I was eight years old.
A crash of thunder startled my attention back to the empty platform. Warning me, perhaps, of a shadow exposed through a gap in the driving rain. My insides tightened at the tall, attractive man rushing forward, shaking water from his rain-plastered hair. It brought to mind that scene of the Red Sea parting for Charlton Heston in the role of Moses in the old epic The Ten Commandments. Funny.
The closer he grew left me struck by the notion that he could have given the young Charlton Heston a run for his money. He stopped before me and threw out his hand. Jade green eyes twinkled with mischief—oddly out of character from the Dr. Creighton I’d spoken to over the phone. Eyes I markedly remembered. My eyes, of course, were an indistinct, bland-blue no one would much recall on any given occasion. Something I was actually counting on.
“Miss Ross? Helena Ross? I’m Ian Creighton.”
I shook his hand as a small breath of relief escaped me. “Ian,” I repeated. Not Adam.
“Dr. Creighton’s poor English relation.” A self-deprecating smile tilted his firm lips. “A cousin through our fathers. Adam sends his apologies, of course. He was lost in his letters, as so often happens.” He lifted my bag. “Is this the extent of your luggage?”
Lost in his letters? I had my doubts regarding an apology from Dr. Adam Creighton. A normal person would have thanked him nicely for his interest in Ross Designs, hung up the phone and blocked any further calls. But I had no intention of squandering an opportunity of unmasking the truth behind Papa’s death. Whether or not I was the one who’d wielded the knife remained to be seen.
Mr. Creighton’s—Ian Creighton’s—English accent hurled me to the hot and humid summer days of my past—his voice as distinctive as ever. Something like a smile tugged at me. Shocking me. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d smiled.
Ian didn’t wait for an answer. He snatched up my case as if it weighed a feather, then led me to a large black box shaped Chrysler, a firm hold on my arm. He opened the passenger side and ushered me in then tossed my luggage in through the back door, unconcerned with the saturating rain.
He settled into the driver’s side and picked up the conversation right where he’d left off. “You shall have to forgive my cousin. He gets a tad more focused than the usual bloke. Frankly, I was shocked to discover his plans to update Edgemere.”
His words swept me into the past. My vision tunneled into a whirlpool, sucked me from the now.
“I always forget how bloody hot it is here.”
“You watch that tongue, Ian Creighton,” Cora chastised. “Little Abigail doesn’t need any of those kinds of lessons. Raven, take Abby’s hand and help her into the car.”
I didn’t need Raven’s help. I skirted out of her reach—almost. “I’m not a baby,” I said.
She squeezed my shoulder—hard. Her message, loud and clear—she knew exactly what I was doing.
Ian ruffled my hair and swept me off my feet, out of Raven’s bruising grip, and into the car in one fell swoop. My giggles echoed against the cement platform. He was big and strong at fifteen…
Ian and Adam used to assist Papa and his partners with research of the historic armory located on the grounds. Papa’s partners were Ian and Adam’s fathers. The thread of history, jolted through me, leaving me stunned by the unpremeditated jaunt. Ian had arrived for the summer. Cora, Raven and I had gone to the train station to pick him up.
I dragged in several intakes of oxygen in an attempt to steady my alarm. Alarm at the unexpectedness of the sudden memories.
Silence filled the car, and I realized Ian had paused, waiting for a response. My mind reeled from his previous barrage and the scene hurling images through my head. I swallowed and forced myself to concentrate.
His deep chuckle filled the car. “God knows, the place has needed a makeover, long before I began visiting. And that’s been over twenty years now.”
My curiosity regarding my childhood home was almost as great as learning what happened to Papa all those years ago. “The house is in terrible shape then?” I said, watching him carefully.
“Horrible,” he confirmed. “The outer lying cottages are uninhabitable, but I suppose you are aware of that as well. Unfortunately, with all the rain of late…”
I turned my gaze out the windows, his words floating over me. The downpour severely limited my visibility as we slowly made our way over Pensacola Bay and Butcherpen Cove via the long bridge leading to the small island of Gulf Breeze. Even without the rain, discerning sky from sea could be difficult. The beaches along this stretch were famous for their white sands and turquoise waters, and both were utterly impossible to distinguish at this point.
