The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (21 page)

Mr. Harleston's letter returned to
her. It was in the reticule she had carried all the way to Devon
and back. Where was it? She had brought it up. Searching the room,
she found it on the chair and sat down by the fire, cracking the
seal.

It wasn't all that useful, saying removing a
spirit required invoking the light and urging the spirit to walk
through into the great beyond. She could hear the man's flamboyant
voice through the words on the paper. He repeated that sage
weakened their grip on this world. Fear was often what kept spirits
earthbound and in her case, a strong spirit was trapping others. It
was this spirit that had to be dealt with.

That was it. There was nothing
practical. Anne's disappointment was palpable; she'd be hoping for
some remedy that would simply wipe his existence, along with the
others, from the house. A flare of concern for Alfie made her sad.
She didn't want to wipe away his existence from the earth; she
wanted him to find the right path to heaven, where he could be
reunited with his family.

Family was very important; people who
cared for you were very important. Alfie being trapped here by a
dark ogre, kept away from everyone and his great reward was
inexcusable. How were you supposed to convince a ghost to 'walk
into the light'? She hadn't seen any light when she'd been
transported into his realm. There had only been him.

The next day passed much too quickly.
Anne had to take a nap during the day and before she knew it, the
day was gone. Lisle had wanted to discuss getting more field hands,
but Anne hadn't been up to it. Her mind was still too caught in
loss to even think about the future, which seemed pointless and
futile. For a moment, Anne had to wonder if she would sink into
melancholy, but she couldn't entirely let herself, because she knew
in her bones there would be trouble that night. Whatever reprieve
this ghost had given her the other night was over now. The threats
of the present forbid her from thinking of the bleakness of the
future.

Lisle was annoyed with her and stormed
off to the kitchen. She had such spirit, that girl. Anne had to
admire it, even as it was utterly misplaced in a serving girl.
Perhaps part of the reason Lisle couldn't leave was that she would
have so much trouble in a proper house, where she could show
neither the language or attitudes she seemed naturally prone
to.

If Lisle was to have a future, Anne needed
to train her better, but knew that for some, the force of
personality was too powerful. Not everyone thrived in domestic
service, but there were so few other jobs for young women.

What to do with Lisle had to wait. There
were more pressing problems. Anne's fingers touched the rusty blade
in her pocket, the one she had stabbed him with. He obviously
hadn't perished from the wound. How did a ghost recover from a
wound? Had she managed to make him even more furious? Although him
leaving her in peace last night suggested otherwise. Actually, she
had no idea what it suggested. Maybe he would leave her be from now
on, fearing her blade.

The candle was burning low in the parlor and
she had no excuse for sitting down there all night. For a moment,
she wondered if she could sleep on the sofa, but he tended to find
her wherever she slept. It would also be extremely
uncomfortable.

There was nothing for it; she had to
retire. With a sigh, she took the stairs, the ones he'd physically
thrown her down. This seemed like madness, but if she didn't make a
stand here, with him, she was never going to with anyone, and her
life would reflect that failure in every possible way.

The room was calm as she walked in and
closed the door. A hope that he had taken her advice and stayed in
his realm flared through her. He could stay there and not venture
into hers. They could co-exist. That worked for everyone, but then
men were stubborn and she knew in her gut that was not going to be
a reasonable argument to him. His hatred seemed all-consuming.

Unbuttoning her mourning dress, she slipped
it off and hung it up on the wardrobe door. The moon was bright and
shone across the landscape outside. The snow had gone, but the
chill was still there. Frost would cover everything in the
morning.

The coal had been delivered during the
day, and some now lay in the grate, keeping the room warm. Lisle
must have lit them.

Turning away, she headed to the bed,
but stopped. Something was off; she didn't know what. It wasn't a
sound, or anything she saw, but she knew he was there. Was it a
scent?

A hand reached for her throat, the way
he seemed to prefer dealing with her. The blade turned over in her
hand, but he wasn't real yet. He was in her realm and she couldn't
touch him. Why was it he could touch her? It wasn't
fair.

And then things shifted; she could see
him now, his dark countenance. He looked exactly like he had
before. Dark curls to his shoulders, long hair that men did not
wear these days. The scar down his cheek.

Gripping the blade, she brought it up, but
he anticipated her. His hand grabbed her wrist and forced it behind
her back. She was flush against him and he was so large, solid. He
was taller than her and much stronger. As hard as she tried to
struggle, she couldn't shift his grip.

