Margo Maguire (4 page)

Which he would never do.

He was here for only two reasons. To finish his research and to win one hundred pounds.

Winning the wager would be easy. Somehow, Miss Tearwater, or someone in her employ, was using a clever ploy to make her visitors believe that Ravenwell was haunted.

Sam slipped his rucksack from his shoulders and sat down on the ground near the chestnut tree. Pulling his field glasses from the pack, he surveyed the meadow and saw that he had a clear view down to the lake, a view that would be even better after he’d built a perch up in the branches of the chestnut tree.

There were boats on the water, carrying fishermen mostly, and a few boaters enjoying the morning sunshine. He saw no bathers, though there was a stretch of beach divided by a grouping of large black rocks. The far side looked like an excellent secluded spot for bathing in the raw, as he and his brothers had done in their wild youth.

Growing up in exotic locations all over the globe, Sam and the other Temple boys had been hellions. It wasn’t until they’d reached their twenties and entered their chosen professions that any of them had begun to settle down. And now that he was an adult, with a sedate, conventional career ahead of him, Sam would not be diving into any public lake without his clothes.

With that thought, he found Lilly Tearwater once again on his mind.

He looked back and saw her in the distance, walking up the path toward the inn. The magnification of his field glasses gave him a good view of her, dressed in her simple blouse and skirt. She wore no
hat, and her hair was wildly curly, though she had managed in some mysterious, feminine way to secure the soft mass on her head, off her shoulders.

He could easily imagine that lustrous hair flowing freely in lush curls across her bare shoulders. It would brush the tips of her breasts when she undressed to swim on the private section of beach…

The unbidden thought shocked but pleased him. It had been a very long time since he’d thought of a woman the way any normal man would. Still, he had no business thinking of Miss Tearwater in such vivid terms. She was merely the proprietress of Ravenwell and the woman he was going to prove guilty of fraud.

Sam rose to his feet and started to walk toward the lake, but turned and detoured toward the farms, heading in the direction from which Miss Tearwater had come. He wondered about the tree that had fallen a while ago, and the strange weather of the previous night. The ground was bone dry. Clearly, there’d been no rain after the wind and lightning.

Nothing seemed normal here. Was it Ravenwell itself? Or something odd about Cumbria and the Lake District?

All the farms that Sam could see were small and neatly divided by hedgerows or squat walls of stone. On the opposite side of the path was a deep grove of mature deciduous trees.

Perhaps that was where the tree had fallen.

Sam continued to walk, waving at a farmer in a distant field, and greeting an elderly woman who worked near her cottage, picking tomatoes.

“Beautiful morning,” he said.

“Aye, that it is.”

“Quite a garden you have there.” Sam didn’t know when he’d seen better. Bright red tomatoes were bigger than his hand. Cucumbers, dark green, were long and plump. Cauliflower, string beans, leafy stalks—all were in their prime. And it was only midsummer.

“It always seems heartier after a visit from Lilly,” the woman said absently.

“Lilly? Miss Tearwater?”

She looked up at him, and seemed surprised that he was still there. “Aye,” she said.

Sam did not know what to make of the woman’s statement. Surely she did not mean that Miss Tearwater had some beneficial effect on the vegetables. More likely she meant that her life seemed brighter after a visit from Ravenwell’s mistress. Hence, the garden seemed robust to the old woman’s eyes.

He looked around, scratching his head. “Did you happen to notice…was a tree nearby cut down this morning?”

“Nay.”

“You’re sure?”

“O’ course, lad,” the woman replied. “No one cut it. It just fell.”

S
am headed back to Ravenwell, feeling as if he’d stepped off the train into some strange, fictional Lewis Carroll world. Nothing seemed right.

A sharp pain on the side of his neck punctuated that feeling, and he realized he’d been stung by a honeybee. He rubbed the spot and shifted his rucksack, bracing himself for whatever might happen next. Somehow, he was certain it would not be anything commonplace.

