Margo Maguire (8 page)

L
illy was horrified by the angry red scars that crisscrossed Samuel Temple’s back, and even more appalled that she’d exposed her shock aloud.

Keeping his back to her, he jerked on his shirt, covering the recent wounds. “I paid the price for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

She closed the distance between them and would have put her hand on his arm if he hadn’t shrugged away from her. He grimaced slightly before bending over to pick up his shoes and stockings.

“It must have been terrible!” she exclaimed.

Shaking the sand out of his shoes, he walked to the flat rock Lilly always used to remove her own shoes, and sat down. “Yeah. Terrible,” he muttered.

“Is that why you always withdraw from me? You’d rather not be touched?”

In silence, he pulled on his stockings, then his shoes.

“You hated it when I put the ointment on your bee sting.” She remembered how he’d squirmed. And the way he always moved out of range whenever anyone got too close.

She couldn’t blame him. After seeing those wounds, Lilly imagined how his skin would crawl if anyone came near. She understood that he wouldn’t want to talk about it, either.

“All of the guests are in the garden waiting for an apparition,” she said.

“Do you think the ghosts will give a performance tonight?” He seemed relieved at the change of subject.

“I don’t know. Our ghosts are unpredictable.” The lie was becoming tedious. Lilly wished she could pack up her things and go as far from Ravenwell as her money would take her. She would travel on trains and ships. She would ride a camel in Egypt and a gondola in Venice.

If only she were not so tied to the inn.

“Your vicar doesn’t know what to make of the ghosts.”

“Reverend Graham?”

It was nearly dark now, but Lilly was able to see Samuel’s head bob once. She took a seat on the rock next to him, but not too close. “He wouldn’t. I don’t think he’s ever seen them.”

“No. At least, that’s what he said,” Sam remarked. “And he told me there were no records dating prior to 1749.”

“You and Reverend Graham must have had quite a visit.” Lilly was annoyed that he’d felt the need to check up on her, but the idea that the vicar had discussed Lilly’s ghosts made her distinctly uncomfortable. A little bit of harmless deceit for business was one thing, but to mislead a man of the cloth…

“His son asked about you.”

This didn’t surprise Lilly. “How is Alan?” The
younger Reverend Graham had performed services the previous Sunday, and he’d told her that he expected to take over his father’s parish now that the vicar was nearing retirement.

“Pompous.”

Lilly laughed. Yes, that was Alan Graham. Handsome, tall and as blond as a Viking raider, Alan had always made her uncomfortable with his righteous zeal. She was sure he was going to be a fire-and-brimstone pastor.

“Reverend Graham said he plans to come out to the inn some evening to see if he can catch sight of the ghosts.”

That thought gave Lilly pause. “With Alan?”

“Alan was particularly interested.”

“So are you,” she remarked.

“Of course. Is there a man of science in all the world who wouldn’t like to prove the existence of ghosts?”

“But you want to
disprove
it.”

“It’s all a matter of perspective.”

Lilly bit her lip. That was easy for him to say. Sir Emmett and Lady Alice were the only means Lilly had found to make Ravenwell even halfway prosperous. If Mr. Temple spread the word that the ghosts were a sham, business would suffer. She wouldn’t be able to pay off Maude’s loans, and she and Charlotte would never be able to crawl out of debt.

“What would convince you that Sir Emmett and Lady Alice are real?”

“What difference does that make, since it’s not something you can control?”

“I just wondered.” She picked up a handful of
sand and let it drift through her fingers. “What is the kind of evidence that would convince a man of science?” While they talked, Lilly sensed an easing of the tension that had shimmered from Samuel only moments before.

The peaceful setting was responsible. She often came to the beach alone—when she was happy, or when her troubles seemed overwhelming. She’d never shared this place—her own perch near the water—with another. But sitting here, chatting with Samuel, seemed the most natural thing. She even considered telling him the truth about the ghosts.

But quickly thought better of it.
No one
could ever learn of her talent. As Maude had warned, Lilly would be considered an oddity at best, a Satan-worshipper at worst. She did not relish the prospect of being labeled a witch.

