The Haunting at Hawke's Moor (29 page)

"No matter what you say, Miss Sands of
London, this will always be my house, and I will protect it."

She turned to him, but didn't see the
harshness in his face that used to be there. She expected him to
show a stronger reaction. "You don't think I would?"

"Leave us stranded? No, I don't think you
would."

He had her there. Cruelty simply wasn't part
of her makeup, and she couldn't contemplate such an action now that
she knew of the inhabitants, even is their hearts didn't exactly
beat. "Only because I like your daughter."

He chuckled. "You're going to get cold
sitting out here."

"Worried about me?"

"I don't think I could
tolerate you stuck in bed coughing and spluttering for days on
end." He stood and waited for her to follow. She
was
getting cold, her
skin numbing, so she acquiesced and followed him inside. Closing
the heavy door, he turned the lock.

"We probably don't need to lock the door,"
she said. "We only started locking it because we assumed the
strange occurrences in this house had some outside influence."

"You must always lock the door; you never
know who is roaming the moors."

Anne supposed in his time, this area
was much more perilous. The whole of England had been at war, and
any day, trouble could march on this house. For him, one day it
had, and the lock had not managed to keep it out. "The world was
very different in your time," she said.

"I wouldn't know. Nothing looks all that
different out here."

"No, perhaps not."

It felt strange following him up the stairs
to her room, their room. She didn't exactly know how she felt about
it. It was certainly strange. This was how it would be with a
husband, but he wasn't a husband. He was a ghost, to start with,
who teased and toyed with her.

He moved to the desk and sat down. Having
him here was even more awkward than knowing he was there, but
unseen.

"I didn't know you could appear in my
realm," she said.

"I can, but I don't like to."

"Then don't."

Raising his eyebrows, he considered her.
"Have you grown tired of my company?"

Opening her mouth, she didn't know how to
respond. Saying yes was rude, saying no probably said things she
didn't intend on saying. "I am simply saying, if you don't like
being here, then go back."

"Fine," he said and faded before her
eyes. She stared at the empty space for a moment, then took off her
shawl. Was it really better when she couldn't see him, knowing he
was still there? It was harder now to pretend he didn't
exist.

Now she really was too tired to think about
it all. Returning to bed, she took up the same position as before,
facing the wall. She tried to clear her mind and drift off.

The sound of scratching wheedled into her
mind. "Must you write?"

"What would you have me do?"

"There is no one to write to."

"Who are you to say? Do you know the limits
of the world I've created?"

"You cannot create people."

"Is there something on your mind, Miss
Sands?"

Was there something she wished to say? Or
did she just feel like being contrary? She was too tired to think.
"Just please try to write less noisily."

"You chide me just like a wife."

Anne's mouth drew together. Was he trying to
provoke her? Was he teasing her again?

"You are welcome to take another room," he
continued.

"You know I cannot. Some of the guests you
keep in this house struggle to contain themselves."

"Can you blame them?"

"Yes."

"Year after year without intimacy is hard to
bear."

Feeling her cheeks coloring at the
implications, she refused to respond.

Was it hard for him to bear? Whenever
she pushed him, he reacted assertively, but for the purpose of
pushing her away, because he knew it would be successful. Or was it
there beneath, leeching out during moments of stress, revealing
what lay beneath the surface? A frisson of nerves clenched her
stomach. Well, it was a dangerous game, apparently, because the
last time, as much as she hated it, she had not fought the implied
kiss terribly hard.

Perhaps it was her own embarrassment and
shame that refused to let her mind slip into rest, because she knew
well what years and years without kindness, care and intimacy felt
like.

Anne barely reacted now when there was
a bump, a thud or a scrape somewhere in the house. On some level,
it was even soothing to know there were other people around. It
kept the vastness of the moors from her mind. She had almost
started thinking of them as borders.

Richard was different as he still professed
to be the owner of this house. He hadn't exactly explained what
that made her in his mind. She had gone a few days without speaking
to him, only hearing his presence. Occasionally he moved,
occasionally he wrote. Had he forgotten he was dead? Had he
forgotten she was there?

They felt distant during the day. It
was as if their worlds parted company, and she and Lisle were
excluded, veered on another path.

The cold was lessening slightly and
Anne decided it was time to start plowing. The cow took remarkably
well to its new job. Lisle did less so, but they had little choice.
One person was needed to drive the plow, the other to lead the cow.
Anne took the brunt of the work and was the one who fell over every
five minutes. Not a single straight line was achieved.

It might have been one of the hardest days
Anne had ever faced. She was utterly exhausted at the end, but she
was pleased with the progress.

They ate supper in silence as the sun
went down. Lisle was tired, as well. There was a thump above their
head and they both looked up. "Useless, lazy bastards," Lisle said.
"They're not really good for anything, are they? Certainly no help
when there's work to be done."

