Maxim flicked his wrist. The ball spun in the air, flipping over itself, and he knew if he threw it, the ball would spin wildly and take the batsman unaware…. A memory, clear as day, of his brother stood at the crease, swinging wildly at the ball hurtling to him. Spinning around, Stephen had landed on his arse and Maxim had doubled over with laughter while Stephen used every curse they’d ever heard the groundskeepers use.
The ball made a dull smack as it landed in his palm. This place drew memories from him, and if he were honest with himself, so did she. Alexandra. It was as if a piece of him had been missing, and she fitted him perfectly. He was content in her presence, calmer, the ragged pieces of him soothed. God damn, but he lo—
He threw the ball above him. Hard. He hadn’t thought that. Hadn’t even considered it. Almost two nights she’d been here, and it was beginning to be that he couldn’t imagine a time when he was not, but he didn’t—he couldn’t— He was too broken, too dull-witted.
He’d misstepped, badly, when he’d kissed her. In some mangled part of his brain, he’d thought the warning warranted but it wasn’t until he’d had her under him, his arm about her waist and her soft lips on his, that he’d realised how horribly mistaken he’d been. It had never been about a lesson.
Sighing, she stretched her neck. He almost dropped the ball. Would that same look would be on her face as he traced the cord of her neck with his tongue, his hand covering her breast as she squirmed and moaned….
Viciously, he flipped the ball, catching it as it careened wildly back to him, flipped, caught, flipped, caught, and he willed his body to behave.
Focussing again on the notebook, Alexandra wrote down something.
Snatching the ball, he rolled it between his hands. “Surely now would be a good time to investigate?”
“Hmm?” Alexandra said, still regarding her notebook.
“Now would be a good time to investigate.” He waved a hand at the window. “It is dark, after all.”
She glanced up distractedly. “I have not yet finished with my preliminary investigations and those must be completed first.”
“Why?” Restlessness beat at him. He wanted to be away from this room, wanted to be occupied, so he wasn’t staring at her and imagining the taste of her against his tongue.
“Because my findings will be tainted if I do not. Stop interrupting me.” She frowned at the page. “I’ve written the same thing three times.”
Pushing himself to his feet, he said, “Maybe I will investigate on my own.”
“You will taint my results,” she said, still looking at her notebook.
“No, I won’t. I’ll be helping.”
“You really won’t.”
He made to take a step. “I’m going now.”
Before he’d realised what had happened, she’d propelled herself from her chair and shoved him, right in the centre of his chest. Surprised, he fell, landing hard on his arse as she clambered over him, pushing his shoulders to the floor.
Then, she sat on his chest.
“You’re sitting on me,” he said incredulously.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she stated, the familiar stubborn cast to her chin.
“You’re sitting on me. I’m twice the size of you.”
Hands bearing down on his shoulders, she said, “It always stopped you before.”
“I’m twice the size of you.” This may have worked when they were fourteen and fifteen, but he’d grown a foot and had muscle to match. It was a simple matter to flip her over. She squawked, struggling to rise as he straddled her and pinned her arms to the ground.
“Get off me,” she demanded
“Things are different now,” he crowed.
“Maxim, get off!”
“No.” He grinned down at her.
Scowling, she tried to buck him off, but he easily subdued such pitiful efforts. Giving up, she glared at him, her chest heaving.
Her hips were trapped between his thighs. Her fingers curled, brushing the back of his hands that held her wrists. She was so soft beneath him.
Breathing suddenly became difficult and he tensed, his body hardening as he stared down at her, his gaze drifting to her mouth. She watched him with big eyes, her lips parted as she drew quick breath, her tongue flicking out to leave wetness behind. Stifling a groan, he shifted to hold himself from her and hoped like hell she couldn’t feel his hard length against her.
Letting her go, he backed away from her. “I’m twice the size of you,” he said, voice full of gravel.
Slowly, she rose to a seated position, her gaze never leaving him.
His groin ached, his skin felt too small for his body, and he wanted so badly to kiss her. “Stop staring at me,” he growled.
She didn’t.
“Alexandra!”
She blinked. Desire melted from her expression. “That is the first time you’ve used my name.”
That couldn’t be right. “Really?”
She nodded and then, averting her eyes, she sniffed.
“You’re not going to cry, are you?” he asked suspiciously.
Biting her lip, she shook her head.
“Don’t be a girl.” Her chin wobbled. “Alexandra.” Tears spilled over. “Ah, hell.” Awkwardly, he enfolded her in his arms.
Her head nestled into his shoulder. It felt…right. Resting his cheek against her hair, he closed his eyes. Was it only two days ago she’d appeared back in his life?
Against him, she took a deep breath. “There’s nothing wrong with being a girl.” The words were muffled against his chest.
“Beg yours?”
She pushed away. Wet hazel eyes regarded him steadily. “There’s nothing wrong with being a girl. You said it like it was an insult. It’s not an insult, Maxim.”
“I—No. Sorry.”
Nodding, she moved away from him. He wanted to haul her back to him, to feel her breath against his skin, her softness against him.
