by Amy Tolnitch
He closed his eyes and smelled lavender.
His hand shook as he raised his glass to his lips.
On the morrow, he would meet with Amice to devise a way to draw out this ghost of his. He would spend all day on the matter, if necessary.
All day with Amice.
Cain took a deep drink of wine and realized a sad truth.
It was the first moment in as long as he could remember that he had looked forward to anything at all.
The next morning Amice went grave hunting.
She and Laila had found the Veuxfort family crypt beneath the chapel. But, of course, Muriel would not be buried there. She would find no welcome within consecrated ground.
A guard let Amice out of a small door on the east curtain wall, and she found herself at the beginning of a winding path leading down to the water. The sun was just beginning to rise above the sea.
Amice picked her way down the rock-strewn path and made it down to the sand just as the sun turned the water red. She slipped off her shoes, held up her skirt, and waded into the cool, smooth water. It was a beautiful sight, the ball of fire glowing red, then orangish-pink, then finally bright yellow, painting the waves with gold.
Amice turned and walked along the wide expanse of sand, dodging a flock of white and black puffins. For a long time she walked aimlessly, needing nature’s balm to soothe her spirit. She paused to look back at the castle and caught a glimpse of green from the corner of her eye up beyond the beach. As she headed toward it, the sand warmed her bare feet, and the sun bathed her face in bright fire, lifting her mood.
Amice breathed in the sea air and her thoughts began to clear. In the light of day, last eve seemed a strange dream. Not Muriel’s appearance. Amice had expected that. But Amice was developing the sense that the heartbreak binding Muriel to Falcon’s Craig was eerily like her own, save the conclusion. Perhaps Muriel’s own story had not yet ended, if Laila was right about another spirit.
Her mind shied away from how she had felt when Cain picked her up. She understood now how a person could become addicted to opium, craving it with an intensity no amount of reason could control. The way she craved Cain Veuxfort. Amice came out of her troubled thoughts to find herself walking on a grassy knoll.
In the center was a grave.
Amice approached it slowly, already knowing she had found the object of her search. The headstone was worn with age, but clearly had once been a fine piece of polished granite. She bent down to study the words, the carving softened by years of ocean air.
To My Beloved Muriel
This Was Not Our Time
One Day
J Shall Be Waiting
Always
Around the gravestone bright blue wildflowers grew in abundance, carpeting Muriel’s grave. Amice dropped to her knees and studied the inscription. Who had written it? Someone who obviously cared deeply for Muriel. Had Cain’s ancestor regretted his actions? Did the dead Muriel even know of the epitaph?
Suddenly, tears flooded Amice’s eyes, and she gazed at the tombstone through a watery veil.
Would anyone ever love her that much?
She needed to find Laila. Disgusted with her weakness, Amice brushed away her tears, stood, and turned to go back to the castle.
And found Cain standing below on the sand watching her.
Heat stung her face. She knew from the look in his eyes that he saw the evidence of her tears. “Are you following me?” she snapped.
Cain climbed up onto the grass. “Trying to. I did not see you at chapel this morn.”
“I do not attend.”
“You did once, if only for appearances.”
She shrugged. “I care little for appearances anymore.”
He halted at the stone and an expression of astonishment washed over his face. “What is this?”
Amice turned back to the grave. “It appears to be your ghost’s grave. Have you never seen it?”
“Nay. I have no time to idle on the beach. And you know I have never been fond of the water. I have not been down here for years.” He looked around them. “And ‘tis a hidden spot.”
Amice had to agree with him. The place was isolated, seemingly set apart on purpose.
Cain bent down to read the inscription on the gravestone. Amice knew the moment he finished reading by the way his body stilled. “How did you find this?”
She stared down at him, wondering the same herself. “I happened to walk in this direction, and I saw a patch of green.”
He gazed back at her, plainly believing there was more to it than that.
Amice shrugged. “Mayhap somehow Muriel guided me here.”
Cain straightened and glanced back at the stone. “What do you think it means?
