Black Leather, White Lace

Black Leather, White Lace

1

Black Leather, White Lace By

Lynne Connolly

Lynne Connolly

2

Prologue

1645

Vernon Heatherington swiped his hand wearily over his eyes. Never before had he worked so hard, either when he was a young earl at Court, or when he had ridden in the King’s cavalry under the command of Prince Rupert. Now he was home, the place he should never have left. War had left its mark here, too. Most able-bodied young men had left to fight on one side or the other, but they were managing, just. It meant that at harvest time no one could stand idle. House servants, male and female, even the earl himself had to put a shoulder to the wheel if they were to make the most of the crops. With the sun shining low on the horizon he could finally go home and see what his wife and the two domestics left in the kitchen had made for his dinner. The house servants wandered along behind him. It was a revelation to find this kind of life suited him, that he enjoyed the simplicity of this existence. If they kept quietly attending to their own business, they might avoid the attention of Parliament altogether. It seemed just a matter of time now until the King asked the Parliamentary forces for their terms. He approached the great house from the rear. Rustead Abbey had been new a hundred years ago, and now the red brick was beginning to gain the soft patina of age. A handsome house, not overlarge, but with all that was required of an earl’s residence, including a many windowed Long Gallery on the top floor, just below the attics. That was a reminder of happier times, where the portraits of his ancestors rested peacefully side by side. A commotion on the terrace attracted his attention. His wife’s voice sounded, high and panicked. He couldn’t make out the words but it was enough to make him break into a run. When he rounded the corner what he saw made his blood run cold. Five men surrounded Anne, men dressed in rough, military clothes, stained from traveling and fighting. Not here, oh no, not here! “What do you want?” he roared, in his loudest possible voice. It worked. Three of the men spun around. The one at the front, the one dressed in a simple leather jerkin, breeches and breastplate, his dark hair cropped close to his collar, was his brother Nathaniel. His traitor brother. For a blink of an eye the two stared at each other, and then Vernon strode forward. “What are you here for, Nathaniel? You’re no longer welcome, you know that.” Nathaniel didn’t bother with greetings. He brandished a document, one he thrust towards his brother. “I have an order to commandeer this house. I’m claiming it in the name of Parliament.” His clear, blue eyes flashed a warning. One that Vernon ignored. “I want you all out of here. How dare you claim anything here? The King is the ruler at Rustead Abbey!” The four men surrounding Anne took a step towards him. Perhaps she could get to safety, if he kept them busy.

Black Leather, White Lace

3

“I’m sorry, brother, I have to insist.” Vernon narrowed his eyes. “You always wanted this house, didn’t you? Was this the only way you could get it? By theft?” With a sweep of his arm, he drew his sword. Everyone went around armed these days, not knowing what was around the next corner. Well he would not take this imposition lightly. He’d had enough. He raised his weapon, only to meet steel. Nathaniel had his own sword ready, and tried to knock his aside. But Vernon wasn’t the dilettante swordsman he’d been at the beginning of the war. He was a seasoned cavalry officer, and he no longer fenced with a flourish and an elegant twirl. He fought for one reason only. To kill. When his men would have surrounded them, Nathaniel called out to them. “Leave be! I’ll handle this!” One muttered, “Have a few scores to settle, Captain?” and they stepped back, clearing a space for the fight. One took Anne by the arm, not ungently, and pulled her back. Vernon spat fire, and attacked. Nathaniel met his vicious blade with parries and deft sidesteps, but it was some time until Vernon realized he wasn’t attacking. “Damn you, fight!” “Not unless I have to,” Nathaniel panted, making another parry, knocking aside Vernon’s blade. They fought for what seemed like forever, too evenly matched for either to make inroads on the other. The men made raucous bets, infuriating Vernon further. The swords clashed and clanged, occasionally hitting the hard paving of the terrace with a dull thud. They fought until the sun went down, until Nathaniel forced Vernon to face the sharp rays, slanting straight into his eyes. “Give over, Vernon. Let us take the house.” His words came out between harsh pants, each marking a swing of his sword. Blood trickled from numerous small wounds on his arms and body. This was no duel for first blood; otherwise it would have finished long ago. “Never, you’ll never take Rustead away from me!” Vernon twisted, meaning to move back, away from the glare of the sun, but he stumbled. Right on to Nathaniel’s blade. Cold seared through his body, and he knew he was done for. With the last strength left in his arm he thrust up, snarling defiance, and was gratified to hear his brother’s cry of pain, until the world went black. ***** “Dear God.” Clasping his hand over the deep wound in his side, Nathaniel stared down at Vernon. Why hadn’t the fool listened? If he hadn’t taken the Abbey, someone else would have done. Better it stayed in the family than passed out of it. He meant to tell Vernon, then arrange matters so the Abbey was in his care, but could pass back to Vernon, the rightful Earl, when things had died down a little. It was difficult to draw breath, worse than after a long fight. With his dying breath, Vernon had ensured that neither brother inherited. Except that he, Nathaniel, was the earl now. For a time. A very short time.

Lynne Connolly

4

Vernon By

Lynne Connolly

Black Leather, White Lace

5

Chapter One

1814

Cassandra stood with her husband in the Long Gallery of their home in Rustead Abbey. Both were dressed rather strangely, for being Halloween, his lordship’s fancy had alighted on a costume ball with a spectral theme. Cassandra was dressed most uncomfortably in the clothes of a Royalist lady; uncomfortably because she had discovered the clothes only a couple of days ago in the spacious attics of the house, and after they had been laundered there really hadn’t been time to alter them properly. Pins stuck in her from all angles where her maid had altered it for her. The gown had been fashioned for a much larger lady. The arrangements for this ball had been rushed, since Lord Rustead had arrived from London a few days before with several companions, announcing that more were on the way. Cassandra avoided London when she could. She used to like it, but she couldn’t bear the pitying glances cast her way in every ballroom and every concert hall these days. Her husband had attempted a skeleton costume, but the suit was showing signs of the dissipation into which he sank progressively earlier in the day. His watery gaze studied her. “Can’t think why you want a private word, old girl. Couldn’t you have told me later? Got a house full of guests to see to.” He would be too drunk later to understand her, but she didn’t say this out loud. Edward’s family had been careful to present him in his best guise before they were married, but now Cassandra was Lady Rustead, nobody bothered to conceal the effects of her husband’s long and determined pursuit of all the pleasures society had to offer. The white paint, which adorned the simple black shirt and breeches, in an imitation of the bones that were presumably underneath had flaked a little, and red port stains revealed the evidence of his lordship’s favorite tipple. At the moment the expression on his once-handsome face was decidedly peevish. “Can’t think why the damned servants didn’t fill the decanters up here.” Probably, Cassandra thought, because they knew you would come up here. Distinctly, she heard a voice in her head, a male voice she was almost used to hearing. We hid them. If you have to speak to him in private, best done while he is relatively sober. She had persuaded herself that the voice was just her own imagination, but sometimes she wasn’t so sure. The strong, male timbre had been her companion since she had arrived in this house six years ago, and every time she crossed the threshold, coming in from the garden or a visit, it had been there, waiting for her. He expressed opinions she never dared utter, except in her heart, shared her woes and her small triumphs. Now here he was again. The Portrait Gallery, one of the showpieces in the house, blazed with the light from dozens of candles set in chandeliers and wall sconces. If Edward didn’t look to his finances soon, they would have to start counting the number of candles they used, but fortunately, not quite yet. Edward never lifted a finger to administer his estate, and his steward was a lazy as he was. Cassandra’s fingers itched to study the books, to put at least some things

Lynne Connolly

6

right, but until she quickened, she was forbidden to do so. It was exquisite torture, to watch the house she loved falling to pieces about her ears. She drew a breath and prepared to announce her lie. “Edward, I think I may be expecting.” His face lit up, his brown, bloodshot eyes showing some of the sparkle his must have had before debauchery took over his life. “Really? You’re sure?” She bit her lip. She couldn’t go that far. “Not completely. But it looks promising.” He threw back his head and barked a sharp laugh. “Ha! Delighted to hear you’re finally doing your duty, m’dear.” He grinned broadly. “After three years I’d given you up. Well, best you stay here then, instead of coming up to Town with me.” “Yes.” Relief surged through her. That was why she had played this, her last, desperate card. By the time he discovered her lie, she might have been able to put some order into the estate, and perhaps even made a small part of it safe from his depredations. The timing was right. On a previous, brief visit last month, he’d spent some time in her room. It was enough. “I’ll be off in the morning, then. I’d hoped to take you with me, but…” He scanned her body, taking his time, although Cassandra had reason to know he was capable of little more these days. Fleetingly she wondered how he managed with the London whores. Perhaps they used tricks she didn’t know about, or had little reason to learn. His body was still comely enough, but no woman could fancy a man once he’d vomited in her bed. “Are you coming, coz?” A handsome man strolled towards them, dressed as her Cavalier counterpart. This was Edward’s cousin and heir, William Heatherington, as debauched as Edward and twice as vicious. He bowed, turning the graceful gesture into a mocking salute. “Good evening, ma’am. I didn’t realize you were here, too. Will you grace us with your presence downstairs?” Cassandra glared at him mutely. She suspected William was pushing her husband into an early grave, but since he was hurrying there anyway, it mattered little. William was as tall as Edward, but slimmer and his brown eyes were less bloodshot. Either he had a better head for drink than his cousin, or he threw half of what he pretended to drink away. His deceivingly soft eyes gleamed at her. “Cassie here says she’s in the family way,” Edward blurted out. Since she was looking at him, Cassandra saw the mockery in William’s eyes change to pure hatred. Just for a moment she feared for the entirely imaginary child in her womb. Now she knew for sure William had pretensions to the title and inheritance. She would have to take great care in the next few months, until it became obvious her child was illusory. She broke eye contact with a toss of her head. “I will not go downstairs again tonight. Please convey my apologies to your friends and try not to break the best crystal.” Edward wouldn’t have a chance to do that, since Cassandra and the servants had locked the best crystal in the laundry cabinets, well away from possible depredations. That was one thing she could do. The servants knew that as soon as they sighted her husband’s carriage, they were to lock away the more valuable breakables in the house. He’d been here for nearly a week now, and he hadn’t even noticed the best porcelain and crystal had disappeared. Regaining his equilibrium, William smiled and draped one elegant arm around his cousin’s ample waist. “We’d better get back down to the ladies.”

Black Leather, White Lace

7

With an avuncular pat on her shoulder, Edward turned away from her. “Somebody’s got to see to the guests. If you want to retire my dear that will be quite in order.” He shambled up the gallery towards the door at the end. Sick at heart for the death of all her hopes, Cassandra decided to go to bed, feeling no obligation to entertain any of the individuals currently wrecking her dining room and green drawing room. It had been the final insult to learn that their guests were the most raucous of London’s bloods and the most racy of its widows and married women, who were notorious for seeking their pleasure anywhere they found it. He might as well have asked her to share her table with whores. At least whores were honest, requiring a fee rather than eternal love or something equally as unattainable. Cassandra strolled slowly up the long gallery, in the opposite direction to the one her husband had taken, towards her bedroom. Perhaps her faux pregnancy would give her a chance to pack and leave, although she had no idea where she could go. Edward’s possessiveness had driven away all her old friends and her parents were abroad, in the service of their country. Nowhere to go, no one who cared. Perhaps she could retire to another of Edward’s houses. Luckily, the entail encompassed three houses and estates, so Edward could do no more than mortgage them. Perhaps there would be enough left that she could live quietly and modestly once he’d gone. It was all she had left to hope for. She no longer felt the tragedy of a promising young man, now destroyed by drink and probably disease as well. When he had no ready money, he came back and found something else to sell. He’d destroyed any emotion she felt for him long ago. She stopped to stare at the portraits in the long gallery. There was a definite family ‘look,’ one Edward possessed, despite his florid complexion and increasing girth. If they looked after themselves, the Hetherington men and women tended to the lean, their nearblack hair almost universal, except for a few notable exceptions. The eyes seemed to be blue or gray. No brown eyed people amongst them apart from Edward and his cousin William. Their ability to breed true had been a standing joke. Some of the men had a noble history. Cassandra paused before a full-length portrait of a Cavalier gentleman. Vernon Heatherington, Lord Chiltern. Shortly after the portrait had been painted, he’d inherited the earldom from his father. Then came the famous duel that had ended his life, and shortly thereafter, that of his Roundhead brother. If it hadn’t been for their younger brother, a babe in arms in the nursery, too young to take sides, the ancient line of Heatherington might have died out at that point. It might have been just as well. Then she wouldn’t be standing here, lying to her husband just to get him away from the house for a few weeks. “It’s hardly my fault.” “What is hardly your fault?” She whipped her head around to look at the portrait of the Cavalier, then back to the man standing before her where there had been none before. The man who had just spoken. The voice was so familiar to her that at first Cassandra didn’t register that it had been outside her head, not inside. She’d been hearing it for months. She took a few deep breaths to steady herself, afraid that her little imaginings were turning her into a complete lunatic. Blue, blue eyes twinkled at her. “The resemblance is remarkable, isn’t it?” “Y-yes. Are you related to him?” Perhaps a relative on his mother’s side, she thought, grasping at straws to find a rational explanation.

Lynne Connolly

8

He smiled, much more at his ease than Cassandra felt herself to be. “In a way.” Her mind raced. “Vernon Heatherington?” “That’s the one.” “I didn’t know Edward had any close relatives left apart from William.” “He hasn’t.” This man was everything Edward should have been, but wasn’t. Trim waist, slender but broad shouldered and powerfully built, with a clear complexion and eyes. He wore his hair unfashionably long, a compliment to the cavalier dress he wore. It wasn’t the same as the one in the portrait, the one William had imitated in his get-up tonight. Less elaborate, although the white lace edged collar was in evidence, and the high, carefully polished boots. But his coat and breeches were a dark red, not the celestial blue of the portrait. “Too fancy for everyday,” he said with a smile, staring up at the painting. His voice sent chills through Cassandra. Just as well she wasn’t fanciful, or she might think he was the ghost of the long dead cavalier come to life. But that would be ridiculous–wouldn’t it? On an impulse, Cassandra leaned forward and touched his sleeve. Soft wool met her probing fingers, but because she had poked rather than touched, she felt the yielding flesh underneath. She drew back and laughed jerkily. “I’m so sorry.” He glanced back up at the portrait. “You had reason to touch. That was painted in happier days, long before the king decided he was going to stamp his foot and say no.” She was shocked to hear the Civil War referred to in such a way. “Does a brave man’s death mean nothing to you?” she demanded, before she realized how rude she was being. All this solitude had obviously had a poor effect on her manners. He laughed. “You mean my death, my dear.” “Taking your part a little too seriously, aren’t we?” His expression turned serious, the sensuous mouth flattening into a straight line. “Not a part, my dear. Unfortunate reality.” And he had looked to be more sensible than Edward’s other guests! Incensed, she turned and strode quickly towards the far door, throwing over her shoulder, “It’s time you joined the other guests, sir. They will be missing you.” “They don’t know me. In this house, the only person who knows me is you. Don’t you recognize me, Cassandra?” She carried on walking towards the door at the end of the gallery. His voice reached her, more distantly now. “Last night you wept again and decided to trick your husband into thinking you were enceinte. How can you be, when his drinking has long rendered him incapable?” She quickened her pace. She needed to get out of here and think. A shame the long gallery was so—well, long. His voice came closer. How had he reached her so quickly without making a sound? “Yesterday you wore a charming gown sprigged with little flowers. You bound your hair loosely and after making the arrangements for tonight, you went into the garden. Where I cannot follow you,” he added wistfully, “so I don’t know what you did there.” “I supervised the gardeners pruning some shrubs ready for winter,” she said, without thinking. She stopped, turned and stared at him, wide-eyed with shock. “How do you know? Have you been spying on me? Is this a joke you and my husband have concocted between you?”

Black Leather, White Lace

9

He sighed deeply, his chest rising and falling under his white shirt. “No. I am the ghost of this place. One of them, anyway. I’m allowed one day of solidity a year, on the anniversary of my death, and this is the day. I chose to come to you.” “I must be dreaming!” She cried and would have spun around and walked to the other end of the gallery. No matter that it was entirely the wrong way to her bedroom. She would go around. Anything to get away from this madman. “Not so.” He stood in front of her again, blocking her way. “Dear Lord, how did you do that?” “Like this.” And before she could turn, he’d winked out and his voice came from behind her. Cassandra turned, and saw him. Her legs buckled under her and she fell.

Lynne Connolly

10

Chapter Two

He was there before she hit the floor, supporting her with arms that seemed surprisingly solid. Bending, he slipped one arm under her knees and the other around her waist, lifting her up. “I’ll be all right,” she mumbled, still recovering from the shock she’d just received. “You can put me down now.” He dropped a dry, soft kiss on her forehead. “Don’t speak. Let me get you upstairs.” He smelled of lavender, she realized when she laid her head on his shoulder. Old lavender, as though his clothes had been in storage for a long time. His coat was of country wool, well worn, soft against her cheek. It seemed natural, as though they had done this before, for him to carry her up to her bed. The impropriety didn’t occur to her at first, and when it did, she decided she had more to cope with at the moment than the dictates of society. She closed her eyes. When she opened her eyes once more, she lay on her bed. She stared up at the crimson canopy above her head and blinked. “Well! I must be going completely mad!” she exclaimed aloud. “Not one bit. Are you feeling better now?” She tried to sit up and nearly fell back when a fold of her gown caught in her elbow. A supporting hand slipped around her back. A solid, male hand. She shrieked. “What is it?” The note of alarm tensed his dark voice to wiry tautness. “Pins! I’m stuck full of them!” His chuckle began somewhere low in his chest, but bubbled forth deliciously. “I think I know the lady this gown was made for. She was much larger than you.” “Your wife?” She dropped her voice to a low murmur. “No, my sister. She was no fairy. You, on the other hand are as light as a feather.” He hadn’t moved his hand, except to ensure he hadn’t trapped any pins under it. “Shall I help you out of it, or will you require your maid?” “No.” She didn’t like to think what her maid might think, or what she would report back to her husband’s cousin. She knew some of the staff spied on her for him and his cousin, but she did nothing about it, because at least she knew which of the household she could trust, and which she could not. Better than changing the staff and having to guess who was telling tales. “You’d better help me. I’m decent enough underneath.” “A pity.” She didn’t miss the wistfulness in his tone. Together they worked through the folds of the gown where it was gathered at her waist, although they left the ones holding the hems up in place. The garment was a separate bodice and skirt, with a removable lace collar, and they were particularly careful when removing that. It was exquisite. Cassandra had already decided to keep it for her own wear; with a little alteration it would go over some of her gowns perfectly. After that,

Black Leather, White Lace

11

he made short work of the laces at the back of the gown. He certainly knew his way around ladies’ clothing. When the heavy outer gown had been removed, Cassandra was still decently covered, in petticoat and stomacher. He took the gown over to a chair and draped it carefully across it, the bodice on top and the collar on top of that. Cassandra found a little porcelain pot and busied herself gathering up all the pins and dropping them inside. When she looked up, he was sitting on the bed again, gazing at her, his expression dreamy and difficult to interpret. “Do you want me to leave?” “Yes, no, yes–oh I don’t know! Tell me, talk to me. Is this real?” She watched him wave his hand, and astonished, saw the candles in the branch set next to her bed flicker into life. All at the same time. There was no rational explanation for this. None at all. “Am I dreaming?” “No.” He didn’t move any closer to her, but the hand on her back seemed to burn through the clothes she still wore, as though he touched her skin. She felt the heat through her body, not all of it embarrassment when she recalled the dreams she’d had about her secret friend. “That’s why I came to see you,” he continued in a voice dark as sin. “You know me, Cassandra, although you never believed in me before.” She knew it. All the times she had felt a companion by her side, the welcome she felt when she entered the house after being outside for a while, the words she had thought she had imagined. “A ghost? My only friend is a ghost?” “I’m sorry to say that is true. I would vastly prefer to be alive for you, or failing that, provide you with the friends you deserve. You’re a beautiful, loving woman Cassandra, and it breaks my heart to see you like this.” He drew her closer and she gave in. It felt so good just to lean on him, and his solid strength. Still not entirely believing in this, she wanted it too much to resist any more. “That’s my girl.” His voice was low, encouraging and entirely sinful. What did it matter, if this was a dream? “Rest and let me talk to you instead. I’ve watched you since you first entered this house, Cassandra, and ached for your pain. A child would have helped, but that sot you married is incapable even of that.” She couldn’t bear him seeing the many humiliations she’d undergone. “No, it wasn’t like that!” “Yes it was, my sweet.” The endearment passed not unnoticed, but accepted. He’d called her that before, in her dreams. “I never intruded, but when I heard what came after sometimes, I couldn’t help but come to comfort you. Not that I could do anything.” The last words were so bitter she felt warmed, even though she also felt ashamed. When Edward failed to perform his marital duty he tended to blame her. She had done everything she could to encourage him, but still it had been her fault when he couldn’t penetrate her, her fault, not the drink. “He won’t hurt you again if I can help it. That’s why I came tonight. I can establish a stronger bond between us. Until tonight, I could only talk to you occasionally. Afterwards, I should be able to reach you whenever you need me.” “How?” “Never mind. But it’s possible. Now. I couldn’t bear to watch it any longer. Your secret is safe, my love. Just you, me and the other ghosts here.” “Are there many?” It sounded so real now the voice wasn’t just in her head. “Not really, considering the age of the house. Myself, my brother and a monk we keep seeing but who has never spoken to us. Perhaps he’s taken a vow of silence.”

Lynne Connolly

“I thought you and your brother hated each other?

12

You killed each other, didn’t

you?” He smiled briefly. “We did, although we died months apart. He saved the estate for the family. After I died petitioned Cromwell to retain the estate, although he knew the wounds I’d given him would kill him sooner rather than later. He passed the estate to our little brother when he died at Christmas.” “You died on Halloween and he died at Christmas. How sad!” Instinctively she moved closer to him. His arm curved protectively around her and for the first time in years Cassandra felt safe. “We didn’t mark the calendar at the time. It was only later we realized. Much later.” His voice turned sad and dark. Wanting nothing more than to comfort him, she lifted her head and pressed her lips to his smoothly shaven chin. Before she could pull away, he turned his head and captured her mouth. The kiss seared through her body. She knew she should pull away, but half of her still believed this was a dream, so what did it matter? And he felt so good, so right. His other arm came around her, and she pressed herself closer, dreaming of what could have been, what she might have had if she’d married a man even half-way decent. When she felt his tongue flicker against her lips, she opened for him with a gentle sigh of surrender. He caressed her gently, tenderly, his long fingers massaging her back as he held her and ravaged her mouth. The kiss, at first gentle and tentative, turned wild, his tongue plunging deep, caressing every inner surface. What was happening to her? How could she give way to this madness? Easily. When he pressed her backwards, she didn’t resist. She leant back on the bed, only aware of his lips on hers, his tongue in her mouth, his hands, more adventurous now, smoothing her body in long strokes of wanting. She was not passive either. Pushing the soft cloth of his coat aside, she felt the hard planes of his body under his shirt, which was slightly rougher than the fabric she was used to. Perhaps the weaver’s art had improved in the last hundred and sixty years. It didn’t matter. Only this mattered, until he drew back and propped himself on his elbows above her, panting a little from the intensity of their embrace. “I’m sorry. I only came to comfort you and to establish the link. I want to look after you, Cassandra. We can’t have any more than that. After tonight, I’ll be as incorporeal as I ever was. I won’t be able to do any of this.” His mouth was slightly open, his skin flushed with desire. How could she resist? “I don’t care.” She lifted her hand to his neck and tugged. “I do.” He stared at her, and she saw the unmistakable light of love in his deep blue eyes. She caught her breath, and he smiled. “Yes, I have fallen in love with you. At first I only wanted to keep you safe, but it’s more than that now. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing we can do, you know.” “Yes there is.” She pulled again, and this time he obeyed her insistent summons, sinking down to take her mouth once more. Cassandra hadn’t known kisses could be so wonderful. The few times her husband had done such a thing, his kisses had been wet and entirely distasteful. Messy. Vernon wasn’t messy. He kissed her with passion, with love and with sobriety. His hands stroked her breasts, and he caressed her through the thick material of her stays. Cassandra pressed up against him, wishing they could be closer. She yearned to feel

Black Leather, White Lace

13

him, skin to skin. It was as though she’d known him forever. Perhaps she had. The voices in her head hadn’t been her own imaginings, after all. And if this was madness, if she was imagining all this, then it was far better than reality. At last she had someone, someone of her own, even if that someone was a ghost. Not that he felt like a ghost. Under the soft wool of his breeches, an unmistakable hardening against her thigh told her he had effortlessly achieved something her husband could only dream about these days. She would never allow Edward into her bed again. Ever. It would be a travesty after this. Vernon kissed her, stroked her until she wanted more. Wanted it so much she knew it had to be inevitable. His lips traveled softly down her throat to the upper swelling of her breast. “It unlaces at the back,” she murmured softly, burying her hand in the wealth of his thick, shining hair, threading it dreamily between her fingers, feeling his mouth on her skin, his erection pressing against her. She didn’t know if the gentle, but rhythmic shoves were instinctive or purposeful, but they felt too good for her to care. He lifted his head, his eyes burning with want. “I do love you, Cassandra, but be aware that after tonight we will be the same as we were before. I want you so much, my love. I’ve dreamed of it, if ghosts can be said to dream. It has kept me sane. But it isn’t right, you know that.” “Why not?” Fury rose quickly in her. “I’ve been good for six years. Always the loyal, devoted wife and what has that got me? Nothing but bruises and insults. I tried; I really tried to make the marriage a success. I’ve conserved his money, cared for his land, all the things he should have done, and he takes it and spends it on whores, gambling and drink. Why should I carry on trying?” He lifted her fingers to his mouth and kissed each knuckle, touching them with his tongue, taking his time. “Perhaps,” he said between kisses,” perhaps it’s because you are better than he is, more resilient, more honorable. Perhaps that’s why I love you.” He sighed, his breath gusting warmly over her hand. “If I hadn’t been so foolish as to rush off and believe everything I was told about the king, I might have made a better job of my own marriage, and not plunged the estate into war. But I did, and there it is. I can’t change it now.” She watched him, watched the pink tip of his tongue touch her knuckles and knew he was right, but she didn’t care. “We have two hours until midnight. Are we going to waste them in talk?” He lifted his head, his eyes smiling wickedly into hers. “At least eight hours until sunrise. That’s when I have to go, my love, at the start of a new day.” “Love me, Vernon. Let’s not think about tomorrow. Just love me.” For answer, he lifted her and held her closely to him, his hands busy at her laces. She pulled his coat aside with both hands and pressed herself to his chest, feeling the roughness of his shirt against her cheek. He made short work of her stays, casting them impatiently aside, and drawing away from her, his eyes downcast to take in what he had revealed. “I cannot say I’ve never seen you before, but I did try to give you your privacy. I left when I saw you in your undress, though I longed to stay. Now I may stay, yes?” “Oh yes!” Her permission a benediction, he lifted his hand and pulled the drawstring of her chemise. It parted with a soft whisper of fabric, and they watched

Lynne Connolly

14

together as the fabric slid away from her body. His long sigh of desire told her all she needed to know. It should have been like this with Edward; she had hoped so much, and at first he had tried, but it had been too much. She had come to her senses two weeks after her wedding, when she’d caught him drunk, servicing her chambermaid. “Are you honest and true?” she asked, hardly realizing she spoke aloud. “Yes, my sweet. I have always been so. You know I had a wife?” “Yes.” His hand caressed her waist, warm and real, a gentle touch of affection. “We were friends. It was an arranged marriage, but we made something of it. That we failed to make it better was my fault, not hers. But I was never unfaithful to her, and I will never be so to you.” He looked up at her face and smiled. “I’m speaking foolishly. I’m hardly going to have the opportunity, am I?” “Are you real?” “Yes, for tonight, I’m real. And I’m yours. Will you let me in?” Without taking her gaze from his, she nodded. Audibly drawing in his breath, Vernon shucked off his coat. Cassandra made herself busy at his waistcoat, undoing the long line of buttons, and then her hands were on his chest, only his shirt between them now. That was soon disposed of. Vernon’s gaze drifted down to her breasts, and he looked his fill, with her joyful permission. As he watched, she felt her nipples tighten, furl into tight points. That had never happened to her before. “Have you some magic?” “No magic. Tonight, I’m just a man. Let me prove it.” He lifted his hands to her shoulders and pressed her gently back into the softness of her feather mattress. His body was long, hard and when he moved she felt powerful muscles bunch under his skin. Everything–no, no more comparisons, no more. Tonight was just the two of them. Vernon and Cassandra, no future, no past. Nothing but this moment. His heavy wings of hair swung forward to shroud them in soft, silken warmth. She chuckled. “You Cavaliers and your long hair!” “A badge,” he murmured. “Once a fashion, then a badge. One day, I might get to cut it.” “Do you want to?” “Yes!” He said the word with such fervor, Cassandra felt a shock of dismay. He stroked the side of her face, his touch gentle. “It’s a symbol of what went wrong with my life. It was foolishness, taking up a course that would destroy what we had built here. I was taken with too many stories, too many lies and a mistaken sense of justice.” “You sound like a Roundhead!” He chuckled, low in his throat, his sudden flash of anger gone. “I wouldn’t go that far.” Seemingly losing interest, he caressed her lips with his, gently warming them, allowing his tongue to flick briefly against hers, but by the time she had opened for him, he had drawn back. “I could stay here all night with you, just looking, just touching. I have imagined this so many times!” “Vernon, why?”

Black Leather, White Lace

15

“I wanted to see you, and I am allowed this boon. I would not have come to you before. You tried so hard to make your sot of a husband into something worthy of you; I could not interfere with that. But I can’t see you suffer any longer.” He pushed gently against her, his cock an impressive rod against her thigh. It burned her skin, made her eager for him. “No more talking,” she gasped. She squirmed under him until his weight fell between her legs, and deliberately, holding his gaze, she pushed up against the mattress. He smiled. “No more talking.” He pressed his lips to hers once more, this time opening his mouth and thrusting his tongue into her. At the same time, he pushed below, and she felt a groan reverberate in her mouth when he realized just how much she wanted him. Lifting a little, he slid his free hand between them and she felt him fumble, then position himself. He pressed deep, not stopping, not lifting his mouth from hers, gradually parting her thickened, wet, flesh until he was completely sheathed inside her. His body stilled inside hers, he finished the kiss, lifting his lips slowly away. His eyes slumberous with passion, he gazed into hers. “Oh my love,” he breathed. Her instinctive action was to lift her bottom and press against him, opening her legs wide until she felt her soft, sensitive flesh encounter the wiry hair at the base of his cock. She moaned, allowing the sensation to course through her. “I want you to fill me up. Never leave me, let me love you always.” “If I can love you back.” He rose up, and thrust. With a smooth motion that spoke volumes about his physical strength, he pushed up on his hands, rising above her and changing the angle of his entry so she gasped in shock. Staring at her, he thrust again. She felt his body, deep inside hers, and she shattered. Her scream would no doubt go unheard downstairs, where whores and society women squealed in delighted mock-horror and men roared after them. She didn’t care. Cassandra was past caring, knowing she would gladly die for this night. There was nothing left to her but the man she was made for, his body in hers, his dark blue eyes searing passion into her soul. He never looked away, watched nothing but her, her response, her need. She felt his gaze like a caress, stroking her sensitized skin, making love to her in every possible way. As though he knew her thoughts, he spoke to her. “I love you; I will never leave you, not from this day to the end of time. Believe it. Always believe it.” Another surge hit her with the intensity of a lightening bolt. She arched up, gasping his name, and he pushed against her, bringing them impossibly close, stroking her so deeply, in a place no one had ever reached before. She hadn’t been aware it existed before this moment, but the moment his flesh encountered that unfathomable part of her, she exploded, her legs lifting to hook around his waist, pulling him near, keeping him there. So close, so wonderfully close. This time, he joined her in her release. The pressure of her heels on the small of his back seemed to trigger his explosion. She rejoiced when she felt the gush of heat, then the wetness seeping between her thighs as he spilled over, flooding her with life and need, wetness she knew was more than just her desire for him. He stilled above her, powerful muscles taut and bulging with the strain of want, then he groaned once, loudly and deeply, a sound wrenched from the depths of his chest, reverberating through her body and his. He collapsed, narrowly avoiding crushing her even deeper into the soft feather

Lynne Connolly

16

mattress. They lay for long moments, recovering their breath, bodies still joined. When he turned his head and opened his eyes, she was already watching him, reveling in the lean planes of his cheek and jaw, beautiful against the snowy pillows. His smile this time was of a smug, entirely satisfied man. She felt she could touch his desire, so palpably did it pulse between them. “Cassandra.” He lifted his hand to cup her cheek and bring her close for a gentle kiss of thanksgiving, “It was worth it for this, every agonizing moment of the wait.” “I feel the same,” she whispered back. “My coming here was worthwhile, after all.” Her words seem to jerk him back to reality. He lifted his head and his eyes widened. “No. Not for you. No longer will I stand by and allow him to abuse you. I will find a way to stop him, I promise. I can’t bear it, nor should you have to.” “It doesn’t matter. Not now.” “It does!” His voice sharpened, increased in volume. When she winced, he sighed. “I’m sorry. But I will find a way. You are mine now, Cassandra Rustead.” “Yes,” she agreed, too happy to protest. “All yours.” He slid to one side of her, his body reluctantly leaving hers, and took her into his arms, drawing her close. She rested her head on his shoulder, lifting her hand to caress his chest. “Cassandra, I can only come to you like this once a year. You know that?” “Yes, I do.” She wished he hadn’t said that. She wanted a night, one night of perfection, a night she intended to commit to memory. She would not forget a single moment, not one breath of it. “I will come, if you want me. If you do not, I will know. One day you will want to move on, and that is how it should be.” He sounded determined, as though he’d already thought things through. She hadn’t had that luxury, but she was sure. “No!” There was no one else for her now. “When I saw you, I knew. I knew why I’d married Edward, defied my parents, ignored what he is. It was because I saw you in him.” “Cassandra, he is not of my get. I never had any children. None that I knew of,” “I thought you said you were faithful to your wife?” He laughed softly. “I was. Completely, but I was a healthy young man before I married. There were a few years before the war when I was actually carefree for a while. The world seemed rosy then. My parents indulged me, even more after my brother defected to the Parliamentary side. My father disowned him, said he was no son of his and turned all his attention to me.” Cassandra searched her mind, but couldn’t remember what had happened to Vernon’s father. “My father died before the troubles erupted into war. He took a fever.” “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” He stroked her hair back from her face. “It was better that he didn’t know what a mess we made of things, Nathaniel and I.” Nathaniel had been–was– Vernon’s younger brother. “Our youngest brother, my father’s third son, made a much better success of his life once he grew up. Nathaniel safeguarded the estate for him, but Edwin did all the work of restoration and rebuilding. He worked at the things that mattered. He built a family, worked to restore the land, all the things we had forgotten in our foolish struggles.”

Black Leather, White Lace

17

She leaned forward to bring their lips together and they shared a moment of perfect peace and tranquility, sated, warmly snuggled up, their legs entwined, their arms about each other. This was how it should have been. This was how it would be from now on. She opened her eyes, unwilling to lose a moment of seeing him for real, feeling him with her. “Tell me why you married your husband,” he suggested. “I only knew you when you walked across the threshold of this place. I couldn’t understand why you married him.” It was all too clear to her now. “I saw Edward and I wanted him. But he was moderately presentable then, and his family had made an effort to show him to me in his best light. My parents knew he drank heavily, but many young men do, and they get over it. My father made enquiries, but it seemed he was making a real effort to reform, and they hadn’t the heart to disappoint me when I pleaded with them to let me marry him. That’s why I never went back to them when they were proved right. They thought I was happy, and they went abroad soon after.” “They don’t live here?” “No. Papa is in the diplomatic service. He’s in Vienna, with the other diplomats at the Congress. I’ve been worried that he would hear how Edward is treating me and come for me, and I would have to lie to him, but so far Edward is just one of many drunken young men in society, and he hasn’t created any scandals out of the ordinary.” “Perhaps it would be as well if he did. Perhaps it would be better for you to return to your father.” Vernon drew her close and feathered kisses on her brow. “Couldn’t you go back to him?” “Edward would cause trouble. He still has enough money and enough influence to make things very difficult for Papa. I’ve ruined my own life. No reason to ruin anyone else’s. I still have unmarried sisters, you know, and hopefully they will have better luck than I did. If I left Edward, the scandal might be too much for them. Perhaps, when my sisters have all found husbands, I might be able to do something. I thought of getting a separation. If Edward continues in this way, it will be perfectly understood by respectable society by then. But I can’t leave this house now. I can’t leave you.” He sighed, his breath warm against her skin. “I will not let him hurt you any more. I swear it, my love. He will not touch you in anger again. He has struck you, hasn’t he?” “Only when he doesn’t know what he’s doing. He’s a fool, not a bully.” The possibility that Edward would touch her in lust remained unspoken between them. At present, there was no possibility, but there might be, one day. Edward’s impotence was intermittent, and he had managed a few times before, although his efforts had lacked any finesse or consideration. But it was his right, as long as he remained her husband. She didn’t ask Vernon how he would achieve this feat. In fact, she doubted he could, but she remained silent, knowing it made him happy to think it. “How can this be possible? How can I fall in love with you without having met you?” “That you saw something in your husband that you recognized? That we should come together?” He smiled, his lips curving against her skin. “I don’t know. If I ask, I’m afraid it will go away. I think you knew that I knew. I felt it when you were born, but I didn’t recognize the feeling for what it was. I just knew something wonderful had happened, and perhaps my time had come.”