His other hand still had that tight
grip at her throat. It loosened slightly, while his other hand
slipped over her clenched fist and relieved her of the blade, which
appeared at her throat. A rusty blade had an obvious downside now.
If he cut her with it, she would sicken with blood poisoning. That
was if he didn't stab her properly. If he did to her what she'd
done to him, there was no way she would survive. The tip pressed
under her chin. "You should not have come back," he said, his voice
dark and deep.

"This is my house."

"No, it is mine. It will never be yours. I
will make certain of it. For all your scheming, whore, it will
never be yours."

"Whore? I'm not your wife. She died two
hundred years ago. She is gone and she's never coming. I live here
now and I have nothing to do with you, your wife or your sordid
life."

"Leave my house," he ordered.

"No. I inherited it. It is mine now.
You are dead. You are the one who doesn't belong here. I am not
going anywhere."

His thumb across her throat pressed down and
it hurt. Reaching up, she pressed where she remembered stabbing
him, but there was no reaction. Instead, he looked down at what she
was doing and then back at her.

"I can do everything to you and you can do
nothing to me." The blade traveled down her neck, across her chest
and rested over her heart. "An inch and you're dead. Are you ready
to face your judgment?"

"And you ready to suffer my company
for eternity? I will be there every moment; haunt you like you
haunt this house."

"Your suffering will be eternal."

"Again, I'm not your damned wife."

"Hence why you languish in my bed?"

"I don't… " Damnation; she was
actually sleeping in his bed. She blinked repeated. "Well, that…
You’re dead; you died a long time ago. Did we not discuss this? You
stay in your ghostly realm and I stay in mine—the real one, where
living people are. Where it is eighteen hundred seventy-three." She
was about to say she was the master of this house and it was right
she was in the master's room, but that would likely backfire. Some
circumspection would serve her well.

"You do understand that there is nowhere I
can't reach you. You cannot hide; you cannot even run if I so
choose. I can make you see what I wish. I can make you fear the
fires of hell. There is nothing you can do to protect
yourself."

"Spoken like a true bully."

The hand across her throat tightened.

"I want nothing to do with you," she
croaked. "There is no reason you can't go back to sleep and ignore
my presence."

"But I don't want you here."

"And I don't want you here, but
neither of us can leave. If you agree to leave me alone, I will
find some other bed to sleep in." His eyes moved between hers. He
might actually be considering her proposal, which meant that he
now, hopefully, understood that she was not the wife he was
chasing.

"You seek to plead with
me?" he said incredulously. Or perhaps he had
not
understood the reality, she
conceded. "In a thousand years, I will show you no mercy." The
blade pressed into her skin through her nightgown and the
seriousness of her situation pressed down on her.

"If you will not take my word, take
Elizabeth's. She knows I am not your wife. My name is Anne Sands. I
was born in the year eighteen hundred thirty-nine. I was married to
Stanford Kinelly. We have a child whose name is Harry Kinelly. I
formally lived in London, but my husband has deserted me because he
wants to marry another woman." She was babbling, but right now it
was important to ensure he did not press that blade into her
heart.

"You lie."

"I am
not
lying. Ask your daughter. From
what I know about you," she lied, "you are not a man to murder
innocent women."

"There is nothing innocent about you, you
deceptive harlot."

"Then tell me what your wife looks
like."

His face screwed up in distaste.

"Tell me," she pressed. "If you are so eager
to murder someone, you can at least tell me which features I have
in common with your wife, other than the fact that I am
female."

"What trickery is this?"

"Look past your hatred for a moment
and account for what you are doing." Her voice shook in fear, but
she was fighting for her life. She obviously had little strength
compared to him, so she had to use logic—a gamble at best, when
dealing with a two-hundred-year-old ghost. "What color hair did she
have? What eyes?" There was no portrait of her in the house, so
Anne had no idea what her features were. They could look exactly
alike for all she knew, but then he was so caught up in pure
hatred, he was blinded to everything.

Suddenly, the grip on her throat loosened
and she was immediately absorbed back into her own realm, where her
things were exactly as she had left them.

He'd let her go. Perhaps he'd finally come
to realize it was not his wife he was threatening with a dagger,
but some strange woman.

Grabbing the candle, she quickly
retreated out of the room and ran to one of the guest rooms. It was
freezing cold in there and the blankets felt icy when she got in
the bed. They would warm. A freezing cold bed was still better than
returning to 'his' bed. Why hadn't she thought of it? Did ghosts
even sleep? Had she been lying next to this man all this time? No,
or course not. He would have strangled her—which he had a number of
occasions now. Dread and unease rolled in her stomach.