Ravenswood? Dear God, she meant Ravenswood.
He was shivering with excitement. The sort of excitement he had not felt in a very long time.
“Please, get back to me,” the voice went on, and then she gave her number with professional efficiency. There was a pause, before she added, “I’d appreciate it,” and her tone was no longer quite so confident.
Mr. Trewartha heaved himself out of his chair, forgetting his aches and pains, and shuffled over to the answering machine to replay the message. Again the husky female voice washed over him like a warm sea, teasing him, soothing him.
But it wasn’t just the voice. There was something else, and he recognized it as clearly as a fingerprint.
Mr. Trewartha smiled.
The “old family home” was Ravenswood, it must be, and Ms. Melanie Jones needed his help. Good manners decreed he must do what he could to assist her.
His smile turned into a chuckle. Mr. Trewartha had always been known for his good manners.
Nathaniel waited until day finally tipped into night, and then he waited again. When everything was quiet and the village was asleep—even the small pub had closed its doors and the last patron gone home—he and Teth made their way through the streets.
The church rose above them. They paused a moment, staring at the long, solid shape of it against the stars, before continuing up the narrow lane. Someone had grown some roses against the fence, and there was a painted board, noting the times for the services, but apart from that nothing had changed in two hundred years. The ground in the graveyard was still lumpy and uneven, and some of the old headstones leaned sideways.
He found the Raven family crypt, with its iron gate securely locked across the entrance, and when he peered through the rusting bars, he could see steep stone steps leading down into the vault. When he was a child he’d given himself shivers by imagining his ancestors climbing out. Now he wondered if Pengorren was inside, sleeping peacefully between his two wives, until he remembered that Pengorren had drowned himself in the sea.
A guilty conscience?
It seemed unlikely.
Nathaniel stepped back and looked up at the place above the door where the name raven had once been chiseled into the stone. Now it said pengorren. Even here, Pengorren had supplanted him. Even among the dead.
Sickened, he turned away.
A line of flowering hawthorns grew along the boundary of the churchyard and there was a signpost, pointing, with the words: Grave of the infamous highwayman Nathaniel Raven. Nathaniel smiled wryly. He was remembered, just not in the way he wanted to be, and not for the reasons he believed he should be.
He followed the mowed track, and there it was. The hedge around it was neatly clipped, the stone was upright, and the inscription freshly painted. There were even some bunches of cut flowers, their perfume still detectable.
Nathaniel stood and looked down at his own grave.
NATHANIEL RAVEN
HERE LIES THE INFAMOUS RAVEN
WHO PUT FEAR INTO THE HEARTS
OF ALL WHO TRAVELED
THE HIGHWAYS OF CORNWALL,
AND WHO WAS SHOT DEAD,
IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 1814
Teth licked his fingers. He had forgotten the hound was there, and it was comforting now to rest his hand upon the big smooth head.
Why would Pengorren, who seemed to have everything, murder and lie and steal his way into Nathaniel’s life, and then take over it completely? What had he done to attract the attention of the monster?
That’s how he felt. As if his life had been stolen from him.
Where was mention of his part in the fighting in Spain, his captaincy in the army? What about his qualities as a son and brother? All that people remembered now were his lawless escapades as a highwayman, the manner of his death, and, according to the author of the book, The Raven’s Curse, his possible insanity.
Nathaniel knew his life amounted to far more than that.
Leave me…let me die.
He froze. The voice was his.
That’s right, Nathaniel, you’d like to give up and die, that’s your way out, isn’t it, when things get tricky? Except that I need you. You’re my pathway to a new life.
This time it was Pengorren’s voice. Nathaniel swayed, reaching out to steady himself against his own headstone. He felt the Spanish heat, the burning sun on the dry ground and tumbled rocks, the unforgiving landscape he had believed he would die in. The cries of his men echoed in his aching head, with the smell of death.
“Please. Leave me. Save yourself.”