“I imagine business has been quite good since the Ravenwell ghosts started making appearances.”

Lilly studied his profile against the darkening sky. He seemed relaxed, yet she knew that if she ventured any closer, he would stand abruptly and withdraw. “People come to see them,” she said quietly.

They sat together as lovers might do, but there was an unbreachable space that separated them. Attraction shimmered between them, yet the slightest touch—much less a kiss—was forbidden to them.

Lilly would caress his hair, would thread her fingers through the glossy thickness, if he only would allow it. She would touch her lips to his—

“Look at that!” Samuel stood as a sudden burst of shooting stars rained over the lake.

Lilly winced. Once again, her desire had inadvertently translated into physical form. Samuel brushed
a hand over his mouth and looked down at her, then up at the sky.

At least the shooting stars hadn’t caused any damage she would have to repair.

It was the damnedest thing. Sam could have sworn that Lilly had touched his lips, but that was impossible. She hadn’t moved any closer to him.

But the sensation had been exquisite. He was as aroused as if she’d pulled open his shirt and run her tongue over his nipples. He had smelled her scent and felt the soft texture of her lips, just as the shooting stars lit up the sky. The tiny lights were every bit as stunning as the sensations he’d felt only a second before.

“That was…” Lilly’s voice sounded strained, as if she’d felt the same sensations. She cleared her throat and changed her tone. “Well. I’ve never seen such an…unusual display.”

Neither had Sam. Not in the desert sky, or over the open sea. He’d certainly never experienced anything like Lilly’s touch—or whatever had happened between them. He was beginning to believe there
was
something strange about Ravenwell. He turned to take hold of Lilly’s shoulders, to force her to explain all these unsettling events that he’d recently witnessed. He desperately wanted to haul her into his arms and feel her feminine curves against his body, to bury himself deeply inside her to ease this intense craving.

But he could not. A horrible dread filled his chest when he thought of touching her, and his hands trembled. He took a few deep breaths and balled his hands into fists, even as he craved her touch.

He wanted her as badly as he needed to escape her.

The turmoil in his head made it feel as if it would explode. He raked his fingers through his hair and across his scalp as if that would somehow contain the chaos going on inside. He stood abruptly. “I’m going back.”

When she got up to follow him, he felt another burst of alarm. He didn’t want her to come along. He needed time to settle his nerves, to try to figure out what was happening between them, what was going on at Ravenwell.

“Miss Tearwater,” he said suddenly, turning to face her. She was so lovely in the moonlight. Every muscle in his body clenched with the desire to take her in his arms and carry her to some private bower where he could make love to her until dawn.

She looked up at him expectantly, and Sam turned away.

“The scars you saw…” He clasped his hands behind his back, then forced out his next words. “They barely scratch the surface of what was done to me when I was imprisoned in Sudan.”

Sam detested having to admit to such weakness. Any one of his brothers would have survived the same imprisonment and tortures without this bizarre consequence—this crippling revulsion to being touched. “I cannot…Miss Tearwater…” He turned to face her again. “You are so beautiful, so capable. Any man would be flattered to receive your notice. But I…”

A slight frown marred her brow, but Sam took a deep breath. “As much as I would like to touch
you—” he swallowed “—to steal a kiss, it is beyond me.”

Though it was ungentlemanly, and perhaps cowardly, Sam left Lilly standing on the sand and made his way along the path that led to Ravenwell’s garden. Though it was a beautiful night, none of the guests were outside when he entered through the gate. Supper was long past, and the inn’s guests were probably waiting for ghosts to appear somewhere inside.

All those people should have been outdoors, looking at the sky when it had been filled with shooting stars. That was the true magic. Sam felt restless and shaky, his muscles tired from his swim. He still didn’t understand what had come over him at the beach, how he could possibly have felt Lilly’s touch.

But it left him wanting.

He lit a cheroot and took a seat at one of the tables on the stone terrace to settle down before retiring. The sight of those shooting stars had been one of the most amazing things he’d ever seen—hundreds of pinpoints of light cascading across the sky.

