Donna Fletcher

by Whispers on the Wind

  “I could have my friend ask around and see what he can find,” Bessie offered, wanting to please the lady of the manor.

  Which meant it would be necessary to confide more in Bessie, and she couldn’t very well tell her that a ghost had advised her to investigate the man. No, she had to handle this herself.

  Her mind churned with different ideas while she sipped her tea until finally she grinned wide. “You sent a boy to deliver the note?”

  “That I did,” Bessie confirmed.

  “Do you think the lad would like to make a few coins?”

  “The Cove Inn is no place for a boy, though Samuel is a wild one.”

  Billie shook her head. “I only want his clothes.”

  Bessie raised a startled brow. “You can’t be thinking to—”

  “With the help of your friend, of course,” Billie said, knowing Bessie would never allow her to go off alone disguised as a boy.

  Bessie attempted to talk her out of such an outrageous act. “You can’t be serious, my lady. This is too dangerous and you could get hurt.”

  “I will be careful and I will have your friend nearby to help me in case there is trouble.”

  “Bart is a big man, thick-muscled and thick-brained.” Bessie shook her head, still uneasy with the insane idea.

  Billie sought to reassure her. “I have donned men’s clothes before when I helped my uncle on his ship. I will keep to myself and out of harm’s way, and if Bart is as big as you suggest, then I shall be well protected.”

  Bessie softened. “If Bart went along—”

  “I would be fine,” Billie finished and leaned closer to the woman, ready to discuss plans for her adventure as a boy.

  o0o

  Maximillian sat in the chair before the burning hearth in his study, his legs stretched out and his steepled fingers resting against his lips. He hadn’t expected this revolt of his emotions. He had always controlled himself where women were concerned. He had never allowed any one female to become too important to him.

  He had understood in his youth that a beneficial marriage would be arranged for him and he would be expected to do his duty to his family. He was the only heir to his father’s title, his parents never having been blessed with other children.

  Therefore, he steeled his emotions, not wishing to hurt himself or an innocent young woman prone to romantic notions of love. Even the mistresses he had kept over the years were relegated to a safe distance.

  He had been proud of the painstaking preparation he had taken in building an uncomplicated future for himself. He had never counted on this turn of events so far beyond his control, or for the willful and beautiful young woman who was thrust upon him.

  She had, in fact, turned his life upside down. He was still attempting to make sense of his feelings toward her—strong, passionate feelings. Uncontrollable feelings. Protective feelings. Insane feelings. He could go on forever describing how his emotions fluctuated.

  It perplexed and delighted him all at once. He found himself looking forward to hearing her voice, to arguing with her, to challenging her to . . .

  He stood and walked over to the window, casting a worried glance out at the rumbling clouds. He had seldom considered falling in love. Love wasn’t meant for nobility; sacrifice was.

  And yet . . .

  He chased his inconceivable thoughts away with a shake of his head. He had long ago believed that certain things were impossible and then . . .

  “You resemble a tortured man.”

  Maximillian turned around and greeted his father with a smile. “Tortured by the new lady of the manor.”

  Oran settled in the high-backed chair by the hearth, motioning his son to join him in the chair opposite him. “A sweet torture if you ask me.”

  Maximillian stoked the dying flames before taking his seat. “Sweet? I think not.”

  “She is beautiful and so . . .” Oran paused as if searching for the right word. “Courageous.”

  “That she is,” Maximillian agreed, but hurried to add, “To a fault. I worry what trouble she’ll get herself into. She talks to anyone and thinks nothing of visiting whoever she wishes. She has no sense of propriety.”

  “That may be a blessing, but why allow her to help you with your dilemma?”

  “I have no choice. I have no one else to turn to, nor do I trust anyone. Billie is our only hope.”

  “She’s an innocent dragged into this mess. I worry about her.”

  “As do I, but her stubborn nature may help in solving this puzzle.”