“Perhaps he loved her after all, if ‘twas your ancestor who had the stone made. But why reject her? It makes no sense.” As she finished, Amice realized she could be speaking of herself and Cain. In her mind, she drew in her shields a little further.
But her eyes locked with Cain’s and suddenly it seemed as if she had fallen over a waterfall. High overhead, a falcon screeched and briny air swirled across her skin, but it all occurred in the background while a warm, blue pool enfolded her.
“Amice.” Cain started to take a step forward, then paused. His eyes held an indefinable light. “Sometimes duty, circumstances, require one to follow a path the heart does not choose. Mayhap he had no choice.”
Amice looked away across the glistening waves. “I see.”
“Or perhaps he was just a damn fool,” Cain said softly.
Tears stung her eyes, but Amice managed to keep them in. She would not cry in front of him. It was bad enough he no doubt had seen her doing just that when he came upon her.
Cain moved beside her. “Do you think he is the other spirit Laila mentioned?”
Amice shrugged, unable to speak through her clogged throat.
“According to Uncle Gifford, the man was Gerard Veuxfort, the third Earl of Hawksdown.”
Swallowing, Amice asked, “Does Gifford know anything more about what happened?”
Cain sighed. “Not really.”
Amice frowned, happy to focus on the problem at Falcon’s Craig rather than the murky past she shared with Cain. “She seems to bear a dislike for you. Can you think why?”
“Nay, but since she began making trouble, ‘tis clear she bears me a particular animosity.”
“How can you tell if you have not seen her before last eve?”
He gave her a wry grin. “Oh, many things. Finding the records I have just spent hours on covered with ink, the contents of my chamber moving around seemingly on their own, suddenly finding myself tripping over nothing and falling on my face, usually in front of important guests.” Cain gestured with his hand. “The list is long.”
“Laila and I shall try to summon Muriel again.”
“Aye, I agree.”
Amice bit her lip. “I think we should try this time without you.” She held up a hand to halt his protest. “’Tis apparent she bears you ill will. Perhaps she shall be more willing to talk to me if you are not listening.”
Cain’s reluctance was clear, but he finally nodded. “Aye. This time.”
Amice walked back toward the castle, but Cain caught her arm.
“Amice.”
He stood so close she could smell him. His scent drew her in such an elemental way it was all she could do not to press her body against his. Instead she pulled her arm free and folded both across her chest. “Aye?”
“I am sorry if I hurt you.”
Amice froze and her skin burst into tingling all over. She had not expected this. If he had hurt her? Did he truly not understand? Destroyed, devastated her, aye, but not hurt. Hurt was when someone said something unkind. Not when someone took everything from you and decreed it wanting. “It… it is of no matter. ‘Twas long ago.” This time she turned away and began walking quickly.
Cain fell in beside her in silence.
Precisely a
t sext, Amice met Agatha in the latter’s chamber. She was glad for the diversion. Between Cain and Muriel, she felt oddly exposed, as if a window into her heart had opened for all to see.
Agatha stood rod straight in the center of her chamber, appearing to all purposes as if she girded for battle. As usual, her hair was nearly invisible, her face was taut, and her bliaut an unflattering drab brown. “Well?” she asked.
“Do you have any bliauts in brighter colors?”
“Nay, just greys, blues, and browns.”
“Do you have any that actually fit?”
Agatha glanced down, pursing her lips and furrowing her brow. “Does this not fit?”
“Look at me,” Amice advised. “Does your gown look the same on you as mine does on me?”
Peering closely at her, Agatha walked this way and that, until she had completed a circle around Amice. “Nay. Yours is… tighter.”
Amice grinned. “Fitted. How is a man to know you have curves if you swath them in ells of extra material?”
Understanding washed over Agatha’s face. “Ah, I see.”
“And you have lovely grey eyes, but these dull colored bliauts do nothing to make them stand out.” Amice frowned and stepped forward to pull off Agatha’s veil and wimple. Thick plaits of shiny, flaxen hair lay underneath, wound around Agatha’s head. “Agatha, you have beautiful hair.”
