Patricia Rice (11 page)

She stared at him blankly. “Your father? Why?”

Harry shrugged, as uncomfortable with his father’s eccentricities now as he had been when the duke lived. “I have no idea. He never bothered to explain.” Wanting nothing more than to escape this insane room, he gestured toward the ladder. “Come along. We’re supposed to be dressing for dinner. What on earth made you come up here now?”

“The lady with the ring led me here. I think this is her home.”

Blithely, Christina hurried down the ladder, leaving Harry rubbing his tired eyes and wishing he were in London, where the city bustled with live people instead of ghosts.

Lying in bed in the early morning dawn, Christina tried to absorb the oddity of Harry’s broad back not inches from her fingertips. He had wide, solid shoulders, and she longed to observe the supple musculature she’d felt when he held her, but out of politeness, he’d worn a nightshirt to bed.

He’d been a wee bit stiff with her last night after dinner when they’d discussed the hidden room with the spinning wheel. Harry didn’t like believing his father was eccentric or mad and preferred not to mention any evidence of it, it seemed.

If she shifted just a little bit, she could touch her toes to his long—bare—limbs.

She resisted. In repose, Harry’s aura was calm and reassuring, but he’d worked himself into a rare state yesterday. She still didn’t know him well enough to encourage advances that might be rough or hurtful.

Although his kiss last night had been more than gentle…

She wouldn’t think about that. Harry was determined to seduce her. She was equally determined not to be seduced. Sort of. Intellectually speaking, that is. And she wasn’t very intellectual.

But she was good at self-preservation, and not being seduced by Harry until she knew him was important. Except when she was lying beside him in bed, wishing he would turn over and kiss her again, or that she could run her hand through his thick golden hair.

It had been the most difficult thing she had ever done last night when she’d reminded him of his promise not to make love to her until he loved her. She still wasn’t certain if she would have had the courage had she not seen the lovely blue lady haunting the corner of the room. Harry hadn’t been pleased when she’d stopped his kisses with her hand and made him vow it again. But the lady had shimmered as if she were pleased.

She could be in a great deal of trouble if she pleased ghosts instead of her husband. Something else she must think on.

Deciding she’d vacillated long enough, and if Harry happened to wake up when she was on the wrong side of the argument, she’d be in deep trouble, Christina flung back the covers and slipped out of bed.

Harry instantly woke. “It’s too early to get up,” he muttered. “Even the cock hasn’t crowed.”

He turned over on his back with the pillow propped behind him, and Christina could see silky brown hair behind his half unbuttoned shirt. He’d shaved for dinner, but his jaw was bristly again. And his mouth—may the goddess preserve her, but she longed to taste his lips again. They held her captivated: not soft, but sensual and moist with expectation.

She was grateful the bulky covers prevented her from seeing anything below his waist. From the look Harry was giving her, she knew what was on his mind, and she hastily diverted him. “I haven’t explored the grounds yet. I’d like to go riding. It looks to be a glorious day.”

Harry slanted the sunshine a dark look and grumbling, sat up and dropped his legs over the far side of the bed. “I’ll go with you. The grooms your father sent with your horses are expecting to leave this morning. I need to persuade them to linger until I find someone to take their place.”

“You have no grooms? Who takes care of the horses?” Horrified at the possibility that the stable had been as neglected as the house, Christina darted to the window to take a look. But the stable was on the far side of the new wing and the old manor merely overlooked a terraced garden and fields.

She turned back around in time to catch Harry struggling to button his breeches over his shirt. She blushed at the intimacy, but she supposed this was all part of getting to know him.

Catching her glance, he strode across the room half-unbuttoned and pulled her into his arms. “Anytime you’re ready, I am,” he murmured his favorite refrain.

His kiss was as tender and wonderful as she remembered. Holding her by the waist, he snuggled her hips close to his, and she felt the stir of his rising manhood against her lower belly while his mouth ravished hers. She wore only her nightshift, and his every touch inflamed her. His hand strayed lower, his kiss deepened, and she was in grave danger of melting into a puddle on the floor.

Images of falling back into bed with Harry on top of her, pushing up her shift, touching her where she ached to be touched, filled her mind. If only she could accept this was just Harry, the man she’d known half her life, she could—

She shivered in a sudden draft. Blue flickered at the corner of her eye. If her assumption was correct that the blue lady had led her to the spinning wheel, then it was possible she resided in the attic just above this room.

