The Kingdom (9 page)

I felt Thane’s hand on my elbow then, and he gave it a little squeeze as he propelled me forward.

“Amelia, I’d like you to meet my uncle, Hugh Asher.”

I’d been aware of the man lurking in the background during the introductions, but I hadn’t gotten a proper look at him until now. I tried not to stare, but it wasn’t easy. He had the smooth, sophisticated looks of an old-timey movie star. Dark hair, dark eyes—a middle-aged Adonis with an easy smile and a restless virility that made me instantly wary.

“Welcome to Asher House,” he said graciously, and I almost expected him to lift my hand to his lips. I was grateful that he didn’t.

“Thank you for having me.” His features were so unnervingly perfect I felt compelled to search for a flaw as we shook hands. I found one in the softness of his jawline, another in the infinitesimal puffiness beneath his eyes that suggested a propensity for drink.

“My wife, Maris,” he said, moving aside to include the tiny woman who hovered behind him. The first thing I noticed was how much younger she was than her husband, closer to Thane’s age than Hugh’s. The second thing that caught my attention was the way she anchored herself to his side, her gaze flitting birdlike from me to the other women as if she felt threatened from all sides.

“Would you excuse us?” Thane asked, taking my arm again. “Amelia hasn’t met Grandfather yet.”

“Good luck with that,” Hugh Asher muttered as he lifted his drink.

“What did he mean by that?” I asked as we walked away.

“Don’t mind him,” Thane said with a shrug. “He and my grandfather have a difficult relationship. Come to think of it, I guess we all do—”

He broke off, his gaze going past my shoulder a split second before I felt a strange tingle at the base of my spine. I turned instinctively to the open French doors. Something had drifted in on the breeze. A whisper of that same evil… .

Twelve

I
saw nothing at first as I searched the outside shadows. Then a slight movement drew my gaze downward, and I could just make out the silhouette of a wheelchair. I wondered how long he’d been sitting out there in the gloom. Had he been watching us this whole time?

He glided in, the wheels making the faintest swish on the hardwood floor. Even seated, he looked tall and regal, immaculately attired in a dark suit that set off his silver hair. His face was thin and deeply lined, his eyes as black as soot. I could detect a faint resemblance to his son, but unlike Hugh, this man was far more imposing than handsome. And despite his age, there was no softness in the jawline, no weakness of any kind other than the withered legs half-hidden by a cashmere throw.

“Grandfather, I’d like you to meet Amelia Gray,” Thane said.

I went forward to greet him. “How do you do, Mr. Asher?”

He had been clutching a leather-bound book, and as he laid it aside, I caught a glimpse of gold tooling on the cover, an emblem that triggered some distant, elusive memory. Then it was gone as he took my hand in his, and that strange quiver traversed slowly from the base of my spine all the way up to the back of my neck. It was all I could do not to pull my hand from his.

“Leave us,” he commanded.

“I beg your pardon?”

“He means me,” Thane said.

“Oh…”

“How about that drink?” he asked cheerfully, unruffled by his grandfather’s bluntness. “What would you like?”

“Some white wine?”

He glanced down. “Grandfather?”

The older man answered with an imperious wave, and Thane sauntered off. I was then summoned to a seat next to the wheelchair, and I perched on the edge, as uneasy as a rabbit caught in a snare.

“So you’re the restorer I’ve been hearing so much about,” he said. “The one who’s come to save our little cemetery.”

I glanced at him sharply, searching for evidence of animosity or sarcasm, but I found nothing in those black eyes but a mild curiosity. “I don’t know about that. I’m just here to do what I’ve been hired to do.”

“Have you seen the cemetery yet?” His voice, more than the wheelchair, gave away his frailty. It had a brittle quality that couldn’t be masked with a throw.

“As a matter of fact, I spent the day there photographing headstones.”

“And what did you think of it?”

It was the same question Thane had asked earlier, and like then, I had a feeling Thorngate was merely a blind. The man was after something else. But then I wondered if my uneasiness—more than his words—had created the suspicion. “I was just telling Thane earlier how much I admire the statuary. The faces are so expressive. They remind me of some of the statues I saw in a Paris cemetery once.”

“Père Lachaise?”

“Yes,” I said. “Have you been there?”

He nodded. “You have a good eye, my dear. Many of the statues in our cemetery were sculpted by European artists. They’re priceless.”

“Then it’s lucky there’s been no vandalism,” I said. “You can’t imagine the kind of damage that can be done with a can of spray paint.”

“No one would dare.”

The comment was so offhand I almost missed the supreme arrogance, but it was there in the haughty glitter of those obsidian eyes, in the thin, mirthless smile that sent another shiver up my spine. I hadn’t come here expecting to like Pell Asher. His greed had destroyed a cemetery, and in my eyes, that was an unforgiveable sin. But despite his past deeds, despite the pomposity, I was strangely intrigued by the man. I’d fallen victim to his mystique even as his very nature repelled me.

“Tell me more about your travels,” he said smoothly. “As you can imagine, I don’t get out much these days. I tend to live vicariously. You mentioned Paris. Do you travel abroad often?”

“Whenever I can. But Paris was some time ago. A high school graduation gift from my aunt.”

“A very generous one, I’d say.” His smile was now warm and inviting, almost eager. I couldn’t help responding.

“Too generous, according to my father,” I found myself telling him.

One dark brow rose in sympathy. “He didn’t want you to go?”

