Playing the Part

by Jen Turano

“Every lady is appreciative of a handsome face, sir, and throw in a fortune and a castle to go with that face, and you can’t lose.” Stanley’s brow furrowed. “Although, you might not want to tell her straight off that Ravenwood is haunted. That might not be a mark in your favor, unless she enjoys ghosts and creatures of the night, but if she’s truly a delicate sort . . . hmm . . . best keep that under wraps until she’s fully committed to you.”

  “Ravenwood is not haunted, Stanley.”

  Stanley immediately turned stubborn. “Explain all the peculiar events that happen then—like suits of armor moving about, moans in the night, and . . . what about when poor Mrs. Buttermore heard those chains clanking around when she got up early to start the Thanksgiving feast last year?”

  “We’ve never heard any stories about any of the previous owners coming to a bad end. And there haven’t been that many previous owners since Ravenwood isn’t even that old, so there’s no reason for it to be haunted.”

  “Perhaps the ghosts came over on the boats that brought all the antiquities the last owner acquired and left behind when he sold the castle to you, which is very . . . telling.”

  “I paid a fortune for those antiquities because I thought they lent the castle a very credible atmosphere.”

  “Oh . . . I thought the previous owner simply left them when he fled out of fear for his life.”

  “You’ve been reading far too many gothic novels,” Bram said with a shake of his head, but before he could say more, Ernie suddenly dashed into the room, completely out of breath, and looking a little wild about the eyes.

  “The castle grounds have been breached, sir,” Ernie finally managed to wheeze as he bent over and sucked in deep breaths of air. “Should we roll out the cannons?”

  “I think that might be a bit of an overreaction, especially since I’ve never really been comfortable blasting unexpected guests hither, thither, and yon about the castle lawn.”

  “I didn’t say we should blast them, sir, just fire off a ball or two over their heads in order to scare them a bit,” Ernie argued. “And begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t believe we should be calling them guests. They’re trespassers, plain and simple, and they’re not your everyday trespassers either, sir. They went to the very great bother of getting through the back hedge. Those hedges are filled with thorns, not to mention snakes, and it would take someone of a very determined nature to brave obstacles like that.”

  Bram blinked. “They went through the hedge?”

  “Indeed, and they’ve now made their way past the reflecting pond,” another voice said from the doorway.

  Looking that way, Bram found Mrs. Macmillan, his less-than-capable housekeeper, slouching in the doorway, looking rather put out at the moment, although, since that was a look she projected quite often, he wasn’t taken aback by it in the least.

  Why he kept her and her husband, Mr. Macmillan, the butler at Ravenwood, was a discussion he knew the rest of his staff often had. But when he’d purchased Ravenwood, the Macmillans had inquired whether or not they could retain the positions they’d held for the previous owners. And, since Bram was not comfortable turning people out into a world where positions were difficult to come by, he’d agreed to allow them to stay on—though he had regretted that decision a time or two, especially since neither Mr. Macmillan nor Mrs. Macmillan seemed to be especially competent at their jobs.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Macmillan,” he finally said with a nod, earning a single nod of acknowledgment from her in return. But then she surprised him when she stepped forward instead of getting on her way.

  “Mr. Macmillan is already on his way up to the north tower to ready the cannon, per Ernie’s suggestion,” Mrs. Macmillan continued. “But I thought I should inquire first before I have someone pull up the drawbridges—something Ernie suggested as well—especially since that’s such a difficult task, what with all the pulleys and cranks that need to be put into motion.”

  Sending Ernie a frown, which Ernie staunchly ignored, Bram gave his breakfast one last look before he rose from his chair. “Thank you, but no, Mrs. Macmillan. We’ll leave the drawbridges down since I intend to speak directly to the intruders.” He turned and caught Stanley’s eye. “Would you be so kind as to seek out Mr. Macmillan and inform him that the decision has been made to stand down and not make use of the cannons today?”

  “Of course,” Stanley said before he strode from the room, taking a muttering Ernie with him.

