. Wandering about while intoxicated on bhang. No wonder Thea feared him. Just as Katharine had feared him, at the end.
Blast it! Thea had not feared him last night.
Not when she had taken his hand, or softened her body against his. In his drug-addled memory, the feel of her danced over his skin like quicksilver. Last night she had looked after him, and trusted him. And just now, when he saw her darting through the clearing like an inept spy, he had laughed and set out to talk and tease.
Until he saw her face, with its patent apprehension.
“You found my dead wife’s grave,” he snarled.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice was anxious, her face pale.
Damn her, she knew he wouldn’t hurt her. Damn them both, he should bundle her into a carriage and send her away forever. He should take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. But neither was possible, so he thumped the table and the glass vessels rattled.
“Do you want to know how she died, you with your endless questions? Did I poison her? Ensorcell her? Or was it commonplace cruelty that made her flee? Do you ask yourself what kind of monster I must be?” Fury stole his reason, taking charge of his tongue and turning him irrational. He waved an arm at Martha’s curiosities and the instruments of her science. “You must be pleased to have found such excellent answers—Demons. Poisons. Sorcery.”