And again Pengorren’s voice, whispering in his ear, drawing him back into the past.
“Hush, Nathaniel. That’s very noble of you, but you don’t want them to hear you. Remember, we are hiding from the enemy. You will remember that, won’t you? They’ll be finished with the bodies soon—we’ll give them the benefit of the doubt, shall we, and say they’re poor and starving? English powder or a pinch of snuff is probably like gold to them.”
“Let me—” He was slurring his words and his head was thudding from the blows he’d received during the ambush.
Pengorren placed a hand over his mouth. “Sshh, Captain Raven, I mean to save you despite yourself and send you back to your home and family. Oh yes, my fine hero, I’ll see you survive this. Not for your sake, mind you. I want to save you for my own.”
“Ravenswood.”
“Aye, Ravenswood. You’ve led me to believe it’s the most wonderful place on earth. A grand house set upon the Cornish cliffs with the blue sea beneath and the blue sky above. A perfect little piece of England that belongs to you and yours.” His voice deepened, grew dreamy. “It’s a very long time since I was in England.”
The pain was suddenly unbearable, and Nathaniel lost several moments as he struggled to remain conscious. When the pounding in his head had dulled, and Pengorren had moistened his lips with the precious water from the canteen, he could listen again.
“I like the sound of your Ravenswood, Nathaniel. I’ve liked it from the first moment you mentioned it. You should be grateful for that, because otherwise I would have let you die with the rest of the men, or maybe I would have left you here in the rocks, to bake. Now when I arrive at Ravenswood I can be hailed as your savior rather than the bearer of sad tidings. So you see, keeping you alive will be so much better for me.”
The sun was burning against his eyeballs, and he closed them.
“You’re delirious, Nathaniel,” Pengorren was still whispering in his ear. “You won’t remember any of this, and if you do…well, it was just part of the nightmare.”
“Major?” he managed, his voice a harsh croak.
“Yes, it’s me,” Pengorren answered jovially. “Rest now, dear boy, that’s the way. I have work to do.”
But Nathaniel forced open his eyes, just a crack, as Pengorren stood up in full view of the enemy. They would see him and come for them, he thought, without any great terror. He was half-dead anyway, so it would be quick.
But the enemy didn’t attack. Nathaniel managed to lift his head slightly, so that he had a clearer view from his hiding place up in the rocks. There appeared to be only one of the guerillas remaining. He came forward to meet Pengorren, all the time glancing behind him nervously.
Pengorren spoke, but they were too far away for Nathaniel to follow the quick Spanish. Then Pengorren tossed a small leather bag at the other man, the sort of pouch that coins are kept in, and the guerilla caught it. A few more words were exchanged, and then the man hurried away, soon vanishing into the landscape.
Pengorren strolled back up the hill toward Nathaniel, passing by the dead bodies of his men. He paused, glancing down at them. “Ah well,” he said, “they probably would have died anyway. I just got it over with sooner. But you see, I had to have you, Nathaniel. Just you. I need to be a hero, welcomed to Ravenswood with open arms.” He looked up, and his eyes were dazzlingly bright. “I need to be loved.”
Teth was whining. Nathaniel sho
ok his head, clearing it. The air was chill and damp, the salty smell of the sea ridding him of the stink of death.
This was the first time he’d been able to remember those desperate days in Spain so clearly. If he’d remembered before then, he would have been able to warn his family…
“By the way, Mother, Major Pengorren, your husband, is a murderer who wants to steal Ravenswood from me and sire children on my sister.”
Would they have believed him? No one wanted to believe ill of the person they loved, and everyone had loved Pengorren—the major’s wish was granted in that.
He had to discover how to stop Pengorren.
How to put things right.
Thirteen
There’s going to be a storm and the old oak tree in the park is going to fall over.
