Phantom Series Boxed Set (20 page)

“I’ve risked my life for strangers many times. Paranormal researchers often find themselves in dicey situations. You have to think on your feet. Be creative. Yes, I want the diary. I’ve made no secret of that. But I want to help you find your father, too. Not just because it’s the right thing to do, but because I need to know what he knows. If my friend’s castle is tied to Valoren, it may well be cursed, too. I need to know how to protect her. We both have a better shot at succeeding if we work together.”

Ben gave a curt nod, then twisted around her and dug in to the drawer he’d worked so hard to unlock. His snort alerted her and she leaned around to see what had caused his sardonic reaction.

Out of the tissue paper lining the drawer, he withdrew a leather-bound book, complete with a flap where a keyhole used to be. The pages, edged in gold, had long since faded, but the purpose for the book was clear.

“Looks like you’ve found what you’re looking for, at least,” he said, handing the journal to her.

Cat accepted the book gingerly. A wash of guilt ran over her, but she’d meant what she said. No matter what information the diary contained, she would help Ben find Paschal.

“May I?” she asked.

“Please do. If my father went to all this trouble to hide this book, the contents must be important.”

Cat settled into Paschal’s chair and flipped open the diary. The ink was faded but still readable. The date on the top of the first page seemed to read “1746,” but she couldn’t be sure about the language within. A few words were familiar, clearly English, but notwithstanding the flourishing handwriting, the combination of letters didn’t always form words. At least, not words in any language she recognized.

“Is this Romani?” she asked.

Ben leaned over her shoulder. “Yes. Looks like a dialect favored by Gypsies who lived in Britain.” He flipped the page. “See here. This is actually broken between English and the Gypsy’s native tongue.”

“Like Spanglish,” she quipped.

He grinned. “Same concept, yes.”

“Is that a usual way for a Gypsy to write?”

Ben arched a brow. “Most Gypsies wouldn’t keep a diary at all. Their tradition is oral.”

“It’s written by a woman,” Cat said, turning a few more pages and scanning the words for phrases she recognized.

“How can you tell? The fancy quality of the handwriting is typical of this period for all genders, and most women, I’d guess, especially those of Gypsy origins, wouldn’t have been taught to write.”

She pointed to a few words on the page. “Here, she’s complaining about having to wear a corset.”

“Men wore corsets.”

“And wigs?”

“In the eighteenth century, absolutely. Think George Washington.”

She kept reading, finally stumbling on a passage that was unmistakably female. “I can’t see George Washington worrying if he’d ever find a husband.”

Ben took the diary from her and wandered away while he read. With a keen knowledge of Romani, she guessed he could traverse the minefield of Georgian English, as well as Romani, with more skill than she.

With each minute that passed, he flipped the pages more quickly. At about the halfway point, his eyes narrowed and his brow knitted with worry.

“This is it,” he said.

Cat stood. “What?”

“The diary that mentions Valoren.” He turned the page. “She hates living here. She wants to go to London, like her brothers. She wants to see the world outside of the Gypsy safe haven. Meet fascinating people. Eat exotic foods. She feels guilty about leaving her people, but only half of her is Gypsy. Her hunger to learn about her English half makes her want to defy her father and run away to London on her own.”

“The desire to wander isn’t unusual for a Gypsy, is it?”

“No, but the British and the Gypsies rarely, if ever, mixed. If this woman was half Gypsy and knew how to write English, chances are her father was British.”

“And that’s unusual?”

“She’s educated, so she’s probably wealthy. In that regard, yes, it’s very unusual.”

Cat blew out a breath. She’d always wondered how she would have survived in another time period, living under rules and expectations that dictated a woman’s status and whether or not she received any sort of useful education. A half-breed with Gypsy blood would probably have been crucified in London, a city renowned in all centuries for adhering to strict codes that decided who was valuable and who was worthless based on birth, rank and wealth. Did this girl have any idea how she would have been scorned in the city she dreamt of so romantically?

With yet another reason to be thankful for being born in the twentieth century, Cat changed places with Ben, reading over his shoulder as he flipped through the diary, the dates spanning over a year.