Lynne Connolly

18

“Your time for what?” He lifted himself up on one elbow, shoving his thick, dark hair back with one strong hand. “My time to change. Love, I don’t know why I’m here, why my brother is here, even why that monk is here, but I think we’re here for a reason. And my reason is you. Perhaps I was kept here to care for you. I think so. I know so. I will be here for you, always, to the day you—” “Die?” The idea wasn’t frightening to her any more. Now she had met him, her love, her partner, she could almost welcome it. When she looked into his eyes, she knew he’d caught her fleeting thought. He bit his lip, frowning in anxiety. “Do not end your life in the hopes of joining me.” His voice gained in volume, rough with concern. “You hear me?” “I–would it not be right?” “No. It would not. We may not be allowed any time together and we can only make love when we’re like this, in a corporeal state. It would be to force something we are not meant to force. And it is a sin. The only thing we can be sure of is that I will come to you every year on this date, I will watch over you for every minute in between and that I love you.” “I love you too.” Staring up at him she knew it was true, knew with all the certainty she was capable of. It would be hard, but if they had this night every year, even that was far more than she’d hoped for that morning, far more than she’d expected. He had given her something to live for, this dead man. “Will you love me when the gray hairs come, when I put on weight, when my limbs become feeble?” “Yes.” He said the word before she had stopped speaking. “I am sure of it. And I will wait for you. Never doubt that.” “I won’t.” And she wouldn’t. Lifting her hand, she pushed gently on his shoulder until he lay down once more. It was her turn to make love to him. Cassandra had never done this before, never initiated the act of love, but necessity made her bold. She wanted him too much for passivity, too much to accept his loving and not give in return. She slid her hand over his chest, lingering at his nipple. He lay back and watched her, his hands linked loosely around her waist. She felt the beginning of his erection, gentle warmth turning to burning heat, his body lengthening and readying itself for her. His eyes gleamed blue fire. “Do whatever you want. You cannot displease me. It is an impossibility.” He smoothed his hands over her back, gently urging her on. Cassandra bent her head to his chest and took his nipple in her mouth. It tasted like heaven, his skin slightly salty from his previous exertions, his nipple puckering against her tongue in a sweet parody of her own reaction. When she sucked, she felt her own nipples tighten where they pressed against his chest. She felt his body tighten with need, but he lay passively beneath her, allowing her to do whatever she would. Growing bolder, she kissed across his chest, gave his other nipple the same wet welcome and felt heat blossom between her legs. She had never grown this wet for Edward. Was that why he’d sometimes hurt her? She guessed so, but at the moment she couldn’t care less. This was the man she’d mistaken Edward for, and the reason for her obsession with her husband. She had seen the brief shadow of her love for Vernon in Edward, and that had been enough. This couldn’t be wrong. Separated only by time, time that had joined in a blessed circle for this one night, allowing him to come to her at last. Pausing at his navel, she teased him with her tongue, darting it in and out, caressing

Black Leather, White Lace

19

in circle around the neat dimple, receiving a hoarsely grated, “Sweeting!” for her trouble. Under his navel, a line of dark hair led down and spread, forming a nest of tight curls around the base of his now fully aroused shaft. Strong and dark with want; she took a moment to admire it, before cupping her hand around his balls and tracing the unbelievably soft skin around the tip, exploring him, learning him. He twitched beneath her and she opened her mouth wide to take him in. His cry startled her, but she didn’t stop. One long suck and a swirl of her tongue seemed to please him, especially when combined with a gentle massage. She held him in her thrall, her hand on him, her mouth caressing him. She felt his hands in her hair, digging deep, his fingers curving against her skull. “Oh Cassandra, oh sweetheart, that feels so go-ooood.” The last word was long and drawn out, ending on a groan, rising to a growl as his grip tightened, and he dragged her back up the bed. This kind of violence she would take as much of as he wanted to dole out. This was passion. Blue eyes burned into her, his mouth lay open, panting with need, but still he held back, still he gave her control of what they did. Cassandra felt strength pulsing through her veins, power to control, to direct, and she loved it. She came up on her knees, hovering above him, his cock straining up, but he watched her, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth, his eyes still burning want and need into hers. She put her fingers between her legs and spread herself apart. “Is this what you want?” His moan was balm to her soul. “Yes. All of it. Do it, just do it!” Any moment he would begin to babble. Cassandra wanted to hear it. Balancing on her knees, she stroked her other hand down her body, pausing to cup one breast, and tweak the nipple, caressing it for him. She slipped her hand slowly down her body, feeling the curve of her waist, the flare of her hips, and then traced a line over her thighs and deliberately touched the hard peak of flesh between her nether lips, pinching it between her finger and thumb. The resulting jolt of desire made her throw her head back, her curls tickling her shoulders. She gasped. He was babbling. “Oh God! Oh God, thank you for this, thank you for allowing me to see this, to feel this. OhGodohGodohGod!” Cassandra opened her eyes and dropped her chin, at the same time lowering her body to take him in. “I can’t stand this.” Roughly he pushed her hand aside and took its place. Cassandra concentrated on his hard, needy cock in her body, his fingers working her to a climax she wouldn’t have believed possible before this night. She bucked, working him deeply inside her, rocking on him until she found the spot deep inside that had felt so good before. His voice, low and intense, hoarse with passion, added its own stimulation. “That’s it, sweet, feel it, hold it there, take me exactly how you want me! Oh Cassandra!” “Oh yes,” she whispered, her own voice dark with passion. “Yes, oh yes!” It was her turn to babble, her sounds turning into incoherent gasps and groans, her body working his relentlessly, using him to drive herself towards the light at the end of the tunnel, a light she could see if she closed her eyes, brilliant and desirable. She felt him clasp her hip with his free hand, but not to direct her, just to steady her as the swirling, sparkling pulses conquering her body became one huge surge of release. “Vernon!” Her voice rose to a scream. He continued to work her, driving her past sensitivity to oversensitivity to unbelievable heights of pure sensation. He caught her when she fell on to him, held her steady while he drove three times,

Lynne Connolly

20

all it took to bring him to his own climax. When she turned her head, their lips met, and fused, never to part, never to be apart.

Black Leather, White Lace

21

Chapter Three

“How old are you?” Cassandra lay across her lover, his hand curled around her back, holding her close. They had separated, but only just, his slack, wet member lying just under her thigh, warm and protected, reminding them both of the incredible pleasure that had pulsated through them. “How old am I now?” “When you–when you―” “Died?” He sounded amused, though Cassandra couldn’t imagine how he could feel like that. “I was just four and thirty. Old enough to be tired of fighting. I advised my superiors to talk to the Parliamentarians, try to come to terms, but they called me a traitor. I wanted to go back to my home, but they said one more battle and the King would be victorious. They were wrong, but I went home anyway.” “Does it pain you to talk about this?” She pressed a gentle kiss to his shoulder, and he turned his head and captured her mouth in a sweet loving salute. “Not when I talk to you. You may ask anything you wish, and I promise to answer the best I can.” She pushed her unruly hair away from her face. It seemed to distract him from his story. He lifted his hand and threading his long fingers through her dark curls. “I like the way you wear your hair. The curls make you look a little like an enchanting elf, especially with those enchanting eyes.” He smiled into her face, totally relaxed, totally happy. “They’re the greenest eyes I’ve ever seen. I want to see them many times in the future.” “I shall likely never change my hairstyle, then,” she said, “Knowing you are watching. Will you be watching?” He nodded, his gaze never leaving hers. “I will be watching. Unless you tell me to leave. I will be there, I swear it.” She caught her breath, wondering if they could communicate in some way. Any way. She was beginning to see how her life would be. Once a year she would come alive, and she would have to be content with that. Fifty days instead of fifty years. It was more than she hoped for, but she couldn’t help feeling a pang of what if? What if they had been born at the same time? What if he could somehow join her–or she could join him?” He took her hands in his. “We have what we’ve been given. We have to be content with that. I feel as you do. I want more. But we have this. Be happy.” “I am. I never expected to be happy. I made my mistake when I insisted on marrying Edward, and I was prepared to cope with it. Now I have you.” “Yes you do.” He caressed her cheek with his open hand. “Tell me about the duel with your brother.” His face hardened, then relaxed once more when he gazed at her. “I will tell you.

Lynne Connolly

22

You deserve to know, and there should be no secrets between us. But let me—”he lifted her across him, so she straddled his stomach. She sat up, and when she realized his intention slid down his body, allowing the wetness from their loving to anoint his lower stomach. He was erect once more. It was easy to lift up and let him in. When she sank down they both let out a sigh of satisfaction. They were meant to be together, they could only gain completion when they joined. She leaned back against his uplifted knees, so they could both look at the place of joining, where his pubic hair meshed with hers. Neither moved, both savoring the sensation of joining, his body filling hers, just as it should be. It felt perfect. He lifted his hands and she put her own in them, twining their fingers together. “Now you asked about the duel.” “Yes.” She shouldn’t feel so comfortable like this, but she did. “My brother is only a year younger than I am.” When he spoke, she felt his voice deep inside her, at the core of her being, throbbing and rumbling through her body and his. “We grew up close to each other, had the same tutors and were brought up to think the same things. But when the war came, he chose Parliament. I was heir to the title and lands, and Nathaniel had taken a seat in the Commons. He heard all the arguments. I was fired with patriotism, as I thought, and I went to war. We had a brother, a boy of seven, so my father allowed me to go to war, since the succession was safe.” He sighed, and she felt that too. Now she understood why he wanted them to be joined when he told her the story that had ended his life. She was with him, as much as she ever could be without living through the experience with him. “I went willingly. It went on for nine years, but I didn’t last that long. I was in the war from Edge Hill to Naseby.” He paused, and Cassandra felt his body wilt a little inside hers. She didn’t move. This wouldn’t be the right time for stimulation. Their joining seemed more than sexual, more meaningful, more profound. They needed to be together like this while he told her. “After Naseby, it was obvious Parliament would win the day. It was brutal, as were most of the battles. Countrymen should never fight each other. I went home, sick of war and ready to accept what Parliament would dole out. Nobody then expected that the war would result in regicide.” He swallowed. “At least I hold no guilt for that. Naseby was in June. The war had wrecked my family. Everything valuable had been sold. My wife worked in the fields like any farmer’s wife. For the first time I realized what I had done and I set myself to try to repair some of the damage. “Nathaniel came back in October with a force of men. I didn’t see what he had planned. He never told me, and even if he had, I might not have agreed. I was attainted, they wanted to arrest me. Nathaniel planned to take the estate to prevent its confiscation by Parliament. He would have returned it to me if he could. But he failed to tell me. So I challenged him.” He sighed, but she felt his erection harden within her. Men! Never happier than when they were fighting! “My swordsmanship had improved immeasurably, but so had his. He killed me, but I had wounded him badly.” He swallowed. “I was bound to the earth, I thought, until he died, because it was obvious the wounds were bad. Infection set in and he was dead by Christmas. He joined me, and neither of us knew why we hadn’t moved on, but when I saw you, I knew. I just knew.” She listened through the words, as he meant her to, into his agony. For a man to kill his brother, especially one he was so close to, must have been too much to bear. Had he atoned? She ventured to ask.

Black Leather, White Lace

23

His smile was gently understanding. “Yes, we have reconciled. We still argue about the war, but whatever we did, both sides were in the right, and in the wrong, too. Who knows, society might have evolved this way on its own, and there would have been fewer deaths, fewer families ripped apart.” His smile broadened, his blue eyes gleaming. “But for now, my sweet love, this is what we have.” Grasping her waist he pulled her down on to his body then swung her so he was on top. “This is ours now, ours to keep. It’s what I’ve been dreaming of since I first saw you.” He jerked back and then drove in hard and deep. Cassandra felt the passion arc through her and lifted her hips to meet him, her legs lifting to cinch his hard body between her knees. Her gasp ended in a wail of completion. It didn’t seem possible, that he could bring her to climax so quickly. But he could, and he continued to prove to her why they should be together. Every time she opened her eyes he was there, staring into her face, tension firming the hard lines of his face into breathtaking beauty. He drove into her with such force, her body slid up the bed, her head coming up to rest against the carved headboard. Neither of them noticed, so concentrated in the sensations coursing from him to her and back again. Every time he surged back into her body, she cried out to him, the incredible warmth blossoming from her womb through every part of her. Even her fingertips tingled. He would never stop. She never wanted him to. Was it possible to die of satiation? She fervently wished it was so, that she would die at the point of climax and join him forever. He was muttering to her now, gentle love words, rising in passion as his rhythmic pounding increased in power and frequency. “Oh sweet love, this is worth everything! You are so beautiful, so open to me!” With one last, wordless cry, he plunged in deep, the deepest yet, and came. His pulsing cock brought her to another climax and liquid heat flooded them both. He fell forward and with his body still in hers, turned his head to take her mouth in one last kiss before withdrawing, and then lay there, just watching her. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful in all my life,” he murmured. “Sleep, my sweet. I’ll watch over you.” Until then she had drifted, slowly moving to sleep but at his words her eyelids snapped open. “No! We only have tonight, don’t we?” “And next year. It will be dawn in less than two hours. I don’t want you to know when I go, my love. I want your last thoughts to be happy ones. I don’t say goodbye, not any more, and I won’t say it now. I will be here, never doubt it. Never doubt it.” He smoothed his hand over her back in a series of soothing gestures. She allowed herself to drift again, and soothed by his words of love and his body, warmly embracing her, she fell asleep.

Lynne Connolly

24

Chapter Four

Christmas already. Cassandra placed her hand on her gently rounded stomach and gazed out of the window of her cozy boudoir. It had all been worth it. Even if she’d been forced to acknowledge her lie, it would have been worth it. How are you today? She felt his presence before she heard his voice in her mind. Now it was comforting. Before she’d known the truth, it had been disturbing. She leaned back against the cushions, savoring her presence. I’m very well. The sickness? All gone. It was never much. I am lucky. Lucky? She didn’t imagine the hint of bitterness in his tone. She felt it too, sometimes, but she deliberately blocked it out. Once a year was better than nothing at all. How many perfect moments could most couples have? Perhaps her fifty nights would amount to more than many married couples had in a whole lifetime. We have this. She still heard his melancholy. I want to hold you, my love, I want to be with you. You are with me. She could feel the effort it took him to control his feelings, but she didn’t comment on them. It was his battle, and she couldn’t help. Yes, I am with you. Our connection is stronger, just as I wanted it to be. It will be Christmas in a few days, will it not? It will. It will be the first one I have blessed for many years. His sentiments warmed her. It was too early for any movement, but her breasts were larger, her nipples darker, and her stomach, previously as flat as a washboard, had rounded a little. She was pregnant, and it wasn’t Edward’s child. At first Vernon had been horrified and guilty, but she had reminded him of her lie to her husband, who already believed she was pregnant. She would bear the heir to the title. The child was actually from a senior branch of the family, but would be indisputably the heir. And he had given her new hope together with the new life burgeoning in her womb. For once, she was looking forward to her husband coming home. He’d said he would be back for Christmas and everything was in readiness for him. She had no faith in his promises, so she would ensure her safety. And the safety of her child. A movement in the still landscape outside her window attracted her attention and she looked out to see not one carriage, but several, trundling up the long, winding drive leading to the house. Her heart sank. He brought his friends. I should have expected it. Emphasize your condition my love. Remind him you must be cared for. Did she imagine the gentle caress over her stomach, or had he really touched her? She didn’t question the feeling, choosing to believe in the sensation. It was the way she had survived the last two months. Ten more to go before she could see him again, touch him for real. Until then she would last on her memories and her imagination. And his voice,

Black Leather, White Lace

25

now with her whenever she reached for him. That was a lasting blessing brought by their union. What had been intermittent before was now more reliable. She got to her feet and laid her embroidery on a side table. A well-polished side table, she noted with satisfaction. She went downstairs, taking her time, careful as always and was in time to greet her husband when he crossed the threshold. He threw his arms wide. “Ah, my dear!” She crossed the room and embraced him briefly, drawing away as soon as she possibly could, aware of the odor of stale wine and smoke Edward always seemed to carry with him. He had put on weight, and his eyes were watery as well as bloodshot. She felt a pang of sadness when she thought of what he could have been. “Edward, I’m glad you got here before the poor weather. The sky is too overcast for comfort.” He glanced behind him at the grey clouds, and the breeze, whipping up to a wind. “By God you’re right, Cassie. Let’s get in. Is there a room with a fire?” “Several. Since you gave me permission to hire what servants I wished, I’ve been able to make the house more welcoming. Come in.” She tried to inject warmth into her voice, and it seemed she was successful from Edward’s warm smile, but her own expression froze when she heard a familiar, menacing voice. “Good afternoon, cousin.” William, damn him, showed no sign of the dissipation he must be sharing with her husband. His eyes were clear, his hair glossy, brushed into the fashionable Brutus style. There didn’t seem to be an ounce of spare fat on him. It wasn’t fair, when he was her husband’s constant companion, leading him into all the gaming hells and whorehouses in London. She had been relieved to discover that Edward had abandoned some of the worst hells. Although she had no power of her own, she saw the bills, and while the ones from jewelers, clothiers and vintners still poured in, it seemed Edward no longer played as many games of chance as he used to. “Good afternoon.” Cassandra didn’t articulate William’s name. She bowed to the other people entering behind her husband and his friend, and silently counted. Ten. Not too bad, and if her eyes didn’t deceive her, not a prostitute among them. One or two of the ladies had considerably racy reputations, but that was better than the group Edward had invited to share Halloween with them. They were at least nominally respectable. One couple were new to her, and Cassandra didn’t imagine the look of disdain she received from the female half. They were introduced to her as Mr. Steven Lockwood and his sister, Miss Deborah Lockwood. She smiled her welcome, and felt her husband by her side. “My dear, Miss Lockwood–and her brother, of course, are particular friends of mine. I hope to make them very welcome.” Cassandra noticed a fine brooch adorning Miss Lockwood’s bosom and she remembered the description as though it was printed out in front of her, as it had been not so long ago. A large sapphire surrounded by twelve fine diamonds. The whole enclosed in a setting of silver, backed with gold. She even knew the price. That was because the bill had arrived the previous week. Not as much as some of Edward’s gaming losses, but steep enough. This woman wore the jewel that had cost her a chambermaid. She’d been forced to let the girl go, to economize yet again. Well this week she would do her best to make Edward come to some realization of his responsibilities. But first, she would see his mistress off the premises.

Lynne Connolly

26

When she tried to turn her back, she felt unseen resistance. She couldn’t move, forward or backward. Just as she began to panic, she felt his voice in her mind. No! Angrily she rapped the question back. Why not? Look at William Heatherington! She lifted her eyes and glanced to where William stood just behind the Lockwoods. She could only describe the expression on his face one way, gloating. Then she knew. In some way, she was being set up for a fall. William had planned something. The why eluded her for a moment, but she used the time to bow to the couple and move on to greet the next visitors. Mechanically greeting and welcoming people she either didn’t know at all, or people she disliked, she mulled it over in her mind. Vernon got there first. The Lockwoods are respectable people. That’s why the more scandalous of Edward’s acquaintance aren’t here this time. Edward lost money to Mr. Lockwood on the card table, but Lockwood was short of a birthday gift to his sister. As far as she knows, the brooch has nothing to do with your husband. Edward merely paid for the jewel instead of paying his winnings in cash. William facilitated it. Now he’s using it to trap you into behaving inappropriately and preventing you discussing the estate with Edward.” How do you know this? I read William’s mind. Oh yes, and he has tender feelings towards Miss Lockwood. Be careful, my love. I will, I promise. That was little short of diabolical. So William wanted to separate them further, did he? The thought crossed her mind then, for the first time; how often had he done that? How often had William separated them, been the cause of a dispute or a quarrel, serving to drive them further apart? It was true, Edward wasn’t the man she had imagined him to be during their brief courtship, but they could still have made something of what they had, had it not been for William constantly drawing Edward into his vicious pursuits. She would watch him closely, her eyes open now. During dinner that evening Cassandra watched William closely. She saw how cleverly he managed to drink less than the others, while appearing to keep up, glass by glass. She saw him speak to people, saw the curious glances directed her way and wondered what he was saying about her now. After dinner, the gentlemen didn’t join the ladies for a long time, and when they did, they were considerably the worse for wear. Again, Cassandra was denied her opportunity to get her husband alone. Edward wasn’t just mellow; he was roaring drunk. If she needed confirmation as to Miss Lockwood’s respectability, she received it when the lady rejected Edward’s none-too-subtle flirting with revulsion. Edward was no longer used to the company of respectable women. Cassandra shuddered when she thought what a scene she would have caused in the hall earlier by refusing the introduction. Miss Lockwood humiliated, William triumphant. She would have to be very careful. Even more than ever, now she was bearing Vernon’s child. William handed her a plate of biscuits and murmured softly to her. “Are you certain you’re in the family way?” She paused before her response, ostensibly deciding between a ginger crisp and an almond biscuit. She chose the almond before replying. “It’s only been two months, William, but I’m as sure as I can be at this stage.” Her response was a good one, if she could judge by the chagrin in William’s eyes as

Black Leather, White Lace

27

he met her own. “Then I must congratulate you. You might very well bear the heir to the title.” “Or his sister.” She smiled sweetly. That should do it. The doubt would, hopefully, keep him at bay for a while. Just for an instant he revealed what she suspected were his true feelings. Intense dislike warred with a hot anger. At least, she interpreted it as anger. He wants you out of his way. Be careful, sweetheart. Really, you’re getting to be an old mother hen! Of course I’ll be careful! But he doesn’t want me, he just wants me to provide a girl, so he will still inherit. You’re wrong. ***** Vernon watched his clever love observing what he could feel and coming to her own conclusions. Although he could have helped her, he knew she would prefer to discover it for herself. As always, he longed to be with her, to be by her side, to protect and love her. Nathaniel’s hand settled on his shoulder and Vernon turned his head and smiled. “You know where I want to be. But I would wish you to come with me.” Nathaniel grinned. “That is not likely to happen. We will both watch over her. Your son is likely to inherit the estate.” “Yes.” They both knew the child was a boy. If it lived and if Vernon had anything to do with it, his son would live to a good old age. It hadn’t occurred to him until later that she might find herself truly with child, instead of the phantom pregnancy she had tried to fool her husband with. When she had realized, he’d wanted to swing her in the air, take her to bed and celebrate for days. But he couldn’t. Incorporeal again, he had watched and shared his joy in the only way he could; by communicating with her, giving her his support and love in full measure. He couldn’t touch her, he couldn’t share her life as he wanted to, but he didn’t allow himself to repine about that. They had what they had, and that was a lot more than many people. It was important that Cassandra should see her husband at this time, but unfortunate that he felt he needed to travel accompanied. This time he’d sent word, and this time the company was fairly respectable, but as soon as the party had entered the great hall, Vernon had felt tension in the air. He had no compunction in reading as much of the minds present as were open to him. Some humans were better at shielding their thoughts than others. Sadly, William Heatherington was almost completely shuttered, but he could pick up the stronger emotions when he sent them forth. Not so his lady love. This new woman, Miss Deborah Lockwood, believed William was in love with her. She knew some of his plans. Assuredly, she knew about the brooch, and had been waiting for Cassandra’s snub with a mixture of triumph and fear. No one liked being humiliated in public, but if the plan had succeeded, it would have been Cassandra who would have had the ultimate humiliation. “I think William is deceiving that young woman. I can’t read him clearly, but he is a selfish person. If it suits his plans, he will drop her as quickly as he took her up.” “I agree.” Nathaniel sounded thoughtful. “I don’t think this will be the only plan William has for this holiday. The brooch was his opening salvo.” “I fear you are right. I don’t want to leave Cassandra for one moment.” He turned to confront his brother, graver featured, lighter in eye color and with the short-cropped hair

Lynne Connolly

28

of the Roundhead, but unmistakably his brother. They shared the long, aristocratic nose, the high cheekbones and the full mouths of the Heatheringtons. Nathaniel smiled, thin lipped. “Never fear. I will follow him, and observe. He means evil, and this house has seen too much of that.” Reassured, Vernon turned back to his love. Pregnancy had brought a bloom to her face, or perhaps it was the certainty that had done it. She would have someone to love now, something of him. She had whispered as much to him one night before she slept, and choked with tears, Vernon had stayed watching her all night. Ghosts didn’t need sleep. He never slept, or took any rest. Perhaps this melancholy joy would fade a little, but he doubted it. Sad that he couldn’t be with her, overjoyed that he’d had the opportunity to love her, and that she now knew for sure that he loved her. ***** Cassandra’s efforts to lure Edward into the study met with failure throughout the Christmas period. On Christmas Day, when he’d presented her with a gaudy, too expensive necklace of diamonds and topazes. She had thanked him, then asked him once again for five minutes of his time, but he had declined, moving on to joke and drink with his friends. William kept her husband inebriated all day, dragging him into discussions, dances and even an impromptu ball, with musicians hastily employed from the village, and just as hastily dismissed when it became apparent that they didn’t know what a waltz was, much less play one. They were due to leave on the day after Twelfth Night, on to another house party not so far distant. It might as well have been the moon for all the chance Cassandra had of getting her husband to sign the all important document that awaited him in the study. William had left Cassandra alone, apart from the occasional sneer, and assiduously applied himself to Miss Lockwood, who, as it turned out, was a considerable heiress. Cassandra had that relief, at least. There had been a few incidents, but none she hadn’t spotted and neutralized. A slippery rug at the top of the stairs, a chair with a loose leg, but that was all. Now she knew for sure that William meant her harm, she was on her guard. After a raucous, exhausting Christmas and New Year, Cassandra determined to get the all important signature. Accordingly, she sat up late, waiting for the sounds of revelry below to cease, or at least pall. By two in the morning, the racket continued unabated, and Cassandra reached for her robe. Already in her nightwear, the robe was old, heavy and shabby, but it covered her from head to foot. She didn’t need to wait long before her husband staggered out of the dining room, bleary eyes and with his arm around one of the female guests. When he saw Cassandra, he pulled the woman closer. “Evenin’ m’dear. Lolly here’s just seein’ me to my room.” Cassandra gave Lolly an indifferent glance. Another blowsy woman with a deep cleavage and skimpy muslin gown. Married to a member of society, but a whore for all that. She’d seen too many of them in her house for another to evince much interest. “I would appreciate a few moments of your time first. Don’t worry–I won’t keep you long.” It didn’t matter who he had his arm around. The chances of him performing tonight were less probable than they had been when she’d seen him last.

Black Leather, White Lace

29

Edward waved her away. Fury took her. His lack of simple courtesy, his disregard, his lack of any consideration, all seemed designed to drive her to anger. Well finally, it had succeeded. Without considering what it might do to her current plans, she angrily strode forward and shook her finger under his nose. A shame he was considerably taller than she was, but in this mood, she cared for nothing. He had struck her before, but if he did so again she would strike back. Whatever it cost her. “Don’t take that tone with me! I’m your wife and I deserve a little respect, especially now! Edward Rustead, you will come with me now and sign what I need you to sign. Then you can do what the hell you like, but you will sign the documents you promised to before you leave this house!” He stared at her, bemusement filling his soft, brown eyes. The bloodied streaks leading from them across the whites of his eyes were deeper, she thought, and perhaps permanent now. Her anger ebbing, she felt sorrow for what might have been. At heart, Edward was a gentle man, easily led, but with the stubbornness of the weak. She could have been the one to help him, not his cousin. If she hadn’t been so young, so taken up with her own disappointment in him, she could have made something of this marriage. The failure was partly her fault. Instantly she heard the voice in her head. You never stood a chance, my love. William had his claws into Edward long before you arrived. Why hasn’t he killed him already? The thought came from somewhere deep inside herself, something she had never even thought of before. Because William’s father was alive then, came the instant response. William depended on him and he was an honorable man. William’s father had been dead for seven years now. Cassandra realized time was short. He’d been leading his cousin into dangerous situations for all that time, and there wasn’t much time left before Edward would succumb to an infuriated husband, a challenge on the gaming tables, or illness brought on by excessive drinking. She grabbed Edward’s free arm and tugged. To her relief he followed her, allowing her to lead him like a lapdog. They left Lolly behind, staring after them, her face twisted in an emotion Cassandra didn’t care to interpret. His study was on the same floor as the dining room, but at the other end of the corridor. At one point, Cassandra felt him pulling back, as they passed from the bright light to the dimmer light beyond, but he jerked, as though pushed, and stumbled after her. Under her hand his arm felt soft and flabby, very different to the firm muscle she’d felt on his ancestor on her one night of glory. Determinedly pushing the thought aside she led her husband into the study where lights already burned in the pair of candlesticks on the desk. Without letting him go, she crossed the room to the desk and pulled out the top drawer where the papers lay ready. “You have to sign these, my dear, then I’ll help you to your room, if you wish.” “What are they?” he mumbled. She dipped a quill in the inkpot and handed it to him. He folded his plump fingers around the stem unsteadily. “I need to order feed for the cows on the Home Farm. That kind of thing.” She thrust the first paper under the pen and he scrawled his name. She let out a breath and guided his hand to the second place, silently praying that he was too drunk to read. He scribbled once more. Five signatures later they were done. Cassandra finally released her hold on his left arm, and dusted sand over the wet ink. “Thank you my dear. I’ll be able to meet your bills

Lynne Connolly

30

now.” She had no compunction in lying to him when she remembered the tiny being lying in her body. Her child, boy or girl, would be able to salvage something from the wreckage. She watched Edward weave his way across the room and leave. Only when the door had closed behind him did she say, “Did you see that? You saw him sign the documents?” “Yes, my lady.” A maid and a footman moved away from the heavy drapes, where they had been concealed. Cassandra had bribed them by promising she would continue to employ them once they were married. That wasn’t usual for servants, but she was glad to offer jobs to loyal and hard working people. She dipped the pen in the inkwell and they signed under Edward’s name, witnesses to his signature, making the documents legal beyond doubt. At least, that was what the man of business she had consulted last week had told her. A local man, not the London lawyer Edward usually employed. She would send copies to the London firm in the morning, the copies Edward had unwittingly signed, but the originals would be safely concealed. She was safe now, as long as Edward lived, but his appearance this time had shocked her. He was a wreck. His flesh trembled, his mouth hung slackly, his complexion was marred by signs of dissipation, pimples from lack of proper food, lines from too many late nights, mottled from the heavy drinking that was slowly destroying him. She feared he wouldn’t last much longer. When he was dead, William would turn on her. She knew it. I’m afraid he will, but you will not be alone. What you have done tonight will help you and our child immeasurably. We will be here, my love. Always. We? Nathaniel is here, too. Yes, of course. She was glad he wasn’t alone, but she wanted to be the person to be with him. One day. Every day their reunion crept closer.

Black Leather, White Lace

31

Chapter Five

Edward had unknowingly given Cassandra power of attorney. She now had the means to improve her life and plan for the future. She would have reminded him of his promise, that when she began to increase he would give her more control of the household, but she knew William would never allow it. These days, Edward discussed everything with his cousin. When she heard of the impending nuptials of William and Miss Lockwood, she used her pregnancy as an excuse not to travel to London for the wedding, but she couldn’t escape the bridal visit. This time it was just the three of them. Edward, William and the new Mrs. Heatherington. Cassandra stood in the hall to receive them while Vernon and Nathaniel stood by her side. She couldn’t sense Nathaniel’s presence at all, but Vernon assured her he was present. The only sense she had of Vernon was his voice in her head. Nothing else, no feeling when he was nearby. She wasn’t sure if that made matters better or worse. To know when he was close and not be able to reach out for him might be torture past bearing. Edward shambled in behind the newly married couple, who entered as though the house was theirs already. Cassandra made a point of greeting him first, and the servants, who were now all her own, the spies dismissed, followed her lead. Edward beamed at her. “You’re looking well, Cassie. Been keeping well?” “Yes, very well.” She watched the surreptitious glances at her softly rounded belly. The new style for flat fronted gowns that were fuller at the back gently accentuated her pregnancy. She had invested in some new clothes, but they were not extravagant, like the silks Mrs. Heatherington sported. For all that, Cassandra was the countess, not William’s wife, and if she had anything to do with it, that would be how it continued. “Not doing too much?” “No indeed.” Warmth spread through her when she realized Edward’s solicitous words were the first concern he had shown her for years. He had killed the love she thought she had felt for him, but friendship might be possible. If she could separate him from his cousin. If he lived long enough. Perhaps she could use the child to draw him to her side. A pang of jealousy swept through her and she knew it was not entirely her own. Hopelessly she wondered how they would cope, but she forced the thought aside. Her first thoughts these days were always for her child. No melancholy, no malingering. She had to be strong for him, or her. She felt a slight withdrawal, and wondered why, but she couldn’t concentrate on Vernon now. After placing her hand on her husband’s flabby arm, she drew him forward. “Welcome home, my lord. Do you stay long?” “Not long. I’m lending the happy couple the lodge in Leicestershire for a while, so

Lynne Connolly

32

we decided to drop in here on the way to see how you were doing.” Something perked up in her mind. There was something wrong with this casual disclaimer. At the same time she heard in her mind, William is planning something. She turned slowly and greeted the happy couple, doing her best to remind them they were guests here. It didn’t help. Over the next few days, the new Mrs. Heatherington must have examined every inch of the house. More than once Cassandra had cause to thank the fact that the servants were now hers, and either loyal or indifferent. No doubt after her guests had left she would have to re-examine them and see who William had bribed. She came across the lady in an upstairs corridor, far from the guest bedroom she had allotted them. One of the large doors to a linen cupboard lay open and Mrs. Heatherington held a pillowcase in her hand. Cassandra caught her breath. That cupboard was full of delicate crystal, which the servants had packed away the moment they had seen the crested carriage in the drive. “Can I help you?” The former Miss Lockwood turned with an acidic smile, her blonde curls artlessly bouncing against her cheek. “No, thank you. I wanted to see how well the house was run. The last time I visited, it seemed a little–uncared for. Now the house is well cared for.” There was no reason she couldn’t be frank about this. Only this, though. Cassandra took the pillowcase and folded it carefully, restoring it to the cupboard. She must not seem too eager to close the door. “My husband told me I could only take control of the household if I bore him a child. Well, now I am bearing him one, so he has allowed me a little more authority.” She closed the cupboard door. “He wants an heir.” “He has an heir!” The lady lost all pretence at friendliness. “My husband is his heir!” “For now.” Cassandra did her best to hide her contempt. “I may have a girl, but even then, I’ll have a claim on the estate.” She paused and moved away a little. “Don’t count your chickens, Mrs. Heatherington. I hope you married your husband for love.” To her relief the lady walked by her side, away from the cupboards where the precious crystal and china lay. “I did. He is an interesting man. He swept me off my feet. Did you marry the earl for love?” The corners of Cassandra’s mouth quirked up involuntarily. “In a way.” She quickened her pace. “I would like to see him happier and more settled in his life, however I have little influence over him at present. Perhaps, after the child has come, he may wish to visit more regularly.” “Why do you not come to London?” “He does not wish it.” Her mouth showed no inclination to smile now. For the first time she had no wish to leave Rustead Abbey. Vernon could not leave, so neither would she. Your devotion is admirable, my love, but there is no reason why you should not pay a visit to London if you wish. I will be here when you return. I need to speak with you every day. I need you close. His love warmed her all the way through. ***** Vernon slammed his tightly clenched fist into the door frame. It passed through without resistance and he nearly lost his balance. “I cannot touch her, she cannot feel me,

Black Leather, White Lace

33

she can only hear my voice! Why?” “I have no idea, my brother, but it must have been meant.” “Meant?” Vernon spun around to face Nathaniel as the two ladies walked away from them. “Who would be so cruel? I thought appearing to her, touching her would make us closer, I thought she would be able to see me, if not to touch me!” “Some mortals have not the power. I think she is such a one. The barrier between her thoughts and her powers is strong and she will not be able to reach them.” Nathaniel put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, the only being able to touch him. Resisting the urge to throw himself into his brother’s arms, just to feel something real, something solid, Vernon took a breath and regained control of his wayward emotions. It was something he wished he had done during his life. “I don’t know what I would do without your support, Nat. How would I cope without you?” “I feel the same.” Nathaniel removed his hand and turned away. “Perhaps one day we shall learn why we are here and how we can move on.” ***** Going down the stairs to dinner that night, Cassandra stumbled. The old carved wooden Tudor staircase, while beautiful, made far too much noise and some previous inhabitant had long since muffled it with carpet. The carpet was worn, but Cassandra had not the money to replace it, but it wasn’t yet in holes. She hadn’t realized the carpet was in such a bad way until she tripped and pitched headlong down the stairs. Panicked, she grabbed for the banister but the newly polished wood slid under her hand and she lost her balance. The plunging, sickening swoop increased the horrible feeling at the bottom of her stomach, until, at the bottom of the stairs something thumped the back of her head and she knew no more. When she came to, she lay on her own bed, Edward leaning over her, his bleary eyes for once filled with anxiety. “Are you all right, old girl? Quite a fall you took there.” Cassandra blinked, trying to get her balance, recover her equilibrium. It was important, but she didn’t realize why until she turned her head, wincing at the pain, and saw William on the other side of the bed. His wife stood at the footboard, like an avenging angel. Cassandra wet her lips. “The–the baby?” “Quite all right.” She didn’t imagine the bitterness in William’s tone. “It seems the child doesn’t wish to appear yet.” “Too early.” Her voice was thready and hoarse. She felt terribly weak, and her legs hurt. “You rolled the last few steps and hit your head on the newel post.” Edward straightened up, but she could still smell the brandy on him. “Shook me up, old girl. But you’ll be fine now.” “Yes. Don’t let me hold back dinner.” “Splendid!” Cassandra had meant it sarcastically, but her husband had no subtlety and he took her at her word. She watched, agape as Edward crossed the room and held the door open for William and his wife. With one last, venomous glance, Deborah Heatherington crossed the floor and left. A long sigh of relief left her when the door closed behind them. Her maid came

Lynne Connolly

34

through from the dressing room and bobbed a curtsey. “Are you hungry, my lady? Shall I fetch you something to eat?” Her first instinct was to refuse. Her head swam, and she wasn’t sure she could keep anything down. But she had to think of the baby. She forced a smile. “Thank you, Smith. A little broth or something of that nature, with some bread and butter and tea will do nicely.” “Would you like me to help you to sit up, my lady?” “Perhaps when you get back.” The maid left and immediately Cassandra heard his voice in her head. Are you sure you are well? If I rest, I will be. I won’t get out of bed for a day. I’m holding you, my love. I’m lying next to you, my arms around you. She choked back a sob. I want to feel you! I know, sweetheart. I want you to feel me, I want you to see me, but we have this. It’s better than nothing and perhaps, when I’ve visited you again, we will be granted another sense. Lie back, remember how it feels. She remembered. A solitary tear trickled down the side of her face. It was wonderful. It was. It is. She lay still, remembering that one night. Thinking of the night to come, still so far away. Vernon? Yes? Did you see what happened? He sighed. Yes. It wasn’t an accident, was it? There was a pause before he said. No. Someone had loosened a stair rod. It came completely away when you trod on the carpet. Her heart beat harder in her chest. She rested, knowing he was still with her, allowing her panic to subside. It was true, then. William and his wife had plans for her early demise. It would be good for them if you died before the babe was born, but with Edward alive, there is always the chance he will sire another one. William has been driving Edward towards the grave since our marriage. I never saw it before, that’s all. I thought Edward was driving himself there, but it has been all William, hasn’t it? Yes, sweetheart, it has. Edward was weak, but he had no debauchery in him before William led him there. She wanted to feel the safety of his arms around her, his broad chest supporting her head, the warmth of his body surrounding her. She did her best to imagine it. We will find a way to protect you. Do not leave this room again until they have left. Promise me! I promise. ***** Vernon strode the length of the parlor, spun on his heel and turned back. His brother moved aside to let him pass. In the world they inhabited, the parlor was as it had been in their time, hard couches softened by cushions, a bare floor, the walls paneled in dark oak. In Cassandra’s time, the paneling had been replaced by paint and pictures, the furniture more comfortable and elaborate in design. Vernon wanted to be there, with her.

