Beyond the Grave

by C. J. Archer

  I toyed with my glass, suddenly feeling uncomfortable at being alone with Lincoln in the dimly lit library. It was silly. We'd been alone often before. Then again, those times usually ended badly, or awkwardly, or both.

  "I'm going to bed," I said, gathering up Seth and Gus's empty glasses in one hand. "Thank you for allowing me to come along tonight. I know it went against your better judgment, but I hope I didn't disappoint you."

  "Disappoint?" He sounded genuinely surprised. "I'm not disappointed. It's not your ability, or lack of it, that feeds my reluctance, Charlie. It's concern for your wellbeing."

  "Oh."

  He lowered his head to peer down into the glass. The dark curtain of his hair fell across his forehead and shielded his eyes. "And, occasionally, your impatience and rashness," he added quietly.

  "Impatience? Rashness?" Why did he have to taint his praise by saying things like that? It would seem he wasn't going to break the cycle of our conversations ending badly just yet. "Are you referring to me coming inside to look for you?"

  He held his hand up the way he did when he wanted to interrupt. But I had something to say and I was going to say it.

  "For your information, McIlroy reported back that you were lying on the bed covered in blood. Perhaps I shouldn't have trusted the word of a childlike man, but I'm quite certain you would have reacted the same way if the situation was reversed and I had been inside instead of you. I think I acted appropriately and carefully at that point. Not only did I have Seth with me, but McIlroy too." I stamped my hand on my hip and arched my brows at him.

  "Are you quite finished?"

  I nodded.

  "Good, because I want you to know that is precisely what I was about to tell you."

  "Oh." I lowered my hand.

  "If I'd heard you were lying in that bed, covered in blood, I would have attempted a rescue, and with considerably more force. So I have no right to be angry, just as I had no right to be mad at you for raising the spirit of Estelle Pearson."

  "Oh," I repeated dully.

  "And what's more…" He studied his glass again, then he drained the contents in a single gulp. "What's more…I liked that you were worried enough to attempt a rescue."

  I sat heavily on the chair. I blinked at him, trying to determine what tone he'd used—had he used a particular tone?

  "I am…unused to people worrying about me," he said to his glass. "It's…new and…feels odd."

  "The general never worried about you? Or your tutors? The housekeeper?"

  He shook his head. "Why would they?" Despite the angle of his head, I could just make out the grim set of his mouth, the firming of his jaw. "I believe gratitude is in order."

  He wanted to show me his appreciation? That was all? I suppose, given his refusal to take our kiss to its natural next step, it was all I could hope for.

  I waited for him to say something further, but he did not. He touched his finger to his lips and I had the impression he was silencing himself. But that could have been my imagination. It tended to run rampant where Lincoln was concerned.

  After a drawn-out moment, which felt like it lasted five minutes but was probably only five seconds, I stood. "Goodnight, Lincoln."

  He looked up and blinked in surprise. Did he want me to stay longer? Why? I knew why I wanted to stay, and I hoped he had the same thoughts, but I wasn't going to throw myself into his lap and kiss him all over like I wanted to. If he wanted to change the situation between us then he would have to instigate it. I was tired of his seesawing emotions. My heart still bore the bruises of his rejection. He knew how I felt, and it was now up to him to do something about it if he wished. I was no longer going to make a fool of myself where he was concerned.

  "Goodnight," he muttered, reaching for the bottle on the table beside him.

  * * *

  Black hair splayed across white pillow. Red blood blooming over white sheets. Lincoln was dead and not even his spirit could hear my scream.

  I awoke with a start and the sensation that I was not alone in the bedroom. "Lincoln," I said on impulse.

  "I'm here." He stood close to the bed, his face in shadow.

  He was here. But why?

  Chapter 16

  "It was only a dream," I said, as much to reassure myself as Lincoln. I passed a trembling hand across my eyes and sucked in a deep breath in an attempt to calm my rapidly beating heart. It didn't work, and I felt more unraveled than ever. I hadn't been this shaken when I'd first seen the dead man I'd thought was Lincoln.

