“Does everyone think I have traveled all the way from London to look at a house and sell it? I have come to Wicklow to stay. I’ll not be leaving.”
Her answer had been unexpected. He regarded her quietly for a moment. “You’ll find life dull. We haven’t the constant fervor and excitement a woman like you wants.”
“You have no inkling of what I want, Ryne.”
“I know the sort of life your mother lived, the notoriety of her friends, the rounds of parties. And sweet Amanda always at her side. How long can you last without them?” He reached out to touch her cheek, but she stepped back. He shrugged. “You’re extraordinarily like her, you know,” he said softly. “More beautiful, actually. I am surprised you never followed her on the stage.”
“My mother and I wanted entirely different things from life. She had what she wanted. Here I hope to find the things I want.”
They were doing the dance again, like last night in the bedroom. She taking a step and then he. It was unnerving and she wished he’d just stand still or else some music would start and he would whirl her around the floor. But of course it was the wine making her think that, otherwise she would never consider being in Ryne Sullivan’s arms again.
His face was markedly arresting, really, and those eyes were blazing down into hers. She shook her head gently to clear her thoughts.
“And what do you hope to find, Amanda?” he whispered.
“Something far beyond your capacity to understand.” She spat out the words venomously, then looked away, lost for a moment in her own distant thoughts. A moment later she added quietly, “A life that is simple and peaceful, a life that is my own.” Her eyes sped back to him. “You see, Ryne, my financial circumstances are little different from your own. I have only Wicklow and the sum Aunt Elise left to maintain it.”
His raucous laughter shattered a quiet lull. “How can someone accustomed to living at the height of London’s society possibly exist on the pittance Mother left you?”
“My needs are simple,” she said tartly, feeling the sting of his laughter. “We’ll keep the garden here and get a flock of chickens if necessary.”
His laughter broke out anew. “A flock indeed! I pray I am here long enough to see you casting grain to the chickens. I expect, though, it will not take you long to have precisely what you have come for.” He ground out the words as if to better send them home. “After all, a beautiful ‘lady’ who has been rehearsed in the ways of womanhood need not wait long to have whatever her heart desires.”
“You are despicable, Ryne.” She fumed. What ill fate had inflicted this devil on her? She would much prefer the wicked spirit of Jubal Wicklow to this taunting Ryne Sullivan. She threw her head back proudly. “You judge everyone by your own debauchery.”
He laughed. “If you’ve set your hooks out for my brother, you’ll no doubt get what you want. I am not alone in appreciating a mare well-broken.” His leering gaze started a maddening current racing through her. “Should you need my advice on how to tighten your snare, I will be entirely willing to assist.”
Amanda gasped and stormed to the door. “I am going up to bed, and be assured I shall lock my door,” she said hotly, certain Ryne could not know she had not yet gotten a key from Gussie.
Ryne’s mocking eyes followed her hasty retreat. “You are quite safe from me. I want nothing more yielding in my bed this night than a pillow.”
With a great huff of breath Amanda dashed through the doorway, stumbling most clumsily as she caught her foot on the doorjamb.
“Take care, ‘dear lady’,” Ryne crooned from behind her, and followed his gibe with a scornful laugh.
Amanda reached her room in remarkably short time, given her state of mind and the condition of her head. How could Aunt Elise have spawned two sons so different? She thought how pleasant Gardner was. He knew how to treat a woman, to make her feel appreciated and special. Somehow that knowledge had escaped Ryne. He was by far the most impossible, infuriating blackguard of a man she had been so unfortunate as to encounter.
Only out of respect for his mother could she endure having him in the house. How, in good conscience, could she force the man from the house that might by right have belonged to him? And with his sour disposition, what chance did he have of anyone else extending hospitality? She hoped with a bit of luck he would have his own place ready for occupancy in a short time and she would be rid of him. It was no wonder his own brother could not tolerate him.
