He opened the doors of the cabinet, his face grim. There was half a decanter of something dark on the bottom shelf; he unstoppered it, took a whiff, and nodded. •
Rum. Good, West Indian rum. That would bring her around. He poured two fingers into a cut-glass tumbler, frowned, added another two fingers for good measure, then held the glass to the light.
It was a long time since he'd tasted rum. Now that he thought about it, it was a long time since he'd tasted anything.
Could he do such simple things? Could he eat and drink, if he wished to do so?
It was a good question. Thus far, little about his ghostly existence was predictable. Or known. He felt like an explorer in a distant land, learning the limits of his new world and adding to his store of knowledge hour by hour.
He could walk through walls but he couldn't pass through an open gate.
He could see his reflection in the mirror but there were occasions when he was transparent.
And right now, the smell of the rum was making his mouth water.
Matthew hesitated, then lifted the glass to his lips and took a small, questioning sip.
A beatific smile swept across his face.
The taste was heaven. The silken glide of the liquor across his tongue, the fiery kick of it as it slid down his throat... He had almost forgotten the pleasure of it.
He had the glass halfway to his lips again when Catherine spoke.
"You're supposed to give whiskey to the person who passes out, not drink it yourself."
He swung around. She was sitting up in a corner of the settee. Her face was still pale, though two patches of color had blossomed in her cheeks.
He felt a dark flush rise in his own face.
"It's rum, not whiskey. And I was simply testing it. Who knows how long it's been in that decanter? Its condition might be unsuitable for consumption."
Her dark eyebrows lifted a fractional inch.
"A taste test," she said. "How thoughtful."
Matthew cleared his throat. "It was nothing."
"Oh, on the contrary. An intruder with a sense of chivalry is very definitely something. I think the police will find it a fascinating detail."
The threat wasn't worthy of a response, though he had to give her credit for courage. She was frightened; he could see it in the swiftness of her breathing, but her demeanor, and her tone, were cool.
Matthew dumped more rum into the glass and brought it to her. She shook her head.
"No, thank you," she said, and frowned.
No, thank you? Had she really said that?
He, on the other hand, obviously had no such constraints. He glared and shoved the glass at her.
"Drink it," he growled.
Kathryn drew back, wrinkling her nose at the smell.
"I don't want it."
"Dammit, Cat, this is not a tea party. Drink the rum."
Her chin lifted in defiance. "You're right. This isn't a tea party so I don't have to pretend to be a gracious guest. And for your information, my name is not Cat."
His mouth twisted. "Isn't it?"
"No."
"What is it, if not Cat?"
"It's Kathryn," she snapped.
"Forgive me, m'lady," he said, his voice tinged with sarcasm. "I had forgotten your preference for formality."
"I don't have a preference for anything, except for seeing your back as you go out the door!"
"Ah, Catherine, you cut me to the quick. To think you want only to wound me with words after being so long without me."
"Listen here, you..."
"Don't argue with me, dammit! Drink the rum and be quick about it."
Kathryn opened her mouth, then slammed it shut Maybe she was nuts! She had to be, to sit here and quarrel with a crazy man.
Maybe he was right. Maybe a stiff shot of something alcoholic was just what she needed to clear her head. At the very least, it might help her figure out what had happened to her.
All right, so it wasn't every day you strolled into your own house and found a man dressed like an extra from Mutiny on the Bounty coming down the steps. But the rest of it...
Kathryn shot a quick look at his hand, curved around the glass.
Thank you, God.
It was a powerful hand, a very masculine one with long, blunt-nailed fingers. But it wasn't transparent. Given the choice, she'd much rather deal with a flesh-and-blood intruder than—than... Oh boy!
Maybe a belt of rum wasn't such a bad idea. "All right," she said, and rose to her feet. His hand shot out and clamped around her wrist. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I've reconsidered," she said with all the cool hauteur she could muster. "I think I'll have some of that stuff after all." He shoved the glass at her; the rum sloshed from side to side. "Drink, then."
Kathryn looked disdainfully at his glass, then at him. "I'd prefer a glass of my own, thank you very much." Her eyes dared him to argue. Matthew gritted his teeth, then let go of her wrist.
"Of course. How foolish of me." He lifted what remained of the rum to his lips and downed it in one swallow. He shuddered, then wiped the back of his hand over his lips. "Perhaps if I wore a red shirt open to my navel and fashioned my hair into greasy ringlets, you might be less fussy."
Kathryn spun towards him, the decanter and a glass in her hands. "What?"
"I would have hoped your taste in men would have improved over the years, Cat. But it seems it has not. First Waring, then that—that disgusting excuse for a man this afternoon..."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Hell, neither did he. Matthew's jaw tightened. What did it matter, her taste in men? She could be sleeping with the King's garrison and the Corporal of the Guard, for all he cared.
He shrugged and strolled towards her.
"Never mind," he said, slapping down his empty glass. "Your amusements are none of my concern."
"I'm glad we agree on something."
A corner of his mouth tilted up in a cool smile. He leaned back against the wall, folded his arms, and looked at her.
"I must say, you're taking this very calmly."
