by Kate Pearce
“I . . . uh, I’m not sure what you mean,” she answered.
“The old earl, Young Paul’s father,” Tuft waved a hand at the boy. “He grew to manhood in that castle, and he endured much in his life. He could see the truth when it stood before him. It meant that I was able to help him, protect him.” He blinked his great eyes. “And your father?” he asked her. “Is he such a man?”
Tamsyn struggled to follow his meaning. “My father—do you ask if he believes in magic?” She waved her hand. “In ghosts and pixies?” She laughed. “My father believes in rank, connections and pound notes.”
Tuft threw up a hand. “Then I cannot protect him. Can you convince him? Use your new Sight to help him open his eyes?”
“I . . . I could try.”
“You must try, and you must succeed. Open his eyes and then bring him to me. If he comes with his heart still closed then he will not see me—and I will be able to do nothing.” He made a shooing motion. “Go now, and hurry. And keep him away from that man.”
Her heart pounded with fear and determination. She turned to Gryff. “Let’s go?”
He held out his hand and she took it—and was surprised to see the shadows of evening stretching through the glade. She glanced back—and the clearing was empty.
Together, they turned and headed back to Keyvnor.
Chapter 5
“My mother looks . . . fluttery,” Tamsyn whispered. “It would likely be better if I speak to her alone.”
They’d sneaked into the castle via the stone terrace and now stood in the darkened passage, watching Lady Banfield pace in her parlor, stop to harangue one of the younger Hambly girls, then pace again.
Gryff was more than happy to avoid the obviously distressed countess, but he grabbed Tamsyn’s wrist as she prepared to go. “I’ll wait for you on the terrace. Come and find me before you speak to your father. I might be able to help.”
He took the opportunity to press a quick kiss to her wrist and sent her off with a becoming flush.
He sat on the terrace, prepared for a wait and happy to see the clouds clearing at last, but Tamsyn returned after only a few minutes.
“Father has retired already. Marjorie and Jane as well. There was a terrible ruckus with one of the servants—he struck Marjorie and tried to kill Jane!”
“What?”
She shivered and he pulled her into his arms.
“How could that happen? And yet, it sounds almost normal compared to everything we saw today.”
“Where is Rowancourt?”
“Playing billiards with some of the other gentlemen.” She burrowed closer. “It all feels so wrong . . . like the whole world has gone mad since we first set foot here.”
She felt so small against him. Turmoil colored her tone. His arms tightened, responding automatically to his need to keep her safe and certain. Her head tilted back—
And a blood-curdling scream rang in the air, sounding like it echoed from the heavens above.
She jumped, her eyes showing wild in the moonlight. “Oh, this place!”
She stilled then and stood a moment, her head held high like she was scenting the wind. Reaching out, she grabbed his hand. “Let’s go. I need to get away from here.”
“But your mother?”
“Thinks I’ve gone up to bed. She’ll never know—and there is someplace I’d like to see.”
She led him then, not into the gardens, but to the other side of the castle, toward the sea. A longish walk, then a short, steep climb found them at the top of the cliffs, with the broad expanse of the sky and sea before them and the wind raking steady fingers through their hair.
“One of the maids told me about this place, said it was her favorite spot. I had to see it—and I wanted to see it with you.”
He was glad, but he dropped her hand and let her take the last few steps without him. The sea wind caught her cloak and billowed it out behind her. Her shoulders were back and her slim form was framed against the star swept sky. As he watched she breathed deeply, sucking in the clean air like it would chase all of her troubles away.
“God, I’ve been a fool.” He said the truth into the wind, let the moon and the pounding waves bear witness. “Look at all that you’ve done today,” he told her. “How could I have said such witless things to you . . . damnation, was it just yesterday?” He shook his head, disgusted with himself. “You are a tower of strength hidden inside a tiny frame, and I was an idiot not to see it.”
