The Unquiet

by J. D. Robb; Mary Blayney

  “As you wish.” The housekeeper picked up the tray and glanced at the leaded window. “There’s a storm brewing.”

  “I’ll be on my way soon. I arranged to have an architect meet me here later. When he arrives, you can direct him to the cottage.”

  “Of course.” At the doorway, Mrs. Logan paused to glance back at her young visitor.

  Bree’s head had fallen back against the cushion of the chair. Despite the fact that her eyes were closed, the lines of lingering tension were clearly visible.

  Bree jerked awake, wondering how long she’d slept. It felt as though only minutes had passed.

  Mrs. Logan was peering nervously out the window.

  “Thank you again, Gwynn. I believe I’ll head over to the gatekeeper’s cottage.”

  As she made her way to the front door, the housekeeper trailed behind, unable to hide her disapproval. “ ’Tis little more than a hovel now.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Duncan went ahead to lay a fire to chase the chill.” She glanced out the window. “You’re apt to get wet.”

  Bree was determined to put the old woman’s mind at ease. “Please don’t concern yourself. I’m really quite self-sufficient. I’ve brought a few supplies, so you won’t need to bother fixing anything in the morning. Duncan told me that you and he have been living in the village, and only came back here to lend a hand during my stay. For that, I’m most grateful. But please don’t feel the need to hurry back early in the morning. I asked Duncan to leave me a complete set of keys to the rooms of the manor house.” She opened the door and stepped out onto the wide portico. “If you have the time to drive up from the village, I’d be grateful for your company tomorrow. And please, keep an eye out for the architect. Good night, Gwynn.”

  The housekeeper remained in the doorway as Bree descended the steps and started along the pathway toward the cottage. Bree heard the old woman give a gasp of surprise as the wind caught the door from her grasp and slammed it shut. She found herself smiling, imagining Mrs. Logan huddling behind the draperies, watching and waiting to hear the wail of banshees or the glint of fairy lights.

  Let her watch, Bree thought. Let the whole world watch and wait.

  What could ghosts do that hadn’t already been done to her? There was no room in her life for fear. No time to indulge in self-pity or recriminations. There was enough anger in her to fuel whatever work lay ahead. From now on, it was full steam ahead, regardless of the consequences.

  TWO

  Angry storm clouds roiled across the sky—a sky punctuated by quick, jagged flashes of lightning. The wind had picked up, sending the branches of trees into a frenzy.

  The pathway leading to the stone cottage was overgrown with brush. Ivy, wild and tangled, covered nearly every inch of the exterior of the building, giving it a mad-fairy-tale look.

  Bree pulled open the heavy front door and stepped inside. Shivering in the damp cold, she hurried across the room and dropped to her knees before the hearth. Why hadn’t Duncan started a fire?

  She sat back on her heels.

  It would seem that he had. The wood was charred and wisps of smoke still lingered.

  She carefully checked to see that the flue was open before holding a match to fresh kindling. When the fire was blazing, she closed the fire screen and noted with satisfaction the generous supply of firewood neatly stacked beside the hearth.

  She stared around at the white sheets that covered the furniture.

  “Like shrouds,” she muttered.

  Despite her weariness, she circled the room, pulling them off, folding them, and setting them in a neat pile in a corner. Then she turned on every lamp to chase away the gloom.

  “That’s better.” She looked around to admire the furnishings.

  Though the sofa and chairs were old and worn, they appeared comfortable enough. There was a padded rocker pulled up before the fireplace, with a footstool and a lovely old ornate table alongside it, just right for a cup of tea.

  Feeling her spirits begin to lift, she made her way to the bedroom, where Duncan had left her suitcases resting beside the empty closet. Crossing to the second fireplace, she found the fire had gone out there as well. After checking to ensure that the flue was open, she added fresh kindling and restarted the fire. Then she began the task of emptying her luggage and hanging her things.

  She’d barely begun when there was a puff of smoke. She looked up to find that the fire had gone out again.

