Sommersgate House

by Kristen Ashley

  All she had to do was wait.

  He felt this knowledge hit him like a physical blow.

  Tamsin had believed in him, but she was his sister.

  No one else had. Not anyone in his life.

  No one.

  Except Julia.

  Memories of her slid by in seconds, her blowing in his ear at the snooker table; telling him of Sean’s abuse in the study; giving him her Christmas present at dinner; wriggling her engagement ring at Nick proudly; wrapping her legs around Douglas’s waist passionately, protectively, lovingly while he was inside her.

  “What am I going to do with you?” he’d asked.

  “Whatever you want,” was her reply.

  Bloody hell, he loved her.

  He came to within a foot of the doorway and her eyes shifted quickly and meaningfully to the side of it, telling him there was another man behind it.

  Douglas didn’t react.

  He just smiled.

  The Russian was still talking, threatening, his voice getting panicky because Douglas hadn’t dropped his gun as asked.

  Douglas ignored him.

  In an even, calm voice he said simply, “I love you, Julia.”

  Her face changed, even from across the expanse he saw her eyes darken and that raw, tender look came about her and he knew what it meant.

  Finally he understood.

  “Oh Douglas,” she replied, her sweet, husky voice shaking, not with fear but with feeling. “Sweetheart, I love you too.”

  And then it all happened at once.

  The house rumbled, the windows flexed in dangerously then out like the house was about to implode.

  Julia jerked her head back at the same time she jammed her elbow into her attacker’s ribs, drawing a confused yowl from the man. She threw herself over the back of the couch and the last Douglas saw of her was a flash of black netting and her legs ending in two high-heeled black sandals disappearing behind the couch.

  Douglas wasted no time; he aimed at her attacker, fired and cursed.

  He caught the man in the shoulder but didn’t bring him down.

  The door flew toward him and he was ready for it. He caught it with his forearm, violently throwing it back with all his weight and strength. He heard an “oomph” of pain come from behind the door but ignored it.

  The lights flashed, off and on, then again and again. The chandeliers were swaying dangerously, their crystals tinkling.

  A shot was fired at Douglas by the Russian that held Julia but it was wide and Douglas aimed another shot at him and caught him in the thigh but, before the man dropped to the floor, Julia had re-emerged from her position, holding aloft a Waterford vase that Douglas knew was one of his mother and father’s wedding presents. She hurled it at the Russian and it smashed against the side of his head causing him to grunt and hit the floor with a heavy thud.

  The lights were still flashing, not only in the drawing room but behind him as well and likely everywhere in the house. The walls were creaking as if Sommersgate was about to crumble in on itself.

  Douglas had no time to worry about the bizarre disintegration of his ancestral home. The other man stepped wide from the door, his gun raised but Douglas caught his wrist, needing to drop his own gun to do so. The man managed to squeeze off a shot which caught Douglas, stinging his upper, left arm.

  As Douglas grappled with the man, an otherworldly moan drifted ominously through the house and then another missile, this time a heavy glass paperweight, flew through the air, hitting his opponent on the side of the neck, making him squawk in angry pain.

  “Stop throwing things!” Douglas ordered Julia, his hands full with the man who was fighting both a terror of Douglas, the unknown of Julia and her priceless glass bombs and a house gone mad. “You could hit me.”

  “I’m not going to hit you! I played softball for seven years!” she retorted, as if that meant anything in a death match.

  He noted out of the corner of his eye she was standing there with her hands on her hips as if to say, Get on with it, I’m hungry.

  He would have laughed if he hadn’t noticed her original attacker slowly pulling himself to his feet, still armed.

  “Julia, down!” Douglas barked.

  His clever soon-to-be wife noticed the Russian too and disappeared behind the couch in an instant.

  A flame of fire shot out of the fireplace at this point even though no fire had been blazing in its grate the moment before. The moan was still howling through the house, the windows flexing, the chandeliers veering crazily side-to-side.