And just as he began to wonder what the astronomers would say about it, Lilly came through the gate. Walking with purpose, she went to the service door that led into the kitchen, and disappeared.

Sam inhaled deeply of his cheroot, then tossed it away in disgust. He could hardly believe that his life had come to this—sitting alone in the dark, letting a beautiful woman slip away.

He leaned his elbows on his knees and propped his chin on his hands. Safe and dull. That’s what he had to look forward to.

Prior to his experience in Sudan, Sam had lived
for the next challenge, the next adventure. He knew that life in London was going to be a deadly bore, but the thought of another adventure in an exotic locale made his palms sweat and his heart pound. Sam knew he would never again be able to endure the jostling crowds of Persia or Africa, or the physical contact of another human being. The mere thought of leaving England’s civilized shores made him queasy.

He had no choice but to seek the post in London. Any further consideration was pointless, and the sooner he accepted that fact, the better.

Tomorrow he would build his platform in the chestnut tree and get on with the study he’d started in Sudan. He estimated he needed at least six weeks to reproduce the work he’d lost there. After that, another two months to write the article that would footnote the work of the other naturalists who had gone before, and then his own conclusions. By year’s end, the appointment to the Royal College would be his.

The idea didn’t particularly please him, but he wouldn’t dwell on it. He wasn’t going to be able to—

Someone slipped quietly into the garden and stopped near the building, directly across from Sam. It was a man, judging by his height, but Sam could not see him well enough to recognize him. The fellow looked to the left and right, then crept stealthily to the door that Lilly Tearwater had entered only a few minutes before.

Sam wondered if this was the culprit who was putting on Ravenwell’s frequent haunting performances. It was unlikely that Fletcher was involved, but
Sam was sure someone around here must be doing it.

When the fellow slipped inside and closed the door quietly, Sam got up and followed him. He stepped through the doorway and looked within, but there was no light. He could barely see the shadows of the tables and chairs that he knew were there. Nothing moved.

Sam remembered that there was a large pantry in the wall to the right, and a stairway to the root cellar directly opposite him. Perhaps the man had already left the room, or was hiding in the pantry. He was probably preparing for another ghostly display.

A whisper of sound at Sam’s left made him turn.

But he saw nothing. After his months in dark confinement, his night vision should have been better. Instead, the absolute darkness of the room—so similar to the pit where he’d been held in Sudan—nearly paralyzed him.

Sam suddenly realized he needed to make his way into the light before panic seized him. He took one step forward, and then another.

And then he felt it—someone in the room with him, circling around him, behind him. He was without a weapon, just as he’d been in the dark pit. Except that in the pit, his attackers had brought candles.

The back of Sam’s neck prickled with awareness of the enemy. His skin became chilled and clammy, and his breath caught in his throat. Dropping to a crouch, he prepared for the attack, though he knew there was nothing he could do when they pinned his arms and started slashing.

But his jailers were strangely quiet this time. He
could only hear the faint whisper of breath, the slight rasp of cloth.

Sam blinked sweat from his eyes. He had to strike first—had to show them that he was unafraid and would resist whatever torture they had planned. He lashed out with his fist, but his target somehow managed to dodge the blow.

Sam spoke in Arabic, his voice a quiet threat. “I’m right here,” he whispered in the language of his captors. “Come and get me.”

A fist slammed into his shoulder, knocking him off balance. He returned the punch, his knuckles connecting with flesh and bone, but his enemy remained silent.

“Bastard!” Sam growled, moving aside.

Metal crashed to the floor, then something hard hit Sam on the side of his forehead. It stunned him long enough for his jailer to run out and escape. A wave of dizziness hit Sam when he tried to stand.

He braced himself, but fell against a table, losing consciousness when he hit the floor.

A
loud crash brought Lilly into the kitchen. With the aid of a lamp, she saw Samuel lying on the floor, bleeding from a gash in his head. On the floor beside him lay two of the pans that Mr. Clive kept hanging on a rack near the stove.

Samuel must have hit his head on them in the dark.

