Wyndham

by L. L. Muir

  The idea of giving up Wyn for someone like Mac might sound rational to someone like her therapist, but because of their striking similarities, it sounded…mental.

  She let Mac get out, then pulled the car into the garage. And while she was alone in the car, she decided she was never going to tell Elizabeth or Wyn about Mac. Neither of them could know how easily she’d forgotten about her muse when a flesh and blood substitute had shown up.

  Wyn followed her into the house, then closed the door against the cold. She said nothing while she led him to a door and opened it to reveal a closet half-full of coats.

  “Ye seem distracted.”

  She sighed. “I miss Wyn, I guess. He’s never…blown me off before. So I just feel out of sorts. It was a difficult morning, so it was terribly important to see him…” She shook her head and turned away, so she could hide her emotions from him, which was her way.

  He stepped up behind her and gently lifted her coat from her shoulders. Though it was no time for neck kissing, he was tempted all the same. “I hope I was not the cause of it.”

  She shuddered, but when she turned around, a brave smile was in place. “Not a’tall. Ye’re about to save my day, actually.”

  “Am I?”

  “Aye. But first, we must eat. I won’t have my model fainting on me, yeah?”

  In the kitchen, she put two bottles of beer on the table, napkins, and the two fish suppers they’d stopped for along the way. Thankfully, they ate in silence while he sent food to his growling stomach, though it was rather pleasant to simply smile and chew, chew and smile. It transpired much like he imagined their first meal together would go. Little need for bletherin’.

  All at once, she pushed back her take-away box and looked out the kitchen window.

  “Worryin’ about yer friend again?”

  She shook her head. “Let’s not speak of Wyndham anymore.” She patted her stomach. “I’ve had my fill, so I’ll go get the room ready while ye finish, yeah? It’s just at the front of the house. Holler if ye get lost.” She took her half-empty bottle of beer from the table, and her stockinged feet took her silently from the room.

  He sensed she needed some time alone, so he ate at his leisure and tidied up when he was finished. When he moved down the front hall, he heard Bronagh talking to someone. Her voice was low, pleading. Since no other voice joined in, he wondered if she were praying. Then he heard the words handsome, distracting, and that something wasn’t her fault.

  So, no. Not praying. She was talking to someone--someone who was not answering back.

  Wyn!

  His dread-filled stomach dropped to his boots. She was always worried about her sanity, but he thought when she claimed she was losing her mind, or that she wasn’t the full shilling, that they were simply figures of speech. But perhaps she’d meant them!

  Most humans would react badly when confronted by a ghost. But not his Bronagh. She’d coped with it fine, assumed he was simply a muse plucked from her fantasies, and they’d brushed along nicely together ever since. His lack of substance never bothered her much except for times when she complained she couldn’t see him clearly enough.

  However, if she thought she was speaking to him at that moment, her mental state might truly be tenuous. And ultimately, revealing the truth to her might prove disastrous.

  She couldn’t be speaking to Wyndham; he was Wyndham.

  She couldn’t be speaking to Mac; he was Mac.

  So if she wasn’t speaking to him or God, she was carrying on a one-sided conversation with herself, and it was far too convincing! But for the life of him, he couldn’t just walk out the door and leave her, even if it were for her own good.

  God forgive him, he marched to the door and turned the handle. Almost hoping to find some other ghost sniffing around his woman, he pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. After two more tries, it opened on its own, inward. He should have pushed.

  Bronagh frowned at him. “Are ye all right?”

  His eyebrow ticked up. “Are ye?”

  “Yeah.”

  He pushed past her and looked around. There were no other bodies in the room, solid or ethereal. “I heard ye speaking to someone. Dinnae deny it.”

  She smirked. “My friend, Deirdre.”

  He spread his arms wide. “I see no one here, lass.”

  This time she snorted. “Weel, laddie, I used the telephone.” She pulled her mobile out of her skirt pocket and waggled it at him.

