Passions of the Ghost (4 page)

In her dreams she flew over green fields, treetops, valleys, and mountains. This was her domain, and once again a dragon was something to fear, not a myth in a musty book, or a tale told by those who no longer believed in it.

She stirred and gave a soft moan.

Far above, in the castle, she sensed an old and familiar danger.

Reynald de Mortimer.

This was all his fault. He deserved to die.

She had been hiding here for seven hundred years. Sleeping. She might have been sleeping still if it were not for the Sorceress’s interference. Rage made her blood begin to boil. An anger that had waited seven hundred years to reach its zenith.

Revenge. She wanted revenge!

That witch of the between-worlds; it was she who had brought Reynald back. They would be sorry, they would all be sorry.

“I will fight him,” the dragon hissed. “I will fight until there is only one of us remaining in the mortal world. And I will kill his woman, then he will know what it is to be bereft of the one he loves. Then he will finally understand.”

The time had come.

Slowly, purposefully, the old dragon began to awake from her long sleep, ready to face her destiny.

Reynald peered grimly through the arrow
slit and saw that it was still snowing outside. Maybe it was the snow that made the air feel damp and cold, or maybe it was because he was in a part of the castle that hadn’t been modernized. No one had painted these walls or added soft floor coverings. It was much as he remembered—a stark fortress with few comforts for the men who dwelt here. And why should it be anything else, when their every waking moment was spent keeping watch over the Ghost’s borders?

He’d spent the last few hours making an inspection tour of his castle, as far as he was able. There had been additions since 1299, such as a new outer gate to the south, and new timber buildings in the bailey to replace the stables and kitchen and various workshops he remembered. In parts, the inside of the castle was almost unrecognizable, where rooms had been added or divided. Reynald felt angry when he thought of someone turning his home into a fairground for fools.

Were people no longer under attack from the Welsh or the Scots? Was the greed and treachery of their neighbors no longer an issue? Did no one take anything seriously anymore?

But there was satisfaction in finding that the secret passageways and stairways he’d built into the walls were still here, and untouched. By the thickness of the dust and the cobwebs inside them, it was likely no one had used them since 1299. He could move about the castle as he wished, without being observed. These people here now might believe they were safe and secure, but the Ghost had come from a time when nothing was certain, and he knew better.

“They say that the dragon will come and destroy us all.”

Angharad’s voice was like a distant echo as he remembered that day. She was translating for him in the great hall, he sitting in his ornate lord’s chair and she standing before him in her simple gown, her long gray hair loose about her. A small group of Welshmen were gathered below the dais, proud, watchful, and suspicious.

They were right to be so. In his father’s time they would have been thrown into the dungeon as a matter of course. It had taken Reynald years to gain their trust to this point. To make them realize he was not a man like his father.

“Dragon?” Reynald frowned. “Are they threatening me?”

Angharad smiled serenely. “I do not think so, my lord.”

“Then they truly mean a dragon? A real dragon?”

“It would seem so. My lord.”

“That is primitive nonsense, my lord.” Julius spoke up. He was Reynald’s chaplain and scribe, but although he wrote Reynald’s letters and read those sent to him, he was more concerned with heaven and hell than day-to-day problems. And he didn’t like Angharad; he didn’t like the fact that Reynald paid so much attention to her. He took every opportunity to undermine her position. “These people are little more than pagan savages.”

“Of course it is nonsense,” Reynald said levelly. He met the old woman’s eyes, trying to read the expression in them. Was it mockery he saw? Reynald knew she thought Julius a fool, despite his learning. “He is afraid of life, so he hides behind his God and his books,” she’d scoffed often enough. As for her countrymen: “They squabble amongst themselves; they will never agree long enough to unite against their enemies.”

Sometimes he wondered what she really thought of him, but she never said—not to his face, anyway. It mattered not. She was a very wise woman, and to his mind she had proved herself. He found he was taking her advice more and more. She was his tongue, when it came to speaking to the Welsh, but she was also his eyes and his ears.

