by Lynn Kurland
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
She laughed. “Don’t worry, Mr. McShane. I won’t sue you if I hear anything go bump in the night.”
Mr. McShane looked like he wanted to have the entire affair over with as soon as possible. She took pity on him and called for boxes for the enormous amount of food they hadn’t consumed. Genevieve almost felt guilty about having ordered half the menu, then stopped herself. Her dinner companion was probably charging his entire trip to her inheritance anyway.
Mr. McShane looked shocked once they reached her apartment and he saw the lack of furniture in her living room. His gasp was particularly audible when she put away the food and he saw the bareness of her refrigerator. Genevieve smiled.
“You see, Mr. McShane, it is a godsend. Now, how soon should I come over?”
“How soon can you be ready?” he asked nervously.
“A week.” She had renewed her passport two weeks before. It had seemed nothing but wishful thinking at the time.
He crooked his finger between his collar and his neck and tugged. “If you’re sure…”
“I am,” she nodded firmly.
“Very well, then. A ticket will be waiting for you at the airport. I will return to England and assure that all is in readiness.”
Genevieve saw him out, then locked the door behind him. She waited until she heard his footsteps recede before she broke into an impromptu celebration dance. She danced her way back into the kitchen to check out what was left of the fortune cookies. Emptying the bag onto the counter produced one cookie and ten one-hundred-dollar-bills. Now, that was chivalry for you.
She cracked open the cookie and popped half of it into her mouth before she unrolled the small slip of paper.
Beware of ghosts sending gifts.
She laughed out loud. Obviously they had meant, “Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.” An oddly coincidental mistake, but a mistake nonetheless. Bryan McShane was certainly no ghost. She pointedly ignored the tingle that went down her spine. Castles possessed quirks. She didn’t care if hers possessed a basement full of vampire-filled coffins.
She had just inherited a castle of her very own.
It was a dream come true.
Bryan McShane made his way down the hallway to the study, cursing weakly under his breath. Of course, he had to be the one to come to Seakirk. It wasn’t enough that he had taken his life in his hands to travel to the States. Of course not. Now he was taking his life in his hands a second time to give the current tidings to Maledica’s newest client. There wasn’t enough sterling lying about to compensate for this kind of distress. He fished his rumpled handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow, trying to get hold of himself. Ten minutes and he would be back in his car and on his way. He could last ten more minutes.
His timid knock was answered only by a gruff command to enter. He entered hesitantly and looked at the television that dominated most of one wall. American football players were grunting and snarling as they fought for territory, their glories and failures portrayed vividly, thanks to the satellite dish on the battlements.
“They fight like nuns, don’t you think?” a deep voice demanded.
“Aye, my lord,” Bryan squeaked, finding, as usual, that his voice did not work properly in the presence of the admitted lord of Seakirk.
“Well, don’t just stand there and shake, man. What are the tidings?”
“She’s on her way, my lord. She should be here the first of next week.”
The television flicked off and Bryan’s client stood and faced him. Bryan never could get over how tall the man was, nor how intimidating. It wasn’t just the coldness of the pale green eyes, nor the intimidating frown that usually sat on the brow. It wasn’t even the rippling muscles that cloth couldn’t conceal, or the hands that could have easily broken a man in two. No, it was the mocking smile. It was a dangerous smile, lacking any semblance of warmth whatsoever. When the man smiled, Bryan wanted to run for cover.
“I trust you will see to the necessary details for Worthington?”
Worthington was an elderly gentleman who possessed the dubious title of steward. Bryan wouldn’t have traded places with him for any money.
“Aye, my lord. I’ll see to it first thing.”
“And you’ve paid yourself?”
“Aye, my lord,” he said, looking anywhere but at his client. “And not a pence over what is due me.”
“I never thought you would. Your fee is exorbitant, but I can’t argue with the results you’ve produced. I feel certain I will have further need of your firm’s assistance. I trust I may reach you at the office in London?”
“Of course, my lord. I am always at your service.”
Only a grunt answered him, and the television flicked back on. The man lowered himself with feline grace into the chair and propped his feet up on the stool in front of him. Bryan knew he had been dismissed.
Perhaps the entire episode wouldn’t have seemed out of the ordinary, but Kendrick of Artane was not an ordinary man. No, he wasn’t ordinary at all.
He was a ghost.
Chapter Three
Genevieve was, quite frankly, overwhelmed. They had been on the grounds a good fifteen minutes before she even saw the castle. When she finally caught sight of it rising up in the distance, she squeezed her hands tightly together to control the urge to hop up and down in Mr. McShane’s front seat. It was even better than she had expected!
If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn she was on her way to Camelot. An outer wall complete with towers, battlements and a drawbridge enclosed a taller inner wall. The castle itself rose up austere and forbidding. In contrast, a black-and-silver flag flew merrily in the breeze from atop the tallest tower of the keep. She half expected to see mounted knights come thundering across the grass toward them, demanding to know who dared trespass on Seakirk’s soil. Seakirk. Even the name made her smile.
