“When we’ve finished with the meal, I shall see that you meet some of the household,” Creeghan said.
“Well, I do know Holly and Hogarth, and I met your groom this morning, Robert McCloud, and the stable boys, Trey and Jemie.”
He nodded and smiled. “But you’ve still to meet the other members of my family.”
She set her soup spoon down. The beef broth was delicious, but he was watching her again. Watching her with that piercing gaze that seemed to seek answers even as it seemed to know …
“Your family?” she said. Mary had never mentioned his family. At first, her letters had been so filled with her obsession for this man that she mentioned nothing else. Then they had been filled with fear.
“My sister, Elaina, lives with me here, as does my uncle, Peter, and then there are my cousins, Conar and Ian.”
“Where are they now?”
“About, I imagine. You’ll meet them in time.” She started when his fingers curled over hers, hot as fire. Her eyes leapt from their hands and looked into his.
“I wanted this meal alone with you,” he said. “I was curious about Mary’s … sister, you see. I do hope you will forgive me.”
She quickly pulled her hand away and entwined her fingers in her lap. “You will take me to Mary?” she said softly.
“As soon as we have finished.”
“Thank you.”
“How long will you be staying here?” he asked her abruptly.
“I—I don’t know,” she faltered. “I’d like to go through my sister’s things.”
“Of course. You mentioned that in your letter.”
“If you are anxious for me to leave, then I shall try to move as swiftly with my endeavors as I can.”
“Ah, my dear Lady St. James, I would not dream of rushing you. Your presence dearly graces this hall.”
“You hardly gave me welcome last night, milord Creeghan.”
“But then there was thunder and lightning, and danger in the darkness. I feared for you.”
“Did you?”
“Just as I now wonder what those endeavors might be that you will work at so swiftly.”
She felt color flood her face, and she wondered again how this man could seem to know so much.
“Sentimental endeavors, sir,” she replied quickly, eyes downcast to hide her thoughts.
She was grateful when Hogarth came back into the hall with a heavyset and florid woman by his side. The soup dishes were removed, and they were served an aromatic meal offish and new potatoes and small sweet peas.
“This is Freya, Lady St. James.” He smiled at the large woman. “I believe some of her ancestors to be as Nordic as my own. She is one of the rare wonders of our lives here, a cook far beyond the realm of any other in these parts.”
Freya flashed him a broad, toothsome smile, and bobbed a curtsy to Martise. Martise murmured something, and then Hogarth and the woman appeared to melt away.
“Freya is a wonderful cook. You mustn’t let your food grow cold,” Creeghan told her.
Mechanically, Martise reached for her fork and tasted the fish. It was delicious, seasoned delicately, cooked lightly.
“Is it much like your cuisine in the States?” he asked politely.
She set her fork down. “Lord Creeghan, you must be aware that the States have recently been ravaged by a civil war.”
“A ‘war of rebellion’—so it has been stated in your Northern journals.”
She gritted her teeth and smiled. He was purposely trying her temper. “It matters not what one chooses to call it, Lord Creeghan. I was residing on the wrong side of it, since it has proven to be the side that has lost, and—”
“Aye, and indeed, but your poor husband was swept away in the midst of the turmoil, also on the wrong side of it, as it seems. My deepest apologies, Lady St. James. I had forgotten that you are a bereaved widow, just as I am a bereaved widower. Do forgive me. And pray,” he said softly, and again his fingers curled over hers.
She wanted to wrench them away, but she did not. She felt the heat. Felt it enter deep within her. Felt it become a trembling inside, even as she raised her eyes to his once again.
“Pray, do know that I am very much aware of the war so recently fought, and of your losses within it. I shall try never to dwell upon it.” He smiled. “I will, instead, haunt you with questions about the time your husband served with the British military in Africa. Those must have been fascinating days.”
Indeed, Africa must have been fascinating, Martise thought as she stared blankly at him. And the pity was that she didn’t know a darned thing about Africa. Her cousin and Margaret had lived there for at least a year, but by the time they came to the States, the Civil War had become a way of life and Martise couldn’t remember a thing Margaret had said about her life in Africa.
