Stardust of Yesterday

by Lynn Kurland

  Worthington straightened and made her a small bow. “If there won’t be anything else…?”

  She sat up quickly. “Oh, don’t leave yet. Stay and enjoy the fire with me.”

  “My lady, I wouldn’t presume—”

  “Presume or you’re fired,” she answered, only half-teasing. She wasn’t ready to relinquish the comfort of human contact and she was willing to go to great lengths to make sure she kept it. Worthington only blinked a time or two before he obediently pulled up another chair and sat down to keep her company.

  Actually, company hadn’t been her problem that day. An entire army of cleaning people had come in and scoured the castle from top to bottom. Worthington had overseen the activities with the skill of a garrison captain. The personnel from the village were quick and very thorough, working as if they couldn’t wait to get out. Genevieve hadn’t missed the pitying looks they had thrown her way. What did those looks mean? Did the villagers pity her for her newfound wealth? She had seen the bank records. All the zeros after that pound sign had made her positively dizzy. Whichever Buchanan had amassed that kind of staggering wealth had been one smart cookie.

  Or did they pity her having such an immense home to look after? She’d only had time to go through the five monstrous bedchambers that afternoon but had the feeling the castle contained ten times that many rooms.

  Or did they pity her for the fact that once the door to the great hall was locked, she probably didn’t stand a snowball’s chance in hell of getting out?

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up and she squelched the urge to look over her shoulder or above her head. There was nothing in the house. Worthington didn’t look spooked. In fact, he looked positively serene sitting there with firelight glinting on his silver hair and a peaceful expression resting comfortably on his face.

  “Worthington?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Have you noticed anything odd about the castle?”

  “Odd?” he echoed, looking puzzled.

  “Odd,” she repeated. “You know, as in strange. Unusual. Paranormal,” she threw in casually.

  Worthington smiled blandly. “The castle does possess an odd quirk or two.”

  “Quirk?” Why did everyone insist on using that word?

  “My lady,” Worthington said gently, “this keep has been standing more or less in perfect condition since the Middle Ages. How could it not have acquired a bit of character along the way?”

  Character. Of course. She should have seen that for herself. And so what if that character just happened to be in the form of a ghost? She could learn to live with it. And once it had accepted the fact that she wasn’t going anywhere, it could probably learn to live with her too. All things considered, it could turn into a rather amicable relationship. You don’t scare me and I won’t call in the paranormal squad to exorcise you. Sort of an unfriendly truce, but it might work.

  Genevieve felt decidedly better. In fact, she felt so much better that she didn’t protest when Worthington stifled a yawn and begged to be excused. She waved him away good-naturedly and settled back to enjoy the fire. She pulled her legs up into the chair with her and wrapped her arms around her knees. Yes, this was the life.

  Things would get even better when she finally discovered where her library was hiding. A full day of reading was sounding better all the time. It would be just the thing to cure her of the last traces of jet lag. She closed her eyes and smiled in anticipation. A full day of daydreaming of her wonderful castle and imagining that it contained a handsome, brave knight—

  Thunk!

  Her eyes flew open. She scrambled over her chair, looking with alarm at what was quivering in front of her, only an inch away from where her toes had dangled off the edge of the seat.

  It was a sword. A fat emerald gleamed in the hilt. And across the crossbar was engraved in medieval-looking letters:

  ARTANE

  “I’ll not miss my mark a second time,” a deep voice grated from behind her.

  She whirled around, bumping her arm against the back of the chair in the process. The excruciating pain of smacking her funny bone was forgotten in her astonishment at what she saw.

  He stood well over six feet, easily, weighing in at probably two hundred twenty-five, and those two hundred and twenty-five pounds were covered in impenetrable armor. A long, heavy broadsword was held in one hand, resting point down on the floor, while the blade of an axe winked in the light from the fire as it occupied his other hand.

  It was her knight.

  It was also her ghost.

