Shadows (32 page)

“That would be good.  They won’t be able to resist grandchildren, will they?  That’s if we produce any, of course.  I know it would be awfully romantic, but this floor is very hard.  Do you think I could persuade you to take me to bed instead?”

“And waste this beautiful fire I struggled so hard to light?”

~~~

Melissa turned her head and surveyed the four foot wide stone hearth.  The flames were shooting high, and threw off considerable heat, but she would have to move soon or else singe down one side.  She decided to turn a negative into a positive, got up and strolled nonchalantly across to the flower-patterned sofa.  “Well, if I can’t tempt you…”

She flopped down onto the big squashy cushions without spilling a single drop of wine, and looked back.  Only his head had moved as he followed her progress, and his startled expression delighted her.  She had taken him by surprise.

He recovered quickly, uncoiling from the chair and standing there, a big-boned silhouette between her and the hearth.  Firelight rimmed his broad shoulders, neat waist and long legs and a thrill shot through her as he covered the space between them in two long strides.  He twitched the glass from her hand, put it on the floor, lay down and gathered her against him.  “I think we should stay near the fire tonight.”

Melissa adjusted to the warmth of his long body, lifted her arms and entwined them around his neck.  “What would you do if that wretched monk walked through the door right this minute?”

“Ignore him.”  Her blood fizzed and popped as Rory nuzzled her from mouth to earlobe and back again.  Then he propped himself on one elbow, and looked down into her wide innocent eyes.  “Why did you ask?”

“He could walk in.  He might decide he doesn’t want to get wetter than he already is and come indoors.”

Rory grunted.  “If I’d just let someone drown and done nothing to help, I don’t think I’d stick around.  No, he’ll head back to the monastery as fast as he can, believe me.”

“The thing is he wouldn’t knock at the door, would he?  He’d just walk through the wall, or materialize or whatever it is ghosts do.  I daren’t look in the corner over there—”  She jerked her head toward the shadows beneath the window.  “You know, that’s where I saw Pierre one night.  Have a look, Rory.  Just to reassure me that we are alone.  Please?”

Rory dropped a kiss on her nose, nibbled it for a moment and groped for the back of the sofa with one hand.  The wooden frame creaked warningly as he pulled himself high enough to peer over the back of it.  The muscles in his arms bunched and stretched, he inhaled sharply and the muscles of his stomach tightened.

Alarm rippled through Melissa.  “What…what can you see?  Is he there?  Oh God.  Is he there?”  She struggled to sit up, her wits scattering at the thought of that travesty of an Abbot in the same room.  She got to her knees, grabbed for the top of the sofa back, and gingerly peered over it.

She scanned the shadows thoroughly.  Shifting patterns of firelight flickered on the white wall.  Inhaling a long, shuddering breath, she shot a sideways glance at Rory.  “There’s nothing there.”

“No.”  His mouth thinned, as if he tried not to laugh.

Fright became irritation and escalated into fury.  “You deliberately let me think—you wanted me to think he was here, didn't you?”  She pummeled her fists against his chest.  “What’s wrong with you?  I nearly had a heart attack.  Stop laughing.”

Rory, still laughing, fell back against the sofa.  “Oh, Melissa.  Your face when you peered over the sofa—”

With a wordless shriek she swung a fist at his chin.  Rory caught her wrist, held it while she struggled, and finally hugged her tight against his chest.  “At last.  You’re starting to get mad at me.”

“What do you mean?”  The leaping glow of firelight flickered across his face, making his expression difficult to discern.

“I wondered how long it would be before you felt confident enough to shout at me.  I knew you had it in you.”

“Too right,” she snapped.  “Imbeciles always bring out the worst in me.”

“It was just a little teasing.”

“Teasing?”  Her voice shot up an octave at his reply.  “Teasing?  Have you any idea how much you scared me?  You’ve probably taken five years off my life.”

He lifted her hands, still clasped within his and placed a kiss on her thumbs.  She jerked free, unwilling to give in, and folded her arms across her chest.

“I’m sorry.”  He spoke softly in the husky voice that always melted her insides.  “I’m truly sorry.  I should have known better.  Have some wine.”

For a moment she was tempted to take a swipe at the glass and send it flying across the room.  Then she caught a glimpse of his penitent expression.  “Oh, all right.”

She took a quick gulp of wine, and then another.  One side of him was in shadow, but firelight lit the other and showed the high cheekbone and the shadow of stubble on his jaw.  It also showed his slow smile of relief.

“I’m sorry.  But in a way I’m truly glad.  If you can get so angry with me that you’ll try and strike me, then I think it means that the shy young lady I met at Jonny’s flat has vanished.  She would never have hit me.  She got flustered if I kissed her.  I had her labeled as the last word in demure.”

Huge-eyed, Melissa stared at him.  “Anyone would get flustered with you, and what’s wrong with demure?”  She may have given in, but wasn't ready to concede defeat yet.  “Why did you put up with me?”

He retrieved his own glass from beside the fireside chair.  “I had to.  There wasn’t a choice.”

“What do you mean?  Of course there was.  There’s always a choice.”

“Not if I wanted you, and I did, very much.  And Jonny assured me that you weren’t usually so—”

“You talked to Jonny about me?”  Her voice went up the scale again and she stared at him in disbelief.

“No.  To be absolutely correct, Jonny talked to me.  He talked endlessly, and all I had to do was listen.  He thinks the world of you, and defended you at every turn.  I was moving too fast for you, I had far more experience than you, I pushed you too far and too fast, I should back off and give you some space.  All that sort of rubbish.”

“That was sweet of him.”  She should have trusted Jonny more that first morning when he telephoned to see how things had gone.  He would have told her all about Rory if only she'd asked.  “He was right, too.  You were way too fast for me.”

