Dafydd shook his head but didn’t look the least offended. “You are horribly lacking in faith, my friends.”
“Then perhaps you should take pity on our lack of confidence in you and simply explain your reasoning,” Nickolas said.
Dafydd began walking, motioning for the others to follow him. After only a few steps, the air around them changed. An oppressive coldness seemed to trickle in, not unlike what he’d felt on the first few steps of The Tower. Nickolas instinctively slowed his pace. Griffith did the same, shooting him a look of confused inquiry.
“There.” Dafydd pointed ahead to a large rock, easily the size of a sow.
Etched deeply into its surface were words, worn with age but clearly visible.
Griffith muttered a shocked exclamation, his eyes on the inscription.
Nickolas couldn’t make out the words. “I don’t read Welsh,” he reminded them both.
Dafydd undertook the translation. “It says, ‘Here lie the remains of Arwyn ap Bedwyr, buried at these crossroads. Be ye chastised and warned all ye who disregard the laws of God.’”
The seeping coldness had not lessened but had rather increased as they’d come closer to what Nickolas now knew was a burial site. He rubbed at his arms as he looked warily at the large stone. “What did Arwyn ap Bedwyr do that deserved such a scathing epitaph?”
“Do you not know what a burial at a crossroads means?” Dafydd gave him a pointed look, and Nickolas instantly began searching his memory.
Griffith pieced it together first.
“A suicide.”
“Precisely, though most crossroads burials are unmarked. This one is unique in that respect.”
According to Dafydd’s description, this now wild and untamed corner of the estate had once been very public. “He was made an example of?”
Dafydd nodded. “His suicide rocked the tiny community surrounding Y Castell. Arwyn ap Bedwyr, you must understand, was the local priest.”
The priest? Nickolas felt his eyes pop. He didn’t think he’d ever heard of a priest committing suicide.
“Some believed that having been a man of God, he would be spared the disgrace of a suicide’s burial. That obviously was not the case. And it was rumored he was guilty of some horrific misdeed. The only other man who knew of his guilt, whom locals believed had been a coconspirator of sorts, died only a few short weeks before Arwyn’s death.”
“Was this other man’s death a suicide as well?” Griffith asked.
Dafydd shook his head. “The other man’s health had begun a steep decline in the preceding years. The impact of his overwhelming guilt, many said. Arwyn, unable to die naturally as his comrade had, took his life to escape the pain, leaving others to deal with the aftermath of both his original wrongdoing and his community-shaking suicide.”
Griffith moved closer to the rock. “Was it the suicide or his rumored misdeed that inspired this scathing inscription?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps both.”
The quiet peace of the landscape stood in sharp contrast to the unsettling feel of the place. As he stood listening to Dafydd’s explanation, Nickolas fought against a growing urge to flee with all possible haste. Griffith looked every bit as unsettled.
“And the priest’s history is why this place feels so . . . so . . . ?” He searched for the right word but came up empty.
“Bad?” Dafydd finished for him, using Nickolas’s own inadequate wording from earlier. He nodded, however, indicating that was the case. “Less than a century after Arwyn’s death, the roads that crossed here were rerouted. There were a great many complaints about the feeling here, as you described it. Travelers disliked the arctic sensation. Horses were known to spook. Many acknowledged the horrible feeling of the place. The fact that you describe The Tower as feeling the same way makes me wonder if the two are connected somehow.”
“That both were the sites of suicides?” Griffith suggested.
“No,” Dafydd said. “Arwyn ap Bedwyr was the priest at the time of the Welsh uprising. He would have been there at the time of Gwen’s death and the subsequent battles. The fact that Gwen is—and, it seems, always has been—afraid of going inside The Tower would, to me, indicate that she knows something about it that the rest of us do not, something that happened during her lifetime.”
Nickolas nodded. “That ‘something’ could be the reason for the spirit of the place.”