She smiled at him. “No. I didn’t know I could do so much until you challenged me.” Her words held an air of confession. “And I only attempted any of it because I knew you’d be there to see—and to protect me.”
“Only you,” he said, stepping close and bracketing her face with his hands. “Since that moment eight years ago, when I first glimpsed you brightening up that dreary hall, I’ve only thought of you.” His gaze burned into hers. “Look, look between us, above us. There is no image to tell you that I’m lying. It’s God’s honest truth, Tamsyn. For me, there is only you.”
“I don’t need to look,” she whispered. “You’ve never lied to me, and I don’t need the pixie’s gift to tell me so.” She closed her eyes briefly, then smiled up at him. “And it’s been the same with me, Gryff. Since that day, for me too. You are the one who looks, who pays attention—and sees the truth in me. Even when I despised you, I cared, and now . . . now I know how wonderful it is to have you by my side . . . and I want you there always.”
He couldn’t speak, his own heart was so full. So he kissed her pert nose and a freckle on each cheek—and then his restraint was gone and his lips, then his hands were on her. He tucked her cloak over her shoulders and molded her breasts, right through her frock. He couldn’t stop. His palms slid over her, moving down to ease over her hips and slide down her thighs. He was learning her, claiming her as is his in the most primitive fashion.
She didn’t seem to mind.
He tugged her away from the cliff’s edge, then took off his own cloak and spread it out in a clever little dip in the hillside. Tenderly, he laid her down and settled to the business of kissing her.
He took his time about it. They had several years to make up for, didn’t they? He breathed in lilac and brushed her mouth with his time and again. Eventually, he deepened the kiss. Diving into her mouth with each sweep of his tongue he tumbled them both down and down into sweet pleasure.
“Nuances,” he murmured against her. “Every one is delicious.”
She laughed. Her nipples were pebbled into attention and he let his fingers scramble, freeing her from her bodice, stays and chemise.
“You truly are like porcelain,” he murmured, drinking in the sight of her. Firm and high, her breasts shone in the moonlight. He trailed a soft, light touch across her waiting flesh.
Gasping, she arched into the caress.
And that was the last of his self-command. He filled his hands with her and gave her breasts their due, paying his respect and reverence with lips, tongue and fingers. Her head went back and his arms went around her and their bodies pressed together, calling for more. He groaned at the feel of her against his hot, hard length.
Gradually, then, with his heart pounding and his body protesting, he began to pull away.
She sighed and touched his face.
He watched her, his heart overflowing.
“Our time will come,” he said softly. “When the will is read and all of this trouble settled—”
“Yes.” She pressed a kiss to his mouth. “Then it will be our time—and I will bring you back here and have my way with you.”
He laughed and gathered her close and they lay together and let the peace of the night wash over them.
Chapter 6
Early the next morning, Tamsyn lay in wait on the stairwell outside her parents’ rooms. She would catch her father before Rowancourt could. Stifling a yawn, she leaned her head back against the railing and hoped none of the maids would find her here.
“You
heard the screaming last night, didn’t you?”
She clutched her chest. “Paul! Don’t do that!” Settling back again, she nodded. “I did hear it. Do you know who it is?”
“Yes.” He looked downcast.
“Is someone in trouble? Paul?”
He looked up at her, despairing and more transparent than usual. “It’s my mother.”
Tamsyn stilled. How did one address something like this? “Paul, is your mother’s spirit here too? At the castle?”
“No. She’s not a spirit. She’s alive.”
“Your mother is alive?” Tamsyn wondered if her father knew.
“Yes, but she is . . . disturbed. They keep her locked in the tower.”
She stared, aghast. “Your mother is locked in the tower—and has been all of these years, when everyone thought she had died?”
“Yes. Father thought it was best that way. She’s mad, they say. But mostly she’s just very unhappy, and it . . . unhinges her.”
“I am so sorry, Paul.” She’d wondered what would bind a child’s spirit to a place like this and now she thought perhaps a mother’s grief would do it. “Do you . . . visit her? Like you speak to me?”
