by Kruger, Mary
“No, I don’t think I did deserve it. But then, I don’t understand a great deal of what you do, Anne. I never did.”
“I don’t, either, sometimes.” She sounded tired as she leaned her head back against the chair. “I try so hard, Giles, really, I do. I always try to be what people want me to be, but it’s never enough. My father, tonight.” Her voice cracked, and she broke off.
“Annie.” He was out of his chair in an instant, kneeling before her, his fingers on her arm stroking, caressing. “Annie, darling, don’t cry. Don’t. He’s not worth it. Your parents are stupid, selfish people.”
“Everyone leaves me, Giles. Even Jamie will one day.”
“Annie, hush. Come here, now.” He gathered her against him, rocking her back and forth, almost as if she were his sister, in need of comfort. Almost, but not quite. “Don’t cry, darling.”
“Don’t be kind to me,” she sobbed into his shoulder. “I can’t bear it when you’re kind to me.”
“No? Would you rather I beat you?” he said, and she stiffened. “A jest, Annie. An ill-considered jest. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
Anne pulled back. “Not that way.”
“Very well, Annie. I won’t be kind to you.” He looked down at her bent head, and an overwhelming tide of tenderness washed over him. “It’s not kindness I’m feeling for you, darling,” he said, his voice husky as he bent his head. No longer able to resist, he caught her tears with his lips.
Anne went very still. After a moment she pulled back and gazed up at him, her eyes clear and defenseless. “Giles?”
“Not kindness, Annie,” he said, and brought his mouth down on hers.
Anne made a little noise in her throat, but her body, treacherous thing, responded, making her arms creep up around his neck, making her press against him. When had comfort turned to passion? When had need become desire? She didn’t know. All that mattered was that she was in his arms again. She loved him! She exulted in the knowledge. She loved him. Oh, and it felt so good to express that love, and not hide behind the facade society expected of her. It was glorious to have his strong arms around her, to open her mouth to his probing tongue, to return his caresses with her own touch. No more pretending to be what she was not. With Giles, she could be herself, just Anne, and the wonder of it made her so giddy that she surged up against him.
Giles swayed back; crouched as he was on his heels, his position was unsteady at best. With one arm still holding her tightly against him, he flailed for balance, to no avail. Before he could stop himself he tumbled backwards, landing on the soft turkey carpet, with Anne above him.
They lay that way for a few moments, the breath knocked out of them. Anne’s hair, coming loose from its pins, fell softly about her, the ends tickling his face. They were close, so close, their bodies pressed together; breast to breast, thigh to thigh. Anne’s eyes were wide and startled in the firelight, making her look young and vulnerable. And so pretty. That wave of tenderness flooded through him again as he reached up to tuck an errant curl back behind her ear. Never had he wanted anyone so much. “Marry me, Annie,” he said, huskily.
Chapter Fifteen
The words jolted through her. To marry Giles. To stay with him forever and ever, to feel for always this blessed sense of security, to be loved. “Do you love me, Giles?” Anne asked, her voice equally husky.
“Love?” Giles sounded startled.
Anne stared down at him for a moment and then scrambled to her feet. “I should have known. What a fool I am, to be gulled by you twice. But this is what you’ve wanted since I came back, isn’t it?”
Giles hastily got to his feet, catching at her shoulder. “Damn it, Anne, no.”
Anne went very still. “If you dare to lay a hand on me I will make you regret it, Giles Templeton.”
Giles stepped back. “Annie—”
“Don’t call me that! I’m not a little girl anymore. I am a woman.”
Giles leaned back against his desk, his arms crossed on his chest and a little smile on his mouth. He suspected he knew what had gone wrong. It had all happened too quickly, though it was right. So right. Given time, Anne would see that. “I noticed that, darling.”
