Fascination -and- Charmed (5 page)

“We all live well enough,” Mairi said seriously. “Though Father tell o’ how it used to be before ... It used to be different here. There was laughter and balls and the gentry comin’ for parties.”

“That would be before the marquess’s, mm, sickness?”

“Aye, ye could call it that.”

Poor man. Now he was reduced to seeking the aid and company of a woman he didn’t even know. How quickly friends could desert one when grave illness occurred.

“D’ye think there’s any reason to be afeared, miss?”

Grace screwed up her eyes. “Why should there be?”

“Well. At night, I mean. With what goes on an’ everythin’.”

A slow thud, thud, made Grace very aware of her heart. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The girl glanced nervously at the door.
“
Him.
”

Grace lowered her head encouragingly.

“Ye know.
Him. Is
it true that ye’re to marry him?”

Was it? “It appears so.”

“Are ye not afeared?”

Such lack of understanding in the face of illness was very sad. “No, I’m not afraid.”

“Och, ye’re verra brave. D’ye know all about him, then? And do ye still not fear for yersel’?”

“Why don’t you tell me what you think I should be afraid of? Then I’ll tell you if I am.” Despite her resolve, Grace had to swallow around the tightness in her throat.

Mairi looked over her shoulder again, and into the dark recesses of the room. “He’s never seen by day.”

Grace nodded. “I’m sure he’s not.”

“But the lights are on all night.”

“Are they?” Of course, a poor, sick man’s lights might be needed at night.

“There are terrible stories, ye know.”

Grace was afraid she soon would know.

“Have ye heard them?”

“I don’t think I have.”

“Are ye set on it, then?”

The fire had begun to burn low, and Grace shivered a little. “What are you asking me?”

“If ye’re determined to marry
him.
“

“It appears that I am.”

“Aye.” A tremendous sigh raised Mairi’s rounded bosom. “I was afraid o’ that. A woman as old as four an’ twenty and still a spinster is likely to feel desperate, I s’pose.”

There seemed no response.

“Surely ye’d be better off a spinster than with
him?
What’ll ye do when he goes on one o’ his wild tears?”

“I don’t know,” Grace said. As hard as she tried to remind herself that these local people were ignorant, she could not completely quell her own nervousness.

Mairi began to wind her hands together again. “If ye decide to go ahead with it, I’ll be here for ye. Let me know if there’s a babby an’ I’ll do me best to save it.”

Grace felt her mouth drop open but was helpless to close it.

“I could rush in and help ye take it away from him.” An upsurge of enthusiasm brought a smile to Mairi’s pale lips. “If ye wanted me to, I’d help ye hold him down until he subsided.”

“What baby?” Grace managed to ask.

“Och, ye poor, wee thing, ye dinna know at all. He’s
mad.
No one sees him. Not ever.”

“The marquess?”

“Aye, the marquess. And the stories they tell. It’s the babbies that twist your heart, though.”

“What babies?” Grace almost screamed.

“The ones he steals o’ a night.” All color left Mairi’s face.

“How ... how does he steal them?” She could hardly breathe.

Mairi’s eyes opened wide. “Och, I’m not sure, but they say as he looks for any left lyin’ about.”

“Whose baby was stolen most recently?” Perhaps there was some monster on the loose, and the poor, sick marquess was being blamed for sins he was incapable of committing.

“I’m not certain, but I’ll find out for ye. That’s if I can get anyone to talk about it.”

“If someone’s child has been stolen, they’ll talk about it.”

“Och, no.” Mairi slowly rocked her head from side to side. “Ye don’t ken a mother’s pain at knowin’ her bairn’s suffered so. She’d not be likely to talk about it easily.”

Grace had to ask: “What exactly does he ...? What is supposed to happen to these babies?”

“Och, miss,” Mairi moaned. “He
eats
them.”

This time Grace did scream.

“Calm y’sel’,” Mairi said, taking hold of Grace’s hands. “Ye’ll need your wits about ye for marriage to the Savage o’ Stonehaven.”

