Hosts to Ghosts Box Set

by Lynne Connolly

  When she looked up, Brother Anselm was gone. Nathaniel touched her hand. “Come, my love. Let’s complete the marriage.”

  His eyes radiated warmth, love and certainty. She bathed in its glow. “You have no doubts?”

  “If I have, it’s too late. Do I look as if I have any doubts?” he took both her hands in his. “Sylvie, I fell in love with you over years. Now I’m committed, and ready to do whatever I can to keep us together. We may have to spend some years apart, and your promise to me still stands. If you find someone else to make you happy, then I’ll be content. You must not spend the rest of your life hoping for death.”

  She swallowed and nodded. “I promised. But I won’t go looking.” She looked up into his dear face, half in light, half in shadow. “I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone to compare with you.”

  He bent and touched his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “I have something for you.” He released her hands to delve into the pocket of his trousers, bringing out something that gleamed in the candlelight. Lifting her hand, he slipped on the ring.

  The stone was a table-cut emerald, surrounded by small half pearls. She gazed down at it. “I’ve never seen this before.”

  “It has been hidden for many years. Dropped and lost, but we wraiths know all the hidden places. It once belonged to someone else I loved. Now it’s yours.”

  “Thank you.”

  His smile lightened when she looked up at him. “You can thank me another way.”

  They blew out the candles, left the chapel and went upstairs to bed.

  * * * * *

  They undressed each other, gently and carefully as though they had all the time in the world. They touched, but did not kiss the skin they exposed. She smoothed her hand up his arm, feeling the muscles ripple as he reached for her. Only when they were naked did he draw her close, into his arms, and bend his head to kiss her.

  His first kiss was reverent, worshipful, even. She returned it in the same spirit, her lips softly molding to the pressure of his. When he drew back, his whispered, his breath hot on her lips, “My love, my wife.”

  “My husband.” This man who occupied the body of her late husband was so different, she wondered how he could look anything like Nev. She never thought of Nev when she looked at Nathaniel, only of him, his steadfastness, his bravery and his inner strength.

  Demonstrating his physical strength, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed. Sylvie’s bed was a four-poster, but a modern one, gauzy drapes replacing the heavy curtains of yesteryear. He reached out a hand and released the ties before he joined her, surrounding them in cloudy isolation.

  Now they were alone, each other their only reality. Their hands joined before their mouths, before releasing and drifting down each other’s bodies, caressing, seeking to give pleasure, to increase the sense of beauty.

  When he touched her, her body rose to his unspoken request, arousing and soothing at the same time in a sensual paradox. She felt his shudders when she touched him.

  Their union seemed inevitable, as sacred as the ceremony downstairs, the earthly equivalent of their spiritual joining. They hadn’t exchanged a word, only gazed worshipfully into each other’s’ eyes, glancing down when caressing, guiding their hands to new delights, new touches.

  For it all felt new to Sylvie. When he lifted up and she opened her legs to take him in, the movement seemed as natural as breathing.

  He entered her without guidance and sank softly and deeply into the heart of her being. Willingly she opened to him, body, heart and soul, and felt the filling of her body as a fulfillment she had waited for all her life.

  The bed moved beneath her and she tensed her body to take his thrusts as deeply as she could, lifting her knees to hug his waist and hips. Still they didn’t talk, but small gasps and groans punctuated their movements, and the slow rising of impossible pleasure.

  She had no idea how long they moved together, only aware of the growing heat inside her body, heat she fought hard to control. She wanted this to be his, but he seemed possessed of the same notion. He wanted to bring her all the pleasure he could.

  The heat rose in a spiral, taking her up and past this existence. He circled around her, touching her, loving her, blending his spirit with hers. It was beautiful, beyond all her understanding, but she did not care. The being was all.

  She exploded in a shower of bright sparks, gasping his name, falling back with a languorous drift of joy.

  When she opened her eyes, he was waiting for her, blue eyes bright with love. “And here we are,” he said.

  “Yes. Here we are.”

  Chapter Ten

  Sylvie woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed.

  She was alone, the curtains still closed, but she could see the light of day through its gauzy folds. Only the disturbed sheets and the lingering scent of lovemaking told her the night before had been more than a dream. His love had humbled her; his worship brought her to his feet with love for him. Although his absence spoke of a life without him, she would always have last night, and the remembrance of the time their souls had touched.

  He would never leave her.

  In no hurry to discover what she already knew, she reluctantly left her bed and went into the bathroom to shower. There was no evidence he’d been there. The shower stall was dry, and so were the towels. It was as though he’d never been there, but he had. He was in her heart now, for all time.

  Too early to mourn, Sylvie decided to celebrate what he’d given her and dressed in red. Red trousers, a tight fitting red t-shirt and a long, flowing knitted jacket, because after all, it was Christmas Day and it was cold. No snow though. When she’d dressed she opened the drapes at the window. The same thin sunshine filtered through the clouds, just as it had a week ago when he’d come off his bike and nearly died.

  Now he was gone. Had he gone on, as he wanted, to whatever waited for him, or had he remained behind, a wraith once more? She reached out with her senses, but felt nothing. Not the black void that had waited for her before, but a softer, gentler space. She wasn’t afraid any more.

