by Jill Myles
He gestured at the surface of the shield, then looked back at her again.
Cora shook her head slightly, and he cast it aside, equally frustrated at the inability to communicate. She was going about this all wrong. Cora knew that in her bones, just as surely as she knew that their time was limited. So she pressed her hand to the mirror again, trying to reach out and touch him once more. Voices didn’t matter. His presence was what she truly wanted, and she had it right here.
A moment later, his hand pressed on the other side of the mirror, and she could feel the warmth flowing from his hand through to hers. The smile returned to her lips, and as she looked through the mirror, she could see the same expression on his face—the sadness tempered by comfort, by sharing their touch.
On impulse, Cora took their small touch a step further, moving forward and pressing her entire body against the mirror, her cheek touching the cool glass. Would he come to meet her? Would she feel the same heat if he did, or was the magic confined to only their hands?
Moments passed. Then, the soft bloom of heat against the hard surface, and the mirror filled with the warmth between their two bodies. From the crook of her arm to the flat of her palm, to the press of her cheek, he had pushed his own body against the mirror, echoing her movement. Sharing her heat.
Her utter loneliness.
It was the closest they could come to a hug, and it would have to do.
And yet, Cora couldn’t get over the feeling that it was not nearly enough. And when the heat receded again a few minutes later, she didn’t have to look at the mirror to know that he’d faded away again, gone back to wherever he’d come from.
She was alone again, her breasts still tingling from the sensation of being pressed up against the glass, craving the warmth it brought.
Cora crawled into bed a short while later, vaguely unfulfilled and disappointed. She stared longingly at the mirror, but it remained a blank copy of her room, her own sad expression staring out at her.
She needed him to stay longer, to touch her. To feel his hands caress her skin instead of the flat, hard surface of the mirror. The glimpses of him in the mirror were the cruelest torture, the most keen sort of obsession. She couldn’t have him, and she wanted more of him.
He seemed to want her for her, needed her like she needed him. Understood her.
Needed her too. Ached for her like she ached for him.
And as she skimmed her hands over her breasts, wishing they were his hands, she began to think of ways that their next meeting would go…and what she dared to do with the little she was offered.
#
That night, she dreamed of him. The man with no name and the beautiful, haunted eyes. She dreamed of a fire. Trapped in the turret, Stonewood Abbey burned down around her dream self, the flames hot, the smoke thick. She shielded her eyes in the dream, and the man from the mirror strode through the walls of the castle, reaching for her. He pulled her from the turret window and into his arms.
His mouth pressed upon her own, hot and sweet, his lips possessive. She moaned against his mouth, her tongue tangling with his in the searing kiss. His lips were firm against her own, each stroke of his tongue igniting a different kind of fire that throbbed through her veins. It was the best kiss she’d ever had. Then he lowered her to the floor of the ruined castle, the scent of ashes in her nose, the roof ablaze above them.
The man’s hand slid down between her legs, moving to touch her where she was wet and waiting for him. Cora whimpered and parted her thighs in anticipation, needing his hand there on her sex, where her pulse throbbed and blistered her skin. “Yes,” she whispered. “Please, touch me. I’m on fire.”
The touch never came. She woke up with an unhappy gasp and stared at the ceiling, hating the dream for torturing her, and hating even more that she should have woken up.
Chapter Four
The next morning, Cora woke up with a plan. She couldn’t get the image of his shield out of her mind. Something about it was bothering her. She’d seen it before somewhere, she just knew it.
In the kitchen, it stared her right in the face. She picked up her favorite coffee mug and stared at it as she waited for the coffee to percolate. There was the same red design, with the white flowers. Slightly different, but it was the same concept. He’d been showing her a coat of arms.
His coat of arms?
Excited, Cora abandoned the kitchen and raced for the gift shop portion of the Abbey, still in her pajamas. She tore through the postcards and stacks of books, vowing to clean the mess up later. In her mind, she could picture him with the shield in his hands, and she pored through book after book, looking for just that image. When it wasn’t a quick find, she sat, cross-legged on the cold tiles of the floor, and continued to read.
