Chapter Four

R uarke grew frustrated when he found nothing helpful in this first book on his family's history. If the ghostly creature wanted Miss Alwyn, then how was he to stop it when he knew almost nothing of its origins?

More important, how did one stop a thing that was already dead?

Assuming it meant Miss Alwyn any harm.

He picked up a second book and read on, hoping to learn more. A paragraph, a sentence. Any details about this girl who had drowned so long ago. He knew from local lore that her name was Bella Evans and she had lived around his grandfather's time, perhaps a generation earlier.

"Bella Evans," he muttered, "what led you to the Singing Caves that day?"

Well, he supposed most of the villagers were permitted to come and go along the beach without restriction. This still raised the question, why had poor Bella gone there that day and drowned?

Which led him to another question. Having died, why had she not moved on?

When Ruarke heard the opera singer hit the final notes of her last song, he decided to close his book and return to his guests to partake of the various card games. His game was whist, and he chose to partner his aunt instead of one of the peahens. Since Miss Alwyn was always by his aunt's side, he motioned for one of the footmen to bring a chair for her as well.

"Do not bother about the girl. Who is she to sit with us? Go away, Miss Alwyn," his aunt rudely snapped. "I shall have you summoned when I need you."

"Very good, Lady Audley." Miss Alwyn walked out of the card room, but Ruarke could not see where she went.

"I noticed her eyeing the silver earlier," Miss Barclay remarked in her smug, nasal whine that always grated. "Better keep vigilant that nothing goes missing, Your Grace."

This waspish young woman and her maiden aunt made up their foursome at the whist table. "Trump suit is hearts," he said, ignoring the comment and doing his best to ignore her, too.

This Marriage Mart business brought out the worst in some people. Cynical as he was, even he was surprised by how much bile some of these debutantes spewed. Was this how they sought to tempt him? By maliciously demeaning others?

His own aunt's laughter was as brittle as a witch's cackle. "Indeed, Miss Barclay. I have my housekeeper count every piece of my silver nightly. I am certain Miss Alwyn is going to steal it all and run off with a worthless bounder some day."

By heaven, he was going to have it out with his aunt. She had been difficult and curt with all her former companions, but he had never seen them dealt with in this venomous fashion.

He was to blame.

His aunt sensed he liked Miss Alwyn, and she disapproved.

Who was this old woman to look down on anyone? What had she ever done in all her life but take from him?

Nor were the MacArrans ever known for their piety. They had made their fortune serving as privateers in the more recent centuries, and as Varangian Guards to the Byzantine emperors in medieval times. His ancestors were little more than pirates and mercenary soldiers. Elite, ruthless, and powerful. Not a martyred cleric or wise philosopher among them.

Was it any wonder he looked like a brute?

Or that his aunt behaved like a brute?

The evening dragged on, the rounds of whist seemingly endless.

Ruarke retired late to bed.

Never one to require much sleep, he was alert and eager to start his day as soon as the sun peeked over the horizon come morning.

He washed and dressed, hastily donning a workman's attire consisting of a coarse linen shirt and dark trousers. He was not about to take the time to dress like a gentleman, perfecting the points on an overly starched collar or fashioning an elegant knot in a tie.

He donned a pair of sturdy hunting boots and quietly made his way out of the house.

He hoped Miss Alwyn would follow soon after. In truth, he was worried she might not show up. She could not have gotten much sleep last night. Not only did she have to put his aunt to bed, but she also had to attend to the additional chores, all of them unreasonable, the old crone demanded be done by morning.

As it turned out, he need not have worried about her missing their sunrise rendezvous. She was there ahead of him, seated in wait upon a fallen log in the grove, and smiling as he approached. "Good morning, Your Grace."

"Good morning, Miss Alwyn." He settled beside her. "I hope Lady Audley did not keep you up too late."

"I managed."

He frowned. "This nonsense has gone on far too long. I am the one who supports my aunt's household. I do not expect her to dote on those who serve her, but I will not tolerate abuse. I spoke to her about you last night. I see she retaliated by adding to your woes. Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Yes, Your Grace. The chores were trivial and petty. I will survive them."

"No, I think I must insist on giving you a raise in wages," he said, partly in jest. In truth, he was the one who supported his aunt's household and was quite generous in the allowance he provided her monthly to maintain her staff and all her luxuries.