“I am not your darling!” She backed up a step as he advanced toward her, her hands outstretched, palm out. The look in his eyes, so predatory, so male, frightened her. At least, that was what she thought this strange edginess was, though it was exhilarating, too. She had every reason to fear him, did she not? He was a man. And, different though he was from Freddie, he was still, in some ways, the same. Now that he’d proposed, he expected her to grovel at his feet, to do whatever he wished her to, and she wouldn’t. It would put her in his power, and to be in a man’s power meant she would be helpless. It meant— “No!” she exclaimed, taking another step back and coming up, hard, against a bookcase. There was no place else for her to go. She was trapped. And there was Giles, slowly prowling toward her, that look in his eyes, so intent, that smile still on his face. He was going to capture her again. He was going to kiss her. So why did she not flee?
Giles stopped just a heartbeat away from her. “No, Annie?” he said, his voice rough and tender.
“No.” Something crystallized within Anne, that self-protectiveness she had learned so well. “No,” she said again, her voice clear and hard. “I don’t want you. I never did.”
Something in Giles’s face changed. They stayed, staring at each other for a moment, very still, and then Giles stepped back, his expression remote. “My mistake,” he said, inclining his head. “I am sorry to have bothered you, Anne.”
Anne eyed him warily. He was letting her go. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? “I—yes,” she said, and fled the room.
Behind her, Giles pushed his hand into his hair and fell back into his chair. What had he done that was so wrong? More to the point, what did he do now?
“And how is your ghost?” Felicity asked several evenings later. The Whiteheads had taken dinner with the Tremonts and now were drinking coffee in the drawing room, before going onto the theater. “I’ve heard there have been a few incidents.”
For a moment, there was silence. “You heard through the servants, I suppose,” Giles said, smiling at her from the mantel where he stood, his elbow propped up.
“Of course. I must say, it is a most unusual thing to happen, Giles. The Duke of Tremont has a ghost. It may even start a fashion.”
Giles grinned. “We do not have a ghost. What we do have is someone playing pranks.”
“One of the servants, I expect,” Julia said. Her hands lay folded in her lap, while beside her her beloved embroidery sat untouched. “Jealous of their betters.”
“I doubt that, Mother. No, we don’t know who is doing it yet, but we expect to find out.”
“Well! I must say I find it exciting. Don’t you, Anne?”
Anne gave a little smile and raised her cup. The question of the house’s being haunted seemed of little moment lately, so long as Jamie was all right. This particular ghost was harmless, as Giles had pointed out. It was people who usually caused the problems.
Matters had been strained between her and Giles the last few days, and she saw little hope of their improving. There was too much between them now, old pain, new pain. Giles actually seemed hurt by what had passed between them the other evening, though why that should be, she didn’t know. She was the one who had been the fool, but then, she had never bargained on falling in love with Giles again. She had never thought that being in his arms, holding him, kissing him, would be so intoxicating. Most of all, though, she had never expected to feel such searing pain as she had in that moment when she had asked Giles if he loved her, and he hadn’t answered. It had been answer enough.
“Well, at least all he seems to be causing is mischief, whoever he is,” Felicity said, and Anne looked up.
“Who?” she asked.
“Whoever is haunting the house. Have you not been attending?”
“Oh, our ghost.” Anne managed
a smile. “It’s rather funny, actually. He sings bawdy songs and appears to dislike the army. What I don’t like is that he talks to Jamie.”
“But how does he do it?”
“No one knows, but we’re looking into it.” Giles crossed the room and sat down. In his austere, beautifully-cut evening clothes of black superfine and white linen, he look so striking that Anne couldn’t keep from staring at him. “I talked with the agent from whom we leased the house the other day.”
Anne leaned forward, interested in spite of herself. “What did he say?”
“He was reluctant to talk at first. I’m afraid I was a little, ah, forceful.” He smiled at her, and it took all the self-control she possessed not to return the smile. “He at last admitted that he had heard stories, but he denied that he knew anything about it when we took the house.”
“I wonder,” Anne said, and the others looked at her.
“What?”
“Oh, it’s silly, but if the agent is dishonest, I wonder if this isn’t a scheme to keep leasing the house and gull people out of their money.”
