For too many years, there had only been his grandfather. Trent could never remember the gruff old admiral bending discipline enough to embrace him at Christmas or any other time. Affection had been understood but never spoken, to be glimpsed in the fierce gleam of pride beneath bushy gray brows, never felt in the touch of a hand.
But as this Christmas party drew to its close, Trent found himself corralled beneath the kissing bough, being soundly kissed and wished a happy Christmas by Emma and all her sisters. All but Chloe, of course. She attempted to slip out of the drawing room, tugging herself free when Lucy caught at her hand
"For shame, Chloe," she said. "'Tis you who always insist upon having the mistletoe and you who always declared you wanted a brother. Well, here he is. You cannot mean to neglect him."
Trent felt discomfited in the extreme, especially as Chloe ducked her head. Hiding behind her sheen of hair, she mumbled something about "getting an infectious sore throat" and "not wishing the captain to take it from me."
"Well, I like that," Charles said, laughing. "You showed no such tender concern when you kissed me and poor Reverend Henry. I assure you, Miss Chloe, Trent has a stronger constitution than either of us."
But after bidding a hasty good night, Chloe was already fleeing toward the stairs. Her rejection of Trent was obvious enough to engender an awkward silence. Flustered, Emma turned to Trent to apologize for her sister.
"Chloe has been behaving so strangely. Perhaps all the excitement has wearied her."
Not the excitement, Trent thought. It was him that Chloe was wearied of. But he managed to smile at Emma and say that he did not regard Chloe's brusque behavior in the least.
But he lied. He minded it very much. Later, as he sought out his own bedchamber, a curious mixture of hurt and anger lodged in his breast. He found himself wishing that he had stopped Chloe, hauled her back under the mistletoe and—
And what? Made her bid him a merry Christmas and kiss him? As if such a thing could ever be forced. No, Trent feared that for him such good wishes were as elusive as one of Chloe's smiles, as the fairy folk she hunted in the shrubbery.
Trent retired to his room, but not to sleep. Besides the fact that Doughty was clumping about the chamber, insisting upon polishing Trent's boots at this late hour, Trent felt far too restless.
It might have been pardonable, he thought, for a man to be kept awake by dreaming of his intended. But he had difficulty even focusing Emma's image in his mind. It occurred to him that he did not even know what color her eyes were. He only knew that they weren't blue with gold-fringed lashes, eyes that could be most winsome when their possessor was smiling
Chloe again. He grimaced. Always Chloe. He determined to drive the dratted girl out of his thoughts as swiftly as he meant to chase Doughty from his bedchamber. The seaman actually began a tentative whistling.
"Leave those boots till the morrow, Mr. Doughty," Trent said, shrugging a satin dressing gown over his nightshirt.
"But what about yer best gray coat, sir? It could use a good brushing."
"In the morning," Trent said firmly.
"Aye, Cap'n." Doughty returned the frock coat to the wardrobe with great reluctance. Trent had not often had to complain that his steward was lax in his duties, but he had never known Doughty to be this assiduous either.
Even after he closed the wardrobe door, Doughty hovered, shifting from foot to foot.
"Anything else I can do for ye, Cap'n?"
"No, thank you, Mr. Doughty. I mean to read for a bit, then retire myself."
Doughty nodded glumly. He took one shuffling step toward the door, then turned back eagerly. "I forgot to turn down the sheets for you, sir."
"I believe I can manage to lift my own coverlets, Mr. Doughty."
"Won't take but a moment, sir, and—"
"Good night, Mr. Doughty."
"What about me puttin' some more logs on the fire?"
"Go to bed, Doughty," Trent snapped.
"Aye, sir," Doughty said, looking quite crestfallen. His boots appeared weighted with lead, for all the faster he moved to obey Trent's command.
What the deuce was the matter with the man? Trent wondered. He almost behaved as though he were afraid to retire to his own bed.
Indeed, as Doughty reached for the brass knob, his huge hand did tremble a little. Anyone would think from the way he rolled his eyes that he expected to find something horrible on the other side of that door. Trent stiffened with sudden comprehension. He forced back a laugh, his humor tempered with vexation.
