Penmort Castle (33 page)

“Stay at the
door,” Cash ordered. “I don’t want you coming in until I tell you
it’s safe. Understood?”

Panic welling
in her, Abby grabbed his forearm as he lifted the key toward the
latch.

“Cash! You
can’t go in there!” she hissed. “You don’t know who’s there.”

“Darling, you
might have intruders in your house. What do you suggest I do?” he
calmly returned and Abby let him go and threw up her hands.

“I don’t know.
Call the police?” she tried.

He dismissed
her suggestion by lifting his hand to the lock while he said, “Stay
here.”

“Cash!” Abby
protested but under her breath so the bad guys wouldn’t hear.

Cash inserted
the key into the lock but he looked over his shoulder and down at
her, his eyes serious, his face hard. “Stay. Fucking. Here.”

All right
then.

He was using
the f-word.

Abby decided it
was time to back down.

However, she
also decided not to give in gracefully.

So she crossed
her arms on her chest and gave him a glare.

He completely
ignored her, opened the door and silently entered her house.

Abby
waited.

Then she waited
some more.

Then she heard
several female shrieks ending with Mrs. Truman shouting, “Dear
Lord, what are
you
doing here?”

Abby grabbed
the bags Cash left outside, rushed in, dropped them in the entry,
closed the door, pulled off her coat and threw it on the coat stand
all the while hearing Cash and Mrs. Truman’s loud conversation.

“What the
fuck?” (Cash)

“Language!”
(Mrs. Truman)

“Would you care
to explain why you’re in Abby’s house in the dead of night and what
in fucking hell you’re doing?” (Cash)

“You’re early!”
(Mrs. Truman)

“It’s fucking
midnight!” (Cash)

By this time
Abby made it to her living room only to see it wasn’t one candle
lit, but at least two dozen of them.

And it wasn’t
Mrs. Truman alone who was enjoying a dead-of-night, candlelit,
clandestine moment in Abby’s living room but Jenny was there, to
her confusion, for some reason Fenella was there too, as was some
woman Abby had never seen.

The woman was
dark-haired, dark-eyed, curvaceous and either around five years
older than Abby or she was ten and hid it well. She was wearing
stylish, hip-hugging, faded, boot-cut jeans over high-heeled boots
with a cool, heavy-buckled belt Abby would kill for, all this
topped with a snug-fitting turtleneck.

Oddly, she was
also wearing a silk scarf wrapped around her head, the faded,
fringed ends tangled in her long hair and a webby shawl was thrown
over her shoulders.

It wasn’t a
look Abby would be able to pull off (or, in all honesty, would want
to) but the lady did so, brilliantly. She looked like a Rock ‘n’
Roll Gypsy.

Abby had a
sinking feeling she knew what this was about.

But what was
Fenella doing there?

“What the fuck
are you doing here?” Cash asked, as if in Abby’s brain, his angry
gaze had swung to Fenella then it moved to The Gypsy Queen. “And
who the fuck are you?”

Abby put her
hand up, wrapped her fingers around Cash’s bicep, leaned into his
side and in the hopes of calming him, said softly, “Cash.”

“Really,” Mrs.
Truman scolded, foiling Abby’s calming attempt, “your language is
unacceptable, Cash Fraser.”

Cash’s furious
eyes sliced to Mrs. Truman and Abby was treated to proof positive
that the older woman had nerves of steel when she didn’t even
flinch.

“Yes. You are
correct,” Cash was enunciating his words with scary clarity.
“Normally, it would be unacceptable. But you appear to have helped
yourself to my girlfriend’s house to do…” he hesitated, cast an
irate glance around the living room and continued,
“whatever-the-fuck you’re doing and by the looks of it, it isn’t
fucking good.”

Abby looked
around and realised he wasn’t wrong.

Not only were
there candles burning, there were heavy scarves thrown over the
shades of her lamps, muting their brightness so much Abby didn’t
notice until then they were switched on. More scarves of velvet and
silk festooned the table in front of the couch, on which there was
a variety of paraphernalia, including burning incense, more candles
(dripping onto the cloth, by the way), bowls filled with dark
liquid, a huge, clear, round ball on a poofy, tasselled, velvet
pillow and what looked, distressingly, like the bones of a small
animal (or an infant and, even though neither choice was good, Abby
was hoping for the former).