Midnight had come and gone. But for her mother, Grace was alone among strangers in a castle hundreds of miles from her London home and faced with the probability that she was about to become the wife of a dying marquess.

The courage to leave her chamber had not been easily summoned, but there was a task to be accomplished, and it must be done quickly lest someone more determined than Mairi took an interest in Grace’s trunks.

There was not a moment to be wasted. Especially on foolishness. Eating babies! And she had allowed the lateness of the hour and her formidable surroundings to sweep her into ridiculous and unfounded fear.

Widgeon! Sapskull! Peagoose!

Never again would she succumb to such girlish nonsense.

Grace settled her oiled-cloth-wrapped bundle more firmly beneath her arm, turned the corner of yet another gloomy, deserted corridor, and tried to ignore the suits of armor that stood like silent iron sentries all over this great building—at least, all over as much of it as she had so far observed. The plastered walls supported banks of weapons and shields between portraits of dour-faced, richly dressed men and thoughtless-looking females holding flowers or books.

She eyed the paintings with disdain. Lifeless. Useless. Who would want such ill-tempered scowls on all sides?

This was the fourth turn she had taken since creeping from her chamber. She stopped and looked back. One left, two right, and another left. Only she must reverse them all on the way back.

A draft as if from some deep, bone-cold place wafted about her ankles, plucking at the hem of her thin dress. She stepped closer to a wall. If she listened, there seemed to be hushed swishings and breathings and a faint irregular ticking like the last efforts of a dying clock.

And, so very far away, music?

No. Nothing.

There was absolutely nothing unusual about this place, except that it was a huge, confusing, mostly dark, and mostly empty castle in which she was an interloper.

To turn back would be to give up—at least for now—and she wanted to waste as little time as possible finding a place to continue the work she could only do in private.

She eased away from the wall. Another door, heavy and crooked like several others she’d already opened, stood ajar on her left. She pushed it open a little and peered inside. The shapes of draped furniture loomed, and a most unpleasant and strong smell of dust hung over all. This house—
castle
—must be cleaned and it must be cleaned promptly. If she did little else that was useful here, she would ensure that the lazy servants attended to their duties.

A weak moon cast scant light into what was obviously a bedroom, but it was enough to show Grace that the room would not do for her special purpose. The windows were too narrow, and there was not at all a welcoming atmosphere.

She pressed on. The bare stones beneath her feet struck an icy chill into her flesh. Her slippers made dry, scratching sounds as if hidden fingers tried to crawl a way out.

Music.

A rush of notes like a distant silver waterfall.

No. Mama, and Papa before her, had warned Grace to ignore her otherworldly senses. Yet ...

She had
not
heard ghostly music, and fainthearted, she would not be. The days ahead would require a cool head, and Grace would be up to the ordeal.

At intervals, wall sconces puddled their yellow glow over the scene. Lights at night, indeed! Of course there were lights at night.

One more room, and another, showed no more promise than the others until Grace finally reached a staircase. Cautiously she stared up steps worn thin at their centers by the passage of many feet. The weight of stone around her pressed in. She could almost feel the hundreds of years this home of rock had weathered. “And the people,” she murmured to herself. “All those people.”

She heard it again, and this time almost clearly. The same fluid, descending notes played, over and over, on a piano.

Perhaps Mr. Innes was the pianist. Perhaps his rooms were here, although she’d been led to believe they were in the opposite direction.

The music stopped. In her mind the remembered sound made an image of a cobweb strung with early morning dew. Then, as if a breeze blew the shiny threads and droplets away, the web was gone.

Otherworldly nonsense.

At a square landing, the staircase angled away to the right and upward again. And at the top was a door.

And under the door shone a slice of subdued light.

“...
the lights are on all night.
”

A watery sensation attacked Grace’s limbs. She stood quite still and listened.

There was no sound.

She let out the breath she’d held and climbed again.
Peagoose.
No doubt she’d expected to hear babies crying to the tune of her cobweb music. Or perhaps the crunch of tiny bones ... “Oh.” The small cry could not be contained. Silliness it might all be, but quite horrible to contemplate.

