Stardust of Yesterday

by Lynn Kurland

  She fled.

  She ran all the way to her room, praying he was too weak to follow her. She locked the door, dove for the bed. She pulled the covers up over her head, as if that would somehow shield her from Kendrick and from her own stupid imagination.

  Heaven help her.

  She was falling in love with a ghost.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kendrick sat on his newly acquired love seat and tapped his foot impatiently. Well, perhaps it was more nervous tapping than impatient tapping. He knew Genevieve would be coming up soon and he honestly wasn’t sure he wanted to see her reaction to what he’d replaced his great chair with. Would the love seat seem too personal?

  “Dolt,” he muttered, “what’s it supposed to imply? Isn’t that the reason for the bloody thing?”

  Which was, of course, why he was tapping his foot, a gesture of nervousness that had never before been in his repertoire. What need had there ever been for nervousness? The women of his time had hunted him down like defensive linemen rushing a poorly defended quarterback. He had spent more time fighting them off than he had worrying about how to attract them. His reputation for prowess in battle and in bed—as well as the rumors of his wealth—had drawn them from as far south as Italy. Rich widows, bored noblewomen, wide-eyed virgins: aye, they had all planned and schemed to woo him to their beds. And now he was nervous? Because he was afraid of frightening off a woman he couldn’t even touch? It was the most preposterous situation he had ever encountered. How his father would have roared with laughter at the tale.

  A week had passed since Genevieve had fled his study, and during that week several things had happened. He’d regained his strength. It had actually come back quickly but he’d dragged the entire affair out much longer than necessary, finding it a convenient excuse to have Genevieve hovering over him at all hours.

  Once he’d managed to lure her back to his lair, that is. He’d been sorely tempted to have a peek inside her head and find out just what had sent her scampering from his study, but somehow he’d found the self-control to refrain. Whatever she’d been thinking, she certainly didn’t want him knowing it. Perhaps it was just as well. For all he knew, she’d been thinking what a toad he was. He shifted uncomfortably on the couch. That thought hardly sat well with him.

  The other monumental happening had been the realization of what he was feeling. For a solid se’nnight he’d told himself that his fascination with her was only temporary. It would pass quickly enough and then he would demand she sign over the castle to him. He’d anticipated that the entire process would be completed in less than a fortnight.

  Until he’d realized he was falling in love with her.

  It hadn’t taken much effort to determine exactly when he’d first known. It hadn’t been when she’d tried to bolt for his chamber when she thought he couldn’t get past a locked door. It hadn’t been when she’d almost clobbered him with the door of the icebox. It hadn’t even been when he’d allowed her into his private study and she’d been so fascinated with his personal things and his family, though he was pleased she found them to be a friendly-looking group.

  Nay, it had been when he’d woken from his dozing to find his hand covered by the slight fingers of a woman in ridiculous-looking nightclothes, a woman who was smiling contentedly, as if she’d just found what her heart sought. Then she’d opened her eyes and he’d seen the remains of her dreams still shining brightly there, and somehow he had known he’d been a part of those dreams. Saints above, he’d wanted to haul her into his arms and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe!

  He sighed and dragged his hand through his hair. Leaving now was unthinkable. Having Genevieve leave was inconceivable. For better or worse, they’d have to endure whatever fate had in store for them. In the end, perhaps she would sign over the castle to him and he would proceed on ahead to the next world and wait for her to join him.

  Assuming, of course, that she was like-minded.

  A soft tap on the door sounded barely a moment before Genevieve entered. Kendrick hastily slung one leg over the other, hoping to achieve a casual pose. He stole a look at her and prayed he wouldn’t see disgust. She was the only woman in seven hundred years he had wanted to win. He wasn’t sure how he would react if she shunned him.

