Weddings From Hell

by Maggie Shayne

As Ian led her from room to room, she began to relax. Except when he showed her the room on the third floor, the only room there, in fact. It was a tiny room, that led out to the widow’s walk. There were candles and a book of matches upon a dusty table in the room’s center.

  “What is this place?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” But he did, she knew he did.

  She’d push him on it, later, she decided, as they made their way back to the ground floor and through the kitchen. As they approached the back door, she found herself knowing already what she would see when she got there. A steep, rickety staircase that zigzagged its way down to the rocky shore far below. And suddenly, as Ian reached for the doorknob she gripped his shoulder and whispered, “I’m too afraid to go out there.”

  He frowned at her, searching her face.

  “The stairs are too steep and they can’t be safe, not with the weather and the ocean and all the years…”

  He nodded. “The stairs were torn down fifteen years ago. There’s a deck now, a wide one. Look.” And as he said it, he pushed the door open.

  Kira peered outside. No rickety, deadly looking stairs sloped dangerously down to the rocks below. A giant redwood deck stretched out instead. At the end of one level, were a few steps down, followed by more decking, and more steps, and more decking. What had been a steep and dangerous descent to the beach was now a gradual walk over the multi-level deck, with only a small set of steps at the end of the final level, that led down to the shore.

  Each level had built-in benches and safety railings, some of which were lined with flower boxes, devoid of any growth. It was modern and pleasant, and friendly. The only part of the entire house that didn’t give her goosebumps, in fact.

  “You see?” he asked, as they walked out over the redwood planks.

  “It’s wonderful. It’s the best part of the house.”

  “Mmm. Those staircases were treacherous, you’re right about that. I argued with the aunts for years to get them to make this change.” He led her to a bench that overlooked the beach, and she sank onto it, facing the ocean. “How did you know?” he asked. “About those stairs, that is.”

  She turned her gaze to meet his. “I don’t know.”

  “Perhaps Esmeralda was right.”

  Kira held his eyes steadily. “She didn’t want you to bring me here.”

  “No.”

  “She said if I knew the whole story—”

  “You heard that, then?” She nodded and he said, “Aye, I thought you might’ve. But we’ve only just arrived, lass. I’d hoped for one happy evenin’ together before we turn our minds back to those aunts of yours and their ghost stories.”

  She sighed. “It feels as if you’re putting off telling me something you think will change my mind. Have a little faith in me, Ian. I’m not as easily frightened as you seem to think.”

  “If you were, you’d have turned tail and run home by now.” There was a chiming sound, a doorbell, she realized, and Ian got to his feet. “That’ll be the groceries. I phoned in an order before we left the castle. I’ll see to it. You just relax.”

  “All right.”

  He left her alone on the deck, in the sunshine, and she basked in it. Slowly it burned away the chill that seemed to have settled into her bones from the moment she’d set foot in this country. She closed her eyes, felt the sun’s warmth, and in a moment, a smile pulled her lips into its hold, and her mind told her how ridiculous all the rest of it was. Curses. Ghosts. A billion-dollar inheritance. An enforced marriage.

  Ridiculous. She didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to do. And no curse was going to run her life. It would neither force her into marriage nor keep her from it. And it certainly wouldn’t bring about her early demise.

  Curses only had the power their believers gave to them. If you didn’t believe, they couldn’t hurt you. And she didn’t believe.

  A hand smacked against the window glass from inside the house. The sound was unmistakable, and she sat up, popped her eyes open, and glanced in the direction from which it had come, fully expecting to see Ian smiling at her from the other side of the glass.

  Instead she saw her own reflection, only…it wasn’t her.

  She sucked in a breath that hurt her chest as she realized it. The woman with her face wore different clothes, and her hair was up, and her eyes were red as she stared intently through the glass at Kira. And then Kira moved, just slightly, to get a better angle, and the vision vanished.