“Sorry.”

“Will you stop saying sorry?  I’m amazed you put up with me.”

He grinned.  “You were different.  Delightful.”

“Not your average society girl,” she said dryly.  No one could accuse her of being stunningly dressed or the darling of the nightclub scene.

“Thank God.”

“Are you sure?”  The little niggle of doubt wouldn't go away.

“You are wonderful.  You have no idea how good it felt to meet someone who wasn’t simply a clone of every svelte, sophisticated fashion model around town.”  He hitched along the sofa toward her.  “You were yourself.  Totally and beautifully, and I loved you for it.”

“You did?”  Gazing up at him, she didn't care that she stared up with stars of happiness in her eyes.  He was so close he might kiss her in the next few moments, and she wanted that very much indeed.

“I did, and I still do.”

“But I’m not so gauche now.  I’m a different person.”

He shook his head.  “I never said you were gauche, and you're not.  You have honesty and innocence, which appeal far more to me.  This week I've learned to know the intelligence and the hardihood, too.  You have no idea how Tara would have behaved if she’d been here and Pierre had started putting in an appearance.  She’d have had her bags packed and kept her hand on the horn of the Honda until I drove her home.”

“Really?  Wouldn’t she have been curious?”

Rory shook his head.  “Not at all.  She’d have been terrified.”

She drained the last of her wine, and eyed him over the rim of her glass.  Honesty and innocence.  How could he think of her that way when she kept all her secrets hidden from him?  Had he forgotten?  “Is there any more wine?”

“You’re turning into an alcoholic, girl.  Here, have mine.”

“I need it.  You seem to have forgotten I’m illegitimate.  I’ve never met my father and he doesn’t know I exist.”

Rory grinned.  “That’s no excuse for alcoholism.”

She stiffened.  “That's a flippant answer.”  At least he wasn't upset.  She tilted her head and studied him.  “You truly don't mind?”

“I’m sorry if it hurts you, but I don’t mind.”

Perhaps this would be all right after all.  “I did tell you before, but I…”

“You wanted to be sure I hadn't changed my mind about you.  I understand.  Well, rest assured I haven't.”  His hand rested on the back of her neck and slowly drew her close.

Melissa slid down the arm of the sofa, wound her arms about the back of his head, melded her mouth to his, and let the flames lick and curl in her belly.

Melissa walked out onto the bolly wearing only a towel.  The early morning air filled her lungs with green scents.

“The air’s crisper.”  She glanced back over her shoulder.  “It’s not as muggy as it was yesterday.  And I think we are alone.  That in itself is amazing.”  She did a twirl in the sunshine.  The grass was damp, the leaves fresh and bright, as if someone had polished them overnight.  “What’s truly odd is that all that water has just vanished.  Rory, would you believe it?  There’s no sign of the storm.”

He emerged from the mill, wearing only a towel fixed at his hips, and poured coffee.  “It all soaks away into the ground.  It’s so dry it just vanishes.”  He sat and looked around the dry tiles and the sun beaming down at the east end of the mill.  “Hard to believe what we saw last night.”

Melissa burnt her lips on the hot coffee, abandoned it and picked up her toast.  “Do you mean the real storm, or what we saw of 1735?”

“I was thinking of the real storm.”

“1735 was even stranger.”

“Well, at least we know what happened now.  That’s if we believe what we saw.”

Melissa frowned.  She had no doubts she'd seen the true story of Pierre and Justine.  “I don’t know why it wouldn’t be true.  What would be the point if it wasn’t?”

Rory shrugged.  “That’s human beings for you.  We expect logic, but what if ghosts don’t?  We might just be getting random episodes of someone’s life.  Or we’re both mad, and hallucinating in tandem.”

“Rory, stop trying to be funny.  Random episode or not, it gave us an idea of what happened, and why Pierre was upset.  Upset enough to…to…”

“That’s what worries me.  To do what, exactly?”

“Well, to show people what really happened.  Village gossip says he killed that girl, but he didn’t.  He loved her, and he was murdered by Monsieur l'Abbe and the girl ran away.  She wasn’t killed at all.”

“It wasn’t only village gossip.”  Rory jerked his chair around to face the sun, leaned back and closed his eyes.  “Christophe’s books said the same thing, though I had a thought about that.  Do you know when it was first written that Pierre and the girl died?  I would put money on the fact that Monsieur l’Abbé dictated exactly what was written, to cover up his own tracks.  Later sources would simply copy the original.”

“Of course.”  Melissa registered surprise, agreement and resignation in quick succession.  “He would, wouldn’t he?  So Pierre wanted the truth known.”  Her brow wrinkled.  “It still doesn’t say why us, though.  Why are we the special recipients of his messages?”

“Propinquity, perhaps?"

“Propin…I never could say that word properly, but I know it means to be close to something.  It can’t just be that, surely?”

Rory stared eastwards over the bolly rail and Melissa followed his gaze.  The early morning haze hung over the fields and trees and wooded hills in the fashion of an impressionist painting.  “I looked it up once.”  Rory cradled his coffee cup in both hands.  “It means more than you might think.  Nearness in space, yes, but it also means close kinship, and closeness in the sense of similarity.”  He turned his head to look directly at her.  “Perhaps I noticed something you didn’t.  You couldn’t, I suppose.  You and Justine look very alike.”

A pang fired through Melissa's stomach and vanished.  Could she be related to Justine?  It seemed most unlikely.  Yet hadn't Christophe mentioned the same thing?  As far as she knew, there was no French blood in the family.  Yet the idea pleased her, loosed a warm feeling in her gut.  Already she believed it.  “I look like her?  But she was far curvier than me and she had brown eyes.  She had long hair, and—”