“Are you my mother?” asked the girl. “I can’t remember her.”
Imogen hesitated. The phrase sounded oddly familiar. She couldn’t place it. Anxiously, she motioned her head in denial. She could not speak.
The girl again glanced around. Then, staring off into the distance, she shook her ringlet head and uttered, “He would not like it.”
“Who?” Imogen asked. Her gaze followed the child’s. That is when she saw him again—a figure on a dark horse, waiting quietly in the distance, watching them. At their attention, the rider nudged his horse forward. The horse’s hooves murmured in the stirring mist. Going to the child, she whispered frantically, “Who is that? Is that your father?”
“No,” said the girl. She bowed her head as she began to walk toward the rider in dejection. She did not try to run from him as he came for her.
“Wait,” cried Imogen, the loudness of her voice sounding harshly out of place. “You don’t have to go.”
The child turned with a sad smile. She did not answer. She waited as the rider approached her. The horse moved slowly, at an easy walk, but covered more distance than his pace should have allowed.
Imogen’s heart began to thud in warning. She wanted to run, but was torn between her fear and her concern for the child. Unable to look away, she watched the rider as he neared.
He was a large man, with shoulder length black hair that flowed around his tunic covered shoulders. His black eyes were cavernous pits in the sharp sockets of his face. Imogen eyed his medieval attire, wondering at the knight-like garb.
“What do you want?” she asked shakily.
The knight looked at her, his face expressionless as he studied her carefully before he leaned over to reach a hand down to the child. His fingers curled, motioning her to take hold in silent command.
“Do not touch her,” Imogen ordered the knight. Her words were weak, but she lifted her jaw into the air. At that, the knight again glanced at her with something akin to curiosity shining on his face. Imogen turned to the girl. “You don’t have to go with him. Stay here with me. I will protect you.”
The girl did not hesitate. She held her hand up to the knight. The man pulled her before him onto the horse. The child wiggled until she was comfortable in the knight’s arms. She sat sideways on the animal’s back, her head leaning against the broad expanse of his chest. Her round eyes stared at Imogen silently with hollowed sorrow.
“Who are you?” she demanded hoarsely. She could see the child was unafraid, used to the man who held her.
Imogen drew back in fear as they continued to watch her with intent gazes. The horse pawed the ground. Their eyes grew brighter—too bright for the reflected moonlight. The knight urged the animal slowly towards her. Imogen lifted her hand as a weak barrier. The mist swirled around her, creeping like a fire up her legs, burning her flesh. She couldn’t run, couldn’t swing her arms to fight as the man came closer. His hand began to reach as if he would curl his fingers at her and take her with him. Trembling, she began to cry, tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Without warning, she screamed.
At the high-pitched sound of her terror, the horse started, rearing in the air, its forelegs flailing against the moon. When the stallion’s legs struck the ground once more, the faces of the riders melted.
The child’s yellow dress withered, the soft material scorched with the flames of a past fire, growing dark with ash and soot. Her face crumpled, wrinkling into a red and black mass of scarred flesh, the lips withering like dying roses against her skin until they were tightened lines pulled back from her teeth. Her golden curls melted away until only the mass of her bloodied skull showed oozing through the wound in her head. Her green eyes stared from the depths of her lidless eyes.
The knight’s transformation was less horrible. His face paled until his skin turned gray with the stark, waxen pallor of death. His lips faded, becoming blue. A hole opened in the knight’s chest, exposing the still remains of his bleeding heart, once impaled but now a gaping wound that would forever seep.
Imogen’s voice stuck in her throat. Her eyes burned with the image, her stomach clenching at the grotesque sight. Dragging in a deep breath, she screamed again. The vibration of her voice jerked her legs into action, but, before she could run, the thick mist wound around the knight and his child, enveloping them. They disappeared.
