Donna Fletcher

by Whispers on the Wind

  She squared her shoulders, her firm breasts sitting high and full. “Just because I was a girl didn’t mean I couldn’t slay dragons. My father told me I could do anything if I but conquered my fear. So I made a sword of the finest wood, wrapped a pink rag made from a worn-out petticoat around the handle and went in search of dragons.”

  “I would like to have known you as a child,” he said seriously. “We could have had some grand adventures together.”

  “We could have some adventures now,” she suggested.

  He chuckled. “I think we already are.”

  Billie locked her fingers with his. “And I’d like them to continue. I cherish our friendship.”

  John shifted uncomfortably and stalled a moment as if uncertain that he should speak. Gathering courage he proceeded. “I had hoped our friendship would grow in . . .” He took a deep breath before continuing. “I had hoped we could establish a relationship that might lead to a more permanent arrangement.”

  Billie spoke more bluntly. “You wish to court me with marriage in mind.”

  He nodded, his cheeks flushing bright red.

  Billie thought about the prospect of marriage to the vicar. He would be good to her. He would not suppress her independent nature and he would make an excellent father. And, of course, she had to consider that if Maximillian wasn’t a real ghost she would eventually be left to his mercy. What would he expect from her then? She very much liked John and he was very much alive. He made her feel warm, comfortable and content. A courting relationship would allow those attributes to possibly evolve into love.

  “I accept your courting proposal, John,” she said softly.

  “As you have no parents for me to speak with, I have no choice but to formally seek approval directly from you.” With a clear and distinct voice he asked, “May I call upon you with intentions of marriage?”

  Her response was quick and sure. “I would be honored.” And possessing such a spirited nature, Billie leaned over and kissed his cheek.

  John smiled and shook his head. “You are the most unconventional lady.”

  “Then I will never bore you,” she assured him happily.

  His expression grew serious and he raised his hand to cup her chin. “No, Billie, you shall never bore me. You shall fill me with life.” He brought his lips to hers and kissed her with a richness that had her knees trembling and her insides quivering.

  He reluctantly ended their kiss, depositing short, sweet kisses along her lips as he pulled away.

  “I must be going,” John said with obvious regret. “I have appointments at the church.”

  She stood with him. “You will come for tea tomorrow?”

  “Yes, with delight,” he beamed.

  They walked to the door and while Pembrooke hovered nearby, Billie saw the vicar out, waving as he walked down the drive and out of sight.

  She turned and addressed Pembrooke firmly, though her wide smile negated her authoritative tone. “Please bring another hot cider to the study.”

  “Whipped cream, m’lady?” he asked.

  She was much too happy to allow his haughty manner to bother her. She most improperly hooked her arm with his and spoke. “Of course, and you should try some. The sweet fluff is sure to bring a smile to your downturned lips.”

  With a grumble and mumble, Pembrooke disengaged himself from her and marched off.

  Laughing lightly, Billie took herself to the study. She slipped into the large chair behind the desk with thoughts of purchasing a smaller one since this one completely devoured her when she sat in it.

  She moved her correspondence aside, removed a ledger from the side drawer, opened it and began going over the columns of numbers.

  Pembrooke came and went without a word, leaving her hot cider with a fat dollop of whipped cream floating on top beside her.

  The sharp voice cut the silent air, ripping a shiver through Billie. “Whatever do you see in that meek man?”

  She glanced up from the ledger and fought for the breath that lodged in her throat at the sight of Maximillian, standing in front of the desk. Tall, arrogant, self-assured and dangerously handsome, he could capture any woman’s heart with a mere smile. He dressed in a perfect blend of grays and black and his dark hair was tightly bound at the nape of his neck with a silver clip.

  “Does the vicar have any attributes?”

  She grew annoyed that he should fault such a good man as John, so she spoke tersely. “He’s alive.”

  He stiffened at her cutting remark. “You would do well to remember who you speak to.”

  “A ghost?” She waited for confirmation.

