A Night Of Secrets, A Paranormal Romance Page 4

  “Meg.” The door opened and Sally stepped inside. “The rope broke and the bucket fell into the well.”

  Meg tossed the potatoes into a pot that hung over a crackling fire, resisting the urge to curse. “Must I do everything? Go to the creek.”

  As soon as Sally shut the door, Meg regretted her demand. Was he still there? Would Sally be in harm’s way? Or worse, would she try to pry information from the man? Twas silly worrying about Sally, the only one in danger was their new neighbor. In danger of being stalked like prey.

  “Will you marry him, Meg?” Hanna asked, her voice quiet, her face more pale than normal, if that were possible.

  “And who would braid Sally’s hair if I married? Who would cook your stew the way you like it? Who would clean the house?” She chopped a potato in half with a thud, her attention riveted on the window, watching Sally skip to the creek.

  “Well, with thirty thousand pounds a year you could hire someone to take care of us. Or, better yet, we could dwell with you.”

  Meg scoffed. “And what’s the point of marrying if you follow me to my new home?”

  “Very unsporting of you, Meg,” Mary Ellen said, snapping a daisy from its stem. “You should befriend the new owner for our benefit. Imagine what kind of a husband you could find me.”

  “Of course, merely thinking of yourself.”

  Mary Ellen sidled up next to her and shoved the daisy into Meg’s hair, her sister’s rose scent hovering around her. “Not just me. But in a few years Sally, and then Hanna.”

  “Meg doesn’t need a husband. She’s going to sell her books.” Hanna stood, her fists on her hips. “And I’m not marrying. Men are cruel.”

  Meg’s heart squeezed painfully. How badly she wanted to pull the child into her arms. Lately Hanna had been acting so odd. Her emotions jumping from the sweet innocent child she was, to one full of anger and bitterness. She hoped the poor girl wasn’t becoming ill. “Not all men. Papa isn’t.”

  Hanna’s shoulders fell, her anger dissipating. “Yes, but Papa isn’t a real man.”

  Meg smiled. “Well, I’m sure he’ll be happy to know that.”

  Mary Ellen sighed. “Of course you’ll marry, Hanna. What else would you do? You won’t have Meg to take care of you forever.”

  Hanna’s lower lip trembled as tears pooled in her eyes. “But I don’t want to marry.”

  Meg sighed and set her knife on the table. “You don’t have to-”

  The door burst open and Sally stumbled inside, gasping for air.

  Meg looked to the wooden beams on the ceiling where dried rosemary hung. “What now?”

  “I saw him. I saw him, I did!”

  Mary Ellen rushed to their younger sister. “Who? Who’d you see?”

  “Him. The man with thirty thousand pounds.”

  Meg swiped her hands on her apron. Dear God, what inappropriate comment had Sally made to the man? “Did you happen to get his name? I don’t believe he’d appreciate us calling him ‘the man with thirty-thousand pounds.’”

  “He’s so handsome.”

  Meg flushed, although why, she wasn’t sure. “Ha, arrogant, you mean.”

  “Is he handsome, Meg?” Mary Ellen asked.

  Meg pressed her lips tightly together and shrugged. She certainly couldn’t argue with that, but she’d die a torturous death before she’d admit her attraction.

  Mary Ellen grabbed Sally’s arm. “Where is he? Where’d you see him?”

  “He’s down by the creek with Papa.”

  “Papa?” Meg rushed to the window and jerked the curtains aside. “Sally, you know Papa isn’t allowed by the creek alone. He’ll fall in for sure, just like last time.”

  Sally shrugged. “He’s not alone. The man is there, along with Beth’s husband.”

  Meg let the curtain fall back into place. Wonderful, just wonderful. “Beth’s husband? Lord Brockwell is back?” Meg untied her apron and jerked it from her waist. “About time that reprobate returned. I should certainly give him a piece of my mind. Leaving poor Beth to worry like that.”

  “Was he in London drinking and whoring?” Hanna asked.

  “Hanna!” Meg cried out. The child, at least, had the decency to blush. Dear Lord, what would she do with her?

  “Well, that’s what Mrs. Hipsher said.”

