Shadows (15 page)

She flipped fronds of ivy and creeper aside.  She’d intended to cut back the growing strands, and forgotten about it.  Everything grew at such a rate here.  Tomorrow she’d find the shears and clip off the bits that trailed across her hair and snagged her arms.  Except that tomorrow, they’d have Christophe with them probably until lunch time, and she’d have to play hostess.  At least Rory seemed to have got over his reluctance at having Christophe stay the night, and that was a relief.

Perhaps she’d make omelets for breakfast.  Something warm and light and fluffy, laced with fruit.  There were some cherries in the fridge.  Did cherries go with omelets?  The foods she threw together usually came out well.  The odd thing didn’t work, but cherries and cream inside an omelet sounded delightful.

She ran up the steps.  Maybe a pancake batter would be better.  She swung round the corner and stopped dead on an indrawn hiss of fright.  Her heart gave a huge bound.  Goosebumps rose on her arms.  Clutching the oak pillar with one hand so hard her fingertips recognized the grooves and grain of the wood, she gaped at the far end of the bolly.

The only light came from the yellow citronella candle stub, small and forgotten in its terracotta pot on the white table.  The flame threw a flicker of light and shadow across the bolly.  Dark shadows moved beyond the door into the kitchen, slowly resolving into a couple clutched together, so close they seemed like one person.  Their mouths moved and smiled as if they spoke to each other.  The monk’s long dark robe soaked up the light, and the heavy fabric swung above his pale, bony ankles and heavy leather sandals.

The girl’s bare foot smoothed up and down his calf.

Numb with horror, her hair lifting on the back of her neck, Melissa clung to the oak pillar because if she didn't, she would have fallen.  The girl's eyes and teeth glistened briefly as she smiled up at her lover.  He eased the stuff of her gown from her shoulders, and she tossed her head back in soundless delight.  Her small, rounded arms twined about his neck, pulling her higher, thrusting her breasts against his chest.

Melissa swallowed against the constriction in her throat.  She stared, unable to take her gaze from them.  Her nipples tightened and for a moment she imagined the rough wool grazed her tender flesh.  The girl’s calf and knee glimmered as her thigh rode higher and higher against her lover’s leg and a shiver of delight trembled through Melissa’s limbs.

The monk cupped his lover’s breasts in both hands, ducked and kissed them while the girl squirmed with pleasure.

Melissa’s knees trembled.  A pulse thudded in her ears.  Her body warmed and opened to the touch of the man’s hands and lips, yearned for his kiss as he fondled the girl by the wall.  Melissa stumbled back against the wooden rail across the end of the bolly.  The girl in the monk’s arms jerked her head back in a quiver of feeling.  To Melissa’s horror, her body mirrored the movement.

The girl lifted her leg higher, nudged the curve of his hips.  He lifted his robe, bent his knees and plunged forward.  Melissa gasped and shuddered.  He might as well have entered her rather than Justine for the same volatile a mix of excitement and emotion shook her body.  Heart pounding, her breath coming short, Melissa slipped sideways against bolly rail.  Hard wood grazed her hip.  The brief, hot pain brought her back to herself.

When she straightened and looked back, grotesque shadows, moving to an age old rhythm, danced against the white wall.

The contents of her stomach rose to her throat.  Panting, one hand to her mouth, afraid she would vomit, Melissa shuffled around the corner post onto the steps, forced her gaze to the flood of light on the lower patio and the wide open doors of the mill room.  There lay safety.

She plunged down the steps, missed one, and cried out when she came down hard on the next.  Strands of creeper slapped her face.  Blinded, one hand outspread for protection, she misjudged the turn and stumbled against the doorway into the big mill room.  “Rory, they're back.”  Her voice wobbled in distress.  “They're upstairs on the bolly.”

Rory’s face registered alarm.  He vaulted one-handed across the mill wheel, reached for her and cradled her against his broad chest.  “What is it?  What’s wrong?”

