Margo Maguire (3 page)

Feeling dazed and disoriented, Sam turned slowly and came face-to-face with an exotic gypsy with lustrous black hair. A pair of shell combs were ineffective in holding back the curls that framed her heart-shaped face. Her lips were as red as
Dianthus barbatus,
her skin as pale as
Lilium,
though there was a blush of rose upon her cheeks. Her unusual, deep violet eyes were framed by thick black lashes, her brows drawn into a frown.

“Is…anything wrong?” she asked with that husky voice.

Sam cleared his throat and composed himself. And he realized that there had been no hands caressing
his back. “No,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “I just… Is there someone who might show me to my room?”

She was not at all what he’d expected the inn-keeper to be.

Her eyes flickered away for a second, toward the desk behind him. “Yes, of course. Follow me. Tom will bring your things in a bit.”

When her eyes met his, Sam had that odd sensation again, of being touched…caressed. It was suddenly shattered when the lights went out.

“Oh dear!” she said amid the shouts of all those gathered in the main room of the inn. “I must— Will you excuse me?”

Sam felt her move past him in the dark as pandemonium broke out. Someone struck a match and a hush came over the crowd as light appeared once again. And Sam wondered if this was all there was to the so-called haunting of Ravenwell Cottage.

He crossed his arms over his chest and looked around in the near dark while Miss Tearwater went about the room lighting all the lamps and sconces again. Sam had to admit that it was certainly a neat trick. He had no doubt that some mechanism had been rigged to cause all the lamps to be extinguished at once.

And when a man was in the presence of such stunning beauty, Sam guessed he’d be inclined to believe anything she wanted to tell him.

Luckily, he was wise to her ploy and wouldn’t be falling for it anytime soon. Her good looks were not going to divert him from his purpose.

Sam picked up his crate just as a portly man in a light linen suit stepped toward the landlady, followed
by four other gentlemen. “Miss Tearwater,” he said, “a few of us would like to, er, visit the attic. If you don’t mind. W-where Sir Emmett, uh, disappeared.”

“Feel free to do so, Mr. Payton,” Miss Tearwater replied. “But mind the stairs. They’re steep. And narrow.” She lit the last gaslight and turned to Sam. “This way, then.”

Her plain blue gown with its short sleeves and lack of ornamentation set off her feminine form very well. Sam did not doubt that she had deliberately dressed for effect, considering herself a fair distraction from the game.

It had been a long time since Sam’s full attention had been drawn by a member of the fair sex. But there was no mistake that Miss Tearwater had his regard now, even though she was a charlatan of the worst sort.

Following her down a narrow hall, Sam welcomed the surge of purely masculine interest—something he thought he’d never feel again. He allowed himself to admire the sway of her hips, the gentle shimmer of her dark hair in the dim light, and knew that this was the extent of the pleasure he would ever enjoy with any woman.

It left him feeling deprived and powerless, but he averted his eyes and continued on course, climbing a staircase to the second floor. Miss Tearwater took him to a room at the far end of the hall, where she opened the door and stepped inside.

“The bath is at the end of the corridor. Towels are here.”

A quick glance told Sam that the room was satisfactory. There was plenty of space, as well as a
desk in which to keep his journals and ledgers. It would do very well.

Without being too obvious, he kept plenty of distance between them when he stepped into the room. “Quite an uproar here tonight.”

She seemed startled by his statement, then had the good grace to appear abashed. “Well,” she said, “we don’t usually have such strange weather—”

“I meant the lights. Nice trick.”

Her hand fluttered at her breast, then fell to her side once again. “Sometimes our ghosts play pranks on us, Mr. Temple,” she said, her unusual eyes locking on his. “You must learn to ignore them.”

Lilly took a deep breath and looked away. She had expected Mr. Temple to be a stodgy old professor with a bushy beard, a man who would dodder about the inn in a rumpled suit with a book in his hand and a pencil perched upon his ear. Instead, she’d found herself faced with a tall young American, perhaps thirty years old, whose eyes were the color of the summer sky. His hair was dark brown and wavy, with strands of pure white threading through it at his right temple. His features were as rugged as they were handsome, and Lilly refrained from pressing a hand to her heart in awe of the raw energy that pulsed beneath his reserved surface.

He set his crate on the floor and pulled his starched white collar away from his neck. Lilly did not breathe when he stepped over to the window and bent to open it.

“Warm in here,” he said.

“I…yes.” She realized she was gaping, and quickly busied herself with lighting the lamp at the
bedside. “Well,” she said brusquely. “If that will be all…?”

