Dark and Dangerous

by Anwar, Hart, Harte, Mcbride(Lit)

  He was, she discovered, looking directly at her when she glanced up. Their eyes met for what might’ve been a half a dozen heartbeats if Samantha’s hadn’t paused painfully in her chest, forcing the air from her lungs as if some unseen arm was squeezing her chest. His eyes were an eerie, pale blue that sent a jolt through her like an electric current.

  With an effort, she looked away, stumbling slightly as she misjudged the height of the first stair. Fortunately, she’d gripped the banister and caught herself. Ignoring both men now, her heart beating unpleasantly fast, Samantha concentrated on each step as she carefully made her way up to the second floor. She paused at the top, waiting for Antoine to take the lead and show her the way to her room.

  The room he led her to made up for the disconcerting beginning she’d had. As she moved to the middle of the room and stared up at the ceiling, a sense of wonder filled her. The painting—a depiction of some mythological tale-- had deteriorated over the years, but it was still beautiful. Plaster moldings of intricate design framed the ceiling painting. The upper portion of the walls were covered in the same blue, watered silk as the great room below. The paneling below that and the molding had all been painted a creamy white, giving the room the intricate charm of a fancy gift box.

  The stone mantel piece that surrounded the fireplace, supported by a pair of snarling griffins, was the crowning touch.

  The room’s furnishings, lavishly carved and made of some gleaming, well polished, dark wood, were almost certainly reproductions. Though they looked to be antiques from several different periods, she could hardly credit it.

  On the other hand, antiques in Europe, because of their long history, weren’t quite the same as American antiques. To them, the room might be furnished with nothing more than second hand castoffs.

  The clatter of her suitcases hitting the floor drew her attention away from her study at last and Samantha looked around in surprise to discover that she’d been so enthralled Antoine had already made the trip downstairs and back with the rest of her luggage. Digging in her purse, she produced a tip and thanked him.

  Obviously pleased with the offering, he glanced around the room. "The Chateaux was occupied during the war, first by the Germans and later by the Allied forces. It survived the war with only minor damage. It was restored in the early 1900’s and some modernization was added, but it remains today much as it did during the life time of the Count du Beauchamp, who was reputed to be a very powerful witch."

  "Warlock?"

  Antoine’s brows rose, but he nodded.

  "He died before the revolution, didn’t he?"

  "Oui et non. The count was defeated in a duel between himself and another powerful warlock. He was cursed, madam, and never seen again. The portrait in the corridor is believed to be a likeness of him.

  "Many believe the Chateaux itself was enchanted, for it has survived much turmoil since his time and remained virtually unscathed, even by time. It has been vandalized and looted many times, but somehow the original furnishings always seem to find their way back to the chateaux."

  Samantha thanked him again for the brief history lesson and smiled dismissively. Shrugging, he pointed out the room’s amenities and left, closing the door behind him.

  She’d read most of what he’d told her in the guide book, which was why her and her mother had chosen the Chateaux to begin with, but she was curious to know how much of it was ‘invented’ history, and how much was actually true. Dismissing it finally, she lugged a suitcase onto the bed, extracted her toiletries and a change of clothes and went into the tiny ‘modern’ bath that had been added…she supposed when the chateaux had been renovated into a bed and breakfast landmark---or maybe not.

  Either they’d gone out of their way to find antique fixtures for the bath to make it as unobtrusive as possible, or the bath had been added at least a hundred years earlier.

  It worked reasonably well, though, and that was all that really mattered. She’d rented the room for the atmosphere, and the thin hope she might actually encounter the ghost. If opulent accommodations had been the object, she could’ve stayed at one of the modern luxury hotels.

  When she’d freshened up, she left the room, locking the door behind her. Instead of heading down to the dining room immediately, though, she went in search of the portrait Antoine had mentioned. She found it about halfway down the corridor. There was no missing it, for it was very nearly big enough to be a life sized portrait, and framed in an ornate picture frame that looked as if it must weigh every bit of a hundred pounds.