Abruptly, memories crashed upon him. Harsh shouting. A closed fist against his cheek. A hard hand cuffing the back of his head. The bite of a whip.
“Maxim?”
He didn’t look up. If he did, she would read his every thought.
Gentle fingers stroked his forearm. “Maxim?”
Her hand. Small, but so capable. When she wrote, the letters she formed were precise and graceful, a work of art on the page. Nothing like the mess he made. He saw again the face of the bosun, the spittle flying as he screamed. “Tell me of your ghost.”
Her fingers stilled. “Where did you go?”
Shaking his head, he said, “It doesn’t matter.”
“Maxim—”
“It doesn’t. Tell me a ghost story, Alexandra.”
Just when he thought he was going to have to press her again, she sighed softly. “Which one?”
“The one you think currently haunts Waithe Hall.”
“There are many stories.”
“But only one has captured your interest.”
Settling beside him, she folded her hands in her lap. “Margaret Howard. She was the housekeeper here in the early 1700s.”
“Margaret Howard.” He turned the name over in her mind. “I don’t remember her tale.”
Lips quirking, she raised her brows.
He smiled ruefully. “Ha ha, yes, I know. I don’t remember much, et cetera and so forth.”
Still smirking, she continued. “The earl at the time sympathised with the Jacobite rebellion and opened his home to the rebels, hiding them from crown forces. Margaret Howard liked her cups too well and one night, she liked them with the wrong people. She was free with her words, and the local garrison learned of the earl’s leanings.”
“I gather they weren’t words the earl wanted the garrison to hear.”
“Far from it. They stormed Waithe Hall, but they found nothing.”
“Nothing? Ah. The secret passages.”
She nodded. “But Margaret Howard had been careless. When it came time to lock the ho
use, she could not find her keys. At the time she thought little of it, certain they would return when she least expected it.
“One night, the garrison stole into Waithe Hall and slaughtered the rebels. There was no sign of forced entry, and whispers began that Margaret Howard sympathised with the crown, that she’d opened the door for them, that she’d given them her keys.”
Drawing her knees up, she said, “She protested her innocence, but none believed her. She searched and searched, but she could not find them. She became frantic. She had failed the earl once. She could not fail him again. One night, she searched on the parapet, and....” She paused dramatically. “She slipped. The next morning, they found her body. She was given a pauper’s funeral, but it wasn’t long before odd happenings began. It could be the wind, or the glow of the moon, but some...some say she searches still.”
A smile tugged at him. Alexandra glowed, her passion obvious. “I remember that story. I didn’t know it was about Margaret Howard, though.”
“It was always the best one,” she said. “Do you remember Timmons used to tell them to us, and you were always scared?”
“I was never scared,” he said. “I was simply impatient to start riding. Timmons was our groom.”
“You were scared.”
“Maybe I was nervous.”
“No, you were scared. I—Ah!” He tickled her and she dissolved into giggles, half-heartedly fending off his attack. A grin tugged at his lips, and the strangeness of carefree joy rushed through him.
Eventually, they calmed, lying on their sides next to each other. He studied her face so close to his. The shape of her brow, the colour of her eyes, the curve of her jaw, the way she tucked her hand beneath her chin. He committed all to his memory, such that he would never forget her again.
Her eyes drifted shut, and he, content to be by her side, fell asleep as well.
Chapter Seven
HEAD AGAINST THE WALL, Maxim sat beside her, arm braced over one drawn up leg. Again he wore only a shirt, the neck open and baring a strong neck and jaw. In profile, his lashes hid the warm brown of his half-closed eyes, and dark stubble covered his jaw.
She was staring at him again. Jerking her gaze away, Alexandra looked down at the notebook in her lap. They’d been in the earl’s chamber since night had fallen after a day spent examining room after room, and as yet no spiritual activity had made itself known. She was not hopeful. Nothing of her investigations suggested the presence of a spirit. More likely any lights had been Maxim himself, or perhaps the villagers had been mistaken.
Her gaze drifted back to him. She couldn’t remember him ever before being so still. When they were children, he’d constantly been in motion, unable to sit for more than a few moments.
He swallowed, the movement of his throat mesmerising. Forcing her gaze from him once more, she examined instead the room. The mother-of-pearl inlaid in the mantelpiece glowed in the lamplight, casting a soft haze through the room that was reflected in the over-large, bevel-edged mirror—
Her shoulders drooped. “Oh.”
Maxim glanced at her, his eyes shadowed in the light. “What is it?”
“Look.” Getting to her feet, she brought the lamp near the fireplace. The mother of pearl glowed, caught by the mirror which amplified the light. “The cover has fallen off the mirror. The moon probably shone through the window, bounced off the inlay and reflected in the window.
“So it is solved?”
Disappointment licking through her, she stared at the mirror. “I think so.”
“But you are not certain.”
“As certain as I can be.”
“After less than four hours in this room, you have solved the case?”
The mockery in his tone took her by surprise. “I am good at this, Maxim.”
Picking at the fabric covering his knee, he didn’t respond. Finally, he said, “So, will you leave?”
She didn’t want to. “It still rains.”
