Donna Fletcher

by Whispers on the Wind

  “I’m not at liberty to offer you more.”

  His honest remark only disturbed her further. He made no promises, he declared no love and he talked of no future. Where did that leave her?

  Her pride surfaced. “I didn’t ask for more.”

  “I have never met a woman that didn’t demand something in return.”

  She smiled and shrugged. “If you insist . . . I demand the truth.”

  He didn’t smile. “I have also never met a woman as intelligent or quick-witted as you.”

  She leaned back with a gentle sigh, relaxing against the mound of pillows. “There you go with those compliments again and you do recall where that led us.”

  Maximillian chose safer ground and changed the subject. “What were you doing at the inn today?”

  “Drinking the most delicious ale.”

  He tsk-tsked before remarking, “Shouldn’t you amend that to drinking too much ale?”

  “How did you know?”

  “Village gossip travels,” he said, abruptly and again maneuvered the conversation. “Did you discover anything significant?”

  She countered his question with one of her own. “Did you know of your father’s smuggling involvement?”

  “I learned of it in its later stages.”

  “Did you approve?”

  “One did not agree or disagree with my father. He was the lord of the manor and his decision was law.”

  “But you ceased all involvement after your father’s death.”

  “Of course I did,” he said indignantly. “I wouldn’t very well assist the men who murdered my father.”

  “I’ve been told that the smugglers he dealt with weren’t involved in the murder.”

  Max appeared perturbed. “There were no witnesses. No one knows for sure.”

  Billie’s mind churned with possibilities, spewing them out as fast as they came. “What if there was someone here in St. Clair who aided the smugglers or commanded them? What if that person gave your father an ultimatum and your father, being as pompous as you are—” She paused to smile at his scowling face and then continued, “Refused to agree to his demands, so he was murdered.”

  “Have you any evidence that this mysterious person exists?”

  Her disappointment voiced itself in her sighing response. “No,” she said, pointing her finger at him, “but I’m still investigating.”

  “That is what took you to the inn. Where, I should remind you, is the perfect place to hear the town news.”

  “What you’re saying is that if I can’t find out anything there, then it probably doesn’t exist.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Unless,” she piped up. “The villagers fear this person.”

  “The only person they feared was me.”

  She giggled. “I can certainly understand that.”

  He sent her a sharp-eyed glare. “I was a good lord who provided well for the village. Circumstances didn’t always warrant their like for me, but they did respect me.”

  “That I know for a fact. They all speak highly of you.”

  “See, so—”

  She cut him off, speaking with excitement. “What if the villagers protect instead of fear the person?”

  “This is complete nonsense. There is no one in St. Clair who masterminds the wreckers.”

  “You’re so sure?” she asked, annoyed that he should dismiss her claim.

  He explained. “After my father’s death, I thoroughly investigated that premise. I found nothing to substantiate that claim.”

  “But Derry Jones spoke of someone he answered to in St. Clair.”

  Maximillian shook his head. “He’s a thief and liar not to be trusted. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was more involved than evidence indicates.”

  “I agree he’s not to be trusted, but he’s also angry with someone and I think that someone is here in St. Clair.”

  Maximillian disagreed. “I don’t think you should concern yourself with that, there’s no proof—”

  “Then I will find proof,” she stated confidently.

  “You are wasting your time.”

  “Where would you suggest my investigation take me now?”

  He snapped at her. “Not in the caves, not dressed as a boy and not drinking ale with the locals.”

  “Who then could I possibly go to for help?”

  “Claudia might prove useful and then there’s that pious vicar of yours.”

  She wondered if his sarcastic tone when referring to the vicar was due to jealousy. The thought pleased her. “The vicar is mine?”

  “He calls on you regularly, though I can’t understand why you would enjoy his company. He’s boring and weak.”

  Billie immediately jumped to John’s defense. “He is not boring. We have interesting and meaningful discussions, and he’s a gentle soul, but far from weak. He possesses a sturdy grip and speaks with a strong command when needed.”

  “You favor this passionless man?” he asked in surprise.

  “He is not passionless,” she defended again.

  “Do his kisses stir you?”

  “Yes, he is gentle and kind—”

  “And he lacks the spark to set that unbridled passion of yours to a roaring flame.”

  “I will not discuss this with you; it is none of your concern.”

  He reached out and caressed her hand. “It is my concern. We’re intimate.”

  “You’re a ghost, it doesn’t count,” was her hasty reply, not voicing her worry that if he wasn’t, what then?

  He laughed, sure and strong. “Wit, beauty and passion, what more could a man want?”

  “Life?”

  He shook his head slowly and crawled up and over her. “Taste,” he whispered and nibbled on her pouty lips.

  She pressed her hands to his chest. A mistake. He felt so warm, so inviting that her hands slipped inside his shirt and over his hard muscles.

  It took only seconds for them both to become lost in a world all their own and they were soon naked beneath the sheets, nibbling at each other in the most intimate of places.

  o0o

  The next afternoon Billie sat with John, having tea and riddled with guilt. Last night with Max had been wonderful, breathtaking, unforgettable.

