Shadows (12 page)

She looked at the jewel-bright green of trees and vegetation outside and hesitated.  What might be lurking out there?  “You’ve been outside?”

Rory paused, hand outstretched toward the kettle.  “You're nervous about going out there?”

Now how had he divined that?  She nodded, ready to fly at him if he dared laugh at her.  “Each morning there’s been something out there.  You saw it last time.”

Rory beckoned her close and put his finger to his lips.  Mystified, she allowed herself to be drawn against his side.  His arm clasped her shoulder, drew into a crouched position and pulled her stealthily to the doorway.  Loving both his closeness and his sense of humor, Melissa glanced up at his profile.  He glared ahead, a parody of grim determination.  She giggled.  She couldn’t help it.  “I feel like a twelve year old creeping up on someone at school.”

“Shush.”  At the doorway, Rory released her.  Finger to his lips, he inched closer and peered out.

All humor fled at his harsh intake of air.  Sheltered by the curve of his body, she looked out onto the bolly.  The dark robed figure was there.  He was alone this time, on his knees beyond the bolly with his hands in the water as he washed the dirt off a handful of carrots.

Carrots?  Melissa frowned.  That was one mundane household chore she hadn't expected from a ghost.

The monk looked up.  Instinct made Melissa dodge back.  Not daring to take her eyes off the ghost, she bumped into Rory as he pressed forward, and barely noticed the contact.

The monk was not interested in her.  He did not even glance at the bolly.

Suddenly aware of Rory’s hand, firm and warm, grasping her shoulders, Melissa straightened.  His hand fell away, leaving her strangely bereft.

The dark robed figure rose to his feet, and smiled, but not at her.  He stared out across the drive, hand lifted in salute.

She licked her lips nervously, and searched the drive.  “He’s waiting for someone.”

Rory stepped outside.

Melissa clutched the door jamb, but stayed where she was.  “Where is he?”

Rory spread his hands.  “He’s vanished.”  He turned a full circle, checking.  “You can come out now.”

Melissa rushed coffee and toast onto a tray and went outside.  The sun hit the side of the bolly and already, not yet ten o’ clock, it was hot enough to make her think briefly of suntan cream.  She slid the tray onto the table and settled in a chair.  “What did he do when you went out?”

Rory reached for a slice of toast.  “He smiled, as if he expected me.  As if I was someone he knew.  Very odd.  I’m not used to having ghosts smile at me.”

“Oh, Lord.  Last night, he reached out for me, as if he wanted to touch me.”  She shivered at the memory.

“I would have done the same if I’d been him.”  A slight grin curved his mouth.

“What do you mean?”  If he wasn't taking this seriously, she would hit him.

His gaze, full of laughter, met hers.  “You weren’t wearing a long flannel nightgown, Melissa.”

“No, I had a tee shirt on—”  She broke off, visualizing the picture she must have presented as she struggled with the window.  “It’s not funny.  And anyway, it was dark.”

But his grin widened, and it was infectious.

She struggled to maintain her dignity.  “He was naked.  No black robe in sight.”  She reached for her coffee.  “I was scared.  Terrified.  What if he’d touched me?  Can ghosts touch people?”  No ghost had ever offered to touch her before.

Serious now, Rory poured more coffee.  “Do ghosts do mundane things like wash carrots?  I have no idea.  But perhaps you’d better sleep in the bedroom from now on.”

Alarm ran through her.  Was he going to use her fear as an excuse to get her into bed?  “And you’ll take the sofa?”

He sighed.  “If you insist.”

That was a relief.  The tension that had sprung into her limbs dissipated again.  Given the circumstances, it was also a brave thing for him to do.  But then, the ghost seemed to show little interest in Rory.  She threw him a big smile.  “Thank you.  I appreciate it, I really do.”