Lilly set the lamp on the table and got a clean cloth from a drawer, then pumped cold water onto it. She returned to Samuel, carefully pressed the cloth to the wound, aware that he would never allow her to lavish such attention on him if he were conscious.

The cut was deep and would require stitching…

Unless she did something about it before he regained consciousness.

She told herself that it was perfectly sensible to repair the damage before he came ’round. No one else knew of his mishap, and if the unforeseen consequence of mending his wound was as benign as those shooting stars, then there was no need to worry.

Half a second later, Samuel was coming to, rubbing his head, sitting up. Lilly knelt beside him, but kept her hands to herself.

“What happened?”

“You must have bumped your head on one of Mr. Clive’s pots.” She pointed to the rack above the worktable.

Lilly hardly noticed his dubious expression as she wondered whether anything had shattered, burst or crumbled somewhere in the inn. Perhaps there’d been a bolt of lightning or another shower of shooting stars. She hadn’t heard any untoward noises, but there must have been
some
consequence resulting from her meddling.

“Are you all right?”

He moved his hand from his forehead and looked at it as if he expected to see blood. “I was sure I…” He glanced at the heavy skillet that lay on the floor beside him, then up at the rack over the worktable.

Lilly didn’t like his frown or the questions she saw in his eyes. Suddenly realizing that the damp cloth she held was still bloody, she tossed it into the dry sink before he could take note of it.

“Were you looking for a bite to eat?” she asked, to divert his attention. It was a reasonable question, since he seemed to miss meals fairly often. The only other reason he might have had for coming into the kitchen—checking for evidence of chicanery—was extremely unflattering to her, though she could not deny that his instincts were good.

“No. I…” He frowned again. “I had a smoke out on the terrace. Decided to come in through here when I was done.”

He was prevaricating. Lilly was sure of it, but resisted assuming the worst.

She was also very careful with her thoughts, afraid that one of them would inadvertently take shape the way it had done a little while ago at the lake. She blushed at the thought of it.

“Next time, perhaps you should light a lamp.”

Rising to his feet, he made a low sound in his throat. Lilly changed the subject. Better to divert his attention from his mishap with talk.

“I forgot to mention… The lumber you purchased in Asbury is still in the wagon in the barn. There was no point in having Davy unload it, since you’ll want to cart it somewhere tomorrow.”

In the light of her small lamp, his eyes seemed dark, suspicious. “I’ll only need the horse and wagon for an hour or so.” He still sounded dazed.

“It’s no matter. I’ll have Davy hitch the horse so you’ll be able to go right after breakfast.” She attempted normalcy in her tone in hope that he would be distracted from the strangeness of the evening’s events. “Perhaps you should go to your room and lie down, Mr. Temple. It’s late, and you’re looking rather pale.”

He seemed to study her. “I guess I will.” They stood together. “What the hell?”

Every cupboard door stood open, casting long, ominous shadows to the ceiling. Lilly felt fortunate that the consequence of healing Mr. Temple’s wound hadn’t been any worse.

“Oh, uh… I suppose it was Sir Emmett or Lady Alice. They sometimes make mischief. Well, good night.”

His posture made it clear that he didn’t believe a
word she said. She did not venture to look into his eyes, but handed him the lamp and left abruptly. She went to the reception desk and let herself into the office, then to her apartment, where Charlotte worked in their small kitchen, ironing blouses, oblivious to Lilly’s comings and goings.

Lilly stood with her back to the door, willing her heart to slow. She sighed and watched her friend. There were times when Lilly wished her own life were as simple and uncomplicated as Charlotte’s. She longed to be content to stay at Ravenwell.

Charlotte loved the place. She took great satisfaction in all the little details of their life at the inn, while Lilly yearned to be free of it, to travel to the faraway places she would only ever visit in her books.

Sam studied his reflection in the mirror over his washstand. He would swear that his assailant had sliced open a piece of skin on his forehead, yet there was no sign of any gash—not even a scratch. He was starting to believe he was losing whatever tenuous grasp he had on his sanity.