She almost recovered her senses enough to break their kiss, only Harry pressed his thigh between her legs, distracting her. Grabbing his shoulders, she lifted herself so he could intrude further. He obliged, sliding her shift higher until his leg rubbed her in a most intimate place through the linen.

Her breasts were crushed against his chest with only their shirts to shield them. Her nipples puckered into aching points of need, and she moaned into Harry’s mouth.

As if he read her mind, Harry slid his fingers into the space between them to cup her breast. His thumb sought and found the puckered crest, and Christina nearly expired of the pleasure and relief of his caress. Harry’s tongue thrust boldly into her mouth, and she accepted it. He pushed her backward, toward the bed, and her knees were too weak to fight him.

A knock rapped at the door.

“Go away,” Harry growled.

Pressed against the bed by Harry’s weight, Christina mindlessly ignored the knock, but a scream of fright from across the hall returned her to her senses.

“Your Grace!” The knock grew more frantic. “There’s something wrong with the Blue Room.”

“There’s something wrong with the whole damned house,” Harry muttered, glaring at the door.

He didn’t release her, but he shifted position enough to give Christina the strength to shove against his chest. Unyielding muscle prevented her action from being more than futile protest. Obviously torn, he glanced down at her.

“Blue Room?” he inquired.

“The room Luke chose for you across the hall. Harry, let me go. That’s Matilda, and she sounds frightened.”

If she looked half as mussed as Harry did, the entire household would know what they’d been doing. His half-lowered eyelids had a carnal look that sent shivers of delight up her spine as he studied her state of undress, but at a second scream, he straightened, freeing her.

She had no idea where her robe might be. Without further concern to her attire, she raced to the door. “What’s happening?” she demanded of the terrified maid in the hall.

Matilda was a sensible country woman who had grown up in a marquess’s household, earning her place above stairs with her quick wit and aptitude for learning. She did not frighten easily, but her face was pale and her eyes wide. “’Tis a ghost!” she declared. “It’s tearing about His Grace’s room like a demon.”

Hearing the crashes, Christina sprinted barefoot across the hall. Before she could open the door, Harry caught her by the waist and swept her off her feet. Her toes bumped his shins and his nose practically pressed against hers.

“Keep back, Christina,” he warned. “I’ll take a look first.”

She couldn’t very well kick him without shoes, but she’d like to. It wasn’t fair that he was so much stronger. Wrestling out of his arms, she hung by his side as he opened the door.

Christina caught the flicker of blue just as a vase full of fresh daffodils flew across the room and splattered against the far wall. With the opening of the door, the room fell deathly silent, and cold air blasted past them.

“She’s gone now. Matilda, fetch my robe, will you? And some slippers?” Ducking beneath Harry’s arm, Christina entered to survey the destruction of yesterday’s hard work.

Harry grabbed her shift and tugged her back, attempting to shove her behind him. “I told you to wait. There could be a thief or a madman in here.”

“Desist, Harry, do.” Christina tugged at the fingers holding her back. “It’s just the lady I saw the other day. I wonder if we’ve angered her.” Although given the timing of the lady’s interruptions, Christina had other ideas she thought best not to mention to Harry. Why would a ghost be warning her not to go to bed with her husband? Or did the lady protect something or someone?

“What lady?” Harry demanded in a roar.

So much for seduction. Christina sighed and quit fighting his grip. Instead, she surveyed the destruction from his arms. The broken vase seemed to be the worst of it. Accustomed to the nobility having separate dressing rooms, Matilda and Luke had evidently declined to carry all of Harry’s things to the bedchamber. His riding crop lay in the middle of the carpet, and his box of stickpins and watch fobs had been knocked off the dresser and overturned. The young scullery maid who had entered to light a fire in the grate had sunk to the floor in a fit of uncontrollable weeping.

Christina elbowed her husband, and apparently assured the situation was under control, he released her so she could go to the distraught girl.

“Come along, and we’ll fix you a bit of tea,” she said, taking the maid by the arm and assisting her to rise. “Were you doing anything unusual to raise the lady’s ire?”

Apparently shocked into silence, the girl obediently stood up. Her dirty face was streaked with tears.