  The corridor was dim and the portrait dark, but she noticed at once that the clothing the man wore was very similar to that adopted by the staff. He was seated in a chair of the Louis XV variety, as ornately carved and gilded as the picture frame, his posture casual rather than formal, one knee bent, the other leg sprawled casually. His arms were resting on the arms of the chair, but in one hand he held a cane topped by large crystal.

  The lights in the room below brightened as she peered at the painting, illuminating the portrait, and she stepped back so that her shadow was no longer blocking her view.

  Her heart skipped a beat as she raised her eyes at last to study the face.

  He looked uncannily like the man she’d seen downstairs when she checked in.

  Samantha frowned, wondering if it was merely her imagination running wild, or if it was no more than a trick of the light—or perhaps a strong strain of genetics? People had never really moved around a lot, historically speaking, and after generations of people in a particular area had intermarried, family traits had a tendency to show up.

  Of course, he’d been an aristocrat and they never married beneath them, but from what she knew that had never stopped them from sleeping with the lower classes, and breeding with them. Maybe the man she’d seen below was the great, great grandson or something like that?---from the other side of the blanket, most likely. The French had pretty well disposed of their aristocrats during the revolution—all of them that hadn’t had the good sense to run, and most of them had apparently been too arrogant to flee in time to save their necks from the guillotine.

  Despite her preoccupation, Samantha sensed that someone had come up as she stood examining the portrait. When several moments passed and the newcomer neither turned away nor passed by her, she glanced absently toward him.

  A jolt went through her. It was the same man she’d seen earlier. This time, however, he spoke when she looked at him. His voice, deep and resonant, washed over her like a caress. Goosebumps rose on her flesh. She gaped at him incomprehensibly when he stopped speaking. "Uh… I don’t speak French."

  One dark brow arched, the other descended as if he wasn’t at all pleased with the fact that she was a foreigner. "You are English?"

  Samantha bit her lip, but couldn’t help but chuckle. "American by birth, southern by the grace of God. You’re probably the only person in Europe who’d mistake my accent for English. I can’t even understand the English accent half the time … or vice versa."

  She gestured toward the portrait. "It looks like it could be you."

  A gleam of amusement entered his eyes as he followed her gesture. "I, myself, think it is a poor likeness."

  Samantha shrugged. "I suspect it didn’t do him justice. I think a lot of the artists way back then were more into developing a particular style than actually capturing the person’s likeness. I mean—either half of Europe was related and looked like it—or they just painted everybody to look that way. Except for the clothes, they all had bug eyes and thin lips."

  "Back then?"

  Samantha shrugged. "I’ve never been much for history, except where it has to do with reputed hauntings, that is, but even so I have a hard time with dates. The count lived way back before the revolution—at least three centuries ago, I think–more or less. You probably know a lot more about it than I do. You work here?"

  "Non. I live here—in a manner of speaking."

  Samantha glanced toward him in surpri
se.

  "You don’t work here, but you live here?" she persisted, frowning.

  A thin smile curled the corners of his mouth. "I am Gerard, Count du Beauchamp."

  Samantha felt her jaw go slack with surprise, but that was as nothing compared to the jolt that went through her when he abruptly vanished.

  Chapter Two

  Samantha looked around in disbelief, but the man was no where in sight. She’d been staring straight at him.

  She thought she had.

  Maybe she’d glanced back toward the portrait, though? Even if she had, would that have been enough time for him to disappear so completely? She couldn’t believe that it would’ve been.

  But maybe he’d strode away while she was looking in the other direction? He moved quietly. The carpet on the floor was thick and would have muffled his footsteps regardless, but she’d only sensed his presence when he’d come up beside her to start with. She hadn’t heard his approach.

  The fine hairs on the back of her neck prickled, but she shook it off. It had to be a practical joke—or maybe it was something like a play the chateaux put on to entertain their guests? Or perpetuate the ghostly rumors?

