Passions of the Ghost (3 page)

“I am Lord de Mortimer,” he began. “I own this castle and the land around it. I—”

“I’ve heard it,” Amy said tiredly. “We all have. You’re famous.” She pointed her finger upward.

Reynald looked up. And stared in utter
amazement.

The ceiling was covered in pictures. Painted pictures. Men in battle. Men dining in the great hall. Men jousting. Men at their leisure. One of the men was tall with very fair hair, and he stood head and shoulders above the others.

It was meant to be
him.

These colorful and vibrant pictures on the ceiling were meant to be the story of
his
life.

Reynald was astonished. Then there was a ringing sound, like a bell, and a whoosh, and before he could pull his thoughts away from what he was seeing, Amy had tugged him inside a metal box. The doors closed, locking them in.

He stood very still in the small space, afraid to move.

Amy was speaking, but he didn’t hear what she was saying. Her chatter washed over him as he tried to come to terms with his current situation. Then the small space began to move. Upward. He knew his face drained of color because he felt his blood sink into his boots.

Amy didn’t seem to find anything strange in what was happening. She continued to chatter away until the metal box came to a gliding stop, and the doors slid back again.

They were facing a wall painted dark red, and there was a soft tapestry or carpet upon the floor of a similar red. Her footsteps muted, Amy led the way down a corridor to a room with a solid door and a small brass shape of a woman fastened upon it.

“This is the Lady Suite. My room,” she explained. “Now, you will behave, won’t you?”

“I do not harm women,” he said coldly.

“You wouldn’t be here if I thought you did.” And Amy opened the door by sliding a small piece of parchment into a metal slot.

Reynald followed her in. If he had ever known this room, he didn’t now. The walls were pale yellow, and there were embroidered hangings of women standing in flower gardens, and a bed with curtains so flimsy they would be useless in keeping out cold drafts. An archway led to another room, where there was a table and chairs and a padded bench before a fireplace. Reynald took a step and cracked his shin on a trunk lying on the floor.

“Sorry about the suitcase.” She dragged it out of his way, tucking in the colorful clothing spilling from it. There were shoes scattered about, too, and plenty of other odds and ends that must belong to Amy.

In fact the room was one of the most untidy he had ever seen. It made Reynald uncomfortable—because of his training as a soldier from an early age, he had never been able to look at mess without wanting to do something about it. A soldier who was careless with his belongings was careless with his life.

As he watched, bemused, Amy began picking some of the pieces up, holding them while looking about her, then tossing them into a corner, as if she didn’t quite know what to do with them. After performing this action three times, she simply gave up.

“I’m not a person who has a place for everything and everything in its place,” she said, with a shrug. But her eyes were sparkling, and there wasn’t a shred of apology in them. “Now, I’m going to have a drink,” she went on. “I think I deserve one after tonight. What about you? Bourbon and Coke? Whiskey? Scotch? Name your poison, my lord.”

“My poison?” he repeated, suspicious. A friend of his father’s had been poisoned and died a terrible death. Did they drink poison in this time for
fun
?

“It’s a joke.” She sighed.

Reynald shuffled about, edging around the furnishings and trying not to bump into anything. The room was not designed to accommodate a large man in armor, and the overwhelming feminine quality of it made it most uncomfortable. He’d felt exactly the same in his mother’s solar—big and clumsy. As if he didn’t belong. As if at any moment he might fall over, or break something, or do something to set her ladies giggling at his expense.

He did trip on something; a book. Awkward in his armor, he knelt to pick it up, his sword scabbard knocking on the bedpost. It was unlike any book he had ever seen before, with thin parchment for pages, and on the cover were a man and woman, boldly embracing.

“What is this?” he demanded, holding it out to her.

She looked at it with a puzzled frown. “Never seen it before.” And then, when he just continued to stare at her, “All right, it’s mine. I admit it. A girl has to have her dreams.”

He inspected the erotic painting on the cover. The man appeared strong and tough, but his expression was strangely vulnerable, and the woman did not look as if she was being held in his arms against her will. In fact, she looked to be enjoying herself.

