“You are truly in love with her.”
Nathaniel had been watching a lot of TV recently, and felt like saying “Duh” to Brother Anselm, but he doubted the monk would appreciate it, or even understand what he was saying. Instead, he contented himself with a simple, “Yes.”
“It is a great shame. You must not succumb, my son. You are allowed to take earthly form once a year, but you must not show yourself to her.”
Nathaniel swallowed. “I know that.” He’d been tempted, but he could not. She was married, but she had come to some reconciliation with her present life. It would be unfair, as well as immoral, to present himself as a temptation she couldn’t have more than once a year. Nathaniel had seen where that led when his brother Vernon had approached the woman he’d fallen helplessly in love with. Had matters turned out differently, Vernon would have made two people desperately unhappy, not one. So Nathaniel knew the medium was either deluding herself, or she was deliberately playing up for the camera.
He watched the nearest cameraman uncap his lens and lift his camera. Just in case, Nathaniel moved back, well behind Sylvie.
The woman lifted arms clad in a pale blue jumper, and stretched out her fingers. “He is here!” she said dramatically. “He is sad, so sad.” Nathaniel remembered the last time he’d seen his brother. There had been nothing sad about him. “He regrets his action, even though his brother betrayed him. He says―” she caught her breath in a dramatic little gasp “—he says there is great danger here for the present earl. The evil earl, Nathaniel, will wreak revenge for his premature death. He will cause the present earl’s death!”
“What nonsense!”
A cool, well-modulated male voice cut across the medium’s slightly flat vowels. Nathaniel was close enough to see Sylvie’s shoulders tense slightly, but it was the only indication she gave of hearing the voice. Everyone else turned to see who had spoken.
* * * * *
“Hello, Nev. Nice of you to call on us.”
Only when she’d spoken did she turn around. Sylvie hated it, but she still needed a moment to catch her breath before she looked at her handsome, faithless husband. She still had feelings for him, although for a long time she’d been battling against them. Ever since she’d found him in bed with two lively young women with more sense in their inflated breasts than they had in their heads. She could still see his faint, amused sneer at her shock. She’d see it to her dying day.
Married on impulse, abandoned almost as quickly, Sylvie refused to play the part of the wronged wife, turning instead to Rustead Abbey to provide her raison d’etre and shrugging whenever a member of the press chose to inform her of her husband’s latest exploit. No one knew how much it still hurt, and no one ever would. Apart from the shadowy presence, she sometimes saw at night, and occasionally even spoke to in her mind. But he wasn’t going to tell.
Everybody was watching them, so she put on her best supercilious veneer and said, “What, all alone? No little friends?”
He shrugged. “Not today. Who gave permission for all this?”
She lifted her chin. “I did. I have the right.”
He turned, a haughty look adorning the clear features, the deep grey eyes cold. “Whatever got into me to marry a bloody Yank, I’ll never know. Media crazy, the lot of you.”
How typical of him not to care who was listening! He didn’t care who he hurt. But that particular comment didn’t hurt her. It was too stupid. “From what I’ve seen the British aristocracy can give any American a run for his money. Lions, tigers, funfairs, you use every blade of grass to turn a profit.”
He raised a dark eyebrow. “Some of us don’t need to.”
“Others do.” If it hadn’t been for his ancestor’s judicious investments in London properties and the newly emerged railways, Nev would be in as tight a financial spot as his compatriots were. As it was, the estate and house were well funded, and Nev’s glamorous, dangerous job brought him enough to live on very comfortably. Sylvie took what she needed from the estate profits, paying herself a modest salary. She wouldn’t take a penny of his money, but as manager of the Rustead estate, she figured he owed her something.
Nev smiled. “I never cared much for the old place. I didn’t spend much time here. You can do what you want.” He glanced around, taking in the two cameramen, the sound technicians, the tangle of cables on the floor, and the medium, who had miraculously come out of her trance so she could take in every inch of his finely toned body. His smile broadened when he passed on to the younger medium, now standing next to the producer.
