by Kate Pearce
“Me?” He glared. “What did I do? Only issue an invitation. I assure you it was meant innocently enough, despite how you received it.”
She drew herself up and sent him the most disdainful glare she could summon. “I received it with nothing but pleasure—until you ruined it.”
“Ruined it? You are the one who ruined the scent of lilacs for me. I did nothing to you—”
“You embarrassed me!” She felt the sting of it anew, facing him again. “How could you have laughed so cruelly?”
“Laughed? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“You do! Don’t pretend.”
“I don’t.”
“Are you waiting for me to say it out loud? Must I describe my humiliation?”
“I was humiliated when you never showed up for our meeting—and spurned me afterwards.”
“I did show up.”
He shook his head.
“I heard you laughing at me, Gryff Cardew!”
“Why would I?”
“Because of my predicament! At my feet high and my bottom low in the stream. At the flowers in my hair and the rips in my dress and at the . . . handkerchiefs.”
“I haven’t the foggiest notion of what you are talking about. I showed up—and you did not. I passed the empty meadow and stream when I came to the castle to inquire after you. I was turned away. And each time I came after that. More rudely each time, I might add.”
She stared intently at him. He looked irritated. Handsome. And like he was telling the truth. “Then you didn’t . . ?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
He shrugged. “There was no one there at all when I passed through.”
“I was mortified,” she breathed. “I thought you were mocking me.”
The furrow in his brow smoothed out a little. He sighed. “Then I suppose your refusal to see me makes sense.”
Tamsyn covered her mouth. “What you must have thought!”
He turned back to the horse. “It doesn’t matter.” He nodded. “It’s just good to clear the misunderstanding now.”
Why did it feel like her mistake had been enormous? “Oh, Gryff. I’m sorry.”
“We neither of us have cause to feel sorry.” His mouth quirked. “Or perhaps we both do.” He still avoided her gaze. “In any case, now we can part as . . .” He stopped and there was something in his sidelong glance. “Well, we can part without animosity.” He swung up and doffed his hat. “Good day,” he nodded and spurred the horse out into the rain.
She watched him go. The old, aching hole she’d been filling with anger and pique gaped suddenly open and empty. “Goodbye, Gryff,” she whispered.
Not so far away, young Paul Hambly popped out of thin air atop the ancient, moss and vine covered mound hidden away in the forest. Tuft lounged there, enjoying a ray of sun that had broken through the gloom overhead. Beneath them, younger pixies scrambled through the bracken, fetching sweet clover heads and acorns for Tuft’s mount and companion. He and Jump were always together, always working to care for the forest, the marshlands, and the moors.
“She’s back again,” Paul said.
He spoke just as the sprite told him, “He’s back.”
”What? Who?” they said together.
Paul laughed. “The girl, I meant. Who did you mean?”
“That damned sorcerer is back, sniffing around again. He’s been at the borders, poking, testing my shield.” Tuft gave a creaky laugh. “He’ll never get past my spell. Not alone.” He tilted his head. “Now, truth is, you could be a help, there. Keep an eye on the new earl. Make sure he doesn’t fall under the wicked one’s influence.”
“I’ll try.” Paul hid his skepticism. What sort of help could he be, really?
“Keep yourself away from the sorcerer, too, if you can. Go carefully.”
Paul openly scoffed this time. “What could he do to me?”
Tuft shook his head. “He plays with dark magic, that one. And he’s grown even more powerful.” He wagged a finger. “Wouldn’t be the first time I heard of a sorcerer commanding a shade. So, be careful.”
“Oh.” Paul had never heard of such a thing.
“Now, what girl?” Tuft asked.
“Huh?” He broke off his grim contemplation to focus on the pixie. “Oh. Yes. The girl. The one who fell in the stream. The one who made you laugh.”
“Oh.” Tuft looked wistful. “That did feel good. Do you think she’ll do it again?”
“No! For many reasons, but largely because, while that laugh did you a fair bit of good, I believe it did her harm.”
“A pixie’s laugh? Not likely. Now, if I had snapped my fingers at her I could have turned her nose green or marooned her cow in a tree.”
“This time the laugh did worse. It might even have cost her true love.”
Tuft gazed calmly at him even as he raised a hand and conjured an enormous rose hip. Tossing it over the side to Jump, he asked, “Been spying again, eh?”
Paul flushed and ignored the squeal of delight that was rapidly followed by audible chewing. “Well, what else am I to do?”
“Fair enough.”
“She seems a nice girl. Good-hearted. I was thinking that perhaps you might wish to repay her.”
“Repay her? A human?”
“Yes. You know that laugh cleared that leaching mine in an instant. It would have taken you and the rain and the West Wind decades to render it harmless.”
“True enough,” Tuft agreed.
“Yet it cost her dearly.”
“She cost herself that young man’s regard when she refused to see him.”
Paul’s brow rose. So the pixie had been paying attention. “She thought he had laughed at her.”
“Oh.” The curmudgeonly old sprite sent another rose hip over the side and then sat up straight. “Very well, then.” He cupped his hands and began to roll them around a growing ball of light. It spit and sizzled, increasing in size until Tuft lifted it high and blew on it. It drifted off then, still sparkling as it moved in the direction of the castle.