  Douglas whirled, gaining position on the gun, he used his attacker’s weapon and aimed at the other Russian who had already fired, this time toward the spot where Julia had been.

  Douglas’s shot went wild as did his mind.

  If he hit Julia, Douglas would rip him apart.

  He let out a roar of rage and used his newfound fury to plant his feet and throw his attacker over his shoulder onto his back on the floor. Without hesitation, Douglas wrested the man’s gun away, calmly aimed and fired two rounds into him, one in each kneecap.

  The man’s howls joined the unearthly thunder of the house and Douglas turned again to the other man who had decided against shooting him to give way to the crazed violence that blazed in his eyes. Charging toward him like a bull, Douglas braced for impact when two things happened at once.

  First, the blast of a shotgun unloaded itself into the ceiling by the side doors that led toward the greenhouse.

  This happened thanks to a wild-eyed Roddy Kilpatrick who followed the blast with an outcry of, “What the bloody hell is going on here?” and yet stood calmly as plaster rained down on him.

  Second, another paperweight, this one bigger than the last, flew with alarming accuracy at Douglas’s assailant, knocking him with a sickening thump on his head and succeeding in dropping him like a stone three feet away from Douglas.

  Julia stood behind the couch heaving angry breaths and smartly yanking up the neckline of her strapless dress. Douglas stood amongst the carnage, one man unconscious at his feet, the other writhing in (now whimpering) agony.

  The battle against the Russians won, Sommersgate still had a battle of its own.

  “Are you all right?” Douglas asked Julia.

  “You took your own damned time coming home!” she accused hotly.

  He guessed, by that response, she was all right.

  “Jesus, Doug. You made a mess. I’m always telling you, not the kneecaps. Christ, the man will never walk again.”

  Nick was in the room, staggering a bit, a huge lump had formed on his temple and the bruising had already begun.

  “Oh Nick, your head.” Julia started to rush forward in concern. “We need to get you some ice.”

  “You’re bloody well not nursemaiding me. I know from experience you aren’t very good at it.”

  “Well!” Julia halted with a skid halfway to her friend, clearly affronted.

  “Girl,” Nick returned, his voice low with anger, “next time I come tearing into this house and tell you to run, you… better… damned… well… run!”

  “Will someone tell me what in the hell is going on?” Roddy Kilpatrick shouted from his position by the doors, a position from which he had not moved, his shotgun still pointed at the ceiling, his hair dusted white with plaster.

  Coming up behind him on a wheeze was Margaret Kilpatrick.

  “My goodness!” she panted. “Is there an earthquake?”

  Roddy whirled. “Woman! I told you to stay with the children!” he yelled, his face going perilously red.

  “Ronnie’s with them, they’re all fine!” she yelled right back, an angry flush forming on her own cheeks.

  Douglas rolled his eyes to the ceiling in a brief prayer for patience at the utter bedlam in his house and saw the chandeliers lurch precariously.

  “Julia, get over here,” he demanded because if the house was going to fall on their heads, it was damned well going to do it when she was in his arms
.

  She didn’t hesitate. Delicately stepping over bodies in her lovely shoes with her red toenails peeking out of a small, charming indentation in the toe, she muttered, “Should we do something about him?” She indicated the writhing Russian with a low wave of her hand.

  “He’ll survive,” Douglas grunted.

  She’d come within reach and he reached for her, yanked her forward, her body slamming against his.

  “Are you all right?” he repeated his earlier question.

  “Yes, fine,” she answered distractedly, still looking down at the man. Then her eyes fluttered to his. “I knew you’d be home any minute so I just waited. You were late, though. That was a bit unfortunate. You’ve been hit.”

  Her eyes were now on his bleeding arm but he noted that she was completely calm, as if the house wasn’t at that very moment shirking off a century old curse, as if bodies didn’t litter the hall and drawing room of their home, as if she hurled deadly projectiles at villains every day.