Black Leather, White Lace

35

“What can we do?” His voice lifted to an impotent howl of rage. “How dare they try this? I will destroy them first!” “There are ways, brother.” Nathaniel stood quietly, his hand stroking his shaven chin thoughtfully. “We can do some things.” “We will never leave her alone. We must be there at all times.” “We will.” Vernon stopped his restless pacing. “What can we do? What do you mean?” “I mean we have practiced our skills and they are improving. We must try to improve them further.” Nathaniel put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, gripping it hard for a moment before releasing him. “We have practiced moving objects. She can hear you, and perhaps in time she will be able to hear me, too. We can materialize to certain people. Perhaps we could try that.” Vernon stared at Nathaniel, new hope dawning in his eyes. “You think?” Nathaniel shrugged. “Why not? Go back to her now. I’ll see what I can do.” “No.” Vernon grinned tightly. “She is asleep. Go and watch over her for me. I will try. If I fail, I will come to you.” He turned back, his hand on the doorknob. “I want to do this, if I can.” He knew where William and Deborah Heatherington slept He found them; sweaty bodies entwined, sheets tangled around them, and knew jealousy. He allowed the feeling to add to his fury and then channeled the energy, focusing all of it on the task in hand. “Awake!” he tried, but no sound emerged. He tried something else, remembering his brother’s words. A single candle burned on a small table by the bed. Next to it sat a tinder box. He concentrated. The box moved. With a crow of delight, Vernon redoubled his efforts, moving the box with the power of his mind. It hit the floor with a clatter, the tin it was made of making a substantial noise. William started awake and moved his wife away from him with an impatient shrug. “What was that?” “What was what?” his wife mumbled, pulling the sheet up over her body. Vernon moved forward and concentrated on materializing. Some people had the sensitivity that his Cassandra lacked, the ability to see spirits. Praying William was one of those people, he glided across the room to stand by the bed. “Who are you?” He hadn’t thought that William’s response would be irritation. Vernon smiled gently, and allowed himself to fade a little. William’s eyes widened and he shrank back against his wife. “Deb–Deb, wake up for God’s sake!” The urgency of his tone woke his wife, who blinked twice before staring up and through him. “What is it, Will? I never realized you were so fidgety at night! I’ll think twice before I agree to share a bed with you again.” Then she stared up at Vernon, her jaw dropping. Two of them. They stared, until William found his voice. Vernon moved around the bed, to stand next to Deborah, making sure the room was visible through his corporeal body. He spoke. “Leave this place before it is too late!” “Jesus!” Without a thought to his wife, William leapt out of bed and made a grab for his clothes. Sliding across the sheets, Deborah joined him. Naked, she seemed larger than in

Lynne Connolly

36

her clothes. She must have her stay laces drawn very tight, unusual in this era of soft clothes. Vernon lifted one arm and pointed at them. “You will be cursed!” Anything else he might have said was drowned in the screams. He watched them head for the dressing room, pushing each other out of the way to get into the room first, a grim smile wreathing his features. They left the next day, taking a confused Edward with them.

Black Leather, White Lace

37

Chapter Six

By April Cassandra felt tired a great deal of the time and took to having afternoon naps. She lay in bed, secure in Vernon’s arms. She couldn’t feel him, a source of constant sadness to her, but she never allowed him to know that, never allowed herself the luxury of releasing her distress unless she knew for sure she was alone. Six months’ gone now and there was no mistaking her condition, but she hadn’t yet reached the elephant stage. You are so beautiful like this, my love. You would think so. It’s your fault I’m like this. Warmth seeped through her at his response to her gentle teasing. I’m huge and I’m tired all the time. This is the waiting time, sweetheart. Their gentle internal murmurs stopped when the door opened and the housemaid entered. She bobbed a curtsey. “The earl has arrived home, your ladyship.” Her heart sank. “Has he brought a very large party?” “He is alone, my lady.” “Very well. Tell him I’ll join him in a moment.” Ponderously she lifted herself up on her elbows. “No need,” said a voice from the corridor outside, and Edward entered the room, shoving past the maid. From behind him, the girl lifted her eyebrows and shrugged. “Tea up here, please, Smith,” she said, lifting herself up and reaching forward to smooth her skirts. She knew Vernon was sitting, also, but she was used to pretending now. Edward perused her closely, allowing his gaze to rove over her swollen body. “Blooming, my dear!” He smiled. “Not altogether useless then, am I?” She frowned. “Has someone called you useless?” He shrugged. “Frequently.” His smile returned, possession filling his gaze when he looked at her. “Glad you’re doing well. Sorry I won’t be here to see the birth.” “What?” Somehow she had assumed he would be somewhere nearby when his heir was born, even if he was drunk downstairs. Edward’s expression was full of meaning, though she didn’t know what that meaning was. She wouldn’t have been surprised had he tapped the side of his nose with a finger in the slightly vulgar knowing gesture common hereabouts. “Decided to repair the family fortunes, what? I helped to spend them, so I’m going to make a little fortune for the heir.” Apprehension gripped her heart. If it weren’t that the house and estate were entailed, she would have worried even more. “What have you done?” I’ll kill him. The grim statement reminded her she was no longer alone. A little of the weight lifted from her mind. “Joined up.”

Lynne Connolly

38

“What?” “Bought a commission.” Thoughts whirled dizzyingly through her brain. She couldn’t have heard right, could she? “You’ve what?” She desperately needed a few moments to get a grip on her thoughts, but there was nothing here. Edward tilted his chin and grinned at her. “I had quite a good run at the tables last week so I decided to invest. Got my horse, got my uniform and the price of the commission. I bought a captaincy. Figure I won’t need more than that.” Was she missing something here? “What do you plan to do?” Europe was in turmoil after the depredations of Napoleon, who had only just been sent to his exile on Elba. There must be years of reconstruction ahead. “Get my share of the booty, old girl. I’m attached to Wellington’s staff, near enough to be out of danger, far enough away to pass his notice. Going to ship over to Holland to join the regiment. I’ve joined the Guards.” She found some of her senses. “Are you completely mad?” Edward frowned at her and took a step towards the bed. She shrank back against the pillows, but then sat up again. He wasn’t inebriated, so he wouldn’t strike her. The few times he’d struck her were when he was drunk and he had been immediately sorry. Still, her first thought was for her child. He won’t touch you. She believed Vernon instantly. He would find a way to protect her and their child; she knew it without a doubt. Edward stared down at her. “I’ll forgive you, Cassandra, because you are only a woman, and you are not aware of such things. There’s booty to be had, and I intend to have some of it. It’s the best way to repair my fortune.” Even if he did, Cassandra doubted she would see any of it. “Napoleon’s safely under lock and key, and there are fortunes to be made.” A flash of understanding hit her. “Did William put you up to this?” He smiled without humor. “You’ve never liked old Will, have you? He’s coming with me, old girl. I only came to tell you because I thought you’d care.” He leaned back, watching her reaction. Cassandra carefully kept her face calm. She understood now. “Well keep yourself safe, Edward. I have your signature so I can look after matters for you while you’re gone.” “More important that you keep safe, m’dear. I wanted to send William’s wife to you while we were gone, but she’s devoted to William, won’t be separated from him. So she’s coming to Holland too.” He smiled. “Taking little thing. Full of fun.” Cassandra didn’t like to think what that might mean. It wouldn’t be the first time Edward and William had shared a woman. He made sure she knew that a bare month after his wedding, Edward had accompanied his cousin to a fashionable brothel. It had hurt terribly at the time, but Cassandra felt nothing but regret now. On an impulse she leaned forward and touched the back of his hand. “Take care, Edward. Come back safely.” To her surprise, his face creased into concern and he sat heavily on the bed next to her, his weight rocking the frame. “We’ve made a bit of a botch of things, haven’t we? When we married, I was very fond of you, Cassandra. Very fond.” He turned his hand and took hers in a warm clasp. “I don’t know what went wrong, but when I come back, I’d like to think we could have another try.” Oh if only this had happened before last Halloween! It had been what had kept her

Black Leather, White Lace

39

going for six years, the hope that one day Edward would tire of his dissipations and return to her. Now it was only too clear why he had not, and she knew William wouldn’t let go of him until he was ruined or dead. Last year she would have taken on the battle and fought, perhaps gone to Holland with him, but she had to think of the babe now. She realized Vernon had left her and she felt a pang of loneliness. This was wrong, it was all wrong. She had the child of a different earl to the one she was married to. Her child would still be a Heatherington, but not the man she had promised to stand by. His behavior did not excuse hers. She was wrong. There and then she decided that if Edward returned to her she would ask Vernon to leave, or perhaps take Edward away to another of their houses, so they could make a new start. If Edward did reform, she owed him that. “Yes, my dear,” she said, meeting his soft gaze. “If you return safely we will try again. But on our own, just we two.” He said nothing for a moment, but his hand caressed hers, his thumb stroking gently on her palm. “Yes. Just the two of us. I’ll keep myself safe, and I’ll come back to you with enough money to pay the bills and give us a fresh start.” He got to his feet, releasing her hand with reluctance. “I’ll write, shall I?” “Yes please.” He left just as the maid walked through the door with the tea. “Never liked that stuff. I’ll see you at dinner, my dear, and leave first thing in the morning. Enjoy your rest.” Her tea tasted like ashes. She had sinned, and she would bear the burden for the rest of her life. She loved Vernon, she would always love him but she owed Edward more than reparation. She hoped the child was a girl. That way, her firstborn wouldn’t be able to inherit the estate. ***** “She wants me to leave.” Vernon lowered his head into his hands. “Has she said so?” Nathaniel sounded much calmer, but the tension thrummed behind his words. Vernon looked up. “What we did was wrong. I loved her, but I shouldn’t have made love to her. I haven’t told her she’s carrying a boy. It would devastate her. I only hope when she sees the child, she will love him. I must withdraw.” Nathaniel put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, the gentle pressure coming as a comfort to Vernon. “What happened was inevitable. She was unhappy, she needed you and you did what was necessary to bring her back to life. It’s too late repining now. It’s done. Now you have to face it and cope with the situation as best you can.” Vernon met his brother’s eyes, on a level with his. “What should I do?” Nathaniel smiled grimly. “You can’t do anything wrong while you’re in this state. So stay with her and look after her until the child is born. Then you must take your cue from her.” Tears glimmered in Vernon’s eyes. “I cannot bear it.” “Yes you can. Pray she leaves this place, because it could get worse.” “A reconciliation? I cannot hope for it, but her husband seems determined to make a new start.” “Then you must let him.” Vernon smiled shakily and lifted his hand to cover his brother’s. “You were always the righteous one and you are right now. He is her husband, and he must take precedence.

Lynne Connolly

40

If she wants me, she will call.” “Don’t abandon her. Stay with her. She cannot sense when you are present until you speak to her, so stay silent. She will call you if she needs you.” Vernon dropped his hand and turned away. “I will do as you advise. But don’t expect me to do it with a glad heart. I love her, Nathaniel. She is the love of my life–and my death.”

Black Leather, White Lace

41

Chapter Seven

Cassandra tried very hard to be good. She wrote to her husband, and read his infrequent letters with interest. He really did seem to be trying to turn over a new leaf. But try as she might, she could not love him and knowing the weakness of his nature, she doubted she ever would. When she called, he was there. She suspected he’d never left, but he never intruded, never came to her unless she asked. Is there something I can do for you, my love? No. Just be here, be my friend. I am always that. She smoothed her hand over her now swollen belly. The baby kicks. I wish I could feel it, too! Vernon, I’m sorry I did this to you. Speaking to him, mind to mind, was as easy as speaking out loud now. She could hardly tell the difference any more. I’m not. You made me very happy, and while I know it is wrong, I cannot help feeling overjoyed. I never had a child before. Before he could censor it, Cassandra felt his deep melancholy. You have one now. I am glad that if this is a boy, the heir to the title will at least be a Heatherington. But I want a girl. I want to give Edward the chance to father his own heir. I understand. His tone was neutral, but Cassandra didn’t push him to explain his reticence. He probably already knew the sex of the child, but she didn’t want to know, feeling that these last two months before the birth were precious, her last moments with him. Now that monster has escaped from Elba, Edward tells me he’s on active duty. You know what that feels like, don’t you? Only too well. He didn’t hide the grim tone of his voice. However, more soldiers survive than perish and they may recapture Bonaparte before he forces a battle. I do not think so. She heard a gentle gust of wind, a ghostly sigh. Neither do I. Whatever happens, you know I’ll be here for you. Will you be allowed to stay once the baby comes? It wasn’t a question she wanted to ask, but she needed to know the answer. I do not know. Perhaps this is why I’m still here, to see you safe until the babe comes or perhaps I am here for the rest of your life. I want to be here, waiting for you and I pray I will be allowed to do so. Now her body filled with gentle warmth, comforting and tender, cradling her in his embrace. She allowed herself to slide into sleep, feeling his gentle love. *****

Lynne Connolly

42

Vernon didn’t leave her until he was sure she slept soundly, then he returned to the parlor in his own part of the house. He entered and then froze. “What are you doing here?” Shock lanced through him when the monk spoke. He’d never spoken to them before. “Your brother requested it. There is little time, if what I have been told is correct.” Vernon frowned. “Little time for what?” His brother stepped forward, and gave him a bleak smile. “I have been trying to find a way to unite you with your ladylove. Apart from your personal concerns, there is the child to think of.” “It is yours?” The monk asked. He was dressed in a plain, brown robe. Vernon watched him lifted gnarled hands and throw back his hood. He’d never seen the monk this close before. Dark, deep set eyes framed by thick eyelashes, heavy eyebrows above. A thin, ascetic mouth, and pale skin, lined with middle age. He’d thought the monk older. “Aye, the child is mine. There is no doubt.” The monk’s mouth straightened in disapproval. “You sinned.” “She is the wife of my heart.” The monk stared at him in silence for what felt like hours, but could only have been a minute or two, his eyes shrewdly assessing. “The child has given you a chance. Do you repent your sins?” “I repent all of them except comforting her and loving her.” “You must repent that, too.” “Why?” he shot back. “I cannot repent bringing her comfort, and I cannot repent making love to her. It was the very best thing that every happened to me, and I will take the memory with me to hell, if I have to.” The monk looked away and took a short turn around the room, his long robe sweeping across the rushes on the floor. “Brother Anselm has noticed your distress, and he came to me with an offer of help,” Nathaniel said, low voiced. “He was here when this parlor was dedicated to the abbot of this place, and he won’t tell me why he died, or why he is still here. Likely he doesn’t know, any more than we do.” “That is correct.” The monk stopped his pacing and turned to face them again. “My concern is with your immortal soul. There is one way you can amend your sins, but we must be quick.” Vernon exchanged a speaking look with his brother, who shrugged in a gesture saying he had no more idea what the monk meant, either. “You have committed adultery with this woman, and this is the only sin of which you do not repent,” Brother Anselm said. “There is a way of putting this right. At this moment, the husband of your lady is lying on a foreign field, mortally wounded. He is reconciled to God, and in a few moments he will leave this world.” Vernon’s heart soared and sank in the same moment. She would be a widow, but he was in no case to ask for her hand. Why did he always forget his state? The monk watched, his hands folded at peace before him. “You may take over his body.” “I thought you said he was mortally wounded!” Nathaniel exclaimed before Vernon could speak. “You are asking my brother to die!” “By sharing the body of Cassandra’s husband, you will share in the sacrament of

Black Leather, White Lace

43

marriage and expiate your sin.” The monk paused. Vernon stood completely still, holding all his feelings inside him. “There is a chance he could live. A slim chance. You may take that, if you wish.” “Otherwise?” “Otherwise you will carry on as you are.” Vernon turned away, no longer able to keep his emotions from his face. “If I accept?” “You will wake up in the body of the present Earl of Rustead. You will then be human, without any of the powers you have enjoyed recently. You may die, but your sins will have been expiated and you will go on to the life beyond.” “And leave Cassandra alone?” “Not completely alone, Vernon. Brother Anselm and I will do our best for her,” his brother reminded him, making him feel guilty for even raising the subject. Vernon bit his thumb, his habit when thinking. “How is his cousin?” Brother Anselm sighed. “He is well. He was the cause of the earl’s injury. He worked for the Duke of Wellington, as a galloper, but he deliberately failed to get a message to the earl’s company. This meant they obeyed the Duke’s previous order to attack, when they should have waited for reinforcements.” “The bastard!” “I was a bastard.” The calm tones of Brother Anselm did a little to quell Vernon’s incandescent rage. “I was a son of a duke, but he sent me to the Abbey.” “Did you transgress?” Nathaniel, trying to give Vernon a moment to calm down. He had reason to know Vernon’s temper only too well. “I did, or I would not be here. I have learned a little more than you, which is how I learned the news today. You have not long, I suspect, before the earl gives up and passes on to a better life.” “Is there anything else I need to know?” Although his voice shook a little, Vernon was back in control of his emotions. “You cannot come back until after the anniversary of your taking human form. You cannot communicate with anyone in this house in any way for any reason until after that date. If you survive.” “I have to tell Cassandra.” “There is no time. If you wish to go, you must go now.” Vernon knew how to make a decision when he needed to. This was his chance–his only chance–to join Cassandra in a meaningful life. If he could persuade the body to live, then he could join her, spend every day in her company, and work to rebuild the estate, something he had longed so badly to do for the last hundred and some years. “I’ll do it.”

Lynne Connolly

44

Chapter Eight

The world went black, for how long Vernon had no idea. The first sense that came back to him was sound. A cacophony of shouting, the clash of metal on metal, the whistle of bullets, the thunder of hooves. He knew those sounds. The sounds of war. Then he became aware of the smells. He smelled blood, fresh blood, unmistakably fresh. Mud, earth churned up by hooves, turned into mush by rain. To a man unaccustomed to war it would be overwhelming. To Vernon, it was like coming home. He hated it. When he opened his eyes, it was to the alarming sight of the belly of a horse, in the act of vaulting over him. He lay still, hardly moving until the beast had passed over him. Then the pain, the last sense of all to return. Agony, shooting through him. He’d been shot or cut or both–impossible to say which. The pain occupied his whole body, invading every pore, every single blessed inch. The fleeting thought that it wasn’t worth it, that he should just give up and follow the previous occupant of this body shot through him, immediately to be dismissed. It was worth it. It had to be. He deliberately planted the thought in his head, set it there, so whatever was to come he would not forget. There was a reward to be won at the end of all this and he would win it. “Captain!” The voice above his head shocked him more than the horse. That someone should see him, recognize him. He would have smiled, had his teeth not been gritted from the pain. Captain Lord Edward Heatherington, Earl of Rustead. Not Captain Lord Vernon Heatherington, Earl of Rustead. “I’ll be back, sir, just you bide there.” What else would he do? Smiling slightly, though even that hurt, he closed his eyes. ***** When he opened his eyes again darkness shrouded his surroundings. He was still in the open air, still lying where he had fallen. And the pain still racked his body. He wondered how he had fallen asleep then realized it had been less sleep, more unconsciousness. He moved, or tried to, and groaned aloud when pain shot through him, worse than before. It was too enveloping to decide on the origin. Where all had been screams of agony from men and horses, interspersed by shots and yells, now there was silence, broken only by a few moans and unidentifiable rustling, probably from rats. He could still die. He would die if someone didn’t find him soon, and he knew he would not be allowed back to the Abbey and his brother. That part of his existence had stopped when he’d agreed to occupy this body. Either he would haunt this desolate place, or he would move on. Either way, he would still love Cassandra. Her name reminded him why he was here, and added to his determination. After

Black Leather, White Lace

45

trying all his limbs, he discovered he could move his left arm a little. Mud squelched, oozing between his fingers when he clenched his fist, and sucked at his arm, unwilling to let go. Battling in the mud must be a nightmare, the soldier in him considered. It would clog the horses, make it hard to drag the cannon into position, and muffle the orders yelled by the commanders. Terrible. As feeling returned to his shattered body, Vernon realized another fact. He was naked. When he’d previously woken, he’d been clothed, he was sure of it. In any case, someone had recognized him, probably from his insignia of rank. Scavengers of the human variety had removed everything from him. All identification, all signs of him. They must have thought he was dead. He was nearly so. Only the memory of Cassandra, sweetly lying in his arms, had sustained him thus far, and he would fight to the bitter end. Which might not be long in coming. A noise near him made him turn his head sharply and then cry out with the pain. An uneducated male voice opened up close to his ear. “Oy, stretcher bearers! There’s a live one ‘ere, and by where e’s lyin’, e’s one of ours!” Vernon could only moan his thanks. “Wot’s yer name, mate?” “Vernon.” “Awright, Mr. Vernon, we’ll ‘ave you out of ‘ere quick as winkin’. ‘Old on jus’ a couple more minutes.” Vernon held on, but when hands grasped his legs and shoulders and lifted, he screamed his pain and a black mist descended on him again. ***** He awoke in what was clearly a field hospital. He lay on a rough cot, covered by a single sheet, and someone had dressed him in a nightshirt. He blinked. “Awake, are you?” Another male voice. A face swam into his vision. “The orderly said you were called Vernon. Is that right?” Vernon nodded. “Well then. You’ve been wounded on your hip. The cut is very deep, and it might well fester. You’ve also got a bad wound on your leg, but nothing’s broken except for a bone in your wrist, which I’ve set. We’ve cleaned you up and bound your wounds. They will be unbound and examined every day, and if they fester, we’ll cauterize and drain them and hope you’ll fight back. If you have anything to live for, think hard about it now, because you’ll need every ounce of strength you’ve got. If the hip wound heals, we’ll think about amputating that leg.” Vernon lay back and thought hard, wondering what to do, how to get word to her. A letter. When he was well, he would send her a letter. He couldn’t enter the Abbey until after October, which was four months away, but perhaps she could come to him. If he survived. A letter, that was it. When the fever began, he was still thinking of Cassandra. ***** Cassandra was at first not in the least alarmed when she couldn’t contact Vernon.

Lynne Connolly

46

They had been days before when he couldn’t get through to her. Neither knew the reason but since they eventually re-established contact, they had ceased to worry. In any case, Vernon did everything he could to prevent her concern. But as the weeks passed and June turned into July, Cassandra became increasingly concerned. She had never been able to contact anyone but Vernon, and that with difficulty, before he’d come to her. Perhaps something had burned out, or perhaps her condition had something to do with it. Desperately she tried not to worry, but it ate at her, gnawed away at the back of her mind until she thought she might go crazy. The only thing that kept her going was the baby, now vigorously exercising inside her. Until, in the middle of July, the letter came. My Dear Cousin, It is with great regret that I convey to you the awful news that Edward died at Waterloo. There is no kind way of saying it. He died valiantly, leading his company on a charge that was, unfortunately, doomed to failure from the outset. I saw him fall, but I could not reach him. When I returned, I found a man who had seen him lying there, but we could not find him, and then the area was cleared. Edward lies in a mass grave on the field of battle, but when I return I will arrange a permanent memorial in the family chapel. I am at present in Paris, undertaking the arduous duties that remain to the victors. I will return as soon as I am able. Take care of yourself and the precious life within you. William Heatherington. He’d used the seal of the Earl of Rustead, but at least he had not assumed the title. Cassandra read over the lines several times before she truly absorbed their import. She was a widow. Her only hope remained inside her, the child she had conceived with a man not her husband. Her maid discovered her, the letter loosely in her hand, tears rolling down her face. ***** Cassandra felt a gentle melancholy at her husband’s passing, and genuine regret that they had not had an opportunity for their second chance. She ordered her blacks, but decided not to wear them except when in public. It seemed hypocritical, when she was bearing another man’s child. That thought weighed on her, too heavily, and with no one she could share her worries with, the concern got worse. No Vernon, no Edward. Perhaps that was her punishment. To be deprived of them both. After a week of mooning around the house, feeling deeply sorry for herself, Cassandra managed to pull herself together. Vernon hadn’t contacted her at all, and she hadn’t felt his presence, or the presence of anyone else, for that matter. Perhaps his brother, the shadowy Nathaniel had tried, but she hadn’t noticed anything. She’d spent hours in the Long Gallery, staring at Nathaniel’s portrait, the companion to Vernon’s, in the hope that she could reach him, but there had been nothing. Now she came to study them closer, the resemblance between the brothers was obvious. Not just hair and eye color, but the way they proudly stood, and the fearless way they stared out of their respective paintings. She wondered if they were ever painted together. Children often were. And Vernon had said he had a sister. What had happened

Black Leather, White Lace

47

to her? The estate office contained many old volumes. Fired by a new thought, Cassandra turned away from the Gallery and headed downstairs, to the office. One of her first innovations had been to get rid of the useless steward and engaged a new one, the son of a local man of law, who had known the estate intimately all his life, her man of law now. Oldmeadow was ambitious, intelligent and loyal. The previous steward had darkly threatened legal action, but the elder Oldmeadow had seen him off with little trouble. Now the young man looked up and smiled at her entrance. He hastily got to his feet, but she waved him back down and took the seat opposite him, so he would not feel obliged to stand again. “It is a hot day, is it not?” “It is, my lady. Should I ring for some lemonade?” She shook her head. “No, although in my state I do get even hotter. I became interested in something while taking my daily airing.” She saw the wariness enter his expression, and knew exactly what he was thinking, because she would have thought the same. Was she about to interfere and countermand his orders? She considered that an asset in her new estate manager. Any man who took pride on his work would feel the same. “I looked at all the portraits in the Gallery and realized I know little about the previous Earls of Rustead. Only general matters. I wondered if you would help me discover old letters, journals, family papers that I might read while I am confined.” “You mean to enter confinement?” It was old fashioned, but many women still went into seclusion just before and after childbirth, only to be seen by their closest attendants. Sometimes even the father to be was denied his wife’s presence. She smiled. “Not strictly. I do not think it is good for the baby. I will continue with my daily airings, but I won’t be able to go far, and I need more rest these days. To be frank, Mr. Oldmeadow, the constant rests and pauses are tedious. I think this would occupy me well in the time before the birth. Could you help me locate the papers?” “It would be a pleasure, Lady Rustead.” Instead of Vernon’s presence, she might be able to find letters he’d written, and discover more about him. That would help. Surely that would help?

Lynne Connolly

48

Chapter Nine

The baby came on the first Sunday in August. Cassandra had given up attending church in the village, when her bulk became too large, but had received a pastoral visit from the vicar every week, usually on a Wednesday. Therefore, most of the household was at church when she became sure that the regular pains weren’t cramps or kicks, but the actual birth. Excited at the thought of seeing her baby and relieved that the long wait was finally over, she made some of the preparations herself, pausing when a contraction hit her. By the time her maid returned from church, Cassandra lay on her bed, freshly made with thick blankets and old sheets, dressed in a fresh night-rail, a pile of garments stacked on the chest of drawers. Her flushed face told the whole story to the perceptive woman, and she sent immediately for the doctor, who replied that he was on his way, but had a number of visits to make before he arrived. He had previously sat down with Cassandra and told her what to expect in great detail. An unusual move, but she was husbandless, and had only herself to rely on. Two hours in and Cassandra was straining. No doctor. Her pains were increasing, and try as she might she could not stifle her groans. By then her personal maid, Smith, and two housemaids were in attendance. One put a hot steaming cup of tea by the side of the bed when she leaned over to place her hand gently on Cassandra’s taut belly. “My sister birthed her third in two hours last year, my lady, but I fear you’ll have to wait a little longer. Cassandra strained, and waited until the pain passed before she replied. “Why do you say that, Dorcas?” “You need to be open before the baby can pass through the birth passage, and you are about half open.” Cassandra had long passed the stage of embarrassment, becoming used to gentle fingers examining her every half hour or so. Dorcas was an asset. Although she was single, she came from a large family and had assisted at five births before this one. Indeed, Cassandra felt safe in her care, and almost wished the doctor would arrive too late. She sat up against the stack of pillows at her back and took a long drink of the fragrant brew. “Tea never tasted so good.” “It will taste even better when your travail is over, my lady. Her maid, bustling in with a pile of fresh sheets, smiled reassuringly. “The doctor has sent his journey details in case we need him, but I think everything is as it should be. It is your first, my lady, so it is likely to be some time yet.” In fact, it was another two hours. Suddenly her pains increased and became more urgent. Cassandra wasn’t aware of gripping Dorcas’s hand when she strained, but saw the deep half moon nail marks afterwards, and tried to apologize. “If that is all I have in my life, I would thank the good Lord for it. Come, my lady,

Black Leather, White Lace

49

another push if you please.” One girl held her shoulders, giving her something to push against, and Dorcas stayed below, calling out encouragement and praise. Cassandra realized how basically animal this was, and strangely, took comfort in it. She was doing what animals in the field did every day, and they survived, even went on to birth more. It wasn’t as bad as it seemed. It might be. The pain racked her body, driving it to exertions she wasn’t sure she would survive. When she did, she was briefly thankful, before another pain wrenched her muscles into pushing, pushing. The doctor finally arrived. Striding into the bedroom he paused to strip off his coat and roll his sleeves up, only pausing when Dorcas shrieked. “Doctor, go and wash! You have come in from your daily visits. You do not touch my lady until you have washed most thoroughly. There is hot water in the can by the door!” Smiling sheepishly at his error, the doctor obeyed, and returned to the bed a few minutes later bringing a pleasant odor of lavender with him, from Cassandra’s best soap, which he must have found in her dressing room. A brief look, and he lifted his head, his round face wreathed in smiles. “You are doing splendidly, my lady. You don’t really need me at all.” While she could, after one contraction and while another was building, Cassandra gasped, “If it is a boy, please announce that there are twins.” The three maids and Dr. Waters exchanged puzzled looks. Cassandra gathered her strength. “I believe my brother in law has designs on the title. I have thought of a plan.” She gasped the outline of her plan, knowing everyone in the room would carry it out, or hear from her. Half an hour later, her baby was put into her arms. Her firstborn, her love. Her son. ***** William Heatherington strode through the door of Rustead Abbey, noting absently how quietly the great front door swung back on its hinges. The interior seemed better maintained than he remembered, as well. Not prosperous, but certainly cleaner, and the staff moved with a purpose he hadn’t noticed before. With regret, he noted that most of the maids he saw were dressed modestly and neatly. He enjoyed a little slovenliness in a maid. He stopped to offer his arm to his wife, and she smiled graciously and accepted his support, handing her pelisse to a maid. Autumn had arrived, after a rainy summer, and a chill had begun to invade the days. William turned to the butler. “Where is her ladyship?” The man glanced at the tall clock that stood by the door. “At this hour, sir, she will be feeding the baby. I will inform her that you have arrived.” Without being invited, William walked through the hall to the great oak staircase. “Kindly have refreshments served in the Gold Saloon.” “Sir, I regret the Gold Saloon is presently not available. Her ladyship ordered a thorough cleansing, and the State Apartments are under Holland covers. If it pleases you, the Green Drawing Room is ready.” The Green Drawing Room was a comfortable room on the first floor, the scene of many a long, debauched evening in Edward’s day, when William ran tame in the Abbey, helping himself to its treasures to finance his expensive pleasures. He sighed heavily.

Lynne Connolly

50

Those were the days. Deborah was an asset, but hardly a cozy armful in bed. She couldn’t wait for him to finish, not the behavior he expected of his bedfellow, and not one he was used to. Soon after his wedding, he’d taken up with his old acquaintances. More discreetly, it was true, out of respect for Deborah, but he suspected she didn’t care very much whose bed he went to, as long as it wasn’t hers. He remembered where the nursery was from his childhood, when his mother had been a poor relation here. Now she had remarried, she was at least out of his aegis and under the protection of her husband. But although the Rusteads had been very kind to them both, William had always felt his status keenly. His resentment had been instrumental in his subsequent behavior, so that dragging Edward down to the worst hells, the most iniquitous brothels, was always deeply satisfactory to his bruised spirit. Strangely, now he’d gone, William still felt resentful. The damned baby. Once that was gone, he was sure he would feel much better. He didn’t want to be here. When he was the earl, he would live somewhere else. The apparition he’d seen at his last visit was some kind of warning, he was sure. As they stepped through the doorway, they were met with a sight straight out of the Sunday sermon. A blooming Cassandra, her bodice still a little askew, affording him a glimpse of her deliciously deep cleavage, was in the process of handing a softly wrapped bundle to a nursemaid. She made sure the child was safely ensconced in the nurse’s embrace before she turned. The natural, sweet smile froze on her face. “William!” She swept forward, the skirts of her black gown sweeping the polished boards. “And Deborah, how nice!” “Indeed, sister-in-law.” William forced a jovial smile. “And this is the new Lord Rustead!” “Yes, this is he.” She fixed him with a look that was suddenly firmer, her pointed chin firming, the expression in her soft eyes hardening. “Say good day to your nemesis.” “Why, Cassandra, how can you say that, even in jest?” William kept his smile in place, and peered into the crumpled face of the new earl when the maid brought him over. Destined not to achieve his first birthday, poor little mite. Deborah cooed over the baby. “So sweet! But you have to go through hell to get this far!” “Especially when it’s twins.” Slowly, William turned to face Cassandra. “No,” he said flatly. ***** “Oh yes.” Triumph curled through her whole body. This was what she had planned for, this moment. It would keep her baby alive. “I had two boys, William. The other is with a wet-nurse.” He looked around. “Here? This nursery only seems to have one cradle.” “I sent him away. He will be returned to me in time, but I hadn’t the milk for two and the wet nurse the doctor found for me could not live in.” She added a smile. “It happens from time to time, and the woman was a good, clean nurse. Sadly she had to follow her husband.” “Where?” “The Americas.” Gleefully she watched the horror William could no longer hold

Black Leather, White Lace

51

back. “The lady is the wife of a sea captain, and she sadly lost her own child. I agreed to let her care for—” she paused, realizing she had left one part of her plan vacant― “Peter—” she extemporized “―until their return.” “When do they plan to return?” She saw the skepticism, and invented a little more. “When I tell them they may. The lady is a distant relation of mine. They have a small business in Boston and they may wait a few months before they return. But that should be of no interest to you.” Just to inform you that should you attack my baby, there is another one waiting to take over. William studied the child, then turned his attention to her. “I find one baby more than enough.” She smiled at Deborah, who gave her a sympathetic smile in return. So that was the way the wind blew. She had successfully diverted attention from her baby. Now, with William’s baleful eyes upon her, she realized she had to look out for herself. There was no one else. All her attempts to contact Vernon and Nathaniel had ended in failure, and she could only presume that their gifts had been removed from them. Perhaps they had moved on. She should feel glad for them, but she could not. There was still a great void in the centre of her being that would never be filled this side of the grave. Until she could join him, having discharged her duties here on earth. To their son. ***** Since the world of spirits was closed to her, Cassandra had been forced back on her own resources, in the world of men. Her faith in the doctor and her man of business had not been unfounded, and when she had confided her fears to them they had not treated her as a weak, imaginative woman, but as a sensible person. Mr. Oldmeadow Senior had laid a false paper trail, indicating the mythical baby’s travels, and the doctor had provided the necessary corroboration that was necessary for their plan to succeed. When the danger was over, if it was ever over, the mythical child would succumb to a disease. A necessary conspiracy, aimed at making safe the current holder of the Earldom of Rustead. Cassandra was determined William should not benefit from his sins, but was dismayed to discover, on the reading of her late husband’s will, that William was named as trustee. It was a blow. So was William’s determination, despite the protestations of his wife, to remain at the Abbey for the foreseeable future. “While you are attending to the Earl, my dear,” he said, unbearably unctuous, “I will see to his lands.” She smiled and lowered her lids over her eyes, which she was sure were blazing in a tell tale manner. “You are very kind, cousin. I am so glad Edward left you a token of his regard. Should you not be seeing to your own estate, rather than caring for Vernon’s?” She had called her baby after his father. After all, Vernon was a family name. While it hurt for her to voice it, it was also a delight, to see his beauty in living flesh. His eyes had matured to a deep blue, exactly like his father’s, and his mouth had a certain pout she remembered from that memorable night. As September matured, Cassandra found herself anticipating Halloween, hoping against all reason that he would keep his promise and come to her again. He swore he would come. If he could, he would. She knew it. With the threat removed from her son, William tried to punish her, his wife proving an eager accessory to his taunts and insults. Edward had made William his trustee, along with his man of business, and he had already given orders to halt the improvements she’d ordered to the Home Farm. Edward’s signature giving her power of attorney was no

Lynne Connolly

52

longer valid, now he was dead. When she tried to protest he waved an airy hand. “Tailors have to be paid sometime, my dear, or they won’t give you more credit. Not being a peer, like my esteemed nephew, I risk being thrown in debtor’s prison if I don’t give them something.” “I don’t think that would be considered as a proper use of estate funds,” she commented. “Neither is re-thatching that old barn. It’s falling to pieces in any case.” “Very little work will bring it back.” She lifted her head from her stitchery, regarding him closer. “You’ve ridden around the estate?” She would bet her next quarter’s pin money that he hadn’t been welcomed. William shrugged. “There is little else to do here.” “Then why do you not return to London and let us be?” There, she had said it. If he returned, she could resume her previous duties as head of the house and estate. The profits she could make from increasing the farm production would help to pay for any expenses, even if William refused to allow any extra. And she would prevent his further depredations on her son’s fortune, such as it was. The sad fact was that there was little left. Just enough to form the basis for rebuilding the fortune, but not if William and Deborah continued to spend money like water. “As soon as we can afford it, we will return,” William sneered at her, his mouth curling unpleasantly. “I have the right to stay here now, to oversee my nephew’s upbringing, and I will report any wrongdoing I see. Since we’re alone, there should be no harm in my telling you that the minute you remarry, you’ll be out of my nephew’s life, and the minute you spend a penny above your quarterly allowance on your own fripperies, I will protest. I intend to make your life a living hell for what you did.” Astonished, Cassandra blinked up at him. “What did I do?” “You had a child. Children. You didn’t even have the courtesy of taking a lover. I have asked, believe me I have asked. Anything to cast doubt on the children’s paternity, but there was nothing.” He frowned down at her. “You see, on the night you claim your sons were conceived, I was with Edward, in the company of a particularly inventive whore.” She stared at him, masking the horror she felt, and decided to go on the attack. “You had a whore in my house?” He shrugged. “She’s married to a member of society, but to all intents and purposes she’s a whore.” Cassandra stood, carefully putting her embroidery aside. “I don’t care to continue this conversation. While I am mistress here, no such gatherings will take place. My son will not be subjected to any corrupting influences and this is his home. So you will not be the only one to suffer. Moreover, I will have the town house closed down until I need to use it on his behalf. You will have to find somewhere else to live. You are his trustee, and until he reaches school age, he is to remain with me and his day to day care will be mine. Edward left that provision in his will.” He snarled at her, a cornered dog. “I’ll prove he’s not Edward’s son.” “He found time to visit me for just long enough. Were you awake all night?” “Pretty much.” “Then in the time you slept, your supplanter was conceived. Both of them.” Having said enough, she left the room.