She clung to him, jammed her face against his shirt, desperate for the comfort of his big body.  “They’re up there.  Oh Rory, they’re back.”

Rory grasped her shoulders and stood her away from him.  “Stay here.  Sit down and catch your breath.”  He turned for the door.  Christophe was a step ahead of him.  They collided, bounced off each other and Melissa choked on a snort of laughter that was half a sob as the slender Frenchman slipped through the door ahead of Rory.

“Don’t leave me.”  But she shrieked to an empty room.  Scared, trembling and close to tears, she sank onto the edge of the bed.  She raised a shaking hand to her brow, where perspiration beaded her hairline.  Seeing ghosts was hardly new, but sharing their emotions was way outside anything she had ever experienced.  Melissa pressed her palms to her cheeks and buried her face in her hands.

Every nerve ending shrieked awareness of the vast empty space around her, reminded her of the shadowy corners and the dark oblong of the open door to the bathroom and the garage.  She peered through her fingers at the blackness, shot to her feet and bolted after Rory and Christophe.

Her heart thumped, and she couldn’t catch her breath.  She wasn’t used to this any more.  The last time she’d seen a ghost was at least eleven years ago.  Now, as an adult, she had far more awareness of the dangers.

Melissa reached the corner, slowed and peeped across the bolly.  At least the gloom hid her hot cheeks.  Or she hoped it did.  Her face ought to be white with fright, but was very probably a bright geranium pink.

Rory and Christophe stood on the bolly, glaring at each other.  “There’s no one here.”  Rory walked into the middle of the grassy patch that bordered the bolly and stared down the drive.

Melissa flopped down in a white plastic chair and took a deep, calming breath.  Christophe stood undecided by the kitchen door, hands in his pockets.  “What was it that you saw, chérie?”  Concern rang through his voice.

Melissa thumped both elbows onto the table, pulled the candle closer and clasped both palms around the chunky pottery bowl.  The warmth reached her face and comforted her.  She needed something to hold onto.  In the absence of Rory, the bowl and the comforting yellow glow of the candle flame would have to do.  Already her heartbeat had slowed.  She needed to think hard about what had happened, and be careful not to say too much, or admit her strange abilities.  Doubtful of telling Rory, she certainly didn’t want to tell Christophe.

She looked up.  Christophe’s shirt and slacks were a glimmer of white a yard or two away in the darkness.  The wavering light of the candle showed concern and curiosity stamped across his face.  Behind him, Rory stepped back onto the bolly, spread his hands wide in a gesture that said he’d found nothing.

“I wish I had drunk less wine.”  She stared into the candle flame once more.  “Or perhaps I should have drunk more.  Christophe, I hope your charming English is up to it, for I cannot translate what I saw.  There were two people.  A man and a woman.  Kissing.  Undressing each other.”

Rory strode to the table and glared down at her.  “You’re kidding.  Ghosts don’t do that sort of thing.”

Melissa’s cheeks burned hotter, but she forced herself to match him stare for stare.  “You know what ghosts do?”  Careful, careful.  Don't give too much away.

His eyes flickered.  “No, but I’ve never heard of them undressing in front of strangers.”

Melissa pressed her fingertips into the soft candle wax.

“In the book, they were lovers…”  Christophe interlocked his fingers, waggled them and shrugged apologetically.  “You saw them faire de l’amour?”

Melissa nodded.

“Oh la la.”

The soft, quiet way Christophe said the words made Melissa think of disasters and catastrophes, which was odd.  Usually the words accompanied something provocative or daring.  Her brows lifted.  Perhaps this situation was both, and more.

Rory let out a huff of air and strode toward the kitchen door.  He reached in and flicked the switches.  Floodlights flashed on at the corners of the mill.  When he looked her way, she raised a weak smile.  He was so matter of fact, so capable, and so thoughtful.  No matter what he said, he always did the right things.

