One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  Brighid turned toward him. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Blake grumbled and went back to drinking his tea.

  “In truth, I wish to travel to London and work under a more educated doctor.” Alcott leaned closer to Brighid. “My father was only able to teach me so much, and actual practice was limited at the university.” He straightened. “What I need is to gain experience under someone who is more qualified.”

  If Alcott were in London, he wouldn’t be with Brighid. “I could help,” Blake announced.

  They both turned toward him.

  “I can arrange for you to work under my London physician. I am sure he would be happy to have you.”

  Dr. Alcott brightened and hurried toward Blake’s bedside. “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course,” he answered, though Blake really had no idea. But he would see that it was done. He would pay the physician, if he had to, to take Alcott on. “I’ll write to him as soon as I am well.”

  Brighid strolled to the side of the bed and studied Blake with suspicion. “That is very kind of you.”

  Or perhaps his guilty conscience saw it as suspicion.

  “Thank you, but please don’t say anything,” Dr. Alcott insisted. “At least not until we know if he will have me. I would hate to needlessly upset my sister, of course.”

  “Of course,” Brighid agreed.

  “Well, then,” Dr. Alcott picked up his bag. “It appears Miss Glace has everything well in hand and I will leave you to her care.” He started for the door and stopped. “I almost forgot.” He opened his bag and withdrew a jar of something which he handed to Brighid. “I saw the note you left for my sister and since I was coming here….”

  The man practically stammered. Did he have a tendre for Brighid? Well, that would soon end. At least it would once he was off to London.

  Brighid beamed. “Thank you so much. We are out and I have been craving Daphne’s rum butter.”

  He should have known it was the rum butter. His aunt and uncle constantly had some available.

  “It is my pleasure.” Dr. Alcott nodded and quit the room.

  Alcott was gone and Brighid remained. Blake’s day just got brighter.

  “If that will be all,” Brighid took the empty cup from him. “I’ll return this to the kitchens.”

  “Wait.” He didn’t wish to be alone. He was bored and truth be told, this room rather disturbed him.

  She hitched a brow. “Yes?”

  “I would like some company.”

  Her back straightened and Blake could swear he heard her snort. “I am sure there is someone else who would be more than happy to keep you entertained.” With that she lifted her chin, turned and exited the room, shutting the door firmly behind her.

  “Witch,” Blake grumbled and pulled the blanket up to his chin before closing his eyes.

  He must have slept because when he woke again, it was dark and the young woman from before was beside his bed. There was something angelic about her. “Who are you?”

  She smiled and love shown in her green eyes. She brought a finger to her lips as if to shush him before settling at the side of the bed. She must be very slight because the mattress didn’t even dip. Her cool fingers smoothed his brow before feathering through his hair.

  Brighid did everything in her power to remain busy the next day. She even went so far as to organize the herbarium, spending more time in that room than she had in the past two months. It did need a thorough cleaning and many of the plants could be taken from the rafters and put into jars.

  She should have just returned to her grandmother’s cottage. It wasn’t as if she was needed. Blake may wish for her to prepare his tea, but another kept him comfortable at night.

  Oh, why had she checked on him in the middle of the night again? She should have just stayed away. Because she was worried that he might be feverish, she had taken another cup of tea to him shortly after midnight only to find that woman in his bed again, draped across him like a blanket. If she were so concerned with her lover, why wasn’t she taking care of Blake during the day?

  If she didn’t fear Blake might get worse, Brighid would have returned home, but she couldn’t leave the castle. Not until he was recovered. Yet, that didn’t mean she had to be the one to care for him in the interim. The maids were skilled at making the tea and since Blake’s lover couldn’t be bothered, others could see to his care. Mrs. Small would let her know if he needed anything further.

  “Where the bloody hell is Brighid?” Blake had lain in bed all day with nobody to keep him company. A maid had brought him tea but he hadn’t seen anyone else. His friends popped in for a moment to check on him, but none stayed around long enough to keep him company. It was rather depressing and as the hours ticked by, he felt more and more sorry for himself, even though he was physically feeling much better. His body barely ached, the head pains were gone and his stomach no longer churned with threats of tossing up his accounts. He could do with some company.

  Had Brighid returned to her grandmother’s?

  No, she was going to remain until he was well. As he was still ill, where the blazes was she?

  “Thorn!” If he so much as attempted to kiss Brighid, their friendship was over.

  Of course, Thorn was probably doing just that with Brighid succumbing to his charms right at this very moment. How could she not? The man did have a way about him, not that Blake understood what it was, but women seemed to fall into bed with him at every turn.

  “Or, maybe she was with Alcott.” The doctor did want to learn more about herbs. They were probably with their heads together right now, talking about plants and such while he lay up here in misery.

  Well, he would show them. Tomorrow he was leaving this bed, whether he was up to it or not! He would put an end to Thorn’s seduction and Alcott’s need for plant knowledge.

  At least the beautiful maid visited him.

  Why did she only come in the middle of the night, though? And why didn’t she speak?

  It was rather confusing and, hopefully, when he was well, he could ask about her, so that he could thank her for her care.