He smiled. Was this really Amy Fairweather’s dream?

She snatched the book from his hands. “You’d better give me that,” she murmured. “You might start getting ideas.”

“Ideas?”

His mother had read the romances popular in the thirteenth century, and swooned over the poems and songs about undying, courtly love. It was all very innocent, really, and consisted of mannered speeches by men, who were too in awe of their beloveds to do more than stare longingly, and languishing damsels, who lapped up those stares, dreaming of love, but in reality were to be married to the choices their fathers made for them.

“Childish dreams, that is all,” he stated. “Love is nothing but a distraction from the brutal realities of life.”

“Is that right!” Amy slipped her book into a drawer, out of sight, and slammed it shut with more effort than was necessary. “Well, thank you for sharing that with me.”

He’d upset her. He’d forgotten that women needed their dreams more than men. It was so long since he’d had to take account of a woman’s feelings.

Slowly, Reynald straightened to his full height. “I beg pardon, damsel.”

Amy was eyeing him curiously, as if trying to decide whether or not he meant it, then she smiled. “Accepted. Now, why don’t you take some of that off?” she suggested, waving her hand at his armor. “It looks painful. How do you sit down in that stuff anyway?”

She was making a jest of him again. He could not remember a time in the whole of his life when he had been spoken to in the way this woman spoke to him. His people admired him, were in awe of him, hung upon his words, and strove to please him.

Amy Fairweather wasn’t in awe of him, nor was she trying to please him. She smiled at him with her green eyes, while she teased him from her pink lips. She confused him, amazed him, amused him…
interested
him.

“Come on, Mr. de Mortimer,” she said, “chill out.”

Reynald considered striding angrily from her presence, but what was the point? Where would he go? He was a man out of his time—out of his depth—and it seemed that Amy Fairweather was his only friend.

Without a word, Reynald began unlacing his coat of armor.

Curiously Amy watched as the various components that made up his costume came off. He heaved the coat from him—it must have been at least eighty pounds—and it landed on the floor with a thud that shook the room. As she’d thought, he was heavily padded—beneath the armor he wore a long garment that afforded comfort and protection. When he stripped this off, he was still a big man. A very big man. But he was no longer a giant.

Now he was down to a pair of tight, fawn-colored trousers that hugged his legs, and boots that came to his ankles, and a whitish tunic or shirt that came to midthigh, with long sleeves and no buttons—it simply laced at his throat. Her eyes rose to the ugly scar on his neck, a puckered line that ran around it for about six inches, as if someone had tried to slice him.

She shuddered. She’d seen those sorts of scars before. They usually went with a lifestyle that was bloody and violent; not the kind of men she liked to spend her time with. That’s why she’d left the Parkhill Estate, and sworn never to go back. Who was this guy anyway? She didn’t know him from a bar of soap. It was time to send him off to whatever hole he’d crawled out of.

Amy looked up to do just that, but he’d taken off his helmet.

His face held her complete attention. The man was handsome, with more than a hint of arrogance about the nose and mouth. He looked a serious kind of character, not the sort to crack a joke, but she’d already guessed that. His hair was cut very short, and it was pale blond—so pale as to be almost white.

Did he bleach it? It seemed to go with those colorless eyes. If she didn’t know better—a shiver ran through her—she’d say he
was
the Ghost.

Those eyes were processing her just as she had him. His gaze slid over her face, and down the gauzy gown she was wearing, pausing at her breasts, then her legs.
Well, he is a typical man after all!
But there was more to it than that. Despite his scorn over her book, the stranger seemed as dazed by her appearance as she was by his.

In a moment they’d be in each other’s arms, then…Amy smiled wryly, recognizing her feelings for what they were. Pangs of lust. She’d been here before. It was depressing, really, that no matter how she tried to be civilized and go for the snags, she was inevitably attracted to the macho types who were twice her size. Bulging muscles and bulging…well, it had been a while since she’d had a lover. The fact that her father was a small man, with a mean temper, was no excuse for her to go to the other extreme when it came to her ideal man.

