"What do you want from me?” Laura demanded, crossing her arms over her chest in a stance of defiance.
His warm chuckle filled the air. The sound touched a chord deep within. I ... remember that sound. But how?
"Still as fiery as ever—one of the things I loved most about you."
Laura felt the screams of frustration at the back of her throat. What did he mean by “loved?” All this was so confusing. She didn't know if she should be enchanted or scared to death.
Part of her wanted to demand he explain himself, the other was too terrified of the answer. She chose to ignore his comment, for now. “Where are we going?"
"Not much farther. It'll all be clear in a few moments."
His answer only served to heighten her anxiety. Was she being led to her demise? Before she could contemplate any other alternative, she felt a gentle push against her lower spine, shoving her forward and off balance.
Laura yelped when she stumbled a bit before regaining her footing. “All right, I'm going.” The man was certainly persistent.
Just a short way ahead, the trees began to thin. It looked as though she were approaching a clearing. And for the first time since starting on this questionably insane journey, she could her the rumble of water.
The Mississippi River. It couldn't be far away.
A few more steps took her out of the woods. Sure enough, she'd entered a large clearing. Laura stopped dead in her tracks. Before her stood a massive, double, wrought-iron gate, guarding the entry to what looked like a large cemetery surrounded by an ornate gothic fence.
Tall and intimidating, the entrance towered above her. Years of disrepair had warped its shape, and an overgrowth of thorny vegetation clung to its bars like a greedy cancer, giving it such a sinister appearance it sent chills down her spine.
But it wasn't the size of the doorway, or even its state of ruin, but rather the words encrypted within the high arch at the gate's peak that caused her insides to shudder. GREENWOOD MANOR CEMETARY.
CHAPTER 7
With shaking hands, Laura pried open one of the warped gates and slipped inside. After dusting her palms off on her jeans, she stared out at the extensive plot before her. A full moon illuminated the cemetery in a strange, ethereal glow, outlining each gravestone with chilling clarity. Many were broken from years of abuse by inclement weather and the passage of time; others were perfect in shape, as though just recently placed.
Not knowing which way to go, Laura started for the first stone. The top of the marker had completely eroded, erasing the name. But the date had managed to evade attrition. Born April 15, 1842, Died November 29, 1845. A child; a young one at that. Barely three and a half years old.
Grief tore through her insides and she felt a sudden sense of inexplicable loss. “My little Karey...” She'd died of pneumonia at age three.
Laura squeezed her eyes shut, and an image of a bubbly child with bouncing red curls and porcelain skin flashed through her mind. Hot tears stung her lashes and she felt as through she'd been punched in the stomach.
Gasping for air, she stumbled back a step. She didn't know how she knew, and at the moment, she didn't want to. Laura wiped the moisture from her cheek with the back of her hand, then moved past the small headstone and started toward the next one.
Other grave markers brought similar pangs of sorrow. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, even an elder sister lay sleeping in decrepit boxes beneath the cold, black soil. Who were these people? And why did their deaths cause her so much heartache?
At the opposite end of the graveyard, she came across two headstones placed side-by-side. Their edges nearly touched, as though the couple lying beneath refused to separate, even in death. The lifeless gray exteriors brightened as she approached, suddenly illuminated by the parting of clouds above. Icicle moonbeams cast a sinister blue light upon the markers, spotlighting the names engraved upon their stony surfaces.
The first belonged to a man. Barnabas Flannery, born March 21, 1809, died December 23, 1845. Grieving husband. A blow of anguish nearly knocked Laura to her knees. With a shaking hand, she reached out and traced his name with her fingertips.
When her gaze shifted to the next stone, Laura felt the air escape her lungs in one big whoosh! Her legs grew weak, her mind swooned, and it took every ounce of strength she had not to faint. Laura Flannery, born November 8, 1810, died December 22, 1845. Grieving mother.
"Oh, dear God. This can't be.” She choked on a strained sob.
But just as she'd known to whom all the other markers belonged, Laura knew this one was hers. And the one next to it was her husband's.
