A Haunting Experience
Page 13
Elizabeth pulled out of the driveway, and the gate closed and locked behind her. April turned to face the house. Standing there, she seemed to examine it with intense concentration. What she was actually doing, though, was preparing herself for the battle that was about to occur. She had a bone to pick with her ghostly suitor, and while he claimed to know all about the modern world and how women had changed, she had a feeling he hadn't had to deal with an angry girlfriend very often.
She pursed her lips. Girlfriend? Was that what she was to him? It felt like a childish term and didn't really apply to the situation. She wasn't even really dating John, since they couldn't go anywhere. But lover sounded so—blunt. She'd never be one of those people who could casually introduce someone as her lover. Her cheeks felt hot just thinking about the word. But then, it wasn't like she'd be able to introduce many to him, anyway. Her mother, her grandmother, they'd be able to see him. They might not approve, but they'd at least know she wasn't insane. But friends? How was any of this going to work, she wondered.
Then she frowned, remembering what she'd learned from Elizabeth. After that conversation, it might not matter because, possibly, there would be no relationship to describe. She straightened her back, tightened her shoulders, and stormed into the house, slamming the door loudly behind her.
Chapter 6
There were a few hours left before sunset, and she figured that would give her plenty of time to plan what she was going to say to him. She wanted to show him that women of her time were calm and logical when there was a problem and not prone to hysterics. She intended to make herself dinner and settle down with a glass of wine to relax and plot. Things rarely seemed to go according to plan in her world, so she shouldn't have been surprised when none of that happened.
"Where were you? I was concerned you'd—left," he said. His tone seemed to waiver from nonchalant to worried.
She turned to see him standing on the bottom step, framed in a shaft of late afternoon sunlight. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a historical romance novel, and it took her breath away for a moment. The sunlight played on his hair, highlighting it in a golden halo. He leaned against the railing, the very picture of casual elegance. A dozen hours of practice wouldn't teach a person what he knew naturally about making an entrance.
But as beautiful as he looked there, something felt—wrong. She narrowed her eyes, examining him as she tried to figure out what was off. His black hair had been tamed and tied at the back of his neck. He was wearing his usual shirt, rough, white linen, and it was unbuttoned, falling open to expose his chest. His dark trousers looked sturdy but worn, as always, tucked into his brown leather boots.
His clothing didn't change much outside of the dreams they shared. She supposed it was because he was stuck wearing what he'd died in, though there were variations in how he wore it. He seemed to be able to remove items that he'd been wearing that night, but not add new things. He rarely wore the jacket, though sometimes he kept on the waistcoat that had gone under it; more often she saw him in just the shirt or nothing covering his chest.
Every time she'd seen him so far, he looked rough, like he'd just ridden into town in an old western, and that day was no exception. There was something sexy about the stubble, the longer hair, even the boots. It all looked normal, or as normal as a ghost could look, so what was different? She realized she was staring and looked away hurriedly, breaking the spell. It occurred to her suddenly that he didn't look much like a banker or a business man. She'd never researched clothing of the time period; would it be Victorian? She'd have to find a way to do some research.
Unfortunately, her phone didn't seem to get very good reception in the house, rarely getting over one bar, and there was no wi-fi. Carson had made an offhand remark one day about how frustrating it was that she couldn't access the Internet in the house, and the professor had explained that it was a common problem.
"Spectral entities interact with the reception in odd ways. It has to do with the magnetic fields they put out around them," he'd explained calmly.
Whether that was the case or not, she didn't know. All she knew was that her phone had been useless for anything other than taking pictures. She couldn't even be sure she'd be able to call 911 if there were an emergency, but luckily the house still had an old-fashioned landline. She'd noticed it in the kitchen on her first day and picked it up out of curiosity, finding a dial tone to her surprise. Perhaps Elizabeth had had trouble with reception when she'd lived there, as well.
It wasn't a big concern of hers; she didn't spend much time on the phone, anyway, and she'd never liked texting, but it would have been handy to be able to do some research on the time period John had lived in. She felt like she'd be able to understand him better if she did.
He was looking at her oddly, and she realized she'd been lost in her own thoughts and hadn't yet answered his question.
"Oh, I was just out in the yard. There's a little patio around back, did you know? It's a nice day out, and I was getting a little cabin fever," she explained quickly, carefully omitting her visitor.
The expression on his face was one of doubt. "Something concerning you?" he asked carefully.
Her eyes widened; had he looked out and seen her with Elizabeth? She wasn't ready to discuss what she'd learned yet; she needed time to think.
"Concerning me?" she repeated.
"You were staring at me," he said.
"Oh, I—was just thinking that you don't look much like a banker," she blurted.
Of all the thoughts that had just raced through her head, that one had made it out first. Not that he'd been so handsome there, with the sunlight making him glow. Not that she needed to know if she meant anything to him.