Even so, she had died that day with the others. He should have protected her, been able to save her. He should have kept his word.

Reynald shivered as frigid air blasted through the arrow slit in the wall. He was tired, and it was time to return to Amy’s room. He took a step down the stairwell, almost stumbling, and it was then that he saw it.

A light.

Like a candle flame, it was flickering below him, moving down the twisting stairwell. As the light vanished around the corner he saw a shadowy shape that looked like a monk in a robe.

“Julius?”

It was madness to think that his chaplain might be here, but still his heart leapt. A familiar face would be welcome in this unfamiliar time. Had the witch given him a friend in his exile?

He began to follow.

When he reached the bottom of the stairs the shadowy figure was already well ahead of him, gliding across the floor. Was it Julius? He couldn’t be sure. As it reached the door, it seemed to hesitate, half-turning toward him. As if it wanted him to come after it.

“Who are you?”

It paused a moment more, but it was only a black shape against the light. Then the door opened and closed, and it was gone. Reynald started after it, determined to discover who or what it was.

The door led into a corridor, and the figure was already moving away. After a while he realized that the light and its keeper were remaining just out of his reach, no matter how he quickened his steps. And the light wasn’t like one of the lights he had seen in this new world; nor was it like one of those he had left behind. Rather, it was something from the between-worlds, ghostly and intriguing.

It had passed through another door now, into the bailey. By the time he ran outside, the figure was at the castle wall, already climbing upward.

Snow covered the ground, thick enough to sink beneath his boots. He shivered. He was wearing only his trousers and tunic; the bulk of his clothing was still in Amy’s room. Ahead of him he could see the mysterious light on the top of the battlements, appearing and disappearing between the crenelations. Reynald considered himself a physically powerful and fit man, but whatever was ahead of him was far stronger and fitter.

If it
was
a mortal being! Perhaps it was an apparition? Did his chaplain really haunt the castle? He couldn’t imagine anything less like Julius than wandering about with a light. If Julius was a spirit, then he would prefer the chapel, or a warm corner with some of his intellectual books on religion.

The wind was stronger up here, and the cold made his eyes sting. The light bobbed ahead of him, moving across the wall above the old gatehouse. He blinked. It seemed to be closer than before. He quickened his pace, thinking that at last he was catching up.

“Julius!” he called, and despite all his reasoning he was still hoping it was so. “Speak to me, old friend…”

He ducked through a low doorway, feeling his way along a passage in almost total darkness. Only the unearthly light ahead of him showed him the way. The men of his garrison had once slept here, when they guarded the wall day and night. Now the place was musty and empty, a desolate reminder of what had been. He turned a corner in pitch-blackness, and found himself momentarily blinded.

There, directly in front of him, was the light.

His quarry had proceeded through an archway and was now facing him head-on from the other side. He was sure that whoever it was was watching him.

“Julius, is it you?” Reynald’s voice sounded very loud. He hadn’t realized until now how alone he was—the music from the party was barely more than an annoying buzz.

The unmoving shadow said nothing, but the light was growing brighter, making it difficult to see. Reynald stretched out a hand to grasp one side of the archway, feeling the old stone crumble. Still the figure didn’t move. He stepped out from the arch, through to the other side, and as he did so the light grew even more brilliant, dazzling him. Quickly, in an effort to escape being blinded, he looked down. And saw, fifty feet beneath him, the frozen ice of the moat.

Reynald grabbed desperately at the stones of the archway, his forward momentum already taking his body out into emptiness. One hand found a gap, where some of the mortar had fallen out. He dug his fingers into the crevice and, as he began to fall, swung himself around. His hip hit the wall, his feet dangling in space, and then he was scrambling back inside the arch. For endless moments he knelt, breathing hard and shaking. Knowing that he was fortunate to be alive.