  He felt it tear through him. Feelings, emotions, love, desire, happiness, safety, beauty, laughter, everything that was Julia, it ripped through him with a stunning force and nearly brought him to his knees.

  Or, more to the point, it mended him, taking the jagged, long-unused shards of his heart and rending them together, complete, functioning and healthy, the scars simply fading away.

  He had not needed to put her back together.

  He had needed her to do it for him.

  His arms stole around her and he buried his face in her neck.

  “God, I love you.” His voice was hoarse with feeling, trembling with it and he felt a shudder go through her.

  “I’m so glad,” she whispered, her head turned so her lips were at his ear. “I didn’t want to spend my life not telling you how I feel. I love you, Douglas.” Then she tilted her head back, her throat arching and he lifted his head to watch in amazement as she shouted proudly, “Love you, love you, love you. I love Douglas Ashton!”

  He would have kissed her but instead, the instant she finished her declaration, the night was pierced by a blood-chilling scream.

  The house stilled completely and everyone in the room froze for a moment then scattered, running out to the grand stairwell.

  Douglas halted at what he saw. He’d dragged Julia with him, grabbing her hand as he left the drawing room. She slammed into his back then wrapped her arms around his waist, peeking around him and they both, with Nick and the Kilpatricks, witnessed something hideous and momentous.

  Douglas could not believe his eyes.

  The ghostly vision of a woman was struggling at the foot of the stairs with an unseen attacker who was clearly choking the life out of her.

  It was a death struggle.

  And she was losing.

  A raging howl came from behind them and they all shifted as one and if anyone had seen them, they would have noted it as almost comical.

  But it was anything but funny.

  Through the French doors they could see the ghost of a man, also fighting against an unseen attacker (or, to Douglas’s way of thinking, more than one considering the bulk of his body, his obvious strength and the desperate nature of his struggle).

  The howl he emitted had been fierce, shaking the windows.

  And then a blaze of fire shot out of the grate by the leather couches but they all missed it as the ghost man tore away from his attackers and charged forward, up to and through the glass, finding himself for the first time in over a century in the glorious and grand home he built as a proud display of love for his adored wife.

  He did not hesitate in triumph at his entry but rushed forward, throwing off her attacker and catching her body, swinging her around as she coughed, spluttered and weakly lifted her hands to hold onto his shoulders.

  “Ruby.” His mouth moved but the aching sound didn’t come from there, it came from everywhere, the walls, the floors, the furniture, the carpets.

  It came from Sommersgate.

  “Archie.” Was her reply, the yearning in the sound was like a caress and it, too, filled the air like oxygen.

  “Oh my God,” Mrs. K breathed and Douglas felt a strange sensation behind him, realising that Julia was holding onto him tightly, her arms wrapped around his waist, her body pressed against his and hers was rent with silent sobs.

  He pulled her around toward his front, his arms encircling her as she snuggled into his chest, pressing her cheek against him there all the while she watched the ghostly reunion.

  Douglas looked again to the beings who had inhabited his home long before he’d come into the world. Beings Tamsin had sworn existed but he had never sensed.

  They were embracing, kissing passionately and it was almost embarrassing to watch even though he could not, for the life of him, tear his eyes away.

  With the spirits still kissing, the words came from Sommersgate, from the voices long since stilled in the past.

  “Douglas, Julia, thank you. We wish you…”

  Then they were fading, still embracing but slowly fading until they were completely out of sight.

  “…love.” It was a whisper and Douglas felt Julia’s tremble communicate itself through his body.

  Sommersgate was still, quiet, all that it was, all that it used to be, was gone, fading with the spectres.

  Leaving behind only stones and mortar, wood and glass, iron and granite.

  All of it built in love.

  Douglas and Julia’s home.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The Toasts

  Julia stood at the back of the cathedral, her bridesmaids, Lizzie and Ruby, milling around her and Will yanking nervously at his collar but still looking quite dapper in his morning suit.