And just when she was starting to despair of finding the exact same colors and design, she reached into an almost empty bookshelf at the bottom and found a narrow book. The same heraldry that he’d shown her last night graced the cover, blazing with color and making her breath catch in her throat. Another heraldry symbol stood beside it, one she’d seen in the house but didn’t understand the significance.
Almost reverently, she picked up the thin book and paged it open. It was a history of the Abbey, detailing back to the twelfth century, back to the reign of Henry II, and it was a castle built to house the baron and oversee the lands.
Stonewood Abbey had been built in 1168, she read on, and most of the original castle had long since disappeared, the current incarnation a mash-up of fanciful imaginings and myriad re-buildings throughout the centuries.
The first baron of Stonewood had been Hugh de Beauchamp, who had built the castle itself and ruled the countryside with an iron fist. He died in 1192 and the castle passed to—
“Hellooooo,” a voice called from behind her, and Cora nearly jumped out of her own skin in surprise.
A familiar head poked around the corner, cherubic despite the wrinkles lining her face. Muffin’s gray hair was pulled into a mass of ringlets, adorned by the ugliest assortment of butterfly clips that Cora had ever seen. She wore a tie-dyed crochet poncho over a yellow sundress and her flip-flops slapped against the marble tile as she approached Cora. “My, you look like a mess, dearie.”
She did? Cora smothered a laugh at that and glanced down at herself. She was still wearing the boxers and tank top that she normally slept in, and her tangled hair fell wildly about her face. “I must have lost track of time. Sorry.” She touched her hair and focused her smile on Muffin. “Do you want to join me for coffee and breakfast?”
“More like coffee and late lunch,” the older woman admonished her. “It’s well past noon, my dear.”
“It is?”
Muffin’s bright eyes studied the small portion of the main hall designated as the gift shop. “Are you…cleaning?”
The hesitation in Muffin’s voice made Cora take a good hard look around her, and she winced at the sight. The gift shop was as disorganized as she was herself. Books lay scattered on the floors, pulled from the shelves and tossed into random piles in her frantic search for knowledge. “Not really cleaning,” Cora said, grabbing one of the large gift shop t-shirts and pulling it over her head to serve as a make-shift dress. “I was looking for something.”
“If you haven’t eaten, I’ve made you some biscuits,” Muffin said with delight, holding up a Tupperware container that Cora had not yet noticed. “I call them Oatmeal Surprise.”
Oh boy, cookies. Cora didn’t want to know what the surprise part of the recipe was.
Still, it was thoughtful of Muffin to continually bake for her. At least someone remembered she existed. She took the offered container from Muffin and led her through the Abbey toward the kitchen. They passed a small hall mirror and Cora blushed at the sight of it, thinking of her late-night visitor.
Well, perhaps Muffin wasn’t the only one that remembered her. The man in the mirror had. Of course, thoughts like that made her blush all the harder, and she tugged on the hem of t
he oversized shirt.
They exchanged idle chit-chat as Cora made a quick pot of coffee and poured two cups. Muffin chattered on, asking about the weather here vs. America, how Cora was enjoying her trip, what did she think of the Abbey, etc. As soon as Cora lifted her coffee cup to her lips, Muffin changed topics on her.
“You must be looking for something important in the gift shop,” she said calmly, giving Cora an inquisitive look.
At the question, Cora choked on the coffee, scalding the roof of her mouth. She recovered a moment later, coughing and trying to play off Muffin’s question, her face bright red. “It’s nothing really.”
“Is it something historical? I know a lot about the Abbey. You can ask me anything!” She leaned forward in her chair, twining her fingers in an eager, girlish fashion that matched her odd hair. “Anything at all,” she restated, prompting.