“What can I say?  If I made you sleep out there, I’d be the worst sort of bully.  You know, I think it’s time we found out a little more about the history of this place.  How about a trip to the library today?”

~~~

Melissa walked across the old wooden floorboards of the big, airy hall and stopped by what she imagined to be the Enquiry Desk.  She couldn’t remember the French term, but the sight of a small Perspex card holder displaying the name Christophe Barrault with the words bibliothecaire de lecture publique in small print below reassured her.

“Oui, Madame.  ’ow may I ’elp you?”  He stood behind the old-fashioned oak desk of the village library and smiled without looking at her.  His attention was on the computer screen in front of him.  His pencil ticked off an item on the list beside him.

How did he know she was English?  He'd barely looked at her.  But the French, by some extra sense, always seemed to spot the English.  “Monsieur Barrault, je cherche les information.”  Melissa spoke slowly and clearly, her eyes fixed hopefully on his thin dark face.  One corner of his mouth twitched.  Amused by her poor French, no doubt.  He looked up.  Within the sunburned skin, shielded by heavy glasses, his eyes were blue and full of laughter.

A frisson of nervousness made her hesitate.  Had she been wise to come here?  Rory had chosen to wait in the car, and she regretted not having his comforting bulk at her side.  Melissa squared her shoulders.  She’d managed in life so far without Rory Hepburn standing guard at her back.  Why should this be any different?

Melissa smiled briefly, and rushed into her next question.  “Moulin Franchard.  I need to understand l’histoire de les fantômes.”

The librarian’s heavy brows shot up above the dark frame of his glasses.  “Le Fantôme?  Vraiment?  Madame has seen it?”  He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes.

Without those heavy horn rims his eyes were a startlingly blue.  A small shock of surprise jolted her.  “Oh yes, several times.”  Well, caught a glimpse, perhaps, would be more like the truth.  The monk didn’t stick around, that was certain.  In total, she’d seen him for perhaps twenty seconds.

“Describe it for me, s’il vous plait.”

The librarian’s manner verged on autocratic, but Melissa took a deep breath and marshaled her best schoolgirl French into short phrases.  “Un homme jeune, avec les cheveux noir, les yeux noir aussi.  Il porte un robe de marron, avec un…”  She mimed a girdle knotted about the waist.  “La dame—”

“Une dame aussi?”

Melissa nodded.  Was he mocking her?  As she stared at him, his eyes changed color.  They had been a deeper blue than Rory’s, but now…forgetting to breathe, she stared.  Now they were brown.  Either that, or she was hallucinating.  She blinked rapidly, looked away and glanced back.

His eyes were blue.  Must have been some odd trick of the light.

Melissa filled her lungs and shifted nervously against the old wooden counter.  This was a library, after all.  A library ought to be as familiar to her as home.  So why did her senses prickle with unease?

“Madam?”

“Oui.”  Melissa persevered grimly with her schoolgirl French.  “Une dame aussi, très jeune et très jolie.  Les cheveux de marron, et…”  She indicated hair that hung to her waist, and forgot what she had been about to say.

The librarian’s eyes were brown again.  She wasn’t mistaken.  He looked directly at her, and his eyes were most definitely brown.  She gripped the rim of the desk, real and solid under her fingers and stared at him while her skin prickled and shivered.

He regarded her, tilted his head and then put both hands on his desk and leaned forward.  “Les fantômes.  Madame, they are long dead.”

The overhead light flashed on the vivid blue of his eyes.  Oh, God, was she going mad?  She inhaled, held the breath and tensed her muscles, ready to bolt should he metamorphose into something nasty.

“Je voudrais very much to visit with you and peut-être see these fantômes.”

“Oh.”  Melissa gaped at him.  She had not expected quite this much interest, and didn’t know what to say.  How would Rory take to having the librarian visit, especially if she told him the man’s eyes changed color?  No doubt he would claim it was her fevered imagination.  He was far too sensible sometimes.  On the other hand, sensible could be good and every now and then he was wonderful.  At least he was not the type who mocked and ridiculed the possibility of ghosts.  Rory’s clear thinking was huge advantage in this situation.  He wanted to know about their resident ghosts as much as she did.  But did he like socializing?  If she had to guess, she’d say he liked people around him.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Melissa posed her question.  “Les fantômes, est-ils dangereux?”

“Non.”  M. Barrault’s short black curls shook with the vehemence of his reply.  “Not dangerous, but perhaps frighting for you, non?”

Melissa choked on a giggle.  No doubt her French sounded just as funny to him.  A moment ago she'd been ready to run from the library, yet now she was laughing.  Life was nothing if not strange.  “A little disconcerting, perhaps.”  When he frowned at the word, she added an explanation in French.  “Oh, pardon, monsieur, desoriente, un peu.”

He held up one finger, like a schoolmaster with a naughty child, and checked his computer screen once more.  “I will bring l’histoire de la village à vôtre maison ce soir.  The story of Pierre et Justine is there.  Quelle heure shall I arrive?”

Melissa hesitated as the names sank home.  “Pierre and Justine?  Oh, er, perhaps eight o’clock.  A huit heure?  Come for supper, um…le repas.”  What else could she say?

She had been understood, at least.  Pleased with her attempts at French conversation, Melissa hurried back down the curving lane between the stone houses and across the car park to where the bright yellow Honda looked smart under the shade of the solitary tree.  She climbed in, burnt her arm on hot metal and disregarded it as she grinned at Rory.  “The librarian is très interessant in our fantômes.  He is coming to supper tonight with a book that tells all about Pierre and Justine.”

Rory regarded her quizzically.  “Pierre and Justine?  They existed, then?  How far back?”

Melissa shrugged.  “I didn’t ask.  What shall we feed him?  You could barbecue the steaks.  I’ll do the salad, and we’ll need some fresh bread.”  She would keep to herself the fact that the librarian’s eyes changed color between one sentence and the next.  Probably nothing more than a trick of the light, after all.

Either that, or she must have imagined it.

~~~

Melissa brushed her hair until it bounced around her head, and applied a touch of colored lip gloss in a shade that complimented her navy and pink skirt.  By the time she walked out onto the bolly, a little red Citroen CV nosed into the open space behind the mill.

M. Barrault bounded up the slope a few moments later, introduced himself as Christophe and handed Rory a bottle of red wine.  “The mill, it is a pretty place.  And very old.  Ah, Madame.”  He bowed in that seductive way of Frenchmen, and Melissa couldn’t prevent a smile.

In the dimness of the library, concentrating on her French, Melissa had seen Christophe as a slightly built Frenchman with a head of short dark curls tumbling over heavy horn rim glasses.  Tonight, minus the glasses and dressed entirely in white, from belted white slacks to a crisp white shirt, he looked effortlessly, appealingly chic.

Very French, in fact.

Rory offered to show him round the mill and the two men disappeared down the steps at the side of the house.  Melissa followed them to the lower terrace, where le repas was ready and the barbecue glowed at the side of the paved area.  She dropped into one of the big rush chairs and sipped a kir royale from a cold, condensation-covered flute.

There was nothing else for her to do but enjoy the mellow, golden sunshine and the scent of lavender while the two men walked the full circuit of the mill.  The deep tone of their conversation carried back to her on the windless air until they vanished around the far side of the mill.

The sparkling dry kir burst on her tongue.  A turquoise-winged dragonfly settled on a flower spike for her delight.  She got up once to turn the meat on the barbecue, and turned at the sound of approaching footsteps.  Rory was alone.  A twist of pleasure rushed through her at the sight of him, surprising her, but she didn't try to hide it.  “Where’s Christophe?”