  She backed up sharply against the chair, a feeling of terror starting at her scalp and sweeping down to settle in her knees. No, it wasn’t his size that terrified her, or his armor, or even his weapons.

  It was the murderous look in his eye.

  “Begone, wench!” he bellowed suddenly, raising the sword and holding it over his head.

  Genevieve fled. She didn’t know what her direction was until she smacked her toe against the bottom step of the stone staircase. Not even the rush of pain stopped her. She blinked back tears and crawled frantically up the stairs, using her hands and feet both to help her in her flight.

  An eternity passed before she reached the second floor. She whimpered in relief as she saw the light of the torches revealing nothing but the floor and the walls. He hadn’t followed her—

  “Are you deaf, woman?” a disembodied voice demanded angrily from behind her. “I command you to leave!”

  Genevieve shrieked, jumped to her feet and stumbled down the passageway. Suddenly, the lights went out. She lost her sense of direction and went down heavily to the floor. A brush of air went over her. She pulled her knees up under her, ducked her head and covered her neck with her hands. She could already feel the agony of cold steel against her flesh, severing bone and sinew, separating her head from her body.

  It didn’t happen. She knelt there for several minutes, her heart pounding wildly against her ribs, her breath coming in gasps, waiting for death. It didn’t come. In fact, nothing was coming. No touch, no wound, no pain. Nothing.

  Good lord, was she losing her mind? She had just seen him again, hadn’t she? And he was a ghost, wasn’t he? She lifted her head slowly and tried to make out the shadows in the gloom. It was impossible. She carefully inched to her right, holding out her hand until she made contact with the wall. Then she slowly rose to her feet. For several moments, she merely leaned back against the wall and drew breath. Who knew how long she would be around to enjoy the pleasure?

  When she heard nothing else breathing in the hallway, she began to move to her right, in the direction she knew her room had to be.

  “Damnation, wench, that is not the path to the door!”

  Genevieve froze, waiting for the telltale whistling of the blade coming her way. Blades always whistled in the movies; they probably did the same thing in real life.

  “To your left, demoiselle! Go to your left!”

  He was really exasperated now.

  “I can’t see anything,” she whispered.

  The lights in the hallway came on and she gasped as she caught sight of the ghost leaning against the opposite wall, his arms crossed over his massive chest, a fierce frown of displeasure on his face. Good grief, how he must have intimidated others when he was alive! He lifted his right arm and pointed back down the hallway toward the stairs.

  “That is the direction to take.”

  Genevieve’s lips refused to form coherent sounds. Her mouth worked silently for several moments, eliciting a darker frown from her ghost.

  “What?” he barked.

  She gulped. Going down the stairs again was entirely out of the question. She’d fall and break her neck.

  “Can you get through a locked door?” she blurted out in a sudden flash of inspiration.

  His brows drew together so fiercely, they became a dark slash over his eyes. “I fail to see what that has to do with it.”

  That was answer enough.
Genevieve turned and sped down the hall in the direction opposite from where he wanted her to go. If he couldn’t get through a locked door, then that’s just what she’d put between them. In the morning she’d call the paranormal exterminators and have them come out right away. A ghost was just too much character for her keep. At this point, she much preferred dullness.

  She’d almost reached her bedroom door when the ghost appeared before her, standing with his hands clenched in fists by his sides.

  “Damnation, woman, I want you gone!” he thundered.

  Genevieve skidded to a halt a hand’s breadth in front of him and then backed up a pace or two. At least he’d lost his sword and his axe somewhere downstairs. Now, if she could just distract him long enough to slip past him into the room…

  “It’s k-kind of late to be g-going out,” she said, her teeth beginning to chatter.

  The ghost scowled. He looked the faintest bit indecisive, then scowled some more.

  “You’ll leave tomorrow?”

  She nodded quickly.

  He grunted. “Tomorrow then. At first light.”