"Mr. Doughty, I promise you, no matter what Miss Chloe might say to the contrary, you are in no peril of being visited by spirits tonight."
" 'Course not, sir." Doughty flushed a bright red. "Such a notion never entered my head, Cap'n." Yet for all his bluster, he nervously licked his lips. "But that Miss Chloe, she do tell a mighty convincin' tale, don't she, sir?"
"Convincing?" Trent scoffed. "The ghost of one dead woman sounds like nonsense enough, but twins!"
"There be stranger things, Cap'n. One night, when I was keepin' watch with the bosun up on deck, we seen—"
"Would that be the time I had to have the bosun flogged for breaking into the rum ration?"
"No, sir," Doughty said indignantly. "Leastwise, I don't think so. In any event, I saw it, too: the shape of a phantom bird. And I was as sober as the ship's surgeon."
"Considering some of the ship's surgeons I have known, that is hardly any recommendation."
"But, Cap'n, I'm only tryin' to tell you spirits can—"
"Enough of this folly, Mr. Doughty. You will retire at once. If you are that alarmed, draw the covers up over your head. It is a well-known fact that ghosts never disturb a man hiding under a counterpane."
"It is?"
Doughty's credulous expression snapped the last of Trent's patience. He was beginning to fear he was going to have to take the burly seaman by the hand and actually tuck him into bed. Crossing the room, he swung open the door and thrust Doughty through it, bidding the man a firm good night. Only when the steward had gone did Trent shake his head with a wry amusement. Doughty was bold enough to face half a dozen French pirates with their sabers drawn but shook in his boots at the mere imaginings conjured up by a slip of a girl. Trent supposed he had better repeat his lecture to Chloe tomorrow just to be certain she understood. Definitely no more ghost tales. She wouldn't be pleased, but Trent doubted he could do anything to make her dislike him more than she already did.
With Doughty gone, Trent breathed a sigh of relief, drinking in the silence of his room. Charles, sociable creature that he was, might deplore the early hours they kept here at Windhaven, but Trent was grateful for a little solitude.
Reading was a pleasure he was seldom able to indulge in, and he moved eagerly toward the small stack of books left upon the tripod table. But as he examined the titles, he grimaced. Walpole's Castle of Otranto. Songs of Innocence by William Blake. Samuel Johnson's Lives of the Poets.
He had not expected to find the manuals on navigation and military tactics that were his usual fare. But he had hoped for at least a volume of logic or history. He should have reflected that the books must have been selected and left here for him by Emma. A lady would have no notion as to a man's tastes.
Since he still did not feel at all tired, he settled back in the chair and reached for Lives of the Poets. He supposed it was a history of sorts. But as he flipped open the cover, his fingers stilled, going no further than the flyleaf. His gaze settled upon the inked scrawl that sketched out the name of the volume's previous owner.
Sir Phineas Waverly.
Trent checked the other two books. They were marked the same. The books had not been placed here for his particular use. They had been left by this chamber's previous occupant.
Dolt that he was, he should have realized sooner that this had been Sir Phineas's room. But Emma had said nothing, and Trent had imagined that the master bedchamber would have been much large and grander.
If he had been thinking more clearly, he would have known at once. This small room with its simple furnishings fit so well with what Trent remembered of the gentle old man. He could easily picture Sir Phineas sitting here by the fire, his spectacles perched upon his nose, reading until the candle guttered low in its socket.
Carefully, Trent closed the book he held and returned it to the table, feeling very much an intruder, as though he had no right to be touching the volume, no right to even be in this room. Perhaps he had been wrong to be so adamant with Mr. Doughty. It would seem that Windhaven had its haunting after all.
This curious notion had no sooner passed through his mind than Trent was startled by a muffled cry that caused the hair on the back of his neck to prickle. He jumped as the next moment his bedchamber door crashed open.
Doughty burst into the room, looking pale enough to be a ghost himself. He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it as though a thousand devils lurked beyond, ready to break down the portal.
