by Lynn Kurland
And now Maledica wanted news.
“A-as far as, er, news is concerned—”
“Has she signed the papers or not?” Maledica asked curtly.
“Not yet, sir, but I expect to hear from her any day now—”
“You fool!” Maledica bellowed, then shut his mouth abruptly, as if he regretted the display of emotion. He leaned forward with his wide hands splayed on the desk. “Hear me well, young McShane. Those papers must be signed and they must be signed quickly, before she escapes back to the States. You will go immediately to your car and drive to Seakirk today. You will call on Miss Buchanan and, if she is still sane, invite her to settle for the stipulated amount.”
Bryan nodded with a gulp and suppressed the urge to loosen his tie. If the choice were between saying no to Maledica and possibly facing Kendrick de Piaget again, Bryan just wasn’t sure what would be worse.
“And if she is no longer there, you will track her down and offer her compensation. I think she will be more than willing to accept it, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Bryan nodded vigorously. She’d be a fool not to take the money and run.
“Should she have departed for points unknown, you will search for her. Do not return without her signature. Is that understood?”
The unspoken threat hung in the air like a disembodied soul, sending tingle after tingle down Bryan’s spine. He had no illusions about what his fate would be should he return unsuccessful. It was enough to make a grown man weep with fear.
“That will be all, McShane.”
Bryan turned and scuttled over to the door.
“Do not betray me, McShane.”
Good lord, a mind reader too! Bryan fled.
Maledica sat back in his comfortable leather chair and smiled at the breeze that crossed his face, a breeze created by the abrupt flight of his flunky. How little intelligence McShane possessed if he thought to doublecross in this deed! No, the events were set in motion, and victory was almost within his grasp. No sniveling simpleton would cost him this prize, the one he had waited so very long to have. He swiveled his chair around and stared up at his crest, the one his family had borne in the Middle Ages. The dragon winked back at him from the surface of the burnished shield, and Maledica laughed. He could taste triumph on his tongue and nothing would stop him from savoring it fully this time.
By now the last of the Buchanans was undoubtedly frightened witless and would be more than willing to give up any right to Seakirk. And then once Seakirk was his, William Sedgwick Maledica (and oh, how he loved his invented surname!) would finally have what he had sold his soul for.
Revenge.
Chapter Seven
Genevieve bounded enthusiastically down the stairs. What an incredible adventure she was living! She rubbed her hands together as she walked quickly across the stone floor of the great hall. Now was the time to have answers to all the questions she hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask before. Who was her ghost? What would he do now? What had made him so irritable, besides the obvious reason that he was no longer alive?
Worthington was puttering about near the stove, muttering under his breath.
“Smells wonderful,” Genevieve said brightly, sitting down at the long worktable.
Worthington turned and looked at her closely. “How do you feel this morning?”
“I’ve never felt better.”
“Did you sleep well?”
“Who is he?”
The corner of Worthington’s mouth tipped up in a smile. “Who is who?”
“Don’t play games with me, Worthington,” she warned. “You know who I’m talking about. You’ve been withholding information and I’m sick of it. I want answers and I want them now.” Wow, she really was starting to sound like Queen Elizabeth. Genevieve put on her most formidable frown. “Tell me who he is.”
Worthington turned back to the stove. “I’m not at liberty to say, my lady.”
So, her butler wasn’t going to give. It sounded like he had taken the same courses in lawyerese Bryan McShane had. Well, it was only a minor setback. Surely there were others who knew something about the castle. All the cleaning people from the village at least knew the rumors. If Worthington wasn’t going to spill the beans, she’d just look around until she found someone who would.
“Well, then I won’t nag you,” she said, feigning an air of indifference. “Could I use your car today? I need to run into town.”
“Mine’s in the shop,” he said, pretending great interest in what was in the pan. “Take His Lordship’s Jaguar. It’s out front with the keys inside.”
“You mean Rodney’s car?” Genevieve prodded. “The late earl of Seakirk?”
She could tell by his profile that he was fighting his smile. “Nay, my lady. Not Rodney’s.”
“Rodney was the only earl I know of,” Genevieve snorted.
“I know of another,” he said serenely.
“Come on, Worthington,” she cajoled. “Give it up. Don’t make me fire you.”
Worthington smiled indulgently. “All in good time, my lady.”
Genevieve wasn’t about to acknowledge her ghost as anything as lofty as an earl, but it was entirely possible that the man had a penchant for expensive automobiles. “What does a ghost need with a car?”
“His Lordship loves his toys.”
“Well, I’ll try not to drive it into a ditch.”
“I don’t think he’d appreciate that.”
“I don’t think so either. And,” she added, “just so you know, I’m off to the antique shop. Research for my business.” She’d seen an ad in the paper and had the feeling if anyone would know about what sort of antiques, living or not, were in her home, it would be an antique dealer.
Worthington gave her a skeptical look as he set down a plate of eggs and ham in front of her. “Miss Adelaide is a tremendous gossip. You shouldn’t believe all her prattle.”
“And how am I to tell truth from fiction if there is no one here to help straighten me out? Unless you’d care to clear things up for me. Would you, Worthington?”
