by Lynn Kurland
“Nazir takes some getting used to.”
“So I see. Why is he with you?”
“He pledged fealty to me in life and still seems to be bound by that vow. He will not harm you, if that concerns you. He is as good as his word.”
“He looks merciless.”
“He is. Or was.” He sat back and stared out thoughtfully over the dirt field in front of them. “I made the mistake of stealing a kiss or two from his sister while I was in the Holy Land, and Nazir swore vengeance. He hunted me tirelessly, always just a step or two behind me, never coming out in the open where I might have fought him like a man.”
“Lies!” an invisible being shouted angrily.
Kendrick chuckled. “We fought many times but neither could gain the advantage. And that says much about his skill, for my father was the finest swordsman in England and I had learned well his craft. The final battle between Nazir and me came one moonlit night in the desert. We fought until I thought my arms would fall off. Then behind him I spotted a poisonous serpent. I pulled the knife from my belt and flung it at the beast before it could strike Nazir. When he realized what I’d done, saving his life in spite of his poor treatment of me, he dropped to his knees and pledged me his fealty.” He shrugged with a smile. “My father almost had apoplexy when I came riding through the gates with a Saracen in my guard.”
Genevieve looked at his sword and sighed. “It must have been a harsh world to live in. I can’t imagine always having to look over my shoulder to make sure no one was coming after me.”
He held up his blade and turned it this way and that, watching the sun glance off it. “It never seemed that bad, most likely because we had nothing else to compare it to.”
Genevieve gasped softly. There was an emerald the size of a silver dollar in the hilt. “Good grief. Was that there originally?”
He lifted one eyebrow arrogantly. “I was a wealthy man. Would you care for proof?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come with me and I’ll show you.”
She gathered up her things and then jumped as she noticed the garden was once again a garden and her dress was once again her jeans and sweatshirt. She frowned at him. “I wish you’d tell me before you do that kind of thing. It’s unnerving.”
“You’re a bit skittish, Genevieve.”
“You would be too if you were in my shoes,” she replied, trying to remain unaffected by his deadly dimple and his mischievous grin.
“Knowing your fondness for fainting at the slightest provocation, I’ll try to keep my illusions down to a minimum.”
“I never faint. Except for that once and you would have fainted too,” she added as she followed him back to the house. “I thought you were going to kill me!”
He turned around so fast, she almost walked through him.
“And you think I’ve given up on the idea?”
“You wouldn’t have rescued me on the beach if you’d still wanted me dead,” she said, tilting her chin up to give herself courage. Oh, how grateful she was that he was a ghost. She would have been quaking in her Keds if he’d been made of flesh and blood. He was much taller than she was and built like a football player. Not the ones who threw the ball, but one of the burly ones who tried to mow down all the other ones. Her knowledge of football was scant but she knew how big they looked on television. Kendrick was that kind of big.
“I could have rescued you just to have the pleasure of killing you,” he said.
“You know it won’t solve your problem.”
“And letting you live will?”
“I never said that. But at least you have some company. That has to be worth something.”
His expression softened. “Aye, it is. And you are very beautiful company.” He smiled and motioned to the house with his head. “Let’s go inside and I’ll show you my den of iniquity.”
Genevieve hesitated, feeling as if she’d never before encountered the ghost before her. Was he being nice to her just so he could kill her later? Had he suddenly been possessed by a knight in shining armor or was this what he was really like underneath all those grumbles?
“Genevieve?”
She looked up at him and smiled reflexively at the smile he wore. Whatever else he might be, he was certainly being pleasant this afternoon. It was probably a good idea to take advantage of it while she could. She followed him obediently, as if she’d spent the whole of her life dealing with the undead.
“Lord Kendrick, Lady Genevieve,” Worthington bowed as they passed, speaking as if there were nothing at all odd about the fact that she was walking with a ghost.