“You weren’t
supposed to be home until later,” Mrs. Truman stuck with her
earlier theme.

Cash rocked
back on his heels and sucked breath in through his nose in an
obvious attempt at patience.

Jenny looked at
her watch and hesitantly entered the fray.

“Um, Mrs.
Truman, I think it
is
later,” she said.

Mrs. Truman
looked at her own watch then up to Jenny and remarked sedately,
“Oh, so it is.”

“Time flies
when the spirits aren’t talking,” the Gypsy Queen put in.

Cash spoke
again and this time he had his anger in check but you could tell,
just barely.

“Let’s start
this again,” he suggested. “What are you doing here?”

“Séance,” Mrs.
Truman instantly replied as if this was an entirely natural thing
to be doing in someone else’s living room or at all.

Cash’s eyes
narrowed and Jenny and Fenella both took steps back. The Gypsy
Queen crossed her arms on her chest, a small smile playing at her
mouth and Mrs. Truman went into stare down mode with Cash.

“You’re having
a séance,” Cash repeated in a way that said he not only couldn’t
believe his ears, he didn’t
want
to.

“Yes,” Mrs.
Truman replied calmly.

“In Abby’s
living room,” Cash went on.

Mrs. Truman
glanced at Jenny then back at Cash and explained, “It would upset
my dogs if we did it at my house.”

“Kieran would
totally freak if we did it at ours,” Jenny threw in.

Cash’s eyes cut
to her and he gave her a look that said without words, “
no
fucking kidding?
” therefore Jenny took another step back.

Bravely,
Fenella spoke up, “And you know Alistair would have a fit if we
tried something like this at the castle.”

Cash pinned
Fenella with a look. “Would you like to explain why
you’re
here?”

Fenella’s
glance darted around the room then she took in a deep breath and
tried but failed to perform a nonchalant shrug. “Well, see, I was
in Clevedon the other day, um…” she glanced at Jenny and then said,
“shopping. And I thought I’d pop by and say hi to Abby. She wasn’t
here because, you know, she was with you.”

When she
stopped speaking, Cash prompted, “Yes. I know. Continue.”

Fenella’s mouth
moved around like it had forgotten how to form words before she
plucked up the courage to go on. “I was knocking on the door and
waiting and Mrs. Truman came out and asked who I was. Then we got
to chatting then she invited me to tea then she told me about the
séance and invited me to come. I’d never been to one and well,” she
hesitated before throwing her hands out at the sides and finishing
in a voice that was several octaves higher than normal, “I’m
here.”

Cash stared at
Fenella and it was clear even to someone who hadn’t spent nearly
every single day of two weeks with him that he didn’t believe a
word she said or at least not the important ones.

Surprisingly,
he let it go and turned to The Gypsy Queen. “And you are?”

She lifted her
chin while saying, “Cassandra McNabb. Clairvoyant and white witch,
at your service.”

Cash watched
her for a moment which slid into two which slid into three as all
the women stood tense, waiting.

Then he
muttered, “Fucking hell.”

“Obviously
you’re tired and want a private moment to say goodnight to Abby
before you go home,” Mrs. Truman said then continued pointedly, “to
your
own
bed.”

This comment,
Abby noted with alarm, made Cash, whose anger had partially cooled,
look like he was going to explode.

“Actually –” he
started with deadly calm but Abby jumped in front of him, pressed
her back to his front and interrupted.

“Actually, why
don’t you all just go on home? I’ll blow out the candles and clean
up for you tomorrow.”

“Works for me,”
Cassandra muttered, wandering toward a fringed bag that lay beside
the hearth.

“I’m, um,
staying with Mrs. Truman,” Fenella made this surprising
announcement, her eyes on Abby looking weirdly like she was trying
to communicate something she could not say out loud. “Maybe
tomorrow you and I could have a cup of –”

Cash cut her
off by saying, “No.”

Fenella’s eyes
flitted to Cash and she uttered a strangled, “No?”

“Tomorrow’s
Sunday. Abby’s mine,” Cash declared and when Fenella opened her
mouth to speak, Cash went on, “all day.”

“But you just
spent three days with her in Germany!” Mrs. Truman snapped.