She forced a smile to her lips. It was cold and brittle, but surely, it passed as a smile.
“Africa … it was, of course, fascinating. The last years were so tumultuous, however, I fear I’ve forgotten a great deal of everything that went on before.”
“Of course.” Lord Creeghan smiled gently, and his face was very near, and the heat radiating from him now seemed to engulf her and cause a simmering that filled her very blood. “I shall jar your memory with better times, milady.” He paused and added softly, “I swear it.”
They ate in silence, then he pushed back his chair and rose. Too quickly, he was behind her again. And again she felt the warmth of his breath against her flesh as he pulled back her chair that she might rise, as well. “Come, milady. I will take you to Mary.”
He offered her his arm, and she had little choice but to take it, quickly lowering her gaze from his. He walked her past the stairway to a heavy oak door, and when he pulled it open, she saw the raw stone steps that led below and felt the cold of the stone reach up and wrap around her like a human arm. He gazed at her with apology.
“I fear that the chapel and the crypts are cold, indeed. They have always been so. Excuse me, and I will precede you, for the stairs are also tricky when one is not accustomed to them.”
It seemed they walked downward forever. The cold remained. Yet even as he carefully led her down, Martise realized that someone had come before them, someone who had prepared the way. Gas lanterns lit their descent into what otherwise must have been sheer darkness.
Finally, an endless distance from the main floor above, they came to the cold stone passage of the cellar and the crypts.
At the foot of the stairs Lord Creeghan paused, and Martise went still behind him, adjusting to the light and the cold. Down a long barren hallway she could see nothing but iron doors, some appearing to lead to darkness, and some seeming to offer a little light.
“These are all crypts?” Martise asked softly.
He smiled. “I warned you that the walls whispered here, Lady St. James. The ghosts of centuries are rumored to haunt the halls of Castle Creeghan. The edifice has changed over the years, but you must remember that there was a manor here even before the Viking invasions of the 800s. Remember also, Lady St. James, you are not afraid of ghosts.”
So she had claimed. Martise decided she must fear the unknown and the dead just a bit if she was thinking she wanted to get closer to the master of Castle Creeghan for protection. She almost smiled. “Milord, if you would be so kind, my name is Martise, and I am not afraid of ghosts. I had simply not expected the crypts of the castle to be so vast.”
He slipped his arm through hers, chuckling as he led her forward. “To the left, Martise, there is nothing haunting except for our wine cellar. And both doors yonder lead only to the chapel, which is very beautiful. Come, I’ll show you.”
The chapel was indeed beautiful. The earth directly beyond it must have been dug out, and the castle walls built beyond a path, for magnificent windows of elegant stained glass had been added to old arched openings. They faced the sea, Martise thought, and the afternoon light flickered in, creating a rainbow of colors. St. Luke, St. Mar
k, and a number of others adorned the stunning windows. The pews were new and smelled of pine oil and wax, and the center aisle was lined with handsome brass candle holders. The altar was of white marble, and fresh flowers graced it.
“The Creeghans remained obstinately Catholic, just as many of the Stuart royalty were known to do,” Lord Creeghan informed her with a touch of humor. “They weren’t the type to lose their heads over their religious preferences, though. While the country turned largely Protestant, the Creeghans came down here in quiet. We seldom use the chapel anymore, except for private services. Father Martin, in the village, does well enough for all of us.” He was quiet for a second. “Yet Elaina keeps up the flowers. Bless her, else this place should surely fall to decay.”
“That would be a pity, for it is truly beautiful,” Martise remarked.
She felt his eyes, and their touch of fire. “Aye, an oasis of peace perhaps,” he said, and she sensed the laughter behind his words. “Come, you must see the rest of the cellar.” He led her out, and they were in the cold and drafty hallway once again. While the chapel had seemed to offer warmth, the hall was decidedly cold and led into endless darkness.