To her surprise, she found she was beginning to think of it as normal too. She might have begun to forget Kendrick’s undeadly status if it hadn’t been for his disconcerting habit of walking through whatever was in his way. It was lucky he’d never come back to life; he’d be nothing but bruises until he reaccustomed himself to a body.
She followed him up the stairs to the third floor and down the hallway. The lights came on magically as they passed.
“How do you do that?”
He winked at her over his shoulder. “Centuries of practice.” He stopped before a door and bowed. “My lair. After you, my lady.”
Genevieve looked at the door and frowned. It was one she’d been trying to open for a solid week. So this was Kendrick’s hiding place. She could hardly wait to see all the cobwebs and dust gathered in the corners. Did he have a coffin too?
She opened the door and stopped so suddenly that Kendrick walked right through her. His passing left the oddest sensation in the pit of her stomach.
Well, so much for cobwebs and inches of dust. Kendrick was obviously a man who liked his creature comforts. There was a fireplace, several bookcases lined with dust-free books, a large chair with a footstool and a pair of chairs flanking a side table supporting many crystal decanters.
“Shall I give you the tour?”
She nodded, curious about what it was he wanted to show her. She followed him across the room, then stopped behind him as he paused in front of another door.
“The shrine,” he said with a deprecating smile. “Enter at your own risk.”
Genevieve opened the door hesitantly and peeked inside. She sucked in her breath suddenly as the torches on the walls lit themselves, revealing a narrow room that ran probably the length of the castle. It was filled to overflowing with antiques—weapons mostly, but here and there a few pieces of furniture, and numerous suits of armor.
“Good grief,” she breathed. “Where did you get all this stuff?”
“Off the dead bodies of all the Buchanans I killed.”
She whirled on him and he quickly put up his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“That was a jest, Genevieve. I’ve managed to acquire most of it in various legal ways, though I’m not above admitting that a few of the acquisitions were a bit on the unsavory side.” He motioned to a doorway on her right. “In here are my personal things. Open the door and go in.” He sighed as he followed her. “A Buchanan in my private study. I think I’ve gone daft.”
A retort was on the tip of her tongue but it fell off at the sight of the small, intimate room. The walls were paneled in a dark wood, making the room seem just that much more private. One wall sported bookshelves, but she didn’t take the time to look at the volumes. The painting above Kendrick’s desk was what drew her attention.
“My family,” he said, following her eyes.
She easily identified his father, whom Kendrick strongly resembled. Gray eyes twinkled and the man looked to be on the verge of grinning. A beautiful woman stood next to him, her long blonde hair flowing over one shoulder like threads of fine silk. Genevieve stood on her tiptoes to get a good look at Kendrick’s mother’s eyes.
“I’ll be darned,” she breathed. “They were green.”
Kendrick chuckled. “ ’Tis only now you believe me?”
She smiled and then continued to study the painting. “I recognize you and J
ason but who are the rest?”
“My mother and father, Anne and Robin, and my older brother, Phillip.” He moved to stand next to her. “That deceptively angelic-looking girl is my sister, Mary.”
“She’s very beautiful,” Genevieve murmured.
“Aye, she was,” he said wistfully. “She died of consumption the year before I was murdered. It was very hard on my sire. He ever pretended gruffness in public but underneath he was very tenderhearted.” He sighed and put his shoulders back. “They’re all together now, a fact about which I am very envious.”
“How do you know?” she asked, turning to look up at him.
“They each came in turn to say farewell to me as they passed over to the other side.”
“That’s good to know,” she said quietly.
“For some, I’m sure it is. Now,” he said, “you can have a look at my mail and then I will show you my sword.”
“Who painted that portrait?’ she asked, following him.
“Jonathan, Matilda’s grandson. He’s one of the few of her children I could tolerate. He came along about the time I finally resigned myself to the fact that I was indeed very unalive. He captured my family from my descriptions better than I could have with a photograph.”
