by Amy Tolnitch
The ghost laughed then, a strangely bitter sound that danced across Amice’s skin like pinpricks. “Leave now.”
“I cannot.”
With a swish of green, she simply disappeared.
Amice took a big gulp of wine and stared at the space the wraith had just occupied. The air still shimmered with a faint echo of her presence. So, there was to be a battle. Surely, between them, she and Laila could handle one determined ghost.
Even one who knew that she had given all of herself to a man who walked away without a thought. Pray God, the ghost did not know Amice’s most deeply buried secret as well. It was the one that finally broke her. Neither time nor her strongest efforts had ever made her whole again.
Cain Veuxfort had taken too much of her with him.
The next morning, Amice sat in the great hall with Laila, a bite of golden cheese partway to her mouth, when the man Piers had identified as his Uncle Gifford burst into the hall, waving a sword, his eyes flashing with fervor.
“Hellbound bitch!” he shouted. “Damn you.” He whirled and struck at something invisible, managing to send a platter of cold meat flying though the air. A brace of hounds sprang to fight over the morsels, snapping and tumbling across the floor.
Amice put down her cheese and looked around for signs of the ghost. “Do you see anything?” she whispered to Laila.
“Nay, but it appears he does.”
She and Laila watched in fascination as the man rushed about the great hall, brandishing his sword. Chunks of bread flew into the air like stones from a trebuchet. People hid under the trestle tables and Piers sat next to them atop the dais laughing so hard his eyes teared. There was no sign of Cain.
“Ah hah!” Gifford hollered, just before he slashed down, bouncing cups into the air. Ale splashed over the table onto the floor. “I shall get you this time, cursed wench!”
As he wound up for another swing, Cain rushed into the hall. He shot Amice an aggrieved look before yelling at Gifford, “Stop! Stop this at once.”
His uncle paused and glared at Cain. “Damn wench spoiled another experiment.”
“Uncle Gifford, you cannot kill a ghost with a sword.” Cain blew out a breath, then ducked as his uncle gave a shout and charged toward him.
“There she is! Hold on, boy.”
Amice clapped a hand across her mouth.
Cain managed to catch the older man by the legs, and they fell on the soiled rushes in a heap. “Give me that damn sword,” Cain ordered.
Somewhat sheepishly, his uncle handed it over.
Cain stood up, brushed a piece of bread from his hair, and set the sword on a table.
“Dear Lord, what is going on here?” another voice demanded.
Amice turned to find a young woman staring at the scene with disbelief. She heard Piers groan.
Cain’s sigh was audible across the expanse of the hall. “Hello, Sister. How nice of you to visit.”
This was Cain’s sister? Amice’s mouth dropped open. The woman’s cheekbones stuck out from pale, taut skin like sharp mountain peaks. A white linen wimple and veil covered her hair, and a voluminous, grey bliaut encased her figure. The only spot of color was her lips, tightly pursed in what Amice suspected was a habitual look of disapproval.
The woman strode over to Cain, sparing a glance of displeasure at Piers. “I asked a question.”
Cain reached down and helped his uncle up.
“Good morrow, Agatha,” Gifford beamed. “How nice of you to journey from Styrling Castle to see us.”
Agatha sniffed. “What were you chasing with that sword?”
“Accursed wraith.” Gifford frowned. “Almost caught her too.”
“What?” Agatha looked at Cain and, amazingly, pursed her lips even tighter together.
Piers snuck out of the hall.
“A ghost, Sister. We have a ghost who enjoys making trouble.”
His sister’s mouth gaped open like someone had just prodded her stomach with a needle. “Are you mad? There is no such thing as a ghost.”
Amice waited.
A pitcher of ale rose gracefully into the air and upturned directly over Agatha’s head.
“Ahhh!” she sputtered, swiping ale from her dripping cheeks.
Cain looked as if he wanted to flee but held his ground. “As I said. But worry not, Sister. I have taken steps to rid us of this scourge.” He gave Amice a pointed look.
“Perhaps we should get started,” Laila murmured.