  Brighid stared out the window at the torrent of falling rain. What was she to do with herself? The herbarium was clean and organized. Even if it wasn’t, she couldn’t stand to be in that room a moment longer. It was almost as if that trunk called to her, begging to be opened. But she refused. She would not give in to the temptation. Those were items of the past and had nothing to do with her. She was not magical and as she was not a witch. They served no purpose.

  She probably should check on Blake. The maid reported that he was doing better, but it hurt too much to see him.

  All she would ever be to him was a healer, a neighbor…a witch. When in need of female companionship, he sought out someone else. A very blond and pale someone else.

  Who was she anyway? The woman hadn’t been at breakfast, as Bradenham’s other guests had. Then again, it had only been gentlemen. Perhaps all the ladyloves slept late and took their morning meal in their rooms. She had heard that ladies rarely left their beds before noon in London, though why anyone would wish to waste the best part of the day lying about was beyond her.

  She had thought to ask about the woman, but as she was probably Blake’s mistress, it wasn’t a proper topic to discuss. She just wished one of the servants would at least gossip about her so Brighid she could learn more.

  “There you are.”

  Brighid jumped and turned to find Blake striding into the morning room. What was he doing up and about? “How are you feeling?”

  “Much better,” he answered, coming further into the room. “Where have you been?”

  So he had noticed she had not come to check on him. “I’ve been here.”

  “But you had a maid deliver the tea.”

  He seemed almost angry. He shouldn’t be. It wasn’t as though she meant anything to him. “You were well taken care of.”

  “By a maid?” he asked incredulo
usly. “You are the healer.”

  She made his tea and stayed to make sure he recovered. What more did he want from her? He already shattered her heart, not that she would ever tell him, of course. “I am sure you were well cared for by your friend.” There, she had let him know she knew about his lover. Now he should just go to that woman and leave her alone.

  “Friend? None of them visited with me, other than to stick their heads inside the door and ask how I was feeling,” he grumbled.

  “I didn’t mean the gentlemen who arrived at the castle with you.” Did he really wish to deny he brought his mistress? “I was talking about her.”

  “Who?” Blake threw up his hands. “You persist in mentioning this she, yet I still don’t know who you are talking about.”

  Did he think her a fool? “I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Twice I checked on you in the middle of the night to make sure you were resting comfortably only to see that woman lying across you.” Her face heated with embarrassment. These matters were not discussed in polite company, but she wasn’t about to let him pretend he did not have a mistress with him.

  “What?” He looked at her as if she had gone mad, which they both knew very well that she had not.

  “The blond woman, in a white nightshift, laying across you as if she were your only blanket.”

  “I can assure you that there has been no woman in my bed,” he nearly shouted.

  How could he stand there and lie to her? “I saw her with my own eyes.”

  “Your eyesight is going. The only women who have been in my chamber, other than you and Miss Alcott that first day, are the maids who bring me tea and the one who checks on me at night. All she does is feel my brow and then I fall asleep.”

  Brighid snorted. That woman did more than feel his brow.

  “What is going on in here?” Mrs. Small demanded as she came into the room. “I could hear your voices all the way in the library.”

  Brighid bit her lip and stepped back. It was not well done of them to be shouting in Lord Bradenham’s home. Goodness, she hadn’t even met the gentleman yet and Blake was his guest.

  “I was trying to explain to Brighid that there was no woman in my, um, well…” Blake’s face grew red, which Brighid rather enjoyed. “Let’s just say that I arrived here with my male friends and nobody else, nor has anyone at the castle been entertaining me.”

  “I saw her, Blake Chetwey. Yet you deny it.”

  “I don’t know what you think you saw, but that woman is not my mistress.”

  “Enough,” Mrs. Small shouted. “I’ve known the two of you since were wee ones and you were friends before now. Let’s get to the bottom of this.” She turned to Brighid. “You say a woman was in his bed.”

  “Yes, a blond woman.”

  Mrs. Small turned to Blake. “You have seen her as well?”

  “I’ve only seen young woman at the side of my bed.”

  Mrs. Small nodded. “Very well, come with me.”

  Blake stared after the woman for a long moment before he shared a confused look with Brighid.

  “Well, come on,” Mrs. Small insisted and turned from the room.

  With a shrug, Blake followed her, as did Brighid, as the housekeeper led them to the second level and into a gallery of sorts. The walls were lined with portraits of what Blake assumed were former residents of the castle. There were so many on each wall that it was difficult to tell the pattern of the paper behind them.

  Mrs. Small stood in the center of the room, her hands fisted on her hips. “Which one was it?”

  Blake stared at her in confusion. “Which one was what?”

  The housekeeper gestured to the many portraits. “Which one of them visited you?”

  He barked out a laugh. “You think it was a ghost.”

  She narrowed her eyes on him. “Don’t make fun, Mr. Blake Chetwey.”

  He sobered and did as she asked. It was ridiculous, of course. The woman beside his bed was too real to be a ghost. Besides, he wasn’t even sure he believed in them.

  Brighid wandered away, looking at the pictures as she went. She gasped and stopped before a portrait at the far end of the room. Curiosity pulled him to her and Blake stared up at the portrait, his heart hammering against his chest. That was the woman who had cooled his brow.