He looked down at himself and then back at her with a roguish smile. "I've never liked uncomfortable clothes, and wore them only when necessary, something my partner complained of often. But as it happens, I was dressed for traveling the night I—died." The last word sounded forced, as if it was a word he still had trouble using after all those years. He brushed past it and continued. "I stopped in to see how things had gone during my absence. Since finding out about his thievery, I'd been checking in on him much more frequently, you see. He extended an invitation to come and see the house, which was almost finished. I expressed a preference to stop home, as I was tired, and would see it the next day, instead, but he was so eager, and I didn't think it would take long. I gave in, and we came straight here without my ever having a chance to change."
He took a deep breath, or at least seemed to, and then sighed. "Of course, I realized later that his eagerness was because of the men waiting to end my life. It's not the outfit I would have chosen to wear for eternity. Anything that didn't look like I'd been on the back of a horse for two days would have been better, but—" He shrugged, extending his hands in a gesture that spoke plainly about hindsight.
She felt a wave of sympathy for him and the tragedy of his ended life. It almost smothered the anger she'd been feeling since she'd lived Elizabeth's experiences in the house, and she moved to his side, placing a hand lightly on his arm.
"I'm sorry, John. If it helps any, your appearance is considered very attractive right now. Women lust after men who look like you in movies and books." She offered him a small grin.
"So I have seen. I'd have at least liked to have shaved, though. You have no idea how frustrating it is to be stuck like this for years. I'd just decided to let my facial hair grow in for the winter, and if he'd only waited another month, I'd have had a comely mustache and beard."
She burst out laughing, and he frowned at her, grumbling a bit as he narrowed his eyes at her in suspicion, wondering if she was mocking him.
"I'm glad about the timing then," she assured him. A mortified look came over her face as she stumbled to clarify. "I just mean—I don't like men with beards, and you have just the right amount of stubble to look rugged and manly." Her hand went up to rub the scruff along his jaw line playfully, and he relaxed.
She relaxed against his chest and tried to let the anger of earlier drain away for the time being. "Mmm, it was a little bit chilly, but warmer than it is in here most nights. I can feel fall is starting to rear its head. The leaves are changing, too, but it was a nice—" She froze, and the last word, when it came a few seconds later was a barely breathed question. "Day?" She pushed back away from him, wide eyes darting up to his quickly. "It's daytime!"
He looked confused, tilting his head. "Yes, it is," he agreed carefully, regarding her as though she'd suddenly shown signs of going mad.
"It's daytime and you're here! Ghosts are never active in the house during the day!" she shouted in an accusing tone. She felt an unreasonable surge of anger about that.
He blinked in surprise at her upset and then chuckled. "Well, darlin', the truth is— what I can do depends entirely on how much energy I can draw on, and with you here, there's no problem being active during the day." He paused, a somber look on his face, eyes sweeping the vestibule. "There are other things in the house, darker things, that will always avoid the touch of sunlight, but I'm not one of them," he said softly.
Her eyebrows went up in surprise. "If you can come out in the day, why can't they?" she asked, calmer now and leaning back into him naturally.
"I—" What he was going to say was interrupted by the sound of her stomach rumbling; it was embarrassingly loud. He turned his words into a snort, shaking his head. "Come, we can talk while you eat," he said.
Suddenly feeling like he was taking the upper hand again, she shook her head. "I can wait. I want to know what's going on," she insisted firmly.
"Food," he repeated, and that time it sounded less like a request. He turned her around and pushed her towards the kitchen.
When she turned back to protest, he swatted her across the seat of her ass. His grin said it was playful, but the sting suggested that could change very quickly if she didn't give in. She glared at him, muttering something under her breath about him being a chauvinist as she stomped ineffectively down the long hall towards the kitchen. It would have been more obvious if she'd been wearing something other than sneakers, but as it was, he didn't even seem to notice she was annoyed.
She yanked open the refrigerator door and grabbed an armful of sandwich ingredients, dropping them on the counter with a clatter so she could angrily slap a meal together. He leaned against the counter, arms folded, and watched her with amusement.
"Does the idea of having a meal really displease you this much?" he asked finally. His head was tilted to the side as he examined her behavior with great interest.
She slammed a jar of mustard down on the counter hard enough that the yellow condiment splattered everywhere and then she turned to fix a glare on him. Her hazel eyes were narrowed until only the brown outer ring could be seen.
"No. Eating doesn't displease me; being ordered to eat displeases me."
He looked genuinely surprised at her expression and the anger in her tone. His arms uncrossed so he could reach out a hand to touch her arm gently.
"It wasn't an order. I simply didn't want to continue to stand on the stairs when you were clearly hungry."
She flinched away from his touch and tried to disguise it by grabbing a sponge and wiping the mustard off the counter.
"Sorry," she muttered.
She knew it wasn't what was bothering her, but this wasn't how she wanted to address the bigger issue.
"April, tell me what has happened since last night, please. I thought we had come to an understanding, but now you seem distant, upset."
He tried to pull her closer, but she resisted. She turned away from him as she cleaned and then went back to making her sandwich. He gave her a couple of minutes until she'd put things back in the fridge and settled down at the table to eat, and then he tried again.
