by Lynn Kurland
"Nice," he said sincerely.
"The master does not slight his guests," Worthington said.
"Isn't he afraid some stranger's going to make off with his nice antiques?"
Worthington looked at him for a long moment, then chuckled.
It was, Jake decided, a very unwholesome sound.
"Make off with?" he echoed. "No, sir, the master doesn't worry about that. He has a very unique security system."
Jake looked around. "Cameras in every room?"
Worthington only backed out the door. "The chamber is ensuite, of course. Refresh yourself and I'll bring up your bag. And as for my lord's retainers, why they're ghosts, didn't you know?"
Jake laughed, but it sounded quite hollow, even to his own ears. He waited until Worthington had shut the door before he permitted himself a really good shiver. Whatever the rumors were and however true they might or might not have been, one thing was for certain: Seakirk gave him the creeps.
He went to the bathroom, feeling entirely observed while he was at it, then returned to the bedroom a new and more realistic man. He didn't believe in ghosts. It was probably just a good way to drum up business for Seakirk's lord.
Though given that Seakirk's lord was a recluse and apparently had no need for business to be drummed up on his behalf, the rumor was rather unsettling.
Worthington's discreet tap on the door a few minutes later almost sent him through the roof. He took a deep breath, then went to answer the door. He accepted his overnight bag from the butler and learned that there would be something appearing on the table downstairs quite soon. He watched Worthington back out of the room and disappear behind a rapidly closing door.
How long was it before he could politely go downstairs, and what would it do to his own image of masculinity if he just bolted there now?
Deciding there wasn't anyone around to pass judgment on him if he did the prudent thing and caught a good place at the table early, he left the room and headed down to the great hall himself.
Dinner was excellent.
It was also much too short.
Jake expressed what he hoped was an appropriate amount of appreciation. Worthington was, as was apparently his custom, quite unmoved by either the flattery or the speed with which Jake wolfed down his meal. He merely stood at attention, not a silver hair out of place, and waited patiently.
Jake did the sensible thing and toyed with the remains of a lovely chocolate mousse as long as possible. "Does the family have quite a few children?" he asked conversationally.
"Triplet boys, seven years old," Worthington said with nary a flinch. "Two more lads and then a wee girl."
"Good grief!" Jake exclaimed. "The poor kid."
Worthington only lifted one eyebrow. "Young mistress Adelaide Anne is the loudest of the lot."
Jake descended with him into comfortable silence for quite some time. "When do they return?" he asked finally.
"On the morrow, perhaps."
"Then I should leave you to your peace and quiet. I appreciate the meal."
Worthington nodded and began to clear the plates. "I do have an assignation, sir, so I do appreciate that."
"An assignation?" Jake asked, smothering a smile. What an old-fashioned term for it.
"A discreet pint down at the pub with a certain Mistress Adelaide," Worthington confided carefully. "She owns an antique shop in the village."
"I like antiques."
"So I see by your pristine automobile," Worthington said in admiration. "I will have it seen to in the morning. I placed a tarp over it and flashers behind it for the night, lest anyone damage such a marvelous piece of history."
"It is a great car," Jake agreed. "I appreciate the effort."
Worthington nodded and Jake rose to head upstairs. He found himself with a sudden lack of desire to retire. Not that he thought that bedroom was haunted, but it was dark and stormy outside and a little company didn't sound all that bad.
Then again, Worthington, poor man, probably did need his evening out. Jake had the feeling that when the crew returned, not all those immaculately groomed silver hairs would remain in their places.
"My lord does have a rather interesting smattering of artifacts," Worthington offered suddenly, pausing on the way to the kitchen. "Through there, in the library. Of course, those are just the more ordinary things. If you're truly interested in a bit of history, I can show you his lordship's private collection."
"How do you know I'm not a thief?" Jake asked, quite frankly surprised that Worthington was so forthcoming with His Lordship's private things.
Worthington only smiled.
"I know," Jake said with a sigh. "Ghosts."
Worthington put the plates down on the end of the table. "Follow me, sir."
Jake followed him obediently up the stairs and down a long hallway. He was ushered into a very nicely appointed study, complete with an enormous plasma television in the corner of the room that had to have cost the same amount as a small BMW. Apparently that wasn't the real treasure, because Worthington opened a door at the far end of the study, flicked on the lights, and stood back.
"Here we are," he said.
Jake looked inside and caught his breath. "Wow," he said, in genuine appreciation. It was the reaction he generally had at the end of a long slog to a mine where he didn't expect to find anything and then found clusters of fine quartz and corundum instead.
He looked down the hallway, a hallway long enough that he wondered if it might not run the length of the castle. It was filled with all manner of weapons, suits of armor, and other paraphernalia of war. There was a doorway on the right and Jake looked back at Worthington, who motioned him to go on. Jake opened the door and peeked in.
"More wow," he managed.
"Enjoy, sir."
"I think I will," Jake said.
The hallway had been impressive, but the good stuff was evidently in here. Swords, knives, spears, armor, shields; and all of a decidedly medieval bent. He noticed Worthington leaving, then noticed little else for quite some time as he happily made himself at home puttering about in history. He marveled at the depth and breadth of the collection, at its age, at its level of preservation.