“His Lordship has a point,” Worthington grumbled. “You are a saucy wench.”
With that, he glided from the kitchen, his very proper, midnight-black coattails trailing behind him like an entourage.
The trip into town was one Genevieve would have preferred to forget. Quickly. Having the steering wheel on the wrong side of the car was uncomfortable. Driving on the wrong side of the road was damned dangerous. Knowing that she was sitting behind the wheel of a hundred-thousand-dollar car made her feel light-headed. Perhaps her undead host didn’t want to kill her now, but he certainly would if she totaled his favorite toy.
After only a few brushes with death and the oncoming traffic, she reached Adelaide’s Ancient Acquisitions. The acquirer herself was waiting on the step, as if she’d known Genevieve was set to arrive. Genevieve began to wonder if the entire village were haunted.
“Come in, dear child, and sit,” Adelaide said encouragingly, drawing Genevieve inside and shooing her over to a chair instantly. Adelaide had to make tea before she would even begin to talk about anything at all, and Genevieve was almost beside herself with anticipation. Perhaps now she would know who the man was who continued to haunt her even when he was away. Adelaide took her time preparing refreshments and then settled her substantial self into the chair opposite Genevieve.
Genevieve hardly had time to open her mouth to ask her most pressing question before she was inundated with gossip.
There were the usual items of interest: the grocer’s affair with the constable’s wife; the dressmaker who had lengthy private sessions with the mayor; the school superintendent’s children who had just set fire to the library. Genevieve found herself warming to the woman instantly and laughing at her tales of small-town English life.
“Now, tell me,” Adelaide said, her eyes twinkling. “Have you met him?”
Well, now this was what she’d been waiting for. Why then had she all o
f the sudden become reluctant to speak of him? By golly, he was her ghost. The last thing she wanted was a pack of tourists and paranormal investigators camping out on her front stoop.
But it looked as if Adelaide wasn’t to be deterred. She was waiting expectantly for Genevieve’s answer.
“Who?” Genevieve asked casually.
Adelaide smiled. “My dear, I do tend to chatter on, but I chatter selectively, believe me. I will not betray your confidence.”
Genevieve found herself smiling. “Do you know who he is?”
Adelaide’s eyes took on a dreamy look. “Is he truly as handsome as they say he is?”
“When he isn’t covered in blood and brandishing a battle axe.”
Adelaide’s eyes widened and then she giggled a most undignified giggle. “He’s up to his old tricks then.”
“Can you tell me more? My butler is hopelessly close-mouthed and I’m not about to ask my ghost.”
Adelaide pushed her teacup aside and leaned forward conspiratorially. This was serious gossip. Genevieve leaned forward too, not wanting to miss a single syllable of what would no doubt be gripping revelations.
“His name is Kendrick de Piaget of Artane,” Adelaide said in reverent tone. “Sir Kendrick was a son of the most powerful earl in England in the thirteenth century, Robin of Artane.”
Genevieve was grateful she hadn’t been sipping her tea or she would have choked on it. “The thirteenth century?” she gasped.
Adelaide nodded, her eyes full of barely suppressed enthusiasm. “Aye, and there wasn’t a family more powerful on the island at the time, or more feared and respected for their prowess in battle.”
“Wow,” Genevieve breathed. She could certainly believe that, if Kendrick’s sword were any indication.
“Now, ‘tis said that Kendrick was set to wed the lady of Seakirk, Matilda. How it happened exactly has never been revealed but somehow she betrayed him and he was murdered because of it. He swore vengeance on her descendants and he’s been tormenting them a generation at a time for centuries.”
“I see,” Genevieve said, finding it difficult to swallow suddenly. And she was Matilda’s descendant. Pieces were starting to fall into place.
“I’ve never seen the man, of course, but I’ve heard the tales of his hauntings. When His Lordship is on one of his rampages, Worthington is wont to hie himself off to the pub and have a bit of peace and quiet. After a mug or two of ale, he tends to ramble.” Adelaide smiled in spite of herself. “Not that his rambling yields much. He’s too tight-lipped for that.”
“Yes, I’m well acquainted with his unwillingness to divulge details,” Genevieve nodded. She realized then that she was clutching Adelaide’s lace tablecloth as if it were a life preserver. She forced her fingers to unclench. “Can you tell me any more?”
Adelaide sighed. “I wish I could, child. Whatever else you learn about the man will be through your own doing, I’m afraid. All I know is that it’s rumored that Sir Kendrick is the rightful earl of Seakirk.”
“But how can he be the earl of Seakirk—” Genevieve started to ask, then answered her own question. “I see,” she said thoughtfully. “Then a Buchanan stole the title from him.”
“I’m sure it’s more complicated than that, my dear, but I haven’t the details to prove it.”
Genevieve nodded thoughtfully. She had the feeling those details were precisely what she needed to know if she hoped to understand the man who had haunted those solid walls near the sea for the past seven hundred years.
She drove home and then left the castle to walk along the beach. She walked until the sun set, trying to understand the man she was now sharing a home with. Had he loved Matilda? How old was he when he died? How had the murder been committed? Was there more to it than that?
