Chapter 19

NEIL

Neil should have been focusing on the journal, or the study, or literally anything else, but he couldn't. Penelope Skinner was like a fucking goddess, and now that he'd kissed her and touched her, he wanted to do nothing else.

"We're trying to save the world," she'd joked when he ran a hand along her side and kissed the delicate skin behind her ear.

"We could die at any moment," he agreed as she straddled his lap and ran her hands through his hair.

She let him kiss her for a long, dizzying moment, but when she pulled away and slid off his lap with bee-stung lips, mussed hair, and glazed eyes, she stumbled back a step and drew an invisible line in the air as he stood as if to follow her.

"Five-foot rule," she ordered.

"Penelope."

"We have important things to do."

"I know, but don't you just love procrastinating?"

He stepped forward and pressed her back against a bookcase, ignoring when several books were jostled free and landed at their feet.

"May I?" he murmured, tilting up her chin.

She paused for a beat before nodding, and he bent to kiss her, relishing the way she moaned into him. He broke the kiss before he gently spun her around until her ass ground against his front. He smoothed one of his hands down her arm before tangling their fingers together and lifting it to the shelves, holding her in place. His other hand trailed over her front, skimming over her breast and down her stomach until his fingers found the groove in her full hips, tracing small circles. From the way she arched into him, she wanted more.

"Neil," she groaned. "We've got important things to do."

"It would be so easy," he said against her neck, nibbling between words. "Don't you want to?"

"Of course, I do. But what if the ghost is watching?"

"Let her watch."

"Neil."

"Okay, forget the ghost for a second. We don't have to have sex . There are other things I could do," he went on. His hand tightened around hers, squeezing above them as she pressed against him, shifting her hips. "I want to make you come."

She paused for a dreadfully long moment. "Better make it quick."

"I plan to take my time."

His fingers slipped under her sweater, teasing the space between her jeans. He toyed with her button before popping it free, his hand inching down and under the band of her underwear. He was torturing her, her breath coming quicker, her body poised and waiting as his fingers skated down her front and to the heat between her legs. She jerked against him as his middle finger slid along her clit, and he groaned.

"You're so wet."

"Neil," she panted as his finger began circling.

A second finger joined the first, applying more pressure along her folds. She was so wet and so warm, and the realization that it was because of him made Neil grit his teeth, the circles over her clit turning tight and fast. Penelope threw back her head against his chest, her scent flooding his senses. She reached down and covered his hand with hers, gently guiding him slightly to the right, pressing the heel of his hand against her, and the reaction was almost visceral. It was incredibly hot to know what she wanted, how she wanted it, and he leaned forward and ran his teeth down the shell of her ear, groaning as her nails dug into the back of his hand.

"Neil," she repeated, voice low and sexy. He would never tire of hearing her say his name.

She bucked under him, gasping as he spread her legs. Her hand slid out from between her legs, and she reached up to cup his neck, tugging him down for a messy kiss as he slipped in one finger, then another. Her lips parted under him, her breath hitching as he increased the pressure of his heel.

"Faster," she gasped.

More books tumbled around them, but he didn't care, not as she settled against him, her hips gyrating as he pumped his fingers in and out of her, picking up speed. Her nails dug into his thigh, and she buried her face in her sweater, gasping silently as she shook. He slowed his fingers before stopping altogether, panting as time seemed to slow.

"That was probably the best orgasm I've had in a really long time," she admitted, leaning against him.

"You certainly helped."

"I prefer to show people what I like rather than wait for them to figure it out."

His cock was rock hard, but Neil didn't care. He slid his hand free, and she turned to watch as he sucked on his fingers, relishing the sweet and salty taste. "You taste even better than I could have imagined."

"Would you stop that?" she said, laughing as she pressed her hands to her flaming face.

"Are you embarrassed?"

"No, well, yes, but not because of… it's not that…" She sighed. "It was great, okay? Fuck, it was fantastic. Thank you? Do people say thank you for sex?" She ducked her head and stepped away, face red as she straightened her clothes. "But I'm reinstating the five-foot rule so we can return to important ghost things," she rasped, buttoning up her pants.

"Fair enough," he said, adjusting himself and grinning like a fool.

So, he trailed after her, four feet and ten inches between them, because five feet was simply too far.

"If the boy is Archie, then who is the woman?" Penelope called. "Is she a murderess? Did she perish alone? Why is she still here and haunting the west wing?"

"I don't know."

He followed her around the study like a dog, stopping to inspect in the corners. The more they hunted for truths, the more flaws Neil noticed in the castle's structures—the cracks and crevices that had grown, hidden behind books and plants and tapestries. He could see the traces of water damage even more clearly.

There was a bit of mold flourishing in a corner behind a couch, a long, snaking crack that had been filled in more than once behind a line of children's fiction from the thirties. The castle was falling apart, that much was clear. The instances were small, difficult to find among the things filling the castle, but they were there, hidden like little secrets.

Journal open in her hands, Penelope wandered along the bookshelves, searching the titles. "Are you looking?" she called.

Neil nodded, intent on her curves. "Yup."

"Are you sure about that?"

He met her blank stare.

"I'm looking at you. You didn't really specify."

She smiled as she nudged him toward one of the shelves. "Listen, as much as I loved making out with you and… other things, there's this woman in an old dress dripping in rot just waiting to do something really bad, so maybe get a move on?"

"Good point," he said. Gripping the rung of the ladder, he climbed up a few steps, scanning shelves Pen would have considered out of reach. "But I'm happy to hear that you loved making out with me, and other things."