  She’d peeked into the church to see Douglas and Oliver line up at the front and to watch Will escort Patricia to her seat. Patricia was wearing such an enormous, baby pink hat, replete with ruffles and rosettes, that Julia wondered how her mother managed to manoeuvre herself down the aisle without toppling over. Her nephew then turned and tried not to (but definitely did) scurry back to Julia.

  It was Julia and Douglas’s wedding day.

  Monique was not in attendance, she sent word she was deathly ill with the flu.

  Julia couldn’t have been more pleased at the news but she tried to hide her reaction when she saw the dark look that crossed Douglas’s face, though, he said not a word.

  The very proud looking Kilpatricks sat in the front row on Douglas’s side, next to Charlotte and Nick, with Sam and Ronnie (and their boyfriends) and Carter and his daughter sitting behind.

  Julia thought happily that was a far better representation of Douglas’s family than Monique would ever be.

  Both sides of the church were filled to capacity. Julia had protested the guest list but Douglas demanded that every business and social acquaintance he had be present.

  “If I could,” he whispered into her neck one dark night, “I’d have the world watch me make you mine.”

  It was, of course, an atrociously possessive thing to say but who was she to argue?

  For her part, a great number of her family and friends were there, mainly because Douglas had bought every seat on a commercial jet flying from O’Hare to Heathrow. That gesture made the trip a great deal more affordable for a lot of people.

  Finishing this assemblage, there was enough paparazzi outside to make the BAFTAs look tame in comparison.

  Julia was wearing what Gregory termed his “masterpiece” (in a short time, she had become known widely as Gregory’s “muse”).

  Her wedding gown was a simple, long, backless, sleeveless, boat necked, ivory silk dress, the silk being the most extraordinary material Julia had ever touched. Cut on the bias, it fit superbly, flowing all the way down to her feet where the very pointed toes of her ivory pumps peaked out. The back hem fell in a graceful train three feet long. She wore ivory gloves up to her middle upper arms, a choker made of four rows of pearls separated by bars of diamonds imbedded in pla
tinum, a matching bracelet and a set of earrings that had a teardrop pearl suspended from a beautiful diamond (this an “early” wedding gift from Douglas making her wonder what the “during” and “after” wedding gifts would be – for her part, she carried with her a secret that was Douglas’s present that she prayed he would adore). She carried a bouquet made completely out of perfect white roses.

  As usual in Julia’s life, the day had not run smoothly (to say the least).

  She had started it in her rooms surrounded by her girlfriends from Indiana and England, everyone wanting to help but doing nothing but getting in the way. Charlotte, Gregory and Patricia had a fight over how Julia was going to wear her hair even though Julia and Sylvie, the stylist, had long since decided on a style.

  “She must wear it up, something soft, with curls at the back and tendrils around her neck with baby’s breath,” Patricia demanded (and Julia thought it sounded like something a girl would wear to a prom).

  “Down! Straight! Edgy!” Gregory clipped out, speaking (as per usual) in as many exclamation-point-ending, one-word phrases as he could (Gregory, at last, a match for Patricia’s dramatics).

  “A sleek, elaborate up-do, with the front of her hair parted severely, smoothed over and tucked in…” Charlotte declared and then went on for several more words.

  Julia let Charlotte win because that was the closest to what Sylvie and Julia had decided and because Charlie happened to be the editor of a glossy fashion magazine and likely knew what she was talking about.

  Then Patricia decided she was not sure about the gloves.

  Then Patricia launched into her (oft-heard) lecture about how high heels would ruin your back.

  Then Patricia doubted the wisdom of having only one wedding colour, ivory, saying they should add a last-minute infusion of something else, like pink.

  And so on.

  Before preparations to her toilette began in earnest, Douglas had walked into Julia’s rooms causing Patricia to shriek and Gregory to hyperventilate, waving his hand in front of his face like a wilting Southern belle.

  “You can’t see her before the wedding!” Patricia exclaimed, her voice shrill.