Given such an unpleasant jolt, Trent jerked angrily to his feet. "Now, what the devil?"
"Aieee, Cap'n," Doughty wheezed, his chest heaving. He could scarce get his words out for his terror. "I s-seen it."
"Saw what? Your own shadow?"
Doughty lurched across the room to catch at the sleeve of Trent's robe. "S-seen her. One o' them ghost twins. I just took one more peek into the hall afore I went to sleep, just to be sure it was safe. An' there she was! Liftin' her arms and moanin'!"
"Damnation, man!" Trent attempted to shake off Doughty's grasping fingers. "You must have had some sort of nightmare. Now—"
He broke off as a strange sound carried to his ears. A sound like a low groan. He knew it hadn't come from Doughty. The seaman was panting so hard, he could barely whisper. Besides, the sound was soft, like a woman's voice, muffled as though it came from the hallway beyond.
Even as Trent frowned at his closed door, he thought he saw a shadow pass over the crack at the bottom. The knob rattled and then slowly began to turn.
"Lord above protect us!" Doughty squeaked. He ducked behind Trent as though hoping to hide his hulking frame. "You should'a never broke that statue of Saint Nicholas, Cap'n," he told Trent reproachfully.
"Quiet!" Trent said, his gaze fixed intently upon the door, which now seemed to be creaking open of its own accord. He would have strode forward and gotten to the bottom of this nonsense at once if Doughty had not maintained such a death grip on his arm.
"Who the deuce is out there?" Trent growled. "Show yourself."
"No, please don't," Doughty quavered.
Outside in the corridor, upon hearing Trent's bellow, the ghost was having second thoughts about the wisdom of her actions. The white lead paint she had smeared over her face was making Chloe itch dreadfully, and the gown of the cavalier's lady she had fetched from the trunk in the garret smelled horribly musty.
But she had come too far to retreat now. Her pulse hammering, she steadied the wax taper she held and stepped forward until she stood framed in the threshold. The glow of the candle flame caused the veil draped over her face to take on an eerie translucence.
The effect must have been remarkable, for even Captain Trent appeared transfixed at the sight of her. Taking heart from his wide-eyed stare, Chloe managed to summon up another piteous moan, well remembered from those days of childhood toothaches.
"Go away!" she cried. "Leave this house!"
"Aye, aye, ma'am," Doughty stammered. Trent stood, rigid as though he had been turned to stone.
Chloe inhaled deeply to give vent to another awful wail. That proved a great mistake, as she took too deep a breath of age-old dust particles clinging to the gown.
"Leave this—Oh, ah—ah—" She crinkled her nose, trying to fight the tickling sensation to no avail. She gave vent to a series of violent sneezes, which extinguished her candle. The flame snuffed out in a tiny trail of smoke.
Through watery eyes and the layers of her veil, she could see Trent coming to life. A dark look crossed his handsome features as he struggled to break free of Mr. Doughty's grasp.
A prudent ghost always knows when it is time to vanish. Turning, Chloe took to her heels and fled as quickly as she was able in the semidarkness of the hall, hampered by the stiff brocade skirts of the old-fashioned gown she wore.
It had been her intent at the conclusion of her performance to disappear down the corridor and through the door that led to the servants' stairs in the west wing, the unused older portion of the house
But she had meant to glide away majestically, mysteriously, not skittering, bumping into the walls like a half-blind mouse. She banged up against a fragile hall table, overturning it, sending a Wedgwood vase crashing to the floor.
But she did not pause as she heard an oath, the sound of a footfall behind her. Someone was coming after her, and she didn't need to turn around to know who it was.
Scrambling madly, fighting both veil and skirts, she hurled herself down the hall. Locating the door at the end, she seized the handle and pushed. Unused for so long, the blasted thing stuck. Chloe put her shoulder to it and shoved, but she only managed to thrust it partly open when she was seized roughly about the waist.
This would have been the moment for a good bloodcurdling scream, but Chloe was too breathless to manage it She pounded wildly at the arms banding her with a grip of iron.
"Let me go," she gasped. "What kind of fool would chase after a ghost?"