“And that is why you will stay?”
It wasn’t her only reason. She would stay because of him. She would stay because it hurt to think of being where he wasn’t.
A thought occurred. “I think we should try to find the keys.” She warmed to the idea. “We should start tonight.”
Maxim got to his feet and held out his hand. “Come on, then.”
He hadn’t even hesitated. He hadn’t protested it a ridiculous notion. He merely offered his assistance. Swallowing against the lump in her throat, she placed her hand in his.
“Your hair.” He pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear, his fingers tracing the shell.
Breath caught, she stared up at him.
Intensely, he watched his thumb as it dragged across her jaw. Meeting her eyes, he cleared his throat. “I’ll take the lamp, shall I?” he said, his voice husky.
Dazed, she nodded. Collecting the lamp, he opened the door, strangely hesitant as he departed the chamber. Shaking herself, she followed.
Maxim led the way, holding a lamp high as they traversed the hallway. Alexandra trained her gaze on his broad back. He had changed from the Maxim she remembered, but so much was the same. He may be rougher, and perhaps a bit gruff, but he was still her Maxim. He was still the boy who was her best friend. He was still the boy she loved.
“Where do you want to start?” He turned, the lamp throwing light across his body. “Which room?”
Taking a breath, she focussed on the task at hand. “Maybe the housekeeper’s room? The one on this level?”
“Maybe, or we should?”
“We should.”
“Right.” He started toward the servant’s quarters.
“Maxim?”
He stopped. “Yes?”
“Why are you helping me?”
He frowned. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Biting her lip, she forced herself to ask, “Do you think me odd?”
The corner of his lips turned up. “Of course. Did I not say so already?”
He had. He had said she was odd and it hadn’t hurt, just as it didn’t now. Everyone thought her odd. She told this to herself so often, it had to be true.
“But you are Alexandra,” he continued.
“What? What does that mean? That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Yes, it does. You are magnificently odd. You are yourself, wholly and utterly. I have never met someone so unapologetically themselves. And you want to help. We’re traipsing about this house because you wish to help a ghost. A ghost, Alexandra.” A grin flashed across his face. “You were always such fun.”
“Oh.” A little kernel of warmth burned inside her. He thought her magnificently odd.
With another little smile, he turned and continued down the hall.
She started to follow only to stop as something caught her eye. “Maxim, wait a moment.”
He kept on, taking the light with him.
Darkness rushed to fill the hall, but there was enough light for her to approach one of the doors. There was something…. She wasn’t sure what, but they should....
“Maxim,” she called again, unable to take her eyes from the door.
“What?” he said, right next to her ear.
She jumped about a foot. “Don’t scare me like that!”
“You’re the one who stopped.” He lifted the lamp higher. “What is it?”
The light cast against a perfectly ordinary door. “I don’t know. There’s something about this door.”
“The door or the room?” He reached for the doorknob.
“No, Maxim, do not—” The door opened. She cringed. Nothing rushed at them from the darkness.
He made as if to enter.
“Maxim, what if—”
Shooting her an impatient look, he said, “What? The ghost might get me?”
She sniffed. “She might.”
Lifting the lamp high, he looked about the room. “See. No ghost. Come on.” He disappeared inside.
Cautiously, she followed. The light fell upon a
large bedchamber, with the bed itself set into a nook cut into the wall, curtains framing the opening. Like the rest of Waithe Hall, holland covers draped furniture that seemed to be a chaise longue, a desk and chair, a dresser and a chest of drawers. The bed itself still had the mattress and its hangings, while the balcony doors were reflected in a huge mirror opposite.
Maxim stood in the room’s centre as, brow knitted, he stared at the bed. “This is where Queen Anne stayed when she visited Waithe Hall.”
“Really?”
“I remember my father telling me that, quite proudly. I remember, Alexandra.” Striding through the room, he tore a cover off to reveal a lacquered writing desk. “This was a purchase by my great-grandfather, who brought it back from the continent.” He gestured to the mirror. “That came from Venice, and was commissioned by the fifth earl.”
A bemused smile tugged at her. “I did not know you knew the history so well.”
“Nor did I.” Running his hand over the mantle, he glanced at her. “What made you stop here?”
She sighed. “I don’t know. There is no spirit, and no reports this room was ever visited by one.”
“Well, there’s nothing here.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Or maybe.... There is a ghost.”
“Pardon?”
“Perhaps I am the ghost.”
Rolling her eyes, she said, “Do not be foolish.”
Eyes alight, he made a ghostly noise as he rushed toward her.
“Maxim.” Hugging herself, she bowed her head. “Don’t tease.”
“I’m not, Alexandra.” Finger raising her chin, his gaze searched hers. “I’m not.”
Taking a breath, she nodded.
“Are you often teased?”
“Not often.” At least, not anymore. “Besides, I do not care for the opinions of others.” And she did not. Not anymore. Not much.
“But you care for mine.”
She nodded, even though he hadn’t asked a question. “Of course. You know that.”
A strange look crossed his features. “I do,” he said slowly.
Finding Lord Farlisle Page 5