Hosts to Ghosts Box Set

by Lynne Connolly

  No one compared. The woman next to him was beautiful, but very carefully groomed, nothing out of place, hair colored a deep honey blonde and carefully streaked with a paler shade. One tiny pink strand rested over her left cheek, a silent and small protest against her perfection, a touch that only made her appear more perfect. Too perfect for him. He wanted a woman to smell like a woman under her perfume, a hint of feminine need that echoed his own, making him want to take the final step, the final sense, and taste her.

  Jo wore a simple blue sheath he guessed was from one of London’s best stores. The top wasn’t cut low, but covered her breasts hinting at the curves beneath. Jo had realized what many women hadn’t; a high necked dress, if cut right, could reveal far more than any deep décolletage.

  He must stop thinking in old fashioned words, or they would be the undoing of him. He was used to it, although he had added slang to his speech recently, due to his TV addiction. His natural voice was a mixture of old and new, something Nev wouldn’t consider using, for Nev was frankly modern, turning his back on all the old stuff.

  Stuff Nathaniel loved.

  He smiled at Jo, and saw the other medium, Doris, watching them closely, her blue eyes avidly devouring the scene. Good God, not her, too? What was it about this man? Nathaniel knew himself to be a well favored man, and his body, after years of combat, had been well toned, if a little scarred, but the body he now occupied, while definitely fit, was leaner than the one he’d left behind, less obviously masculine, at least when he was dressed. Nathaniel had watched the boy grow into a man, watched his impatience with his stuffy father and exquisite mother erode until there had been only rebellion left. He’d seen him leave, and pay only fleeting visits back to the Abbey, each time harder and more rebellious. Nev had done everything in his power to turn his back on his past, and while understanding it, Nathaniel couldn’t condone it. Nev Heath, Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington, had been utterly selfish. He’d drawn within himself until there was nothing left of the angry boy. Only the self-contained, angry man. Nathaniel sent up a brief prayer, hoping Nev had finally found peace.

  Unable to bear any more he stood and excused himself. Jo pouted. “I thought you’d stay longer.”

  He tried to keep up Nev’s playboy image. “Normally I would, and even now it’s hard to drag myself away, but after yesterday, I think I need some rest.”

  “You will manage to stay up for the vigil?” Angela’s voice took on a pleading tone. He lifted his head and confronted the producer. She forced a smile. “We’ll sit up for a couple of nights, then splice the results together as though they’re one night. Since we don’t fake anything, spiritual activities don’t happen all at once. Not like other programs. They might not happen at all, but if they don’t, we can fill in with the historical stuff. The audience loves the tales of the olden days.”

  Fill in? Nathaniel saw red. He was part of that ‘historical stuff,’ he had lived, breathed and died in the ‘olden days.’ They were far from that to him. They were yesterday.

  Just before he left the room, he felt a touch on his arm. Jo. She smiled, and said, “good night” but added, in a much quieter tone, her voice vibrating with repressed emotion, “I want to see you. Tomorrow morning in the rose garden at ten thirty. Be there!” She brushed past him as he left the room, heading for the toilet in the corridor outside, he presumed. He didn’t wait, but almost ran up in the opposite direction. He wasn’t lying when he said he was tired, but he wouldn’t sleep. Ghosts didn’t sleep much.

  * * * * *

  He slept on the daybed at the foot of Sylvie’s, since they were supposed to be reconciling, and tortured himself with the sight of her asleep, wondering what it would be like to sleep next to her, holding her.

  He spent the last part of the night in the library, reading the books he had missed so much and doing a little research. Intriguingly he found a bunch of books that hadn’t been there in his time, but some dated from before his lifetime on earth. Old spell books, grimoires and cookery books which included some recipes for ‘gaining your heart’s desire’ and ‘destroying your enemies.’ But none of them held any clues as to who wanted Nev Heath dead. Or why.

  There was only one way he knew to draw the would-be killer out fast. Whoever it was wanted him dead. All right then, he would die.

  Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, relishing the feel of the soft leather under his body, his mind returning inevitably to the woman he loved. Convinced he could resist her allure, determined to love her like a brother, he’d stepped blithely into his fate. He’d had no intention of taking her, it was just a dream. Or so he kept telling himself.

  His blood boiled for her. Every nerve he possessed came to attention when she was around, not just the obvious ones. He wanted her in every way possible, with a primitive need that shocked him. To take her away into some dark corner and enjoy her, watch her pleasure, so the world only consisted of the two of them. Forget everything else.

  The intensity shocked him. After three and a half centuries of limbo, he’d imagined nothing material could affect him so much. He couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried. The only thing that meant more to him than his pleasure was hers. His hunger to see her lost in his love, abandoned only to him, trusting him to take her to the heights and bring her back down again almost overwhelmed his senses. He’d faced armies without flinching, had gone into battle without a qualm, but he’d never done anything so agonizingly difficult as releasing her, walking across her bedroom and out the door.

  He couldn’t show any of this, he could never let go. He would have to store up his emotions, make the most of what he could have in these last few days of his life. If all went well. If they didn’t, he would return to the half-life, and probably go completely mad. She knew he loved her, he’d shown her ever since she’d walked into the house, but she didn’t have to know how much.

  When she awoke, he entered her mind, as he had many times before, and gave her a soft greeting. She returned it before she was properly awake. He felt her shock when she realized and answered her question readily.

  You’re still here?

  Yes, I’m here. In person. In the library, trying to do some research.

  Shouldn’t we be together?

  He had told the world, or at least, that part of it that watched Hosts To Ghosts that they had reconciled. Do you go to breakfast?

  I usually make it in my suite. I prefer to be alone first thing.

  Really? He couldn’t resist the gentle tease.

  He heard her chuckle as though he was standing next to her and not half way across the house. Usually.

  I’ll go to breakfast with the film crew, and say you’re still abed.

  Having a lie-in.

  Shock arced through him and he answered her question before she asked it. In my time, a lady ‘lay in’ when she was about to give birth.

  Abruptly, she cut him off. Her response troubled him, as he’d hoped to make her smile. He could have re-connected with her, but it was clear she wanted some privacy. He couldn’t imagine what he’d said that was so wrong. Still troubled, he left the room and went to the dining room, where he heard the clink of cups and smelled freshly grilled bacon.

  When he entered, a hush was immediately followed by a renewed hubbub of conversation, louder than it had been when he’d approached the room. They’d been talking about him, then. Hardly a surprise.

  Nathaniel realized he was sharp set. Even this was a sensation to be relished, enjoyed, consigned to memory to enjoy again. The bacon smell assaulted his senses, filled his throat with anticipation.

  He wasn’t disappointed. He loaded his plate at the tables laid out for the use of the crew and production team, reckoning since he’d spoken to camera yesterday, he was one of them and entitled to breakfast. Nobody objected, he could see, and even if they did, he had the power to turn them out of his house. A pleasant feeling, that one, owning the Abbey again. He’d never loved it with the passion his brother, Vernon, showed,
but that was part of their training and his expectations. Vernon would inherit, he, Nathaniel, would move on, find a career, perhaps an estate of his own. It didn’t mean he didn’t love the old house.

  He found a place at a table, but unfortunately it was with the presenters. He would have preferred to sit somewhere else, but he recalled Jo Goodson wanted to talk to him, so he’d better make himself available.

  Eight people sat around this circular table; made of some light colored wood, a modern import, but of such a pleasant design it fitted well into the sunny room. The conversation was a mix of many things he’d known before. There were the toadies, the people attracted by his title and his exploits, but mostly, he suspected, his title. Two of these, a man and a woman he didn’t recognize. Two at least who were interested by his fame as a photojournalist. One who exaggeratedly treated him as an equal, called him “Nev,” without being invited to, suggested they had a lot in common. Jo Goodson, alarmingly familiar, and her mother sat either side of him. He reached for his orange juice, only to hear one of the toadies giggle. “You eat everything we do, my lord.”