  On her feet now, Kira moved closer to the glass panes. They belonged to a set of French doors that led into a room she hadn’t yet seen. “I don’t believe in ghosts,” she whispered, as she hesitated, then, gathered her courage, and cupped her hands around her face to peer through the glass.

  She saw no woman. “Probably just my own reflection like I thought at first.” Tricks of light and shadow could explain the differences. Couldn’t they?

  Within the room, which appeared to be a large living room, she saw no woman. There was a fireplace, a lot of furniture. It was dim inside.

  She tried the door handles, and found they gave when she twisted them. Pulling them open, she stuck her head in, looked left and right. “Anyone here?” she asked, feeling silly. Because really, who could possibly be there, besides ghosts, and she didn’t believe in them.

  Since no ghosts answered her, she stepped the rest of the way inside, but left the French doors open onto the sunny deck. And then, as soon as she spotted them, she moved from window to window, yanking open the heavy, dark draperies that shrouded each of them. Clouds of dust erupted, and as she opened the last set, she brushed her hands against each other, and turned to survey the room in the newly admitted light.

  And then she froze, because there, above the fireplace mantel, above the shotgun that was resting on its hooks there, was a huge portrait, as perfect and fresh as if it had just been finished yesterday.

  A couple, side by side, his hand on her shoulder, stern faces staring out from the canvas into the room, in that serious pose that was considered appropriate in times gone by.

  Her face, Kira realized, was the same face she had seen peering out the window at her. It was her own face. Looking at the portrait was like looking into a mirror.

  And then she forced her eyes to move to the male subject, and she felt her heart trip over itself in her chest. He was Ian. He was absolutely Ian.

  “Kira? Lass, where’ve you gone?”

  She heard him calling to her from some other room in the house, and she walked toward the closed door. “I’m in here,” she called, and she closed her hand on the doorknob, twisted, but it didn’t give. “I think the door’s locked.”

  He was right on the other side, gripping the knob, twisting. “Odd,” he said. “Do you see a way to unlock it?”

  “No, just a keyhole. I guess you need a key. That’s all right, though, I’ll just go back out the way I came in. Meet you on the deck.”

  She turned and started for the French doors.

  They slammed closed so hard she jumped and screeched. Then she dove at the doors, gripping the knobs, rattling and shaking and tugging on them.

  Even as she did, the drapes yanked themselves closed, one set after the other. Spinning around, her back to the doors, Kira stared around the room. “There’s no point in this,” she whispered, as her chest heaved with the force of her rapid breathing. “You can’t frighten me—all right, you can, but what good is it going to do? What do you want from me, and how the hell do you expect to get it if you can’t even manage to let me know what it is!”

  Behind her, the French doors opened, and she almost fell outside as they did, but Ian’s arms came around her from behind. He held her, burying his face in her hair. “What happened, lass? What was the noise? You cried out, and doors slammed, and—”

  “Look, Ian. Look at that portrait.”

  From the open doors, the sunlight spilled over the face of the painting. Ian looked, and then couldn’t seem to look away. “Aye, it
’s uncanny, is it not?”

  “Then you’ve seen it before? You knew?”

  “I knew. I’d intended to tell you about it before you saw it. In fact, the portrait was in the attic. I put it there myself. I’ve no idea how it got back down here.”

  “Someone wanted to make sure I saw it.” She turned into his arms, let him hold her as she whispered, “Is that the thing Aunt Esmeralda thought I should know about?”

  “That, and her theory. Her ridiculous, outrageous theory that you and I—”

  “That you and I?” she prompted when he fell silent.

  “That we’re,” he nodded at the portrait, “them. Reincarnated. Doomed to relive our past.”

  Shivering, Kira looked around the room. “This is where it happened, isn’t it? Where she found him in bed with the maid? Where she killed him?”

  “Aye,” Ian said. “With that very weapon. I packed away the shotgun in the attic by my own hand. I donna know what’s about here, Kira. I donna ken how these items came to be replaced in this room. But you’re right, this is where it happened. She shot him, and then she cast the spell, from the tiny room at the top, the room where ’twas said she cast her spells, and then she threw herself from the widow’s walk, down the cliffs to the rocky beach below.”