  “Don’t you dare repeat such things, especially around Beth. It’s bad enough she must live with that man.”

  “Well, was he?” Mary Ellen asked, her eyes sparkling with barely concealed laughter.

  Sally wrapped a curl around her finger and looked at the floor. “Not exactly.”

  Meg crossed her arms over her chest. “What is it now? Is he claiming Clare and Bessie got into his garden again and we owe him ten pounds? So help me, if he is.”

  Sally sighed, her face still flushed from her mad dash to the house. “Well, Beth’s husband, well, he’s...”

  “Out with it, Sally,” Mary Ellen demanded. “We haven’t all day.”

  “Well,” she cried, wringing her hands. “You see, Beth’s husband is dead.”

  Chapter 3

  Wildflowers. A crystal-clear stream. A blue sky.

  Truly, a peaceful setting if one didn’t mind the body floating in the brook.

  Merde, he didn’t need this. Not now, not when he was so close to uncovering the truth. Grayson raked his hand through his hair. Why was it, even when he was so incredibly careful, death seemed to follow him?

  Of course he had to purchase the one track of land that boasted superb hunting, a trout stream and a dead man. He waded ever closer until the water rose toward the tops of his high boots, threatening to spill inside and soak his socks. He hated wet socks.

  He pushed that thought aside and focused on the carcass. The man was recently deceased, that much was obvious. There was no decomposition, no bloating, no offensive odor. Grayson dared to lean forward, looking for any kind of puncture wounds that might set fear into the hearts of his neighbors. No marks on his neck. But the head was set at an odd angle. Broken spine, was his bet.

  It could have easily been an accident. All the same, Grayson’s nostrils flared, his senses searching for something more. Instinct said the man had been murdered. Water rushed around a pale face, dark hair undulating in the current of the stream. He could be anyone’s son. Perhaps a father? A husband? A man, at one time, now a shell of the life that once was.

  Unwanted memories slipped past the boundaries of his defense. Bits and pieces he’d attempted to push back into the dark recesses of his mind. Rotting flesh, the scent of death. So much death.

  “Terrible, terrible,” the old man next to him said, jerking Grayson back into the present.

  That horror was over. But he’d returned home to find a new one had taken its place. He would never be able to escape what he was. Destined to the darkness and shadows.

  Instead of rotting flesh, the air blossomed with the spicy scent of gingersnaps as Vicar James stuffed one small biscuit after another into his mouth. Grayson knew humans with hardened stomachs, but he hadn’t expected this nonchalance from a Vicar. The old man could at least pretend horror.

  Vicar James certainly didn’t have a flare for the dramatic stage as his daughter did. Grayson dampened down his anger. Meg James reeked of innocence, of youth and vitality. But he was experienced enough to know that a pretty face could hide a wealth of evilness.

  He glanced at the dead man. A body found feet downstream from where he’d first met the James family. He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. If he’d been in God’s good graces, he’d swear the creator was sending him a sign, a sign that pointed directly to a seemingly innocent Vicar’s daughter. But he knew better than to believe in signs.

  A sudden rustle interrupted the quiet. Instinctively, his lips lifted, his pupils dilating as the animalistic need to attack coursed through his veins. But no Russian soldiers appeared and he had to remind himself he was no longer on the Continent.

  Like muses of ancient Greece, three fem
inine figures appeared in a variety of innocent summer shades that belied his horrid thoughts. With quick assessment, he knew all three were too old to be Collette. He forced his disappointment to remain hidden deep, his face a blank façade, even as his gaze went immediately to Meg James. Was she guilty?

  Mon dieu, he needed to see the child, to know for sure if she was Emma’s daughter. Where were they hiding her? Did they even have Collette, or had his senses been led astray once more?

  “Really, Sally, you could have mentioned Beth’s husband before you mentioned…” The feminine voice trailed off and brilliant blue eyes met his. Long strands of mahogany hair had come loose and curled around a heart-shaped face. A daisy, as sweet and innocent looking as the woman before him, was tucked behind her ear. Meg...the one woman who could provide him with the answers he so desperately needed.