  To my utter horror, my face crumpled and my emotions gushed to the surface. I pulled up my legs and embraced them, then buried my face on my knees. I bit my lip hard in an effort to keep silent.

  The mattress beside me sank, and Lincoln's arm came around my shoulders. He pressed his lips to the top of my head, and I leaned into him. He was solid and alive. Thank God. His warmth seeped through my nightdress, chasing away the chill that had crept into me through my dreams. How could a man so versed in the art of cool emotions be so warm?

  I didn't dare think what his presence in my room meant. Perhaps it meant nothing. Perhaps it was his way of being protective. All I knew was that I liked the way he held me, and the way I could feel his heart beating, and smell the scent of spicy soap on his skin. I liked how I was now thinking of these things and not my nightmare.

  I adjusted my position and tucked my head under his chin. His arm tightened, much to my surprise. I'd expected him to withdraw and mutter a conviction that it wouldn't happen again.

  "Better?" His voice rumbled through his body, sending vibrations through mine.

  "Yes. Thank you for waking me."

  "I wasn't sure if it was the best thing to do or not."

  "It was. Believe me, I'd rather be awake all night that dream…that."

  I expected him to ask me what it was about, but he didn't.

  "I must have been loud for you to hear me from your rooms."

  "I couldn't hear you. Not in the literal sense."

  "You sensed me?"

  He nodded. "This time you called my name. That's why I came."

  I pulled away to look at him. "This time?"

  "I often sense you having nightmares, although they have lessened considerably these last few weeks. Until tonight." His face was close to mine, but it was too dark to see more than his silhouette. "I don't like that you have nightmares about me," he murmured, stroking my hair.

  "You do know that you're not the villain in my nightmares, don't you?"

  "I…wasn't certain."

  Oh, Lincoln. "I was afraid for you, not of you. That man in the bed…the one who killed himself…" I shook my head. The memory was still too raw to discuss it.

  He cupped my cheek. "Tell me what to do to stop them."

  My heart ground to a halt. My chest hurt. "Being here with me helps."

  "I was afraid you'd say that."

  "I had fewer nightmares when I stayed in your rooms, back when you thought I was a boy."

  "That's not possible anymore, Charlie," he said heavily.

  I tucked my head beneath his chin again and wrapped my arms around him. I wasn't willing to let him go yet. "So is this it? Is this what we're reduced to? A few snatched moments in the dead of night, when you wake me from a nightmare, and then in the morning, everything returns to how it was before?"

  "Not…quite as it was before."

  I pulled away again. "What do you mean?"

  "I mean…" He blew out a breath. It smelled faintly of brandy. "I have tried to distance myself from you. I've tried telling myself that what I feel is merely fleeting desire, nothing more. I've tried not to like it when you worry about me." He rubbed my shoulder and drew in another deep breath, then another. "But I've failed, and I continue to fail every day, every hour."

  "Oh. This is…an interesting development."

  "Interesting is not the word that sprang to my mind," he said wryly.

  "So what are you going to do about it?" Kiss me, you big fool.
>
  "I am yet to come to a conclusion."

  My heart plunged. Some of the coolness had returned to his voice. I was losing him. The emotional man was being slowly taken over by the unemotional one again. "You're thinking through all the possible repercussions, aren't you? All the positives and negatives?"

  "It's who I am; how I work."

  "This is not work, Lincoln. I am not a task you have to schedule or a mystery to solve."

  "You're wrong. You're the greatest mystery, Charlie. Attempting to solve why I feel for you what I do takes a lot of my energy."

  "Then stop using your head and use this instead." I placed my hand against his shirt over his heart. It beat a little erratically. "Give in to what you feel, Lincoln. Perhaps it'll become easier to understand once you do."

  He brushed the pad of his thumb across the ridge of my cheek. "I can't risk it," he said on a breath. "The potential to cause damage…it's too great. If I hurt you…"

  You already are, I wanted to say but didn't. My throat was too clogged, for one thing, and I didn't want to scare him away even more.

  "Or if you are hurt because of your connection to me…" he whispered. I felt a shudder ripple through him and tightened my grip around him.