Black Leather, White Lace

53

***** Halloween arrived, and it was very different to the last one. No guests, except William and Deborah, now almost completely ignoring Cassandra. She preferred it that way. Her father had written, saying he was returning to England at Christmas, and he was delighted to find his grandchild safe. He approved of Cassandra’s scheme to invent a second baby, and again asked her if he should come. It had warmed her that he had been prepared to leave the center of the world at this time, where all the leaders gathered to decide the fate of Europe after Napoleon, just to be with her, but she could not allow it. He’d worked for this all his adult life, and she couldn’t deprive him of his triumph. But she was delighted that she would see him before the end of the year. With his help she might be able to rout William and Deborah for good. She had burned the letter, because of the admission of her scheme. Only Mr. Oldmeadow Senior had her statement of the truth, tucked in his safe in his office. She had to be very careful not to leave anything anywhere else. Tonight was hers. Pleading exhaustion, she retired soon after dinner, and when her maid had helped her to undress and brushed and braided her hair, she dismissed the woman. As soon as the door had closed she began to unwind the braids, brushing her hair to shining perfection. He would come. Although it had been dark for hours, he hadn’t come to her before when the sun went down, only later in the evening, and they would have until sunrise. This was the second day of her life. Cassandra stood and crossed to the window, pushing back the heavy curtains. Unlike last year, dust didn’t rise from the heavy drapery, because she’d had them cleaned and beaten, and her room was well lit and warmed by a fire that crackled cheerily in the grate, instead of letting smoke billow into the room. Because of him she had hope. Because of him she knew what it was to love. Because of him she knew what it was to be a mother. Perhaps that was his task, his purpose, and now he had passed on. She had hoped against all hope when he had stopped coming to her, that he would be allowed this. She would never forget how safe and complete she felt in his arms, how all her worries melted against his hard chest, for an hour or two. She couldn’t believe she would never feel that again. However true it might be. It was better if she stared out of the window, she could imagine him standing just behind her, ready to touch her shoulders and turn her into his arms. Any minute now. She stood until her calves ached, and when she checked the clock on the mantelpiece it said shortly before twelve. She’d stared out the window for an hour and a half, dreaming of last year, waiting. He wasn’t coming. Dropping to her knees by the side of the bed, she murmured a short prayer for the salvation of Vernon’s soul. He was gone. She should be happy for him. Perhaps, in time, she could be. ***** When Vernon found her, she lay in bed fast asleep, her hair spread over the pillow. One hand on the bedpost, he gazed at her, watching her chest rising and falling rhythmically as she breathed. He could stay there all day, watching her. There was no

Lynne Connolly

54

hurry, now. Instead of waking her as he’d planned, he turned the fireside chair towards the bed and sat down, careful not to make any noise. It had been a long journey to get here, but it was worth every mile. She woke up suddenly, shortly before eight in the morning, and sat up, still half asleep. He watched the adorable way she blinked, and watched her when she noticed him for the first time. Her first reaction was to clutch the sheet. Her second was to drop it and open her arms. “Vernon! I fell asleep, I’m so sorry! What time is it?” He rose, and crossed the room, taking her into his arms. “Just after eight.” “Oh God, we have so little time!” She blinked, taking in the light seeping through the curtains at the window. “Vernon—” she paused when she sank her fingers into his now shorter hair. “Vernon―oh no!” With a deep breath she drew back. “Edward!” He didn’t let go. He couldn’t. “Both, sweetheart, both.” He gazed into her face, drinking in the beautiful sight of the woman he had done all this for–and would do again. She stilled. “What do you mean?” He smiled. “I’m Edward and I’m Vernon. When Edward lay dying on the field of Waterloo, I was given the chance to enter his body. There was no guarantee that I would live, but Edward had decided to move on, and I wasn’t ready.” “I can’t believe it.” “I’ll make you. I have to. I have some of Edward’s memories. Not his personal ones, they passed with him, but I know about this world, and enough of his life to pass. But I am Vernon. The man inside is Vernon, the man who loves you.” She stared up at him, joy dawning deep in her eyes. “Your eyes are blue. Edward’s were brown. Tell me again.” He felt her tremble under the thin fabric of her nightdress, and he held her close, warming her against his chest. “I wasn’t allowed to enter or communicate with anyone here until after dawn on the day of my appearances. It’s about half an hour after dawn came, and I’ve been here since then. Just watching you.” “How long can you stay?” “A lifetime.” Her voice shook. “This isn’t true, I’m dreaming. Tell me about it–tell me everything. I need time to—” “Take it all in,” he finished for her, his tone soothing. “I’ll tell you everything. When they found me on the field, I was naked. The vultures had done their work, the people who haunt battlefields and strip everything from the dead. Only I wasn’t dead. An orderly found me and I was carted away to the nearest medical post. They despaired for me, and I went into a fever shortly afterwards, so they thought I would die. But I didn’t die. I pretended to lose my memory for a time, it was easier that way, while I explored what I knew about myself, and this new world. Otherwise they would have contacted you, and that was forbidden.” “Why?” He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose. “I don’t know, but I didn’t want to take any chances. I needed to plan. I wanted to find your tormentor and kill him, but he was here, too, so I couldn’t. It took me a month to begin to recover. I’ve suffered a leg wound, sweetheart, and it was bad. One slash on the hip, another on the leg, and a blow to the

Black Leather, White Lace

55

head which seemed to support my story of a memory loss. They didn’t amputate, because the hip wound was thought the more serious, but the lack of attention to the leg wound has left it pretty ugly, I’m afraid.” Her voice sounded stronger, and he was glad to hear it. “I still use a cane, I might always have to. But I wouldn’t have cared if they had amputated, as long as you could have coped with it. I had entered your world and survived. I left at the end of August, but I was far from recovered. I had no money, so I lived on a pension until I knew beyond a doubt that I was to stay here, that I would survive. I’ve been accustoming myself to living again, and waiting impatiently for you to leave this house. But you never did.” “Where did you live?” He took a moment to savor the feel of her in his arms. So sweet. Worth it all, worth double what he’d suffered. “In Derby.” Derby was the nearest large town. “I found a position as a clerk, and rode over whenever I could, waiting outside the gates, but you never left. I know some of what has been going on here, but not all, and not from your sweet lips. Tell me, love.” She opened her mouth, but before she could speak, someone rapped sharply on the door. “My lady!” Without waiting for a reply, the door opened to admit a woman dressed as a nursery maid, a bundle in her arms. Vernon’s eyes filled with tears, although he hadn’t been aware of their imminent arrival. The maid shrieked, but kept a firm hold on the bundle. Cassandra pushed away from him. “Yes, it is the earl come back to us, Felicity, is it not wonderful news? Come in and close the door. Let his lordship see his son.” The maid crossed the room, staring doubtfully at Vernon, and his shop-bought secondhand clothes. “He looks like the earl, my lady, but―” “Until yesterday my memory had quite gone from the blow I had received at Waterloo,” Vernon said, having prepared his story. “I remembered late yesterday afternoon and visited Oldmeadow to set matters in train. Please, er–Felicity, do not tell anyone. Not yet. I want to tell them myself.” A wicked grin spread over Felicity’s round features. “Yes, my lord, as long as I may be there when you do!” “You have my word on it.” Vernon grinned. “Now let me see my son.” The squeaking, chirruping noises from the shawl-clad bundle increase and Vernon was eager to see the boy. His son. The maid lowered the shawl and he took the child in his arms for the first time. His heart ached and tears ran unchecked down his cheeks. The creased, pink face of the newest Heatherington, the eyes as blue as his own, stared back at him. The mouth pursed, trembled and opened on a shriek so powerful he nearly dropped him. He passed the baby to his wife–his wife! And watched her feed their son, gently lifting him to her precious breast, the nipple darker and larger than he remembered it. The boy latched on as though coming home. As Vernon wanted to do, but not for the same reason. It was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen. It was all worth it for this. For this moment, watching the two people he loved most in all the world. He had fallen in love with the baby the moment their eyes had met. When the child fell off the nipple, sated to the point of slumber, Cassandra handed him back to the nurse. “Remember, no word to anyone.”

Lynne Connolly

56

“Yes, my lady,” the nursemaid replied with a conspiratorial grin, and she left the room, carrying the child with her. Cassandra lifted a finger and touched his cheek, wiping away the wetness that lingered there. “He has your eyes.” “He has his own eyes.” Vernon wasn’t ashamed of his tears, but this was no time for weeping. “Oldmeadow told me of your subterfuge. I was never more proud of you, my love. What a clever way to ensure the baby’s safety!” “I named him for you, so your name will live on.” “Have you forgotten?” He lifted her hand to his lips, kissing the tip of each finger. “Every heir is named Vernon. It’s a family tradition. That means...” He paused, waiting for her. She didn’t take long. “Vernon Edward Heatherington. You’re still Vernon! But what shall we call the baby?” “Did you not give him another name?” She smiled. “Vernon Nathaniel.” “Nathaniel. It will be good to be able to call someone Nat.” Another lump formed in his throat but he determinedly swallowed it away. “Kiss me, sweetheart.” The world fell away when she brought her lips to his and he held her safe in his arms once more. When she burrowed beneath his clothes, tugging at the fastenings, he helped her. The shabby waistcoat, shirt and breeches were rapidly discarded, to join her nightdress on the floor, and they soon lay naked in each others’ arms. He dragged back the covers. “I want to see you, love. I’ve missed you so much!” “I missed you too!” Now it was her turn to cry, in great, heaving sobs. He cradled her close, feeling her soft warmth against him, thankful he was here to comfort her, at last. He kissed her tears away when the storm had subsided, feeling the drops salty on his tongue, sweetly welcoming to his soul. When she lifted her face to his, he kissed her lips, soothing her with his mouth and tongue, feeling her soften against him, unmistakable signs of arousal to one who knew her well. Long, drugging kisses gave way to feverish caresses. He wanted to learn her all over again and the differences carrying his child had made to her body. Next time he would be there, every minute. Next time. While it sounded sweet to his ears, he found signs on her that she would never have told him. Slight swellings and a few fine lines. He would not turn her into a baby farm, he decided. Therefore when he lifted himself over her, no longer able to wait, he knew what he would do. His decision was nearly driven out by the delirious sweetness of her body welcoming his, the way her body molded around his erection, receiving and welcoming him. He lifted up on his elbows and gazed down into her sweet face. Her eyes were open, her soft brown eyes staring into his with the love they shared. And would share forever. “I missed you so badly, but I dared not risk contacting you. A few months means nothing compared to what we have now. Can you bear a lifetime of this?” Her soft lips tilted in a smile. “Oh yes. Yes, my love, always.” With one hard thrust he filled her, and his soul overflowed with delight. He lost his mind in the next few moments, his body relishing her touch, his senses filled with her presence. She smelled of lavender and springtime, for all it was winter, her hair caressed him when he lowered his body to feel the sweet pressure of hard nipples pressing against

Black Leather, White Lace

57

his chest. When she cried his name at the height of her ecstasy he held her close, felt her breath hot against his cheek and dragged himself out of her body, spending himself on her belly. When he slid to one side, he reached for his discarded shirt to wipe them both clean. He turned to see a question in her eyes, and answered it before she asked. “I don’t want to overtax your strength, my love. You’ve only just had one child.” “He’s three months old,” she murmured, snuggling in when he held out his arm. “Isn’t that what I’m here for? The heir and the spare?” He chuckled. “You’re here to love me, and to let me love you. That comes first, and for that I need you in the best of health. It’s a small thing, sweetheart. We will have other children, but not yet. Not just yet.” “I can’t believe you’re here for good.” “You’d better.” He lifted her chin and gave her a soft kiss. “Sleep now, sweetheart. We’ll take our time getting up, shall we? And when you wake up I’ll be here. Not like last time.” “No,” she murmured, her voice heavy with slumber. “Not like last time.”

Lynne Connolly

58

Chapter Eleven

When she woke up, he was still there and smiling down at her, his blue, blue eyes brimful of love. She smiled back, knowing her eyes reflected the same emotion. He bent and kissed her. “Welcome back.” “You look better by daylight.” He’d drawn the curtains while she’d slept and the golden winter sun streamed in, spilling over their bodies. The room was warm, as well, and when she glanced over at the fireplace, it was to a comfortable blaze. “I let a few of the servants into our secret.” She clutched his wrist in sudden panic. “They accepted you?” “They did. They were actually pleased to see me. Considering Edward’s reputation, I was a mite surprised, but apparently, William has been making their lives a misery, trying to drive them away. Now a manservant is readying some clothes for me, so I may take you down to dinner and see their faces when they realize they have been choused of everything they’ve been aiming for.” She relaxed, and lifted her hand to trace a pattern in the hairs on his chest. “So William knows, too?” “No, sweetheart. I told them not to say anything, on pain of instant dismissal. Your excellent butler knows, and the housekeeper, with a footman and your nursemaid.” His eyes flashed in sudden arousal and he bent to kiss her. “When you touch me it’s like a spark to the fire. I thought of getting up now and facing the terrible two, but we definitely have a little time yet.” He bent and kissed her, bringing her delicious warmth, surrounding her with care and love. During her months alone, Cassandra had proved to herself that she could manage, and it had done wonders for her self esteem, but she was so glad she didn’t have to be so self reliant any more. She responded to his kiss in full measure, opening her mouth under his to receive the caress of his tongue. When he lifted himself over her, she realized she was as hot as he, ready for him. One kiss and she was his. He slid inside her, coming home, filling her with himself. “It’s all yours, love, always. You feel better than I could have imagined, better than I deserve.” “No, you’re wrong!” She could only imagine what he’d been through in his time away from her, and it was far, far worse than the agonies she’d suffered. “Ah!” She could say no more when he drove, hard and long, deep inside her, forcing her to arch off the bed and press close to him as he withdrew and thrust, withdrew and thrust. He slipped one hand under her waist, dragging her up to meet his thrusts, as she pushed and strained towards the joint objective. The sheets stuck to her back and then creased under her body, gathering themselves into the parody of the rising knot inside her, which rose and loosened with every stroke. Until he shouted, she screamed and everything released in a single moment that

Black Leather, White Lace

59

went on for eternity. Panting, laughing breathlessly, he rolled to one side, taking her with him. “If we continue in this fashion, you’ll be in the family way again far too soon!” She wasn’t in the least worried. “I think we will have to take our chances, love.” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “You’re probably right, but I’ll do my best to behave.” After a short rest, he roused her and got out of bed. “I’ll go to wash and change.” He lifted his hand to his chin. “And shave.” He turned to look at her, his smile rueful. “If we don’t confront William and Deborah now, it could be days. Let’s rid ourselves of them and then carry on where we left off.” Reaching out, he touched the back of her hand, very gently. “I’ve had months to accustom myself to this. It must be unbelievable to you, my poor darling.” “No. Just all I wished for.” He leaned forward and kissed her, gently and lovingly. “Don’t go down alone. I’ll come for you in a little while.” ***** Don’t go down alone. Unlike the months before, and the years before that, when William had left her to go down to London, to drink and debauch and waste his inheritance. There wasn’t much left. She hoped Vernon wouldn’t mind that. For it was Vernon. His body was Edward’s, but thinner, more toned, much more like Vernon’s than Edward’s. Apart from the hard scar on his upper leg that pitted deep into the skin, forming an ugly slash. The muscle had knitted tightly, but he could still ride, still walk. Not that she would have minded, except for his own sake. Her maid entered and without comment began to wash and dress Cassandra. When she drew out the black dinner gown, Cassandra waved it aside. “My husband is alive. There is no need for that. Find the blue. It may be old fashioned, but it is more cheerful than that one.” The maid almost dropped the gown. “My lady, I know you have been–entertaining today, but that man cannot be the earl. He died months ago.” She spoke kindly, as though to an imbecile. “Wait until you see.” Cassandra smiled at her own reflection in the mirror. Her cheeks glowed with health, where they had been pale before, and her lips were rosy from his kisses. “He was wounded on the field, but lived, without his memory, which he has now recovered. He is without doubt, the earl, so my son must be content with the courtesy title.” The maid gripped the black fabric. “Are you certain, my lady? This is not some impostor?” Cassandra shook her head. “He went to see Mr. Oldmeadow yesterday and was confirmed in his claim. If anyone challenges it, he will be able to stand firm. It is he.” She hoped she would never have to avow it in a court of law, but should she be asked, she would confirm it without any doubt. If this was Vernon, come back to life, then he had a superior claim to the title, as a senior member of the family. If it was Edward, then he was the earl. Either way, the Earl of Rustead had returned to his ancestral home.

Lynne Connolly

60

***** When Smith saw Vernon, she was convinced. Although Vernon’s eyes had miraculously changed color, in every other way he was the Earl of Rustead. Fitter, stronger, but the earl, as he was when his father died, rather than the debauched sot of a few years ago. Dressed as befitted his station, but in clothes a few years’ old, since Edward’s more recent outfits were made to suit his increasing girth. They went down to dinner together. Dinner was at six, ‘country hours’ that William had comprehensively sneered at, but as Vernon wickedly murmured into Cassandra’s ear outside the drawing room; “I can’t think how I’ve worked up such an appetite!” So she was laughing when the footman opened the door to her, and since she preceded her husband into the room, she was the first person William and Deborah saw. “Really, Cassandra, in colors so short a time after—” Deborah’s voice trailed away when she saw Vernon, but her mouth remained open. All the floridness drained from William’s face. “Good evening, cousin,” Vernon said, executing a small bow. “Dear God, how did you–it’s so good to see you!” cried William, flinging his arms wide and striding across the room. Vernon moved closer to Cassandra. “Do you say?” he said, one brow quirked. William stopped half way across the room. His hands dropped to his side. “Yes, of course. I despaired when I heard you were lost. I came in search of you afterwards, but I could not find you.” “How soon after? They discovered me when they were clearing the bodies for burial. I was naked, and nearly dead when they came across me.” William frowned. “You were lost at the farmhouse, and that is where I went. The bodies were thick on the ground, but none were naked.” “Really, gentlemen, do we have to talk about this now?” Deborah trilled. “Edward it is wonderful to see you again.” She perused him slowly from head to foot and back again, lingering at the more intimate places. “And looking so well! My dear, have you lost weight?” “A considerable amount,” he replied. “Perhaps you should try sending William into battle, fail to deliver the message sent by the general to wait for reinforcements, then leave him wounded and near death to shiver in the open air for a few hours. Follow that with a month or two of recovery and memory loss, and that should do it.” “Dear God!” Deborah’s hand flew to her mouth and her eyes widened in horror. “Is that what happened to you? My poor darling!” Cassandra felt Vernon’s arm muscles tighten under her hand. “Not your darling. My wife’s.” He turned his head and bestowed a particularly sweet smile on her. She smiled back. William smirked, but still looked uncomfortable, not meeting Vernon’s direct gaze when he lifted his head and regarded his cousin. “Pleasant that you’ve reconciled, cousin.” “If it weren’t for you,” Vernon said, slowly articulating each word, so that menace overshadowed his words, “I would never have left Cassandra in the first place. You deliberately kept us apart, and then did your best to kill me with excess.” “So our games have to stop?” Deborah went on the attack, gazing at him from behind lowered lashes. “Surely you remember how cozy we were, especially on the night your so-called son was conceived?”

Black Leather, White Lace

61

“I remember.” Vernon shot Cassandra an apologetic glance. “There seemed to be time, however, for me to pay my wife a brief visit. Your attentions must have given me the inspiration to sire the child which has supplanted you from the succession.” “Children, surely! Did your lady wife not tell me she gave birth to twins?” “Ah yes.” Cassandra’s smile was decidedly mischievous. “I expect we might hear some bad news soon about the other twin. Poor boy!” William growled. “You mean there never was another! I suspected as much, and given a few months I would have proved it!” “We would have been away from your jurisdiction if you had ever proved any such thing,” she murmured. “But now you don’t have to worry. The chances are that another child will follow in due course. We can’t leave poor Nathaniel without siblings, can we?” Deborah frowned. “Nathaniel?” Vernon took a pace into the room, taking Cassandra with him. “Ah yes. I’ve decided, as a sign that I intend to reform my way of living, to use my first name, instead of my second. So I’ve asked Cassandra to call me Vernon, and the baby will be known as Nathaniel, to avoid any confusion.” “What was wrong with Edward?” “It reminds me of things I would rather forget.” Vernon helped Cassandra to sit, just as though she was a helpless female. Strangely, the gesture pleased her, where it would have annoyed her had anyone else done it. Vernon straightened and faced his cousin. “I feel my wife and I would like a little time alone with our son. Therefore, I would ask you to leave in the morning. The coach will be at your disposal, of course, to take you where you wish to go.” William turned to his wife. “London, I think.” He gave Vernon a smooth smile, while his wife still stood, her face mottled with the fury she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress. “You won’t mind if we use the town house?” “Actually, I will.” Vernon exchanged a glance with Cassandra. “I mean to conserve what is left of the family fortunes and rebuild. That will mean the town house will remain closed unless we need to use it, and I don’t think you’ll see us in town again this year.” “Then where are we to go?” William almost wailed. “Anywhere you please. You have a modest house of your own. Why not go there?” “Very well. Come, Deborah.” Deborah stood, hands clenched by the side of her fashionable, low cut jonquil gown, face blazing with anger. “William, I married you because I thought you were to be the earl soon. Now all your plans have gone wrong, and I have to put up with you for the rest of my life? I think not! Vernon, Edward, whatever you want to call yourself, you said if William died first, you’d deal with Cassandra and marry me! Do you mean to renege on that?” “I mean to ensure Cassandra lives for many years to come.” Vernon raised his head. “I doubt I would want to marry again if she did precede me, and I doubt if I ever wished to, my choice would fall on you. You, madam, are vulgar in the extreme and your reputation is one that Harriette Wilson would envy!” At the name of the popular courtesan, Deborah’s face became an even more alarming shade of red, bordering on the purple. Cassandra thought she was about to explode. Vernon held out his hand for her. “I’ll give the necessary orders, but I think my wife is tired. We would be better dining privately

Lynne Connolly

62

in our chambers. You will excuse us.” It was usual to ask, but he didn’t even pretend to do that. He helped Cassandra to her feet, took her hand firmly in his and left the room without a backwards glance. The crash of china against the closed door made him turn and address the footman, still standing by the doorway, no expression at all on his face. “Good man! If you will, try to get them out of here without too much damage. They will be leaving in the morning. Post a guard outside their rooms, and make sure they don’t leave except to walk to the coach.” The footman smiled and bowed, just as another crash rocked the door. “It will be my pleasure, my lord.” ***** Later that night Vernon found a robe and made his way up to the Long Gallery. He held a candlestick, which he lifted to illuminate the portrait of his brother Nathaniel, proudly staring out of the canvas for eternity. “Nat, I can’t hear you any more, and I can’t see you, but I know you’re here. Know that I’ll always be grateful to you. I swear to you and to Brother Anselm that I will never betray your trust. I’ll work for the rest of my life to make amends for what I did before. I’ll restore the estate, care for my family and love my wife until the day I die.” He turned away, but on an impulse, turned back. “And if I end up in heaven, I’ll put in a good word for you both.” He could have sworn he heard a ghostly chuckle as he made his way downstairs to snuggle into bed with his beloved wife.

Black Leather, White Lace

63

Nathaniel By

Lynne Connolly

Lynne Connolly

64

Chapter One

2005

The ghost of Nathaniel Heatherington, fourth Earl of Rustead, stood next to the ghost of a cowled monk and watched the bustle in the Great Hall of Rustead Abbey, which had never seen anything like this before. The Hall was a late medieval hall with a hammer beam roof, one of the best survivals of its type, if the authority on vernacular architecture, Pevsner, was to be believed. It had seen great banquets, uncountable tenants’ balls, and had once been filled with makeshift beds filled with wounded soldiers. For twenty years, high-pitched girlish laughter from the prestigious girls’ school founded there had filled the rafters, giving both the resident ghosts headaches it took years to clear, but not this. It was astonishing how much equipment could be dragged out of two medium sized vans. One had contained television equipment, and now cables looped their way around the pillars and up the great staircase, with monitors and lights so blinding Nathaniel had thought they had brought the sun indoors. The other contained equipment of a more esoteric nature: sensors, monitors and even cartons of fine white powder. All to catch the ghosts of Rustead Abbey. Strange, then, that nobody had noticed Nathaniel and his companion. He wondered idly if they’d be caught on film. It had been known in other places, but not here, not yet. The TV set in the staff quarters had been constantly tuned to the cable station hosting the successful program, Hosts to Ghosts and they had heavily trailed the New Year’s Special, to be filmed at Rustead Abbey. They were combining the ghost hunt with a ‘drama documentary’ about the lives of the third and fourth Earls of Rustead. A family legend. There was even talk of a film based on the story. Nathaniel had learned a lot from TV. Before its arrival, he’d listened to the radio, but there was nothing like the moving pictures on the small screen for instant learning. Nathaniel sighed, as he always did when he remembered his sad history. Pique had driven him to join the Parliamentarians, a foolish action he still wasn’t ready to discuss with anyone. Not that he had much opportunity to do so these days. He’d returned to the Abbey a victor, to find his Cavalier brother trying to restore the failing family fortunes. If Vernon hadn’t attacked him on sight, he might not have defended himself so vigorously. He might not have killed him. However, Vernon had had his revenge. Nathaniel himself had been dead by Christmas, from the wounds Vernon had inflicted on him. The TV company had no way of knowing the end of Vernon’s story, a blissfully happy ending, but it meant Nathaniel was left alone, except for the laconic Brother Anselm. And he was lonely. He watched the activity around him; even stepped aside a couple of times to avoid someone walking through him, half hoping that this time someone would contact him. They had tried before, in the various spiritual revivals, but nobody had succeeded. He wished they would. Even though this time any success would turn the house into a media

Black Leather, White Lace

65

circus, he wished they would. It was so damned irritating, listening all the time without being able to say anything in reply, to join in. “I feel something.” A woman dressed with neatness, propriety and absolutely no imagination said suddenly. She lifted her chin, staring around her and extended her hands. The room fell silent, or at least, quieter. Idly, Nathaniel wondered how she managed to live without constant electric shocks, she wore so much artificial fabric. Easy care, easy iron, but definitely not easy on the eye. Didn’t they make trousers to flatter any more? Oh but they did. His attention was caught, as it always was, by Sylvie Heatherington. The current Countess of Rustead entered by a side door and although she did nothing to draw attention to herself, her entrance didn’t go unnoticed by anyone. Putting a slender finger to her lips, she frowned at the people who started in her direction, glancing at the medium. Tall, slender and dark haired, Sylvie had bowled Nathaniel completely off his feet when she’d arrived at the Abbey four years earlier. She was an American, and she’d met the current earl when he was on one of his less dangerous assignments. Always a man of impulse, he had married her in a fortnight, and now she was chatelaine here, as well as the keeper of Nathaniel’s heart, did she but know it. She was dressed casually today, in t-shirt and jeans, but the fine fabric of her top caressed her breasts, outlining their soft shape, and the jeans hugged her backside as though they had been tailored for her. Nathaniel would have given anything to be able to cup those rounded cheeks, to caress her with the intimacy he knew she was made for. Reluctantly he tore his gaze away from her and back to the medium. His fingertips were tingling. Could this dumpy woman succeed where so many others had failed? He glanced at Brother Anselm, who was still standing by his side, hands tucked into the sleeves of his brown habit, hood drawn up over his head. Brother Anselm’s hood moved very slightly. He’d shaken his head. Nothing. “I can feel him,” the medium intoned. “He says his name begins with a V –“ “Vernon!” said one of the cameramen. He winked at his colleague, standing nearby. Not a believer then. “Yes!” The woman stared into the air, her face a picture of rapt desire. Nathaniel sighed heavily and moved around the room. The woman didn’t follow him as he threaded his way around the people to reach Sylvie. Only Sylvie moved very slightly, sending her own delicious scent to him in a gentle waft of eau-de-cologne. Nathaniel absorbed the smell. It was almost as good as touching her. Almost. Sylvie, I’m here. He watched her smile, the only indication outwardly that she’d heard him. Good morning, Nathaniel. Have they found you out? He chuckled, a sound heard only by Brother Anselm and in Sylvie’s head. No. They can’t see me. She moved further into the room, and Nathaniel moved away. “You are truly in love with her.” Nathaniel had been watching a lot of TV recently, and felt like saying “Duh” to Brother Anselm, but he doubted the monk would appreciate it, or even understand what he was saying. Instead, he contented himself with a simple, “Yes.” “It is a great shame. You must not succumb, my son. You are allowed to take earthly form once a year, but you must not show yourself to her.” Nathaniel swallowed. “I know that.” He’d been tempted, but he could not. She

Lynne Connolly

66

was married, but she had come to some reconciliation with her present life. It would be unfair, as well as immoral, to present himself as a temptation she couldn’t have more than once a year. Nathaniel had seen where that led when his brother Vernon had approached the woman he’d fallen helplessly in love with. Had matters turned out differently, Vernon would have made two people desperately unhappy, not one. So Nathaniel knew the medium was either deluding herself, or she was deliberately playing up for the camera. He watched the nearest cameraman uncap his lens and lift his camera. Just in case, Nathaniel moved back, well behind Sylvie. The woman lifted arms clad in a pale blue jumper, and stretched out her fingers. “He is here!” she said dramatically. “He is sad, so sad.” Nathaniel remembered the last time he’d seen his brother. There had been nothing sad about him. “He regrets his action, even though his brother betrayed him. He says―“ she caught her breath in a dramatic little gasp “—he says there is great danger here for the present earl. The evil earl, Nathaniel, will wreak revenge for his premature death. He will cause the present earl’s death!” “What nonsense!” A cool, well modulated male voice cut across the medium’s slightly flat vowels. Nathaniel was close enough to see Sylvie’s shoulders tense slightly, but it was the only indication she gave of hearing the voice. Everyone else turned to see who had spoken. ***** “Hello, Nev. Nice of you to call on us.” Only when she’d spoken did she turn around. Sylvie hated it, but she still needed a moment to catch her breath before she looked at her handsome, faithless husband. She still had feelings for him, although for a long time she’d been battling against them. Ever since she’d found him in bed with two lively young women with more sense in their inflated breasts than they had in their heads. She could still see his faint, amused sneer at her shock. She’d see it to her dying day. Married on impulse, abandoned almost as quickly, Sylvie refused to play the part of the wronged wife, turning instead to Rustead Abbey to provide her raison d’etre and shrugging whenever a member of the press chose to inform her of her husband’s latest exploit. No one knew how much it still hurt, and no one ever would. Apart from the shadowy presence, she sometimes saw at night, and occasionally even spoke to in her mind. But he wasn’t going to tell. Everybody was watching them, so she put on her best supercilious veneer and said, “What, all alone? No little friends?” He shrugged. “Not today. Who gave permission for all this?” She lifted her chin. “I did. I have the right.” He turned, a haughty look adorning the clear features, the deep grey eyes cold. “Whatever got into me to marry a bloody Yank, I’ll never know. Media crazy, the lot of you.” How typical of him not to care who was listening! He didn’t care who he hurt. But that particular comment didn’t hurt her. It was too stupid. “From what I’ve seen the British aristocracy can give any American a run for his money. Lions, tigers, funfairs, you use every blade of grass to turn a profit.” He raised a dark eyebrow. “Some of us don’t need to.” “Others do.” If it hadn’t been for his ancestor’s judicious investments in London

Black Leather, White Lace

67

properties and the newly emerged railways, Nev would be in as tight a financial spot as his compatriots were. As it was, the estate and house were well funded, and Nev’s glamorous, dangerous job brought him enough to live on very comfortably. Sylvie took what she needed from the estate profits, paying herself a modest salary. She wouldn’t take a penny of his money, but as manager of the Rustead estate, she figured he owed her something. Nev smiled. “I never cared much for the old place. I didn’t spend much time here. You can do what you want.” He glanced around, taking in the two cameramen, the sound technicians, the tangle of cables on the floor, and the medium, who had miraculously come out of her trance so she could take in every inch of his finely toned body. His smile broadened when he passed on to the younger medium, now standing next to the producer. Jo Goodman was a well-groomed, well-shaped blonde, tits thrust out to meet all comers, her plunging top revealing a generous view of her Wonder bra’d cleavage. She smiled back, all gleaming teeth and steaming desire. Sylvie knew it when she saw it. She’d looked at Nev that way herself, once. Before she discovered just what a shit he really was. The producer walked forward, her high heels clicking on the tiled floor, her hand outstretched. “I’m Angela Murdoch, the producer of ‘Hosts to Ghosts.’ I’m so pleased to meet, you, er ― “ He wrenched his gaze away from the medium. “Nev,” he said hastily. “I don’t use the title.” “Yes, of course, Nev,” she crooned. Even practical Angela Murdoch wasn’t immune to Nev’s charm. It wouldn’t hurt so much to see women throw themselves at her husband if he didn’t take advantage of it, but Sylvie knew for sure Nev wouldn’t be alone tonight. Sheer hatred arced through her, hatred for herself that she should still care. He took Angela’s hand in both of his, caressing the smooth skin before he released it. “Perhaps it was worth dropping in, after all,” he murmured. The blonde medium hovered, smiling sweetly. People were staring at her, speculation, even sympathy in some gazes. She raised her brows slightly before turning away. “If you find yourself with a spare minute, Nev, I need a few signatures. I’ll be in the office.” She kept her walk steady and measured as she crossed the great expanse of the hall floor, very careful not to trip on any cables. They might assume the wrong thing if she stumbled. They might think she cared. ***** Her office was in the east wing, a long walk from the main hall. A walk Sylvie appreciated, as she could blink her stupid tears away and clear her mind. But once in the room, sitting at her desk with its view of the rolling green parkland, she found tears choking her once more. Groping for the box of tissues, she grabbed a couple and angrily dragged them across her face. She had put on make up in honor of the TV people and black mascara stained the tissues. She threw them away and grabbed more. Gently, my love, please don’t hurt yourself. The voice in her head again, a gentle, male voice. At first, she’d thought she was going mad, but now she didn’t care. At least she had company. Over time, the voice convinced her it was coming from outside her. He told her things she didn’t know, and once guided her to a cache of letters from a long-dead Countess of Rustead, a cache no one knew existed. She was writing the biography of the countess now. She had to believe in him. He was a person, with his own thoughts and

Lynne Connolly

68

emotions, totally outside her invention. “I’m sorry. He makes me so angry. People think he’s a hero, but he’s nothing of the kind. Nev is an adrenaline junkie, that’s all. And he loves the attention his job brings him. A war photographer gets to mix with serious people, but he doesn’t care about causes, where he is, or what it means. He takes pictures of starving Africans with the same expertise and emotion he uses for vicious terrorists.” Tears forgotten, Sylvie stared into space. “He has no heart. All he sees through his viewfinder are subjects, interesting compositions. God, he really has nothing inside.” Silence met her comments for a full minute. Then she heard the voice. I fear you are right. What will you do? Did she imagine the note of apprehension in the voice? “What is it, what’s wrong?” Another long pause followed, until he said, I don’t want you to leave here. If you divorce him, you will go away. “Not necessarily. I could stay on as manager here.” Would he do that? More importantly, do you want that? You are young, Sylvie, you should find happiness, and it won’t come here. We can never be anything to each other, other than friends. You know I love you, but we can never touch, never kiss. “You’d be alone.” She felt a pang of sadness for this being who couldn’t leave. He’d told her he couldn’t leave the house, and it was true that whenever she left she couldn’t hear him any more. She missed him when he wasn’t around. She knew she loved him, but he was right. There was nothing either of them could do about it. If only once, just once, she could touch him, look at him, share an evening with him the longing she felt might diminish. Or it might grow. How could she love a ghost, someone she hadn’t been sure existed when he first spoke to her? His voice came firmer, more decisive now. Forgive my moment of weakness. I’ve been alone for a long time, sweetheart, so, a little longer won’t hurt me. You mustn’t stop your life because of me. My life is over, you have most of yours before you. Besides, I have a companion. “Who?” “Talking to yourself?” She had been so engrossed in her conversation, she hadn’t noticed the door opening. Typical of Nev to come in without knocking. She stared at her handsome husband. Tall, dressed in tight, black leather pants and an equally tight black t-shirt, Nev Heath, otherwise Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington, Earl of Rustead, knew exactly how handsome he looked, and the effect his clothes and attitude had on the women he invited into his bed. Not to mention his job. Photojournalism had many admirers, especially when done with style. She steeled herself to face him. “It helps sometimes. Here.” She pushed a small stack of papers across the desk. “They’re all routine. You can read them if you want to. Sure you don’t want to give me power of attorney?” He laughed. “You’re joking. Nobody takes control away from me. Least of all you.” He gave her a look that said she meant nothing to him. Who would have thought he’d once looked at her with love and warmth, had told her nobody else meant anything to him? Sylvie castigated herself every day for letting Nev take her in, but never more than on his rare visits. She took a deep breath, careful not to let it show. “How about we divorce and I stay on as a salaried manager here? It won’t cost you any more than you’re paying me already.” He laughed in her face. “If you want a divorce, you’ll have to do it yourself, baby.”

Black Leather, White Lace

69

He sneered the endearment, turned it into an insult. “I won’t do it. You’re too convenient for me. They all know I’m not available. Saves all that tedious hanging on.” “Why did you marry me in the first place?” She hadn’t meant to ask, and she could have kicked herself once the question left her mouth. It made her sound so needy. “Because I was in love with you.” A mocking smile curled the corner of his mouth. “The trouble is, I’m never in love with anyone for very long. I get restless. We married in three weeks, and had a good month before I went away. It was good, wasn’t it, while it lasted?” He shoved his hands in his pockets and strolled to the window, staring out at the green peace beyond. “I don’t seem to be able to keep an interest in anything for long. I’m even bored with the photography.” He swung around to face her walking back to the desk. “I’m going to try a few society pictures for a while. It pays well, and I should get my name around. Earn something before I decide to move on to something else.” He picked up the pen and scrawled his signature on the papers. “Like what?” “How do I know?” He lifted his hand and shoved it through his thick, dark hair. It was longer than usual, the ends touching his shoulders. “God, Sylvie, I keep hoping someday I’ll meet someone who will make all the difference, or find something I can get really involved in! I thought it was you.” He spun around to face her, an expression she had never seen before on his features. It looked like distress, completely overlying his customary self satisfied expression, but it was so foreign to him she couldn’t really be sure. “I really thought it was you,” he said in a gentler tone. He came across to her and reached for her hand. “I never mean to hurt people. I just do it, without thinking.” He gazed at her, his grey eyes soft. “You know why I came. The family needs an heir. We agreed, didn’t we? I’ll give you the heir you want.” “I’ve changed my mind.” What she’d seen in the hall earlier had turned her off the idea. What made her think she could couple with this man with only the thought of making another earl? Once he got her into his bed God knew how she’d manage to lock him out of her mind again. It was hard enough the first time. She might know what a shit existed inside that delectable body. For he was still possessed of a delectable body, the muscles firm and well defined, the skin achingly touchable. “Why?” “Because you want Jo Goodson. It was bad enough having the media come to me every time you took somebody new to bed, but not in this house, not while I’m here!” She lifted her head and met his gaze. “I can’t do it, Nev. I’m not that promiscuous.” A sybaritic smile curled his lips. “Are you sure? Jo won’t mind sharing. She wants exclusive use of me, but she’ll do what I want, if I ask her.” “Bastard!” The smile broadened. “You’d enjoy it, Sylvie. If you once took that poker out of your ass you might enjoy life more.” She’d heard that before. It wasn’t in her nature to share the man she loved with anyone. The man she had once loved. It was enough. It was true she’d half heartedly agreed to let him come back to her bed, just to see if they could make a child. The earldom needed an heir, and she longed for a child. Her biological clock had begun its fateful countdown. But it wasn’t enough. She couldn’t live with this any longer. “I want a divorce, Nev.” He lost the smile. “Sylvie, you don’t really want a divorce, do you?”