“And since this unexplained incident she seems to know about and Arwyn ap Bedwyr’s unknown crime are rumored to have occurred during that same period, one must wonder if those two events are . . .”
“Related,” Griffith finished the sentence.
Dafydd nodded. “If not one and the same.”
“It is possible, I suppose,” Nickolas said.
“Consider this,” Dafydd said. “Arwyn’s rumored coconspirator was none other than Cadoc ap Richard, Gwen’s father. And toward the end of Gwen’s life, Gwen’s father had a falling out with his brother, Dilwyn, over something neither would disclose, and the two never reconciled. They had, until that time, been quite close.”
“There is a mystery here,” Nickolas muttered, his mind beginning to spin with the possibilities.
Griffith had never been one to let a puzzle go unsolved. His expressive face clearly showed he’d begun pondering the mystery as well.
Dafydd nodded and indicated they ought to begin their return trek to the house. The cold had seeped into Nickolas’s very organs, and he did not wish to remain.
They walked in silence. Nickolas was deep in thought, as, he assumed, the others were. Questions raced through his mind.
What could those men have done that was horrible enough for the priest to have taken his own life out of apparent guilt?
Was there truly a connection to The Tower?
Was there a connection to Gwen?
Words she had said to him the night before flew into his thoughts.
“Gwen talked about this last night,” Nickolas blurted.
“What?” Dafydd spoke with a mixture of surprise and eager astonishment.
“I am certain of it now. She said, ‘What they did was wrong. And the spirit of it lingers here still.’ Here meaning The Tower.”
Dafydd shook his head as if in disbelief. “How did you force that revelation out of her?”
“I didn’t force anything.” He quickly realized Dafydd was not accusing him of anything.
“Gwen never—never—talks about her life or the people she knew then or the things she saw. It is rather remarkable that she even hinted at her past.”
“She spoke of it as something of a warning,” Nickolas said.
“Like the warning she issued all of us over future wagers?” Griffith asked.
Nickolas nodded. “She meant to convince me to never return.”
“Perhaps, despite her dramatic first appearance, Gwen has come to care about what happens to you.” Griffith looked to Dafydd for confirmation, as did Nickolas.
“Perhaps,” Dafydd said with a shrug.
“Or,” Nickolas threw in, “perhaps she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to finish me off herself if she left me to the not-so-tender mercies of whatever specter resides at the top of The Tower.” Nickolas shook his head and couldn’t prevent himself from chuckling. Gwen had, many times since their first introduction, glared at him as though she’d like nothing better than to toss him out of the house.
“You do not know her well, then,” Dafydd said. “She’s not nearly as troublesome as you seem to think she is.”
A screech carried over the short distance between the three men and the house. Visible in several of the windows were people moving in what seemed to be chaotic patterns. Several windows stood open and sounds of pandemonium flooded out.
“That sounded decidedly ‘troublesome’ to me,” Griffith said.
Nickolas raised an eyebrow at both men before they all sped their steps.
“What has she done now?” Dafydd mumbled.
Chapter Thirteen
Gwen knew she ought not to have lost her temper so entirely. In her defense, she’d had a very long, trying night. And Mr. Castleton was barely tolerable under the best of circumstances.
Every room in the old wing of the house would have to be put to rights. Her spurt of temper had sent a wind of tornadic proportions down the corridor, blowing open doors and wreaking havoc in all of the chambers. Instead of running in panic, Mr. Castleton had simply stared all the more pointedly and whispered an awe-filled “Fascinating.”
Only when the butler, housekeeper, most of the chambermaids, and two footmen had come into the room searching for the source of the disturbance had she been able to rid herself of him.
“Remove this man from my room, or this very house will fall down around you.”
As always, they took her threat seriously. She would never actually level Tŷ Mynydd. Although, heaven knew, she’d tried to do precisely that to The Tower, only to discover that the protection she offered her ancestral estate applied very pointedly to that most hated part of it. It simply couldn’t be brought down. Neither wind, nor hammers, nor workmen could pry a single stone from its walls, let alone bring it crashing to the ground as ought to be done.
