Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 2 of 2: The Texas Ranger's DaughterHaunted by the Earl's TouchThe Last De Burgh

by Jenna Kernan

  ‘It is a story passed down from generation to generation,’ the widow said. ‘A warning from our ancestors.’

  A chill breeze seemed to pass through the room. Mary glanced up, expecting to see the door open and the curtains lifted by an errant breeze, but there was nothing, only Gerald staring at his mother with an avid expression.

  His older cousin looked bored. ‘He won’t stop until you read it, Miss Wilding,’ he said with a weary sigh.

  ‘Very well, fetch the book. We will read it by firelight and scare ourselves to death.’

  Gerald gave a whoop of triumph and shot off.

  Mary, aided by Jeffrey’s arm, limped the few steps to the drawing room. By the time they were settled, Gerald was back with his prize. He turned the pages until he found the chapter he wanted. ‘Read from here.’

  It was only as he was riffling through the pages that Mary remembered the maps she had glanced at. The passageways and tunnels, and the caves to which they were connected.

  Gerald was clearly familiar with this book, so he must be aware of them, too. But did he know that the tunnel behind her wall was in a state of good repair? Accessible?

  She took the book. The handwriting was in the old style, the hand cramped, the letters f and s almost indistinguishable.

  Legend tells us that tales of the ghost of a lady in white go back to the earliest days of the Reformation. Who she is, is lost in the mists of time. That she appears before the death of the Beresford earl is taken as fact by the inhabitants. The predominant tale has her as the wife of the first earl, killed by her lord so he could take another, richer wife. He was hanged when her body was found by his younger brother in the caves below the house.

  ‘She came before Grandfather’s death,’ Gerald declared,

  At his cousin’s snort, he glowered. ‘I heard her moaning and clanking around on the battlements. Old Ned said he saw her.’

  ‘Old Ned would say your head was shaved and the hair in your pocket, should it lead to a pennyworth of beer,’ Jeffrey said.

  At Mary’s enquiring look, he grinned. ‘Old Ned is a gardener. Older than dirt, he is, and twice as thirsty.’

  ‘Ned saw her,’ Gerald said, his voice cracking awkwardly, reminding all of his youth. ‘I told Grandfather.’

  ‘Not well done,’ his mother said.

  The hairs on Mary’s arms lifted. When she looked up, her gaze found the earl’s. He had entered as quietly as a cat and, just as he had the first time she had seen him, he had paused in the shadows beyond the light of the fire and the candles. This time, however, when he caught her gaze, he immediately strode into the light.

  ‘And what did your grandfather say?’ the earl asked in such quiet mocking tones everyone in the room strained to hear him.

  Gerald flushed. ‘He said it was hardly a prediction, when he’d been ill for weeks. But then how do we know it was his death it portended?’ He glowered at the earl.

  Who ignored him. Instead he crossed to Mary’s side and held out his hand. His eyes were the colour of a lake in winter and just as cold. He was back to his normal self. ‘What are you are reading from?’

  ‘The history of the Abbey, my lord.’ She held it out. ‘The book you kindly reached down for me.’ She watched his face as he flipped through the pages.

  He paused for a moment, frowning, then closed the book with a snap. ‘It is hardly a work of erudition if it resorts to ghosts and tales of death.’

  ‘It is a legend, my lord,’ Mrs Hampton said, looking up from her embroidery. ‘Well known to all Beresford descendants.’

  Mary winced at the obvious slight, though the earl seemed oblivious, since he remained looking at her.

  ‘It is foolish nonsense,’ Mrs Hampton continued. ‘But you have a good voice for reading, Miss Wilding. Clear as a bell. No mumbling, like so many of the misses of today. Read something else.’

  ‘She reads well because she’s a schoolteacher,’ Gerald said.

  He didn’t mean it as a compliment.

  Mary took a leaf out of the earl’s book and ignored him. ‘Why, thank you, ma’am. Unfortunately, this is the only book I have to hand, so I fear I must decline.’