  He’d all but said he was a ghost, but the plain fact of the matter was, there’d been nothing at all ghostly about him. He’d appeared as substantial as she was herself. Of all the tales she’d heard over the years, or read about, she couldn’t recall a single incident where a ghost had been described as appearing as solid and substantial as a living person. Mostly, their presence was only sensed, generally as a wave of frigid air.

  And that was another thing. If she discounted the frantic signals of animal attraction she felt just being next to him, there wasn’t a single thing to indicate otherworldly manifestation. She hadn’t felt ‘odd’, ‘chilled’, or otherwise unnerved---not until he’d disappeared, that is.

  She shook it off. She was trying too hard, that was all. When she and her mother had planned the trip the year before, they’d convinced each other that they would at last experience the ghostly encounter their hearts desired. The car crash on the way to the airport had ended those plans when it had taken her mother’s life, but, quite possibly, it was because her mother had implanted the idea so firmly in her mind, or because she so desperately wanted to experience what her mother had hoped to, she was allowing her mind to fantasize that it was actually happening, when it wasn’t.

  Moving back down the corridor, she gripped the handrail firmly and descended with care. The stairs and the mezzanine had almost certainly been added long after the chateaux was originally constructed, but they were still old for all that and not built to the standards required by American safety standards. The stairs were too wide and the risers too deep, particularly for anyone as short legged as she was.

  Reaching the foot of the stairs without mishap, she followed her nose to the dining area. There were several couples already seated at the small round tables. Feeling uncomfortably like a fifth wheel, she stopped a waiter and asked if it was permissible that she take a table on the terrace.

  Nodding, he led the way. Throwing a pair of French doors wide, he pulled out a chair for her at a table nearby and produced a lighter to light the candle set in the center. Relaxing fractionally, Samantha breathed deeply and appreciatively of the evening air. The scents of burgeoning life assailed her, but the early spring air carried a hint of a chill still, which wasn’t nearly as pleasant.

  The menu, she discovered with some relief, was in both French and English—not that that was particularly helpful since she wasn’t familiar with French cuisine. She wasn’t a wine drinker either. The waiter looked at her as if she was mad when she ordered water as her beverage, but finally shrugged and went off again.

  While she waited, Samantha gazed off at the darkened landscape beyond the terrace and allowed her mind to wander. She was to be given a tour of the chateaux the following day and the day after that a walking tour of the estate. Beyond that, she had no particular plans.

  When she and her mother had been discussing the trip, they’d known that they would have each other for company and had not considered doing anything beyond exploring the chateaux exhaustively and hoping they would be lucky enough to bump into the ghost. She hadn’t really thought it through, she supposed, but lazing around the chateaux for five days, by herself, didn’t have nearly as much appeal. She was accustomed to being busy.

  She glanced back toward the dining room where the other guests were dining. As she did so, something near the end of the terrace caught her eye and held it. Despite the gloom, she knew it was the man again, the one who’d called himself Gerard. He pushed away from the stone railing surrounding the terrace and sauntered toward her. Without a word, he sprawled in the chair opposite her, studying her.

  He was hardly an unwelcome intruder, and yet it sent a twinge of annoyance through her that he assumed a welcome.

  "You intrigue me."

  Samantha cocked her head to one side, studying him in return. "Should I be flattered?" she asked neutrally.

  His sensual mouth tipped up at one corner. He ignored the comment. "How do I appear to you?"

  Samantha lifted her brows. "Are you fishing for compliments, too?"

  The faint smile widened. "You feel it, as well, then? It has been so long I wondered if I had imagined it."

  Samantha was a little taken aback. "Feel what?"

  The smile vanished. He frowned. "I prefer your frankness of before. I’ve no patience with coyness."

