The Ancient Spirits of Sedgwick House (Grayson Sherbrooke's Otherworldly Adventures Book 3)
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Grayson nodded, vaguely recalling two ladies of middle years, dressed lavishly in pink and lavender, huge straw hats on their crimped curls with plumes waving in their respective faces, the plumes slightly damp.
“The Great assured me their opinions are the ones that count, and so I plan to take my well-dressed, very demure, and proper ladylike self to the tea shop next Saturday and enjoy a comfortable prose with the two doyennes.”
An eyebrow went up. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Well, no, no need.” She paused, realizing P.C. was staring at her, and deftly changed the subject until the children were huddled together again, making plans. Oh dear, for what?
She said, one eye on P.C., “The Great told me Lady Chivers’s mother, Clarice, had shared a brief flirtation with him around the turn of the century. I will assure them I am a respectable widow, you are a gentleman of great renown, and our children are well-behaved and really quite brilliant.” She lowered her voice. “I will lie clean about Barnaby, tell the ladies he’s a neighbor’s son, a favorite of P.C.’s. I must tell you too, the five-pound note you put in the collection plate will be discussed by every family over dinner tonight, you can be sure of that.”
“It was ten pounds.”
She laughed and punched his arm, like P.C. did Barnaby. Grayson thought about Miranda’s grandfather-in-law, called “The Great” by all those in the vicinity who cared about keeping their eardrums and hides intact, and about Major Charles Houston, his long-lost heir who now lived at Wolffe Hall, much to the delight of all the local unmarried ladies. The Great was a wily old man, and Grayson quite liked him.
Back at Sedgwick, they shared a luncheon of herbed potatoes, peas from the garden, baked pike fresh from Lake Windemere, and a delicious blancmange. Conversation was sometimes difficult, what with the rain pounding so heavily on the roof. Afterward, Grayson intended to visit the treasure room to study the unknown boy’s coffin. But it was not to be. The rain trapped the children indoors, and that meant to keep the three of them from killing each other, and their parents from killing them, both Miranda and Grayson were required to play game after game of loo and hearts and old maid. Even Marigold and Glynis bravely volunteered themselves to amuse the children. Marigold won every game of old maid. She wasn’t more than fifteen years old, a laughing girl with shiny brown hair. Pip, Grayson saw, had sidled up to stand beside her, to help her pick the right cards, he told everyone, and Marigold had laughed and hugged him.
CHAPTER NINE
Monday morning
Grayson couldn’t believe it. He woke up to blue skies and warm, dry air. He regarded the bright sun as nothing short of a miracle, but Manu and Mrs. Moon only smiled and nodded. He confessed to Manu he’d been close to ordering up an ark the previous day. Manu said only, “No tears from the gods today.” Whatever that meant.
The swans were out in force to greet the townsfolk, their honks filling the air, and life once again blossomed outdoors.
Grayson, Miranda, and the three children walked through the lovely hilly town, greeting people they’d met at church the day before, stopping at each of the long line of shops, buying ices for the children, a piece of jewelry for Miranda, and a pipe for The Great, although he didn’t smoke. Grayson was pleased to see Miranda was right—everyone not only knew about them, everyone was pleasant, particularly, he thought cynically, since they were freely spending groats. Evidently, they were considered a nice addition to the town.
Until they reached the small leather shop just off the main street. Grayson decided he was in need of a new belt, and giving the local leather master, Mr. Samuel Philpot—an old curmudgeon he’d heard him described by Mrs. Allenby, the local seamstress—his custom seemed prudent. They walked into the dimly lit interior that smelled of linseed oil, leather, and jasmine from the trailing vines outside the shop. There were no customers within, only Mr. Philpot, a monk’s tonsure of thick gray hair circling his head, his face seamed and dry, looking as leathery as his goods. His hands were gnarled, his fingers arthritic. He stood behind a table efficiently threading a square silver buckle through a narrow black leather belt. He looked up at them and stilled.
Grayson stepped forward. “Good day, Mr. Philpot, I’m—”
He got no further. Mr. Philpot interrupted him, his voice rough and sharp, sounding as if from the bottom of a deep well. “Aye, I figured ye’d come, sooner or later. Linin’ everyone’s pockets, I hear, ingratiatin’ yerself. Not stupid, are ye? An’ everyone believin’ yer so nice, but I know the truth. Ye, sir, ye can’t be the father to all three o’ the brats—ye’re too young. And that older one wi’ the hint of wicked red hair, gives him the look of a monkey wot gone awry. Here, young’un, can ye speak, or will ye spout gibberish? Will ye swing from the leather saddles hanging from the ceiling?”
