Fair Maiden (8 page)

It was difficult to look at herself, not knowing who she
was, not knowing her own name. “Why am I here?” Tears sparkled in her
green-eyed gaze. “Please, who am I?”

She got the sense that she was being watched again, and
gasped. She turned to see that no one else was in the room, and her door was
tightly closed. She returned her gaze to the mirror and shrieked when she saw
two faces looking back at her. Whilst the man and woman were smiling, their
eyes expressed a deep sadness. And, to her surprise, the woman looked like
her….  “Mama?” she whispered.

The lady with golden hair and green eyes nodded, looking
very pleased. She looked at the man, and then addressed him, “Papa?”

He beamed at that and nodded eagerly.

“Help me! Who am I?”

They both frowned, her mother blew a kiss, and then their
images vanished.

“No!” she reached for the glass and pressed her hands
against it. She felt resistance just as she had with the invisible barrier
outside. “No! Come back, please,” she sobbed.

She waited, and waited, and when they did not return she
decided to go find Christian. She wanted to talk to him about this, and knew he
was in his bedchamber.

“Christian?” she called through the wooden door, hoping he
would be able to hear since she was unable to knock.

Moments later, the door opened partway, and a bewildered
Christian peered out. “Princess?”

“Do you have a moment? Could I speak with you?”

“Of course.” He swung the door wider and motioned for her to
enter.

She laughed. “I could have gone through it,
silly
.”

“Now, now, you mustn’t deny me a chance to be a gentleman.”

“Very well.” She lost her train of thought when she viewed
that he wore only trousers. “Forgive me. It seems I have interrupted your
bedtime ablutions.”

And apparently, he only then noticed his naked chest and
reached for his shirt to shove his arms into the sleeves. He did not bother
with the buttons, and she remained distracted because of it. “Come, princess,
tell me what troubles you.” He reached for her hand then, but pulled back when
he apparently recalled he could not touch her. He did that a lot, reached for
her like that. She realized he felt like she was real, and the idea cheered
her.

“Please, have a seat.” He motioned to the spot on the mattress
next to where he’d just settled.

She glanced nervously around the room, and noticed the only
other place to sit was in the single chair next to his fireplace. She did not
know why, but she instinctively suspected it may not be appropriate for her to
join any man on his bed.

It seemed he realized she was thinking this because of her
hesitation. “It’s all right. You’re safe with me,” he said, with a gentle tone.

After another pause on her part, she finally resigned and
drifted toward him, then turned and settled above the bedcovering as though she
were seated. He looked at her, waiting. “Are you all right?”

“I’m well, I suppose…but I think I must be seeing things.”

His eyebrows rose. “What did you see?”

“I was peering into the looking glass in my chamber, and I
thought I saw my mother and father looking back at me.”

Christian’s brows nearly disappeared into his hairline. “You
saw them looking back at you in the reflection?”

“Yes.”

“Your parents? How do you know that’s who they were?”

“When I called them Mama and Papa, they smiled and nodded,
and the lady looked like me.”

“Take me,” it sounded like a command as he shoved his open
hand toward her again.

Unable to resist, she stretched her hand to his, then
watched as hers passed through his. He frowned and dropped his hand. “I’m
sorry. It seems I keep forgetting that you can’t…. Would you please take me to
your room?”

Nodding, she moved from the bed, slid toward the door and
passed through it.

“Wait!” she heard him call as he wrenched the door open and
stumbled into the hallway. His shirt flew open with his movement and she got
another look at his muscled chest.

She smiled and turned to lead him to the end of the
passageway where her door was; glad she could not blush, for she would have
been bright red.

When they reached it, he looked dumbfounded. “I only see the
stone wall.”

“There is a door here. I can see it.”

“Can you open it?”

“Yes,” she said as she focused on the handle and made it
turn downward. The door opened with a click and a squeak as the hinges twisted.

He gasped because he could now see into the hidden chamber.
“May I?” he asked before attempting to enter.

