by Lynn Kurland
He forced a frown to his face. He’d had no choice. It had been instantly obvious to him that she couldn’t be driven daft. She certainly possessed a constitution much stronger than any of her ancestors. Frightening her had been his only recourse. Regrettable, but necessary.
Odd how he had never suffered such pangs of remorse with any other Buchanan.
He started to walk before that thought had any chance to bloom into further speculation. In a few hours, she would be gone. He would have Worthington call Master McShane and have him bring up the proper documents. Then Kendrick could lie down and sleep forever. The very thought brought tranquillity to his heart. Oh, how very tired he was of haunting!
He walked until darkness began to yield the skies to the faint light of dawn. Suddenly he was overcome by a feeling of weariness, not of the mind but of the body. But he didn’t have a physical body; how in the world could he be tired? The only time weariness ever tormented him was when he made the effort of trying to move something from the physical world. Once he’d tried to use the telephone. Simply lifting the receiver had taken him an hour, then he’d been in bed for a week trying to recover from the exertion. He hadn’t been desperate enough to try the like again.
Perhaps a small rest wasn’t such a poor idea. Of course his bedchamber was forbidden him at the moment, but there was that comfortable table downstairs in the wine cellar. Aye, that was the place for him. It would also give him ample opportunity to see if Worthington was imbibing more of that Gascony vintage than was good for him.
“Kendrick, merciful heavens, what are you doing?”
Kendrick was sure he’d only closed his eyes for a moment or two. He glared at his steward. “Trying to rest, old man. A task in which, I might add, you are not aiding me in the slightest.” He rubbed his forehead in an unconscious gesture, then realized what he was doing. As if he could actually have a headache! He scowled anyway, on principle. “What is all that bloody racket?”
“The lady Genevieve found a buyer for the blue room, my lord. Said buyer is now departing with Lady Agatha’s collection.”
Kendrick sat bolt upright. “She did what? She was to be gone by first light!”
Worthington brushed a bit of lint from his jacket. “I think she changed her mind, my dear boy.”
Kendrick leaped to his feet. “Bloody hell, Worthington, why didn’t you tell me?”
“I never cared for Lady Agatha’s taste. An opinion you share, I believe.”
“I wanted Genevieve out, damn it, and you knew it.”
“Indeed,” Worthington observed, unperturbed.
Kendrick shot his steward a displeased glare and stomped up the stairs, wishing he had a body, for he would have made a fine, satisfying sound of irritation if he’d had feet to do it with. He stopped at the entrance to the kitchen and watched his prey charming an old crusty couple whose blue blood was so thick it made their skin match the horrendous blue furniture that was just disappearing out the front door.
“I’m so pleased the furniture is going to a good home,” Genevieve gushed. “I did so want to find the right buyer for it.”
“Rest assured, Lady Seakirk, that we will take painstakingly good care of the items,” the older woman replied, her words dripping with self-importance. “Of course, we have only a few pieces of our own we would consider parting with in trade, some of the lesser items, you understand.”
“Of course, I understand,” Genevieve assured her. “Perhaps later in the month I might drop by.”
“Not without an appointment, my dear. So many important people to see and so little time in which to do it. I couldn’t possibly see you on less than two weeks’ notice.”
Kendrick’s anger was transferred momentarily from Genevieve to the blue blood who was currently belittling her so thoroughly. He was half tempted to jump out of hiding and scare the woman and her retiring husband witless. On second thought, that wasn’t such a bad idea.
“What is the meaning of this?” he thundered, striding out into the hall.
The woman promptly got the vapors. Perhaps she’d heard about Seakirk’s illustrious reputation, one Kendrick never hesitated to augment every chance he had. The more people who believed the keep to be haunted, the more peace and quiet he’d have.
Genevieve flashed Kendrick a glare before she turned a solicitous glance on her customer.
“It’s just the wind, Lady Hampton. Lord Hampton, I believe your car has arrived. I will phone you later. Good-bye.”
With that, she hustled them both out the door and shut it firmly. Kendrick marched over and gave her his most ferocious frown.
