Shadows in Scarlet (11 page)

She soaped, rinsed, and exposed as much of her body to the spray as she could without gymnastic training. When she stepped out onto the bathmat she felt delightfully cool.

Cool, not cold? Amanda looked warily around, but already the brief chill was dissipating. Just the effect of the water. Nothing supernatural. It was still daylight, and he'd never appeared until after dark. He was flexible, though. He'd first materialized in the part of the house most associated with him and little changed from his own time, then in the part most changed.

If there were rules, she'd have to figure them out for herself. Assuming she got any more data. James might have done what he came to do, or gotten what he came to get, and departed at last.... No. Putting a name to his bones hadn't been enough. Wayne must be right again. Ironically, James's spirit demanded a proper funeral even while it proved itself too vital for the grave.

Amanda dressed, took her clipboard, and checked out the house. With the exception of a gum wrapper on Sally's bedroom floor, all was in order. As it was outside. She strolled down to the site of the summerhouse and checked out the excavation. The area of pared-away vegetation extended further. Several trenches revealed a line of postholes. With much of the underbrush removed the area no longer seemed oppressive, just forlorn. Amanda wondered what it had looked like in James and Sally's day. Had there been a British picket stationed at the little building? Or had it made a nice little secret rendezvous for certain young lovers? “Lovers” in the eighteenth century sense, of course. Surely Sally wouldn't have....
Naw.

Amanda walked slowly back through the lengthening shadows. The evening was humid and silent. A slight odor of decay hung on the still air. Even the birds seemed to be dozing in the heat. By the time she went back inside the house she was imagining herself the last human being on Earth.

The evening news revealed that there were plenty of other people on Earth, many of them busily making trouble for the rest. That hadn't changed in two—or six, or eight—hundred years. “Get a life,” she said to one public figure who tonight was almost foaming at the mouth, and turned the television off. When the cat flap swung open she jumped. Lafayette strolled into the kitchen with a pointed glance at the can opener.

Outside the apartment night thickened. Fed once again, Lafayette settled down in his chair. Amanda turned on the light in the kitchen and the one on her desk. She forced herself to sit down at the computer, but after she'd checked her e-mail found herself seeing not what was on the screen but what was reflected in it. Maybe if she put on some music. Would Smashing Pumpkins or Radiohead scare him away?

A chill tightened her nape and shoulders, as though ice slid down her spine. She bolted to her feet just in time to see James Grant appear literally out of thin air.

Lafayette bristled, his claws snagging the cushion. The drones of the computer and the fans were an undercurrent to the drum roll of Amanda's pulse. She closed her eyes and opened them again. James was still there, blinking dazedly as though suddenly awakened from sleep.

His eyes focussed on the cat. He scowled, taking an abrupt step forward. Lafayette hissed and dived for the door. The cat flap banged back and forth, slowed, then stopped.

James turned toward Amanda, one hand on the scabbard, the other extended. His scowl disappeared so quickly Amanda wondered if she'd seen it, consumed by the brilliance of his smile. “Good evening, Miss Witham. It seems as though the wee beast does not care for me."

"No accounting for tastes.” She'd look ludicrous curtseying in shorts, so she nodded. “Good evening, Captain Grant."

He cocked his brows. His hand remained extended, palm up, fingers inviting. She stepped forward and placed her hand in his. Electricity tingled in her skin. This time instead of bending over her hand he raised it to his lips, so that she felt not only the kiss but the full impact of those smoky blue-gray eyes. Her face grew so warm she knew she'd flushed scarlet—
way to go
—even though her fingers were cool and dry. The room was no longer cold, but tropical.

She reclaimed her hand. James's lips, still parted, went lopsided. His brows tightened. He looked around him with the part cautious, part suspicious air of the children Amanda lectured on chamber pots and feather beds.

She looked at him—a military historian or re-enactor would give his eyeteeth for this close a look at an authentic uniform.