"We can't solve a problem if you won't speak of it."
"What makes you think anything's wrong?" she asked coldly. She took a large bite of the ham and cheese on rye, mostly so that she could use the excuse of chewing to put off talking.
"It is quite obvious that you're upset about something. I want you to be happy but I cannot find a solution to a problem when I don't know what the matter is," he replied. He was beginning to get a little irritated, and it showed, both in his voice and in his manner of speech.
He'd filled many lonely hours with television when the house had been empty and it had given him a very good grasp of modern linguistics. Most of the time, he didn't speak much differently than April, though occasionally an antiquated word or two would slip in or the phrasing would be somewhat out of date. When he was angry, though, the difference was marked, and his words took on a more formal tone, showing his background, and the reminder that there were so many years between them just made her pull even further into herself.
"Nothing's wrong. You're imagining it," she snapped, taking another bite.
His lips tightened, pressing together in anger. His eyes narrowed, brows almost meeting at the bridge of his nose.
"I don't like lies, April. I must have done something to upset you, and for that I am sorry, but until you tell me what it is, the problem cannot be resolved. Prevarication is not an acceptable alternative. It will make things worse, and it will lead to a punishment that you won't enjoy," he said. The grim tone made it clear that he wasn't going to give her much more leeway on the issue.
And while April's personality did tend towards submissive much of the time, there was a stubborn core that didn't appreciate being pushed. It came up against his dominant personality with a resounding crash, literally, as she shoved her plate hard across the table at him. The half-eaten sandwich tumbled to the floor, followed by the china as it went through his intangible body. She'd forgotten he was only as solid as he chose to be.
"You need to behave yourself," he said. The lines in his face got deeper as he stared at her. "I am only asking what has you upset, and you're acting like a—"
"Like a what?" she snapped. "I'm acting like what, exactly?" Her eyes flashed up to meet his, sparking angrily.
"Like a child," he said calmly. "You're having a tantrum like a small child, and I'm about to put you over my knee like one." He ignored her angry expression, arching an eyebrow in a silent question or perhaps a challenge; she couldn't tell.
With a growl of pure frustration, she kicked the chair back and got to her feet so quickly that her hair flew out in a wide arc behind her before settling like a dark river over the back of her light t-shirt. She looked away from his face and crossed quickly to the window, leaning against the sink and staring out into the rapidly gathering dusk.
"I'm not a fucking child, you ass," she muttered under her breath.
He didn't care for swearing and he'd made that clear, but he had also agreed that holding her to all the rules of his time period was unfair, so she wasn't sure how he'd react to the cursing. Keeping her voice low seemed to be the best way not to find out. Muttering under her breath and hoping not to get caught actually made her feel about as childish as he was accusing her of being, though, and it didn't do much to help her mood.
There were too many emotions going on in her head and, unfortunately, not all of them were hers. She pretended to be intently focused on the darkening yard as she tried to pull herself together. She wanted to snap and shout at him. She was angry and hurt at the thought that she hadn't been his first choice. How could she ask him about it without sounding needy and petulant, though? He'd been around a long time; she could hardly have expected him to be waiting just for her, and she knew that. But logic wasn't making a lot of headway, and she felt a couple of traito
rous tears wending their way down her cheeks, despite her efforts to hold them back. She'd have wiped them away with her arm, but that would have been far too obvious, so she just let them go.
"April, turn around and look at me," he said with a sigh.
He didn't sound angry so much as frustrated with her, but she didn't want to talk to him then.
She wanted to go away and think through the things she'd seen and felt in Elizabeth's memories. She couldn't even think of her employer as Ms. Hagmaier anymore after experiencing what she had. Part of the problem with this gift was that it forged a connection between her and the person sharing the story. She'd felt, intimately, what Elizabeth had gone through, and that made it harder to keep a distance between them. It was causing some residual resentment against him and his male chauvinist ways. Elizabeth had not enjoyed the punishment at all, not even a little. She'd been humiliated, angry, and disgusted by his dominance.
April tended to react to his alpha male behavior very differently. There was a certain amount of arousal from his threats and highhandedness, though she'd found actual punishment to be something she'd rather avoid. Even when she was stubborn and independent, she still craved the life he'd suggested she could have with him. She'd always thought of herself as a feminist before him, but now—she felt like she was setting her whole gender back a hundred years by even considering the arrangement. She'd been leaning towards the idea; her body wanted, craved him. Then she'd walked a mile in Elizabeth's shoes, and suddenly there was conflict.
When she added that to her hurt that he'd practically been advertising for a mate, it changed things, and she wasn't sure how to get back to that floaty romantic place that she'd been in before the surprise visit. He'd talked her into believing that they could find some middle ground and make a life together so easily, but was it just her desire agreeing with him? What about common sense and logic? Those parts of her brain were stubbornly silent on the subject, and in the meantime, he was waiting for her to obey.