Chapter Eight

"T his way." Leading her along the upper hallway, he opened the door to his private study, which connected to his bedchamber. His heart quickened as he glanced toward the adjoining door, the four-poster bed just visible, draped with curtains and bedcover in the red tartan recently labeled a Clan Stewart pattern. Though he doubted the authenticity of the new pattern books, he was proud of the Scots sentiment.

Seeing Elinor's blushing glance toward the bed, he was reminded of stolen hours there one day when they had been alone in the house. They'd been betrothed, and he had offered immediate marriage, but she had refused. She wanted a ceremony with flowers and cakes and happiness.

Then, as Dante once wrote, things had gone to hell in a handbasket.

Removing a turnip from the basket, he set the carved head on the windowsill while Elinor put out the rest and lit candles from the flickering hearth warding off the October chill in his rooms. Setting rowan over the thresholds, he turned.

Elinor watched him. The air changed somehow, vibrant, drawing him toward her. Crossing the room, he rested a hand on the doorjamb. She tilted her head in winsome invitation, a sense of forgiveness. He set a hand to her shoulder, traced down her arm, slid a hand to shape her small waist in the blue-gray gown. She inclined her head, nudged his nose.

When he kissed her, it deepened quickly as she pressed into his arms. He pulled her close, heart thumping, body pulsing. Kiss upon tender kiss rolled out. All he had wanted to say poured through those kisses, and she answered. Bending, he swept her into his arms, kisses continuing, the delicious slip of her tongue flaming him further.

He carried her to the bed and set her down beside him, mattress sinking. He slipped an arm around her and she tucked her head against his shoulder. Then he kissed her brow and drew back; he smoothed her hair, the braided circlet, the sweet loose curls.

"I need to know," he whispered, "that you came here willingly."

"As willing as you are. I missed you so." Her voice caught.

He pulled her closer. "I have not been myself. I have felt—a bit lost."

"As have I." She lifted her face for a new kiss, and he cupped her face in his hand, kisses building, hands gliding, beginning to explore, each touch a question answered with a kiss, a moan—

But he stopped, sensing a change in light and shadow. The air felt suddenly cool.

"What is it?" She stilled her hands on his shoulders.

"The light," he whispered, gesturing upward as she gasped.

A pale glow danced high on the wall, like a glint of morning sun—but night was falling fast. The only other light was the amber flicker of the hearth. The little light dipped and swept out of the room. He got to his feet, helping Elinor off the bed, and then he followed the bright little glow as it moved into his study and vanished.

"Where did it go?" she asked.

"Not sure." He stood, head cocked, waiting. "Ah, that usually follows," he said, as loud thumps sounded in the hallway. "Stay here, lass."

She stood in his private study, surrounded by his books and notes, her hand resting on his worn leather chair, and felt even closer to him in a day of revelations. Elinor touched her lips, recalling kisses, even upon her bandaged finger, feeling a flush of passion and hope, even amid commotion—and then rushed to the door, hearing more bumps and thumps, to see Gavin heading down the corridor in pursuit.

Tempted to follow, she waited as he had asked—and saw the soft pale light skitter past again. She followed it into the bedchamber, where it faded.

She felt an urge to ask. "Matilda?" She looked up. "Lady Matilda Stewart of Braemore?" She waited. Silence.

Then— tap tap. Her breath caught. "Tap one for yes, twice for no, please. Are you trying to reach us?"

Tap.

Dear God. She had not expected a coherent response. "Do you need our help?"

Tap.

Gavin entered the room then, and Elinor put a finger to her lips. "Lady Matilda," she whispered. He widened his eyes. "My lady, Gavin Stewart is here now."

Tap tap tap tap tap.

"She wants to tell us something," she whispered. Frowning, Gavin nodded. The little light was gone, but the taps were audible, as if traveling inside the walls. Tap tap tap.

"Lady Matilda, are you the only spirit here at Braemore?" Gavin asked.

Tap tap.

"She means no," Elinor explained. "My lady, is Erskine here, Archibald Erskine?"

Tap . Then , taptaptaptaptaptap.

"Is he a dangerous spirit?" Gavin asked.

Tap tap. Taptaptaptaptaptaptaptap.

"Does she mean ‘no'?" Gavin looked puzzled.

"Listen!" Hearing a soft, airy sound, Elinor lifted a hand. Gavin tilted his head.

Help him . . .

"Help! She wants our help with Erskine," he said.

"Help him, I heard. Could she want to help—"

Something moved nearby. Elinor whirled to see a turnip tip over, its still-burning candle dropping to the carpet. Quickly Gavin stamped out the flame.

"We should check the other candles." He hurried into the corridor and she followed. Downstairs, they dashed through the rooms to find candles burning safely in carved lanterns.

"We need to go to the tower," she said.

"Elinor, you cannot risk—"

"You promised to eliminate the haunts. And I promised to help." She turned toward the kitchen corridor.