  She felt the quick shiver of a breeze and checked the windows. All were latched. Puzzled, she held a match to more kindling until the fire was blazing. Then she made her way to the parlor, only to find that the fire there had gone out as well.

  Again she felt the breeze against her cheek, and hurriedly checked the windows and front door. They were securely latched.

  Annoyed at the waste of her precious time, she repeated the process of restarting the fire, using more kindling. When the flame was strong and steady, she returned to the bedroom, where she continued unpacking.

  When she turned away to hang a blouse, she heard a rustling sound, as though a sudden windstorm had stirred up a pile of autumn leaves. Turning back to the suitcase, she found her things scattered about the floor.

  She must be more tired than she’d realized. Annoyed, she retrieved everything and hung the clothing quickly before stowing the empty suitcases on the floor of the closet.

  Just as she finished, the storm began in earnest. Wind and rain pelted the roof and rattled the windows as she closed the closet door and turned.

  A man was standing across the room, scowling at her. He was tall, at least six feet, with dark hair that brushed the collar of a saffron shirt. His legs were bare beneath a length of plaid. Muscular legs, Bree noted. He looked every inch like those contestants she’d seen in the airline’s magazine article about the Highland Games.

  Startled, she shrank back against the closet door. “Who are you?” The words were out of her mouth before she even had time to think.

  “I would ask you the same, madam.” The voice, deep and rich, was thick with Scottish burr.

  “I am Brianna Kerr. Now you will tell me your name and why you are here.”

  “I am Laird James Kerr. Jamie, to those who know me. This is my land. It has been in my family for more than five hundred years, madam. And I do not recall inviting you to share it with me.” He crossed his arms over his chest and glowered. “You will leave this place. Now.”

  Bree’s gaze swept the room, looking for something with which to defend herself. Was this the man who terrorized guests in the night? Ghost indeed. He was nothing more than an actor. And not a very good one at that. There was nothing otherworldly about him. He didn’t shimmer or glow. Nor did he weave and float about the room. He was flesh and blood, firmly anchored to that spot, and giving every impression of a man about to do battle.

  “I was told that I am the last remaining heir to the Kerr line.”

  “Then you were told an untruth, woman. I am here, and here I remain, to make a lie of whatever you may say.”

  She drew herself up firmly. “Duncan will be here any minute with the rest of my supplies. I’ll have you deal with him.”

  A smile tugged at the corners of the man’s mouth. “I’ll give you this. You’re quick-witted. But not a very good liar, madam. The old servant has been here and gone.”

  She bristled at his archaic term. “There are no servants here. Only good people who earn an honest day’s wages for an honest day’s work.”

  His smile widened. “Those good people of whom you speak are terrified to come near this place after dark.”

  “Then I suggest you leave before I call the authorities.” While she spoke, Bree dug into her pocket for her cell phone.

  “ ’Twill do you no good.” He shot a quick glance at her pocket and the phone seemed to leap from her hand to the floor.

  “How did you do . . . ?” She visibly paled. “What sort of trick was that?”

  “
I need no magician’s parlor tricks.” He pointed. “That thing you were clutching is useless here. Didn’t the old woman, Gwynn, tell you? She refers to this place as a dead zone.” That had him smirking. “An interesting choice of words, don’t you agree?”

  Bree blinked. “I don’t believe any of this.” She bent to retrieve her cell phone. “You’re an actor, and an insulting one at that. And since you’re intruding on my privacy, I’m ordering you to leave at once.”

  His smile was wiped away in an instant. His voice lowered with passion. His distinctive burr thickened. “Nobody orders Jamie Kerr from his home. Nobody. Least of all a bloody, trembling female. Now leave, before I show you just how much power I possess.”

  Bloody, trembling female indeed. She felt her temper flare, and with it, her courage. “In case you weren’t listening, my name is Brianna Kerr. I am the widow of Barclay Kerr, and the legal owner of this land and all the buildings on it. If anyone is going to leave, it’s you.” She pointed to the open bedroom door. “If you leave now, I won’t press charges. If you refuse, I’ll have no choice but to alert the authorities.”