She still didn’t understand what had happened to all the gas lamps downstairs. There was no reason on earth why they should have gone out—all eight of them at once! The sudden wind was one thing. That was clearly a result of the quick cleanup she’d done in here, with the broken pitcher and spilled water. But the—

“Just one question,” Mr. Temple said, straightening up and leveling his light blue eyes at her. His American accent was intriguing, foreign and fascinating to her ear. She could easily make a fool of herself and stand there staring, listening to him for hours, ogling his broad shoulders and narrow waist. “Is there someplace where I can get a bite to eat?”

Lilly blinked and returned to her senses.

No matter how charming a guest’s accent or how comely the face and form, Mr. Clive didn’t open his kitchen at all hours and go to the trouble of preparing meals for untimely arrivals. Breakfast would be soon enough for Mr. Temple.

“We don’t… J-just come down to the kitchen after you’ve gotten settled,” she heard herself say. “I’ll have something for you there.”

A moment later, she stood outside his room, her brow creased in a frown. She had never invited a guest to the private areas of the inn. No one but the kitchen staff and family—Charlotte and herself, and their neighbor, Tom Fletcher, when he visited—ever went into the kitchen.

Lilly sighed and moved down the hall to the servants’ staircase, which led directly to the pantry. She was nothing if not a careful businesswoman. She had
trained herself not to give in to whims and fancies, so it was unusual to find herself taking a clean plate from the cupboard and gathering cold meat and cheese for a guest—for a man who believed she was a fraud.

Nice trick
indeed.

She certainly didn’t need Samuel Temple imputing chicanery, even though it was more often true than not. Her magical ploys hurt no one. In fact, they added a spark of excitement to the lives of those who visited Ravenwell. Mr. Payton, for instance. He and his cohorts were even now scouring the attic in hopes of—

Footsteps interrupted Lilly’s thoughts and she sensed Mr. Temple’s presence behind her. She felt the shimmer of heat from his body, the smell of his freshly washed skin, the sound of his clothes rustling. A hot flutter of expectation rushed down her spine.

“That looks great,” he said in his casual American way. He walked to the opposite side of the worktable and watched while she finished preparing his plate.

No matter how handsome or how intriguing he was, the American was not going to charm her—not after his earlier, insensitive remark. Lilly cut a slice of bread, added a generous dollop of butter and put it on a plate with a slice of beef.

She forced a smile and would have left him to his own devices had not Charlotte come in at just that moment.

Motioning with her hands, the younger woman signaled that she and Tom had carried all of the new
guest’s belongings to his room. She also added that his boxes were plentiful and heavy.

From the corner of her eye, Lilly noticed Mr. Temple’s fascination with Charlotte. Lilly felt vaguely disappointed that he was just like every other man who laid eyes on her friend—completely entranced by her beauty.

It didn’t usually bother Lilly, but for some unaccountable reason, she had hoped for something different from Mr. Temple.

“You communicate entirely nonverbally with this young lady?” he asked, his meal apparently forgotten for the moment.

Lilly frowned, puzzled.
He was interested in their language?
“Yes. My sister is deaf.”

“Your sister?”

Lilly nodded. “Close friend, actually, but I consider her my sister.”

Charlotte’s appearance was so angelic, the men who encountered her hardly ever noticed her deafness. Lilly had expected the same from Mr. Temple, but it seemed that their sign language was the first thing he had seen.

Lilly poured a glass of milk and carried it to the table where she and the staff sometimes took their meals. Perhaps Mr. Temple
was
different. Lilly sighed. The kind of thoughts she was thinking were not only improper, they were dangerous to her peace of mind.

“Over here, Mr. Temple.”

The man shifted his gaze between her and Charlotte. “The two of you can actually speak using signals?”

Lilly nodded. “Charlotte just told me that you had
a lot of heavy boxes—and that they’ve been carried to your room.”

“Fascinating.”

“Not so very,” Lilly said, ignoring the deep cleft that appeared in Mr. Temple’s cheek. His appearance might make her heart trip in her chest, but he was a guest—and a skeptical one. “We’ve been talking together this way since we were children.”

“My work… I’m studying communication, but of a different kind. A much more primitive sort.” He sat down but kept his gaze trained on her. “Is there anyone—a guide—who can show me the best places to find honeybees? A meadow, perhaps? Or a clover field?”

“Honeybees?” Lilly asked, taken aback by his quick change of subject. “I’m sure Mr. Fletcher can show you a few places tomorrow.”