Jo Goodman was a well-groomed, well-shaped blonde, tits thrust out to meet all comers, her plunging top revealing a generous view of her Wonder bra’d cleavage. She smiled back, all gleaming teeth and steaming desire. Sylvie knew it when she saw it. She’d looked at Nev that way herself, once. Before she discovered just what a shit he really was.
The producer walked forward, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor, her hand outstretched. “I’m Angela Murdoch, the producer of ‘Hosts to Ghosts.’ I’m so pleased to meet, you, er ―”
He wrenched his gaze away from the medium. “Nev,” he said hastily. “I don’t use the title.”
“Yes, of course, Nev,” she crooned. Even practical Angela Murdoch wasn’t immune to Nev’s charm.
It wouldn’t hurt so much to see women throw themselves at her husband if he didn’t take advantage of it, but Sylvie knew for sure Nev wouldn’t be alone tonight. Sheer hatred arced through her, hatred for herself that she should still care.
He took Angela’s hand in both of his, caressing the smooth skin before he released it. “Perhaps it was worth dropping in, after all,” he murmured. The blonde medium hovered, smiling sweetly.
People were staring at her, speculation, even sympathy in some gazes. She raised her brows slightly before turning away. “If you find yourself with a spare minute, Nev, I need a few signatures. I’ll be in the office.” She kept her walk steady and measured as she crossed the great expanse of the hall floor, very careful not to trip on any cables. They might assume the wrong thing if she stumbled. They might think she cared.
* * * * *
Her office was in the east wing, a long walk from the main hall. A walk Sylvie appreciated, as she could blink her stupid tears away and clear her mind. But once in the room, sitting at her desk with its view of the rolling green parkland, she found tears choking her once more. Groping for the box of tissues, she grabbed a couple and angrily dragged them across her face. She had put on makeup in honor of the TV people and black mascara stained the tissues. She threw them away and grabbed more.
Gently, my love, please don’t hurt yourself.
The voice in her head again, a gentle, male voice. At first, she’d thought she was going mad, but now she didn’t care. At least she had company.
Over time, the voice convinced her it was coming from outside her. He told her things she didn’t know, and once guided her to a cache of letters from a long-dead Countess of Rustead, a cache no one knew existed. She was writing the biography of the countess now. She had to believe in him. He was a person, with his own thoughts and emotions, totally outside her invention.
“I’m sorry. He makes me so angry. People think he’s a hero, but he’s nothing of the kind. Nev is an adrenaline junkie, that’s all. And he loves the attention his job brings him. A war photographer gets to mix with serious people, but he doesn’t care about causes, where he is, or what it means. He takes pictures of starving Africans with the same expertise and emotion he uses for vicious terrorists.” Tears forgotten, Sylvie stared into space. “He has no heart. All he sees through his viewfinder are subjects, interesting compositions. God, he really has nothing inside.”
Silence met her comments for a full minute. Then she heard the voice. I fear you are right. What will you do?
Did she imagine the note of apprehension in the voice? “What is it, what’s wrong?”
Another long pause followed, until he said, I don’t wan
t you to leave here. If you divorce him, you will go away.
“Not necessarily. I could stay on as manager here.”
Would he do that? More importantly, do you want that? You are young, Sylvie, you should find happiness, and it won’t come here. We can never be anything to each other, other than friends. You know I love you, but we can never touch, never kiss.
“You’d be alone.” She felt a pang of sadness for this being who couldn’t leave. He’d told her he couldn’t leave the house, and it was true that whenever she left she couldn’t hear him any more. She missed him when he wasn’t around. She knew she loved him, but he was right. There was nothing either of them could do about it. If only once, just once, she could touch him, look at him, share an evening with him the longing she felt might diminish. Or it might grow. How could she love a ghost, someone she hadn’t been sure existed when he first spoke to her?
His voice came firmer, more decisive now. Forgive my moment of weakness. I’ve been alone for a long time, sweetheart, so, a little longer won’t hurt me. You mustn’t stop your life because of me. My life is over, you have most of yours before you. Besides, I have a companion.
