by Ava Stone
“Can you lead me there?”
“Of course.” With her eyes closed, though there was no need to say that part. After all, the sooner Lila could lie down in her own bed the better.
The gentleman glanced back to his friends. “Take the horse. I’ll meet you in town as soon as I can.” Then he smiled boyishly at Callie, his white teeth almost sparkling. “Do lead the way, Miss…”
“Eilbeck.” She looked him up and down. Who was he, this stranger? She’d lived in Ravenglass her entire life and she had never laid eyes on this man or his friends. What in the world were they doing here? “Callie Eilbeck—” she gestured to her friend in the man’s arms “—and Lila Southward. And you are?”
“Quentin Post.”
“I have never seen you before, Mr. Post.” She started back in the direction of the vicarage.
“Lord Quentin,” he corrected.
Lord Quentin? Shouldn’t he have said that instead of just Quentin Post, then? Callie glanced back over her shoulder at him. He was dressed in fine clothes, finer than what most in the village wore, in any event. What was he doing here? “And you’re just visiting Ravenglass, my lord?”
“My grandfather was from here,” he explained, stepping around a good-sized rock in his path. “My brother just inherited our great-uncle’s property. We’ve come to see the place.”
“Inherited which property?” Lila’s weak voice hit Callie’s ears.
“Marisdùn Castle,” the gentleman replied.
Lila sucked in a breath just as Callie stumbled forward. Marisdùn Castle? Haunted Marisdùn Castle? She righted herself and then turned to face Lord Quentin. “Certainly you’re not going to live there.”
He blinked at her. “I live in London most of the time. Buckinghamshire, otherwise.”
“But you’ve come here?” Callie pressed, which might not have been the most welcoming thing to say if the expression on his face was any indication. She shook her head. “I meant, Marisdùn Castle is haunted, Lord Quentin. You really shouldn’t stay there.”
Lila sighed. “It’s not haunted,” she said. “Mr. Routledge was never particularly friendly and kept to himself, is all.”
The hauntings at Marisdùn went back further than Cornelius Routledge. Part of the foundations of the castle dated back to the Roman era. Its battlements and fortifications were built up during the border wars of the fifteenth century. Rumors of its hauntings dated back even further. Roman warriors, Scottish rebels, men, women, children. Callie had never dared to even walk up the path to the castle for fear that something she couldn’t see might follow her home. Chills raced down her spine at the very thought.
“My grandfather always said his mother disappeared within the castle walls,” Lord Quentin continued.
“Disappeared?” Callie echoed, while thoughts about her own mother pushed into her thoughts. Heavens, she hated remembering Mama’s illness-weakened body, coughing blood and barely breathing as consumption slowly dragged her to the other side. Callie’s stomach twisted into a knot at the memory. If she’d been younger, perhaps it would have been easier to believe Mama had simply disappeared.
“They never found her?” Lila asked, skepticism lacing her voice. “Mr. Routledge never mentioned that to me.”
The gentleman looked down at Lila in his arms. “You knew Great-Uncle Cornelius?”
Lila started to nod, then winced as though moving her head hurt too badly. “Papa visits all of his parishioners, especially the ones who don’t attend services regularly.”
Or at all. In all of Callie’s days she’d never once encountered Mr. Routledge, in church or otherwise.
“In that case, you must come visit me.” He winked at her.
“Are you a parishioner?” Lila asked, grinning in return. “ I thought you said you’d just come to see Marisdùn.”
“True,” he conceded with a nod of his head. “But we are hosting a Samhain party at the castle in a few days. You should come. You both should come.”
“Samhain party?” Callie blinked at the man. What in the world was a Samhain party?
“A masquerade,” he explained. “It’s the one day of the year where the worlds of both the living and dead collide.”
“At a haunted castle?” Callie asked. Lord Quentin was quite mad.
“I can’t imagine my father would approve of that,” Lila said softly.