“I demand to know what you’re doing!”
She leaned back against the door and yawned. It wasn’t a ladylike yawn, it was a yawn of pure weariness. Or boredom. Kendrick wasn’t sure which it was, but he knew she was trying to insult him with it and he didn’t like it.
“Damn you, wench, answer me!”
Genevieve pushed away from the door. “Boy, moving is hungry work. Worthington,” she hollered, “I’m ready for lunch now.”
“It isn’t time yet, my lady,” Worthington called from the kitchen.
“I don’t care,” Genevieve said crossly. “I guess I’ll have to fix it myself.”
Kendrick’s mouth fell open when she walked past him as if he weren’t there. She had completely missed his glare, which he was sure had been formidable. He could only watch stupidly as she sauntered across the floor, her well-formed shape clad in jeans and a long sweater. Her hair was caught up at the back of her head in something that greatly resembled a horse’s tail. He watched it bob with irrepressible pertness as she continued on her way into the kitchen.
Her disappearance galvanized him to action. Damn the wench if she thought to walk away from him! He strode angrily across the floor and into the kitchen, placing himself next to her as she reached for the handle of the icebox. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so irritated.
“I grow weary of your disrespect!”
She opened the door so quickly, he flinched. Had he possessed a body, the door would have smacked him in the face. As it was, it left welts on his pride.
“I will not be ignored!”
“Worthington, we’re out of ice cream and I really wanted a milk shake. Can you go to the store for me?”
“My lady, ice cream is bad for you.”
The door slammed shut. “I don’t care,” Genevieve said very distinctly. “You’re not my mother and I will not be told what I can and cannot eat. If I want ice cream, that’s what I want and it’s your job to get it for me. Got it?”
Kendrick folded his arms over his chest and waited to see what Worthington would do. Now Genevieve would see who was at the head of the culinary garrison. Worthington’s word in the kitchen was law and it was past time Genevieve realized that.
“Of course, my lady,” Worthington said humbly. “Your wish is my command. Chocolate milk shakes morning, noon and night if it pleases you.”
Kendrick snorted in disgust. So much for spine.
Genevieve gave a very satisfied hrumph and marched out of the kitchen, nose high, horse’s tail bobbing arrogantly. Kendrick grunted.
“Pitiful, Worthington.”
Worthington only smiled contentedly. “She has spirit, that one. You have to admit that.”
“I don’t have to admit anything,” Kendrick muttered as he left the kitchen. His heart grew heavier with every step he took toward his third-floor study. She hadn’t been driven conveniently insane. Frightening her had obviously been a dismal failure. After the insulting lack of respect and disturbing lack of fear she had shown that afternoon, Kendrick knew there was only one choice left him.
He’d have to kill her.
Genevieve wiped her hands on her jeans as she sat in front of the fireplace in her room much later that evening, waiting for her ghost. She had no doubts he would appear that night and be furious over her treatment of him that afternoon. If there was one thing he obviously
couldn’t bear, it was to be ignored. Well, she wouldn’t ignore him any more. Once he appeared, she’d invite him to sit. They would talk calmly and rationally. There was certainly nothing a bit of communication couldn’t solve.
Was he testing her, just to see what she was made of? Or was he trying to frighten her into leaving? Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. She could learn to put up with him. It could work out tolerably well for the both of them.
She felt the hair on the back of her neck stand up and knew he was in her room. Then she looked in the long mirror hanging on the wall and caught the reflection of a blade hovering in the air behind her. She gulped.
Then the dagger positioned itself over her back. She closed her eyes in self-defense.
“That’s sort of the cowardly way of doing it, isn’t it?” she squeaked, clinging to the arms of the chair. At any moment, she was sure she would hear the sound of wood splintering from the force of her grip.
The knife jerked up suddenly. “I beg your pardon?”
“Stabbing me in the back,” she choked, praying she could distract him with a bit of mindless chatter. “Sort of a spineless way to go about it, don’t you think?” She winced. Oh, yes, Genevieve, insult him.