  She feared she was becoming a promiscuous woman. She desired Max much too much. She could make love with him every day and never grow tired of sharing such intimacy. Was this love? Or was she a woman who just enjoyed intimate pleasures?

  “Your thoughts trouble you?” John asked, peering at her through his glasses.

  Billie debated confiding in him. He had frequently offered his help. And he was accustomed to villagers confessing their troubles to him. That was his job, listening and counseling.

  She tested the waters with carefully chosen words. “Yes, my sleep has been restless.” She didn’t add that it was because the ghostly lord kept her occupied most nights.

  John nodded, sitting back beside her on the settee and folding his hands in his lap. He waited, not pressing her to continue, not urging her to confess. He just waited like a patient, pious man of the cloth.

  She continued. “Would you think me strange if I told you that I still have visions of the ghost?”

  “Not at all,” he said calmly. “I had suspected as much.”

  “Why?”

  “Your intense interest in Lord Radborne.”

  “He’s impossible,” she said, resting back beside John. His willingness to listen and his nonjudgmental manner eased her concern in talking with him and she relaxed considerably. “He’s demanding and arrogant to a fault. He feels that he is this mighty lord who must be obeyed in all things. His judgment must never be questioned and his word is law.”

  “You speak with him often?”

  “We talk at least every day, sometimes more than once, and he usually visits with me in the late evening.” Realizing her last remark revealed more than she had intended, she blushed.

  John made no reference t
o her pink cheeks or her remark. “You speak of him as if he is real.”

  “I sometimes feel he is,” she admitted.

  “Billie,” he said softly, taking her hand. “His grave is marked for all to see.”

  “And empty of his remains,” she reminded.

  “You can’t honestly think him alive. What reason would he have to fake his death and resurface as a ghost?”

  Billie yanked her hand from his. “That’s it,” she cried with excitement and shook a pointed finger at him. “The missing piece, I need to find out why he would go to such extremes and then all the other pieces will connect.”

  “Perhaps you should ask yourself if you find him desirable, a phantom who fills your fantasies.”

  She looked with wide eyes at him. “You still think I dream all this?”

  He chose his words with care. “I think you are an intelligent and imaginative woman who has survived much loss and unexpected change. Hardships such as those can affect a person in various ways.”

  “What ways?” She found his deductions curious.

  He offered his explanation with the familiar sound of a preacher delivering a sermon. “Sometimes a person will create a situation in their mind that they seek in reality. It provides a measure of safety until—”

  She stopped him, asking, “Are you suggesting that I desire a man like Max?”

  “According to village stories he was the type of man who women found irresistible.”

  “He certainly is that, but irritating and a few other choice descriptive words also come to mind. He pales in comparison to a man with your qualities: sincere, trustworthy, caring.”

  He stumbled over his words. “You co-compare m-me to Lord Radborne?”

  She had and realized she meant every word. “Yes, and your qualities far outshine his.” She frowned in thought. “Actually, I wonder if he possesses any good qualities.”

  “Villagers talk highly of him. He must have had some good qualities.”

  She was about to shake her head when vivid memories of last night assaulted her and with a wicked grin she said, “Perhaps one.”

  “Is it one you would look for in a man?”

  Her eyebrows arched and her lips pursed. “Ahhh.” She hastily turned the question on him. “What would you look for in a woman?”

  He clarified her question. “It is what I would look for in a wife and the answer is simple.”

  She waited with stilled breath as if his answer was her salvation.

  “I would want someone who would love me as much as I love her.”

  Her eyes drifted closed briefly, the truth of his words disturbing her. Love was important. Love connected two people more deeply than passion. Passion was fleeting, love was forever.

  “You’re right,” she said with a nod and fought the urge to shed a tear. “It is simple.”

  “Do you love this ghostly lord, Billie?”

  She stared at him, this virtuous man who cared with a gentle passion for his fellow man. This man with hunched shoulders and glasses that forever slid down his nose and who possessed a tender strength and loving soul. This was a man she could love.

  She shook her head. “No, it is nothing but a fleeting fantasy that shall pass, but not endure.”

  He took her hand. “Perhaps it has already begun to fade.”

  His touch was warm and reassuring. He linked his fingers with hers and inched his way toward her as if giving her the option of rejecting him.

  She had no such thought. At that moment she wanted very much for him to kiss her and when their lips finally met, she felt the softest of tingles run along her skin.

  He eased a response from her, not rushing, not frantic, only seeking. She answered in an unhurried play of her lips to his and they savored each other as their kiss deepened.

  His undemanding manner and her anxious response to him alarmed her. Max and John were such opposites and yet she responded to both with the same degree of intensity. The idea that she could be attracted to two such opposing men frightened her.

  She attempted to ease away from him, but his fingers stroked her neck and his lips stubbornly pursued. She shivered when his hand slipped around her waist and drew her against him, her breasts connecting with his chest.