Calmly? God, if he only knew. If her heart raced any faster, it might burst from her chest and any second now, her teeth were threatening to chatter like castanets.
"Well, I'm trying to understand what, ah, what it is you're doing here," she said.
He laughed, as if she'd said something funny.
"Oh, I'm sure you'll come up with the answer."
There was an ominous undertone to his words. Kathryn licked her lips nervously.
"Were you—were you here, in the house, when I went out this morning?"
His smile was quick and condescending. "Of course."
She nodded, poured a dollop of rum into her glass, lifted it to her lips and swallowed it in one quick, throat-scalding gulp.
"Better?" he said, after a moment.
She nodded again, even though it was a lie. How could anything make her feel better? Here she was, talking with a man who'd somehow broken into Charon's Crossing, who traipsed around pretending to be someone who'd been dead almost two hundred years, right down to the costume and the old-fashioned speech.
He was clever. And dangerous. He was either a criminal or a lunatic...
Or both.
Kathryn put down the glass and the decanter. She shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her skirt to keep them from shaking.
It was not an encouraging situation.
"What's the matter, Cat?"
She looked up. The intruder was watching her, still with that little smile curled across his mouth.
"Why should anything be the matter?" she said quickly.
"You look as if..." He chuckled. "...as if you've seen a ghost."
Her heart rose to her throat. He was doing his best to terrify her. Well, he was succeeding. Her imagination had shifted into overdrive, racing for half a dozen different endings to this script.
The trouble was, not a one of them ende
d with her smiling in the winner's circle.
The second he knew that, it would be all over.
Life in New York had taught her that. You'd be walking down a street, minding your own business, and all of a sudden some fruitcake would pop out of a doorway, ranting about the end of the world.
You learned real fast that the only way to deal with things like that was to show as little reaction as possible. Besides, there was almost always someplace to pop into, a coffee shop or a drugstore and if you were really lucky, you might spot a police car cruising by.
On the other hand, this wasn't New York, it was Elizabeth Island. And this was Charon's Crossing. There were no shops, no people, no way to communicate with anybody.
If only the damned telephone worked. But it didn't; it just squatted on the console table, within reach but about as useful as feathers on a fish.
"Where did he take you?"
Kathryn's eyes flashed to his face. "Where did who take me?"
"Your pirate lover."
"My what?"
His eyes darkened. "Don't try my patience, Catherine. You know who I'm talking about. Where did your swashbuckler with the greasy curls take you for your little tete-a-tete?"
Kathryn's jaw dropped. Efram? He thought Efram, with his hollow chest and his acne, was her lover?
She almost laughed. Instead, she shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't think that's any of your business." Let him think she had a lover, someone who was liable to turn up at any minute.
"I'm making it my business," he said through his teeth. "Did he take you to his ship?"
"We went to town. We walked, looked at the shops... you know."
His mouth twisted. "Do you really expect me to believe you and your lover spent the afternoon shopping?"
Casually, she strolled past him, as if she were heading for the settee. He didn't try to stop her. Emboldened, she mentally measured the distance to the door. Ten feet, perhaps twelve. Yes, as far as she could see, that was her best bet. If she could just make it across the foyer to the library, she could slam the door in his face and jam it shut with a chair...
"Damn you, Cat! Answer my question!"
"He'll be back, if that's what you want to know." She turned and looked at him, forcing herself to speak calmly. "But—but I won't tell him about—about what's happened. I mean, we can just forget about your—your visit."
Matthew's eyes narrowed. "How generous you are, Catherine."
"I'm sure you had your reasons for break-... for coming to this house."
He smiled, his teeth very even and white against his tanned face.
"That's an interesting way of putting it."
Kathryn managed a smile. "Well, I'm trying to put this in the best possible light. For both our sakes."
"Really," he said, his voice almost a purr.
"Of course. There's no reason to end this on an unpleasant note."
His smile was cold and mirthless. It sent a whisper of fear feathering along her spine.
"Given the circumstances, I suspect I would make the same attempt to circumvent the inevitable." His smile fled. "But you must know that there's nothing you can say will accomplish that."
It was horrible, being toyed with like this, and Kathryn's composure slipped.
"Damn you," she cried. "Why are you doing this?"
"Why do you avoid using my name?"
"What?"
"Does it prick your conscience? Or did it mean so little to you that you truly have difficulty remembering it?"
"Please," she said, trying to keep her voice from trembling. "Please, don't you think this game's gone far enough?"
"On the contrary," he said softly. "It hasn't gone anywhere. Not yet."
There was no mistaking the threat. She took a deep breath and faced him.
"Let me offer you a choice... Matthew."
His eyes gave nothing away. "What choice?"
"If—if you leave Charon's Crossing now, I won't tell anyone you've been here."
A smile played across his lips. He walked slowly towards her and she forced herself to hold her ground, even though every nerve in her body was shrieking for her to run.
Half a dozen feet away, he stopped, sat on the arm of a chair, and folded his arms.
"It's a little late for that, don't you think?"
"It isn't," she said desperately, "it's not too late at all. We can still pretend none of this happened."
"None of what happened?"