Once we crossed English Navy Cove on the second, much shorter bridge without being washed away, we turned south, or what I envisioned as south, onto the eight-mile, well-paved road that led to the manor house Papa had dubbed Edgemere. He’d never explained why, but I always suspected the words “mere” and “edge” were just too irresistible to him with the house and the armory perched on the fingertip of the isolated peninsula. Papa had a strange sense of humor.
My pulse jumped erratically. I worried floods might impede our arrival. I was anxious to begin my search. Knowing the freedom and fortuity afforded as an interior designer lifted a little of my anxiety. I spent too much time praying there was more to my life than bleak dreams ravished with shadowy presences that had no rhyme or reason.
Though it had taken years, once I’d settled into my aunt’s cozy and modest home, the dreams had gone from nightly, to weekly, to monthly, eventually slowing to just three or four times per year. And, first out of fear, then respect, I never uttered another word regarding the night of Papa’s death. Since Aunt Lydia’s death, however, and my conversations with Dr. Adam Creighton, the nightmares had grown staggeringly frequent.
Yet, still no memory prior to Aunt Lydia shaking me had surfaced since she’d whisked me away. My chest deflated with the realization I was the most likely candidate for Papa’s death, and the possibility chilled me through to my bones. I constantly rationalized. Anyone would block out such a horrendous act, wouldn’t they? My fingers tingled, recalling the feel of the cold butt of that bloody knife.
I glanced over to my handsome chauffeur. Water from his hair dribbled down a strong neck that disappeared into the collar of his rain-soaked shirt. He and Adam must be somewhere in their mid-to-late thirties by now. I knew his dry hair would resemble burnished gold. The light from the dashboard didn’t reflect the tone of his skin.
I leaned back in the seat and let his accent wash over me. Its familiarity settled nerves drawn so tight I felt I would shatter with a sudden move. I cleared my throat. “Where do you call home, Mr. Creighton?” There wasn’t much of him that reminded me of that long ago young man, just the clipped British words, making it easier to remember to refer to him as Mr. Creighton.
He grinned. Most likely relieved I’d finally joined the conversation. “Call me, Ian. Manchester, mostly. I’ve been assisting Adam with his research. In my younger days, I spent summers here on the island until—” He tossed a quick glance in my direction. “Well, I’d planned on returning home by now.” His gaze dropped to my ringless fingers before he shifted his attention back to the road. “Though I may find my stay here pleasantly extended.”
Until what? I wanted to scream. Instead, heat flamed my cheeks at his not-so-subtle regard. I curled my fingers beneath my tote and out of sight, at a loss for words. My goal on this quiet Gulf Coast island was not to find romance. My sole agenda dealt with the bland contents of the letter stowed in my bag. A letter stained with my own bloody prints.
“Here now, Miss Ross. My abject apologies for embarrassing you. I blame my lack of etiquette on the shortage of decent feminine company available on this deserted island. I must say, your timing is rather excellent.” His gaze flicked to me then back to the road. “I believe this deluge might succeed in washing out the road.” He changed topics as quickly as the moving
clouds.
By the time we reached Edgemere, we could hardly see our hands in front of our faces.
“I’m afraid we shall have to make a run for it. Don’t worry about your bags, I’ll have them in for you straight away,” he said, reaching for my tote.
“I can handle this one, Mr. Creighton, uh, Ian,” I corrected. “Thank you.” Under no circumstance would that letter be out of my possession again. I couldn’t help feeling it was the key to my quest. Shoving the door against the wind, I darted through the dark with sharp pellets of cold rain pummeling my cotton blouse. A light from the entry way spilled out to a large porch that extended the front length of the house.
“Hurry, miss. You’ll catch your death.”
I jerked my head up. An attractive woman stood just inside the door and a chill of premonition covered my wet skin. Innocent words?
