An Unlikely Match (10 page)

His curt tone had no noticeable impact on her. If anything, she grew cold and authoritative once more. “You would do well, Nickolas Pritchard, to ask around the neighborhood before declaring which of us must accommodate the other. You will find that four hundred years of history is against your chances of pushing me in any direction I do not choose to go.”

“Were you this much trouble when you were alive?” Nickolas asked almost bitingly.

“Only when I had to be,” she answered, quite on her dignity.

“Then it’s a wonder anyone mourned your passing.”

With that parting shot, Nickolas left, jaw tight, shoulders tense, marching all the way to his own room. He tossed himself down into a chair near his bedroom window, feeling oddly spent, as though he’d just gone several rounds with Gentleman Jackson.

The late Mr. Prichard had seen fit to warn him of Gwen “at the last possible minute” but hadn’t given him nearly enough information. “Tŷ Mynydd is haunted,” was the extent of the message. “Tŷ Mynydd is haunted by a troublesome ghost who will be a constant headache to you and will make you uneasy, though not in a way at all connected to her ghostliness, and make you wonder about her long after you’ve left her presence.” That would have been a much more accurate warning.

Why was she so attached to that blasted room? How could she appear so fearsome one moment and almost vulnerable the next? How had she died? How old had she been when she died? And why did he want to know so deuced much?

Nickolas rose irritably, which was odd for someone of his easygoing disposition. He crossed to the window, glancing out over the moonlit grounds of his new home. A gentle breeze ruffled distant trees, and the moon lent a soft glow to the view. Nickolas took several long breaths, feeling the tension slip from him once more.

Tŷ Mynydd was working its magic on him again. Somehow this house, these lands, that he’d never before seen had become as intrinsically a part of him as his own name. Almost as if something in him had been longing to be at Tŷ Mynydd
again
, even though he’d never been there before.

Nickolas chuckled silently. He might even enjoy the night he would be spending in The Tower. It was an intriguing piece of the landscape: a piece of history, a mystery. Something about it grabbed one’s attention whenever it was in sight, like it was calling out, asking to be explored.

As his thoughts turned to The Tower, so did Nickolas’s eyes. It was visible far to his right, less so than from
her
room but still within sight. Nickolas stared at what he saw. At the top of The Tower glowed a low, unusual light, like a single candle had been lit deep inside, but there weren’t shadows that flickered and danced as one would expect with a flame.

He stood watching the odd phenomenon for a few moments, noticing the light change intensity without any distinguishable pattern.

“Odd.”

He searched his mind for an explanation but found none. His experiences earlier that evening led him to seriously distrust his own logic. He’d been certain there was no ghost in his home, but now knew there was. He felt there must be a reasonable explanation for the light in The Tower but couldn’t help wondering if there truly was. He suspected Gwen had something to do with it. She, he felt certain, was going to cause him no end of trouble.

* * *

It’s a wonder anyone mourned your passing.

It was a shame, really, that ghosts were unable to cry. Gwen felt she could do with a prolonged bout of tears.
Mourned
her passing? Indeed not. The entire castle had celebrated. They had turned immediately to their battle plans, and their only thoughts for her were the occasional expression of amazement that she’d had the good grace to depart this mortal coil in such a timely fashion, thereby “consecrating” their efforts. And being not nearly as departed as she could have hoped, Gwen had been handed the distasteful chore of listening to their painful observations.

Her father had seemed a little unhappy, though not to the degree she would have wished. Uncle Dilwyn had seemed infinitely uncomfortable during the entire interlude. While she had always wished he’d shown a little more natural courage, she had appreciated that he, at least, had recognized the near inhumanity of it all.

It’s a wonder anyone mourned your passing.

“Touché, Mr. Pritchard,” Gwen whispered. Somehow during the past four centuries, she’d spent her time wondering why
no one
seemed to have mourned her passing. It seemed she’d taken the wrong approach.

She’d been a great deal of trouble at times, Gwen knew as much. From birth, she’d caused her father a vast degree of consternation. First came the fact that she had been female when he had been looking for a son and heir. Then, once he’d resigned himself to the fact that she was all he’d have by way of offspring, she’d tried very hard to be the courageous, resilient child he’d hoped for. It had never been enough. And when she’d come of age, something that happened at a much younger age in those days, there had been an absolute dearth of suitors.

Though he’d been unable to marry her to advantage, Gwen had at last served her purpose. She’d saved Y Castell by having the grace to cease living when the time came. Heaven help her, she’d fought for that opportunity to do a good turn for her father. She’d loved him despite him not reciprocating her feelings. She’d spent all of her twenty years unsuccessfully attempting to please him. In the end, she’d had little choice, finding herself, quite against her will, serving as the battle cry of the defenders of her home and destined to wander all alone through its corridors with no end to her residency in sight.

She’d cherished those times when the occupants of Tŷ Mynydd were kind to her. She’d helped raise many of the children who’d grown up to be masters of the house. She’d made friends of many of their wives. And she’d outlasted them all. She had watched hundreds of friends grow old and die and had grieved for each of them. But no one, as Mr. Nickolas Pritchard so succinctly pointed out, had ever grieved for her.