Wearily, Amy sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes back to life. If Mr. de Mortimer was trouble then she’d better find out now, so that she and Jez could deal with it. Things were bad enough without him making it worse.

She fixed him with a no-nonsense look. “Okay then, tell me who you really are?”

The Ghost was looking back at her, and she
could see him summing her up. Deciding whether he would be frank with her, at last. Whatever he saw he must have liked, because he bowed his head in assent. He had a way with him, that was for sure. Maybe he really was an actor.

“My name,” he began quietly, “is Lord Reynald de Mortimer. You know this, lady, for I have told you. I do not lie. I never lie. I
am
the Ghost.”

Amy felt a sharp stab of disappointment. Irritably, she swirled the liquid in her glass. “I was hoping you’d trust me. That we could stop playing games now. I think you owe me something.”

“Why should I owe you anything, lady?”

“I saved you from Coster. He was going to call the police. If you weren’t on his guest list, you’d have been evicted. Arrested. Hauled up before a magistrate. At the very least you’d have been severely embarrassed. Because we both know you’re not on his list, are you,
my lord
?” she added, with a sly glance.

“This is my home,” he said doggedly. “He cannot evict me.”

“Of course he can! He’s probably checking through the names right now, trying to decide whether I’m having him on. It’s lucky Jez told me a few of the guests haven’t turned up yet. We’ll just have to hope they don’t, or he’ll be knocking at my door with half a dozen constables behind him.”

“Jez?” he demanded, with a haughty lift of his eyebrows.

“My brother. Short for Jeremy.”

She could almost see his brain turning over what she’d said. It was as if she was speaking in a foreign language, one he had difficulty interpreting.

She sighed, swallowing her drink. “You can trust me, you know. I’m good with secrets. Are you undercover or something? MI5?”

“My name is Reynald de—”

“All right, all right. I’ll call you Rey. Now, Rey, what am I going to do with you? I’ve got to go back to the party. Jez will be looking for me if I don’t.”

“Why does your brother bring you to a place such as this?”

Amy laughed wryly. “Believe me, Jez can be very persuasive.”

Reynald puzzled over her words once more, wondering what it was she was not saying. In his experience women were often used as pawns in the games of men, and the higher born the lady, the higher the stakes. Was this what was happening to Amy? Was her brother, Jez, trying to use her to gain favor with the unpleasant man who had tried to stop Amy leaving the party?

She was beautiful, he thought dispassionately. Even if she were not wealthy, she would be a prize for any man. Many would be willing to do much to have such a lady for a night or two.

Inside him, he felt a stirring, a strange ache.

“So,
Rey.
” Her voice startled him. She was gazing up at him, her short auburn hair curling like a fiery halo about her head. With her triangular face, pointed chin, and slanting green eyes, she looked like a creature from the forests. Some sort of sprite.

“Let’s start again. Where do you come from? I can’t quite place that accent.”

“I am from Norman blood,” he said slowly. “My father was a powerful man with many enemies. My mother was an heiress who lacked good sense.”

A frown marred the perfection of her brow and drew her thin dark eyebrows together. “Well, we don’t chose our parents, do we?”

“When I inherited, I became one of the most important men in England. My father conquered by force and fear, and still the Welsh defied him. I was determined to find another way to bring peace and prosperity to my lands and the people on them.”

Melancholy fell over him. Despite the high standards he had striven for, he had tried and failed. And he had been so close…

“I died in 1299, and I was taken to the between-worlds.”

“The what?”

“It is a place where the dead go to await their fate. I have slept there for seven hundred years, awaiting my second chance. To live again, to make right my wrong. And now I have that chance; I have returned to the mortal world.”

Amy nodded slowly, as if she believed him, but there was a glitter in her green eyes that said otherwise. She set her empty glass down. “I’ve never heard of that one. Do many people come back to life like you? What’s the point?”

“
The point
is that I was responsible for many deaths. The men of my garrison, the folk of my castle, and the surrounding villages, and the Welsh who lived on my borders and under my care. I wanted peace, but instead I brought destruction. That is
the point,
lady.”