“Who?”
“Talking to yourself?”
She had been so engrossed in her conversation, she hadn’t noticed the door opening. Typical of Nev to come in without knocking. She stared at her handsome husband. Tall, dressed in tight, black leather pants and an equally tight black t-shirt, Nev Heath, otherwise Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington, Earl of Rustead, knew exactly how handsome he looked, and the effect his clothes and attitude had on the women he invited into his bed. Not to mention his job. Photojournalism had many admirers, especially when done with style.
She steeled herself to face him. “It helps sometimes. Here.” She pushed a small stack of papers across the desk. “They’re all routine. You can read them if you want to. Sure you don’t want to give me power of attorney?”
He laughed. “You’re joking. Nobody takes control away from me. Least of all you.” He gave her a look that said she meant nothing to him. Who would have thought he’d once looked at her with love and warmth, had told her nobody else meant anything to him?
Sylvie castigated herself every day for letting Nev take her in, but never more than on his rare visits. She took a deep breath, careful not to let it show. “How about we divorce and I stay on as a salaried manager here? It won’t cost you any more than you’re paying me already.”
He laughed in her face. “If you want a divorce, you’ll have to do it yourself, baby.” He sneered the endearment, turned it into an insult. “I won’t do it. You’re too convenient for me. They all know I’m not available. Saves all that tedious hanging on.”
“Why did you marry me in the first place?” She hadn’t meant to ask, and she could have kicked herself once the question left her mouth. It made her sound so needy.
“Because I was in love with you.” A mocking smile curled the corner of his mouth. “The trouble is, I’m never in love with anyone for very long. I get restless. We married in three weeks, and had a good month before I went away. It was good, wasn’t it, while it lasted?”
He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the window, staring out at the green peace beyond. “I don’t seem to be able to keep an interest in anything for long. I’m even bored with the photography.” He swung around to face her walking back to the desk. “I’m going to try a few society pictures for a while. It pays well, and I should get my name around. Earn something before I decide to move on to something else.” He picked up the pen and scrawled his signature on the papers.
“Like what?”
“How do I know?” He lifted his hand and shoved it through his thick, dark hair. It was longer than usual, the ends touching his shoulders. “God, Sylvie, I keep hoping someday I’ll meet someone who will make all the difference, or find something I can get really involved in! I thought it was you.” He spun around to face her, an expression she had never seen before on his features. It looked like distress, completely overlying his customary self-satisfied expression, but it was so foreign to him she couldn’t really be sure. “I really thought it was you,” he said in a gentler tone. He came across to her and reached for her hand. “I never mean to hurt people. I just do it, without thinking.” He gazed at her, his grey eyes soft. “You know why I came. The family needs an heir. We agreed, didn’t we? I’ll give you the heir you want.”
“I’ve changed my mind.” What she’d seen in the hall earlier had turned her off the idea. What made her think she could couple with this man with only the thought of making another earl? Once he got her into his bed God knew how she’d manage to lock him out of her mind again. It was hard enough the first time. She might know what a shit existed inside that delectable body. For he was still possessed of a delectable body, the muscles firm and well defined, the skin achingly touchable.
“Why?”
“Because you want Jo Goodson. It was bad enough having the media come to me every time you took somebody new to bed, but not in this house, not while I’m here!” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I can’t do it, Nev. I’m not that promiscuous.”
A sybaritic smile curled his lips. “Are you sure? Jo won’t mind sharing. She wants exclusive use of me, but she’ll do what I want, if I ask her.”
“Bastard!”
The smile broadened. “You’d enjoy it, Sylvie. If you once took that poker out of your ass you might enjoy life more.”
She’d heard that before. It wasn’t in her nature to share the man she loved with anyone. The man she had once loved. It was enough. It was true she’d half heartedly agreed to let him come back to her bed, just to see if they could make a child. The earldom needed an heir, and she longed for a child. Her biological clock had begun its fateful countdown. But it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t live with this any longer. “I want a divorce, Nev.”