“No. She doesn’t see me. Only at night sometimes, when she’s drifting to sleep. Then she can feel me touch her hand or her hair. Sometimes it soothes her.” He grimaced. “Although sometimes it upsets her, instead.”
“Truly, I’m sorry.”
He glanced quickly over his shoulder. “Here they come.” He faded away.
Her mother emerged first, already scolding. Tamsyn smoothed her skirts and moved to intercept them in the doorway. “Good morning, Mother.” She kissed her proffered cheek. “Father, I wondered if I might talk to you?”
“Yes, yes,” he sighed. “Come along to breakfast.”
“Please, sir. I’d like to speak with you alone?”
Her parents exchanged glances.
“I can have a tray sent up,” her mother began.
‘No! No, I’ll hear Tamsyn out and then I’ll be down. Eggs on trays are always cold. Can’t abide cold eggs.” He held open the door and beckoned her in. “Well?” He indicated a chair in her mother’s sitting area. “Let’s have it. A spat with your sister? Got your eye on one of the young men?”
She flushed. “No, sir. Well . . .” She shook her head.
“Get on with it, girl!”
“It’s just . . . this castle . . . it’s a strange place, isn’t it?”
“Heard about your sister and the Hawkins girl, have you? Well, don’t fret. The servant is in custody—barking mad though he may be.”
She despaired of actually getting him to listen. “Did you know that a mad woman lives in the tower?”
He bolted upright. “How did the devil did you hear that? The servants surely aren’t talking after all of this time?”
“No, sir. Someone else told me.”
“Who?”
She paused. “Her son.”
He frowned. “Someone is toying with you.”
“Have you ever seen a ghost, Father?”
He rolled his eyes. “Don’t let others make a cake of you, girl.”
“Her son, Paul. He was around five years old when he died, was he not? His spirit lives on in this castle, Father. He’s been talking to me.”
He began to look truly alarmed.
“I’m not mad, Father. I can prove it.”
“How?”
“Perhaps Paul will show himself to you, too?” she asked into the air.
The boy popped into the space between their chairs. Her father did not react in the slightest.
“He won’t see me,” Paul said.
She decided to try another tactic. “Is it this part of the country?” she asked. “Haven’t you felt it? The servants talk of ghosts, the villagers whisper about witches and . . . pixies.”
“Stuff and nonsense. Don’t let them corrupt your pretty little head, my dear.”
“It too late. Something’s happened to me since I came here. I can show you, Father.”
He shook his head, started to rise.
She reached out and took his hand. “Please?”
Sighing, he sat.
“Think of something I don’t know.”
“Excuse me?”
She cast about and her gaze fell on her mother’s wardrobe. “Think about what mother wore on your wedding day. I don’t know what it was. Now, tell me about it—but make it a lie. Tell me something different than what she truly wore.”
He started to bluster again, but met her gaze and gave in. “Your mother wore a yellow dress on the day we married.” He waved an impatient hand in the air.
The truth bubbled into clarity between them. An image of her mother joining him at an altar. “No.” She stared in wonder. “Mother looked beautiful in ice blue, with white rosebuds in her hair.”
The earl paused. “Your mother could have told you.”
“She didn’t.”
“Someone in the family, then.”
“I’m telling you the truth, Father. Test me again. With something I could never, ever know.”
He frowned, thought a moment, then started to speak.
“Make it a lie!” she reminded him. “And I’ll see the truth.”
“When I was a lad of twelve, I was thrashed. I stole a box of cigars from my father’s desk.”
The image formed, strong and clear.
“It wasn’t you, but a ginger-haired boy. You didn’t tell the truth, but took the punishment.”
He gaped at her.
She looked closer, even as the vision faded. “It wasn’t cigars. It was . . . Father!” She blushed a little. “It was a book of naughty pictures.”
