Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel)

by Sandra Marton

  It had been an inspired decision, even better than the time she'd spent on the computer. She gritted her teeth as she clipped away at a rose branch with the rusty pruning shears she'd found inside the gardening shed. Ghosts? Columns of silver light? The odds were, she'd never see them again. Now that Matthew knew she wasn't his Catherine...

  He was here.

  So much for the odds being in her favor.

  Kathryn froze, every sense on the alert. Matthew was definitely here, in the garden. She could sense his presence, just as she had in her dream.

  She swung around, the clippers forgotten. Where was he? She couldn't see a sign of him anywhere.

  "Matthew?"

  There was no answer.

  "Matthew?" Her voice rose in irritation. "Come on, you might as well show yourself. I know you're here, so what's the point in playing games?"

  * * *

  Matthew was there, all right. He'd been watching Kathryn work for the past few minutes, leaning back against the sturdy trunk of a tree and admiring the view. He supposed it wasn't very gentlemanly to watch a woman without her knowing it but then, he wasn't a gentleman anymore, was he?

  He was a ghost, and it was reassuring to find that he could still react to the sight of a gently rounded bottom waggling in the air as its owner bent over to get a tool from the little stack of them at her feet.

  But how in hell had Kathryn known he was here? She was looking straight at him now, as if she could see him. Had he forgotten and materialized without planning to do so? He wasn't expert at this stuff yet.

  Last night, after he'd had time to calm down, he'd wanted to, well, to talk with her. Not to apologize. He had nothing to apologize for. He'd simply thought it might not hurt to tell her that his anger was nothing personal.

  But she'd been locked in her bedroom by then—as if a lock meant anything to him, he'd thought with a smile. But then he'd thought it over and decided that it might not hurt to be a gentleman about it. If she wanted to pretend she could escape him by locking her door, he'd go along with the game.

  And a good thing he had, if just watching her work in the garden had his britches feeling snug. Heaven only knew what would have happened if he'd strolled through the door and into her room.

  He watched as she tossed aside the shears and glared into the garden.

  "I suppose that's one of the pleasures of being a ghost," she said coolly. "Voyeurism must be a blast."

  He materialized instantly, just where she'd thought he'd be, leaning against a tree with an insolent half-smile on his handsome face, though it pleased her to see him flush.

  "I have never had need to be a voyeur, Kathryn. And though I won't bother asking you what blasting and watching on the sly have to do with each other, I would dearly love to know if it is ever your habit to wear more than your smallclothes."

  "Smallclothes?"

  "Your undergarments." His eyes raked the length of her body, leaving her feeling as if she weren't wearing anything when, in fact, she had on an oversized T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts. "Do all women of your time garden in such outfits?"

  It was her turn to blush. She felt the color rise from the tips of her sneakered toes straight up to her face but she didn't blink.

  "Did all men of your time stand around watching instead of working?"

  The gibe hit home. Matthew's jaw set. His eyes fixed on hers as he unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged it off, and tossed it across a bench.

  "Move over," he snapped.

  Kathryn grinned, sat down on her heels in the midst of an overgrown flower bed, and watched as he set to work.

  * * *

  He was a pleasure to watch, that was for certain.

  She spent a few seconds wondering how she'd explain Matthew if Elvira happened to come out and caught sight of him. But the last she'd seen of Elvira, she'd been taking apart the library, book by book. It was doubtful she'd turn up for hours. Besides, Kathryn was too busy enjoying the view to worry about Elvira putting in an appearance.

  Matthew was gorgeous. There just wasn't any other word that could describe him.

  His skin was a pale gold, almost the color of the wildflower honey she sometimes spread on her breakfast toast. Beneath it, his well-toned muscles moved with a smooth assurance.

  His shoulders were broad and powerful; in a few minutes, they glistened under a light sheen of sweat. His biceps were rounded and his forearms firm. He worked with an economy of motion that was at once elegant and beautiful to see.

  Her gaze drifted down his body. Those trousers of his, black, tight and clinging, made the most of a trim bottom, powerful thighs, and long, great-looking legs.

