The Haunting of a Duke (24 page)

She smiled back at him. “You can see me Rhys, because you finally believe that I am here."

The breath he'd been holding escaped him in a rush. “Tell me who did this to you Melisande. If you tell me, I can make them pay for what they have done."

She smiled at him sadly, and moved forward into the room. The light rippled about her distorting things, shimmering. “I can't tell you."

"You won't tell me,” he said.

She shook her head and the sadness in her eyes was overwhelming. “I don't know the answer Rhys. I don't remember everything that happened to me that day. Elise knows, but she won't tell."

"Then how are we supposed to find out?"

"I don't have the answers, but I know they are here."

"How?” he demanded. “How do you know?"

She shrugged. “The same way that I know you are alive and I am dead. The same way I knew that you would be able to see me now. Some things just are."

She smiled at him sadly. “I'm so happy that you have Emme. But be careful of Elise. She hates you both."

"I know. Is what she said possible, that she could harm Emme?” Melisande didn't speak, but the stare she leveled at him was answer enough.
Yes. Elise could make good on her threats.

"I've missed you, Lis,” he said softly, using the shortened form of her name that she'd hated as a child.

She smiled back briefly, but was serious again when she spoke. “The footprints in the hallway are here because he is looking for something. You mustn't give up until you find it."

She was gone. In an instant, she simply ceased to be. He fell to his knees, his heart racing and his breath rasping heavily. Was it possible that he had just seen her, that his long-dead sister had just appeared after two decades? He raked his hands through his hair and pressed his fingers against his burning eyes. He hadn't wept for her. Though he'd been only a child, he had not wept when she died. He had borne his grief as stoically as his father had demanded.

The old hurt burned in him and a new one blossomed as he realized that she had known that. She had seen it. She'd been in the house watching what her death had done to them all and how they had all responded to it. He sighed heavily, and let his head drop forward. The weight of that realization was heavy to bear.

The sun emerged from behind the clouds and light streamed in through the window behind him and the carpet in front of him glittered. Rhys reached forward and brushed his hand over the rug until he felt it. The gold cravat pin had been nestled deep into the fringed hem of the carpet, perhaps crushed under someone's boot. It was a simple pin, like those he'd been given as a young man. He held it to the light and the small diamond winked in the light. Initials were engraved upon it, but they were so small he couldn't discern them. Was this what the killer had been looking for, he wondered? Had Melisande somehow led him to it?

He placed the pin in his pocket and rose from the floor, his heart and his mind heavy. He headed toward the sanctity of his study, where he could be alone with his thoughts and commune with spirits of an altogether different variety.

Emme found Rhys in the library only a short time later. He was sitting in a chair before the fireplace, staring into the flames, with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. An empty brandy snifter was on the floor beside him, a half-empty decanter set beside it.

Her eyebrows rose of their own accord as she sought out the clock above the mantel. They were still more than an hour away from noon. “Has the morning been that difficult?"

He didn't respond verbally, but he did reach down and lift the decanter. He refilled his glass as she watched. It wasn't the normal finger or two of brandy she'd seen him imbibe after dinner. He liberally filled the glass. “It has been eventful,” he said finally.

Both curious and alarmed, Emme crossed the room and seated herself on the ottoman in front of him. He started to raise the glass to his lips but she laid her hand over his.

He sighed. “I am not a drunkard, wife."

"I didn't say that you were, but I think you are troubled."

He placed the glass back on the floor and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees until their faces were only inches apart. “How old were you the first time you encountered a spirit?"

It was an odd question, especially from Rhys.

"I don't remember a time when I wasn't aware of them. They were like shadows, vague and indistinct, but always there. It wasn't until I was older that my nocturnal journeys began. Of course, having waking conversation with them has only started since I came here."

He stared at her for a moment, searching her face, her eyes. “If we have children, will they see them as well?"

Emme felt a shiver of apprehension at his questions. Was he having regrets? “It is impossible to say. Many people in my family have gifts, but there are many who do not.” The fear crept into her voice, when she asked, “Why are you asking these questions, Rhys? What has happened?"

