He sighed deeply and turned back down the hall. The steps to the third floor had never seemed so steep or so many before. He dragged his feet all the way down the hall to Lord Seakirk’s study, then stopped and knocked smartly.
“Come in and be quick about it,” Kendrick bellowed.
Worthington sighed and cast a pleading look heavenward before he entered the room. Kendrick was pacing back and forth, his hands clasped behind his back.
“Well?” he demanded impatiently. “Which chamber did she choose, old man? Hopefully the blue one. I’ve always wanted to scare a woman witless in a blue chamber.”
“Nay, my lord, she did not choose the blue room.”
Kendrick folded his arms over his chest and smiled grimly. “Tell me then that she chose the yellow bauble room. Lady Emily worked so hard on that room before her untimely demise.”
Worthington couldn’t help his sigh. “My lord Kendrick, I think perhaps you should reconsider.”
Kendrick frowned in displeasure. “Ridding myself of this final Buchanan is my only hope, as well you know.”
“She’s not like the others.”
“She’s a Buchanan. Nothing more needs to be said.”
“She has spirit.”
“And she no doubt looks just like Matilda.”
Worthington shook his head. “She doesn’t. She has dark hair and the most beautiful pair of hazel eyes I have ever seen. She’s certainly not a woman you’d want to kill, not that you’ve ever been able to do it in the past.”
Kendrick’s scowl darkened considerably. “I see she’s already begun to work her magic on you.” He strode to the window and looked out. “All the Buchanan women were bitches, beginning with that first bitch I almost wed. It may well be that murder won’t be necessary, but I will have what I want from her.” He turned around and pinned Worthington with a chilly glance. “Now, tell me which out of the five chambers she selected. I’ve no more head for riddles today.”
Worthington realized the futility of arguing. Kendrick was incapable of listening to reason when it came to Matilda or any of her hapless descendants. Worthington had long since given up trying to change his lord. His father hadn’t been able to do it, nor had any of his father’s fathers.
Worthington turned away with a sigh. “She took none of them, my lord,” he threw over his shoulder as he pulled the study door open.
Time passed in silence for several moments, long enough for Worthington to descend to the second floor.
Kendrick’s shout of fury could be heard all over the keep.
Worthington smiled to himself as he sauntered down the passageway. Perhaps the young lord of Seakirk would think twice about killing the girl if she were to bleed all over his own bed.
It was midnight when Kendrick appeared in her chamber. His chamber, he thought grimly. Genevieve was reading by the light of a candle. Bloody romantic. There was a lamp right by her bed if she had just taken the time to look.
He stood in the shadows and gave a last thought to what he was about to do. Aye, it was the only way. He planned to see the last of the Buchanan bloodline either gone, insane or dead by the end of the week. In truth it mattered not to him how the deed was accomplished, though the thought of having a bit of revenge for his trouble was tempting. If he tried hard enough, he could likely pretend that Genevieve’s screams were actually Matilda’s.
He took another look at his ensemble. Perhaps he could have been more clever, but the arrow was a nice touch. It was a nasty-looking bolt that jutted straight out from his chest. The blood he was drenched in was always good for a throaty scream or two. Aye, it was creative enough for the first fright. He smiled darkly at the thought, imagining young Mistress Buchanan’s bloodcurdling shriek and what was sure to be an abrupt flight from his bed.
Perhaps she would scream all the way down the passageway, through the great hall and out the front door. He’d parked the car right there with the keys in it, for just such an occasion. Once she had fled the keep, he would call Bryan McShane and have him seek her out with the proper documents to sign. She would be more than willing to sign a statement saying she had seen the castle and did not want it. It would be perfectly legal and perfectly final.
And then, thanks to a meticulously forged birth certificate, the keep would be his, as it should have been seven hundred years ago.
And then he would be free.
