The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (25 page)

"Usually, when people seek advice from
beyond the grave, I'm sure it's typically more dramatic than
agricultural advice," he said. He stood next to her and she'd
forgotten how imposing he was—much broader than Stanford. Stanford
would fear a man like Richard Hawke, having none of the fighting
skills to take him on. Actually, Stanford was on the feminine side
in comparison, with his polished shoes, combed hair and neatly
trimmed mustache.

"I have no one else to ask."

"Welcome to my world, Miss Sands, as you
insist on intruding."

Looking around, she saw the parchment on the
desk and the quill lying on top of it.

"Who were you writing to?"

"None of your affair."

"I just don't understand. Who will receive
your letters?"

"I don't necessarily think about it that
much. Unless you come along and disturb me, to remind me of my dead
and useless existence, I go about my business quite normally."

"You 
were
 writing to someone?"

"Yes. Without your cheery reminders,
my existence continues without much notice to the obvious
limitations."

"You forget you are dead?"

"It appears so—until you insist on
intruding."

"I am sorry."

"It is annoying when the living insist on
haunting the dead."

"Can you leave this room?"

"Yes. In fact, the war continues not far
from here."

Now she didn't quite know what to say. A
million questions rushed into her mind, but she pushed them away.
"Well, I am sorry for intruding. I just thought I would ask the
advice of someone more experienced with the capabilities of this
land."

He moved to the desk and crossed his arms as
he leaned back, considering her with a forced tolerant
expression.

"I'm not sure what to plant."

"These lands are fertile. You can plant
whatever you want. I grow barley."

"You are cultivating the fields?"

"As I said, life—such as it is—continues
when not intruded upon."

"Until I came, you didn't know you were
dead?"

"You forget such things."

Anne bit her lips together, acknowledging
how starved for conversation she was, because she didn't want to
return—not just yet. "So you recommend barley?"

"Barley, wheat. It all grows well."

"I am trying to assemble the plow."

His eyebrows raised in surprise. "And who
will be plowing the fields?"

"I will," she said, straightening her back.
He looked at her disbelievingly. "Needs must."

"Show me your hands," he demanded.

"What?"

"Show me your hands." He stepped
closer and Anne felt a rush of concern as he grabbed her hand and
forced the palm up. A rough, calloused thumb trailed down her
fingers and across her palm. He felt real; he felt warm. "I doubt
with these hands, you would last a day."

Sharply, she drew her hand away. "Well, the
spirits in this house keep killing my staff, so what am I supposed
to do?"

He moved away again and returned to his
chair by the desk.

"What are you writing?"

"Battle strategy."

"You lost the war."

He looked at her sharply, pure hatred in his
eyes.

"Sorry. If it makes you feel better,
parliament asked King Charles back after Cromwell died."

A grin broke across his lips, then he
laughed—a deep, hearty laugh, one she was sure he hadn't exercised
in a while. "Then how is it a loss?"

"That was the second Charles. They killed
the first Charles."

Sobered surprise registered again. "How?"
These things were not history for him, they were his present, and
of great consequence to everyone he knew. All long dead to everyone
but in his mind.

"They executed him."

"A king?"

Anne didn't quite know how to justify it and
then wondered why it was her task to justify the execution of a
king. Instead, she closed her mouth.

"That girl, Elizabeth. She is your
daughter."

"She is."

"You speak to her?"

"I do. She saw to protect you when I saw you
as… other."

"As your wife."

A discomfort seemed to grip him and he
looked away. A hard look settled on his features. He truly hated
that woman—whoever she was. Anne didn't even know her name.

"I should return," she said.

"You need to take care, Miss Sands," he
said. "Coming here, you place yourself in my power."

"So you've said. I am depending on your
duties as a gentleman to ensure no harm will come to me."

His gaze returned to her and he seemed a
little disbelieving as well as curious. "Due to past experience, I
am generally not a great lover of women."

"Hence, I doubt you would seek to gather me
to be with you all the time. I am also the custodian of what is
left of your legacy, this house, so I would appreciate it if you
return me to my realm, so I can go about my business of making it
productive again."

He considered her for a moment. "Why
did your husband divorce you?" Now it was her turn to feel
uncomfortable. "Did you make him a cuckold?"

"I did not. It appears his mistress was
unhappy with the current arrangements."

"Then things have changed significantly. In
my time, it was near impossible to rid oneself of a wife—short of
killing her. Or the other way around."

"We'd like to think of ourselves as
more… " She didn't know how to finish the statement. She'd been
devastated by her husband, left utterly destitute without an ounce
of concern from the man who'd sworn to take care of her. Could she
say that the laws around divorce were better? More civilized? In
his case, a divorce would have been a preferred outcome.
"Accommodating," she finished.

Standing, he moved closer to her.
"Hence, why you've had to retreat out into the wilds of Yorkshire,
to share a room with a man not your husband. Accommodating is an
interesting term, wouldn't you say?"