"You know."
He shook his head. "I'd rather hear it from you."
This was touchy. Whatever she said next might be a mistake, depending on which he was, a nut who wandered into people's houses or a burglar with a taste for the dramatic who might resent being called a nut.
Although, she had to admit, he didn't seem to fit either category. Not a criminal. Not a lunatic...
"Why so quiet, Cat?"
"I—I'm thinking."
"What is there to think about?" His mouth thinned. "There's only one thing I want to hear you say and you know what it is."
Kathryn looked down and traced the seam of her skirt pocket with the tip of her finger.
"I won't tell anybody you've been here."
He laughed. "How generous."
Relief swept through her. "You'll leave, then?"
"I can't."
"You can! Just take my car."
"Car?"
"The VW outside. I know it isn't much, but—"
"I'd sooner ride a donkey without a saddle," he said, shuddering. He looked at her and his eyes darkened, so much so that for a moment he seemed to be in pain. "You don't understand. I can't leave, even if I wanted to."
"Don't be silly. Of course..."
She fell back as he rose and rushed towards her. His hands closed on her shoulders and he shook her roughly.
"Dammit," he snarled, "that's enough! I'm not going anywhere. And I'm weary of you playing the innocent."
"I'm not 'playing' at anything, Ma-... Matthew. I just-—I don't understand what you want!"
"Answers, dammit. Answers!" His hands tightened on her. "Why did you do it, Catherine?"
"Do what?"
"I loved you. I worshiped you. And yet, you betrayed me, betrayed me with that pig!"
"I didn't," Kathryn said quickly. "Look, you've got this all wrong."
"Have I?"
"Yes. Yes, you have. I can explain—"
"Explain, then. Fool that I am, I'll listen."
"He was never my lover."
She cried out as Matthew shook her.
"Don't lie! That only makes it worse."
"I'm not lying. I know I let you think he was, but—"
"Think? Think?" He shoved her back against the wall, his eyes blazing with rage. "I saw you with him, damn you! You were in his arms, kissing him, telling him things you had once told me..."
"No! That's not true! I never kissed him. I was only with him once, how could I have kissed him? I don't know what you think you saw but—"
"What I think I saw?" His hand slid down to her wrist, his fingers clamping around it like steel, and he yanked her towards the French doors that led onto the terrace. "I was out there, in the garden, as were you." He spun her towards him, his eyes wild. "I saw everything, Cat, everything!"
"But you couldn't have," she said desperately. "Not from the garden."
Matthew flung her from him and she stumbled back, her eyes wide and terrified.
"Sweet Jesus, are you trying to drive me insane? I saw you with Waring! You know damned well that I did."
"Waring?" she repeated in an unsteady whisper. "Who's Waring? His name was Efram."
"Efram? Efram? Who the hell is Efram?"
"The boy you saw me with this afternoon, the one you thought was my lover. He's not. He couldn't be. He's just a child. A boy. He only came to deliver my car."
Matthew's bellow of rage filled the room.
"Are you telling me you've taken to consorting with children?"
"No. No, of course not. I only meant..." She held out her hand. "Please, calm down."
"I am calm," he shouted. "I am totally, completely... Damn!"
He whirled away from her and aimed a booted foot at a stupid little table against the wall. It made a satisfying crunch as it shattered and fell to the floor like so many matchsticks. Kathryn cried out and flew past him. She fell to her knees and began clawing through the pieces of wood.
"Hell and damnation," Matthew muttered. "It's only a table, just a stinking, miserable..."
"Look," she said, her voice filled with awe.
She was leaning back on her heels, clutching to her bosom two ugly black things.
"Look at what?"
"Oh, it works," she sobbed, her eyes glowing with happiness. "It works!"
Matthew stared at her. "What works?"
"The phone!"
"The fone?"
"Yes!" She jammed one of the black things against her ear. "My God, it really works. Didn't you hear the dial tone, when it fell?"
Matthew's brows knotted. "Catherine, I want you to calm down."
"I am calm," she said, scrambling to her feet. "I am completely calm." His gaze shot to her hands. She was holding the two black things as if they were precious jewels and backing slowly towards the door. "All right, Matthew. Last chance. Leave now, or I'll call the cops."
"The kopz?"
Catherine stamped her foot. "Will you stop that?"
"Stop what?"
"You know what! Repeating things as if I—as if you..."
"Look, just go away. If you don't, I swear, I'll telephone the cops."
Telefone the kopz?
What the hell was she talking about?
Matthew had not been this contused since he'd been a cabin boy on a merchant ship bound from Boston to Dublin.
"You'll love the city, lad," the old Cookie had told him. "The beer is like nectar and the girls are beautiful, 'cept for them thinkin' it's English they speak."
It was how he felt now, listening to Catherine. She was speaking English but what was she saying?
Kopz? Fone?
If it was a threat, what did it mean?
His eyes narrowed as he watched her. She'd put the length of the room between them but even so, he could see that her cheeks were scarlet and her eyes far too bright.
Perhaps he hadn't caught her in time, when she'd swooned. Perhaps she'd bumped her head against the marble floor.
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