The drawbridge was lowered as they approached the first wall. Not a soul was in sight. Genevieve certainly didn’t believe in ghosts, but she found the lack of personnel a bit unnerving just the same.
“There is some sort of staff here, isn’t there?” she asked casually.
Bryan swallowed. “Of course, Miss Buchanan. Excuse me, Lady Buchanan.”
“Oh, I don’t think I have the right to lay claim to that title.”
“I assure you, my research was meticulous. You are the last surviving direct descendant of Richard of Seakirk, a thirteenth-century earl. You have every right to claim the title and all that goes with it.”
All that goes with it? Why did that sound so ominous?
Genevieve pushed aside her ridiculous thoughts and concentrated on what was going on around her. Once the drawbridge was lowered, a metal grate was raised and they drove across the bridge and through what had originally been the gatehouse. Barbican, Genevieve reminded herself. Might as well keep the jargon straight. The passageway soon opened onto an extensive piece of land surrounding the inner walls.
They approached another gatehouse and another metal grate was raised.
“Portcullis,” Bryan identified.
“I know,” she said, her eyes already glued to the courtyard now visible through the thickly walled tunnel. “I know a bit about medieval architecture,” she said, modestly. It was an understatement, of course, but there was no use in bragging. Mr. McShane looked like he was ready to break down and bawl as it was; a blow to his ego might just push him over the edge.
The castle was a mixture of the best designs of medieval engineering. The main building was no less than four stories high with rounded towers on each corner. There were only a few windows on the lower two floors but the upper floors more than made up for that lack. Genevieve could hardly wait to see what sort of window seats were set behind those beautifully beveled panes of glass.
There was a large garden to her right, full of the very last flowers of summer and numerous large trees. It did seem a bit overgrown though, and Genevieve could
hardly wait to get her hands into it.
The courtyard leading to the castle was inlaid with pale ivory-colored stone. It was obviously very old but also very well cared for. She crawled out of the car in a daze, shivering at what she had almost passed up. The entire estate was in excellent condition, and it was hers. Unbelievable. She had a hard time suppressing the urge to leap from the car and do a little gratitude dance right there on the front steps.
Bryan was out and fishing for her baggage in the trunk almost before the car had stopped moving. He deposited her pair of suitcases on the wide steps leading up to the hall.
“Best of luck to you,” he said, then hopped in his car.
“But—”
He waved, then beat a hasty retreat.
Genevieve stood on the steps and watched him go, feeling decidedly uncomfortable. It was something akin to what she’d felt when her mother dropped her off for kindergarten for the first time, but this was much worse. What if no one were home? Worse yet, what if there were bodies inside, but they were dead?
She took a deep breath and turned to face the door. She had to get control of her imagination before it ran away with her and didn’t come back. This was her home. She had every right to knock on the door and expect a normal, everyday person to open it and welcome her in.
Before her knuckles made contact with the wood, the door was opened, leaving her standing face-to-face with a dour-looking butler. He could have been none other than the butler. He wore a dark suit with a crisp white shirt and a prim black bow tie. His white hair was trimmed neatly above his ears, and not a hair was out of place. She was certain he would accept nothing less. She laughed before she could stop herself.
“Oh, you’re perfect.”
He didn’t blink. “Lady Buchanan, I presume,” he said drolly.
Genevieve felt her smile fade. So the help wasn’t exactly gushing over her at present. It was probably considered impolite to gush on the first meeting. She nodded and held out her hand.
“You have the last name right at least. And you are?”
“Worthington, my lady,” he said, ignoring her hand. “The steward.”
“Ah, the steward,” she said wisely. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”
“No doubt, my lady,” he said dryly as he moved past her to gather up her baggage.
“No, I can—”
The words died on her lips at the look he gave her. She felt like a child who had just screamed an obscenity in Sunday school. Obviously Worthington took his job very seriously.
“This way, my lady,” he said, moving past her and heading into the hall.
She followed him inside and then stopped short at the sight that greeted her. A shiver of delight went through her. The great hall. None of her castles in the boxes that would eventually catch up with her could do justice to the kind of room she was seeing. It was at least two stories high with enormous fireplaces on either side. Enormous perhaps wasn’t the word for them. She could have thrown half a tree on each and still have had room to roast a boar or two.
Stone floors lay under her feet, floors that would have been strewn with hay in the Middle Ages but presently had been swept and polished until they positively gleamed. Tapestries bearing medieval designs and stretching almost from floor to ceiling hung on the walls. They were either authentic or very impressive replicas. She was walking toward one wall, her hand outstretched to touch the fabric, when Worthington cleared his throat imperiously. She looked longingly at the wall, then at her steward. He looked a bit impatient. Well, the tapestries would keep. It was probably close to time for tea, and she had the feeling Worthington was a stickler about serving on time. She obediently followed him up the steps.
The staircase was a winding one, just as she always imagined Camelot would have had. She trailed her fingers over the cold stone as she followed Worthington’s lead. The stairs opened up onto a long hallway. Lights in the shape of torches gave relief from the darkness. She found she couldn’t keep the disbelieving smile off her face. With a little imagination, she could believe she really was the lady of the keep, spending her afternoons sewing with her ladies in her solar, waiting for her warrior husband to return from his adventures and shower her with hard-earned spoils.