I stumbled forward, but before I hit the ground I was yanked up by one arm and dragged up the steps and over the threshold. I shoved the drenched hair from my eyes and met another gaze of jade green. Only these eyes held no humor. No mischief. No joy. My heart pounded in dangerously irregular palpitations. “Dr. Creighton, I presume?” My voice came out irritatingly breathless.
His expression matched his correspondence. Cold. No nonsense. And though his gaze strayed over the wet blouse plastered to my skin, his expression didn’t alter in the least. His icy disdain confused and unnerved me.
He was taller than his cousin, his hair dry, and indeed, the color of burnished gold. I was stunned at the cousins’ similarities—but for one significant difference. There would be no mistaking Dr. Adam Creighton for Ian Creighton due to the large ragged scar along the right side of Adam’s face that stretched from ear to chin.
He turned his head, his dazed eyes meeting mine. Down one cheek, blood gushed from a violent rip—soaked his shirt, his jeans—
I blinked, forcing back the unexpected reflection. I’m not ready. This was the second memory in the span of minutes. Dear God. How was I supposed to handle these violent snapshots of my past? I made an effort to grasp a breath, slow its rapidity, but already my fingers tingled and lightheadedness had set in. I clamped my mouth shut to temper the imbalance of oxygen and carbon dioxide roaring through my system. I hadn’t fainted from hyperventilation in a good ten years.
Would these flashes besiege me at the slightest gesture or word? And why now? I swallowed the threat of a hysteric eruption. A ridiculous question in light of my history. The question should be, why not now? This was what I’d longed for. Wasn’t it? To remember?
A long moment passed and I flexed my fingers, regulated my intake of air. Adam’s scar didn’t frighten me. More shocking was the urge to soothe and reassure as I realized for the first time in recent memory, my fingers ached to feel the warmth of skin beneath them instead of burning from the touch of a cold ivory handle.
With herculean effort, I forced myself to take in my surroundings. A quick perusal of the foyer showed Edgemere had not changed a great deal in the years since I’d lived here with my father. The hall mirror with its dark cherry frame was the same except for its thick coat of dust. As was the tall, spindly-legged table beneath and the stiff, winged-back chair in that muddy shade of brown that filled the corner. I remembered curling up in that chair waiting for Papa to finish his work, and inevitably falling asleep, only waking when he swept me up and carried me to bed, tucking the covers snuggly beneath my chin. In fact, the only addition to the area seemed to be a large Persian rug covering, what I remembered as, scarred wood planks. A large staircase with its elaborate bannister framing iron posts was still exactly the same.
Ian came in and stepped around me, bag in hand.
“Hiram, see to Miss Ross’s bag.” Startled at the name, I looked past Dr. Creighton. Hiram Ames stood in the doorway as familiar as the mirror and spindly-legged table. I had a sudden urge to throw myself into his brawny arms. To breathe in the fragrance of fresh wood and stale tobacco, grasp that innocence I’d felt as a child, before the horror of Papa’s untimely death. I schooled my features into what I prayed was blank indifference and reminded myself I’d come home to learn the truth.
“This is Raven Ames. She acts as our resident housekeeper,” he said. “Raven, will show you to your accommodations.” His curt command set my teeth on edge, even while goosebumps prickled my skin.
Raven, Hiram’s daughter, had her thick, black hair gathered into a bun at her nape. Her scoop-necked shirt framed an impressive cleavage, and the tight-fitting jeans raised my doubts there were any housekeeping abilities. She’d fought her mother on a daily basis when it came to just making her bed. She’d always hated the island. Most especially since her mother’s death. Her eyes narrowed on me and I lowered my gaze, my thoughts reeling.
Raven was fifteen when I left to live with Aunt Lydia. She’d teased me cruelly back then. She was still beautiful, right down to the exotic tilt of hazel-green eyes and full pouting lips, though eighteen years had taken their toll on her father’s face in harsh, deep crevices.