Fury took hold of him, and Reynald came to his feet. “Who are you!” he roared. “Answer me!”

But the murderous shadow had begun to fade, and with it the light. In another moment it was gone, leaving him none the wiser.

Slowly, Reynald made his way back to Amy’s room. He had much to think of, but he was cold and weary, and a dark depression had settled over him. He had been wary of locking Amy’s door, in case he could not open it again, so he’d left it ajar. Now he closed it firmly behind him.

The small lamp on the table was still burning softly, and her bed looked very inviting. Maybe if he rested, he thought, yawning, he might feel better. Strange that after sleeping for seven hundred years he should crave more.

Whoever or whatever the figure with the light had been, it wanted him dead. But only someone from the past, someone with a personal grudge, would wish him mortal harm. Who could carry their hurt for seven hundred years? Who hated him that much?

Deep in his thoughts, Reynald did what he always did when he retired. He stripped off all his clothing and lay down. He never felt the cold, in fact he was often too hot. Yawning again, eyes closing, he stretched out.

He tried to remember all he could of the dark shadow, applying it to the people he had known. But it was an impossible task, and he was too weary to think straight.

In a moment, Reynald was asleep.

Amy opened her door and allowed it to click shut behind her, breathing a sigh of relief. It was very late, but she’d finally escaped from Nicco. With his usual arrogance he’d believed he could outlast her at the bar, but she’d proved him wrong. Still, it had been a near thing. The trouble was, she’d had to drink him
under
the bar to do it, and now her head was spinning, and all she wanted to do was to collapse into bed and sleep.

She kicked off one of her shoes, stumbled, and kicked off the other. Reaching out to steady herself on the bedpost, she glanced at her bed.

There was a naked man sprawled across it.

A very big naked man.

Amy swallowed and thought about screaming. But she was only human, and he was gorgeous. She swayed, peering down at the nearest part of him, his feet, and letting her gaze run slowly upward. It was a fabulous journey.

Big feet, long muscular legs, flat stomach, wide chest and shoulders, and well-defined upper arms. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on him, he was trimmed down to sheer muscle. There were scars, too, as if he was a soldier who’d seen more than one posting into a battle zone. She reached out, her fingers hovering above what had been a long gash on his thigh that ran dangerously close to his groin. There was another serious-looking injury across his ribs, as well as plenty of smaller marks.

What sort of man was he?

Her gaze slid over the puckered scar on his neck. His face was unmarked, his skin tanned and smooth. There was dark stubble beginning to show on his jaw, which was odd for a man with hair so fair—perhaps it was bleached after all. The hair on his chest was dark, too, as was the line that ran down his stomach and clustered about his genitals. Her gaze lingered. Oh yes, he was impressive in every way.

She knew she’d had far too much to drink and her good-sense meter wasn’t working, but this seemed special. There was something about Rey, something that made him very different from other men. Not just his appearance, but the way he spoke and behaved. The way he looked at her. She knew such a thing was impossible, and yet…

It was as if he really came from another time.

Maybe it was just that she wanted it to be true. It was so romantic, that some seven-hundred-year-old English lord could return to life. Amy wasn’t such a cynic that she couldn’t enjoy a little fantasy and romance—the fictional type—but this time fantasy and reality seemed to have fused.

Was Lord Reynald de Mortimer, aka the Ghost, really asleep on her bed?

She smiled and closed her eyes.

Bad idea. Amy’s head began to spin. She plunked herself down on the end of the bed and took a deep breath, but when she opened her eyes the room kept spinning, and the naked man on her bed didn’t stir. She lay back in her gauzy medieval gown and stared at the canopy above.

The room was warm and peaceful, and she could hear his breathing, deep and soft and steady. That was nice. Most men she knew snored.

Her head began to feel better. She supposed she should wake him up and throw him out, or at least cover him with the quilt, but she was too limp to move. Her eyelids began to close, then Amy, too, was sleeping.