He was like too many other men she had known in her short life. They saw nothing when they looked at her but a replica of her mother’s famous face. Would Ryne have scoffed to know that much of Sarah Fairfax’s reputation was invented? Her mother had been a lonely woman who had never found a love to replace the one she had lost so early in her career. George Fairfax had died even before Amanda was born. To compensate for her loss, Sarah had thrown all her emotions into her career. It was her own sadness and everlasting sense of tragedy that had made her a great actress. The parties, the easy smile, and the light laughter had not been real. They had been Sarah’s way of hiding the pain that never left her heart.
Amanda begrudged none of the years she spent at her mother’s side, or, as some might say, in her shadow. Sarah had loved her daughter and Amanda returned that love with all her heart. But she had no desire to try to capture the ashes of her mother’s career. She wanted what everyone seemed to find impossible to believe, a simple life of her own. If Ryne and others in Williamsburg could not accept what she sought, then let them keep their peace and she would keep hers.
She didn’t know how she had expected Gardner and Ryne to react to her, but if only they could both have been as kind as Gardner it would have been far better for them all.
Amanda splashed cold water on her face and blotted it dry with a towel. She had only a dull headache left to remind her of the wine she had drunk. Actually the disagreement with Ryne had caused her much more grief. But she wouldn’t think of him anymore now. She’d sleep. That was what she needed more than anything else.
She wandered to the dressing table and sat at the mirror, pulling the pins from her thick hair and letting its coiled length fall free. Thank goodness she had gotten her trunk unpacked in the afternoon and had her own familiar things out around the room. It made the place seem truly hers and nothing Ryne had said could diminish the wonder of that.
Her tortoiseshell brush lay on the dressing table with the toiletries she had brought from England. She took it up absently and pulled it through her waist-length hair brushing until the tangles were gone both from her mind and from the long silky curtain floating over her back. There had always been a maid to do the brushing and lay out her clothes, to turn down the covers for her. But, surprisingly, it was remarkably nice, this learning to do things for herself and not being fussed over by a staff of servants. At last she stopped and put the brush aside, anxious to get to bed and put an end to this long, eventful day. She would forego braiding her hair tonight. It would take time and concentration she simply could not spare when she needed so desperately to sleep.
Her gown lay across the bed. She took it up and shook the wrinkles from the gauzy pink silk garment, then draped it lovingly over a chair back while she removed her dress and unlaced her stays.
How could a man, who seemingly should have a greater degree of intelligence than Ryne displayed, draw such narrow-minded conclusions? She pondered that thought as she put away her green dress and slipped the silk nightgown over her head. Would Ryne be even more adamant in thinking her a mere copy of the public image of her mother if he knew the silken confection she wore, with its pink ribbons and bows and lace, had belonged to Sarah?
Amanda drew back the covers and plumped the feather pillow angrily. Why must Ryne be here to spoil everything for her? And why was she so softhearted that she felt obligated to tolerate his bad manners?
She snuffed out the candle at her bedside. Through the open window a new star shone in the sky, a star that shone for her, a
bright gleaming token of good. The picture of Ryne’s arrogant face went out of her mind. What did she care what Ryne Sullivan thought of her? She did not need his approval.
In sleep Amanda found her bed a tempest of nightmares. Sounds came out of the shadows, the covers threatened to smother her like wings of great birds swooping down from a dark sky. The air was chill, then hot as she tossed about in her bed.
She saw her mother’s face and Aunt Elise’s. She saw a broken carriage draped in funeral black. An icy sweat streamed from her face and soaked the pillow. Her hands moved clawlike to sweep the tangled strands of hair from her face. Her long nails left red marks on her pale skin. She cried out. The Turkish King, his glass eyes colorless and open as a cat’s at night, floated through the rooms of Wicklow whispering her name, whispering a warning she could hear over and over again. Amanda moaned and twisted in her bed, but nothing brought relief from the sound or the tormenting dream.
Something was moving in the darkness. She heard footsteps approaching, padding and soft, the sound of a latch turning loose, and more footsteps, louder and slower. A cat of prey coming for its victim. Amanda moaned again and buried her face in the down pillow. It was like being caught in a dream within a dream.
