by Lynn Kurland
But nay, he could have called to Nazir at any moment and his loyal slave would have been forced to heed him. Somehow he just didn’t have the heart or the energy to restrain him. Nazir’s troublemaking was the only amusement left for him. Hearing the Saracen’s tales of glory was worth his own chagrin at having loosed such a naughty member of the undead on the world.
“Kendrick?”
Genevieve’s voice startled him so badly that he almost fell off the walkway. He looked over his shoulder to see her standing not ten paces from him.
“What?” he asked gruffly. So he was lonely. And so she had come to seek him out. He squelched the sudden twinge of pleasure that knowledge brought. He’d be damned before he’d settle for Buchanan company.
Genevieve approached hesitantly and tilted her head back to look up at him.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I never meant to offend you, or hurt your feelings.”
“I’ve no feelings to be hurt.”
“Perhaps you don’t but I was still out of line. I have no idea what you’ve been through and it was presumptuous of me to pretend I did. I would like you to forgive me.”
How sweetly she trembled as she stood near him, and how strenuously she fought to hide those trembles. He’d frightened her badly over the past two weeks, yet she had braved another fright to talk to him. Astonishing.
Even more astonishing was that she had apologized. He felt the ice around his heart begin to thaw just the tiniest bit. Not a great amount, mind you, but a tiny bit. It wasn’t actually Genevieve’s fault that Matilda had been such a bitch. She certainly couldn’t be blamed for his current situation.
He sighed. He hadn’t been able to carry through any of his plans. He couldn’t kill her, nor could he make her daft. At the moment, he had too much pride to ask her bluntly to sign the castle over to him. Ah, what a sorry state he was in!
Perhaps in a few days he would try again, after he had overcome this foolish desire to see her smile, after he had regained in his breast the ache that her coming into his home had somehow filled, or perhaps after he had lost the yearning to lose himself in her deep hazel eyes. Aye, then he would demand that she give up what was rightfully hers in order for him to finally be free of Seakirk’s hold on him. If she found him in a particularly fine mood, he might even allow her to live in the keep after he had gone.
But not now. He looked down into her sweet face and winced at the rapidness of his surrender.
“I’ll forgive you if I must,” he said, trying to sound ungracious. There was no sense in letting her think she had the upper hand. Perhaps she had a body of flesh and bones, but that hardly meant he would let her take over the running of the keep for as long as they were both there. Despite what might be in the Crown’s records, Seakirk was his. He had paid for it in blood and he fully intended to keep it. Genevieve had best realize from the start that he was lord.
Genevieve gave him a hesitant smile. “Should you find yourself bored, or just in need of company, I would…well, I’ll be here.”
“In my bed,” he said darkly.
She actually grinned. “Yes, in your bed. You shouldn’t have a hard time finding me.” She took a step back. “Good night, Kendrick.”
How sweetly his name rolled from her tongue. Had he never before listened to the way a mortal voice whispered against his ears? Nay, it was Genevieve’s voice that gave such music to the word, that husky voice of hers that made his traitorous knees want to buckle.
She turned to walk away. Suddenly, he very much dreaded being alone.
“Genevieve?”
She turned to look at him. “Yes?”
Nay, he could not admit wanting to have her stay. He’d lost everything else, but he still had his pride. No sense in bidding that adieu quite yet.
“Good night,” he said, hoping he sounded confident and a bit aloof.
She looked puzzled. “Good night, Kendrick. And thank you for not killing me.”
“Tomorrow is another day.”
Damn her if she didn’t laugh right in his face. Then she had the gall to wink at him! Before he could recover his wits, she had walked away.
Damnation. He turned back to his dark contemplation of the water below him, and did his best to muster up a frown.
Instead, a grin crept over his mouth. By the saints, she was a cheeky wench! First she flattered him with an apology, then teased him with a mocking wink, as if he were now completely under her spell and she were free to act with him how she pleased.
“Hell,” he muttered under his breath, then his sigh turned into a chuckle and his chuckle turned into a laugh. Aye, the last of the Buchanans certainly had come away with all the fire. He laughed again at the memory of her grin and felt his heart begin to shake off some of the shackles that had fettered it for centuries. Perhaps it was time he took advantage of the situation and availed himself of some company.
Of course it would only be for as long as she continued to intrigue him, which surely wouldn’t be long. Then he’d demand her surrender and be on his way. But, as that time would certainly come quickly, there was no reason not to tarry a few more days and enjoy Genevieve’s companionship.
After all, Buchanan company was better than no company at all.
Especially when that Buchanan was Genevieve.
Chapter Nine
Genevieve sat on a stone bench in the garden, enjoying the shade provided by an ancient tree. Sketching designs for the bedrooms had seemed like such a good idea that morning but somehow she just couldn’t take much interest in it. She twirled the pencil around her fingers idly, wondering what she was waiting for. And she was waiting for something.
Or, more to the point, someone. It had been two days since her conversation with Kendrick on the roof. She was beginning to wonder if he would ever appear to her again. Had she offended him again? Did she care? She tapped the end of the pencil against her thigh thoughtfully. Why shouldn’t she care? He was her ghost, after all. A girl couldn’t be expected to ignore such a handsome quirk.