Agatha blinked. “Do you think so? Mother always told me it was too bright, too much like brass. ‘’Tis a brazen look you have about you,’ she often told me.”
Which explains why you hide yourself, Amice thought. “Ridiculous. You have lovely hair.”
“Oh. But… what shall I do?”
“For one thing, let the plaits hang down your back under the veil. Do you have ribbons?”
Agatha hung her head. “Nay.”
“Hmm. Wait here. I shall see what I brought with me that might be of use.”
By the time Amice searched her own chamber and returned to Agatha’s, Cain’s sister had stripped down to her chemise, brushed out her hair, and littered her bed with numerous bliauts and undertunics of varying muddy colors. She glanced up as Amice entered. “I am hopeless.”
Amice stopped in surprise. Before her stood another woman. Without the enveloping garments and concealing veil, Agatha Veuxfort was lovely. “Not at all.”
Within the span of the afternoon, Amice clad Agatha in a bright blue bliaut of her own, shortened of course, an undertunic of robin’s egg blue and a wispy veil covering only a portion of Agatha’s hair, now loosely plaited with blue and white ribbons.
The effect was truly amazing.
Agatha dug out a piece of polished silver and stared at her reflection in wonderment. “I am attractive.”
Amice grinned. “More than attractive.”
“Thank you. Thank you so very much.”
“My pleasure. ‘Twas not hard.” Amice bit her lip. “But Agatha…”
Agatha’s face fell. “What is wrong?”
“Well, it is just that, well, I have noticed you are somewhat, uh, well, disapproving. That kind of manner will not draw a man to your side.”
“What are you talking about?”
Amice swallowed, suddenly sensing she was wading into precarious waters. “For instance, when Gifford was chasing the ghost. ‘Twas ridiculous, rather amusing.”
In an instant, Agatha turned back into the woman Amice had first glimpsed in the hall. Her lips were pursed into a moue of distaste and her stance rigid. “’Twas folly. Uncle Gifford likes to behave outrageously. Piers is nearly as bad. A legacy from our foolish father, I fear.”
Amice raised a brow. “They are not the ones trying to figure out how to experience mating.”
Agatha snorted. “Piers does not need to, the women throw their bodies at him, and I doubt Gifford cares.”
“Still—”
“Enough.” Agatha crossed her arms. “I thank you for your aid, but I am not going to turn into a simpkin.”
“I am not suggesting that.”
Agatha paced across the room and turned back to face Amice. “I do not know how to be any other way,” she admitted in a small voice.
Puzzling over her confession, Amice remembered Agatha’s mother. From the things Cain had told her, and her own brief but strange experience with Ismena Veuxfort, Amice could imagine the effect the cold woman could have on her daughter. “All I suggest is that you try to hold your tongue when you are tempted to criticize. Try to be a bit more merry.”
“Merry?” Agatha looked doubtful.
Amice nodded.
With a sigh, Agatha said, “I shall try, but I fear my new appearance may have to suffice.”
“’Tis a fine one.”
“Aye, thanks to you.” To Amice’s surprise, Agatha walked close and took her hands. “Thank you, truly.”
“’Twas my pleasure.” Amice giggled. “Now, all we need to do is find the right man.”
Agatha squeezed her hand. “Perhaps we both will.”
Amice sobered and gazed into Agatha’s eyes. “I fear ‘tis too late for me.”
“Mayhap not.” Agatha shot her a mischievous grin. “Mayhap not.”
Shaking her head, Amice went in search of Laila.
Amice frowned and glanced over at Laila. “It is not working.”
“Nay.” Laila bent and blew out a candle. “Muriel hides herself this eve.”
“But we need to speak with her! How shall we find out why she lingers?”
“We shall try again, Amice,” Laila said patiently. “You know this happens sometimes.” She gathered up their dreaming stones and blew out another candle.
Amice paced over to the fire and back again over the bare timber floor. “We shall try tomorrow.”