He shook his head. “I think—no, I know. I know that I saw Melisande this morning."

It was not what Emme had anticipated that he would say. Rhys was so very adamant that such events could not occur. “You saw her? Did she speak to you?"

He nodded. “I went to the southern wing this morning. It had been the portion of the house that Elise preferred to use for entertaining, when she wasn't up in that bloody tower. Unfortunately, there have been other, very worldly, visitors to that wing. There were footprints, numerous sets, in the corridor. Apparently our villain is searching for something."

He pulled the cravat pin from the pocket of his waistcoat and held it out. “I think this may have been what he was looking for."

Emme examined the small stickpin. It looked strangely familiar. The filigreed tip with the small diamond was a unique design. “I've seen this before, but I can't think where. Did it look familiar to you?"

"To be perfectly honest, no. I've never paid much attention to other men's jewelry."

"I will think of it, eventually,” she said and carried it over to the desk to examine it beneath a magnifying glass. She noted the engraving upon the shaft. “To A., with love, E. The E is obviously for Elise, but who is A?"

He shook his head. “I don't know, but there are several possibilities."

"Alistair?"

"He is one of them. Lord Pommeroy's given name is Ambrose, so we cannot eliminate him either. And that is assuming that this stick pin does belong to our killer and that the person looking for it isn't just attempting to avoid scandal or trying to recover a favorite possession."

"This is so frustrating! I don't understand why Elise won't just simply tell us what she discovered!"

Rhys’ blood went cold. For his part, he didn't care if Elise ever imparted information to them again, given the method in which she did it. Thankfully, there had been no further episodes of ghostly nocturnal visitors. “I hope she doesn't."

His tone alerted her. She had never heard fear from her husband before, but she recognized it in his voice. “What happened the last time? What aren't you telling me?"

He didn't want to alarm her, he didn't want to tell her of the threats Elise had made, but he needed to. She needed to be aware and if there was some way to stop those episodes they needed to explore it to its fullest. “When I found you in the tower you were standing before the open windows and when you looked back at me, somehow, you were Elise in that moment. She looked back at me from your face and told me that she could make you jump."

Emme leaned forward and placed her hands on either side of his face, “There is no power on this earth or beyond it that would make me leave you. Elise’ threats are idle. We will find the killer and then she will be gone."

"How do you know that? Perhaps it isn't justice that keeps her here—perhaps it is her desire to torment me even beyond her death?"

"I don't know that. But I am going to give her the benefit of a doubt, and if she remains after, there are steps that can be taken."

"Then let us take them now."

"We need her Rhys. It isn't just about Elise's murderer. It's about Melisande's murderer and whatever danger we may face, she deserves justice. All of you do. It was her life that was taken, but it was your life and your mother's life that was irrevocably altered, as well. She was stolen from you and that cannot go unpunished any longer."

He knew the truth of her words, but they did little to dispel the growing unease that gripped him. He felt as he had in the war, on the eve of battle. The faint prickling of danger that made him hyperaware of everything and everyone around him had saved his life in battle more than once. His only injury in the war had come when he ignored those instincts in order to save Ellersleigh from what would have been a fatal wound.

"We have very real dangers present, both worldly and otherworldly. For your own protection, you will not leave the house alone and you will not be sleeping alone either."

"Is that why you've been coming to my bed every night?"

"No. That is why I've been waking in your bed every morning. My coming to your bed is for purely selfish reasons,” he said, settling his hands at her waist and pulling her closer.

"Not purely selfish,” she said. “For I benefit from it, as well."

He chuckled. “Perhaps we should move to my bed permanently? It is significantly larger and I rather like the idea of you there."

"Then I should come to you tonight?"

"I think you should come to me now."

He pulled her to her feet and once again they were traversing the secret passage that he had led her through that first night. This time, his touch no longer unnerved her. The scent of him was familiar and comforting, and she knew precisely what awaited her at the end of the short journey. There were stolen kisses in that darkened stairwell, touches that left her gasping and aching. Somewhere along the way, the pins were pulled from her hair and lost in the darkness.