Following close behind Bruce Creeghan, Martise noted the wrought-iron doors along the way. Through most there was nothing but darkness, but as she came closer upon them, she realized that each door led to an inner crypt. Row upon row of coffins lay on stone slabs. Coats of arms were often entwined in the gates, dates were set above them in brass, and a cross hung heavily above the wrought iron. Farther down the hallway, in intense darkness, there was another gate that blocked the way.
Her heart beat too quickly even as they walked along the hall. Their footsteps seemed extraordinarily loud to her ears. She wanted to touch him, or wanted him to take her arm again, but he did not. Martise gritted her teeth.
She was not afraid of ghosts. Yet, if she were to be down here, alone, in the total darkness of the night, she might well be tempted to think that the corpses of these endless Creeghans did rise to dance within the ebony shadows of the night.
He stopped directly before the iron doors that blocked the hallway. Martise thought he meant to open the ancient and rusting lock there, but he did not. He turned to a set of doors to the left.
“Wait!” Martise said. “What—what lies beyond those gates?”
He arched his brow. His face was doubly handsome, and doubly Satanish, in the muted candlelight of the crypt. “Those, Martise, are the truly ancient crypts. They did not lay the dead within coffins then, milady. Rather, their custom was to set the deceased upon their stone, cover them with a shroud, and leave them to the damages of time. I had the gates erected years ago after Elaina was lost in here as a child and nearly frightened herself to death. None of us go there now. I intend to have the crypts walled in.”
Martise shivered anew, imagining the dead of hundreds of years gone past, decayed to bone, and still gowned in their silks and velvets and furs.
“This,” he said very softly, “is where Mary lies.”
The crypt, so close to those that were so very old, was new. When the gates were opened, Martise stepped through them and saw fine wooden coffins lined brick shelving. There wasn’t the trace of a spiderweb, and lanterns had been lit to banish most of the shadows.
Mary’s was the most recent interment. Her coffin lay in the middle aisle, with the beautiful marble effigy of an angel set upon the slab to guard it. Her name was set upon the coffin in shining brass, MARY ELIZABETH CREEGHAN, along with the gentle, consoling words “Her beauty of spirit was too great for this our earth and she now resides with the angels.”
Fresh flowers were laid next to the coffin.
Heedless of Bruce Creeghan, Martise remembered Mary, and tears flooded unbidden to her eyes. She stepped past him and knelt down before the coffin, lowering her head.
And then she heard the sniffling sound. A low but anguished sound of loss and misery, and it seemed to come from the coffin itself. Perhaps the unfettered dead had risen from the crypts beyond, and ghostly creatures had come forth to mourn new losses.
Martise leapt up, amazed, a scream racing to her throat and hysteria rising within her.
Strong arms swept around her shoulders, and she was only too glad of them as an apparition rose from beyond the coffin. In the shadows, she thought that Mary herself had come back to life, for the apparition was a small, dark-haired woman in an elegant sea-green contemporary gown.
The scream continued to grow within Martise. She felt the heat and power of the man behind her and fought for sanity even as she seemed to lose her grip upon it. But then he spoke, quickly, harshly, shattering the illusion before her.
“Elaina! By God, what are you doing there! You’ve quite scared Lady St. James near to death!”
“Oh, I am so very sorry!” the woman said, and coming around the coffin, she reached for Martise’s hand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I brought the flowers and found myself staying.”
Her speech was beautiful, softly, wonderfully burred. Her eyes were wide and luminous, shimmering green, and framed, as were her brother’s, by the darkest lashes. She was a woman in her early to mid-twenties, delicate, fine, and seemingly earnest and sweet.
“Martise, my sister Elaina. Elaina, the Lady St. James.”
“Please call me Martise,” Martise said hastily, taking Elaina’s hand. “I’ve very glad to meet you.”