"Raise my…" She looked as though she was about to say something, but quickly clamped her mouth shut instead.

His stomach sank as he realized what else his aunt had done to the girl. "She hasn't paid you, has she? And you are too afraid to demand your wages."

Fire raged through him.

"I have a roof over my head and food to fill my stomach. She will never give me a recommendation if I leave her. Without that, I will never secure another position. Please do not say anything. What am I to do if she tosses me out?"

Her cheeks turned the brightest pink.

Oh, blast.

She was now reminded of their earlier conversation and his insistence on protecting her. "Miss Alwyn, it is time we cleared the air about this mistaken impression you have of me. When I asked for your promise to come to me, I was only offering to help you out. I would never be so crude as to take you on as my mistress. To be clear about this, you will never be my mistress."

She blushed to her roots, but let out the breath she had been holding. "Never?"

He smothered a smile.

Was that a hint of disappointment in her voice?

Ruarke intended to keep that in mind. "I only meant to protect you by securing another respectable position for you should the need ever arise. All you require is a sterling recommendation, and I shall be the one to provide it. Any family would snap you up when presented with a letter from the Duke of Arran."

She brushed at her eyes as they moistened with tears. "Thank you, Your Grace. You have no idea how much this relieves me."

"Do not thank me. I ought to have been more vigilant and done something about your treatment sooner. I promise you, it will be addressed this very day. But we are running out of time to discuss this matter of your ties to my home and the Singing Caves. I should have told you when we met yesterday on the cliff and you mentioned the girl on the beach…"

"I saw her there again this morning."

He frowned. "You went down to the beach?"

"No, merely looked out across it from atop the cliff. Is it not odd that she was there? Does she not have a home?"

"Well…" He raked a hand through his hair. "Miss Alwyn, there is something I must tell you about her. This girl… Gad, you are never going to believe me. This girl… She isn't real. You must have heard about the MacArran ghost who haunts these caves."

"Yes, but surely…" She jumped up and turned to him with her fists curled at her sides. "Your Grace? What game are you playing? Do you think I cannot tell what a ghost looks like? Some frail, wispy emanation within a cloud of smoke. That girl was healthy and real."

"That you see her so clearly alarms me all the more. Sit down, Miss Alwyn," he said with commanding authority. "I do not jest about those caves or the ghost. What did she look like to you? A girl of about seventeen with dark blonde hair she wears in a braid, just as you are wearing yours now? It is said her eyes are green, the color of meadow grass, just like yours. And she wears a plaid frock."

"My gowns are all in solid colors." She glanced at the severe, dark green muslin she wore.

"Because you dress like an old woman and not a young girl. Oh, do not be offended. You look lovely. You could wear rags and still look like an elfin princess. But you must admit, there is nothing stylish about your clothes."

"I dress for my work. I am not a debutante, merely an old woman's companion."

"We are getting off the point."

She arched a golden eyebrow. "Which is?"

"You resemble the ghost. Gold hair and green eyes. You can see the ghost and hear the song in the Singing Caves. You know my home perhaps better than I do. Why do you think you rattle me so? Do I look like a man who is easily overset?"

"No, Your Grace."

Since she had ignored his command to sit down, he now rose and put his hands on her shoulders. "Our MacArran Grange ghost is connected to you, Miss Alwyn. I am worried she will hurt you…or that my house will somehow swallow you up. I have noticed you walk toward a wall a time or two as though expecting to find a door there. I have seen you study the fireplace in the parlor as though it is out of place."

She shook her head. "Not out of place. I think something is hidden behind it."

"It was an old smuggler's tunnel that I've had blocked off, since it was in danger of caving in." He sighed. "What else do you see when you look at my house? Has the ghost appeared to you indoors?"

"No."

"Are you sure? I've seen you pause a time or two at the top of the stairs, or stop to stare at a painting. Why?"

Her eyes grew wide. "You noticed all this about me?"

He cast her a mirthless smile. "I have not taken my eyes off you since you appeared on my doorstep two weeks ago."

She shook her head. "You must have thought I was the ghost invading your beloved home."

"No, Miss Alwyn. I assure you, I knew you were very real."