“I doubt it. He was terrified I’d take him to court. It’s a thought, though.” He looked at her, and she lapsed into silence again. “In any event, he finally told me the story of the house. And a lurid one it is.”
“Was someone killed here?” Susan Whitehead asked.
“Susan!” her mother reproved.
“Not this house, no.” There was a faint smile on Giles’s face. “Apparently there used to be a tavern on this site. Rather a reprehensible place, according to the locals, where the riff-raff would meet. And pirates.”
Susan’s eyes were round. “Pirates!”
“Yes. One of them, a certain Terence O’Reilly, owned the place and is said to have hidden his treasure somewhere on the premises. Of course word of this got around, and one night he was set upon by some of his customers. During the fight a candle was knocked over and the place went up in flames. End of tavern, and end of Terence O’Reilly.” He grinned at Anne. “And the treasure was never found.”
“An entertaining story,” Felicity said after a moment, when it became apparent that Anne, staring into the depths of her cup, was not going to answer. “Is Terence O’Reilly your ghost, then?”
“More likely someone impersonating him. You see, when excavations were made to build this house, the builders found some Spanish doubloons.”
Exclamations over this bit of news filled the room. Even Anne nearly spoke, if only to accuse Giles of hoaxing them all. It wasn’t like him, but there was a gleam in his eye that strongly suggested he was enjoying this. She had no desire to speak to him, however. Not now, not ever.
“How fascinating,” Felicity said, when the hubbub had died down. “A fortune, Giles?”
“No, just a few coins. I daresay you’d find some in many a cellar around here. It was enough to keep the old story going, though.”
“And so you think that someone believes it enough to want to chase everyone off so he can keep the treasure himself. I wonder—good heavens, what is that?” she broke off, as an eerie voice filled the room, singing.
“Now we’re bound to Kingston Town
“Where the rum flows round an’ round
“So early in the mornin’,
“Sailors love the bottle-oh,
“Bottle-oh, bottle-oh.”
Anne jumped to her feet and started for the door, her only concern to make certain that Jamie was unharmed. At the same moment, Beth let out a little cry. “The window! Look!”
Anne turned, in time to see a pale shape appear briefly outside a side window, and then drift upwards. The singing abruptly stopped, with a laugh that sent chills down everyone’s spine. Anne gasped and then dashed upstairs, as Giles started up from his chair and the others exclaimed in shock and consternation at this apparition.
“Your Grace.” A badly-shaken footman ran into the room, followed by Obadiah. “Did you see—”
Giles pushed past him. “Yes. Where is Benson?”
“In the servant’s hall, I imagine, Your Grace. Your Grace, I heard someone running—”
“Find Benson and have him organize the footmen to search the grounds, and hold anyone you find. You, come with me.”
“Yes, mon,” Obadiah said, sounding startled, but clattering down the stairs after Giles.
Outside, the brick sidewalk was slick with moisture, and Giles skidded, before regaining his balance. It was an eerie night, with fog drifting in from the sea, punctuated at intervals by light streaming out from windows. Off to the left, away from the coast, running footsteps could be heard. “That way!” Giles said, and set off.
“Mon, it might be dangerous,” Obadiah said, keeping pace with Giles easily, as they turned from the Steyne into Church Street, earning more than one startled glance from passers-by.
“I’ll not be chased out of my own home—mon?”
“Man.” Obadiah flashed a smile at him. “My apologies, Your Grace,” he said, in elegantly rounded tones.
“Good God, you’re educated!”
“Yes, mon. We ain’t all ignorant slaves.”
“My apologies.” Be quiet, Giles told himself. If he said anything more he would likely only embarrass himself again. The man running beside him had a peculiar dignity and grace, accentuated by his proud bearing and the direct way he looked at people. He had underestimated the man, Giles thought. Perhaps he had also underestimated Anne.
By some trick of the fog, the footsteps ahead of them suddenly sounded very loud. They were now in the older part of town, a warren of narrow streets and lanes. “That’s no ghost.” Giles put on a burst of speed.
