“What does that mean? Contessa, do you recognize that place?” Christian asked, reaching for her arms.
She felt that sensation of energy with the touch, but wanted so much more. She wanted to feel the heat, the pressure, the texture of his fingers pressing the material of her gown into her skin—sensations which were so fresh inside her memory, and so missed. She longed to feel again, even though it had been almost overwhelming and almost painful to do so.
“Contessa,” he repeated.
Only then did she realize she’d closed her eyes hoping to feel something, anything. She opened them and stared into the looking glass. Then said, “I’m sorry. I do not recognize it.”
“Could you have forgotten it?”
“’Tis possible. There is much I still do not recall.”
“We will not get her back if we remain here,” the witch cut in.
“What do you mean?”
“Come,” Tabitha gathered his coat sleeve in gnarled fingers. “Back to your chamber. Please, my lord.”
Without further argument, except for a creasing of his forehead, Christian hastened to the doorway, along the hallway, and returned to his bedchamber. She followed, unable to stifle the sniffles of sadness.
“What is it?” Christian demanded of Tabitha upon a growl.
“That room, that mirror…. Her bedchamber is simply dripping with magic. So much of it…so thick with it…” The elderly woman shuddered.
“Of course it is. Did you not see the vines ascending the bedposts and the living insects fluttering about it?”
“She cannot sleep there any longer.”
“What?” demanded Christian. He stood glaring down at Tabitha with wrath clouding his dark eyes, and his becoming but thin mouth forming a tense line.
“If you want her back, my lord, she must not sleep in that chamber. Everything about it strengthens the spell holding her.”
“Then here, with me…” he began to suggest.
“Certainly not.”
His expression warned that he meant to protest, but before he could, the witch continued, “Do not be a fool, young man. If she does return to the living, how is that appropriate?”
Christian scratched at his nape, looking guilty instead of angry.
“She will remain with me,” said the witch. “It is the only way I can watch over her and work on a solution. It is the only way I can bring her back to you.” Tabitha wrung her fingers wearily.
“I must have her back.” He turned his expressive eyes upon her. The dark color of his irises heated with an intensity of emotion she had not seen. “We must gather more information,” demanded Christian as he motioned for Tabitha to sit in the only chair within the master bedchamber, and for Contessa to take the bed.
Exhaling quietly, Tessa levitated above the blankets.
He moved with an aggressive-looking gate to the fire to give it a stab with the iron poker. A log split, sending flames and sparks against the blackened stone inside.
Christian gave it another shove. “Why was I the only one who could see her?”
Tabitha took a few moments to ponder that. He shifted, set the poker back into its cradle, hooked one arm on the mantle and tossed an impatient glare over his shoulder.
Tabitha finally said, “I suspect,” she began slowly, “that since the spell is connected to this castle, and since you are the owner, you were able to see her when the others could not until she revealed herself.”
“But my parents owned it before me. They took holiday here recently. My mother had the chambers decorated, and my father had the estate fitted with the most modern plumbing. Why did she not awaken then?” He flicked a bit of ash off his tan trousers.
“The stones suggest your destinies are linked. Therefore, she would only awaken when you took possession—”
On a gusty breath, he bit out, “I am so utterly baffled. How then did she show up at the ball, when before that she could not leave the grounds?”
Tabitha, unsuccessfully, tried to smooth a wrinkle from her violet gown. “Well, it was your name she uttered as she searched for you. I believe that is what brought her to you.”
“How can that be?”
“I believe you’re connected to her, and therefore, the only one to have the power to break the spell, besides the one who placed it upon her. As I noted before, my lord, the incantation is held together with her name. This estate and her bedchamber are part of it as well.” Tabitha paused on a sudden gasp. “By the saints! Why had I not thought of this before?”
“What?”
“There could be more than one spell at work here.”
“Explain.”
