Ghostly Enchantment

by Angie Ray

  She couldn’t wait any longer. She had to know what was passing between them. She put her hand on the knob, ready to turn it, when there was a commotion at the front door.

  Mortimer stormed into the hall, his riding gloves still on, a crop clenched in one fist. Gibbons, right behind him, grabbed him by the arm, but at that moment, Mortimer saw Margaret.

  Shaking off the butler, he strode across the hall. “Is Barnett in there?” he snarled.

  Margaret stepped back, too startled to reply. With an impatient growl, he swung open the door, banging it against the wall. Margaret heard Bernard say, “What do you mean--?” before Mortimer snarled again.

  “Barnett, I want to speak to you.”

  Margaret quickly scooted into the room behind Gibbons. The butler looked flustered. “I’m sorry, my lord; he refused to wait.”

  “Never mind, Gibbons. You may go.”

  After an almost imperceptible hesitation, the butler quietly closed the door.

  Bernard looked coolly at the visitor. “What do you want, Mortimer? Are you here to settle your debts?”

  Mortimer flushed. “Not yet, Barnett. First I want to know how you did it.”

  “Did what?”

  “Don’t give me that blockhead stare, Barnett. All morning I’ve been trying to figure it out. I can’t believe you’ve been fooling everyone all these years. It’s simply not possible anyone could pretend such denseness. So tell me, how did you manage to cheat me out of my entire fortune?”

  Bernard stiffened and looked his most pompous. “I never cheat.”

  “Hah!” Mortimer’s frustration and fury were evident in the way he slapped the crop against his thigh. “Oh, I grant you, you were very clever. As closely as I watched, I could not catch you at it, but it’s obvious you cheated royally.”

  “Do you impugn my honor?”

  Mortimer stared at him incredulously. “Of course I’m impugning your honor, you half-wit.”

  Margaret tugged at Bernard’s sleeve. “Bernard, come away. He’s not rational.”

  “Stay out of this, you slut.” The whip snapped against Mortimer’s leg more quickly. Margaret had the uncomfortable feeling he was wishing he could use it on her.

  Under Bernard’s sleeve, Margaret felt his arm tense. “Sir, your manners leave much to be desired. Apologize at once, or--“

  “Or what?” Mortimer sneered. “You will challenge me to a duel?”

  “If necessary.”

  Mortimer almost dropped the whip, his astonishment was so great.

  Then he smiled.

  “I refuse to apologize either to you or the slut,” he said deliberately.

  “Then name your seconds, sir.”

  “Bernard--“ Margaret gripped his arm. She couldn’t believe this was happening. “This is madness.”

  Bernard shook off her hand. “Be quiet, Margaret.”

  “We’ll have to forgo seconds,” Mortimer said. “What with dueling in such disfavor these days, we might end up in prison.”

  “If that is what you wish.” Bernard’s expression did not change.

  “And naturally, as I was the one challenged, I must select the weapon.” Mortimer smiled silkily. “I choose swords.”

  Bernard nodded tersely.

  “Then what do you say to tomorrow? Night would be best. It will afford us some privacy, and the moon is still full. At the clearing behind the castle?”

  “Very well.”

  “Tomorrow at midnight, then, Barnett. I look forward to it.” With an evil laugh, Mortimer left the room.

  “Are you insane?” Margaret half-shouted at Bernard.

  “A man must defend the honor of his fiancee and himself.” He was wearing a particularly pigheaded look on his face.

  “Honor! Who cares about honor? You could be killed!”

  Bernard looked at her. “I thought this was what you wanted.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You think I am a coward, Margaret.” His gaze was unwavering. “Don’t bother to deny it. Perhaps this will prove to you I am not.”

  “That will certainly comfort me when you are dead.”

  Bernard watched her steadily, ignoring her sarcasm. Something in his gaze made her flush and turn her head away.

  “If you will excuse me,” he said quietly. “There are some things I must attend to.” He bowed and left the room.

  Disbelievingly, she stared after him. What had gotten into him? She thought she knew him, but the Bernard she knew would never be so foolish.