  Mrs Hampton scrabbled in her reticule. ‘I have a book of sermons written by my brother.’ She held it out. ‘I haven’t had a moment to open it since it arrived. It would be a treat to hear it read.’

  The earl stepped between them, ostensibly to save Mary the trouble of rising, and glanced at the title. ‘Reflections upon St Paul’s Epistle to the Philippians. It sound most edifying, ma’am.’ The wry note to his tone made Mary look at him again. She could have sworn she saw the chilly gaze warm with a spark of amusement. It made him seem more human, somehow, and she barely repressed an answering smile. It wouldn’t be polite. She took the book from his hand.

  Jeffrey groaned. ‘Not more of his ramblings. Forgive me, ma’am but I’d rather blow my head off with a pistol.’

  Gerald shot him a glance. ‘Target practice? In the old hall?’ He looked ecstatic.

  Mrs Hampton frowned. ‘I don’t know what your grandfather was thinking, letting you shoot guns indoors.’

  ‘Every gentleman should know how to fire a weapon accurately,’ Gerald said. ‘And that requires practice. I should be shooting at Manton’s, but since we never go to London...’

  His mother pressed her lips together, but Jeffrey

  nodded his agreement. ‘He’s right. I’ll join you, Cuz. You coming, Beresford?’

  ‘I prefer the pleasure of hearing Miss Wilding read,’ he said, his voice a shade more raspy than usual.

  That rough sound sent a thrill down Mary’s spine. An unwelcome chill. Only it wasn’t chill, there was a feverish quality to it that once more sent colour rushing to her face. She didn’t have to see it to know her face had turned red, she could feel the prickle of it all the way to her hairline.

  ‘Let them go,’ Mrs Hampton said, flapping her embroidery hoop in dismissal. ‘They will only laugh and carry on. Foolish boys. But be careful, my son. Pistols are dangerous.’

  ‘I know what I am doing, Mother,’ Gerald huffed. He bowed. ‘I will see you in the morning. No doubt you will be abed from boredom ere long.’

  Jeffrey made a more elegant departure, kissing each lady’s hand in turn as he bid them goodnight, then he followed his cousin from the room.

  The earl watched him go with narrowed eyes. Mary could not quite tell if he disliked his cousin or merely did not understand him. The two men were very different. It certainly did not appear as if they shared any blood, which might be the reason for their apparent mutual dislike. Perhaps Jeffrey really had hoped that somehow his claim to the title would be recognised.

  Mary waited for the earl to sit down, but he did not. Instead he disposed himself with one arm resting along the mantel and his gaze fixed on the fire.

  ‘Begin, child,’ Mrs Hampton said. She leaned back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

  Mary focused on the words and began reading. Hard as she tried to imbue the words with sense and meaning, the perorations and lengthy admonitions remained dreary and uninspiring. By the time she was done Mary could only pity the members of the archdeacon’s congregation.

  After only one paragraph a snore emanated from Mrs Hampton’s end of the sofa. ‘What?’ she said, looking around her. Then her eyes cleared. ‘Very nice. Wonderful, don’t you think, my lord?’

  He inclined his head. ‘Entirely enlightening, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ she muttered. ‘Of course it would sound so much better in church. He has a wonderful baritone, my brother the archdeacon.’

  So much for Mary doing her best.

  ‘Would you like me to read more?’ she asked with her heart sinking to her feet at the very thought.

  ‘I think we have more than enough to r
eflect upon,’ his lordship drawled. ‘Is that your opinion also, Miss Wilding?’

  Now that was really unfair, putting her in such a position, but there was a challenge in his eyes that she could not quite resist. ‘I would dare to say one must take sufficient time to absorb such profoundness or it will lose its impact.’

  The earl shot her a glance that just might have been tinged with admiration. She felt herself warm in the heat of that gaze.

  He took a quick breath and once more his expression was guarded, his eyes cool. Once more he had distanced himself. So confusing and frustrating. Really? Why would she care?