Anne couldn't help but laugh. "I take
it Alfie has not succeeded in coercing you into joining him on the
other side?"

"After today, it's tempting." Lisle looked
down into her bowl. "He has grand plans, but I'm probably more fond
of my heartbeat than I am of him."

It sounded like there was trouble between
the two lovers. "You could still consider leaving."

"Or we could consider getting another
field hand," she said more brightly. Lisle made it clear she did
not wish to discuss her dealing with Alfie further. Anne wasn't
entirely sure what her responsibility was here, since Lisle knew
exactly what was going on.

"If we could guarantee Beatrice won't kill
them."

Lisle's mouth drew together. "That snotty
cow probably would."

"Have you met her?"

"Not much to look at," Lisle said with a
sniff, which made Anne suspect that wasn't entirely true.

Anne took a bit of her stew. "Well, at least
we have something to gossip about."

"We would if at least one of them did
something interesting. Do you think they gossip about us? They were
probably all watching us plowing the fields today, remarking on how
terribly we did it."

"No doubt." At least the master's room
wasn't facing the way they'd been working that day.

Hopefully, the meal would rectify the
exhaustion that had seeped all her strength. Every part of her
ached, but mostly, her hands, which were still covered in mud.
There were black crescents under nails. She hadn't felt this
unladylike in a while.

"I will retire," she said, dreading to think
they would do this all over again in the morning.

"They better be quiet tonight, or I will
have to tear some tongues out," Lisle said.

With a tight smile, Anne lit one of the
candles and made her way upstairs. Coals were lit in her grate, as
was the lamp. Walking behind the screen, she undressed and poured
some water into her washing bowl, submerging her hands. She winced
as the water worked into her wounds. The sores throbbed and stung
as she used her thumbs to clean her hands.

That such superficial wounds could
hurt so much; the pain was almost vibrating inside her mind. But
they must be cleaned.

"I told you your hands were too soft," his
quiet voice said.

"Yes, well, thank you. As helpful as it is
that you point out my inadequacies, you provide me with little
useful information," she said tartly.

Before her eyes, the room changed and she
groaned. He was drawing her into his world, and the screen
immediately disappeared, leaving her exposed in her chemise.

He moved closer, taking her hands in his,
opening up the palms. They stung with the movement. "Come," he
said, pulling her toward the desk.

"It is inappropriate you bringing me
here in my undergarments."

"You think I haven't seen you in your
undergarments?"

"I would like to pretend that you
haven't."

"I'm not much good at lying."

He brought out a box from the desk and
flicked open the lid. "What is that?"

"A salve."

"I'm sure there's no need to be
drastic. They’re just blisters." Fine they were torn and the red,
raw skin ached underneath.

Her hands in his palms, he refused to relent
when she tried to pull them away. Taking a portion of the salve, he
smeared it across her palms and she winced as he touched the
wounds.

"What is that? It smells awful."

"It is egg yolk, oil and turpentine."

"Oh marvelous. I am sure a
two-hundred-year-old, ghostly salve will be very
helpful."

"Quite a cutting tongue you have
tonight."

She was being rude. He was trying to help
her after all. "I apologize. I am very tired."

"Tough day?"

"Unlike you, I don't get to flounce around
here all day."

"Flounce, do I? Maybe for the fact that I
fought a war for years on end has afforded me an afterlife of
flouncing."

He wound a bandage around her hands. This
wasn't the first wound he'd dressed, she guessed. "Thank you."

Finally, he released her hands and Anne was
again conscious that she was sitting in her chemise.

"I take it you've decided to tackle the
fields."

The answer was obvious, so she didn't say
anything. Grabbing the flask of wine, he poured her a glass. The
glass was rougher and chunkier than her own, but the wine was
palatable. "I did not know you ate and drank."

"I have conjured an endless supply."

"Perhaps you could conjure someone to plow
the fields."

He smiled and took a sip of the wine.
His dark eyes sparkled by the light of the fire. Anne looked away.
The room was different, more masculine, but the bed was the same.
It must have survived the fire. The idea that she slept in his bed
still clenched her insides with nervousness.

"Did you do a good job?"

Anne had to quickly recall the
conversation because she was certain he was not talking about her
sleeping in his bed. "Not particularly. It is my first
time."

"I dread to think the hatchet job you are
making."

"You could always help."

"My fields are already lush, waiting to be
reaped. It should be a good harvest this year."

With a silence grumble, she glared at
him. If the fields were lush, it was summer or close to in his
world. Why have winter if you didn't have to? "Did you conjure
that, too?"

He smiled. Leaning his head back, he
looked over into the fire. His black waistcoat was loose and the
white shirt underneath showed through, soft material laying against
the man underneath. He was so much broader than her. Stronger than
any man she’d ever known. But perhaps years of battle had made him
so. "You always wear the same clothes."