Barnaby was so stunned, he could only stare at Mr. Philpot, his blue eyes wide, his mouth agape. P.C., however, stepped smartly forward. “See here, Mr. Philpot, his name is Barnaby, and he is my future husband. If you wish to call him a monkey, you must inquire whether or not I approve. I do not. You are not a nice man.”
The old man laughed, showing three remaining teeth that didn’t look long for his mouth. “Smart mouth on ye, little miss. I see ye haf the look o’ yer mither. Will ye be like ’er when ye grows up?”
“I hope so, Mr. Philpot. Mama’s beautiful and ever so smart and kind.”
“Now she’d haf to be beautiful, wouldn’t she?” And he leered at Grayson, a look thankfully lost on the children.
Grayson was ready to pick the old man up with a leather belt around his neck. He could practically see smoke coming from Miranda’s ears, saw her open her mouth to blast him, but it was Pip who cocked his head to one side and said, “What do you mean, sir?”
“I means yer mither ’as to look beautiful, else what nob would want ’er? Then she’d be in a ditch, now wouldn’t she, ye little blighters wit’ her?”
Pip didn’t understand, but Grayson did. Before he could grab his son, Pip stepped forward, his small hands on his hips. “See here, sir, my mother is in heaven with the angels. You will be nice to Miranda or my papa will kick your chops.”
Grayson felt a burst of pride, but enough was enough, and he didn’t want any of them to leap upon this nasty old man and pound him. He set Pip aside and said very quietly, “I do not understand your rudeness, sir. I believe we should adjourn outside your shop, away from my family, and discuss what—”
Mr. Philpot’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell in a heap to the floor on his side, then flipped to his back, the long leather belt curling over his chest like a snake.
Miranda went down on her hands and knees and lightly slapped his face. “Mr. Philpot, wake up!” She slapped him again, and he moaned, opened his eyes, and looked up, beyond Miranda, to Grayson.
“Let me out, let me out, let me out.” He repeated it over and over, not sharp and clear, but slurred, thick with a foreign smear. Then he closed his eyes and began to snore.
Miranda rose slowly to her feet. She was trembling, but she wasn’t about to let the children see it. “It appears, Grayson, if you still want to order a belt, you will have to return. Mr. Philpot is enjoying a nap. Come along, children.”
P.C. tugged on her mother’s hand. “But, Mama, what did he mean, Let me out, let me out?”
“Nothing,” Grayson said, herding them out of the shop. “He didn’t mean anything.”
“I ain’t no awry monkey,” Barnaby said. “Miserable old bounder.”
P.C. stared at him. “You said a lot there, Barnaby, and most of it wrong. You sounded like a barn cat again. Mama, should I clout him?”
CHAPTER TEN
A hot wind ruffled his hair and blew against his face, drying the sweat on his brow. The brutal sun beat down, but he was used to that. He stood on the banks of the Nile amid the waving long-armed reeds that grew in profusion along the shore. He wore a simple linen wrap belted by a plain twist of leather. He looked down at his sandal
s, made for him of leather, covered with the stoutest papyrus. They fit his feet well.
He admitted he was pleased and anxious, both balled together in his belly. He was an architect, and he was to meet with Vizier Merti about the pharaoh’s new project, a pleasure garden with a huge lake in the middle, golden bridges crossing it. Afterward he would see Nefret. Perhaps they could—
He heard the footsteps before he saw a man running at him, a knife held up, ready to stab downward, into his heart. It was Sadek the magician, evil to his core, he knew it, and Sadek hated him because of Nefret. He felt fury and blood roar through him. He pulled his ivory-handled knife his father had given him from his belt and began to circle the panting man.
Sadek yelled at him, “You won’t have her, do you hear me, you puling young scoundrel? I will kill you now, and you will be gone forever.”
He shouted, “Sadek, why do you not blight me into dust with a wave of your hand? How is it you dare to attack me yourself? You are suddenly brave?”
