Fair Maiden (4 page)

“Thank you, my dear.” Christian sat in the green leather
chair behind the desk, dragged the book toward him and swung it open with a
flurry of dust and crinkly noises.

Without warning, he froze and shot a look at her. “You can
read!”

“Of course I can. Why would you think I cannot?”

“Because a peasant would not be literate.”

Christian did have an intriguing point. She remained
speechless as she pondered it.

He went on, “Only ladies of noble birth were literate in
your time.”

“You cannot know that.”

“I believe it is fact.”

“What if I’m an orphan and was raised in a nunnery?”

Something that sounded much like a curse blew past his lips.
“I can’t argue that.” He returned his attention to the book. “This is still our
best option for discovering who you are.”

She moved to hover behind him and watched as he began
sifting through it. He started at the back and worked his way to older years.
Suddenly she reached out trying to stop the page from turning. “Wait!”

The paper stopped within her hand and he pushed it flat
again. “What is it?”

“What manner of painting is that?” She pointed at a portrait
so real it looked as though the person had been trapped inside, and frozen
there.

Christian chuckled. “That, my dear, is a photograph.”

He had said that word earlier, but she had no idea this is
what he meant. “How—how is it done?”

“Well,” Christian scratched his knee, “The photographer has
a box with film in it. He sets the subject in front of that, then he exposes
the film to light.”

“Huh?”

“I’m sorry. I’m not sure how to better explain. Perhaps I
can show you. Later.” And he began flipping through the pages again until he
found her era.

“Oh!” she said, pointing again.

Stopping again, Christian twisted to face her. “Do you see
something you recognize?”

“The clothing, yes. The brocade doublet and the sword slung
about the hips.” She eyed Christian’s attire. “Why do you not carry a sword?”

“My dear, there are other weapons that make the sword pale
in comparison. We use blades for sport more than defense now.”

“Why?”

“Guns.”

When she looked confused again, he sighed. “This too would
be better understood if I showed you rather than tried to explain it.”

“Oh.”

He turned back to the tome. “Do you see anyone you know?”

Shaking her head she wondered,
Would she even recognize
them if she did?
He flipped the page. Again, she shook her head.

Christian continued like this, pausing to read, and then
gather her reaction to the portraits upon the pages. However, it seemed he grew
frustrated as this continued with no result. And so was she. “There is naught,”
she whispered, feeling hopeless.

He shoved over another page, and another, until he’d past by
her era and then slammed it shut. As more dust tumbled into the air, he
responded, “You can’t have been from this castle. I do not understand how you
could be here if you never lived here.” His shoulders fell back into the
leather cushion with apparent frustration, and he tangled his fingers into his
wavy locks. “I wanted to know your name, princess.”

Of all the endearments he’d lavished upon her thus far, she
decided she liked that one best of all. Smiling, she moved to levitate over the
desk as though she were sitting upon it.

His eyes met hers, just before they began to rake over the
details of her dress. “Are you a princess? A noble? A commoner?” And she
realized he was attempting to judge by her gown who she was. But without
knowing how she could have gotten it, it offered very few clues.

“I wish I knew.”

“Hmmm.” He reached for the folds of silk that spilled out
around her, and watched as his fingertips slid through it. “Would you be
offended if I searched the books of other castles? I wish to discover who you
are. You present a mystery, and I do love mysteries.”

“But what if I am a commoner and not listed in any of the
books?”

The look in his eye troubled her, and she realized that he
would be disappointed if she turned out to be an ordinary peasant. Perhaps this
man, who appeared so gentle and thoughtful, accepting her even though she was
not living, was simply like the rest, and only cared about titles and how much
dowry a lady had.

“May I do the research?” he pressed.

“If you like.”

Seeming to sense her slipping mood, he made an attempt to
cheer her. “I meant what I said. I do wish to help you find your identity.”

“Thank you,” she whispered slowly.

“I’m leaving for London tomorrow then.”

“Did you not just return from there?”