  “Should I ring for fresh tea?” Mrs. Macmillan asked.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be asking the trespassers in for refreshments, Mrs. Macmillan. While I certainly don’t want to fire cannonballs at them, offering them tea might be taking the social niceties a bit too far.” With that, Bram walked past his housekeeper and down a long hallway lined with ancient suits of armor.

  Pushing open the heavy door that led to the back gardens, Bram squinted against the late-morning sun and scanned the surrounding area, his gaze settling on two figures who had, indeed, made it past the reflecting pond and were even now approaching the moat.

  Since both intruders seemed to be on the small side, and neither was carrying any weapons that he could see, he felt no trepidation in the least about approaching them. His approach came to a grinding halt, though, when howling suddenly rent the air. Turning toward the sound, he saw a side gate swing open. Though a gate opening didn’t usually constitute a dire emergency, because this particular gate kept his pack of mangy-looking and less-than-well-behaved dogs contained, the situation at hand had taken a definite turn for the concerning. Before he could call out to discover exactly who had opened the gate, four dogs came charging across the lawn. His yells telling them to stop did nothing to slow them down, and the next thing Bram knew, the dogs were scrambling across the drawbridge, their goal obviously that of getting to the gentleman now standing stock-still about halfway across that bridge.

  From what Bram could tell, the man seemed to be saying something to the dogs, but whatever he was saying, instead of calming the beasts, sent them into what could only be called a frenzy. The poor man was now well and truly trapped since the dogs had taken to circling him—something Bram had been teaching them to do, but with the hope that they’d use the training to herd sheep, not people. Breaking into a run as Igor, the largest of his dogs, suddenly crouched, Bram yelled, “Igor, no.”

  Unfortunately, Igor was a little hard of hearing at times—unless there was mention of chicken, his favorite food—and before Bram could reach him, he leapt at the intruder, who stumbled backward and then over the small ledge that marked the side of the drawing bridge, disappearing into the moat a second later with a very loud splash.

  Increasing his pace as water flew up from the moat, Bram skidded to a stop at the edge of the drawbridge, searching the water in the hopes that the man would resurface at any moment. When he didn’t, and when all of the dogs suddenly abandoned their howling to jump into the moat as well, Bram had no choice but to follow them, dodging paddling paws before he dove underneath the surface.

  Just when his lungs began to burn and he thought he wasn’t going to be successful on his first dive, the man shot into him. Unable to believe his good fortune, he grabbed hold of what felt like hair, and surprisingly long hair at that, and kicked as hard as he could, pulling the man up with him. Breaking the surface, he gulped in a breath, released his hold on the hair, and taking a firm grip on the man’s arm, tried to tow him to shore.

  Unfortunately, the man didn’t seem to be receptive to that idea and immediately began fighting him, which had Bram tightening his grip.

  “Stop . . . trying . . . to drown me,” he heard the man rasp in an unexpectedly high voice between bobs of his head lifting and sinking through the water.

  “I’m trying to save you.”

  “Is that what you call this?”

  Intending to reassure the obviously distressed and certainly panicked man, Bram opened his mouth, but soon found himself incapable of speech, a direct result
of suddenly finding himself underneath the water. Taken completely by surprise by the idea the man had dunked him, he dodged the man’s kicking legs, as well as a few dog paws, and sputtered his way back to the surface, discovering as he did so that the man he’d thought was drowning was swimming his way quite competently to shore.

  Striking out after him with his dogs paddling on either side of him, Bram soon reached the side of the moat. Clawing his way up the dirt bank, he flopped onto the grass and turned his head, his attention settling on the man he’d been trying to save. That man was already on his feet, but the longer Bram watched the man, the more it became clear he was no man at all. He, or rather she, had lost her greatcoat in the moat, and her wet clothing was currently plastered against a form that was . . . curvaceous. When she shoved a hunk of long hair away from her face, exposing whiskers, of all things, Bram suddenly found it very difficult to breath because . . .

