Captive Bride (7 page)

Tip couldn’t help chuckling. “Not remotely.” 

“Why do you seek to conceal your desire for her?” The ghost returned to his former theme. “Why have you not taken her to wed?”

“Who?”

“Ach!
You are a fool.” The voice rang with contempt.

“And you are a villain, or so I am told.”

“Insult me in my home again, lad, and I will show you my displeasure.”

“I daresay. But how, I wonder.” Tip moved toward the tapestry. Chill air cut across the chamber despite the thick fire in the hearth nearby. “Do you throw objects, or are your methods more subtle?
A loose board in the floor of a high battlement?
A rusted nail in my wardrobe?
I understand that ghosts get up to those sorts of tricks. Are you one of them?”

The voice grumbled wordlessly. Tip lifted a brow, straining to catch the direction from which the sound came, but he could not discern it.

“Ah, so you have no true corporeal powers, then,” he said. “I understand that is the way of most specters.
Even ill-tempered ones.”
He made a slow perusal of the chamber again,
then
looked to the tapestry, leisurely studying the hunting scene picked out in vibrant blues, reds, greens, and
golds
. A pack of dogs were bringing a young stag to the ground, leaping onto its long back, biting its flesh, drawing blood. The hunters, upon decorated steeds with bows at the ready and arrows
nocked
, closed in. “You know,” he said, “I am not at all certain you have the right to call me lad. Your voice sounds too young. How old are you?”

“Five and thirty years I lived as a human. Since then centuries have passed, and now I am nearly as old as these mountains.” He sounded weary. Given the circumstances, Tip didn’t much sympathize.

“I doubt that. In which century were you born?” The more questions he asked, the more likely the fellow would slip up.

“I fought for King Harry when the blood of French princes and mercenary scum mingled upon the soaked fields of Agincourt.”

“Ah, that long ago,” Tip murmured. He would unmask this humbug soon enough.

“The girl is beautiful.” The voice dipped deep.

Tip paused before responding. “You speak of your intended, I suspect.”

“No.”

Tip’s spine stiffened. This went too far.

“My lord,” he said firmly, “
afford
me the pleasure, if you will, of refraining from commentary on Miss
Sinclaire
. She is not your business.”

“She is a maiden.”

“
Which should not merit your interest.
Haven’t you already chosen your bride,
or
am I mistaken?”

Silence greeted him.

“The curse stipulates a Welsh bride,” the voice finally said,
hollower
than before.

Tip shrugged. “Well there you have it. Lady Bronwyn it must
be,
or none.”

“The
Sinclaire
woman’s veins run with Welsh blood. A drop only is needed to fulfill the curse.”

Tip stilled. “How would you know of her ancestry?” Perhaps he had associates outside the castle gathering information. Thomas had been here for longer than a fortnight, more than enough time for clever thieves to run down the letter he had sent to Bea or even to investigate him. The bamboozler would be a fool to make an assertion that would be easily denied by the lady herself, after all.

“I do not know it,” the ghost said. “I sense it.”

“Ah.” The ruffian would suffer for this. Whoever he was, and his confederates, Tip would make them pay.

“But the black-haired girl came here first, so she it must be,” the voice continued with peculiar heaviness. “Soon she will be my bride, whether she wishes it or not.”

“You know,” Tip strolled toward the center of the chamber, “in this century we do not force women to the altar.”

“Neither did
we
in my era. But this time there will be no altar, nor priest.
Only a marriage bed, then death.
Blessed, peaceful death.”

Tip’s blood ran cold. Lady Bronwyn seemed a flighty, careless girl, but she didn’t deserve
this cruel fraud.

“Oh good, my lord, I hoped to speak with you before—” Bea’s voice slid to a halt behind him.

Tip turned to the doorway, masking his emotions before her as always. But the back of his neck prickled. Her lovely, wide gaze was fixed on the lower portion of the hunt tapestry. She curtsied toward the tapestry and turned to Tip.

“Lord
Cheriot
, will you be
so
kind as to introduce me?”

CHAPTER
FOUR

“As you see, Bea, I am alone, except for your lovely self, of course.”

“Given the circumstances, my lord, this is not really the best time to tease.” Bea moved forward, glancing again at the gentleman by the wall. In the flickering firelight and candles he seemed all dark angles. He was tall, nearly of a height with Tip although thicker-bodied, and dramatically dark, from the slash of black hair crossing his brow and shadow of a beard upon his jaw to his ebony eyes. All about him hung an air of cold gloom. And there was something strange about him, something oddly insubstantial. In comparison, Tip’s masculine vibrancy and warmth was like a breath of life.
Then again, being with him always made Bea feel alive.

“Please,” she said quietly to him. “Introduce me.”

His eyes took on a guarded look. “I assure you, I would do so if there were another person present in the chamber with us.”

“He cannot see me. Only maidens can see me.” The gentleman’s voice sounded across the broad chamber, both deep and thin at once, like a hard winter wind, present one instant with powerful force,
vanished
the next
.

A shiver slithered up Bea’s spine. Her gaze slid to Tip’s. His emerald eyes seemed bright.

“Of course he can see you,” she said to the gentleman. “You are standing less than four yards away. Who are you, sir?”

“
Iversly
.”
He bowed.
“Enchanted, my lady.”