  “He’s right, you know,” Phillip said softly.

  Margaret whirled to face him. “How can you say that? We must stop them!”

  Phillip inspected his sleeve, not answering for a moment. Was that a speck of dust marring the fabric or had a tiny spot faded away? he wondered.

  Smoothing a finger over the spot, he didn’t look at her. “Why?”

  “Why?” Margaret sounded close to tears. “Bernard barely knows one end of a sword from another. He will be killed.”

  Phillip looked up from the hole in his sleeve, anger kindling in him. Damn her, why must she always be so concerned for Bernard? Here he was, fading away, and all she cared about was her precious fiance. Did she love Bernard? How could she love such a wooden block? He opened his mouth, intending to refuse to help, but the sight of the distress on her face stopped him.

  Instead, he said coldly, “What can I do? There’s not enough time to give him fencing lessons--even if I could hold a sword.”

  He knew the exact moment the idea occurred to her. The crease between her brows smoothed out, and her bright, pleading eyes turned to him. His anger increased. Could she truly be so naive as to ask such a thing?

  “Phillip, couldn’t you step into his body again? You can fight with a sword. Aunt Letty said you were a master.”

  Incredible. He looked back at his sleeve, smoothing his fingers over the fabric, even though he couldn’t feel it. “Letty was ever a flatterer.”

  “Oh, it’s not true then?”

  “No, it is true. But do you realize what you ask, Margaret?” His gaze rose to meet hers. “If I do step into Bernard’s body, I will very likely use up the last of my strength. I doubt I will be able to appear again.”

  Her hand rose to her throat and she stared at him. Then her eyes shut as if to deny his words.

  For some reason, this made him even angrier. He started to pace around the room. In his anger, he strode right through the furniture, not bothering to go around.

  “Why should I help Bernard?” he demanded, passing through the sofa. “If Mortimer kills him, then I will be avenged on both my enemies. The curse may be broken.”

  “You can’t believe that, Phillip.” Her voice was a whisper of sound, but it ripped at his conscience. “I can’t believe your purpose here could be so wicked.”

  “Even if my purpose is not revenge, why should I risk waiting years for another chance to break this curse? What if I can’t find another person who can see me? What if I wait forever?”

  What if he stepped into Bernard’s body and let Mortimer kill the idiot? Which was exactly what he wanted to do.

  He stopped in front of her, glaring down at her white face. Didn’t she understand what she was asking?

  “I don’t know, Phillip. You’re right of course. I can’t ask you to make such a sacrifice.”

  Her eyes were dark with confusion, pain and worry. Looking at her, he felt his heart constrict and his throat tighten with some nameless emotion. He would miss her when he was gone. Strange, how could she make him feel so alive when he had been dead for over seventy-eight years. This time with her had been so sweet--perhaps a small recompense for the pain he had endured? Or perhaps a second chance to...to what? He stared deep into her eyes, seeking, searching for an answer to a question he couldn’t even define.

  The answer was there, although he still wasn’t certain what the question was. But it no longer mattered.

  He knew what he must do.
r />   “I will be there, my dear,” he said.

  *****

  In the shadowy entry hall, Margaret stood quietly behind the suit of armor. Moonlight streamed through one of the narrow windows, lighting the stairs for Margaret’s watching eyes. She had been waiting for Bernard since eleven o’clock to ensure she wouldn’t miss him.

  She heard the muted chimes of a clock as it struck the quarter hour, the sound carrying clearly in the dark stillness. Only fifteen minutes until midnight. Where was Bernard?

  Perhaps more to the point, where was Phillip? He had not come to her room after dinner, and it occurred to her that he had not actually promised to help Bernard. I will be there, he had said. Would he stand by and watch Bernard be killed to satisfy his thirst for revenge? She should have made him promise to help.

  But what if Phillip was right? If he did help, would he fade away to exist in a kind of limbo, possibly forever?

  Her stomach knotted. To help one, she must cause the other to suffer a terrible fate. What cruel providence had created such an impossible situation with such an impossible choice?