Genevieve snuggled deeper into the pillows and held the book closer to the flame of the candle. Reading by candlelight might have been romantic but it was certainly hard on the eyes. She smiled anyway. So what if she got a headache? It was the principle of the thing that counted. This was how she’d imagined it; sitting in her medieval castle in her medieval bedroom, reading by candlelight. All she needed was a medieval manuscript to make things feel completely authentic.
Her first day at Seakirk had gone off without a hitch. Of course, there had been that hair-raising bellow during the afternoon, but Worthington had assured her it was only the pipes creaking. After being grateful that some efficient soul had actually installed pipes, she’d made Worthington promise to call the plumber first thing in the morning. Too many hints by Bryan McShane had made her a bit jumpy. The fewer things that went bump in her home, the better she’d like it.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a shadow shift by the hearth. Instantly her head jerked up of its own accord. She let out a shaky breath. Nothing. She pushed her bangs back off her face. Tricky little beasts. It was amazing how they danced around and made the skittish think they were seeing things they really weren’t.
The candle flame began to flicker wildly, as if someone were blowing softly on it. A thrill of fear went through her, then she expelled her breath with a great whoosh.
“Don’t be stupid,” she said aloud. “It’s just a draft.”
Just saying the words made her feel a hundred percent better. The flame stopped flickering and she relaxed, willing her heart to stop thumping so loudly against her chest. Worthington had been right about the draftiness. She’d have a closer look at the room by the light of day and see just where the breeze was coming from. No sense in catching her death.
Thump.
Worthington was puttering around in the kitchen again. She’d have to talk to him first thing about the hours he kept. A chill crept down her spine like a spider, making her jerk nervously.
Thump.
Was he cleaning the other rooms? At midnight? Oh, yes, she’d chat with him very first thing.
Thump. Grumble.
Grumble?
She wasn’t going to look up. It could have been a very large rat or a very large creature from a B movie. Either way, she had no desire to make its acquaintance. She stuck her nose back in her book doggedly.
Thump. Grumble.
Oh God, she prayed, her palms suddenly slick with sweat, let me be dreaming. A quirk? Had Bryan McShane actually said the castle possessed an odd quirk or two? What an unfortunate understatement!
The creature cleared its throat pointedly.
Genevieve looked up. Had she been capable of it, she would have screamed her head off. Instead, she could only squeak.
It was huge. It was drenched in blood. It was glaring evilly at her. It reached its arms out and continued its relentless approach, just as Frankenstein had done in every one of his feature films. Genevieve would have gasped with horror at the arrow protruding from the monster’s chest but she just didn’t have any spare breath. She shrank back against the headboard and pulled the sheet up to her chin. No, this wasn’t a movie. This wasn’t the vampire show she had watched in grade school, sitting close enough to the television to change the channel when things got too hot to handle. This was real and she was going to die.
The creature stopped just short of the bed and waved its arms menacingly. Genevieve didn’t think twice. She flung away the covers and bolted from the bed to the door. The lock slipped under her trembling fingers as if it had been greased.
“Begone, wench, i
f your life means aught!” a deep, wraithlike voice bellowed from directly behind her.
Genevieve shrieked and jerked open the door. Her bare feet slapped against the stone as she fled down the hallway, but she didn’t notice either the pain or the coldness. She had just seen a ghoul and there was no way in hell she was going to spend another night under the same roof with it. First she’d find a nice comfortable inn, then she’d track down Bryan McShane and kill him for lying. Quirk? Sweet Mary, it was a ghost!
She pounded ungracefully down the winding staircase as fast as she dared, tripped on the last step and stubbed her toe. The pain made her gasp but she kept on limping, right to the front door.
“Lady Genevieve, good heavens!” Worthington’s voice echoed in the great hall. His voice startled her so badly that she shrieked again. “What are you thinking to be up without your slippers on?”
Genevieve struggled with the lock on the hall door.
“Got to get out,” she panted. “Ghost…upstairs…”
“Now, my lady, you’re overwrought,” Worthington said soothingly. “Come let me prepare a bit of tea. A dash of brandy added to it will be just the thing to calm you.”