Cora gave her an odd look. What did the old woman want to know? What was she curious about? “I was…looking for something about, well, heraldry. The red coat of arms that’s hanging in the gallery.” The gallery had several wall hangings displaying various coats of arms, but only one was the searing red that stood out so brightly and obsessed her so much. If she closed her eyes, she could still envision his tanned, callused hands holding the shield up for her to see.
“The de Beauchamp arms?” Muffin gave a sound of approval.
“Beauchamp?” Cora repeated, tasting the name on her tongue. She committed it to memory so she could look it up as soon as Muffin left. “Yes, I suppose that must be them,” she murmured.
“They were one of the first families to own Stonewood Abbey,” Muffin continued in a cheerful voice, “before the lands were turned back over to the king.” She gave Cora a bright smile and lifted her mug. “Such a shame about their history. Real shame. The Abbey has seen its share of sad stories.”
Cora stopped in her tracks, a dark feeling coiling in her stomach. “Their… history? Is it a sad story, then?” Oh no. She didn’t want to hear sad. She wanted to think of that beautiful man in the mirror and not associate tragedy with him, even though she knew—
she just knew—that something terrible had happened. The loss and sadness in his eyes told all.
“It’s a very sad story,” Muffin agreed. “No happy ending in this one.”
“What happened?”
The woman glanced over at her and put her coffee mug down, as if she couldn’t enjoy the beverage and tell the story at the same time. “I don’t recall all of the story, mind you.
The Abbey has eight hundred years of history and my brain can only remember about six hundred years or so before it starts to leak.” Muffin leaned in as if sharing a secret, her voice lowering. “But the original de Beauchamp family died off very early. Very, very early. The father established the castle, and the heir went off on crusade with King Richard. And when he returned, he killed himself.”
Suicide? “That can’t possibly be true.”
Muffin blinked her eyes wide. “My goodness! It’s not?” She leaned forward, her mouth forming a little O of surprise. “Were you there?”
“Well, n-no…” Cora stammered. “It was eight hundred years ago. I’m not eight hundred years old.”
“If you are, you certainly look well for your age,” Muffin said with an admiring tone.
“I’m not—”
“Tut tut, my dear.” She winked. “I keep secrets very well.” Oh geeze. “You were saying? About the suicide?”
“Oh yes. Very sad story.” Muffin’s hands fluttered for a moment, and the small gesture made the glittery butterflies in her hair wobble. “Are you sure you want to hear it?”
Cora nodded, trying to fight down a lump in her throat. “Please.”
“Well, the father was very much in favor with King Henry. He was given this land and instructed to improve upon the fortifications—from what I understand, they were simply wooden walls back then. So he built a nice, fine castle of stone and protected the land. But then Henry died, and the baron lost favor with the royal family—something about a girl that his son and Prince John were both interested in. To get the boy out of his hair, the baron sent his son on Crusade with Richard to try and make amends. He was gone for a very long time, or so the story goes. And when Richard finally returned from Crusade with the remnants of his army, the baron’s son returned home as well. The girl he’d wished to marry had become the prince’s doxy—by choice, mind you. His family was dead, and he had just come back from a long war. I’m afraid it was too much for the poor boy. The stories say that the castle went up in flames one night, and instead of running out of the castle, he ran straight into the turret and he died there.” Muffin let the words sink in for a moment, then added in a sly voice, “They say that he’s the one people see in the mirror.”
“But that can’t be right,” she protested, thinking of the man she’d seen. He’d tried to comfort her, tried to make her happy. And he’d smiled at her. How could he have killed himself? “Maybe he ran in to save someone?”
“He went in for some reason,” Muffin said. “But everyone else was out of the castle, so… if he didn’t go back in after someone, what was so important that he died for it?” Tears burned behind Cora’s eyes. Oh, oh…the story broke her heart. “I don’t know.
What…what happened after that?” She cleared her throat, trying to conceal her distress.
“If I remember correctly, the lands reverted back to the king without an heir, and he parceled them out a generation or so later. Some went to the church, and some went to the current line of Rutherfords. Their coat of arms is the green and yellow. Your auntie married into the Rutherford family.”