Cyrus wouldn’t keep Callie from attending. The rumors of hauntings at Marisdùn would do that all on its own. “That sounds perfectly terrifying.” Callie shivered as she started back towards the vicarage once more.
“Come now,” Lord Quentin protested from behind her. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“Who said I was adventurous?” she countered.
He laughed, a warm sound that spoke to what seemed was his general good nature. “No adventure? You must come by and meet my brother then, Miss Eilbeck. You’d be a perfect match.”
“Is he more sensible than you, my lord?”
“He would say he is.”
“And you would say?” Lila asked.
“That I’m the fun one.”
Callie smothered a laugh. Odds were Lord Quentin was the troublesome one, but he was charming despite that fact.
It wasn’t chilly in the library and Braden’s hair was certainly not being tousled about by non-existent wind. It was just his imagination playing tricks on him, thanks mostly to spending entirely too much time in Quent’s presence and being forced to listen to his brother’s never-ending drivel on the subject of ghosts and hauntings. Ridiculous, all of it.
Slam!
Damn it all! Braden nearly leapt out of his seat when the library door was suddenly slammed shut. Thank God he hadn’t let out a sound. He’d never live it down were any of the others to overhear him. Someone was certainly trying to get under his skin, however. The question was – who? Only Blake Chetwey, still lying in his sickbed, was clear of suspicion. Quent was the most likely suspect, but he’d gone into Ravenglass hours ago with Thorn and Garrick. Perhaps the trio had returned.
Braden pushed to his feet and dropped the ledger he’d been perusing into his now vacant seat. If Quent was playing tricks on him, it was going to end now. He crossed the library floor in just a few strides, tossed open the door and stepped into the corridor just in time to see a shadow round the closest corner. Quent was about to get his ears blistered.
Braden heaved a sigh and then started down the corridor. He rounded the corner but there was no sign of anyone. Not Quent, not a mysterious shadow, nothing except one closed door after another. Had he imagined the shadow?
He shook his head, refusing to consider anything otherworldly. The shadow had probably just been a play of the candlelight against the wall as he’d opened the library door. If he went back to the library, and did exactly the same thing again, he’d most likely see the same shadow once more. But at the moment, he was tired of going through Great-uncle Cornelius’s ledgers. He’d come to Marisdùn with five other fellows, there ought to be someone about.
So Braden started towards the front of the castle. He’d last spotted Wolf in the great room, staring at an old portrait. The fellow might still be there. He rounded another corner and—
“Ack!” wailed a young maid as Braden nearly barreled into the girl.
“I am sorry!” he said, steadying the servant before she fell to the ground.
She sucked in a breath and clasped the corner of the apron right above her heart. “I thought you were that major,” she heaved out.
“Major?” Braden frowned at the girl. Not one of his friends was an army officer.
The maid nodded, still trying to catch her breath. “He likes to pop out from behind bookcases or doorways.”
Bookcases or doorways? Just then a coolness breezed past him and the hair on the back of Braden’s neck stood on end. He shook the feeling away. “Please don’t tell me you’re talking about a ghost,” he said dismissively. Honestly, was there no one at Marisdùn with a logical
head on their shoulders?
A snort escaped the girl. “He’s a phantom, he is. Ghosts we have plenty of, milord. And a handful of phantoms. Phantoms are worse.”
Phantoms were worse than ghosts? Did she really just say something so ridiculous? Braden looked the girl up and down as though she was sporting two noses. “I see,” he said, though he didn’t see a thing. Carrying on a conversation with this girl would be an enormous waste of time, however. Braden scrubbed a hand down his face and said, “Do you happen to know where my friends are?”
She bobbed a quick curtsey. “Mr. Chetwey is still abed. Lord Quentin, Mr. Garrick and Mr. Thorn went into Ravenglass. I’m not certain where Lord Wolverly is.”
Perhaps still in the great room. Braden nodded a thanks and suspected he’d regret asking the next question, but did anyway. “I was just in the library and the door slammed closed. Did you by chance—”
“The nurse likes doors to stay closed.”