"If you tell anyone I said that, you're dead."

"We might very well be anyway if we don't find whatever it is you're looking for."

She slammed the journal shut. "That's not funny."

"I mean, it kind of is."

Shaking her head, Penelope flipped through the journal, her expression twisting with anger. "It's not in here! No matter where I look, the woman's name isn't there. What are we missing?"

Sighing, she dropped onto the couch, hunching down until the only things Neil could see were her feet.

"We'll find it," he said with a chuckle as he climbed down the ladder.

"Will we?" she groaned. Her voice was muffled as she cried out, "I can't write a book, and now I can't even solve this mystery! I feel like if I can't even do this, then what's the point anymore?"

One of the drawers to the liquor cabinet shot out, making Penelope and Neil jump. She sat up as he crossed slowly toward it.

"Um, I think the ghost lady wants us to see something in here?" Neil pointed shakily. He stepped forward, goose bumps rising along his arms as he neared it. His fingers grazed the handle.

"Wait!" He jumped at the sound of Penelope's voice as she sidled up next to him, the journal pressed to her chest. "You don't think this is a trap, do you? Maybe she did kill someone. Maybe this is how she lures her victims."

He stared at her. The woman they saw in the window clearly liked to toy with them, but was she malicious?

"Do you really think a drawer in the liquor cabinet is a trap?"

"You never know."

"This thing was locked for a while. That could mean absolutely nothing, or—"

"Or it could mean it was holding something valuable." She motioned to the drawer. "Okay, proceed."

Neil snorted and stooped to lift the drawer from the cabinet, carefully setting it on the floor. Penelope knelt beside him, her arm brushing his, sending a shiver down his spine.

"Is it the ghost?" she asked, voice low as she peered warily over his shoulder. "Oh god, does that mean she saw us? Against the bookshelf?" Penelope covered her face, mortified. "I just got finger-banged and a ghost watched. I'm going to hell. Hell, where there is no finger-banging or books."

Neil smirked. "We're going to hell together. And she's been dead, what, a hundred fifty years? I'm sure she's seen plenty in this library. Besides, it wasn't the ghost, it's you. Always you."

She blushed but said nothing, focused on the drawer.

Neil's fingers combed over spoons and wine openers, checking in the narrow gaps between items.

"Anything yet?"

"You are so impatient." Neil squinted as he bent closer. "Hold on," he said. He pulled out a few utensils before his finger caught on a groove in the wood. "No way."

He dumped the contents of the drawer unceremoniously onto the carpet before flattening his large hand against the compartment in the back. He lifted the lid away, exposing a small bundle wrapped in a scrap of white fabric.

"What do you think it is?" she asked.

Frowning, he pulled on the black ribbon tying it together, then peeled away the fabric. There, nestled into the compartment, was a stack of letters bound together with a length of string. Folded and closed, with wax seals still intact, they'd been hidden here in this drawer of the liquor cabinet, waiting for someone to find them.

Or for a ghost to help someone find them.

Neil lifted the letters and turned them in his hands.

"Lovers?" he asked, glancing up at Penelope.

She shrugged. "It's possible. Fanny did say there were rumors and legends, so maybe they got it wrong. Maybe the ghost in the cellar is the soldier and not her brother? Her lover who died at war? Who else would write so many letters back and forth?" She motioned for them. "If I may?"

After taking the letters from Neil, Penelope stood and crossed to the desk. Setting aside the journal, she untied the string and dumped the letters across the oak surface. Neil followed, stopping at her side as their eyes scanned the name and address.

"That's this castle," he said, reaching for one of them.

Penelope ran a finger over the wax seal and held it up for him to see. It was a deep red, imprinted with a symbol much like the stag tapestries they'd seen throughout the castle.

"The woman," they said in unison. A noble lady's wax seal.

The letters belonged to the family that owned the castle, which only meant one thing: The journal and the letters were from the woman. So, who was Archie?

"Look at this one," Penelope said, handing him a letter. "Dated May 1815."

Dearest Archie,

My father has taken to locking me in my room. He will not let me leave. I eat in here, I bathe in here, and I sleep in here, all without you. When you held my hand and promised to be with me always, I believed you.

I do not know what to do without you.

I feel it growing inside of me, and there is nothing I can do to stop it.

Love,

Georgina

"Georgina," Neil said, testing it out. "That's her name, isn't it?" He shivered, a prickling sense of being watched sending him hurtling toward the edge. "Okay, I'll take that as a yes."

Penelope looked up questioningly at him. "Are you communicating with the ghost?"

Neil shuddered at the thought. "If that involves cold touches and me being creeped out and shivering in response, then yes?"

"But on the envelope, she's written ‘Georgina Walsh.'"

"Walsh… Skinner?" Neil shook his head. "Something isn't adding up."

Their eyes went to the hall. The hall that led to the staircase, and from there to the west wing. Neil knew the answers were waiting there. He had sensed it since their first night in the castle, ever since the groundskeeper had told them not to go. Whatever happened in this castle more than two hundred years ago happened somewhere down that hall, in the room where they'd seen the woman standing.

There were a lot of letters left to read, a lot of the story still missing, but Neil's stomach gurgled. Penelope grinned up at him.

"Let's get some food," she urged, nudging him toward the kitchen.

She held out a hand, and Neil took it, desperately trying to ignore the soft caress of another hand along his shoulder as they retreated to the kitchen.