Still screaming, Imogen turned, running along the dim pathway. Clouds drifted over the moon. The land became dark—more so now that the mist was curling away toward the trees. Her heart pumped faster. Her feet moved with the speed of lightning. Suddenly, she bumped into an unyielding chest. Her screamed again, fighting the arms that tried to restrain her.
“Let me go,” she yelled, blindly.
“Imogen!” Dougal commanded with a hard shake. “Imogen!”
“Let—” She stopped as the tone of his voice sank in to her harried senses. Staring at him through wet, dilated eyes, she breathed, “Spirits.”
“What?” He hissed. Shoving Imogen behind him, he started down the path from whence she had come.
“No, Mr. Weston, please,” she gulped. She grabbed his arm, tugging him to a stop. “There are ghosts in the garden. Horrible—”
“Where?” He turned to her. His hand lifted to her pale face to calm her. She stiffened at his touch but did not fight it. There was something familiar in his hold. The length of his fingers ran down the side of her cheek, over the frantic beat of her pulse in her neck. He demanded hoarsely, “Where did you see them?”
“In the garden by the stone bench, but please, don’t go there. I think the mist swallowed them up. They vanished—I… I…” Imogen shrugged helplessly unable to finish. Fearfully, she cried, “Don’t leave me.”
Drawn by his light touch and the kind worry in his eyes, Imogen rushed forward, burying herself against his chest. She needed to feel something solid and real. She needed to know that he was not like the others in the garden. The steady beat of his heart thumped against her flushed cheek reassuringly.
Dougal gasped in shock at her sudden embrace. His hands fell wide in surprise, away from her, refusing to hold her in return, but she clung tightly, her slender arms wrapping around his waist, holding him fast. He felt her tremble. Just as his eyes had not been immune to her form swathed in the voluptuous folds of her nightdress, his body was not immune as she pressed her softness against him.
He stood for a long, spellbound moment, not returning her touch, stunned to silence as she continued to cling to him. He was afraid to startle her into pulling away, afraid of what it would mean to him if he held her, afraid of the memory that would haunt him afterwards if he were to feel her skin beneath his flesh-starved hands. His feelings were wrong, for so many reasons. His lust could not be explored or returned. His passions could not be voiced. His loneliness could not be redeemed. They could never be together. Their paths were only meeting for a brief moment. He knew that soon the crossing of their lives would be over and he would never see her again.
After several fevered heartbeats with no response from him, she began to pull away. Dougal could take it no longer. He seemed to have no control over his arms as they surrounded her shoulders. He could not deny her comfort, just as he could not deny himself the painfulness of such a memory as they were creating.
“Imogen,” he murmured in dark torture. His caress was stiff, brief, wrong. It could not last. He commanded his arms to release her.
“No, don’t go,” she begged in a shaken whisper, knowing that it was what he would ask of her. Even with her fear, she was well aware of how different his skin was to hers, how warm his body was to her chilled flesh. She was no fool. She felt his stiffness, knew he was uncomfortable. She couldn’t give him ease, would not let go. “Don’t leave me alone. I’m not crazy. I know what I saw. The ghosts are real. It was the Marquis. I know it was.”
“How—?” he started.
“I just know,” she broke in. Pulling away from his chest, she looked up at him.
> Dougal studied her eyes, so vulnerable and innocent. The look drove him mad. His limbs shook with a desire he had been hard pressed to keep at bay since meeting her. Only now did he realize how close to the surface it bubbled. When he looked at her, he knew the fates were plotting against him. And the fates were very, very cruel indeed.
She still did not understand what was going on at Rothfield Park. Dougal would not be the one to tell her. He couldn’t even try to form the words. And, without truth, there was nothing but her innocence waiting to be crushed. He was not the monster to do it, for he needed her more than she could realize—for more than just the fulfillment of his body. He needed her to complete the search for his soul.
Imogen swallowed audibly, staring up into his cool eyes. Her gaze dipped over the strong line of his nose, the small birthmark beside it. The worried crease on his brow deepened until he appeared to be scowling at her, but she did not feel the tension of his eyes in his hold. His arms were tender, gentle, caressing. An unfamiliar wave washed over her skin. Her gown kneaded beneath his fingers, lifting and falling with each gentle stroke. She felt like she was floating, like he could sweep her away across the earth and sky, into the starry night.