She followed him over to a glass case. It contained a well-preserved suit of medieval chain mail and clothing obviously from the same time period. It was hard to fathom that what she saw before her had actually belonged to Kendrick while he was alive. She looked at his surcoat, which was embroidered with a black lion rampant. The turquoise color of his eye startled her.
“My grandmother’s eyes were that color,” Kendrick said. “That is how my grandfather honored her.”
“He loved her very much.”
“Aye, very much. And she him. She died only a few hours after he did in their advanced years. My father begged her to tarry, for he loved her deeply, but she would not. She said the light of her life had been extinguished; what need had she to remain? And so, after they had laid my grandfather Rhys out in the great hall and the villagers had come to pay their respects, my grandmother stretched herself out beside him and put her hand over his. She closed her eyes and slept, never to wake again. My mother swore she saw my grandfather’s spirit take his lady’s hand and lift her spirit up, but I never believed it. Until later, of course. It’s amazing how blind we are when our spirits are housed in mortal flesh.”
Kendrick seemed to find the sentiment a bit uncomfortable. He cleared his throat and managed a gruff sort of grunt. “Now, I will show you proof that I was once a wealthy knight capable of putting a precious gem or two in my sword.” He led her over to a long wooden case resting on a tall side table. He made a motion for her to open it.
Lifting the lid revealed a very long, very old, very well-kept broadsword. It was polished into almost painful brightness. And there, in the hilt, was an egg-sized emerald. She reached out and ran her finger over it in awe.
“Wow,” she said, at a loss for words. “This was yours?”
“Aye,” he said proudly. “And a fine weapon it was. The balance was perfect. The edge could cleave a stone in twain, or a pesky infidel, whichever happened to be in my way at the time.”
She nodded and ran her fingers over the edge of the blade. She jerked her hand back in shock, watching the blood squirt from two out of three fingers.
“Woman, have you gone daft?” Kendrick exclaimed. “Tear off your sleeve and bind your hand!”
It was amazing how much blood could come out of such tiny appendages. Damn, she had bled all over the beautifully lined case. Well, perhaps soap and water would take that out. Or maybe some vinegar. Wasn’t that what her mother had used to clean off stains? Or was it lemon juice? No, lemon juice was to drink. And vinegar was for salad dressing. Oh dear, now she was bleeding onto the floor.
“Genevieve, tear off your sleeve!” Kendrick bellowed.
Maybe some prewash detergent. She felt like giggling. Hell, maybe she’d just throw the whole thing into the wash. She looked at her hand again. Wow, was that bone?
“Genevieve!”
She winced at the force of his yell and then felt her sweatshirt sleeve being pulled down around her wrist. Kendrick gave it one final tug and then collapsed to the floor.
“Bind your hand,” he said faintly. “Have Worthington take you to the infirmary.”
“Kendrick—”
“Now!” he coughed. “Make haste!”
She wrapped the cloth around her fingers, then sank to her knees beside him. “Are you hurt?” she asked anxiously.
“Bloody hell, woman, will you just go?” he thundered, his voice echoing off the walls.
She stumbled to her feet and then hesitated. “You’re sure…”
“Aye,” he said, pointing toward the door. “Begone!”
She staggered from the room, praying she’d find Worthington before she went into shock. Somehow she managed to work her way down to the main floor before she began to tremble violently. Worthington was standing by the long table in the great hall, polishing a silver tea service. He turned as he heard her and then went white as a sheet.
“My lady…”
“My fault,” she whispered. “You drive, Worthington. I think I’m going to faint.”
He caught her as she pitched forward.
Chapter Ten
The excursion into the village was quick and relatively painless; painless only because Worthington produced a flask of brandy and poured half of it down Genevieve before they reached the hospital.
The stitching was something she would have preferred to forget. The worst thing about it was listening to the nurses marvel at the severity of the gashes. Fortunately the doctor was deft and quick. Worthington gave him a solemn promise that Lady Genevieve would not be allowed into the kitchen again nor anywhere else where she might be tempted to reach for the wrong end of a knife.