“The nurse?”
“Or the children get into mischief.”
There were no children at the castle that Braden was aware of. “Are we speaking of living, breathing children?”
Now she stared at him as though he sported two noses. “The black death killed the entire Mordue family, milord. They had seven children.”
Uh-huh. “And a nurse?” Braden supplied.
The maid nodded quickly. “Aye, sir.”
It was Braden’s fault. He had asked the girl questions when he knew she wasn’t of sound mind. “That’ll be all,” he said, dismissing the maid. Then he started once again towards the great room.
After navigating the corridors, he was just about to reach his destination when the front doors nearly flew open, bringing in a bit of autumn air, along with Quent, Thorn and Garrick back into the castle. The three gentlemen were laughing uproariously and Quent seemed to have difficulty catching his breath, he was laughing so hard.
Braden simply gaped at the trio. What could possibly be that hilarious?
“A-a-a-nd,” Quent tried to speak. “The look on his face…” He bent forward, laughing hard again. “Right before he fell on it.”
The other two fell into another round of laughter that seemed as though it would never die down.
“You are all deep in your cups,” Braden accused.
“If you’re in your cups,” Garrick swayed just a bit. “It’s better to be deep.”
The other two foxed gentlemen found that statement amazingly funny and they stumbled towards the great room as they cackled with mirth.
Braden shook his head. He’d been deep in his cups more than once in his life and probably looked and sounded just as ridiculous as these three did right now. One of the blessings of being deep in one’s cups, is you didn’t know how foolish you looked when you were. He started towards the large front doors, which were still open, but Bendle came up from behind him and quickly put them to rights.
Braden smiled at the old butler. “Thank you.”
“Of course, milord.”
Braden glanced in the direction of the great room. “You’ll want a hefty supply of coffee ready as soon as they wake tomorrow.”
Bendle nodded. “I’ll see that it’s done.”
Braden started for the great room, wondering if he was going to have to drag each of the three fellows to their own set of chambers or if they could make it on their own.
Upon entering the room, he was glad to note that all three of them were seated in chairs at the far end of the room.
“Now see here!” Thorn mocked, his voice lower by one register.
“Oh, oh, oh!” Quent leaned back against his brocade chair and laughed once more. “He was such a prig.”
“I am the magistrate!” Thorn and Garrick mocked in unison, which then sent the three of them laughing once more.
Braden pinched the bridge of his nose, in the vain attempt that he could stave off a headache. “Am I to take it you encountered the local magistrate tonight?”
“Puffed up, self-important buffoon,” Garrick confirmed.
“I’m Sir Cyrus Eilbeck.” Thorn puffed out his chest and feigned a frown. “And no one has fun in Ravenglass unless I say so.”
Oh good God. “What did you do?” Braden asked, though he was afraid to hear the answer.
“Nothing, Braden.” Quent looked rather serious all of a sudden. “We had a few drinks, were friendly with the locals—”
“Until one of them bet Thorn couldn’t walk across the floor on his hands.”
“Never bet against me.” Thorn smirked.
“You can walk on your hands?” Braden asked, trying to imagine that but not having a ton of luck.
“I am rather talented.” The man shrugged in response.
“Anyway,” Quent continued, “this fellow—”
“The magistrate?” Braden asked.
“No, no.” Quent shook his head. “A fisherman.”
“Shackley,” Garrick supplied.
“Yes! Shackley,” Quent laughed. “He said if Thorn could do that, he could too.”
“He stood on his hands for a good five seconds,” Thorn said with a smile.
“Before he fell right on his face,” Garrick finished for him.
Quent crossed his eyes, stuck out his tongue and let out a wail, in his apparent attempt to duplicate whatever the fisherman must have looked like as he was falling onto his face.
It was a little amusing, but Braden didn’t want to encourage their behavior. So he kept a straight face and said, “I’m headed to bed. I imagine the three of you can help each other to your own chambers.”
“We’ll manage.” Thorn yawned. “Do sleep well, Braden.”