“As my only thought was to kill you as quickly as possible, I truly did not care how the deed was accomplished.”
“Wouldn’t you rather look me in the eye while you’re at it?” she offered, trying to buy more time.
“Damnation, but you are a saucy wench!”
Genevieve felt, rather than heard, him move. She soon found herself staring at thick, heavy thighs on a pair of long legs that put his groin about level with her nose. He had obviously opted for comfort that night, because he was out of armor and into faded denim. She hastily forced her eyes up past his slim hips, past the waistband of his jeans, then took in the view of his sweatshirt. Her blood pressure rose several notches. The sweatshirt was black, a bit on the ratty side, and emblazoned with the words Death to the Buchanans.
“How clever,” she said weakly.
He grunted. Well, at least his arms were still down by his sides. She followed them up, noting the width of his chest and shoulders, then the thickness of his neck. Then she saw his face.
How in the world had she ever had the presence of mind to even think around him, much less ignore him? He was so ruggedly handsome, he stole her breath away. Now, this was the way to die if she were going to go. She looked past the dark hair that hung below his shoulders, then looked up to his square jaw, firm lips and sculpted cheekbones. Such a strong face, with rugged, masculine features. Yes, indeed, this was her knight. Oh, how devastating he must have been in real life! She lifted her eyes to his again and their color caught her off guard.
“Your eyes are the most amazing shade of green,” she blurted out.
“My mother’s,” he said shortly.
“Your mother’s?” she echoed, suppressing the urge to fan her cheeks and cool down her blush.
“My eyes,” he growled impatiently. “I have my mother’s eyes.” He growled again, muttering a curse under his breath. “My father used to say they were the color of sage after it had been in the sun too long.”
“How romantic,” Genevieve said, smiling in delight. “But he was joking, of course.” With parents like that, surely this ghost couldn’t be all bad.
He was speechless for a moment or two. Then he managed an unconvincing grunt.
“Aye, he was.”
“You have a lovely accent, you know.”
He clapped his hand to his forehead, exasperated. “This is possibly the most ridiculous situation I have ever found myself in,” he exclaimed. “I come to kill a woman and now I stand chatting with her as calmly as if we strolled in the king’s garden. By the saints, demoiselle, you are making me daft!”
“Oh, but I’m sure you really don’t want to kill me,” Genevieve said quickly. “I’d really like to chat. In fact, why don’t you have a seat and let’s talk—”
“You foolish twit,” he sputtered in frustration. “I do want to kill you! Why do you think I brought this bloody knife?”
Genevieve was hard-pressed to stifle her indulgent smile. Why, the man was a pushover. He’d tried to intimidate her for three days with pretend swords and things and now he was trying to make her think his weapon was real? Not likely. Her courage returned in a rush. She held out her hand.
“I’m Genevieve.”
“I know who you are!”
She smiled, unperturbed. “How nice. And you are…” she trailed off encouragingly.
He dropped the knife onto the chair facing her, then threw up his hands in despair.
“You, my lady,” he said with a pained look, “would drive a lunatic to madness. By the saints, will you look what I’ve been reduced to?” He turned and walked toward the door, muttering as he went. “A gelding, that’s what I’ve been reduced to. At least my father cannot see my sorry state. Saints, how he would roar!”
He vanished, the echo of his deep voice hanging in the air.
For several moments Genevieve stared at the place where he had been. Amazement was the only word she could come up with to describe her feelings. Not only had he not truly brandished his pretend knife, he had hardly shouted at her at all and their conversation had been almost polite. There was hope for him after all.
And how that knowledge pleased her. Cleaned up from all the blood and gore, he was certainly an extraordinarily handsome man. An extraordinarily handsome ghost, she corrected herself with a smile. Yes, encountering him now and then would be a pleasure. A gorgeous man who would never bother her with physical demands she wasn’t sure she knew how to satisfy. Nice, safe conversation and nothing else. Life just got better all the time.