Genevieve shook her head vigorously. “Not…on your life. I’m not staying…another minute…in this place.”
Worthington put his hand over hers and stilled her frantic movements. “My lady, you cannot go out without your shoes. And you cannot go out tonight.”
She slowly realized she was not going to get the door unlocked without help or reason, neither of which she possessed at the moment. She stared up at the ceiling and let out her breath slowly.
“I can’t go back upstairs,” she whispered.
“Of course not. We’re going to the kitchen. Come out of the hall, my lady. ‘Tis a drafty place.”
Genevieve couldn’t make herself release the door. Letting go of the cold metal of the bolt felt too much like letting go of her only hope of escape.
“He tried to kill me, Worthington.”
“Come have some tea, my lady. It will help you sleep.”
“I don’t want to sleep.”
“You’re overwrought from your travels and the excitement. Tea will soothe you.” He looked at her expectantly, then gestured with his head toward the doorway near the back of the hall, as if the very motion would induce her movement.
“My lady?” he prompted, when she didn’t budge.
She sighed and nodded. With an effort she pried her fingers from the lock. She followed her butler across the great hall and into the kitchen, then sat and waited. She watched Worthington heat the water, steep the brew, then add a jigger or two of brandy, all without really paying much attention. All she could see was the huge blood-covered monster upstairs, the one who had come at her with death in his eyes. Without thinking, she drained the cup Worthington had set down before her, then she gasped and coughed at the burning of her throat.
“More,” she rasped. Anything to help her forget.
Two cups later, she felt much better. And she was starting to feel very foolish. Ghosts weren’t real. It had been her imagination. After all, she did have a graphic one. And what had she been reading? Night of the Bloody Ghouls. It was no wonder she’d been spooked.
“I’ll see you to your room,” Worthington offered, standing.
“Thanks,” Genevieve smiled, but her smile was weak. Talking brave and being brave were two entirely different things.
“I think we’ll need to hire a carpenter,” she continued as she forced herself to walk from the kitchen. “The room is drafty.”
“Of course,” Worthington nodded.
Genevieve walked with him up the stairs and down the hall to her room. No, she didn’t want to go back in there, but what was she supposed to do? Tell her butler she’d just seen a ghost and would he mind sitting in a chair next to her bed and playing bodyguard? Genevieve felt foolish enough after her ridiculous flight downstairs. There was no use in making a bigger spectacle of herself.
After only a moment’s hesitation, she pushed open the door and peeked inside. Empty. She couldn’t suppress her sigh of relief.
“A good night to you, my lady.”
“You too,” Genevieve responded, lingering by the doorway. Suddenly the thought of giving up company wasn’t appealing in the least. “Worthington…”
“You are safe here,” Worthington reassured her. “Perfectly safe. Sleep is what you need, my lady. Jet lag is hard on a body.”
That was what she wanted to hear. He was probably right. Jet lag was causing her hallucinations. She smiled, shut the door and walked back over to the bed. The room looked perfectly normal. The candle on the nightstand burned just as brightly as it had before and cast just as soft a light over the room. A look around—a casual look, of course—revealed that everything was still in its rightful place.
Genevieve crawled beneath the blankets and snuggled down, pulling the comforter up to her ears. Perfectly safe. Nothing in the room but furniture and her imagination.
“I’m perfectly safe,” she said aloud. “Nothing will harm me.”
The candle flame on the nightstand extinguished itself abruptly.
“Don’t be so certain, wench.”
Genevieve shrieked and pulled the covers over her head. She curled up in a little ball and prayed for a sudden loss of consciousness.
The deep voice echoed in her mind again and again, reminding her that there was more than furniture on the other side of the down comforter she held over her head like a shield. Whatever was out there was big, bloody and bothered.
And it wanted her dead.