Suddenly hot, she flung the covers from her and rolled to her back. The world had turned all wild and stormy. The boiling black clouds had gotten in her room. Rain came, foul, heavy rain striking her face in cold, slow drops. She rubbed at the wetness, smearing it over her temple and onto her hand. She was drowning in the rain, soaked through with it. And then it stopped and the dream ended, her breathing slowed and deepened.
Amanda woke suddenly, whether from a night sound of an old house or from the imagined raindrops on her face, she didn’t know. Her mind refused to work, her brain groggy from the aftereffects of wine. She sat up weakly in the bed, breathing deeply and vowing never again to drink so much in one evening.
She licked her parched, dry lips. It would have been wiser to have braided her hair, for now it was matted and falling in her eyes. She reached up to smooth it away, feeling as she did something wet and sticky on her fingers.
There was no light in the room; even the stars and moon had disappeared into the black dome of the sky. She dreaded climbing out of bed to light a candle. But at last, trembling like a wet kitten and wondering if her nightmare had been real, Amanda edged her way to the night table and quickly had a candle glowing. The taper’s warm little light was like a friend to stand with her against her fears. Holding the slim taper before her, she crossed the room hesitantly, making her way guardedly to the dressing table. At the mirror the reflected light brightened the room and she could see her face like a white shadow lifting out of the darkness.
She drew nearer and set the candle on the dressing table. It seemed she saw a flash of the sun, but it was only the candle falling over, and the voice she heard was her own scream as she fell to her knees.
It had been blood dripping on her face.
Chapter 4
Ryne smiled. His restlessness took him on an aimless wandering through the dark halls of Wicklow before he made his way to his room and to bed. As it had in his years of growing up, he found the activity soothing to his thoughts. In the darkness the wide halls with their steeply arched ceilings echoed the eerie night sounds of an old house. In his youth those sounds had made his skin prickle and he had thought them the whispered calling of his name. To his credit, he had pursued the sound, even when it terrified him, though he had never found the source.
He roamed these halls in those early years, imagining them an Aladdin’s cave and thinking that at some point he would find the caller and the secret door that concealed hordes of treasure. Another favorite pastime had been frightening his mother’s guests with ghostly sounds of his own making. He’d felt the sting of the rod for that mischief more times than one.
Old Groom was to blame for filling a boy’s head with tales of ghosts and of glorifying accounts of Jubal Wicklow. Groom swore there was a bounty of gold in a secret hiding place and that with it he could expect to find the ruby pendant Jubal had given to Evelyn Wicklow.
“True, lad. The old cap’n told me so himself one night when he was deep in his cups. Were only days before he died. Showed me a ruby near big as a duck’s egg and cut like a heart. Had a peacock carved on it, looking real enough to strut. Come from the treasure room of the Persian shah. Miz Evelyn wore it sometimes. Wore it the last day she were ever seen at Wicklow.”
“Big as an egg,” young Ryne repeated, already planning his search for the ruby.
“That it were. Never told me where he kept it, though, nor the gold neither. And I ain’t one fer lookin’. What with him stalkin’ round in Wicklow to guard it.” He nodded slowly. “True, lad. I been in Wicklow once since the old cap’n died. That were the night the bullet took him. ‘Bout midnight it was, and there were his ghost top o’ the stairs. Him callin’ my name and me turnin’ an boltin’ out the door. Never been inside again. But the gold be there, and the ruby, to my mind.”
Ryne had forgotten those stories until a year ago while on a trip to England. There he had by chance come upon accounts of his grandfather’s seafaring career and learned there had indeed been a treasure taken out of Persia and part of it the priceless ruby known as the Heart of Happiness. Much of the bounty had been given to the English crown, but enough had been retained by Jubal Wicklow to make him a wealthy man. He had sailed to Virginia with his young bride, Evelyn.
His curiosity piqued, Ryne had sought out all who had any knowledge of his grandfather to learn what led to the fatal duel. He learned little. Apparently the duel had been carried out without seconds and with little regard for the rules. Jubal Wicklow had survived the first shot but had died of a second wound in the back. No one knew the name of the opponent, only that he was a man who had come to settle an old grudge against Jubal Wicklow. What had become of Evelyn Wicklow was never determined.