  His small display of intimacy surprised her and it must have surprised him as well since he abruptly ended their kiss and moved a proper distance away.

  He took a deep breath and she sensed he was about to apologize.

  She spoke first. “I enjoy your kisses and the closeness we share, John.”

  He sighed heavily and smiled, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “I am glad, for it makes what I am about to ask easier.”

  She looked at him strangely.

  He reached for her hand. “Billie.” He stopped to clear the squeak in his voice so that he could speak more articulately. “Billie, I love you.”

  Her eyes rounded, full and wide.

  “I love your sincerity, your kindness, your thoughtfulness. I admire and respect your courage and I could think of no other woman I would want to spend the rest of my life with.”

  He took a deep breath and plunged on. “Billie, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”

  Chapter Twenty

  Billie sat on a stone bench in the garden, her soft wool blue shawl draped around her shoulders, her glance focused on the purple irises that had burst into full, glorious bloom and her thoughts on John’s marriage proposal.

  She had requested time to consider it and he had agreed it was best she not rush into a decision. That was two days ago and she could think of nothing else.

  With her mind so preoccupied she had decided a walk outside would be beneficial. The sun had stayed bright in the sky since early morning, chasing the spring chill from the air. A time of new blooms, new growth and abundance.

  It was time to begin anew. She looked out on the freshly dug earth primed for planting and on the rows and circles of flowers and shrubs that had been carefully cleaned of winter debris and surrounded with mulch. All was in readiness for the new growth.

  Was she?

  Max had visited her last night and she had managed to keep her distance from him. They had spoken about hiring a man to further investigate Derry Jones and she had argued that more investigation was needed in St. Clair itself. He had left, annoyed with her.

  She wondered what he would do when he learned of John’s proposal. Would it matter to him? Would he confess all to her? Or would he disappear in a puff of mist?

  She shook her head at her ridiculous thoughts when a white mist drifted through the bushes a few feet in front of her. It thickened almost to a fog then developed slowly into . . .

  “Oran?”

  Oran Radborne tugged on his waistcoat and flecked a speck of dust from his mustard-colored frock coat before he walked toward Billie.

  “Magnificent entrance wasn’t it?” he said and leaned down to kiss her cheek before joining her on the bench.

  Billie eyed him suspiciously. “Why doesn’t Max make such grand entrances?”

  “He’s not familiar with the technique. He requires more practice.”

  “He’s a novice?” she inquired skeptically.

  “Most definitely. He lacks the experience to perform the smallest of ghostly abilities.”

  She grinned and quirked a brow. “Hmmm, I wonder why that is?”

  Oran hastily changed subjects. “I heard about the marriage proposal you received.”

  “Ghosts gossip, too?”

  Oran puffed out his chest. “We see much and know much.”

  Billie’s expression turned serious. “Then be honest with me and tell me what is really going on. I know that you know much more than you are admitting.”

  “I cannot confide all I know,” he said regretfully. “I cannot.”

  A chill ran over Billie, sending gooseflesh crawling along her skin. She got the distinct feeling that Oran could not bring himself to tell her what he must, that somehow the knowledge p
ained him.

  “I can tell you not to ignore the obvious,” he warned. “Follow your instincts; they will guide you wisely.”

  “According to your son my instincts are all wrong.” She sighed heavily releasing some of the frustration she had been carrying around. “I can’t help but think that Bessie and Marlee were nervous when I spoke with them as if they knew something but were afraid to tell me.”

  “Then by all means follow your feelings,” he urged. “And” —he paused covering her hand with his— “marry the vicar, but remember looks can deceive.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she asked, another chill coating her skin with gooseflesh.

  He patted her hand reassuringly. “Only that there is more to him than you suspect.”

  “The vicar has secrets?” she asked jokingly.

  “We all have secrets, Billie,” Oran said seriously.

  She spoke just as somberly. “I think the whole village has a secret.”

  “Then discover it and set them free,” he said with a sadness that upset her.

  He kissed her cheek once again and stood. “Be careful,” he warned and walked toward the shrubs, waving before he faded into a misty shroud and evaporated before her eyes.

  Billie returned to the house, brewing a pot of mint tea and filling a plate with honey cookies against Matilda’s objections.

  “I can do that for you, m’lady.”

  “Nonsense, Matilda. You’re busy preparing supper and I enjoy doing for myself at times.”

  Matilda smiled, her pudgy fingers expertly kneading the bread dough on the flour-covered surface of the table. “I wonder if I will ever grow accustomed to your unusual ways.”

  “We have plenty of time for you to get used to me.”

  “Yes, plenty of time,” Matilda agreed with her smile widening and a vigorous shake of her head.

  Billie took her tea and cookies to the study, happy that at least Matilda was pleased she would be around for a while. Pembrooke, on the other hand, at times made her feel that he would not be at all distraught if she announced she was leaving the manor permanently. And then there was Max.