Christophe prowled up and down by the oak pillars, his sandals making a soft sound against the colored tiles.  Rory leant against the door, watching them both in a detached sort of way, as if studying the situation and deciding what to do.  Melissa gripped the candle bowl between her palms, stared at the tiny flame and couldn’t tell them the worst thing of all, that she had felt all the sensations of faire de l’amour, too.

Weird and embarrassing.  Christophe would say Oh la la with a vengeance then.  What would Rory say?  Her gaze lifted to him, met his dark glance and discerned nothing of his thoughts.

“Keep Melissa company while I make some coffee.”  Rory ducked into the kitchen, ran the water, and banged mugs down onto a tray.  He shot his head round the door and tossed three new candles to Christophe.  “Light them.”  He sent Melissa a brief, warm smile.  “Coffee’ll be ready in a moment.”

He was all practicality.  If Christophe hadn’t been with them, she would have turned to Rory for a more physical kind of reassurance in spite of the fact that they were not lovers, or even accustomed to kissing and cuddling.  But Rory’s arms would be a wonderful reassurance against the unknown and right now she needed him.

Cowardice, she told herself.  Snap out of it.

But the shelter of his arms had been briefly comforting down in the mill room, and there was nothing she would like better that to crawl back there and listen to the steady beat of his heart.  What a pity she had suggested Christophe might stay.  Her fingers stabbed viciously at the soft wax.

The Frenchman approached the table, but Melissa concentrated on the candle.  One by one he lit the new plain candles from the citronella stub.  He must have been watching her as he did it, for he swore when the flame licked his fingers.  He fixed two candles in an old metal holder on the house wall behind her and shoved the third in a lantern hanging from one the beams above his head.  He took the chair opposite her.

She offered a smile, and found her lips trembled.  “I’ll get those blankets soon, Christophe.”

“After coffee, is good.  You are…”  He hesitated, searched for the word and failed.  He laid his hand on his chest and made little fluttering movements with his fingers.

“Shocked, I think you mean.”  This time she managed a non-trembling smile.  “Yes, it was a shock.  I didn’t think ghosts existed, outside of books and fairy tales…they looked so real.”  She surprised herself with the ease of the lie.  But then, she did not know Christophe well.  Maybe it was easier to lie to strangers.  Somehow she could not lie to Rory.  Nor did she want to.

A hint of frying bacon drifted out on the still air.  Rory reappeared with a blanket, which he draped over Melissa’s shoulders.  Surprised, she snuggled into it.  “Thank you.”

Christophe lifted his nose and sniffed appreciatively.  Melissa looked at her watch.  “Good grief.  It’s after midnight.”

That explained the inky darkness, and the rising moon.  Time had flown by, and she had been unaware of it.  The sky above the trees was blue-black, shading to gun-metal gray and silver around the curve of the moon.  The air was cooling now, and she was grateful for the blanket.

Rory brought the big tray to the table.  There was a mug of coffee and a chunk of baguette stuffed with bacon for each of them.  Steam from the mugs swirled into the air and as he pulled up a chair, and the atmosphere around the table lightened.  Melissa bit eagerly into her baguette.  Chewing a huge mouthful, she beamed appreciation at Rory.

“There’s nothing quite as sane and normal as a bacon sandwich, is there?  It’s so British.”  Melissa’s spirits lifted, and everything seemed more normal.  “We’ll be asking for a cup of tea next.”

What did Christophe make of it?  She turned to see him munching happily, and nodding his head.  “Tres bonne.”

“Somebody has to look after you two idiots.”  Rory smiled as he examined his baguette and then took a huge bite.

“I’m glad you are here.”  She ducked her head.  He personified logic and reason against the doubts and uncertainties that plagued the mill.  The little citronella candle and its three larger companions burned bravely against the encroaching darkness.  The two men chewed and swallowed in silence.  Melissa wanted to talk, and picked the first topic she could think of in order to fill the vast quiet of the night.  “It is quite late.”

Rory glanced at his watch.  “Almost one’ clock.”