“I’ll take her, Your Grace.” Matilda entered in a rustle of starched petticoats. “No doubt she knocked the things about and scared herself.”

“I did not!” the maid protested. “They flew through the air like birds. I didn’t touch nuffin’.”

“I’m sure you didn’t.” Christina threw Harry a glance, but he was absorbed in studying the vase they’d both seen flying across the room of its own volition. “Matilda, do not blame her. I saw the lady myself. I would just like to know what caused her to knock things about.”

By this time, Luke and the other maids had appeared in the corridor and were murmuring amongst themselves. Only Harry’s manservant stepped forward to begin righting the room, and he gave her an odd look.

Christina was quite accustomed to this reaction. She had learned at an early age to ignore the stares and go on about her business, mentioning her “sight” only to those she trusted. But she felt it imperative to learn more in this case. If this was to be her home, then she must have people about who believed in her.

“What lady, Your Grace?” the frightened maid asked.

“Well, it’s obvious you didn’t fling the vase,” she said patiently. “We stood right here and watched it cross the room all of its own accord. I’ve seen the ghost of a lady up here, and until now, she’s been quite well behaved. I thought perhaps she was distressed by some action of yours.”

The murmurs in the doorway increased. One of the maids became hysterical and had to be led away. Luke had quit any pretense of cleaning up. Harry’s manservant was of an age with Matilda, Christina guessed. In his forties, slender, dark-haired, and a bit rough about the jaw, but not unintelligent if Harry had kept him on all these years. She met his gaze boldly, staring him down until he returned to picking up the shattered vase.

By this time, Harry was poking a fireplace tong up the chimney and disturbing a cloud of dust and twigs.

“I just set the coals in the grate, mum,” the scullery maid muttered, still sniffing. “I didn’t want to bother you none whilst you was asleep. I just wanted to have this room warm when His Grace got up.”

“Excellent thinking. Thank you very much.” Distracted by Harry’s actions, Christina half watched him while trying to question the maid. “Did you see anything unusual? Did you have time to light the fire?”

“I was using the flint when that stick flew at me. And then the things on the dresser started shaking, and I kind of screamed, and…” She gestured expressively at the resulting shambles.

A cloud of black dust exploded into the room, accompanied by Harry’s violent curse. Shocked at his language, Christina pushed the maid toward the door and caught the brunt of the coal dust as it billowed across the newly cleaned room.

In the midst of screams and filth and cursing, Christina heard the distinct chirp of baby birds.

***

“Christina fixed a nest for them and has the maids feeding the things hourly. It had to be the mother bird charging about the room, protecting her young,” Harry said dismissively to Peter’s questioning as they rode toward the village after breakfast.

“Quite so. Glad to see you keep your head about you. Edward would go into a fury every time your father mentioned ghosts.”

Harry sensed his cousin’s doubting gaze and scowled. “My father was rightly disturbed by the death of my mother. I believe he hoped he could talk to her spirit or some such. Madness does
not
run in the family.”

“No, of course not, or I’m likely to be crazed as well,” Peter said cheerfully. “Although I suppose we could claim it came from the distaff side of the family.”

“My grandmother wasn’t mad either. Nor anyone else on either side.” For good measure, Harry added, “And neither is Christina or her family. They have odd habits and notions, but they’re all perfectly lucid, intelligent, well-educated people.”

“Glad to hear that. I understand the village is rife with rumors. I’m sure all will be well now that you’re here to straighten things out.”

“Someone should have told me how far out of hand things had gone.” Halting on a hill overlooking the village, Harry studied the scene. Smoke drifted from several chimneys. A number of cottages boasted tile roofs. A few still had thatch, but despite the prosperous size of the buildings, the village had an air of abandonment. Too many chimneys stood unused.

Peter followed Harry’s gaze. “I’ve been spending much of my time with friends in Brighton. We court the ladies, turn a few cards. Not much for a fellow to do here. My father tried to teach me about sheep and wheat, but I never saw much use learning, what with him and your father and Edward to look after the place. Never really noticed how bad things had become.”

Harry knew his younger cousin as personable and willing to help when asked, but Peter had never been a deep thinker. He could easily believe his cousin hadn’t noticed the deterioration in the village, and if he never visited the manor, he probably hadn’t noticed anything wrong there either. But Jack should have. Perhaps he should summon his steward home.