One Haunted Evening (Haunted Regency Series Book 1)

by Ava Stone

  The door opened and Brighid let out a sigh. Blake stood there, put to rights and still alive. At least she hoped he was. Some of these ghosts could appear to be very real. She lifted a hand and touched his cheek. His skin was warm and smooth.

  Blake quirked a brow, “Satisfied?”

  “I will be when you are given another chamber.”

  He held out his arm and she took his elbow. “As will I,” He paused in the middle of the stairs. “but don’t tell the others the true reason. Let them believe I don’t wish to stay in my sick room.”

  It seemed rather silly to her. “Very well.” Brighid pulled away from him when they reached the foyer. “I assume you will wish to go into breakfast.”

  Blake studied her. There was a slight tilt to his head and concern in his eyes, as if he were seeing her for the first time. “You made Blythe disappear.” His words were low, but she heard them just the same.

  “I startled her. That is all.” That had to be all. She certainly didn’t have the power to make the ghost disappear any more than she had the power to protect a room with a spell, or look into the future, or conjure a spirit as her ancestors claimed to be able to do. She wouldn’t allow it to be so.

  A lazy smile came to his lips before he dragged her into a sitting room. “Are you sure it isn’t because you are a witch?

  His tone was teasing but it hurt nonetheless. “Why do you insist on calling me such a vile name?”

  Blake’s smile slipped. “I am only teasing.”

  “That doesn’t mean it hurts any less.” She pulled away and walked to the window. The rain continued, keeping her in the castle. There was really no other reason to be here anymore. Blake had recovered and she wasn’t really a guest of Lord Bradenham’s, but she couldn’t trek through the woods to her grandmothers in this downpour. She would be soaked before she reached the gate at the back of the castle and the path home would be nothing but mud.

  “Why do you call me a witch?” she asked. Blake had begun using the nickname when she was only a child and she’d never understood why.

  His breath heated her neck, sending shivers down her spine. How could she not know he was so close to her? Strong warm hands caressed her upper arms. “Don’t you remember?”

  She turned and looked up into his warm, green eyes. He wasn’t laughing at her any longer and she read a deeper emotion in their depths. Was it possible he cared for her?

  Brighid quickly dismissed the possibility. Blake Chetwey would never have feelings any deeper than friendship for her, if that. “I’m not sure I do,” she finally answered.

  “I had gotten lost. Fell into an old well, actually. It began to rain, much as it is now, and the well began to fill. I had no way of getting out. I thought for certain I was going to die. And then someone dropped a rope down to me.”

  “You were just a boy.” Brighid dismissed, trying to block the memory of that day.

  “My aunt said you were the one who said I was in the clearing. That when asked if you knew where I was you grew silent, stared straight ahead, as if your mind had gone away, and then told them where to find me.”

  Her heart hammered in her chest. Brighid remembered it well. She had seen Blake, at the bottom of the well, the water rising. She didn’t understand how she saw it; just that she did, but she’d never told anyone that she had an actual vision. The entire experience had scared her enough that she feared anyone asking her a question for a very long time. “You told me you were going to the clearing, remember? It was as simple as that.” She had wanted to trail after him. Even when she was the tender age of five, Blake Chetwey had fascinated her. “And that I was to leave you alone.”

  His face colored, but the left side of his mouth tipped up in half a smile. “I was thirteen and didn’t want to be bothered with having a child about.”

  “That is when you started calling me a witch.”

  “The day was frightening enough and then to have been rescued because of a girl…it stung. I figured the only way you could have known where I was is if you were a witch.”

  His reasoning made sense, not that she liked it any more than before. “It isn’t very flattering.”

  He pulled her closer. “When I was a boy, it was less humiliating to be saved by a witch than a little girl. As I grew older, and you turned into a beautiful young woman, it was still safer to keep calling you a witch.”

  Her pulsed raced. He thought her beautiful? Was it possible he could one day feel as she did? “I do not understand you, Blake Chetwey.”

