What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (11 page)

It did not make any sense. He had left the candle flickering in its metal holder. Glancing at the side table, he noticed an adequate enough stub to last for another hour, maybe more. Perhaps a sudden draft had blown it out.

With a firm grip of her hand, he moved over to the window and pulled back the drapes. “Perhaps a bird flew into the glass,” he said trying to think of any reason to account for the odd noise, other than the possibility that it was made by a ghost.

“As a man who is usually so logical, I know you don’t believe that.” Isabella screwed up her nose. “There are no birds about at this hour of the morning. Besides, it sounded like someone tapping on wood.”

Tristan turned back in an attempt to look for the source. He sucked in a breath, unprepared for the sight that greeted him.

Isabella gasped. “I told you,” she cried as they stared at the writing on the wall adjacent to the door. “Now will you believe me when I tell you there is no explanation for the strange things that go on here.”

Against the blue flock wallpaper the words
get out
were scrawled in some sort of luminous substance. In the dark, the command had the appearance of an ominous warning from beyond the grave.

Tristan stepped closer, keen to observe the markings. He came to an abrupt halt but a foot or so away. Isabella stood at his side as they stared at the words for a moment. The faint odour lingering in the air confirmed his suspicions.

“Don’t touch it,” he said, lightly tapping her outstretched fingers as one would do to a curious child. “If I am correct, it is white phosphorous and can cause severe burns if it comes into contact with the skin.”

She dropped her hand. “How did it get there?”

Tristan glanced back over his shoulder. Nothing appeared out of place. Other than the extinguished candle, the room was exactly as he had left it mere moments before.

“I have no notion, but one thing is clear. A ghost—”

He stopped abruptly. The torturous groan emanating from Isabella’s room was accompanied by a range of strange tapping noises. Tristan held onto her hand as he pulled her across the landing.

“Whoever it is, they have us scurrying about like blasted mice.” His words revealed frustration rather than fear. They entered her chamber, were greeted by an eerie silence. “If only we knew where the sound was coming from,” he whispered.

“Perhaps we should call out.” She straightened her spine yet kept a firm grip of his hand. “Tap once if you want me to leave this house.” Isabella’s sudden request shocked him.

“There are no ghosts—”

“Shush. Just listen.”

The single tap rang through the room, loud and clear.

Tristan attempted to locate the sound. It definitely came from the right-hand side of the room. “Ask something else.”

She nodded. “Tap twice if you are the spirit of Lady Mary Fernall.”

The double tap came from the room across the hall. Tristan had no idea how the person responsible was capable of being in two places at once, but he would not rest until he discovered the answer.

“Do not say any more,” he said, taking her hand and backing out of the room.

They were a few steps from the door when the outline of a figure caught his eye. “Wait. There is someone over there on the bed.”

At first glance, it appeared as though the person was sleeping. Locks of ebony hair lay sprawled over the pillow. The body was shrouded by the coverlet.

“Stay behind me,” he said as they approached with caution. With his clenched fist raised ready to hit out, he dragged the red and gold cover off the bed.

Isabella’s scream rang in his ears. She clutched his shirt. “What is it?”

Tristan stared at the grey dress draped over a line of pillows. “It is nothing more than another attempt to frighten you.”

Stepping closer he picked up the black wig. “Does this belong to you?” he said throwing it back on the bed.

She came to his side. “I have never seen it before. But that is my dress.”

As he moved the dress, he noted the large red circular stain.

“Is it … is it blood?” she stuttered.

Tristan lifted it to his nose, wet his finger and dabbed at the mark. “No. If I am not mistaken, it is wine.”

“Wine?”

“Blood is lighter in colour, the consistency much thicker, even on fabric.”

“You sound as though you speak from experience.”

“In bouts of drunkenness I have spilt more than my fair share of wine,” he said in an attempt to lighten the mood. “Come. This proves we are not dealing with a spiritual entity. Our best option is to ignore it. Help me tidy the bed. And then you should get some rest. We have a busy day ahead of us tomorrow.”

Her wild gaze darted about the room. “I cannot sleep after all that has occurred.”

Tristan turned to face her fully. He stepped closer and whispered, “Everything we have seen and heard has been a series of incidents conducted with the intention of frightening you from your home. Perhaps the person responsible thinks me just another pompous lord, too preoccupied with the frivolities of life and lacking the ability of good sense and reason. But they have made a dreadful miscalculation.”

Isabella put her hand to her heart. “I do not know what I would have done had you not been here.”

He touched his finger to her sumptuous lips. “We must be careful what we say whilst in this room.” Jerking his head, he gestured to the door. “Let us vacate this chamber and find one further along the hall.”

Isabella nodded. Taking the candle lamp from the dressing table, they moved to the room nearest the stairs. With its white and gilt furniture and vivid yellow walls, the chamber was brighter, far more fashionable, although the bed was only large enough for one.

“This should suffice,” he said forcing a smile to hide his frustration. As soon as he’d heard the sounds and found the message painted on the wall, he should have bolted down to the servants’ quarters and checked they were all in their beds. It was too late now. Distracted by the pile of pillows and wine-stained dress, they had given the culprit ample time to flee.

Isabella pulled back the sheets and sat on the edge of the bed. “You said we have much to do tomorrow. Does that mean you have a plan?”

“We will conduct a thorough search of the rooms. Speak to the servants. I want to visit the gatehouse, to ensure Mr. Blackwood is not at home. You must also tell me as much as you can about your relationship with Andrew.”