She forgot the ghosts, forgot that she was scantily clad in the arms of her tutor. She forgot her parents and the servants sleeping within the manor. Her mind did not even think to warn her of how wrong her actions were, for her body screamed with approval. Licking her lips, she glanced at his parted mouth, her attention suddenly drawn there.
“I—” She couldn’t finish. Lifting up on her toes, she pressed her mouth to his. He swallowed in surprise at her bold action. The sound did not stop her. Nothing could stop her once her lips felt the firm pleasure of his.
A light plea escaped her throat, begging in confusion. Her hands found hold on his face. The stubble of his chin scratched her, but she didn’t care. Not knowing what possessed her, she opened her mouth. She needed to get closer, feel more. His breath fanned over her teeth and she breathed him in. Unsure how to end the torment of her flesh, she pulled back, gazing into his stunned eyes. Her blue orbs begged him to help her, to show her what she was trying to do. He did not—could not.
Taking her hands in his, Dougal pulled her hands from his face. His arms trembled. His body shook. He saw the aching torment in her and was sorry that he was the cause of it. Shaking his head, he uttered hoarsely, “No.”
“But, I—”
“No,” he ordered more forcibly. “You are distraught.”
“But, I thought that you… that I—”
“You are confused,” he stated, his voice becoming more controlled with each passing moment. “You are tired.”
She pulled angrily away. “Quit treating me as if I were a child!”
“Then don’t act like one,” he returned harshly. His limbs stiffened with the effort it took not to pull her back. “You are not thinking clearly right now. Tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow!” she screeched. She backed away from him, her fists balling at her waist. “Quit telling me what I am!”
“Shh! You forget what is out here,” he hissed. “Would you draw attention—d?”
“You high and mighty… boor! You think that just because you are my tutor you can order me about? I’ll have you know I didn’t even want to kiss you. For a passing moment, you looked like my dear, sweet Edward and I thought I was kissing him. If it wasn’t for the ghosts that gave me such at terrible fright, I would not have…” Her words trailed off. Her face grew pale as she remembered why she had been running in the first place. Weakly, she uttered, “There are spirits in the garden.”
“What did you see?” he asked, ignoring her other remarks. He could not handle the pain that her cutting tone caused him, though he had expected little else. Grabbing her arms, he shook her. “Tell me what you saw.”
“Let me go! You have no right to order me about.”
His tone softened, but his grip remained tight. “What did you see?”
“A ghost,” she stated slowly, as if talking to a child. Her eyes grew round. She thought of her sister. Jane knew all the stories. She needed to write her, find out who the ghosts were and what they wanted. What had happened to the poor child? The burnt face worked its way into her mind’s eye. Imogen grew nauseous. “Now let me go. I want to go inside. Your touch is making me sick.”
Realizing he was hurting her with his force, he released her.
She stumbled away from him, staring up at his face with injured pride. Rubbing her arms gingerly where he had gripped her, she sniffed. Her jaw jutted up into the air. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but her dark look of warning cut him off.
Turning, Imogen ran to the house without a backward glance. She found her candle where she’d left it, still lit, and grabbed it with trembling hands. Panting for breath, she hurried to her room.
Dougal watched her go. Seeing her safely inside, he closed his eyes. Then with determination, he rushed to the gardens, and, as the darkness of night consumed him, he whispered into the wind, “Margaret. Margaret. Where are you my sweet Margaret?”
Chapter Five
The next morning found Imogen lost between embarrassment for her inexcusable behavior toward Mr. Weston and her fear over what she had seen in the garden.
Were there ghosts? she wondered over and over again. And did I actually kiss my tutor? Whatever possessed me! Or was it a nightmare?