Bea blinked in surprise. She had imagined Lord
Iversly
an invention of Lady Bronwyn’s imagination, created to bring Thomas to heel. It was frankly something of a relief to see that he was a real man, although not at all the sort of fellow with whom she wanted her brother to compete. He had a harsh, muscular look about him, and was at least a decade older than Thomas.

“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord. I am only Miss
Sinclaire
, however.”

“But you are of royal stock,” he replied. “One of your English forebears bedded a Welsh princess and begat a child upon her.”

“Why, that is perfectly correct.” She nodded. “It happened a very long time ago, and of course it was not quite that unseemly. They were married. But how do you come to know about that?”

Tip had gone entirely immobile beside her, his lips a white line. Bea’s stomach did a somersault.

Lord
Iversly
replied, “I can smell it on you.” The fire in the grate seemed to recede, the very mists outside invading the chamber as though attracted by his words.

Tip’s brow lowered. “Beg the lady’s pardon for that.”

“Why must I beg her pardon for speaking the truth? My senses are uncommonly acute—those I have remaining, of course.”

“Those you have remaining?” Bea asked Lord
Iversly
, but she couldn’t take her eyes off Tip. He seemed to be avoiding looking directly at their host. That was not at all like him.

“Smell, sight, hearing,” Lord
Iversly
replied. “Alas, I forfeited taste and touch when I perished, or this immortality would be a great deal more interesting, no doubt.” He pushed away from the wall and moved with careful steps to a candelabrum. Lifting his hand, he passed it slowly through a flame, holding his palm in the fire for a long interval then presenting it for her inspection. “You see?”

His skin was unmarked.

Bea’s breath petered out. She turned to Tip. His face was taut, his cheeks pale as he stared unfocused across the chamber.

“Can you see him, Bea?” he said.

“Yes, of course,” she said, somewhat shaken by his intensity and Lord
Iversly’s
trick.

Tip took a quick, hard breath and turned to her. “I cannot.”

“Because you are not a maiden.”
Iversly’s
voice
mocked,
the sound hollow and seeming to come from everywhere now.

Bea stepped back.

“Oh, no,” Lady Bronwyn’s voice wavered at the door, “he is here.”

“Drawn by beauty, as always, my lady,” Lord
Iversly
replied, a wicked glint in his black eyes.

“How charming,” Aunt Julia said.
“A ghost who knows the value of flattery.”

Bea turned to the door. Her great-aunts entered, but Lady Bronwyn hesitated, Thomas hovering behind.

“Aunt Julia,” Bea said, pushing back her shoulders, “Lord
Iversly
is not a ghost, after all, as you can see.”

“I cannot see anything of the kind,” Lady
Marstowe
said sharply. “Lord
Iversly
, show
yourself
this instant and cease this foolish charade.”

Iversly’s
face grew, if possible, more shadowed. Bea’s heart
raced,
her hands abruptly clammy.

“I shall take my leave of you at this time,” he intoned, “but I shall return.” He moved across the chamber toward the door. Lady Bronwyn leapt out of the way, Thomas flattened his back to the wall, and Lord
Iversly
passed them by and was gone.

“There, you see,” Bea said bracingly. “Ghosts do not use doors.”

“He does occasionally,” Bronwyn said, trembling noticeably.
“At least to leave.
Usually he arrives any which way and at the most unexpected moments.” She clutched her shawl and Thomas hurried to assist her.

“Do you see now?” he said. “He is real. The curse is real and we must find a way to save Lady Bronwyn.”

“This is preposterous.” Lady
Marstowe
sniffed.

“Or wonderfully sentimental.”
Aunt Julia furrowed her brow and nodded. Her cap was tied atop her unruly gray locks at a slant and bobbed to one side like a blancmange on a tilted plate. The ridiculous image was so much easier to contemplate than the conclusion Bea’s thoughts currently rushed toward.

“I beg your pardon to disagree, Aunt Julia,” Thomas retorted, “but there is nothing whatsoever sentimental about
Iversly
. He is
a monster
intent upon ruining this poor lady’s life.”

“Thomas, you are a besotted fool,” the dowager said sharply. “A man who does not exist cannot ruin anyone’s life.”

Lady Bronwyn’s cheeks went from white to red.

Thomas stuttered, “You heard him, Aunt Grace. He stood right in this chamber and spoke to us.”

“A magician’s trick.”
She snapped her fingers.

“A very good one, I should say,” Aunt Julia nodded again.

“Julia, do not encourage this foolishness.”

“But he was here, I tell you,” Thomas insisted.

“He was, Lady
Marstowe
.” Lady Bronwyn’s voice was thin. “Oh, why won’t you believe me? I saw him!”

“So did
I
.” Bea’s words brought all eyes to her.

While the others spoke, a tingling energy had crept into her belly, radiating out into her limbs, drying her damp palms and stilling her shaking.
More quickly than she would have thought possible, bewilderment and fear had transformed into excitement.
It sizzled in her blood.

She had seen a ghost
. She had
spoken
with him. She still could not quite believe it, but it was by far the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her.
Except for meeting Peter
Cheriot
.

She took a deep breath and met Lady Bronwyn’s gaze. “I saw him too. Could you describe to me his appearance?”

“
I
believe you,” Thomas mumbled to the girl, but Bronwyn was already crossing the room to grasp Bea’s hands.

“He is odious,” she said, squeezing Bea’s fingers.

“But exactly how?”

“He has black hair and horrible black eyes and smirks at me, just as he did there.” Her gentian eyes clouded. “He wears a black tunic, shirt, and stockings.”