  “Then I only have one question, Ian.”

  He faced her squarely.

  “Why the hell did you bring me here?”

  Chapter 9

  “Because I donna believe it. Not any of it, Kira. ’Tis a family legend, a superstition that’s gained power purely because so many generations have believed in it. That belief is the only power it has.”

  “You sound awfully sure about that.”

  He nodded, searching her face. “You said you didna believe in it either, lass.”

  She nodded, acknowledging her own words. “I’m not so sure anymore. I mean, this place feels so familiar to me. And the ghosts—I’ve seen them and their antics firsthand.” She let her eyes roam throughout the room, and they got stuck on the portrait that looked so much like one of her and Ian, in period costumes. All except for the unbearable sadness in their eyes. “What if it’s all true, Ian?”

  He moved close to her, clasping her shoulders and drawing her eyes back to his face. “Coming here is the only way to prove that it isn’t. An’ that’s why I brought ya. I feel something for you, Kira, something powerful. I think I might love ya. But we can’t know what’s between us while this shadow’s hanging over our heads, can we now?”

  “No. But…what if what we feel for each other is just further evidence that all of this is true? What if…it’s leftover from some past life?”

  “What if it’s not?” he asked. “What if we responded to each other so readily because we’re meant to be together? Soul mates?”

  She lowered her gaze. “One doesn’t necessarily negate the other.”

  She shivered a little, and he ran his hands up and down her outer arms, then pulled her into his. “At the very worst, lassie, at the very, very worst, suppose it is true. Then it’s up to us to set it right. Here and now. We can put the fate of your family back on track for the countless generations to come.”

  His whispered words about generations to come made her think of the children she wanted to have one day. A vision of a little girl hovered in her mind. Big blue eyes and dimples and silken curls. She could risk passing along the family curse to that child, putting her through all the angst that Kira herself was suffering right now. Or she could risk everything to ensure that would never happen.

  Lifting her gaze to Ian’s she met his eyes and nodded once. “All right. I’ll stay.”

  “You’ll be safe, I promise.”

  Kira sat alone in the large living room, staring up at the portrait, and the shotgun. Ian had offered to return them to the attic, but she’d told him to leave them. She wasn’t sure why, it had just sort of slipped out and once it had, it felt right.

  He was in the kitchen now, preparing dinner. She’d wanted to spend more time in this room, though logic seemed to suggest she should want just the opposite. Maybe to block the doors, and not enter it again for the duration of her stay. But instead she wanted to remain.

  Once Ian left her alone, reluctant as he was to do so, Kira bent to the hearth, removed the ornate screen, and began to build a fire. There was a stack of old newspapers nearby, and a tiny pile of kindling beside the circular log holder.

  She crumpled papers, positioned kindling carefully over them, and used one of the long matches from the matchholder, striking it on the red brick and watching as it flared to life. Touching the match to the papers, she sat, mesmerized as the fire took hold. Then she tossed the matchstick into the fire, and replaced the screen.

  As the fire spread, adding warmth to the chill of the room, Kira sank into a comfortable chair and watched the flames, gradually shifting her focus to the portrait up above. “I want you to stop messing with me, okay? Ian and I need this time together.”

  The eyes of her ancestor seemed to glare at her.

  “I think I love him,” she went on. “And I think he loves me, too.”

  She paused, listening, as ridiculous as that was, for some response. Of course there was none.

  “If we can make this work, maybe the curse will finally be broken.”

  The fire snapped so loudly she jumped out of her chair, and beneath the sound she could have sworn she heard the word “Never!”

  Kira swallowed hard, rubbing her arms and looking around the room. “You placed that curse on your family out of hurt and anger and unbearable pain, Miranda. But it was a mistake. You need to recognize that. You made a horrible mistake and your descendents have been suffering for it ever since. But I’m going to be the one to set it right. Since you’re not able, or maybe just not willing to do it yourself, I’m going to do it. Ian and I. True love will break this curse of yours. I know it will.”