  “I’m not really a morning person—”

  “At first light!” he bellowed.

  “At first light,” she agreed quickly. “I’ll be there with bells on.” Now, just get out of my way and let me into my sanctuary.

  The ghost vanished. Genevieve gaped for several minutes at the place where he’d been. Then she whirled around and looked behind her. The hallway was empty. She put her hand on the door, then stopped.

  “You’re sure you’ll stay out of my room tonight?” she asked the empty air.

  “The chamber is mine, wench!”

  “Yours,” she corrected herself hastily. “Of course it’s yours. But you’ll leave me in peace tonight anyway, won’t you?”

  A pause.

  “Aye.” The grumble hung in the stillness of the hall.

  “Thanks,” Genevieve whispered.

  Only a dissatisfied grunt answered her.

  She fled inside the room and locked the door. Then she leaned back against it and heaved a huge sigh of relief. Safe. Her door was locked and her ghost had promised to leave her alone. He would be as good as his word, she was sure of it. After all, a knight never lied.

  She felt her knees give way and she sank to the floor, grateful it was solid underneath her. It was the only thing that had reacted appropriately that evening.

  Before she knew it, she was crying. She looked up at the ceiling and let the tears slide down her face. Four months ago, she’d had a beautiful home, a wonderful view and a fabulous business. Now she had nothing. Less than nothing. She had acquired a perfect castle only to have it taken away from her. Her dream had been given to her, then ripped away mercilessly.

  She drew her knees up and rested her forehead on them, her arms hanging limply by her side. What was it with life lately? Circumstances were completely out of her control. She had been controlled by outside events for weeks. And if outside forces weren’t browbeating her, everyone else certainly was. First her staff had left her high and dry with demands for severance. Then she’d been backed into a corner by her clients until she had no alternative but to allow Bryan McShane to dump her off in a drafty old castle with a bossy butler and a despotic ghost!

  Her head came up sharply. Damn it, it was going to stop. She was sick to death of people telling her what to do, taking advantage of her good nature, leaving tread marks on the backs of her clothes. Genevieve jumped to her feet and began to pace, her affronted feelings boiling over into a fine, indignant rage. Worthington was not going to tell her what to eat anymore, or where to sleep, or when she would and would not have tea, and that damned ghost—well, he could take his autocratic self and go straight to hell!

  Her pacing became more furious. How dare he try to throw her out of her own house! Whoever he was, he sure as hell wasn’t the direct descendant of Richard of Seakirk. The jerk was probably some ill-begotten stableboy with delusions of grandeur. Well, she’d show him a thing or two about who was boss! She almost wished he would appear again so she could give him a dressing-down he wouldn’t forget for the rest of his days. She’d had as much of his terrorizing as she was going to take. If he didn’t behave, she would take away all his weapons.

  His other sword. She pulled up short at the thought. The sword still imbedded in the chair downstairs. It was probably too heavy to swing but having it in her possession instead of his might be a step in the right direction.

  She returned to the door and put her ear to the wood. There was no sound in the hall. She unlocked the bedroom door and carefully opened it. It made no sound of protest. She peeked out into the corridor. The torches were out. Just as well. If she couldn’t see him, he couldn’t see her. With any luck at all, he was downstairs in the servants’ quarters giving Worthington a fright.

  Genevieve scowled as she stepped out into the hall and shut the door behind her. Worthington and his character. The old busybody knew all about the damned ghost. Well, he’d have an earful first thing. Right after she told him she wasn’t going to have oatmeal for breakfast again. It was about time he became acquainted with the virtues of Pop Tarts.

  The great hall was empty, except for the two chairs near the hearth. The fire had died down, almost far enough to not be any help at all in Genevieve’s search. She crossed the room mainly by feel and paused behind what had been Worthington’s chair earlier that evening and her mouth fell open.

  The sword was gone.