  Standing only feet away from him was none other than Miss Lucetta Plum, one of the most intriguing ladies to ever grace the stage, and a lady who had captured his very great esteem.

  She was looking a little worse for wear, especially since she had mud on her face mixed in with the whiskers, and she also had clumps of algae in her hair, but even in such a sorry state, she was beautiful.

  She was also the lady he’d been slightly in love with ever since he’d first seen her take to the stage a few years back. Her delicate and refined nature had pulled at his very soul, and the very idea that such a fragile creature was forced to eke out a living on her own had been unfathomable. That was what had prompted Bram to set into motion ways to improve Miss Plum’s circumstance in life, those ways including . . .

  A wet tongue licking his face had him immediately returning to the situation at hand as he rolled from his stomach to his back, an action he regretted a mere second later when Igor began licking his face in earnest.

  “Thank you, Igor, but that’ll be quite enough of that.” He was not surprised when his dog gave him a few more licks before he finally abandoned his task, ambling a mere foot away before he began shaking out his fur, the shaking sending water flying Bram’s way.

  Pushing to his feet in an effort to avoid some of the water, Bram gave his wet and distinctly smelly dog a pat before he straightened, his breath becoming lodged in his throat when Miss Plum began walking toward him.

  Regret settled in as the thought struck him that there was really no way to avoid finally making her acquaintance even while smelling much like his dog. Summoning up a smile, he was about to offer her a greeting when a trace of smoke coming from one of the castle towers captured his attention. Knowing full well there was only one reasonable explanation for the smoke, he stepped toward Miss Plum just as a yell split the air.

  “Watch out below.”

  As the roar of a cannon sounded, Bram did the only thing that sprang to mind. He yanked Miss Plum close to him, locked his arms around her slender body, and . . . jumped back into the moat.

  5

  Gasping for breath when her head broke the surface of the water, Lucetta twisted and turned before she finally managed to extract herself from the man who seemed determined to drown her. Striking out for shore once again, she reached the bank and crawled her way up it, lying on her stomach in the grass as wet and extremely exuberant dogs licked her wherever they could find a spot of skin. Laughing when the licks began to tickle, she rolled over, struggled to a sitting position, and gave one of the smaller dogs, one missing a large chunk of its ear, a pat, earning a lick on the nose in return as the dog scrambled its way onto her lap.

  “Forgive me for tossing you into the moat so unceremoniously. I’m afraid the cannon took me by surprise, and getting you out of harm’s way had me reacting somewhat irrationally.”

  Shifting her attention away from the dog in her lap, Lucetta settled it on the man now rising from the moat. As he straightened and shoved a hand through dark hair that was obscuring his face, Lucetta completely forgot what she’d been about to say when she got her first good look at him.

  Standing before her was the very picture of a dashing pirate come to life, a pirate complete with a charming, yet somewhat roguish smile, and . . . he was wearing a patch over his left eye.

  Oddly enough, Lucetta found herself feeling a bit more charitable toward the man, perhaps because she’d always been drawn to flawed people, probably because she was fairly flawed as well. Realizing that the patch she was staring at was evidently covering some horrible disfigurement—a disfigurement the poor man undoubtedly didn’t care to have people fixating on—Lucetta dropped her gaze, settling it on a chest covered in a dripping wet shirt made of what appeared to be fine lawn material, and . . .

  “Goodness,” she whispered past a throat that had taken to constricting the moment her gaze settled on an incredibly well-defined form. Lifting her attention the tiniest bit, she found herself, curiously enough, intrigued with the small bit of skin exposed above the man’s collar. It was lightly tanned, a circumstance that could mean only one thing—the gentleman standing before her obviously spent a great deal of time outside, which would make him . . . the gardener.

  That notion had her feeling even more charitable to the man who’d tossed her into the moat, especially since there was nothing Lucetta appreciated more than a man who was not afraid to put in a hard day’s work.

  “I say, you’re not about to faint, are you, miss?”