“What mischief is this, Gwen?” Nickolas unexpectedly appeared from the doorway behind her.
Gwen spun around to face him. His presence made her breath catch in her chest, despite the fact that she did not actually breathe.
“Was it your intention to give the staff extra work with this fit of yours?”
Any hopes of empathy and understanding from the man she had given up her very peace of mind to protect the night before disappeared with those words. Only a monumental effort prevented her from knocking him literally off his feet with a repeat performance of her earlier indoor whirlwind.
“At least you have managed not to tie your bed curtains in knots.” Nickolas crossed to her bed and fingered the perfectly hanging curtains.
“He was in my room,” Gwen said between clenched teeth.
“He?” A twinkle of amusement lit Nickolas’s eyes.
He thought this funny, did he? Found her suffering entertaining? He certainly wasn’t the first over the centuries, but it was somehow harder coming from him.
“I told you my room was to be empty. I told you it was mine. Mine!” Despite her intentions, a stiff breeze picked up again.
“Do you plan to tell me who it was that invaded your bedchamber, Miss Gwen, or shall I simply have every male in the household drawn and quartered?” He produced that smile she knew meant he was joking with her. She was determined not to be amused.
“Mr. Castleton.”
“Ah.” A look of sympathy passed over his smiling countenance, and Gwen felt the tiniest bit better. “He invaded your sanctuary?”
What little comfort he’d given her a moment earlier vanished at his tone. “There is no need to mock me, Nickolas Pritchard. All I have asked of you is this room. That is all I have ever asked of anyone.” Her voice rose with each word, her emotions coming painfully to the surface. She turned away from him, willing herself to remain in control. “Everything else has been taken away from me. Everything! And you mock me for clinging to this tiny comfort.”
“Oh, Gwen.” His voice grew suddenly gentle. She felt her defenses begin to crumble. “I did not intend to mock you. I have often been told I have an atrocious sense of timing when it comes to teasing remarks.”
“In my day, a jester could have his head cut off for ‘bad timing.’”
A smile lurked in Nickolas’s eyes. “That is a very good way to run out of jesters.”
“And heads,” Gwen added.
He chuckled, and the sound warmed her. He had a way of calming and soothing her, even in moments of distress. She’d never known anyone quite like him.
“I don’t think I would have enjoyed being a jester under those conditions,” Nickolas said.
“You certainly would have been motivated to practice your teasing more.”
“And I begin to think you are in need of practice at being teased, Gwen.” He sat on the edge of her bed.
“Most everyone is afraid of me.” She shrugged. “I suppose it is hard to tease someone who frightens one half to death.”
“Perhaps they fear for their heads.” He grinned at her.
Gwen hovered closer to him, feeling tired. Weariness was the worst of the feelings she had to endure. Ghosts, she had discovered early on, could grow weary but could not sleep. Rest was the closest she came. The previous night had been anything but restful.
“Did anyone tease you before you became a fearsome specter?”
“My father was not really a teasing sort of gentleman.”
Nickolas leaned back against one of the posters of her bed, turned so he faced her full on. “Neither was my father.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Gwen pulled her legs up, hovering in the same cozy position she’d favored as a young girl. “If you did not inherit your sense of the ridiculous from your father, then where did it come from?”
“From my grandfather, according to the stories I have heard.” Nickolas’s expression grew unmistakably nostalgic. It was a side of his personality she had not yet witnessed. “I have few memories of my mother, but I do remember that she liked to tease and smile and laugh.”
Gwen knew well the look that passed through his eyes. “You miss her.”
He nodded. “Almost twenty years have passed since she died, and I still miss her every day.”
Empathy surged through her at the familiar pain in his voice. “My mother died over four hundred years ago,” she said, “and I have never stopped missing her.”
“Then she was already gone when you . . .” The sentence dangled unfinished, but she knew what he meant.