  “Is that her?” Mrs. Small asked from behind them.

  “Yes,” Brighid answered in a whisper. Blake was too shocked to speak so he simply nodded.

  “I should have thought so,” Mrs. Small announced. “The young woman did die in that room.”

  “Surely you are joking.” Blake couldn’t tear his eyes form the portrait. There had to be something in the painting to prove that a ghost had not been giving him comfort.

  “How?” Brighid asked as she turned.

  “The poor thing was only seventeen at the time. She was to be married in a week, you know?”

  “No, we didn’t,” Blake answered dryly as he turned toward the housekeeper. Could he really believe this woman?

  “She was in love, so they say. Her name was Blythe Tucker,” Mrs. Small explained sadly. “She had caught some type of auge and, fearing for her health, her father summoned the physician.” She focused on Brighid. “Had they been wise, they would have asked the healer to tend her and perhaps she wouldn’t have died.”

  “The doctor couldn’t help her?” Brighid asked with interest.

  Mrs. Small scrunched her nose in disgust. “Man bled her to death.”

  A chill ran up Blake’s spine.

  “So that is why she knocked the blade from Dr. Alcott’s hand,” Brighid said after a moment.

  Blake pinned her with a look. “You are going to believe this nonsense?”

  “Either that or you explain the woman in your bed.”

  Blake thrust his fingers through his hair and stomped away from them and the portraits. “There is a reasonable explanation.”

  Blake startled awake, unsure of what had pulled him from his sleep. Then he heard them—the children. If Brighid was to be believed they were ghost children. Coolness brushed his cheek and he jerked, turning his head, expecting to find a window open or the curtains moving with the breeze.

  Instead it was her! She was in his bed, her long cold leg draped across his lap and an arm across his chest. She smiled at him and he was mesmerized by her beauty and the warmth of her green eyes. Except her eyes were the only thing that held any heat. He shivered at her cold touch and attempted to scoot away.

  Her arm and leg clamped down on him, making it impossible to slide from beneath her. For a ghost, if that is what she was, she was exceedingly strong.

  “Blythe?” he asked, still not quit believing what Mrs. Small had said yesterday. Yet, the woman in his bed was the very image of Blythe Tucker in the portrait.

  She smiled brilliantly and lowered her lips to his.

  Blake tried to avoid her kiss, but she held his head in place and her lips descended to his. He remained still. Perhaps she just needed a kiss and then she would be on her way.

  She drew in his breath, and he tried to close his lips. The pressure of her mouth upon his kept it open as she sucked more and more air from his body. His lungs burned with the need to breathe in. Good God, the bloody ghost was going to suffocate him if he couldn’t break free long enough to call for help.

  Brighid balanced the tray on her hip and took a deep breath. She had hoped to see Blake yesterday, but he had not emerged from his room after leaving the portrait gallery. All night she fretted that he had suffered a relapse, but she kept herself from going to his room. It didn’t matter that the woman in his bed was a ghost; she still didn’t like seeing another female draped across him.

  When Blake didn’t come down to breakfast, Brighid knew she couldn’t remain away, so she brewed a cup of tea in case he’d suffered a relapse from being up and about too soon.

  She tapped lightly on the door, but he did not bid her entrance. Brighid waited and then knocked again, still no response. Biting her lip, she s
tared at the door. Had he gone down and she had missed him?

  What if he was too ill to answer?

  She took another breath, turned the handle and stepped inside. She lost her grip on the tray and it fell, clanging against the floor boards, the cup and saucer shattering, propelling shards of porcelain about her.

  Blake lay on the bed, struggling beneath the ghost. He was kicking his legs and pushing at the woman, but his hands were going through her shoulders as if she weren’t there. Of course, she was a ghost, but she had somehow managed to hold Blake in place.

  The ghost showed no reaction to the noise and continued to practically molest Blake. Brighid picked up a discarded pillow and threw it at Blythe. It went right through her, but startled the apparition enough that she broke her hold on Blake before she turned to glare at Brighid.

  She raised her arm and thrust her palm toward the ghost. “Be gone.”

  In a whoosh, the ghost of Blythe Tucker disappeared.

  Brighid rushed to the side of Blake’s bed. He sat up, gasping for breath. “I think she just tried to kill me.”

  Her heart nearly stopped. She knew that not all the ghosts were as friendly as the Mordue children, but did they have murderous ones about as well?

  She would have to learn more about Blythe. There were stories to go with all of the ghosts, but she had not heard of this one until Mrs. Small told them of her yesterday. Had she truly been trying to kill Blake? Did she want to take him to the other side to be with her? If that was her plan, Brighid was not about to allow her to do so. “You cannot stay in this room.”

  “I am not sure I want to stay in this bloody castle.”

  Brighid paced in the corridor outside of Blake’s room. What if Blythe came back and she wasn’t there to help? Of course, she couldn’t remain inside while he dressed for the day, but that didn’t mean she was at all comfortable with him being alone in the room. When she suggested he ask one of his friends to stay with him, Blake had glowered at her. “I am not about to let any of them think I am afraid to be alone in this chamber.”