  Oran sighed. “I grow weary and wish to rest.”

  “I have discovered most of the pieces to this puzzle, but one is missing. One person masterminded the wreckings and the smuggling. His plan was brilliant and his identity undetectable.”

  “And you think Billie will uncover this mystery person?”

  “She has enlisted the aid of Claudia, Bessie and the vicar. Any or all of them could prove useful.”

  “Keep her out of harm’s way,” Oran ordered. “She’s already suffered once when she shouldn’t have.”

  Maximillian sought confirmation of his suspicions. “You were in the study.”

  “I heard her anxiously call your name,” he explained and cast an angry shake of his fist at the far wall. “But the blasted wall separated us. Took all of my power to pass through and my bloody spirit energy exploded once I made it, shedding a brilliant light on the situation and scaring the devil out of the fellow.”

  “You didn’t catch his identity?”

  “The damn light blinded me.”

  Maximillian laughed.

  Oran shook his finger at his son. “It’s not a laughing matter. Spirits should be misty shrouds that float about as the stories all these years dictated. Instead I discover I can walk about in death as I did in life only with a few added amenities, propelled by my spirit energy, of course, which I have yet been unable to control.”

  “I’ve explained to you that it is a matter of concentration.”

  “I’m too busy concentrating on more important matters.” Oran moved to the edge of his chair, reaching out to grasp his son’s arm. Tears misted in his eyes. “We are almost out of time, Maximillian, and I wish to leave knowing all is settled and the manor and its holdings will endure.”

  Maximillian placed his hand over his father’s and squeezed. “I will see that all is how you wish it.”

  “And Billie?” Oran asked, almost reluctantly.

  Maximillian dropped his hand away. “What of Billie?”

  “You aren’t being fair to her.”

  “I am handling this as I feel necessary.”

  Oran leaned back in his chair and asked, “Then when do you plan on telling her the truth?”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “She’s no fool. She knows the truth,” Maximillian said, turning his attention to the flames in the hearth.

  “You’ve told her?” his father asked, followed by an audible sigh of relief.

  Maximillian looked at his father and smiled. “You like Billie don’t you?”

  “I admire the young woman. She faces adversity y with the strength of a man and meets challenges head on even when fearful. A man would be lucky to have her as a wife, but then it would take a special man to be able to deal with a woman of such formidable strength.” And with a smug grin stated, “The vicar appears to be gaining her attention.”

  “The vicar is a thorn in my side,” Maximillian complained. “He has posed more of a problem than I could have ever imagined. Billie trusts him and confides in him and . . . I wonder if she is beginning to care for him.”

  Oran grew short-tempered. “Then tell her the truth and be done with it.”

  “I can’t,” he responded with bitter sadness. “If I reveal the truth it may place her in danger and that I would never do.”

  Oran stood and patted his son’s shoulder. “Time, my son, time.”

  o0o

  The vicar arrived at the manor an hour after Billie returne
d from the village. Pembrooke showed him to the larger receiving parlor where Billie sat on the floor among bolts of various colored material.

  “John, how wonderful,” she said when he entered. “You must help me decide on colors for the different rooms.” She patted the space beside her on the floor.

  Pembrooke shook his head, more baffled than distressed. “Does m’lady wish tea served?”

  “Hot cider,” she said matter-of-factly.

  Pembrooke repeated her as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Hot cider?”

  “Yes,” Billie said, offering John an assisting hand. “With plenty of that fresh whipped cream that Matilda made and slices of the gingerbread cake she baked.”

  John eased himself down awkwardly, folding his legs beneath him and adjusting his black waistcoat that rode up above the slight bulge of his belly.

  Pembrooke grumbled incoherently before he asked sharply, “Is that all?”

  Billie was about to answer, unoffended by his crisp tone when John spoke up.

  “M’lady wishes hot cider instead of tea. Does that present a problem for you, Pembrooke?”