  Mrs Hampton beamed at her. ‘Quite. Indeed. I shall be sure to relay your sentiments to my brother when next I write.’

  ‘You are too kind, ma’am.’

  Mrs Hampton made a great show of tidying up her embroidery, tucking it into the drawer in the table beside her. ‘I believe it is time to retire, Miss Wilding.’ She rose to her feet and the earl straightened.

  Mary held out the book to her. ‘Thank you for sharing this fine work with us.’

  ‘Keep it. I am sure you will find it most edifying.’ She darted a glance at the earl. ‘Shall I write for another copy for you, your lordship? It has a great deal to offer a man in your position.’

  Was that an insult? Mary felt a flash of heat on his behalf.

  The earl gazed at the widow without expression. ‘No need, ma’am. I am sure Miss Wilding will be more than happy to lend me her copy. Indeed, I am sure I shall enjoy the pleasure of listening to her read on future evenings.’

  Mary’s jaw dropped.

  ‘Very well, then,’ Mrs Hampton said. ‘I will say this. I do not as a general rule approve of blue-stockings, or young ladies earning a living, but the pupils at your school were fortunate to have you.’ She gave Mary a tight smile.

  Mary darted a glance at the earl, who raised a brow. She decided to accept the compliment. ‘Thank you.’

  Mrs Hampton headed for the door. ‘Are you coming, Miss Wilding?’

  Mary started to rise.

  ‘Stay,’ the earl commanded. An expression of surprise flickered across his face, as if he had not planned his request.

  Startled, she stared at him blankly.

  ‘It is early,’ he added by way of an afterthought. ‘Perhaps you would indulge me in a game of chess, Miss Wilding?’

  It sounded like an excuse to get her alone. She swallowed, wondering what she should say.

  ‘I am retiring.’ Mrs Hampton gave the earl a pointed glance. ‘While Miss Wilding is your ward, my lord, and while in most instances no one should think anything untoward of it, I do think she should follow my example.’

  The earl’s mouth tightened at what was clearly a suggestion he did not know how to behave like a gentleman—a cruel blow to any man’s honour. And a petty triumph for the widow if Mary followed her lead.

  He awaited her decision impassively. Clearly his pride would not let him argue his case. Not that he had much of a case after his attempted seductions. She really should go.

  ‘I will stay for a while,’ she said impulsively and flushed. Oh why would she care if she hurt his feelings? If, indeed, he had any feelings.

  ‘Then I bid you both goodnight.’ The widow swept out of the room.

  Wondering if she had quite lost her senses, Mary watched her go.

  ‘You do play chess, do you not?’ the earl asked.

  ‘Indifferently, I am afraid,’ she said as calmly as her racing heart would allow. She and Sally had played occasionally, but Mary had the feeling that Sally made up the rules as she went along. Fortunately, it was not something they had been required to teach their pupils. ‘I really should retire and leave you to your port.’

  ‘Afraid, Miss Wilding?’

  Of course she was afraid. She’d be out of her mind not to be. But it would be a mistake to let him see it. ‘I just do not think you will find my chess game much of a challenge.’

  He tilted his head. ‘Then let us take up where we left off. Will you read for me?’

  She glanced down at the book of sermons. ‘I’d really rather not.’

  The earl pulled a small book from the inside breast pocket of his coat. ‘This may be more to your taste.’ He held out a small volume bound in worn brown leather and lettered in gold.

  She read the cover. ‘Spenser’s Faerie Queene. Not an easy read.’

  ‘But not beyond you, I think.’

  There was something in his tone that made her try to read his expression, but as usual his thoughts were shuttered, as he took up his previous stance at the hearth. Once more she was reminded of a dark fallen angel. Or a god cast out from the heavens, much as it seemed he had been cast out by his family. Not unlike her. Something in her chest squeezed. A pang of empathy.

  She knew what it felt like to be abandoned.