  His face flooded with heat. “Telephone.”

  “Mmhmm.”

  He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Ye must think me daft.”

  She sighed and her shoulders slumped a bit. “Look. Neither of us has acted particularly rational today, yeah? I promise not to judge you if you don’t judge me.” She extended her hand.

  He chuckled and shook it. “Done.”

  Without releasing his hand, she guided him toward the far corner where he would have an excellent view of the back of an enormous canvas situated on an easel that looked seven feet tall. “Can I not see what I am to pose for?”

  “Certainly not. I can only promise it’s not a nude. I won’t be attaching yer head to someone else’s body, naked or otherwise. I simply need to paint yer eyebrows onto a man’s face.”

  “Wyn’s face?”

  She silenced him with a sharp look. He held up his hands and moved toward the corner as he’d been told, pretending he didn’t know the exact pose she would ask him to take. She followed him, then turned on three photographer’s lights and reached for his face. They both froze with her fingers on either side of his chin.

  She tore her gaze from his and angled his face up and to the right. “And down just a wee bit—there!” Her warm hand fell away. “Can ye hold it?”

  He grinned. “If I cannae, ye’re welcome to come nudge me about again.”

  She rolled her eyes and turned away, muttering something about pushing. Standing on the far side of the easel, she peeked around the corner, frowned at his forehead, and disappeared. Each time he was sure she’d forgotten about him, she’d pop out, frown, and disappear again. It went on for an hour with her cursing and muttering a handful of times along the way, until finally, he’d had enough.

  With no more thought to the angle of his chin, Wyn pushed one of the lights aside and stepped out of his corner. He strode to the lass, his steps swallowing the distance between them in a pair of gulps. She stepped between him and the canvas to block his view, but he didn’t care about the painting.

  When he reached for her, she had the gall to look surprised. Or perhaps her mouth had dropped open for another purpose.

  He slid his left hand behind her head and the other around her waist, then he spun her to his left. He tipped her back slightly before crushing her mouth with his, punishing her for stealing his wits with nothing more than a look.

  Her hands clutched his shoulders, at first, for balance. Once he'd proven he wouldn't be dropping her, Bronagh’s grasp turned to possession, just as he'd hoped. If she’d have offered any resistance, he would have had no choice but to step away again.

  As the seconds flew by, he fought to keep breathing, to keep his heart in his chest, to stay conscious as he gloried in the very act he’d been dreaming of since he’d first laid eyes on this woman. His woman.

  How restrained he’d been! How had he lasted the day? How could they have continued to stare at each other when there was always this silent promise hovering in the air? He knew she’d taste this good, feel this perfect. Best to get it out of the way and be done, he thought. But even as he reasoned, he knew it for a lie.

  While he lived and breathed--and after--he would never be done with this woman.

  She ended the kiss, sucked in a sharp breath, then straightened away from him. “I’m sorry.” She pushed him back, away from the painting, protective of her damned ghost again. “I should have been clearer about my, eem, relationship with Wyndham.” She shrugged. “I’m not…available, yeah?”

 
; Not available?

  Her loyalty to Wyn was both victory and defeat. He stood there like a fool, equally thrilled and confounded, his heart swelling on one side while the other half withered. It seemed ages before he found his voice wallowing in the same vicinity as his pride, in the bottoms of his boots.

  “Forgive me. I should have known from the way ye speak of him, aye?” He grinned. “But I cannot say I regret testing yer…resolve, shall we call it?”

  She bit her lips together and ducked behind the canvas, but not before he saw the smile tugging at one cheek. When she stepped out again, she was rubbing her brushes on a horribly stained cloth that reeked of turpentine. Her expression was as clear as if the kiss had never happened.

  He decided to be a gentleman and play along. “Are ye finished then?”

  “With the eyebrows, yes. I think so.”

