He stood in front of her, disgust all over his handsome face. “I do not know what Americans must think of themselves to wear such a garment,” he muttered, staring at his legs.
“If you'd pull them down a bit so they ride on your hips instead of your waist, it might help,” she said, still trying very hard to hide her laughter.
“Hips?” One eyebrow elevated. “When I do that, the fabric in the derrière bags down.” He turned around to show her. “And this fabric is very rough, very coarse. This is made for the peasants who work in the fields, am I not correct?”
“No,” she gurgled. “It's every American's favorite leisure wear.”
He began to undo the buttons, anxious to shed the jeans. “I knew the French had better sense than to design something so distasteful,” he said, with a look that spoke volumes.
That did it. She dipped forward in laughter, the musical sound echoing over the water. She heard another grunt of disgust from Armand, but couldn't begin to answer. By the time she had caught her breath, he was returning from the other side of the boulder, where he had changed his clothes in privacy. “Did you enjoy my discomfort, Hope?” His nose looked pinched around the nostrils.
“Please.” She reached out her hand to him. “Try to understand. Everyone wears them, even in France. I just didn't know the size to buy so they would fit correctly. I wasn't laughing at you, I was seeing our clothing through your eyes, and it was very funny. I don't blame you for not wanting to wear them.”
He stared at her hard, as if making up his mind about something. Slowly his smile began to peep out at her, and the familiar warmth soothed her. “I think I knew that,” he said. “Since you are wearing them, I realized that you just wanted to help me to have something that is also comfortable for you. But you see, my Hope, your figure is much more, uh, pliable for this garment than mine. If you do not mind, I will continue to wear what feels comfortable to me. I can wash my clothes in the lake.”
“You're right,” she smiled back. “Maybe next time I’ll try a different size.”
“There will be no next time, Hope,” he stated imperiously. “I will wear what I have and be done with it.”
She grinned. He must have really hated them. “Very well,” she said.
“Good. Now let us review the rest of the items.”
By the time they had everything unpacked, it was nearly dark. With a minimum of words, they erected the tent she had bought, placing it in front of a small stand of aspens. She unpacked a gas lantern, filled it, and hung it on a small tree beside the tent.
“There,” she said, slapping her hands against her now-dusty jeans. “That's much better.”
“Better than what?” Armand asked, his brow furrowing.
“Better than nothing.”
“A sleeping bag down is better than anything. This is soft.”
“A down sleeping bag,” she corrected. “It's filled with goose down.”
Some of the stiffness left him. “I must try to learn better English, no? Then this is like a couvre-pied, a featherbed that we have at home, except this material is much different.”
“It s a man-made fiber called nylon,” she explained, grinning. It was both fun and frustrating to explain things that she had always taken for granted. “And speaking of man-made, did France have libraries when you lived there? Places that you could go to and rent books to read?”
He shook his head. “Only the wealthy could afford the cost of a library in their home.” He shrugged. “And why would the poor want to rent books? They were not taught to read and write, so it would only be paper and board to clean and take care of.”
“It's different now. Now there are presses, and hundreds of books are printed each month. The public library carries most of them, or can get ahold of them. This way people get to read whatever interests them.”
“There are so many books, now? But why? There is not that much information to absorb in order to live in this world.”
“Because this way everyone can read about what interests them the most. I'm telling you this because I want to explain that I went to the public library today and looked up some information for us,” she said before getting to the heart of the purpose of her trip. “I found some information on ghosts and made some notes. If anything, I'm more confused than ever.”
“Why?”
“According to the books I've gone through, it seems that ghosts come back for a multitude of reasons. It can be because of an undying love, or to fulfill a purpose that was not completed in his lifetime, especially vengeance for crimes against him. It also might be an improper burial.” She refused to look at him, choosing instead to pretend to read her notes, although she knew them by heart.
With his finger under her chin, he lifted her head so their eyes could meet. “And what do you think of all this?”
“I don't know.”
“Hmm,” he teased. “I would say that it is too late to bury me properly. We don't even know what my murderers did with me.”
She winced.
“And Faith is gone. Since you swear that you are not Faith and I am sure that when she died she was properly buried, I would say that I am too late for undying love.”
“Don't joke, Armand! I'm trying to help you!”
He shrugged, dropping his hand from her chin. “I do not know what else to do. I do not understand, either, but I know that we cannot change some of those things. I suggest that we try to change the things we can and not worry about what has already been done and cannot be undone.”
“Like what?”
“For example, my original goal was to get back to Port Huron, and to Faith. Since I cannot leave this island, then I do not see how we can do anything concerning this purpose. But since three men were involved with the robbing of my possessions, perhaps my being here was something to do with them.”
“You mean that instead of returning for Faith, you were brought back because of the three men?”
He nodded. “Oui. After all, I am stuck on the very hill where I was killed. No?”
“Yes,” she said slowly, digesting that idea. “Or it could be because you want your possessions back. That was mentioned in one of the books I read.”
“Perhaps.”