Gwen’s eyes swung to the window and inevitably settled on The Tower. It was glowing as it always did when she was upset. Gwen hated it, hated that even her pain seemed to be celebrated as her passing had been so many years ago. She forced her mind to think of happier things, of the joy of a sunrise, of the very room in which she stood.

The glow outside lessened as she knew it would. But her mastery over her emotions did not last long. Even as she thought of those things that brought her some degree of happiness, she couldn’t help being reminded of the fact that she enjoyed all of those things entirely, completely alone.

And that no one mourned her.

Gwen turned away from the window, unwilling to actually look at the evidence of her own suffering. She floated silently to the bed curtains, now hanging gracefully unknotted from the bedposts. She’d told the maids to leave them as they were, intending to think of a way to force Mr. Pritchard to undo the mischief as a form of penance.

He’d done so entirely on his own and hadn’t seemed the least put out by it. Even her favorite of Tŷ Mynydd’s owners hadn’t been so generous and lacking in self-consequence. Gwen found herself liking him all the more for it. Therein lay the difficulty. She was growing attached, connected, while he found her simply troublesome.

She’d always known how to deal with each of the masters of Tŷ Mynydd. But Nickolas Pritchard was a mystery. Part of her wanted to make his life a little miserable, and part of her hoped he would prove something of a friend.

She simply wasn’t sure which part would come out the victor.

Chapter Nine

Nickolas Pritchard had adopted the odd habit of bowing to Gwen whenever she happened to cross his path. She could detect nothing mocking in the gesture; it was almost as though he bowed out of civility. Not since her death had anyone treated her like any other young lady.

In acknowledgment of the unforeseen kindness, Gwen decided not to torture the newest owner of Tŷ Mynydd. Yet. His houseguests were generally well behaved. Dafydd seemed to like him. Griffith Davis, the quiet Welshman with intelligent eyes, seemed to like him as well. These were all points in his favor. And though she’d made quite a show of disapproval, Gwen rather liked that Nickolas Pritchard possessed a keen sense of humor. She too preferred to laugh than cry, though she’d had precious little reason for laughter over the past four centuries.

She slid through the outer wall into the sanctuary of her room. Nickolas had been true to his word—she no longer had to share her bedchamber with any of the houseguests.

“Gobs! Do that again!”

Mr. Castleton.

A myriad of creative punishments for Nickolas ran through Gwen’s mind as she eyed this latest intruder. She liked him a great deal less than his hen-hearted daughter. Miss Castleton still looked alarmingly faint whenever they encountered one another. As much as she disliked having to reassure skittish people of her entirely innocuous intentions, Gwen found Mr. Castleton’s fascination with her unendurable.

“Mr. Castleton.” She attempted to keep her tone civil.

“You came right through the walls.”

“I am aware of that, sir,” she said.

“Do it again.”

“I would rather not, actually. Now, good day to you, sir.”

“You aren’t leaving, are you?” He appeared alarmed at the possibility.

“
I
am not leaving. You are.”

He shook his head. “I haven’t any plans for the day.”

“For the day?” She did not at all like that particular phrase.

Unfettered enthusiasm entered the eyes of her unwanted guest. “Is there anything you can’t pass through? Metals? Wood? Churchyards?”

“Why on earth would I not be able to pass through a churchyard?”

“’Tis hallowed ground,” he answered as if the explanation ought to have been obvious.

“I am not a demon, Mr. Castleton.” How utterly inane.

“You are not an
evil
spirit, then?”

Gwen could not tell if Mr. Castleton found the realization relieving or disappointing. “If I were an evil spirit, would the vicar be on a first-name basis with me?”

“I suppose not.” The man very nearly grumbled. “But you are a spirit, are you not? Even if you aren’t evil?”

“Would you prefer that I were evil?”

He shook his head adamantly.

“Well, I am pleased to oblige you in that. Now if you will kindly leave me be—”

“How do you pass through the walls as you did?”

Civility did not seem likely to convince him to leave. A greater degree of persuasion seemed called for.

“I pass through it simply by choosing not to knock it down.” She put a bit of ominousness into her words.

He remained unconcerned. “You could knock it down?”

“Easily.”

“Fascinating.”

Good heavens. Subtlety did not seem likely to work on the overly thick man either.

“I do not approve of anyone entering this room without my express permission, Mr. Castleton.” She whipped up an impressive wind. The threat of an indoor storm had convinced the man’s daughter to leave well enough alone. “I have been known to punish such presumptuousness quite severely.”

His eyes opened wide. For just a moment, Gwen thought she’d won the day. Then he opened his mouth and ruined the entire thing. “Can all ghosts create wind like that? Amazing. Utterly amazing.”

“I demand that you leave.”

He crossed to the wall through which she’d entered and thumped on the stone. “Entirely solid,” he said, apparently to himself.

“Do not force me to take drastic measures.”

Mr. Castleton addressed her once more. “The wall is solid, but you are not.”

“Figured that out on your own, did you?” she muttered under her breath.

“Is there a trick to it?” he asked. “Or does it simply happen?”

“Out.”

Any sane person would have fled the room at the icy tone she’d produced. Mr. Castleton obviously did not fall into that category.

“Yes, let’s. There is a large metal door on one of the outbuildings. I should like to see you float through that.”

“Saints preserve us.” Gwen swung about and made directly for the door to the room. She did not bother blowing the door open but passed directly through to the other side.