Emerald Embrace (6 page)

And then she heard the sniffling sound. A low but anguished sound of loss and misery, and it seemed to come from the coffin itself. Perhaps the unfettered dead had risen from the crypts beyond, and ghostly creatures had come forth to mourn new losses.

Martise leapt up, amazed, a scream racing to her throat and hysteria rising within her.

Strong arms swept around her shoulders, and she was only too glad of them as an apparition rose from beyond the coffin. In the shadows, she thought that Mary herself had come back to life, for the apparition was a small, dark-haired woman in an elegant sea-green contemporary gown.

The scream continued to grow within Martise. She felt the heat and power of the man behind her and fought for sanity even as she seemed to lose her grip upon it. But then he spoke, quickly, harshly, shattering the illusion before her.

“Elaina! By God, what are you doing there! You’ve quite scared Lady St. James near to death!”

“Oh, I am so very sorry!” the woman said, and coming around the coffin, she reached for Martise’s hand. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I brought the flowers and found myself staying.”

Her speech was beautiful, softly, wonderfully burred. Her eyes were wide and luminous, shimmering green, and framed, as were her brother’s, by the darkest lashes. She was a woman in her early to mid-twenties, delicate, fine, and seemingly earnest and sweet.

“Martise, my sister Elaina. Elaina, the Lady St. James.”

“Please call me Martise,” Martise said hastily, taking Elaina’s hand. “I’ve very glad to meet you.”

“And we are so very glad to have you, except that we are sorry you have come here to find Mary… to find her thus,” Elaina said, indicating the coffin. She straightened, rising in height. “We do care for her tenderly, even now. My parents lie there yonder, and Mary is here, and I bring them flowers and pray for them quite often, I promise you.”

“Indeed,” Lord Creeghan said, and he sounded somewhat irritated. “Elaina is quite frequently upon her knees.”

She gazed at her brother and appeared uneasy but made no reply to his words. She smiled at Martise instead.

“This is not a warm or welcoming place. Perhaps my brother and I should step outside and allow you a moment with your sister. Then we can leave the coldness and the dampness behind. There is so much about the castle that is warm and beautiful.” She shivered suddenly. “I hate the crypts.”

Martise smiled in sympathy. “Your brother told me you were once lost beyond the gates. It must have been horrible.”

“It was, indeed. You cannot imagine the bones within their shrouds, the bits of decayed flesh, the eeriness of the silence. I’m sorry. Excuse us. We’ll await you.”

Bruce Creeghan’s hands were still upon her shoulders, Martise realized. And she had wanted them there. She had wanted to feel the searing heat and the strength, the very life of him, behind her.

Now he moved away, slipping his arm around his sister’s shoulders. His eyes touched upon Martise in the shadows. “Say your prayers, milady,” he told her. She watched after him as he led Elaina from the crypt.

Martise sank back to her knees again. She wanted to pray for Mary. She wanted to pray for her immortal soul. Instead, she found herself bowing her head and envisioning the lord of Creeghan, remembering the feel of his touch. She saw him again, coming from the darkness and thunder of the night, sweeping her up upon the gigantic bay horse. She felt his arms …

She rose from her knees swiftly. As she moved toward the gates she could hear Lord Creeghan talking to his sister. His voice was low, but his tone was impassioned, and his burr more prominent, though still not nearly as strong as his sister’s.

“Elaina! ’Tis not healthy that you come here so continuously. You must promise me to stay away from this realm of the dead.”

“Oh, Bruce! I cannot help it! I think that if I come here, God will look down more gently upon those who are far away from me!”

“God had little part in that war, Elaina,” Creeghan said gruffly. “And drowning yourself here in the dampness and the darkness will not change the future. You will cease to spend so much time here.”

“Bruce, you mustn’t—”

“Elaina, I command you to obey me.”

There was the sniffling sound again. Elaina was crying. Martise paused awkwardly, realizing that Elaina Creeghan was being held in her brother’s arms.

“Bruce, what of the coffin beyond the gate?”