She lifted her eyes from her sketchbook and caught her breath. As if he had materialized from her very thoughts, Kendrick himself walked down the path toward her. She wondered how in the world Matilda had resisted him. He was nothing short of breathtaking.
His black leggings did nothing but show off his long, muscular legs. A white tunic hugged his broad chest and thick arms. His long hair was pulled back and she could see the tail of a black ribbon falling over his collarbone. His sword belt was slung low over his hips, making him look like a sexy pirate. He walked with an arrogant swagger, as if he were master of all he surveyed. Perhaps there was truth in that. If Seakirk belonged to anyone, it was to Kendrick.
And how real he looked. If she hadn’t known better, she would have thought him a flesh and blood man. What a pity he wasn’t. Matilda had been a fool. Even if she could have ignored his handsome face, she shouldn’t have been able to resist his magnetism. Genevieve had stood next to him on the roof for only a few moments and she had felt suspiciously like swooning. How could anyone stare up into those sage-colored eyes and not feel a bit faint? No matter if the man did nothing but frown. He was a stunner. In fact, Genevieve sincerely hoped she never saw him smile. The sheer kilowattage would probably kill her.
The lord of Seakirk stopped just short of her and made her a low bow. Was this the same man who had come at her two weeks ago with an arrow jutting from his chest, then threatened her with both a broadsword and a very tangible knife? And now he was bowing to her? She was half tempted to pinch herself just to make sure she wasn’t dreaming.
“Good morrow to you, my lady,” he said gravely.
It was preposterous, but Genevieve found herself blushing furiously. She felt like a fourteen-year-old girl being noticed for the first time by the captain of the football team. She ducked her head, pretending to be mightily interested in the grass at his feet.
“Same to you,” she said.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him
sit down next to her on the bench. She wiped her clammy hands on her jeans, realizing that it was hardly from fear that her palms were damp. Oh, she just wasn’t good around men who weren’t tucked safely away in her daydreams!
“ ’Tis a fine day out, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“How does the garden smell at present? The last blooms of the summer are almost faded, it seems.”
That surprised her enough to force her to look at him. “You can’t smell?”
“What would I smell with, Genevieve? When I lost my body of flesh and blood, I also lost use of those senses you take so much for granted.”
Genevieve saw her opening. Now was the time for questions, before Kendrick ran out of patience and drew his sword.
“But I hear your voice,” she countered. “How do you speak without vocal cords?”
“Ah, well, it’s fairly complicated. I don’t know that I understand it all myself.”
She waited. She was a college graduate, for heaven’s sake. Surely it wasn’t that hard to understand.
Kendrick smiled at her, as if he understood exactly what she was thinking. That made her squirm. Surely he couldn’t read her thoughts.…
“You see,” he began, “the essence of man is a powerful thing. When housed in a mortal frame, the spirit finds itself fettered and bound. Not that it objects, mind you. There is much to be said for the pleasures a body can provide.”
Genevieve smiled to herself. She had the distinct feeling Kendrick had fully enjoyed those pleasures when he was alive.
“There is a price for being housed in flesh,” Kendrick continued. “ ’Tis much like a man’s ability to move less freely while wearing armor that he can unbound.”
“Go on.” Why hadn’t he ever written a book? The money he could have made with these revelations!
“I did,” he said. “Not a best-seller, I fear.”
Genevieve gasped, her worst fears coming true. “You can read my mind?”
“The mind is powerful, my lady. You only use a small portion of yours. I have full use of my faculties. And what I wouldn’t give to trade those powers for the feel of a rose petal against my cheek or the smell of salt air in my nostrils. The ability to read your thoughts is a poor substitute for your faculties.”
“I had better watch what I think around you.”
“I already know you think I’m foul tempered, arrogant beyond belief and, let’s see…what else did you call me?” He gave her a lazy smile. “Breathtakingly handsome?”
“I was having a bad dream at the time.”
He laughed, a full-throated laugh, sounding not in the least bit offended at her slur. When his mirth subsided, he leaned back against the wall and smiled at her. Oh, that smile was nothing short of lethal. Genevieve felt light-headed.
“You’ve had quite a few nightmares since you came and I’m almost to the point of apologizing for them. And to answer your first question, what you hear is the image of my voice that I project into your mind. ‘Tis a simple enough thing to do.”
If you’re a ghost, she thought dryly.
“Exactly. Now tell me, my lady, how does the garden smell? It looks fragrant enough.”
Genevieve swallowed with difficulty over the lump in her throat. She did take so much for granted: the feel of the early autumn sun warming her hair and back; the delicate perfume of the roses before her; the rough feel of the stone bench under her hands. How could Kendrick not be vengeful, having been denied all that for so long?
“Don’t pity me,” he said, beginning to frown.
“Stay out of my mind,” she retorted, then grimaced. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude.”
He waved away her apology. “I have no feelings to bruise, remember? I never should have told you. I’ll try not to eavesdrop so often. Please tell me of the day.”