Sadek’s face was contorted with raw hatred. “I want to see the blood gush out of your heart. I want to feel it wet on my hands.” Sadek was running at him like an enraged bull, slashing out with his knife, chanting, “I saw the cuff. She could speak of nothing else. Of course I heard about it, and I knew it was you who gave it to her. She’s mine, do you hear me? I will kill you, kill you.”
“Grayson! Wake up, you’re having a nightmare!” Miranda shook his shoulders and slapped his face once, then again. She’d heard him cry out through the thin bedchamber wall and had come running. He was twisting in the covers, moaning. On the third slap, harder this time, Grayson grabbed her wrist and twisted. She cried out in pain. “Grayson! Stop!”
“Nefret? You struck me?” His voice sounded harsh, slurred as a drunkard’s, and oddly, he sounded foreign. He pulled her down on top of him, only he wasn’t himself, he wasn’t Grayson, he was Jabari, and he’d loved Nefret since the first time he’d seen her laughing with friends on the edge of the Nile, a small wooden boat in her hands, ready for a competition. He wanted her, wanted her—
Miranda was too stunned to move. She felt the long length of him beneath her, knew he was naked beneath the single blanket, felt the beat of his heart through the thin lawn of her nightgown. He was squeezing her tightly against him, as if she were his lifeline, as if he wanted to consume her. He was breathing hard, still locked in the nightmare. Miranda didn’t fight him. She managed to get her arm loose and touched her palm to his cheek. “Grayson, look at me. It’s Miranda. You’re all right. It was a nightmare, a bad one, but you’re back now.”
“He was going to stab me in the heart. He wanted my blood on his hands, and that’s why he didn’t smite me dead with a curse. I did not know if I could stop him.” Grayson felt the hot breeze, the wild pumping of his heart, the blackness of Sadek’s rage, his hatred, jealousy. And now he had his beautiful Nefret in his arms, against him, his beautiful girl, she was his, only his. “Nefret.” He knew he would die if he didn’t have her. Grayson lurched up, grabbed her face between his hands, and began kissing her, hard, thrusting his tongue into her mouth, his hands on her breasts, kneading her, caressing her frantically.
Miranda was stunned at the wild surge of lust that flooded her. She knew what it was, what it meant, and she knew she had to pull away, had to get away from him before she ripped off her white lawn nightgown and attacked him. She tried to jerk away, but he wouldn’t let her go.
He was saying into her mouth, “Nefret, why do you fight me?” He was mad with lust, his hands wild on her hips, pulling her against him, molding her bottom against him, wanting, wanting. He would die if she didn’t open to him.
Miranda knew he was still beyond her, without control, now caught up in a long-ago lust for a woman named Nefret. His hands were under her nightgown, racing up her legs to her hips, inward, to touch her. She felt the hardness of him and responded, couldn’t help herself. She’d wanted him since the first time she’d met him. But she wanted Grayson to want her, Miranda, not this Nefret. And she wanted Grayson, not this man he believed he was in his nightmare. Were they Egyptian? Because of Lord Lyle’s treasure room, he’d dreamed he was in long-ago Egypt? With this Nefret?
She couldn’t let this continue, though she loved the feel of him, his mad passion, ah, and his hands, big hands, knowing hands. But he didn’t want her, Miranda, he wanted this Nefret. She had to stop this, had to. She managed to free her arm and twisted his ear hard between her fingers.
Grayson gasped in pain, released her instantly, and grabbed his ear, and Miranda rolled off to stand beside him, pulling her nightgown back down. Her heart was pounding, not with fear, but with those magical feelings she’d rarely felt before in her adult life, and those long-ago feelings had been so momentary, so ephemeral, she’d forgotten they’d even happened. But she knew very well what she felt now was lust, and those amazing urges—no, demands—were wonderful and she wanted them again. Stop it, stop it.
Grayson was lying still now, his eyes closed, the single cover coming only to his waist—his bare waist—his chest still heaving, his breath hard and heavy. Miranda couldn’t help herself; she stared. He was really quite beautiful, all hard planes, lean, taut belly. No, she had to stop it. He moaned, and she got herself together. She leaned down and lightly rubbed his earlobe. “Grayson, wake up, you can do it. Come back to me. I’m sorry I hurt your poor ear.”