Chapter Four
Genevieve woke with a gasp. She lay perfectly still. When she heard nothing but her own pounding heart, she gingerly wiggled the fingers of her right hand. They worked. She didn’t feel any pain from gaping wounds, so it was a safe bet that she wasn’t bleeding to death.
So he hadn’t killed her. Why? Had the ghoul taken pity on her, or did he intend to frighten her into a heart attack? It would have been a clean homicide. Or was it ghoulicide? She managed a weak smile at her own cleverness. Too bad the world would never know just how scintillating she had been because the ghost was probably waiting for her to show her face so he could decapitate her.
Or was he merely nocturnal? Well, that would certainly be true to beastly form, wouldn’t it? There was no telling what time it was unless she poked her head out from under the covers, and she wasn’t quite ready to do that yet.
She needed a plan. To-do lists always made her feel better, even if she ignored them the split second after she’d made them. First on the list: pray it was morning, then run and open the windows to shed some light on the situation. Second, face whatever still awaited her in her room (either the creature or the gory mess he had left behind). Third, run like hell downstairs and beg Worthington to let her sleep on his floor for the rest of her life. Four, forget all three, run out the front door, down the road and never set foot inside Seakirk’s gates again.
No, Number Four was not an option. This was her home. She wasn’t about to walk away from it.
Without giving herself time to think any longer, she threw back the covers and bolted from the bed to the window. Her hands trembled as she jerked open the drapes. She’d never been so glad for the sight of sunlight in her life.
She put her hands on the warm panes of glass and took several deep breaths. How bad could her floor look? She’d get Worthington to help her scrub the blood off. At least the floor was made of wood. Getting that kind of stain out of carpet would have been murder.
Murder? What a poor choice of words.
She turned slowly, dreading coming face-to-face with death. Instead, she came face-to-face with her bedroom. She frowned. It certainly didn’t look any different than it had yesterday. She crossed the room to the side of her bed where the creature had been. Perfectly clean. She dropped to her knees and smoothed her hand over the floor. Nothing. No blood, no guts, no gore. Absolutely nothing.
She sat down with a thump. This was nuts. She had seen a zombie/ghoul last night and he had frightened her silly. She jumped to her feet, prepared to do battle. There had to be some evidence left behind: a scuff mark, a bit of torn clothing, a drop of blood.
Thirty fruitless minutes later, she conceded the match. There was nothing. Had she dreamed it all? She walked back over to the window and sank down on the window seat, letting the sight of the garden below soothe her. Too much television? Maybe it was dinner. Worthington had prepared a mousse of sinful richness for dessert and she had eaten two helpings of it. Maybe it was a sugar hallucination.
And maybe, she thought with a rueful smile, it was just her imagination playing tricks on her. Hadn’t she always been prone to nightmares as a child? Every monster she had ever seen in the movies or on television had always come back to haunt her at night. Last night was just a heck of a dream. It had to be a dream. Her castle was not haunted. She didn’t believe in ghosts.
Get a grip on yourself, Buchanan, she chided sternly. Good grief, what a fool she’d made of herself. Worthington was probably making her an appointment at the local sanitarium right now. She couldn’t blame him. Hopefully in time he’d forget about it and chalk it up to jet lag and too many novels. That was certainly what she intended to do.
During a decadently long shower, she concentrated on her plans for the day. The sooner she catalogued the items in the other bedrooms, the sooner she could get rid of the furniture and do something different. Ideally, she wanted to find medieval replicas to use. Or perhaps she’d search out authentic pieces. Her bedroom was perfect and she wanted to redo the others in the same manner.
After all, when you’ve got a blank cheque, why not use it?
That evening Genevieve sat in the high-backed chair Worthington had pulled close to the hearth for her, and watched as her butler carefully laid several more pieces of wood on the fire. There was probably a cozier room than the immense great hall but she hadn’t had the time to find it during the day and, despite her earlier rationalizations about ghosts, she wasn’t about to look around at night. The huge hearth would keep her warm enough for now.