  She lowered her gaze and opened the cover to read: To Laura, for ever in my heart, LBB. The B could stand for Bane. If so, it was odd to realise she did not know his first name. And if he had given it to Laura, why was it returned? She glanced up, but he simply nodded encouragement for her to continue. She opened the pages at the beginning. The vellum pages were worn and well-thumbed. ‘An oft-read story,’ she murmured.

  ‘Yes.’

  She coloured at the cold indifference in his voice. He clearly wasn’t going to give her any information. And she had too much pride to press him.

  She scanned the first few lines, getting a feeling of the flow and the rhythm.

  Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,

  As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,

  Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,

  For trumpets sterne to change mine Oaten reeds,

  And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;

  Whose prayses having slept in silence long,

  Me, all to meane, the sacred Muse areeds

  To blazon broad emongst her learned throng:

  Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralise my song.

  Hesitant at first, she struggled with the rhythm and

  the ancient spelling. But her difficulties were not entirely the fault of the text. She could not help but be aware of the earl’s overwhelming presence. The very essence of him pulled at her mind. The intensity of his regard on her face made her tremble inside.

  After a time, she lost herself in the lyrical words and the world of warriors. Stanza after stanza rolled off her tongue. Her heartbeat provided the rhythm and her indrawn breath the pauses.

  Slowly, she became aware of the low male voice joining hers, at first a murmur and then increasing in volume, until they read together, but he was not reading, he spoke from memory.

  She let her voice subside to a whisper, and then die away altogether, watching his face, his gaze fixed on a time and space not of this room. There was sorrow and bleakness in his expression, as if the words did not recall happy memories.

  And there was a shade of anger, too, mirroring that of the Knight whose words he spoke.

  When he reached the end of the first Canto, he seemed to come to himself and realised she had ceased reading. A faint colour stained his cheekbones.

  ‘You read very well,’ he said.

  ‘And you know it by rote.’ She let her question go unspoken, but it hung in the small distance between them.

  ‘I heard it read so often I think it is engraved on my brain.’

  He reached for the book and tucked it back in a small pocket in the breast of his coat.

  She felt a pang in her chest with respect to this Laura, whose book he carried close to his heart. Not jealousy, surely?

  ‘It was my mother’s.’ His usual rough-edged voice was more raspy than usual, as if it cost him something to speak of it. ‘It was the only thi
ng she brought from this house, apart from me.’

  She could not quite believe her feeling of relief that it was not something he had given a lover. ‘And the giver?’ she dared to ask.

  ‘Her husband.’

  She noticed that he did not call him his father.

  ‘She read this book over and over,’ he continued. ‘Long after we heard he had died.’ He looked away, clearly not wanting to share his emotions. ‘It reminds me of her. Thank you for indulging me.’

  There was no sentimentality in his voice and she had the sense the reminder was uncomfortable. She wanted to say more, even to offer comfort, but she had the sense he had said far more than he wished.

  ‘Thank you. I have not read that work in an age.’

  ‘It was not part of the school’s curriculum?’ he said, his voice sounding normal again.

  She sighed. ‘There is only so much time in the day and there are other subjects which must be covered.’

  ‘Like chasing off footpads with parasols?’

  She glanced just in time to see the faintest quirk to his lips. Was he teasing? Or mocking? She preferred not to know.

  ‘The things people deem it important for women to know,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘Needlework, French—with which I agree, by the way—drawing, deportment.’

  ‘All useful attributes, surely?’

  ‘Useful for those seeking a husband, no doubt.’ She got up. He rose with her.

  ‘You must excuse me, my lord, I am ready to retire.’

  ‘I notice your ankle is considerably better.’

  It was. She had healed far more quickly than the doctor expected. In a day or two she would be walking normally. But she had not intended for him to realise how well she progressed. ‘It is well rested. No doubt by the time I reach my room, it will be aching again.’

  ‘Then you must permit me to help you.’

  Oh, she had fallen very neatly into that trap, hadn’t she? ‘Thank you, but I manage fine with my cane.’ She bent down and retrieved it from the floor beside her chair.