Mists of Midnight

by Pillow Michelle M.

  The vicar gave a wry laugh and nodded as he walked from the room, leaving Dougal to wallow in his own agony. There was nothing he could do to lift the man’s burden. It was a sorrow the Marquis of Rothfield carried with him from life into death and it had haunted him for the last fifty years. Dougal’s unrested spirit had been doomed to roam the manor and gardens of Rothfield Park, searching for a daughter who would not be found and might never forgive him. No one could lift the burden of such a curse, mayhap not even the woman who held within her the only dim ray of hope.

  Chapter Six

  Imogen winced. Rubbing her head gingerly, she examined it for lumps. Her scalp was smooth, but the pain did not lessen. It was a peculiar sensation that coursed through her mind, throbbing with warning, yet vaguely refusing to release the secrets within her. It seemed the pain was most persistent the moment she awoke, and it was becoming harder to ignore.

  “Mayhap, it is because I sleep overmuch,” muttered Imogen, scolding herself for laziness.

  Yawning, she shuffled from her room. She wondered how she could have once again fallen asleep, it being so early in the day. Then, deciding she must not have gotten much rest after her encounter with the spirits, she shrugged the notion away.

  Since it was still morning, Imogen walked to the library, anxiously wanting to see Mr. Weston. She desired some answers. The pain lessened as she touched the library door. Throwing it open, she went inside.

  Dougal looked up from his book in surprise. Imogen’s heart beat at his handsomeness, so unexpected in his soft look. She paused, waiting for his face to stiffen and his demeanor to harden. It did and she was once again able to breathe.

  “Miss Imogen,” he said at length when she did not speak. “I wondered where you had gotten off to.”

  “Oddly enough I napped. Last night left me overtired.”

  Imogen blushed the moment the words left her mouth, her gaze darting to his lips. Quickly, she averted her gaze.

  Uncomfortable, Dougal looked away, as well. Finally, he stood under the pretense of putting up his book.

  He wanted to reach out to her. He knew he could lure her to his side, into his arms. He was still a man, after all, and being a man of vast experience, he knew when a woman was attracted to him. He knew how to manipulate that attraction.

  He held back, unwilling to take unfair advantage of her. Everything she understood about him was a lie.

  Imogen, unaware of his turmoil, suffered qualms of her own. He was her mentor, sent to polish her for marriage—a man whom she could never dream of pursuing. To do so would ruin her. Such men as he were poor. Her father would disown her. If her parents were so outraged over Mr. Tanner’s station in life, they would be livid if they discovered she had any feelings of a tender sort toward Mr. Weston. He was, after all, a lowly tutor, a high-ranking servant at best. Tentatively, she said, “I must apologize for—“

  “Do not think on it,” he said sternly. He frowned, sorry that she was regretful of her actions, but he knew it was for the best. Nothing could ever come of the attraction between them. “You were distraught. I will never mention it.”

  “Yes, I was distraught,” admitted Imogen. Her heart cried with the knowledge that he could forget the touch of her mouth much more easily than she could his. “However, I still feel I must apologize.”

  Gaining her nerve, she lifted her head to look at him. His gaze met with hers. For a moment she was lost in the clear depths of his green-gray eyes. They were the color of a field shadowed beneath the clouds of a gray storm. Her heart sped in her chest. He said nothing.

  Feeling the need to explain, she rambled almost incoherently, “I did not mean to be cruel, if indeed that is what I was. I know that naught could come of us. And in fact I wish to make you understand that I know such a match, as ours, would be futile at best—not that I am saying we would be matched. You are a poor man and I the daughter of a nobleman. I am expected to be with a man of a certain station in life—as you well know because you are here to prepare me for him. I cannot very well go about kissing servants, can I? It just isn’t done. And I promise not to do it in the future. So please, let it be our secret.”