  How he wanted to hate her. How he wanted to be sick with the sight of her. To grab her by the lace collar of that tight bodice and frighten her into answering. Instead, a strange heat swirled through his body, leaving him unsure and unsteady. And he was never, ever unsteady.

  “Well,” Sally started. “You said he’d get himself killed one of these days, was only a matter of time.” The child watched him with blue eyes that matched her sisters. And they were sisters, he could smell it, a familiar scent that linked them together. Another sister with flaming red hair stood behind them, a shy smile upon her face. When they should have been focused on the body, they continued to stare at him.

  “Sally, do go back to the house and sit with Hanna,” Meg whispered, her words too soft for a human to hear.

  Hanna. Grayson’s gaze narrowed and his mind spun. Another sister, or perhaps the Collette he searched for? Would it be too obvious to suggest they retire to the James cottage and discuss the dead man over tea? His hands fisted, resisting the urge. He’d come this far, he wouldn’t destroy what little hope he had left because he was anxious. He’d learned early on to keep low, create no stir. Never give any indication of what he truly was. Besides, he wouldn’t know for another two months if Hanna could possibly be his Collette.

  Sally’s lower lip stuck out in a pout, showing she was still more child than woman. “Why? Papa and I have already seen the body.”

  Grayson glanced at the old man’s rheumy eyes and doubted he’d seen much of anything.

  In a fit of obvious annoyance, Meg whirled around with a flurry of skirts that showed a peek of slender ankles. “Just do as I say.”

  “Fine.” Sally turned and stomped up the hill. “My opinion is Beth’s better off.”

  “Sally,” Meg scolded, her cheeks spotted with a charming blush.

  “Meg, Mary Ellen,” the Vicar called out. A bright smile spread across the old man’s face, lifting his wrinkled skin.

  Grayson watched them all with a mix of horror and bemusement.

  “Is that the body?” Meg whispered, clasping her fingers together so tight, her knuckles grew white. Grayson parted his lips to tell them it was no sight for women, but he was too late. Meg and Mary Ellen gathered close together and peered over their father’s stooped shoulder.

  “Poor Beth,” Mary Ellen said. “Are you sure he’s not merely napping?”

  Grayson bit back his laugh.

  “Do not be daft,” Meg whispered, then stepped closer as if to make sure. She gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand. “It’s him, it is! I didn’t believe it until now. He’s truly dead.”

  “Yes, yes, ‘tis a shame. Have you started dinner, my dear?” Vicar James asked.

  Stunned at the man’s obvious dismissal, Grayson could merely stand there with his mouth hanging open, no doubt looking the utter idiot. And they called him a monster?

  Meg sighed. “Yes, Papa. Mary Ellen, take Papa home for dinner. I’ll go to Beth.”

  “Why can’t you take him home?”

  “Mary Ellen,” Meg whispered, those delicate fingers, curling into fists.

  Mary Ellen sighed and took her father’s arm, leading him up the hill.

  Merde. What the hell was happening? Grayson rubbed the back of his neck, feeling like an observer watching some bizarre Comedy of Errors. What a strange family. A man lay dead in a stream and to them it was nothing more than a normal afternoon. Where were the screams? The fainting? Humans always overreacted when faced with death.

  “Sir,” Meg’s blue gaze pierced his and for a moment he forgot everything but her. “If you don’t mind fetching the Constable?”

  Like hell he’d leave her alone with the body. He didn’t want to fetch the Constable, he wanted to learn about this Hanna child. He wanted to know if Meg was truly as innocent as she looked, or if she was merely a brilliant actress. Most of all, he wanted to be close to her for some odd, inexplicable reason he didn’t dare scrutinize.

  Grayson cleared his throat. “Can you identify the body?”

  Meg nodded, glancing at the creek out of the corner of her eye, as if she couldn’t bear to stare at it directly. Was her concern a ruse? “Of course, didn’t Papa tell you? ‘Tis Lord Brockwell from down the lane.”

  “No, your father didn’t bloody well tell me. In fact, I’ve gotten very little information from your father.”