  She stepped forward and dropped to her knees, looking at the front of the wooden chair she’d occupied. She ran her hand over the place where her toes had been and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  There was no mark. No indentation. No evidence that a heavy sword had been thrust into the timber.

  She sat back on her heels, stunned. Though it was tempting to think her imagination was again playing tricks on her, she knew that wasn’t the answer. There had been a sword. She’d heard it being driven home and she’d seen the firelight flicker off the steel. She’d read the word ARTANE on the crossbar. But it was no longer there, nor was there any record of it having been there.

  Suddenly, a most astonishing revelation occurred to her. The sword left no trace because the sword really hadn’t been there. It was something the ghost had conjured up to frighten her, just as he’d conjured himself up out of thin air.

  He couldn’t hurt her.

  Because he had nothing to hurt her with.

  Genevieve wanted to laugh. And she would, just as soon as that damned ghost had received a healthy piece of her mind. She rose quickly and walked purposefully back up the stairs and down the hall to her bedroom. She saw nothing and heard nothing.

  By the time she had locked the door behind her, she was seething. The hell he’d put her through! And with what? Imaginary toys.

  Leave the castle? Ha. Not in this lifetime. It was her home and she wasn’t going to give it up to humor some foul-tempered jerk with no chivalry in his soul.

  No, her ghost would just have to ingest a helping or two of humble pie, then learn to accept her. Because she wasn’t going anywhere.

  Chapter Five

  Kendrick de Piaget, formerly the second son of the earl of Artane, lately the default lord of Seakirk, sat in his study with his feet up on the stool in front of him, stared at the television that dominated the facing wall and scowled. By the saints, he was going soft in the head! That was the only reason he had allowed Genevieve to stay the night. If he’d possessed even a smidgen of intelligence, he would have forced her to leave on the spot.

  He mentally manipulated the electrical currents to change the channels, flipping through them with a speed that would have made a mortal dizzy. Damn, no American football. Not even any hockey. A bit of savagery would have soothed him immensely, but it was obviously not to be so. With a deep sigh, he flicked off the television and rose.

  He made his way up the stairs and through the door to the battlements. In life, walking alon
g the roof had always soothed him. In death, things were not so different. Despite the obvious differences, of course. In life, the sea breezes would have ruffled his hair, tugged at his cloak, slipped through the weave of his garments to caress his skin. He would have smelled the tang of salt in the air and felt the chill of the night wind. He would have tasted the wine from dinner on his tongue and savored the fullness in his belly. And his body might have craved a different kind of pleasure, something that any number of his father’s serving wenches would have been happy to help him with. Aye, in life, this kind of evening could have finished most pleasantly.

  In death, there was nothing. No use of the senses his strong body had provided him with for over thirty years; no sense of taste, of smell, of touch. Death was a void, an empty place, a cage that had tormented him for seven centuries. Not even the full use of his mind and its strange powers made up for the simpler, more prosaic blessings his body had once furnished.

  Soon. Soon Genevieve would leave, the deed to the castle would be in his name and he would be free to stop his interminable haunting and pass on to the other side, no longer bound by the chains of earth, no longer bound by the curse Matilda had muttered over him as he lay dying in Seakirk’s dungeon. The castle would finally be his and he would leave it willingly. He was so very tired of living yet not living.

  And he was weary of the bitterness. In life he had been a fairly agreeable sort, as agreeable as a warrior could be while spending so many years killing others to save his own sweet neck. He’d never lacked companionship at night when he wished for it; surely that said something about his character. A pity all that charm and gallantry had disappeared with a single bolt from a crossbow.

  How he despised Richard and Matilda! And of the pair, he loathed Matilda the more. The witch. Scheming, conniving little harlot with her greedy outstretched hands. Kendrick swore harshly. Aye, it was because of her that he had become so acrid in his ways. In life he never would have raised a hand against a woman, nor used one ill. It made him slightly sick inside to think of the terror he had caused poor Mistress Buchanan. What he had been reduced to!