"No! I don't believe it. I won't!” Shaking her head with vehemence, she backed away.
"It is, Laura. And you must." The man's voice was firm, clear, and without any hint of compassion.
Laura whipped around to face him. Had it not been for the trunk of the gangly old oak hovering over their gravesites, she'd have surely fallen on her ass. Thankful for some support, she pressed back against the tree and watched with mixed feelings of disbelief and horror as Barnabas's form emerged from behind a distant marker.
"Oh, dear God!” she repeated.
Her pulse screamed in her ears like a roaring locomotive. Her head grew fuzzy as her breath quickened, bordering on hyperventilation. Only sheer will kept her standing.
"Wha ... what do you want with me?” she demanded, the panic in her voice apparent.
Despite her terror, Laura couldn't help but take in his full form as he approached. No longer a hazy mist, his characteristics were defined and distinct. Somewhere deep inside, she felt the rekindling of an ancient attraction.
He was a tall, ascetic-looking man, with a lean, well-proportioned frame. The rich lines of his strong shoulders filled his white gambler shirt with precision, and the cravat tied neatly at his throat only enriched the stately manner of his stance. The black fly-front pants he wore clung to his narrow hips and long legs, perfectly outlining the strength in his thighs, the trim lines of his waist. While he was by no means overly abundant in brute muscle, rather he appeared balanced, with just enough sinewy brawn to fit that of a well-trained athlete.
He used to jog the property's perimeter every morning, before breakfast. Laura's hand flew to her mouth. Fresh tears slipped from the corners of her lashes. How did she know that?
Barnabas smiled, the clear-cut lines of his smooth jaw and square chin sharp and confident. “Yes, I did. Still do. Though, I don't suppose exercise makes much matter anymore. Not in my current state."
Laura let out a strangled cry and pushed away from the tree. She darted in the opposite direction, determined to get back to the house, pack her things, and catch the first plane home.
I'm not dead! I'm not dead! I'm not dead! She repeated the phrase in her head like a mantra, praying if she said it enough, it would remain true.
"Laura, stop!"
The command halted her in her tracks. Clenching and opening her fists, she slowly turned to face him. Shivers of fear wracked her body from head to toe as she watched him close the distance between them with a nonchalant stride. It was as though he knew she would obey.
"Why do you run from me?"
His pained expression baffled her. Clearly, her actions had caused him great sorrow. Torn by conflicting emotions, she did as he asked.
"I've waited so many years for your return."
His voice sent currents of awareness racing across her skin like wind rippling fine satin. A soft breeze lifted her hair from her cheeks, almost as though he'd blown them away with just the exhale of his breath. Languishing in the intimate caress against her jaw, she let out a long sigh.
Only a few feet separated them now. Laura could smell the piney scent of his aftershave. Warmth spiraled through her insides and down to the juncture of her thighs. Moisture seeped onto the crotch of her cotton panties and she broke out in an aroused sweat.
Barnabas's lids drifted closed as he inhaled deeply. A mischievous smile curled the co
rners of his sensual mouth. When he opened his eyes, the pupils were dilated onyx orbs the size of peas, and the irises gleamed like freshly polished copper pennies.
"I've never forgotten your scent,” he declared in an unearthly growl as he took another step forward.
Laura gasped. Her insides clenched as a spear of delight shot through her apex. A vision of Barnabas and her entwined upon the burgundy coverlet of her half-tester bed sprang to life in her mind. Or perhaps it was more a memory, for she could taste the flavor of his mouth upon hers and smell the musky scent of their sweat soaked bodies as they moved together in a steady rhythm.
The muscles in her legs began to tremble. Realizing she was on the verge of an orgasm, her cheeks flamed with mortification. She wasn't sure what bothered her more, the words he spoke, or the way they made her feel.