When they entered his chambers, he skillfully unbuttoned her dress while his wicked mouth played over hers, coaxing and seducing. His tongue swirled against hers in an artful dance that mimicked what was yet to come. But she was not a passive recipient. She pushed his coat from his shoulders, and his waistcoat. His cravat followed, and then her hands were beneath his shirt, smoothing over the satiny skin of his back and mapping the contours of his ridged abdomen. Her fingers slid through the crisp hair of his chest and found the flat disks of his nipples. Then her garments fell away, her dress pooled to the floor, her petticoat and stays following, until she stood there only in her chemise and stockings.

He pressed her back against the door and knelt before her on one knee, his strong hands stroking her calves and thighs, his face only inches away from the nest of curls that shielded her sex. He placed a hand behind her knee and lifted it, until her leg rested upon his shoulder, opening her. Her body tensed in anticipation. He leaned in and traced the now slick folds with only the tips of his fingers, the touch light and teasing. She whimpered. His eyes were hot as he met her gaze, and then he dipped his head and pressed his lips against her.

Had it not been for his hands at her hips, holding her against the door, she would have collapsed. The first touch of his mouth on her heated flesh, and her strength had fled. Then he parted her, his tongue delving into the cleft, laving and caressing until she was mindless. Her hands gripped his hair, holding him close, but it was not his intent to leave. He continued the sensual torment. With lips, teeth, tongue and the scrape of his whiskers over her tender flesh, he brought her to a shuddering climax. She sobbed out his name, but still he was not finished. He soothed now, with a softer and more tender touch, until she gasped and shuddered again.

One orgasm bled into the next, until Emme could no longer tell where one ended and the next began. The room faded, her entire body had faded except where he touched. She was acutely aware of the heat and pressure of his mouth, the hard grip of his fingers on her hips. When at last he released her, when he settled her foot back on the floor, she was both bereft and relieved. She swayed, but his body pressed against her, holding her upright. He kissed her, claiming her lips, plundering them voraciously. She slipped her arms around him, her fingers cupping the back of his head through his thick, dark hair, and held him. She met his questing tongue stroke for stroke, inflaming them both.

Then her hands slid down his body, knowingly, confidently. She gripped him through the snug buckskin breeches, sliding her fingers up and down the hard ridge of his erection, alternating the pressure, sometimes light and soothing, others firm and mind numbing. Skillfully, she freed the buttons until she could slip her hands inside. He hissed at the contact of her silken hands on his shaft. She gripped him, moved her hand up and down. He knew that if she continued, he would not last but the sensation was so exquisite he didn't have the strength to stop her. Then her mouth left his, and she kissed his neck, her small teeth scraping against his flesh. Then further, she burned a trail over his chest with her lips and tongue and the occasional nip of her teeth.

Then she knelt in front of him and he stared down at her, her beautiful mouth only inches from his throbbing erection. He'd dreamed of this, fantasized about her glorious mouth.

She smiled up at him. “I don't really know what I am doing."

"You don't have to do anything."

"Can I please you as you have pleased me?"

He could have come right there. In that moment, with her looking up at him so sweetly, offering him paradise, it took every ounce of self-control not to spill himself like a randy, eager lad. “Yes."

She gripped him tighter, and leaned forward ever so slightly. She exhaled and her warm breath fanned over his heated shaft. He groaned. Tentatively she kissed him, moving her lips over the satiny flesh. Growing bolder, she traced him with her tongue, stroking boldly over the turgid flesh. He braced his hands against the wall and dipped his head to watch her.

Driven by some instinct she had not known she possessed, Emme opened her mouth and drew his engorged member between her lips. She pressed with her tongue and he shuddered. Emboldened, she repeated the caress, increasing the pressure of her mouth. He cursed then, the expletive hissing out between clenched teeth. Then, experimentally, she drew him deeper and then released. His hips thrust forward and she found a rhythm, sucking him deeply into her mouth, using her lips and teeth and tongue to caress him.