Fair Maiden Read online

  The sight of his long muscular body striding along just ahead of her was proof that he may be too good-looking, though. She was beginning to wish she was not dead at all. Clearly she’d almost married once, and the girl inside her heart still wished for that. But ghosts do not marry, do they?

  At the library, he opened the door for her again and motioned for her to enter with a gallant flourish of his arm. She could not help but giggle as she went past him.

  Subconsciously, she reached for the long skirts of her gown to lift them so she could walk, even when she really could not do anything besides glide.

  On the way to the library, he walked slightly in front of her, leading the way, but as she entered the large room their positions had changed. And she’d forgotten about her bridal attire until she heard him make a strangled sound as he was then faced with the back of her dress. She twisted to gaze at him over her shoulder, and then nibbled her lip when she noticed the shocked look on his face.

  “What sort of dress is that, miss?” he asked, his eyes now traveling the long veil, which he’d obviously missed seeing before.

  “A wedding dress.”

  If he opened his eyes any wider, they would have popped out of his head. “You were a bride? Were you killed on the wedding night or before?”

  “I think before, because I wear no ring.” She lifted her left hand to display the lack of gold around her ring finger.

  He gazed blankly at her for several long moments before his expression changed. Instinctively, she moved farther from him when fierce anger burst to life in his eyes, and the dimple disappeared from his cheek. “Then…no! No! Could the groom have done it? He must have! That filthy blackguard! What sort of killer were you engaged to?” He paused. “Oh, you were probably betrothed to the wretched—and had no choice in the matter. Was justice served? I hope he was caught and….” His fists clenched and unclenched a few times, and then it appeared he was struggling to tamp his wrath down when he gathered the frightened look on her face. He swallowed what seemed to be more curses before continuing, “…which is why we’re here. There is a record of all of the past occupants of this castle. We could learn your history and his fate. We could see a photograph—”

  “A what?”

  He lifted one brow. “Oh, pardon me. That would be after your time. A painting then.” Turning away, Christian began scanning the ceiling-high shelves of books. When he spotted the one he clearly wanted, he strode toward the ladder on a roller that traveled a track which circled the room.

  “Wait, my lord, you do not need that. I could fetch the tome.”

  He halted and smirked in her direction. “Please, call me Christian. And, of course you may help. I’d be grateful.” He motioned to a book on the uppermost shelf. “The brown volume that says ‘Krestly Castle,’ if you please, my darling.”

  She wanted to blush at his use of endearments toward her, but figured she probably couldn’t do that as a ghost. Her eyes focused on the book; it slid from the shelf and floated down to the large desk on the right side of the library.

  “Thank you, my dear.” Christian sat in the green leather chair behind the desk, dragged the book toward him and swung it open with a flurry of dust and crinkly noises.

  Without warning, he froze and shot a look at her. “You can read!”

  “Of course I can. Why would you think I cannot?”

  “Because a peasant would not be literate.”

  Christian did have an intriguing point. She remained speechless as she pondered it.

  He went on, “Only ladies of noble birth were literate in your time.”

  “You cannot know that.”

  “I believe it is fact.”

  “What if I’m an orphan and was raised in a nunnery?”

  Something that sounded much like a curse blew past his lips. “I can’t argue that.” He returned his attention to the book. “This is still our best option for discovering who you are.”

  She moved to hover behind him and watched as he began sifting through it. He started at the back and worked his way to older years. Suddenly she reached out trying to stop the page from turning. “Wait!”

  The paper stopped within her hand and he pushed it flat again. “What is it?”

  “What manner of painting is that?” She pointed at a portrait so real it looked as though the person had been trapped inside, and frozen there.

  Christian chuckled. “That, my dear, is a photograph.”

  He had said that word earlier, but she had no idea this is what he meant. “How—how is it done?”

  “Well,” Christian scratched his knee, “The photographer has a box with film in it. He sets the subject in front of that, then he exposes the film to light.”

  “Huh?”

  “I’m sorry. I’m not sure how to better explain. Perhaps I can show you. Later.” And he began flipping through the pages again until he found her era.

  “Oh!” she said, pointing again.

  Stopping again, Christian twisted to face her. “Do you see something you recognize?”

  “The clothing, yes. The brocade doublet and the sword slung about the hips.” She eyed Christian’s attire. “Why do you not carry a sword?”

  “My dear, there are other weapons that make the sword pale in comparison. We use blades for sport more than defense now.”

  “Why?”

  “Guns.”

  When she looked confused again, he sighed. “This too would be better understood if I showed you rather than tried to explain it.”

  “Oh.”

  He turned back to the tome. “Do you see anyone you know?”

  Shaking her head she wondered, Would she even recognize them if she did? He flipped the page. Again, she shook her head.

  Christian continued like this, pausing to read, and then gather her reaction to the portraits upon the pages. However, it seemed he grew frustrated as this continued with no result. And so was she. “There is naught,” she whispered, feeling hopeless.

