The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (24 page)

Warm sunshine and summer bounty seemed so
far away. She tried to think of the taste of strawberries and
raspberries. Come spring, she would buy some plants in the village.
They certainly had room for a patch.

The long walk during the day had tired her
and she was ready to retire. Taking the candle, she moved upstairs
to her new bedroom and undressed. Coals heated the room and she
combed her hair. It was nice to be tired and free of immediate
worry. From the moment her impending divorce had been announced,
constant worry had been her companion. Now, her only worry was that
her departed field hand would kill her maid during the night. It
sounded preposterous.

She slipped between the sheets, which were
cool against her bare limbs and closed her eyes. Sleep claimed her
immediately.

There was someone in her room. Anne woke
with her heart pounding. There was someone there. It took her mind
a moment to recover from the panic that was screaming through her,
blocking all rational thought. Had he broken the truce? Anne
listened, the silence growing deafening. There was something off,
but she couldn't put her finger on it.

A slow step sounded on the
floorboards. The mattress shifted as weight came down on it. She
held her breath, unsure what to do—what he wanted. No, something
was off. The smell wasn't there. There was always that smell, but
it was absent. This wasn't him. This was someone else—someone she
hadn't met before.

She startled violently as a touch
resonated across her knee, iciness making her skin contract. Goose
bumps rose across her entire body. "What do you want?" she said,
her voice shaky. "Leave me alone."

The hand returned, running up between
her thighs. Nausea and fear rolled her stomach. This thing was
touching her, intimately. In wild panic, she scrambled out of bed
and ran to the door. Yanking it open, she threw herself out of the
room, hearing footsteps behind her—large strides.

Without thinking, she rushed to the master's
bedroom and shut herself inside. Putting her forehead to the door,
she waited. Would that spirit follow in here? This was Richard
Hawke's dwelling, and her panicked, thoughtless assumption had been
that the spirit would not cross into here.

The footsteps faded and Anne waited, but it
seemed her assumption had been right. Whoever it was had not
followed her in here. Taking a step back into the darkened room,
she clasped her arms to her chest. She turned around, wondering if
she had just jumped from the frying pan into the fire.

That familiar smell was there. He was
present, somewhere in the darkness. Was Richard Hawke a bigger
threat? Was she breaking the truce?

"Someone attacked me," she said into the
quiet darkness. "Touched me."

Nothing happened. The room was cold
and Anne wasn't dressed for standing in a cold room, but she didn't
want to go back to her room. For all she knew that man was waiting
for her. "There are other spirits here. How many? Who are
they?"

Again nothing. "Speak to me," she
demanded. Her fear and shock making her bold.

A touch on her shoulders made the veil
shift. He was standing behind her. Quickly, she shifted away so her
back wasn't to him. He looked exactly the same. The room was now
lit and relatively warm. There was a fire in the grate.

"A man touched me, inappropriately," she
said.

Richard Hawke shrugged and stepped
away, slowly taking a seat. "And you seek my protection?" It
sounded stupid, but that was exactly what she'd done. "The constant
recommendation of leaving still stands. Spirits tend to do what
they want. There are no consequences here."

"He wouldn't follow in here," she
said, her gaze quickly seeking the door. Shifting his head, he
considered her. "You are stronger than them."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I just am."

"Who was he?"

"There are a number of people here, I
suspect."

"You don't know?"

"I'm not the sheriff of this burrow, Miss
Sands of London."

"More like a feudal lord."

"I suppose."

"I'm freezing cold right now. There is no
fire; I only perceive a fire. But I am frozen until I am released
from this." Anne turned to look at the bed.

He didn't say anything, only looked at her
darkly. "You wish to sleep in my bed?"

"Technically, it is my bed. I am the legal
owner of it. And your murderous intent aside, I was much safer
there."

"I think you have made a grave error with
your assumptions."

"Why, do you use the bed? Do you sleep?"

"I do not." He paused. "Perhaps in this
house, it is not the murderous intent you need to worry about."

"You mean… " she said, feeling her
stomach heave with revolt. That man had not been trying to kill
her; instead he sought to touch her where he wasn't
invited.

"Centuries of longing does make some
forward," he said.

"Is that even possible?"

He raised his eyebrow as if what she said
was utterly daft. Anne's mind reeled. Even with all the evidence of
Alfie and Lisle, she hadn't fully realized that intimacy was
possible. Was that how Alfie had been seduced to their realm?
"Again, perhaps you should leave."

"How many people are here?"

"Seven? More now. Eight perhaps."

"Eight?" she said, staring at him. "You know
I don't have anywhere to go."

"That makes it difficult for you. No lock
keeps a spirit out."

"You do, and you have never tried to touch
me."

"I was consumed by hatred."

"And now?"

"I am mostly consumed by hatred, seeking
vengeance that, if what you tell me is correct, will never
come."

"Why would I lie to you?"