"Oh." She blushed again as he rubbed his thumbs gently along her shoulders.

He silently admonished himself for embarrassing her, but not even he could deny the spark between them. "Why are you able to see this ghost? Why do you resemble her? Tell me all you know. Everything you feel . All of it is important."

"But I don't know anything. My father's estate is—was—in Yorkshire. As far as I know, I have only ever been in the north, and more recently London. I had never been to Cornwall before arriving for your house party…and yet what is happening, Your Grace? Why do I know this place?"

"The logical reason is that you must have come here as a little girl but were too young to remember."

"In this house? How is it possible?"

"What of your mother? It is likely she grew up around here, perhaps in the village of St. Austell. She might have told you stories of this place. What is her family name? Who were her parents?"

She shook her head. "I have no idea where my mother was born and raised. Even if she did tell me stories, I was too young to recall them. I don't know who her parents were because my father would never tell me. Our servants might have known, for most were in service before I was born. However, they would never talk to me about her or them. All I ever found out was my mother's maiden name. It is Evans. Her name was Bella Evans."

His heart slammed against the wall of his chest. "What?"

"Bella Ev—"

"No, it cannot be." This was too much of a coincidence to be dismissed.

"Why are you looking at me so oddly?"

"Heather…" He gripped her shoulders tightly. "Miss Alwyn…"

"All I have of my mother is her portrait in the locket I showed you. My father would not even tell me about her as he lay on his deathbed. I don't know why he deprived me so cruelly. She might have had family in Cornwall, but I shall never learn of them now."

"She did. Your mother grew up here."

"Why do you say that? I'm sure we'll find hundreds of women with the name of Evans in Cornwall, and thousands throughout England. I wouldn't know where to start looking. My maternal grandfather could have been a peer, or gentry, or a common tradesman. A butcher or a blacksmith, for all I know."

"The local church will have records. That is the best place for us to start. But I think we must also speak to some of the old folk around here to learn all we can about the origins of this ghost and its connection to your mother."

"Why are you insisting there is a connection to my mother?"

"Did I not mention the name of our ghost?"

"No."

He kept his hands on her shoulders to steady her as he said, "Her name is Bella Evans."

Miss Alwyn's legs gave way, and she appeared ready to faint. But she recovered quickly, and her gaze was now blistering upon him. "I will never forgive you if this is a jest."

"No jest," he insisted. "Ask any of my staff or the village locals. We are not so far from St. Austell. I will take you there myself, if you wish. St. Augustine's Church is the parish church and also close by. I'll wager we find the birth records for both girls named Bella Evans there. Perhaps death records for both as well."

She shook her head. "Do you think my mother died here?"

"I don't know, but I'll wager my entire estate that she was born here. All I am saying is there are too many coincidences to ignore. Their names, your familiarity with my house. Your resemblance to the ghost who haunts the Singing Caves. Your ability to see her."

"If there is a connection, as you say, then what if the ghost is trying to talk to me? I should go to her and ask our questions."

"I hope you are not serious, because I am never going to let you near her." His hands were still on her slight shoulders, so he shook her lightly. "Do you understand me? You are not to go near that apparition."

"But—"

"No! What if she is the one who harmed your mother? What if she wants to harm you? How am I to protect you from something I cannot see or touch? Miss Alwyn…Heather…please, do not attempt to speak to her."

"And leave her to rot in those caves for eternity?"

Ruarke saw the pain in her eyes, but he would not relent. "Yes, if it means protecting you."

"Your Grace, it isn't fair. This poor girl must be suffering."

"Suffering? Or thriving on her murderous anger?"

"She is a child!"

"She was a girl of seventeen, hardly a child. She is dead now. We do not know what she is in her ghostly form. I will send you from MacArran Grange before I ever allow you near her."

Her throat bobbed. "You would send me away?"

"Do you think I want to?" He bent his head to hers, aching to kiss her beautiful, soft mouth.

"Please don't send me away," she said in a fragile whisper.

"Heather," he said with wrenching agony, and drew her splendid body against his big, brutish one.

This girl shattered his soul.

Why her?

He dared not free his heart to love her.

And yet it was probably too late.

What if he could not protect her from the unknown?

"Oh, Heather," he said, kissing her full on the mouth with scorching heat.