Shadows (16 page)

“Ah, l’heure de sorcières et magiciens.”

“Oh, please don’t,” Melissa begged.  “They might come back.”  She wiped her chin with the back of her hand and licked remnants of bacon from her fingers.

“Well, we have our very own resident ghost hunter here if they do.”  Rory threw a mocking glance at the Frenchman.  “Though Melissa seems to be the key.  Nothing happens if she isn’t there.”  He took a huge bite out of his baguette.

Christophe stopped chewing and gazed at Melissa.  “Always, you are there?  Is that true, chérie?”

Rory lifted one eyebrow.  “Less of the chérie, if you don’t mind.”

Melissa’s jaws stopped moving.  That was definitely a warning.  He must be jealous of Christophe.  Wide-eyed, she stared at Rory with a mixture of pleasure and surprise.

Christophe laughed and waved a casual hand.  “It is like you English say love.  Sorry love, here’s your change love, mind your foot, love.  It means nothing.”  With a roguish twinkle in his eye, Christophe ate the last of his baguette.

Melissa realized with a tiny frisson of shock running along her nerves that Christophe was handsome.  Earlier she had merely thought him chic in his glamorous whites.  Yet the look Rory bent on Christophe said clearly that if the little French bugger stepped out of line he’d be only too pleased remind him of his place in the scheme of things.

A quiver of pleasure stirred at the back of Melissa’s mind even as she searched for neutral ground.  “Is there any clue in your book as to where Pierre was buried?”  She glanced around.  “Is he here?”

“’e should be in ’oly ground.  The church or the monastery.  Not ’ere.”

“What does the book say, exactly?”

Christophe bounded off to retrieve the book he’d left on the lower terrace.  Rory took hold of Melissa’s hand and squeezed it.  “Feeling better now?”

The action delighted her, and she gave him a wide smile.  “Yes, I think I am.  He seems determined to stay here.  I’m sorry.  I maybe shouldn’t have…”

She broke off as Christophe ran back up the steps two at a time and flung himself back into his chair.  He wiped his hands carefully on his napkin before opening the book, and settled his glasses on his nose.  At once, he reverted to the studious librarian.

Christophe tilted the book toward the nearest candle.  “I translate for you, yes?  It says, exactement, ‘Corn was ground daily and the mill pond filled again overnight.”

Melissa sat up straight.  “Carrots.  I knew there was something odd about the day we saw him washing carrots in the water.  Don’t you remember, Rory?  It wasn’t the carrots that were odd, it was the water.  What did you see that day?  I saw a big pond close to the mill and stretching far back towards the trees.  That must have been the mill pond.”

Rory nodded.  “I have a vague recollection of water.”

Christophe's hands gestured to the darkness around the bolly.  “There is no water ’ere.”

“Not that you can see.  They dammed the mill stream and filled in the holding pond but the water still runs underground.  The stream beneath the mill room.”

“But Rory, that means that when we see him, or them, we see them in their time.  Not ours.  That must be why everything looks so different.”

His brow wrinkled.

Christophe sniffed.  He turned back to the book, read and translated another sentence.  “The monks, they return to the monastery for vespers and compline.  They walk to the mill next day.”

“But there are beds here.  Sorry, there were beds here.”  Melissa shook her head.  “I’m getting confused.  Anyway, I saw Pierre get up from some sort of a bed over by the millstream window.”

“So he stayed here sometimes,” Rory said.  “Perhaps he stayed if there was a rush job.  It wouldn’t happen often, as it would be considered far too much temptation for a man to stay here alone.  Female visitors would not have been welcome, but if he had somehow made contact, and was expecting a lady friend…”

“It must have been a secret affair, then?”

Rory nodded slowly.  “Even today, affairs go on amongst clergy.  He might not have been the only one.”  The crinkles around his eyes deepened.  “Perhaps this mill was a hotbed of illicit romance.”

“Do you think he thought I was Justine?”

“C’est possible.”  Christophe closed the book and removed his glasses.  “Perhaps he sees you as ’er.  Perhaps you look like ’er.”

Surprisingly, Melissa had almost forgotten the Frenchman.  What he said took her breath away, and she looked across the table for corroboration.  Rory steepled his fingers together and tapped them against his mouth.  “There is a similarity between you and Justine.  She’s about your height and weight, and you both have brown hair, though yours is a bit lighter and much shorter.”

“You think I look like her?”  Her voice croaked on the thought.

“A little.  Only a little.  Especially on a dark night.”  Something to do with the warmth of his voice, and the quirk of amusement that laced his comment made her think he spoke as if Christophe was not sitting next to them.  Melissa smiled at him, and loved the fact that he smiled back.

Christophe put on his glasses and scanned rapidly down the handwritten text.  His finger stilled.  “It says ’ere that he slept at the monastery two nights in seven to facilitate the—”  He mimed grinding corn with a pestle and bowl.  “The nightmare I can no longer find.”

“Perhaps you dreamed it.”  Rory spoke without a flicker of a smile.  Melissa caught his eye and clapped her fingers against her mouth to hide a grin.  All sense of danger faded away under the combined influence of the bacon sandwich, coffee and the spark of amusement shared with Rory.

Christophe took a moment to get the joke and then he grimaced.  “Ah, very funny.  Ha ha.”  He dipped his head and read on.

He must feel neglected.  Perhaps they had been less than kind.  Melissa gazed at Rory and found him watching the Frenchman.

“What nightmare?”  Rory’s brows drew down toward his nose.  “We’ve heard no mention of a nightmare.”

Christophe read on, but his fingers waggled in the air beside his ear.  “I thought I ’ad read of a…un rêve, a…dream.  That he ’ad dreams of ’er, but…”  He shrugged, a very Gallic gesture.  “Not this book.”  He turned a page quickly with a moue of dissatisfaction.  “The story ends.  There was a big storm and both go…not seen again.”  He slammed the book shut so hard that the librarian in Melissa flinched.