“Don’t make me do this, Cyrus,” Callie begged as their cabriolet passed through Marisdùn’s battlements and into the castle’s courtyard.
But her brother was in no mood to listen to reason. It was all her fault. She hadn’t meant to tell him about Lila’s accident along the road to town yesterday. She’d only meant to say that she wanted to make sure Lila was feeling all right. But that statement had led to questions and before she knew what had happened, she’d told him everything about the three fellows who’d raced along the road and the rock that hit Lila in the head. That last part was what sent Cyrus into a temper, the likes of which she’d never seen before. He’d sputtered and his face had actually taken on a purplish hue.
“You will point them out, Callie,” he bit out, still as angry as he had been at Braewood twenty minutes earlier.
“It was an accident,” she pleaded. “And his lordship made certain she was all right before he left the vicarage.”
“After he carried her all the way there.”
Callie winced. She wasn’t certain if Cyrus was more angry that Lila had been hurt or that another man had carried her in his arms.
“I am the magistrate, and I will not have a pack of London brigands running around town injuring our residents!”
Callie hardly thought Lord Quentin and his friends could be described as brigands, but she kept that thought to herself. There was, after all, no reasoning with Cyrus when he was in a temper.
Her brother drew the conveyance to a halt before the castle’s large wooden doors, and as Callie gazed upon the main building, a chill raced down her spine. Heavens, if even half of the things she’d heard about this place were true then it was still teeming with spirits.
Cyrus secured the reins to the cabriolet’s hook then hopped down to the ground. He turned and offered her his hand, but she stubbornly shook her head. “I won’t go in there, Cyrus, not with all the ghosts. It scares me.”
His nostrils flared in annoyance and his brown eyes narrowed dangerously.
“I’ll never forgive you,” she vowed. And then brilliance struck her. “I’ll tell Lila and Vicar Southward how mean you were to make me go in there.”
He reared back as though she’d struck him, and in that instant Callie felt like the worst sort of villain. She didn’t want to threaten him or mani
pulate him. She just didn’t want to go inside Marisdùn Castle and would do everything she could to stay out-of-doors, up to and including hurting her brother in the worst possible way.
“You don’t need me to do any of this,” she said more softly. “You can issue your threats or warnings without me there to point out the fellows. Please don’t make me do it, Cyrus.”
Her brother’s jaw tightened but after a moment, he agreed with a single nod. “I’ll be back soon, then.”
As her brother climbed the stone steps to the castle entrance, Callie leaned back against the seat and sighed with relief. Cyrus disappeared into the castle a moment later, leaving Callie alone in the courtyard for however long it would take her brother to personally threaten everyone inside the castle’s walls. She could be waiting a rather long time. But waiting outside was preferable to venturing indoors and encountering whatever resided inside.
Just as soon as that thought popped to mind, a lovely woman in a pretty blue, flowing dress rounded the cabriolet and smiled at Callie. “I don’t blame you for not wanting to go inside,” she said.
Heavens, had she and Cyrus been so loud they were overheard? Her cheeks warmed and she fidgeted in her seat. But the woman’s question did pique Callie’s interest. “Have you been inside?” she asked.
“Oh, yes,” the woman nodded. “Quite haunted, but the gardens are safe and very peaceful.”
“The gardens?” Callie glanced towards a garden door at the far end of the main building.
The woman smiled once again, putting Callie at complete ease. “Mrs. Routledge kept the nicest gazanias. I go and sit by them from time to time just to calm my nerves.”
Being at Marisdùn could certain put one’s nerves on edge. “Gazanias?” Callie echoed. The colors were always so vibrant in the flower. She’d always wanted to keep some at Braewood but hadn’t ever managed to keep them alive.
“Would you like to see them?” the woman asked.
She might as well. Who knew how long she’d have to wait for Cyrus and she did love strolling gardens. “You’re certain it’s safe?” she asked, edging to the front of the cabriolet’s bench.