Afterward Ryne’s mother, Elise, had been cared for by Evelyn’s brother and his wife. They had taken over Wicklow and run the plantation until Elise married. His mother had divided her time between Virginia and England while she was growing up. During one of her early stays in Salisbury she had become, to Ryne’s regret, close friends with Sarah Fairfax
Elise’s uncle and aunt had found a tragic destiny at Wicklow. Shortly after Elise married Shamus O’Reilly and before her guardians could return to England, a fever had stricken them and both died. Death was the heritage of Wicklow, if one believed the tales. Gardner’s father had been thrown from a horse and killed. Ryne’s own father was lost at sea. The latest victim was Elise herself.
A pirate’s legacy, he supposed. His grandfather had been a gentleman pirate, by Groom’s accounts, and probably made more enemies than friends. No doubt much of the fortune that had made its way down to his only daughter, Elise, had been ill-gotten and was stained with blood. But if the old rogue’s spirit did truly haunt Wicklow, as Groom and some others claimed, it was doubtless kept there as punishment for crimes committed on the high seas as much as to watch over the hidden treasures.
Ryne tossed upon his bed. Could a pirate, even a dream pirate, take such a divine form? One such as this would be easy to abide. His dream had taken him to the riverbanks where the green ferns ruffled the ground. She walked among them, the doe-brown hair rippling gently in soft gusts of wind. Her eyes, guileless, innocent, were the rich deep green of jade. She wore a gown thin as gauze and the sun shone through it, making the filmy cloth more an enhancement than a covering for her sleek limbs and delicate curves. She bent low to pluck a handful of violets, and rising again, tucked several purple blossoms in the wisps of curls about her forehead.
The smile set upon Ryne’s lips. He had not disrobed before retiring, but had merely kicked off his boots and tossed them aside before sprawling across the covers. He was hot. Not a breath of air seemed to stir in the room, but there on the riverbank where Amanda wandered, the air was sweet and cool and smelled
of jasmine. She filled his senses: her soft voice, her graceful carriage, the tender lips. He saw the dark crescent peaks of her small breasts, the alluring curve of her waist, her arms outstretched and beckoning as her lips formed his name.
In the sanctity of his dream he desired her as he had never desired a woman. Hot beads of sweat sprang from his skin and he felt the heat build in his loins as he thought of catching Amanda in his arms and lowering her to the cushion of grass beside the river.
She lay there below him, her eyes mirroring his desire. He stretched out a hand to touch her face but dropped it swiftly as her voice sharply called his name.
Ryne’s eyes opened at the sound of a hand twisting the doorknob. The dream faded in his mind, and as was his way, he came quickly to full alertness. But he made no move to reveal his cautious observation of Amanda as she strode angrily into his room. When she spoke, he rose up slowly, and half-yawning, drew in a deep breath. He casually met her irate stare, as if it were an everyday occurrence that someone storm into his bedroom in full cry.
“Ryne! Ryne Sullivan! Did you think you could frighten me away?” Amanda swept inside, her shimmering silk nightgown a cloud of pink in the murky light. She shook. The candle in her hand shook. She felt such a chill in her flesh that it might well have been a winter’s eve and not a warm night of summer. “Get up and get out!” she screamed.
“Amanda, dear cousin,” he said wearily. “What brings you calling at this hour? Has the solitude of Wicklow led you to seek my company?” Ryne rubbed his hands over his face and pushed the tangle of black hair from his forehead as he swung his long legs around and rested his bare feet on the floor.
“Ryne.” She calmed her voice, but even so it quaked. She set the candle aside, no longer able to hold it in her trembling hands. “You have gone too far! These pranks of yours are bereft of reason. Appalling! I’d have thought you had outgrown boyish games, but slipping around in the night frightening people . . . the blood . . . at your age it borders on madness!”
Whispers at Midnight Page 8