Lynne Connolly

70

Pain twisted inside her. Sylvie sprang to her feet, pushing him away, making him stumble. “It’s a game to you, isn’t it? You don’t care who you hurt, what you say just as long as you get your own way.” She stared at him, wondering how she could have ever allowed him in. The only thing that would wrench her heart now was leaving Rustead Abbey, but now she could bear that, too. “Forget it, Nev. I’m leaving you, leaving this, just —leaving.” “Without giving any notice?” God help her, he still thought this was funny. She heard the amusement in his voice. Her anger would only provide him with a few moments’ entertainment. She had to leave this place, put this terrible experience behind her. “Without any notice. Nothing. The place will run itself until you find someone else. But you’ll have to find her, Nev. I’m done here.” She turned to leave but he was too fast for her. With a mouthful of expletives proving he’d spent too much time around soldiers, he slammed out the door, with a final, “I’ll believe it when I see it!” ***** “My friend, they all leave, you know that.” Nathaniel nodded. He knew. But he felt heartsick, watching Sylvie packing to leave. “Is this different?” Nathaniel nodded again. Drawing on his considerable resources, he smoothed his features and stood up straight. “This one is special. It sounds foolish, but I love her. I love her very much.” “You loved before.” He waved an ethereal hand. “That was different. I knew that was wrong from the start. I couldn’t have her under any circumstances, and it made my resolve easier, somehow. This one, this one is different. If I were corporeal, there would be no reason why I shouldn’t pursue her. One thing, just one little thing.” “Not so little.” The monk’s voice was deep and strong, but Nathaniel was the only person who could hear it. “No. I know.” He swallowed. It was everything. “I brought this on myself. Perhaps it’s fate, coming back to claim me. Perhaps, at last, I’ll be allowed to move on.” The monk lifted his head as though listening. His hood fell back on to his shoulders, and his keen, eagle-eyed features came into sharp focus from the light streaming through the window. Winter sunshine seemed much more accurate, picking out the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, the furrows etched into his forehead. Nathaniel watched Sylvie fold a sheer nightdress, and his mouth watered. He was a gentleman; he had never allowed himself the luxury of spying on her, but sometimes it had been hard. Especially when she flourished garments like that. He looked away, back to the monk. Eventually, after what seemed like an age, Brother Anselm turned his head and looked directly into Nathaniel’s eyes. His own were dark, and sharp enough to miss nothing. “There is a way,” he said. A chill went right through Nathaniel. Brother Anselm had said the same thing once before, on the day Vernon had left them to find his destiny and the love of a lifetime.

Black Leather, White Lace

71

Could it be the same for him? He waited, watching Brother Anselm gather his thoughts, and come to a decision. “The earl is about to die.” “How?” The monk tucked his hand into his wide sleeve in a characteristic gesture. “He is riding his motor bike. It will overturn and throw him off.” “A tragedy. There is no heir.” A sharp pain, almost a physical one, pierced his throat. Sylvie! How would she cope? She had seen her husband off with sharp words, and Nathaniel knew she would regret it for the rest of her life, even though it wasn’t her fault. Perhaps she would decide to stay now. He could hope. It was a blow, nevertheless, to realize the earldom would die today. Part of him would die, too. He turned to Brother Anselm with eagerness. “Is this the end? Will I pass on with the earldom?” Brother Anselm sighed. “No. It is not enough. You must atone for your sins.” He paused. “I believe there is a way.” If he’d had corporeal form, Nathaniel would have taken the brother’s shoulders and shook him. “Tell me!” In all the years he’d languished here, Nathaniel had never shown impatience before. What would be the point? But now–now there might be a chance. He could move on. He had been too long in this place, far too long in this time. He turned and watched Sylvie, the clean line of her cheek, the gentle curves of her body, and a pang of regret shot through him at the thought of leaving her. “You may take the earl’s place.” “What?” The word came out in a hoarse croak. He whipped his head around to study the monk. It could not be possible, surely? It had happened before, to his brother, but only at a great cost and in particular circumstances. Nathaniel knew his sins, but they couldn’t be changed now. He had killed his brother, as his brother had killed him. Pride had forced him to join the Parliamentarians, not principle. How could he redeem these things? Brother Anselm spoke in measured, deliberate tones and Nathaniel listened carefully. “There is unfinished business. The earl should not have died today. I cannot explain, I only know. And I know you have this chance.” Nathaniel frowned. “Explain yourself.” “I cannot, I know no more. There is something on the mortal plane left undone, something that needs to be completed. If you do not, the earl will appear in this plane, with us, in a few days’ time.” Another companion! But Nathaniel hated the present earl for what he had done to the woman he loved. He couldn’t bear the thought of living with him for eternity. “You have a week to try to complete the cycle, and if you do, you will both pass on to your heavenly reward.” “Why can’t you go too?” Brother Anselm’s expression twisted in grief and agony. “It is not my story. I doubt I will be allowed to go now. I don’t know how my story will be resolved.” “Would it not help to tell me, to share your story? You know by now I can keep my own counsel.” Nathaniel longed to help the grief stricken religious man. He prayed every day, but his prayers were not answered, but his faith had remained as firm as it ever was. Nathaniel envied Brother Anselm’s certainty. His had gone long ago.

Lynne Connolly

72

“It would only double the burden. But you have a chance. You may go on, and that may help to atone my sins. If I help you, and this earl, it might just be enough.” “So I will be helping you, as well?” The monk nodded. “If you wish it. I will not condemn you if you refuse the challenge.” Nathaniel turned away, biting his lip. “But it’s so vague!” he burst out, turning back, twisting on his heels. “I know. I am telling you all I know, all I am allowed to understand. Finish the cycle.” Nathaniel stared at him. “Is there any penalty?” “Only that if you fail, we remain here with one more companion.” Punishment enough. The fickle, tortured, selfish Nev Heath would make their existence more miserable than it was already. At least they had achieved a kind of peace, this last century, despite the turmoil going on in the world beyond. “I swear this is all I know. You must enter the body for a week, and leave it on the dawn of Christmas Day.” “What then?” The monk frowned. “I do not know. I have told you everything, I swear it. We are in limbo here, neither one thing nor the other. I know you wish to go, as do I. If you succeed in your task, I believe you will be allowed your wish. I envy you.” Nathaniel smiled. “Isn’t that a sin?” The monk’s mouth twitched, almost breaking into a smile. “If it is, I shall do penance. It would be a worse sin to deny I felt anything. That would be a lie.” “If I don’t accept this challenge?” All trace of humor fled. “Then evil will have the victory.” “It seems I have no choice.”

Black Leather, White Lace

73

Chapter Two

Sylvie lifted her pen to sign the letter to the contractors. There was always work to be done on the estate, and this time it was the drive, due to be resurfaced in the spring. She sighed, mentally calculating how much money she would have to raise, when a muffled sound made her lift her head. She listened, but there was nothing more. Probably just a noise from the people upstairs. She was about to turn back to her work when she caught a movement out of the corner of her eye. She looked up. And caught her breath. A shadowy shape stood by the bookcase on the other side of the room. It was as tall as a man, but shapeless, as though covered by a mantle of some sort, like a monk’s habit. A ghost. She felt no fear. Was this the owner of her voice, the man who had become her friend in the past few years? Or was she going completely mad? The fine hairs at her nape prickled, and goosebumps rose on her skin, despite the warmth of the fire crackling in the grate. A voice, a whisper, shushed in the still air, the sibilants unnaturally emphasized. “You must go to him.” The sound slid across her sensitized skin, raising the hairs on her neck. “Who? Go to who?” “Walk up the drive towards the gate. You will see.” The vision slowly melted away. A trick of the light, or her tired brain playing tricks on her. She was almost sure. What harm would there be in making sure of it? A walk in the fresh air would be welcome, in any case. She pushed back her chair, walked over to the door and grabbed the jacket hanging from the hook. Shrugging into the fake fur lined denim, she left the office and locked it, pocketing the key. The papers inside were boring, but confidential, and she would give nobody any opportunity to call her careless or inefficient. Her heart lifted when she let herself out of a side door, and strode into the crisp, clean air. Time to walk, time to think. She was leaving the place she loved, but putting a miserable marriage behind her. It was Christmas in a week’s time, so she would leave afterwards. Start the New Year in a new place, with a real future. She owed it to herself. Although she would be here for a week or so yet, she felt free already. The decision had freed her, and she could think of the future. With her experience of managing a large estate and house, packed with valuable antiques, she could find a job with one of the large agencies, the National Trust or English Heritage. It might be fun. Walk up the drive, the apparition had said. She grimaced. Was she completely mad? Well, it didn’t matter where she walked; the air was much the same everywhere. The drive curved in a picturesque sweep, designed so that about half a mile out,

Lynne Connolly

74

anyone approaching got their first, spectacular view of the Abbey. Unfortunately, that meant the drive was uphill, but it was a gentle slope, and Sylvie ran up it every morning when she exercised, so she hardly noticed it now. She hadn’t expected to run today, but when she turned the corner, she broke into a fast sprint. A short distance away, a motor bike lay on to its side, its wheels still spinning in the unnaturally still air. Closer still, she could see over the bulky vehicle to the body lying supine beyond. Nev! Oh God, Nev! Forgetting everything except the scene before her, Sylvie leapt over the machine and knelt next to Nev. No blood. That was the first thing. His eyes were closed, his helmet fastened tightly under his chin. He wore the heavy leather suit made for cycle riding, padded at elbows, knees and shoulders. Hopefully that had helped reduce the severity of any injury. Trying desperately to recall the first aid she had learned so long ago. What was it– yes! ABC–Airways, Breathing, Circulation. Chanting the trilogy under her breath like an incantation, she leaned over him, placing her cheek next to his mouth. A puff of warm air rewarded her. He was breathing, he was alive! Desperately fighting to control her panicked response, Sylvie sat back on her heels and took a couple of deep breaths. She mustn’t take his helmet off, because of the dangers of head injuries. His arms and legs splayed out, but they didn’t seem to be in an unnatural position. She breathed out in relief. Dear God, had he got away with this as well as all the other close calls in his life? Nev had followed the troops into Afghanistan, Baghdad and Jerusalem, and come out without a scratch. To die here, on his own estate, would be an irony not lost on the media. But he was breathing, he didn’t seem to have any broken bones. He’d done it again. Sylvie didn’t know whether to be glad or disgusted by him pulling off another narrow escape. She reached into her jeans pocket for her mobile phone. After the call, she felt better, more in control. The ambulance was on its way. All she had to do now was wait. She examined Nev more closely for non life threatening injuries. There were no obvious signs of injury, but his eyes were still closed and his breathing shallow. There was something wrong, though, she felt it. She glanced at the bike, Nev’s pride and joy, and her breath caught. Her pace quickened, and she reached out to snag the gleaming thread on the ground. A fine, nylon thread, glistening in the winter sun, a fishing line perhaps. She pulled it between her fingers to test it, and cut her forefinger slightly when it didn’t break. A very strong thread. Her heart missed a beat. This was no accident. Someone had pulled the thread tight across the road, too fine to be noticed by a speeding motorcyclist. Someone wanted to kill Nev. Her throat tightened, and she found it hard to breathe. By the time her heart had regained its usual rhythm, the ambulance had arrived and Sylvie was relieved to watch the paramedics to take over. She’d cut the thread from the tree and shoved it in her pocket. She would tell the police, but there was no sign of the local force yet, and if she left the thread, she was afraid whoever put it there would return and remove it. Then there wouldn’t be any evidence it was anything but an accident.

Black Leather, White Lace

75

The paramedic went completely still. “Nev Heath,” she breathed, before she went back into action. Nev always had that reaction on people, awake or asleep, mesmerizing them for a moment, giving him a split second’s advantage on them. After a brief check of his limbs, they strapped him on to a board and loaded him into the ambulance, careful not to move his head and neck more than they had to. Sylvie held back, not knowing what to do, but the medic had recognized her, too. “You’d better come too, my lady.” It took her a moment to realize they were talking to her. “What? Oh–yes, yes.” Sitting in the ambulance next to her unconscious husband, Sylvie felt heat surge through her veins. Anger simmered inside her, but this time totally unwarranted. Still, she felt it. How could he? She had so nearly gotten away this time! She’d tried before, but Nev had always drawn her back with promises of fidelity and even more control over the house she loved. It was as though he’d come off his bike on purpose. She couldn’t walk out on him now, the press would have a field day, and her conscience wouldn’t let her go. Not until she knew how he was, if he’d survive. Besides, this was attempted murder, and she couldn’t walk away from it. Silently, she prayed. Let him be all right. Please let him be all right. Her mind went back to the brief time after they married when everything had seemed right. He’d been charming, loving, completely devoted to her, for about three weeks, until the next project had emerged, the next passion. She suspected he had some kind of disorder, but he was happy with it, he didn’t want to change. She’d wasted enough time on him, but now, if he was seriously injured, it would get worse. Sylvie hadn’t realized the ambulance had its siren going until they reached the hospital, and dimly recognized her reaction as shock. Slowly, the world came back into focus, but the anger simmered deep inside. He’d done it again. He’d won again. ***** Groaning, Nathaniel came awake. Pain assaulted him all over his body, something he hadn’t felt in centuries. He almost welcomed it. Almost. Keeping his eyes firmly closed, he let his surroundings slowly seep through his being. Smell came first, an unpleasant smell, strong, tangy and metallic. He hadn’t smelled anything similar before. He winced, happy if he never smelled such a stench again. But there was something else, a floral perfume, much more pleasant. Eau de cologne. He opened his eyes and blinked at the bright light directly overhead. He was lying down, between cool, clean sheets, in a room he’d never seen before, and he knew every room in the Abbey intimately. The transformation had worked. He could feel, really feel. He’d missed that so much, the everyday tactile sensations he’d taken for granted while he’d been alive. Well now he was alive again, if only for a few days. “Hello.” He knew the voice, soft and feminine, with a delicious American edge. “Good– hello,” he corrected himself from using the old form of greeting. He knew perfectly well what had happened, at least if it had been as Brother Anselm had told him, but he said what he was supposed to say. “What happened?”

Lynne Connolly

76

“You had a bike accident. You’re in hospital, but they say you should be fine. A few bruises, that’s all. One of the doctors said it was a miracle. You hit your head so hard you should have died.” She didn’t sound sorry. Nathaniel couldn’t blame her, but he would have given anything for it to be otherwise. “Can I go now?” “After you’ve had one more test. They want to give you another CT scan to make sure your head’s all right. The first scan was quick, and you were unconscious. They want you awake this time.” “How long will it take?” “Not long. They’ll take you down soon.” He bit his lip. It had better not take long, he hadn’t much time. Cautiously, he moved his limbs. They felt fine. He moved his feet, enjoying the sensation of toes against freshly laundered cotton. “Was I unconscious for long?” “Overnight. The blow to your head knocked you out. I’ve been home and changed. I’ve brought you some clothes. They had to cut the ones you were wearing off you.” When he tried to turn his head, he found they had strapped him down in some kind of harness so he couldn’t move. “Can you come here, where I can see you?” He heard her stand up and move across to where he lay. No rustling of petticoats, or tap of heels on the floor, such as he would have expected from the women of his time, just a gentle susurration of cloth. Taking a deep breath, Nathaniel closed his eyes and opened them again. And she was there. The woman he loved. He could see her, he could smell her. Nothing between them, no gauzy veil of ectoplasm, no barrier of any kind. If he wanted to, he could reach out and touch her, really touch her, and not watch his fingers pass through her. She smelled like flowers, with a subtle undercurrent that was pure woman. And she looked like heaven. As he watched, a pink flush spread over her cheeks. “What are you looking at?” she demanded, her voice huskier than usual. He told her the simple truth. “You. I will never get enough of looking at you.” Even her frown was attractive to him. “Don’t be an idiot, Nev. I’m staying here until you’re well, but then I’m going. It’s over, just like I told you earlier.” Now it was his turn to frown. “Did he upset you again?” Her frown deepened, but this time into puzzlement. “What are you talking about?” She bent down, and he felt her breath on his face. “There’s something wrong with your eyes.” “What? I can see you, and that’s all I need.” She drew back, straightening up. “Don’t do this, Nev. It worked once, but I’m not completely stupid. It won’t work again.” He ignored her comment. “What about my eyes?” “Nothing. It’s probably the light in here. Are you wearing contacts?” “What are they? As far as I know all I have on is this tasteless hospital gown.” He knew what it was; he could feel the slick surface. One of the cleaners at the Abbey loved hospital dramas and as a result, he’d seen quite a few. He cursed inwardly. She meant contact lenses. Why should she think that? The frown returned. “What are you talking about?” She studied him closely, and he lay quietly, enjoying the sensation of her attention. After a moment, her face cleared. “Oh, you were hit on the head. I suppose you’ll be shaky for a while, although they say if you do have concussion, it’s very mild.”

Black Leather, White Lace

77

She bit her lip. “Your bike was very badly damaged, you know.” “Was it?” He didn’t care, and she frowned again. Nev must have loved his bikes. Well he wasn’t Nev, and he didn’t particularly want Sylvie to think he was. It didn’t matter. If he could get her on his side, he might be able to achieve his objective easier. But telling her would be difficult. Her thoughts were interrupted when the nurse came in to take him down for his CT scan. He reached out his hand and to his relief Sylvie took it, walking by the side of the trolley where he could see her. They pushed through a set of double doors and then Nathaniel saw it and remembered what a CT scan was. The gleaming white machine waited to take him. He couldn’t do it. He was in Nev’s body, so there wouldn’t be any differences for them to see, but it wasn’t that. There was a word for the way he was feeling, but he couldn’t remember what it was. Panicked, for sure. Scared, almost witless. His throat dried to the consistency of a prune. “Don’t put me in that thing,” he said, very quietly. The nurse leaning over him gave him a reassuring smile. “It won’t hurt. Just a few minutes.” “No,” he croaked. “I can’t go in there.” Presumably, he wasn’t the first patient to have this reaction, because the nurse glanced away to someone behind him. A male voice answered her. “We could give him a mild sedative.” “Get me out of here. I won’t go in there.” “Mr—my lord―” came the quick correction–“With your injuries it would be highly advisable to allow us to do a scan. We need to know what is happening, and if we find it now, we can most likely correct it. Leave it and it might be too late.” Very soon, it will all be too late, Nathaniel thought, grimly, and realized it didn’t matter. It would probably be the cause of the earl’s death on Christmas day, a death Brother Anselm seemed to think was inevitable. Nathaniel had no reason to doubt the monk. He would have to remind himself constantly of this, especially when faced with his greatest temptation–Sylvie. Nathaniel lifted his hands up to his head and fumbled with the fastenings, but a nurse quickly moved to stop him, putting warm hands over his. He growled. “No. I can’t go into that machine.” “We could sedate you—“ someone began. “No.” If they sedated him, he would waste even more time. He needed to be awake and alert, to do the job he’d been sent here for. “Give me some pills to take home with me.” He had no intention of taking them. “Nev― “ Sylvie’s voice trailed off. “Get me out of this thing. I won’t go in there and that’s final.” They moved the trolley towards the tunnel and he felt the sweat break out on his forehead. Sheer panic seized him, unreasoning and unreasonable. “Nev?” This time she sounded bewildered and lost. Nathaniel fought with the straps holding his head steady. It was no good, he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t do it unless he was stupid with drugs, and they would take too long to clear from his head. After a shocked silence, a male nurse came forward and began to rip off the straps,

Lynne Connolly

78

which weren’t buckled, as he’d thought, but pressed in some kind of velvet set-up. Once he realized it was easy, he ripped the straps from the rest of his body and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the trolley. “Get me out of here.” ***** After an hour of arguing and signing forms, he was out. Sylvie had brought him some clothes, a pair of jeans and a t-shirt in some wonderfully soft, finely knitted material, and a denim jacket. The zip fascinated him. He’d seen it in use, of course, but never had a chance to use it himself. Later he would give himself the pleasure of examining it closer. Mechanical objects had always fascinated him. With the threat of the CT scan behind him, Nathaniel’s confidence grew, and every step he took away from the building added to his feeling. Just as they left the front door, a flash blinded him and something was shoved in his face. “How are you now, Nev?” Sylvie only just stopped him lashing out, grabbing his forearm as he moved. Still blinking, he stared at the small woman with the microphone. He was too dazzled to read the label attached to it. “Fine,” he growled, and moved on. “Only the local press,” Sylvie murmured, running to catch up with him. “But they can be worse than the nationals.” “I wouldn’t know,” he said, before realizing yes, he would know. Photojournalists knew all about the press. Damn! She took him to her car, a Japanese SUV. He climbed in the passenger seat, wondering if Nev Heath was macho, or stupid enough, to insist on driving, and deciding he didn’t care. They drove back to the Abbey in silence, until he saw the tip of the North Tower above the high hedge separating the estate from the road. It had been literally centuries since he’d had this view of his home, and nothing much had changed. The road was a better, smoother one, but the trees and the hedges looked the same. They’d passed some of the landmarks he remembered. The old Norman church was still in the village they passed through, the same sheep, or their descendants, grazed in the fields and the rickety farm still seemed as though it was on the verge of tumbling down. He became aware Sylvie was slowing down. She pulled the car in to the side of the road and cut the engine. “Now,” she said, turning in her seat to face him. “Perhaps you’ll tell me who you really are?

Black Leather, White Lace

79

Chapter Three

Sylvie studied the man claiming to be her husband. He looked like Nev, but he used his body differently, in subtle ways she couldn’t have explained but she knew, as sure as she knew her own name this wasn’t the man she’d married. His clear, blue eyes widened, then his gaze settled on her. “Tell me how you knew.” It was true, then. She hadn’t believed it when she first suspected, but she had to challenge him, otherwise she would wonder for the rest of her life. She looked him straight in the eye. “Your eyes are blue. Nev’s are grey. No amount of bangs on the head are going to make your eyes change color. That’s why I asked you about contacts. If you were wearing them, you should have taken them out and if you weren’t–well, the possibility was unbelievable. I didn’t know if I was seeing things, but then your reactions were all wrong. Nev gets defensive and angry if I try to get too close. He does it with everyone. You didn’t do that.” She paused. “There are other things, too. The only things in the world Nev truly loves are his motor bikes and his cameras. You weren’t worried the bike was badly damaged, and you didn’t even ask about your cameras. They were destroyed in the accident, by the way.” She studied him, biting her lip in a gesture Nathaniel knew was instinctive to her. “You touched me. You touched my hand, and when you did, I felt something–this is going to sound stupid, but you felt different.” He smiled and reached for her hand again, taking it gently and turning it palm up in his. Sylvie felt it again, that difference, that connection. Her very skin tingled at his touch. He spoke gently, staring at the lines on her palm. “No, it doesn’t sound stupid. You know me, Sylvie. You’ve been talking to me for the past six years.” A violent shock of recognition almost paralyzed her senses. She knew the voice. It was the same as Nev’s, but a little lower, and softer. “I’m going mad,” she murmured. She daren’t move, daren’t even move her hand in case something shattered. She felt like a piece of fragile eggshell, afraid to move, in case this all shattered away before her. “No, you’re not mad.” When he lifted his face and met her eyes again, she knew. She just knew. “You never gave me a name.” “Nathaniel Heatherington, fourth Earl of Rustead. Usually called ‘Rustead’ or ‘Captain Heatherington.’ By the time I inherited the title, I wasn’t an army captain any more.” She watched him, recognition sparking slowly in her mind. He waited for her. “The Roundhead earl!” “You know I’m telling the truth.” Reaction rushed in on her, like a freight train at high speed. Incredulity and belief warred within her. Every instinct assured her he was telling the truth, but her reason and logic told her it couldn’t possibly be true. He was talking. She must listen. With her hand still lying in his, she heard him tell her. Nev was dead, and wouldn’t

Lynne Connolly

80

return. This was a usurper–that was what he said, a usurper–come to take Nev’s place until Christmas Day. “I know I’m here to do something,” he continued. “The trouble is, I don’t know what it is.” Realization came in a rush. “I might know.” Before she could persuade herself she was mad, she carried on. “You–Nev–were murdered.” His dark brows lifted, but he said nothing, his expression encouraging her to continue. “I found a line strung across the road, as though someone had deliberately intended to cause the accident. The trouble is, I lost the line.” Tears of frustration burned in her eyes when she remembered her abortive interview with the police last night, but she blinked them away. “I shoved it in my pocket, and then I must have lost it somehow, because when I looked for it, it had gone. I didn’t want to leave it, because it was the only evidence there was. And the murderer would be bound to come back to retrieve it. I’m sorry, I should have left it. The police said they’d look at the tree and the bike, but they think I’m making it up, I know they are.” She gestured vaguely, a sure sign she was distressed. She always waved her hands about when she was upset. “They gave me the ‘There, there, dear, here’s a nice cup of tea’ approach. I wanted to hit them, but that wouldn’t have helped.” He covered her hand with his, stilling their restless movements. “I believe you.” He smiled, and she forced a shaky smile in return. “You do?” “Of course I do. I was sent here to right some wrong. It all makes sense. I have to find who tried to murder Nev Heath.” A tremble quivered through her, then another. Overwhelmed, she wanted to turn away, lock herself in her office until things made sense. She couldn’t stay here or she’d fall apart. Sylvie pulled herself together with a mental snap. She would cope, she always did. This wasn’t Nev, she knew it wasn’t, so what he was saying must be the truth. He was Nev right down to the eyes, and they were the eyes of a man in a portrait, a man she’d thought she’d studied because the painting was by a famous artist. Except it had been the sitter, not the artist, who had fascinated her. His eyes always drew her, his careless, elegant stance and the vulnerability the artist had drawn in every line. She’d always wondered why he’d seemed so damaged, so hurt. Now she could ask him, if she wanted to. Once, she’d touched the painting, something strictly forbidden by the conservators who worked on the paintings at the Abbey, and felt deliciously guilty for doing so. But all she’d felt was shiny, hard oil paint. Not the human flesh she’d half expected to touch. Yearned to touch. “If I discover the murderer, and bring him or her to justice, I can move on,” he told her quietly. Move on! He made it sound so prosaic when her heart sank a the thought. She had just found him, and she would have to pretend to be glad when he ‘moved on,’ for his sake. “I’ve been here for far too long. I repented my sins long ago, almost as soon as I made them. My brother passed on and now I’m alone, apart from Brother Anselm. Sylvie will you help me? Do you believe me? I will die on Christmas Day, no doubt from this head injury, and you will be a widow. That might be easier for you, but it would be so much better if I had at least one ally. Will you help me?” He bit his lip and just for a moment she saw something in his eyes that looked like regret. So he wasn’t so eager to leave as his speech made him sound. God knew she didn’t want him to go. Not until she’d

Black Leather, White Lace

81

had a chance to talk with him, touch him, really get to know him. “Were you really scared of the CT machine?” she demanded abruptly, her mind leaping from fact to fact, wildly trying to make sense of the whole. His smile was wholly adorable, totally not Nev. “Terrified. I couldn’t bear the thought of it, and I knew the reality would kill me. I never liked enclosed spaces.” She regarded him steadily. “Nev used to enjoy speleology.” She watched Nathaniel shudder at the reminder of the narrow passages every pot-holer and caver welcomed. She was right, she knew it. This man was not Nev, however much he might look like him. She responded to the way he stroked her palm with his thumb in a totally physical way. Her body yearned for him, needed his closeness, his caresses. She’d gotten over that a long time ago with Nev. This man was someone new, but someone she had known for a long time. She had to believe him. Either that or go mad. “You don’t have to persuade me any more about who you are,” she said. “I know. I knew almost from when I found you in the road, I think. I just didn’t want to believe it. What do you want me to do?” His smile spread across his face, warming her heart. “Do you know how much that means to me? No, don’t answer, I can see it in your face.” He lifted her hand and kissed her palm, lingering to touch it with his tongue, afterwards folding her fingers over the damp patch before carefully putting her hand on top of her thigh and immediately moving away. “Yes, I need help. If I find the killer, the sinner, and put whoever it is out of commission, I get to move on. It must be the deal. I don’t know what comes next, only that my natural progression was stopped by my sins, and I need to do something to atone for them.” She frowned. “It’s all very medieval, isn’t it?” He chuckled. “Yes, it is. The man who told me all this is a medieval monk, so it’s only to be expected. Perhaps if someone else had told me, it might have been expressed differently. Adjusting the balance, keeping the timeline straight, something like that.” She laughed with him. “Yes, I take your point. But if you catch this person, you die. It doesn’t seem like a reward to me.” His smile faded. “It would if you had existed beyond your natural term, if all you could do was watch, if your time had gone. It’s over for me.” “That’s so sad.” She blinked the tears away, feeling more for him than she had for her husband in years. This man wasn’t a stranger. He was her comfort and her solace. And he was about to leave her. His smile was far more intimate than she liked, nudging aside her defenses as though they didn’t exist. He was leaving. It would already hurt her when he–left, but if she allowed herself to care even more for him, she might never recover from the blow. She was afraid. She’d been hurt so much, and now she was ready to re-enter life on her own account, she couldn’t let herself be hurt again. “I can still read minds if I want to. I have some of my powers, if you can call them such.” “Can’t you stay longer?” She wanted to get to know this fascinating man, now she could see him, touch him. He even felt different to Nev, which was strange, because he was occupying the same body. “No. Every year I had the power to materialize on the day I died, which in my case was Christmas Eve. I haven’t bothered, not for years. It seemed–inappropriate while you were married.”

Lynne Connolly

82

“Why?” Her voice was throaty. She couldn’t think straight, because a blast of pure passion had invaded her mind, and she wasn’t sure if it was his–or hers. “I want to do things with you that aren’t appropriate to a married woman.” He gave a harsh laugh and turned his head to stare in front of him at the bright day beyond the car window. “They would hardly be appropriate now.” If he was staying, they would be. She wanted him to stay with all her heart. She wanted to get to know him, to allow herself to let their friendship blossom, to give physical expression to the incredible sensations he gave her when they touched. She wanted to make love with him. Sylvie studied Nathaniel’s face, determined and sure, his lips firmed tightly, and she remembered what and who he had been. A Roundhead, a man bound by duty, someone who had rejected the life of privilege he’d been born into to follow his principles and support the side that could have destroyed his class, his way of life. Because he believed in democracy, and the right of every man to make his own decisions. She’d spent hours poring over the letters he’d sent home. Precious few of them, but she knew them all. Sylvie started up the car and took him home.

Black Leather, White Lace

83

Chapter Four

Sylvie was mildly surprised to see Nathaniel eat breakfast. The larger family dining room echoed with the cacophony of the TV people but when she first entered, Sylvie’s gaze went to her ‘husband.’ And his attention went straight from the woman at his side to her. They exchanged a wordless but intimate greeting, and he turned back to the woman, one of the two mediums who appeared regularly on ‘Hosts to Ghosts.’ It seemed inevitable that once she had collected a coffee from the side buffet, she would join him. The chair next to him wasn’t vacant, but she could sit opposite him. Nev would have ignored her, or turned to sneer. Nathaniel smiled, a small movement showed he was going to stand up, but she frowned and he stayed in his seat. She tried an innocuous conversational gambit. “I hope you slept well.” He turned it into something far from innocuous. “I would have slept better with you.” Conversation stilled. Everyone knew Sylvie and Nev were estranged, but nobody would have known it from the blushing smile she gave him, and his warm one in response. She couldn’t even pretend to hate him. He wouldn’t give her a chance. “You needed a good night’s rest. I–couldn’t.” He seemed to remember his role. “Perhaps not.” His smile turned smooth and cold, but at the same time, she heard in her head, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that, but it slipped out. I wanted to continue the charade, but I looked at you and I was lost. You shouldn’t. I won’t. She wasn’t entirely sure what he meant, but he left her in peace when he turned back to the medium. Jo Goodson was young, pretty, and very aware of her new status as TV medium. Even now, at breakfast, she was dressed and groomed perfectly. Of course, that could be merely self respect, but Sylvie doubted it. She had been watching Jo for a couple of days now, and she never did anything without a purpose. It was obvious she wanted Nathaniel–or Nev. She’d probably already snared him, or thought she had. The surge of jealousy pulsing through her at the thought surprised Sylvie. After the first agony of losing him, she had deliberately set herself to ignore Nev’s frequent and public infidelities. It was easier to pretend to the “open marriage” he claimed theirs was to anyone who asked. Easier to refuse the offers she received, not wanting to descend to his level, to make his lie a reality. Almost immediately she felt him in her mind, his presence a soothing, wordless peace. She was used to the voice in her mind, but far from used to seeing him, calmly eating a plateful of bacon and eggs, and listening to the young woman at his side. She finished her toast and coffee, and watched the flirting. I need to know who is trying to kill your husband. The voice, clearer than it had ever been. I must be very public, very obvious. But I promise you, Sylvie, I won’t make you ashamed.

Lynne Connolly

84

She began to deny the feeling when she realized. This man–this man–had been privy to all her inner thoughts and feelings. He knew the devastation she’d felt when she realized Nev wasn’t going to give up his little pleasures, he had comforted her then, and applauded her determination to get on with her life on her terms. Instead, she left the table when she saw the program’s producer beckon to her. It was her time on screen this morning. An hour later, primped, every hair in place in the smoothly coiled French pleat, dressed in one of her designer suits, Sylvie stepped out in front of the camera and began to read the autocue. She knew without searching for him that Nathaniel was there. Her gaze went to him as though he were a magnet and she was an iron filing. He stood by one of the long windows, opposite the portrait of his brother, watching her gravely. She began the speech. “In the early seventeenth century, the Heatheringtons consisted of three brothers, one only a child, the other two adults. Vernon, the eldest at thirty-four was the third earl, and his brother, Nathaniel, was two years younger. Nathaniel held a seat in the House of Commons and Vernon lived the life of luxury at Court.” She felt, rather than heard, Nathaniel’s mirthless laugh. “However, Nathaniel became fired by the new thinking in Parliament, and he left the family home and rejected his heritage, becoming a Roundhead.” She saw his wince. “Vernon did his best to support the King in the coming conflict, but when it became obvious they would lose, Nathaniel came home, claiming the estate for Parliament. The brothers fought, and Nathaniel killed Vernon.” She turned away, overwhelmed by the grief filling the gallery, the feeling of desolation sinking into her soul. At the same time, both mediums sprang forward to stand before the camera. The eldest, today wearing a flowery dress that seemed incongruous in this terrible place, lifted her hands and her head, her eyes half closed as she absorbed the energy. Her colleague spoke to the camera, her face serious, but tilted just at the right angle for the lights. “We can feel an energy. Doris is communing with the spirits, and I am trying to contact them.” She closed her eyes, then blinked them wide open. “Nathaniel is here.” Sylvie looked up, straight into his startled eyes. He had come closer and now stood just behind the camera. “Speak, spirit!” There was a fraught silence, then a thump. Half the crew shrieked in shock. Jo smiled. “Speak to us, if you can!” Another silence, and then another thump. Nathaniel laughed. The sound made them all jerk and look at him as though he was demented. He returned the look. “You’re all mad! That was a cleaner, probably in the bedrooms upstairs. Nothing else.” The feeling had gone now, and only Sylvie knew where it had come from. The producer heaved a great sigh. “From the top, please. We’ll keep the section up to Lord–Nev’s interruption.” “Sorry,” Nathaniel muttered, but he was smiling. Sylvie started again but when she got to her previous place, nothing happened and she carried on. “Nathaniel was fully committed to the Parliamentary cause. If Cromwell had got hold of the Abbey, he would have destroyed it, as he had so many before.” She glanced at Nathaniel. His eyes now held nothing but cynicism, but as she watched, his expression softened, and he smiled at her. It doesn’t matter what people think any more. It’s gone. “Nathaniel killed his brother, Vernon, in a duel, held in the courtyard outside, but he received injuries that were to kill him at Christmas.” That was why Nathaniel could take

Black Leather, White Lace

85

corporeal form at Christmas. That was when he had died. “The remaining brother stayed here, and after the Restoration of King Charles II, he worked hard to recover the family’s position. As you can see, he succeeded beautifully.” The warmth was for his brother, not for her, Sylvie firmly told herself. No, it’s for you. You’re doing so well, every inch the countess. I don’t feel like a countess. You look like one. Her piece finished, she waited for the questions she had discussed earlier. Jo Goodson stepped forward again. “Lady Rustead, if you had been alive then, which side would you have been on? You’re the current Countess of Rustead, but you are also an American. Don’t the two sides of your nature conflict?” She smiled. “No, not at all, not these days. If I had lived then, I think I would have tried to stay out of it. There was good and bad on both sides. It was wrong to kill the King, but he had tried to rule as a despot, and that couldn’t be good for the country.” “Have you studied this period?” “I have read the letters between the brothers. They were very close, even when Nathaniel decided to support Parliament, but something happened, something not in the letters or anywhere else, and after Nathaniel joined the Parliamentary army, the letters stopped.” Unexpectedly, Jo swung around. “We are very lucky to have the current Earl of Rustead here with us today. Usually he prefers to be known as Nev Heath, the photojournalist, but in a break from his busy life, he’s come here to grace us with his presence.” Nathaniel had a choice. He could refuse to be interviewed, walk away, or he could step forward. He stepped forward, taking his place by Sylvie’s side. This, as Jo must know, would make this program a news item. Lord Rustead’s after hours activities had become ever more public, ever wilder. Would the countess receive him now? If she walked away, her reaction would be an item on its own. She could reject him publicly, gain some revenge for all the times Nev had insulted her, ignored her, humiliated her. Sylvie put up her chin and reached for Nathaniel’s hand. She had done this once before, when the rumors of their impending divorce had forced Nev to seek her out and stage a social event together. Then, she had done it because she loved the Abbey. Now, after she had made her decision to walk away, she didn’t have to do anything. Except this wasn’t Nev Heath, this was Nathaniel Heatherington, and she could feel his pain as sharply as if it were her own. His fingers twined with hers and she knew the camera would zoom in on the telling gesture. She told herself she didn’t care. What was one more humiliation? No one but her knew who this man was, so they would think Nev was manipulating her again. It didn’t matter. She was mildly surprised when Nathaniel brought their joined hands up to his mouth and kissed her knuckles. Then he spoke. “I know you’re all wondering, so I want to tell you. I want my wife to forgive me and take me back, and she’s accepted. It’s more than I deserve. I’ve not been good to her in the past, but I intend to be better in the future.” He tugged until she turned to face him. He smiled into her eyes. “I mean it, Sylvie. I love you, and I want you to forgive me. It’s all my fault, all of it. Don’t answer now, just think about it.” Then, as though it was as natural as breathing, he lowered their hands, still linked,

Lynne Connolly

86

and answered the questions about his ‘ancestor’ for the cameras. She felt his thumb gently caress her palm and stood, stunned, taking in what he’d just done. He’d taken all the blame Nev had accrued but not accepted over the years. He’d said publicly that the failure of his marriage was entirely his fault. Looking around the mass of stunned expressions told her the onlookers were shellshocked by the earl’s volte-face. Nev had always been hedonistically selfish, never worried about others, not for one minute. While many people might not believe it would last - or even that he meant it, he’d taken the blame. Nev–Nathaniel finished discussing the Roundhead Earl of Rustead. He didn’t add anything sensational to the accepted story, and he didn’t refute it, but Sylvie knew there must have been more to the affair than first appeared. Nathaniel was true, she knew that now, and steadfast. Something traumatic must have happened to make him turn away from everything he held dear and stick to a new course. Had it been Vernon’s fault, then? Once he’d done, he tugged her hand until she began to move, and he led her up the long gallery, away from the goggling crowd. They took the back stairs down to her apartment. She had a small suite of rooms where she could be private, as most peers did these days. She’d chosen these rooms after she’d realized her marriage was effectively over. Not wanting to be reminded of the all too brief passion, and the love she’d poured out to him in private, Sylvie had deliberately chosen somewhere that was all hers. She would have fought to the death any suggestion she should bring Nev here. She took Nathaniel there voluntarily. He looked around the lounge, and crossed to the window. “I’ve seen this room so many times,” he murmured, “but never without the veil before.” “Veil?” She decided to stay by the door, leaning on the wall beside it. “We see everything through a kind of gauze. It lends an unreality to what’s happening. Now it all seems too real.” He turned to face her, the bright, cold winter sunshine striking his right cheek, leaving the other side of his face in shadow. “I’m not sure I can do this, Sylvie. It’s too real. I haven’t known real for a long time.” “I can’t begin to imagine what it was like.” She’d spent much of the preceding night trying to imagine it. To lose your corporeal body, to continue to exist, but not to be able to participate. “You get used to it.” She doubted it. She wanted to walk across what suddenly seemed like a huge expanse of floor to him, but she didn’t know what she should do once she got there. This wasn’t right. The attraction he held for her was magnetic, compulsive, something she had never imagined before. She wanted him to hold her, as Nev never had. The only time they had come together was in lust. Now she wanted to comfort Nathaniel and be comforted in her turn, to touch him with more than lust. But she couldn’t, she mustn’t. “Do you have to leave at the end of the week?” He swallowed and she watched the movement of his Adam’s apple, not wanting to concentrate on his face. “I have to die at the end of the week, Sylvie. Make no mistake. This is my way out of the endless non-existence I’m leading and I mean to take it. It’s time. I’m sure of it.” He turned away with a jerk, but immediately turned back again. “Nearly sure.” The last two words made her lift her eyes to his face. They stared at each other for a fraught moment out of time, and for once, all barriers were down. She saw his anguish, and his love for her. She had known it, but now she saw it.