Cora had seen it hanging in the library, next to the blazing red. She should have guessed…but she couldn’t have imagined such a tragic story. “That’s a terrible tale.”
“Isn’t it?” Muffin agreed cheerfully. “Quite gothic.” She pulled out a cookie and began to chew, crumbs flying. “Your Aunt Martha and her husband don’t care for the tale, but it’s great for tourism, so they make sure everyone knows all about it and the ghost story.”
He’s not a ghost, though, Cora thought. Not to me. She’d always thought a ghost would be wispy or ethereal, but the man in her mirror was strong and tanned and so alive that she wanted to weep at the thought of him killing himself.
“Have you seen the ghost again, dearie?”
Cora’s throat worked for a moment, and she warred with herself. Did she tell Muffin all about what had been happening, or did she keep it to herself for a little bit longer?
A brief second later, she decided. “No,” she said, then grabbed one of the cookies to distract Muffin’s gaze. “So what was his name?”
“Who?”
“The man that…died.”
“Oh,” Muffin said. “I thought I told you. He was a de Beauchamp.”
“No, not his last name,” Cora said, a little sharper than she’d have liked. “His first name.”
“Ah,” Muffin said, in a knowing tone. “I believe his name was Aric. With an A instead of an E. Yes, I’m quite sure that was it.”
Aric, Cora said to herself. Aric. She liked the sound of it.
And she couldn’t wait to see him again.
#
Muffin eventually left, waving goodbye and promising to return the next day for tea and biscuits again. As soon as she was gone, Cora raced back to the gift shop and began to dig through the books, looking for references on the de Beauchamp family.
She found several. All of them seemed to line up with Muffin’s tragic story of suicide after returning from the Crusades. She did find a bit more on Aric de Beauchamp himself—born in 1167, he was the heir of the first baron of Stonewood, then called de Beauchamp. He went off to crusade at the age of twenty-two, leaving behind a fiancée and his father, mother, and younger sisters. He returned from the long Crusade in the middle of the year in 1193—tired, weak and sick at heart from the long journey. Upon his return home, he discovered his famil
y had been died of illness, his fields fallow as no one was there to lord over the fief. The taxes on the land were sky-high. Aric de Beauchamp had contacted his fiancée, only to discover that she had gone to court directly after he’d left on Crusade, and had been living as the personal whore of Prince John for some time.
And after that, there was a small note about how he’d been found dead shortly thereafter returning home, obviously a suicide. The original castle had burned, but was rebuilt some years later.
Cora closed the book after that and tossed it to one side, depressed. It was hard to conceive of such a beautiful man destroying himself. But the sadness she’d seen in his eyes was real.
It depressed her just thinking about it. Eight hundred years past, and the thought of him killing himself was making her weepy. It was silly, really, but she couldn’t get her mind wrapped around that he was dead.
Not when she’d felt the warmth pouring from his fingertips to her own.
Cora spent the rest of the day exploring the grounds of the Abbey. She could have gone to town and explored, but she felt no need to leave the castle. She wanted to stay here, to be with him even if only in spirit. The gardens of the Abbey themselves were lovely, and she spent a good portion of the day soaking up the murky English sunshine and thinking about what she’d read.
She decided to take a long, hot shower to get her mind off of things. Her mind was cluttered and a relaxing shower would help her unwind and get back on track. She stayed in for so long that her skin pruned up, and the water went cold. Eventually, when she could put it off no longer, she emerged from the shower, feeling more wrung out and emotionally exhausted than before. She thought of him—Aric—weary and heart-sore from a long war, returning home from Crusade to find everything in his life in ruins. Hot tears slid down her cheeks, and she felt a pang of intense grief for him.
And here she’d thought she had problems. Hers were nothing compared to what he’d gone through. And he’d killed himself for it. She wiped away the tears on her face and sniffed. If she’d been with him, she’d have…