"Oh, stop your nonsense, Chloe," Trent said. Still holding her tight, he freed one hand enough to wrench back her veil.
Moonlight filtering through the oriel window enabled her to see clearly the anger glittering in his eyes, the hard set to his jaw.
"What the devil do you think you are playing at—" he started to demand, but he was obliged to break off the furious scolding.
Sounds came from the other end of the corridor. Doors opening, and voices calling told Chloe that the rest of the household had been aroused. She could just hear Lucy's frightened cry.
"Emma, what was that crash?"
"I don't know, my dear. I was about to find out."
"Never fear, ma'am," Lathrop's sleepy voice called out. "I will investigate."
Chloe's heart sank. She knew that in another moment they would all be spilling into the hallway, demanding explanations. She had a lowering vision of how ridiculous she was going to appear when the lamps were lit. Bad enough that Trent had caught her, but whatever would she say to her eldest sister? Emma was going to be so shocked by this prank, so disappointed in her.
"Oh, please," Chloe whispered, wishing the walls could just open up and swallow her.
Her plea came involuntarily. She did not really expect it to be heeded, let alone answered. Therefore, she was startled when Trent released her. Forcing the door further open, he thrust her onto the darkened landing beyond.
"Stay here and be quiet," he commanded. "Don't you stir so much as a step."
Chloe was too astonished to think of doing otherwise. Besides, when Trent pulled the door closed, without her candle, she was left in unrelenting darkness. Shivering in the draft that wafted up the narrow stairwell, Chloe pressed close to the door, trying anxiously to detect what was transpiring on the other side.
The door was so thick, she could not hear well, only enough to guess at what was taking place. The high-pitched voices of Emma and Lucy and the deeper one of Mr. Lathrop all seemed to be questioning. Thank goodness Agnes was such a sound sleeper, incapable of being roused even if the roof had collapsed upon her. If she had joined the group in the corridor, Chloe's absence would surely have been noted.
As it was, Captain Trent was able to convince everyone that Mr. Doughty had merely been sleep-walking, suffering from the effects of a nightmare. Poor Doughty sounded distraught enough to make this quite believable, his jabbering about a ghost all but incoherent.
Chloe heard Trent ordering the steward and everyone else back to their beds. After what seemed an eternity, she caugh
t the sound of doors closing, the household once more settling to silence.
Leaning up against the door, Chloe breathed a sigh of relief. Much as she hated it, she had to feel somewhat grateful to Trent for rescuing her from the embarrassment and full consequences of her folly. When she heard the thud of his footfall, she quickly stepped back from the door, shrinking against the wall.
He swung the door open, the light from the candle he held momentarily blinding her. "Chloe? Oh, there you are."
She held up one hand protectively before her eyes. She realized that the makeup that had appeared so sinister in the shadows must look foolish in the light. She hardly knew what to say to Trent.
"Captain, I ..." she began.
But he ignored her halting efforts, saying in clipped tones, "You will go remove that white muck from your face, then meet me below in the drawing room. If you do not come, I will fetch you. We needs must talk."
Chloe slowly lowered her hand, her vision adjusting enough to note the inflexible lines of his face, the hard martial light in the captain's eyes. Spinning on his heel, he marched away, and Chloe felt a tremor course through her. It appeared that she had escaped nothing. The consequences of her little charade were yet to come.
Nearly a quarter of an hour later, Chloe descended the dark, silent stairs, heading for the parlor. The stiff brocade of the ancient gown yet rustled about her, but her face had been thoroughly cleansed, damp tendrils of her hair clinging to her cheeks from the vigorous scrubbing.
As she approached the drawing room, her heart seemed to be pounding in her throat. She thought she knew how an officer must feel on his way to be court-martialed. Through the open doorway, she could see her solitary judge.
Trent stood poised, awaiting her entrance, his arms locked rigidly behind his back. He had rekindled the fire on the hearth, and the leaping flames behind him cast his shadow, a giant, looming specter up one wall. Chloe stepped into the room, gathering what tatters remained of her dignity and defiance.
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