Sam gripped the washstand with both hands and lowered his head. He should just forget about the bee project and the wager and return to London. He was accomplishing nothing here besides turning his life upside down. Shooting stars, phantom caresses and ghosts. He
was
losing his mind.

After spending another restless night in his Ravenwell bed, Sam took another look at his forehead. He must have been mistaken about the blow that had knocked him cold. That’s what had distorted everything. There was no other logical explanation.
Though logic had played little part in all that had happened in the past year.

A life within the safety of London’s boundaries was never going to appeal to Sam. He hadn’t forgotten the thrill of his past adventures; he just couldn’t imagine facing them again—not when he could barely abide the touch of a beautiful woman. Not when he spent nights in a cold sweat, afraid of hidden shadows that might hold him down and do their worst.

He sat at the desk in his room and took out the letter he’d begun to Mr. Phipson in Bombay. Sitting with his pen in hand, he considered how to word his refusal of the invitation.

He hadn’t been to India in ages—not since at least six or eight years before, when he’d joined his parents and siblings for a month together in Karnataka. They had stayed near his father’s excavation site near the Hoysala Temple, then traveled to various parts of the province, visiting a number of ancient wonders. At the time, Sam had thought of several different projects he might have pursued in India, and he’d looked forward to returning some day.

He was about to pass up a very good opportunity to do so.

He ran one hand over his face and sighed. This was not a good time to write to Mr. Phipson. He needed to do it after a good night’s sleep, when his mind was clear. Folding the letter, he slipped it into the battered leather portfolio that had traveled the world with him. It was one of the few possessions that had been recovered from his jail near Khartoum.

Half an hour later, he was driving the Ravenwell wagon down the path toward the chestnut tree. He
had borrowed tools from Davy Becker, the young man employed to do odd jobs for Lilly. Sam had already taken measurements and drawn a detailed plan of the platform. He was sure it would take no more than a few hours to build it.

He had gotten as far as the place where the path split when he encountered Miss Charlotte, carrying a large basket of ripe vegetables toward the inn. She greeted him with a wave and signaled a question.
Where was he going?

Before Sam could figure out how to answer her, she had placed her basket inside the wagon and was climbing up. Sam didn’t mind her company, but he’d gotten the distinct impression that Lilly would not want Charlotte to go off with him.

Unfortunately, when he tried to convey his doubts about her coming with him, she did not appear to understand.

Sam drove the wagon toward the water and turned off the path near the chestnut tree. When he stopped, he began to unload the supplies he’d bought in Asbury. Charlotte helped. His ability to communicate with her was improving significantly.

Interpreting the questions she asked in her own way, Sam took out the drawings he’d made of the platform and showed them to her. Then he pointed to the hive in the tree, which was a good three yards above the ground.

Charlotte’s eyes widened when she realized what he planned to do.

Sam enjoyed this part of the project. He could immerse himself in the task, emptying his mind so that his memories did not intrude. He could put Lilly Tearwater from his mind and set aside the intense
desire he felt whenever she was near. Working with his hands took his full attention.

Sam slung a coil of thick rope over his head and arm like a bandolier, then climbed the tree. He straddled the thick branch that lay nearly perpendicular to the hive, while he devised a pulley to haul up the lumber he would use.

When he climbed down, he came face-to-face with an angry Lilly Tearwater. Charlotte was not in sight.

“Mr. Temple,” she said. She wore a simple blouse and skirt, attire that should not have been alluring in the least. She pressed one hand to her breast as her violet eyes flashed hotly. “I don’t allow Charlotte to cavort with strangers.”

“Cavort?”

“Associate, keep company, consort. She is compromised by her deafness.” Then she sighed and let her hands drop to her sides. “I’m sorry,” she said simply as her anger faded. Or perhaps Sam had been mistaken and it had not been anger that he’d seen. “I worry… I sent her down to Mrs. Webster’s farm for fresh produce. She was gone for an awfully long time.”

Lilly had beautiful hands, delicate and expressive when she spoke. It was no wonder he’d imagined their touch, time and time again. What normal man would not?