  A flush swept into her cheeks again. What sort of woman got turned on by watching a ghost?

  Not that she was getting turned on. It was just that, well, she'd been raised by an artist. Admiring the human body had been as natural as...

  Her breath caught as Matthew turned and began working on another tumble of rose branches. His front was even more impressive than his back. She had never liked men who had overdone pecs; guys with breasts bigger than hers were not guys she found attractive.

  Matthew's chest was perfect. The muscles were long and pronounced, the skin overlaid with a light covering of chestnut curls that arrowed down an abdomen as ridged as washboard to disappear beneath the waistband of those devastating trousers. For the first time, she noticed that they didn't have a fly. Didn't fly fronts exist in 1812? She couldn't remember, or maybe she'd never known. Either way, she approved of the looks of his tights, the way they buttoned down each hip so that the fabric was taut across his groin...

  For God's sake, Kathryn!

  She shot to her feet. "Aren't you finished yet?" she said sharply.

  "Almost."

  "I don't know what takes so long," she said, stalking towards him. She bent down, snatched up the couple of tools she'd been using, and stuffed them into her back pockets. "If you'd left me alone, I'd have been done by now."

  Matthew cocked his head, took a last snip at a branch, then nodded.

  "That should do it," he said, and looked at her. "I did leave you alone, Kathryn. I was content, watching you sweat and strain, remember?"

  "Yes," she said irritably, "you certainly were."

  He grinned, handed her the shears, and reached for his shirt.

  "I can see that being out in the hot sun plays havoc with your temperament."

  "There's nothing wrong with my temperament," she said, looking away as he tucked his shirttails in. "At least I don't go around, popping in and out of the woodwork, watching people when they don't know they're..." Her eyes shot to his face. "My God! Were you there each time I showered?"

  "Showered?"

  "Dammit, Matthew, don't play dumb! Showered. In the bathroom. Bathed. Oh, you know what I mean."

  "Ah. The water machine." He chuckled softly, his eyes wicked and teasing. "I never tire of that view, madam." Her face turned crimson and he laughed. "The view of the water pouring down the wall, I mean. It is truly amazing."

  Kathryn's eyes narrowed. "I know you find this very amusing," she said coldly.

  "Well, considering that there has been little to amuse me the past couple of hundred years, you can hardly blame me."

  "You might try seeing all this through my eyes, you know. How would you feel, if you found yourself sharing a house with a ghost?"

  "An excellent question, though I have a better one, Kathryn. How would you feel, if you found that you were a ghost?"

  He was right, it was one hell of a question. But if he expected her to feel compassion for him after everything he'd done, he was wrong.

  "I supposed I'd feel... confused."

  "Confused?" Matthew smiled coolly. "Believe me, confusion is a mild description for what I feel."

  Kathryn started towards the gardening shed.

  "You're wasting your time if you expect me to feel sorry for you," she said over her shoulder.

  "I don't expect you to feel anything
. Hell, you're a Russell. Russells have no feelings for anyone but themselves."

  "That's not fair. I'm generations removed from that woman."

  "That means nothing. Her blood is in your veins."

  Kathryn spun towards him. "Yes, and her house is in my name. I want to know why you're haunting it."

  "It's none of your business."

  "It damn well is my business!"

  "Is this what the years have done for women?" Matthew slapped his hands on his hips and glared at her. "You dress like a trollop and talk like a shrew."

  "And you," Kathryn said, slapping her hands on her hips and glaring right back at him, "dress like an extra from the New York City Ballet and talk like—like a leftover from last summer's Shakespeare in the Park!"

  "What?"

  "You heard me!"

  "That's ridiculous. I know nothing of ballet. As for Shakespeare... I am an American and damned proud of it, madam! I was born not a hundred miles from Concord and I have lived my life sailing under the Stars and Stripes!"

  "Except for the time you spent flying the Jolly Roger, you mean!"

  "That's nonsense!"

  "You were a pirate, bought and paid for by the King of England."

  "I was a privateer, doing what I could to keep body and soul together while I waited for my president to take action against the English!"