I glanced at my host. His mouth was set in a grim, firm line as his eyes passed over Raven. Ian’s expression, however, softened. Lovers? I wondered, shocked by the relief flooding me. Ridiculously so. Not Adam. He caught my stare and his glint hardened. “Dinner is at seven-thirty, Miss Ross. Don’t be late.”
Raven glared at him then turned to me. “This way, Miss Ross.” She led the way past a closed door and I could hardly contain my shudder as she mounted the broad wood stairs that curved their way up.
I squared my shoulders and followed. As we rounded, I caught Adam studying me with an intensity that left me feeling exposed and unnerved, his enigmatic gaze never turning away, just watching me until I moved from sight.
At the top of the flight, to the right, Raven pushed on a door revealing an old-fashioned room with dark walls and a king sized canopy bed. “—Here you are—” The room was large. It accommodated a small sitting area before a crackling fire, complete with bench seat beneath large picturesque windows. “You have your own bath. Through there.” She pointed to the left of the bed to a standalone wardrobe. “These old houses aren’t known for their closets.” She let out a wistful sigh. “It’s small but functional.”
“Thank you. This is perfect.” Dr. Creighton had seen fit to stash me in my old room. Something told me my nightmares would make a huge resurgence. An urge to confide in Raven swept over me but the words stuck in my throat.
“I wouldn’t worry much about Adam, Miss Ross. He’s rude to almost everyone.”
“Is he?” I murmured, not wanting to gossip but unable to stop myself from asking.
“Yes.” She didn’t elaborate, just stood there a moment looking at me. “I can’t help thinking you remind me of someone,” she said. Then shook her head. “Never mind me. You’ll want to change into something dry.”
“Thank you,” I said, hiding my alarm.
She slipped from the room, and the first thing I vowed was to secure the letter burning a hole in my tote bag, the ominous undercurrent striking a deep chord inside of me. Of course, the house added to my apprehension. After all, Papa was murdered in the study downstairs. Just behind that closed door Raven had so blithely walked by.
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Coming December 8th:
Dark Hunt
A World of Gothic: United States
Tamrie Foxtail
One
I stared at the photo in my hand, the only one I had of my mother. I couldn’t be certain the bed and breakfast in front of me was the same as the one in the picture. The only part visible in the photo was the front porch. Someone had scrawled Becca at The Thayner B&B, Virtue, Florida on the back of the picture. It was dated the month my mother left us.
Well, I was in Virtue, Florida, a small, gulf coast town in North Florida. According to the lady at the coffee shop, the three story Victorian in front of me was The Thayner Bed & Breakfast, although there was no sign to supp
ort that claim.
The business was obviously closed. There were no cars in the small parking area. The rectangle of asphalt was broken, buckled and full of potholes. The bay window in the front of the building had been covered with boards.
I stared again at the picture.
“Lost?”
I startled at the sound of that deep, masculine voice.
The man had managed to come up behind me without making a sound.
Someone should feed that poor man, was my first thought. He needed at least another twenty pounds to be at a healthy weight.
“Are you lost?” he said, each word slow and distinct as if he thought I were either slow or didn’t speak English.
I waved one hand at the building. “I was looking for the Thayner Bed and Breakfast.”
His forehead creased in a frown. “The B&B’s been closed for years.”
“But that was it?”
“Once upon a time.” His head turned toward the building, the expression on his lean face so wistful I wondered what his mind saw.
His brown eyes moved back to me. “There are two other B&B’s in town.”
“That’s what the lady at the coffee shop said.”
“Glad that’s settled.” He brushed past me, heading toward the Victorian.
“Mister?”
He stopped, but didn’t turn to look at me.
“What?”
“I was hoping to find someone who was here twenty-five years ago.”
That made him turn around at least, although judging from the look on his face he had no intention of being helpful.
“Lady, I don’t know what you’re after, but I can’t help you. Go back to the main road. Turn right. Head back to the coffee shop and have Faye give you directions to Brennen’s or The Rose. Drive careful. Have a nice day.”
With that he turned away and started walking.
Sea of Darkness: A World of Gothic: France Page 10