  Dougal’s expression did not change. He felt as if he had been kicked by her candid honesty. What she said, in essence, was true of course, but the fact that she thought he was beneath her was insulting. She was rejecting him on the basis of his lack of wealth. If ever he had thought she cared for him, he stood corrected. She might feel attraction, but she did not favor him enough to defy the standards of society to be with him. Inwardly, Dougal cursed. What was he thinking? Even if she was willing to defy the will of her parents, they still could not be together. Why was he being so sensitive? Position and wealth did not matter in death. And such attraction and love that she hinted toward could not matter in death. The time for love had passed.

  Moving to the settee, Imogen sat down lest she fall over. He did not reply, which meant he must agree with her. She tried to hide her disappointment. All it would have taken was one word from him for her to forget her words. She trembled beneath his watchful gaze, as she said, “So, having explained, I do apologize for making you uncomfortable. It was not a fair position to put you in, Mr. Weston. I suppose I was acting out of spite.”

  “Forget it,” he said shortly, wishing she would quit talking.

  “And I thank you for sending the vicar to me.”

  “He is a wise man. I hope he was able to help you.”

  She abruptly stood, her gaze focused on her hands as she picked nervously at the tips of her gloves. “Yes, it would appear so. Have…?”

  The sound of her small voice tore at him. Slowly, he closed the distance between them, taking a seat in the Viscount’s chair, unable to risk being near her. His hands ached to reach out to her, but he knew he couldn’t.

  Imogen glanced down at him, feeling all too exposed standing. She sat down on the settee again.

  “What is it?” he asked quietly.

  “Have you really seen them too? Is that why you were not surprised when I told you I saw them?”

  “Yes.”He forced himself to remember the vicar’s words. “I have seen sprits.”

  “Here? You have seen them here?” asked Imogen. He nodded, not speaking. Hastily, she rushed on, unable to stop the flow of words, “What do they want? Am I to help them? Should I be afraid? I would have imagined I would be afraid of them, but I’m not—not exactly. I mean there is the general shock, which is the least to be expected in such a case as this. But beyond that I only feel as if I have acquired a new, living acquaintance. Well, except they were a bit scarier in appearance at times.”

  At that Dougal shrugged. His lips tightened. It would be so easy to blurt out the truth, to tell her what he longed to. But Reverend Stillwell had been sure that they should not rush her to remember too quickly. If he tried to rush it, then all might be lost. He had tried to force her once, in this very room. He had tried to make her remember that day she fainted away in his arms. For a moment, she had accepted the truth, albeit numbly. But, she had gone to bed only to awaken without memory of the whole evening. If he tried again, Margaret might be lost forever. He could not chance such a grave error. No, for now, he must remain silent.

  “Nothing,” he said hoarsely. “My guess is that most of them want nothing from us. And we should not be afraid of them.”

  “Most?” gasped Imogen in growing dread. “You say most want nothing. How can you tell the difference between the most and the others who do want something from us?”

  “I cannot say for certain the minds of others. We must remember that all spirits were once human and from that we can logically assume they still carry feelings and desires that keep them here. And, being once human, their numerous traits and motives must vary. So I say fear them no more or less than you would a living being. Distrust them no more or less.”

  “That would be the logical way to see it, would it not?” said Imogen, nodding in acceptance. “But what if I was meant t
o help them? Do you think I should endeavor to seek them out? Should I try to find them and talk to them?”

  Yes, Dougal desperately wanted to cry out. Instead, he said, “Mayhap, if you see them again, you should try and see what they are about. Mayhap you can help them find peace. Mayhap they don’t know they are dead and all you need to do is tell them.”

  “Do not know they are dead?” Imogen gasped in surprise. “They fade into the mist. How can they not realize they are dead, Mr. Weston?”

  His face softened as she challenged him. Hiding his smile, he said, “Why don’t we forget the ghosts for now, Miss Imogen? If they wanted to hurt you, they would have done so already.”

  “All right,” she allowed, captured by his hint of humor. “Though I do not know what could ever take my mind from it.”

  “What about a picnic?” Dougal inquired suddenly. He recalled the vicar’s words. If he could get her out on a horse, then maybe she would remember on her own. And he could be with her to help her fill in the gaps of her memory.

  “A picnic?”