“What else does it say about Valoren?”

Ben paged through, his head shaking from side to side the more he read. “Her oldest brother travels back and forth between Valoren and London. He must be of the peerage, though I’m not exactly an expert in these matters.”

“A half Gypsy serving in the House of Lords?” she asked, surprised.

He looked at her oddly.

“I read romance novels, okay? And not just the juicy parts.”

“Though I don’t suppose you skip them.”

“Would you?”

Ben chuckled and continued scanning the pages. “He must be a half brother, though she doesn’t seem to make any distinction. His name is Damon.”

“Like the artist?” Cat asked, pulling out the painting of the schooner.

Ben gave an affirmative hum, then returned to the book. “She might be adopted or a ward raised with the family,” he went on. “She’s wildly jealous of his ability to go where he wants whenever he wants to,” he said, humor lilting his voice. “She must be nearly eighteen because she laments never going to balls and meeting men.”

Cat couldn’t help but smile. She’d been dating since she was around thirteen. There were some advantages to being raised by grandparents who had more pressing interests than supervising the daughter of their own wayward child.

“If only she knew how much trouble men were, she wouldn’t be so anxious to leave her nanny behind,” Cat commented.

“That’s stopped you?”

She slapped him on the shoulder, and after an exaggerated “ow,” he returned to his reading.

“Wait,” he said.

Cat bent closer. The little room behind the wall had adequate ventilation…for one person. The two of them together, coupled with the lights, increased the temperature from comfortable to…uncomfortable. Perspiration glistened along the back of Ben’s neck, intensifying the scent of his cologne.

“Here. She’s talking about a stranger coming to town with her brother, one who wants to make Valoren his home. He’s Rogan. Incredibly handsome, I take it. She spends several pages here just on his eyes alone.”

“Rogan,” Cat repeated. “Damon. It’s not much. Are there last names?”

The sound of crackling pages added to the tense atmosphere. The diary contained the deep, dark secrets of a swooning young girl whose biggest complaint in life was that she’d never had a date. How could the contents possibly be dangerous or even valuable? Why the secrecy? Why the locked drawer?

“No last name,” Ben informed her, “but she refers to him as Lord Rogan here.”

“Think he’s British, too?”

Ben shrugged. “We could find out more if we had
her
name.”

“Check the inside cover,” Cat suggested.

Ben went back to the beginning of the diary. A label identifying the antique-book shop in Dresden where the journal had been sold hid nearly the entire inside cover. Ben reached into the desk and found a razor-tipped knife. He poked at the edges of the label, prying away the paper centimeters at a time.

“Do you still think this book is why your father was kidnapped?”

As he worked on the label, Ben snared his bottom lip in his teeth. For a split second, Cat imagined snagging his lips with
her
teeth. Never one to apologize for her sexual nature, Cat rolled her eyes at her reaction nonetheless. Ben wasn’t giving off a single signal to indicate he entertained any interest in her. At least, not beyond the help she offered in finding his father. And she made it a rule never to pursue a man who wasn’t pursuing her twice as vigorously.

So why was the room getting so damned hot?

“I can’t see how this diary contains any valuable information,” Ben groused. “It’s the ramblings of a silly child.”

“She’s not so silly,” Cat defended. “She’s a product of her time and circumstances.”

Ben acknowledged her comment with a jaded snicker. “I still can’t see where she’d have any information that anyone would need.”

“Maybe she cursed the place. She certainly hated living there. But we won’t know for sure until you read the entire diary.”

“No, I suppose not.”

Luckily, the label had been applied many years before, so once Ben loosened the toughest streaks of glue, the identifier peeled off with ease. Beneath, the inscription remained intact, though the words beneath the adhesive were faded and somewhat illegible.

“The diary was given to her by her father. ‘My daughter,’ “ Ben quoted, his voice stilted as he stumbled over the writing. “ ‘For here you shall write your secret dreams. Fondly, Father.’ “

“But what’s her name?” Cat asked impatiently. “Or the pop’s name. I’m not picky.”