“What was that?”
“The payment. The boon.”
“What boon?”
“You said I owed her.” Tuft paused, his focus off in the distance. “There. It’s found her. It’s done.”
“What’s done? What was it?”
“Exactly what she needed.”
“Tuft!”
“I gave a gift—the ability to see the truth in a man—so she won’t make the same mistake twice.”
“Oh, dear,” said Paul.
Tuft shrugged. He sprang down from the top of the mound. “Come on, Jump. Time for bed. We’ve got a dragonfly truce to broker tomorrow.”
Paul watched them enter the barrow, then began to drift back towards the castle. He had the feeling things were about to get very interesting around there in the next few days.
Chapter 2
Tamsyn suffered through a long, restless night, tossing and turning and thinking of Gryff.
It was a huge adjustment, letting go of the anger, shame and resentment she’d held on to for so long. And the problem remained—with what would she replace them? Not the wide-eyed excitement and pleasure she’d felt eight years ago. And not the stirring fascination she’d felt yesterday, seeing how powerfully broad and male and mature he’d grown.
She rather thought he held no interest in her feelings. He’d left quickly enough yesterday, and with no real warmth at all. No surprise, since he must have harbored resentment toward her all of these years. Goodness, he might even be married. No, he would likely have mentioned it when she spoke so rashly of her mother’s possible machinations. Well, he might be courting some young woman. She sighed. Of a surety the young ladies around here must be vying for his attentions. He was so intriguingly different from the other young men she’d met, with that long hair that made her fingers itch, his dark eyes and his air of utter strength.
But she must forget all of that. She would do
him the favor of following his lead. They would be mere neighbors. Acquaintances. Nothing more. It was likely for the best.
Why then, did the thought sadden her so?
She decided to rise early. More than her own thoughts had disturbed her during the long hours of the night. Had that really been a scream she heard? She’d sat up once, sure she’d seen a strange flashing light. And why had someone decided to play the harpsichord so loudly and long?
Bleary eyed, she decided to go out in search of some fresh morning air. Perhaps it would clear her head. She dressed in a simple gown, pulled on a heavy shawl and ventured downstairs.
“Good morning to you, Lady Tamsyn.” A footman hurried toward her, carrying a pitcher of steaming water.
“And to you,” she returned. She didn’t know any of the servant’s names yet.
He murmured a polite agreement, but Tamsyn gawked as an image formed in the air before him—a clear picture of the same man tucked asleep in a narrow bed. He stepped through the image, going on his way—and it dissolved.
She stared after him. Perhaps she was more tired than she’d thought.
She did feel better after wandering the gardens a bit. The air was brisk. She breathed deeply and stopped to watch some of the gardeners at work. Her mother always warned her that her vivid imagination would catch up with her. Perhaps it finally had, but she felt more normal now. A man trundled by with a small, wheeled cart full of empty eggshells and curious, she followed him to a bed of late-blooming roses.
“How lovely.”
The gardener tugged his forelock and began to crush the shells and work them into the soil. Noticing her attention, he offered, “My mam’s mam always did say as how roses loved eggshells. Keeps ‘em strong.”
“How interesting. These are so beautiful, she must have been right.”
“The old mistress loved her roses,” he began, but then he glanced back towards the castle and turned away.
And it happened again. Over his head formed another scene, an image of a tall, blonde woman in this garden, screaming, crying and tearing at the roses with bloody hands.
Rubbing her eyes with a shaking hand, she backed away. What was happening? What were these images she was seeing? She walked unsteadily until she found an empty bench and sank down.
Breathing deeply, she bent over to rest her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. It was this place. So dark and gloomy—and perhaps the added distress of her encounter with Gryff had overwhelmed her. She strove for calm, letting the quiet morning sounds of the garden soothe her—and then she noticed a sturdy set of small boots planted right before her own slippers.
She looked up into the smiling face of a little boy.
“Good morning,” he said brightly.
“Good morning.”
“May I sit with you?”
Her nod was automatic. Eyes narrowed, she watched him. “You look familiar.” She recalled the boy she’d glimpsed out here on their last visit. “I’ve seen you before, haven’t I? But no, that wouldn’t be right. Do you have a brother?”
“No.” He sighed. “Most of my family is gone, now.”
“I’m so sorry. Do you live here at the castle?”
“I used to.” He paused. “But I still spend a lot of time here.”
“I see.” And she did. She saw the bench right through his swinging legs. She swallowed, remembering Marjorie’s talk of ghosts. But oddly enough, he didn’t frighten her. “What is your name?”
“Paul. What’s yours?”
“Tamsyn.”
“It’s a pretty name.”
“Thank you.” She let her gaze wander back towards the castle walls. “You’re Paul Hambly, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” He sat quietly for a moment, before leaning in to look at her face. Are you feeling all right?” he asked. “You look . . . upset.”
“I . . . I feel a little strange.” It was her first encounter with a ghost after all. “This is a strange place, isn’t it?”
He sighed. “Yes. A lot of people say so. But Cornwall is full of different tales.”