“No, mon. The house isn’t haunted.”
“Then who’s doing this, Obadiah?”
“Don’t know, sir, but I’ve been thinkin’ about somethin’.”
“Have you—there, he’s gone down that alley!”
Still chasing the footsteps, they turned into an alley, skittering on the wet cobblestones, and found—nothing. The alley, running between two shops, ended at a high brick wall which had no outlet. Their quarry had vanished.
“Damn!” Giles’s voice echoed in the enclosed space. “Where the hell did he get to—”
Obadiah, more practical, was trying a door set in the side of one of the shops. “Locked, sir.”
“Damn, then where did he go? Over the wall?”
Obadiah looked up at the wall. “Likely, sir. Looks like we lost him.”
“Damn.” Giles pulled out his handkerchief and began mopping at his face. “Let us return home, Obadiah. Perhaps they found something there.”
“Yes, sir,” Obadiah said, and, at that moment, a light flashed at the opening of the alley.
“Who goes there?” a querulous voice said, and Giles, who had stiffened, relaxed.
“It needed only this,” he muttered. “Ah, the watchman,” he said, in more normal tones. “Did you see someone come out of this alley?”
“Who be ye?” The watchman, old and gnarled, squinted up at them, apparently not a bit overawed. “And what be ye doing here? Speak in the name of the King, or I’ll take ye in.”
“I beg your pardon?” Giles drew himself up to his greatest height and spoke in his haughtiest tones. “I am the Duke of Tremont, and this is my servant. We were chasing someone who tried to break into my house. My house! What manner of town is this, when ruffians accost one in one’s own home?” Giles advanced upon the startled watchman, who backed up a step. “It is I who should take you in, sir, for allowing the public peace to be so disturbed!”
“I—I’m sorry, yer Grace, of course, yer right. What—what does this ruffian look like?”
“I’ve no idea. That is your job to find out, is it not? Now be off with you, before someone else is accosted and I have to report you to your superiors.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” the watchman stammered, and scurried away, throwing a scared glance at them over his shoulder.
Obadiah’s chuckle was rich in
the darkness, making Giles send him an inquiring look. “I would venture to say he’s never seen such a well-dressed ruffian before, Your Grace.”
Startled, Giles glanced down at himself, and let out a laugh. Belatedly he realized how ludicrous he must have looked, chasing a phantom down fog-shrouded streets while wearing evening dress. “Never thought I’d turn into a blood, boxing watchmen for sport,” he said, falling into step beside Obadiah and feeling curiously light-hearted. What had started out as high adventure fraught with peril had degenerated into farce. “My life used to be nice and quiet.”
“Maybe it was time for a change, mon.”
Giles stopped, startled, and then started walking again. “Maybe it was, at that.” Curiously he glanced up at the man who walked beside him with such serene self-possession. “Where were you educated, Obadiah?”
“My old master taught me. Taught all his slaves. Said we should all know how to read and write and cipher.”
“And to speak like a gentleman?”
“Yes.” Obadiah’s voice was so curt that, for a moment, Giles was at a loss for words. Obadiah intrigued him. A former slave, who apparently still held to the old beliefs and yet not only could manage an estate, but spoke like a gentleman. Not at all the old way of doing things, but interesting.
“How did you come to work at Hampshire Hall, then?” he asked, finally.
“Sold. When my master died.”
“Christ.” Sold. Just like that. Giles had never before considered what that meant, or what it could do to so proud a man. “But you’re free now.”
“Sure, mon. Master Templeton freed us all. The fool.”
“What?”
“Man had no head for business,” Obadiah said contemptuously. “No idea how to manage people. He freed us, sure, but then he expected us to work for him for almost nothing. Most of us, we did. Couldn’t get work anywhere else, not when everyone else still had slaves. Glad when Lady Anne took over. Glad to see the end of him.”
“Yet Anne misses him,” Giles said to himself.
Obadiah shrugged. “If you say so, mon. Wonder what they found at the house.”