She met his pale eyes, refusing to be intimidated, and he admired her for it. “All right, let’s say you really
are
the Ghost, returned to life. How are you going to right this wrong? You’re seven hundred years too late.”

He inclined his head very slightly. “I have already told the witch this—”

“Hang on…the witch?” Her eyes had widened.

“The witch who rules the between-worlds. She is the being who oversees time. She told me that the answers to my questions lie here, in this time. She said that
you
will help me find them.”

“
I
will help you?” She stood up, clearly shaken. “Where is this witch? I want to tell her she’s wrong.”

He smiled. “I already have, but she will not be moved.”

“Take me to her.”

He laughed, and her eyes flashed. “I cannot do that. She will not obey me. She will come to us when she is ready. In the meantime, you are to be my companion in this adventure.”

“Oh no I’m not,” Amy retorted decidedly, and reached for her shoes. “Find someone else to be your companion, Rey. I’m here because of Jez, and after we’re done, I’m going home.”

“But—”

“I need to get back to the party.” She stood up, the heels on her shoes narrow and impossibly high. He watched her cross to the door, the sway of her hips holding his attention. “Maybe you should think about going home, too.” She turned at the door. For all her delicate, pretty looks, the expression in her eyes was strong and intelligent. This was no helpless woman to be dismissed lightly.

The door closed and he was alone. Reynald reached out and touched something lacy with one callused finger. It seemed to consist of straps or bindings, and cups in the shape of a woman’s breasts. His hand shook.

Hot, vivid images filled his head. He brushed the lace again, and this time pretended he was touching the soft swell of Amy’s breast. Her skin would be like the finest silk, with a smooth, bewitching sheen. And if he bent and licked her with his tongue, she’d taste like nectar and roses.

A powerful surge of desire gripped him. For all his pretty, poetic thoughts, he knew he wanted her as basically as any man wanted a woman. This was lust, pure and simple.

He shifted uncomfortably, his body reminding him it had been a long time. Reynald could have had a wife, but he’d never taken one. He’d never found the one he could trust. He wondered if he’d been overcautious to wait so long. Surely not all women were like Morwenna? Surely there were some who could be trusted? Loved, even…?

Amy Fairweather.

He was smiling again, without knowing why.

The party was still going strong; if anything, it was rowdier than before. Champagne was flowing, and everyone was laughing, dancing, and having a good time. An actress she recognized was leaning against Jez, talking intently as only the very inebriated can, and Prince Nicco was busy dazzling a recently divorced brewery heiress.

As she made her way through the room, Mr. Coster gave her a nod, which made her think he’d believed her story after all. Several very nice men turned to look at her, and normally she would have returned that interest, but not tonight.

Tonight, she had never felt more alone in her life.

There had been other parties. Some where she had behaved in a way that was dangerously out of control, and some where she couldn’t remember much after the first few drinks. Amy admitted that a few years ago she treated every day as if it were her last. She had certainly been less than scrupulous about the company she kept. She’d half thought this weekend would be like that, but now…

She’d changed. She’d become a different person, and she hadn’t realized it until this weekend with Jez. She’d turned over a new leaf, but there was more to it than that. Since Rey had burst into her life, the change seemed to have accelerated.

The thing was…she couldn’t get him out of her mind.

Impossible and ridiculous and irrational as it was, she wanted to believe him. He’d seemed so lucid and so sure. So believable. Was a man from the past coming to the present any more unlikely than flying through space? Or a cut-price sale at Cartier’s? She
wanted
his story to be true.

Life on the Parkhill Estate had made Amy a down-to-earth and practical girl. She didn’t try to glamorize the world around her. She might escape into romance but she didn’t really believe anyone like those marvelous heroes would ever seek her out. But that didn’t stop her from hoping.

Rey’s story had a wonderful feel to it that caught her imagination, just like a romance. When she was with him she felt optimistic.

Maybe it was this place. The castle had an ambience, despite some areas being redecorated to within an inch of their life. But once you were away from the worst of that, in the stone passages and stairwells, you could almost hear the past calling to you around the next corner. Why shouldn’t the Ghost live on?

