The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (17 page)

The air in the room chilled the moment he
arrived. Anne felt it and knew he was there. The laudanum gripped
her mind though and she closed her eyes, preferring to spend time
in little Harry's company. The slow creaks of walking sounded
across the floorboards. Panic threatened, but she pushed it away
and turned over in the bed, away from him.

The girl was there, Elizabeth. She
wasn't entirely solid. Anne could see her old-fashioned dress and
she looked up at the girl's face. She was looking away, toward the
direction where Anne felt the threat was. If Anne's assumption was
right, this darkness was her father. Elizabeth spoke frantically,
but Anne heard no sounds.

Elizabeth crouched down by the bed, saying
something intently to Anne, but Anne couldn't hear a word. The girl
looked concerned, repeating what she was saying more intently. She
faded, still trying to say something.

Anne knew she should be concerned; he was
here. Pressure came down on her shoulder, hard enough that she felt
the bed ropes. If it wasn't for the laudanum, it would likely hurt.
Reaching out, she grasped for some hold, to fight, but there was
nothing. "You're a coward," she hissed and the pressure let
slightly. The chill of the touch radiated, but her body couldn't
register any pain with it.

The icy grip shifted to her neck, applying
pressure. He was strong. Now she felt panic. Her air was cut off.
Still there was no pain. She stared into the space where this
person should be. There was nothing but dark night.

Elizabeth appeared, frantically working to
loosen the grip.

Anne conceded that she might die. She
recognized the pressure in her lungs, but it wasn't painful. The
grip slipped and Anne shifted. "A bully and a coward," she croaked.
"This is my house. You are the one who doesn’t belong
here."

A grip around her ankle tugged her out of
bed and she flew onto the floor. "I have no way of defending myself
and you attack me. Coward!" she shouted.

Cold hands clasped around her again and she
grabbed onto the bed leg, holding tight as he tugged on her. She
lifted off the ground. "I'm not leaving."

The smell of smoke filled the room and
she started coughing. Fire. The house was on fire. Panic shot
through her again. "Lisle!" she called. Heat licked at her skin.
Searching around her, she tried to find the source, but saw
nothing. It still choked her lungs though. "This isn't real. You're
not real. You are dead and was buried a long time ago. You don't
belong here."

She felt a boot at her side, pushing
her over. "Hiding in this house so you won't face judgment." She
wasn't entirely sure what she was saying, but her anger flowed out
of her mouth.

The floor creaked around her and she
almost expected it when his hand gripped around her neck and he
lifted her up. Quickly, she floated through the air until hitting
the wall behind her. He had her pinned; again air was cut off from
her lungs. He was impossibly strong. Frantic fingers grasped into
cold nothingness, trying to find some way of fighting back. Then
something shifted. Her fingers grasped skin and soft hair.
Grabbing, she tugged on the hair wound between her fingers. The
darkness changed to light. There was a fire. She was not in the
same place as before. It was the same room, but everything was
different.

And then the man, standing in front of her,
still holding her by the neck. She saw him. He wore a black
waistcoat, a sash around the waist. She felt his fingers around her
neck, pressing with all his strength. Maybe she was dying and the
lack of oxygen made her see things—like him.

His face was harsh. He hated her. Dark
eyes stared daggers at her. He meant to kill her and she was
probably going to die in a moment. But she could touch him now.
Bringing her hand up, she dragged her nails down his cheek. Stubble
gave to the force of her nails. She felt blood underneath. It
didn’t make him budge.

Her vision was beginning to swim and
she knew this wasn’t good. She was losing consciousness. In her
panic, she kicked his chin, which also had him refusing to budge.
He simply continued, his hate so strong, he would strangle her.
Bringing her knee up, she used all her strength to push him away,
managing to loosen his grip on her.

Her vision shifted back to darkness and she
feared her own death. A hard knock winded her as she gasped for
air. Then stillness. She searched around for him, but there was
nothing. No hard hands gripped her. The light that had been was
gone. There was no fire now, just still darkness, and the furniture
was all back in the way it was supposed to be.

Reaching out, she felt the floorboards
around her. The knock had been her hitting the floor and she now
lay in a crumpled heap.

The room seemed empty. She couldn't hear him
now. It seemed he had stayed in whatever vision it was she had been
brought to and hadn't returned with her.

Scrambling her way across the floor, she
sought the candle on the bedside table and lit it. Pale light
flared and she looked around. There was nothing, except her
blankets lying on the floor next to the bed. The only sign that
anything had happened at all.

Stilling, she listened intently, trying to
hear anything in the room, but heard nothing. Perhaps he could not
follow her back here. She shifted over and reached for her
blankets, seeing something on her fingers. Bringing it to the
candle, she saw blood on her fingertips. She'd hurt him. In this
vision, she had touched him and when she'd dragged her nails across
his cheek, she'd hurt him.