“Perhaps one spell took her life and trapped her in spirit form, and another placed her here at Krestly Castle. And you were the first to speak her name. I believe that information had been taken from her. For her to remain trapped in death, it is likely that whoever placed the spell did not expect her to remember it.”
“And she was placed here intentionally.” It was not a question.
But Tabitha treated it as such. “She had to have been.”
“If she has seen her parents in that chamber, are they the ones who built it for her?”
After pondering that for a moment, the witch said, “It would seem that is the case. They could have commissioned the room for her resting place after she was murdered and trapped between Heaven and Earth. But I am not certain.”
He took up that dangerous gait again as he moved toward Contessa and settled before her at the foot of the bed. But whilst his movements were sharp, the tender expression upon his face was not. Reaching for her hand, he whispered her name.
She came to life, and felt a shuddering breath move past her lips as her body sank into the feather mattress. His fingers searched for her pulse and the heat of them seared a path from palm to wrist. As he graced her with his dimple, she reached for his face.
“Oh darling, please stay this way,” he said.
But she did not.
Chapter 22
Unintentional
From that point on, Contessa had been flickering from ghostly form into solid at random, but mostly when he spoke her name. So he kept at it.
Desperate to return her to the living permanently, he’d pled for Contessa to come to his bedchamber that evening. He’d chosen that location due to Mother’s wish to be near him, while Contessa clearly wished for the same. Unfortunately, with Contessa shifting back and forth like she was, it was too risky. The marchioness would surely notice a girl who suddenly popped into view from thin air. It took some maneuvering to get Mother to go to bed without first knowing Contessa was there, but he’d managed it, and now she hovered in the lone chair by his fireplace, the flickering flames glimmering over her misty personage.
He went to her and sat down upon the rug before her. The fire bathed his back in heat, and his ghost in a sparkling glow so celestial that when he saw her like that, he secretly wished he could have the best of both worlds. But he could not...so he chose the un-shimmering, yet living version of her. “Contessa,” he said, and was able to touch the golden fabric of her gown.
“Contessa,” he whispered, smiling up at her. The girl of his fantasies beamed right back, and he could not see the leather cushion behind her.
Again, he uttered her name, and she stayed with him, as tangible as ever, as touchable as she had been within the city. He lunged to his feet, drew her up with him, and jerked her into his arms. “Oh, Contessa, Contessa, are you here for good?”
“I want to be here, I want to be with you like this. I feel so empty without a solid body.” A violent shiver shook her for a moment. “And lost. I feel so lost when I’m dead.”
“Are you as pleased as I am?”
As moments ticked forward, she remained touchable. “Oh, yes,” she said.
Christian, for the second time, removed the bridal veil from her hair, dropped it to the floor, and then passed his hands over her back, feeling the living heat of her, feeling he
r ribs expand and shrink with each breath. He took in the spiced honey scent of her by burying his face into the smoothness of her hair. He drew back just enough to rain kisses upon her soft flesh, upon her spiky eyelashes, upon the pulsing heartbeat at her delicate neck.
She embraced him back, and he wanted to weep with joy. But as he went to steal another kiss, she stiffened and leaned away. “Christian, I must leave now.”
Her statement cleared away the fog muddling his brain, clouding his sense of propriety, and only then did he become aware of their intimate and inappropriate surroundings. Before, when she’d been a ghost it did not matter, but now…. He nodded. “You’re right. Forgive me.”
Just as he loosened the embrace, a knock sounded at his door. Contessa froze, and his fingers curled protectively around her arms. “Who could it be?” she asked in a quivering voice that no longer sounded wispy like a spirit. In a voice that was lent a solidness which fanned across his neck.
“It’s probably Jackson with a glass of warmed milk.” When would the old chap realize he’d outgrown the childish habit?
Christian, though reluctantly, released Contessa and strode to the door. He opened it and nearly fainted when his mother swept past him in a flurry of ruby satin. After surveying his room, she halted as she came face-to-face with a doe-eyed Contessa, and then shot accusing eyes of blue at him. “Christian! How could you? Lady Contessa is here, and you did not tell me?”