  He denied her an answer and instead said, “He can offer you nothing but a tedious and burdensome life.”

  Billie corrected him. “He can offer me companionship, support and love, not to mention kindness.”

  Max smashed his hands flat on the desk. “You need more.”

  Billie’s hand trembled nervously and she gripped the handle of the cider mug for support. “Really? And what more is it that you think I need?”

  “Passion!” he exploded.

  The word jolted Billie and raced through her, igniting her flesh like dry kindling caught by a flame.

  “How would he know how to bring your body to life? He is a pious man without knowledge of the intimacies of a woman. You require a skilled touch that will fulfill your deepest, darkest dreams.”

  She tightened her grip on the mug and stared directly into his eyes. “What do you know of my dreams?”

  “You come alive in your dreams, Billie. You free yourself of all restraints and enjoy pleasures and emotions women were made to enjoy.”

  She feared he spoke the truth, but accused him otherwise. “You lie.”

  “I’ll prove it.” He walked around the side of the desk and pushed her chair out from beneath, her hand slipping off the mug handle. He reached over to swipe up a finger full of sweet whipped cream.

  She stared with rounded, unblinking eyes at him.

  He leaned down in front of her and slowly spread the whipped cream over her lips, running a thin line down her throat. He then proceeded to lick his finger clean, drawing his long tongue up his finger in leisurely strokes that kept her glance glued to his suggestive action. And when she thought him finished and that her heart could race no faster, he stuck his finger in his mouth and slowly sucked it clean.

  “Now for you,” he whispered with an anticipated lick of his lips.

  She moved back against the chair, for once appreciative of its generous size and prepared to lick her own lips clean, but he would have none of her attempts to foil their fun.

  “No, no,” he warned harshly and licked at the corner of her mouth before urging in a sensual whisper. “Let me taste you and bring us both pleasure.”

  She stilled all movement as he braced his hands on the chair arms, effectively capturing her with his body as his tongue thoroughly and methodically licked the whipped cream from her mouth.

  Short licks, long licks, teasing licks, rhythmic licks, his tongue tasted and she was soon reduced to a quivering mass of highly aroused passion.

  When he finished at her mouth, he moved to her neck. At the same time his hand found its way to her breast and cupped it forcefully, bringing a flare of pleasure so strong it tightened her nipples to hard tiny buds.

  “Bloody hell,” he mumbled against her mouth. “I want to taste your nipples.”

  Passion shot through her, quivering her womanhood to a frighteningly sensual height that was at once unfamiliar and yet so devastatingly familiar.

  “Tell me to taste them, Billie. Tell me,” he urged, trailing demanding kisses down along her neck to the modest neckline of her dress and sending a mass of shivers over her entire body.

  She so badly wanted him to taste her, needed him to, ached for him to, but reason reared its practical head and reminded her of the commitment she had just made with John.

  And also reminded her that although John had made his intenti
ons clear, this ghostly lord had not.

  “No,” she whispered with regret.

  “Yes,” he repeated with a playful squeeze to her nipple.

  She took a fortifying breath and urged her body not to betray her. “I don’t want this.”

  His hand slipped off her. “You deny the obvious. Why?”

  She was grateful that he distanced himself from her, leaning back against the desk. How did she explain that she feared the outcome of this matter? Whether spirit or flesh she would never become part of his life. And he spoke only of passion. Did he not at least care for her as John did?

  She answered with more honesty than she realized. “Passion is fleeting. I want more.”

  He stared at her incredulously. “You prefer the boring bed of a kind vicar?”

  She held her chin high. “He would slay dragons for me.”

  Maximillian stood tall and proud. “I would make love to you until you screamed with pleasure. The choice is yours.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  The choice is yours.

  Those words had echoed in her head for the last few days. When she and John shared tea, when they walked hand in hand along the shore and when he kissed her with tenderness, Maximillian’s words returned to haunt her.