“Mother died when I was twelve. Things might have ended differently if she’d still been alive.” Gwen had often told herself as much, though she had never been certain. Mother’s influence on Father had not been enormous, but she might have softened him.
“What was your mother like?” Nickolas asked. “I find myself picturing her a great deal like you, with red hair and just enough fire in her eyes to make a man think twice about crossing her and, yet, undeniably gentle and softhearted.”
His words touched her deeply. “That is very kind of you.”
He smiled—how she loved that smile! “I hope you noticed that I was not teasing in the least.”
“You really think those things about me?”
“How could I not?”
“You are an unusual sort of gentleman, Nickolas Pritchard.” She shook her head in amused surprise. “One would think you thought of me as a real person.”
He actually looked confused. “But you are real.”
A tiny laugh escaped, surprising even her. She never laughed. “Would Mr. Castleton stare at me day in and day out if I were real?”
He shrugged. “Mr. Castleton is also a rather unusual sort of gentleman.”
Another unexpected laugh followed that observation. “I will not argue with you on that point.”
“Gads, you’re beautiful when you smile like that.” Even Nickolas looked a little surprised at his blurted observation.
Feeling a little uncomfortable, Gwen rose and floated away from the bed. No one had ever paid her such a compliment, in life or in death. After a moment’s silence between them, Nickolas followed her to the window.
“Is having your room undisturbed important to you, Gwen?”
“I know I am unusually insistent about it, but this has been my sanctuary for four centuries.” His sincere expression gave her the courage to continue. “I need it, Nickolas. I need a place where I can be still and undisturbed and . . . peaceful.”
He smiled empathetically. “I will ask Mr. Castleton not to return, but I cannot guarantee he will acquiesce. He seems to have developed something of an obsession.”
“I know.” Gwen sighed. “He has the most disconcerting habit of staring whenever I am nearby.”
“Strange,” Nickolas said. Gwen recognized his teasing tone, and it made her feel a little less burdened. “One would think that encountering a ghost was not an everyday occurrence.”
She fought back a smile. “It is an everyday occurrence for me.”
Nickolas laughed, just as she knew he would. “Touché.”
Many years had passed since she’d lived with someone who made her smile, whose company she enjoyed more often than not. “How do you propose I keep him from staring at me?” Gwen asked, knowing Nickolas would come up with a diverting response.
He made a noise of deep thought and rubbed his chin. “Could you frighten him enough to send him scurrying away every time you come into a room? I understand you are quite good at terrifying people.”
“I have tried,” Gwen answered dryly. “He finds it ‘fascinating.’”
Nickolas shrugged. “They do say love is blind.”
Gwen laughed. How she’d missed laughing over the centuries since Padrig had left. He was the last who regularly pulled a chuckle from her. Yet even his company had not been as pleasant as Nickolas’s. “The last thing I want is Mr. Castleton to be nursing a tendre for my ghostliness.”
“Your ghostliness.” Nickolas laughed all the harder. “You are a treat, Gwen. A treat.” Nickolas made to take hold of her hand, seeming to realize the futility of the gesture only after his fingers slipped entirely through hers.
Frustration like she hadn’t known since her lifetime slipped over Gwen. Why must she forever be denied the comforting reassurance of a simple touch? She needed it, especially after the night she had spent.
Thoughts of The Tower overtook her mind. She would gladly have endured Mr. Castleton’s unnerving stares if it meant she—and Nickolas, at that—could have avoided the night spent in The Tower.
“I am sorry, Gwen. I—”
Gwen just shook her head. “Your wager was only for one night, wasn’t it?” She was probably rude for cutting him off, but she needed to know he wouldn’t go back. She hated the thought of returning but would not leave him there to endure The Tower alone.
“It was.”
Silence hung between them. Gwen attempted to force all thoughts of the night before from her mind, tried to keep herself from reliving the memories that had been forced upon her as she’d sat there hour after hour in a place she utterly abhorred.
An Unlikely Match Page 10