James seemed less indefinite now, in manner and physical appearance both. His body only hinted at translucence. She couldn't see the lamp beside the computer through it, let alone any of the furniture. His clean-cut face was defined as clearly as the intricacies of his clothing. The white ruffles at his throat and wrist shivered as though to a pulse. Buttons, fittings, and epaulette gleamed against his scarlet jacket and its white facings. His waistcoat, revealed by the turned-back skirts of the jacket, was also white. His sporran, the equivalent of a pants pocket, was sleek fur and dangling tassels.

He wasn't, unfortunately, wearing the old-fashioned great kilt, several yards of wool pleated and belted around the waist with the rest billowing artistically upward and pinned at the shoulder. While the belted plaid was the classic Highland garment—in the Scottish climate wearing a blanket was a good idea—by the time James joined the army the powers-that-be had recognized that in battle it was a burden. No longer was it feasible for the soldiers to throw off the plaid and run into combat in their shirts the way the old Highlanders had done.

So James was wearing the small kilt, the lower half of the belted plaid, somewhat fewer yards of blue-green Government tartan pleated and pinned around his waist. While it wasn't the modern kilt, it was definitely a step in its evolution.

That the entire outfit with its heavy, multi-layered fabrics was hopelessly impractical for Virginia's climate, Amanda told herself, didn't detract one bit from its splendor.

Despite the detail, however, James wasn't quite there. Something was odd about his appearance, something was
weird,
in the truest sense of the word.... That was it. In light of the lamp, every object in the room cast dark shadows. But the pleats of James's kilt, the deep lapels of his coat, the scabbard against his side cast no shadows at all. He stood on the rag rug with Amanda's shadow lapping his feet, but he himself didn't have one. It was like his body, his clothing—his image—were lit from within by a memory of light.

James looked around. With an effort Amanda didn't duck.

"This place is Melrose Hall?” he asked.

"Yes. The servant's quarters, more or less."

"You are no maidservant."

"No. I'm kind of an actress."

"Indeed? Have you performed the plays of Mr. Sheridan? When I was last in London his work had earned such plaudits I was obliged to attend School for Scandal three times."

"Not that kind of actress.” She shrugged aside the cognitive dissonance of talking to someone who'd seen Sheridan in the original. “I'm like a teacher, acting out lessons."

He eyed her clothing. “You astonish me. But then, much of what I've seen in the colonies I've found astonishing."

"How so?"

"The American militiamen will not fight a proper battle. We charge at them and they run away like dogs. We've captured some who have no uniforms, but are garbed in buckskin, like red savages."

"Shocking,” said Amanda.

"Williamsburg Town,” he went on, “might be considered a pleasant village in England, but for the misery of the summer heat, of course."

"Tell me about it."

"But I am, Miss Witham.” He stepped closer. “Charlestown, now, is well-favored enough. However, the customs of the country are exceedingly strange. Colonel Lindsay of Balcarres—our commanding officer, a gentleman of fine family and good connections—himself remarked upon the Negro slaves waiting upon table in homes almost as fine as any in Europe."

"Most of us think that's pretty strange, too,” Amanda returned dryly. Lindsay of Balcarres, Charleston—she already knew those names from her research. But she wasn't about to cut him off in mid-flow. “You've been to Charleston?"

"I regret to say that many good men died at the hands of the rebels in South Carolina, although not so many as died of the sweating sickness."

Malaria.
“Are all your men from Scotland?"

"A goodly number are Gaelic speakers from the Highlands, a superstitious lot, but fierce fighters and docile in camp, ever mindful that a good report be made of them to their relatives. Many more will die here in Virginia, I'll warrant, before we crush this rebellion."

"Do you think you'll win?” Amanda asked with a quickly suppressed grin.

"If I were obliged to give the orders, and not Lord Cornwallis, I should march our troops onto our ships and return home before another dawn rises in the east. If these poor fools of colonists allow themselves to be misled by the lies of France and Spain, and are bold enough to rebel against His Majesty's government, then I say let them go, and be damned to them.... “James grimaced and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Miss Witham, I know not where your sympathies lie. With the master of the house, I daresay."

Amanda didn't ask him whether his own relatives had donned the white cockade of Bonnie Prince Charlie and rebelled against His Majesty's government not long before he was born. “Page Armstrong's loyalty to—er—the Continental Congress is well-known."