Rory’s frown deepened.  “I thought you said—”

“Yes, yes.  But the old French, she is difficile to read.”  Christophe waved his hands in the air.  “The light is mauvais.  But it is correct.”  He tapped the book for emphasis.  “In the storm, they both—pouf.”

Rory gazed at the sky.  “Well, there’s no hint of a storm tonight.  I guess that means we’re safe.  It’s only an old, unhappy story.  I think it’s time we all turned in.”

Christophe frowned, so Rory rephrased his sentence.  “It’s time we all went to bed.  I’ll get those blankets for you.”

Christophe’s frown cleared.  “D’accord.”

Melissa got reluctantly to her feet.  “I should clear the lower patio or the fox will be after the scraps we’ve left.”

“We’ll all do it.”  Rory got up, rocking the table, the candle flickered, recovered and sent huge shadows leaping across the walls.  There was an innocuous rustle in the roof above and something dropped out of a crack between the roof tiles.

Melissa stared at the small snake curled like an S within the circle of candle light.  Very black against the stones of the bolly, it was hardly the length of a foot ruler, but it stared right back at her and then, like oil running out of a bottle, poured over the edge of the flags and down into the shadows where the drainpipe led under the terrace.

“It wasn’t hurt.”  Melissa was more surprised than frightened.

“Fell about eight feet onto stone, too.”  Rory gazed at the underside of the roof as if he expected a cascade of snakes to appear.

Melissa turned to the Frenchman.  “Do you often get snakes dropping out of roofs?”

“No.  But this place has been perdue for so long—what is the word?”

Rory paused at the end of the bolly.  “Lost?”

Rory gathered up the blankets and dumped them into Christophe’s arms.  “Normally I’d make up the bed for a guest, but I don’t want to leave Melissa alone.  I hope you understand?”

Christophe accepted the blankets with good grace and walked over to Melissa, still washing dishes at the sink.  “Goodnight, cherie.  I ’ope you sleep well.”  Then he leaned in and kissed her cheek.

Rory wanted to throttle the Frenchman.  He was nothing but a nuisance.  Still, it wouldn’t do to murder a guest.

Melissa offered a shy little smile.  “Goodnight, Christophe.  I hope you don’t freeze down there in the mill room.”

Schooling his features, Rory followed the Frenchman to the door.  “Goodnight.”

Christophe jogged down the steps to the lower patio and Rory let go a sigh of relief.  At last, he had Melissa to himself.  He found the keys, locked the door and switched off the outside lights, then remembered the bolt.  If Christophe wasn’t inside the mill room by now, he ought to be.

“You sleep in the bedroom tonight.”  He tossed the words over his shoulder as the bolt slammed home.  If he played the gentleman a little longer, surely she’d weaken soon?

“Alone?”

The hostility in her voice was a surprise.  He turned to look at her.  Was it directed at him?  “You don’t want to sleep in here on your own again, do you?”

Her lips pursed as she thought about her answer.  “I should prefer not to.  Why were you so rude to Christophe?”  She placed a glass in the drainer with exaggerated care and plunged her hands back into the suds.

She wasn’t falling for the Frenchman, was she?  “He’ll survive.  Why the irritation?  I had the impression that you wanted to sleep next door.”

“I am not irritated.  You keep telling me there’s nothing to be scared about.  So why should I come and sleep in your bed?”

Oh, for crying out loud.  He leant on the counter top.  “Melissa, I’m not suggesting we both sleep in the one bed.  I intend to sleep out here.”

“Oh.”

Was that all?  He waited.  She slammed a cup into the drainer.  Surely he deserved some gratitude?  “Are you angry about something?”

“No.  I wasn’t sure what you meant, that’s all.”

She still didn’t trust him.  That was obvious, and disappointment flickered through him.  He was making no headway with her, in spite of doing everything he could to win her over.  Usually it didn’t matter.  This time, for some reason, it mattered that Melissa wasn’t exactly falling under his spell.  “Take it or leave it.  Up to you.”

“Yes, please.”

“Right.  I’ll move my stuff out here.”  He couldn’t do it fast enough.  Rattled and frustrated, he grabbed her bag and took it with him to the bedroom where he flung it onto the bed.  Annoyed, gathering up his own stuff, he blamed the Frenchman for queering his pitch.  She was falling for his so-called Gallic charm.  For almost the first time in his life, he was jealous, and he didn’t like it.

Rory carried his own bag out to the living room, dropped it onto the floorboards and hoped the crash startled Christophe on the floor below.

~~~

Melissa shivered in the big wide bed.  The lights were out, the door to the hall was firmly closed and she had the room to herself.  Therefore she ought to be happy and comfortable.  In fact, she was miserable and guilty.  The lace curtain, a paler color than the night sky, cut a riot of swirls and curls against the blackness.  She looked around the small square room.  She ought to be safe from ghosts.  This room was a late addition to the mill, and ghosts only invaded territory they knew.  After all, who’d ever heard of a ghost wandering through a modern supermarket?

She sighed, and turned over.  Rory had shoved an armful of blankets onto Christophe and shunted him out so fast it had been rude.  He’d been short with her, too.  If this was a foretaste of how things were going in the coming days, then the rest of the holiday was going to be pretty miserable.

She liked him.  Or she had, until he’d snapped at her just now.  He was polite, caring.  Considerate.  Handsome, of course.  Confident in himself.  Brave, athletic, well-heeled, well dressed, even on holiday.  His tee shirts were from designer shops rather than M&S or Matalan.  On the surface, he was a successful lawyer who charmed all he met.