She knew that to be true. Even back in Truro they had a haunted inn and her mother’s physician swore that the ghostly figure of a woman carrying a baby appeared to him every time he entered a certain house.
“Tamsyn?”
“Yes?”
“Are you afraid of new things?”
She thought of her resistance to the move to this place, of her odd reticence when her sisters talked excitedly of going to London for the Season. “Sometimes.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you’ll remember something for me?”
She nodded.
“Many strange things do go on here—but they are not all bad.”
She was touched by his earnest expression, dazed by the very fact of their conversation. She glanced back at the castle again. “I’ll try to remember.”
She turned to smile at him—but he was gone.
He’d tried. Truly he had. But his plan for an early morning visit—and escape—from Castle Keyvnor had been thwarted by a note asking him to postpone until the afternoon. Even then, he’d been forced to cool his heels in the library while Hunt met with some London clerks. And now that they’d finally got down to business, it was taking a lifetime for Hunt and Drake to consult maps and make copies.
Gryff answered questions, paced and hoped he wouldn’t run into any of the earl’s daughters while he was here. Not that they were not nice girls. They were, with gracious manners and pleasing natures. And not because he hadn’t noticed how elegantly Tamsyn had grown up, with new and lovely angles in her face to go with that pointed chin and new, delicious curves to tempt a man’s hands.
Because he had. Oh, hell yes, he had noticed.
But they were all young ladies of the peerage now. Tamsyn was now Lady Tamsyn. As daughters of an earl they would find similarly noble and likely elegant husbands in London, and have even less use for brawny, mere misters from the Cornish backcountry.
What did it matter, in any event? He was not in the petticoat line. All he wanted was to make it safely out of here and home. Once there he just might go into early hibernation. By next spring the ladies would be off to London and it would be safe to leave Lancarrow.
Behind him, Drake sighed and set down his pen. “There. That’s all of it. Thank you for your patience, Cardew.”
Gryff nodded.
“I hope you’ll find the wait worth it,” the solicitor said, as he folded papers neatly into a file. “For the job’s nearly done. All I need is Lord Banfield’s signature and the land will be yours once more.”
“And now we’ll have copies of the papers once again, our own record of both transfers.” Drake sounded relieved.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Gryff was relieved. “I appreciate your cooperation.”
“Do you mind if I ask why you are so eager to get that parcel back?” Hunt asked. “It’s small enough, with naught but a closed quarry and a bit of timber.”
“As a matter of fact, I’ve plans to open that quarry. Must keep the crop of young tenant lads busy, you know. But mostly I want it back due to a matter of long-standing family tradition.”
“Well, there’s no arguing with that.” Hunt grinned. “And if anyone knows it, it’s a solicitor. What is mere law against the way it’s always been done?” he asked ironically.
“I wouldn’t like your chances against my aunt,” Gryff laughed. “She’s one for the old ways, as are many people on this swath of the coast. In any case, I will be looking for a quarry manager, if you know of someone you’d like to recommend?” Gryff asked.
“Not my line, I’m afraid, but I wish you luck.” Hunt offered his hand.
Gryff shook it and took possession of his papers. “I’ve seen the number of guests you have on hand,” he said to Drake. “I’d just as soon avoid the delay of social introductions. If you don’t mind, I’ll go out at the back and exit out the terrace doors.”
“Are you sure?” Drake asked.
“There are some lovely ladies—”
“I’m sure.” Gryff clapped the steward on the back. “But I appreciate your interest.”
“Well then, have a drink with the pair of us before you start back.”
Gryff tried to demure, but Drake insisted, and in the end he had to admit that the earl kept a fine brandy. He would make his escape in a moment. He’d been through the house with his father and the old earl a number of times. He knew how to slink out without being seen.
“Here’s to family traditions.” Hunt raised his glass.
“And lovely ladies,” Drake added.
Gryff laughed and drank.
She’d tried. Truly, she had. She’d tried to heed young Paul—taking advice from a spirit!—and be open and accepting to . . . whatever this thing was that was happening to her.
She’d worried at breakfast when her father assured her that he was adjusting well to the burden of his new duties, even though he’d conjured an image of himself swimming against a raging river current.
“At least you are holding steady,” she’d ventured. “I’m sure you’ll be making headway soon.”
He’d brightened. “Yes. Thank you, Tamsyn.”
He’d gone off with a smile, so she’d ventured to hope that Paul had been right and all would be well.
She’d flinched a little when first the butler and later a footman spoke to her, pleasantly enough, but projecting images of the things they’d rather be doing—fishing and frolicking in the servant’s hall, respectively.
And she smiled now, meeting Lord Ashbrooke before dinner in her mother’s newly appropriated parlor. He said everything pleasing, and paid her sisters some very pretty compliments, but clearly his mind was only on Lady Claire Deering. The girl was here attending the reading of the will with her father, but it looked like, if Lord Ashbrooke had his way, she’d also soon be thoroughly kissed in the garden.
The crowd in the room grew, and Tamsyn started to be a little overwhelmed with the discord between what was being said and what was being shown to her. She retreated to the back of the room, turned her back on the guests and concentrated on the artwork on the walls.