  She was smiling. Shyly. Oh, she was still a bit on the uncomfortable side with him, and had been since the afternoon she’d touched him. But that would pass. He was a very patient man. She would come to him in time. At least she was smiling and not bolting at the sight of the intimate bit of furniture. A grin crept over his mouth. His ego was still intact and that relieved him more than he really wanted to admit.

  “Comfy,” she nodded approvingly, coming to stand at the back of the sofa and then running her hand over the fabric. “But how in the world did you get it up here? Or maybe the better question is when?”

  “Last night. The merchants in the village are used to what they think are Worthington’s odd hours. I was beginning to feel sorry for you sitting in that hard chair so I bought this.”

  She smiled. “You are far too kind, my lord.”

  “Come try it out,” he said, trying to sound as if he actually couldn’t care less if she sat next to him or not. Steady, Seakirk. For heaven’s sake, don’t look so desperate.

  Genevieve came around slowly, then sat. If she’d sat any further away, she would have been sitting on the other side of the armrest.

  “You had the stitches removed today?” he asked politely. “Might I see?”

  She held out her hand, then jumped nervously when he bent over it to look.

  Distraction. He had to distract her and quickly or she would run again.

  “Football?” he offered. “Raiders and 49ers on videotape. I haven’t watched it yet. It could be exciting.”

  “It sounds great,” she nodded. “Might be some playoff hope for my 49ers if they win today.”

  Her 49ers, indeed. Kendrick felt himself begin to frown. “Steve Young is a weak-kneed woman,” he said distinctly.

  “No, he’s not.”

  “Aye, he is. I could throw twice as far as he does and twice as hard. And I wouldn’t need a front line to protect me,” he added arrogantly.

  She gave him an amused smile. “Of course, my lord.”

  Kendrick scowled at her for her patronizing tone and received a laugh in return. Fortunately he wasn’t so annoyed that he didn’t notice that she had relaxed and was no longer hugging the far armrest. He did his best not to let his scowl turn into a grin. It looked as if distraction was going to be the way to woo and win Mistress Genevieve Buchanan.

  The game began, and it took only minutes for Genevieve to become fully engrossed in the play. He laughed at her outrage over poor calls for she was easily as opinionated as he was. Then he fumed over her appreciation of hulking male bodies in tight uniforms. Their forms weren’t that fine. By the saints, he would have cut a rakish figure in such garments. He was tempted to conjure up a suit just to show her. If he hadn’t thought it would have seemed a bit obvious, he would have done it.

  During halftime, her interest evaporated and he sent her off into the shrine, taking secret pride in her boundless fascination with all his acquisitions. The day before, he’d followed her after a few minutes to find her running her fingers lightly over a tunic he’d worn in life. The sight had left a suspicious lump in his throat and he’d quickly retreated, not wanting to disturb or embarrass her. He’d fled to the battlements where he’d indulged in a tear or two of regret, then tormented himself with visions of Genevieve running her fingers over a tunic he happened to be wearing.

  He sighed as he propped his feet up on the stool in front of him and put his hands behind his head, relaxing back against the couch. Despite the frustration of not being able to touch her, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so content. For the first time in centuries, he felt like his old self. Gone were the all-consuming thoughts of revenge that had plagued him from morn ‘til eve. Gone was the bitternes
s toward Matilda and Richard for their scheme. Gone was the resentment he had harbored toward the Powers Above who had left him in such a sorry state.

  Instead, he was grateful. How could he have known that seven hundred years of waiting would bring him a treasure like the woman who hummed as she puttered around in his past? He wasn’t sure he was up to admitting it, but, aye, there was even gratitude for the darkness of his ghostly past. If there had been no darkness, how would he have appreciated the light Genevieve had brought with her?

  She had hurtled into his existence with the force of a hurricane and swept him up along in her joy before he knew what was happening. How could he not love the way she laughed at his poor jests? How could he do anything but admire her drive, her enthusiasm, her pleasure in the simple things he had long since ceased to mark? Through her, he smelled the tang of salt air, felt the dirt in the garden under his fingers, tasted the simple fare Worthington prepared with such restrained gusto.