He drained of all color. “How?” he asked. “No one knows. Only that lad knew—and he died before you were born.”
“I told you, Father. Before we came here, I had no idea that these sort of things happened, that the old myths and stories were real—”
Something sharp rapped upon the door. “Lord Banfield?” It was Rowencourt! “We had an appointment this morning.”
“No!” She lunged to stop him when her father would have stood. “Don’t let him in, Father, he is not what he seems!”
“What do you mean, girl?” He still looked spooked.
“He’s lied about who he is.”
“About what? His fortune? His connections?”
“I don’t know about those—but I know he’s here because he wants something from you—something to do with that Lancarrow land—and what’s on it.”
The rapping came again.
“Don’t let him in. He’s not a strapping young man, Father. He’s ancient and decrepit and unnatural. I think he means you harm. I have a friend, an unusual friend, but he can protect you—”
The door opened—without anyone touching it. Paul faded away.
“Good morning,” Rowancourt said enthusiastically. “What have we here?”
“Good morning to you, sir.” Her father assisted her to her feet. “Just talking with my daughter.”
“Not a happy consultation, it would seem.” Rowancourt smiled at her and her skin crawled. “Having troubles, Lady Tamsyn?”
“Just girlish worries,” her father demurred. “She will be fine.”
“What? Worries?” Rowancourt fixed an intent stare on the earl. “On a fine morning like this? Utter nonsense.”
“That’s right.” Her father visibly relaxed. “No need for worries. Or nerves. Beautiful day, eh?” He smiled. “We were to walk out this morning, were we not, Rowancourt?”
“We were.” The old man transferred all of his attention to her. “I think perhaps, you should come with us, Lady Tamsyn.”
His will felt palpable and amorphous, surrounding her at first like a mist, then tightening into a fist. Her mouth opened. She could feel herself beginning to agree, but she fought it, imagined herself throwing her arms wide to fight off the closing grip—and wanting to cheer when she felt it recede.
“No, thank you, Mr. Rowancourt. And if you don’t mind, I’ll ask you to reschedule your plans with Lord Banfield. We have some urgent matters to attend to.”
Rowancourt made a small, quick gesture with his hand and her father immediately objected. “What? No. Too beautiful a day to waste on weighty manners. Come and walk with us, my dear.”
Before she could answer, Rowancourt made another, larger motion, as if he threw something her way.
The jolt hit her hard. She felt as if she were falling, falling—but after a moment realized that she hadn’t moved. She couldn’t move. Saints, but it was horrible! She gagged. She needed to run, to escape, but her every limb was clamped, frozen in a vise grip that smelled, felt and tasted of him.
“Now then,” he said with satisfaction. “You are an interesting one. Do you know how long it’s been since I had to resort to a direct spell like that?”
She struggled silently while he sauntered toward her and circled around, running a measuring gaze over her, touching a finger to her brow and finally, leaning in to sniff her.
“Ah, there it is. Such a familiar smell, the whiff of pixie magic, but how it does take me back!” Crossing the room, he looked out the window and over the courtyard. “I had just meant to pick up a stray gardener, you know. Perhaps a groom. But the more I learn about you, Lady Tamsyn, the more I think that you might be the right choice.” He came back and smiled brightly at her father. “Well now, let’s have a walk, shall we?”
Her father agreed, and turned to her. “Coming, Tamsyn?”
“Oh, yes, she is.” The pair of them left the room. To her horror, she felt her body, heeding another’s will instead of her own, move to follow.
“Thank you, Hunt.” Gryff breathed a sigh of relief as the solicitor handed over the papers. “I do apologize for requesting this at the crack of dawn, but believe it or not, it is important.”
Hunt shrugged. “If you say so. The papers were signed, in any event. I asked the earl to make the transfer after we last talked.” He yawned. “Will you join me for breakfast?”
“Thank you, but I must be going.” He put the papers in a leather bag and strapped it over one shoulder and across his chest. “Urgent matters, you see.”