“And we are so very glad to have you, except that we are sorry you have come here to find Mary… to find her thus,” Elaina said, indicating the coffin. She straightened, rising in height. “We do care for her tenderly, even now. My parents lie there yonder, and Mary is here, and I bring them flowers and pray for them quite often, I promise you.”
“Indeed,” Lord Creeghan said, and he sounded somewhat irritated. “Elaina is quite frequently upon her knees.”
She gazed at her brother and appeared uneasy but made no reply to his words. She smiled at Martise instead.
“This is not a warm or welcoming place. Perhaps my brother and I should step outside and allow you a moment with your sister. Then we can leave the coldness and the dampness behind. There is so much about the castle that is warm and beautiful.” She shivered suddenly. “I hate the crypts.”
Martise smiled in sympathy. “Your brother told me you were once lost beyond the gates. It must have been horrible.”
“It was, indeed. You cannot imagine the bones within their shrouds, the bits of decayed flesh, the eeriness of the silence. I’m sorry. Excuse us. We’ll await you.”
Bruce Creeghan’s hands were still upon her shoulders, Martise realized. And she had wanted them there. She had wanted to feel the searing heat and the strength, the very life of him, behind her.
Now he moved away, slipping his arm around his sister’s shoulders. His eyes touched upon Martise in the shadows. “Say your prayers, milady,” he told her. She watched after him as he led Elaina from the crypt.
Martise sank back to her knees again. She wanted to pray for Mary. She wanted to pray for her immortal soul. Instead, she found herself bowing her head and envisioning the lord of Creeghan, remembering the feel of his touch. She saw him again, coming from the darkness and thunder of the night, sweeping her up upon the gigantic bay horse. She felt his arms …
She rose from her knees swiftly. As she moved toward the gates she could hear Lord Creeghan talking to his sister. His voice was low, but his tone was impassioned, and his burr more prominent, though still not nearly as strong as his sister’s.
“Elaina! ’Tis not healthy that you come here so continuously. You must promise me to stay away from this realm of the dead.”
“Oh, Bruce! I cannot help it! I think that if I come here, God will look down more gently upon those who are far away from me!”
“God had little part in that war, Elaina,” Creeghan said gruffly. “And drowning yourself here in the dampness and the darkness will not change the future. You will cease to spend so much time here.”
“Bruce, you mustn’t—”
“Elaina, I command you to obey me.”
There was the sniffling sound again. Elaina was crying. Martise paused awkwardly, realizing that Elaina Creeghan was being held in her brother’s arms.
“Bruce, what of the coffin beyond the gate?”
“Elaina, you will not talk of it.”
“But Bruce—”
“That, too, is my command.”
The coffin beyond the gate? Martise wondered. Beyond what gate? The one that blocked the ancient Creeghan dead from the modern crypts?
But there were no coffins beyond the gate. He had told her that in those crypts the dead were laid out upon their stones, and covered only in their shrouds.
Martise suddenly realized that she was not standing in the shadows. Lord Creeghan was holding his sister, but his eyes, blazing even here in the candlelight, were fully upon her.
Challengingly upon her.
He knew that she had been standing there. He knew that she had heard his words.
He moved away from his sister. “Elaina, it seems that our dear Lady St. James prays with admirable speed. Shall we go up?”
“Oh, indeed!” Elaina said, spinning around and smiling at Martise. “Please, let’s do go on up. I should love a sherry. Wouldn’t you, Martise?”
Actually, she’d love a damned good shot of whisky—she’d learned to enjoy such decadent pleasures during the war. But she smiled, or she tried to smile.
“Yes, I’d love a sherry.”
“I’m quite sure she would,” Lord Creeghan said, and his lip was curling.
He stepped past his sister and offered Martise his arm. She hesitated, feeling the compelling fire of his eyes, then he touched her hand, and the heat was searing when he tucked her fingers against his arm.
“But bear in mind, Elaina, this visitor of ours, this Lady St. James, does not fear ghosts. The crypt holds no haunting images for her. It is only the living that she fears. Is that still true, Martise?” he asked.
Emerald Embrace Page 4