  He tipped his head from side to side to work out the stiffness in his neck. “Ye don’t mean to allow me a wee peek?”

  “No. I don’t. I need to leave the cover off so it can dry. I’ll have yer word ye won’t look.”

  He couldn’t hide his disappointment, but he nodded. “Ye have my word.”

  “I’d like to check it in natural light in the morning,” she said, grimacing and blushing simultaneously. “I could drive ye home if ye need to work in the morning. But if ye’re free to stay, I’ll take ye home after breakfast?”

  “Stay? Have ye a davenport, then?”

  “Davenport?”

  “A couch?”

  “Ah.” She shook her head and her straight black hair swung around her shoulders. The fringe shook over her eyes. “Ye won’t need a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed.” She stepped into the hall and bid him follow. He struggled not to seem too eager as he dogged her heels.

  Chapter Ten

  Bronagh was impressed she was able to make any sense at all when, on the inside, she was freaking out. If ever there was a time when she should call her therapist, it was then, but she wasn’t going to do it. She was going to play this through.

  How could two unrelated men have eyebrows that matched exactly? How could they look so much alike and not be twins? Forget the hair, the beard, the clothes. Mac had to be Wyn!

  Twins at least had different Christian names. If he didn’t want her to know who he was, he should have claimed his name was anything but Wyndham?

  He’s known lots of Wyndhams? Really?

  Cue the eye roll.

  The kiss had taken her by surprise. Wyn had never done such a thing, but then again, he’d never had the physical body to do so. But if he could have, she imagined he would have tried to sweep her off her feet just like Mac had. She could still feel his mouth pressed against hers, could still taste him—a flavor she’d never tasted but always craved. And while he’d held her, it had been so easy to imagine it was Wyn’s arms she felt.

  Her first reaction was to feel disloyal, obviously. But it didn’t take long to shake that off. After all, it had to be Wyn she’d been kissing. It just had to be.

  She’d had to think fast while she cleaned her brushes. She had to keep him from leaving before she could make sense of it all. Needing to see the painting in the daylight was a lame excuse, but in her state, it was the best she could come up with. And he’d agreed, thankfully.

  But she couldn’t let him leave until she figured out how her muse had come to life. She thought her imagination was powerful to have conjured him in the first place, but it wasn’t her imagination that had made him tangible, kissable, pinchable.

  She could feel her brain cells burning up, being shoveled into the fire like coal into a furnace. Mentally, she knew she couldn’t go down this road without risking dire consequences. So she would deal with just one thing at a time.

  If Mac and Wyn were one and the same, then he had to know what was going on. He had to have the answers for her. But she wasn’t quite ready to ask the questions. After all, no matter how she asked, she was bound to sound looney. And since she wasn’t willing to be committed to some hospital, so she had to buy time…

  Wyn was amused when the door Bronagh opened did not lead to her bedroom. It led to the basement.

  “Ye’re not allergic to cats, are ye?” She flipped on a light at the bottom of the stairs. The sound echoed in the L-shaped hallway with concrete floors and a low ceiling.

  Shelves full of cans, bottled food, and sundries filled the section before them. Off to the right sat a russet velvet couch and stacks of sagging cardboard boxes. Opposite the couch was a white wattle-and-daub wall with a red painted door, which Bronagh opened.

  “This is my grandmother’s house, and she had a spoiled old cat she called Ghostie. If she ever left the house without him, he’d go mad and find a way out. Then he’d hunt her down like a hound dog and attack anyone who spoke to her, so jealous was he, yeah? So finally, she had to lock ‘im in here when she went to get the messages.”

  She pushed the door wide, then stood back to usher him inside.

  “There’s a loo in the corner there. The place has been cleaned a dozen times, but we’ll still find an odd white hair now and again. That’s why I asked if ye’re allergic. But the bed is new. I swear it is comfortable. Just don’t mind the scratch marks on the doors and the windae.”