Amazing, and nothing but.
Time passed.
Though he couldn't have said how much time had passed before he saw it.
It was an enormous broadsword laying in an open, velvet-lined case, beckoning to him with all the seductiveness of a Siren. Jake walked over to it and reached his hand out to touch before he thought better of it. He traced his fingers over the word Artane carved into the crossbar of the hilt.
Artane again.
He shouldn't have been surprised.
But what in the world was one of Artane's swords doing here at Seakirk? Maybe Seakirk's lord roamed a bit in his travels to find the old and the unusually well kept. Jake reached out to run his finger along the blade—
"Better not."
He spun around in surprise.
There was no one there.
He suppressed a shiver and turned back to the sword. He stretched out his hand again.
"Bloody fool," someone behind him muttered, "can't he take a bit of friendly advice?"
"I'd say not," said another voice. "They never learn, do they? Let him cut hisself, then, and be the one to clean up the mess."
Jake shook his head, hoping that a good shaking would either clean out his ears or clear away what seemed to be a colossal hallucination. He decided that discretion was the better part of valor, so he put his hands in his pockets, his imagination on notice, and his attention on something besides a sword that seemed determined to warn him not to touch it.
He continued to peruse Seakirk's treasures unmolested and unaccompanied by comment until he found himself standing in front of a desk. He stared up at the familial portrait there. A woman was there, beautiful, with long, blond hair. A younger version of the woman was seated before her on a stone bench, only the younger girl's hair was dark. A man s
tood next to the woman, dark haired and gray eyed. No doubt he was her husband. Three young men of various ages either sat on the bench or lounged on the ground before the bench.
And in the background was a castle. Part of a castle. Enough of a castle that Jake knew that it wasn't the castle in which he was standing.
Artane…
Jake closed his eyes. What was it with that place that he found it in front of him at every turn lately?
He took a deep breath, opened his eyes, and stared up at the portrait. He could only assume that the family seated in front of that majestic castle belonged to it. A lord of former times with his wife and children? Lucky man, then, because the woman was indeed beautiful, with her hair cascading over her shoulder in a long, straight sheet of pale yellow. Jake leaned up on his toes for a better look.
"Aye, she was fair, that Lady Anne," came a voice from directly behind him.
Jake fell over onto the desk. Fortunately for him, it wasn't boasting the usual deskly accoutrements and he only knocked over an empty bud vase. He righted it carefully, giving himself time to get a grip on his wildly overactive imagination.
His retainers are ghosts, didn't you know?
Worthington's words came back to him, along with half a dozen other unbelievable rumors he'd heard over the years. He pulled out the desk chair and sat down. Not because he needed to, of course, but because he thought he might hang around for a little and see what kind of conversation he might eavesdrop on.
"Aye, Anne was fair," another voice conceded, "but I meself preferred the Lady Gwennelyn. The hair dark as midnight, the eyes the color of the sea, her skin like alabaster—"
"As if you'd ever gotten close enough to alabaster to see its color," another voice interrupted with a snort. "Stephen, you great horse's arse!"
"And you've no room to be lusting after the Lady Anne, Colin of Berkhamshire," the one named Stephen exclaimed. "What with you wed, and happily too."
"I'm not lusting after her," Colin of Berkhamshire said in offended tones. "I was merely pointing out that for a woman, she was tolerable fair. Not that I spent all my time mooning after her, as you did after the Lady Gwen. I spent my time improving my swordplay in the lists, as a real man should."
"My swordplay was perfectly adequate!" Stephen exclaimed. "And at least my eyes functioned properly—"
The ring of steel was so clear that Jake had to turn around just in case he was about to get his head chopped off. And what he saw would have knocked him off his feet, if he hadn't already been sitting down, that is.
There, in that weapon-stocked gallery, stood three men in chain mail, looking as if they'd just stepped off a Hollywood set. Two had drawn their swords and were looking at each other as if they had every intention of killing one another. A third stood to the side with his arms folded over his chest, listening to the other two fiercely argue the merits of the ladies they had apparently chosen to champion.
"Anne!"
"Gwen!"
"Mindless dolt!"
"Blind, smelly pile of refuse!"
Jake listened, open-mouthed, as the insults continued, and descended into points and body-parts heretofore unexamined and insulted.
And then the swordplay began. Jake, wisely to his mind, got off his chair and crouched down behind it. He considered himself a man's man, but these men were ghosts after all. Who knew if the swords were real or not? Besides, it wasn't as if he could trot out any of his more lethal moves on this crew. He doubted he could even touch them.
Then again maybe they could touch him, so hiding under the desk might not do him any good when they really started going at each other. He decided to worry about that later. For now, at least he had some kind of cover.
The battle heated up, and so did the insults. Complaints were made about the closeness of the quarters. Speculation was offered about the possibility of a stray swordhaft smashing the glass of His Lordship's fine display cabinets and what sort of retribution that might entail. Other names were put forth, apparently women who had lived at Artane over the years and were considered quite fine looking, by other ghosts who seemed to appear out of nowhere.