Amy turned back through groups of happy people. Jez was now at the center of a large crowd, telling one of his stories. He used to do this when they were kids, hold everyone’s attention with the ease of a seasoned performer. The stories and the suits had changed, but not her brother.

Jez caught sight of her, delivered the punch line, and smoothly made his exit while his audience was laughing hysterically. With his hand on her arm, he leaned in close to prevent their being overheard. The scent of his expensive aftershave tickled her nose, and the diamond stud in his ear winked in the light. If she didn’t know better, she’d think he was a successful businessman or an entrepreneur. Maybe the owner of one of the more fashionable London clubs.

Jez fixed her with a look. “What do you think you’re doing, sweetheart? Nicco came to me before in tears.”

“I doubt that,” she began to protest, but he was already steering her toward a quiet corner.

Amy sighed and let him have his way. There was a raised platform or dais, and behind that a wall covered in weaponry. Jez stopped in front of a dozen or so swords, somewhat incongruously arranged in a pretty circle around a shield.

“Have you forgotten why we’re here?” He was bending his head, so that he could look directly into her eyes. “
Nicco.
Does that ring any bells?”

“You don’t have to remind me why we’re here, Jez—”

“I think I do. We have one chance. We have to take it.”

You mean
you
have to take it,
she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. What was the point? Jez needed her, and she owed him in more ways than she could ever repay. Without him…well she wouldn’t be here, and if she was, she wouldn’t be the strong, well-adjusted woman she’d turned out to be.

“I get the message, Jez.”

He relaxed. “Fine then. Let’s have no more running off and doing a Greta Garbo. Go and find Nicco and win him back. He’s smitten, sweetheart. Just needs a bit of stroking, and he’ll spill everything. You’ll see.”

“Are you sure you’re not underestimating Nicco? He’s not a fool.”

“He’s a complete idiot,” Jez retorted.

Amy laughed, then shook her head at him. “Don’t you have any scruples, Jez?”

“Where Nicco is concerned? Not a single one,” he assured her. “I’ve heard some things about our friend that would make your hair curl more than it already is.”

“So you’re not worried about leaving me alone with him?”

“Nuh. You can handle him. Now…go and do your stuff, beautiful.” He turned her around and pointed her in the right direction.

Unlike Jez, Nicco was all alone. He was dressed in a sea blue suit, standing before the huge fireplace, where a couple of enormous logs were ablaze. It was a wonder he wasn’t puce with the heat, but she’d already discovered that Nicco was a cold fish. As if to prove it, he gave a shiver as she approached.

“I would be warmer in Siberia,” he said, his mouth turning down.

“No, you wouldn’t.”

He shrugged one shoulder, not bothering to argue with her. There was a sulkiness to him that some women might find attractive. Amy wanted to slap him.

“Have you finished with the riffraff?” he sneered.

“You mean the actor?” she said, ignoring his bad temper. “Didn’t you recognize him?”

“Actor?” Nicco echoed suspiciously.

“Yes. He’s doing a part in a movie set in medieval times, so he’s using this weekend to immerse himself in the period. Didn’t you realize that, Nicco? I thought everyone knew.”

Nicco didn’t like the idea that he might have missed out on something. “Of course I knew,” he said irritably, “but I don’t have to like him, do I? Come and we will have a drink, Amee. I am lonely here, a foreigner in a foreign country. You should be entertaining me and making me feel welcome.”

Amy smiled as she took his arm, but inside she was anything but happy. She really didn’t want to do this anymore. Why was she here with selfish, spoiled Nicco, when she could be upstairs with the mysterious and gorgeous Rey?

Far down in the earth, deep beneath the castle, an old chamber lay hidden and secret. Only a single tunnel led to this chamber, and it was narrow and half-choked with rubble, barely passable. No one had walked here for hundreds of years. And that was how it should be, for the creature within the chamber did not want visitors.

She was so old she remembered when the earth was a child. Enormous, her body covered with scales as hard as steel, her powerful wings tucked in, and her long tail curled around her. She breathed slow and soft. Sometimes she dreamed.