  He stood at the foot of the bed with his head bent slightly to keep it from hitting on the ceiling. “This will do nicely. Thank ye.”

  “Good.” Then she chuckled. “Ye didn’t think I was offering to share my bed, I hope.”

  He rolled his eyes. “Heaven forefend,” he said, which made her laugh even harder. She’d been setting him up for disappointment all along.

  “Don’t worry.” She started pulling the door closed. “He hasn’t haunted the place since Grandmother died.”

  “Who, Wyndham?”

  “No. Ghostie, the cat. Wyndham isnae a ghost.”

  He shrugged. “I misunderstood is all.”

  “Well, goodnight, then.”

  “Sleep well.”

  As soon as she closed the door, Bronagh’s head started spinning, pushing off like a kid on a twirly-go-round with only the one thought to keep it going.

  Mac had to be Wyndham. How else would he know Wyndham wasn’t real? The only other person on earth that knows is Elizabeth!

  She stayed there with her hands on the door as if she could read his thoughts through the wood. Reviewing all their conversations, she’d never said Wyn was anything but a man. Never said he was imaginary.

  There was a totally insane puzzle here that needed solving. Earlier, at the café, she’d sensed something strange was going on. And Mac was the key. He didn’t know it yet, but she wasn’t the type to let a mystery go until everything added up, even if it meant she’d be certifiable. But he’d soon learn.

  He was going to tell her the truth if she had to lock him in the basement and hold him hostage until he spilled his guts!

  Her fingers rose to the lock Grandmother had used to keep the cat in. Ever so carefully, she slid the barrel bolt home, then turned the tiny knob down to lock it into place. Sure, it was a piteous lock that could be snapped off with a good hard kick from the other side, but it helped her feel in control when she’d clearly lost control of her mind.

  Fine then. Just for a little while. Just for a little peace while I settle down.

  If she unlocked it before he tried to come out in the morning, he’d never know. And that fact alone made it seem reasonable.

  She stepped back, then panicked. Who was she fooling? She couldn’t do this!

  Again, she reached for the lock. With her fingers just an inch away, it jumped. Mac was trying to open the door. She had to get it unlocked and fast!

  She reached for it again, and again it jumped, but with more force. The doorknob rattled against the strike plate. There was a pause. The perfect chance to take it off. The seconds drew out, one by one.

  Did he know she was there, listening? Breathing? Enjoying the incredible rush of having him in her home at
last?

  He shook the door more violently. Her heart exploded with adrenaline. Then he beat on the wood. “Woman! Are ye there? Yer door is stuck fast!”

  Bronagh bit her lips together to keep from squealing like a little girl. She backed up to the velvet couch and lowered herself onto it, pulled her feet up to the front of the cushion like the floor was flooding with that same adrenaline, and she had to keep her tights dry. She sifted through her mental exercises to see if any of them would fit the situation.

  Mindfulness?

  Let go of the struggle?

  Identify and label?

  Stop the thought and refocus?

  Nope. Thoughts were not her problem. It was facts she was dealing with now—the fact that she had Wyn under her thumb for the moment. The man she was in love with, whom she’d sacrificed her job and her sanity for. The man who was definitely worth both. The love of her life whom she didn’t want to let go.

  For the time being, at least, he was tangible, and that meant containable. And she was no more afraid of him than she’d been of his less tangible self.

  And soon, he would explain how he’d gone from one state of being to the other.

  “Woman!” He beat again, three times.

  She giggled silently. She loved it when he called her Woman.

  He shook the lock, then cursed, mumbled. Then nothing. He hadn’t moved away. There would have been some noise, some shifting of that shadow beneath the door. But it held steady.

  Something slid along the wood, shuffled, then stilled again.

  Was he listening?

  She sucked in a breath reflexively—too loud! The adrenaline pumping through her was too much to manage. She grabbed the ancient arm pillow and pulled it against her mouth so he wouldn’t hear so much as a squeak.