His mouth worked to find words, but none came. He knew this didn’t look good at all. For besides being alone with her, he was not properly dressed. He’d removed his necktie, shoes and coat, and stood before his mother in stockings, breaches and partially unbuttoned shirtsleeves.
“If you are not engaged, then I must demand it!” Mother really did not sound as distressed by the idea as her words suggested, and his insides twisted with a sinking feeling. “Alone with this sweet girl in your bedchamber. Shame on you!” The marchioness’ hand fluttered to her mouth in mock shock. He suspected she did that only to hide the smile of triumph upon her lips which could be seen through the cracks between her fingers.
Guilt slammed into him as his mother ranted about how he’d ruined the poor girl, and chastised him for his rakish actions. Perhaps he truly was the scoundrel everyone seemed to think he was.
He hadn’t wanted to become engaged like this. He’d meant to woo Contessa, romance her, and then on bended knee, offer for her hand in the way she deserved. Not trap her just as Prince Dominic had done.
Searching for her gaze, Christian returned to Contessa’s side and gathered her fingers into his. That innocent face of hers lifted, and the tears coating her lashes broke his heart. “I did not mean for this to happen, Contessa.”
“I know.”
“Well, I suppose I must begin wedding plans.” His mother clearly attempted to sound angry about this scenario, but was failing miserably at portraying anything but pleasure about it.
His heart sank to the vicinity of his knees. The look on Tessa’s face told him how like her dream this truly was. He felt like such a heel for taking this risk when Tabitha had warned him against it. Numerous times.
But he’d wanted her back so badly and didn’t know where else to go to gain the privacy from Mother he needed. Even as the excuses sifted through his thoughts, he knew the truth. This was his fault and his alone. In his eager attempt to get her back, he’d not taken care to prevent this scenario from happening. And now he must face the consequence of his prideful and selfish choices. He’d set the cheese for parson’s trap himself by bringing her here and then intentionally breaking the spell.
“Lady Contessa, my darling, I do apologize for my son. However, I must confess I am pleased to gain a new daughter. We must get to know one another.”
Contessa nodded silently and offered a weak smile.
He’d give anything to know what was going on in that head of hers. Was she angry with him? Did she blame him, as did his mother? Did she see him as she saw the prince? “Mother,” he said, unable to mask the note of tension in his speech. “Did you come to my chamber for any particular reason?”
“Oh,” she chuckled. “Yes, yes, of course. I came to let you know that I was leaving in the morning.”
“Ah, I see.” Is she still leaving? he wondered.
“Now, Christian, while I can see how besotted you are, she must be in her own chamber. Where is it, Son? I will be happy to take her to it,” offered the marchioness as she linked arms with Contessa.
Biting his tongue, he considered his words. He was unwilling to let Mother take her to the other side of the castle where Tabitha’s chamber was, where Contessa was supposed to be. He swallowed and said instead, “The chamber across from mine is hers.”
The look his mother passed over Contessa’s hair told him without question what Mother was thinking. He was only glad she’d not noticed how similar the gown was to the one Contessa had been wearing at the ball, the only differences being the alterations he and Emma had made. He sent up a prayer in his heart, thanking God for that. But with her hair styled in the more casual medieval style, his mother clearly thought they’d done more than just talk. There was no way they would escape this. If his mother did not, his father would force him to wed her when he caught wind of this news—and he must accept it, or be disowned, and he really did not want that either.
Mother bustled Contessa, rather happily he couldn’t help but notice, from his bedchamber.
Truly he hoped Mother would not suddenly shriek with fear if she soon found herself with a ghost and not a woman.
But it wasn’t long before his mother did bellow from across the hallway, “Why is there no fire banked for her!” That fact only served as another thing to condemn him. Surely if he had not made certain her room was prepared for bed, then obviously he meant to keep her with him.