  “They won’t bother coming here. They know better. I’m surprised the old biddy in the main house didn’t warn you about me.”

  “She told me there was a presence in the cottage that enjoyed tormenting guests who attempt to stay here. I told Mrs. Logan that I don’t believe in such things.”

  “Then you’re a fool. And I’ll not tolerate fools in my presence.”

  “Nor will I.” Taking a calculated risk, Bree snatched her jacket from the closet and turned her back on him to stride from the room. Over her shoulder she called, “I’m going to walk back to the main house and get a signal for this useless phone, and then I’m going to alert the authorities. I suggest that you leave as quickly as you came, or you’ll be spending your night in the local jail.”

  When she stepped into the parlor, she was startled to see him standing in front of her.

  “How did you . . . ?” Before she could finish her sentence, he vanished.

  From the bedroom came the sound of breaking glass. She rushed back in time to see the man picking up an expensive antique vase, poised to toss it on the floor alongside the shattered remnants of another.

  “Don’t you dare! That’s probably worth a fortune.” She raced across the room and snatched the vase from his hand.

  He forcibly took it back. “And that’s all this means to you? The money ’twill fetch?”

  “Since it obviously means nothing to you, I won’t have you smashing it to bits.”

  “ ’Tis precious to me. I personally chose it on a journey to Edinburgh.” He glanced at the broken shards at his feet. “I brought the pair of them here to adorn my hearth. And if I now choose to break it, it’s nobody’s business but mine.”

  Bree made another grab for it. When their fingers brushed, she experienced a sudden rush of heat followed by the sweet smell of heather, as though she’d stepped into a lovely Highland meadow on a warm spring morning.

  She took a quick step back and wrapped her arms around the vase, hugging it to her chest.

  At the look of astonishment on her face, he regarded her with interest. “So. You felt it, too. Interesting. Not all do. Most are immune to my touch. You must be more sensitive than others. Tell me again, Mistress Kerr.” At the mention of her name, his eyes narrowed slightly, as though the mere words annoyed him. “Did you say you don’t believe?”

  “I . . .” She swallowed. “I don’t know who or what you are. A very good actor, or”—she forced herself to speak the word—“maybe you really are a ghost.”

  He exploded with fury. “I despise that word.”

  Before she could ask why, he held up his hand to silence her.

  “I prefer the term restless spirit. I am here, as I’ve been since the year of our Lord 1611. And here I must stay, until I find my way out.”

  “You . . . aren’t here by choice?”

  He gave a sound that could have been a laugh or a sneer. “Do you think any sane man would choose to live alone for hundreds of years, forced to watch all that is familiar pass away, to be replaced by”—he gave a contemptuous glance at the light switch on the wall—“what your contemporaries call modern conveniences?”

  At once the lights flickered on and off, on and off, sending sparks of electricity in an arc across the ceiling like lightning, until he shifted his attention back to her.

  At once she felt the heat of that furious gaze.

  He pointed. “ And that damnable thing in your pocket.”

  She placed the vase back on a shelf and reached for her cell phone. “Why don’t you like this?”

  He arched a brow. “I would ask why you do. You think, by talking to people far across the land, that you’re somehow close to them? How do you know your connection with them isn’t all a lie? What makes you think they give a care about what you have to say while they’re busy with their own lives?”

  His words had her remembering her last phone call to Barclay. Oh, the words he’d spoken. Words that she’d been so eager to embrace, like some lovesick teen. Later, when she’d learned the truth, all those sweet words had mocked her. And in truth, mocked her still.

  She felt a knife pierce her heart.

  Seeing the stricken look in her eyes, he crossed his arms over his chest and gave a knowing look. “I see. Ye’ve been lied to a time or two, have you, lass?”