  He didn’t understand either. Except, when Brighid ceased being a witch, she became a desirable, enchanting miss that he was drawn to each time he returned to the Abbey, but tried to avoid. When he visited at the age of five and twenty, and encountered seventeen-year-old Brighid picking wildflowers along the road, his heart was nearly ripped from his chest. But he had his life ahead of him and couldn’t be bothered with a miss at such a young age, nor give any consideration to a permanent relationship when there was so much he still wished to experience. And the things he wished to do with Brighid require marriage. He wanted her so badly that he nearly tossed away all the plans he had made. The only reason she could have accomplished such a feat was if she had truly bewitched him.

  He was too young, as was she, so he tried to keep her at a distance that summer and the years that followed. He’d continued to think of her as a witch. It was best for them both.

  But he couldn’t think of her in those terms any longer. He must face the fact that he had been in love with her for three years and it had nothing to do with magic.

  “My ancestors were considered witches,” she said after a moment. This bit of information shouldn’t surprise him. Between the ghosts of the castle and the link her family had to it going back centuries, he wouldn’t be shocked if a few of them hadn’t been accused of witchcraft in the past. There had always been talk about the women in Brighid’s family being witches, but each time he began to give it serious consideration, he insisted to himself it was impossible.

  “Some were burned.”

  “At the stake?”

  She nodded. “It’s frightening what some people will do because of superstition or because someone may be a bit different.”

  Blake chuckled. “Nobody burns witches any longer, Brighid.”

  “How can you say that?” she cried. “One was burned as recently as 1751.”

  “That was over sixty years ago.” He had no idea she was so sensitive to the topic.

  “And do you know at Balmoral castle they have an effigy of an old hag-like witch they call Shandy Dann. They toss it into the bonfire each Samhain. It is something to be frightened of when another person keeps calling you a witch.”

  He sobered, realizing how much his words had been hurting her. Blake stepped forward and pulled her into his arms. “I am sorry. Please forgive me. I had no way of knowing.”

  She offered a weak smile. “Just don’t call me that again.”

  He winked. “I’ll try my best.”

  “You don’t really believe I am a witch?” she hedged, as if she needed his assurance.

  He wasn’t certain what he thought because a part of him, a very small part, did believe there was something magical about Brighid. Something he couldn’t explain. But he would tell her what she needed to hear. “Brighid, if I truly believed you to be a witch, I would have nothing to do with you.” He pulled her tight against him. His lips hovered over hers. “Bewitching, perhaps, but not a witch.”

  She smiled and looked almost relieved, and Blake couldn’t hold back any longer. He had to kiss her. He had denied himself for years and he wasn’t about to any longer.

  “There you are!”

  Blake jerked back, cursing Thorn under his breath, and turned to the man who had entered the room. “What do you need?”

  Brighid slid out of his embrace and he cast a quick look at her. Her lovely cheeks were a delightful shade of pink.

  If Thorn had been just five minutes later, Bl
ake would have had the kiss from Brighid he had been longing for. Blast the man!

  “We are to help with the preparations,” Thorn announced with a wide grin.

  “Preparations?”

  “I will leave you to your work.” Brighid slipped past him and was out the door before he could stop her. Blake ignored Thorn and watched her go. He had no idea being called a witch had been so upsetting to her, but now he understood and wished he could take back every time he’d called her that name.

  But he also wasn’t so certain she wasn’t one. There were too many odd coincidences when it came to the enchanting young woman. Nobody could convince his aunt that Brighid hadn’t had a vision that day. Then, the way she held up her hand and ordered the ghost of Blythe Tucker from the room. That was not something just anyone could do. There were other oddities over the years he had known her. He tried to tell himself that there was no such thing as ghosts or witches but apparently, ghosts were very real, so witches could be as well.