  They were nose to nose and toe to toe, inhaling each other's anger with every breath they took.

  Hell's bells, Matthew thought, how could he ever have mistaken this woman for the Catherine he had known? She had none of Catherine's polish or delicacy... and a hundred times her fire and a thousand times her beauty, even with dirt on her face and rose leaves in her hair.

  My God, Kathryn thought, how could this man have cut a swath through the boudoirs of the nineteenth century? He was imperious, arrogant and impossibly chauvinistic... and he was more masculine than any man she'd ever known and so handsome that just looking at him stole her breath away.

  Matthew looked into Kathryn's eyes. They had blazed with anger a moment ago. Now, there was another sort of fire lighting their blue depths, one that made his muscles tense in anticipation.

  "Kathryn," he said softly. He lifted his hand and touched it to her cheek.

  "Matthew." Kathryn moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Matthew, I don't think—"

  "Miz Russell?"

  Kathryn blinked.

  "Miz Russell? Ma'am?"

  Matthew's hand stilled. "Whose voice is that?"

  "It's Elvira! Oh, you've got to hide!"

  "Who?"

  "The cleaning lady. Hiram Bonnyeman's wife. He's the local repair... Oh, never mind. Matthew, you've got to hide. She'll see—"

  "Miz Russell?" Kathryn spun around. Elvira had come out the rear door and across the terrace. "I thought I heard you talkin' to somebody out here."

  Kathryn cleared her throat. "Yes. Well, I was. You see..."

  "She can't," Matthew said softly, from just behind her.

  "Can't what?" Kathryn hissed.

  "Can't see me."

  "Of course she can. You're not invisi—"

  "I am."

  "But—but you aren't. I can see you."

  "No one else can. Your repairman didn't, nor did your attorney, nor did that woman you've engaged to sell Charon's Crossing."

  "But how can that be? It's impossible."

  Matthew laughed. "I have no idea. And it is surely no more impossible than the fact that I am a spirit."

  "Miz Russell?" Elvira's voice rose. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," Kathryn said, her voice rising, "yes, I'm fine. I just..." Her words faded and died. Elvira Bonnyeman was staring at her but it was obvious that Matthew was right. She didn't see him. He might as well have been made of glass. "I, uh, I was talking to myself," Kathryn said with a quick smile. "It's an old habit of mine. I'm sorry if I startled you."

  Elvira laughed with relief. "No, that's all right, I do it all the time. But I have to admit, you did have me goin' for a minute. Between what Hiram said and the stories..." Her hand flew to her lips. "Oh, I am sorry! I surely didn't mean—"

  "There's no need to apologize." Kathryn smiled again, even more brightly than before. "Elvira, I was thinking..." What? What lie can you offer to get her out of here? Come on, Kathryn, come up with something clever. "I was thinking that—that you've done enough for one day."

  "But I haven't. I just came out to see if you want me to take down the draperies at the library windows and hang 'em outside for a bit or if you'd rather I started on the dinin' room next."

  "Yes," Kathryn said.

  Matthew chuckled. " 'Yes' won't do it," he said softly.

  "I mean... I mean, I'll have to think it over."

  "Well, then, why don't I get started in the dinin' room? That chandelier surely needs washin', and—"

  "Not today," Kathryn said quickly. She went up the steps, put her arm lightly around the older woman's shoulders and began walking her towards the house. "Thank you for all you've done today, Elvira. Now, you go on home and by the time you come back tomorrow, I'll have worked out a plan."

  "If that's the way you want it, Miz Russell, but—"

  "Call me Kathryn, please. And yes, yes, I think that's the best way to do this. I'll figure out in what order I want to get things done and..."

  She kept talking as she led Elvira into the kitchen where she only gave her time to scoop up her purse. Then she hurried her through the foyer and out the front door to the car Elvira had left parked in the driveway. She kept talking, too, as she opened the car door and all but shoved the woman into the driver's seat. And she kept smiling, not just while she talked but while she waved a briskly cheerful good-bye.