“Elaina, you will not talk of it.”

“But Bruce—”

“That, too, is my command.”

The coffin beyond the gate? Martise wondered. Beyond what gate? The one that blocked the ancient Creeghan dead from the modern crypts?

But there were no coffins beyond the gate. He had told her that in those crypts the dead were laid out upon their stones, and covered only in their shrouds.

Martise suddenly realized that she was not standing in the shadows. Lord Creeghan was holding his sister, but his eyes, blazing even here in the candlelight, were fully upon her.

Challengingly upon her.

He knew that she had been standing there. He knew that she had heard his words.

He moved away from his sister. “Elaina, it seems that our dear Lady St. James prays with admirable speed. Shall we go up?”

“Oh, indeed!” Elaina said, spinning around and smiling at Martise. “Please, let’s do go on up. I should love a sherry. Wouldn’t you, Martise?”

Actually, she’d love a damned good shot of whisky—she’d learned to enjoy such decadent pleasures during the war. But she smiled, or she tried to smile.

“Yes, I’d love a sherry.”

“I’m quite sure she would,” Lord Creeghan said, and his lip was curling.

He stepped past his sister and offered Martise his arm. She hesitated, feeling the compelling fire of his eyes, then he touched her hand, and the heat was searing when he tucked her fingers against his arm.

“But bear in mind, Elaina, this visitor of ours, this Lady St. James, does not fear ghosts. The crypt holds no haunting images for her. It is only the living that she fears. Is that still true, Martise?” he asked.

She felt his touch, felt the power. She felt the slight rippling of his muscles beneath the civilized elegance of his apparel, and she felt the lightning probe of his eyes.

“It is only the living I fear,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “When I am threatened.”

He smiled slowly, wickedly, a raven-black brow arched, and Martise knew then that he was very much aware she was afraid of the living. She was afraid of him.

Or afraid of herself.

She really knew not which.

T
he hall seemed very different for supper that evening.

Martise dressed carefully for the occasion. Holly had seen to the pressing of many of her garments that afternoon. Styles had made numerous subtle changes between the beginning of the war and the end of it, what with the bustle coming in and the petticoats toning down ever so slightly. She hadn’t been able to afford any of the new fashions being shown in Lady Godoy’s, but she had managed to taper down her old skirts and create bustle effects from the extra material. That evening she was able to dress in an elegant royal-blue velvet bodice and overgown with an underskirt of flower-strewn linen. She weaved blue ribbons through her hair and stood back, pleased with the effect. Her eyes seemed larger, wider, and more luminescent. Her cheeks were naturally flushed and she realized that it was with excitement. She was about to meet with Bruce Creeghan again, be it in challenge or battle, and although she was still made uneasy by his probing eyes and questions, she could not deny the fascination.

“Forgive me, Mary!” she thought, giving her reflection one last glance before leaving her room.

Coming down the stairs, she was certain that Bruce was already in the room when she saw a tall man standing before the fire. He was immaculately dressed in fawn trousers, a rich frilled shirt, and a handsome maroon frock coat. When he turned about, though, she saw that he was not Bruce at all, but a younger version of the lord of Creeghan. His light, dancing green eyes had a definite mischief to them.

“Lady St. James,” he said gallantly, and came up several of the steps to take her hand and assist her down, making no pretense of hiding his intense interest in her. “I do admit to being highly intrigued. Bruce was so quiet about you, keeping his own counsel, that I was quite fascinated to meet you. And then Elaina told me that we had a true creation of an elegant, beautiful, and glorious Southern belle in our presence—of course, dear lady, you really are an Englishwoman, aren’t you?—well, never mind, the fascination was there. And you are astonishingly lovely, but then you must know that, don’t you? No matter, how rude. We’re delighted to have you, and ever so sorry you have come under such circumstances.”

“Thank you,” Martise said, smiling, and trying not to laugh. She still didn’t know who the man was, but he was definitely handsome and far more welcoming than ye olde lord of the castle.