  “Yes, a picnic,” Dougal said. When he saw she would protest the idea, he added, “I am your tutor. I will tell your father that I am taking you out to practice the names of the local flora. It is quite a noble pursuit to know of landscaping.”

  “And will we learn of plants?” Imogen asked breathlessly.

  A picnic? Alone with Mr. Weston? thought Imogen. Her heart fluttered at the very idea. She could not pull her gaze away from the charming expression in his eyes.

  “Most assuredly. I would not want to lie.” Dougal stood. Smiling down at her, he held his hand to help her to her feet. As they touched, they stood transfixed for several moments in each other’s expression. Taking a deep breath, Dougal regretfully let her go. “What do you say? Shall I go have something prepared in the kitchen? Would you not like to dine somewhere other than your bedroom?”

  “All right.” Imogen nodded, liking the idea of getting out of the house. It was no grand ball, but at least it was something. And, for some indiscernible reason, she was caring less and less that she had no other company but her stoic tutor. His rare moments of ease well made up for his usual stodgy temperament.

  “I’ll ready the horses,” Dougal said. With a quick bow of his head, he rushed from the room before she had time to protest a ride.

  Imogen’s knees wobbled as she watched him in his anxiousness. It would seem he was almost as excited as she was. Could it be she affected him more than he let on? Imogen grinned. There was only one way to find out. Swallowing nervously over the heart wedged in her throat, she hurried to follow behind him.

  * * * *

  The horse’s hooves thundered over the northern field, racing through the tall grasses beneath the summer sky. Imogen felt strands of her hair loosen from its coiffure to fall in long tresses, haphazardly blowing around her shoulders. Urging the tan mare onward, she tried to catch up to her tutor. Mr. Weston glanced back to look at her. A smile formed on his lips, a competitive edge to his tilting brows as he galloped.

  Imogen smiled brightly, basking in the delightful diversion of his company. His shoulders lost their rigid pull as he rode farther from the house. Her smile became wicked as she pulled her mare back behind him to watch him seat her father’s brown stallion. He was an experienced horseman, well trained. Imogen sighed in appreciation even as she tried to catch up to him.

  Suddenly, he changed directions and pushed his horse toward the forest. A strange lethargy fell over Imogen’s limbs, drawing them with a prickling sense of trepidation. She kicked her mare. With desperation, she finally managed to pull up alongside Dougal. He glanced at her curiously. Hiding her frown, she called as joyously as she could muster, “No, Mr. Weston! I know of a much better place! Come!”

  Without giving him time to answer, she took off in the opposite direction. Dougal cursed under his breath, glancing toward the trees with longing. The horse responded to him as it would a living man. He risked much in taking them out. Should the stable lads find the horse missing, they would instantly search out the runaway beast. Then, with a troubled growl, he turned to race after her.

  It was his turn to watch her legs trailing along the side of her horse, dangling from the most proper of sidesaddles. Her skirts fanned out over the animal and when she urged her mount to jump, the wind picked up the hem, displaying a good amount of ankle and calf. Dougal jerked his head up to keep from staring. She wore no hose, the creaminess of her flesh quite fetching in the sunlight. His grip tightened on the reins.

  Imogen led him to a nearby tree, its long willowy branches hanging down toward the earth. Nearby was a tall oak, allowing for perfect shade. Slowing to a jog and then a walk, she turned her mount to wait for him to catch up. Smiling tentatively, she waved to the ground.

  “What about here?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” he said with a slight smile. He glanced back at the trees. He would just have to think of another way to lure her to the forest path.

  Forcing the worry from his expression, he dismounted. When he looked up at her from the ground, he had himself firmly under control. He managed a tight smile.

  “Help me down,” she said, holding her hand out to him. He went to her, catching her about the waist as she slid from her horse. Her hands glided to his shoulders for support.

  He held her effortlessly, and Imogen’s smile nervously faded as she looked up at him. Slowly her hands slid down the front of his chest to rest above the steady beat of his heart. Her breath became deep to match his.

  “I believe I won the race past the hedge,” he said, a grin threatening to pull up the corner of his lips.