“Please.”

Christian stepped inside and tugged one hand through his
brown waves of hair. “Are those alive?”

“The butterflies?”

“And the fireflies.”

“They look alive to me,” she replied. “What do you see?”

“I see living vines, and insects adorning the canopy.”

He strode to the bed and his eyes fell on the parchment.
When he reached for it, she shrieked and he nearly fell over backwards. “Mercy,
girl! Don’t frighten me so.”

“Do not touch it!”

“Why not?”

“It nearly crumbled away when I tried to move it.”

“Oh,” he said, tipping his head to the side as he read it.
“My apologies.”

“It-it is all right. I suppose,” she replied as her panic
settled.

“‘You are loved.’” He read more to himself than to her.
“Fascinating. Is this for you?”

“I believe it is.”

After perusing the rest of the chamber, his gaze moved to
the looking glass and he stepped toward it. “You saw your parents here?”

“Yes.” She moved closer beside him, and then wished she had
not. In the reflection, she could see herself with him, and the sight made a
lovely couple. Her sadness and loneliness returned with crippling strength.

He noticed the change in her expression, and said, “What makes
you sad, princess? I don’t like seeing you so distressed.”

She was unable or unwilling to answer that. There was so
much she wanted to say. She wanted to tell him how she felt about him, but knew
she could not. She could not tell him she was lonely, and that she deeply
wanted to be the bride she was dressed as.

“Can you see your parents now?” he asked softly.

Her gaze lifted to the mirror. There was the sense that
someone was watching, but she could see naught more than herself and Christian.
“Mama? Papa?”

Nothing….

“Perhaps it’s because I’m here.” He stepped outside of her
chamber and called back to her through the opening. “Anything now?”

She looked again, and then shook her head. “Still naught.”
Frustrated, she twisted away from the looking glass.

Christian returned. “Princess.” He lifted a hand as if he
meant to direct her gaze toward his by touching her cheek.

She complied without actually feeling his touch, wishing she
could feel it.

He placed curled fingers under her chin. Her chin tipped
upwards reflexively. “Hmm,” she murmured, unable to say much else. It was
overwhelming to have him this close—and still completely out of reach.

But he remained speechless as he attempted to slide his
thumb over her cheekbone. Then her eyes widened when his lips descended over
hers.

She wanted to weep, because she felt nothing but a slight
tingling on her mouth.

“Oh, now, please don’t cry,” he said, pulling away.

She’d not realized she was weeping until she saw the
sparkling tears drop onto his open shirt. Then she gasped when there appeared
to be real moisture sopping into the fabric.

He followed her look of shock and touched the wetness.
“What?” he asked in bewilderment.

“Is it wet?”

“Yes.”

“Could it have come from somewhere else?”

He looked around for any possible source, and then, seeing
nothing, he said, “We need that witch back.”

“But she said she could not help. She said I was in danger.”

“I’ll write her first thing in the morning.”

“I-I do not want her back.”

“Now, princess, don’t—”

“Please, may we see if we can solve this without her?”

He paused, considering. “Very well, but if we can’t discover
anything new, I wish to contact her.”

She nodded.

Then his gaze shifted to her neck and his expression
changed. “What is that?”

“Hmm?”

“That purple mark on your neck.” He lifted a hand and traced
the backs of his fingers over her ghostly form, along the side of her neck,
over the curve and down to her shoulder.

She turned to the mirror.

Then she could see it. An oval shaped, purple and bluish
mark discolored the flesh of her neck; right at the place her neck meets her
shoulder. “I do not know what that is. A birthmark, perhaps?”

After she twisted to face him again, he leaned over her
shoulder for a better look at it. Then Christian’s gaze narrowed and turned
suspicious as he lifted his brown eyes from the offending blemish. “That is no
birthmark,” he said through clenched teeth.

“What is it then?”

Her question went unanswered. “Now I wonder how you managed
to get that.” An accusation this time?