She sighed as she climbed into bed and placed her head on the pillow. “I suspect such a thorough investigation will take us all day.” There was a nervous hitch in her voice. “And then I suppose you must leave. You are far too busy to spend your time here.”

The sadness in her eyes belied her casual tone.

Tristan came to stand next to the bed. “I’ll not leave you.” He bent down and brushed a lock of ebony hair from her face. “Try to get some sleep. I shall spend the next few hours over there in the chair.”

She nibbled on her bottom lip. “But it will be uncomfortable.”

“Trust me. I have slept in worse places.” It would be far more uncomfortable lying next to her when all he wanted to do was take her in his arms and banish the ghosts for good. “Besides, the bed is too small for two.”

An image of him covering her body flashed into his mind, purely to prove there were other positions available should they wish to share a bed.

Tristan walked over to the door and turned the key in the lock.

“Why are you locking the door? I thought you did not believe in ghosts.”

He smiled. “I don’t. It is the living we must protect ourselves from.”

Chapter 9

Isabella opened her eyes and stretched her arms above her head. Finding her surroundings somewhat unfamiliar, it took a moment to recall the reason for moving to another chamber. She propped herself up on her elbows and scanned the room.

Whilst the yellow drapes served to prevent the morning sun streaming in, by the very nature of their vibrancy they cast a golden glow over the gentleman sleeping in the chair. With his cheek resting in the palm of his hand, and a lock of fair hair falling over his brow, he appeared peaceful, angelic.

A soft sigh left her lips.

She watched the gentle rise and fall of his chest with some fascination. He might look pure and saintly, but there was nothing innocent about the way he’d kissed her. His wicked mouth had claimed hers with a level of unbridled passion that was positively sinful. She touched the tips of her fingers to her lips as she recalled the heavenly memory.

It had been a mad moment of weakness. It had been a desperate urge to relive a happy moment from her past. Yet she knew that succumbing to her desire for a man who refused to commit would only lead to more pain. Despite it all, kissing Tristan did not feel wrong. In Tristan’s company she felt safe; in his arms she felt complete.

There has never been anyone other than you.

His words echoed through her mind once more, just to torment her. What did he mean? In the five years since their separation, he must have taken another woman to his bed. The depth of passion emanating from him during their salacious kiss proved his penchant for carnal pleasures. Perhaps he thought that to declare himself celibate would help to heal the wounds of rejection. Perhaps he simply meant that, since breaking his promise to her, he had not proclaimed love to anyone else.

It was all rather baffling.

Just as baffling as the eerie events they had witnessed a few hours earlier.
Had she been alone in a cold, dark chamber, she might have expired from the shock. Then again, without Tristan’s assistance, she would not have found the courage to return to Highley Grange.

“Why did you not wake me?” Tristan’s sleepy drawl caused her heart to miss a beat. He sat up straight, yawned then rubbed the muscles in his neck. “I think it would have been more comfortable to sleep on the floor.”

Guilt flared. “I know it is probably not much consolation, but I do appreciate you being here.”

His languid gaze drifted over her before settling on her hair. “I see you managed to sleep, although it appears to have been a somewhat restless affair. After all that occurred in the early hours, I doubted you would.”

“It took a while,” she said patting down her locks. “The tedious journey from London, coupled with getting caught in the torrential rain, must have taken its toll.” She chose not to divulge that she had lost herself in whimsical daydreams, where passionate kisses were a prelude to something far more satisfying.

“Let us hope the weather has improved.” He stood, stretched his arms out in front of him before parting the drapes and peering through the window. “At least the sun is shining this morning.”

The conversation felt somewhat strained. She wondered if the tension stemmed from the kiss they had shared. Did regret form the basis of his detached tone?

“We should return to our rooms and dress before the servants discover we shared the same chamber.” Her confident tone belied the nervous flutter in her stomach.

He turned to face her. “Have you ever spoken to the servants about the strange things happening here?”

“Only briefly.” As mistress of the house, it was not wise to draw attention to one’s emotional weaknesses. “They often speak of seeing a lady dressed in a white shroud.” A chill shivered through her, and she pulled the coverlet up over her shoulders. “Mrs. Birch believes it is Mary, the ghost of Samuel’s first wife.”

Tristan came and sat on the end of the bed. The intimate action conveyed a relaxed ease in her company, one so opposed to his dispassionate demeanour when discussing the strange events. Even so, she could not help but stare at his mouth.

“Has your housekeeper said what makes her think that?”

“No. But Mary Fernall never spent a single night in this house.” Given the option, Isabella would not have done so either. “I was always of the opinion that ghosts haunted familiar places.”

“There are no ghosts here,” Tristan reiterated with an amused snort. “Just a concerted effort to make you and others believe so.”

She stared into his blue eyes, searching for reassurance. “I’m sure you are right.”

“Trust me when I tell you I am determined to solve this mystery.”

His confident manner served to enhance his appeal. In their youth, it had been his carefree attitude to life that had fed her attraction. His bright, cheerful countenance had helped to ease the pain of her mother’s passing, forced her to seek out his company. Now, he was masterful without being overbearing. A raw and powerful masculine energy emanated from deep within. The overwhelming feeling of love and affection she still nurtured was now accompanied by a lustful yearning that sought to steal her breath.

She tried to swallow down her desire, suppressed the urge to say she needed him, needed him in every possible way. “What do you intend to do today?” she said, relieved to have asked a simple question without revealing the true nature of her inner thoughts.

“My priority will be to search both rooms at the end of the hall. I believe the answer to the mysterious haunting lies there.”