"Why would I?"

"If your quest for vengeance is not
possible, why are you still here?"

"Why not? We are safe here. My children are
safe here."

"Your children are deceased."

"But we are together, and we might not be
otherwise."

"And all these other spirits have become
trapped in the process."

"It would appear."

"All would disappear if you did."

"This is my house, Miss Sands. I am not
leaving."

"Your
guests
are acting unconscionably,
and I am currently freezing to death standing here. You do not need
that bed."

"And how do you know I will not be overcome
by passion?"

A frisson of fear ran down her spine.
She swallowed with difficulty. "Because you are a born gentleman
and I am holding you to that code of behavior."

"You take a lot on faith."

The statement couldn't be more untrue.
She took a lot on sheer desperation. "Return me before I catch a
fever." He raised his eyebrows to ask how that was relevant to him.
"Or I might insist on you acting as my nursemaid."

"I might smother you in your sleep."

"That would be bad form, would it not?"

"You are a singular creature, Miss
Sands."

Rising from the chair, he moved toward her.
Anne had to fight to stand her ground. "I wonder if your faith is
utterly misplaced." He ran two fingers down her breastbone, letting
the touch linger. Perhaps she had been entirely mistaken, she
conceded, her eyes growing wide, seeing pure mischief in his. Then
he pushed her back into the darkness.

Her body was freezing cold. Her skin
ached with iciness and she shook as she slipped under the blankets
of the bed. She was placing a great deal of faith in a long dead,
battle hardened, gentle born man, who had dedicated his existence
to the pursuit of wreaking vengeance on his wife. In theory, it
sounded like an awful decision.

She might be utterly ravished in the night,
but at least she would know what he looked like. The tentative
peace she had found over the last few days had fallen to pieces.
Now she sought protection in a man's bed, a man who suffered no
consequences for his choices and actions.

The door shut with a click behind her
as Anne entered the master's bedroom. She felt nervous walking in
there, but not as discomforted as she was knowing there were seven
other spirits in the house. Four of them, she had met—four she
hadn't. The forward one, who felt no qualms about the sanctity of
her person, she really didn't want to meet again.

There was no sign of Richard Hawke in
the room, and that was a good indication. Perhaps he had agreed
that they would co-exist—he in his realm, she in hers. The coals in
the grate glowed and a lamp stood on the desk, shining light into
all but the darkest corners. She was nervous more than scared, not
knowing quite what to expect. In truth, she'd never shared her room
with a man, living or otherwise. Her husband had never even entered
her room as far as she could remember.

Earlier in the day, while she was out
retrieving the cow, she'd asked Lisle to retrieve the screen she'd
seen up in the attic, and it now stood in the corner. The idea of
undressing in front of a man made her insides clench with
mortification, so the screen would give her privacy. The panels
were made of faded yellow silk, and one had a tear down it. She had
no idea how old it was—at least over a hundred years old.

Moving silently, she sought the warmth of
the fire and let it soak into her skirts, listening intently for
any sign of him. There was no moon outside that night, just pure
darkness out the window.

Lisle had been in one of her moods
that day, preferring her own company, so Anne hadn't really spoken
to anyone, other than the cow, who seemed contented to return to
the stable. Anne had spent some hours searching through the
equipment in the outbuildings. The plow sat there, waiting to be
used, but she needed to find the yoke and all the straps that went
with it.

Faint scratching reached her ears and
she turned around to find the source. They stopped. Anne listened
so intently, her ears started ringing. Then they started again,
faint scratching, pause, scratching. "Are you writing?"

They stopped again. A full minute passed and
then they started again. She heard the writing, the words written
by a quill or nib, the pause to dip the ink.

"You're dead. Who can you possibly be
writing to?"

The writing stopped, then a gust of wind
blew in her face. Had he just blown in her face, or thrown
something at her? That was rude, although considering they'd
graduated from attempted murder, perhaps perfect manners was too
much to expect.

"None of my affair," she said, more to
herself and turned back to the fire. Who could he be writing to?
Did ghosts communicate with one another? Was there a ghostly postal
service, ready to take his letter where he needed them to? These
insane questions were hurting her head.

The writing had stopped, or she just
couldn't hear it anymore. All these questions started bubbling up
in her mind and she had to force herself not to voice them.

Another small crack drew her attention back.
He was there, going about his business, seemingly uninterested in
her, or ignoring her. How did he see her? Could he see her standing
there clear as day, or was she only hints from another realm as he
was to her?

She swallowed and cleared the tightness in
her throat. "I have a few questions, if you don't mind. About the
farm."

"This is a manor, not a farm," she heard him
say tersely. His voice sounded distant and thin through the veil
that separated them.

"I want to make this land productive again
and I'm not sure what to plant."

There was no answer and it was so quiet, she
wasn't sure he was still there, until she felt a hand on her
shoulder and the room changed before her eyes.