In no way did she understand what this
meant, beyond the fact that in this vision she could hurt him as he
did her. That was interesting, although still quite disheartening
as by the look of him he was a ruthless and experienced
soldier.

She also knew she recognized him, but
couldn't place him. She had seen that face before. It was here
somewhere in the house. Grabbing the candle holder, she rose. Her
throat was tight and she expected it would be sore tomorrow. If it
wasn't for the laudanum, she would probably be in quite a bit of
pain now.

What had become clear was that the laudanum
did not protect her. It might stop her from feeling pain, but it
didn't essentially provide any protection.

Taking tentative steps, she walked
toward the door. She had seen that face somewhere. Walking the
halls, she searched the paintings. She didn't find him there, so
she continued downstairs, finding him above the mantelpiece in the
library. He looked different, younger and dressed in finer clothes.
The man she'd encountered was not dressed in fine silks with a
blond wig of lush curling hair as she saw in the painting. No, he
was battle-hardened and harsh, dressed in dark leather and a linen
shirt, and he hated her.

There was no hate on the face of the
man in the picture. Arrogance perhaps. A young man sure of his
place in the world. He was handsome with dark eyes and a smooth,
shaved chin. His coat was of light green silk, with ruffles at the
neck and wrists. White stockings covered his lower legs down to
buckled shoes. The picture of a gentleman of that age. There was a
globe in the picture and a desk. She didn't know if that was
supposed to say he was educated or that he was keen on exploration.
Perhaps he had traveled.

So this was him, her enemy. He didn't seem
so formidable in this painting. He actually looked more like an
idle courtier. Apparently life had changed him if the depiction of
the man trying to choke her life out was accurate. There was no
lightness about that man, instead a man who had seen battle more
than once and had lost the refinement he'd known as a young
man.

He was young in this painting, barely twenty
if she were to guess. There was a ring on his finger, so he had
married by then. The man she had met tonight was older. There had
been a scar down his cheek. His natural hair was dark and shoulder
length, but there had been no gray in it. The harsh expression made
him seem older, but he couldn't have been more than forty when he'd
died. She couldn't remember the dates from his grave.

But this man had tried to kill her and
suddenly she wanted to know why. Was he a creature of pure hatred
or a man who hated women? Did it matter? He hated her and wanted
her dead, or away from this house.

What vision was it she had entered? Was that
how he saw the house, the place he dwelled? Then why did he not
stay in his version of it? Perhaps the issue with the house was
that the two versions had amalgamated in some way that was
unnatural.

His daughter had tried to protect her, had
forced him off her. Did that girl live in this alternate world Anne
had been cast into? What was that other world? It was the house,
that very room, but all had been different—that world where he had
form, could bleed.

Anne stood in the quiet library considering
the portrait of Richard Hawke. Her throat still hurt from the night
before. How could a man who seemed so… normal, turn into such a
beast? The painter had done a good job. He'd even caught the glint
of mischief in the young man's eye. This was a young man who had
everything and he knew it. So this was her nemesis, her enemy, the
being that tried to kill her. On some level, she felt so
betrayed—then again, why should she? Men were horrid. Her husband
had discarded her without a care what happened to her. Now this one
was trying to do the same, push her out of her house—steal from her
and leave her utterly destitute.

He'd felt alive, but his body was dead
and buried. That was not in doubt, but in this other world, he'd
felt real, even warm. His fingers had been around her neck; she'd
felt the pressure of them as they'd tried to choke her. Was it an
illusion? She wished Mr. Harleston was there so she could ask. Most
importantly, if he could bleed, could he die?

Blinking, she couldn't believe she was
even considering murdering a person. But he wasn't a person; he was
a ghost, who chose to stay here rather than face whatever judgment
he had coming. As she'd accused him, he truly was a coward, she
determined. He hadn't liked that, being called a coward.

Perhaps declaring war on a
battle-hardened soldier was not the best course of action, but her
options were few. There had been nothing soft about him. The youth
in the portrait was nothing like the man she'd met. It was night
and day. On some level, it was sad to see a man hardened so. She
would hate that to happen to Harry. But they were different times
back then, brutal, and the men reflected it. Things were softer
now, better. Well, perhaps not more caring, but at least men didn't
show their lack of care with swords anymore. There was progress if
she ever knew it.

The cow roamed past the window
outside. It seemed it had returned. Yesterday she'd been of a mind
to flee this place, but things had changed now. There was a face to
the enemy, and that took away some of the irrational fear. Now she
only had to contend with the more tempered fear of an awful man
trying to strangle the life out of her.

Sighing deeply, Anne considered the chores
she had for the day. Now that the cow had returned, she'd better go
and milk it. Maybe some hard work would take her mind off the
problems facing her, particularly her vengeful ghost.

The cow was in the stable waiting when she
got outside and she grabbed the little pail and patted the beast
along its flank. "When I can, I will get a companion for you," she
said and sat down to milk. "Would that make you happier? Everyone
deserves a companion." Maybe she should sell something else in the
house and get another cow.