“It was his bloody sword, Worthington,” she muttered crossly as he helped her into the car.
“I know, my lady,” Worthington said in his droll voice. “And it’s not nice to say bloody.”
“Bloody hell,” she grumbled as he shut the door. He was her butler, not her mother. She was thirty years old, old enough to decide for herself how she’d swear.
By the time they were home, she was feeling the full effects of the pain shot mixed with old brandy. She giggled all the way up the stairs and then did a shaky swan dive onto Kendrick’s bed.
“The judges give it a perfect ten,” she slurred just before she began to snore.
Worthington took off her shoes and covered her up with a blanket, clucking his tongue and shaking his head. But how could he be anything less than pleased with the spirited Colonist who snored so charmingly? She was just the thing to bring Kendrick out of the foul humor he’d been in for the last seven hundred years.
Worthington knew all about it. He was the direct descendant of the man who had been Kendrick’s squire in the thirteenth century. He’d grown up at Seakirk listening to his father grumble about Kendrick’s moods for years. When his father had passed on, Worthington had taken over the job of steward without hesitation. He was actually very fond of the young lord and did what he could to ease Kendrick’s pain.
And now there was Genevieve. Worthington had fallen under her spell the moment she claimed Kendrick’s chamber as her own. Her spunk since then had only raised Worthington’s opinion of her. It was a pity there was no hope for the pair. Out of all the Buchanan women, Genevieve was certainly the only one who could have made a fitting wife for Kendrick. And Kendrick needed a wife. In all the years Worthington had known him, he’d never known Kendrick to smile other than grimly or bitterly. Laugh? Never. Grumble? Continuously. And all those poor Buchanans he had driven insane. Worthington shook his head as he closed the bed curtains and made his way to the door. No, it was high time Kendrick allowed his heart to thaw, and Worthington was convinced Genevieve was the woman who could help His Lordship in that task.
&nbs
p; Worthington mounted the steps to the third floor and entered his lord’s study. Kendrick was barely discernible as he sat sprawled in his massive chair.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“Rather inebriated at the moment, my lord. She came very close to severing the fingers completely. The physician assured me, however, that she would mend. I left her snoring in a very ladylike manner in your chamber.”
Kendrick closed his eyes. “Thank God,” he said, sounding extraordinarily relieved. “Do take care of her, Worthington. It will be several days before I regain my strength and can see to her.” He opened his eyes and pinned Worthington to the spot. “You will watch over her carefully, won’t you?”
Worthington could have sworn he heard a distinct sound of urgency in his lord’s voice.
“Of course, my lord. She won’t make a move that I don’t know it.”
Kendrick nodded and allowed his eyes to close again. “Don’t let anything happen to her, Worthington. I couldn’t bear it.”
Worthington watched as his master surrendered to slumber. Had he been a duller man, he might have suspected he was beginning to bore people. Having his two charges fall asleep on him within the space of a quarter hour was almost insulting.
He smiled as he left the study. It was the first time he had ever heard Kendrick inquire about the well-being of anyone, himself included. And with such fervor! It was a most auspicious sign.
Genevieve’s only memories of the next two days were ones of intense pain in her hand and Worthington forcing pills down her. He seemed to materialize out of thin air each time she woke in agony. She managed to stay awake long enough to inquire about Kendrick and learn that he was upstairs recovering before healing sleep again claimed her.
Three days after her accident, she dragged herself out of bed. After an eternally long shower, she dug in her drawer for her favorite pair of fire-engine red feety pajamas. Now, these were clothes made for pampering. All she needed was a container of Häagen-Dazs and a toasty warm fire, and life would be good.
The stitches in her fingers pulled when she flexed her hand, and that gave her the chills. She carefully uncurled her digits and looked at the ugly red slashes across two of her fingers and at the black thread that held the flesh together. Oh, how close she had come to cutting them completely off. It would be a very long time before she came close to Kendrick’s sword again.