  Perhaps there was some magic in her after all. A magic she wished to deny. If it helped her to pretend it didn’t exist, he would go along with her. It wasn’t as if there was anything evil about Brighid, so what harm was there in ignoring the possibility that she might hold some power.

  She certainly had power over him. She was his magic and had been from the first moment they met. He was just too young to appreciate it.

  “Did you hear me?”

  Blake jolted and turned to Thorn. “What were you saying?”

  Thorn grinned at him. “Just what I thought,” He laughed. “I suppose you won’t be thinking about girls without drawers during the party?” He glanced back toward the door Brighid had disappeared through. “Expect perhaps one.”

  Blake tightened his hands into fists. “Do not put Brighid into the same category as the females you like to pursue.”

  His friend held up his hands in defense. “I know when I am taking my life in my hands.” He stepped back. “Now, come along, we need to make plans for entertainment. Mrs. Small has a few ideas, and we have been put in charge.”

  Blake grumbled but followed Thorn from the room anyway. He did not want to be making party plans. “Why can’t Braden and Quent do this? It is their party.” Besides, he wanted to be kissing Brighid.

  “Braden doesn’t seem to have the time, and it was my suggestion that entertainments be planned for a properly festive night, so you, I and Quent are to see to it.”

  He could just imagine what Thorn believed to be properly festive.

  Her heart soared. Blake Chetwey had almost kissed her. If Mr. Thorn had not come into the room, he would have actually kissed her. Brighid was unable to keep the grin from her lips and it was all she could do not to skip into the kitchens.

  He found her beautiful. With a sigh, Brighid sank down onto the stool. He might, just might, feel for her what she did for him.

  It may be raining, but it was a beautiful day indeed.

  The door to the herbarium loomed before her and a cloud moved over the sunshine in her heart. Blake must never know the truth. He must never learn she had a vision of him as a boy. He must never know she had premonitions or thoughts without explanation, like bringing the wormwood with her. If he did, he would have nothing to do with her. It was safest if she turned the care of the castle apothecary garden over to another and never come here again. It was the only way her secrets would remain safe. If she were to have Blake for herself, he could never suspect the truth.

  “Come with me, Brighid, we have much to do.”

  She startled and turned to Mrs. Small.

  “Lord Bradenham has asked that we be in charge of planning the food and keeping the traditions for this Samhain party of his.”

  Brighid shook her head. “It is not my place.”

  “Nonsense,” the housekeeper laughed. “Who better to know what magic can be created at such an event than you?”

  Yes, she needed to remove herself from the castle as soon as possible before Blake began to think she truly was a witch. And he would, if he ever had a discussion with Mrs. Small. She and some of the other servants refused to believe anything else. When Brighid insisted she was not, the woman simply smiled at her in a patronizing manner and said, “Of course not, dear.”

  It was all rather vexing.

  Brighid packed her small bag and looked about the room she’d occupied these past few days. It wasn’t as comfortable as her own bed, but she was reluctant to return home. After Mr. Thorn had interrupted the near kiss, she had not had a moment alone with Blake. All of yesterday, and into the night, she remained with Mrs. Small and the other servants, gathering apples, preparing the cider to pour on the roots of trees, making toast to hang from tree limbs, baking soul cakes and apple tarts. None of these were for the party guests. At least, not the living party guests.

  These traditions went back decades, if not centuries, and the servants of the castle were not going to do anything to upset the spirits already roaming about.

  Brighid shivered at the memory of Blythe Tucker holding Blake to the bed. The closer they came the Samhain, the stronger the spirits became. She might not see them all, but their presence surrounded her.

  It was best she was away before the festival began. But not before she saw Blake. She wanted to be certain she hadn’t imagined the moments they had shared—in particular, the one when he’d almost kissed her.

  She picked up her small bag and made her way from the servants’ quarters, down the stairs and into the foyer. The servants and guests were moving about, a bit anxious, and Blake waited at the foot of the stairs.