Not one to sit around, and feeling reasonably safe once the light of dawn illuminated her room, Imogen hurried to her writing desk to pen a letter to Jane in care of her Aunt Mildred’s home in London. Sparing no detail, she told Jane everything that she had seen and begged her to come home. When she finished, she made her way down to the library to leave the letter on the tray her father used for outgoing mail. As soon as a servant saw it, they would have it delivered.
She would have ordered the letter posted straight away, but that would have only drawn suspicion and her mother would undoubtedly read what she had divulged to her sister. The last thing Imogen wanted was to explain herself to the Viscountess. Her mother only needed an excuse to have her committed. Imogen was determined not to give her one.
No, thought Imogen, the ghosts will have to be my secret.
Well, she amended ruefully, Mr. Weston’s and mine.
She doubted the man would care to mention the night’s happenings to her parents. If they even thought aught improper happened he would be relieved of his position and his reputation ruined. He would never tutor in fine society again.
In the library, she hid her letter within the stack of her father’s missives. Imogen sighed in relief when her task was done. Mr. Weston was not there to greet her with his usually dismal self. Part of her longed to see him, but it was a small part she thought better to ignore. After her behavior, she wanted to fall into a hole and die. The knowledge of her attempt to kiss him was almost worse than the knowledge of the ghostly Marquis.
She could still feel his lips, rigid and unmoving against hers. He had not returned her tender sentiment, but only stiffened in revulsion.
Turning to leave, she jolted in shock as her gaze fell on Dougal. She blinked to clear the image of him from her mind. When he did not disappear, she froze. His expression tightened. He looked as if he hadn’t slept and in fact he had not.
Wearily, he looked at the tray where she had deposited her letter. Then, glancing back at her face, he uttered with a polite nod of greeting. “Miss Imogen.”
“Mr. Weston,” she whispered back, giving a stiff bow. Never had propriety stung her as it did now. She cursed herself for the weakness of her voice.
Her hands shook. She could not meet his eyes. Having nothing else to say, she moved to skirt past him. Dougal’s hand shot out, grasping her elbow to stop her. Wincing, she looked up at him through her lashes.
“You have a guest,” he said quietly. He studied her face for any signs of affection. He desperately wanted to explain, to wipe away the anguish he saw in her, but
he did not know how.
“A guest?” she asked in surprise. She glanced at his face. The sight tugged at her heart. She pulled away. She could not stand his cool indifference. He would most likely only scold her again and mayhap she deserved it. She had acted like a child.
“Yes. A vicar,” he murmured quietly, pleased to see that she at least did not run from him screaming as she had the night before.
“A vicar?” she said in surprise. That did get her attention. With a grimace she said, “Not Reverend Campbell. He is a dreadfully disapproving man. I cannot endure him today. I will not sit through one of his self-righteous sermons.”
“No. His name is Reverend Stillwell.”
“Did you send for him to lecture me about morality?” she questioned defensively.
“No,” he replied. He could feel the tension radiating from her, flowing over him like a drift of snow.
“What does he want with me? Have we a new vicar at Haventon?” she inquired.
“Yes and no,” Dougal said. With a frustrated sigh, he released her and moved away. He could not think with her so near. He could smell the sweetened scent of roses wafting from the perfumed oil on her skin.
“Is he angry because my attendance at church has been… irregular?” she wondered pensively. “He has come to lecture me?”
“I think you should talk to him. He is in the garden.”
“Oh.” Imogen sighed, reluctant to go there.
Sensing her hesitancy, Dougal asked, “Would you prefer I direct him somewhere else?”
“No, no. Don’t be silly. The garden is fine… perfectly fine.”
When the door shut behind her, Dougal drew a deep breath. Going to the letter tray, he glanced down at the stack. On the top was a payment of a bill addressed in the Viscount’s script. Dougal shifted through the letters until he found one made out to Miss Jane Drake in a decidedly feminine scrawl. Grasping the letter in his palm, he rearranged the other correspondence on the tray into a neat pile.
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