He entered Ravenwell’s grounds through a gate at the entry to the back garden. At the outer edges were thick bushes and an abundance of well-tended flowers—
Calluna vulgaris, Digitalis purpurea, Achillea millefollium.
Lilly Tearwater was among them, bent at the waist, tending the beds.

She stood suddenly as if startled to see him. It appeared she’d been so deep in thought she had not heard his approach.

She was still hatless, and her skin again glowed with a fine sheen of perspiration. In consideration of the sun’s heat, she’d rolled her sleeves up to her elbows and opened the topmost buttons of her
blouse. Sam was treated to a tantalizing hint of what lay beneath, and forgot about the painful sting at his neck.

He was suddenly much more aware of other parts of his anatomy.

Miss Tearwater touched her tongue to her lips and spoke. “Did you find your bees?”

“Bees?” A bead of moisture trickled down her throat and disappeared into the cleavage partially revealed by her open buttons. Sam swallowed. “Bees. Yes. Excellent hive in the meadow.”

Miss Tearwater bent to the ground again and picked up the flowers she’d cut. Sam hadn’t noticed them until that moment.

“Allow me,” he said, taking the bunch from her arms. His hands brushed her warm skin, but he didn’t experience the sharp punch of discomfort usually engendered by the lightest touch. He felt a slight quiver of expectation along his spine, but nothing more.

Sam stayed with her as she began to wend her way along the stone path through the flower beds, toward the inn.

He needed to win the wager he’d made with Jack. His money wouldn’t hold out for very long. By the time he finished his research at Ravenwell, he would be broke. Which meant that he was going to have to ask Miss Tearwater about the Ravenwell phantoms.

“What exactly do you expect to learn about the bees, Mr. Temple?” she asked, before he had a chance to pose his own question.

He did not let her question deter him, it merely delayed the inevitable. “I have a theory about their dance.”

She turned and looked up at him. “Did you say
dance?
”

Sam nodded. “That’s what I call it. The movements they make to communicate with other workers in the hive.”

Puzzlement flickered in her extraordinary eyes. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“Generations of observers have noticed particular movements in bees returning to the hive. I think these bees are talking to other worker bees.”

Miss Tearwater looked skeptical and Sam couldn’t blame her. Hardly anyone outside of scientific society understood the theories of Mr. Darwin. But evolution, adaptation, survival of the fittest—these were concepts that seemed to explain a great number of things in nature.

“What on earth do they talk about?”

“Food. At least, I think it’s about food.”

“And were you watching your bees when you got stung there?” They stopped walking and Miss Tearwater touched her forefinger to the unfortunate place on his neck. “It’s quite red and starting to swell, you know.”

Sam froze in place and listened to the blood roaring in his ears. Her touch was light and gentle, yet a distinct memory of the torturer’s tools, hot on his skin, assailed him.

“Charlotte was stung once,” she said as Sam caught his breath. She was so close that he could see every eyelash, and a tiny smudge of dirt beside her ear. “It caused an awful welt.”

“It sometimes happens,” he said. It was a struggle, forcing himself to stand so still, so close to her. But he would have to spend time with her if he
wanted to get the information he needed to win the wager.

“You should tend to that.”

She appeared not to have noticed his distress at her proximity, but continued walking toward the inn. “Have you any ice?” he asked. “That’s all I need.”

She looked askance. “Come with me,” she said.

“Right here.” Lilly pulled out a chair at the kitchen table for Mr. Temple to sit down. Turning away, she reached into a cupboard for a teacup and heard him place the flowers on Mr. Clive’s worktable.

Lilly must have misjudged the time, for Mr. Clive was conspicuously absent. Luncheon was over and the chef was most likely in the kitchen garden, picking the herbs and vegetables he wanted for the evening meal. But she would not let on to Mr. Temple that it made her nervous to be alone with him. He was just a guest, nothing more. It was her responsibility to help him.

“A piece of ice will do,” Mr. Temple said. He looked at her as if she planned to treat the sting with a hot poker, which reminded Lilly of some unkind thing Aunt Maude used to say about men and their little injuries. “I’m conditioned to being stung, Miss Tearwater. I barely react.”