  And then there was the woman herself. Her shy smile delighted him, her laugh enchanted him, her bewitching hazel eyes held him captive. He adored watching her pad around in those ridiculous red nightclothes, looking like an overgrown child.

  Aye, the only pain came from knowing he would never be all the things to her he wanted to be. He would never hold her, touch her hair, lift her face up for his kiss. He would never lie beside her at night and hold her slender body next to his. He would never pick her up in his arms and carry her to the beach to love her in the warmth of the summer sun.

  Perhaps it had taken seven centuries to pare away at his soul and leave him capable of feeling such regret for joys lost. In life perhaps he would never have looked at her twice. He’d had his spurs to win and a quest to fulfill. When the Crusade had left a poor taste in his mouth, he’d roamed the continent hiring out as a mercenary. It had been a harsh life, full of danger, blood and death.

  He had become cynical. He’d never seen it before, but that’s what had happened. Women had been nothing but conveniences for him. He thumbed through the catalog of memories in his head, skimming over the dozens of women who had sought him out for one reason or another. For many, luring him to their beds had been nothing but a coup. That hadn’t hurt his feelings. Beautiful women bragging of his prowess only augmented his reputation.

  Then there had been the women of vengeance, the ones who had used him to spite another. He’d faced more than one livid husband in the morning and lived to tell the tale. Those were the women he preferred to forget.

  Only a handful of others stood out in his mind. Two or three had been dreamy-eyed virgins whom he had bluntly told there was no hope of marriage. Eventually he’d taken them, realizing that they would probably be trapped in a loveless marriage anyway. It had been his gift to them, albeit a fairly selfish one. The others had been either wed or older, women who had appreciated his wry jests, women who had considered themselves his equal and not stooped to playing foolish games. It had been mutual seduction, no commitment, pleasure while it lasted and friendship once it was finished.

  He realized, with a start, that Matilda was not among any of the women who paraded before his mind’s eye. He smiled faintly. Nay, he’d never loved her truly. She had been nothing but a means to an end.

  A means to Genevieve.

  He dropped his hands to his lap and closed his eyes. And what would Genevieve say when he told her he was falling in love with her?

  Genevieve wandered around Kendrick’s private den, touching everything she saw and wondering if it had been something he’d touched during his life. She wandered over to the cabinet containing his clothes. As she had done almost every day for the past week, she opened it and gently touched a worn tunic.

  She shut the glass and tried to distract herself. She was losing her mind. There was simply no other reason for the feelings she was having lately. Kendrick was a ghost. Even if he hadn’t been, he was way out of her league. Friendship was something he seemed willing to give her, but anything else? She shook her head. It probably wouldn’t occur to him.

  She strolled over to his desk and looked up at the portrait. What a wonderful family it must have been. She could just imagine Phillip reaching over to give Kendrick a wet willy, or Kendrick snapping Jason’s jock strap. Even in the painting, the boys looked to be full of mischief. As full of it as was their father. Robin of Artane grinned down at her and she grinned right back. He had probably been the worst of the bunch.

  And Lady Anne. There was something ethereally beautiful about the woman. It had nothing to do with the pale gold of her hair or her eyes the color of dried sage. There was a beauty of spirit, a gentleness that reached out to whomever gazed at her likeness. Genevieve wished she could have met her. Time in her company would have been time well spent.

  She looked over Kendrick’s desk and found nothing of great interest. There was an accounts book lying open but she hardly cared what it contained. She was turning to walk away when a piece of paper caught her eye. She bent and picked up what looked to be a receipt.

  Lord Kendrick de Piaget, receipt for services rendered, £25,000.

  It was signed by Bryan McShane.