  Pembrooke stiffened and responded in a much more respectful tone. “No, sir, I shall bring the items m’lady requested immediately.”

  “He needs time to adjust to me,” Billie said in defense of her servant. “He grumbles, but he’s thoughtful.”

  “Regardless,” John said firmly, “he must respect your authority and his station.”

  “Do you like these colors?” Billie asked, changing the subject and anxious to get his opinion. She tossed the silk material over him and it floated down gracefully on his lap.

  He fingered the delicate silk. Tiny, soft blue flowers fringed with gentle green leaves were cast against a pale yellow background.

  “I thought the bedchamber,” she informed him and leaned over to show him a crimson silk. Unable to reach it, she got to her knees and stretched her hand out. “I thought this color perfect for—”

  Pembrooke interrupted with a choking cough and a raised brow. “The hot cider, m’lady.”

  Billie realized her bottom was practically swaying in the vicar’s face, not exactly a proper scene. She hastily plopped herself back on the floor.

  Pembrooke placed the tray on the table in front of the gray silk settee and stood beside it as if waiting for her to correct her impropriety.

  John stood after untangling himself from the material and extended his hand to her. She gratefully accepted it.

  “That will be all, Pembrooke,” she directed pompously, once seated on the settee with John.

  “Very good, m’lady.” And with a formal bow he took his leave.

  “You handled that like a true lady,” John complimented.

  Billie smiled appreciatively. “Thank you. I did rather enjoy it.”

  She handed John a plate with a slice of warm gingerbread.

  “I have learned of some problems at the manor just before Maximillian’s death.”

  Wide-eyed, Billie hastily chewed her bite of gingerbread and asked, “What have you found out?”

  “It appears that there were several accidents at the manor a few months before Lord Radborne’s death. The magistrate had been called here on at least three occasions.”

  “What kinds of accidents were reported?”

  “That’s where it becomes unclear. Hunting mishaps were listed, attempted theft was another and, of course, there was All Hallows’ Eve when the magistrate was summoned to the manor. The reason is unknown and the magistrate remains oddly silent on the subject, though there is rumor and speculation.”

  “Which is?”

  “Most villagers believe a lovers’ argument ensued and that someone was killed, presumably the husband of the woman believed to have been Maximillian’s lover.”

  Billie recalled talk of Lord Radborne’s reputation with the ladies and for an inexplicable reason it irritated her. “Max was a scandalous devil with the ladies, wasn’t he?”

  “If you believe the rumors.”

  Naturally, the vicar would give the person the benefit of the doubt, offer guidance and help and condemn only if warranted. Billie, on the other hand, was familiar with Max’s arrogance and autocratic manner. He was a man accustomed to having his way in all things, and she had no doubt that he always had his way where women were concerned. Why women probably swooned at his feet.

  Irritated by her own thoughts she snapped at John. “I believe the rumors. Maximillian is overbearing, stubborn, impossible, demanding, and temperamental—”

  “Billie,” John interrupted, bringing Billie’s accusatory tirade of Max to an abrupt end. “You speak of the man as if he were alive.”

  She almost shouted, He is, but thought better of it and held her tongue.

  “He still haunts your dreams?” John questioned softly.

  Billie dropped her glance to her clenched hands in her lap. If she blushed, she would die of embarrassment, and yet how could she keep her cheeks from reddening when her body immediately responded to the memories of Max’s intimate touches.

  “Billie?” John probed gently yet firmly.

  “He haunts me night and day,” she admitted reluctantly, but with a sense of relief.

  “It isn’t only at night that you think you see him?”

  “I think I see him?” she said, affronted by his insinuation that she but imagined him.

  “Now, Billie.” John spoke calmly and reached out to reassure her with a pat of his hand to her arm.

  She yanked her arm away and stood, taking several steps away from him before pacing in front of the table. “So you think I but dream these visions?”

  “I never meant to imply—”

  “That I’m insane?”