“Your room, my lady,” Worthington announced, setting the bags down in front of a door and turning the knob.
Genevieve stepped in front of him and peeked inside. Then she gasped. It was the most horrific thing she had ever seen in her life. The room was wall-to-wall Louis the Fourteenth, complete with a gilded birdcage in the far corner. The carpeting was pink, matching the pink chairs, pink bedclothes and pink wallpaper. She felt as though she had just eaten far too much cotton candy.
She took a step back into the hallway and shook her head.
“I can’t do it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The room,” she said. “It’s awful. I’ll stay anywhere else: the guest room, the servants’ quarters, the cellar. Anywhere but in this bedroom.”
One silver eyebrow went up in surprise. “It doesn’t suit you?”
“It nauseates me.”
The other eyebrow went up to join the first. “Indeed. Then perhaps you would care to have a look at the other bedchambers? We have several you could choose from.”
She nodded. He showed her the room next to the first one. It was done in the same period furniture, only this time in blue. Visions of Smurfs dressed in French finery chasing her in her dreams made her shake her head quickly.
The next room was a dreadful combination of yellows and oranges. The knickknacks and baubles covering every available surface made her flinch. She suppressed a powerful urge to hurry into the room and dust, then begged Worthington to show her the barn. He ushered her down the hall to the last two guest rooms. They were no less disgusting than any of the others. Genevieve threw up her hands in despair.
“But they are all so gaudy,” she exclaimed.
What might have been a glint of approval appeared in his eye.
“My lady, each of the past five mistresses of Seakirk decorated a different chamber. You don’t find anything redeeming about any of them?”
“I’m sure the ladies were quite nice but their taste in furnishings was atrocious,” she said firmly. “The only thing redeeming about any of those rooms is the fact that I have the money to do them over again, which I fully intend to do. Now, show me the stables. It won’t kill me to sleep out there for a few nights.”
“The stables would be too cold for you, my lady,” Worthington said with a thoughtful frown. “Perhaps I could prepare one of the servants’ rooms for a night or—”
Genevieve walked away before he could finish his sentence. Worthington had been studiously avoiding a door further down the hallway and she wanted to know why. Though it was probably nothing but a storage room, it couldn’t possibly be as tacky as what she had seen so far. Being rolled up in a blanket for a night or two wouldn’t be so bad.
“Lady Buchanan,” Worthington said quickly, “you cannot…”
She turned and lifted one eyebrow superciliously, determined to start things off on the right foot in her new home. Worthington was her butler, not her boss. Though he’d spent the last half hour ordering her around, he wasn’t going to get away with it any longer. It was best he learn right off that she wasn’t the kind of girl to be walked all over.
It didn’t matter that she’d just made that decision. She was head of her home and by golly her butler was going to realize that.
“I cannot what?” she asked in her most imperious tone, trying to imagine how Queen Elizabeth I would have said those words.
“My lady,” he pleaded, “you will detest that room. I’m sure of it.”
“That is for me to decide.”
“I beseech you—”
She was already turning the handle as the words left his lips.
Worthington, her fine resolves and the fact that she needed air to survive were all completely f
orgotten in the magic of what she saw.
It was the most amazing bedroom she had ever seen, and she had not only seen but decorated some doozies. A massive hearth dominated one entire wall to her right; it was easily as large as the fireplaces downstairs. Huge windows with heavy drapes flanked one side of the room. An enormous wooden desk sat under one of the windows; with any luck that window would overlook the garden. Draperies had been pulled back from another window to reveal the most comfortable-looking window seat she had ever laid eyes on. She could hardly stop herself from running over and curling up on the spot.
The bed was a huge four-poster affair, complete with bed-curtains. Maybe the tapestries downstairs were replicas; the curtains surrounding this bed were not. Without even stepping any closer, she could see that the cloth was exceedingly old, yet in astonishingly good condition. All in all, Genevieve felt as though she had stepped back in time hundreds of years.
“I love it,” she breathed.
“But my lady, ‘tis very drafty here,” Worthington said. “You’ll catch a chill.”
“The fire will be more than adequate,” she said. “Worthington, the room is perfect.” She turned a brilliant smile on the steward, all her former irritation with him forgotten. “You did this on purpose, didn’t you? You know, I doubt I would have appreciated this as much if I hadn’t been treated to the other monstrosities first. Thank you so much.” She reached out and gave his hand a grateful squeeze, picked up her bags and closed the door in his face.
She turned and leaned back against the door. It was perfect. And it was hers.
If she’d had any more tears to shed, she would have, but they would have been ones of happiness. This bedroom and this marvelous, magical keep were worth every single moment of anguish she had gone through over the past three months.
It was worth it all.
She was home.
All Worthington wanted to do was hasten downstairs, sequester himself in the wine cellar and drink himself into oblivion. Unfortunately that simply would not do. His Lordship would have to be told and soon, before he discovered the truth himself.