“What are you saying? I do not recall—”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “You don’t remember? The fool
must have been a lousy lover for you to not recall gaining such a mark.”

Confusion pulled through her like a living emotion. “I do
not know what would cause such an injury.”

“It’s a bite.”

“From teeth—?”

“Miss.” She did not fail to catch the demotion in her title.
“This is not an injury from teeth, but from lips. You’ve been marked by a man,
and quite passionately, if I am not mistaken.”

A choking sound came out of her. “What do you mean?”

“That’s a love bite,” he bit out tightly.

“A-a what?”

“A bite from a lover, from—”

“But, it cannot be.”

“The rake touched you before the wedding!”

“Oh, I do not think—”

“Or you! The lack of vows does not stop all ladies from—”
When those words wrenched a desperate cry from her lips he cut them off as if
he suddenly thought better of it. He paused to consider her distressed
expression, then it seemed his emotions shifted from wrath to compassion. “No,
that can’t be it. He must have ravished you. Or another man did, and the groom
killed you because of it. Either way, he deserves to be shot! No” –his
expression turned menacing— “definitely something much more painful and slow…”

She crumpled. He tried to catch her, but she slipped through
his fingers like mist as she sank to the floor. “I do not like where this is
going,” she muttered on a trembling breath.

As Christian knelt over her, she could see that the anger
had completely melted away, and he looked worried. “Please forgive me for my
thoughtless words. You’re too delicate for these harsh realities, and I should
know better by now.”

She could not stop the sobs, and knew tears rolled down her
face again.

“I don’t care if you were forced—” he said.

“Forced?”

“Yes, you must have been—”

“No! Do not say that! It cannot be! Get out!”

“Darling, I can see I’ve bungled it again—”

And since he would not leave, she did. Right through the
floor.

She returned when she knew he’d left. And she made certain
to shut the door behind her.

The constant weeping would not halt because horrible images
plagued her thoughts as they returned to the first concerns about how she’d
died. Was her death so horrible that she could not or
would not
remember
it? And now this—this horrible bite—could that too be a nightmarish memory
she’d forced herself to forget to save herself?

As she hovered above her bed, she then wished so badly she
could snuggle into the satin sheets; smother her fears and worries with layers
of downy silk and pillows. She curled up over it instead, and let the emotions
sweep over her. “Why must I end every day in tears?” she whimpered.

Then answered her own question. Probably because that is
what ghosts are best at, being miserable…and, no doubt, due to a miserable
past.

She cried until morning.

Chapter
8

Fool

Again, he’d upset her. And he knew this time it was far
worse than his previous slips of the tongue. He did not regret the kiss, but
the lovely specter was even frightened of thunder, and he’d emotionally
bludgeoned her. First he’d accused her of being a tart, then he’d stirred up
worries about terrors that should never be mentioned.

Fool!

He had to find some way to right it, some way to soothe the
sweet spirit within his home.

What he’d witnessed the other night was simply too much to
bear. She was so devastated. So frightened. So gentle and undeserving of such
savage treatment from whomever did this to her. The assailant would pay, he
vowed to himself, even if it was the last thing he did, even if desecrating the
grave of the killer was the only way to do it.

Now
, he pondered, pacing his bedchamber,
how to
find it
….

“Lord Krestly?”

Christian set down his fountain pen and pushed aside the
ledger as he leaned back in his chair. “Yes, Jackson. What is it?”

The old butler entered his study carrying tea for more than
just one. “Mr. Leeraby, has returned.”

Brilliant, it’s about time.
“Let him enter.”

Jackson tossed a glance over his shoulder and Leeraby
followed the elderly gentleman into the room.

Motioning for the man to sit across the desk from him,
Christian grinned, hoping this would be a response from his father concerning
this ridiculous delay in gaining his allowance. He’d sent along another missive
to beseech his sire into possibly adjusting this requirement.

Jackson settled the tray between them, and began pouring
out. “Sugar?” he asked Leeraby.