“Mama? What’s wrong?” Miranda jerked around to see P.C. standing in the dim pre-dawn light of the open doorway, her white nightgown floating around her small bare feet, her beautiful honey-colored hair in night braids, Miranda called them, rubbing her eyes. She looked scared. Of all the individuals in the world Miranda didn’t want to see at this moment, her precious daughter headed the list.
P.C. said, “I heard Mr. Straithmore yelling, Mama. I thought someone was trying to kill him. I wanted to save him. And you were here. Is he all right?”
Miranda drew a deep, steadying breath. Distract her. “P.C., you really must call him by his real name, not his fictional hero’s name, Thomas Straithmore, remember? Now, I came because Grayson had a bad nightmare. He’s coming out of it. He’ll be all right now. You may go back to bed. Don’t worry.”
“But, Mama, I know Mr. Straithmore performs daring deeds. He doesn’t only write about them. Grandmama said what he did at Wolffe Hall made him a gift from the gods. She said Alphonse had even blessed him from the afterlife.”
“P.C., Mr. Sherbrooke isn’t Mr. Straithmore. Come, you know that. Mr. Straithmore is made up. He exists in Mr. Sherbrooke’s brain and on the pages of his novels. I’ve told you this several times and so has Grayson.”
P.C. still looked uncertain.
“All right, it is true Grayson has performed remarkable deeds. But he is real, with us, and Mr. Straithmore isn’t. Now, sweeting, go back to bed, and I’ll come kiss you good night when I’m certain Grayson is settled.”
But P.C. ran to the bed and climbed up. She scooted next to Grayson and came up on her knees to look down at him. She lightly patted his cheek. “Mr. Strath—sir—Mr. Grayson—it’s all right, I’m here now. I’ll take care of you. Mama will help me.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Grayson opened his eyes to see P.C.’s precious little face leaning over him, her nose an inch from his, one small hand lightly patting his cheek. The earth righted itself, and his brain planted itself firmly once again in the present. He realized the room was a soft gray, nearly dawn. When he spoke, his voice sounded scratchy, sounded like another man’s voice. It even felt somehow different. He cleared his throat. “P.C., may I have a glass of water? On the table by the bed. In the carafe.”
P.C. cocked her head at him. “You sound strange, Mr. Strath— What shall I call you? Mr. Sherbrooke?”
Grayson said without thought, “That’s because I was someone else, someone who lived a very long time ago. His name was Jabari, and he was an architect.” He cleared his throat again. “Call me Grayson.”
Miranda said, “Call him Mr. Grayson, P.C.”
P.C. patted his cheek again, said, “Mr. Grayson,” and repeated it, as if tasting his name on her tongue. She considered him a moment. “I sometimes dream about long ago too, more often when I was so small I could scarcely reach Mama’s waist. Mama, please fill up the glass with water, Mr. Strath—Mr. Grayson—needs it. Hand it to me, please. I’ll help him drink it.”
Miranda smiled and dutifully fetched the water.
P.C. leaned closer and said very precisely, “Mr. Grayson, I am going to put my arm beneath your head and lift you so you may drink.” And she did.
Grayson sipped at the water and sighed. A flash of a knife, slashing toward him, the punch of fear— Then he was back, in the present, P.C.’s small hand now stroking his arm, his bare arm. He realized he was naked. Slowly, he reached down and pulled the blanket from his waist up to his shoulders.
“Papa, why is P.C. feeding you water? Are you sick?”
Pip’s voice brought him back, completely back, hearing the fear in his son’s voice. “No, Pip, I’m fine, don’t worry. Go back to bed. Both of you.”
P.C. frowned down at him as she tucked the cover in around his shoulders. In the next instant, Pip clambered up onto the bed and pressed against P.C. Grayson shot a look at Miranda, still standing beside his bed, now grinning like a sinner, her glorious hair tangled around her face, so much of the stuff, thick, rich honey colors.
P.C. said, “I saw you holding Mama on top of you, and then she gave you the ear pinch and climbed off. You must have done something really bad to get the ear pinch. It hurts frightfully when she does it to me, but she only does it when she’s really upset. I think the last time I got the ear pinch was in April. It was Barnaby’s fault. He wouldn’t let me harness him up like Mama’s mare, Violet, and I threw a bucket of water on him. Why did she give you the ear pinch?”