“Yes. Unfortunately, I don’t have the books I need here. You
could come with me. It would be helpful to compare your face with that of the
ones in the books.”

“Oh. I’m afraid I cannot.” She began pinching her bottom lip
between her teeth. She knew she was doing it; it seemed to be a habit, though
she couldn’t actually feel it. Just like breathing, which she also couldn’t
feel, but also knew she was doing, even if it was unnecessary.

“Why ever not?”

“There seems to be a wall surrounding this property that
only
I
cannot cross. I am trapped here.”

“That is quite strange.”

“Yes, and frustrating.”

He began perusing her face. Smirking, he shoved back his
chair, tugged open a drawer, then removed a sketchpad and charcoal from it.
“Then I will draw you myself. I want to be certain I remember correctly.”

“Are you an artist?”
Did he just blush?
she asked
herself.

“Yes,” he said, and blushed some more. Her lips curved with
mirth at that.

“Is any of your work displayed here?”

“A few things.” He’d already begun penciling in the outlines
of her face and chin.

She leaned in closer to watch.  His gaze shifted back to
her, and then he laughed. “Hold still, please.”

“My apologies, Lord Krestly,” she said, tugging herself upright
again.

“Christian, please call me Christian. I cannot bear the
‘lord’ nonsense from you, too.”

“Christian,” she echoed, and he smiled with approval.

He added a faint line for the bridge of her nose, and then
placed her eyebrows above. Before those were completely finished he added the
outline of her eyes, then her lips. And she realized he was just finding the
proper positions before he started with the details.

After another glance in her direction, he said, “You’re
holding very still for an…”

“Apparition?” she supplied.

“Although you do tend to bob a bit.”

She laughed.

“I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. However, I do love the
sound of your laugh.”

“Really? What does it sound like?”

He kept moving his pencil over the paper, and taking peeks
at different parts of her features as he spoke. “It sounds like,” he paused a
moment, “musical rain.”

Her brows lowered as she tried to imagine that.

“Or like instruments on the wind.”

“Are you a poet, too?” she asked.

He chuckled. “That, I am not,” he said, as he used his pinky
to smudge the charcoal, her image becoming clearer on the paper. She thought
him talented, and quick.

When he finished, he held it up for her to see. “Will this
do?”

“Oh, ’tis wonderful!” she gasped.

After a few days, Christian returned.

Unwilling to wait to speak with him, she entered his drawing
room through a wall. From the look on his face, she knew she’d startled him
with that, but when he noticed ‘twas her, his face brightened with a smile that
stole her heart.

“You’re back.”

“I am, and I’m finished with my research for now.”

His sad expression made it clear. “You found nothing.”

“I’m terribly sorry. I so wanted to address you by your
proper name.”

She sighed. “I wanted that, too. But I do want to thank you
for taking the time.”

“It was my pleasure, truly, my little nonexistent girl.”

“Or peasant girl.”

His face did not hide the fact that he’d wondered the same,
though instead he said, “You could be highborn, that dress is too fine to
belong to a commoner.”

“What if it was borrowed?”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“What if the groom paid for it?”

“Let’s not talk about
him
,” he growled.

A thrill went through her at the thought that he may be
jealous of her previous fiancé, then that thought unhappily slid away when she
remembered she and Lord Christian Sparks could never be.

As neither of them spoke for a few moments, her gaze drifted
from painting to painting before dropping to the chess set displayed upon a
round table situated just left of the window. She descended into one of the
soft-looking chairs next to it, and outstretched her hand over the ivory chess
pieces, then slid one into the next square as if she were playing the game.

The next time she looked up, she nearly jumped to see that
Christian sat in the chair directly across from her, smiling broadly, that
dimple as deep as ever. “Do you play?”

“Well.” She tipped her head to the side and studied the
board. “I may have played this before, it seems familiar.”

“Is that your first move?”

Her eyes fell on the piece she’d moved to consider that,
then she nodded. “Yes.”