  Not if he didn’t want to. He still had his powers, because he still had a foot in both worlds. He would have given them up without a qualm if it meant he could stay with Sylvie.

  Nathaniel stopped, a forkful of scrambled egg half way to his mouth. He wanted to stay here, with Sylvie. Before, though he’d loved her, he’d only thought of meeting her and then carrying on to his heavenly reward, but now, somehow, the two things had exchanged places in his mind. Now he wanted to live with Sylvie and love her, for as long as they were allowed.

  They would only have days. Not enough time to give her everything he wanted to, but enough time to make her unhappy for the rest of her life. He couldn’t do that to anyone he loved as much as he loved Sylvie. Hell, he’d be sorry to do it to anyone.

  He stared at the food on his plate. He’d given up watching people eat. That was why the dining room was usually free of ghosts, if they only knew it. Sheer torture to watch people tasting, eating, drinking, all things he could never do again. At least he could have this. Determinedly, he turned his attention back to his food, and remembered how much he’d longed to do this. But it was no good. The flavors turned to ashes in his mouth.

  He put his fork down with half the food still on his plate. Someone piped up, too brightly for his taste. “Salt, my lord?”

  Jo Goodson sniggered. “He prefers to be called ‘Nev’ or ‘Mr. Heath’.”

  “No I don’t.” He spoke without thinking, answering as Nathaniel instead of Nev and irritated by Jo Goodson’s proprietorial remarks. He belonged to nobody. Mentally cursing at his slip, Nathaniel forked up another helping of scrambled egg, to allow himself a moment to consider. He chewed slowly, aware all eyes were on him, with varying degrees of interest. “It depends what I’m doing,” he said. “When I’m in the field, there’s no time to start shouting “my lord,” or much of anything else for that matter. So it was convenient. But I can’t escape the fact I’m also Lord Rustead. There’s no getting away from it, and it would be ridiculous to ignore it.”

  “What should we call you, then?”

  The answer came to him automatically. Protocol was inbred into him, and it hadn’t changed much over the years. “Social inferiors call me ‘my lord.’ Everyone else calls me ‘my lord’ at first, then ‘sir’.”

  “My!” Jo Goodson’s baby blue eyes rounded in mock astonishment. “What about your lovers?”

  A hush fell, and then Nathaniel knew. Jo Goodson had been one of Nev’s lovers. One of the many. He frowned, wishing more of Nev’s memory had remained intact. It was patchy, at best. He could remember very little of Nev’s photojournalist career personally, although he had a full record of where he had been, and he felt confident he could handle a camera. The more personal the memory, the less likely it was it would be there, and there weren’t many things more personal than a lover.

  “Lovers?” He used a Nathaniel trick, and raised one brow, lifting his chin a little, making his eyes ice with disdain.

  She glared at him, but as he watched her, her lids flickered over her eyes before she renewed her stare, but by then he’d removed his attention from her and was smiling at one of the two women who were regarding him with lascivious interest. He’d seen that look before, as Nathaniel. Some things never changed.

  He turned to the woman on his other side, intending to pass some innocuous comment about the weather, but the steely glare so reminded him of the woman on his left, he stilled his words. It was gone so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d seen the look, but it unnerved him. He felt Jo stroke his arm, but he deliberately didn’t look around. “You have been working with this team for long?”

  Doris gave a civilized response, but then made a remark that startled him. “You don’t seem much like your Puritan ancestor.”

  Quelling the jolt he’d felt when someone had referred to him directly instead of Nev, Nathaniel reminded himself this was to be a program about them, Vernon and himself, Royalist and Puritan, Cavalier and Roundhead. Not that he’d ever worn the typical Roundhead hairstyle. Neither had most of his fellow officers, but many of the troops had done so.

  “Even Puritans need some comfort from time to time.” The woman’s eyes narrowed a little, and Nathaniel panicked. What if she knew? Doris Alcock was reputed to be a gifted medium. He’d never believed there were such people, and he felt no connection with her now, but for all that, he should tread warily.

  “This Earl didn’t seem to need any comfort.”