The words were already in her head when she woke. A premonition, just like the ones she used to have when she was young, before she learned to shut off that part of herself. Before the headaches started coming. There was an throbbing pain in her head now, but the ibuprofen had helped. Why was this happening to her again? Why had it come back now after all these years?
And then she heard the noise. There was something scratching on her bedroom door. Melanie’s eyes opened. Her bedroom was very dark. She could hear the soft patter of rain on the casement window, but it didn’t sound soothing. It sounded sinister, like an ominous sound track to a spooky movie.
The scratching came again, louder this time.
Mice, probably, she told herself. Or rats.
She shivered as she sat up, reaching for her robe. The flashlight was on the table by the bed, and she fumbled to turn it on. The light was too bright, momentarily blinding her. As her eyes grew accustomed, she swung the beam around the bedroom. A chair there, the fireplace here, her suitcase against the wall by the door. Nothing to be afraid of.
Ravenswood was empty.
Even its namesake had deserted her. When she went to bed Nathaniel still hadn’t returned, and she was beginning to wonder if he ever would. Not that she missed him, of course. That was ridiculous. How could you miss a man you’d only just met and who wasn’t a “man” anyway, not in the normal meaning of the word.
“It’ll be a relief when he’s gone,” she said aloud, and then wished she hadn’t when her voice sank without trace into the silence.
Robe wrapped around her, flashlight in hand, she made her way to the door. She was pleased to note that when she reached for the doorknob her fingers were perfectly steady. She pushed the door open and stepped out into the corridor, quickly sweeping the torch in an arc, hoping to catch whatever was doing the scratching.
Again, nothing.
Melanie held her breath and listened to the stillness. It was almost as if the house were listening, too. To her? Or whatever was lurking in the shadows?
Lurking! What kind of a word is that? Get a grip, Melanie.
Melanie drew her robe closer around her, as if the soft fleecy cloth in lemon yellow was designed to keep her safe. She didn’t like this. She had never felt so far out of her comfort zone. Give her a nice neat office and clients asking questions she was qualified to answer and she was perfectly all right. Instead, she had a dead man and a stone that led to another world and a black hound from hell and a red-haired woman with talons for feet who terrified her.
“Where is he?” she whispered.
Maybe Nathaniel really wasn’t coming back this time.
Melanie admitted she’d be very disappointed if that was the case. Unnervingly, an image of his handsome face popped into her mind, with that charming, teasing smile playing on his mouth. Just thinking about him made her feel as if she had lowered her emotional barriers. Made herself vulnerable.
She felt guilty, too.
As if she were indulging in something that went against her personal code of conduct. Like eating two slices of chocolate cake instead of one, or drinking the whole bottle of wine, or reading erotica and then feeling all hot and bothered, and so lonely…
Nathaniel Raven could definitely be classified as erotica. He was hot. Suzie always said life was too short not to enjoy it, she’d think Melanie was crazy not to have asked him up to her room already; it wasn’t as if they hadn’t connected. The sexual tension had been sizzling between them from the moment she saw him. But Melanie wasn’t Suzie. Even though it was nearly two years since her last lover, she was happy with her life the way it was—she didn’t need complications—and she certainly didn’t thrive on them in the way Suzie did.
And why was she even thinking about Nathaniel Raven right now?
Melanie turned to face her bedroom and peered back through the doorway, training the flashlight on the four-poster bed. Empty, of course. The Raven wasn’t lying there wearing nothing but a smoldering look. She tried to smile, but the room felt so cold and lonely, and she wasn’t tired anymore. Maybe she could read some more of Miss Pengorren’s diary? It didn’t seem as if Nathaniel was going to do it, and she had promised to help him although they didn’t seem to be doing much “working together.”
But it was as good an excuse as any not to go back to bed.
Melanie had finally accepted that the electricity wasn’t going to work tonight, no matter how often she swore as she flicked the switches. A search of the kitchen cupboards produced a lamp and some candles, and she set them up around the library, hoping the soft light would rid her of the sense of dread that seemed to have lodged deep inside her.