“I’d appreciate it.”

“But honeybees are everywhere. There are hives in the meadow down by the lake, and plenty more on the road between the inn and town. We’re always careful when we—”

Charlotte tapped the table to get Lilly’s attention, then asked about the conversation. Lilly told her about Mr. Temple’s interest in honeybees and asked her to see if Tom wouldn’t mind taking their guest to the meadow in the morning.

Charlotte pointed to herself, indicating that she would take Mr. Temple.

Lilly snapped her mouth closed. Over her dead body. She would never allow her friend to go off to the countryside with a stranger, especially not Mr. Temple.

She pressed a hand to her breast. There were very few things that Lilly begrudged Charlotte. Time alone with Mr. Temple was one of them.

“Ask Tom when you see him,” she said.

S
am dreamed of stinging whips and heavy, cutting chains. He felt flaying lashes tearing off strips of his skin, and the humiliating sound of his own cries of agony.

But through it all, he felt the comforting touch that had so baffled him upon his arrival at Ravenwell. And he imagined it was Lilly Tearwater’s hands soothing the pain away.

Which was utter nonsense.

He climbed out of bed and opened the window shades. The morning sun shone brightly, and he saw that a few guests were already eating breakfast, sitting at tables in the garden. It was the perfect sort of day for finding beehives.

Sam washed and shaved, then dressed in casual clothes for his trek across the Cumbrian meadows and fields. All he needed was a cup of coffee, some food to carry along and someone to point him in the direction of the meadow Miss Tearwater had spoken of. He didn’t really need a guide.

He packed his rucksack, then headed down toward
the main rooms of the inn, meeting Tom Fletcher on the stairs.

“Good morning to you,” Tom said.

Sam gave a nod.

“Good day for hunting up bees,” the man remarked, his expression open and friendly. “I’ll be away today,” he added. “I’ve just come by to be sure all’s well at the inn before I go. I like to keep an eye out for the lasses.”

Sam took note of his pointed comments. Nothing would happen here at Ravenwell that Tom didn’t hear about.

“Maybe you can give me directions to the lake. I understand there’s a meadow down there.”

Tom smiled broadly. He set down the bucket he carried. “Come on, then. We’ll walk out for a bit and I can show you.”

They went through a long hall and out to a wide drive between the inn and a low outbuilding. Tom pointed to the right. “The lake is down that way,” he said. “You walk through a small wood, then you’ll see the meadow. Full of color this time of year. Lots of clover down there, too.”

“Sounds like just the place.”

“Sorry I can’t come with—”

“Watch out!”

A large canvas basket on wheels came flying down the drive toward the two men. Tom dodged out of the way, and Sam grabbed it before it could fly past them into the flower beds. Charlotte came running behind, her hair loose and her arms flailing.

“Charlotte, what are you doing with the laundry out here?” Fletcher said aloud, although he used his
hands and facial expression to communicate the question to her.

The woman replied in her own silent way, and then Sam turned the basket over to her.

“Best be quick, then,” Tom said, his gestures making plain what he meant even without the words. “And careful.”

She began to push it back in the direction it had come. Tom’s eyes didn’t return to Sam until she turned the corner and was out of sight.

“I see you share the same method of communication as Miss Tearwater.”

He nodded. “I’ve known Charlotte since she came here as a child. Learned the language right off.”

Sam detected a wistful tone in the young man’s voice and saw him gaze tenderly in the direction she’d gone. Fletcher’s obvious regard for Miss Charlotte made Sam undefinably restive. Unconsciously, he flexed the muscles of his jaw and shifted his knapsack. It was time to go. He was anxious to be away from these people whose lives barely touched his own, and he didn’t mind forgoing the coffee he’d been thinking about earlier.

He bid a quick farewell to Fletcher and headed to the path. He followed the trail to a barley field, skirting it until he reached a clearing. From the high ground there he could see a meadow just beyond the wood, and then a lake.

A sudden crash, followed by a heavy thud, made him stop in his tracks. It felt and sounded as if a tree had just fallen. Sam shook his head slightly. He hadn’t heard any chopping or sawing, though he could not imagine a tree falling without good cause.

Unless something else had made the noise.

Sam glanced in the direction of the sound and saw Lilly Tearwater coming through the field on a side path, only a few yards away. She stopped short when she noticed him, then continued toward him.

“Mr. Temple,” she called, holding one hand over her eyes against the bright sunlight. “You’re out early.”