Nodding, Amice stood.
Noting the movement, Agatha whirled and spotted Amice. She pointed and asked, “Who is that woman?”
“I am Lady Amice de Monceaux, my lady. This is my companion, Laila.”
Cain stepped forward. “Lady Amice is here to… help.”
His sister looked so perplexed that for a moment Amice felt sorry for her. Agatha’s mouth opened and closed but nothing emerged. Finally, she grabbed her attendant by the hand and reeled from the hall, shaking her head and muttering.
Gifford swaggered over to Amice and Laila, followed slowly by Cain. “Ignore Agatha’s poor manners, my dear. Welcome to Falcon’s Craig. I am Cain’s uncle, Gifford Blanchard. Just Gifford to you lovely ladies.” His bright green eyes sparkled with mischief.
Amice grinned. “’Tis a pleasure, my lord.”
“What happened?” Laila asked.
“’Twas the ghost, of course. She is forever tampering with my work, just out of spite. Never did a thing to her.”
“What kind of work?”
Cain put an arm around his uncle’s shoulder and squeezed. “Naught of interest.”
Gifford rolled his eyes. “My nephew is such a dull boy, no imagination at all. He does not approve of alchemy.”
“Ah.” Amice heard the interest in Laila’s voice. “What do you hope to discover?”
Leaning closer, Gifford whispered, “The greatest secret of all. Merlin.”
Amice started to think Uncle Gifford was more than a “bit” mad.
Cain frowned. “Gifford, please.”
Gifford shook off Cain’s arm. “I must return to my workroom. Who knows what that infernal sprite is up to in my absence.” He nodded to Amice and Laila and trotted off, pausing to retrieve the sword from where Cain had left it.
Slowly releasing a sigh, Cain said, “I would advise you to steer clear of Gifford’s workroom. He is not always as careful as he should be.”
“Does he… he really believe he can find Merlin?” Amice asked.
“Unfortunately, yes.” Cain rubbed the back of his neck. “At least it gives him something to do.”
Five years ago, she would have smoothed away the lines of strain bracketing his mouth, but she clenched the skirt of her bliaut instead, reminding herself she was charged with a task, nothing more. “I met your ghost last eve, my lord.”
Cain lifted a brow. “And? When will she be gone?”
“She is insistent on remaining within the castle.”
“I want this finished and my home back. Now.” His sea blue eyes held her gaze fast.
A tendril of hurt coiled through her chest. Amice lifted her chin. “And I want Villa Delphino. But we have not yet been here a full day, my lord. I fear you shall have to endure our presence a while longer.”
Laila touched her shoulder.
Amice gazed down into Laila’s dark brown eyes gleaming with reassurance and felt the hurt ease.
“I shall gather our supplies while you question Lord Hawksdown, my lady.”
Amice nodded. “Thank you, Laila.”
Cain just stared at her. Finally, he said, “I do not know anything about her. Other than she has succeeded in turning my life into utter chaos.”
“You do not have any idea who she is?”
He shook his head. “Nay, nor why she haunts us. She has never spoken to anyone.”
Amice gulped. “She spoke to me.”
Cain narrowed his eyes. “Who is she?”
“She refused to tell me.”
&
nbsp; “What did she say?”
“She ordered me to leave, told me she would not go.” Amice dropped her gaze, remembering what else the ghost had said.
As if he read her mind, Cain asked, “What else? What are you not telling me?”
“Naught of import.”
Cain grabbed her arms. “What are you hiding this time, Amice?”
She gritted her teeth against the insult, and lifted her gaze to glare at him. “She told me I never meant anything to you except a willing body to slake your lust upon.”
His face flinched as if she had slapped him, and his grip on her arms tightened. “’Tis not true.”
Her face burned. “Oh? I think’ ‘tis exactly the truth. I was a fool not to have seen it at the time.”
“Amice, I cared for you, you must know that. But—”
“Cease,” she snapped. “I remember your actions very clearly. But worry not, I shall stay until your ghost is gone and I get my villa.”