  She felt her own annoyance surface. "Really? Well then you won’t mind my bluntness in pointing out that I didn’t invite you to share my table; I have not been ‘coming on’ to you; and I would not welcome a little ‘interlude’ to chase away the boredom of traveling alone."

  He stared at her a long moment and finally chuckled. "You remind me, very much, of someone I knew once—long ago."

  Samantha wasn’t certain how to take that remark, but it was so obviously intended as a compliment—or sorts—that she felt her irritation wane.

  He frowned. "You have misunderstood me. I can not offer an ‘interlude’, as you put it—as much as I would like to. "

  She eyed him skeptically, but refused to be baited into questioning why he was unable to offer something she had just denied any interest in. "What did you mean, then, when you asked how you appeared to me?"

  "Precisely that. You see me?"

  Samantha gave him a look. "Of course I see you. There’s nothing wrong with my eye sight."

  He studied her thoughtfully for some moments. "You are aware that no one else does?"

  Samantha was about to ask him what he meant by that, but at that moment the waiter arrived with her dinner. The tray he was carrying, balanced on one arm, shifted in the direction of Gerard’s head. Before she could do more than gasp at the impending collision, however, the tray passed through Gerard as if he were no more substantial than mist.

  "Will that be all, madam?"

  It was several moments before Samantha could find her voice. "How did you do that?"

  "Do what, madam?" the waiter asked curiously.

  "He will think you mad if you ask him about me," Gerard said, his tone almost bored.

  "Why?"

  "Why, what, madam?"

  "Because no one else can see, hear-- and they most certainly can not feel, my presence."

  "You’re saying you’re a ghost?"

  "I do not believe that I did," Gerard responded.

  Samantha’s eyes narrowed on the waiter. "This is a show for the tourist, right? You pretend he isn’t there and I’m supposed to be convinced that I’ve been chatting with a ghost."

  The waiter jumped, looked sharply around. "He is here?"

  "Of course he’s here. He’s sitting right there in front of you."

  The waiter turned an unfocused gaze in the direction of Gerard, glanced down at the chair, and took a step back. A shiver went through him.

  He was a very good actor. Samantha had to give him that.
"Excuse me, madam," he threw over his shoulder as he whirled and trotted briskly back inside. Watching his departure with a mixture of irritation and uneasiness, Samantha turned at last to confront Gerard with his deception only to discover that he’d once more vanished.

  "Cute!" she muttered out loud, peering through the darkness surrounding her, but not really surprised when she saw no sign of the illusive ‘ghost’, Gerard.

  The food was far richer than she was accustomed to, but delicious. Finding with a little surprise that she was really hungry, Samantha concentrated on her meal. When she’d finished, she sat staring at the stars for a while and finally rose and headed back inside when the waiter didn’t reappear.

  She couldn’t help but notice that the concierge stared at her rather hard as she left the dining room, but she decided that she wasn’t going to worry about the meal. They were certain to add it to her bill and she could settle when she was ready to leave.

  As tired as she was from traveling all day, she didn’t head directly to her room. Instead, she stopped to study the portrait once more. If she’d hoped another look would convince her that she’d been mistaken before about the similarity between the man in the picture and the mysterious Gerard, she was disappointed. The situation was quite the opposite. The more she studied the painting, the stronger the resemblance.

  Dismissing it finally, she fished her key from her pocket and headed toward her room. Unlocking the door, she felt around inside for the switch and finally found it. A lamp across the room came on, casting more shadows than it chased away.

  Stepping inside, she closed the door firmly behind her and locked it, then tossed her handbag onto the bed and headed for the bathroom to prepare for bed. She’d already undressed when she realized she hadn’t taken her night gown out. Shrugging, she gathered her clothes and left the bathroom. Flipping open the suitcase that still lay on her bed, she dropped her clothes inside and unearthed a night gown. As she turned to put it on, she discovered that Gerard was leaning against the fireplace mantel.

  Her gown, forgotten, fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. A scream clawed its way up from her chest and lodged in her throat.