Black Leather, White Lace

87

She went towards him, and without hesitation, lifted her face for his kiss. He didn’t hesitate either, but dipped his head and took her in a gentle embrace, his arms closing around her securely. She had come home. This was where she belonged, where she should be, should have been all the days of her life, but it was not to be. They had days, not years. They shared warmth, comfort and the rising flame of passion, curling up between them. He tore his lips from hers and stared down at her, eyes blazing. “Walk away, Sylvie. Walk away now.” “No.” He kissed her again, wildly this time, a brief, hard kiss, and lifted his head again, but he still gripped her tightly in his arms. “We can’t do this. I want to leave you whole, untouched by tragedy. If we become any more involved than this, it will hurt you more. At the end of the week I’ll be beyond pain, but you will not.” “Why did you say we had reconciled in front of the cameras?” His smile was gently bleak. “I wanted to leave you with the inheritance you should have. I know arrangements have been made to break the entail, and for you to stay on as chairperson of the trust. I also know Nev was planning to renege on the deal.” She lifted her chin sharply. “How? How do you know?” He lifted one hand from her waist and caressed her chin, a feather light touch she felt all through her body in a thrill of sensation. “I’m in his body, love. Not all of his memories are intact. Perhaps I dislodged them, or he took them with him, but he left some things behind, including his plans for the Abbey.” “What did he want to do?” Anger flickered in his eyes. “Maximize the profits. The consortium that wanted to take control from you, remember? He was going to sign with them. Not once did consideration for you or for his heritage cross his mind. He had no intention of using the money to improve the Abbey, he wanted to invest it and take it for himself. He was coming back to do that, but it’s all gone now. He took it with him. He signed nothing.” “He’s really dead, then? He won’t come back?” She tried not to sound glad, but this final betrayal, on top of everything else, struck her to the heart. Gravely, Nathaniel shook his head. “He’s gone. He died the moment his head struck the drive. Head trauma, they would have called it. I’m a temporary resident. My guess is the actual cause of death will be the same. I refused the scan, so they’ll think they missed something when I collapse.” “No!” She pulled him close. “Is there no way out of this? Can’t you stay?” She stopped herself, biting her lip to hold back the words. “No. Either I succeed in discovering the murderer and pass on to my heavenly reward, or I go back to how I was.” “Is it so bad?” “Yes.” The word dropped into the silence, filling her with his certainty. “I shouldn’t ask, I’m sorry. I know you don’t want to stay here.” “I haven’t been given the choice.” His gaze softened, the heavenly blue eyes gazing into hers with an expression she didn’t want to try to interpret. It looked like love, but she didn’t want to think it. A few days weren’t enough to begin to explore what they could have, so he was right. They shouldn’t even try. Despite her determination, it was hard not to think of how good he felt. When he’d kissed her, it had been like opening up a door to a world she hadn’t been aware of before.

Lynne Connolly

88

Oh, she’d been in love, or thought she had been, but this was a true communion of souls. She wanted it again. Just once more, she told herself. The same desire gazed back at her from his eyes. He didn’t ask, but bent his head to her. If he were true to his purpose, he wouldn’t touch her like this again. She had to make the most of it. She tilted her head and opened her mouth, allowing him to take anything he wanted and taking what she wanted in return. He tasted different, new. Spicy, without the tang she vaguely disliked in her husband, but tolerated because she’d imagined herself in love with him. He kissed her slowly at first, as though savoring her essence, but when she pressed closer, he took her invitation and deepened the kiss, almost reverently. Here in his arms was home. Safety, shelter, mutual passion, adventure, everything she wanted but hadn’t dared assume existed for her. It hadn’t; it still didn’t. She held on to the slim thread of sanity grimly, knowing it was her lifeline, so when he pushed her gently away she almost expected it. “I can’t do this to you. I love you more than I can say, and I don’t want any sin to mar my soul, but more importantly, I want you to move on and find happiness. There’s no lasting happiness here, only fleeting joy. It’s not enough, not for you, Sylvie.” Before she could reply he spun on one heel and strode to the door, leaving her alone. The door closed quietly on the tears she could no longer suppress.

Black Leather, White Lace

89

Chapter Five

Downstairs, Nathaniel tolerated the attentions of the TV crew, who were all charmed by his unexpected arrival at the Abbey. Some were more than charmed. The younger of the two mediums, Jo Goodson, clung like a leech, hooking her arm through his and hanging on. They dined in the large room, and when it became obvious Sylvie wasn’t coming down, he touched her mind with his and told the truth. “She has a headache and she’s worn out. I might have been asleep last night, but she didn’t have much rest.” “Is it true you’ve reconciled with her?” Angela Murdoch, producer of Hosts to Ghosts stared at him with the hard eyes of a professional journalist. “We’ve decided to try,” he admitted. “I won’t be leaving home for a while, and it seems like a good time to see what we have.” He knew what they had, and it wasn’t for public consumption. “It turns out, we have quite a lot.” There he drew his line in the proverbial sand. He wasn’t prepared to go any further, not in public. The little gasp from the woman sitting by his side surprised him a little, since Jo Goodson and Nev Heath had never met, to his knowledge, but there were gaps in the late earl’s memory he couldn’t fill. Nev had taken them with him. Most of his skills were thankfully still intact. He knew how to frame a photograph, the little tricks that would ensure the one picture out of twenty that was memorable, that seemed to catch a moment in time. On the other hand, he had no idea how to ride a motor bike, other than straddling it like a horse and hanging on. He’d be far better off on a horse. It was as well he was only here for a few days. He’d be bound to blow his cover, sooner or later, if he had to act like his predecessor. He smiled at Jo, trying for the easy charm that had come so naturally to Nev, but was mildly surprised to find a hard stare waiting for him. “You mean it? You’ve reconciled with her?” “Of course I mean it.” She glanced at Angela, then back at him, her expression softening. “I see. Taking care of business, I think you called it once?” Did he? He didn’t remember. Perhaps the press had quoted him sometime. He knew he’d been in the Sundays, the photojournalist in front of the cameras in one, and a more sycophantic cousin-to-the-Queen interview favored by the tabloids. “Maybe I did.” He was safer with the vague. He would have to ask Sylvie, once she woke up. What to do about Sylvie? All through the exhausting dinner he watched, fielded increasingly awkward questions, and thought. He loved her so much she’d almost completely overwhelmed him in her room earlier. He’d always been able to see and hear her, but ghosts don’t feel, ghosts don’t touch. Now his senses were filled with her presence and every one of them was on full alert. Taste, he couldn’t forget taste. She tasted like the best raspberry syllabub he’d ever had; smooth, creamy with a hint of sharp, ripe fruit.

Lynne Connolly

90

More than anything he wanted to go to her, comfort her, undress her slowly, enjoying the removal of each piece of clothing, kiss every inch of her luscious body and only then make love to her, entering her and giving her everything he was. It was impossible. Before, he might have considered it, but he knew for sure she loved him and for that reason he couldn’t leave her with a memory that might last a lifetime. He couldn’t even tell her he could visit her once a year, and love her then, as his brother had done, for at the end of this week he would die. He’d entered this pact wanting nothing more, half hoping full recognition of Sylvie would stop this madness that had infected him since she’d walked through the door six years earlier. But it hadn’t. He was mad for her still, crazy for her, as though she was the oasis in the desert, the cool, clear spring water on a hot day. No one compared. The woman next to him was beautiful, but very carefully groomed, nothing out of place, hair colored a deep honey blonde and carefully streaked with a paler shade. One tiny pink strand rested over her left cheek, a silent and small protest against her perfection, a touch that only made her appear more perfect. Too perfect for him. He wanted a woman to smell like a woman under her perfume, a hint of feminine need that echoed his own, making him want to take the final step, the final sense, and taste her. Jo wore a simple blue sheath he guessed was from one of London’s best stores. The top wasn’t cut low, but covered her breasts hinting at the curves beneath. Jo had realized what many women hadn’t; a high necked dress, if cut right, could reveal far more than any deep décolletage. He must stop thinking in old fashioned words, or they would be the undoing of him. He was used to it, although he had added slang to his speech recently, due to his TV addiction. His natural voice was a mixture of old and new, something Nev wouldn’t consider using, for Nev was frankly modern, turning his back on all the old stuff. Stuff Nathaniel loved. He smiled at Jo, and saw the other medium, Doris, watching them closely, her blue eyes avidly devouring the scene. Good God, not her, too? What was it about this man? Nathaniel knew himself to be a well favored man, and his body, after years of combat, had been well toned, if a little scarred, but the body he now occupied, while definitely fit, was leaner than the one he’d left behind, less obviously masculine, at least when he was dressed. Nathaniel had watched the boy grow into a man, watched his impatience with his stuffy father and exquisite mother erode until there had been only rebellion left. He’d seen him leave, and pay only fleeting visits back to the Abbey, each time harder and more rebellious. Nev had done everything in his power to turn his back on his past, and while understanding it, Nathaniel couldn’t condone it. Nev Heath, Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington, had been utterly selfish. He’d drawn within himself until there was nothing left of the angry boy. Only the self contained, angry man. Nathaniel sent up a brief prayer, hoping Nev had finally found peace. Unable to bear any more he stood and excused himself. Jo pouted. “I thought you’d stay longer.” He tried to keep up Nev’s playboy image. “Normally I would, and even now it’s hard to drag myself away, but after yesterday, I think I need some rest.” “You will manage to stay up for the vigil?” Angela’s voice took on a pleading tone. He lifted his head and confronted the producer. She forced a smile. “We’ll sit up for a couple of nights, then splice the results together as though they’re one night. Since we

Black Leather, White Lace

91

don’t fake anything, spiritual activities don’t happen all at once. Not like other programs. They might not happen at all, but if they don’t, we can fill in with the historical stuff. The audience loves the tales of the olden days.” Fill in? Nathaniel saw red. He was part of that ‘historical stuff,’ he had lived, breathed and died in the ‘olden days.’ They were far from that to him. They were yesterday. Just before he left the room, he felt a touch on his arm. Jo. She smiled, and said, “good night” but added, in a much quieter tone, her voice vibrating with repressed emotion, “I want to see you. Tomorrow morning in the rose garden at ten thirty. Be there!” She brushed past him as he left the room, heading for the toilet in the corridor outside, he presumed. He didn’t wait, but almost ran up in the opposite direction. He wasn’t lying when he said he was tired, but he wouldn’t sleep. Ghosts didn’t sleep much. ***** He slept on the daybed at the foot of Sylvie’s, since they were supposed to be reconciling, and tortured himself with the sight of her asleep, wondering what it would be like to sleep next to her, holding her. He spent the last part of the night in the library, reading the books he had missed so much and doing a little research. Intriguingly he found a bunch of books that hadn’t been there in his time, but some dated from before his lifetime on earth. Old spell books, grimoires and cookery books which included some recipes for ‘gaining your heart’s desire’ and ‘destroying your enemies.’ But none of them held any clues as to who wanted Nev Heath dead. Or why. There was only one way he knew to draw the would-be killer out fast. Whoever it was wanted him dead. All right then, he would die. Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, relishing the feel of the soft leather under his body, his mind returning inevitably to the woman he loved. Convinced he could resist her allure, determined to love her like a brother, he’d stepped blithely into his fate. He’d had no intention of taking her, it was just a dream. Or so he kept telling himself. His blood boiled for her. Every nerve he possessed came to attention when she was around, not just the obvious ones. He wanted her in every way possible, with a primitive need that shocked him. To take her away into some dark corner and enjoy her, watch her pleasure, so the world only consisted of the two of them. Forget everything else. The intensity shocked him. After three and a half centuries of limbo, he’d imagined nothing material could affect him so much. He couldn’t have been more wrong if he’d tried. The only thing that meant more to him than his pleasure was hers. His hunger to see her lost in his love, abandoned only to him, trusting him to take her to the heights and bring her back down again almost overwhelmed his senses. He’d faced armies without flinching, had gone into battle without a qualm, but he’d never done anything so agonizingly difficult as releasing her, walking across her bedroom and out the door. He couldn’t show any of this, he could never let go. He would have to store up his emotions, make the most of what he could have in these last few days of his life. If all went well. If they didn’t, he would return to the half life, and probably go completely mad. She knew he loved her, he’d shown her ever since she’d walked into the house, but she didn’t have to know how much. When she awoke, he entered her mind, as he had many times before, and gave her a

Lynne Connolly

92

soft greeting. She returned it before she was properly awake. He felt her shock when she realized and answered her question readily. You’re still here? Yes, I’m here. In person. In the library, trying to do some research. Shouldn’t we be together? He had told the world, or at least, that part of it that watched Hosts To Ghosts that they had reconciled. Do you go to breakfast? I usually make it in my suite. I prefer to be alone first thing. Really? He couldn’t resist the gentle tease. He heard her chuckle as though he was standing next to her and not half way across the house. Usually. I’ll go to breakfast with the film crew, and say you’re still abed. Having a lie-in. Shock arced through him and he answered her question before she asked it. In my time, a lady ‘lay in’ when she was about to give birth. Abruptly, she cut him off. Her response troubled him, as he’d hoped to make her smile. He could have re-connected with her, but it was clear she wanted some privacy. He couldn’t imagine what he’d said that was so wrong. Still troubled, he left the room and went to the dining room, where he heard the clink of cups and smelled freshly grilled bacon. When he entered, a hush was immediately followed by a renewed hubbub of conversation, louder than it had been when he’d approached the room. They’d been talking about him, then. Hardly a surprise. Nathaniel realized he was sharp set. Even this was a sensation to be relished, enjoyed, consigned to memory to enjoy again. The bacon smell assaulted his senses, filled his throat with anticipation. He wasn’t disappointed. He loaded his plate at the tables laid out for the use of the crew and production team, reckoning since he’d spoken to camera yesterday, he was one of them and entitled to breakfast. Nobody objected, he could see, and even if they did, he had the power to turn them out of his house. A pleasant feeling, that one, owning the Abbey again. He’d never loved it with the passion his brother, Vernon, showed, but that was part of their training and his expectations. Vernon would inherit, he, Nathaniel, would move on, find a career, perhaps an estate of his own. It didn’t mean he didn’t love the old house. He found a place at a table, but unfortunately it was with the presenters. He would have preferred to sit somewhere else, but he recalled Jo Goodson wanted to talk to him, so he’d better make himself available. Eight people sat around this circular table; made of some light colored wood, a modern import, but of such a pleasant design it fitted well into the sunny room. The conversation was a mix of many things he’d known before. There were the toadies, the people attracted by his title and his exploits, but mostly, he suspected, his title. Two of these, a man and a woman he didn’t recognize. Two at least who were interested by his fame as a photojournalist. One who exaggeratedly treated him as an equal, called him “Nev,” without being invited to, suggested they had a lot in common. Jo Goodson, alarmingly familiar, and her mother sat either side of him. He reached for his orange juice, only to hear one of the toadies giggle. “You eat everything we do, my lord.” Not if he didn’t want to. He still had his powers, because he still had a foot in both worlds. He would have given them up without a qualm if it meant he could stay with Sylvie.

Black Leather, White Lace

93

Nathaniel stopped, a forkful of scrambled egg half way to his mouth. He wanted to stay here, with Sylvie. Before, though he’d loved her, he’d only thought of meeting her and then carrying on to his heavenly reward, but now, somehow, the two things had exchanged places in his mind. Now he wanted to live with Sylvie and love her, for as long as they were allowed. They would only have days. Not enough time to give her everything he wanted to, but enough time to make her unhappy for the rest of her life. He couldn’t do that to anyone he loved as much as he loved Sylvie. Hell, he’d be sorry to do it to anyone. He stared at the food on his plate. He’d given up watching people eat. That was why the dining room was usually free of ghosts, if they only knew it. Sheer torture to watch people tasting, eating, drinking, all things he could never do again. At least he could have this. Determinedly, he turned his attention back to his food, and remembered how much he’d longed to do this. But it was no good. The flavors turned to ashes in his mouth. He put his fork down with half the food still on his plate. Someone piped up, too brightly for his taste. “Salt, my lord?” Jo Goodson sniggered. “He prefers to be called ‘Nev’ or ‘Mr. Heath’.” “No I don’t.” He spoke without thinking, answering as Nathaniel instead of Nev and irritated by Jo Goodson’s proprietorial remarks. He belonged to nobody. Mentally cursing at his slip, Nathaniel forked up another helping of scrambled egg, to allow himself a moment to consider. He chewed slowly, aware all eyes were on him, with varying degrees of interest. “It depends what I’m doing,” he said. “When I’m in the field, there’s no time to start shouting “my lord,” or much of anything else for that matter. So it was convenient. But I can’t escape the fact I’m also Lord Rustead. There’s no getting away from it, and it would be ridiculous to ignore it.” “What should we call you, then?” The answer came to him automatically. Protocol was inbred into him, and it hadn’t changed much over the years. “Social inferiors call me ‘my lord.’ Everyone else calls me ‘my lord’ at first, then ‘sir’.” “My!” Jo Goodson’s baby blue eyes rounded in mock astonishment. “What about your lovers?” A hush fell, and then Nathaniel knew. Jo Goodson had been one of Nev’s lovers. One of the many. He frowned, wishing more of Nev’s memory had remained intact. It was patchy, at best. He could remember very little of Nev’s photojournalist career personally, although he had a full record of where he had been, and he felt confident he could handle a camera. The more personal the memory, the less likely it was it would be there, and there weren’t many things more personal than a lover. “Lovers?” He used a Nathaniel trick, and raised one brow, lifting his chin a little, making his eyes ice with disdain. She glared at him, but as he watched her, her lids flickered over her eyes before she renewed her stare, but by then he’d removed his attention from her and was smiling at one of the two women who were regarding him with lascivious interest. He’d seen that look before, as Nathaniel. Some things never changed. He turned to the woman on his other side, intending to pass some innocuous comment about the weather, but the steely glare so reminded him of the woman on his left, he stilled his words. It was gone so quickly he wasn’t sure he’d seen the look, but it unnerved him. He felt Jo stroke his arm, but he deliberately didn’t look around. “You have been working with this team for long?”

Lynne Connolly

94

Doris gave a civilized response, but then made a remark that startled him. “You don’t seem much like your Puritan ancestor.” Quelling the jolt he’d felt when someone had referred to him directly instead of Nev, Nathaniel reminded himself this was to be a program about them, Vernon and himself, Royalist and Puritan, Cavalier and Roundhead. Not that he’d ever worn the typical Roundhead hairstyle. Neither had most of his fellow officers, but many of the troops had done so. “Even Puritans need some comfort from time to time.” The woman’s eyes narrowed a little, and Nathaniel panicked. What if she knew? Doris Alcock was reputed to be a gifted medium. He’d never believed there were such people, and he felt no connection with her now, but for all that, he should tread warily. “This Earl didn’t seem to need any comfort.” Of course he had, just like any other man. “The fourth Earl didn’t become a Puritan from religion, but from conviction and a sense of justice. I’ve seen his letters.” Doris nodded and turned her attention back to her meal, her pudgy fingers closing over the knife handle with unnecessary force. The letters still existed; they were held in a secure room downstairs, so to mention them was fairly safe. He’d tried to explain his reasons to his brother, so he wasn’t revealing knowledge that didn’t already exist in material form. His alliance to the Puritans hadn’t prevented young women from discreetly offering him what he might require. He had required it once or twice, and he still felt a stab of guilt when he thought of the emotionless coupling. It was not enough for him. It had never been enough. It still wasn’t enough. All he felt for Jo Goodson was a mild interest, nothing like the blazingly helpless desire that conquered him when he was with Sylvie, that threatened to explode his reason into tiny shards around her delectable body. Jo was pretty, well groomed, perhaps too well groomed for his taste, with a generously curving figure, but all that meant little to him apart from some aesthetic interest. When he rose at the end of his meal, so did most of the others at the table, and to his dismay, Jo slipped her arm through his, strolling with him in a deliberate display of intimacy, to the door. With a sinking heart he guessed what was to come, and marshaled his forces. He might as well face it now. He took her to a small office close to the front door, where once a guard had stood, and now formed the little office where someone took the money for the guided tours in the summer. As soon as the door closed, she faced him, arms akimbo, eyes blazing. “What’s all this about? I set up this whole shindig to get us together. Doris and I have a lot of say about where the programs are set, and I picked this one! Now you’re dancing around that bitch like a dog on heat, and I’m left in the cold!” Nev, he reminded himself. I’m Nev. This woman was a medium, which meant she was at least sensitive. He shrugged, and leaned back, propping his shoulders against the door in what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. He wasn’t used to nonchalant poses. Not much in his own life had ever called for it. “What can I say? Perhaps I’ve been away from her long enough to make it interesting again. We never promised each other fidelity, Jo.” “Didn’t we?” Her voice rose to a high shriek. “So all those promises I remember– you didn’t have anything to do with those?” He flashed her a grin. “You must have imagined them. I don’t remember a lot about it, to be honest.”

Black Leather, White Lace

95

Her fury muted to disbelief. “You mean all those snatched weekends, all that work, and you can just throw it in my face? Two years I’ve been faithful to you, Nev, when I could have had men for the taking!” He knew his alter ego well enough to say, “You should have taken them. I would have done.” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you’d ask Sylvie for a divorce. We’re getting married in the New Year, or had you forgotten that?” “I don’t seem to have a very good memory,” he admitted, watching her volatile countenance with fascination. His generation had been trained to keep their secrets to themselves, to school their features to impassivity, even if all hell broke loose around them. In this age, people seemed to take privacy lightly. Perhaps it was too easy for them. “Besides, I’m already married.” She made a short sound of exasperation and flung her well manicured hands into the air. “Argh! We’ve been through this, Nev, or had you forgotten? We agreed. You are going to tell Sylvie it’s over, you don’t want her any more and then, when she’s gone, we’ll marry. A big wedding in the spring, I thought, then I can finish my contract with the network. Well?” she put up her chin challengingly. He put his hand to his chin, stroking it thoughtfully. “I said this? Are you sure it wasn’t somebody else?” This was fun. This woman didn’t care who she shoved aside on her way, so he had no compunction in giving her a set-down. “Jo, you were a good lover, but you lack something.” He thought, assimilated, remembered all he had seen of Nev Heath, and said what he would have said. “And you know I bore easily. Why did you think you were any different to all the others?” He gave her an apologetic half smile. By the pink color rising in her cheeks, a more vibrant shade than her delicate face powder, he was getting his point across. “Because you said you loved me, because you said you were the only woman for me, because you promised to dump your wife and marry me!” Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, but Nathaniel wasn’t sure if they were a result of fury or real unhappiness. Either way, she was prepared to shove Sylvie aside like an old shoe, and for that, she deserved what was coming to her. “What do you think he told the others?” The soft, American tinged voice electrified his senses like a live wire. He stepped back and smiled, knowing his whole expression softened when he looked at her. She was dressed simply, just classically cut black pants and a light sweater in soft pink, but her very simplicity threw Jo’s hard-edged chic into relief and demonstrated it for what it was; a woman trying too hard to look good. When he held out his hand in wordless greeting she crossed the room and put her own into it. If this was all the bliss he was allowed, then he would take it. Touching her was as vital to him as breathing. He drew her hand to his mouth and kissed the back, only dimly aware this was an outmoded greeting. It seemed entirely appropriate to him. “I’m different.” Jo Goodson wasn’t giving up easily. She glared at Sylvie, her eyes flashing a challenge. “He said he was bored with you within weeks of your marriage. You weren’t enough for him. He must have been mad to marry a woman so unadventurous in bed.” He caught Sylvie’s startled glance and returned it. He had no more idea what Jo was talking about than Sylvie. Did Nev have certain predilections, or did he see himself as a sexual animal? Nathaniel had no idea. His dreams about Sylvie involved certain strenuous activities, but he’d generally been so heated by then, he hadn’t gone on to imagine any

Lynne Connolly

96

variations on his central theme. “Nev Heath had his mad years,” he said firmly. “You were part of that, Jo. I mean to stay here now, to help Sylvie run the house. I plan to settle down.” “You?” Derision filled Jo’s carefully modulated tones. “Settle down? For about six months, tops, then you’ll be off to another trouble spot! Not that I mind,” she added hastily. “You explained all that to me, and I know what I’ll be letting myself in for. After all, I understand you and what you need. Unlike other women.” Her gaze was pointedly aimed at Sylvie. “The position of wife isn’t available,” Nathaniel said. A moment ago he’d been preparing to give Jo Goodson the blistering set down she deserved. Now he only wanted to get rid of her so he could snatch a few precious moments with Sylvie. “Neither is mistress. Not any more.” Jo’s eyes narrowed. “Mistress? Rather old fashioned, especially for you, Nev!” He faltered, not needing Sylvie’s unspoken mental message. Be careful, she’s a medium! To remind him to be extra careful. While he doubted Jo was as gifted as she claimed to be, his enhanced senses did pick up more intensified feelings when she was around. She was a sensitive, even if she wasn’t a full medium. The older woman, Doris, now she had definitely connected for a brief moment, and been astute enough to exploit it, but not Jo. In his spirit form he could have walked right through her and she wouldn’t have noticed. He should shut off the mental link between Sylvie and himself, but he couldn’t bear to. With the connection open, with his mind blending with hers, he felt her presence, her personality, and he wanted to immerse himself in her for as long as he could, as close as he dared. “What do you want me to call you? Whore?” He curled his mouth into a sneer. He saw Jo’s hurt, and was sorry for it. He had never wantonly injured anyone’s feelings before. He’d respected women, loved them occasionally but never had close dealings with them. Not even with the one he’d loved. He let his expression freeze into neutrality. “What’s she done to you? What does she have on you?” Jo demanded. “More than you would ever understand,” he replied. “Nothing, I have nothing,” Sylvie said at the same time. She took a step forward. “I always treated him as a human being, not as a thing, a conquest, something to own. You want the title, you’re welcome to it. It means nothing these days. Him, I’m keeping for a while. If you let me know your forwarding address, I’ll send him to you when I’ve done with him.” Nathaniel wanted to break into applause, but he was afraid to disturb the sudden stillness that fell on the room. With a convulsive movement, Jo strode past them, elbowing him aside. “I take nobody’s leavings,” she threw at them before she left, slamming the door behind her. Nathaniel relaxed and leaned against the cheap table that bore the expensive cash register. “You were simply magnificent.” With Jo’s exit, Sylvie’s hauteur left, too. “I’ve learned from the best. Nev’s swanky friends and his relatives taught me when I was still in London. He has a cousin, a girl, who took a particular interest in me. She taught me a lot of the tricks you people use.” “I’m glad to hear it.” When he reached for her, she didn’t move away, as he’d feared she might, but came willingly. They held each other closely. Nathaniel thought it

Black Leather, White Lace

97

was the most blissful moment of his life. Quietly holding her, feeling her breath hot against his neck, he wondered how heaven could provide anything so good, and knew it couldn’t. Not for him. She lifted her chin and kissing her seemed to be the only logical thing to do. So he kissed her. ***** Sylvie knew this man for the one she had fallen in love with when he was only a voice in her head, encouraging her, sharing private jokes and bearing with her sorrows. But this was so much more. To touch him was to be aroused, even a gentle touch on the hand had her instantly on alert, keen for more. In his arms, she felt safe, womanly, wanted. All things she hadn’t allowed herself to feel for years, not since Nev’s first betrayal, mere weeks after their wedding. But this wasn’t Nev. He felt different, moved differently. Nev would have instantly grabbed her ass. He liked dragging her closer, making the encounter passionate from the start, but this man, Nathaniel, drew her firmly against him and smoothed his hands over her back, as though he was gentling her for something else. His kiss was different, too. He caressed her with his lips, then opened his mouth and traced the shape of her lips before settling in the centre and waiting. She opened willingly, eagerly for him. He didn’t immediately thrust his tongue inside, but felt his way, as though he wanted to memorize everything about her. He took his time. She wanted this man. This one, Nathaniel Heatherington, not Nev Heath, the man she had married after a few days of complete madness. It was just as well, considering the decision she had come to in the early hours of the morning. She had suddenly opened her eyes and seen him, sleeping on the daybed at the foot of her four-poster. Until she sat up all she could see was the top of his head, but when she sat, she saw the upper half of his body, decorously clad in a t-shirt, and the blanket covering the rest of his body. She had wanted to ask him to join her, but knew where that would lead, and then the thought had struck her, as though it had come from something inside her. Why not? If this was all she would ever have of him, then she’d better make the most of it. And there was something else. Something she shared with him as soon as he lifted his head to smiled into her eyes. “I want you, Nathaniel. Give me something to remember you by.” His voice came softly, a hoarse rasp at the back of his throat. “You know I cannot.” “Why not? You’ll be–you’ll be gone in a few days. It’s Wednesday, and Saturday is Christmas Day. You know how I feel about you. I doubt I’ll ever meet anyone who will make me feel the same way. For six years you’ve been with me, sharing my worst despair and watching me make something of my life. Six years, you haven’t been able to touch me, but you’ve been in my most intimate places. In my head. Can’t we finish that? Can’t we be intimate in another place?” He didn’t release her, but he loosened his hold on her. “I can’t do it to you. I have a feeling that once we make love, the parting will be agony, and I’ll have to leave you behind. I want you to have a happy life, Sylvie, to find someone to share it with. I won’t leave any shadows behind me.” She lifted her hand to caress his cheek. “We have to share a room.” He grimaced, but from her words, not the caress. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have said we were reconciled until Friday.” Friday. The day before he was due to–leave.

Lynne Connolly

98

“No, you did the right thing. But you slept in the wrong place last night.” He smiled gently. “I felt you watching me. When you were asleep again, I got up and went to the library. Ghosts don’t sleep, not really.” He wanted to emphasize the difference between them, but she wouldn’t let him. “You’re not a ghost. Not now and not until Christmas Day. You’re a man now, and you have a man’s feelings.” She slid her hand between them and lightly stroked the hard bulge at the front of his jeans. “I can tell,” she said wickedly, glancing up at him through her lashes. He laughed, but the sound was shaky, and he put his hand over hers, stilling her movements. “No, Sylvie.” To her delight, he sounded less certain this time. “Yes.” It was time for her trump card. “Give me a baby, Nathaniel. Give me an heir to your title.”

Black Leather, White Lace

99

Chapter Six

He froze. She felt the stiffness in every part of his body, not just the part where their hands met. Ready by the time he pulled away, she dragged him back against her. “No, Nathaniel, listen to me.” He closed his eyes for a brief moment and then returned his attention to her. Under his intent, blue gaze she talked to him. It was as well she’d planned in advance, otherwise that mesmerizing stare would have scattered her thoughts to the wind. “You say you’re here to right a wrong, and we both thought it was to find the person who wants to kill you. But what if we’re wrong? What if you’re here to provide the heir? Can you really say you’re so sure? Nathaniel, you told me Nev is dead, gone, won’t come back. He only has females on his father’s side of the family, and females can’t inherit. There is no one; the College of Heralds has done an exhaustive search. They’re either women, or non nationals who aren’t willing to change their nationality to inherit the title. The title dies.” He sighed, a soft breath she felt on her cheek. “I know.” “But you’re an earl, Nathaniel. You’re an elder branch, and in the body of Nev, you’re married to me. Our children would be legitimate, acceptable.” He gave a short laugh. “The legitimacy is somewhat questionable.” She lifted her hands to his face, bracketing his cheeks to stop him looking away, to make him look at her. “I’ve studied the history of the family, and it wouldn’t be the first time. Would it?” Something crossed his eyes, a shadow of concern. “No,” he said shortly. “You might be here for that reason. To give me a child. You’re the only person in the world who could do it, now Nev’s gone. He meant to come back and start a family, and I agreed, but he kept putting it off. Before I knew about Jo Goodson, I thought he’d finally decided to give it a try, but it was too late. I’d already decided to leave him. I planned to go to London and get a proper separation, then a divorce. The Heatheringtons aren’t my family, I owe them nothing, so Jo Goodson would have been luckier than she’d thought, if she managed to get Nev to the altar. And she would have done. Nev would have wanted someone to take the role of wife. It saved him a lot of trouble. It’s too late now, isn’t it? If we don’t do this, the family’s dead, gone, history.” “Perhaps it’s time the family went,” he said. “You don’t mean that, do you?” He stared at her, his eyes unblinkingly meeting hers. No! The answer was spoken directly into her mind, the way he always used to, and it emphasized the continuation of their friendship, and of their love. When she’d thought it was safe, she had confessed her love. She couldn’t take it back now he was here with her, in the flesh. One more fierce stare and he closed his eyes as he bent to kiss her. His mouth settled on hers, an almost reverent pressing of his lips to hers, before the pressure increased and he

Lynne Connolly

100

opened his mouth for a complete taking. His mouth ravaged her, taking everything, giving himself. His tongue entered, mating with hers, teasing it with gentle strokes, then pushing deeply inside. She gave herself up to the moment, meeting his demand with her own, showing him what she wanted, how she wanted it. With a groan, he pulled her closer before tearing his mouth away. “Are you sure? Please, be sure.” “Yes, I’m sure. I spent most of last night thinking about it, after you left. Make love to me, Nathaniel. You know you want to.” “Yes, oh yes I want to, but it’s not fair for you. You know I have to go–die in a very few days. You deserve a full life, Sylvie. I can’t, can’t go, thinking you won’t get over this, that you’ll atrophy. And if I give you a child, it will be worse. Let the Heatheringtons pass into history. Enough families have done that already. There are plans in hand for the estate.” He lifted his head. “Though I never thought the house would survive past the family.” He tried to hide it, but with his mind open to hers, she felt his pang of regret. It was enough. She lifted her hand to his cheek again, and gently turned it so he gazed into her eyes once more. “If I promise to do my best not to wait for you, will you do it? I want you, Nathaniel, and I want to know what it’s like to love you properly. Like it or not, you’re the love of my life and I’ll remember you forever. I hope, when I finally die, you’ll be there waiting for me. But I also promise I won’t put a hold on the rest of my life. If I like a man, I will sleep with him. If I like him enough, I’ll marry him. Meanwhile, you’ll give me most of what I want. A child, this house and some point to my life. Will that do?” He sighed, staring at her. As she watched, tears formed in his eyes. He made no attempt to hide them. “Yes, it will have to do. I don’t think I can hold off any longer.” He kissed her again, but this time the kiss was reverent and soft. “Now.” She laughed shakily, but didn’t object when he released her, and grasped her hand. Outside, a few of the film crew wandered across the vast marble tiled space. Breakfast was obviously over. They glanced at Nathaniel and Sylvie, curiosity sparking their gazes, but Nathaniel didn’t stop, towing Sylvie across the hall. Just as they reached the staircase, Doris Alcock and Angela Murdoch, the producer, came out of the dining room. Angela, all tweedy efficiency, lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve been going through today’s schedule and there’s a slight change. Could you do your piece to camera at eleven, instead of two this afternoon?” Nathaniel’s had turned his face away from her to confront the producer, but Sylvie knew from Angela’s expression, that he’d turned on all his aristocratic hauteur. Her smile faded as she stared at him. “I don’t think so,” he said. The words were soft and sounded mild, but their effect was not. Since the crew had arrived at the Abbey, they had turned the place upside down. Cables trailed on the floors, bright lights threatened the integrity of the portraits up in the gallery, and at its centre was Angela, giving orders, arranging timetables, frightening the regular staff into disappearing for most of the day. Conservationists and cleaners could usually hold their own against most people, but Angela could put the willies up anyone. Even a ghost. But not Nathaniel. “We have some estate matters to discuss,” he continued, his voice carefully even. “We will come to you when we have the time.” “Our schedules are too tight to wait on you.” Angela paused before adding, “My lord.” Nathaniel nodded, and turned back to Sylvie. She’d never seen anyone behave in

Black Leather, White Lace

101

that way, and she had to admit she was awed. His smile immediately warmed, and he tugged on her hand. “Come, my love.” She came, walking with dignity up the long, impossibly high, marble staircase, carpeted with a red fabric that unavoidably reminded her of Gone With The Wind, and what Rhett did to Scarlett there. He didn’t stop until they reached her bedroom. She could have sworn the door opened before he touched it, but she was past caring, heat burning into her body as though it was real flame. He only took his intent gaze from her for the briefest moments, to make sure his footing was secure, or to glance at the door in front of them. Always, his attention returned to her so she knew she was the center of his universe. As he was hers. He kicked the door closed behind them and pulled her into his arms, bending his head to take her lips, but at the last moment he paused. His lips hovered above hers, his breath hot on her lips, he said in a low voice, “You won’t change your mind, will you? I have just enough control to stop now, but only just, and I’m not completely sure of it.” She stared at him, mesmerized, wondering how she could ever have taken him for Nev, even for a moment, or how she could have mistaken lust for love. This was love. If she said no now, he’d still love her. Not that she was about to do it. “I thought about it for hours. And it all boils down to this. I want you, Nathaniel and I want you any way I can get you. I do think you might have been sent here to prolong your line, but I really don’t care. That’s the truth, or as close as I can get to it.” With a sound suspiciously like a sob, he lowered his mouth the last quarter inch and kissed her. Their mouths joined as if it was their natural state. Not apart, not talking, but together, all the time. She leaned back against the door and he followed her, curving his arms about her waist. They kissed for a long time, it seemed, although time seemed to revolve around them, to make them the center of its existence. For a wild moment, she thought; If we stay here forever and never come out, perhaps time will stand still for us. He drew back and she realized he’d heard her. Of course he had. “Let’s pretend that, shall we?” His voice caressed her softly but until he masked it, she saw the bleak longing in his eyes. They both knew it couldn’t happen. The bleakness was replaced by a spark of warmth, different somehow to the raw need she knew was reflected in her own eyes. “It will last forever, love. In some universe, in some other time, what we do here will last forever.” Comforted, she murmured, “Yes,” and moved closer, straightening away from the door to press herself closer to him. He dragged his head up and bent to scoop her up and carry her across the room. Sylvie’s room was large, but it only took him three strides to cross to the bed, where he laid her reverently on the coverlet. He stood by the side of the bed and looked at her. “If I’m allowed to keep a few memories, this will be the one.” He smiled, and slid on to the bed next to her, reaching out to stroke her from shoulder to hip before urging her closer. Resisting his unspoken request, she sat up and dragged her sweater over her head. He lay back against the pillows and watched her intently. More than anything in the world she wanted to please this man, give him some untrammeled, pure memory to take him where he was going. She wanted to go with him, God help her, but she couldn’t. She’d committed to making a child with him, so she would do her best to carry on without him, make her life meaningful. Slowly she reached behind her back and unclipped her bra, glancing down as it

Lynne Connolly

102

loosened. She slid the straps down her arms, not teasing, but not hurrying, either. All this would come back to her in the lonely nights ahead, and she wanted to remember how perfect it was. How perfect they’d made it. When she raised her gaze he was watching her, the blaze in his eyes lighting a conflagration in her heart. “You are the most desirable woman I’ve ever seen in my life,” he said, but he made no effort to reach for her. She thought of cupping her breasts but decided he didn’t need any more arousing, and she wanted to display herself as simply as she could. Sylvie had never liked showing off her body. She had never considered it anything above ordinary, but with that blue fire caressing every inch of her skin, she felt like the most beautiful woman in the world. “To me, you are. I’ve never seen anything so beautiful before.” She smiled. “You’re picking up my thoughts.” “So I am. You can have mine for free. All of them. I have no secrets from you, Sylvie.” He sat up and divested himself of his own t-shirt, as simply as she had, then remained sitting and reached for her. “I need to touch you, sweetheart.” When she went into his arms, her skin met his, and she relished every second of the contact. He felt slightly cooler than she did, but his skin pulsed with life, and his arms held iron strength as he pulled her close. She shivered when her nipples touched his chest, and heard his “Ah!” dimly. This was right, so right! Lifting her head, she found him waiting for her. Just before he took her in another soul searing kiss, she spread her hands over his chest, feeling his hair caress her fingers before she buried them in the dark fuzz. He finished the kiss and laid her down with the care he might give to a delicate piece of glass. He bent his head to her breasts. Sylvie thought she might die. He kissed around one aureole before taking it into his mouth and caressing the very tip with his tongue. She had never considered her breasts very sensitive. She’d been wrong. He kissed his way to the other nipple, treating that in the same way, bringing one hand down to her stomach to the fastening on her jeans. The sudden relaxation of tension told her he’d undone the button, and the soft sound of the zipper came as a welcome relief. She wanted to be naked, now. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, but it didn’t matter because she heard it in her mind. Sweet, so sweet. Licking and caressing, he slowly opened her jeans and slid one hand inside, stroking her belly, curving his hand around her hips to grip the side of her bottom and roll her gently to one side. He lifted off her, and she couldn’t stop her whimper of regret. “I’ll be back,” he told her and watched the skin he revealed as he slid her pants down her legs, snagging her panties and drawing them off in the same way. A choking sound made her lift her head in some alarm. Nathaniel was shaking his head, staring at her in wonder. “You are everything I dreamed of. And I have dreamed.” “You must have seen me before.” She didn’t care, not now, but sometimes she’d felt someone watching her, or imagined she had. Only she knew now it hadn’t been her imagination. “Sometimes I couldn’t help myself, but I always left before–before the end. Spying on you wasn’t right.” “Now?” He turned back to her with a smile. “Now I have your permission. Now it couldn’t be more right.”