Instead, the mullioned windows reflected back an eerie glow, reminding Melanie uncomfortably of her recent trip into the past, and the shadows in the corners made her think of ghosts and ghoulies and things that went bump in the night.
“Or, in this case, scratch in the night.”
Her voice sounded small, but Melanie was determined not to let her imagination take over.
“This is an old house,” she reminded herself, like an adult talking to a child, “and it would be very easy to begin thinking…thinking too much about what has happened here.”
She might be retracing Nathaniel’s steps in time, but there was no way she was going to start seeing ghosts or any other scary shit like that. She’d been there once, and she wasn’t going back. The thought of meeting Felicity Raven on the stairs with a broken neck, or Major Pengorren leering at her from the landing, made her feel queasy.
Melanie looked around the room. Her throat was tight, and she kept needing to swallow, but she knew it was all in her head. “Overactive imagination,” the family doctor had said when they took her to see him when she was a child. After that, they called anything she saw or heard or felt that no one else did her “imagination.”
Melanie knew there was no place for imagination here, now. The candles were burning steadily, the room was empty, and everything was quiet. Time to get on with what she came to do.
With a determined breath Melanie turned to the contents of Miss Pengorren’s desk.
Despite coming here with the sole purpose of reading through the diaries, at first she resisted them. She sorted through a wooden box full of photographs she’d found in a bottom drawer, inspecting the sepia faces and trying to decipher the shaky writing on the backs. The names were not ones she recognized, but they must have meant something to the old woman who lived most of her life in this house.
One small photograph, probably taken on an old box Brownie camera, showed a young and smiling Miss Pengorren arm in arm with a handsome young man in uniform. According to the date on the back, it was 1943, during World War II. Melanie examined the faces. They looked so fresh and vibrant, so full of life and determined to enjoy every moment. War did that to people, she supposed, made them value the time they had. Perhaps Miss Pengorren had a lover who died during the war? Perhaps that was why she had ended up alone here at Ravenswood, a crotchety old spinster.
Melanie shook herself. Usually she didn’t let those sorts of thoughts into her head—she was not prone to melancholy or flights of romantic fancy. Miss Pengorren was a formidable ol
d lady with a sharp tongue, not someone to be pitied.
She tipped the photographs back into the box and pushed it to the back of the drawer she’d found it in. And then she reached for the final diary in the set and, going to the very first page, dated halfway through last year, began to read.
Miss Pengorren was complaining about the weather. It wasn’t until Melanie was a third of the way through the diary—and by then she was getting quite expert at deciphering Miss Pengorren’s writing—that something out of the ordinary caught her attention.
I saw him. He stood by my bed and stared down at me. I closed my eyes and when I opened them again he was gone.
Melanie felt a chill that was nothing to do with the lack of a fire. Was this an intruder? Or was Miss Pengorren dreaming, or worse, beginning to show symptoms of mental deterioration? Or—the thought came out of nowhere—was the “he” Nathaniel Raven? Miss Pengorren believed that the house belonged to Nathaniel and replaced his portrait. Did he frighten her into doing that? The first time Melanie saw Nathaniel, he was a ghost, and Eddie told her that others saw him “walking.” Miss Pengorren had more reason to see him than most—she was living in his house, she was related to him through his sister.
The hairs on the back of her neck bristled.
Melanie’s head came up, and she stared around the room. Shadows danced beyond the glow of the candles and the steady light of the lamp. It was very quiet. The earlier rain was gone, and even the constant wash of the sea against the cliffs was barely audible. Everything was hushed, waiting.
Again Melanie told herself to ignore her unease. After what she’d been through recently, surely nothing could ever frighten her again? The trouble was it didn’t seem to work that way. If anything, the realization that there were worse things in heaven and hell than she ever imagined only made her more anxious.
Immortal Warriors 02 - Secrets of the Highwayman Page 10