  She stared at the slip of paper in shock. Don’t jump to conclusions, she warned herself as a number of ugly scenarios leaped immediately to mind. Maybe it was a coincidence. Surely Bryan McShane had offered her the castle in good faith. Surely Kendrick hadn’t sent him to make her an offer she would have been stupid to refuse just because he wanted to kill her. Before she let her imagination really run wild, she took the receipt and marched out into the television room. Kendrick looked to be sleeping but that didn’t deter her. She cleared her throat imperiously.

  He opened one eye. “You rang, madame?” he drawled.

  She shoved the receipt at him. “Explain this.”

  A flicker of something might have crossed his face but it disappeared so quickly she was fairly sure she had imagined it. Kendrick sat up slowly and peered at the paper she held.

  “It greatly resembles a receipt from my solicitor.”

  “You know him?” she screeched. “He works for you?”

  Kendrick gave her an amused smile. “Love, why else would he have approached you about this keep? Of course I sent him to track you down. I will admit that my motives were not the purest in the beginning but you don’t fault me for it now, do you?”

  She groaned and sank down on the couch next to him. “Don’t give me that deadly smile of yours. I’m immune to it.” Had he called her love? Genevieve ignored the flood of pleasure that brought to her and concentrated on remaining irritated with the frighteningly handsome man sitting next to her, who was currently attempting to look innocent. She waved her finger at him. “Don’t you dare try to weasel out of this. You sent a man to find me, knowing full well that he was going to bring me here to meet my end. Isn’t that true?”

  He gave her a solemn, little-boy pout, obviously something he thought would induce sympathy on the part of the receiver. She frowned darkly at him and he sighed.

  “Come on, Gen,” he said coaxingly, leaning closer to her, “you know I’m sorry for frightening you all those times. I had no idea what a wonderful person you were or I would have never done what I did.”

  “What else did you do?”

  He smiled gently. She wanted to close her eyes in self-defense. The man had no scruples whatsoever.

  “I misjudged a person I’d never even met, then regretted my actions sorely. Won’t you forgive me for that?”

  She threw in the towel. “All right,” she sighed, defeated. “You’re forgiven. And you’re missing the game. Your Raiders are losing without your support. And,” she added, “I still don’t think what you did was very nice. You put that poor man under a great amount of stress.” She sighed, realizing he was only half listening to her. “But I guess it worked out for the best. Your offer certainly got me out of a jam.”

  Kendrick pretended not to have heard her and heaved a silent sigh of relief over the disaster succes
sfully avoided, praying she wouldn’t feel the need to thank him for appearing in her life at the moment she was left with nowhere else to go. Merde, that had been close!

  He hadn’t really lied about what had happened; he’d just left out a big chunk of truth. But it was truth that would put Genevieve forever beyond his reach if she learned of it. He made a mental note to ring Bryan McShane first thing in the morning and warn the man to keep his mouth shut.

  About the time Genevieve discovered Kendrick had been the one to turn all her clients against her, he’d be in a hell he could only imagine in his worst nightmares.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bryan McShane lifted one side of the shade away from the window and peeked outside. Almost dawn. Maledica would soon be at work and the streets would be safe. Bryan had wanted to flee his flat last night but being out in the dark with his employer possibly lurking about hadn’t been appealing in the least. No, it was best he wait for daylight.

  He hadn’t wanted to come back to his apartment after his latest failure at Seakirk, but he hadn’t had a choice. In the first place, all his money was stuffed in his mattress. He could hardly get across the Channel without funds. Also stuffed in his mattress were his forgery tools. Who knew what the future held? Should he by some quirk of fate stumble someday across a document with Genevieve Buchanan’s signature on it, he didn’t want to be unprepared.

  The phone rang. That had to be Bobby. He’d called his former school chum and begged a ride to the docks. He prayed nothing had gone wrong with the plans.

  “Hello?”

  “McShane? Glad to find you at home. I’ve a matter to discuss with you.”

  Lord Seakirk. Bryan immediately began to sweat. Surely the ghoul hadn’t found a way to get off his land, had he?