"A ghost, not a man."

His eyebrows raised and she swallowed the
lump that tightened her throat as he stood next to her. "If you are
to depend on that, perhaps you shouldn't seek to come into my
realm."

"I am depending on your firm hatred for
women, that has so far lasted you through time and death
itself."

A smile spread across his lips. He
stood so close now, she could smell him, the faint smoke and the
man underneath. His eyes traveled lower, down along the neckline of
her dress, taking in the curves below at his leisure. Anne felt her
skin contract under the scrutiny. His fore and middle finger
pressed to her breastbone and his dark eyes returned to hers. "Heed
a warning, Miss Sands of London," he said and pushed her through
the veil.

Sleep was uneasy that night. Things were
chasing her in the dark; things she couldn't entirely put her
finger on, but they were near. In a way, she wanted to be caught,
was tired of running, and fighting, and being frightened.

But the sun shone brightly as she
woke. It had been a while since they'd had a bright day and Anne
rose and made her way to the window. The moors stretched before
her; she could see all the way to the horizon.

It felt as if it were her room again. He
felt distant, the sun chasing him away. As far as she suspected, he
was still there, but inaccessible. She was glad. There had been a
shift in their relationship and it made her uncomfortable—not that
it ever had been comfortable. Bringing her hand up to her throat,
she wrapped her arms around herself. A man had never looked at her
so blatantly. She knew he'd done it to prove a point, but it was
still disconcerting. Even her husband had never looked at her like
that.

He was just trying to intimidate her,
she concluded. The underlying message had been to keep her away, so
obviously, it had been put on for effect.

It certainly didn't make it more comfortable
for her as she washed and dressed behind the screen. If he walked
around and observed her, she would have no idea, but perhaps she
was as remote to him during daylight hours as he was to her.

Her intention today was to oil some of the
harnesses she needed, so when she reached the kitchen, she put on
the apron she wore for dirtier work. Lisle was chopping carrots.
They were small and thin, but it was their own crop. They must have
grown in the small greenhouse they'd created out of a pair of spare
windows found at the back of one of the buildings.

It was exciting that they were starting to
eat some of their own crop. "I milked the cow already," Lisle said.
"I will be doing laundry today, so if there is anything you need
washed, let me know."

"I will bring it down." Anne wanted to
say something else, but Lisle walked down into the pantry. Instead,
she grabbed an oat cake and made her way outside. Lisle was right
in that it was a good day to dry laundry—sunny with a fair bit of
wind. It was a good day for fresh air for all. Reaching up to the
top shelf, she grabbed the saddle oil and made her way to the
stable, finding a little stool where she could start her
work.

The smell of the oil gave her a
headache, but she persevered and in the end, all the leather straps
were darkened and hanging to let the oil soak in. Much of the
leather was useless, particularly any that had been exposed to the
air for years on end. They would snap as soon as pressure was
placed on them, but hopefully, some of the ones in better shape
would serve their purpose again.

Exiting the stable, Anne stretched her
aching back and shoulders, when she noticed something in the
distance. A carriage was coming.

"Lisle," she called to the girl hanging up
washed linen on a length of rope. "We are to have visitors."
Lisle's eye shifted to the road.

"I have some treacle. I can make a
cake."

Anne nodded and walked out front. The smell
of saddle oil emanated from her hands and clothes, and her apron
had stains all over it. With a looking back, she retreated into the
house to clean up.

It must be the vicar, she concluded, but he
was yet too far away to tell.

It wasn't the vicar. Mr. Harleston's
neat, yellow hair came out of the carriage first, along with the
rest of him. He wore a light blue suit and galoshes.

"Mr. Harleston, this is a pleasant
surprise." She reached her hand to him and he kissed her knuckles.
Hopefully, the smell of saddle oil was scrubbed away.

"I have been worried for you, my dear. Your
last letter was not reassuring." Shifting his gaze past her, his
eyes moved up the façade of the house. His head shifted sideways,
before returning to her.

"There have been some developments," she
said.

Raising his eyebrows, he nudged her on her
arm. "I can tell. It seems, Miss Sands, that you have managed to
tame the beast."

Opening her mouth to say something, she
couldn't know what to say. It was an absurd statement for anyone
who had met Richard Hawke. Taming wasn't a word that corresponded
with him. "We have reached an accord."

"This is a very different place from the one
I visited before. I might even dare pop my head inside, if that
would be amenable."

"Of course, come in," she said, and
Mr. Harleston carefully moved up the stairs to the entrance way.
"This is remarkable. The air is completely different. How did you
achieve it?"

Again, Anne opened her mouth, but nothing
came out.

"No matter, my dear." Tentatively, he
stepped inside. "Ooh," he said, clearly excited about whatever it
was he saw, or felt.

"I cannot see them, or hear them, during the
day," she said.