Ben grunted and pushed away from the desk. Cat took over, carefully turning pages and scanning for anything recognizable. Ben had been right—the diary was mostly the ramblings of a sweet young woman who dreamed of exploration and discovery, but who had little opportunity to reach out of her life experience. Except in books. Again and again, she wrote about her privileged life, contradicting her Gypsy bloodlines. Finally, about three-quarters of the way through the journal, Cat found a series of drawings. Sketches, really, of a grand estate.

Or more like…a castle?

Cat gasped.

“What?” Ben asked, returning to her side instantly.

Cat hadn’t yet seen the castle Alexa had inherited, so she could only speculate that the places were the same. How many castles would one Gypsy safe haven have?

But more important than the architecture was the name at the bottom of the sketch.

“Sarina,” Cat said, tapping her finger just above the artist’s signature. “Sarina Forsyth. Now we have a place to start.”

“You mean
you
have a place to start,” Ben said. “That name will help you in researching the origins of the castle your friend inherited, but it won’t help me find my father.”

“You don’t know that,” Cat insisted.

Ben pressed his lips together, his pewter eyes assessing and intense.

“No, I suppose I don’t. But we won’t find my father if we stay holed up in here.”

Cat closed the diary. “Let’s check in with the police. They’ve had time to interview Amber Stranton and identify the blood on the driveway and any fingerprints by now. Then we’ll know what we should do next.”

Ben gestured toward the diary, which she held clutched to her chest, his disappointment at their discovery unhidden. “Shouldn’t you call the heiress and give her the name in the diary, maybe fax her the drawing of the castle, see if it’s the same place?”

Cat grinned guiltily, her thoughts running in the same direction. She would contact Alexa, of course. Alexa was, after all, the reason she had come to Texas in the first place. The reason she’d met Ben. But now the stakes were higher. Paschal Rousseau was in serious danger. The professor had unwittingly provided the diary, but more than that, he’d provided the impetus for her to use her psychic gift for something more than entertaining her friends.

Her progress had been small, but the thrill surging through her couldn’t be ignored. Of course, she couldn’t discount that the feeling was simply caused by Ben alone.

“Alexa can wait a few hours, but I have a strong feeling your father can’t.”

Seventeen

With her eyes firmly closed and her brain existing on some plane between consciousness and deep sleep, Alexa decided that being roused by a lusty man beat alarm clocks any day of the week. Damon’s wispy kisses along her exposed belly were warm and insistent…and just a little ticklish. When his chin lowered, his hands pulling aside the sheet to the bed he’d conjured so he could apply his wicked tongue even lower, she nearly jolted off the mattress.

“Hey,” she said, though her protests were halfhearted at best.

He looked up at her expectantly, without the least repentance in his stormy gray eyes.

“You require too much sleep,” he complained. She yanked the sheet back into place and with her foot on his shoulder, kicked him away.

“You don’t require enough.”

With a chuckle, Damon rolled aside. The bed was plush and round and filled the entire tower space. He’d left a few candelabras against the wall, but most of the candles had burned out. With satin sheets and velvet coverlets, the space brimmed with decadent luxury. After all these years sleeping alone, Alexa didn’t think she’d like sharing a mattress with a man. Clearly, she simply hadn’t found the right man.

“Were you so insatiable when you were alive or is it a symptom of your phantom state?” she asked.

“Life is too precious to fritter away to sleep,” he replied. “Or at least, life
was
too precious. I’d like to think it will be again, once I am free.”

A note of longing, perhaps even regret, tinged his voice. Instantly, Alexa wanted to roll over to him, wrap her arms around his chiseled chest and offer some sort of comfort. But the truth of the matter was, he could be dead. He didn’t remember dying, but he did remember pain. And his unfinished business regarding his sister’s disappearance could be the ultimate factor in his entrapment in this world. The solid form he took each night thanks to Rogan’s dark magic might be temporary—or at the very least, limited. If he could never leave this castle and never have corporeal form during daylight hours, what kind of life was he reduced to?

Alexa stretched her hand to him and gave him what she hoped was a fortifying squeeze on his arm. “Trust me, you’re living life quite well, at least from this side of the bed.”