  He shoved over another page, and another, until he’d past by her era and then slammed it shut. As more dust tumbled into the air, he responded, “You can’t have been from this castle. I do not understand how you could be here if you never lived here.” His shoulders fell back into the leather cushion with apparent frustration, and he tangled his fingers into his wavy locks. “I wanted to know your name, princess.”

  Of all the endearments he’d lavished upon her thus far, she decided she liked that one best of all. Smiling, she moved to levitate over the desk as though she were sitting upon it.

  His eyes met hers, just before they began to rake over the details of her dress. “Are you a princess? A noble? A commoner?” And she realized he was attempting to judge by her gown who she was. But without knowing how she could have gotten it, it offered very few clues.

  “I wish I knew.”

  “Hmmm.” He reached for the folds of silk that spilled out around her, and watched as his fingertips slid through it. “Would you be offended if I searched the books of other castles? I wish to discover who you are. You present a mystery, and I do love mysteries.”

  “But what if I am a commoner and not listed in any of the books?”

  The look in his eye troubled her, and she realized that he would be disappointed if she turned out to be an ordinary peasant. Perhaps this man, who appeared so gentle and thoughtful, accepting her even though she was not living, was simply like the rest, and only cared about titles and how much dowry a lady had.

  “May I do the research?” he pressed.

  “If you like.”

  Seeming to sense her slipping mood, he made an attempt to cheer her. “I meant what I said. I do wish to help you find your identity.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered slowly.

  “I’m leaving for London tomorrow then.”

  “Did you not just return from there?”

  “Yes. Unfortunately, I don’t have the books I need here. You could come with me. It would be helpful to compare you
r face with that of the ones in the books.”

  “Oh. I’m afraid I cannot.” She began pinching her bottom lip between her teeth. She knew she was doing it; it seemed to be a habit, though she couldn’t actually feel it. Just like breathing, which she also couldn’t feel, but also knew she was doing, even if it was unnecessary.

  “Why ever not?”

  “There seems to be a wall surrounding this property that only I cannot cross. I am trapped here.”

  “That is quite strange.”

  “Yes, and frustrating.”

  He began perusing her face. Smirking, he shoved back his chair, tugged open a drawer, then removed a sketchpad and charcoal from it. “Then I will draw you myself. I want to be certain I remember correctly.”

  “Are you an artist?” Did he just blush? she asked herself.

  “Yes,” he said, and blushed some more. Her lips curved with mirth at that.

  “Is any of your work displayed here?”

  “A few things.” He’d already begun penciling in the outlines of her face and chin.

  She leaned in closer to watch. His gaze shifted back to her, and then he laughed. “Hold still, please.”

  “My apologies, Lord Krestly,” she said, tugging herself upright again.

  “Christian, please call me Christian. I cannot bear the ‘lord’ nonsense from you, too.”

  “Christian,” she echoed, and he smiled with approval.

  He added a faint line for the bridge of her nose, and then placed her eyebrows above. Before those were completely finished he added the outline of her eyes, then her lips. And she realized he was just finding the proper positions before he started with the details.

  After another glance in her direction, he said, “You’re holding very still for an…”

  “Apparition?” she supplied.

  “Although you do tend to bob a bit.”

  She laughed.

  “I’m sorry, that was very rude of me. However, I do love the sound of your laugh.”

  “Really? What does it sound like?”

  He kept moving his pencil over the paper, and taking peeks at different parts of her features as he spoke. “It sounds like,” he paused a moment, “musical rain.”

  Her brows lowered as she tried to imagine that.

  “Or like instruments on the wind.”

  “Are you a poet, too?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “That, I am not,” he said, as he used his pinky to smudge the charcoal, her image becoming clearer on the paper. She thought him talented, and quick.

  When he finished, he held it up for her to see. “Will this do?”

  “Oh, ’tis wonderful!” she gasped.

  After a few days, Christian returned.

  Unwilling to wait to speak with him, she entered his drawing room through a wall. From the look on his face, she knew she’d startled him with that, but when he noticed ‘twas her, his face brightened with a smile that stole her heart.

  “You’re back.”

  “I am, and I’m finished with my research for now.”

  His sad expression made it clear. “You found nothing.”

  “I’m terribly sorry. I so wanted to address you by your proper name.”

  She sighed. “I wanted that, too. But I do want to thank you for taking the time.”

  “It was my pleasure, truly, my little nonexistent girl.”

  “Or peasant girl.”

  His face did not hide the fact that he’d wondered the same, though instead he said, “You could be highborn, that dress is too fine to belong to a commoner.”

  “What if it was borrowed?”

  “What if it wasn’t?”

  “What if the groom paid for it?”

  “Let’s not talk about him,” he growled.

  A thrill went through her at the thought that he may be jealous of her previous fiancé, then that thought unhappily slid away when she remembered she and Lord Christian Sparks could never be.