“Or...” She hesitated, then rushed on. “It could be that you lost your way to heaven.”
“Heaven?” He rolled his eyes skyward, and she chuckled, relaxing a little. The idea of sitting around and discussing Armand's death was just a little on the bizarre side!
“Heaven, the happy hunting grounds, Elysian Fields, Valhalla. One of the articles said that ghosts are yearning for those places but are being somehow blocked.”
His brow furrowed. “Interesting. But not conclusive. How would one help a ghost find his heaven?”
“A séance?”
“Bah! It is too much like hocus-pocus, Hope. I doubt that there are very many people who can do such things. In my time there were people who swore they could speak to the dead, but they were hucksters—taking money from innocents in exchange for false hope.”
“Okay, let's say we eliminate that. What next?”
“See if there is any information on the men? Find out if they stole my possessions? That would seem the logical choice of action.”
“Right.” She grinned. How could someone be so objective about his own death, even making the discussion fun?
“What else did you do while you were gone?” he asked, as though he'd heard her thoughts.
“I brought something for you to read.” She burrowed into the smaller pile of bags she had yet to go through, pulling out some old French magazines. “These were in a used-book store, and I thought you might enjoy them.”
He flipped through the pages, stopping at the printed words almost as often as he stared at the pictures of cars, jewelry and fashions. “This language looks like French, but it is different,” he muttered.
“Really?” She looked over his arm and stared at the printed words. “Has it really chang
ed so much?”
“I think so, yes,” he murmured, scanning what was obviously an ad for a watch. “It is truly a miracle to wear a clock on the wrist.”
“Oh,” she said breezily. “It's not that great. In a few years they'll even have TVs to wear on wrists.”
“What is a teevee?”
She wanted to reach up and smooth away his confused frown with her fingertips. Instead she clenched her hand into a fist. “Never mind.” She turned away and rooted through the rest of the packages.
A night owl swooped from one tree branch to another: the echo of its hooting surrounded them.
“Tell me more,” he demanded autocratically, dropping the magazine onto the sleeping bag. “I can read when you are gone.”
“Where am I going?” She glanced over her shoulder at him, surprised at his tone. He sounded almost impatient.
He stood with his hands low on his hips, most of his weight on one booted foot. “To your home, of course. But before you go, I need to know more. I need to understand.”
She sat back on her heels. “There are a few things I need to know, too. In fact, I bought a tape recorder. I want you to tell me everything you know about the three men who attacked you, as well as about Faith's father. That way I might be able to understand this puzzle and help you to find your way back to… wherever it is you're supposed to be. We'll solve the puzzle, and then you can be on your way.”
“How do you know it will work?”
“I don't, but it's our only chance.” Her eyes locked with his. “Faith might be waiting for you somewhere.”
He stared into the darkness. “Do you think that is so?”
She cocked her head, wondering why he was so distant all of a sudden. Didn't he love Faith enough to want to find her? Her confusion must have shown on her face, because his expression softened.
“I am just wondering if Faith wants me to find her. Perhaps I am here because she did not love me enough?”
“Have some hope,” she said before she realized her own words. She waved her hand through the air as if erasing her words. “Never mind. We'll talk about it later.” She stood and stretched, ready to leave. Last night, sleep had been elusive, and today's activity had already taken its toll. She still didn't have all her strength back, yet here she was pretending to be Wonder Woman. She zipped up her light jacket, pretending to be chilled.
Those indigo eyes bored into her like drills. “I am hungry,” he said. It was stated flatly, as if a banquet would drop into his lap upon saying the words.
Irritation laced her voice; the man was perfectly capable of feeding himself. “Fine. In one of those bags is a large bucket of fried chicken, along with corn on the cob and mashed potatoes and biscuits. Help yourself.”
“You are leaving?”
“Yes.” She turned and headed for the path toward the bottom of the hill and home, “I'm tired. Good night.”
His own reply was soft as a breeze as it drifted down the slope to her, but his meaning was crystal clear. “You are not afraid to sleep down there by yourself?”
She peeked over her shoulder and caught the small smile tugging at the corners of his chiseled lips. “Why should I be? The ghost is up here—landlocked.”
“Huh! There are worse things than ghosts, my Hope.” His voice still carried down to her, even though his tone was low. “You should sleep up here where I will be able to protect you.”
“I don't need protection.”
“But what if you did? I would not be able to reach you.” His brows edged upward. “The invisible wall, remember?”
“I remember very well. I'll see you tomorrow,” she said, dismissing his offer. “I'll be recording our conversation, so be ready.”
“Good night, my Hope.” She could hear the double meaning in his voice.
“Good night.” She waved a hand and continued trudging toward the base of the hill and to her bed.
It wasn't until after midnight that she realized he'd been right. She should have stayed at the top of the hill with him, for her house and bed were the loneliest places on earth.
The following morning Armand stood just below the crest of the hill and waited for Hope to appear. He leaned against the rugged bark of the tallest pine, his eyes trained on the small two-stoned house just below. From what he could see on the outside, it was not much different from the rural-style clapboard homes he had seen being built in Montreal or New York or Boston, or any of the growing cities in the New World.