"Indeed,” James said graciously, with another bow. “I should now present myself to Earl Balcarres, I suppose, but I do not, I cannot...” He sent a long, dubious look at the computer by the window, shook his head, set his jaw, and turned away.

Here was a man deep in denial. He knew where he was, but his surroundings weren't quite right. Amanda's clothing alone must have thrown him for a heck of a loop. But his pride kept him from betraying his confusion, just as honor made him treat her like a lady even though her clothes sure didn't make her look like one.

What should she do? Ask him whether he knew he himself had died in Virginia? Whether he remembered the blow to his chest that had been a shot through his heart? Tell him that two hundred years had passed him by? But as much as she was—figuratively—dying to know why he'd been buried in the Melrose gardens, asking a ghost about his death had to be the ultimate in bad manners.

James peered into the dim interior of the bedroom. His left hand continued to rest on the top of the scabbard, his fingers cupping the oval with the family crest. His right hand smoothed the fall of hair from his forehead into the auburn ponytail that curled down his neck. The soldiers of his time had greased their hair, hosting colonies of fleas and lice. Amanda wasn't sure whether the gentry had been any tidier, but James's hair, oddly lit as it was, seemed quite clean. She was glad he wasn't wearing the precious white wig of his portrait.

His accent was barely recognizable as British—it was a lot flatter than the rounded tones of today's BBC announcer. And Amanda heard no trace in his voice of the burred Rs and glottal stops of the Scottish dialect. But Robert Burns—James's contemporary—had raised a few brows by writing in everyday Scots. Aristocrats like James spoke “proper” English.

"Your soldiers are Gaelic-speakers,” she said. “You can speak Gaelic, then?"

"Yes, I have the Gaelic. A curious tongue.” He turned back toward Amanda. “Have you seen my sword, Miss Witham?"

Back to that. “No, I haven't. Maybe it was stolen. Maybe it was broken."

"Fine Stirling steel it is, a weapon I'd be loath to lose. Why, when I applied it to Melrose's banister it cut deeply into the wood but took no damage itself.” Again he smiled. “My most humble apologies for that, Miss Witham. I was impetuous, even rash, but circumstances demanded action."

The legend was true, then. So much for historical cynicism. She could just see him charging up the stairs, rousing his fellows to do battle, like a character in a PBS costume drama. Except for him it was real.

There was one question she had to ask. “Did you meet Sally Armstrong when you were—ah—here before?"

"Miss Armstrong,” he said, eyes glinting. “So fair a nymph to spring from the loins of the old Roman, her father. She set her cap at me, she did, but my dolt of a cousin, Archibald, offended her by his forwardness. It was late yesterday evening the Armstrongs left Melrose, to stop with relatives until His Majesty's troops move onward.” His gleam dulled into uncertainty. He was probably trying to form a definition of “yesterday."

That settled that,
thought Amanda. Sally really had been attracted to James, Page or no Page. But then, any woman who wasn't seriously hormone-impaired would be attracted to him. “Archibald Grant is your cousin?” she asked.

James didn't answer. He slumped, as though the weight of vulnerability and doubt had gotten too heavy. The odd flat illumination of his face made him look younger than his twenty-odd years. Considerably younger than his two hundred years. He said slowly and thickly, “May I wait upon you again, Miss Witham?"

"Yeah, sure,” she returned, and caught herself. “Yes, if you please."

"Most excellent.” He reached toward her. But his eyes went empty, like a man lapsing into unconsciousness, and he disappeared. Not even the scent of whiskey lingered in the air.

Amanda fell back against the edge of the desk and held on with both hands.
I'm never going to get used to that.

She was going to have to get used to James's sudden appearances and departures. She'd asked him back, hadn't she? Using the excuse of research was all well and good, but it wasn't the historical details that made her knees weak and sent her corpuscles into somersaults.

That was what did make relationships, she thought. An intellectual, emotional, physical connection.... What sort of future she'd find in romancing a ghost she couldn't begin to guess.

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She made quite a picture, Amanda told herself, standing there in her colonial-era gown with a phone pressed to her ear. But since she had a window of only half an hour between the time Carrie arrived at the library and Melrose Hall opened for business, she'd dressed before making her call.