  When the car had rattled out of sight, the smile fell from Kathryn's lips. She took a deep breath, went back into the house—and walked smack into Matthew.

  "Nice performance," he said with a lazy smile. "All that, just so we could be alone? I'm flattered."

  "All that, so we could be alone," she said grimly. She put a hand out as he took a step towards her. "And so you could start talking, as fast and as hard as you can."

  "Talk?" Matthew scowled and folded his arms over his chest. "You disappoint me, madam."

  "Stuff it, Mr. McDowell."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "This is my house you're haunting. And I want to know the reason."

  Matthew stiffened. "It's none of your business."

  "That's where you're wrong. It's very much my business. Cat Russell was my great-great... my ancestor, and you talk about her as if she were evil."

  "An excellent choice of words, madam."

  "Well, I want to know why."

  A muscle knotted in his jaw. The last thing he wanted to do was bring Cat's perfidy to life again.

  "It's a dull story, I'm afraid, one that would only bore you."

  "Listen, Matthew, I'm not stupid. I've read your journal. I've spoken to people."

  "And they remember me?" He grinned. "I'm flattered."

  "What they remember," Kathryn said pointedly, "is that you were a pirate."

  Matthew's mouth became a thin line.

  "That is the second time you've accused me of piracy," he said tightly. "If you were a man—"

  "But I'm not. I'm a woman, and you mistook me for someone who spurned you."

  "Spurned? Spurned?" His hands knotted into fists and he took a step forward. Kathryn held her ground but it wasn't easy. Anger blazed in his eyes. "I was not spurned I was betrayed."

  "So you claim."

  "It is the truth."

  "The truth can sometimes be a matter of interpretation."

  "Truth is truth, Kathryn. It needs no interpretation."

  He didn't want to tell her anything. Kathryn could see that. But he owed her an explanation, dammit. When he'd thought she was Cat Russell, he'd cursed her. He'd even tried to kill her. Did he really think he could buy her off with a smug little lecture on truth?

 
Kathryn lifted her chin. "I believe in judging for myself," she said. "Or are you afraid that if you tell me the story, I'll punch it full of holes?"

  Matthew glowered at this impossible woman. She was trying to embarrass him into telling her a tale that was none of her business. Well, she would not succeed. The tale was humiliating. It was bloody. And letting her hear it would change nothing.

  On the other hand, perhaps it would. What if that was the reason she'd been drawn here? What if it were the reason he'd been allowed to step out of the blackness?

  Perhaps he was supposed to tell the story of Cat's perfidy to her namesake. It was not a pretty story; it would surely not be something one would wish to hear about one's forebear.

  Maybe that was the whole purpose of what was happening. As acts of vengeance went, it wasn't much. But it was better than nothing. He would tell her the tale, she'd be pained by it. And then she would leave Charon's Crossing and he... he would find peace. Or perhaps he would fade back into the darkness.

  A fist seemed to clamp around his heart. Either way, there would be no more sunshine on his face. No more scent of flowers to tease his nostrils, no taste of fine cognac slipping down his throat...

  And no more Kathryn.

  She would not be there to argue each and every damned point he raised. To look at him with defiance flashing in her magnificent blue eyes. To put her hands on her hips, lift her chin in that way that was enough to drive him into a rage and talk to him as if she were not a female but his equal.

  He would have her for none of those things, nor would he have her to invade his dreams, to drive him senseless with desire and make him ache to be made of flesh and blood so he could take her in his arms, kiss her mouth and caress her breasts until she pleaded for him to strip away her clothing and sheathe himself in her heat.

  He turned away abruptly. It was all foolishness. He could tell her what had happened or he could not. He knew, in his heart, that the telling would change nothing for him. But perhaps she was right. Let her judge for herself. Let her hear the truth.

  No one had, in all these many years.

  "Very well," he said. His voice was cold but so soft that Kathryn had to strain to hear it. "I'll do as you ask, Kathryn. I'll tell you why I haunt this place." He swung towards her and she saw that his face was as grim as his tone. "And once I have, you will wish you had never come here."