Well, he’d done that, but it had given him no pleasure. The fear and disgust in her eyes had been enough to shrivel his manhood, which was why he’d taken her from the back, so as not to see that face. And Denning… He’d done what any honorable man would do in his position. He’d protected a woman. Too bad he didn’t hang, Hector thought furiously. Denning would never forget what he’d seen, would never allow Hector to sleep peacefully at night. He’d not only been a witness, but a victim, and now he was the victor. He was out there, alive and well, in possession of knowledge Hector would have killed to suppress.
He reached for the ring on his left hand and turned it round and round, an unconscious habit that had formed since he’d taken the ring off Jocelyn in that Long Island wood. He hadn’t enjoyed killing her. He’d still wanted her, and she’d been carrying his child. Had the situation been different, he might have asked her to marry him, but Jocelyn wouldn’t have him, not after what he’d done and the consequences that had followed. His desire for her had destroyed him, and he would destroy her in turn, wipe that impudent look off her face and silence her forever. But it was her defiance that was his last memory of her. He’d been more afraid than she was, and that rankled.
Hector gave in to the urge and poured himself another brandy, his thoughts still on Jocelyn. She’d been so beautiful, so graceful, he recalled, his fingers still stroking the ring. His mind conjured up the image of her pale thighs as he bent her over the desk, his swollen cock sliding into her virginal tightness. He felt a stirring of desire, his shaft growing hard and straining against the fabric of his breeches. He hadn’t had a woman since his ship had docked in Southampton. He was long overdue. Hector tossed back the rest of his brandy and got to his feet, going in search of Maggie. She was a comely wench and certainly not an innocent. She’d do.
Hector crossed the tiled foyer and made his way downstairs to the kitchen. Maggie would be alone, clearing up after dinner. The kitchen was the perfect place. No one would hear them there.
Maggie turned at the sound of his footsteps. “Did you need something, sir?”
Hector’s gaze slid to her breasts, which looked pillowy and inviting. He had a mind to suckle them before taking her. Maggie took a step back, as though alerted by the hunger in his eyes.
“Don’t be afraid,” Hector said softly. “I won’t hurt you.” But he would, and he would enjoy it, he thought as he reached for her. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close, his hand cupping her breast as he bent to kiss her.
Maggie pushed against him, her panic an aphrodisiac. “Please stop,” she pleaded as she managed to break free. “I’m betrothed to Henry.”
“The groom?” Hector asked, amused. “Then you know all about rolls in the hay,” he quipped, and went for her again. He pinned her against the stone wall and pushed his hand between her legs, gratified when his fingers slid into the warm moistness of her quim. She did want him then.
“Come now,” he panted. “I’ll make it worth your while. Give you a start in life.” He pushed his fingers deep inside her, anticipating how good it would feel to fuck her.
He never saw it coming. The cast-iron skillet met his head with a sickening thud. Hector loosened his grip, momentarily surprised that Maggie had had the temerity to strike him. He’d show her who was master here, he thought drowsily as he staggered sideways, grabbing desperately for the pine table. His fingers just missed the table edge, and then his knees gave way and he was falling, Maggie’s terrified face the last thing he was to see in this life.
Hector was still conscious when Henry came running in. Hector heard them whispering but couldn’t find the strength to move. His head tolled like a church bell, and his limbs felt as thick and heavy as an iron cannon. He tried to move his tongue, but it seemed to be stuck to the roof of his mouth, and although his eyes were partially open, he couldn’t see anything but murky shadows swirling above him.
“Oh, Lord Jesus, you’ve bashed his head in,” Henry whispered, looking down in horror. “There’s so much blood.”
“Henry, pull yourself together,” Maggie ordered, sounding like a general going into battle. “And get the shovel.”
“What for?”
“We’ll bury him in the woods behind the house.”
“And what are we to tell the master?” Henry demanded.
“We’ll tell him Mr. Radcliffe has gone. Took himself off. The master will never question it. Let’s strip him naked and bury the bastard, and then we’ll get rid of his possessions and sell his horse. No one will be the wiser, and he owes me for the distress he’s caused.”
“I do love you, Maggie,” Henry said affectionately. “You are a rare woman.”
“And you’re an exceptionally strong man. Now, get his sorry carcass out of here and start digging. I’ll clean up the blood.”
Maggie began to say something else, but Hector didn’t hear her. Jocelyn’s face floated before him, her clear blue eyes looking at him with the purest of love.
“Come, Hector,” she said. “I’m waiting for you, my love.” And he went.
The End
Please turn the page for an excerpt from The House on the Hill: A Ghost Story
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Excerpt from The House on the Hill
Prologue
If walls could talk, what a story they’d tell—a story of love, betrayal, and murder, the woman thinks as she stands at the top of the stairs watching the newcomer, who is completely unaware of the woman’s ethereal presence. The newcomer is moving around the house with the uncertainty of someone who’s trespassing in someone else’s space, trying it on for size to see if she could make a life for herself there. Many others have passed through the house over the centuries, but this one is different. She’s young, by modern standards, but she’s known the pain of loss and the heartbreak of betrayal. It’s right there in her shadowed eyes and the unhealthy pallor of her face.