  Shaking herself from her musings, and ignoring the fact that heat had taken to traveling up her neck because she’d been caught gawking at the man, Lucetta frowned as she realized the man had addressed her as miss, even though she was dressed as a coachman, with whiskers on her face, no less.

  With a feeling of foreboding settling over her, she lifted her head and settled her attention on his face again, completely forgetting what she’d been about to say as she found herself pinned beneath a brilliant blue eye, the concern resting in that eye leading her to the notion that even though the man had the look of a pirate about him, he seemed to be a rather compassionate sort.

  She absently noted that his lips were moving, clear proof that he was speaking to her, but she found herself unable to concentrate on what he was saying because he had the most delightful dimple, right at the corner of his mouth, a dimple that drew attention to the strength of his jaw and the sharpness of his cheekbones, as well as . . .

  “. . . and if you’ll just take my hand, I’ll help you to your feet, and then I’ll get you straight into the castle, where I’m sure you’d appreciate a nice cup of tea, and maybe . . . a towel.”

  For some reason, the thought of taking his hand had the heat traveling from her neck to settle on her face. Snuggling the dog closer to her, she shook her head and scooted ever so slowly backward. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not certain I’ll survive another instance of your assistance. You’ve attempted to drown me, and twice at that, and . . .” She lifted her head and frowned up at him. “Is it a normal occurrence for your visitors to be greeted with flying cannonballs?”

  His hand dropped to his side. “I wouldn’t say it’s a normal occurrence.” He smiled a charming smile, displaying some rather nice teeth in the process. “In all honesty, I think we should look at the whole cannon episode as an unfortunate accident.”

  “Forgive me, but I don’t believe you can fire cannons accidentally. One must first stuff them with a cannonball and then light a fuse. In all honesty, there’s really relatively little that can happen with a cannon that’s anything but deliberate.”

  His smile dimmed. “You might be right.”

  “I also find it interesting that the dogs were set on me, which . . . I don’t believe was an accident either.”

  The man directed his attention to the dog sitting in her lap. “You very well might have a valid point there. I’ve only recently acquired the dogs, and freely admit they’re a collection of scamps at the moment. That’s why they’re normally confined to a large, fenced-in area on the side of the castle, unless they�
��re with me up in the sheep pasture, or sleeping in the great hall at night.”

  The idea that the man kept his collection of motley scamps inside at night had her smiling ever so slightly, the smile causing the mustache she was wearing to tickle her nose. Reaching up, she realized it was falling off—most likely due to her two plunges into the moat—so drew in a breath and yanked it off, leaving stinging skin behind. Pulling off the matching beard a moment later, she lifted her gaze and found the man watching her curiously, as if he didn’t know what to make of her.

  “I’m Miss Plum, by the way” was all she could think to say to break the silence that had now settled around them.

  “I know.”

  Wariness seeped into her every pore, but before she could question him about how he’d already come to recognize her, the little dog on her lap let out a yip and settled more comfortably against her.

  “That’s Montresor.”

  Lucetta looked up. “Named after the narrator in Edgar Allen Poe’s ‘The Cask of Amontillado’?”

  The man’s one eye blinked back at her. “You’re an admirer of Edgar Allen Poe’s work?”

  “I’m not sure I would call myself an admirer, but I have read all of his work.”

  “And the name Montresor happened to stick with you?”

  “You’d be surprised at how much sticks with me,” she muttered before she summoned up a smile when he began to look a little confused again. She nodded to the large, incredibly shaggy dog stretched out right beside her that seemed to be a mix of a sheepdog and some type of poodle. His tongue lolled out of his mouth as he sent her innocent looks out of his big doggy eyes. “What’s this handsome gentleman’s name?”

  “He’s Igor.”

  Lucetta reached out and gave Igor a good scratch, earning a whine of sheer bliss in the process. “I was certain when I first saw him that he was intending on ripping me limb from limb, but he’s not frightening at all, just a little rambunctious.”

  “You didn’t happen to see who opened that gate and let the dogs out, did you?” the man asked.