Except this dwelling held his Hope.
He had slept comfortably all night in his sleeping-down bag, the tent keeping off most of the night-chilled wind. He had read—or tried to read—most of the magazines before his eyes agreed they would stay shut in slumber.
Rambling thoughts had turned his brain topsy-turvy, but at least he had come up with one thought that would not change no matter how much light he poured upon it.
He had loved Faith with all his heart. Nothing could change that love. For him to be as drawn to Hope as he had been to Faith, his feelings must have some basis besides her appearance. He just did not know what that basis was.
Where in the world was she right now? She had promised to be here in the morning. Frustration at not being able to reach her rose in his throat like bile. Two feet away, the invisible wall held him tighter than any prison, far better than any stockade. He was a prisoner, and he could see no way out. Not that he hadn't tried. All day yesterday he had followed the invisible wall, banging at it, kicking, even diving to the bottom of the lake trying to find an opening. There was none.
He clenched his fists in frustration. Damn her! Did she not know that he was waiting for her, wishing to see her, to laugh with her, to be angry with her?
He picked up a stone that was by his foot and tossed it toward the house, waiting for it to bounce off the invisible wall.
It did not.
He picked up another weighed it in his hand, then threw that one. It landed near Hope's doorstep, skipping and rolling until it bounced against the small steps that led to the back door.
He threw another and another. And another. If a rock, several rocks that were thrown by his hand, went through the barrier, why couldn't he? Was he not fast enough? Perhaps speed was the thing.
Testing first, he pulled off his boot and threw it toward the back door with all his might. It landed on the steps after skidding through the gravel. A war whoop escaped his throat and echoed around the island.
Backing up the hill, he kept his eye on the pine sapling near the spot where he knew the wall began. His heart pumped excitedly at the thought of breaking through and reaching Hope. As soon as he had enough space for a running leap, he began to propel his body forward with all the energy he could muster, dashing down the hill at breakneck speed. The moment he heard the back screen door open, he hit the wall.
Hope’s heart was in her mouth as she saw Armand fling himself at the wall, moving as fast as a runner could. Her breath caught when he hit the ground to lie unmoving at the very spot they had marked earlier as the boundary for the barrier that kept him away from the bottom of the hill.
Before she even knew it, she was moving. Stumbling over something on her porch, she looked down and realized it was a dusty piece of leather. Armand's boot!
Grabbing it, she ran as fast as she could toward the body lying on the hillside, her breath stinging her lungs. She passed through the wall and knelt at his side, reaching instinctively for the pulse at the base of his throat.
It was strong and regular against her fingertips, belying any fears that ghosts weren't alive in some sense. Thick, dark lashes any girl would kill for contrasted with the bronze of his cheeks.
Sitting on the ground, she propped her chin on her knees and waited for him to come to his senses. Obviously, the big lug had decided to defy his own boundaries, to no avail. Stubborn. Arrogant. Handsome.
Her hand stole out to test the texture of his hair; it felt just as she’d thought it would. Her fingertips darted down
to seek the whiskery hair of his sideburns. It was then she realized that his hair, usually caught in a low ponytail tied back with a length of rawhide, was now loose and flowing, more luxuriant than most women's. She combed her fingers through it, loving it, touching it over and over as if she were acting out a mantra. Her wrist touched his neck, and her hands quickly followed suit, drifting down to stroke the curve where neck met shoulder. All the strength of that spot was under her palm: his muscle tone was superb.
Then she realized that his penetrating eyes were open and he was staring at her face, just as she was staring at his form. She stiffened.
“Do not stop now, ma petite,” he said in a sensual whisper that rattled her nerves.
“You're awake. Do you feel all right?”
“A little sore. My shoulder hurts.” She snatched her hand away as if he were aflame. “The other one.”
“Oh.”
“Do I look like a prince under a spell, as in those fairy stories my grandmère used to tell me?” His voice was still low, caressing her, calming her, keeping her from fleeing.
“Yes,” she said huskily.
“Does that mean I get a kiss to wake me up?”
“You're already awake.”
He closed his eyes. “Then I will go back to sleep until you kiss me.”
“You'll be a long time waiting.” She spoke louder to break the spell he was weaving, but it didn't work. He didn't bat one long, dark lash.
She waited.
Finally she leaned over to study his closed lids, then his mouth. Her lips were trembling as they brushed his. He was so solid, and warm enough, and very, very sexy. Her lips brushed his again, then again.
His arms stole around her shoulders and he drew her close, preventing her mouth from escaping the sweet pressure of his. His tongue darted, daring her to respond in kind. Slowly she came alive, wanting... no, needing his kiss as much as she needed to breathe.
She felt the rise and fall of his powerful chest, and a heartbeat that grew stronger and more erratic with every passing moment. Even so, she knew she could pull away at any time; he wouldn't try to stop her from withdrawing.
The Ivory Key Page 6