  A light tread sounded on the stairway. Margaret ducked back into the darkest shadow. Bernard came into view, the moonlight gleaming on the blade of the sword he carried. He opened the door and went out into the night. Brushing away a cobweb, she pulled up the hood of her grey mantle and followed him.

  The night was crisp and cold. Margaret shivered, wishing she had put on more than one flannel petticoat. She should have let Yvette help her get dressed, she thought.

  Not wanting her maid to know she was going out, she had dressed herself. It hadn’t been easy. She had had to leave off her corset, and she couldn’t reach all the buttons of her dress. Thankfully, the mantle concealed most of her toilette’s shortcomings.

  And at least the thick cloth of her mantle and her woolen mittens were warm, she thought as she picked her way along the muddy path towards the clearing. She stayed several yards behind Bernard, scurrying from tree to tree in her efforts to stay out of sight. He paused once, head cocked, listening, and she froze, barely daring to breath. When he moved on, she released a sigh of relief and started picking her way more carefully along the winding path, watching for branches or leaves that might crunch underfoot and alert him to her presence.

  She was peering down at the ground, stepping over a small puddle, when a dark shape loomed up in front of her.

  Margaret let out a stifled scream before she realized it was Bernard.

  “Bernard!” she gasped, heart still pounding. “You frightened me half to death!”

  Bernard was not overly concerned by her fright. He had suspected she might try to do something foolish. “What do you think you are doing, Margaret?” he asked quietly.

  She tilted her chin. “I am going with you, Bernard. Don’t try to talk me out of it.”

  “A duel is no place for a woman.”

  “It is no place for anyone. I cannot believe you are being so stubborn.”

  “We have already discussed this, Margaret. My honor is at stake.”

  “Hmmph. And what will fighting prove? That Mortimer is more skilled with a sword?”

  “I’m not a complete idiot, Margaret. I have improved my swordsmanship since Mortimer and I last fought.”

  “But why take the risk?”

  “You told him I abandoned you after the scandal.”

  Margaret was so taken aback by the change in subject, she could only stare at him for a moment. Regathering her wits, she said coolly, “Well, didn’t you?”

  “Is that what you think?” Bernard’s face was pale and furious.

  “What else can I think? You never came to the house--“

  “That’s not true! Your mother refused to let me in. I waited in the woods for you, but you never came.”

  “I was locked in my room,” Margaret whispered faintly. “For a week.”

  He looked at her sharply. “I had left by then. I had some business that couldn’t wait. When I returned to Barnett Manor, my father and I argued, and he sent me to the India.”

  “But you never looked at me that day in Church.”

  For the first time, Bernard glanced away from her. “I couldn’t, Margaret. My father was so callous and indifferent--and that girl who was bearing his child. Don’t you know how ashamed I was? “

  “Do you know how hurt I was? No one spoke to me for over a year. After that I was constantly on trial. Any slip, and the silence returned. It wore me down, Bernard. I tried not to care, but I did.”

  Bernard was pale. “I didn’t know. I thought you hated me because of what my father did. When I came back from the India, I tried to show you I wasn’t like him, but it didn’t seem to work.” He took hold of her hand, holding it tightly between his own. “I’m sorry, Margaret. God, I’m sorry. If I’d known, I would have come back sooner.”

  “It’s past, Bernard. It makes no difference now.”

  The stubborn look returned to his face. “Doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t fight this duel.”

  “I must.”

  “Why?”

  “To prove I am not a coward.”

  “No one thinks you are a coward, Bernard.”

  He laughed a little at that. It was a strange laugh, she thought. One that didn’t sound like Bernard at all.

  “What is it you want, Margaret?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, what do you truly want? Phillip? Is he what you want? Or someone like him? A selfish womanizer who cheats on his wives, who always puts his own pleasure and own interests first?”

  “No, of course not,” she whispered.

  He laughed again before turning and walking away. Over his shoulder he said, “Come if you wish, for I cannot stop you. But stay out of the way for I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  Margaret bit her lip, his words spinning in her brain. What did she want? She didn’t know exactly, and she couldn’t take the time now to puzzle it out. Picking up her skirts, she hurried after him.