  When she remained silent, he nodded. “Aye. ’Tis true. In all the eons I’ve been here, while all around me everything external has changed, within the hearts of people nothing has changed. Nothing.” He spat the word before turning away. “So take your gadgets and your annoying self from my home and leave me to my own private hell.”

  She brought her hands to her hips. “You haven’t been listening to me. I have no intention of leaving. There’s nothing you can do that will drive me away. This is all I have left in the world. I’m not about to forfeit it for the likes of you. As for hell, I’m well acquainted with it.”

  At the vehemence of her tone, he turned and studied her for a long, silent moment.

  “You only think you know hell,” he muttered. “Beware, Mistress Kerr. You’re no match for the likes of me.”

  As she watched, he began to shimmer and fade. And then he was gone, as quickly as he’d appeared.

  She stood perfectly still, waiting for her heartbeat to settle.

  For all her brave words, she’d been absolutely terrified of this angry creature. And was, still.

  She hadn’t simply imagined him. Though Gwynn Logan may have planted the seed, this wasn’t hysteria brought on as a result of an overactive imagination. Nor could it be blamed on jet lag. Bree had no doubt that the spirit of someone, some ancient, unhappy ancestor, still haunted this place. She didn’t have enough energy left to question the why or the how of it. There would be time enough for that in the days to come.

  Numbly she tossed aside her jacket and crossed to the bed, quickly making it up with the fresh linens Duncan had left folded atop the bare mattress. While she worked, she had to fight to hold her tears at bay. These weren’t tears of pity, she told herself. She was simply sick and tired of being sick and tired. Of feeling overwhelmed by things beyond her control.

  There would be no more of that. Hadn’t she come here to start over? To take control of her life?

  The betrayal she’d experienced at the hands of Barclay, the pity she’d felt from friends when they discovered the truth, had to be put away, once and for all.

  As for this ghost, this . . . creature, who seemed determined to be the latest obstacle in her life, she would deal with him as firmly as the rest of her baggage.

  But not now. Not tonight.

  For now, she needed to rest, to gather her strength for whatever ordeal lay ahead. If it was a battle of wills this restless spirit wanted, she would stand toe-to-toe and fight him with all her might. No man, neither flesh-and-blood nor ghostly specter, would impose his will on her
ever again.

  Never, she thought with such vehemence her teeth clenched. Never again. She settled herself into bed.

  As the storm raged beyond the snug walls of the cottage, it was her last coherent thought before she gave in to utter exhaustion and sleep overtook her.

  THREE

  Strong arms enfolded Bree in a welcoming embrace. Oh, she’d missed this. Missed this feeling of being cherished. This knowledge that she was loved above all others. It was worth all the sacrifices she’d made. The loss of her hard-won independence. Walking away from the rewards of a satisfying career. Disappointing her coworkers who had cheered her talent, her discipline, her drive to be at the top of her game. She may have caused more than a few eyebrows to lift when she’d given up all of that. But hadn’t she always known that love, true love, was worth any price?

  She curled into the warmth beside her and felt his lips nibbling hers, his hands moving slowly over her. He had always known just how to gently, painstakingly arouse her without fully waking her. In that breathless moment between sleeping and waking, he would take her up and over, so that she would be vibrantly aware and fully engaged the instant she awoke.

  She felt that hard, muscled body imprinting itself on hers. Felt his mouth begin the slow journey down the column of her throat to nestle in the little hollow between her neck and shoulder. Absorbed the delicious tingles as he trailed his mouth lower, his tongue circling her breast.

  Her breath was coming faster now. Harder. Her body arched up to his.

  With a slumberous smile, she opened her eyes.

  And froze.

  Not Barclay.

  The stranger. The spirit. Murmuring words she couldn’t quite comprehend, though she knew instinctively they were words of love.

  When she stiffened and pushed away, his head came up sharply, and in that instant she saw the same slumberous sensuality in his eyes that she’d felt moments before, followed by the same sense of shock and surprise.