  They haunted her still as she approached the back entrance of the Cox Crow Inn. She needed her wits about her tonight. Now was not the time to be thinking such disturbing thoughts. Tonight she needed a clear head. Tonight she would go to the Cove Inn with Bart.

  A worried Bessie hurried her through the back door and down the hall to a small room filled with barrels, smoked meats and drying herbs. There amongst the inn’s provisions Billie transformed herself from the lady of the manor into a young boy.

  Bessie had secured Samuel’s clothing for her, washing the few articles to remove the grime and stench. Billie slipped the brown coarse wool breeches on, added the dark stockings and boots and allowed Bessie to help her into the white linen shirt after binding her breasts with a thick, long strip of cotton cloth. She then finished her attire with a black worn wool jacket and a black knitted cap that snugly captured all her hair beneath it.

  Bessie fussed over her like a concerned mother. “I shouldn’t be aiding you in such a dangerous scheme. The vicar will have me in penance forever if he discovers my participation.”

  “John will not find out,” Billie assured her. “I will be there and back before anyone discovers me gone.”

  “A storm is brewing,” Bessie said as if the weather were a deterrent to her plans.

  “When doesn’t it storm in these parts?” Billie asked jokingly.

  “The roads could get bad and the storm could worsen and make your travel difficult.”

  “I’ll take my chances,” Billie said. She needed to learn more about Derry Jones. So far her search had led nowhere. The pieces to her puzzle had been few and insubstantial. Nothing to grasp onto or direct her on the right path, she had to learn more.

  “You need to dull that fresh, pretty face of yours,” Bessie suggested and scooped up dirt from the floor with her fingers and smeared streaks on Billie’s face.

  Billie wrinkled her nose and sneezed.

  “You’ll be sneezing all the more if you’re caught in the storm tonight,” Bessie advised. “You’d best tend to business and be on your way.”

  A sharp rap at the door silenced them both.

  “Bessie? You in there?” came a deep, raspy voice.

  “Bart,” Bessie informed Billie before she swung open the door.

  Billie followed Bessie out the door into the hall. She stared in wonder at the man twisting his cap in his hands and respectfully bobbing his head at her.

  Thick and solid as a stone wall was the best way to describe Bart. Barely three inches over five feet, the man was a barrel of muscles. He was completely bald, but sported a thick, dark moustache.

  “You’ll make certain m’lady is well protected, Bart,” Bessie ordered with a warning shake of her finger in his face.

  “Aye, mum, that I will,” he said with a firm nod. “I’ll see no harm comes her way.”

  Billie sent him a wide smile.

  Bart shook his head. “Don’t be doing that, my lady. You look too pretty and even for a young lad that could mean trouble.”

  Billie blushed, understanding all too clearly his warning. “I’ll be a good, quiet lad tonight.”

  “That would be wise,” Bart said. “We’d best be going if we’re to be back before the hour grows too late.”

  Bessie gave her one last brief inspection, nodded her approval and then sent her with a “Godspeed” on her way.

  o0o

  Almost an hour later Bart was giving her last-minute instructions as they sought cover from the rain beneath a large drooping tree only a few feet outside of the Cove Inn.

  “Keep your head down, your mouth shut and do as I say, m’lady,” he ordered with concern. “You’ll stay safe if you follow my instructions.”

  She nodded, tucked her head down, pulled her shoulders up and shrugged her hands into her pockets.

  “You’re a smart one,” Bart said with a smile. “Follow me.”

  The inn was fairly crowded, the wooden bar full across and the few tables occupied except for one or two. Smoke hung heavy in the air as did the smell of ale and unwashed bodies.

  Billie followed Bart to an unoccupied table in the back corner of the room. No one paid them mind; they looked like a father and son out for a pint of ale.

  Billie itched to discover Derry Jones’s identity, but minded Bart’s warning and remained silent.

  The barmaid deposited two tankards of ale on the table and when Bart raised his to his lips he whispered, “Listen and learn.”

  She did as told and it wasn’t long before she heard someone yell, “Jones, got anything for me?”