Maybe this one will be able to help me, the woman at the top of the stairs thinks. Maybe she’ll succeed where others had failed, and finally set me free so I can fulfill my promise at last.
Chapter 1
Lauren
The Present
The morning was bright and brisk, with wispy clouds racing across the aquamarine sky and playing peek-a-boo with the pale orb of the sun. It was mid-March, but there wasn’t a hint of spring in the air, winter stubbornly clinging on. The roads were clear, but snow still covered much of the ground since the temperature refused to rise above freezing, and the icy breath of the ocean held the shoreline in its thrall.
Lauren peered at the GPS as it instructed her to make a right. The road she turned onto was narrow and surprisingly steep, flanked by ancient trees whose branches moved eerily in the wind. The house was about a mile away, perched on a hill that overlooked Pleasant Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Lauren hoped she was going to like this one. She’d seen several potential rentals over the past few weeks, but the ones she liked were too pricy and the ones she could afford were little more than shacks that smelled of mildew and had such low ceilings she could reach up and touch them. She hadn’t planned on leaving Boston, but the desperate need to escape her apartment and spend a few months in a place that held no painful memories overwhelmed her.
In two weeks, it’d be a year since Zack died, killed by a sniper’s bullet during the spring offensive in Afghanistan. It had been his third tour and would have been his last. They’d made plans. They were going to sell their apartment in Brookline and buy a house in the suburbs, start trying for a baby, and live a wonderfully boring life where Lauren didn’t lie awake night after night waiting for him to call from overseas or avoid watching the news for fear of hearing something that would send her into a tailspin.
While Zack was away, she’d concentrated on her work, finally completing the last book of the military romance series she’d been writin
g. She’d often heard the advice “Write what you know,” and this was something she knew—the heart-wrenching goodbyes followed by tearful reunions, the worry, the fear, and the pure joy of those first few weeks of togetherness after Zack finally returned to her, safe and sound. Those first few days were like a second honeymoon, but more intense, more precious. Zack had joked that the months of separation kept the marriage strong because the romance never fizzled out. It stoked their desire for each other and transformed the mundane details of their lives into something magical. They’d talk nonstop, their words tripping over each other and falling like a waterfall from their parched lips, and the need to touch, to feel, to worship each other’s bodies was so strong, they barely got out of bed.
Zack had often remarked how lucky he’d been in his life, but his luck had run out a year ago on a windswept mountaintop just north of Kabul. Their life was like a record that had screeched to a halt, the song left unsung, the melody interrupted. Suddenly, Lauren was alone, widowed, a status people tended to associate with elderly women who’d lost their husbands to illness or old age, not with someone who was still in her twenties. She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word; it made her loss all too real. The rational part of her brain understood Zack was gone, but the emotional part, the loving part, still looked for him everywhere she went. She still spoke to him, sometimes out loud, and slept on her side of the bed, unable to move to the middle for fear of acknowledging that he’d never sleep next to her again. She needed to have pictures of him, but looking at them tore at her heart. She wanted to be in the place he’d called home, but every piece of furniture, every picture, every item of clothing reminded her of the husband she’d lost. Seeing his favorite mug for the first time after he died had led to a two-day cryfest that resulted in her hiding the cup from view lest she fall apart again.
She’d put off clearing out his side of the closet, unable to get dressed in the morning without touching his shirts and sniffing desperately in the hope that a hint of his smell still clung to the laundered fabric. She’d finally done it a few months ago, but she hadn’t thrown anything away. Getting rid of Zack’s things seemed too final, too real. Despite her valiant efforts to cope, her life became reduced to eating, sleeping, watching TV, and reassuring everyone that she was fine, a lie no one really believed.
She’d stopped writing. She simply couldn’t form an original thought as she sat day after day, staring at the blank screen of her computer. Her agent had been able to get her several ghostwriting gigs. It was much easier to organize someone else’s thoughts and turn them into a narrative than deal with her own. Her clients were happy, and her reputation as a ghostwriter grew, resulting in more commissions. She was glad; it was imperative to keep busy in order to keep the worst of the pain at bay. But after a long, snowy winter spent mostly indoors, she needed to get out. She had to get away from the ghost of Zack, to inhabit a new place, to try to put the pieces of her life back together and come to terms with a truth that had come knocking on her door several months ago and shed a new light on her life as she’d known it. She had to get away, to spend a few months in a place that made her feel peaceful and whole.
Cape Cod had naturally come to mind. She’d loved the place as a child. Her parents had rented a house on the beach for two weeks every August, and they’d spent their days tanning and swimming, followed by burgers and grilled seafood eaten on the deck as they watched the sun sink below the horizon. It was a golden memory of her childhood she still clung to and had hoped to recreate with her own children someday.
The summer season wouldn’t officially start until Memorial Day, but if she found the right place, she’d be ready to move in as soon as the first of April, eager to watch spring arrive in a place that was nearly free of memories—her own rebirth, for lack of a better word. She owed it to Zack. She’d made a promise.
“Promise me you won’t grieve for me should anything happen,” he’d said that last morning at their apartment.
“I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you,” she’d replied, clinging to him amid the rumpled sheets.