“I’m Ian,” he informed her hastily. “Bruce’s cousin. The poor relation. Well, not so terribly poor, really, I’m just not as rich as Bruce the Laird, you see. I own an estate about fifty miles from here, but we keep our livestock pooled and use Bruce’s land. Since I am a single gent with no wife or wee bairns as yet to care for, I’m glad enough to keep my rooms here in the castle.”

“Ian,” she said, spinning around as they reached the landing to study him. She held his hand still and told him, “It’s a pleasure, Ian. I am delighted that you are at the castle.”

“Aye, as well Lady St. James should be!” Bruce Creeghan’s rich, softly burred voice came to her from across the room. He strode toward her, inches taller than his charming cousin, and seeming to ignite the air with his dark presence. He smiled at Ian.

“Lady St. James must not feel that her welcome on her first night here was the poorest. I felt compelled to warn her that Creeghan is rumored to be full of haunts and evil beasties.”

Ian grinned. “Take no heed. Bruce is the evil beastie here, as any man can tell you.”

“Ah, cousin, you mustn’t joke with her so,” Bruce said, watching Martise’s eyes. “I’m quite certain that she came here believing I was a beast or dragon as it is, and that I did, perhaps, devour my poor wife, her sister.”

Elaina, entering the room, gasped, and stood deathly still. Bruce looked to her swiftly and strode the few steps to the stair to take her hand. “Elaina—”

“It isn’t true, you know!” Elaina said, looking desperately to Martise. “None of what has been said is true, and you mustn’t believe it!”

Ian cleared his throat. “Elaina, I don’t believe that Martise had heard anything.”

“Whatever she has heard,” Bruce said, leading his sister to her seat at the table, “she must judge for herself. Don’t you think that is only fair?”

“Ah, fair!” came another voice, and Martise turned to see that an older man had entered the room. Unlike the others, he was light, his blond hair turning white, rich and thick, though, and a handsome complement to his gray eyes. And unlike the others, he was dressed in Highland style, wearing a kilt with his plaid draped well over his shoulder, a traditional sporan swinging from his waist.

The older man came to her, taking her hand, eyes dancing as he kissed it then introduced himself. “I am Peter, father to that rascal yonder”—he indicated Ian—“and uncle to the laird, Bruce. And I’m mighty glad to have ye, lass, but I’ll give ye a warning meself. We’re here in the Highlands”—he pronounced the word as “helands”—“and superstition runs fast and furious, and the tales that ye’ll hear can curdle milk, I swear it. So keep that in mind when ye hear tales of Castle Creeghan, and maybe ye’ll not find us all so sorry a lot as ye imagine at first.”

“Well, I thank you for that, Peter,” Bruce Creeghan said, not addressing the older man as “uncle,” but nodding to him politely. Elaina was already sitting, and Bruce stood at the head of the table, opening the bottle of Burgundy that had been set at the table for them. The room seemed truly gracious this evening, the table set with a snowy-white linen cloth, and the silver so well polished that it shimmered in the candlelight.

“Shall we sit?” Lord Creeghan suggested. He poured out a glass of wine, tasted it, and began to pour the others as his family members took their seats, Peter guiding Martise to a place at Bruce’s left. Hogarth made his silent appearance and took over the task of pouring the wine when Bruce took his seat. Freya joined him, and the meal, an aromatic stew, was swiftly served.

Frowning, Bruce asked, “Where’s Conar?”

“Running late, I imagine,” Ian offered. As Bruce’s frown deepened, Ian added, “Bruce, you asked him to see Father Martin about the memorial service.”

Bruce nodded. “Aye, that I did. And I imagine he stopped off then for a wee spot of whisky.”

Ian said nothing more to defend his brother, nor did Peter rise to speak for the missing Conar.

Her first start of the evening over, Elaina seemed determined to ignore her brother’s ill temper and poor manners and recapture the warmth. “I do hope you’ll still be here for the Highland games, Martise. They’re coming up soon and I’m sure you will find them quaint and so much fun.”