  She crossed the room and stood before her mirror, brushing her hair, remembering how he’d loved to run his fingers through it, and how he’d stood behind her, looking into this same mirror, as though trying to memorize them both. The memories were to be treasured. No pang of loss entered her world. Not yet, though she supposed it would. When it did, perhaps she would take herself up to London for a while. She wasn’t sure she could bear it, and if he’d left the Abbey, it wouldn’t matter where she was.

  When she opened the door to her suite, a muffled clang told her the TV people were still here. Downstairs, chaos prevailed, people trailing across the hall with battered boxes, cases and wires bundled into untidy knots. The crew should have left the night before, but they must have decided to try for another night. Sylvie decided not to fuss.

  Angela Murdoch was in a state of high excitement. “Thank you so much, Countess!” she bubbled, smiling all the while. “It has been delightful. I’ll send you a copy of the program before it goes out, but I think you’ll be pleased! It will bring more tourists when the season starts! If I were you, I’d make a display of the two brothers, perhaps give them a special exhibit.” She turned as the two mediums entered the room, looking decidedly the worse for wear. Even Jo Goodson’s usually immaculate appearance was dulled, her hair not perfectly groomed, her make up very light and decidedly shaky in places.

  Sylvie greeted them coolly, but apart from a hissed, “I’ll work at it, but I’ll get you yet!” from Doris. Jo stared at her dully.

  “It’s all gone,” she said. Sylvie could almost feel sorry for her, but her compassion didn’t quite go that far.

  Within half an hour, the equipment was stowed in the vans, and the crew had left. Doris and Jo roared away in a sweet little convertible, the black hood secured against the winter chill.

  Sylvie went back indoors and set about looking for Nathaniel.

  H
e was lying dead somewhere.

  Most of the staff had the day off, but some had promised to call in later in the day. Sylvie didn’t want them. She wanted the day to herself, but she knew she had to be sensible. When she found Nathaniel she would have to set everything in train. A doctor, to pronounce him dead, the lawyer, to see what havoc Nev had caused in his will, and all the other paraphernalia that went with the death of a peer.

  When she found Nathaniel, this warm cocoon would melt away as though it had never been and she would have to face the reality of living without him. But this was her task, hers to fulfill. Her last service to his human body.

  She toured the house, starting with the bedrooms, thinking he’d got up and left her to lie down somewhere else. She hoped he hadn’t left her for long. She couldn’t bear to think of him lying alone, just waiting.

  The old doors creaked a little when she opened them. This wasn’t the public part of the house, and although well kept, wasn’t as immaculate as the part that was on public display, the part with all the greatest treasures of the Abbey.

  But the bedrooms were empty and cold, so she went up to the Long Gallery and stared down the great expanse of polished oak floors and great portraits of past earls and countesses. She didn’t walk half way down to stare at his portrait, set next to his brothers’. She didn’t need to do that. She could describe the way he looked, now and then, the way he felt, the way he sounded.

  Turning abruptly, she left. Why hadn’t she thought of it before?

  At nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, she finally found him.

  He sat in the front pew in the chapel, hair loose around his shoulders, dressed simply in a pair of plain black trousers and a polo shirt. His eyes were closed, and she felt a pang when she realized she wouldn’t see those blue eyes again this side of the grave. She walked in front of him, and tried to memorize his face, to remember in her dreams. He looked alive, his skin fresh and smooth, as though he was asleep, not dead.

  Sylvie choked on her first sob since she’d woken that morning. Not yet.

  Almost as a reflex, something to do, she reached out and took his wrist between her thumb and finger. She felt a single throb.

  Her heart almost stopped. Could she see his eyes move under the closed lids? Had she imagined the single beat under her thumb? Was he actually warm, or was this all in her mind?

  Hope leapt inside her, her heart increasing in response before she realized she shouldn’t use her thumb, because it had a pulse of its own.

  She shifted her grip, putting her first two fingers over the place where his pulse should be. She had to know for sure, had to quell the hope that had sprung unbidden inside her.

  Another throb. Sure, slow, but there.

  Dear God, he was alive!

  * * * * *

  Time accelerated for Sylvie. She ran for the nearest phone, unlocked the great front door and gave the emergency services instructions how to get to the Chapel, before calling the steward and briefly bringing him up to date. He promised to drive straight over.

  He hadn’t arrived by the time the paramedics were ready to leave, but without a second thought, she left with them. The insurers of the Abbey would probably have gone insane, knowing the door to the treasures of the Abbey was open, but she was past caring.

  She didn’t leave Nathaniel’s side until they made her, before they wheeled him in to the emergency room. She used a payphone to call the steward, who told her he’d arrived and secured the Abbey. Staff were in place, and would stay until she returned. He scolded her for spending the time alone, but she hardly listened. When she saw someone leave the emergency room, she snapped, “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for looking after things.” Cutting the connection, she put the phone back and hurried forward.

  The man looked tired, but not tight, that look she knew meant the worst. She hadn’t stopped expecting the worst, but this was Christmas Day, and by the terms of his arrangement, Nathaniel should have died at dawn, when the new sun appeared above the horizon. Every hour since had been a bonus. He was in her world, for just a little longer.