  Of course he had, just like any other man.

  “The fourth Earl didn’t become a Puritan from religion, but from conviction and a sense of justice. I’ve seen his letters.” Doris nodded and turned her attention back to her meal, her pudgy fingers closing over the knife handle with unnecessary force.

  The letters still existed; they were held in a secure room downstairs, so to mention them was fairly safe. He’d tried to explain his reasons to his brother, so he wasn’t revealing knowledge that didn’t already exist in material form.

  His alliance to the Puritans hadn’t prevented young women from discreetly offering him what he might require. He had required it once or twice, and he still felt a stab of guilt when he thought of the emotionless coupling. It was not enough for him. It had never been enough. It still wasn’t enough.

  All he felt for Jo Goodson was a mild interest, nothing like the blazingly helpless desire that conquered him when he was with Sylvie, that threatened to explode his reason into tiny shards around her delectable body. Jo was pretty, well groomed, perhaps too well groomed for his taste, with a generously curving figure, but all that meant little to him apart from some aesthetic interest.

  When he rose at the end of his meal, so did most of the others at the table, and to his dismay, Jo slipped her arm through his, strolling with him in a deliberate display of intimacy, to the door. With a sinking heart he guessed what was to come, and marshaled his forces. He might as well face it now.

  He took her to a small office close to the front door, where once a guard had stood, and now formed the little office where someone took the money for the guided tours in the summer. As soon as the door closed, she faced him, arms akimbo, eyes blazing.

  “What’s all this about? I set up this whole shindig to get us together. Doris and I have a lot of say about where the programs are set, and I picked this one! Now you’re dancing around that bitch like a dog on heat, and I’m left in the cold!”

  Nev, he reminded himself. I’m Nev. This woman was a medium, which meant she was at least sensitive. He shrugged, and leaned back, propping his shoulders against the door in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. He wasn’t used to nonchalant poses. Not much in his own life had ever called for it. “What can I say? Perhaps I’ve been away from her long enough to make it interesting again. We never promised each other fidelity, Jo.”

  “Didn’t we?” Her voice rose to a high shriek. “So all those promises I
remember—you didn’t have anything to do with those?”

  He flashed her a grin. “You must have imagined them. I don’t remember a lot about it, to be honest.”

  Her fury muted to disbelief. “You mean all those snatched weekends, all that work, and you can just throw it in my face? Two years I’ve been faithful to you, Nev, when I could have had men for the taking!”

  He knew his alter ego well enough to say, “You should have taken them. I would have done.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You said you’d ask Sylvie for a divorce. We’re getting married in the New Year, or had you forgotten that?”

  “I don’t seem to have a very good memory,” he admitted, watching her volatile countenance with fascination. His generation had been trained to keep their secrets to themselves, to school their features to impassivity, even if all hell broke loose around them. In this age, people seemed to take privacy lightly. Perhaps it was too easy for them. “Besides, I’m already married.”

  She made a short sound of exasperation and flung her well-manicured hands into the air. “Argh! We’ve been through this, Nev, or had you forgotten? We agreed. You are going to tell Sylvie it’s over, you don’t want her any more and then, when she’s gone, we’ll marry. A big wedding in the spring, I thought, then I can finish my contract with the network. Well?” she put up her chin challengingly.

  He put his hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. “I said this? Are you sure it wasn’t somebody else?” This was fun. This woman didn’t care who she shoved aside on her way, so he had no compunction in giving her a set-down. “Jo, you were a good lover, but you lack something.” He thought, assimilated, remembered all he had seen of Nev Heath, and said what he would have said. “And you know I bore easily. Why did you think you were any different to all the others?” He gave her an apologetic half smile.

  By the pink color rising in her cheeks, a more vibrant shade than her delicate face powder, he was getting his point across. “Because you said you loved me, because you said you were the only woman for me, because you promised to dump your wife and marry me!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but Nathaniel wasn’t sure if they were a result of fury or real unhappiness. Either way, she was prepared to shove Sylvie aside like an old shoe, and for that, she deserved what was coming to her.