  Billie followed the man’s anxious glance as it landed on a tall, skinny man with a pox-scarred face.

  Jones jerked his head toward the table in front of Billie and Bart. He chased away the three men sitting there with a flash of his knife and filled two of the glasses with the remaining liquor from the bottle on the table.

  The pint-sized man who had called out to him joined him. “You got anything?”

  “I got a big one planned, though the timing ain’t set.” Jones swallowed back the liquor.

  “Your boss in St. Clair tying your hands again?” the man asked with a nasty laugh.

  Jones flashed his blade again; dancing it in front of the man’s startled eyes. “I’ll be rid of that one soon enough.”

  The man lowered his voice, but Billie could still hear him. “Like you rid yourself of your last problem?”

  “I do what needs being done. I won’t let no one stand in my way and I’m tired of taking orders.”

  “You know anything about the wreck over in Gulley’s Cove last month? Talk is that the spoils were rich.”

  “Should have been mine,” Jones grumbled. “But it don’t matter. The one I have planned will make that one look like a mere pittance.”

  “Tell me,” the man urged and their voices grew too low to hear.

  “Come on, son,” Bart said and stood. But Billie didn’t want to leave, she wanted to hear more. She wanted to learn the identity of the person who ordered the wrecking activities, but the hour grew late and the rain more heavy, pelting the inn’s windows like angry fists.

  Billie hurried along behind Bart, her mind busy digesting the revelation that someone in St. Clair was the mastermind behind the wrecking operation. And from the sounds of Jones’s boasting, he had disposed of another problem. Could he have murdered Oran? Her thoughts too occupied to mind her feet, she tripped over outstretched legs and was quickly grabbed by the back of her collar and given a rough shake.

  “Watch where you’re going, boy,” the drunken man warned and shoved her sprawling flat on her face.

  Thick hands hoisted her up. “Mind your feet, boy,” Bart yelled and slapped her in the back of the he
ad as he followed her out the door.

  Bart hauled her around the side of the inn. “I’m sorry, m’lady, but I feared a brawl with the drunk if I took to defending a clumsy lad.”

  Billie rubbed the back of her head and laughed. “I deserved it for not paying attention.”

  Bart searched the night sky, rain drenching him. “Don’t look like it’s going to ease up. We’d best be on our way.”

  Billie already felt the heavy rain begin to soak through her jacket. It would be a long ride home on the back of Bart’s old mare.

  o0o

  Three hours later Billie all but dragged herself up the steps of the manor to the front door. It was well past the time that Billie had informed Pembrooke and Matilda that she would be home from visiting Claudia.

  She was soaked to the skin and her body ached so badly she didn’t expect to make the last two steps. Bart’s old mare had thrown a shoe shortly after they had left the Cove Inn and they had to walk the remaining distance home.

  Her legs, though accustomed to walking, protested profusely the long stretch of miles she had been forced to cover. The heavy rain had only managed to hinder an already difficult journey. Now she finally leaned against the manor door, the metal lion knocker pressed to her cheek, wondering what explanation she would offer her staff.

  Her hand barely banged the knocker when the door was thrown open and an upset Pembrooke stood there, shocked speechless by her appearance in boy’s clothing.

  Finding his voice, he demanded like an indignant parent, “Where have you been?”

  Billie managed to lift her head high, though her neck ached, and strode past Pembrooke, delivering her answer tersely. “That is none of your concern. See that a hot bath is prepared in my bedchamber and bring me a pot of tea.”

  Startled by her sharp orders and recalling his position, Pembrooke changed his tone. “Does m’lady require anything else?”

  Her manner softened along with his. “I am so bone-tired besides being soaking wet that all I want is a hot bath and my bed.” A loud and most unladylike sneeze followed.

  “Good heavens, you’re drenched,” Matilda cried entering the foyer and hurrying over to Billie. She didn’t question Billie’s odd state of dress. She simply ordered her husband to prepare a bath and rushed Billie upstairs.