  In that moment, with that shudder, I knew he spoke with honesty. An honesty that took enormous effort to put into words. Despite his strength and competence, Lincoln was afraid. He'd never loved anyone before or been loved in return. The only person he'd ever come close to caring about—Timmy—had died, and he had died because of his friendship with Lincoln. No wonder he was afraid. No wonder he'd tried to convince himself not to care for me.

  But how to set his mind at ease? We'd been through so many dangers together, and the risks were great. There would continue to be risks, particularly if he gave me what I wanted—an active role in the ministry. Looking at it that way, I'd brought his rejection down on myself by insisting I work alongside him.

  With a heavy heart, I scooted back up the bed, away from him. What I needed to say required a clear head, and I couldn't have that if I was touching him. His hand dropped to the mattress like a stone.

  "I love you, Lincoln. With all my heart, I love you. I can love you despite knowing it comes with risks—that you won't love me back, or that you will one day leave me, whether you want to or not." My eyes burned and my chest ached but I was proud of the strength in my voice, and I was a little surprised by it, too. "But you're not ready to love me in the same way. The fear is tormenting you, and it will continue to torment you until you make the decision not to let it anymore. Love and fear are intertwined, Lincoln. You cannot have one without the other, and until you understand that, I'll never have all of you. And I want every last piece of you. I'm selfish that way." I sucked in a shuddery breath and let it out slowly. I wished I could see his face but it was too dark. He didn't move. "Come to me when you're ready."

  His hand moved an inch toward me then settled on the mattress again. "How will I know when I'm ready?" he asked in a raspy whisper.

  "When having me for just a moment is worth any risk, including losing me forever."

  I heard his swallow in the dark then he stood. "I'll think about what you've said."

  I smiled, despite the weight pressing down on my chest. He wasn't someone who could separate thinking from feeling. At least not yet.

  "Get some sleep, Charlie." His silhouette melted into the shadows and the outer door clicked closed.

  I sank beneath the covers and sighed. Had I really just thrown away the opportunity of having him? Would he ever understand what I was trying to tell him? Or would he come to me again one day, and tell me the risks were worth it?

  Dear God, I hoped so. Otherwise, I was the biggest fool in England.

  * * *

  Andrew Buchanan slept late. When he finally awoke, the entire household knew it from his foul-mouthed shouts. Gus's responding shouts for him to calm down went unheeded, and it wasn't until Lincoln appeared that Buchanan quieted.

  "Fitzroy! What the devil is going on?" he snapped from where he was pinned against the wall by Gus's forearm. "Who is this oaf? Where am I?"

  "You're at Lichfield Towers," Lincoln said, nodding at Gus to release him. "Gus is my employee, as are Seth and Miss Holloway. We rescued you last night from Bedlam."

  "Bedlam? Is this some kind of a joke?"

  "I don't joke."

  "It's true, he doesn't," Gus chimed in, earning a glare from Seth.

  Buchanan glanced between each of the men then his gaze flicked to me. A small frown settled between his brows then he quickly looked away. The color rose in his cheeks. He stretched his neck and folded his arms over his nightshirt, as if embarrassed to be seen dressed like that. Along with his disheveled hair and stubbly chin, he looked nothing like the gentleman I'd first met at Harcourt House.

  "There are clothes in your room, Mr. Buchanan," I said. "Perhaps you'd like to dress then join us for breakfast. Seth will assist you."

  Buchanan stretched his neck again and looked down his nose at me. "You look familiar. Have we met?"

  "My name is Charlotte Holloway. We met when I called upon Lady Harcourt."

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. "Can't recall."

  Not surprising; he'd been three sheets to the wind at the time.

  "Miss Holloway is my assistant." The sharp edge to Lincoln's tone wasn't lost on me, but no one else seemed to notice it. "Get dressed, Buchanan. I want answers."

  "You're not the only one," Buchanan muttered.

  "Why are you his assistant and we are only employees?" Gus whined as he and I headed into the kitchen. Lincoln had gone to his rooms. "We assist too, and we been doin' it longer."

  "You should bring it up with him," I said.