“I could say the same about you,” he said when they met. Her face was flushed and there was a fine sheen of perspiration on her brow.

“Aye, well, I’m not on holiday, and you are.”

“Not entirely,” Sam said. “I’ll be doing a good deal of field work while I’m here….”

“Ah, yes. The bees.”

She was modestly dressed again, but Sam felt a jolt of his pulse at the sight of her delicate neck, of her small ear teased by shiny black curls. His mind was suddenly filled with her scent and the desire to touch the arch of her brow, to press his lips to that tender space between her ear and neck.

He took a step back and brought his eyes into focus again. Where had those images come from?

“…to visit old Mrs. Webster. She’s a widow, and gets very… Mr. Temple, is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing.”
Everything.
What had just happened to him? “I’ll just… This way to the lake?” he asked, even though he knew it was.

Miss Tearwater nodded. “Walk straight toward that big oak and you’ll see a path.”

He gave a quick nod and started toward the lake. “Er, speaking of oaks,” he said, stopping and turning to her, “did you hear a tree fall just now?”

“I, uh…well, yes, I suppose I did.” Her gaze shifted to her feet and she bit her lip. It was clear
that she wanted to evade him, and Sam was intrigued by her unease. Why should talk of this make her uncomfortable? Was that loud thud somehow related to the chicanery at the inn? Was there a machine of some sort that was used to produce the ghostly apparitions?

“Well, good day to you, Mr. Temple, I’ll just be on my—”

“What’s the hurry?”

“No particular hurry. Enjoy your bees.” She started to move, but could not get past Sam on the narrow path. He knew there was no possibility of her pushing past him. Proper etiquette demanded that she keep her distance.

She looked up at him warily. Within those stormy violet eyes was a wildness that Miss Tearwater nearly managed to hide. Perhaps she was not the proper lady she appeared to be.

“Sorry.” He stepped aside, disconcerted by the conflicting urges that pulsed through him. Battling his need to escape her close proximity was the irrational desire to kiss her, to pull her to him and ravage her lips with his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. When he realized that his hands were shaking, he turned abruptly and left her.

What was happening to him? How could he feel such a fierce burst of desire for Miss Tearwater, yet be unable to touch her?

Perhaps it was not only the inn that was haunted, but all its fields and acres, too.

Lilly held her hand over her heart all the way back to the inn, certain that it would beat right through
her chest and land somewhere at her feet if she wasn’t careful.

Samuel Temple had looked at her as if…

“Everything all right, Lilly?” asked Tom.

“Of course.”

“It’s just that you’re all flushed like,” he said.

“No, I’m fine. How’s your mother? Are her knees still stiff?”

“Not so bad since she’s been using that salve you sent down.”

“That’s good, then.” Lilly would never tell Tom or his mother that the salve was useless—that the ease Mrs. Fletcher felt was due to Lilly’s magic. Nor did she reveal the true reason their oldest ewe had borne triplets the day that Mrs. Fletcher’s knees had improved.

“I’m driving down to Perry Crag’s farm. He’s got a few yearlings for sale, and I want to look them over. I won’t be back until morning, but you’ve got young Davy to help you, and Mrs. Bainbridge at the desk…”

“We’ll be fine, Tom,” Lilly said. “You shouldn’t feel as if you must come up and check on us every day.”

He pulled a face. “A woman running this business alone, and the inn so full of strangers all the time…”

Lilly laughed. “Tom Fletcher, you’ll be having me think you don’t believe I can do it.”

He started to scold her for saying such a thing, but she slipped away and went around to the back of the inn. She stood in the shade of the garden trellis and took a moment to settle herself after her encounter with Mr. Temple.

Closing her eyes, she smoothed her damp hands
down the front of her gown, as if that could somehow still the thudding of her heart. She could not recall ever meeting such a potent man, someone who had the power to make her melt with just a glance. Something dark and wary lay hidden in the depths of his blue eyes, and Lilly sensed a vulnerability that was belied by his considerable size.

“Ah, Miss Tearwater!”

Mr. Payton and his group gathered ’round. They were dressed for the outdoors—for a day of walking, or perhaps hiking among the fells. Lilly was aware that they’d sought her earlier, anxious to discuss the ghosts they’d seen the previous night and their trek to the attic.

Perhaps it was just as well to get it done now, and banish thoughts of Mr. Temple from her mind.

“Good morning to you,” she replied. “Did you sleep well?”