  “I never meant to upset—”

  Again she didn’t allow him to finish. “Upset me, by telling me that you never actually believed me from the beginning.” She turned her back on him and marched over to the window.

  “You tell the idiot, Belinda.”

  Maximillian’s laughing voice caused her to swing around in alarm. She saw no one but John, who was fumbling to hoist his glasses up on the bridge of his nose with trembling fingers.

  “Please, Billie, I’m sorry if I offended you,” he said sincerely.

  Billie glanced past the vicar surveying every inch of the room as she turned in a slow circle.

  “Send the fool off.”

  “Shut up,” she shouted and turned to face a shocked John. She rubbed her head, her temples suddenly throbbing.

  “Do as I say, Belinda.”

  The laughter was gone from his voice and he had issued his demand sharply. She thrust her chin up. “I will do as I please.”

  “Then would it please you to know that I am deeply sorry for upsetting you and that my choice of words was poor but my intentions sincere,” Johns aid, holding out his hand to her. “Please, come sit by me and we’ll talk.”

  Billie shut her eyes against the pounding that increased in her head.

  “Your head aches. Get rid of him and join me upstairs.”

  Again his voice rang with authority and with an emotion Billie was beginning to easily recognize—passion. He wanted her and she found herself wanting him. She shook her head, warning herself that he was no ghost, that he but played games with her, and yet when he spoke no one heard him but her. And as usual he demanded and as usual she didn’t take well to demands, though her body responded quickly enough. She felt all the more confused.

  She opened her eyes and forced a smile. “I’d like to talk with you, John.” And with that she joined him on the settee.

  “Tell me what troubles you,” he urged, giving her hand a supportive squeeze.

  “I once feared ghosts, due mostly to my mother’s excellent storytelling skills, but now . . .” She shook her head. “Now I fear that ghosts will rob me of my sanity.”

  John remained quiet and listened.

  She squared her shoulders and stared him straight in the eyes,
distorted by his lenses. “I don’t believe Maximillian is a ghost.”

  John appeared confused. “Then what is he?”

  “He is alive.”

  John seemed to find her statement almost as incredulous as her belief in ghosts. “If he were alive why would he pretend himself dead?”

  Billie didn’t have enough facts to prove her theory correct and she suddenly realized she could not confide in anyone until she had garnered more proof.

  “I’m being foolish,” she said. “I suppose the idea of seeing a ghost is something difficult for me to accept and I’m searching for a more reasonable explanation.”

  “You find it difficult believing in ghosts?”

  “I was raised on ghost stories.” She smiled, recalling fond memories. “My mother was a wonderful storyteller. She often enthralled neighbors and friends with her skill. On rainy nights she would never fail to weave the most haunting and frightening ghost stories. Afterwards, in my bed, I would shiver beneath my blankets, fearful that I would see a ghost.”

  John returned her smile and shared his own memories. “I had an aunt that possessed the same skill, although I would bravely tell her that I didn’t believe in ghosts and that she couldn’t frighten me. She warned me to beware, for surely a nonbeliever such as me would one day be visited by a ghost.”

  “But you still don’t believe, do you?”

  John took her hand in his. “I believe in you, Billie, and I will help you in any way possible. If it means facing a ghost and sending him on to his reward, then so be it.” His smile broadened. “I would slay dragons for you, m’lady.”

  Her heart rushed with emotion upon hearing such endearing words. He was so thoughtful, so considerate and so very much alive.

  “Have you ever slain a dragon, dear sir?” she asked playfully.

  He attempted to square his hunched shoulders and hold himself erect. “In my youth I slayed many a fire-breathing dragon and always saved the damsel from distress.”

  “With a wooden sword?”

  He held his hand out as if grasping an imaginary sword hilt. “One made with my own hand.”

  Billie beamed with pride. “I made one of my own, too.”

  “You slayed dragons?” he asked incredulously.