She shook her head, trying to break free of the shocking image. Holding her hands out before her in an effort to keep him at bay, she backed away. “Look, I know you think I'm ... But I can't be. I've never been here before. And I'm certainly not a hundred and ninety some-odd years old. There's been some sort of mistake. This just isn't—"
Disregarding her attempted defiance, Barnabas quickly closed the distance between them and gathered her in his arms. Before she could do any more than yelp a useless protest, his mouth came down to possess hers. Laura was helpless, frozen in limbo where all actions, all logical decisions were impossible.
As his skilled lips moved against hers with demanding mastery, she felt herself melt against him. Somewhere along the way, she left the state of wondering how any of this was possible to enter a realm bombarded with memories of times past, and then finally on to realizing she was right where she belonged.
An overwhelming sense of love welled up from deep within and surged through her veins like warm honey, coating every inch of her in sticky sweet bliss. Suddenly afraid he might disappear and she'd wake up from this nightmare turned fantasy, Laura wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back just as fervently.
"Barnabas...” she breathed against his cheek when his mouth left hers and made its way down her jaw. “I don't know how any of this is happening, but I pray it doesn't end."
She leaned her head back and breathed in the night air with soul-drenching gasps as he kissed along her neck and on to the open V of her silk blouse. A soft moan escaped her throat when his hand slipped up her side and cupped her breast. Laura tangled her fingers in his thick hair, urging him downward, to which he eagerly obliged.
Barnabas rested on one knee while he sought her left nipple through the material of her shirt, urging it into a tight bud with an insistent swirl of his tongue. Then he nipped at it playfully, capturing the taunt peak, along with the material of her blouse, between his teeth. Laura pressed herself more fully against him with an impatient sigh, wishing the obstructive fabric were gone so she might feel the warmth of his mouth surround her tingling flesh.
"Still impatient, I see,” he said with an amused chuckle. “You always were."
Realizing how bawdy she must seem, Laura cringed. What the heck was she doing anyway? Making out with a ghost?
Her hands slipped from his hair to rest on his shoulders. She looked down at them in amazement, wondering how it was she could actually feel him. She didn't think ghosts were ... what was the word, corporeal? Shouldn't her fingers pass through his form?
Her gaze shifted to his upturned face. Unable to resist, she pressed her palm against his jaw. The skin was cool, smooth, and flawless, unmarred by imperfection or stubble.
He turned and pressed a kiss in the middle of her hand. The skin tingled where his lips touched. His fingers closed around hers and he held her palm against his cheek.
"We don't have much time,” he breathed heavily. “Shall we make love first? Or are you ready to know the truth?"
Laura pondered the two choices. She licked her bottom lip. While her better judgment screamed to know what the heck was going on here, her soul yearned for his touch.
"Love me, Barnabas,” she whispered. “Just love me for now. I don't think I'm ready for the rest. Not yet."
CHAPTER 8
He swept her weightlessly into his arms, then turned as though to exit the cemetery. It seemed they'd only gone a few steps when they were passing beneath the tattered archway. Suddenly, the scenery around them became a blur of motion.
Trees whirred by Laura's head with smeared colors of brown and green. Moonlight filtered through the blurred images in streaks of white, piercing the kaleidoscope of earthy hues like tears in a painter's canvas. Her head swam, and she felt as though she were being mercilessly spun in circles. Terrified, she clung to Barnabas's shirt, burying her face against his chest.
Then, almost as quickly as it had started, the vortex stopped. Their surroundings returned to normal. Only now, they were in Laura's bedchamber.
"Whoa,” was all Laura could say.
Barnabas chuckled. “I suppose it's an advantage to being a ghost. I can get anywhere within seconds. And without being detected."
Laura swayed a little when he set her feet on the floor. She gripped his arm for balance. “I think my brain is somewhere between the cemetery and here."
He smiled. “It takes a little getting used to."
Taking her by the hand, he led her over to the bed. After sitting on the edge, he coaxed her to stand between his knees. “Laura ... I never thought this day would come. It's been so many years. I'd almost given up hope."