“I have an excellent remedy,” Lilly said, ignoring him. “Sit down. It consists of a few secret ingredients mixed in olive oil. It’s a recipe given me by my aunt.”

“What ingredients?” Mr. Temple eyed the three small glass jars that she took from a cabinet and carried to the table.

“Now, if I told you, it wouldn’t be a secret, would it?”

“Actually, it’s all right.” He started for the door, but Lilly stepped into his path. “I don’t really—”

“You’re not afraid that I’ll make it worse?” Mixing several drops of camphor into the olive oil, she added a few drops of cedarwood oil and a bit of her precious citronella. Then she dropped in an ingredient as clear as water that had no taste or smell. She didn’t know what it was, but Aunt Maude had always placed a great deal of stock in its value.

“No…it’s just I, uh…”

“Now then. Sit,” she said, noting the way he gritted his teeth as he pulled off his canvas rucksack and sat down. His posture was rigid, his back straight as a rod. “I promise this will be painless.”

Mr. Temple turned slightly, settling his bright blue eyes upon her. His hair grew thick and full, and very dark except for those few strands of white just above his ear. Lilly wondered how it would feel if she touched it.

Her movements slowed. She moistened her lips as the languorous haze of afternoon heat drifted through the kitchen.

Mr. Temple wore no jacket, and his shirt was collarless, with rolled-up sleeves, exposing muscular forearms liberally sprinkled with dark hair. His hands were considerably larger than hers, with long, strong fingers clenched in a death grip on his canvas pack. Their gazes locked for a moment and the heat of the day seemed to shimmer between them.

His lips parted and his nostrils flared. When he let out a long, slow breath, Lilly forgot her purpose.

Her heart stopped and her mind ceased to func
tion. At least, that was how it seemed. She shook herself briskly.

“H-have you pulled out the stinger?” she finally asked. He gave a quick shake of his head and Lilly turned her attention to the angry red mark on his neck. “This will only take a minute.”

Bending closer to look for the stinger, she used her nail to scrape it from his skin. Then, using one finger, she dabbed a bit of the medicated oil onto the spot. Lilly heard his breath catch when she touched him, and realized how close she stood.
Good Lord!
She should have rebuttoned her blouse.

Abruptly, she stepped away from Mr. Temple. She would look like a foolish adolescent if she started to fumble with her buttons now. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed.

Grabbing a towel to wipe Aunt Maude’s concoction from her hands, she tried to think of some casual remark to send him on his way. But even had any words come to mind, Lilly knew that her throat would not function.

Without a sound, she walked out of the kitchen, leaving Mr. Temple alone with the cut flowers lying on the large table in the center of the room. In the dim hallway outside, she paused to compose herself. She had work to do. There was no time to dally over such foolishness.

She took a deep breath and walked to a small sitting room that overlooked the rose garden as she fastened her buttons from neck to breast.

“Miss Tearwater.” Lilly started at the sound of Mr. Dawson’s voice. She had thought the room empty, but the gentleman sat in a wing chair facing the fireplace.

“You startled me, Mr. Dawson,” she said. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

The man folded his newspaper and rose to his full height. He was tall, though not quite as tall as Mr. Temple, and his build was brawny. Mr. Dawson’s hair was neatly trimmed, with a liberal sprinkling of silver at the temples. His nose was crooked, as though it might have been broken. Lilly believed his age to be close to fifty. Too young for Ada Simpson, but that was none of her concern. “I understand I missed an event last night,” he said.

“An event? Oh, yes. Sir Emmett. You weren’t in the garden when he came out?” She had become so accustomed to lying about the ghosts that it came easily.

“Unfortunately, no.”

“Miss Simpson was looking for you. Did she find you?”

“Who?” he asked.

“The chemist’s sister. From the village,” Lilly replied. She went to one of the highly polished tables and picked up a vase of fading blooms.

Mr. Dawson shook his head. “I must have missed her somehow.”

“Well, I’m sure she’ll find you if it’s important.” Lilly turned to leave, but Mr. Dawson detained her.