“Then you must have played before, because that is the move
I would have made.”

“Truly?”

“Yes. Now I’ll have to be more creative,” he said with a
playful grin.

As they progressed through the game, she asked, “Did you do
the paintings in this chamber?”

“Yes.”

“They’re lovely.”

“Thank you, but I’m going to replace one of them.”

“You are?”

“I just got another one framed while I was in London. I need somewhere to hang it.”

“May I see?”

His dimple deepened again. “I’ll fetch it.” He rose from his
chair, strode to a brown package leaning against the wall and began tearing at
the paper.

When he displayed it for her, she gasped. “You had it
framed?”

“Of course.”

“But—”

He ignored her sputtering protest to admire his work, then
added, “I do wish I’d been able to capture how you shimmer in the candlelight.
Did you know that?”

“Are you certain you’re not a poet?” she breathed, knowing
she should feel breathless.

He laughed, turned and walked to the opposite wall, removed
a landscape and hooked the framed sketch of her onto the nail. Christian
paused, and after a small adjustment to the richly carved, wooden frame, he
returned to his seat opposite her.

“It is your turn,” she said.

He made his move and then swiftly confiscated another one of
her pieces, adding to his growing collection of wins. She knew her lips were
pulling into a pout as she played her next piece, and then as he played his, he
said, “Checkmate.”

“Hmmm, either I was never very good at this, or I have
forgotten too much. But I know what that means.”

“I would wager you were better before you—Forget I said
that.”

“Before I died, when I could remember this game and who I
was?” she suggested, and then wondered if he could hear the returning sadness
in her voice just as she could.

“I’m sorry, I’ve bungled it again. It seems I like the
flavor of leather in my mouth. Please—”

“Nay, um…I think I will retire now. Thank you for the game
of chess.” She hoped he could not see the tears welling up in her eyes. She
rose swiftly and left through the ceiling.

Before she could feel naught, but now she
could
feel
the vise grip of desperate disappointment seize her chest. She suddenly
remembered physical pain, and this was far worse. She was falling for Christian
and she’d only been in his presence for a scant amount of time. But she could
not have him or this life.

Why am I still here?
She drifted down to pretend she
was lying on her bed and wept.

Chapter 4

Scary

Where does she go when she retires?
Christian
wondered, peering up at the plaster ceiling that she’d just vanished through.

She had to be here somewhere….
And why do I keep hurting
her with my thoughtless comments?
His gaze returned to the sketch. With
hands on the armrests of the wingback chair he shoved himself to his feet and
went to the drawing, removed it from the wall, and sank into the chair next to
the fire, his eyes locked on that pretty face.

“She’s real.”

“Who’s real, foolish boy?”

“Jackson, hello. I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s time for tea. I promise it’s better this time. And
Margaret made the most delightful apple pie. I put cheese on top and warmed it
up for you.”

“Sounds perfect, Jackson, and whatever happened to that
infuriating proper address? Not that I protest, but—”

“Slip of the tongue, my lord. It won’t happen again.”

A loud guffaw burst from Christian at that. “Give me the
tea, you old fart.”

Smirking like a youth, the old man set the tray on the table
next to Christian. “Now, Christian, are you going to answer my question? Who is
real?”

“Her.” He motioned to the girl in the sketch.

“Ah, is this young lady one you met in London?”

“No. I met her here.”

Jackson’s eyes became bug-like in size. “Not the lady you
were babbling on about at dinner after we’d returned.”

“The very one.”

“The apparition.”

“And the loveliest one I’ve ever seen.”

“Have you seen many deceased—?”

“No,” Christian replied with a little bit of irritation
rising.

“Then—”

“She is the prettiest
lady
I have ever set eyes
upon.”

“Hmm.” Jackson’s fingers surrounded his chin as he adopted a
thoughtful pose. “Well, judging from this drawing, she is that, but,
Christian…are you certain she wasn’t simply a figment of your imagination? It
was a long journey coming back—”