  We'd all eaten breakfast so we only needed to prepare enough for Buchanan. I carried plates of bacon, toast, sausages and eggs on a silver tray and deposited it on the dining room sideboard.

  Lincoln joined me. "I'm glad to see you wearing it," he said, touching the chatelaine at my hip. They were the first words, aside from "good morning," that he'd spoken to me all day. Perhaps, like me, he felt the awkwardness of our overnight conversation. It was one thing to bare one's soul in the dark; it was quite another to do so in the daytime.

  "It's almost too beautiful to wear, but I couldn't resist. Thank you again, Lincoln. I'll treasure it."

  Buchanan took that moment to stroll into the breakfast room, Seth at his heels. His jaw was clean shaven, his hair neatly combed and oiled, and he wore Seth's spare clothing.

  "Come and eat," I said when no one else spoke. "Then we'll talk."

  Buchanan gave me a slight bow and swaggered over to the sideboard, his step lazy and cocksure. At first glance, he appeared to be back to himself, but on closer inspection I noticed his eyes darting about and the slight shake of his hand as he helped himself to bacon.

  Gus served tea then joined us at the table.

  "Now, if you'll tell me what in God's name I was doing in Bedlam, I would be grateful," Buchanan said, slicing through a sausage.

  Lincoln told Buchanan how the dowager Lady Harcourt had reported him missing and how we'd tracked his movements to Emberly Park but no further. He included all the details about the journal, Estelle Pearson and the baby, but he didn't mention my necromancy and Buchanan didn't ask how we'd learned about her involvement in the birth.

  "You fought with your brother at Emberly, didn't you?" Lincoln asked.

  Buchanan slapped a thick layer of butter on his toast. "He punched me, the turd. I hit him back, of course. Gave him a bloody nose and a black eye."

  "He don't have no black eye," Gus said.

  Buchanan bit off a corner of the toast and eyed Gus. "Are you doubting the word of a gentleman?" he said around his mouthful.

  "My man is correct," Lincoln said with a hint of humor that I suspected none of the others detected. "You didn't hit your brother. He knocked you out, in fact. Afterward, he drove you to Bedlam, signed the papers, and pe
rhaps paid a large sum to the governor to insure you weren't properly assessed. You remained there in Bedlam, drugged, for over a week until we rescued you."

  Buchanan's chewing slowed as Lincoln made his speech, and finally stopped at the end with a loud swallow. "Donald had me committed."

  "All evidence points to him. You fell unconscious at Emberly after your fight, so he had opportunity to bundle you into a coach. He knew how easy it was to have a family member committed to Bedlam after sending his wife there, and his signature was on the paperwork."

  "Donald! I cannot believe it." Buchanan set down his knife and fork and stared at his plate. "He was deeply troubled by the methods employed at Bedlam when he learned what they did to Marguerite there. Besides, why would he need to get rid of me? We fought, yes, but we've fought before."

  "What was the fight about?" I asked.

  "Money."

  "Not the baby?"

  "Not really. Perhaps." He rubbed his forehead. "I'm not entirely sure, Miss Holloway. Perhaps he harbors a deep resentment toward me because of my virility and appeal to the opposite sex—Marguerite in particular. She adores me, you know. Always has. She's like a puppy when I'm around, following me about with her tongue hanging out." He chuckled and picked up his knife and fork again.

  Seth rolled his eyes. Gus looked like he wanted to throw something at Buchanan. His fingers tightened around his teacup.

  "You cannot recall anything after the fight?" I asked.

  "Nothing. I remember him hitting me, then I felt like I was falling. A pain in my head…" He rubbed the back of his head and winced. "Then nothing."

  Lincoln tapped his finger on the side of his teacup and seemed to be lost in thought. After a moment, he said, "We'll confront your brother at Harcourt House after breakfast."

  "Capital," Buchanan said through clenched teeth. "I cannot wait to see the look on his face when he sees me."

  I insisted on going with Lincoln and Buchanan. Buchanan was very amenable to the idea, perhaps because he thought I appreciated his little smiles and the occasional wink. Ugh. If only he knew how he disgusted me.