Black Leather, White Lace

103

His hands went to his own jeans, and he unsnapped and unzipped without hesitation. He knelt up to push the garment, together with his underwear, out of the way. Sylvie watched him as he’d watched her, with love and growing desire. She’d thought she couldn’t want him more, but as she saw his erection, hard and strong for her, her breath quickened and she reached for him. He groaned when she wrapped her hands around him, but didn’t stop her until she leaned closer. Then he drew her hands away. “I want the first time to be in you,” he whispered. “If you do that any more, it won’t be. Have mercy, my love.” Smiling, she slid her hands around his hips to the curves of his backside. The muscles flexed when she pressed, and he drew closer, bringing his delicious male scent and his warmth to her. When he settled between her thighs she gave a sigh of satisfaction. “This is where you should be.” “I couldn’t agree more.” His lips came closer to her, and his erection nudged her clit, making her knees draw up in reaction to the contact. “Oh God, you’re so wet!” Somehow, she found the strength to tease. “I thought you Puritans didn’t blaspheme.” “I was never a Puritan.” He kissed the tip of her nose and took his weight on one elbow, freeing the other hand to slide between them. She caught his hand when it reached her stomach. “I’m ready, Nathaniel. Like you, I want the first time to be when you’re inside me.” He pulled his hand out and leaned on both elbows once more. Watching her all the time, he lowered his body and entered her. Slowly at first, he moved inside until she said, “I won’t break.” He drove hard inside her. She came immediately, her body arching up helplessly into his, the contractions beyond her control, stronger than anything she’d ever felt before. His mouth came down hard on hers, gentleness forgotten and he began to drive ruthlessly into her, each stroke harder and deeper than the last, trying to reach the very heart of her. One arm slipped under her body to pull her up, keep them close and closer still, as he forced another orgasm on the heels of the first, leaving her crying his name, aloud and in her mind. He responded with a kiss, pushing his tongue into her, an reminder and an echo of his movements below. There was no reality except this, nothing outside this room, this bed. She had no way of knowing how long it lasted, but she guessed not much time had passed before he tore his mouth away to gasp her name once more before heat gushed into her. His orgasm sparked another from her, and when the last spasm finally died away she opened her eyes to find him waiting for her, his eyes warm with love. He rolled to one side, taking her with him, keeping his body in hers. “I’m not likely to leave here, now. I want to stay here–right here–as long as I can. They’ll have to drag me away now.” She smiled. At least she’d made him fight the idea of leaving her, though she wasn’t certain if that was a good thing or not. Before, he’d been tranquil, content with the idea of moving out of this life, but now he didn’t want to leave her. She knew it for sure, she felt it in her, too. “We should try to stay together.” “I’ll be here for you. Always. I’ll do everything in my power to stay.” A shadow of concern crossed her happiness. “I didn’t mean to do that. I’m sorry,

Lynne Connolly

104

Nathaniel. I don’t want to make you sorry to leave. You’ve accepted it with a tranquility I can’t pretend to have, but I was glad, for your sake.” He met her gaze and she saw the trouble in his eyes. “The moment I opened my eyes in that hospital bed I knew leaving you would be harder than I’d imagined. If I seemed tranquil it was for your sake.” He kissed her, gentleness back in his bodily vocabulary. “I love you, Sylvie.” “I love you too, Nathaniel.” For a while there was no need for words. Touch and comfort drew them together, and they held each other, contentment filling them both. She drew her fingers through the light fuzz of hair on his chest. “I know this body, but you use it differently.” “Better?” “Better because I love you.” She studied his body, remembering the small scars even the luckiest of people accumulated during a lifetime, wondering how something so familiar could be so different. “Is this like your–your previous body?” “Very much.” He growled softly, stroking her back in long, slow sweeps of his big hands. “But Nev is–was–a relative, in a way.” “Are you–are you his sometime great grandfather?” He chuckled. “No, I never had any children, and I never married.” “Why not?” She had often asked the question to herself when reading his letters, never dreaming she would have the chance to ask him in person. Especially in these circumstances. “You were well off, and your brother was childless. Didn’t you get any encouragement to marry?” “Plenty.” He turned on to his back and drew her close, then looked down at her. “Why do you ask that about Nev’s heritage? You’ve studied the family history, you must know the current branch is descended from my younger brother.” “I wondered.” Lying together like this, she could hide nothing from him. “As you say, I’ve read your letters. I know you had feelings for your sister in law.” He pulled away from her, lifting up on one elbow, his brows drawn in a hard, dark line. “How? What letters have you seen?” “There’s nothing incriminating in them.” Swinging his legs off the bed, Nathaniel strode restlessly to the window and stared outside. Tension tightened her chest. “But I know you, Nathaniel. I knew you from the moment I stepped over the threshold here. I read between the lines, my dear. You wrote to her often, even when you were fighting on the other side to her husband, your brother. You asked about the estate when you wanted to ask about her. She wrote back, asking you if you’d found a special friend yet, and mentioning women you might like to meet. Did she know?” He spoke without looking at her. “She knew. I thought if I stayed, she and Vernon would never make a success of their marriage. They weren’t in love, he didn’t love her as I did, but she was lost to me the moment she married my brother.” “Was that why you dueled?” “Indirectly. I arrived here with a force of men. Cromwell wanted to confiscate the Abbey, and if he’d done that, it would have been completely lost to us. I was sick of war by then, as Vernon was, and I petitioned to keep the house in the family. That was granted to me.” He turned away and looked at her, hiding nothing. His eyes were bleak with despair, his powerful body tense with grief. “I didn’t explain myself properly. As always, I

Black Leather, White Lace

105

was tongue tied in her presence, and Vernon thought I would take it all and give it to the Parliamentary forces. I didn’t want to take it for my own, only to safeguard it. The estate would have been in my name, but once the affairs of the nation had settled down, I could quietly give it back to him. Or his children. I would never have asserted my authority, or done anything he wouldn’t have liked. I loved him too, you see.” “I know.” When she lifted her hand to him, he came to her. She dragged back the covers and they climbed between the sheets. He drew the covers back over them, holding her in the shelter of his body. “So you killed each other.” “I couldn’t think properly by then. I thought we might fight and wear each other out. We’d fought enough as children, pummeled each other into oblivion, but this time we were both trained soldiers. We didn’t fence, we fought with swords, our every instinct honed to kill. We succeeded.” “Did Vernon ever know how you felt about his wife?” He curled his arm around her, threading his fingers into her hair. “No. You know we both haunted the Abbey for a while?” Wonder filled her thoughts. “No. I thought you and the monk were the only ghosts.” “It’s been a long time since Vernon left us. He found his destiny and his redemption. But before he left, we were able to reconcile. What good would it have done for him to know I was hopelessly in love with his wife? It wouldn’t have changed anything.” Her heart went out to him, and she moved closer, trying to comfort him with the warmth of her body. Nathaniel wasn’t a man to confess his secrets freely; it had been hard for him to tell her, even after the passage of three and a half centuries. He hadn’t closed his mind to her, and his feelings were as keen as her own were. She felt his bleakness, his despair at what he felt was the betrayal of his brother. He must know it. Sylvie lifted up and slid over him, lying on his body, her knees and elbows supporting her weight. She met his eyes, and longed to ease his pain, any way she could. He gazed at her, and slowly, warmth entered his gaze. “I don’t love her any more,” he whispered before he cupped the back of her head and brought her down to kiss him. As their mouths met, their minds merged and became one. No more separations, not in the searing soul to soul contact they shared. Slowly they kissed, savoring and memorizing until Sylvie gently pulled away, kissing his jaw and setting her own trail of kisses down his body. She lingered at his nipples, teasing and tweaking, but the luxurious desire infusing them both was different to the frantic lovemaking they had shared earlier. This was less physical, more loving. She tried to infuse every kiss with meaning, memorizing the feel of his skin under her mouth, beneath her hands. She wanted him so much, but they had to part. If she didn’t accept it, she might drive herself mad with wanting. He lay back, accepting her ministrations, soft groans only encouraging her to do more, letting her know his most sensitive places. She kissed the dark line of hair leading downwards from his navel, felt him tense with pleasure when she caressed the dip inside his narrow hips with her tongue, tracing a path she would never forget down to his cock. When she touched the tip with her tongue, she felt his balls contract under her hands. Making a small sound of pleasure, she slid her mouth slowly over him, the silky skin caressing her tongue with its delicious texture. He made a soft noise, and she felt his pleasure in every pore of her body, infusing her with the yearning to give him everything

Lynne Connolly

106

she had, in return for the precious gift he was bestowing on her. Not just the child she longed for, but his love. She knew which meant most to her. She wanted the child as a living reminder, but she would have given it all up for his love. Here and now, she had it. Caressing him with her hands and mouth, Sylvie knew life had nothing better to offer her. She would gladly die with him, if it meant they could be together. The sheets swirled about her as he sat up and grabbed her under her arms, dragging her off him and up the bed. Blue eyes blazed into hers. “No! You will not ask for such a thing! Do you know what comforts me now? The thought that you will not die, that you will have a happy and fulfilled life after I’m gone! Don’t do this, Sylvie. You promised. Love me in the few days we have, and then go on. If you renege on this I’ll leave this room now, and I won’t come back!” Tears blurred her view of him. He was right. She shouldn’t ask for death. “I’ll keep my promise, Nathaniel. I swear it. And not because I’m afraid you’ll leave now, but because I want to make you happy. I won’t ask for the things I can’t have.” The fury melted into something else as he looked at her. His eyes still blazed, but with something other than the sudden anger that had melted like snow in summertime. “It’s hard, that’s all,” she whispered. “That’s why I’ll do it. I won’t be a martyr, I’ll make something of my life. When we meet again, at last, I’ll have some things to tell you!” “That’s my girl!” Slowly, he lowered her and Sylvie marveled at the latent strength giving him so much control over his muscles. Although she was reasonably slender, she was tall, and no lightweight. When she felt his cock touch the amazingly sensitive skin between her legs her whole body shuddered, weeping for him. He slid down and they both let out a sigh of relief. “It seems the only way I’m whole is when I’m with you,” he murmured. His hands grasped her waist, strongly controlling her movements and she felt the angle he used to drive her down on his body, until their hair meshed and their flesh joined, all the way down to his balls. Sylvie felt the thrill all the way through her body, rippling up her spine, electricity calling every cell to answer his need, to accomplish her own. No longer sure where her sensations ended and his began, she glided up and then down, using her knees as leverage. He groaned and his head fell back against the pillows. When she lifted her body off his again, he caught his breath. Controlling him and herself she rode him slowly at first. He opened his eyes, frankly enjoying the sight of her body above his, and when he looked down, he smiled, a deliciously carnal smile. He raised his hands and caressed her breasts, taking the nipples between his fingers and rolling them to hard points, before giving each a little flick that made her howl, the sensations thrilling down her body, to meet with the glorious effects from below. When she tensed, he slid his hands down to her hips, holding her firmly down and driving up. She hadn’t known a man could go so deeply inside her, so deep that his body ground against her clit. When he twisted slowly under her, he massaged her with his body, his pubic hair stimulating her to a sudden, violent explosion. Sylvie lost all sense of time and place, whirling with this other being, lost in space, her only reality the waves coursing through her body. Dimly, she heard his voice, words of encouragement and wonder, merging with her own wordless cries. Gasping, she fell forward, feeling his arms holding her tightly. He still worked in

Black Leather, White Lace

107

her, hard, powerful jerks of his lower body that brought her to a sharper, spikier orgasm. She felt helpless, but she reveled in the feeling, knowing she was safer here than anywhere else, sure he would protect her with his life. As she would protect him. When he came, she felt the gush, then the tension of what seemed like every muscle in his body as he poured his essence into her. His cry was almost a scream, and she held him, her heart going out to him in his temporary helplessness. She held his head to her breasts and felt his hot breath against her skin. Time slowed down, then stopped completely. They sat on the rumpled sheets, breathing heavily, neither wanting to move, ever again. “Fuck!” The curse drifted up from below, so loud they heard it through the double glazed windows. He chuckled, then lifted his head. “I’d forgotten everything except you. It must be the TV people.” “They’ve given up on waiting for us. We were supposed to do a bit more to camera today.” His chuckle was renewed. “Shall we do this to camera?” She leaned back a little, gazed at his upturned face. “I’m almost tempted to say yes.” His smile warmed her. “Anything you want, my love, I’m here for you.” Another swear word curled its way into her consciousness, louder this time, and when she paid a little more attention she could hear the clang of metal on metal. It was hard to concentrate on anything with those amazing blue eyes gazing into hers. “What on earth are they doing?” “Sounds like a swordfight.” She saw when the realization hit him. “They’re reconstructing the duel, aren’t they?” She nodded. “They always planned to. Do you mind?” He swallowed. “I don’t know.” She pushed on his shoulders and lifted off him, feeling his body leave hers and regretting it. Two more days. She watched him cross the room to the window and peer out, not attempting to hide his nudity from anyone who might be watching outside. “There’s one good thing,” he commented. “Jo Goodson has just seen me. Even she couldn’t misconstrue this. She doesn’t look happy, but there are too many people out there for her to show what she’s really feeling.” “Can you read her mind?” “Only her emotions, love, only what she wants to show. If I could, I’d have no difficulty discovering who wants to kill me, would I?” Her heart pulsed ice. Back to reality. “We still have to find out, don’t we?” “I don’t know.” He still stared out over the terrace, a floor below them. “I’m thoroughly confused, not least at what I really want to do. I can manage another half century or more, while I wait for you. Perhaps I shouldn’t try to discover who wants to kill me, so I go back to wraith form. Perhaps you’re right, and this is my destiny, to make a child for the Heatherington line.” He smiled wryly. “I can’t think all this is just for an heir, though. What difference does it make in the great scheme of life?” She slid of the bed and crossed the room to him, slipping her arms around his waist from behind. He put his hands over hers. “Shall we stay here? Shall we stay forever, in this room, making love, being together?”

Lynne Connolly

108

“Can we?” He turned into her arms, no longer watching the activity outside. His eyes had that bleak look again. “No.” She swallowed. “No. But we have this. Nathaniel, you’ve given me more than I’ve ever known before. How I can say that, looking into the face of the man who betrayed me within weeks of our marriage, I’m not sure, but I know you, as I never knew him. I still wonder what drove him to do the things he did.” “What drives any of us? He wasn’t a pleasant person, sweetheart, that’s all.” Raucous shouts from outside drew his attention back to the window and he stifled a curse when he saw what was happening. “Someone is going to get killed,” he commented. “I think I have to go.” “But we can come back later?” “Oh yes.”

Black Leather, White Lace

109

Chapter Seven

Half an hour later, although the shared shower had been a close call, they were downstairs once more. As they walked around the corner of the house and headed for the terrace, they heard people shouting and still the clang of metal on metal. Hand in hand they approached the commotion. Angela Murdoch was the first to see them, which Nathaniel thought was typical of the woman. Her smile of welcome was decidedly frayed at the edges. “I don’t suppose you know anything about sword fighting?” she said wearily. Nathaniel glanced towards the group on the terrace. Two were dressed in what must be supposed to be period dress, one in a rough imitation of Roundhead dress, the other in an approximation of the portrait of Vernon hanging in the Long Gallery. Neither looked very much like either Vernon or Nathaniel. The others were technicians, and a man in a form fitting outfit looked as though he was in charge. At least, he was trying to be, though the actors were ignoring him, trying to get at each other. He let go Sylvie’s hand, and ignoring the pang of loss he felt when he lost bodily contact with her, strode forward. Nobody took any notice of him until he wrenched the sword out of the putative Cavalier’s hands. The weapon wasn’t one he would use by choice. The edges were nicked and the rope wound around the grip worn. Just like his own when he returned from the wars. A shock of realization went through him. It was his own. They had kept it. The other weapon wasn’t one he recognized. Someone was watching him. He felt the heat of eyes on his back. Extending his senses, he tried to discover who it was before he turned around, but he felt a block. Somebody knew how to erect a psychic block. That narrowed it down a little. He didn’t turn around, pretending he’d noticed nothing. Instead, he turned his attention to the people in front of him. “Where did you find this?” He indicated the sword, which he now held point down. The fight director looked at him for the first time, deliberately eyeing him from head to foot. “Who are you?” “I own this place.” He watched the man, and enjoyed his careless shrug. “I see. Pleased to meet you. I’m Brock.” He didn’t sound pleased to meet anyone. “We found the weapons in the hall, and I picked these out as nearest to the period.” Nathaniel shifted his grip. “Yes, they are.” “I didn’t think you took much interest in your history.” The man called Brock paused before he added, “My lord.” The words were almost a sneer. Nev would have deserved it. Nathaniel did not. “You’d be surprised.” His entrance had done the trick, and the two protagonists paused in their argument, their voices dying down to mere conversational tones. Nathaniel flicked a disdainful

Lynne Connolly

110

glance at them. “Are these your idea of an earl and his brother? Don’t you think they’d be better–built than these two?” Brock shrugged again, his massive shoulders moving only slightly, but it was enough to express his scorn. “I didn’t provide them. I was delayed coming down here. I’m working on the new Bond picture, and that has to take precedence. So I left it to the company to find them.” He made an explosive sound, eloquently expressing his scorn. “They don’t know one end of a sword from the other.” One of the men took umbrage. “Hey, I’ve done plenty of sword fights before!” “I wanted this one to be accurate,” Brock said. “Seems a shame, when we’re using authentic weapons.” He turned to Nathaniel, interest sparking in his eyes. “What say you and me have a bout? Can you fight?” Nathaniel’s expression of scorn rivaled Brock’s of a moment earlier. “Some. My fencing was only ever average, but I can fight.” Brock frowned. “This was a duel. So it’s likely it was a fencing match.” “It was a fight to the death.” The bleakness in Nathaniel’s tone startled everyone nearby, and he cursed his lack of attention to detail. Nev wouldn’t have cared about family history. Well, this one did, and it was just too bad if anyone noticed. Holding the sword again had invigorated him somehow. All the sense of justice, the panic when he realized his brother really meant to kill him, knowing what that would mean to the family, and then the sickening moment when he realized the blow he’d meant to disarm was actually fatal. Just before he passed out from blood loss. He always envied Vernon his quick death. Lingering on and eventually dying of gangrene wasn’t something any sane person would choose as a preference. A flash distracted him and he turned to see Brock coming at him, sword upraised. Without even thinking, he parried the blow, feeling the strength jar all the way up his arm, and the fight was on. With memories of the last time he’d fought here strongly in the forefront of his mind, Nathaniel had to combat the red mist of battle descending on him, the way it had before. Brock attacked, he parried but in such a way he delivered his own blow. The cries of alarm around them faded, their only reality each other and this killing field. It helped that Brock looked nothing like Vernon. He was shorter, stocker, and he moved differently, his stance deliberate instead of instinctive, his face not contorted into hatred but with concentration. Nathaniel had just parried another blow when he said, through gritted teeth, “Fight, damn you!” Everything he’d been trying desperately to stave off came to the fore. The disappointment of fighting for an ideal that turned out to be a nightmare, the loss of the woman he loved, the vicious and unreasoned attack his brother had made, all built up inside him into a fiery ball, and he fought. When he lashed out, Brock was ready, taking the strike on the flat of his blade and sliding it up, but when Nathaniel brought his knee up to his groin, he was taken completely off guard. He lost his balance, and fell forward. If Nathaniel hadn’t whipped his sword away, his opponent would have fallen on to the blade. The mist cleared. He had his foot on Brock’s chest, the point of his sword at the man’s throat, and Brock was grinning. “Now that was a fight! Let me up!” “I could drive this right through your throat.” He felt better now. This time he’d done what he should have done the first time. He stopped. “You could. You won, pal. Now let me up.”

Black Leather, White Lace

111

Nathaniel forced a grin and let him up, and only then heard the applause. When he turned to look at Sylvie, she wasn’t clapping, but she understood. He’d stopped. This time. Still grasping the sword he crossed the terrace to her, and it wasn’t until Brock called out, “Hey, leave that, will you? I’ll choreograph something simple, on the lines of what we just did. Okay guys?” There was a general murmur of approval. Nathaniel didn’t feel safe until he’d wrapped his larger hand around Sylvie’s; she was his anchor in this strange world. Angela Murdoch beamed at him from her position the other side of Sylvie. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to be Vernon in our little reconstruction? It would do wonders for the ratings!” He shook his head. “Definitely not. I’ll do a little speech to camera, but that’s about it. I came here for some quiet, and I’m hoping you’ll be out of here soon. No offence.” “None taken, especially at this time of year. We have our scoop, anyway. I sent your little piece to the newsroom, and they featured it at the end, in the human interest slot. It’s all over the papers today. A happy ending Christmas story, just the kind of thing they like. So I hope you meant it when you said you wanted to reconcile with Sylvie here.” “What does it look like?” he demanded, lifting their joined hands. “It’s time. Everybody has to grow up sometime.” “So they do.” Angela’s stern expression reminded him of a schoolteacher. He’d seen plenty of those when a school had been billeted on the Abbey in World War Two. After that it had become a temporary field hospital and girlish laughter had been replaced by the groans of dying men. But he’d never forgotten the utterly terrifying schoolmistresses. He always imagined Queen Elizabeth must have been something like that, from the stories his grandfather told him. It helped to explain how she’d kept so many powerful men in line. Sylvie could do it just by loving him. If he hadn’t been so foolish, keeping his emotions to himself, perhaps matters would have turned out differently. He should have confessed his love for his brother’s wife, then they could have cleared the air. She might even have married him instead of Vernon. But now he had Sylvie. In one way it was for a few days only, but in every way that mattered, she was his for eternity. And he was hers. She spoke in his head. What happened? You seemed to go mad! You must have been fighting for a good twenty minutes. What? It had been nothing like that time. Five minutes, ten at most. What had happened? He thought back over the fight, recalling each blow. Until the mist had descended. The mist. He’d been wrong. It wasn’t like battle-fury, not at all. It had come from outside. Someone had attacked him again, only this time, with psychic power, forcing out his reason, making him re-stage the fatal moment in his career. Only when he’d thought of Sylvie had he gained the power to stop. He could have killed Brock. She felt it all with him, understood at the same time he did, and her hand tightened on his. She communicated with him again. It was one of the two mediums. I’m sure of it. So am I. He cast a glance to where Jo Goodson stood with Doris Albright. The two ladies were watching the choreography, as Brock arranged the moves for the actors, but the force, all the power, emanated from where they stood. It pulsed around them in vivid

Lynne Connolly

112

waves of color. Now we have to find out which one is responsible. ***** “This is getting dangerous.” Sitting together on the sofa in Sylvie’s private living room, Nathaniel at last gave in to the urge to hold her, an urge as primitive as anything he’d ever known. Nestled close to his heart, he finally felt safe. “It’s all beyond me,” she confessed. “I knew there were ghosts, but it was hard enough for me to believe in you. You mean all this medium stuff is real?” “As is the presence of evil.” His mouth thinned into a grim line. “It suits people in this century and the last to ignore the reality of pure, elemental evil. Despite their denials, it does exist, and it can be trapped. One of those two women is calling to it. It could mean disaster, for you and for the house.” “But not for you.” “I’m not leaving you until I’m sure you’re safe.” He didn’t know how he would do it, just that he would. “How am I in danger? They want you, don’t they?” “Yes, they do. But they’ll kill you to get to me, if they have to. I don’t know which one.” She shifted against his chest. “You know they’re mother and daughter, don’t you?” “What?” gripping her shoulders he pulled her away, just enough to look down into her face. “You’re sure?” She stared back at him, bewilderment clouding her gaze. “I thought everybody knew. You said you watched a lot of TV. Don’t you watch Hosts to Ghosts?” He grimaced. “No. I know too much about them. I watched the documentaries, the hospital dramas. Anything where I could learn. I shouldn’t have been so damned arrogant.” A thought struck him. “Why do they use different names?” “The mother, Doris, has remarried. The whole show is based around them and their so-called close relationship.” He swore, and leaned back against the sofa, closing his eyes. A nightmare. Families could work together. He wouldn’t put money on these two not conspiring and working together. If only he’d watched at least one of the programs, then he would have realized why the power was so strong. “Sweetheart, I know very little about the occult, but I can sense things. All ghosts can. They are a powerful pair, those two. I don’t even know what they want, but I have to find out. Why would they want to kill me? I thought Jo wanted to be the next Countess. She can hardly do that if I’m dead, can she?” Sylvie wriggled a little in his grip, and he forced himself to relax his hold on her. She stood up and crossed the room, towards the small kitchen that was a part of her private suite and he heard the sound of her filling the kettle. She called through to him. “I don’t know. Perhaps it’s her mother, or perhaps Jo is only pretending to want you.” He thought back to the episode this morning, and remembered the passion that seethed around the younger medium. She had certainly seemed to want him. Reluctantly, he had to admit she might have fooled him. “I’ll hunt around tonight, see if I can find anything.” He would also try to find Brother Anselm. He needed help, if he was to keep Sylvie safe. If he were to be wrenched away from her, he had to be sure someone was there. It hurt him even to think about leaving her, but he had to admit the possibility.

Black Leather, White Lace

113

Sylvie returned, carrying two steaming mugs of tea. He didn’t like to tell her he’d rather have small beer or wine. These days they were special drinks, not everyday, any time of the day beverages, but in his day that was what they drank. He supposed tea was an acquired taste, like the coffee he’d tried at breakfast. That he positively couldn’t stomach, but given the opportunity, he would certainly try. Sylvie adored coffee, but she must have noticed his aversion to the stuff, because she brought tea to him now. He smiled, and curled his hands around the hot mug. It was comforting to feel the heat, something he hadn’t felt for many years. Even more comforting to feel Sylvie’s body against his own. “What are you thinking?” He took a sip of his drink, carefully schooling his face to prevent his instinctive aversion to tea. “That I don’t know which is better with you. Lovemaking, or the aftermath, when I can hold you and talk to you. I’ve never told anyone half as much as I’ve told you in these few days. You know me better than anyone, alive or dead.” She laughed. “You’ve been talking to me like that for years. You always shared your thoughts with me. I guess I thought it was natural to you.” “Only with you, love. Only with you.” She glanced away and sipped her tea. “What shall we do?” He finished half the mug and found it was indeed getting more palatable. “You will stay in bed, warm and safe. I will go and see what I can discover.” “Really, Nathaniel! This isn’t the middle ages, you know. Where you go, I go. You’re the one in danger, not me.” “I’m not so sure about that.” He picked up his tea again. “These people must be mad, to think the way they do.” “There are lots of them.” She smiled at him over the rim of her mug. “People who think they can control the world with ritual. There always have been people.” His memory went back to the Catholic ritual Queen Henrietta Maria had brought to court, and the words of her ancestor, Henri IV of France. “Paris is worth a mass.” She was right. Whatever it was called, there were always people drawn to ritual, people who would gain power from it, one way or the other. Those women, or one of them, wanted him here, and planned more. He had to find out, before he left. If any of this put Sylvie in danger, he wanted her safe before he left. Before he died. ***** Sylvie awoke muggily when she felt a hand on her shoulder. Before the startled reaction in her mind could reach her body, a warm mouth covered hers in a gentle kiss. She opened her eyes on Nathaniel’s smiling face, but when she reached her arms up to hold him, she flinched. “You’re cold!” “Then you’ll have to warm me. But look at this, first. Sit up, love.” He slid his hand behind her waist, but she’d already begun to sit. The thin light of a winter morning filtered through the drapes, and by its light she saw the papers he held. Anger sliced through her. “You went without me! I can’t believe you did that! I said we’d do it together!” He tried to pull her close, but she resisted. He sighed. “I needed to talk to Brother Anselm. He would never appear with you present. I’m sorry, sweetheart, I had little

Lynne Connolly

114

choice.” “You could have told me what you were doing.” To his relief, she sounded a little less mad. “I would have done, but you were asleep.” “And whose fault was that?” He chuckled and leaned over here, kissing her softly. “All mine, sweetheart. I take all the blame for that.” She curled her hand around his neck and deepened the kiss, threading her fingers through his hair and tugging gently. Nathaniel had found it amusing that in this existence he’d been gifted with long hair, the insignia of the Royalist, but never before had he thought of it as erotic. He did now, because she loved it. Reluctantly he drew back so she could read the papers he’d brought. She leaned against his shoulder and studied the sheets, three in all. They were covered with scrawled writing and diagrams, containing symbols. “What do they mean?” “Brother Anselm helped me decipher them. We found them tucked in a book in the library. If Brother Anselm hadn’t helped me, I’d never have found them.” He paused. “They’re a ritual for waking the dead.” “What?” He didn’t need her sudden movement to know she was as disturbed as he was. “They’re new. Someone was making notes in the last few days. Look.” He turned over the first sheet so she could see the red line drawn half way down the second page. “This is where the person casting the spell has to stop. The ritual is completed a few days later, when the moon is full.” “What happens then?” She drew closer to him, as though to keep him with her. “The change becomes permanent.” She swallowed, and shuffled through the papers again. “Do you think this brought you back?” His mouth formed a thin line. “No. My brother didn’t need it, and I am entitled to appear in corporeal form once a year. But whoever cast this spell, performed this ritual, believes it. Brother Anselm thinks it’s dangerous. It could endanger us both.” Again, she pressed against him. “How?” His heart went out to her bravery. She wanted to know everything, and she wouldn’t flinch. “This is a black ritual. It dedicates the reborn soul to the left hand path, the dark side, the Devil, whatever you choose to call it.” He tried to keep his voice steady, but heard himself quaver. Nobody and nothing had frightened him while he’d been alive, but the implications of this terrified him. Worse that he didn’t know for sure what he was fighting, or how to fight it. Even worse that Sylvie was involved. “It uses a living person to link to the dead one, to bring them back and hold them. It means that when the moon is full, and they complete the ritual, they will sacrifice the living person so that the other, dead one brought back to life, is confirmed in their life. They want to sacrifice you to me, sweetheart.” She turned her face up to his, her clear eyes showing nothing but determination. “I would die for you, Nathaniel.” “Hush.” He pressed a soft, reverent kiss to her lips. “You are not going to die for me. Nobody is. Brother Anselm will help as much as he can, and he’s a man of God. Our secret weapon, Sylvie. For the next few days, I don’t want you out of my sight. I won’t let them take you, sweetheart.”

Black Leather, White Lace

115

“I won’t let them take me!” she retorted. “Do you think it’s the two mediums?” “No doubt about it,” he said, dropping a kiss on to her hair. Damn, he couldn’t stop touching her! “One or both of them.” “When does the new moon rise?” “Saturday.” She paused. “The day you–leave.” “Precisely. That can’t be a coincidence. They must know something about reviving, and they could have added their influence. I don’t know how these things work. I was a good churchgoer all my days, never thought about the spiritual, really.” She stroked his chest, teasing the hair with her fingers. It seemed she was afflicted the same way. Touching and stroking seemed necessary to both of them. “I thought you were a Puritan! Didn’t they spend all their time in church?” He barked a short laugh. “Hardly. Some of us joined the Parliamentarians for matters of principle. It wasn’t a religious revolution, sweetheart, it was a political one. I left when the Levelers looked like taking over. I couldn’t abide them, men with names like Saved-Again-Jackson and In-God-We-Trust Thomas. They wanted to pervert the pursuance of justice to their own ends. To a large extent, they succeeded. A King died. I never wanted that.” “It wasn’t your fault.” He covered her hand with his own, needing the contact. “I was dead by then, so at least I was spared that. I wouldn’t have signed the warrant.” They spared a moment to think of poor, misguided, arrogant King Charles, before Nathaniel lifted Sylvie’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, using it to draw her around and over him. She went willingly, holding her face up for his kiss. Cupping the back of her head with his spare hand, he kissed her at length, caressing her with his lips and tongue. She responded, opening her mouth to him and touching her tongue to his, stroking its length and plunging deeply. When she lifted away, his groan at their separation was short lived as she kissed his jaw, his throat and then lower. Her progress down his body was exquisite torture, anticipation adding to his arousal. Her hair swept softly down over his chest, setting all his nerve endings on fire for her. It was as though they hadn’t made love for years, instead of a few hours ago. He wanted her with a raw, desperate passion he doubted he would ever lose, had he been granted the boon of staying with her longer. How could his last days on earth be so blissful, enough to make up completely for the rest of his miserable existence? He stifled a laugh when she reached the ticklish part at the side of his ribs, but she must have felt his instinctive flinch because she teased him with her tongue before moving on to his navel, and the line of hair leading downwards to his groan. Laughter turned to moans when she touched the tip of his erection. She teased him, tracing her tongue around the head until he wanted to grab her head with both hands and force her down. “Dear God, woman, please don’t do that any more, you’re driving me crazy!” She chuckled before opening her mouth wide and taking in as much of him as she could. He cried out at the sheer electric sensation of her mouth and tongue on him, drawing him to an impossible height of arousal. He couldn’t hold on, he couldn’t! Suddenly she released him, and before his fuddled mind could catch up with events,

Lynne Connolly

116

she was over him, holding herself over his body, both arms bracketing his shoulders. She sank on to him, not pausing as his body stretched and filled hers, until he was fully embedded in her. Then she moved. It was all he could do not to come instantly. Nathaniel gritted his teeth and held on, reaching up to clasp her slender waist in his hands, not to guide her, just to feel her. She was doing well enough on her own, without his help. This was heaven, sheer bliss. When she slid up, he braced himself for her downward plunge, and it was good. She drove down and down as though she would never stop, and he opened his arms and his legs and let her do whatever she wanted. She sat up, changing the angle of penetration, and plunged again. Nathaniel let out a cry which in other circumstances could be construed as agony, but was actually precisely the opposite. She laughed, a full-throated triumphant howl of joy and Nathaniel let it sink into him, soak into his soul. Making someone so happy had to count for something. Being so happy himself was just reward. He felt a quiver start deep inside her, and knew before she did that her orgasm was reaching climactic levels. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to make this moment perfect for her, so despite his own ecstasy, he drew on the little discipline he had left and forced his mind to enter hers, When he felt her joy, the surge of energy nearly made him come, but she wasn’t quite there. Not yet, not yet. Carefully, he felt the sensations coursing through her, tensing against the sensual invitation she sent for him to join her. Not yet, not yet. He could sense what she liked and what did little for her. Cupping her breasts in his palms drove him crazy, but she needed more than that. Her craving was his own. He sat up, careful not to disturb his angle of entry. Just like this, he was making contact with the sweetest spot in her body, and every time he touched it, she went a little higher. When he latched on to her nipple, curling his tongue around the taut tip, she screamed. He would have smiled, if his mouth hadn’t been full. Time enough for him to find his own reward. This was hers. She was past words, but he felt her awareness of his presence, felt her surrounding him with warmth, all over, above, below and everywhere in between. Nothing mattered more than this. Nothing existed outside this bed. The world drifted around them, no longer important. Their joining, bringing her an experience they would both remember, beyond the grave, beyond all reckoning, beyond all existence. That was all that counted. With a whoosh of sensation, everything within him drew up to a peak of wanting, of straining to an end. Sure she was with him, sharing her joy, contributing his, he finally allowed himself to find his release. Now the world ceased to exist. They spiraled together, without time, without anchors, bound up in each other. This love truly was for all time.

Black Leather, White Lace

117

Chapter Eight

A day. One more day. When she woke up next to him, Sylvie heard the message pounding through her brain. This was it, the last day she could spend with the man she would love for the rest of her life. Harder that she would have to hide her unhappiness, or she would spend her last day repining and moaning. Never had “live for the day” seemed harder. When he awoke a few minutes later she was ready, greeting him with a loving kiss and a smile. He pulled her across his chest, and she snuggled in, firmly locking her grief away in her heart. Time enough for that tomorrow. “It’s late, isn’t it?” She felt the sound rumble through his chest when he spoke. “Nearly noon. We didn’t sleep for a long time.” He chuckled. “No, we didn’t, did we?” He went still, and she felt his fingers under her chin, gently urging her to look up at him. When she did, she carefully schooled her face into happiness. “No regrets?” She smiled and shook her head. “None at all. I would have regretted it forever, if we hadn’t done this.” She leaned up, taking her weight on her elbows. “I hope we make a child, and although I’m not usually this sexist, I hope it’s a son. Then your earldom will live on.” He studied her, letting his gaze travel over her face. “Sylvie, before this happened, before I came here, I was allowed a day of corporeal form a year. I don’t know what will happen now, but I made this bargain so I could move on. We could have had that, but it would have meant a day every year of happiness for us. Trying to keep to that nearly drove my brother mad. But I will wait for you. By everything I hold dear, I will do my best to wait.” “Tell me about your brother.” He drew her down again and told her. “Vernon found his love in Napoleonic times. They made a promise, that he would visit her every year, but after their first encounter she became pregnant. Then he made a bargain. He would take the place of her husband, who died on the field at Waterloo. His body was badly damaged, and it wasn’t certain he would live, but if he took this chance, he would either move on, or he would live with her. He lived.” “Were they happy?” “Blissfully.” He played with her hair, letting it run through his fingers. “So Vernon was the third Earl of Rustead, and the eighth.” “Just as you’re the fourth and the twelfth.” “Just the same.” Except Vernon had lived a long and happy life with his lady. Not five days.