  In her mind she heard a heartbroken whisper. There’s no such thing as true love.

  She wondered, later, if Miranda had granted her request to be left alone with Ian. Because she didn’t feel the troubling, unsettled presence lurking, and there were no further incidents of flickering lights or slamming doors or snapping flames that sounded like voices.

  Ian made steaks, luscious and cooked to perfection, with baked potatoes, mixed baby vegetables, sweet red wine. He suggested they eat on the deck, and so they did, at a small round table on the far end, overlooking the sea.

  The wind was cool, but refreshingly stiff, and it matched the pattern of the waves rushing toward the shore below. They ate, and they drank. They talked and laughed, touching on every subject imaginable from religion to politics to the environment to philosophy to favorite foods, colors, and places. She told him in painful detail about her childhood, and the pain of losing her parents. He told her about losing his own mother to cancer when he was barely thirteen, and being raised by his father since then. And he elaborated on how woefully smitten his father was with Emma, but knowing of her firm belief in the curse, he dared not ever let on.

  They were still sitting there, sipping the last bit of wine, as the sun sank beneath the horizon, and the skies turned to purple and deepened into blue. Then as they stared out at the darkening sky and the sea below it, a flash of lightning lit the night just briefly.

  A second later, thunder rolled slowly across the sky.

  “That’s close,” Ian said. “We’d best get inside before it hits.”

  She frowned at the clouds that seemed to come boiling out of nowhere, and wondered why she hadn’t seen them before.

  Ian picked up their plates and Kira took their empty glasses and the bottle and ice bucket. Big droplets began pummeling them before they made it to the door, and she laughed at the cold kiss of the unexpected storm. In the kitchen, she set the glasses and bucket down. Ian deposited the plates in the sink, and turned to face her.

  Smiling, his eyes intense, he reached up to brush the wetness from her face. But his hand s
tilled there on her cheek, and then he was leaning closer, and his lips were pressing to hers.

  She opened to him, curling her arms around his neck as the fire he always managed to ignite in her took hold. He buried one hand in her hair, cupping her head and angling her for his invasion. His other hand curled around her bottom, pulling her tighter to him. The heat grew and spread. Her breaths came shorter and faster, and her entire body tingled with longing and need.

  He scooped her up into his arms and carried her through the house, still feeding from her mouth, up the stairs, into a bedroom. And then they fell together to the bed as he tugged at her clothes and his own, and she struggled to help.

  Naked, at last, tangled in each other, they stopped, suddenly, and Ian backed away just enough to look at her. His eyes devoured her from her head to her toes and back again, and the look in them told her everything she needed to know.

  And then he was kissing her again, touching her, rubbing and caressing places that were already thrumming with heightened awareness. Her nipples screamed with pleasure when he squeezed them. And when he kissed and suckled them, it was all she could do not to cry out loud. As he ravaged her breasts, he slid his hand lower, fingers dipping into the hot moistness between her legs, exploring her there, probing and pressing until she thought she’d lose her mind with desire. She touched him in return, shocked at the rigid length of him, that he was that aroused, that throbbingly hard, for her.

  “I need you now,” she whispered. “Ian, I need you.”

  “Yes,” he muttered, sliding his mouth to her neck, to her ear, nibbling and suckling every bit of skin he encountered. “Yes, lassie, it’s been too long.”

  It was an odd thing to say, and yet felt perfectly natural, as he slid himself inside her, and began to move. And when he entered her, it felt right. It felt like the fulfillment of a longing she’d held forever, yet never been able to name. It felt familiar and perfect.

  And as they moved together it was as if they’d been sexual partners for years. She knew what he wanted, what he liked, how to please him. He seemed to read her mind, because he knew all the same things about her. He knew how to push her right to the edge, and let her hover there as he played her, drew it out, made it last, made her want to beg and plead for release. And then he knew how to push her over, into ecstasy, driving into her to keep it going and going.