His palms hovered above her, not quite touching, as he traced her form, moving slowly toward her shoulders. Tiny sparks of electricity arced between his fingers and her skin, broken only by the thin material of her blouse. As though responding to his command, the flimsy material shifted, gliding across her flesh with rippling waves.
His gaze focused on her buttons. Starting at the top one between her breasts, his hand slowly drifted downward, pausing briefly before each tiny ivory disc before moving to the next. Laura could only watch in wonderment as somehow, without contact, they began to unfasten, opening to his silent command.
"How—"
"Shh...” he coaxed, placing an index finger against her mouth. “I'm saving my energy."
She bit her bottom lip and nodded. It was strange, watching your clothes slowly peel away from your body, lifeless objects becoming animated by the mere swish of a palm. Before long, she was clad in only her lace bra and panties.
The soft brushing of his fingers against her cheeks brought forth a gentle sigh from her parted lips. Laura closed her eyes and tilted her chin upward as his caress moved to her throat and across her collarbones. She felt his hands tremble as he slid them sensuously down her bare arms, and when she glanced down at his upturned face, longing and desire burned within the depths of his coppery eyes.
His palms circled her waist, then molded along her hips and outer thighs, drinking in the feel of her skin with parched thirst. “Take these off for me,” he murmured, referring to her underwear.
An electrifying shudder reverberated through Laura's chest. Her breath hitched in her throat. Taking a shaky step back from the bed, she reached for the waistband of her panties.
"Slowly,” he commanded. “I want to relish the sight of your nakedness as you reveal it to me."
Laura nodded. “Shall I take this off first?” She stroked the lace-covered side of her breast with the back of her fingers.
"Yes,” he whispered, his voice strained with need.
Reaching behind her back, she unhooked her bra, then rolled her shoulders forward, coaxing the straps to slide free. She squeezed her arms next to her sides, stopping her lacy garment just short of exposing her nipples. The top hem dangled from their hardened peaks.
Laura smiled, then lowered her forearms and let her bra slip to the floor. Although his gasp was audible, Barnabas's gaze didn't flinch. A heated thrill worked its way through her belly when she saw the admiration in his stare.
Although his hands didn't move, she felt the brush of
his fingertips across her breasts. Laura moaned softly, wanting to feel his palms encircle her fully. Wanting to feel his lips posses her throbbing buds until she screamed for mercy. Wanting to—
She gasped, feeling a bolt of pleasure shoot through her core when his invisible touch moved to the apex of her thighs where he caressed her through her panties. Heat spread across her skin, her arousal stark and vivid against her pale flesh. Laura panted, struggling to fight off her impending orgasm lest she collapse to the floor in a quivering heap.
Just as she was about to lose the battle, his magical stroke ceased. Laura inhaled a shaky breath, trying to regain control of her rampant need. When she felt the preorgasmic tremors begin to wane, she proceeded to remove her underwear.
Slipping her fingertips beneath the elastic waistband, she slowly edged them downward. Over her hips, along her thighs, and finally, she let them fall into a frilly heap upon her feet. Stepping daintily aside, she kicked them away with the toes of her left foot.
Not knowing what to do next, she merely stood, hands knotted at her sides, back ramrod straight, knees weak with anticipation, while she waited for Barnabas's response. He looked at her as though he were photographing her with his eyes, his gaze critically scanning every inch of her naked figure from head to foot. He paused briefly at her heaving breasts before finally settling his attentions on the thick curls shrouding her womanhood.
"You are even more beautiful than I remembered.” His awe and respect were apparent in his tone.
Laura lifted her chin as his honesty filled her soul with a much-needed sense of self-pride. The fact he found her beautiful made her heart leap in her chest. Primordial love sung through her veins as he continued to worship her with his gaze.
A gentle breeze blew in through the open patio doors, spiriting tiny wisps of her hair about her shoulders and sending goose bumps racing along her flesh. Her nipples tightened even more, making her shudder almost violently. The combination of his heated assessment and the night air's kiss had her trembling like a weak kitten. At that moment, were she to speak, the only sound to come forth would be a pathetic mew.
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