Lynne Connolly

118

***** Later that day, Nathaniel walked hand in hand with Sylvie to the big room downstairs they had given over to the TV production crew. During the season, this room, once the summer sitting room, served as the restaurant, so tea urns and coffee makers were conveniently close. Now the tables were covered with the equipment the crew considered necessary. Angela was present, and a couple of technicians. “Do you know where the mediums are?” Sylvie asked, careful not to sound too eager, for she and Nathaniel had decided this was the time to confront the women. Angela looked up. “Not off hand. They’re due on set later, but they had an exciting night. Come and look at this!” They crossed the room and stood next to her, where they could both see the monitor. “The central part of Hosts to Ghosts is the séance,” Angela said, pushing her glasses up her nose. “We’ve tried every night this week, but we got nothing. For the first time, we were going to decide if we should tell the audience there was nothing, or play things up a bit.” ‘Play things up a bit’ must mean to make it up, to exaggerate ordinary night time noises into something of spooky proportions. Sylvie had seen a few of the programs, and suspected most of them were done this way. “But look at this!” Angela stood up, and nodded to the seated technician, who clicked his mouse. For a moment Sylvie couldn’t work out where they’d set up the cameras. With certain exceptions, she’d given them the run of the house, with dire warnings not to touch the treasures. The day staff had re-erected the guide ropes that ran the length of the state rooms in the tourist season, just to be sure. She saw the ropes on the screen, but it took her a moment to work out the shadowy shapes in the background were portraits. The portraits of Nathaniel and Vernon in the Long Gallery. “We set up in several rooms,” Angela explained. “We’re leaving tomorrow, so only one more night after this one. I have to admit we were getting desperate.” The camera swung around a little to reveal the figures of Doris Alcock and Jo Goodman. Both had the eerie green shadowing of the night vision lens, and their eyes stood out in bright relief to the rest of the gloom. That must be purely for effect, because ghosts can materialize at any time. Can’t they just? Sylvie smiled when Nathaniel spoke to her and squeezed her hand, but she kept her attention on the TV screen. The women murmured together, words of invocation, something that sounded like ritual or prayer. Then the lights behind them came on, blinding in intensity. “I swear nobody turned them on,” Angela whispered. Someone did walk on and turn them off at that point in the film. They came on again. Nathaniel grunted, as though he knew why. Brother Anselm doesn’t like the dark. That was it, then. It was Brother Anselm. For a moment Sylvie had wondered if Nathaniel had paid them a nocturnal visit between bouts of lovemaking. Too busy dreaming of you, my love. Sylvie felt the heat rise to her cheeks when he showed her precisely what he’d been dreaming about. A fantasy they’d enacted when she’d awoken. A shadow moved across the screen. Brother Anselm had made an appearance. One of the mediums, the older one, shivered and held her hands out, as though feeling for something. “What is your name, spirit? Tell me, don’t be afraid.” A ghostly chuckle sounded over the speakers, hardly there at all. “What is it you need?”

Black Leather, White Lace

119

Jo broke in. “Can you help us?” “Yessssssss!” Sylvie leapt what felt like three feet. The word was so disembodied, so terribly ethereal, the sound scared her out of her mind. Laughing, Nathaniel put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer to his heat. “The typical ghost,” he said. Inside her mind, he added; He’s doing it on purpose. He’s creating a distraction for the mediums. Angela hit the pause button and shot him a frozen look. “Do you find this funny, Lord Rustead?” “In a way.” Nathaniel looked apologetic. “I remember this ghost from my childhood. He’s been here forever. They call him the Mad Monk, but nobody really knows who he is or what he’s doing here.” Except you. Except me. “May we interview you on camera about that?” Nathaniel shrugged. “If you like. I don’t really know that much.” “A brief description, perhaps a story about seeing the ghost when you were a boy will do fine.” Angela clapped her hands together lightly. “We’ll get this turned around for New Year, and then do a revised repeat later. It’ll be sensational!” “So no Christmas holiday for the staff?” Sylvie said. Angela shook her head. “I’ll work with a few technicians over the Christmas period. Spectacular bonuses all round. We’ll just celebrate after the show goes out. What a great Christmas present! A real live ghost, without a doubt! Bloody brilliant!” Sylvie followed Nathaniel’s lead when he tugged on her hand, leading her from the room. “An easy manifestation,” he murmured when they were out of earshot. “Meant to distract. I hope it worked.” It hadn’t. They ran the mediums to ground in the library, where they shouldn’t really have been, as they hadn’t been given permission to use that part of the Abbey. There were some treasures locked in the glass cases. Nathaniel didn’t say anything about the trespass. Neither did Sylvie. Instead, Nathaniel strolled forward with a smile of welcome. “Studying?” The mediums exchanged a look. “This is a beautiful library. You have some real treasures here,” Doris said, moving some papers. No doubt that was to conceal what they were up to. “We do, don’t we?” Sylvie walked up quietly behind Jo, where she sat at the large table, open books spread around her. “Find anything interesting? We’ve just seen the film of your experiences last night. Quite a display.” Jo’s eyes narrowed, her heavily mascara’d lashes coming together, in danger of tangling. “Are you saying that was faked? I can assure you it was not.” “Not at all,” Sylvie replied. She leaned over and flipped over the nearest book to read the title. “Magic texts? I thought you were mediums.” “A hobby. I have a gift, so I might as well use it to its full ability. It might turn into something else in time.” Doris chipped in. “She’s very talented. I’m teaching her all I know. The gift of power runs in families, you know.” “Really?” Nathaniel turned to her with his most charming smile. “My wife tells me you’re Jo’s mother.” Doris returned the smile, but hers wasn’t as charming, stretching her lips in a

Lynne Connolly

120

grimace. “Jo tells me I’m soon to be your mother in law.” Neither looked away. A spark, deep in her eyes, gave him pause. “You mean Nev’s.” “I mean Nev’s, of course. It worked then.” “What worked?” Nev lowered his voice, almost to a whisper. Challenge her. He felt another presence enter the room. Brother Anselm. Welcome, Brother. “Brother who?” A ripple of shock ran through him when he realized Doris had heard his internal greeting. “My secret,” he said briefly. “Who has come in?” Jo said suddenly. “There’s somebody else here, isn’t there?” He felt rather than saw Sylvie take a step towards him. He daren’t speak to her internally, now he knew they were overheard. Jo’s look turned sly, her eyes drifting half shut, a smile creeping over her lips. “We know who you are, Vernon.” He kept his facial features steady, deliberately showing her nothing. “It shouldn’t have been too difficult for you. I thought you were supposed to be at the top of your particular profession.” “We are,” the women chorused, then glanced at each other, before Doris went on. “You know we brought you back, don’t you? Do you want to know how we did it? We can make you stay, did you know that?” For a moment hope leapt in Nathaniel’s heart, but he didn’t need Brother Anselm’s voice in his head to remind him. You were sent here by a higher force. Their efforts were merely coincidental. The thoughts came in on a different wavelength to the one Brother Anselm usually employed. Nathaniel replied on the same wavelength. Are you sure? The hesitation was miniscule, but it was there. Of course I am sure. He wasn’t sure. How could he be? Nathaniel couldn’t be certain. Neither could he put himself in the power of these women. Avarice and jealousy ruled them, not an atavistic desire to see him united forever with the woman he loved. No one will believe them. I agree. Perhaps I should destroy my little demonstration last night. Nathaniel laughed. No, don’t do that, Brother. “He’s talking to the ghost!” Doris’s already heavy brows drew together in a deep frown. “How can you do that?” “I may be talking to myself.” Nathaniel met her angry glare. “One thing is certain ladies. I’m not your puppet, your Frankenstein’s monster.” “He’s not real!” Jo cried, turning an accusing stare on her mother. “You said he was a Royalist. How can he know about Frankenstein?” Nathaniel’s lips curled in a sneer. “You think I haven’t watched and learned over the centuries? Think again, ladies.” He turned abruptly away from the table. “I want to spend the time I have left with my wife, not with you. You’ll excuse us.” Spinning around, he bowed to them, a perfect courtly bow. He only wished he had a hat with a plume in it so he could finish with a spectacular flourish, but he demonstrated how often he’d done it by the ease and grace of the gesture. The bow was a royal bow, deep enough for a King, but he displayed his disdain when he turned his back on them. He put his hand in the small of Sylvie’s back and guided her to the door. The library had two doors at each end of the long room, and unfortunately the one he chose seemed to be locked. So much for a dramatic exit.

Black Leather, White Lace

121

They had to walk the length of the room, only to discover the other door was locked, too. Nathaniel rattled the handle in a futile attempt to shake the lock loose. Without turning round, he growled, “What have you done?” He wasn’t speaking to Sylvie. Sylvie turned, her face blandly impassive. “Have you locked us in?” Doris chuckled low in her throat. “Yes. We haven’t finished here, although his lordship seems to think so.” Jo murmured something, and the murmur became a chant. Nathaniel couldn’t hear the words, only feel the effect. He was rooted to the spot, unable to move. Sylvie tugged at his hand, but it fell away, unable to grip. “What have you done to him?” Slowly, he turned around. He screamed into the void, unable to contact Sylvie or anyone else. For the first time since he died, he was completely alone. Terror gripped him, but it had done before, and he fought to defeat it. Going into battle against one’s own countrymen led to terror and horrified realization that one could be fighting one’s own brother. Nothing could be that bad. Not even this. At the realization, his current situation came back into focus and he concentrated his energy on breaking free of the force that held him in its iron grip. It was impossible. Every time he fought, the barrier seemed to increase threefold, as though it fed off his strength. “Come here.” Doris’s words sounded as sweet as honey, although he knew her voice was harsh, roughened by her smoking habit. Nathaniel had never seen her smoke in public, but yellowed teeth and a hacking cough, as well as the lingering smell on her clothes all spoke louder than any words. Such knowledge didn’t help him now. Despite willing his feet to stay still, they moved, turning him towards the women seated at the table in the center of the room. As he passed Sylvie he saw her eyes, anguished, asking him what to do, but he knew no more than she did. How could these women exert so much power? It showed on their faces. They were taught with strain, both of them. They held their hands before them, the left of one and the right of the other interlinked, and lines etched their way around their eyes and foreheads. It wouldn’t take much extra effort to break their hold. “Don’t fight them.” The voice from behind him was Sylvie’s. He couldn’t turn his head to look at her. God, keep her safe, don’t bind her up in this spell! “She’s right. Don’t fight. Draw them out with your withdrawal.” Brother Anselm had spoken. Nathaniel could hear his voice, but not see him, although he could be out of his eye line. He wasn’t sure anyone else had heard the monk until Jo’s eyes shifted a little to the right, and gained a new expression. Something had surprised the younger medium, and by the look on her face, it wasn’t a pleasant surprise. Draw them out with your withdrawal. Of course! An old military trick. Pretend to retreat, let the enemy follow in triumph and then turn and set on them when they least expect it. “Look at me.” Doris’s voice compelled him. He didn’t want to, but he met her eyes. “You are under my control,” she continued, smoothly and evenly. “You must do as I say, do what I wish you to do.” He found he could speak. “Yes,” he said, keeping his tones as smooth as Doris’s. “I will do as you wish.” But Brother Anselm was with him now, and he felt the monk moving in his mind, freeing what he could from the heavy compulsion weighing him

Lynne Connolly

122

down. It was true. When he ceased to fight, the barriers lightened, leaving it possible for him to insinuate his way through the maze of threads that bound him. He felt the strength of the spell, weaving its way through him, persuading him, compelling him to its will. “You will remember the love you have for my daughter. You will love her, and continue with the plans you made together, to divorce your wife and marry her.” “I will do as you wish.” Now, while Brother Anselm freed him, Nathaniel tried to keep up the façade of obedience, of subservience to her will. “I called you back, Vernon Heatherington, because my daughter wished it. She wants a royalist of her own. It was I, not any other force, that gave you being. Nev Heath was a philanderer, and no spell I could cast would keep him steadfast. I will not see my daughter disgraced in that way. It might have suited some—“ she shot a venomous glance to where Sylvie stood–“but not my precious Josephine.” He felt a stirring, then heard her voice. I’m here. Take what you need from me. Just your love. You know you have that. Her devotion, her faith in him astounded him. The bond they had formed over the last six years, strengthened in the last few days of physical contact, could not be broken by any tin pot witch or sorcerer. The power of their love was elemental, unbreakable. Even death would not break it. That knowledge above everything else gave him the strength to defeat the insidious spell sneaking through him, invading every pore, every bone. The barrier holding the true state and the phantom appearance he was keeping up for the benefit of the witches grew thinner. When he saw their expressions change to bewilderment he knew it was time. Shaking off the tattered remnants like an old cloak, shattering their fragile hold on him, he stood before them, free and stronger than they could have imagined. “Did you think your puny attempts would keep me for long? Nev Heath was a wounded human being, easy to seduce, easy to compel. I am not.” He turned away, taking Sylvie’s arm. “I am yours for ever, my love. Nothing will ever part us again. Come.” She glanced back at the women, frozen in place where they sat. He followed her gaze. “Ma, I can’t feel anything any more.” Jo sounded scared. He knew what he had done. “Your psychic abilities are gone. You exerted everything you had to bend me to your will, and you failed. You’ll have to learn to fake it, or give up. And every day you’ll wonder if anyone will realize you’re no more mediums than anyone else, until someone finds you out. Or Sylvie chooses to tell.” He smiled at Sylvie. “They’re no threat to us any more.” He strode to the door and this time it opened easily for him when he touched the handle. Brother Anselm stood just behind the women, though they showed no sign of awareness of his presence. “By the way,” Nathaniel added, as his parting shot. “You got the wrong Heatherington.”

Black Leather, White Lace

123

Chapter Nine

He took her to an anteroom on the ground floor. He wouldn’t let her speak until the door closed behind them. “Did they summon you back? Was it them all the time?” He shook his head. “They might have made the transition easier, but no. I accepted the choice presented to me, and chose to come to you. A power greater than those two brought me here.” He kept her gaze fixed with his. “And will send me back.” “They tried to make you stay. Will they have succeeded?” She saw the regret in his eyes, knew his answer before he spoke. “No. The bargain was for me to fulfill my quest, then return home. I’ve destroyed the power in them. I doubt they’ll even be able to contact the spirits of the dead any more.” “They were evil?” still trying to come to terms with what she had just witnessed, Sylvie felt she was groping in the dark. “Ignorant, more like. They weren’t sure what they could do. There are some people in this world who are born with a power, and if they are guided the wrong way, or discover the wrong books, they may cause catastrophe. I think I was sent to stop them. Now I have.” He kissed her lips, closing his eyes before drawing back and gazing at her again. “I will have to leave, Sylvie. But one thing, one more favor.” In a sudden, graceful movement he knelt at her feet. “Will you marry me?” “Nathaniel, don’t be foolish! We are married!” He shook his head. “I want you to marry me, Nathaniel. I might be occupying the body of your husband, but he has gone now. Every trace of his personality, what made him Nev, has gone.” “But we can’t marry!” “Sylvie, if it were possible, if you could accept me, free and clear, would you?” Her heart went out to him, displaying his love for her so fearlessly, so honestly. “Yes, you must know I would.” He smiled, and got to his feet. “Then come with me.” The chapel at the Abbey was one of the few survivals from the medieval origins of the house. It was reached at the end of a small corridor, which exactly followed the course of one underneath in the old servants’ quarters, recently discovered to be the remnants of a monkish cloister. Together, Sylvie and Nathaniel crossed the worn stone at the threshold of the chapel, the remains of the old chancel. Originally, the chapel had been larger, but once Henry VIII had handed the abbey over to a favorite courtier, the rebuilding had been relentless, obscuring most of what had gone before. The atmosphere in this place was almost tangible. Half a dozen long pews lay on each side of the aisle. Sylvie and Nathaniel passed between them.

Lynne Connolly

124

A shadowy figure stood at the end of the aisle, just in front of the altar. Brother Anselm. He smiled when they walked to stand just in front of him. “Welcome, my children. Please kneel.” Sylvie trembled, but not from fear. This was a moment out of time. An air of sacred peace surrounded her, such as she had never known in her life before. Even the sight of Brother Anselm, solid, but as spectral as Nathaniel had been didn’t worry her, although deep inside she wondered why. She felt the gentle pressure of a hand on her head, but she couldn’t understand any of the chanted words that accompanied the gesture. Latin, undoubtedly, but her Latin was nearly non existent. The chant sounded smooth and soothing, as the chant the women upstairs had uttered had been jarring and uncomfortable. Warmth spread through her body, a steady heat that felt right and good. When Brother Anselm said, “join your hands, please and lift them up,” the modern English felt almost wrong. But she linked her hand with Nathaniel’s and lifted them. The soft silk scarf Brother Anselm dropped over them smelled of lavender, and was exquisitely embroidered with symbols of Christianity. She had never seen it before. Brother Anselm continued to murmur in Latin. Now the heat in her body localized at the place where their hands joined. They would never be apart, not in spirit. This ceremony joined them. Their bodies might not have long to spend together, but whatever happened after tonight, whatever happened to her in the future, he would be in her heart, and her soul. Joy spread through her, that he would accept her devotion and offer her his. She gave him all she had with all her heart. Brother Anselm lifted the scarf away, and murmured, “That is all. You can stand now.” They stood, and Sylvie got her first real look at the monk. He had thrown back the hood to his floor-length brown gown, and she saw a dark haired man with a weathered face, perhaps around forty years of age. He stood only a little taller than Nathaniel, although he was a step higher than they were. That would make him around five and a half feet, maybe an inch or two taller. His eyes were dark, so dark they seemed black. And his smile was gravely patient, and welcoming. “It is good to see you, my sister. You have cared for this house very well in your time here. Now you are bound to it, as we are.” “Good.” His smile broadened a little. “Nathaniel assured me you would say that, otherwise I would never have consented to marry you. Not all monks were qualified to perform marriages, but before I entered the community, I was a priest. The ceremony was the marriage service and blessing, although in my day, to be legal, only handfasting was required.” His face turned grave, the deep grooves between his nose and mouth deepening when he lost the smile. “You have little time to complete the sanctity of your union. You have my blessing.” He turned his attention to Nathaniel. “I wish events could be different for you, but nothing has changed. I will be sorry to lose such a steadfast companion, and this may well be the last time we meet.” “Can you not accompany me?” Brother Anselm shook his head, the lit candles on the altar striking gleams in his dark hair. A glimpse of pink flesh displayed his tonsure. “I have not atoned for my sin, although I hope my acts today have gone some way towards it. It may not be soon.”

Black Leather, White Lace

125

“I’ll be there, waiting for you.” “I know you will.” He stretched out his hand and Nathaniel extended his own, dropping Sylvie’s. She took a step back. This was a private moment, not meant for her. Nathaniel hauled Brother Anselm into his arms and hugged him before drawing back taking a step back to join her. He swept into a low bow, but this one had none of the mockery he had used before with the women. This was deep, reverential and heartfelt. For the first time in her life, Sylvie wished she could curtsey. Nev had never run in royal circles, and the one time she had met the Queen, a short bob had sufficed, not the elaborate obeisance usual in the past. She did her best. She bobbed. When she looked up, Brother Anselm was gone. Nathaniel touched her hand. “Come, my love. Let’s complete the marriage.” His eyes radiated warmth, love and certainty. She bathed in its glow. “You have no doubts?” “If I have, it’s too late. Do I look as if I have any doubts?” he took both her hands in his. “Sylvie, I fell in love with you over years. Now I’m committed, and ready to do whatever I can to keep us together. We may have to spend some years apart, and your promise to me still stands. If you find someone else to make you happy, then I’ll be content. You must not spend the rest of your life hoping for death.” She swallowed and nodded. “I promised. But I won’t go looking.” She looked up into his dear face, half in light, half in shadow. “I don’t think I’ll ever meet anyone to compare with you.” He bent and touched his lips to hers in a gentle kiss. “I have something for you.” He released her hands to delve into the pocket of his trousers, bringing out something that gleamed in the candlelight. Lifting her hand, he slipped on the ring. The stone was a table cut emerald, surrounded by small half pearls. She gazed down at it. “I’ve never seen this before.” “It has been hidden for many years. Dropped and lost, but we wraiths know all the hidden places. It once belonged to someone else I loved. Now it’s yours.” “Thank you.” His smile lightened when she looked up at him. “You can thank me another way.” They blew out the candles, left the chapel and went upstairs to bed. ***** They undressed each other, gently and carefully as though they had all the time in the world. They touched, but did not kiss the skin they exposed. She smoothed her hand up his arm, feeling the muscles ripple as he reached for her. Only when they were naked did he draw her close, into his arms, and bend his head to kiss her. His first kiss was reverent, worshipful, even. She returned it in the same spirit, her lips softly molding to the pressure of his. When he drew back, his whispered, his breath hot on her lips, “My love, my wife.” “My husband.” This man who occupied the body of her late husband was so different, she wondered how he could look anything like Nev. She never thought of Nev when she looked at Nathaniel, only of him, his steadfastness, his bravery and his inner strength. Demonstrating his physical strength, he swept her up into his arms and carried her

Lynne Connolly

126

to the bed. Sylvie’s bed was a four poster, but a modern one, gauzy drapes replacing the heavy curtains of yesteryear. He reached out a hand and released the ties before he joined her, surrounding them in cloudy isolation. Now they were alone, each other their only reality. Their hands joined before their mouths, before releasing and drifting down each other’s bodies, caressing, seeking to give pleasure, to increase the sense of beauty. When he touched her, her body rose to his unspoken request, arousing and soothing at the same time in a sensual paradox. She felt his shudders when she touched him. Their union seemed inevitable, as sacred as the ceremony downstairs, the earthly equivalent of their spiritual joining. They hadn’t exchanged a word, only gazed worshipfully into each others’ eyes, glancing down when caressing, guiding their hands to new delights, new touches. For it all felt new to Sylvie. When he lifted up and she opened her legs to take him in, the movement seemed as natural as breathing. He entered her without guidance and sank softly and deeply into the heart of her being. Willingly she opened to him, body, heart and soul, and felt the filling of her body as a fulfillment she had waited for all her life. The bed moved beneath her and she tensed her body to take his thrusts as deeply as she could, lifting her knees to hug his waist and hips. Still they didn’t talk, but small gasps and groans punctuated their movements, and the slow rising of impossible pleasure. She had no idea how long they moved together, only aware of the growing heat inside her body, heat she fought hard to control. She wanted this to be his, but he seemed possessed of the same notion. He wanted to bring her all the pleasure he could. The heat rose in a spiral, taking her up and past this existence. He circled around her, touching her, loving her, blending his spirit with hers. It was beautiful, beyond all her understanding, but she did not care. The being was all. She exploded in a shower of bright sparks, gasping his name, falling back with a languorous drift of joy. When she opened her eyes, he was waiting for her, blue eyes bright with love. “And here we are,” he said. “Yes. Here we are.”

Black Leather, White Lace

127

Chapter Ten

Sylvie woke with a start, sitting straight up in bed. She was alone, the curtains still closed, but she could see the light of day through its gauzy folds. Only the disturbed sheets and the lingering scent of lovemaking told her the night before had been more than a dream. His love had humbled her; his worship brought her to his feet, with love for him. Although his absence spoke of a life without him, she would always have last night, and the remembrance of the time their souls had touched. He would never leave her. In no hurry to discover what she already knew, she reluctantly left her bed and went into the bathroom to shower. There was no evidence he’d been there. The shower stall was dry, and so were the towels. It was as though he’d never been there, but he had. He was in her heart now, for all time. Too early to mourn, Sylvie decided to celebrate what he’d given her and dressed in red. Red trousers, a tight fitting red t-shirt and a long, flowing knitted jacket, because after all, it was Christmas Day and it was cold. No snow though. When she’d dressed she opened the drapes at the window. The same thin sunshine filtered through the clouds, just as it had a week ago when he’d come off his bike and nearly died. Now he was gone. Had he gone on, as he wanted, to whatever waited for him, or had he remained behind, a wraith once more? She reached out with her senses, but felt nothing. Not the black void that had waited for her before, but a softer, gentler space. She wasn’t afraid any more. She crossed the room and stood before her mirror, brushing her hair, remembering how he’d loved to run his fingers through it, and how he’d stood behind her, looking into this same mirror, as though trying to memorize them both. The memories were to be treasured. No pang of loss entered her world. Not yet, though she supposed it would. When it did, perhaps she would take herself up to London for a while. She wasn’t sure she could bear it, and if he’d left the Abbey, it wouldn’t matter where she was. When she opened the door to her suite, a muffled clang told her the TV people were still here. Downstairs, chaos prevailed, people trailing across the hall with battered boxes, cases and wires bundled into untidy knots. The crew should have left the night before, but they must have decided to try for another night. Sylvie decided not to fuss. Angela Murdoch was in a state of high excitement. “Thank you so much, Countess!” she bubbled, smiling all the while. “It has been delightful. I’ll send you a copy of the program before it goes out, but I think you’ll be pleased! It will bring more tourists when the season starts! If I were you, I’d make a display of the two brothers, perhaps give them a special exhibit.” She turned as the two mediums entered the room, looking decidedly the worse for wear. Even Jo Goodson’s usually immaculate appearance was dulled, her hair not perfectly groomed, her make up very light and decidedly shaky in places. Sylvie greeted them coolly, but apart from a hissed, “I’ll work at it, but I’ll get you

Lynne Connolly

128

yet!” from Doris. Jo stared at her dully. “It’s all gone,” she said. Sylvie could almost feel sorry for her, but her compassion didn’t quite go that far. Within half an hour, the equipment was stowed in the vans, and the crew had left. Doris and Jo roared away in a sweet little convertible, the black hood secured against the winter chill. Sylvie went back indoors and set about looking for Nathaniel. He was lying dead somewhere. Most of the staff had the day off, but some had promised to call in later in the day. Sylvie didn’t want them. She wanted the day to herself, but she knew she had to be sensible. When she found Nathaniel she would have to set everything in train. A doctor, to pronounce him dead, the lawyer, to see what havoc Nev had caused in his will, and all the other paraphernalia that went with the death of a peer. When she found Nathaniel, this warm cocoon would melt away as though it had never been and she would have to face the reality of living without him. But this was her task, hers to fulfill. Her last service to his human body. She toured the house, starting with the bedrooms, thinking he’d got up and left her to lie down somewhere else. She hoped he hadn’t left her for long. She couldn’t bear to think of him lying alone, just waiting. The old doors creaked a little when she opened them. This wasn’t the public part of the house, and although well kept, wasn’t as immaculate as the part that was on public display, the part with all the greatest treasures of the Abbey. But the bedrooms were empty and cold, so she went up to the Long Gallery and stared down the great expanse of polished oak floors and great portraits of past earls and countesses. She didn’t walk half way down to stare at his portrait, set next to his brothers’. She didn’t need to do that. She could describe the way he looked, now and then, the way he felt, the way he sounded. Turning abruptly, she left. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? At nearly one o’clock in the afternoon, she finally found him. He sat in the front pew in the chapel, hair loose around his shoulders, dressed simply in a pair of plain black trousers and a polo shirt. His eyes were closed, and she felt a pang when she realized she wouldn’t see those blue eyes again this side of the grave. She walked in front of him, and tried to memorize his face, to remember in her dreams. He looked alive, his skin fresh and smooth, as though he was asleep, not dead. Sylvie choked on her first sob since she’d woken that morning. Not yet. Almost as a reflex, something to do, she reached out and took his wrist between her thumb and finger. She felt a single throb. Her heart almost stopped. Could she see his eyes move under the closed lids? Had she imagined the single beat under her thumb? Was he actually warm, or was this all in her mind? Hope leapt inside her, her heart increasing in response before she realized she shouldn’t use her thumb, because it had a pulse of its own. She shifted her grip, putting her first two fingers over the place where his pulse should be. She had to know for sure, had to quell the hope that had sprung unbidden inside her. Another throb. Sure, slow, but there. Dear God, he was alive!

Black Leather, White Lace

129

***** Time accelerated for Sylvie. She ran for the nearest phone, unlocked the great front door and gave the emergency services instructions how to get to the Chapel, before calling the steward and briefly bringing him up to date. He promised to drive straight over. He hadn’t arrived by the time the paramedics were ready to leave, but without a second thought, she left with them. The insurers of the Abbey would probably have gone insane, knowing the door to the treasures of the Abbey was open, but she was past caring. She didn’t leave Nathaniel’s side until they made her, before they wheeled him in to the emergency room. She used a payphone to call the steward, who told her he’d arrived and secured the Abbey. Staff were in place, and would stay until she returned. He scolded her for spending the time alone, but she hardly listened. When she saw someone leave the emergency room, she snapped, “I’ll talk to you later. Thanks for looking after things.” Cutting the connection, she put the phone back and hurried forward. The man looked tired, but not tight, that look she knew meant the worst. She hadn’t stopped expecting the worst, but this was Christmas Day, and by the terms of his arrangement, Nathaniel should have died at dawn, when the new sun appeared above the horizon. Every hour since had been a bonus. He was in her world, for just a little longer. She waited, and the surgeon spoke to her. He didn’t take her into the almost unbearably mundane ‘family room’ so hope, unwanted but still there, burgeoned inside her. Mr. Jones would have taken her in there if the news was bad. “I understand he had an accident a week ago.” She nodded. The surgeon frowned. “If I had been the consultant in charge, I wouldn’t have let him leave without that final CT scan. That omission could have killed him. The first scan missed it, but I’m sure the second would have caught it.” She couldn’t stand it any more. “Caught what?” “He had a small subdural hematoma. It grew during the last few days until the clot finally caused his unconsciousness.” He paused, biting his lip. “Lady Rustead, this is extremely serious. You understand?” “I thought he was dead when I found him.” He nodded. “He very nearly was. He needs surgery. He’s being prepped now, and he’ll go straight up.” “Can I see him?” “No, not yet. There’s no time. A nurse will take you up to the waiting room, but it might be some time before your husband leaves theater.” Mr. Jones’s face cleared when someone approached him from behind Sylvie. “Here she is now. Sister Macnamara, can you take Lady Rustead up and make sure she’s comfortable? Please answer any questions she might have.” Sylvie had no questions, but now, more than ever, that sneaky spark of hope took up residence.

Lynne Connolly

130

Chapter Eleven

Nathaniel opened his eyes, wondering if he would see angels or devils and deciding he didn’t much care. The one person he wanted to see wouldn’t be there. The transition had been fairly painless. One excruciating jolt of pain, and it was all over. He’d sunk into death, murmuring the prayers he’d been taught as a child, and a last, bittersweet memory of his love. “He’s waking up.” The voice he heard confirmed one thing; there were Americans in heaven. “Nathaniel?” Not possible. He blinked, clearing his vision and looked up. Dark hair smoothly drawn back from the face he loved, the one face he thought he’d have to wait a long time to see again. He opened his mouth, but couldn’t say anything. “Nathaniel, welcome back.” Back? His mind whirled with possibilities as he slowly became aware of his surroundings. He was lying in a hospital bed, the sheets crisply scrunched around his supine body. Something was attached to his hand; when he moved his arm slightly, he felt the pull of something. He looked down. A tube of some clear liquid. Light streamed in through the large window, and a TV hung suspended from the ceiling, just where he could see it. It wasn’t switched on. He stared at the blank screen, trying to make sense of everything. A strong sense of déjà vu made him think he’d dreamed the intervening week, that he’d just had the motorcycle accident. No, he couldn’t have imagined that gorgeous body, the little mole under her left breast he’d loved to kiss, the slender, strong legs wound around his body. The miracle happened and he felt a stirring at his groin. He smiled, finally accepting he was still earth bound. He asked the most cliché ridden question he could, but he badly needed to know the answer. “What happened?” “You collapsed. When you refused the second CT scan a week ago, you’d developed what they called an acute subdural hematoma.” He searched his brain. He’d seen that in ‘ER,’ hadn’t he? Yes, a brain bleed, often started after head trauma. He nodded, to show he understood. “Go on.” “They operated, and they got the clot out. You’ll be fine, they think, but you have to take some medication to prevent possible seizures, and you have to come back for a few scans, just to make sure it’s all settled down.” “Baby, you’ll want to be alone with your husband. Nice to see you back, young man. Perhaps you’ll take proper care of our daughter now.” An older face swam into vision. He still felt disorientated, but he hoped that would pass. This must be Sylvie’s

Black Leather, White Lace

131

mother. Now he concentrated, he could easily see the family resemblance. Sylvie’s mother was an elegant, well groomed woman who moved with unconscious grace. He watched her cross the room to the door and felt glad that he’d seen her. Especially glad that Sylvie would grow into something very like this woman. It would be easy to love her. For all his life. For all their lives. Could it really be possible? He reached for Sylvie’s hand, only dimly hearing the door close softly, turning his head to feast on her. “You look tired.” Shadows darkened her eyes, and the faint blush had left her cheeks. “Yes,” she said, making no attempt to hide her exhaustion. “But I’ll sleep better now. They’ve given me somewhere to sleep, and I might actually use it tonight.” “Talk to me, Sylvie. Tell me what’s happened, why I’m still here.” Her hand tightened around his. “I don’t know. I found you in the chapel, and you were still alive, so I called an ambulance. They said the blood clot would have killed you if I’d been another hour finding you.” She looked away, out of the window, and when she turned back, tears misted her eyes. “When they brought you here, they said you might die. I was ready for that, or so I thought. They operated, they took you to ICU and then they brought you here. They said your personality might change, you might have seizures, or find some numbness. They won’t let you go until they’ve done all the tests, but you’re fine. You’re alive.” He smiled. “So I am. Come and lie next to me, my love. Please. I won’t believe it until I can hold you again.” She opened her mouth to protest, then changed her mind. He guessed she wanted this as much as he did. Needed it, even. Careful not to dislodge the drip in his hand, she moved the tube so she could slip under it, and into his arms. They both sighed. “I thought you might be Nev, come back to plague me,” she murmured. He reveled in the sensation of her breath on his chest. So real, so wonderful. “It was only when they opened your eyes to do some reflex tests I saw they were blue and knew it was still you.” “How long do you think I’m here for?” “A week or so, until they’re sure there are no ill effects. They’re testing you every day, and they want you to come back at regular intervals for a while, for more tests. Well you’re coming back for every test, whether you like it or not. If the CT machine bothers you, they’ll just have to sedate you.” “I’ll manage.” He could do anything, now he knew he had her with him. “My parents flew over as soon as they heard. They’ll help with the Abbey and the press until you’re well enough.” “The press?” She smiled and looked up at his face. “You’re their Christmas miracle. The Hosts to Ghosts show was deferred until they knew if you were going to live or not, but the anticipation has only added to the hype. They’re working it for all it’s worth. They’ve been here every day, and you were headlines.” He chuckled. “Fame at last.” “What do you mean, at last?” She reached up to kiss him gently, and much to his chagrin, he found he was too weak to take advantage of her, but the kiss was as sweet as any he’d had. “Why am I still here, Sylvie?” She stared into his eyes. “I don’t know. A Christmas miracle perhaps. God knows I

Lynne Connolly

132

prayed enough.” When her mother entered the room half an hour later, it was to find her daughter curled up with her husband, her arm across his chest. Both were sleeping like babes. She decided not to disturb them. ***** “Nev, did you see the angels?” Shouted questions confused him after a week in the relative quiet of his hospital room. With cameras flashing in his face, Nathaniel briefly thought of stepping back into the hospital. Hadn’t the staff warned them not to do that? Wasn’t the flashing bad for him? He tightened his grip around Sylvie’s waist, feeling her strength and her love. “Not Nev, not any more. I’m going back to my real name, Nathaniel Edward Vernon Heatherington. I’m Nathaniel, Lord Rustead.” Sylvie increased the pressure of her hand on his waist, and he grinned. “I’m told I have to take it easy, so I’m retiring from photojournalism and heading for the quiet life.” “I don’t think the quiet life will last for much longer,” Sylvie muttered so only he heard her. He turned his head to see her smiling. The shadows had gone from her face. She looked radiant, blooming, even. She reached up to whisper in his ear. “I’m told babies can scream quite loudly.” Forgetting the media people who stood in front of the main entrance of the hotel, he turned to face her. “What?” “I did a test. It’s early, really early, and I would have left it, but I wondered if that was the reason you’re still here. Is this why you’ve been allowed to stay? To love and care for your children?” “Children?” “Well I didn’t think we’d stop at just one.” Wrapping his arms around her he took her in a soul stirring kiss, and really gave the media something to report.

Black Leather, White Lace

133

Epilogue

Dark, midnight, the witching hour. Also the only time Rustead Abbey was quiet, these days. What with the tourists, the TV companies who used the Abbey as a picturesque backdrop for dramas, and the Earl and Countess’s growing and raucous family, a ghost had no rest. Brother Anselm stood in the Long Gallery, in front of the portraits of the two brothers who had kept him company for so long, and ruminated. Not, for a change, on the everlasting wisdom of God, but on earthly matters. Both had passed on to their earthly rewards, both deservedly happy, the sins of their past expunged. He was happy for them, and daily he fought against his resentment which was none of their doing. Vernon, blissfully happy and prolific with his beloved Cassandra. A full and happy life, renewed prosperity for the Abbey and a clutch of children. Everything he had wanted, restored back to him threefold. Brother Anselm tucked his hands into the sleeves of his brown robe, and smiled up at the aristocratic Cavalier, resplendent in blue satin and white lace. Nathaniel, astonished to find the love of this and every life, Sylvie, loved him back. Even more astonished to find how much he adored the children she gave him. He never stopped counting his blessings, enjoying every moment of the new life he had. The modern era suited him better than the one he’d been born into. His portrait reflected his character then and now, restless, intelligent, principled. Dressed in a simple black leather jerkin, a plain, crisp white collar relieving his dark garb, his portrait was an excellent foil to that of his brother. Not for him. His sin had been so much greater, but he had long repented. If he’d learned anything, it was that repentance wasn’t enough. He had to atone for his sin. In this secular, frantic age, he doubted it would be possible. He was here until the end of time, he feared, never to go forward, never to know what he could have been. Turning away, Brother Anselm glided to the end of the gallery. A girl stood there, someone in her late teens or early twenties, no older from the clear complexion and coltish body. Something inside him twisted. She reminded him of someone else, a someone he’d known long ago. She wouldn’t see him. No one saw him any more. He was too adept at concealment, too quiet to cause any ripples in the atmosphere of the great house. So Brother Anselm was deeply shocked when she gave him a sweet smile. “Hello,” she said. “Who are you and why are you dressed like that?”