He dropped his hands and stepped back. “You are wrong,” he said softly. “As is that damn ghost.”
For a moment, she looked into his eyes, desperately wanting to believe him. But the facts denied his claim. The past could not be changed.
She whirled and rushed from the hall before he could give her more lies. It was bad enough to know the only man she would ever love had once cared for her.
Why had she come here? Every glance, every word from Cain was like another jagged splinter stabbing into her heart, reminding her what a fool she was.
Well, she might still be a fool, but she had become a strong fool. Strong enough to deal with Cain Veuxfort and get what she came here for.
Cain watched Amice and her companion enter the great hall for supper and reconsidered the wisdom of summoning her to Falcon’s Craig. Amice wore a deep purple silk bliaut that outlined her lush body, and her rich hair tumbled down her back in glossy waves. Every time he looked at her, he felt as if his skin itched. Itched to feel hers.
He took a deep breath and reminded himself once again of the reasons why he could not have her. It was all that kept him from throwing himself on her like some kind of ravenous beast. That and the fact she rightfully despised him.
Next to him, Piers twirled a cup and shot out an arm to prevent Gifford from pulling the jug of wine closer. “Ah, the lovely Lady Amice.”
Gifford chortled and made a successful lunge for the wine. “Like a bright flower in a barren desert, she is.”
From the end of the table, Cain’s cousin Morganna’s blue eyes glared at them. As usual, she wore a bliaut carefully constructed to expose as much of her breasts as possible, her blonde hair arranged to look tousled. Her full mouth was set in a pout. Agatha had yet to make an appearance, hiding in her chamber most likely.
As Amice and her companion neared the dais, Cain rose. When she noticed the empty chair next to his, Amice halted.
The hum of conversation from the lower trestle tables stilled, then resumed in a buzz of speculative whispers.
Before Cain could move, Piers bounced up and leapt off the dais to offer Amice his arm. “Good eve, my fair lady. May I escort you to the table?”
Cain’s stomach tightened when Amice looked up at his brother and giggled. Actually giggled. He scowled at Piers as they stepped up onto the dais, but naturally his brother’s only response was a grin.
“Good eve, Amice,” he said as she took her seat, and the woman called Laila settled at the other end from Morganna.
Amice stared straight ahead. “Good eve, my lord.”
“Can you not call me by name?”
Slowly, she turned and stared at him. God, but she was beautiful. A man could get lost in her eyes for a lifetime and more. Her lips thinned. “I prefer not to.”
He blinked. “Why?”
Before Amice responded, Gifford called over, “You look lovely this evening, my dear. Do you not think so, Piers?”
Piers smiled. “Enchanting.”
“That reminds me of a song,” Gifford began.
Oh, no, Cain thought. Not one of his uncle’s songs. God only knew what the lyrics would be. “Uncle Gifford, we do not need a song.”
“Dull. Dull as dirt. Piers?”
“Aye?”
Gifford jumped to his feet and linked arms with Piers. In a deep, carrying voice, he started singing. “‘Come ouer the wooods fair and green, the goodly maid, that lusty wench; To shadow you from the sun; Under the woode there is a bench.’”
Piers and Gifford swayed back and forth, accompanied now by the musicians on the side of the hall with their rebec and harp.
“‘Sir, I pray you do not offence, To me a maid, thus I make my mind; But as I came let me go hense; For I am here myself alone…’”
Cain buried his face in his hands as at that moment, Agatha decided to come out of hiding. Following some idiotic verse about lying down in a bed of flowers with a not so vague reference to the man’s “stamen,” the two fell mercifully silent.
From the trestle tables below, clapping began, and grew in volume, his people stamping their feet and shouting encouragement to Gifford. Cain leaned back in his chair and filled his cup to the brim with wine.
He tensed as hands suddenly stroked his shoulders. Twisting back, he saw the hands belonged to Morganna, who gazed down at him with a sly smile on her lips. From the corner of his eye, he noted Amice’s surprise, then an instant of something that actually looked like distress before she shielded her expression. Was it possible that another woman’s attention bothered her? Nay, that was ridiculous. Amice had no particular affection for him. Men had always panted after her. But a persistent voice inside him asked, why had she not married?