  She waited, and the surgeon spoke to her. He didn’t take her into the almost unbearably mundane ‘family room’ so hope, unwanted but still there, burgeoned inside her. Mr. Jones would have taken her in there if the news was bad.

  “I understand he had an accident a week ago.” She nodded. The surgeon frowned. “If I had been the consultant in charge, I wouldn’t have let him leave without that final CT scan. That omission could have killed him. The first scan missed it, but I’m sure the second would have caught it.”

  She couldn’t stand it anymore. “Caught what?”

  “He had a small subdural hematoma. It grew during the last few days until the clot finally caused his unconsciousness.” He paused, biting his lip. “Lady Rustead, this is extremely serious. You understand?”

  “I thought he was dead when I found him.”

  He nodded. “He very nearly was. He needs surgery. He’s being prepped now, and he’ll go straight up.”

  “Can I see him?”

  “No, not yet. There’s no time. A nurse will take you up to the waiting room, but it might be some time before your husband leaves theater.” Mr. Jones’s face cleared when someone approached him from behind Sylvie. “Here she is now. Sister Macnamara, can you take Lady Rustead up and make sure she’s comfortable? Please answer any questions she might have.”

  Sylvie had no questions, but now, more than ever, that sneaky spark of hope took up residence.

  Chapter Eleven

  Nathaniel opened his eyes, wondering if he would see angels or devils and deciding he didn’t much care. The one person he wanted to see wouldn’t be there.

  The transition had been fairly painless. One excruciating jolt of pain, and it was all over. He’d sunk into death, murmuring the prayers he’d been taught as a child, and a last, bittersweet memory of his love.

  “He’s waking up.” The voice he heard confirmed one thing; there were Americans in heaven.

  “Nathaniel?”

  Not possible.

  He blinked, clearing his vision and looked up. Dark hair smoothly drawn back from the face he loved, the one face he thought he’d have to wait a long time to see again. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything.

  “Nathaniel, welcome back.”

  Back?

  His mind whirled with possibilities as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was lying in a hospital bed, the sheets crisply scrunched around his supine body. Something was attached to his hand; when he moved his arm slightly, he felt the pull of something. He looked down. A tube of some clear liquid. Light streamed in through the large window, and a TV hung suspended from the ceiling, just where he could see it. It wasn’t switched on. He stared at the blank screen, trying to make sense of everything.

  A strong sense of déjà vu made him think he’d dreamed the intervening week, that he’d just had the motorcycle accident. No, he couldn’t have imagined that gorgeous body, the little mole under her left breast he’d loved to kiss, the slender, strong legs wound around his body.

  The miracle happened and he felt a stirring at his groin. He smiled, finally accepting he was still earth bound.

  He asked the most cliché-ridden question he could, but he badly needed to know the answer. “What happened?”

  “You collapsed. When you refused the second CT scan a week ago, you’d developed what they called an acute subdural hematoma.”

  He searched his brain. He’d seen that in ‘Gray’s Anatomy,’ hadn’t he? Yes, a brain bleed, often started after head trauma. He nodded, to show he understood. “Go on.”

  “They operated, and they got the clot out. You’ll be fine, they think, but you have to take some medication to prevent possible seizures, and you have to come back for a few scans, just to make sure it’s all settled down.”

  “Baby, you’ll want to be alone with your husband. Nice to see you back, young man. Perhaps you’ll take proper car
e of our daughter now.” An older face swam into vision. He still felt disorientated, but he hoped that would pass. This must be Sylvie’s mother. Now he concentrated, he could easily see the family resemblance. Sylvie’s mother was an elegant, well-groomed woman who moved with unconscious grace. He watched her cross the room to the door and felt glad that he’d seen her. Especially glad that Sylvie would grow into something very like this woman. It would be easy to love her.

  For all his life. For all their lives. Could it really be possible?

  He reached for Sylvie’s hand, only dimly hearing the door close softly, turning his head to feast on her. “You look tired.” Shadows darkened her eyes, and the faint blush had left her cheeks.

  “Yes,” she said, making no attempt to hide her exhaustion. “But I’ll sleep better now. They’ve given me somewhere to sleep, and I might actually use it tonight.”

  “Talk to me, Sylvie. Tell me what’s happened, why I’m still here.”

  Her hand tightened around his. “I don’t know. I found you in the chapel, and you were still alive, so I called an ambulance. They said the blood clot would have killed you if I’d been another hour finding you.” She looked away, out of the window, and when she turned back, tears misted her eyes. “When they brought you here, they said you might die. I was ready for that, or so I thought. They operated, they took you to ICU and then they brought you here. They said your personality might change, you might have seizures, or find some numbness. They won’t let you go until they’ve done all the tests, but you’re fine. You’re alive.”

  He smiled. “So I am. Come and lie next to me, my love. Please. I won’t believe it until I can hold you again.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. He guessed she wanted this as much as he did. Needed it, even. Careful not to dislodge the drip in his hand, she moved the tube so she could slip under it, and into his arms.