  He smiled in greeting then frowned when he noted her bag. “I had hoped you would stay.”

  Those simple words helped calm her fear that she hadn’t imagined what had transpired between them. “I should be going home. I’m not a guest of Lord Bradenham’s. I am simply a healer and now you are well.”

  He reached out, grasping her hand. “You are far more than that, Brighid, at least to me.”

  Thorn stopped beside them. “Braden needs everyone in the garden.”

  Brighid shared a confused look with Blake, but after setting her bag by the door, she allowed him to escort her outside.

  They followed the others until everyone was gathered before a large hedge.

  “All right,” Thorn began, “what’s this about, Braden?”

  “Well…” He glanced at his brother. Lord Quentin’s brow lifted, but he said nothing.

  “I’m trying to find Miss Eilbeck. My brother saw her here in the gardens not long ago, but we can’t seem to locate her now.”

  “Callie is missing?” Brighid asked to no one in particular as she looked about. Callie hated the castle. In fact, she was frightened of it. Why was she even here?

  Brighid focused her attention back on Lord Bradenham and his brother.

  Lord Quentin heaved a sigh, stepped slightly away from the group to face them. “Braden doesn’t believe me, but she vanished right before my eyes. Right here in this garden.”

  “Vanished?” Thorn echoed as everyone else gasped nearly in unison.

  “I thought it was my imagination, but then I heard her voice and—”

  Brighid’s heart stopped and she clench her hands together to hide the trembling. “What did she say?”

  Lord Quentin frowned. “Wait,” he replied. “She said, ‘Wait, Mary!’ But I couldn’t tell where the sound was coming from.”

  Brighid stumbled back. She knew the ghosts were getting stronger. Why would they take Callie? It made no sense. She was one of the sweetest and kindest girls she knew. This could not be right. Callie had wandered off. That was it. Please let it be that simple.

  “Mary?” The housekeeper touched a hand to her heart and glanced at Bendle. “Like Mary Routledge, you think?”

  “I hope not,” the butler breathed out.

  A woman cackled again. It was the same one who had laughed when Lord Quentin entered the herbarium. Brighid glanced around but no one was laug
hing, nor did anyone other than Brighid appear to have heard the woman.

  “This can’t be happening.” Her heart pounded and her skin grew cold with fear. She took a step back, no longer paying attention to the others. As much as she wished to deny the possibility, she could no longer. For some reason, Mrs. Routledge had taken Callie and she had to get her back before it was too late.

  Ignoring Blake and the others, she turned and ran into the castle until she stopped just short of the herbarium. Blood raced through her veins, her hands shook and her heart was lodged in her throat. Taking a deep breath, Brighid stepped into the room and shut the door behind her.

  The room was just as she left it the day before, except the trunk beckoned for her even more. Once she opened it, she could no longer deny what she was and as soon as Blake realized, he would have nothing to do with her. He had already told her it would be a fact. But she couldn’t let her friend be kept in another world. She had to save Callie. Even if it meant she would lose Blake forever.

  Why had Brighid run off? Blake asked himself for the hundredth time. He knew she was in the herbarium, but she refused to open the door. He had pounded on it so she knew he had been there, but she hadn’t answered. He even tried to open it but it was locked from the inside. Finally, he retreated to the great room to wait, only to find Quent pacing.

  What the blazes was she up to?

  Further, what had become of Miss Eilbeck? This was turning out to be a very strange day indeed.

  “Do you really think she vanished?” he asked Quent quietly so as not to be heard. “Just like that?” He snapped his fingers.

  Quent frowned in response. “I’ve never seen anything like it. She was there one minute and gone the next. Like she was never there.”

  “Lord Quentin?” the housekeeper said from behind him.

  Quent looked over his shoulder at the older woman. “Yes, Mrs. Small?”

  She glanced from Quent to Blake and back again. “I am worried about Miss Eilbeck, and Lord Bradenham won’t listen to me.”