“Pay no attention, my lord. You cannot control those two,” Morganna purred.
“Aye. Well I know.” He shot Gifford a chastising look, which his uncle blithely ignored. Cain abruptly became aware that Morganna’s hardened nipples pressed into his back, and he inched forward. “Thank you, Morganna. ‘Tis enough.”
She sighed, her fingers lingering at his neck. “Very well. I shall see to your needs later.”
He whipped around to correct her absurd implication, but Morganna was already gliding toward the end of the table.
“Lusty wench,” Piers muttered.
The edge of a smile tickled Amice’s lips before she suppressed it.
Cain fought the urge to smile back. “Piers, do not speak so of your cousin.”
“Hardly a cousin, the connection is so far removed.”
“Still, Morganna is family.”
“Don’t act like family,” Gifford added. “Acts like a wench after a title.”
Cain motioned the servants to begin serving, noting that Agatha had seated herself as far as possible from Morganna. He could not blame her. With Luce dead, he had taken pity on Morganna when she appeared at Falcon’s Craig, figuring they needed a lady to look after things. He had since come to realize that her sad story of life at Marrick Abbey was most likely a falsehood to conceal the true reason she had been tossed out. Morganna might be of noble blood, but her morals were that of the lowliest whore.
He turned his attention to Amice. “Did you make any progress today?”
“Not very much.” Amice turned down her mouth.
“Did you find out her name?”
“Nay, naught but the fact she is often seen at the east tower. We searched there, but found no record of her.”
“The east tower overlooking the sea?”
“Aye.”
“What shall you do next?” Despite his doubts, he found himself intrigued by Amice and her companion’s unusual undertaking.
Amice glanced at him. “We shall attempt to summon her and ask her who she is.”
“She refused before.”
“This time, Laila shall be with me. And we will be prepared.”
Gifford peered around Cain. “How do you prepare to call a ghost?” He sounded like an excited child.
Amice gave him a mystical smile. “
Now, that is my secret.”
Cain hid his disappointment. He too was curious. More than curious. This was a part of Amice’s life he knew nothing about. It made him feel even more distanced from her, and he found he did not like it. “How did you become involved in this sort of thing?”
“We had a bit of a problem at Wareham, a displaced lord who did not wish to leave. I asked for aid from an encampment of the Rom on our lands. ‘Tis a long story, but in the end, I discovered I can reach out to a ghost and help him move on.”
Gifford and Piers both gazed at Amice wide-eyed. “The Rom? You mean those thieving Egyptians? They helped you?”
Amice’s back stiffened. “Aye. And refused payment.”
Piers let out a whistle. “Odd, that. They must have taken to you.”
Amice shrugged.
Cain gazed at her thoughtfully. There was more to this story than she was telling. Much more. But then Amice had always been one to guard her secrets. He peered over at her companion, Laila, and noted her small stature, brown skin, and bright black eyes with interest. “How many of these ghosts have you helped to… move on?”
“Enough.” She looked at him clear-eyed. “Do not worry, I shall solve your problem. And then I shall be gone.”
The idea of her leaving brought a pang of dull hollowness to Cain’s chest, but he shoved it away. Whatever he and Amice once had was long gone. You could never go back.
Not that he wanted to. The image of Amice in the arms of the Earl of Stanham fluttered at the edge of his memory. Oh, she had claimed innocence, but the guilty expression on her face and the triumphant one on Stanham’s told the truth. He swore on that day never to let his heart be that vulnerable again.
And then he had followed what he believed was the honorable path, only to discover it led to utter emptiness.
Still, he had other memories of Amice too, memories fresh and alive despite the passage of time. He remembered it all—feeling like the luckiest man in the world, the simple joy of just holding her hand, the way her eyes darkened with passion, the paradise of sinking into her body. And above all, the sense that his very soul merged with hers in pure completeness.