She glanced up at the tree and Sam couldn’t help but admire the elegant lines of her throat, her delicate ears…

He swallowed. “Are you sure you don’t mind all this?”

“Of course not.”

“I’m going to hang a rope ladder here.” He
pointed out the broad branch across from the hive where he would construct his platform. “The tree is dead, but I won’t do much more damage to it.”

She nodded, and Sam remembered that he would have to get her talking if he was going to learn anything about the Ravenwell phantoms.

“You’ll watch the bees from there?”

He nodded. “I’ll be taking photographs, too. That’s why I have to build the platform.”

“What will you do if it rains? Won’t your camera be ruined?”

He took out the drawing that he’d shown Charlotte. “I plan to hang a canvas canopy above it.”

She pulled her lower lip through her teeth as she studied the drawing, and Sam suppressed a shiver of arousal. The attraction he felt was pointless. Even if he could overcome his trauma and touch her, it would be entirely improper.

“You said that the bees dance?”

“It’s as good a word as any to describe the movements the workers make when they return to the hive.”

“I’ve never noticed it.”

“You probably don’t spend a lot of time watching hive activity.”

She laughed. “You’re right about that.”

“It’s my theory that, over the centuries, the foragers evolved to develop a method of communication with bees in the hive.”

“About food.”

She remembered, and Sam was inordinately pleased. “The workers make specific movements when they return to the hive. I was in the process of
documenting those movements while I was in Sudan. I plan to finish the project here.”

Sam wasn’t going to give her a long lecture on Mr. Darwin’s theories. He just wanted to get her comfortably conversant with him, so that she would eventually open up.

He wanted no more intimate moments such as those in the barn or beside the lake. Just enough information to lead him to an explanation of the ghosts and to the hundred pounds that Jack would owe him.

“Does your work have anything to do with Mr. Darwin’s theories?” she asked.

Sam nearly dropped the planks he held. “You know about evolution and adaptation?”

“Some,” Lilly replied. “I don’t understand why Reverend Graham believes Mr. Darwin’s theory is antithetical to creation.”

“It isn’t.”

“I didn’t think so, either. Believing in Darwin’s evolution theory doesn’t necessarily negate the notion of a creator, or of creation.”

Sam gaped at her. Then he snapped his mouth shut and carried the lumber to the base of the tree. He couldn’t have been more surprised if the Ravenwell ghost had appeared then and there, sitting on a branch of the chestnut tree, dangling its legs high above them.

Lilly would have to have lived in a cave to miss hearing of Charles Darwin and his radical theories. Mr. Graham had expressed his outrage from the pulpit on more than one occasion. Even Alan, a much
younger man, had expressed displeasure with Darwin’s work.

“Did you ever meet Mr. Darwin?” she asked Samuel.

“No. But my mentor was one of his students. He was killed in Sudan.”

The tone and cadence of his speech changed, and Lilly heard anger and frustration in his voice.

“What happened?” she asked quietly.

He did not answer right away, and Lilly wondered if perhaps she should not have asked. She had no doubt that it was a painful subject…

“He was tortured to death. Before my eyes.”

Lilly felt her knees go weak, but she placed one hand on the wagon for support. “Why was he killed?”

Her voice was a quiet addition to the peaceful afternoon. The birds chirped, squirrels chattered…but the two of them spoke of a brutal killing. A horrible murder.

Samuel looked at her starkly. “He was killed for no reason. There was a rebellion going on in the southern regions. When we were first taken, we believed we were hostages.”

“But you were not?”

He shook his head and turned away. “Our captors cared nothing about the Mahdi or his demand for reforms. We were hapless victims of power-mad fanatics.”

“You’ll never go back, will you?”

He turned away and unloaded the rest of his supplies. “Subject myself to the whims of madmen again? No.”

There was silence between them as Samuel tied
two of his planks to the rope, then climbed to the branch where he would build. Pulling in the rope, he raised the lumber to his level. Lilly had work of her own to do, but it was fascinating to watch him. Surely Tom Fletcher had never moved with such agility. Alan Graham did not have such broad shoulders and muscular thighs.