“Courage,” she told herself. “You are afraid of nothing. And you must get started on your work again.”

The words felt decidedly hollow, but she settled a hand on the doorknob and turned it slowly.

Soundlessly the door swung inward over glossy wooden floors. Grace was faced with an expanse of dark blue silk carpet and towering paneled walls hung with rich tapestries. In the center of the room stood a piano upon which were heaped untidy piles of papers. More papers littered the floor. No welcoming flames lighted the white marble fireplace.

Grace stared at the piano and swallowed painfully. The lid was up, exposing the keys. A bench with a tapestry seat stood at an angle.

No one sat upon that bench.

Inching forward, she peered around. There was
no
ghostly pianist hovering in the vicinity.

She should flee.

She would
not
flee.

This was supposedly to be her home, and she must learn to make it so for as long as she remained ... Again Grace guiltily recognized that she was contemplating the death of a man she had not met but whom she might well marry.

With hesitant steps she entered an extraordinary room. The arches of a domed Gothic ceiling were ornately plastered with garlands of leaves and musical instruments. Grace was no expert on such things, but a group of armchairs pushed at careless angles around a marquetry table appeared to be upholstered with Aubusson tapestry like some she’d seen in the home of one of Mama’s needleworking friends.

The light came from beaten brass wall sconces.

“Hello,” she said softly.

No one replied.

“Is anybody here?”

There was in the air a feeling of energy ... emotion. And there was only silence.

She should leave.

She
would
not.

Quickly, before she could change her mind, Grace hurried determinedly across the room and stood before the fireplace. Holding the bundle against her middle, she looked around.

To the left, in a corner, stood a second piano. A third, this one very large and with the top raised, occupied a space some feet from a curved casement over which were drawn red velvet draperies.

Grace surveyed the entire scene and had an unnervingly poignant insight. This was a place that had been filled with music. The marquess, when he’d been a young, well man, must have loved music. A violoncello rested against a couch, and several violin cases were placed, open, on its seat.

This had once been someone’s beloved place. She could feel it. And now it was kept ready as if the musician would one day return. The little part of her she’d been taught to ignore must have heard music from long ago. The arched ceiling above Grace’s head, the plaster garlands and fanciful images, had caught and held the beautiful sounds, and she had somehow snatched them away again, if only for a few moments.

“So sad,” Grace said. Who could be taking such care of all this? Certainly not the slothful band of servants she’d so far encountered and of whom, with the exception of Mairi, she’d seen nothing since dinner

She closed her eyes to feel the energy that had managed to remain alive here.

Alive.
Yes, it was alive and the energy still hummed, audible to that magical part of her mind that she and only she had welcomed since childhood.

This was a good room, a perfect room.

Grace opened her eyes and looked around keenly. That window was wide, and the exposure should be perfect for her needs. Why not? Surely if she told the marquess she’d like to care for his music room, he would be happy to agree. Perhaps in time—if they found a kindly companionship—she would be able to tell him about her secret. If he was the type of man she was beginning to think he might be, he could only be inclined to encourage her in the passion she’d been forced to hide.

And now she was being truly foolish. No man would encourage such pursuits in a woman, particularly in a woman who was his wife purely for the purpose of providing care in his dying days.

Grace walked to the gloomy window alcove and swept open a drapery. “Oh, yes,” she whispered, and tears sprang into her eyes. The moon hung in a misty bowl of silver sunk into a sky as soft as draped black muslin. By day there would be sunshine here and the crystal blue of high hill heavens. “Yes, yes! This must be the place.”

“Must it indeed?”

Grace all but collapsed. She whirled about to face a man, a very large man. The lumpy bundle slipped under her arm, but she caught and clamped it against her chest.

He was so close, she could see how his narrowed green eyes caught light and darkened.

“I ... I am Miss Grace Wren.”

“Really?” Tall, extremely tall, and dressed in black except for his white linen, the man must have stood, silent and unmoving, watching her from the shadow of the casement.