  As neither of them spoke for a few moments, her gaze drifted from painting to painting before dropping to the chess set displayed upon a round table situated just left of the window. She descended into one of the soft-looking chairs next to it, and outstretched her hand over the ivory chess pieces, then slid one into the next square as if she were playing the game.

  The next time she looked up, she nearly jumped to see that Christian sat in the chair directly across from her, smiling broadly, that dimple as deep as ever. “Do you play?”

  “Well.” She tipped her head to the side and studied the board. “I may have played this before, it seems familiar.”

  “Is that your first move?”

  Her eyes fell on the piece she’d moved to consider that, then she nodded. “Yes.”

  “Then you must have played before, because that is the move I would have made.”

  “Truly?”

  “Yes. Now I’ll have to be more creative,” he said with a playful grin.

  As they progressed through the game, she asked, “Did you do the paintings in this chamber?”

  “Yes.”

  “They’re lovely.”

  “Thank you, but I’m going to replace one of them.”

  “You are?”

  “I just got another one framed while I was in London. I need somewhere to hang it.”

  “May I see?”

  His dimple deepened again. “I’ll fetch it.” He rose from his chair, strode to a brown package leaning against the wall and began tearing at the paper.

  When he displayed it for her, she gasped. “You had it framed?”

  “Of course.”

  “But—”

  He ignored her sputtering protest to admire his work, then added, “I do wish I’d been able to capture how you shimmer in the candlelight. Did you know that?”

  “Are you certain you’re not a poet?” she breathed, knowing she should feel breathless.

  He laughed, turned and walked to the opposite wall, removed a landscape and hooked the framed sketch of her onto the nail. Christian paused, and after a small adjustment to the richly carved, wooden frame, he returned to his seat opposite her.

  “It is your turn,” she said.

  He made his move and then swiftly confiscated another one of her pieces, adding to his growing collection of wins. She knew her lips were pulling into a pout as she played her next piece, and then as he played his, he said, “Checkmate.”

  “Hmmm, either I was never very good at this, or I have forgotten too much. But I know what that means.”

  “I would wager you were better before you—Forget I said that.”

  “Before I died, when I could remember this game and who I was?” she suggested, and then wondered if he could hear the returning sadness in her voice just as she could.

  “I’m sorry, I’ve bungled it again. It seems I like the flavor of leather in my mouth. Please—”

  “Nay, um…I think I will retire now. Thank you for the game of chess.” She hoped he could not see the tears welling up in her eyes. She rose swiftly and left through the ceiling.

  Before she could feel naught, but now she could feel the vise grip of desperate disappointment seize her chest. She suddenly remembered physical pain, and this was far worse. She was falling for Christian and she’d only been in his presence for a scant amount of time. But she could not have him or this life.

  Why am I still here? She drifted down to pretend she was lying on her bed and wept.

  Chapter 4

  Scary

  Where does she go when she retires? Christian wondered, peering up at the plaster ceiling that she’d just vanished through.

  She had to be here somewhere…. And why do I keep hurting her with my thoughtless comments? His gaze returned to the sketch. With hands on the armrests of the wingback chair he shoved himself to his feet and went to the drawing, removed it from the wall, and sank into the chair next to the fire, his eyes locked on that pretty face.

  “She’s real.”

  “Who’s real, foo
lish boy?”

  “Jackson, hello. I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “It’s time for tea. I promise it’s better this time. And Margaret made the most delightful apple pie. I put cheese on top and warmed it up for you.”

  “Sounds perfect, Jackson, and whatever happened to that infuriating proper address? Not that I protest, but—”

  “Slip of the tongue, my lord. It won’t happen again.”

  A loud guffaw burst from Christian at that. “Give me the tea, you old fart.”

  Smirking like a youth, the old man set the tray on the table next to Christian. “Now, Christian, are you going to answer my question? Who is real?”

  “Her.” He motioned to the girl in the sketch.

  “Ah, is this young lady one you met in London?”

  “No. I met her here.”

  Jackson’s eyes became bug-like in size. “Not the lady you were babbling on about at dinner after we’d returned.”

  “The very one.”

  “The apparition.”

  “And the loveliest one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Have you seen many deceased—?”

  “No,” Christian replied with a little bit of irritation rising.

  “Then—”

  “She is the prettiest lady I have ever set eyes upon.”

  “Hmm.” Jackson’s fingers surrounded his chin as he adopted a thoughtful pose. “Well, judging from this drawing, she is that, but, Christian…are you certain she wasn’t simply a figment of your imagination? It was a long journey coming back—”

  “It’s not my imagination. I’ve seen her twice now, and each time we’ve had a fine chat.” He pointed at the chess board. “We even played….” A frown commandeered his mouth. “Oops, I should have let her win. A real gentleman would have.” He called himself another name under his breath and then changed the subject. “Do you not believe in ghosts?”