Cringing, Christian stepped over the threshold and called for a maid. As the servant rushed to build a fire within the hearth of the red room, Contessa’s new quarters, he went to the witch, who kept all of Contessa’s clothing within her chamber. Now was the time for the woman to play chaperone. Now that it was too late.
Tabitha informed him she would take care of things, and then shooed him back to his own bedchamber.
He’d just returned when another knock sounded at his door. Dear old Jackson had brought the bedtime treat he’d frequently presented in the past when Christian was a youth. It was something Jackson continued to offer, even as Christian grew older. He ushered the fellow inside and relieved the man of the cumbersome tray, wishing for all the world the man had arrived sooner, before he’d been apprehended. “Thank you,” he whispered as he shut the door. “I need your help.”
After nudging the chair closer to the fire, he encouraged Jackson to sit, then he sank onto the ottoman and drank the warmed milk without complaining about it. It was as comforting as it always had been as a child and he wondered why he fought it so much now that he was grown.
“I-I…well, it seems I have gotten myself betrothed, but I wish to make it right. Contessa deserves better than this.”
“What have you done, Christian?”
“Mother caught us together, alone…”
Jackson’s snowy eyebrows tugged together.
“In here,” Christian clarified.
His butler slumped with disappointment. “Were you dressed like this?”
Christian nodded, and felt the shame all over again. He’d failed the man who was like a dear uncle to him, he’d failed Contessa, and Emma, and Peter, and his parents. The scandal would be tittered about all over London. Peter would survive it, and so would his mother and father, but Contessa and Emma, as unmarried ladies, would be sorely affected.
However, instead of making him feel worse about it, the gentle butler said, “What can I do to help, little lad?”
The old endearment reached down inside and warmed him more fully than the milk had. “I must court her as I should have done. As I had meant to do. And then propose to he
r in the most romantic way we can dream up.”
Smiling, Jackson offered a kind pat on his shoulder. “Then it will be so.”
In relief, Christian exhaled slowly.
Then Jackson, with an expression of worry developing upon his face, asked, “Will you be marrying a living girl?”
“I certainly hope so.” His neck was on fire with guilt, and he rubbed at it with a ferocity that was painful.
“Perhaps you should elope to Gretna Green.”
“Never! Contessa deserves a proper wedding in a church with a lovely gown, and flowers, and cake.”
“As you wish, Christian, as you wish.”
Chapter 23
Cake
She was trying desperately not to panic in front of his mother. But three worries assailed her thoughts: Would she suddenly turn back into a ghost and cause the marchioness to swoon with fright? Would Lady Sparks notice the excessive length of her train? She’d gathered up as much as she could into one hand, hoping to minimize it. And she’d managed to be trapped into a marriage once again, Christian right along with her.
She did not want it to happen this way, and she could not do to him what was done to her. He must be equally distressed over it.
“My dear girl, must I explain the nature of men to you? Has your mother not done so?” asked Lady Sparks as she ushered her into a bedchamber she’d seen briefly before and never expected to be sleeping in.
It was lovely, decorated in elegant shades of deep red, light tan, and a pale mossy green. A grand bed dominated the center of the chamber. The enormous posts of it aspired to reach the heights of the vaulting ceilings. Bedclothes in a creamy beige puddled to the floor around the four sides. The coverlets boasted of rich velvet and satin and generous amounts of embroidered pillows. The down-filled bedding begged for her presence as gravity and sensation surrounded her in awareness that nearly prickled along her waking flesh.
With the corners of her mouth turning down, Christian’s mother trailed two fingers along the mantel shelf above the gaping and cold fireplace, which she had just loudly voiced her displeasure about, then scowled at the filth marring the ivory tips of her ladylike fingers. “Do not mistake me, I love Christian dearly. However, I know he is far too much like his father had been…and not to be trusted,” said the marchioness as she drew a handkerchief from a pocket within her gown, and then rubbed the dirt from her skin.
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