“He’s always been…protective.” And I would say no more on the subject. My relationship with Papa was a private matter, but that brief conversation had stirred a hornet’s nest of memories. He’d been so dead set against that trip. I’d rarely seen him so angry. Looking back, I understood why. The notion of my straying so far from the hallowed ground of Rosehill Cemetery must have terrified him. He’d always kept such a watchful eye. But Mama and Aunt Lynrose had been relentless. They’d had their own worries about me. They didn’t know about the ghosts and so couldn’t understand why a girl of my age was all too content to sequester herself in an old graveyard with only her books for company. It was high time I had an adventure, they’d said. A bit of culture. So off to Paris I’d gone. And while my aunt toured the Louvre and Notre Dame, I’d slipped off by myself to wander the pathways of Père Lachaise where the likes of Chopin and Jim Morrison and Édith Piaf had been laid to rest. I’d had a wonderful time despite the ghosts—Paris had been full of them—and when we returned, the chasm between Papa and me had grown even wider. To this day, I didn’t understand that distance. I still didn’t know why that first sighting of a ghost had changed our relationship forever.

The old hurt flitted away as Thane placed a glass of wine in my hand. I looked up with a smile. “Thank you.”

His gaze on me was attentive. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, fine.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“You need to see about Maris,” his grandfather said darkly. “She’s started to drink, and you know she can’t hold her liquor. Go head her off before she makes a fool of herself.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Thane murmured.

I took a sip of the wine—a dry, crisp Riesling—and savored the acidity on my tongue as I watched Thane over the rim. He’d gone straight over to Maris and bent to say something in her ear. She looked up with a grateful smile and nodded, her hand fluttering to his sleeve. I was reminded of the way Angus had nuzzled against Thane earlier. It seemed he had a way with strays, and I wondered if he regarded me as such.

Hugh had drifted out to the veranda with Luna. I could see the two of them out there talking through the open doorway. There was nothing inappropriate about the way he stared down at her. Nothing particularly intimate about her answering smile. But it hit me like a thunderbolt that Hugh Asher was the man who had been with her in the library. I thought now of the laughter and whispers, those animalistic sounds of pleasure. His voice was nothing like Thane’s, but they had a similar accent, a certain inflection in the long vowels that had caused me to jump to the wrong conclusion.

My gaze shot back to Maris. Did she suspect? Maybe that was why she’d clung to Hugh so proprietarily during my introduction. But allowing her husband’s mistress into the house? I couldn’t imagine a more cutting humiliation. However, it wasn’t my place to judge her marriage or her forbearance. I couldn’t help feeling sympathy for her, though, and a deepening appreciation for Thane, who had managed to coax a smile and some semblance of animation from her.

Pell Asher said something at my side, and I turned with an apologetic murmur. “Sorry. I was just admiring this room. The whole house is incredible. A far cry from my modest place.”

He adjusted the throw over his legs. “Thane tells me you’re from Charleston.”

“I live there now, but I grew up in Trinity. It’s a small town just north—”

“I know where Trinity is,” he said. “A very good friend of mine lived there for years. After she died, I used to drive down every so often to visit her grave.”

“Where was she buried?” I inquired politely.

“Rosehill Cemetery. Do you know it?”

My brows shot up. “My father was the caretaker at Rosehill for many years. I grew up in that white house near the gate.”

He gave me another of those strange smiles. “I remember that cemetery very well. It was always so beautifully maintained. I used to marvel at the grueling hours it must have taken to keep all those graves so pristine.”

“And that was only one of several cemeteries he cared for,” I said proudly. “But Rosehill was by far the largest.”

“I recall seeing him during some of my visits,” Pell Asher reminisced. “Tall, stoop-shouldered, hair as white as cotton. We spoke on occasion. A very dignified man.”

“Yes, that’s Papa,” I said with a pang of loneliness.

“He sometimes had a little girl with him. A solemn, golden-haired child who seemed quite at home among the dead.”

What an odd way of putting it, I thought. And how unnerving to catch a glimpse of my childhood self through the eyes of this stranger. The whole conversation edged toward the surreal…to think of such a happenstance meeting with Pell Asher all those years ago.

“Are your parents still living?” he asked softly.

“Yes. My father’s retired, but he still helps out in the cemetery from time to time.”

“It must be a comfort to them to have you nearby. Charleston is what…an hour’s drive from Trinity?”

“If that. But I don’t get back home as often as I’d like. Even when I’m working in Charleston, the hours are long.”

“You should make the time. Without the touchstone of family, one leads an imbalanced life.”

“I suppose that’s true.”

“Of course, it’s true,” he said. “The strongest ties are blood and land. They are constant. Romantic love is all too fleeting.”

I didn’t necessarily agree, possibly because I had no blood ties, and the only land I’d ever been attached to was hallowed ground. But I knew about love. The bond I’d felt with Devlin had been so swift and irrevocable that even now, months apart, I couldn’t stop thinking about him. Couldn’t stop wanting him. It was a constant ache.

I glanced at Pell Asher. His gaze was hard upon me, and I felt that odd little shiver again.

“Blood and land,” he repeated. “That’s why we treasured our cemetery. Alive or dead, Ashers are compelled to return home.”

The cemetery—I noticed he refused to call it Thorngate—had been so valued, in fact, that he’d given it away as atonement for his sins. I had no idea if the family was still involved with the upkeep, but it occurred to me that Pell Asher could very likely be the secret benefactor. Who else in town would be so inclined to make such a large donation to the Daughters of our Valiant Heroes for the purpose of a restoration? And who else would find discretion necessary in order to avoid poking any lingering resentment?

“It’s a lovely resting spot,” I murmured, for lack of anything better to add.

“Have you been inside the mausoleum?”

“I took a peek. I didn’t go down into the tomb, though. I’ve found it best not to explore underground chambers alone. One never knows about the stability.” Among other dangers.