  “I would have beaten you if you had given me a better saddle. I say we have a rematch, only this time we switch horses. You can ride on that lady’s perch.”

  At that he laughed. “I will do no such thing.”

  Imogen became entranced. Then, realizing he still held her, she glanced down at his strong hands about her waist. She hid a sly smile as he hastily pulled away, and turned to busy himself with the basket tied to his horse.

  As if nothing had happened, he said, “I should have known you would prefer to ride astride. But what sort of tutor would I be if I allowed it? Am I not supposed to show you how to be a proper lady?”

  “Oh, most assuredly,” returned she in her most serious tone, but her expression of feigned penitence couldn’t last. The day was too brilliant, Dougal’s smile too warm. “I would not like to see you relieved of your post because of my impudence. But I must tell you that my father already understands that such things are the fault of my character. He would undoubtedly believe you if you told him my imprudence was beyond repair. Already I have outwitted some of the best female scholars of our time.”

  At that Dougal turned. The side of his mouth lifted at the admission. “But I am a man.”

  “Yes,” Imogen answered breathlessly. “You are.”

  “Are you of a mind to match wits with me?”

  She froze, wondering at the challenge in his gaze.

  “How will you best me, Miss Imogen? By reciting the social pages to me?”

  “I—” Imogen began, a blush forming on her pale cheeks. In mortification, she gasped, “You know, don’t you? You know I was trying to fool you. How?”

  “I have my ways, Miss Imogen. You will have to try harder to outwit me.” His gaze roamed easily over her face before he caught himself. Turning hastily, he busied himself by drawing the blanket from the horse’s back.

  “No, not there,” she said when he headed toward the shade of the tall oak. “Let us sit in the sunlight.”

  He spread the blanket in the sun as she’d asked. She grabbed the basket he set on the ground and carried it over to the neatly arranged blanket, pulling out the light picnic lunch as Dougal tethered the horses to a low hanging branch, letting them graze.

  They ate in silence, enjoying the light afternoon breeze. When they finished the fair of cold meat and cheese, Imogen sighed in co
ntentment. She cleared their plates and arranged everything neatly in the basket. Dougal watched her in silence. When she caught his small smile, she flashed him a modest one in return.

  “What shall we do now?” Imogen set the basket away from her in the grass.

  “Do you forget your lessons or just hope I have?”

  “I was hoping you had,” Imogen admitted. She turned away from the steady clearness of his gaze. “What a dunce you must think me, if you insist upon instructing me further. But truly, since you have already uncovered my deceit, I must tell you I have no need of training. I have mastered my lessons long ago.”

  “Then why was a tutor sent for?” he inquired.

  “Because I ran off my boring governess… again.”

  “You mentioned you had several.”

  “Yes, I have,” she admitted. “But, they are all so bloody boring. They insist on treating me like a… like a…”

  “Like a what?”

  “Like a lady,” she finished with a sorrowful frown.

  Dougal wanted to laugh but noted the seriousness of her voice and refrained. Edging carefully closer to her, he said in a husky murmur full of manly appreciation, “But you are a lady, Miss Imogen.”

  “I know.” Shyly, she watched him from beneath her lashes. She noticed he was closer to her. “But that is not what I meant. I just mean that ladies are only expected to know of certain things. Most of which I mastered by the time I was twelve. Can you imagine what it is like to be forced to sit and listen to some old crone droning on about needlepoint and the proper way to set a nobleman’s table? The Duke sits here and the Duchess here, unless they are estranged and then they sit there, the head is reserved for the man of the house, his lady may be placed at advantage—ugh.”

  “So you ran them off?” he whispered, entranced by her beauty and spirit. His low voice moved over her in a light caress.

  Imogen shivered, unsure as to the feeling inside her. His voice was soft, but his body was as rigid and as controlled as ever. This man at her side confused her. She couldn’t tell if he liked her or if he merely put up with her because he was forced to. Unbidden, the whole truth came out of her, unabashed by propriety. She told him things she had never revealed, not even to her sweet Jane.