“Miss Tearwater,” he said. “There were other events last evening. A sudden wind. The gaslights suddenly extinguished…what do you think happened?”

She had not been out-of-doors to witness the wind, but she’d heard about it from Tom. “Perhaps it was Sir Emmett. Or Lady Alice. I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Dawson.”

His scrutiny made Lilly uncomfortable. It was as if he knew there was some other explanation for the ghosts, and was waiting for her to give it.

Lilly almost laughed at herself. No one could possibly know that she had created the ghosts in her imagination and made them exist through her talent. She’d never told Tom what she could do, and Charlotte certainly didn’t know.

But Mr. Dawson looked at her as if he suspected something.

“Well. It’s a beautiful day today,” she said, to change the direction of the conversation. Clutching the vase to her breast, she moved toward the doorway. “Several of the guests have gone hiking. Others are boating.”

“Will any of your guest rooms become available in the near future?” he asked.

“I’m not sure, Mr. Dawson. I’d have to check the reservations. Why?”

He did not answer right away, and the appraising look he gave her was disconcerting.

“I have a very good friend in London who would like to join me for my remaining weeks here at Ravenwell.”

“I will have to let you know, Mr. Dawson.”

Feeling distinctly uncomfortable under his perusal, Lilly left the room and made her way toward the kitchen once again, only to be waylaid by Charlotte. Her friend was distraught and disheveled. Her gown was filthy and her hair in tangles.

“Charlotte? What’s wrong?” Lilly asked, dreading the answer. If someone had hurt her, if one of the guests had—

Charlotte’s hand signals indicated something was wrong in the barn.

Lilly frowned. What could it be? They only kept one animal—the gelding that pulled the buggy or the wagon when either was needed. Perhaps one of the guests had wandered out there…

“Charlotte,” Lilly said, taking hold of her arms to slow her down. “Tell me.”

She signaled wildly again, and this time Lilly began to understand. Something was wrong with Duncan, the barn cat that Charlotte had adopted.

“What happened to him?” Lilly asked.

Charlotte indicated that she did not know, but Duncan was terribly ill. She pulled on Lilly’s skirt in an urgent attempt to get her to help.

Mr. Temple was gone from the kitchen when they walked through. Lilly set down the vase of old flowers and followed her friend outside. Charlotte broke into a run and Lilly did the same to keep up.

Lilly could hear Duncan’s caterwauling the minute she entered the barn. The big, old, stone building seemed hollow, though it housed their horse, as well as the buggy and wagon, and the large gardening equipment that didn’t fit in the shed.

She followed the sounds to a far corner, where Charlotte knelt next to the cat, and slid to her knees beside her.

Something was definitely wrong with Duncan. He lay on his side, panting, then growled low in his throat. It did not appear that he’d been hurt in a fight; there was no blood or torn skin. He suddenly wailed.

“Do you need help?”

The voice startled Lilly and she turned to see Mr. Temple standing behind her. She’d been so con
cerned by Charlotte’s anguish and Duncan’s distress that she hadn’t heard his approach.

“I saw you two running.” He looked uncomfortable, unsure about intruding. “There didn’t seem to be anyone else about…”

“It’s Duncan, Charlotte’s cat.”

“Yes. I hear him.”

“Do you know anything about animals—cats— Mr. Temple?”

He hesitated, and Lilly wondered if he would ever answer her. He seemed to gird himself somehow, then crouched down, moving close to the obviously distressed animal.

Utterly absorbed by Duncan’s plight, Charlotte seemed oblivious to Mr. Temple’s strong male presence in the small space. But Lilly was not. Though they did not touch, she felt the heat of his skin through her thin summer clothes.

“Let’s see now,” he said, moving his hands carefully toward the injured animal, to its painfully contracted belly.

And Lilly suddenly realized that the feline they had assumed to be male was about to give birth!

Charlotte’s pleading eyes looked up at Mr. Temple, then at Lilly.

“She wants to know if Duncan will be all right,” Lilly murmured.

“I think so,” he replied, “if she can survive having the wrong name. She’s about to deliver a litter of kittens.”