“Hardly,” Mrs. Stanhope said. “Not after seeing that…that—”

“You mean Sir Emmett,” Lilly interjected. She stepped away from the wall and walked through the gate into her side garden. “Our ghost is quite mild mannered. You needn’t have worried.”

“Who is, er, who
was
he?” asked Mr. Payton.

“He was once a visitor to Ravenwell Cottage—centuries ago, when Ravenwell was a manor house.”

“And Lady Alice?”

“The wife of Sir John Bartlett. But she was the paramour of Sir Emmett.” Lilly had practiced well. She knew the story front to back, and there was no one in the village who could discredit it. For all anyone knew, Sir Emmett and Lady Alice truly did haunt Ravenwell Cottage.

Several of the women gasped as they came to the correct, but shocking, conclusion. “Sir John found his wife with her lover.”

“And killed them?”

Lilly nodded. “Sir Emmett was taken completely unawares. He was unarmed and…well, Sir John ran him through with his sword.”

“A-and Lady Alice?”

“Tossed her out that window,” Lilly said with quiet drama. She pointed to the attic window. “There.”

“We found nothing up there when we investigated last night,” Mr. Payton said.

Lilly shook her head. “They leave no trace,” she stated. “Ever.”

“This is truly amazing,” Mr. Payton exclaimed. “In all my travels, I have never seen such a display! Has anyone ever tried to photograph these pitiful spirits?”

“No!” Lilly exclaimed, more forcefully than she intended. She could just imagine the notoriety that would follow publication of such photographs. Journalists, thrill-seekers, debunkers… The unwelcome fame would make life impossible. “I mean to say,” she said more calmly, “those who’ve tried have never been successful.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, since no one had tried. And Lilly planned to keep it that way. Word of mouth, stories that her guests told when they returned home—these were enough to ensure a full house and a good living all year long.

“That’s a shame,” Mr. Payton said. “It would be so fascinating to capture—”

“Where is everyone going today?” Lilly asked,
clasping her hands together. “Down to the lake? It promises to be wonderfully warm.”

With the discussion purposely steered from the notion of photographs, the visitors traversed the flag-stone walk and left the garden. Lilly sighed and looked over her rosebushes, which bore only the most feeble greenery and a few paltry buds.

She did not know what was wrong with them. She tended them as carefully and lovingly as all the other flowers that flourished in her gardens, yet these poor plants had responded to nothing she’d tried.

And she did not dare use her magic on them. The sudden flourishing of her roses would cause questions that she could not answer, as well as some unplanned disaster. Just this morning, after making improvements to Mrs. Webster’s vegetable garden, she’d witnessed a huge maple become uprooted and crash to the ground. All because she’d ripened a few tomatoes and carrots for the poor old widow!

Mr. Temple had been suspicious. He’d heard the tree fall, but what could he actually know about that maple tree? Only that it had fallen. Lilly did not have to worry that he would discover her talent. Trees fell every day, their roots rotted, they were weakened by lightning or some other such thing. There was no reason on earth why he should suspect
her
of causing it.

But she would die of mortification if he or
anyone
ever learned of her aberrant talents.

At the edge of the meadow, not far from the lake, was a dead chestnut tree. It was tall and thick, and its trunk held one of the best
Apis mellifera
colonies Sam had ever seen. Over the past four years, he had
studied every aspect of the hive in a number of different locales and had been considered an expert in the field—before his experience in Sudan.

Sam looked up and took a deep breath of pure, free air. He would never again take for granted the sight of the sky and the clouds, of the birds winging across broad, open vistas.

Before his mind could lock on to thoughts of the filthy pit where he and his colleagues had been chained to the walls, Sam turned his attention to the chestnut tree. Its branches were perfectly configured for the platform Sam would build—a perch from which to observe and photograph the bees. The bee project consisted mainly of observing and making notes. He would take photographs and make a number of drawings, of course, and probably track the foragers as they collected pollen. There’d be a few specimens to collect, but Sam doubted that he would need many.

And in the evenings, while the bees slept, he would look for ways to disprove the existence of Ravenwell’s ghost.

His fleeting thought that Ravenwell and its lands were haunted had been merely a jest. Sam didn’t believe it for a minute. Just because he’d been physically drawn to Lilly Tearwater did not mean there was some enchantment about the place.

She was a compelling woman, beautiful and exotic, and Sam had merely been taken by the pure, feminine sensuousness of her face and form. Just because he could appreciate her did not mean that anything else had changed. As much as he might wish otherwise, he knew what would happen if he actually touched her.