“Three days
where I was working. Tomorrow, I’m not working and Abby’s spending
the day with me,” Cash returned.

“You don’t
own
her,” Mrs. Truman shot back and Jenny made a telltale
choking noise which brought Cash’s newly-narrowed eyes to her
face.

Bloody
hell!
Abby thought.

She sought to
minimise any possible future damage by quickly announcing, “It’s
late. You all get home.” She looked at Fenella. “I’ll call you.
Does Cash have your number?”

Fenella nodded,
eyes on Cash, and said, “I think so.”

“Good,” Abby
smiled at Fenella and then turned to Cassandra. “Sorry this has
been heated but I hope you understand we’re both kind of tired,”
Cassandra made no reply so Abby went on in a desperate attempt to
be polite. “Anyway, it’s nice meeting you.”

Cassandra’s
dark brown eyes looked into Abby’s and Abby stood frozen, having
the eerie but not entirely unpleasant feeling that Cassandra was
reading the words written on Abby’s soul.

Then she broke
her own spell by saying, “We’ll meet again.” She walked to the
door, stopped, and looked back at Abby. “You’ve got a great
cat.”

Then she was
gone.

The others
followed close on her heels.

Abby closed the
door on them and met Cash in the hall, the faint light from the
living room was gone indicating that Cash had blown out the candles
and turned out the lights.

Abby flipped a
switch that flooded the hall with light.

The minute
Cash’s eyes focused on her, he remarked, “That woman is a nut.”

“Mrs. Truman?”
Abby asked.

“Take your
pick,” Cash answered dryly and Abby wanted to be detached and
beyond finding Cash amusing but she couldn’t help but laugh.

While still
laughing, she felt his arm slide around her shoulders and he
started to lead her up the stairs.

“Do you know
why Fenella would come visit you?” he asked and Abby could swear
she read more than mild curiosity in his tone.

“No idea,” she
replied with all honesty.

Fenella’s being
there was, far and away, the weirdest part of a very weird
night.

Cash may have
wanted to say something else but while they were on the landing
turning toward the next flight of steps the lights flickered then
they did it again then the hall went black.

Cash stopped
them dead on the landing and for a moment Abby feared an army of
malevolent ghosts would descend.

Then she
realised it was just her usual bad luck, bad timing and wiring that
was likely laid during World War I.

“You have got
to be fucking kidding me,” Cash muttered angrily in the dark.

“It’s probably
just a fuse,” Abby replied with more hope than certainty.

She felt rather
than saw Cash turn to her. She did this because his arm never left
her shoulders and she found herself pressed to him, breasts to
chest.

“In all the
shit we talked about in Germany, I forgot to ask about this fucking
house,” he commented, his tone bland, his use of the f-word a huge,
waving red flag.

“It’s just
old,” Abby tried.

“It’s old,” he
agreed and continued. “It’s also a money pit and likely a fire
hazard.”

“It’s not a
fire hazard!” Abby felt the need to defend even though the report
the surveyor gave her indicated differently, mainly due to the
wiring and, perhaps, some of her appliances. Then she went on to
semi-lie, “It’s fine. Solid. It can just be cantankerous on
occasion.”

Or, more to the
point, weekly.

Cash moved into
her, his hand curling her back to his side as he reversed
directions.

“Where are we
going?” Abby asked as he started to guide them back downstairs.

“My place,”
Cash answered.

Abby halted,
too tired to remember she didn’t want him in her house.

“But it’s
late!” she exclaimed.

Cash pressed
her to moving again. “It is, darling, but I’m not fucking around
with a fuse box at midnight. Furthermore, I like you just the way
you are. You’d be far less attractive burned to a cinder.”

“I’m not going
to get burned to a cinder,” Abby declared crossly.

“No. You’re
not,” he agreed and proved himself right by guiding her firmly to
the entry, helping her on with her coat, grabbing his bag and using
his other hand to propel her to his car.

Then he drove
them to his house.

All the Time in
the World

Cash woke on
his back, his arm outstretched and Abby was in another unusual but
exceptionally sweet position. The curve of her spine was pressed
against his side, the heels of her feet against his leg and her
temple was resting on the back of her hand, which was curled around
his bicep.