Those other women were, however, regretfully dismissed as quite stunning but not up to the quality of the first ladies of Artane who, Jake surmised after a good quarter hour of eavesdropping and ducking to miss stray sword swings, were simply beyond compare.
He began to wonder who would win out in the end: Gwen or Anne, Anne being the woman in the picture above him (again something he learned thanks to a particularly pointed sword jab in her direction) and Gwen, who he learned through rather colorful language was none other than the mother of Anne's husband, Robin, who had been lord of Artane sometime during the middle of the thirteenth century.
Jake grabbed a quick look over the edge of the desk at Anne again. He couldn't deny that she was beautiful, but he wondered just what Gwen had looked like to inspire such loyalty.
And he wondered, with even more curiosity, why it was he was hunkered down behind a chair, watching ghosts fighting each other over women who had been dead for centuries, and viewing it all as if it were as normal as a quick trip to the Mini-Mart for some pork rinds.
Obviously, he'd been up too long.
The battle raged on without signs of abating. Then the third ghost, who had remained out of the fray, spoke. It was a single word, but its effect on the battle and the accompanying commotion was immediate.
"Amanda."
Colin of Berkhamshire hesitated, then put his sword point-down on the floor, leaned on it, and stroked his chin. "Aye, well, you have a point there."
Stephen of Burwyck-on-the-Sea rested his sword on his shoulder and looked off into the distance. "Aye, I would have to agree."
The dozen or so other ghosts who had been observing the argument put away daggers and other gear and also stared off into space as if recalling a particularly pleasant memory. Murmurs of approval were given without hesitation.
Stephen sheathed his sword and rubbed his hands together. "Robert, I believe you have settled the argument."
"Again," Robert agreed.
"Her hair," Colin said with a sigh, fingering his own sweaty locks.
"Her eyes," Robert disagreed.
"Her face," Stephen said, dashing a stray tear from his own eye. "By the saints, she had a face that could—"
He paused. Everyone else paused as well, as if they contemplated just what her face could do. Jake waited, then cleared his throat.
"What?" he prompted, from behind the chair. "Her face could what?"
Every man in the room turned to look at him. Jake would have said the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, but he was past that now. His curiosity, as it generally did when on the hunt, had gotten the better of him.
"Her face?" he prompted. "What could it do?"
The ghosts looked at each other.
Then they, as one and if on cue, made motions by the side of their heads that said more clearly than words just what they thought of him. Of course, that didn't stop several from looking at him, shaking their heads, and muttering uncomplimentary adjectives as they walked through walls and otherwise exited the chamber. Jake rose, banged the back of his head on the front of the desk, then straightened with a curse.
"Well?" he demanded of the first three, who were still standing in a manly cluster, comparing battle notes.
"Saints, man," Colin said, shaking his head, "have ye lost what little wits are left ye?"
"Apparently so," Robert remarked sadly.
Stephen only looked at Jake suspiciously, as if he found him not only crazy but capable of making off with His Lordship's finer bits of weaponry under his shirt.
"Well," Robert said, putting up his sword, "I'm for Conyers. What of you, lads?"
"I'll stay here abouts," Stephen said, with another pointed look thrown Jake's direction. "To look after the place whilst His Lordship is away. Colin, what of you?"
"I'm for home, of course," Colin said briskly. "Alienore w
ill be expecting me."
Robert shook his head. "Don't know why you come here, Colin. Berkham is a fair distance, wouldn't you say?"
"He comes because Kendrick is here," Stephen said. "Well… urn… because Kendrick was… well…" He trailed off and looked perplexed.
Colin scratched himself contentedly, then put away his sword." 'Tis a bloody long commute, I'll give you that, but after all these centuries, I'm in the habit of it. Besides, my lady craves a bit of peace during the days, you know, from all the training and improving I'm still about. Once a warrior—"
"Always a warrior," Robert and Stephen finished together.
Colin looked offended, but Jake suspected that wouldn't keep him from returning the next day, for whatever reason.
Jake wasn't sure he wanted to know the reason.
So he watched the ghosts make their way out of the room, listened to their talk as they left His Lordship's study, and stood where he was, rubbing the back of his head, as silence descended. And he wondered about what he'd heard.
Wondering was bad.
It usually got him into trouble, or landed him in places he would have been smarter to stay out of. And it always began with the rumor of something really fabulous, such has "Hey, Kilchurn, did you hear about that huge cache of emerald in Brazil? Deep, deep in Brazil?"
Which invariably, he had found, involved big spiders and hikes through uninhabitable forests.
But, despite himself, he couldn't help but wonder what Amanda had looked like.
Probably better not to know.
He checked the bedroom but found no ghosts behind curtains, or large rodents in armoires.
Amanda.
The name whispered across his mind as he climbed into bed, and he couldn't help but think about her. A woman who had lived centuries ago, if his hallucinations in Seakirk's museum were to be trusted as reliable purveyors of truth, who caused grown men to grow silent and others to cease fighting amongst themselves.
He wondered if there might be some sort of portrait of her at Artane. It was tempting to ask, just so he could see for himself if she was worth all the good press.