He lost the smile. “Sylvie, you don’t really want a divorce, do you?”
Pain twisted inside her. Sylvie sprang to her feet, pushing him away, making him stumble. “It’s a game to you, isn’t it? You don’t care who you hurt, what you say just as long as you get your own way.” She stared at him, wondering how she could have ever allowed him in. The only thing that would wrench her heart now was leaving Rustead Abbey, but now she could bear that, too. “Forget it, Nev. I’m leaving you, leaving this, just —leaving.”
“Without giving any notice?”
God help her, he still thought this was funny. She heard the amusement in his voice. Her anger would only provide him with a few moments’ entertainment. She had to leave this place, put this terrible experience behind her. “Without any notice. Nothing. The place will run itself until you find someone else. But you’ll have to find her, Nev. I’m done here.”
She turned to leave but he was too fast for her. With a mouthful of expletives proving he’d spent too much time around soldiers, he slammed out the door, with a final, “I’ll believe it when I see it!”
* * * * *
“My friend, they all leave, you know that.”
Nathaniel nodded. He knew. But he felt heartsick, watching Sylvie packing to leave.
“Is this different?”
Nathaniel nodded again. Drawing on his considerable resources, he smoothed his features and stood up straight. “This one is special. It sounds foolish, but I love her. I love her very much.”
“You loved before.”
He waved an ethereal hand. “That was different. I knew that was wrong from the start. I couldn’t have her under any circumstances, and it made my resolve easier, somehow. This one, this one is different. If I were corporeal, there would be no reason why I shouldn’t pursue her. One thing, just one little thing.”
“Not so little.” The monk’s voice was deep and strong, but Nathaniel was the only person who could hear it.
“No. I know.” He swallowed. It was everything. “I brought this on myself. Perhaps it’s fate, coming back to claim me. Per
haps, at last, I’ll be allowed to move on.”
The monk lifted his head as though listening. His hood fell back on to his shoulders, and his keen, eagle-eyed features came into sharp focus from the light streaming through the window. Winter sunshine seemed much more accurate, picking out the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the furrows etched into his forehead.
Nathaniel watched Sylvie fold a sheer nightdress, and his mouth watered. He was a gentleman; he had never allowed himself the luxury of spying on her, but sometimes it had been hard. Especially when she flourished garments like that. He looked away, back to the monk.
Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Brother Anselm turned his head and looked directly into Nathaniel’s eyes. His own were dark, and sharp enough to miss nothing. “There is a way,” he said.
A chill went right through Nathaniel. Brother Anselm had said the same thing once before, on the day Vernon had left them to find his destiny and the love of a lifetime. Could it be the same for him?
He waited, watching Brother Anselm gather his thoughts, and come to a decision.
“The earl is about to die.”
“How?”
The monk tucked his hand into his wide sleeve in a characteristic gesture. “He is riding his motor bike. It will overturn and throw him off.”
“A tragedy. There is no heir.”
A sharp pain, almost a physical one, pierced his throat. Sylvie! How would she cope? She had seen her husband off with sharp words, and Nathaniel knew she would regret it for the rest of her life, even though it wasn’t her fault. Perhaps she would decide to stay now. He could hope.
It was a blow, nevertheless, to realize the earldom would die today. Part of him would die, too. He turned to Brother Anselm with eagerness. “Is this the end? Will I pass on with the earldom?”
Brother Anselm sighed. “No. It is not enough. You must atone for your sins.” He paused. “I believe there is a way.”
If he’d had corporeal form, Nathaniel would have taken the brother’s shoulders and shook him. “Tell me!” In all the years he’d languished here, Nathaniel had never shown impatience before. What would be the point? But now—now there might be a chance. He could move on. He had been too long in this place, far too long in this time. He turned and watched Sylvie, the clean line of her cheek, the gentle curves of her body, and a pang of regret shot through him at the thought of leaving her.
Hosts to Ghosts Box Set Page 11