Laila stopped cleaning up and came over to stand next to Amice. “Te’ sorthene, what is wrong?”
Amice stopped and gazed down at Laila, the dew of tears stinging her eyes. She was rapidly turning into a weakling. “’Tis too hard. I thought I could just complete the task, get the villa, and make a new life.” Her throat tightened and her voice dropped to a whisper. “This is killing me, Laila.”
Laila’s eyes glowed with sympathy, and she put her arm around Amice. “Do you wish to leave? You could stay at Wareham. Your brother would not allow his wife to toss you out.”
For a moment, Amice considered the idea. “Nay, I cannot. I need to find my own path.”
“How can I help?”
Amice shrugged, helplessness choking her. “There is naught to be done. I must be strong.”
“You are strong.”
“Aye, in some ways. But with Cain…” Her voice broke off and she stared into the flames. “’Tis different. It is as if my will is gone, as if some buried but powerful part of me wants him desperately, despite everything.”
Laila reached up and stroked her hair. “’Tis love,” she said softly.
Amice stared at her bleakly. “Then God save me, for ‘tis a love that will destroy me.”
After they failed to summon Muriel, Amice climbed up to the battlements. She stood at the edge, tilted her head back and flung her arms open wide, wishing with every fiber of her being that the wind would simply pick her up and carry her away. Away to a place where her heart was whole again.
She sighed and walked along the stone allure, her mind whirling with possibilities. Why had Muriel not appeared? Beneath the scornful pretense, Amice sensed Muriel wanted to tell her story, no, needed to tell it. For some reason, she held back. Pride? Embarrassment? Or maybe she just enjoyed trifling with them.
The battlements looked down toward the sea, a sharp cliff below the castle walls angling down to the beach. Amice stopped and leaned against a merlon. This must be close to where Muriel had jumped, she mused.
As her mind registered a shifting of stone, the merlon broke and she plunged into the air. Twisting, she caught the edge of the remaining piece with one hand. The stone cut into her fingers, but she held on even as her body smacked into the
stone wall.
“Ahh,” she cried.
“Amice!”
“Cain!” she shouted. “Help me!” Amice heard the sound of pounding footsteps, but her grip began to slip. He was not going to make it in time. For a crystalline moment, Amice realized the supreme irony. She would die in the same place as Muriel, both of them cast aside by the Earl of Hawksdown.
She looked up and saw Cain’s face, tight with horror. Her fingers slipped, one, then another, then another.
“No!” he roared and flung himself down just in time to grab her wrist. “Take my other hand,” he yelled.
With every bit of strength Amice still had, she swung her body up and seized his other hand. Cain yanked her up onto the allure.
He pulled her against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around her. Amice burrowed in closer, clutching his tunic in her hands. Dear God, she had almost fallen. Another instant and she would have been gone. She lifted her head and gazed into Cain’s eyes.
Intense, ocean blue eyes that held an expression her heart recognized. Hunger.
She knew it because she was sure the same desire shone in her own.
Cain’s lips thinned and his nostrils flared. “Damn you, Amice,” he said in a hoarse voice.
And then he kissed her.
Amice sank into his embrace like a bird returning to the nest, weeping inside with the sweetness of his taste, his smooth lips stroking, sucking, possessing her mouth until it felt as if she were inside of him.
Not close enough. Never close enough.
She arched into his body and put her arms around his neck, pulling his head even closer to hers, surrendering to her cravings, glutting her senses on him. Something alive rippled between them, and Cain pulled her up atop his thighs, rocking against her woman’s mound, his arousal branding her.
It was the same way they had made love many times.
Amice gasped and broke the kiss. What was she doing? She stared at Cain in astonishment.
He stilled, his gaze slowly shifting from glittering hunger to disbelief.
Neither of them let go of the other, still clasped belly to belly atop the battlements.
Amice was not sure she could. Nearly dying had set free what she had spent years burying deep. With a shaking hand, she put her palm against his cheek.