  Mortimer was waiting.

  Oak trees ringed the clearing like dark sentinels, silently waiting for the display of skill and strength, for the game of life and death to begin. Moonlight bathed the area in an unearthly glow and illuminated the figure of Mortimer as he practiced a vicious sword thrust. The scene reminded Margaret of a picture she had seen in a book once--a picture of ancient Celts preparing a pagan ritual.

  And Bernard would be the blood sacrifice.

  Inside her mittens, her cold hands clenched into fists. Where was Phillip?

  Hearing them arrive, Mortimer turned. “Ah, I see you brought a second after all. A most charming choice, Barnett. Perhaps after I kill you, I will show her what it’s like to be with a real man.”

  Appalled, Margaret drew back against a tree. Mortimer laughed and pulled his cravat off, tossing it on a rock at the edge of the clearing where his coat already lay. Dressed all in black, he stood waiting like Death itself.

  Bernard quickly followed suit. In his grey breeches and white shirt, he gleamed in silver contrast to Mortimer’s dark shadow. “Are you ready to fight, Mortimer?” he asked coldly.

  “Certainly. Are you ready to die?”

  Margaret shuddered.

  The two men saluted each other briefly. Then swiftly, before Margaret could even blink, Mortimer attacked.

  Margaret’s heart leapt to her throat as the wicked blade slashed through the air. Bernard swung up his sword, barely parrying the thrust in time. Without pause, Mortimer attacked again and the sound of clashing steel rang through the night.

  Mortimer drove Bernard back across the clearing, his sword never ceasing its motion. He moved so quickly, it was difficult for Margaret to follow what was happening, but at least Bernard seemed to be holding his own.

  Hope sprang forth in her breast, only to die as Mortimer backed Bernard up against a gnarled tree. His sword flashing like a hungry serpent, Mortimer made a lethal thrust.

  Margaret buried h
er face in her hands, not wanting to look, not wanting to see the steel entering Bernard’s body. She wanted to run away, back to the safety of her room and hide her head under her pillow, away from the smell of hate and violence that permeated the very air. But she remained frozen in the shadow of the tree, even as she spread her fingers to see whether Bernard lived or died.

  At the last possible moment, Bernard jumped aside and the point of Mortimer’s sword drove into the tree, the impact sounding like a pistol shot. Cursing, Mortimer yanked on the blade and whirled to face Bernard. But now it was Bernard who pressed the attack.

  Mortimer backed in a circle around the edge of the clearing, his breath making white puffs in the air. Each parry seemed slower as he continued to back away from Bernard’s onslaught.

  Margaret watched in amazement. She never would have guessed it, but Bernard seemed quite proficient with a sword. As the duelists neared the spot where she stood, hope unfurled in her breast. Perhaps he could defeat Mortimer after all....

  Before she could even complete the thought, Bernard’s foot caught on an exposed root and he tripped. He went down heavily, his sword flying from his hand. As he stared up at Mortimer, a cold fear overwhelmed Margaret.

  Bernard would be killed.

  Phillip, where are you? she screamed silently.

  Mortimer, his face dark with hate, snarled, “No one crosses me, Barnett, and no one makes a fool of me.” He smiled evilly. His teeth flashed, while shadows hollowed out his cheeks and his eyes were black holes in his face. He looked like a grinning deathshead. “Or they die.”

  He thrust with all the force of his arm, the point of his sword heading straight for Bernard’s heart.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  He saw the point of a sword bearing down on him. Muscles bunching, he rolled with lightning speed towards his blade. Mortimer grunted when his thrust missed its prey.

  He heard Mortimer’s footsteps coming after him. Reaching for the fallen sword, he encountered only cold mud. The blade was barely beyond his grasp. In less than a second, he knew he would feel cold steel slicing into his flesh. He stretched his arm further, all but dislocating it, groping for the sword. As his fingers closed over the hilt, he heard the whistling sound of a blade slashing through the air towards him.