She walked for hours, or what seemed to her hours by the time she was good and lost. Damn, when had it become so late? She watched as the sky turned a dark blue and the stars came out. Not even a moon to help her. Why hadn’t she thought to bring a heavier coat? She turned to go back the way she had come only to find that the tide had come in and the beach had disappeared. It was oh so tempting to sit down and cry.
Suddenly the flame from a candle appeared before her, hovering in midair.
“Lost?” a deep voice asked gruffly.
If he’d been made of flesh and bone, she would have thrown her arms around him and hugged him. “Very,” she replied hoarsely.
Kendrick de Piaget materialized, revealing the hand that held the candle aloft.
“You’re still on my land. Fortunately. A few more paces north and I wouldn’t have been able to come for you.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, looking up into his pale green eyes. She found herself smiling. They really were the color of sage.
“I don’t want you dead before I can kill you myself,” he said shortly. “Follow me. By now I should hope I know the way home.”
She nodded and scrambled after him up the slope. “Are you really Kendrick de Piaget?”
He hesitated only slightly before continuing to walk. “Aye.”
There was no more conversation for a good hour, as Genevieve didn’t have the breath for it. Kendrick obviously had forgotten that she possessed a pair of very mortal legs and couldn’t keep up with him without running. His pace was drill-sergeant swift.
She followed him through the gates and into the courtyard. The lamp hanging outside the hall door bathed the surroundings in a pale, golden light. Genevieve stopped to catch her breath.
“Did you love her?” she wheezed, hunching over with her hands on her thighs. There, the question she had been burning to ask him was finally out.
Kendrick turned a chilling glance on her. “If you had any idea how I felt about the woman, you would not dare ask.”
“Oh,” Genevieve gulped. “I see.”
“So you do,” he said curtly and promptly vanished.
Genevieve did nothing but breathe until her side ceased to ache and she was no longer gasping for air. She straightened and frowned. Getting answers out of this man would be more difficult than she had anticipated.
“Well,” she said, after stewing for several moments, “if you loved her so much, why do you hate me? I mean, I’m her descendant and all, but—”
He appeared instantly, towering over her. “I despised Matilda,” he said, his eyes flashing. “Not even when I thought I loved her did I truly love her. She was a sniveling, whining bitch who thought of no one but herself. Thanks to her, my life is hell.”
“Why?”
“Because I cannot leave Seakirk!”
“But what has that got to do with me?”
“You live and breathe.”
“Do I remind you of her so much?”
Kendrick’s frown was fierce. “You look nothing like her. And that isn’t the point.”
“Then what is? Whoever said trying to kill me would solve your problems?”
“I deduced it myself.”
“You deduced wrong, buddy,” she said, glaring at him. Rude and unreasonable. Maybe it would be best to leave him alone until he was in a better mood. She walked right through him, then gasped when she realized what she had done. She turned slowly to face him.
He looked as astonished as she felt. “No one has ever dared such a thing before,” he said.
“You were in my way,” she said, regaining her composure. “Maybe you’ll move the next time.”
She made it back to her bedroom without seeing him again. Her preparations for bed were made by memory; she was far too preoccupied. Now she knew who was haunting her and she knew why. At least part of the why. Worthington would have to provide her with the rest of the answers.
No, she thought decidedly, she wouldn’t ask Worthington. It was Kendrick’s story to tell and she’d just wait to hear it until he was ready to tell it. Knowing him even as little as she did, she had the feeling she shouldn’t hold her breath. Well, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t going anywhere and he certainly
didn’t look to be going anywhere. They’d have plenty of time to talk in the future.
She lit the candle next to the bed and slipped under the covers. Reading didn’t appeal to her so she simply lay there and stared off into space.
“We are quite civilized here at Seakirk,” a deep voice growled. “You needn’t use just a candle.”
He was leaning against the footpost of her bed.
“Don’t you ever knock?”
“This is my chamber.”
“I wasn’t about to take any of the others,” she said with a shudder. “And, as I seriously doubt you sleep any, you surely don’t need this bed.”
“It hardly matters whether or not I use it. Seakirk belongs to me and I decide the activities that go on within these walls. And,” he said, looking at her pointedly, “I don’t like you in my bed.”
“Kill me then,” she said, with a shrug.
“You’ll bleed on my sheets.”
“Then drag me downstairs and kill me outside.”
A dark frown appeared on his face. “I cannot.”
“You held the knife.”
“It took an enormous amount of energy. Carrying you is quite beyond my capabilities.”
“Learn to live with me then,” she said, “because I’m not going anywhere.” She leaned over and blew out the candle. “Good night, Kendrick.”
Genevieve lay as still as a corpse, praying she wouldn’t soon feel the sting of a blade across her throat. Had she been a complete idiot by standing up to him? She knew he wouldn’t kill her. Didn’t she?
There was no sound in the room, and finally she began to relax. She carefully pulled the covers up over her ears. Got to protect that jugular from vampires. Or would her ghost protect her? He might if he thought the alternative would leave him with blood on his sheets. Not exactly a paragon of chivalry, but with a little patience, perhaps he could be taught manners.