  She stiffened. He could practically hear her blood roar through her veins in protest. “Well, you’ll have to pardon Papa. Given the situation, I’m sure he was quite shocked.”

  Grayson snorted at the comment. “Your father seemed more interested in his next meal than the body lying in the creek.”

  Meg’s eyes flashed in a way he found most intriguing. “Sir, what are you implying?”

  Grayson held up his hand. “Madam, I will not stand here arguing with you when a wife should be told of her husband’s death.”

  The words had the desired effect. She nodded, her face draining of color. “Of course. Beth, yes. I must tell Beth.” She lifted her skirts and started forward.

  “I’ll escort you.”

  She froze.

  What better moment to get answers from the woman? Hell, even if he found this Hanna child, he wouldn’t know for sure if she was who he searched for. He wouldn’t know for two months when she turned. “Afterward, I’ll find the Constable.”

  She shook her head, sending her curls bouncing. Was there a splash of auburn to her hair? “Really, there’s no need to accompany me. ‘Tis not far.”

  “I insist.” Without waiting for her approval, he started toward the field where he’d left his horse.

  His feet crushed delicate wildflowers, releasing their fragrant scent into the air. Colorful petals clung to the mud on his boots, mocking the seriousness of the situation. Flowers that reminded him of that hill in France. Bright red poppies, wavering over bloodied bodies. He certainly never thought he’d be sick by the very smell of blood, but he’d come close then.

  “Blast it,” Miss James muttered from behind him. Cursing from a Vicar’s daughter? For the first time in months, Grayson felt a grin tug at the corners of his mouth. The movement was so foreign, he actually stopped in midstride.

  Merde, now he’d gone insane. There was a dead man not feet from them and he was grinning like an idiot. Something slammed into his back. He turned to see Meg rubbing her forehead. So close, he could feel her body’s heat. When was the last time he’d held a human woman? Warm…soft…intriguing. His fingers curled as the memory of the creek flashed through his mind. Her lips parted, her shift clinging to her wet body, those rosy nipples hard and evident, that pulse beating in the side of her neck...

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, jerking him from his thoughts. “But really, you shouldn’t stop when someone is following you.”

  “And you should watch where…” He closed his eyes and took in a deep breath, trying to force the desire from his body before confronting her. Anger would do neither of them any good. “Tell me, Miss James. Why is it that there is a dead man just yonder and no one, including yourself, seems in the least bit interested?”

  She glanced over her shoulder toward the cre
ek. “Of course we are interested. But you see, as the family of a Vicar we deal with death often.”

  Why didn’t he believe her? Perhaps because he’d lived so long he could easily spot a liar. Perhaps because even now she stared at the ground instead of him. Perhaps because he could actually sense her pulse beat faster…see her pupils dilate. Practically taste her fear. “For you, merely a typical day?”

  “No, of course not.” She sighed and crossed her arms over her chest in a way that pushed her breasts higher. Did she have any idea? Was she trying to draw his attention away from the situation at hand and to those thin blue veins that caressed her pale skin? “Oh very well. Lord Brockwell was not exactly a benefit to society.”

  Grayson quirked a brow and crossed his arms over his chest, imitating her actions.

  She shifted, flushing. He had the insane desire to do something completely out of character and take her into his arms and kiss those lush lips just to see her reaction. Would she taste of something sweet like strawberries? Or would they taste cool, and refreshing like the Siberian air? Merde, he’d been too long without a woman. She could be Emma’s murderer, for God’s sake.

  “What I’m trying to say is that he partook of vulgar events that would most likely lead to an injury. To be honest, it was just a matter of time before he met his maker.”

  His mount snorted and stomped his hoof, most likely thinking the same thing as Grayson, that the James family was indeed mad. “He was a rake? A reprobate?”

  She smiled, a teacher pleased her student wasn’t a dunce after all. “Exactly.”

  For all her stubbornness, there was innocence in her wide blue gaze that intrigued him as much as it repulsed him. He hadn’t seen a purity like that since, hell, since he didn’t know when. Was that purity real? “You think he was murdered?”

  She stiffened. “What? No. Of course not. Who would do such a thing?” Shaking her head, she started across the field.