Zack had kissed her tenderly and brushed her tangled hair away from her face. “Lauren, promise me you’ll move on. I need to know that you’ll be happy; that’s the only way I can leave and get on with my job. Promise me,” he’d demanded, his gaze anxious and intense. “Promise me.”
And she’d promised, even though she’d been lying through her teeth. “Yes, I promise. I will get on with my life if the worst happens.” But she’d never imagined that anything could be worse than death, or that some secrets lived on, haunting those left behind from beyond the grave.
Lauren’s eyes widened in surprise when the house finally came into view. She hadn’t bothered to look it up online, preferring to see it for the first time in real life and form an impression. It was a lot grander than she’d expected, the type of house one saw in advertisements for a holiday on the seashore. It even had an actual name, rather than just an address—Holland House. She parked the car and got out, smiling at Susan McPherson, who’d been waiting in her car but was now coming to greet her.
“Sorry I’m late. Traffic out of the city was monstrous.”
“It always is,” Susan replied breezily. “No worries. I caught up on some calls while I was waiting for you. It was too cold to hang around outside anyhow.”
“Susan, are you sure this place is within my budget? It looks too—I don’t know—glamorous.”
Susan gave a dismissive shrug. “Glamorous is not a word I’d use to describe this house. The location is perfect for someone who wants to spend the summer in blissful isolation, but it’s not overly appealing to families who prefer to be close to the beach. There’s a private dock, but no boat,” she added as she led Lauren around the side of the house to show her the breathtaking view. Beyond Pleasant Bay, the Atlantic stretched like a blue-gray quilt toward the horizon, its surface decorated with foaming whitecaps whipped up by the wind. Several small islands were visible from their vantage point on the hill. According to Susan, they were uninhabited, being too small and steep to build a summer residence to rival the one she was looking at.
A wide patio hugged the back of the house, complete with wrought-iron furniture and a covered grill. A narrow wooden staircase led to the water’s edge, where a short dock extended into the bay. Both the stairs and the dock looked old and rickety, unlike the house, which appeared solid, if windswept, by comparison. It had the pleasing proportions often found in homes of colonial design, but Lauren didn’t think this house was a modern-day replica—it looked like the real thing.
“When was this place built?”
“The original house was constructed in the eighteenth century. It had two rooms downstairs and two bedrooms above. I believe the widow’s walk dates to the nineteenth century,” Susan said, glancing at the white-painted rooftop platform that was such a common feature of houses on Cape Cod. “Over time, the owners added indoor plumbing, several rooms, a patio, a sunroom, and, of course, the driveway and the garage. However,” Susan shook her head in dismay, “it’s not wired for cable or internet. Another nail in the coffin for the current owner. Families want TV and internet. Kids don’t spend their free time reading and playing board games as they did when I was a kid.”
“No, I don’t suppose they do. Why doesn’t the owner just bring in the cable company?”
“I think he just forgets about this place until it’s time to rent it out again, and then it seems like too much of an expense, or too big a hassle. I honestly don’t know. He lives in L.A., where he makes movies.”
“He’s a film producer?” Lauren asked, curious.
“No, he does special effects. One of those artistic types,” she added, as if that were the worst thing a person could be. “I think he’d happily sell the place if he could be bothered to deal with all the details of putting it on the market. As long as he gets a few tenants in each summer, he’s content to let the property sit empty for the remainder of
the year.”
“So, the isolated location and the lack of internet are enough of a drawback to keep renters away?” Lauren asked, amazed that anyone would pass up such a wonderful place.
Susan looked furtive for a moment, then exhaled loudly, as if she had no choice but to tell the truth. “This house has a bit of a reputation.”
“A reputation for what?”
“Look, it’s an old house. It creaks, doors slam shut, probably because there’s a draft. Lights occasionally go on by themselves, but the wiring hasn’t been updated since it was put in, whenever that might have been. It’s nothing to worry about.”
“Are you saying, in a very no-nonsense, dismissive kind of way, that the house is haunted?” Lauren asked, amused by Susan’s desire to explain away the ‘reputation.’
“I’m saying it’s old, and it gets buffeted by winds from the Atlantic. I don’t believe in ghosts.”
“Neither do I,” Lauren replied. She wished she did because then maybe Zack would come to her. She needed closure, something she’d never have now. “Can we go inside?” she asked as she huddled deeper into her coat. The house’s location ensured it would be cool in the summer, but in the middle of March, it was arctic on that hill.
“Sure. Sorry. I always tend to pontificate about the view. I must emphasize the sellable points.”
“So, the house is a dump?” Lauren asked with a chuckle.
“No. It’s nice.” Passable, in real estate speak, Lauren thought as she followed Susan toward the front door.
The inside wasn’t too bad. The place could use a good airing out, but aside from the stagnant smell, it was more than passable. There was a sofa and comfortable-looking chairs arranged before the fireplace, several lamps, and a colorful rug that made the living room look cozy and inviting. The windows faced the bay, a major plus as far as Lauren was concerned. The kitchen was outdated, but she had no plans to do any serious cooking, so it would do.
The Lost (Echoes from the Past Book 9) Page 33