“It smells like roses and dirt,” she began slowly. “And I can smell the smoke from the fireplace a bit too. It’s almost chilly here in the shade and the bench is actually quite cold.” She looked at him and shrugged. “That’s it, I suppose.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding. “Very pleasant indeed.”
The sun glanced off the hilt of his sword and Genevieve stiffened. “Why do you wear that thing?”
“Habit, I suppose. When I was alive, it was never out of reach, even while I slept. A weapon close at hand saved my life more times than I care to remember.”
It was strange to think that the man facing her had lived in another time, another world really.
“What was it really like?” she asked. “In your time?”
He smiled. It was a boyish smile, full of mischief and exuberance. She was completely charmed by it. Then there was his dimple. How his mother must have loved that sweet mark in his cheek.
“Would you like to see my time?”
“How do you mean?”
“Look.”
She blinked and then gasped. Where the garden had been, there was now nothing but dirt. Men and animals roamed about the courtyard freely. She could hear the clank of a blacksmith’s hammer against his anvil. There was a tremendous crash to her right and she jerked her head around in time to see an armored man go flying twenty feet off the back of his horse, still holding onto a lance. She pulled her knees up to her chest, then gasped again. She was not in jeans, but a dress.
“How…?”
“I call it illusion. Or delusion, if you prefer.”
“But your clothes seem real enough.”
“There seem to be various levels of these illusions I am able to conjure up. This, for example”—he drew his sword, and the sunlight winked off the blade—“is what I call a permanent illusion. Like my clothing, once it is created, it remains from day to day without changing. The yard before you is more of a momentary illusion. It will remain only for a few hours, longer if I pour more energy into the fashioning of it. Your gown is fashioned of that type of illusion.”
Genevieve shut her mouth and looked down at the dress she was wearing. It was a historian’s dream. The dress was green and looked to be made of coarse wool. The fabric was heavy and rough under her fingers. The bodice was worked with pearls and precious stones that would have been worth a small fortune. She trailed her fingers over the gems, marveling at the cold hardness of them.
The sound of hoofbeats startled her and she looked up to see two horsemen approaching. They dismounted and stood before Kendrick.
“Allow me to present one or two of my more permanent illusions.” He gestured to the man on the far left. “This is a sturdy version of my cousin, Jamie. He isn’t really here—’tis but my imagination and memories which have found home in the mock body I created for him.”
Jamie was taller than Kendrick and built like a house. His long blond hair hung well past his shoulders and he carried a battle-ax in one hand and a deadly-looking sword in the other.
“Jamie was a fine fighter,” Kendrick mused. “We went warring together for many years. And the other,” he gestured to the smiling young man standing with his hand on his horse’s neck, “is my younger brother, Jason. He doesn’t do much but remind me of how I felt when I was younger and could best him in a sword fight without my sword.”
Genevieve smiled. Kendrick’s ego was healthy. He winked at her.
“I know.”
She frowned. “Mind your own thoughts, Kendrick, and stay out of mine.”
She was preparing to give him a more thorough lecture when another man thundered up on a white horse and leaped to the ground before the beast had stopped. He was dressed all in white robes and looked exactly as she had always imagined a Saracen would look.
“This is Nazir, troublemaker extraordinaire,” Kendrick said with a grumble. “He tried to kill me many times when I still possessed a body of flesh and blood. It was only after I almost killed him that he became my devoted slave. Isn’t that right, Nazir?”
“I am no slave,” the man said stiffly and his voice was an eerie whisper.
Genevieve gasped. “Good grief, he speaks?”
Nazir looked at her, and she had the distinct impression he was just as real as Kendrick.
“Who is the woman, my lord?” Nazir asked in a husky voice. “Her beauty stirs my desire.” He took a step closer to her, his dark eyes hot with something that made her definitely uncomfortable.
Kendrick stood up, his hand on his sword hilt. “The woman is mine. You will not touch her, nor will you approach her when I am not by her side. Your only duty to her is to protect her if I cannot. You will kill anyone who tries to harm her but you will not take her for yourself. Is that understood?”
“Aye, my lord,” Nazir said curtly. He made Kendrick a low bow and then straightened. “If that is all?”
Kendrick’s scowl was formidable. “What havoc have you wreaked as of late?”
Nazir’s eyes immediately took on an unholy twinkle. “Deeds worthy of song, my lord.”
“The saints preserve me,” Kendrick groaned, lowering himself to the bench wearily.
“Aye, that was what most of my victims cried also.”
“Nazir!”
One corner of the Saracen’s mouth tipped up in the slightest of smiles. “Just a bit of mischief in London, my lord. I’ll tell you of it, when you wish to be amused.”
Genevieve leaned closer to Kendrick. “He can leave Seakirk?”
“Aye, beautiful one,” Nazir said in his unearthly voice. “I bring His Lordship tales from near and far to amuse him. If you would care to hear—”
“Later,” Kendrick grumbled. “Beat it, Nazir.”
“Beat it?” he echoed.
“Depart hence. Disappear. Make haste to another part of the castle where I am not.”
Nazir disappeared. With a flick of his wrist, Kendrick sent his cousin Jamie and his brother Jason wandering off too. He looked at Genevieve.