She smiled indulgently at her memories of the evening. Her ghost had brandished that knife initially as if he actually meant to do her harm. And yet, despite his gruff demeanor, he didn’t look as though he had the heart to truly hurt a woman. A man perhaps, but not a woman.
She looked at the knife in the chair opposite her. Strange how he had managed to leave it behind when all his other weapons had disappeared. If she touched it, would her hands slide right through it as if it weren’t there? She rose slowly, not wanting to disturb any kind of illusion he might have set up for her benefit. The firelight gleamed dully on the blade, which was indeed lying on the cushion. Taking a deep breath, Genevieve reached down and touched the slim hilt.
It was cold under her fingers.
She picked up the knife and began to tremble. Her trembles turned instantly into violent shudders. The dagger slipped from her fingers and she felt the room begin to spin out of control. Good grief, it was real! He could have killed her!
She felt comforting blackness descending and she didn’t fight it. Maybe he’d take pity on her and kill her while she was passed out. She’d wake on a fluffy cloud with a harp in her hands.
Go ahead, handsome ghoul. I’ll never feel it.
Kendrick stood over the crumpled heap of his latest victim. A trace of a smile flitted over his features. How his grandmother would have liked the young woman who had stood up to him so bravely. Grandmother Gwen never could abide a girl without spunk.
He sighed. He’d rouse Worthington and have him put Genevieve back to bed. There was no sense in her catching her death from the cold. He left the knife on the floor next to her. Worthington would have to get that too. Holding it for so long had exhausted Kendrick. It was one thing to wield a weapon conjured up out of thin air and a great amount of imagination; it was quite another to pick up something from the physical world.
He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. Ah, when had it happened? When had he become such a spineless woman that he couldn’t take a blade and plunge it through his enemy’s heart?
Since his enemy had turned out to be a fetching maid with a sharp tongue and a vast amount of courage, that’s when. By St. George’s knees, he couldn’t bring himself to kill a woman, no matter what her
parentage.
“Pitiful, Seakirk,” he chided himself. “Truly pitiful.”
He made Genevieve’s inert form a small bow, conceding the battle. The outcome of the war, however, was yet to be determined.
He had the sinking feeling he wasn’t going to win this one.
Chapter Six
Bryan McShane unfolded his handkerchief and refolded it, looking in vain for a bit of fabric that wasn’t already damp with sweat. How he hated being called in to Maledica’s office, especially when the news he had to deliver was not what his superior was expecting!
“Go on in, Bryan,” a sympathetic voice encouraged.
Bryan stole a look at Cecelia, Mr. Maledica’s secretary, and managed a faint smile in the face of her understanding expression. How in the world did she manage to work for the man? Bryan would have permanent hives if he were in her place.
His timid knock was answered by an impatient bark to enter. He did, mopping his hands a final time on his handkerchief and slipping it into his pocket. He stared at the coat of arms hanging behind his employer and tried not to let the sight of the dragon rampant unnerve him. At least watching the red dragon was less unnerving than watching Maledica.
“G-good m-morning, sir,” he squeaked.
“News,” Maledica demanded. “Don’t quiver, McShane. Stand still and report.”
Bryan didn’t dare come any closer to the massive wooden desk than he already was, not even to use one of the heavy leather chairs as a shield. Maledica probably could have reached across the desk and throttled him before Bryan would have been the wiser.
It was only by chance that he had uncovered just how dangerous his employer was, though it was something that should have been apparent by the man’s appearance. Maledica was tall and very broad, something his suitcoats did nothing to hide. Along with his physique was a face that gave nothing away, features built for concealing facts, for encouraging the curious to keep their questions to themselves. The only thing that might have alerted anyone to the true nature of the man was his eyes, eyes that glinted with a continually smoldering anger and bitter amusement, as if to say I could reduce you to nothing without an effort. Bryan might have been able to ignore the warning in Maledica’s eyes had he not come out of the office late one night, following his employer by a few purely coincidental steps. A thug had jumped out from the alley. Maledica had leveled the chap with one powerful blow to the face. Bryan hadn’t loitered about to see what was left of the poor bloke, for fear his end would be along the same lines.
